Cath'drale Ste-C"cile
Albi, France
The fortress majesty of the great cathedral dedicated to Saint Cecilia in the French city of Albi dominated the skyline, no matter what time of day you saw it. At sunrise and sunset, it loomed over the city and river, setting its mark over the landscape; at night, it was a dark shadow to remind the locals of their ill-fated historical defiance against the power of the Catholic Church. Yet under the sunlight, it was a warm, welcoming sight, sheathed in golden stone, clinging to the chill of the night deep inside. The chapels that lined the central nave were illuminated with multitudes of candles, the floor tiled delicately with intricately patterned bone, ivory, and terracotta. Tourists and locals milled beneath the high vaulted ceiling, too few to pay much attention to one another.
Along the cool avenue of stone to the right of the main altar, a quietly religious pair walked together, their steps measured, their voices low. A priest in cassock and collar; a nun in habit and hood. Such a familiar sight in the cathedral that no one looked twice at them. Which was just as well, really. "Stop fidgeting with the collar," Natalya murmured, her hands demurely crossed in front of her stomach. "You'll draw attention to yourself."
"I don't know how they can stand wearing these things," Rhys complained, keeping his voice as low as possible. "It itches!" He lowered his hand as he offered a polite nod to a small group of tourists who were passing by. "I can't believe I let you make me wear this. I look ridiculous. You look pretty sexy for a nun." He smirked, tipping his head toward her, his voice low. "Wanna tell me your sins later, and I'll decide on punishment' I'm thinking a good spanking. What do you think" When was the last time you fornicated" Lust is one of the seven deadly sins, you know."
Nat couldn't help laughing a little, hiding the bright expression behind her hand as she nudged him sharply in the ribs. "You will get us thrown out," she warned him in amusement, glancing his way. "Although ....you are an extraordinarily sexy priest. Is the scabbard giving you any problems?" Her gaze flickered down to below his waist, remembering the free for all that had been strapping the priceless sheath to him in the first place.
"No, the scabbard's fine. It's my sword that keeps bothering me. I keep thinking about spanking a naughty nun. You are so paying for this later." He was whining, as usual, but thankfully, keeping his voice low enough that no one else heard. "Did you see the gargoyles out there" You know how hard it is to kill one of them' I hate those things."
She blinked, slightly confused by his gargoyle comment. "Aren't they supposed to guard against demons?" she asked softly, gently touching his sleeve to slow him down as they approached the little chapel dedicated to Saint Cecilia. "When did you ever have to kill one?"
Despite his misgivings, he had to admit, the place was pretty awe-inspiring. He'd never seen anything quite like it, and though he might not want to admit it, there was something about the place that made him feel safe, as creepy as some of it was. He shrugged his shoulders. "A while back in Chicago. Long story." He felt her touch his sleeve and came to a halt outside the chapel. "Is this it?"
"Yes." Nat's voice was low, filled with reverence for the faith that could build such places as this. The little chapel they had stopped in front of was easily the most ornate of the cathedral, dominated by a beautifully painted cast and statue of Saint Cecilia in the moments of her death, the cuts made by the axe on the back of her next bright red against the painted ivory of her skin. Candles surrounded her, votive offerings by the faithful to the saint with a hope that she would intercede on their behalf. Carefully lifting her habit just a little, Natalya lowered onto her knees, making a pretence of being deep in prayer as her eyes scanned the shrine.
Having been born and raised Catholic, Rhys had his own feeling of reverence for the place, though hidden behind his sarcastic sense of humor. He was privately in awe of the place, not only because of the sheer beauty and majesty of it, but because of what it stood for. It was a fortress against evil. This was one place where demons could not abide. A safe place. A sanctuary. He had to stifle a shudder at the thought of that, wondering what the people here would think if they knew who and what he really was. He turned quiet, serious suddenly, the humor that he used to try and hide his nervousness evaporating in the solemnity and sacredness of the place. He picked up a matchstick and held it to a candle to light the end, shielding the flame with his free hand as he transferred the flame to an unlit candle, lighting it and leaning in to blow out the matchstick. He knelt down beside Natalya and made the Sign of the Cross, touching two fingers first to forehead, chest, and each shoulder.
It was a little different for Natalya, though not so much as Rhys might think. She had been raised in the Orthodox Church, with its deep love of ancient ceremony and reverence for the Holy Trinity. But she could appreciate how much the saints of the Western Church meant to them, how deeply they were reverenced as intercession between the supplicants and the Lord they served. As Rhys bowed his head, she rose to her feet, moving with slow purpose up onto the altar itself. This was where they found out if her information had been reliable - if the key she carried fit the lock at the back of that great altar stone, there would be little to stand in their way.
He bent his head in silent prayer, though who or what he was praying for was entirely his own business. A last prayer to a God he wasn't sure he believed in. In all truth, he wasn't sure what he believed in anymore, but here he was, at the final leg of a lifelong journey. Faith, he knew, was believing in something that couldn't be proven. For him, the hardest part of all this was believing in himself. After a moment, he rose, a solemn expression on his face. He wondered what would happen if he asked for sanctuary. Natalaya had a point about keeping them and the sword on holy ground, but they couldn't stay there forever. He had to finish what he'd started, and let the chips fall where they may. He drew a deep breath and watched as Natalya moved onto the altar.
Her eyes - undisguised, warm brown today - swept over the scant mingle of tourists and locals as she rounded the altar, momentarily distracted by the face of the saint in front of her. Her fingers stroked tenderly over the lips twisted in pain, compassion for the woman who had refused death until she had felt the blessing of Holy Communion touching her heart for a moment. Nat's gaze followed the line of the saint's outstretched hand, and there, below the draped fingers, was the lock she had been looking for. Hidden behind the altarstone, she lifted the hem of her habit high, displaying stockings that no nun would be caught dead in. Her fingers hooked a large ornate key from the top of her right stocking, dropping the habit once more to insert the key into the lock as she knelt down. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," she murmured, crooking a finger toward Rhys. If the stone opened, they would have to be through it very quickly.
He stepped up onto the dais and rounded the altar to join Natalya behind it, glancing every now and then to the small pockets of tourists to make sure no one was watching or coming close. So far, so good, but he knew the hard part would be getting the sword out of there without anyone noticing. It was his job to keep watch and then to hide the sword and get it out of there. He'd have to stifle his desire to look it over until they had made their escape, but his fingers were itching to feel the solid metal in his hands, to know it was real.
The fortress majesty of the great cathedral dedicated to Saint Cecilia in the French city of Albi dominated the skyline, no matter what time of day you saw it. At sunrise and sunset, it loomed over the city and river, setting its mark over the landscape; at night, it was a dark shadow to remind the locals of their ill-fated historical defiance against the power of the Catholic Church. Yet under the sunlight, it was a warm, welcoming sight, sheathed in golden stone, clinging to the chill of the night deep inside. The chapels that lined the central nave were illuminated with multitudes of candles, the floor tiled delicately with intricately patterned bone, ivory, and terracotta. Tourists and locals milled beneath the high vaulted ceiling, too few to pay much attention to one another.
Along the cool avenue of stone to the right of the main altar, a quietly religious pair walked together, their steps measured, their voices low. A priest in cassock and collar; a nun in habit and hood. Such a familiar sight in the cathedral that no one looked twice at them. Which was just as well, really. "Stop fidgeting with the collar," Natalya murmured, her hands demurely crossed in front of her stomach. "You'll draw attention to yourself."
"I don't know how they can stand wearing these things," Rhys complained, keeping his voice as low as possible. "It itches!" He lowered his hand as he offered a polite nod to a small group of tourists who were passing by. "I can't believe I let you make me wear this. I look ridiculous. You look pretty sexy for a nun." He smirked, tipping his head toward her, his voice low. "Wanna tell me your sins later, and I'll decide on punishment' I'm thinking a good spanking. What do you think" When was the last time you fornicated" Lust is one of the seven deadly sins, you know."
Nat couldn't help laughing a little, hiding the bright expression behind her hand as she nudged him sharply in the ribs. "You will get us thrown out," she warned him in amusement, glancing his way. "Although ....you are an extraordinarily sexy priest. Is the scabbard giving you any problems?" Her gaze flickered down to below his waist, remembering the free for all that had been strapping the priceless sheath to him in the first place.
"No, the scabbard's fine. It's my sword that keeps bothering me. I keep thinking about spanking a naughty nun. You are so paying for this later." He was whining, as usual, but thankfully, keeping his voice low enough that no one else heard. "Did you see the gargoyles out there" You know how hard it is to kill one of them' I hate those things."
She blinked, slightly confused by his gargoyle comment. "Aren't they supposed to guard against demons?" she asked softly, gently touching his sleeve to slow him down as they approached the little chapel dedicated to Saint Cecilia. "When did you ever have to kill one?"
Despite his misgivings, he had to admit, the place was pretty awe-inspiring. He'd never seen anything quite like it, and though he might not want to admit it, there was something about the place that made him feel safe, as creepy as some of it was. He shrugged his shoulders. "A while back in Chicago. Long story." He felt her touch his sleeve and came to a halt outside the chapel. "Is this it?"
"Yes." Nat's voice was low, filled with reverence for the faith that could build such places as this. The little chapel they had stopped in front of was easily the most ornate of the cathedral, dominated by a beautifully painted cast and statue of Saint Cecilia in the moments of her death, the cuts made by the axe on the back of her next bright red against the painted ivory of her skin. Candles surrounded her, votive offerings by the faithful to the saint with a hope that she would intercede on their behalf. Carefully lifting her habit just a little, Natalya lowered onto her knees, making a pretence of being deep in prayer as her eyes scanned the shrine.
Having been born and raised Catholic, Rhys had his own feeling of reverence for the place, though hidden behind his sarcastic sense of humor. He was privately in awe of the place, not only because of the sheer beauty and majesty of it, but because of what it stood for. It was a fortress against evil. This was one place where demons could not abide. A safe place. A sanctuary. He had to stifle a shudder at the thought of that, wondering what the people here would think if they knew who and what he really was. He turned quiet, serious suddenly, the humor that he used to try and hide his nervousness evaporating in the solemnity and sacredness of the place. He picked up a matchstick and held it to a candle to light the end, shielding the flame with his free hand as he transferred the flame to an unlit candle, lighting it and leaning in to blow out the matchstick. He knelt down beside Natalya and made the Sign of the Cross, touching two fingers first to forehead, chest, and each shoulder.
It was a little different for Natalya, though not so much as Rhys might think. She had been raised in the Orthodox Church, with its deep love of ancient ceremony and reverence for the Holy Trinity. But she could appreciate how much the saints of the Western Church meant to them, how deeply they were reverenced as intercession between the supplicants and the Lord they served. As Rhys bowed his head, she rose to her feet, moving with slow purpose up onto the altar itself. This was where they found out if her information had been reliable - if the key she carried fit the lock at the back of that great altar stone, there would be little to stand in their way.
He bent his head in silent prayer, though who or what he was praying for was entirely his own business. A last prayer to a God he wasn't sure he believed in. In all truth, he wasn't sure what he believed in anymore, but here he was, at the final leg of a lifelong journey. Faith, he knew, was believing in something that couldn't be proven. For him, the hardest part of all this was believing in himself. After a moment, he rose, a solemn expression on his face. He wondered what would happen if he asked for sanctuary. Natalaya had a point about keeping them and the sword on holy ground, but they couldn't stay there forever. He had to finish what he'd started, and let the chips fall where they may. He drew a deep breath and watched as Natalya moved onto the altar.
Her eyes - undisguised, warm brown today - swept over the scant mingle of tourists and locals as she rounded the altar, momentarily distracted by the face of the saint in front of her. Her fingers stroked tenderly over the lips twisted in pain, compassion for the woman who had refused death until she had felt the blessing of Holy Communion touching her heart for a moment. Nat's gaze followed the line of the saint's outstretched hand, and there, below the draped fingers, was the lock she had been looking for. Hidden behind the altarstone, she lifted the hem of her habit high, displaying stockings that no nun would be caught dead in. Her fingers hooked a large ornate key from the top of her right stocking, dropping the habit once more to insert the key into the lock as she knelt down. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," she murmured, crooking a finger toward Rhys. If the stone opened, they would have to be through it very quickly.
He stepped up onto the dais and rounded the altar to join Natalya behind it, glancing every now and then to the small pockets of tourists to make sure no one was watching or coming close. So far, so good, but he knew the hard part would be getting the sword out of there without anyone noticing. It was his job to keep watch and then to hide the sword and get it out of there. He'd have to stifle his desire to look it over until they had made their escape, but his fingers were itching to feel the solid metal in his hands, to know it was real.