?There is a fountain filled with blood, drawn from Immanuel?s veins,
And sinners plunged beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains.?

?What can we help you with tonight, my son?? The priest stood in the shadows beside the pew where the rancher sat contemplating Eternity. He had not been there before, perhaps. Perhaps. But he was there now, a reminder that the hand of the Triene was always nearby for those who needed it.

?What is troubling your soul?? he murmured. ?Come, and let me hear your confession.?

....and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.
Prayer of St. Francis



Twilight was playing with the colors of stained glass. Adding a silvering to their shades. It was into a pool of this hued light that bathed the priest as he stepped from the shadows. " Does your lapse parallel your faith, my Son.?"

Elijah had expected the question, but still it caught him off guard and the man shook his head stammering quietly. " No...no, Father. It ain't anything like that. None at all. Elijah added a murmured admission that was barely audible under his rumbling voice. " Not entirely."

The priests words drifted like motes of dust through the stained light. " Then who do you confess your sins to, my Son." " I do that as part of my prayers, Father." "And when do you pray?" The pew sounded its mournful protest under the old rancher's shifting weight. Elijah moved the battered stetson to his other side, giving the priest room to sit if he desired. "I ain't got a regiment of it, if that's what you're asking, Father." More protest came from the pew as the priest settled beside the rancher."Yes, my son."

Elijah turned to look back to the front of the nave where the candles the acolyte had lit bathed the altar in a warm hue. He drew a deep and quiet breath, then looked back at the priest who sat beside him. "I reckon I pray mostly when I'm working, since there ain't nothing but peace and no distractions usually then."

The priest showed the rancher a kindly smile." Well, you know what they say about idle hands. It seems a good time to think about such things." Blue eyes fell upon the weathered hands of the old rancher. Elijah rubbed his hands together noticing the priest's gaze falling to them. "Yessir."

Given the man's manner of dress and weathered visage the priest made an educated guess."You work with the beasts?" The old rancher looked from his own hands to the priest. "If you mean horses and cattle and the like, yessir. " The priest lifted his eyes. His gaze moving over the surroundings to settle upon a statue. The mother of John the Baptist. That would be a fine saint to pick. Known by some as a patron saint of herders. Her son had lost his head in the end. Those blue eyes traveled back to the rancher, look cutting across the his sun darkened neck " St Anne is your patron saint, then?"

Elijah shook his head. "No, Sir. It is St. Francis, Father."

"Are you sure, my Son?" Will you pick another way to die?

"I know it ain't fitting right, but..." The old rancher shrugged his hunched shoulders lightly. " But?" Gentle urging of words. The old rancher turned his gaze of dark browns to the altar. "I was given the medal of St. Francis to wear when I was a much younger man," his words rumbling deep in his chest. It rose with another deep breath at a long forgotten memory. "It saved my life. And, since that day, it's been St. Francis, Father."

" Safe in the hands of a saint." The priest's words help the appropriate pious reverence."Tell me, my son, how did the medal save your life?"

"It stopped a bullet meant to kill me, Father."

"And have you have provided care to the animals and lived your life in praise of Francis?"

The man had not given thought to it in the manner the priest had. He nodded slowly, "Yessir, I reckon so." A gentle pat fell upon the rancher's aged bowed shoulder. " You are a faithful man."


The priest managed to keep that peaceful smile as the plan formed in his mind. "I wonder if I may ask a favor from you, my Son. A chance for prayer, as you put it. We have an old mare that the pastor uses to cart him around to bring prayer to the in-firmed of our parish. She was limping a bit earlier when he returned. Do you think you might take a look at her?"

"Yessir," the old rancher answered the priest, reaching for his stetson. "I'd be right glad to do it, Father. Might be nothing but a stone or burr caught up in her shoe." The priest's smile brightened."That is the hope, my Son. Come." The pew sounded it final mournful cry as Elijah and the priest rose to their feet. Black robes rustling like a murder of crows taking flight as the priest rose and stepped out of the pew. Hands clasped behind his back while he waited for the rancher. The priest gave a reverent bow towards the alter which was mimicked by Elijah. The old rancher tucked his battered stetson under his arm as the priest led him off towards a door off to the side.

Faith: not wanting to know what is true. Friedrich Nietzsche


Consciousness for the old rancher was like a bothersome fly to one of his cattle. It would alight for a moment before being shooed away with the flick of a tail. For Elijah those moments of lucidity were fragments of sound, smell and feel. Darkness robbed him of sight but there was a dank foul smell surrounding him. The sound of splashing and the feel of water soaking him to the skin and there was pain. The flare of sickening pain in his head and shoulder as he was being dragged along. In the old ranchers case the swat to chase his consciousness away was the strike of a hand to that throbbing part of his head.

For an instant a sound reached through the fog of semi-consciousness to the old rancher. The ring of metal striking metal. Reminiscent of the sound of a farrier shaping a shoe to fit a hoof. That instant passed as the iron spike drove through the calloused palm of the old rancher. The first blow had driven the spike through his hand and into the painted brick behind his hand. The second blow pinned that hand to the wall. A cry was strangled in his throat as his chest was unable to rise and provide it a breath because of the knee pressing him in place.

"First wound." The voice seemed far away though the rancher's eyes were wide upon the man who had his knee pressed against his chest.

Michael stretched the old rancher's other arm out. This time he studied the wrinkled face as a blow from the hammer to the spike drove it through skin, cutting through muscle and tendons. The girth of the spike forcing the bones in the hand to shift and spread as the point passed through to pierce out of skin again and bury itself into brick. A scream did wrench from the grizzled old man. Michael smiled. "Second wound."

Even Michael was unsure why he had given the old rancher the small dignity of fastening the man's shirt around his waist as a makeshift loincloth. A small modicum of respect or a whim. Michael considered this for only a moment as his feet touched the ground again and he looked up at the work in progress. The old rancher's wrinkled skin was already wet with sweat from the adrenaline rush of pain. "Breathe." A mocking suggestion. Elijah was already trying to breath but already the weight of his body was limiting his ability to exhale. He could gulp all the air he wanted but there was no way to dispel it adequately.

Elijah was panting small breaths by the time Michael took hold of one ankle and placed the foot flat on the wall. The muscles on his sinewy arms already cramping and sending jolts of excruciating pain towards his shoulder and chest. One foot placed on top of the other flush against the wall, Michael looked up to meet the old rancher's pained eyes. "Third and Fourth wounds." The first blow rang out like a missed time tolling of the bell at Perp Miz. The second drove the spike the rest of the way through both feet and into the wall.

Michael stepped back from the wall to take his role of watcher.


"Beyond the excruciating pain....." The words came to mind from one of the many texts Michael had read over the years on crucifixion. Beyond the excruciating pain there would be a marked interference in normal respiration. Exhalation would become harder and harder. The weight of the body pulling down on the outstretched and fixed arms would slowly hinder even passive inhalation. The build up of gases in the blood would cause further cramping. The old rancher might be able to take a deeper breath by pushing up with his legs but those muscles would soon be failing as well even if he could withstand the agony of the fiery pain shooting through his legs. Michael remained silent as the ordeal played out across Elijah's body while he sank closer to his end.


Hours later the tall watcher rose into the air until he was face to face with the crucified. His fingers tangled into the mop of sweat damp salt and pepper hair and pulled the man's head back sharply. Those brown eyes that had seen a long life were glazing over. Michael could hear the old rancher's heart stuttering. It was time.

Michael leaned closer, cool lips pressed a kiss to the dying man's cheek before they whispered the words to his ear. A biblical quote. " It is finished." Michael leaned back. The fingers of one hand held straight and rigid like the head of a spear. The arm drew back. " Fifth wound." With the words Michael's arm thrust forward and up with the strength of the beast that he was. The old rancher's eyes widened as his whole body shuddered, his stuttering heart stilling as fingertips brushed against it.

No proper crucifixion would be complete with out a titulus above the crucified declaring his crime. Michael lifted his blood covered hand to the wall above Elijah's head and painted a single word.

Fides

Now there was more than a mote in the West End Eye. The tall figure walked away, whistling.



*Fides is the latin word for faith

Faith is not belief in spite of evidence, but life in scorn of consequences. ~Kirsopp Lake

'Tis said that keeping busy helps distract from ones burdens. That can be true for a little while, I suppose. The need for a diversion is upon me once again, for I am sorely troubled. The missing Rancher and the upcoming voyages are constantly playing in my thoughts, but my mind is mostly on Elijah. And the knowledge that some poor, unknown male has been crucified in the West End not long ago has me sick to my stomach. So I make the decision to take a stroll through the Marketplace, seeking that distraction; every now and then I pause to gaze upon the wares offered in the window displays of each shoppe.

Gerald starts toward the center aisle of booths of the Marketplace, searching through the crowd. The Sergeant sends two of his men down flanking aisles to look for the tall Norse lady. It is one of the younger men that spots a woman who seems to fit the physical description given and approaches the woman window shopping.

"Excuse, Ma'am?"

My weary gaze slides off the pretty display, to land upon the male addressing me. "Ja?" I give him the 'once over,' taking note of his attire and any visible weaponry. The young man, who is barely hitting manhood stands in the Watch's uniform, weapon sheathed at his side. "Ma'am, my name is Jeb. Would you mind coming with me please?"

Narrowing my eyes and frowning at him I ask, "Hvorfor? I have done nought wrong." Not that he could possibly be aware of, at least.

"Oh no, Ma'am" The young man shakes his head. "No it isn't anything like that," he stammers out quickly. Luckily for Jeb, the Sergeant is approaching from behind. My gaze drifts away from the lads face to look at the older male who is nearing. Oh, another of the Watch. Never have I completely trusted those who wear such uniforms.

"Ma'am, I am Sergeant Gerald Hartwell." Introducing himself. At the nod from the Sergeant, the younger man quickly leaves with a bow of his head to the Norse lady.

"And hva is your point?"

"Is your name, Shylah, Ma'am?"

A deep inhale is drawn in, to be held briefly before exhaling. "I am called by that navn, ja." Nodding curtly to Sergeant Gerald Hartwell and preparing to do battle, if necessary.

"Ma'am, I was wondering if you would mind coming down to the station with me." Weighing his words carefully before continuing, "We recovered a victim who is yet unidentified, but, I believe it is someone I've seen in your company before."

My brow furrows as I listen to what he has to say; that huge knot in my stomach tightens with each spoken word. That feeling of dread grows stronger by the minute. 'Tis best to hold onto that stoicism; to show no emotion. "Very well." Words clipped when I finally respond.

The Sergeant nods down the street. "This way, Ma'am." And then starts toward the station where the body is being kept. Hesitant are my strides, at first, but I do follow him. All the while I am recalling what Petar said to me earlier in the day, and holding onto the hope that the victim is not the cowboy. The building is not far away and the Sergeant didn't say anything more to me until we reached the establishment. Being chivalrous, Hartwell holds open the door for me. Without a word or a look at Gerald, I cross over the threshold and enter; the Sergeant follows me inside.

"This way please." He continues past the front desk with a nod to the officer on duty there, and heads down a long corridor. The further I move down the hallway in his wake, the greater my trepidation. My heart is pounding so hard that I swear the male in front of me can hear it. An ache begins to nag at my temples. He moves past several doors, then stops in front of the third door on the left and then and only then, does he turn to address me. "If you would wait here just a moment please."

With a small bob of my head, I acknowledge that I will do as he requests; no words pass my lips. My stomach hurts. The stroking of that scar above my left eyebrow commences. I truly despise this feeling of impending doom. Upon my assent, Hartwell ducks through the door into the room. A few moments later the door swings open, the Sergeant beckoning, "Ma'am, please come in."

For one brief moment I want to flee; my gaze darts down the hallway to the main door where we recently entered. My hand lowers from the scar-caressing habit, a bit shaky, but I soon have that under control. Forcing myself forward I reluctantly move into the morgue, the smell of death attacking my senses. After closing the door behind me, Sergeant Hartwell quietly ushers me over to an examination table in the center of the room. Upon the table a sheet is drawn up over the body. A woman, serious in demeanor, but kind-looking, dressed in a long white coat stands beside the table and waits for us to draw closer.

"Ma'am," Gerry speaks softly, nodding to the sheet. "As I indicated earlier, we do not know who this man is, and it is our hope that you will be able to provide an identification. However, you are not required to do so."

I glance to the woman first, then to the covered body. Their hope? What about my hope? But, I know that if I do not look I will forever wonder if the dead man on the table is the old Rancher. I am extremely apprehensive, yet it must be done. Motioning for them to continue, Gerry nods to the doctor, who reaches over and slowly draws back the sheet up off the victim's head, revealing the face.

'Tis as if everything is suddenly in slow motion for me as I watch the sheet being pulled back; and then it seems as if time itself stands still for a moment, once I see Elijah's countenance. Reaching out toward the table to steady myself as my knees go weak I feel a deep, stabbing pain to my heart; a solid blow to my gut; a buzzing in my ears. That warrior's mask of mine slips away now that I know who the victim is ... indeed, 'tis my cowboy. I begin to weep. My hopes are shattered. I am living my nightmare.

Unable to stop myself, I lightly stroke my fingers through Elijah's salt-and-pepper coloured hair, to delicately brush back a few strands off his forehead. My voice is barely above an anguished whisper, "Oh, Buttah!" The words almost stick in my throat. Wrapping my arms around him, I choke out my apology to the old man, "I am so sorry that I was not there to hjelp and protect you." My entire body trembles as waves of sorrow and pain keep crashing over me. Without reservation, I gently lay my head upon his sheet-covered chest while my tears continue to unabashedly flow.

Neither the doctor nor the Sergeant speak a word, but instead stand silent and somber vigil. Eventually, 'tis the doctor who breaks her silence first, whispering her condolences, "I am very sorry, Ma'am." The Sergeant remains silent and averts his gaze to the floor.

Ever-so-slowly I raise my tear-stained face to look at the woman, "Takk." Too overwhelmed with grief to say much more. However, I am aware that I must identify the Rancher by name. "Eel-eye-ja Torp." 'Tis all that I softly utter before resting my head against my dear Buttah's chest once again.

Sergeant Hartwell nods, looking up at the doctor, who wordlessly notes the deceased man's name in a chart. I feel Gerry's hand touch lightly upon my shoulder. "Ma'am?" Lifting up my head I look lovingly upon Elijah's pale visage. Knowing that he died by crucifixion brings forth my fury. The roller coaster of emotions I am experiencing is evident as I turn sad, tear-filled eyes upon the Sergeant, but my question holds unbridled anger, "Who did this?"

"We don't know, Ma'am." He answers honestly. "He was found by a couple of citizens that live in the area and we were notified."

"If I find whoe'er did it, I shall kill them!" My gaze returns to the cowboy, my vision blurring. "I want ... him." I am unable, perhaps unwilling, to voice the words, "the body." The Sergeant seems unsure of what I mean, but the woman immediately understands and quietly speaks up, "Of course, Ma'am. There will be some paperwork that needs to be signed first."

"Then I shall sign it."

The doctor moves to the desk in the room and pulls out a form. "Ma'am, what is your relation to the deceased?"

A soft whimper accompanies my whispered reply, "I am his betrothed." Fresh tears form and fall while I caress the old man's weathered cheek and whiskered jaw; he always did adore my loving touch.

She nods somberly to my answer and continues to fill out the form. Sergeant Hartwell then speaks quietly, "Ma'am. I am sorry for your loss." A moment of deafening silence passes before he asks, "Would you know of anyone who would have wanted to do him harm?"

Needing to compose myself, I take a few minutes before responding. "Nei. I kann not tenke of anybody."

The Sergeant falls back into silence. The doctor finally approaches the examination table and sets the form down on the smaller task table that is nearby. "Ma'am. You need to sign here." Pointing to the bottom of the form.

Feeling the need to apologize to Elijah again, I whisper, "I am so very sorry, Kj?reste." I straighten up from my gentle lean against my sweetheart, swiping at my tears before grabbing the pen and quickly signing the required paper. "Is that all?"

The kind doctor gently eases the pen from my grasp and nods. "Yes Ma'am. That is all."

"I shall have someone komm as soon as possible for Eel-eye-ja." I refuse to say, "the remains."

Again 'tis the doctor who answers, "Yes Ma'am. We will have....your loved one prepared."

"Hva do you mean?" My suspicious gaze directed at the woman.

After placing the form into the chart, she looks at me. "We will have him properly wrapped and in a coffin box."

I feel ill. "Oh." I do not want to leave the old Rancher's side, even for a second. And though his arm is covered I reach down to gently touch his wounded hand. Then I turn and storm out of the room, suddenly needing fresh air as I swallow my bile. If I stay, they shall need to pry me away from the one I love, and that will not do at all ... not for any of us.

The Sergeant rushes out of the room. "Ma'am."

More brushing away of tears as I make haste down the hallway. But I pause in my strides as Hartwell calls out. Slowing down as he comes up beside me, he reiterates quietly, "I am sorry, Ma'am. Do you need an escort home or somewhere else?"

"Takk for your condolences." I consider having him as an escort at least part of the way Northward, then decide against it. "Nei." Adding, "The mann who shall komm and get Eel-eye-ja ... his navn is George." Standing there, I am unable to meet Gerald's gaze as my sorrow increases to the point of wanting to sob and wail; somehow I garner the strength to refrain from doing such, at least for this moment in time.

"I must go na." With those four words quietly spoken, I jog to the door and exit as quickly as possible.

Once outside I begin to run ... never stopping until I am in the woods, where the Wild can share in my grief and heartache ... and take up the mournful Call.


(from live RP, w/consent)