Disclaimer!
The following story contains hints of remarks against the Catholic religion, as well as references to real-life literary works.
By no means do these remarks, or even this story in particular, express my viewpoint towards the Catholic faith or all the related except my own conclusions of its flaws, nor is it intended to offend any followers or affiliates of said faith. I also do not intend to condemn all of the teachings preached by Catholicism, or support those of other religions.
This story also features the literary work Treatise on Tolerance by Voltaire, as it contains descriptions of actual passages inside it. I have not actually read any copy of the book (except for a few actual passages) at the time this story was written, but only a handful of summaries and references found in other works as a result of my research. If you have actually read any copy of the book, and you find any flaws or incoherence within this story, then I apologize for this. Also in no particular form is this work made to infringe upon copyright laws of the featured work.
I apologize for any other inconvenience that this literary work may bring upon you.
With these remarks in mind, I encourage you to approach this with an uncritical demeanor, enjoy the story, and thank you for your attention.
~PetroBeherha
Sunday, 18 August, 1776
It was the day of pilgrimage for all of us Arceans. Everyone sat for long hours on hard wood pews as we listened to the sermons of Brother David (Ampharos), which echoed throughout the chilled and cavernous chambers of the Dôme des Invalides. As usual, I sat side-by-side with my older brother, Julien-Achille (Servine). Mother (Serperior) resided with my younger sister, Diane (Snivy), and my younger brother Samuel (Snivy). As for Father (Persian), he, as the head of his estate, sat on one of the special pews upon the front. I had to constantly sit up with my back straightened, and my face and eyes forward at Brother David to keep the monk (Kadabra) from snapping at me with his dreaded spoon and words. I kept every muscle still as not to arouse that sort of punishment. If Arceus were to be so kind as to pardon my words, it was an agonizing bore. I was eager to return home.
Finally, when Brother David had announced that we are to sing, everyone stood up and we all sang aloud in a false joy. When it was over, I was relieved to leave the church. But not a minute had passed before Father came to my ear and whispered,
"You must remember, mon fils. You could do the Lord and his children a great service in spreading the holy faith if you were to come like that Ampharos. It would be deeply . . . disappointing . . . if you were to reject."
He always insisted me on being the one singing the sermons, for which I have no interest. Though I did understand the need to spread the Faith for the good of the world, I did not think that we would suffer in so doing. But perhaps it was only me who, as a follower, must learn to endure it. I am a young Servine after all, having evolved merely two months ago.
After returning to our manor the following afternoon, Jacques (Krickitune) played a musical piece with the violin, a sweet remedy from the flower after that discomforting moment.
About two hours later, while I was in bed recovering, Julien-Achille had come to me for a visit.
"Hey! Mon frère! Guess what just happened!" he exclaimed.
I sighed, as I thought that he wanted to tell of father's private affairs.
Assuming this, I asked, "Does it have to do with Father?"
"Yes! He had another close victory against Larousse!"
Every Sunday, right after pilgrimage to the church, Father would come down to the courtyard with his friends, who came from many houses around the region. Above all others, his favorite activity was to have dueling tournaments with them. Julien-Achille, apparently displaying interest in these fights, had been eavesdropping on him every time and he would report about the outcome to me. He had done this since he was about eight years of age.
Larousse de Gaulle, a Politoed, was a bitter rival of Father. Sunday was a very peculiar day of the week when my father's mood would be determined by victories or defeats against him. In the days he won, he would be in a fine mood. However, that mood would take a dark turn on those days he lost. Often, he would dole it out on Mother, or sometimes one of my siblings, whom we would blame for his trouble. I rarely received these punishments as I often hid myself at these moments. My father's species, the Persian, are to attack on a mere whim, so it was little wonder that he was like this. He was like a barbarian in a noble's body. That aside, for all his trials, I have felt glad to have Julien-Achille around to warn me ahead of time, for I detest bearing witness to uncultured acts.