Until the Day We Meet Again
Based on The Scarlet Letter
An Eriol/Tomoyo Alterfic
Chapter 2
On A Fleeting Moment
The grey heron in a storm's coat
Stalks the shallows of the brook
A silver fish flashes blue-gold
The petal of lotus falls from
Where it blooms in white emotionlessness
Beauty and death dance with chaos
Future teeters evermore on edge of a blade
The Pope Pious II strode angrily into the chambers of his third cardinal. Everything about him exuded a foul mood. He was glaring virulently at anyone in is path-not that there were any- and ignoring the bows and curtsies aimed his way. The promiscuous nuns who frequently bothered him, he being young and beautiful, were certainly not disturbing him now. The pope looked ready to follow his predecessor into bloddthirsty habits. He was certainly not to be toyed with at that time.
Pious II banged the large French doors open, despite the nervous looks on the face of the guards. The lavishly costumed Swiss Guard did not attempt to hamper the pope.
"I want to know what you did with those peasants, Giorgio! What did you do, God damn you?" The pope roared. A red-robed cardinal looked up from several aged manuscripts, copied painstakingly in brilliant color from earlier copies. The cardinal looked nonplussed.
"Your Holiness, I merely made sure that the dirty peasants did not bother your tax-collectors again." Cardinal Giorgio Foscari reeked of a supercilious air. His voice was oily and sleek. The cardinal was enveloped in his voluminous robes, yet it was apparent that he was corpulent. The overpowering scent of imported perfume from the East covered him in a cloud.
Pope Pious gave him an icy, controlled stare. It was more effective than his previous shouts. The pope had never displayed emotion before. Ever. The cardinal looked nervous, now.
"What I wanted, Giorgio, was for your to collect taxes if there were any to be had. There weren't, apparently, from the reports of the monks returning from Tuscany. That was not what I wanted, to quash any resistance into giving tax money that they cannot afford."
"Your Holiness," Cardinal Giorgio said uneasily. "There is always money that they can afford. The trick is getting them to pay you. The lazy peasants will never amount to much, let me tell you."
The pope did not look pleased with this comment. His face darkened again. He seemed to boil in his own anger until he ejected,
"Damnation, Giorgio!" His handsome face black with rage.
"Eriol, please. This is for the best. I have had years of experience dealing with the politics of the Church. Have I not guided you and taught you everything that you have ever known about God?"
The pope turned with a controlled fury. There was a moment of silence, as the pope carefully regained his composture.
"Cardinal Foscari, you will never do that again." His voice was the quiet of a blade whispering out of its sheath. His face was calm, even mild. There was no hint of the passion that had reigned the pope a few moments before. The door closed with a barely audible click. A rustle of old parchment sounded, and another, and then silence reigned.
Eriol strode up and down the length of his antechamber. The situation was already not good. Peasant uprisings, a small French army ready to invade, Germanic barbarians coming in from the north and raiding villages. And the English were not cooperating. Their king was demanding all sorts of rights. They were supplicants, all, in the face of God! People simply refused to submit themselves to God. What had the world come to? Well, they would soon find themselves in the Pits of Flame, in Eternal Damnation forged in adamantine chains of fire. That was what they could look forward to.
A meek tap at the door came.
"Come in." the pope barked. He despised servants more than anything, always fawning and snooping and listening in on conversations.
It was not a servant, after he had branded the last he caught listening to a conversation between himself and a high bishop from France. It was rather a very young novice, pale and blushing at the sight of him. She was slender like the willows that grew near where he grew up, with brilliantly violet eyes and black hair, very much like his own.
"What is your name?" He asked coldly.
"I am Sister Mary Magdelene, Your Holiness." So, despite such youth, she was a full sister. Her voice was like crystals hung in the wind. Probably another promiscuous, indecent, schemer.
Sister Mary put his evening meal down on the dining table in the adjacent room. He watched her like a hawk. Actually, she hadn't even given him a coy glance yet, and hadn't done anything save to answer his question and blush. She arranged the four forks, five spoons, and three knives with precise, graceful movements, and aligned the six plates for the servant to come and actually stand to serve him his different courses. He felt that he was wasting money that by right belonged to those peasants. It would probably be two servants, since it was Sabbath tomorrow.
He opened his mouth to thank her, when he saw that she was staring at him. It was not an inviting stare, but it was a delving, a penetrating stare. He let her do it for a few moments more.
"Does what you see meet with your approval, Sister Mary?" he asked dryly.
"No." Her answer surprised him so much that it twisted his head around to look at her in surprise.
"Why not?" He asked. Sister Mary Magdelene blushed again, and curtsied quickly.
"Forgive me, Your Holiness. I must have felt faint. Good night to you, Your Holiness." He was about to order her to stay, and to detain her, when a troup of five servants came into the door. Sister Mary Magdelene slipped out when he was busy staring in defeat at the servants. Really, watching him eat wasn't as exciting as it was made out to be.
He signed heavily. Already there were more reports from the North, of the Germans. And two more peasant revolts from the west. And Greece refused the homage that had been requested, and someone was threatening war. It was all turbulence and chaos. It was already in the small hours of the morning that he had time to take his evening meal. It wasn't even evening anymore. And yet, somehow he sensed that dawn was a long time coming.
Based on The Scarlet Letter
An Eriol/Tomoyo Alterfic
Chapter 2
On A Fleeting Moment
The grey heron in a storm's coat
Stalks the shallows of the brook
A silver fish flashes blue-gold
The petal of lotus falls from
Where it blooms in white emotionlessness
Beauty and death dance with chaos
Future teeters evermore on edge of a blade
The Pope Pious II strode angrily into the chambers of his third cardinal. Everything about him exuded a foul mood. He was glaring virulently at anyone in is path-not that there were any- and ignoring the bows and curtsies aimed his way. The promiscuous nuns who frequently bothered him, he being young and beautiful, were certainly not disturbing him now. The pope looked ready to follow his predecessor into bloddthirsty habits. He was certainly not to be toyed with at that time.
Pious II banged the large French doors open, despite the nervous looks on the face of the guards. The lavishly costumed Swiss Guard did not attempt to hamper the pope.
"I want to know what you did with those peasants, Giorgio! What did you do, God damn you?" The pope roared. A red-robed cardinal looked up from several aged manuscripts, copied painstakingly in brilliant color from earlier copies. The cardinal looked nonplussed.
"Your Holiness, I merely made sure that the dirty peasants did not bother your tax-collectors again." Cardinal Giorgio Foscari reeked of a supercilious air. His voice was oily and sleek. The cardinal was enveloped in his voluminous robes, yet it was apparent that he was corpulent. The overpowering scent of imported perfume from the East covered him in a cloud.
Pope Pious gave him an icy, controlled stare. It was more effective than his previous shouts. The pope had never displayed emotion before. Ever. The cardinal looked nervous, now.
"What I wanted, Giorgio, was for your to collect taxes if there were any to be had. There weren't, apparently, from the reports of the monks returning from Tuscany. That was not what I wanted, to quash any resistance into giving tax money that they cannot afford."
"Your Holiness," Cardinal Giorgio said uneasily. "There is always money that they can afford. The trick is getting them to pay you. The lazy peasants will never amount to much, let me tell you."
The pope did not look pleased with this comment. His face darkened again. He seemed to boil in his own anger until he ejected,
"Damnation, Giorgio!" His handsome face black with rage.
"Eriol, please. This is for the best. I have had years of experience dealing with the politics of the Church. Have I not guided you and taught you everything that you have ever known about God?"
The pope turned with a controlled fury. There was a moment of silence, as the pope carefully regained his composture.
"Cardinal Foscari, you will never do that again." His voice was the quiet of a blade whispering out of its sheath. His face was calm, even mild. There was no hint of the passion that had reigned the pope a few moments before. The door closed with a barely audible click. A rustle of old parchment sounded, and another, and then silence reigned.
Eriol strode up and down the length of his antechamber. The situation was already not good. Peasant uprisings, a small French army ready to invade, Germanic barbarians coming in from the north and raiding villages. And the English were not cooperating. Their king was demanding all sorts of rights. They were supplicants, all, in the face of God! People simply refused to submit themselves to God. What had the world come to? Well, they would soon find themselves in the Pits of Flame, in Eternal Damnation forged in adamantine chains of fire. That was what they could look forward to.
A meek tap at the door came.
"Come in." the pope barked. He despised servants more than anything, always fawning and snooping and listening in on conversations.
It was not a servant, after he had branded the last he caught listening to a conversation between himself and a high bishop from France. It was rather a very young novice, pale and blushing at the sight of him. She was slender like the willows that grew near where he grew up, with brilliantly violet eyes and black hair, very much like his own.
"What is your name?" He asked coldly.
"I am Sister Mary Magdelene, Your Holiness." So, despite such youth, she was a full sister. Her voice was like crystals hung in the wind. Probably another promiscuous, indecent, schemer.
Sister Mary put his evening meal down on the dining table in the adjacent room. He watched her like a hawk. Actually, she hadn't even given him a coy glance yet, and hadn't done anything save to answer his question and blush. She arranged the four forks, five spoons, and three knives with precise, graceful movements, and aligned the six plates for the servant to come and actually stand to serve him his different courses. He felt that he was wasting money that by right belonged to those peasants. It would probably be two servants, since it was Sabbath tomorrow.
He opened his mouth to thank her, when he saw that she was staring at him. It was not an inviting stare, but it was a delving, a penetrating stare. He let her do it for a few moments more.
"Does what you see meet with your approval, Sister Mary?" he asked dryly.
"No." Her answer surprised him so much that it twisted his head around to look at her in surprise.
"Why not?" He asked. Sister Mary Magdelene blushed again, and curtsied quickly.
"Forgive me, Your Holiness. I must have felt faint. Good night to you, Your Holiness." He was about to order her to stay, and to detain her, when a troup of five servants came into the door. Sister Mary Magdelene slipped out when he was busy staring in defeat at the servants. Really, watching him eat wasn't as exciting as it was made out to be.
He signed heavily. Already there were more reports from the North, of the Germans. And two more peasant revolts from the west. And Greece refused the homage that had been requested, and someone was threatening war. It was all turbulence and chaos. It was already in the small hours of the morning that he had time to take his evening meal. It wasn't even evening anymore. And yet, somehow he sensed that dawn was a long time coming.
