There is a kind of furious reverie that allows thought but no action,
contemplation of all but acceptance of none, and which, moreover, seems to
rape the world around it in its intense desire for something it-knows-not-
what.
In such a state of mind, with a rapid pulse and racing thoughts, did Father Mulcahy find himself as he fell back into the solitude of his tent, the first, at least, of the requested missions from the Chimerae having been enacted, the second of which having been discussed but not enacted by the four conspirators, as both subjects of the plot were asleep at the time.
Mulcahy had always keenly felt the solitude, the loneliness of his personal habitations; he fell into bed and eyed the door which was always open and never seemed to open at all, the chair which was always ready to recieve, but never seemed to perform its intended task. Well, for once he was glad of it. Even though he knew no one would come, he harshly and bitterly wished that no one would come and interrupt him in his thoughts, which currently ranged on the very fact that he was positive no one would come.
A door whose hinges were unused; a chair whose seating was unused; a priest whose comfort was unused. Mulcahy scoffed at the ridiculous nature of this trio. They grated at his nerves all of a sudden; grated on him like the thought of the three blank pages at the beginning and end of every army- issue bible. Each just lined in yellow enough to be noticable, three page turns' worth of anticipation for the beginning, or reverie after the end. And a normal state, besides-- any pause of thought that brought the priest's hands off of the pages -- to clean his glasses, or to fold them in prayer -- brought the book flipping back to one side or another. When his vision became clear again, or when he opened his eyes once more, with near inevitability one of the blank pages was staring up at him.
He'd always liked to think of them as the buffer the war deferringly placed between itself and the sanctity of the book. A representation in white of the peace of mind required to fully take in its teachings.
Now they were meaningless. Meaningless, empty. They mocked him with a mirror of his own existance.
'Well, no longer,' he decided.
"No longer," he spoke out loud, deciding the action. He tumbled out of bed in a mass of pent-up frustration, and grabbed the bible up from where it sat. The bible, duly confused, came with, never protesting, ever the good soul. It must have wondered who this fellow was, and what it had done with the camp priest. It was not used to being handled in such a manner.
He thumbed it through... Psalms, Isaiah, Matthew, Romans, Revelations, Blank, Blank, Blank. The last three flipped past with a series of confused flaps which Mulcahy took as taunting. He gripped the three near the spine, and was about to yank hard, when a better idea occurred to him.
He picked up a pen in his trembling hand, dragged the chair over to his desk, and sat in it so roughly as to cause the wooden structure to complain. He dampened his lips and turned to the first blank sheet of paper. He began to write.
He comprehensively wrote down all he had learned in the past week. He drew trembling lines to diagrams, the various names of the monsters he'd met and heard about. Their various weaknesses. That a piece of cold iron could wipe a changeling out of existence was very interesting to him. As was that changeling blood was, towards the "Corpses," as the fairies liked to call them, "Of an incapacitating... capacity." He drew the strange sigils he'd seen, all of them, and in what circumstances, along with what he felt they signified. As he looked at the list, he began to realize... it was some sort of language... some sort of code. He smiled, and became more eager, drawing intrepid sketches of Henry, Radar, Irene, Joles, and Meg, both as he normally saw them and as he... SAW them. He explained the situations under which they appeared to him in their true forms. Before he knew it, all six blank pages had been filled up, front and back.
The bible in which he'd penned these words is today known among certain hunter groups as the Korea Text. Its existence is believed by some, laughed at by many, and sought after by a few devotees who are sure its contents would add strength to the Hunter population as they fought to take back the night from an odd assortment of zombies and goblins that seemed to infest it. Its location, however, has long been unknown.
A fierce tremor rolled over the priest as he put down his pen and examined his work, nearly bursting with pride at the opus. Standing up, he tucked his thumbs into his pants and stalked the corners of his room, still feeling antsy. Finally he came to pause next to the desk chair, and reached out a hand to a bit of cloth, unfolding it to reveal the syringe of kindred vitae he'd acquired from Sparky.
They stared at each other, the syringe and he.
Well, why not? Why shouldn't he drink it? He had never felt so well as he had in the days after the drink. His knees were no longer weary, his back no longer ached, and he felt fitter than he had 15 years ago. He was on the good side, here, he reminded himself, picking up and uncapping the syringe, pointing the needle into one of the cups of coffee he had accumulating on his desk. If they were using this stuff to survive out there and kill people... he could certainly use it to feel up to going out and finding more of them. He squeezed. The coffee tinted red. He stirred, syringe acting as temporary swizzlestick.
Why not? And so he drank it. The taste salty and metallic and WRONG but irresistable. The rush, nearly overwhelming. He settled himself down into the chair again, his mouth gaping open. He tried beat down with a sheer force of will a stirring in his... soul that began to think, "why not?" to going down to Rosie's tonight and picking up a business girl.
~
In such a state of mind, with a rapid pulse and racing thoughts, did Father Mulcahy find himself as he fell back into the solitude of his tent, the first, at least, of the requested missions from the Chimerae having been enacted, the second of which having been discussed but not enacted by the four conspirators, as both subjects of the plot were asleep at the time.
Mulcahy had always keenly felt the solitude, the loneliness of his personal habitations; he fell into bed and eyed the door which was always open and never seemed to open at all, the chair which was always ready to recieve, but never seemed to perform its intended task. Well, for once he was glad of it. Even though he knew no one would come, he harshly and bitterly wished that no one would come and interrupt him in his thoughts, which currently ranged on the very fact that he was positive no one would come.
A door whose hinges were unused; a chair whose seating was unused; a priest whose comfort was unused. Mulcahy scoffed at the ridiculous nature of this trio. They grated at his nerves all of a sudden; grated on him like the thought of the three blank pages at the beginning and end of every army- issue bible. Each just lined in yellow enough to be noticable, three page turns' worth of anticipation for the beginning, or reverie after the end. And a normal state, besides-- any pause of thought that brought the priest's hands off of the pages -- to clean his glasses, or to fold them in prayer -- brought the book flipping back to one side or another. When his vision became clear again, or when he opened his eyes once more, with near inevitability one of the blank pages was staring up at him.
He'd always liked to think of them as the buffer the war deferringly placed between itself and the sanctity of the book. A representation in white of the peace of mind required to fully take in its teachings.
Now they were meaningless. Meaningless, empty. They mocked him with a mirror of his own existance.
'Well, no longer,' he decided.
"No longer," he spoke out loud, deciding the action. He tumbled out of bed in a mass of pent-up frustration, and grabbed the bible up from where it sat. The bible, duly confused, came with, never protesting, ever the good soul. It must have wondered who this fellow was, and what it had done with the camp priest. It was not used to being handled in such a manner.
He thumbed it through... Psalms, Isaiah, Matthew, Romans, Revelations, Blank, Blank, Blank. The last three flipped past with a series of confused flaps which Mulcahy took as taunting. He gripped the three near the spine, and was about to yank hard, when a better idea occurred to him.
He picked up a pen in his trembling hand, dragged the chair over to his desk, and sat in it so roughly as to cause the wooden structure to complain. He dampened his lips and turned to the first blank sheet of paper. He began to write.
He comprehensively wrote down all he had learned in the past week. He drew trembling lines to diagrams, the various names of the monsters he'd met and heard about. Their various weaknesses. That a piece of cold iron could wipe a changeling out of existence was very interesting to him. As was that changeling blood was, towards the "Corpses," as the fairies liked to call them, "Of an incapacitating... capacity." He drew the strange sigils he'd seen, all of them, and in what circumstances, along with what he felt they signified. As he looked at the list, he began to realize... it was some sort of language... some sort of code. He smiled, and became more eager, drawing intrepid sketches of Henry, Radar, Irene, Joles, and Meg, both as he normally saw them and as he... SAW them. He explained the situations under which they appeared to him in their true forms. Before he knew it, all six blank pages had been filled up, front and back.
The bible in which he'd penned these words is today known among certain hunter groups as the Korea Text. Its existence is believed by some, laughed at by many, and sought after by a few devotees who are sure its contents would add strength to the Hunter population as they fought to take back the night from an odd assortment of zombies and goblins that seemed to infest it. Its location, however, has long been unknown.
A fierce tremor rolled over the priest as he put down his pen and examined his work, nearly bursting with pride at the opus. Standing up, he tucked his thumbs into his pants and stalked the corners of his room, still feeling antsy. Finally he came to pause next to the desk chair, and reached out a hand to a bit of cloth, unfolding it to reveal the syringe of kindred vitae he'd acquired from Sparky.
They stared at each other, the syringe and he.
Well, why not? Why shouldn't he drink it? He had never felt so well as he had in the days after the drink. His knees were no longer weary, his back no longer ached, and he felt fitter than he had 15 years ago. He was on the good side, here, he reminded himself, picking up and uncapping the syringe, pointing the needle into one of the cups of coffee he had accumulating on his desk. If they were using this stuff to survive out there and kill people... he could certainly use it to feel up to going out and finding more of them. He squeezed. The coffee tinted red. He stirred, syringe acting as temporary swizzlestick.
Why not? And so he drank it. The taste salty and metallic and WRONG but irresistable. The rush, nearly overwhelming. He settled himself down into the chair again, his mouth gaping open. He tried beat down with a sheer force of will a stirring in his... soul that began to think, "why not?" to going down to Rosie's tonight and picking up a business girl.
~