Legends of the Treasure Child: Sparrow's Nest | By : Sparrowbirdie Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (All) > Slash - Male/Male Views: 5265 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0 |
Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Carribbean and I do not own Troy. I make no profit from this story. |
Be warned: This chapter contains a depiction of Mohammed, the prophet of the Muslims. If anyone take offense by the content, please let me know so I can remove/rewrite it.
This work is purely fictional, and on no account meant as an attack on or as a ridicule of the Islamic belief.
All though she had seen no vital signs for a long time, she refused to believe it. His normal, vibrant skin color had faded, the redness had gone from his cheeks and his manhood no longer held any deep red. His feet - stretching from his calves and down - were almost black and his face was grey and hollow. He had every sign of being a dead man. The sky was still black. It was as if the entire world held its breath.
She was so tired. She had not slept for three days. She refused to eat or take water. Her son had been crucified. Her lips - once lush and red, which so often had kissed his infant forehead and sung him lullabies - were now chipped and dry. Still, she mumbled prayers to the God above, who in his mercy had given her a son though she had not been with a man. The same God had given her a lifetime watching her son as a man. Then, God had claimed him. Just as inexplicably as he had been given to her, had he now been taken from her. Mary, mother of Christ stared up at her dead son. Her ears were deaf to the noise of horses' hooves approaching. Only when three of the four Roman soldiers descended, did she turn her head. The fourth soldier, a young man, lingered.
Longinus Sdapeze of Sardica had not been a member of the Roman army for long. He belonged to the auxiliary, and had joined it with great ambition to do his family proud. Three years he had served now, and finally the stubble on his chin was growing into something more ... manly. He knew this was a test. And he watched breathlessly as one of his fellow soldiers walked over to one of the crucified thieves with a sleigh. The bystanders, an old woman, an old man and an unknown female, moved away, startled and terrified. The old man had to drag the old woman away from being trampled down by the horses. The thief screamed as the first blow to his knees fell. Loginus watched him writhe. Then the second blow fell, crushing his left calf. The soldier did the same with his right leg also, and the sickening sound of bones splintering, was only adding to the sombre day. The thief got what he deserved, no doubt. Longinus watched him gasp for air, both from the shock and from the immediate weight put on his chest as he no longer had feet to support his weight. Soon he would die.
He turned his attention to the crucified man in the middle, who looked long since dead. Ever so often there would be condemned people who would linger for days and days, and in the night they would be helped down by their peers and whisked away into oblivion. Justice would not be served. Therefore, young men of the Roman army were given the task of of making sure that the crucified died on the third day. Longinus directed his spear towards the body of the King of Jews. The old woman awoke from her grief, wailed and threw herself to the ground. The younger woman cried out also and threw herself at the soldier, but by then it was already too late. Longinus buried the tip of his spear deep into the side of the body hanging on the cross. The old woman sighed heavily, looking like she was about to die. Black blood shot from the entry point. It assumed a life of its own and travelled down the hardened wood of the spear, straight to where Longinus' fingers were gripping it. He dropped the spear. It fell to the ground. The black sky above their heads opened, and a beam of bright blue light fell on the dead Jesus Christ. The horses reared and panicked. Longinus, in shock, fell from his horse and hit his head. Getting up, he saw his fellow soldiers consumed by the bright light. Then they were gone. Longinus gasped, got to his feet, tripped and fell. Moving away from the light, he felt as if he were next, and with that paranoid feeling, he mobilized extra strength. With his long legs, he ran as fast as he could.
Years passed. Longinus wore leather gloves to cover up his shame. There wasn't any known detergent in the Roman empire which successfully could wash away the blood. He'd spent countless nights in the half dark, whining and wincing, as he feverishly scratched at his skin. His hands were covered in a patchwork of scars. But nothing helped, not even peeling off his own skin. On the outside, Longinus remained the image of the perfect Roman centurion, dutiful and strong. Inside, he crumbled, devoured by his own despair. He received deadly wounds in a battle near Camulodunum in Britannia, twelve years after his encounter with Christ on the fields of Golgotha. At his deathbed, in the lone hours of the night, a figure appeared from the dark. The smell of sulphur poisoned the summer air, overtaking the smell of grass, rain and scented ointments. Longinus could not see the figure, other than that it was extremely tall, and its very presence seemed to suck out the warmth in the air. Longinus felt a chill spread out throughout his dying body.
I died for your sins. It was absolved before it was committed. I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies.
Longinus Sdapeze of Sardica died later that night, after openly confessing his belief in Christianity. He spent his final breath, lying on a simple makeshift mattress of hay and straw. It kept him off the wet and muddy ground. It was dark and hot. The thunder rolled intimidatingly above his lifeless head, as if to give warning to any man about the consequences of meddling with the divinities above.
Alláhu-Akbar.
The people in Constantinople have a saying: If the dying hear the beating of wings, then it is the coming of Azrail – the archangel of Death. He comes for the soul of the dying, so that it might be brought to rest at the feet of Allah.
Alláhu-Akbar. God is great. The one true god.
When the old man looked up from the table where he had just finished arranging the handmade jewellery, he wasn't sure what he was looking at. But the dark figure who strode by without noticing him, went on unnoticed by everyone else. And the old man saw the outline of black wings on the man's back. The otherwordly figure turned his head just briefly, and the old man stared at a pair of nut-shaped, golden glowing eyes. The old man felt his stomach turn into a lump of fear. A chill flared up on his back. The black figure moved on, and through the air there was a swishing noise, like feathers rustling. The old man sat down on a rickety stool, catching his breath. His hands were shaking and he could not stop from gazing after the dark figure. Whether it was Iblis or Azrail …?! Was this to be his last day on this Earth? The old man wondered. He could not shake the lump in his stomach. This was a bad omen.
John Sparrow wandered aimlessly among the busy streets of Constantinople. Being half demon had its advantages. If he did not want people to see him, then he just bent their minds and they didn't see him. Though, there were some who did. The seers, the ones with special powers. The cats. The ghosts. He aimed his steps towards AyaSofya – otherwise known as Hagia Sofia. The grandest cathedral of them all. He couldn't explain why he felt drawn to it. Perhaps he hoped for an answer.
"As-Salamu Alaykum» a voice suddenly said to him. John was distracted from his broodings and stopped momentarily. There was a ghost standing in the depths of a narrow passage. He could not see the person directly, as it was shrouded in darkness. It took him a moment before he realised who he was looking at. «Iblis» the man continued hesitantly, «the years have been kind to you.» The ghost spoke softly and kindly, as if to a friend.
«I am not ...!» John promtly replied. Then he thought the better of it and said; «I am not Iblis. Lucifer Morningstar presides over Hell, not I.»
«There is only one God. And that is Allah. And as Heaven has its ruler, so must Hell have one. But Lucifer is not the Iblis.»
«Who is?»
«You are, my friend.»
John shut his eyes tight, then opened them again. The words, the meaning behind it was unreal. Then it struck him that finding the prince and getting rid of the Demon King of the Second Plane of Hell had been surprisingly easy. Was the post of Satan really absent?
«Who sent you?!» John asked sternly, narrowing his eyes and scrying into the dark. He stepped forward and into the darkness. He shot out his arm and his strong fingers encompassed the narrow wrist of an old arab. As his fingers touched the ghost, the ghost materialised. John stared into the dark eyes of someone long gone.
John felt his chest cave in. His knees buckled underneath the weight of his body and he fell to the ground, still holding on to the man's wrist.
«The power of Allah compels you» the man said, scrutinizing John.
«In deed it does» John replied with defeat.
«The blood of the jinns float in your veins yet you are in love with everything Allah stands for. You are poisoned with love, overtaken by compassion and searching for Him like a lost child.»
«I do not seek Allah. Trust me» John answered sourly, knowing he was in part lying. Allah was always there, in the above. Watching his every move. John could not get up. Not even if he wanted to. He gazed upwards and met the stare of the saint. Like Jesus Christ, this prophet was untouchable and absolute in his godgiven power. And as with Jesus – or Isa – as he was known in the East, this prophet had a magnetic enigma surrounding him, a strength and a holiness which no one with demon blood in their veins could resist. Allah's representative on Earth. Those dark orbs were vibrant and alive as if the prophet had never died. They drilled into John's very soul. John averted his eyes. Compared to this holy man who was and would always be Allah's own, John was nothing. In fact, his adversary. In theory anyway.
«He whom you seek has arrived.»
«What? I seek no one. I seek an – item – not a person.» But before the last words were even spoken, John knew what the holy prophet was talking about. Admitting defeat, he bowed his head and sighed. The man looked down at him with pity in his eyes. He was held fast by a demon but showed no fear. Nor did he harbour any. He didn't need to. His unwavering belief in Allah was his shield and his sword.
Muhammed ibn Abd Allah had crossed paths with this half demon before, in the deserts outside Medina. Muhammed had been wounded. He had lost his horse to the desert. Half of his men had been slaughtered. John – or Aloysius as he had presented himself as at the time – had come to his aid and annihilated his enemies. When the prophet had asked why the demon had chosen to help him, Aloysius had replied: «Alláhu-Akbar».
Such a response had baffled the prophet – peace be upon him – from that day on and to his death and then into eternity. He had analyzed it every way he could, from the tone of the demon's voice to the situation when it had been said. Never before had he come across a demon who willingly took the word of Allah in his mouth. But once in eternity, Muhammed had finally understood. He had seen into the heart of the half demon. Expecting to find none, he had instead been stricken by the fact that it harboured an incomprehensible grief. The half demon mourned the death of a Christian prophet named Isa.
«Rise» the prophet said. John could do nothing but obey. His eyes shone a warm golden in the half dark. Something inside of him, perhaps pride, prevented him from returning the compassionate stare. John let go off the prophet's wrist.
«Forgive me, I have no right to force you into existence, this way.»
«I forgive you this sin, and so does Allah. I do not miss being alive. The word of Allah lives. Thus, I live through the word» the prophet spoke solemnly and with great conviction.
«Immortality takes many shapes» John replied, but far less convincing than he'd intended. He hated the way the prophet sowed remorse in his heart and pulled out the grief and the bitterness into the open. Just by staring at John.
«The stone you seek, lies buried with a Roman Emperor. If you allow these stones to be collected, you allow a weapon to be brought into existence which will be deadly even to you, my friend from the Abyss.»
«Don't call me that!» John retorted. He took a step backwards. «I do not deserve your friendship.» It sounded sharper than what he had intended for it to be. He immediately regretted it.
«Though I have left my earthly body behind, I still walk among men, among my peers across the Arabian plains. I see generations come and go. And I continue to guide them as best as I can. That is my purpose in the afterlife. I saw your father the Demon King as he was exiled from Hell. I have seen you and your brothers. I have attempted to guide them. But you are the only one who will accept guidance from Allah and his prophet. You harbour no malice towards me or my people. You sift out the false prophets and stop them. For that you deserve my friendship. As-Salamu Alaykum».
«Thank you.»
The prophet moved on. John remained fixed to his place as he watched the outline of the ghost float past a weeping woman. She stopped crying and came to her senses. He moved through the street, passed a child who had lost its way home. The child stopped dead in its tracks, spun on its heels and ran due north, homewards. A carpet dealer who had been embezzling his clients fell to his knees and clutched at his chest. His heart raced and he suddenly realised what would happen if he didn't set his affairs in order. The ghost had touched his shoulder, then it moved on, disappering into the crowd.
“Alayhi Salam” John whispered as he watched the prophet fade away into the multitude of moving bodies and billowing fabrics. “Peace be with you, friend. May you be sheltered from evil.”
Some minutes later, Ayasofya towered over John. The construction was the mother of all mosques, beautifully ordained with gold and vibrant colours. John held his breath and stepped inside. Surprised, he exhaled and let his shoulders down. He was inside a holy place. He did not explode. Nor did he catch fire. There was no lightning from the sky striking him down. “Thank you, Allah for allowing me to trespass into your house. I'll be quick about it” John mumbled and hurried forward. He moved through the huge halls, across stone tiles built aeons ago. He could feel the footsteps of long gone priests, monks, Vikings, Templar knights and kings and their queens. The building was teeming with ghosts and spiritual energy which soaked the very walls. But the closer John came to the older part of the Hagia Sofia, the more he realised that he was on the wrong track.
He was on his way out when he realised he was being watched. He stopped and turned his head to the left. There, in the intersection between two hallways, stood a young man. And he was stared at John with terror. John had to look twice. For a moment, he had seen someone else. A man in long white robes. He had stretched out his hands towards John. And from the holes in his hands, black blood had dripped down on the colorful tiles. And the eyes. The eyes who had haunted John in his dreams!
The young man realised that John was staring back. He was breathing fast. He took an unconscious step backwards John could see how his lips worked, forming the word 'demon'. The young man was dressed in European clothing, with a linen shirt, a brown vest soaked far beneath his armpits. He wore knee breeches. Everything about him spelled either 'foreigner' or 'tourist. He had short, curly hair which looked typically British in the way it was cut, with long sideburns, but his cheekbones, high-ridged nose and olive brown skin suggested to John that the man wasn't entirely British. The young man could be in his twenties. With eyes wide open, taking in every bit of unholy revelation that John was, the young man continued backtracking. He was handsome beyond belief! And his dark eyes sparkled as his face was bathed in a streak of sunlight. The longer John stared into those eyes, the more dizzy he felt. The pressing he'd felt in his chest for the past months, escalated. It was as if someone grasped his heart in his fist and began to squeeze. John knew he had to have this man, whatever the cost. Then, the figure before him wavered. John had to look again. His hands and knees had begun to shake, for he couldn't believe what he was seeing. The form of the young man wavered once more. Through the streaks of daylight which shot in through the beautifully carved stained glass windows, the shape of Jesus Christ once more appeared. John cursed as the image again faded in the blink of an eye. He was beginning to feel sick. The AyaSofya began to shudder.
The young man gasped. He seemed to wake from the crushing grip of his horror at seeing John. He spun on his heel and made it for the nearest exit. John followed. He needed answers. This had to be the work of another demon! Chances that John would accidentally cross paths with the resurrected Christ was hilarious. In one leap, John caught up with him and threw the man to the ground. He caught the young man by the arm and the throat and willed his nails to grow three inches longer. They turned black and razor sharp. The man stopped wriggling at the sight of the transformation, frightened that John meant to pierce his eyes with those long nails. John pinned the man to the nearest wall and wedged a knee between the man's legs. Through the fabric of his leather breeches, John felt the softness of the young man's manhood against his thigh, it's warmth and smell turned very quickly into an alluring sensation. John stared into the young man's green-brown eyes. The Hagia Sofia shuddered. John knew he had outstayed his welcome by long gone minutes. But he had to know! He ignored the whimpers and stutters of the young man, who clearly knew his prayers. But there was something in the depths of those greenish brown eyes …! John decided he would risk it. With his mind he forced his way inside the man's head. The memories of the man's short life appeared like bubbles bursting as soon as he touched them. This traveller studied to be a priest. But his heart was ambivalent. He had grown up to be a frightened child. His stepfather, the priest of Colchester. A stern man who considered himself the saviour of the young man's mother. The young man was born out of wedlock. The shame of his past and the unknown father. The ghost in his room. Hang on a minute.
The image of a boy aged eight, frightened out of his wits every night because of the ghost huddling at the right side of the far end of his bed. A Roman soldier, begging for forgiveness. All though the boy didn't understand him, the centurion continued to speak. John understood every word.
'Undo this curse! My Lord. You are the King of Jews! I beg Thee, allow me the peace which has been denied me all these years! I have atoned for my sin!”
Over and over this centurion would continue to beg. It confirmed John's suspicion. He wanted to dig deeper, but the walls were shaking badly, as if reminding him to get out. Dragging the young man out into the streets and into the panicking crowd who was staring at their beloved mosque, John moved fast. The young man could barely keep up. He wriggled and hammered at John in order to escape, but to no avail. Down by the harbour area, John continued to stride fast. The man screamed for help, but he was also panicking. He had begun to notice how they both seemed like air to everyone else. As if he had ceased to exist! He was completely at the mercy of his captor. John finally stopped. When the young man – who was quite out of breath – looked up, he could hardly believe what he saw. There was no ship quite like it. It's sails were crimson red – red as the robes of the bishops and cardinals of Rome. The hulls were glistening black, and the railing was ordained with gold carvings. He followed the beautiful craftsmanship all the way to the stern, where he learned of the ship's name: Crimson Lotus. His heart hammered so hard by the mere sight of this awe-inspiring galleon, that it nearly skipped a beat when he saw the decomposing bodies which had been made to look like a three-headed figurehead. Then he saw the crew. And then – John pulled at his arm – glancing wickedly at him.
“You go out into Constantinople in search of the Tear of God, and you return – not empty handed – but with a stranger. Priest, I take it?Another catholic sorry bastard to warm your bed while you scratch your head, wondering why the stone wasn't in Hagia Sofia?” Jack crossed his arms over his chest and peered at his son. John didn't answer. He was looking troubled, observing the twins as they doodled on the deck with pieces of charcoal. “They're not supposed to do that, but they ignore whatever I say. And that's good! Proves that they're not entirely without wickedness and funny ideas despite their encounter with the Light of God. The demonic aspects may have been purged from their blood but the Sparrow lives on! Where is the stone anyway?”
“Apparently – it was buried with a Roman emperor.”
“Which one?”
“Not a clue. But it's not one who is buried in AyaSofya. I – I need to think about this some more. See if something reveals itself...!” John glanced at Jack's belly, then at Jack's face.
“Aye” Jack replied as if he'd read John's mind. “The lad's going to come soon. And when that happens, Saieros will rip that baby to shreds if he gets his hands on him. But do take your time! Go and enjoy yourself with that spineless looking lobster. Before long, I'm sure something useful will burst out of you. Either way.” Jack gave him a meaningful look before he sneered. Just then, Prince Angwyn came up from below. Upon seeing John, he promptly bowed his head in respect before meeting his gaze. John's jaw fell downwards. What a remarkable change! Food, sleep and fresh air and transformed this elf of royal descent into a handsome, dashing warrior. His skin had become smooth and pearly like. Still pale, but it no longer resembled shrivelled old paper. His long hair flowed in the wind, shimmering pale golden, and the eyes glistened with vitality. There was still work to be done with his body. He was still thin beyond belief though he now ate like a horse. Growing back muscles would take time. John watched him kneel on one knee in front of him.
“I am ready to serve, my liege” the prince told him softly.
“I will only demand one thing of you still, and that is that you gain some more pounds. If you are to bear my child, you'll need every bit of strength. You're looking better by the day, but I'm not quite content with you yet.”
The prince kept quiet. He bowed his head respectfully again and waited until John had left the deck. Only then did he glance up. His people had been given a second chance at life. He had been given a second chance in life. And the Gatekeeper played fair, exerting great wisdom and gentleness. Prince Angwyn frowned. The worst was still to come. Though Prince Angwyn had what it took, elven male pregnancies did not come easy. If they came at all. If the Gatekeeper turned out to be in a hurry, then the prince would have a serious problem.
The Crimson Lotus.
John opened the door to the captain's cabin and stepped inside. Deep in thought, he saw the wooden leg which bore down on his head, a little too late. The young man screamed and hit as hard and as swift as he could, striking John across his right temple. John stumbled forward, more surprised than he was hurt. The young man attempted to slip past him,but John lunged forward and caught the man by his right shoulder, effectively burying his three inches ling nails into the soft flesh. The man screamed and tumbled backwards. He threw himself at the door and forced it open. And for a few seconds, he came face to face with the undead crewmembers who were scrubbing the deck. They stared at him, then went back to work, not caring that bits and pieces of rotting flesh fell into the soapy water which they soaked the brushes.
“Dear God! Deliver me from evil!” the young man screamed as he was dragged inside the captain's cabin again. The odour of fear and the scent of the man's skin was more than John could handle. He arched his back, threw his head backwards and growled. His long, black-brown mane of thick silky hair, fanned out and covered his shoulders and chest, making him look more like some hungry animal than anything else. The young man screamed out his objections. His busted shoulder gave him great pains, and together with fear, the terror of the young Brit was complete. John dug his nails into the fabric of the man's breeches. The seductive smell of virgin blood snaked its way into his nostrils, filling him up with bloodthirst and lust. He was breathing labouredly, listening and focusing with every bit of human wit to the tiny voice in the back of his mind which kept repeating that Remember! This is the body which harbours the soul of Christos. Go easy on him!
John tore the knee breeches from seam to seam, ignoring the man's pleas and objections. He allowed an ounce of his natural malice as a half demon to be let out, tearing the clothing asunder and then some. The demonstration of power furthered the young man's state of panic. He folded his shivering hands and began to mutter a prayer, understanding that his final hour was upon him. John placed both hands on his chest, gripped the vest and tore it in two. The linen shirt followed suit, and soon, the young priest in training was lying on his back in front of the half demon. More or less naked.
He had an average body, this one. No six-pack, nothing that was particularly outstanding. A bit of body hair around his belly button. Not too much muscle. But the way his torso moved up and down, the way the olive skin glistened of sweat in the light from the fire combined with those eyes, made it more than acceptable. He wanted to push John away. Seeing how the half demon undid his breeches and stripped down with skilled hands, was unsettling. It quickly dawned on the poor fellow what was about to happen.
Perhaps it was the glowing eyes, aye, they really glowed golden now. John caught him staring intensely, and in his wide open eyes he saw his own reflection, saw the eyes glowing back. He recognized the reaction, the way the human mind had difficulty comprehending what they were staring at. The brown orbs wandered from John's face, down his torso, to his swelling manhood.
“Dear God …!” the man muttered, breathing hard.
“You can feel it, can't you? It's tugging at your insides, wanting me near, wishing me inside of you! To be united once more.”
“Yes! I mean … no!!” the young man seemed confused, in shock of his outburst.
“Of course. The soul says yes but the mind says no. Here's a choice for you, my dear: You either give yourself to me willingly and we indulge ourselves in some pleasure in my comfortable bed. Or you continue to oppose me and I will have my way with you here, on the hard floorboards. Your choice, savvy?”
“Why do you look so familiar?!” the man ignored John's ultimatum.
“I don't have to explain anything to you. The soul knows. That's all that matters.”
“The – the soul?!”
“Your soul. Which – by the way – isn't yours.” John knelt between the young man's thighs and grabbed him by the throat. “So, what's it going to be?”
“Listen, demon! I know what you are, and I will never give myself to Thee willingly! I command you –!” the young man choked on his words, “ – I comm – and you – in the name of Jesus Christ our Lord, in the name of God and his warrior, Mih – Michael the archangel –!”
“ – save it for the amateurs. I am the Gatekeeper of Hell, and I shall have my way with you!” John squeezed tighter. The man gasped, fighting for air. John took advantage of the situation and made it between the man's thighs. The young man panicked and began to claw frantically at John's torso, at the hand around his throat. “Two thousand years I have waited, and here you are! I must have you now before other demons get their hands on you!” John caught the flailing arms by the wrists and forced them above the man's head. He bent down low, angling himself. Their lips nearly touched. He put his full weight on top of the young man's frail frame, pinning him to the floor. Fighting for air, the young man stopped squeezing his thighs together and opened up. It gave John the room to manoeuvre, getting up on his knees. The man gasped and inhaled sharply. Just in that second, John decided to penetrate. The man tensed up and screamed as pain shot through his rectum. Arching his back, he intended to escape, moving and wriggling as much as he could. John caught his arms again.
“If you give me your name, I will make the pain go away. For a while.” John moved in and out with long, long languid strokes, knowing how it had to feel.
“I will not!” the man wheezed through gritted teeth. “I will not surrender to a demon!”
“Your name! And I take offence by that. I'm a demon lord, not just any common demon!” John pushed harder. The body underneath him was tensing up further, the sweat from the strain and undergoing pain made his body slick.
“Th – though I walk in the shadow of the valley of death – !”
“ – that can be arranged” John replied with a half grin. He sped up the tempo, thrusting harder. The novice in the ways of the church beneath him, screamed again. Hatred and agony glittered in his eyes. Pearls of sweat glistened on his forehead before they cascaded down past his temples, soaking the multitude of auburn curls cut short by the ears.
“Dear God, hear me, thy faithful servant in a most – most desperate hour – I call on Thee –!”
“ – hush!” John cut him off short, sounding more annoyed than he really opted for. “If you will not give me your name, then I shall take it from your mind!”
“No!” the man gasped, but it was already too late. As John kept thrusting on, he also thrust himself into the man's mind, diving deep into the veil of his conscious mind. And there it was. John surface and pulled himself out from the man's mind just as the man convulsed, rolled his head backwards. An orgasm – which had been triggered by nothing less than John's prying mind – rippled through the young nobleman's body. There was no hiding the reaction which promptly ensued. The look on his face told John that this man – Gilbert Monterey of Colchester – was disappointed in himself. Discipline of mind and discipline of body were not the same. What did it matter if he was strong in his faith, if his body could so easily be persuaded in the hands of a demon?
“Holy Father forgive me …!” Gilbert Monterey hid his face in his hands. John continued to thrust, finding an odd but familiar glee throbbing in his chest. “Priests …!” he sneered. The young man from Colchester winced at every thrust.
“You – you foul creature! Your kind will never win! You may kill me, possess me and make me commit the most unspeakable acts” Gilbert Monterey sobbed, revealing his tear-streaked face for John to see, “but you shall never have my soul! My soul belongs to God!”
“Are you so sure? I mean, aye, it belongs to your God, you are his son, but yet again, you ought to remember that he devised you with one intent and that was to sacrifice you in order to set an example to Man. How's that for a humane God?! God chose Muhammed – peace be upon him – as his prophet. He got a long life, with many wives and offspring. He fought for the word of Islam, set down the guidelines of the Quran. He lived his life to the fullest. Joan of Arc did the same. She too, a sort of prophet. Living and fighting in the name of and for God. All you did – was dying. How unfair is that?!”
“No!” Gilbert retorted, wincing as John gave a particular hard thrust. The novice hissed at the pain and fought weakly against his oppressor. “I know what you are doing, demon! You will not make me doubt! I will not fall from my faith! I believe in God Almighty, in Jesus Christ and the Holy Ghost! I believe in the blessed Virgin Mary –!”
“ – don't you mention her name! Your mother's name! I hope that the last thing you saw before you died on that cross, were your mother weeping her eyes out! Your death nearly killed her!!” John snarled. “Seeing her ought to have taught you a thing or two about the so-called mercy of God!”
Gilbert Monterey went silent. His eyes began to wander, and John could see that he was remembering things. He suddenly went pale, then limp beneath John's crushing weight and the thrusts which were increasing in strength. John was approaching his orgasm. He had been prepared to follow it through all the way, to seriously hurt the man by pumping sperm into his rectum which eventually would become solid gold. Gilbert Monterey's face all of the sudden cramped up, distorted by pain. He began to scream. The warmth of his cave which had engulfed John's manhood for a while, grew even hotter. Gilbert Montery began to shake, his breaths coming shallow and fast. John could literally feel the insides of the man change by the second. He pulled out. Anticipation flared up in his belly, spread its wings inside his chest and took off. Gilbert Monterey screamed at the top of his lungs, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. Every muscle in his body was strained to a maximum. John took a deep breath, inhaling the fresh scent of virgin blood coming from elsewhere than Gibert's back door entrance. Looking down, he stared with awe as the transformation took place. The second the new entrance was finished, all raw and with a billion nerve ends still tingling from the stress of being physically reallocated, John aimed his manhood and dived into it. The walls of the still bloody entrance worked like a sponge, sucking him in and massaging the tender flesh. They seemed to gently squeeze at his manhood, beckoning it further inside. John obeyed every instinct and began to thrust like mad, ignoring the howling and the sobs from Gilbert Monterey. The smell of fear and virgin blood, of sex and masculine odours worked as a catalyst, spurring him on. He knew what this meant. He knew what the soul inside of Gilbert really wanted. It was this – which was the moment of moments. This moment would spawn new life, John felt it down to the deepest and darkest parts of his demon soul! The orgasm caught him with great force, washing over him. He could sense how he squirted out a highly concentrated essence of himself and into this sobbing body beneath him. In a flash, he saw a fluid shape catapult into a fleshy tunnel, making it to a ball of blue light before it divided in three. Then, everything went black. Every limb felt incredibly heavy, and John mobilized his reserves to stay on his elbows so he wouldn't crush Gilbert beneath his weight.
“There” he whispered into Gilbert's ear, “it's done. I've waited two thousand years for this moment.” He pulled out and rolled off. “For a priest, you sure know how to entertain a demon!” John was still trying to catch his breath. He watched Gilbert struggle to get up on his knees. He was worn and bloody, breathing hard and not saying a word. Still struggling with the concept of who and what he really was. He made his way over to the fireplace, where he more or less sank down, curled up into a ball, moaning in pain.
“The gap should – should close up soon. It will not re-open before its time. And when it is, you must call me. Until then, you remain a free soul. I do not intend to bind you, or possess you. I have given of myself and you've accepted it. That is, your body has accepted it.” John made to stand. He fetched a blanket and placed it carefully across Gilbert's shivering body. He then dressed, before he sat down next to Gilbert. “The Crimson is awfully quiet. She can't quite decide whether she likes you or not. The Crimson Lotus, on whose deck you're currently laying on, is made up of all of the souls of the unfortunate women who have either died on the pyre, died of drowning or been tortured to their deaths these last centuries. They all were accused of being witches, serving Satan. These angry souls are the very glue that hold her together, one could say. She shares my sentiments regarding priests. You'd be careful not to mention you-know-who's name while you're on board!”
Gilbert could hardly stay awake. He was looking awfully tired, and John thought he could basically hear the man's mind churn away at the events of this strange day.
“I'm sorry it had to come to this” John whispered almost inaudibly. He left Gilbert staring into the wild fire.
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