Admirabile Sacramentum
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O magnum mysterium
He kneels.
He kneels in front of the altar where the sacrifices take place, where God the Hated is transformed into the softer God the Father. His hair is the white of the altarcloth, spiked and wild. His visible eye the colour of diluted blood, amber glittering in the light of one hundred candles. It is the night of God's favourite child.
The choir is singing, if only in his head, the tones of young voices surging around him. They anger him, the voices, but now is not the time for that anger. He could almost be in prayer, this strange man kneeling before the altar, could almost be offering his praise to God.
Everything is serene here, the muted sounds of doves far up in the rafters the only noise that pervades the atmosphere of holiness. Tonight is the anniversary of the Redeemer's birth.
He laughs, softly.
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Et admirabile sacramentum
The blood had run red.
The blood had run red over his knife and over himself. Crimson stains the once-pristine white of his clothing, long jagged streaks that others might find ugly. But he finds them beautiful, they signify to him that he has done what he wishes to.
He has hurt God.
Each strike of his knife tonight was another injury to the great Destroyer in heaven, each spurt of blood from the innocent was another flick of spiritual acid against the Creator that lurked above. He was content, knowing that an injury done against God on this night was far worse than on any other.
For tonight was the night that the instrument of redemption was born, millenia ago. Would God not hurt, having His son's birthday memorialised in blood?
Again, a laugh.
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Ut animalia viderent Dominum natum
They had screamed.
They had screamed like God's son had cried out on his cross, begging for help from a Father who cared nothing about him. The Redeemer had been a tool for God, just as everyone else was. He did not understand why the man had allowed it to happen, why others allowed the bastard Creator to use them thusly.
He is different. In his actions, his words, his very existance he hurts God. And in doing so he finds his joy, in the knowledge that the Creator is suffering for his actions he finds an indescribable happiness. Others don't understand, call him mad.
They call him mad when they obey the whim of an invisible tyrant, when they carry out wars and murders in His name. Whereas he kills to hurt the holy tyrant, he murders so souls will fly screaming to God with his name on their lips rather than that of the Divine.
He smiles.
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Jacentem in praesepio.
His eyes are laughing.
His eyes are laughing at the thought of God confronted by the souls of millions, all dispatched by his hand to cry their misery to their Creator. The sound would fill Heaven, it would obliterate the dulcet songs of the angels and the joyous cries of the saved. He will make the gates of Heaven ring with screams.
No more would the angels cry 'Holy, holy, holy!' and give praise to their god. They would realize as well their folly in serving something so cruel. White wings would be bathed in the crimson blood of the fallen, they would see their mistake. Their harps would fall silent, and the proclamation of holiness would melt away into the same screams that any dying thing sounded.
It would be beautiful, to see an angel die. The ultimate hurting of God, equalled only by the death of one of the innocents. For were not the angels created by God? How much would it hurt, to see such an elegant construct destroyed?
He shudders, delightedly.
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Beata virgo cujus viscera
The Virgin had wept.
The Virgin had wept at her son's death and had still worshipped the Father that allowed him to die. This makes no sense to him, could not one so gifted as she of the Immaculate Conception see through the lies God gave and cut through to the truth? Was the blood that had dripped from her son's wounds to the ground of Golgotha not enough to stir hatred for God? He imagines the dirt was still stained rust-red in that spot.
Perhaps someday he might visit that place, that place where surely God had wept tears as red as the Redeemer's blood. He will taste the earth, allow the ancient blood to roll over his tongue in the dull blandness of dirt. It will be a perfect thing, that moment.
Perhaps he will even reinact what had happened, perhaps he will bring his own victim and erect a cross. It would be fitting, wouldn't it? God would hurt once again, if he does so.
He ponders.
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Meruent partare Dominum Christum.
The Redeemer's face stares down.
The Redeemer's face stares down from a thousand stained-glass windows, smiles down benevolently on his violent thoughts. Perhaps in death the holy child had realised his mistake? Perhaps there was anger lurking in the heart of God's son against his Father, festering infected-black in the midst of holiness. The thought is a pleasing one to him, it brings thoughts of God Himself rotting from the inside out.
Someday the one everyone worshipped as the Creator will split apart like a piece of bad fruit, then everyone kneeling so obediently will see the rotting pulp spill out from holy rind. The magnificent windows will run black with the filth, indeed, the entire world will be covered in the sticky ebon pus of God's true self.
He will be standing in the middle of it, laughing and knowing God's truest hurt had come to be. The dignity of the Creator will be torn away, revealing the truth of what faith really is to all the obedient followers.
He shifts where he kneels.
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Alleluia.
God will weep on that day! God will weep tears of blood that will mix into the dark waste and become lost, and he will laugh at the Creator's hurt. How sweet it will be to see the expressions on the faces of the Holy One's followers, the disbelief that will turn to anger at being duped for thousands of years. God will be betrayed just as those who followed God have been betrayed.
The amber eye turns downward from the Son's smiling face, enshrined forever in glass, and he smiles in an imitation. He has brought a souvenir for God, a gift to show the Creator his own thoughts on the anniversary of the Son's birth. His hands, red with the blood of those he killed, cling to an awkward bundle.
"Alleluia," he whispers, the first and last words he will speak in this place. "All hail to Him Who is."
He laughs, and sets the body down to lay before the altar.
And then he departs, his well-wishes given.
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A note, before the glossary. I'm not sure about this fic. This is what you get with the following equation:
Very tired former religions major + Weiss Kreuz otaku-ness + Old Latin church music + Farfie yaoi
And I'm not quite sure how to deal with it. The people I've shown it to have been divided, some don't get into it, some do. Sooo -.-;; don't hate me for it? C&C, as always, are welcome.
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Golgotha - A place of torment or torture or, in Christian mythology, the hill outside ancient Jerusalem where Christ was crucified
O Magnum Mysterium
Song by Giovanni Gabrieli
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Characters are the property of
Koyasu Takehito, Project Weiß
Original fanfic © Tendai 2002
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...return...