You know, TheMeatly’s tweet about Wally is kind of interesting.
There’s another game full of audio diaries; anyone who’s played a Bioshock game (but the first one is what I’m thinking of) can tell you that they lead you along a character’s story years after that story has already taken place and, eventually, you find out what happened to them. Looooots of them don’t survive, but you don’t know who does until later in the game.
… So why would Meatly spoil Wally’s fate being an unpleasant one now instead of making us wait? It’s only chapter three; he could’ve easily made us wait another chapter or two.
… Unless we’re going to be finding out what happened to him very soon.
"I’d rather say what I wish was in the show that was left out". The floor is yours ...
I WISH THIS HAD BEEN IN THE SHOW……
I followed Anselm down the short center aisle, genuflecting in his wake. The slight figure of Brother Bartolome knelt toward the front, head bowed. He didn’t turn at the faint noise of our entrance, but stayed motionless, bent in adoration.
The Sacrament itself was almost obscured by the magnificence of its container. The huge monstrance, a sunburst of gold more than a foot across, sat serenely on the altar, guarding the humble bit of bread at its center.
“But what shall I do?” I had asked him, voice lowered in respect of night and silence as we had approached the chapel.
“Nothing, ma chère,” he had replied, simply. “Only be.”
So I sat, listening to my own breathing, and the tiny sounds of a silent place; the inaudible things normally hidden in other sounds. The settling of stone, the creak of wood. The hissing of the tiny, unquenchable flames. A faint skitter of some small creature, wandered from its place into the home of majesty.
It was a peaceful place, I would grant Anselm that. In spite of my own fatigue and my worry over Jamie, I gradually felt myself relaxing, the tightness of my mind gently unwinding, like the relaxation of a clock spring. Strangely, I didn’t feel at all sleepy, despite the lateness of the hour and the strains of the last few days and weeks.
After all, I thought, what were days and weeks in the presence of eternity? And that’s what this was, to Anselm and Bartolome, to Ambrose, to all the monks, up to and including the formidable Abbot Alexander.
It was in a way a comforting idea; if there was all the time in the world, then the happenings of a given moment became less important. I could see, perhaps, how one could draw back a little, seek some respite in the contemplation of an endless Being, whatever one conceived its nature to be.
And if there was eternity, or even the idea of it, then perhaps Anselm was right; all things were possible. And all love? I wondered. I had loved Frank; I still did. And I loved Jamie, more than my own life. But bound in the limits of time and flesh, I could not keep them both. Beyond, perhaps? Was there a place where time no longer existed, or where it stopped? Anselm thought so. A place where all things were possible. And none were necessary.
And was there love there? Beyond the limits of flesh and time, was all love possible? Was it necessary?
The voice of my thoughts seemed to be Uncle Lamb’s. My family, and all I knew of love as a child. A man who had never spoken love to me, who had never needed to, for I knew he loved me, as surely as I knew I lived. For where all love is, the speaking is unnecessary. It is all. It is undying. And it is enough.
Time passed without my awareness of it, and I was startled by the sudden appearance of Anselm before me, coming through the small door near the altar. Surely he had been sitting behind me? I glanced behind, to see one of the young monks whose name I didn’t know genuflecting near the rear entrance. Anselm bowed low before the altar, then motioned to me with a nod toward the door.
“You left?” I said, once outside the chapel. “But I thought you weren’t supposed to leave the, er, the Sacrament, alone?”
He smiled tranquilly. “I didn’t, ma chère. You were there.”
I repressed the urge to argue that I didn’t count. After all, I supposed, there was no such thing as a Qualified Official Adorer. You only had to be human, and I imagined I was still that, though I barely felt it at times.
Jamie’s candle still burned as I passed his door, and I caught the rustle of turning pages. I would have stopped, but Anselm went on, to leave me at the door of my own chamber. I paused there to bid him good night, and to thank him for taking me to the chapel.
“It was…restful,” I said, struggling to find the right word.
He nodded, watching me. “Oui, madame. It is.” As I turned to go, he said, “I told you that the Blessed Sacrament was not alone, for you were there. But what of you, ma chère? Were you alone?”
“I stopped, and looked at him for a moment before answering.
“No,” I said. “I wasn’t.”
BECAUSE THIS ……
“But what I can’t understand,” he said, careful to be tactful, “is, er, well…why?”
“Why go in for this Perpetual Adoration business? You’ve never been the least devout, no more than I have. And you don’t go to Mass or anything; Father Beggs asks me every week where you are.”
I shook my head. “I can’t really say, Frank. It’s just something…I need to do.” I looked at him, helpless to explain adequately. “It’s…peaceful there,” I said, finally.
He opened his mouth as though to speak further, then turned away, shaking his head. It was peaceful.
The car park at the church was deserted, save for the single car of the adorer on duty at this hour, gleaming an anonymous black under the arc lights. Inside, I signed my name to the log and walked forward, coughing tactfully to alert the eleven o’clock adorer to my presence without the rudeness of direct speech. I knelt behind him, a heavyset man in a yellow windcheater. After a moment, he rose, genuflected before the altar, turned and walked to the door, nodding briefly as he passed me. The door hissed shut and I was alone, save for the Sacrament displayed on the altar, in the great golden sunburst of the monstrance.
There were two candles on the altar, big ones. Smooth and white, they burned steadily in the still air, without a flicker. I closed my eyes for a moment, just listening to the silence.
Everything that had happened during the day whirled through my mind in a disjointed welter of thoughts and feelings. Coatless, I was shaking with cold from the short walk through the parking lot, but slowly I grew warm again, and my clenched hands relaxed in my lap. At last, as usually happened here, I ceased to think.
Whether it was the stoppage of time in the presence of eternity, or only the overtaking of a bone-deep fatigue, I didn’t know. But the guilt over Frank eased, the wrenching grief for Jamie lessened, and even the constant tug of motherhood upon my emotions receded to the level of background noise, no louder than the slow beating of my own heart, regular and comforting in the dark peace of the chapel.
“O Lord,” I whispered, “I commend to your mercy the soul of your servant James.” And mine, I added silently. And mine.
Okay, guys, this goes from innuendo to a slight risque at the end. Nothing too bad, which reminds me I really do need to write a smut piece for these two. Kastle feels for this one to the 1000th degree. I really hope you like it. Happy September!!!
Shirtless On The Kitchen Floor
“You know a shirtless man working on the pipes under the kitchen sink in the middle of the afternoon has been a start to many a porno.” Karen cocked her head to the side as she commented on the situation on display in front of her. Frank Castle, aka The Punisher, was shirtless, laying on his back on her kitchen floor body partially hidden under her kitchen sink.
“You watch a lot of those, Ma’am?” He questioned and damn-it if she couldn’t hear the smirk in his voice.
“I’ve had boyfriends that enjoyed them.” She rolled her eyes, even though he couldn’t see it and toed off her shoes.
“Suppose for Red it would have to be an audio book.” He chuckled.
“Har. Har.” She stepped into the kitchen, yelping at the cold water covering the floor, “Frank how long has the sink been leaking?”
“Not sure I…” He started but stopped as a loud bang sounded from beneath the sink and he cursed out load.
“Are you okay? Karen moved closer to him, might as well she was already we…her feet; her feet were already wet.
“I’m fine, just no room to work down here.” A few more bangs sounded, peppered with a few more curses from the vigilante.
“Here let me in there. I’m smaller; I’ll fit better.” Karen grimaced as she got down on her side and the water seeped into her clothes. She maneuvered herself into the space from the second door’s opening and looked at Frank between the pipes. “Wrench please.”
He handed it over and pointed to the pipe nearest to him. “Just needs to be a little tighter. You get the wrench to grip and start to pull it tight towards me and I’ll finish off.”
Karen bit down on her bottom lip to contain her giggle as she focused on the task at hand, if there was no water, there would be no coffee. Think about coffee, Page, not about the sexual innuendo train that you started and the fact that you’re soaking wet on the floor with a soaking wet Frank.
“You got something on your mind there, Ma’am?”
She could see his arch eyebrow and their fingers brushed as she pushed the wrench handle towards him. “Not at all.”
He finished tightened it down and pushed himself out from beneath the sink. “That should be all it needs.”
“Other than mop-job that I’ll need to do.” Karen sighed and wiggled out from beneath the sink, shivering as the motion hiked up her skirt and her bare skin came in contact with the cold floor. She was going to ask Frank to turn the water back on, but gasped as Frank’s mouth crashed against hers and he pinned her beneath him. She moaned into his mouth and arched her body instantly against his; the friction of her cold, wet clothes was a devious contrast to his overheated skin. He finally let her up for air, mouthing his way down her neck as he unbuttoned her shirt. “You think you’re getting lucky or something, Castle?” She mentally cursed the breathless quality of her voice.
“Thought this was how the scene was supposed to finish.” He growled into her skin.
Karen ran her hands over his back, “I certainly the scene want to finish properly, but not on the floor.” She mewed as he mouthed her breast with the fabric of her bra in the way, then panted out, “but maybe in the shower or the bed instead of…Oh my god, FRANK.” She squealed as he stood up with her in his arms.
I have mixed feelings about Frank. On his own, I like him. He’s definitely someone I would end up hanging out with and I would genuinely enjoy his company - I mean, he’s a historian and I double majored in History as well as English; I’ve always been a history nerd. With regards to his relationship with Claire… I mostly just feel sorry for the guy.
Frank and Hazel move in together, into a niceish house in New-Rome. Leo ‘has recently set his hair on fire’ Valdez frequently comes over, commandeering their garage to work on his latest project, sometimes staying in there for days on end. Frank and Hazel make sure he eats and sleeps, and, when the project is done, Leo emerges to food and cuddles.