Saint Patrick ☘ (shamrocked_) wrote in nevermore_logs, @ 2012-05-02 09:13:00 |
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Entry tags: | saint padraig, saint patrick |
WHO: Patrick and Padraig
WHAT: Patrick having an existential crisis
WHEN: May Day, afternoon
WHERE: The farm in Ireland
WARNINGS: Memories of captivity which get a little graphic and uncharacteristic use of swearing and self-pity
Grass tickled Patrick's neck as he lay, spread-eagled on the ground of his Irish farm. His eyes were fixed on the sky above, which was slate grey; the kind of overcast where the clouds were indistinct from one another and it appeared as though the sky itself had changed colour. It had rained the previous night and the ground underneath his back was a bit damp, but Patrick was trying his best to ignore it. He had been hoping the featureless sky would clear his mind, but without anything to focus on his inner voice had gone from a rather panicky whisper to a scream.
He was relieved when he heard footsteps making their way towards him and was silently thankful he had brought Padraig here with him after all. The man had been incredibly supportive and quite surprisingly good company.
"Your hair looks like a ginger firework," Padraig's tone sounded dryly amused. "It's sticking out everywhere."
"Step into my vision, I can't see you!" Seemingly from out of nowhere, Padraig stepped over him and he glanced down at his American self. "Ach. You look like a giant. With boring, non-incendiary hair."
A chuckle escaped Padraig's lips as he stared down. "I understand the desire to cloud-watch, but did you really need to do so right beside a cliff?" By glancing to his left, Padraig could see the edge of the cliff not two feet away, which led to a fatal drop into the rough sea below.
"Help me up, I smell mucky." He extended his hand and was aided into a sitting position by his fellow saint. "It's just...an important place." Patrick stared out at the churning, grey water and he sighed. He had come here to think and pray so many hundreds of years ago. To him it made sense to attempt to do so now in the same place.
"It's an important place because if we tried to pray in our living quarters we were accused of talking to ourself," Padraig remembered, without a hint of irony about what was happening right at that moment. "I'm not going to judge you the same way."
"Guess I just thought-" Patrick shrugged his shoulders and then his nose wrinkled. "Is my shirt muddy? All I can smell is damp."
"Petrichor," supplied Padraig, though the use of the word was slightly incorrect as the ground was in no way dry.
"Wanky wanky blah blah, Mister Vocabulary," Patrick shot back. "Just smells like damp goo to me-"
Patrick's eyes glazed over and immediately he felt a hand on his arm. He barely heard Padraig's voice through the fog that had taken over his entire being from out of nowhere. "You're about to remember something. It's not going to be pleasant," Padraig guessed, though sense-memory being what it was, he was correct. He always remembered the same thing when smelling damp earth.
The memories didn't always come quietly. Sometimes they made their way into Patrick's brain pleasantly, causing him to smile to himself and continue on doing what he had been occupying himself with. Others, they slammed into him and overtook every single one of his senses. It was like re-living the pain all over again as the real world faded away and all that was left was memory and pain.
The penalty for losing track of a sheep from the master's flock was steep. That night, mere weeks after Patrick had been thrust into the life of captivity, he had lost two. Believing the sheep to be lost to wolves or the rough sea below, Patrick's owner took it upon himself to educate Patrick that such a loss would not be tolerated again.
It was pouring rain and the leather ties that held Patrick's hands to the post were slick and fat with moisture. He stood, his back bared, water pouring down his body, stinging his eyes. The whip cracked across his back and Patrick bit back a scream. His wrists rebelled against the leather ties and the clumsy knot gave way slightly. The whip cracked again and in all his youthful ignorance, Patrick believed that if the ties gave way completely, that he could spare himself the rest of the lashings. He pulled again, harder and harder until the knot loosened enough for him to pull free.
Force from his struggle spilled Patrick to the ground which was a mess of mud and the fodder of hundreds of animals that lived on the farm. He struggled to right himself, and one of the first Irish phrases he learned by heart was bellowed by his master. "Stay down!" There was something in the man's voice that made Patrick obey. He was frozen in fear and a moment later his face was being pushed down into the muck. Gasping in shock, Patrick inhaled a great deal of the mud which he could feel gritting it's way down his throat.
His master continued the lashes then and Patrick stayed where he was, sobbing and gasping for breath which only resulted in more mud and feces and his own blood making their way into his mouth and down his throat.
When the lashes were over, Patrick didn't dare move for several minutes. He had been left there, miserable and wounded, to care for himself. His body trembled as he lifted himself out of the disgusting quagmire. Coughs racked his body as his lungs tried to rid themselves of the invading muck. Supported by his hands, which were sinking, he vomited until he was quite sure there was nothing left at all in his body-
"Blech!" Patrick's voice sounded distressed. A second later, a mint humbug was pressed into his hand and Patrick finally looked up, able to see the world right in front of him instead of the world of his memories. "Wha-?"
"I carry them when it rains," explained Padraig. "I remember it too."
"I can taste it!" Patrick popped the mint into his mouth hurriedly. Anything was better than the remembered taste of farm swamp. "Goddamn." His body trembled and he was grateful when Padraig's arm looped around his shoulders. He leaned against the other saint and let out a slow breath.
"I always taste it when it rains. Hence, humbugs."
"Mm," silence overtook them for several minutes, only broken when Patrick crunched up his candy, unable to simply wait for it to dissolve into nothing.
"Are you alright?" Padraig finally asked.
"Yes? No. I don't know." Looking confused, Patrick continued. "I mean about the memory, I'm fine. Grossed out, but fine. All that horrible stuff happened and I still found comfort in God eventually. And I came here to pray and things made sense then."
Obviously they were on the verge of something, so Padraig encouraged Patrick to keep talking. "Just then?"
"Nothing make sense now!" Patrick's voice raised and he turned to face Padraig. "You know, back then it was okay because once I surrendered to God, I had faith that everything I was doing was right." Despite Padraig knowing all this as they had been the same person back then, Patrick just kept on talking. "Voices from the fucking woods told me to escape and I knew God would deliver me so I did! I knew what drove me back then. When I escaped my goal became to see my family again. Then it became to study the word of God so I studied under Uncle Martin in Tours. Then it became to go back to Ireland and save the very people who had kept me captive because I honestly believed they needed saving!"
A wry smile that held nothing of mirth found it's way onto his face. "I can't believe now I actually thought it was my responsibility to bring an entire nation to God so the world could be allowed to end and we would all be in Heaven. It's fucking ridiculous but it doesn't matter because at the time I knew it was right! I have no fucking clue what's right any more!"
"What do you mean, Patrick?"
"I faced tribes who wanted to kill me and hell...a church who wanted to kill me, and people who wanted to bring me back to captivity, because I had no fear. I was in the hands of God and even if I died, I would go to Heaven and be with him. I had a purpose. What am I now?! I'm nothing! I don't have a purpose! I'm not even human, I'm just here because people believe I existed! What if every single memory I have is just because of them!? What if I was a slave owner!? Or...god, what if all those women who followed me around- What if I was a pimp!?"
Working hard to hide his amusement, Padraig shook his head. "I doubt we were ever a pimp..."
"What's not the point!" Patrick threw his hands in the air. "I have no goal! I mean...sure I can help people and that's nice and everything, but after the world ends, what? Nothing. I don't go to Heaven, I'm already there! So what then? I just disappear!? What the fuck!? So why do I have to be here now, struggling through a life I shouldn't even have?! I don't want to be here!"
"We don't get a choice-"
"Bullshit!" Patrick hissed, though he knew it was true. "Fucking bullshit." He tried to run his fingers through his hair but it was a mass of mud and grass, so he balled his hands into fists and bent forward slightly over his knotted stomach. "And you know sometimes I feel like a goddamn anglerfish!"
"Uhm-?"
"A male one. They're like...six times smaller than the lady fish and instead of having a nice sexy time, they just attach themselves to her and dissolve into nothing but balls. And then they just sort of make sperm clouds until they die a bally death."
The look on Padraig's face was incredulous. "Patrick. Wh- erm. Sure but you don't feel like you have been reduced to that by John do you?"
"Huh? No! No no...Gutter Mind." Patrick pulled his hands from his hair and he gave Padraig a withering look. "That was probably where my symbolism fell apart. No, it's just that I feel like every single person around me is this giant and I'm-"
"Balls?"
"-nothing. It's like I disappear."
"Patrick," Padraig's voice was soft, "I've been in a room with you. You don't disappear. In fact when you're in the room it's sort of hard to notice anything else."
"I don't mean- Argh, yes. I know. I'm energy and excitement and that's because I've been reduced to a goddamn holiday. I'm a parade! I am something that happens once a year to give people an excuse to drink green beer and act ridiculous. That's what I mean! Sebastian and George are still fighters and John is still an evangelist and Michael is all...an angel. David might be low-key but he still has his stead-fast faith. Anthony can find anything, so he has a place. Joan is steadfast in her faith and strength too, same with Agatha and Margaret and even Darerca. And what do I have? A parade. Everyone knows better than me. They all-" Patrick shook his head. "I feel like a child. Like I have to have everything explained to me because I'm not worthy to even bear the name I used to have.
"And it's not even just that! I can't really lose my faith because I know it's right. I've been there. I know what lies after for people who believe, but nothing lies after for me. Nothing. So who gives a shit what I do any more anyway? I was Saint Patrick! Now I'm Saint Confettiloser."
There really was nothing much Padraig could say to that. He simply pulled Patrick close and let the other saint lean against him. "You're over thinking things."
There was a pause and then Patrick let out a slightly relieved laugh against Padraig's shoulder. "You think? That's what I get for trying to think while staring up at the sky."
"Come on. It looks like it's going to rain and you should probably take a shower. I'll make tea and then I can tell you a thousand reasons why you're wrong about basically everything. And don't think it's because I know better than you because I am you. And everything I can do, you can do too."
"Yeah. Alright." Patrick let Padraig help him up. "Thanks."
"Just so you are aware, I will be teasing you about being a pair of balls at some point in the future."
Patrick snorted. "Understood."