The Black Pot

Draco stands, still seething from Potter's arrogance ... and still a little frustrated for other reasons. He resents having to stand at all, but he can see people eyeing him pointedly, and - well, he's left it until the last possible moment, hoping to calm himself down first, but the glares seem to be getting more pointed.

Well, at least he can appear calm.

"No one who knows me would call me a saint, and I wouldn't want to be. Saints are so bound up in what's good and right that they lose sight of people. They don't care about those around them: they're so focused on being 'good' that they don't care about hurting people who they think aren't. If they think about it at all, which I doubt. Saints are rather self-righteous." His sneer is out full force.

"Besides, sainthood seems to be given to those who deny themselves - I'm not likely to do that. I'd rather please myself than worry about whether the pleasure is 'good' or 'evil'."

Ianto stands up and looks around the cafe. Most people are engaged in their own conversations, which suits him just fine. It's taken him a long time to work up the nerve to stand up and talk about this, and he'd prefer to have as few people listening as possible. He starts speaking, not really noticing if anyone is paying attention.

"Saints. That's an interesting topic. I don't suppose most people would think of me as being a particularly religious person; most people involved in science aren't. And I'm not really religious, at least not in the traditional sense." He pauses for a moment. "But I've seen too many things to entirely discount the possibility.

"As for favourite saints, well, I don't really have one. I suppose I should put in a word for Saint David, though; since people tend to forget about him. He's the patron saint of Wales. You celebrate Saint David's Day by wearing a leek pinned to your clothes.

"I'm never going to be the saint of anything. In order to be a saint, you have to live a good life or die a horrible death, sometimes both." He shakes his head. "I certainly haven't done the former, and I want to avoid the latter." He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, pausing for long moment before he starts talking again. "But if they were ever crazy enough to make me a saint, I'd be the patron saint of second chances. I've been forgiven, been trusted again by people I'd betrayed, gotten back what I thought I had lost forever, more times than I could ever deserve. So when people need that second chance, I, well, I understand." He looks around the cafe once more, and then sits down quickly.

Sorry this is late, but it's just been a crazy time of year for me, what with finals and papers and things like that. *sigh*

He doesn't really bother to get up from his seat, he's close to the front anyway.  He just sips his tea of questionable origin (he made it himself) and turns to the crowd to say

Marluxia, patron saint of well-meaning liberators accused of treachery because their commrades were jackasses.  Also known as the patron saint of tea that marijuana has nohing on. Takes another sip.

Goku stands up feeling as self-conscious as he ever has. He glances at Sanzo, mindful of their conversation about participating. He hasn't seen the monk since they parted that Saturday, and truth be told, Goku wishes that they were alone together, somewhere, anywhere else. He doesn't know why the topic stuck with him; bothered him Besides the Buddhism that rubbed off of him from living in Chang'an with Sanzo, Goku had only learned a smattering of Catholicism from Hakkai, only enough to know that his friend believed himself to be damned for the choices that he'd made in this life.

He takes a deep breath and looks around the room. "I really didn't know anything about saints, and still don't know too much, but I spent a few days this week at the library. I'll never be a saint, that's for sure," he snorts. "I don't think I'll ever even be Catholic!" he laughs nervously. "But there is someone I found that I can relate to." He imagines Sanzo is inwardly shocked that the baka saru would actually research something. Goku's never been much for academics; he fought first with the monks and later with Hakkai when he was given lessons, but left to his own devices with no one to ask for answers has opened that door for Goku. He's learned how to look for them himself.

"So I did a little searching and found one, Saint Jerome Emiliani." His golden eyes meet Sanzo's. "He was imprisoned in a fortress and freed by an apparition." But there's more. "He's the patron saint of orphans," he adds and his lips curve into a small smile. That's what the four of them were in the ikkou all orphans drawn together to create their own interdependent family. His soliloquy done, Goku shrugs his shoulders and sits down beside Sanzo.

When there seems to be no volunteers following Alice, The Doctor gets to his feet. He speaks almost sternly, voice booming. "Now, then... About this business of choosing saints..." He grins suddenly and shrugs. "I'm not sure I feel qualified to pick a favourite. And not just because, you know... Alien!" he points to himself, chuckling.

He explains gently. "The way I see it, it's a bit like asking someone which vegetable they prefer -- lettuce or broccoli -- when they've only tried one of the options... I haven't met all of the human saints, so how could I possibly properly select one that I like best of all?"

He lets the question hang a moment, then continues, musing, "And even out of the ones that I've met, I'm not sure I could pick one that I like better than the others." He waves his hand dismissively and smiles. "Oh, they're all very nice people and such, but there's a lot of gruesome business involved with becoming a saint! Take St. Lucy for example, lovely woman, but have you ever tried having a conversation with someone holding their own eyeballs on a platter? It's a bit of a turn off!"

"I suppose I could pick one based on their patronage and whatnot," he shrugs, “you know, pick St. Christopher or St. Bona of Pisa or St. Anthony of Padua since they're all patron saints of travelers. But what if I meet one of them and they find out I chose another?" He adds, pointedly, "I’m sure even saints can get jealous and bicker! So, really, I'd rather avoid the whole issue of picking a favourite human saint altogether."

"And we didn't really do saints on my planet. There are people from our past who are important, sure, like Rassillon and Omega -- they're sorta legendary time lords." He shakes his head. "But not saints."

"And as far as what I'd be a saint of..." The smile vanishes from his face, his jaw tenses, and he shakes his head again. "There's not a chance."

He adds grimly, "Not after some of the things I've done."

Alice sits at a table in the corner, listening to the others speak, idly chewing the nail on her index finger. Suddenly, realising what she's been doing, she glances around to see if any one has noticed her nail-biting. Blushing, she drops her hands into her lap, folds them and awaits her turn. When there is a pause in the discussion, she looks around, and, seeing no one else apparently poised to say their piece, she takes a deep breath and gets to her feet. "So... Saints..." she begins, speaking loudly, hoping to call the attention of the crowd to her place in the corner.

She presses her lips into a thin line for a moment, then takes another breath and continues. "If you asked me a few weeks ago, if I had a favourite saint, I'm not sure what I would have answered." She smirks and laughs shortly. "I might have even laughed at you. But now..." Her smile fades and she continues, unsteadily, "Given what I've learned..." she trails off, looking distant.

She starts again. "I've been speaking with some wizards here from... well, the future, I suppose would be the best way to explain it... I've learned that if I'd stayed..."

She takes another deep breath and begins for the third time, speaking quickly now, as though if she stops, she may not finish her explanation. "Back home, before I arrived here, my husband and I were attacked, and, from what I've heard, it didn't end... favourably. If I'd stayed, I'd be there with him, but since I didn't, it's just my husband, my Frank... His mind's been permanently affected by magic; he's now a long-term resident of the main wizarding hospital in London..." She enunciates each word precisely, giving each word weight. "St. Mungo's Hospital, for Magical Maladies and Injuries."

"Now, some of you hear the name St. Mungo and probably think of the patron saint of Glasgow, but that's actually the muggle Saint Mungo. The Mungo I'm thinking of is Mungo Bonham, famed Healer from the 16th- and 17th-Centuries and founder of--" she breaks off abruptly, smiles and snorts. "Merlin, I'm beginning to sound like I'm teaching History of Magic. Frank'll be teasing me--" she pales, the smile disappears from her face and she chokes out the words, correcting herself, "...would have teased..."

She swallows hard, eyes becoming very bright. "So, saints..." she says, haltingly. "Now I'm afraid I do have a favourite; there's only one for me to have faith in... because I have to believe he can..."

She states simply, voice turning hoarse, "I'd choose St. Mungo," and sits back down quickly.

He stood outside the building, safely hidden in the shadows. It looked as if a meeting of some sort was taking place. The variety of those attending was remarkable. Men, women, some with very strange looks indeed. Even more so than the creatures he'd met earlier upon the street while awaiting Lyta. Thirst tugged at him, and every time the door opened, he considered whether or not he should slide in. No doubt the sight of a large black wolf would cause a stir. Possibly even a violent one.

No sign of Isabeau inside.

Then a man in an apron--a strange sight unto itself--came toward the door. Navarre slid back into the shadows and waited to see what he would do. To his surprise, the man pushed the door open and left it like that, grumbling something about too many ungrateful bodies, too little space, and general stuffiness.

He waited until the man had gone, then when no one was paying attention, he slid into the room and lay beneath the closest table to listen. Perhaps one of these people would mention a strange woman's presence, would lead him to his Isabeau.

He was quickly running out of any other hope.

Balthier is thoughtful for a while, silent as all those before him explain what sort of saint they would or would not be. What sort of saint they admired, or would aspire to be like. Balthier almost has to stop himself from laughing aloud at his inner thoughts on the matter -- the idea of him as a saint, it was all rather ridiculous. He'd never considered anything he had ever done in his twenty-two years of life as saintly. He was a spoiled child, raised in a family of privilege, given whatever it was he had wanted, except that which he later found he desired most: freedom.

When he notices it had gone silent in the café, no one at the moment was talking, Balthier decides to stand. ( Taking in a slow breath, he gathers his thoughts... )

Dr. McCoy sits in his chair, listening to the other people's answers to the question. The last person sits, and there's a lull in which the remaining people glance around the room at each other. No one seems eager to jump up for their turn, so he puts down his coffee mug and stands. Might as well get his two cents in.

"I'm goin' to echo most people's sentiments here and say that I sure as hell ain't no saint. I'm not a bad person, but I've never been religious. I grew up in the southern United States, so I know about Christianity, but it never really stuck with me. I'm a science kind of guy, not religious. Plus, I wouldn't want to be a martyr to some cause or somethin'. I'd like to live to a ripe old age, thank you."

He pauses, thinking for a moment before continuing. "As for my favorite saint, I don't know if I could say I have one. I suppose I could pick the patron saint of doctors or hospitals or somethin' equally predictable. But those names escape me right now. If I had to pick one, I'd probably say St. Jude. The patron saint of lost causes and desperate situations. I know I've had down periods in my life, so I guess it'd be nice to have someone lookin' out for those that need it.

"And I'm sure a lot of people here think bein' stuck in Margate is a pretty desperate situation. Maybe those of you who are religious can send a little message his way." He shrugs. "Couldn't hurt."

"Saints-" Krycek reclines on the hard chair, fingers wrapped around the glass of whiskey on the table in front of him.

( You won't have to listen to me wax poetic )

Oh, sorry, I haven't said anything at any of these little talks yet, have I? I really don't mean to be rude. Only everyone else has been so interesting, I forgot I should think of something to say, too.

I don't really know much about saints - the Lovegoods have always been a family of science, after all - but from listening to everybody else, they sound rather nice. I wonder what it would be like to be a saint? Seems quite painful, but then you get a very lovely shiny halo at the end of it, so I suppose it's worth it.

Seems silly, though, to pick out certain people to be special, just because God decided to show them a miracle. After all, in the Christian creation myth (one I'm rather fond of, as it happens, though of course the universe was actually made with the wands of the Great Elders) life itself is a bit of a miracle, really, and all of us are made in God's image. And if you ask me, that makes us all saints.

Sorry, what was the question? I'm afraid I got a little side-tracked there - you've probably noticed I do that sometimes. Just too many interesting things to think about! What would I like to be a saint of? I rather think I'd like to be the saint of open minds, and on my feast day everyone should sit down and talk about new ideas. Yes, I think that would be lovely. There'd be cake too, of course. Cake is an excellent aid for thought, in my experience!

"Natural science does not consist in ratifying what others have said, but in seeking the causes of phenomena." Dahlia starts off with this and the steady, careful way in which she says it makes it obvious that it is a quote. Rather than explaining its source straight off though, she seemingly changes topic and begins answering the question.

“While it was my father who was the religious one – he remained a rather decent Anglican his whole life – it’s my mother who’s the one who influenced my decision for this question. We’ve got a saint in the family from her side you see, or at least so I’ve been told, the records from that far back are a little suspect so she could have been wrong in her claim.” She stops and shrugs, “He’s from the right area so maybe she’s not though.”

“It’s that saint who said the quote I started with,” Here she smiles fondly, “Albertus Magnus, the patron saint of natural scientists fittingly enough. A very odd man, all things considered, as he was able to successfully balance science and religion. So it’s for more than one reason I consider him my favourite saint.”

Now she laughs, almost derisively, “As for what I’d be the saint of, don’t be daft, I’m not worthy of sainthood.” Not after everything she’s done.

Phèdre eased into the back of the room. She was late, having had to deal with some frustrating plumbing issues at the Spa. Her mud bath attendant had unfortunately not understood that volcanic mud, while excellent for the skin, was disastrous for pipes. Phèdre had not realized what was happening until too late, having been assured the plumbing system could handle anything, and having believed the assistant was a bit savvier than she'd now proven herself to be.

So when the time came for Phèdre to greet all and give her thoughts on the topic of the day, she'd not had a single moment to collect herself. Nevertheless, she wore an easy smile as she took her turn.

She brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. "Good evening, everyone. I feel as if it has been too long since I've seen you all. I apologize for that." She nodded at Ianto, at Will and Harry, and his little son, and several others in the crowd. She frowned briefly--there were many here who she had not yet met, and many more among the missing. Now she really felt bad, and quite neglectful. She would set about to remedy her slight as soon as possible.

"I apologize also for not being around Margate more, but the Spa has kept me very busy." She paused, then spread her hands, palms up. "So I've not given this topic proper thought. I'm afraid that where I come from, there are no saints." She grinned. "Though plenty of sinners."

"I do understand the concept though. Now, at least. Whereas Terre d'Ange was founded by angels, and my world and this one have angels in common, as well as demons," she glanced at Crowley, and wondered briefly where Aziraphale had been lately, "Saints, as I read on Wikipedia, a marvelous tool, simply are not part of my culture. At least in a biblical sense."

She stood, flipping her hair back, then smiling at them all. "But the aspect I adore about Wikipedia, as a stranger to this land, is that when more than one explanation exists, it is also given. And in that case, given my own background and beliefs, I choose to consider the second definition of saints. That is, and I quote, 'The use of saint in popular culture denotes a simple feeling of thanks and respect for their efforts.' Their referring of course to the one whom describes as a saint.

"With that definition in mind, all of you here who have been so good to me, I must call you my saints. Without you all, life at Margate would be a great deal less bearable. Thank you, for all you have done."

Warmth embraced her as she looked down at these people who have become her friends, and in some cases, family. With a last smile, she returned to her seat, and looked about for the waitress. A hot cup of tea would nice.

Reno listens to each account of saints or lack-there-of until he finally understands what one actually is. When the room falls relatively silent, he pushes off of the wall he'd been holding up and clears his throat.

"My world doesn’t have much of anything close to the saints of this one. I guess the closest would be the Cetra or Ancients, but they're all dead now. Their temples still exist and the Lifestream is always strongest there," he says, drawing from his cigarette. "Strife says he still sees Her. His Aeris. She was the last of them. The one Sephiroth offed." He shrugs and looks around the room, unsure if the silver-haired man was still there somewhere.

"Not much that is 'good' ever lasts, in my experience. Maybe it's cause that god you all talk about calls 'em home. Maybe it's just bad luck. Maybe it's just smarter to be a little bit wicked so that when you're faced with something worse, you know how to handle it. So no, I don't want to be a saint. I like to have a fighting chance, yo. I like not needing to be dead, to be worshipped."

He squints against the acrid smoke from his cigarette, almost burnt to the filter, before eventually freeing one hand from his teacup. Plucking the cigarette from his lips, he offers tonelessly, "This humble person wouldn't know about saints. There might have been Christian martyrs in Nagasaki. I forget." With a shrug, he extinguishes the Marlboro and pulls his sleeves deeper over his hands.

"They..." He looks up, searches the crowd for faces he knows. "I don't think I understand what they were seeking, those martyrs. Or why they were so eager to lay down their lives. I hold with Kukai, if any - the founder of Shingon. Or Ch'en-yen: the Chinese among you might know it under that name. Kukai wasn't... wasn't so much a saint, I think. But he was close to the Buddha. Shingon means true word, although the monks of his sect never preach. And I don't pretend to comprehend any of its mysteries." He nods to himself, not even sure what the question entailed, or why it would be desirable to be a saint. His hands are gently closing around the cup again.

*This topic makes Harry feel rather uncomfortable and Remus's speech didn't help matters. He stands with his arms folded, looking above the crowd's heads.*

I don't know all that much about saints, but I can't imagine I'd like to be the saint of anything. Too much responsibility and you always come to a bad end, from what I can see. And people would expect you to set a good example, being a saint. They'd expect you to be perfect and if you did anything to suggest otherwise, they'd want your head on a platter. I don't imagine you could have much fun.

*looks at the ground*

So, I wouldn't want to be a saint.

I guess if I had to pick my own favourite saint, I'd pick St. Jerome Emiliani. He was the patron saint of orphans and abandoned children. I like the idea that there's someone watching over the lost kids in the world. It's a nice thing to imagine.

Actually, I do have a favourite saint - at least, I do now after educating myself a little in the matter. Some might say that had I stayed in my old universe, I should have been canonized after dying such a noble and heroic death, despite having no real knowledge of or inclination toward the Muggle concept of religion...

Don't worry: I'll come back to my saintliness later, death or no death.
( Read more... )

It's late, and he's tired, and he doesn't know where the hell he is. When he closed his eyes he was next to Vash on a ratty couch in an improbable and sandy place with blood in his eyes and the smell of spent shells burning his nostrils. When he opened them again he was still on sand, but it was next to a body of water large enough to run the plants for years, and the only thing he could smell was salt. He can still smell it, and it unnerves him.

( What are saints to a preacher? )

Rincewind wasn’t really keen on talking about this in front of a lot of people, but the gents was occupied and rather than stand, hopping from one foot to the other, he decided to distract himself by speaking up. He cleared his throat.

( Read more... )

John considers the question carefully then shrugs and pushes his empty glass back.
( Read more... )