Saint Patrick ☘ (shamrocked_) wrote in nevermore_logs, @ 2011-02-08 12:00:00 |
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Entry tags: | saint padraig, saint patrick |
Who: Saint Patrick and the Irish Patrick (Padraig)
What: Discussing life, pain, the future, the past and a certain sexy Baptist
When: Monday afternoon
Where: Patrick's apartment
Notes: Uhm...so I wrote a novel here. It is 4,019 words long. HAVE FUN.
Patrick had sequestered himself away in the apartment's tiny office in order to speak to the Saint Patrick who still lived in Ireland. The office-like room was hardly ever used, and mostly it served as a storage space for boxes of books and papers and random, goofy photos of himself and his brothers covering the desk in the corner. Grey Cat had a bed perched on top of what was supposed to be a paper tray that was labelled 'Inbox' that rested on the desk. There was no outbox and currently the cat was the only thing present in the in-tray. He was surrounded by clutter in a room that smelled strongly of dust since it was rarely entered. But Patrick wanted to be alone while he did this. For several reasons.
Patrick seated himself at the desk in his spinning chair and he idly petted his cat while he dialled the number of the Irish saint who preferred to go by Padraig instead of 'Patrick', at least to the people who really knew him. He felt 'Patrick ' was too American. The pair of them had a rather strained relationship, as Padraig did not like the fact that he lost so many of his people to Patrick's country. But Patrick had a feeling he could rely on Padraig despite that. Padraig was still a part of himself, or perhaps the other way around.
While the phone rang, Patrick held it to his ear with his shoulder to free up his hands. He continued to pat Grey Cat who was actually purring for once, while he picked up a pen and opened his journal with the other hand.
A voice answered, but Patrick knew immediately that it wasn't Padraig. After all, Padraig's voice had been his own for a thousand years. He asked for his other self, gave his alias, and then settled in for a wait. He knew Padraig would likely take his time when he heard who was calling, if only to make it seem like he was even busier than he was. And Patrick knew Padraig was likely to be more than busy at a time like this. Patrick chose to use his wait time constructively.
I remember it was cold, Patrick wrote, trying to pay less attention to his writing than to his wonderfully distracting cat. The night he had been taken was coming back to him forcefully, and Patrick knew he should write it down, even if he didn't want to. Doing so when he was thoroughly distracted by several other things seemed like the best way to get it done.
The slave raiders came when my parents were at Bannaventa Berniae doing business and I was at the country villa. I hadn't even said goodbye to them when they left. I think I was angry with them for some reason that is lost to time now. I took for granted that I would see them when they returned a few days later and we could continue our pointless argument. I took so many things for granted in those days.
I woke up to the sound of footsteps on the stairs. I remember being angry. I was angry that the slaves had woken me up and I intended to correct them on this inexcusable breach of conduct, when the door to my bedroom slammed open. I was dragged out of my bed and down the stairs. I can't remember if I screamed, but I must have. It was the most terrifying experience of my life up to then. All around me, other people were screaming too. My family's slaves were also taken, as was the usual with the Irish slave traders. They took every able-bodied person they could find when they raided a home. And we all qualified. Those who did not were killed in front of us.
They threw us to the ground and heavy chains were fixed to my wrists and around my neck, and we were bound together then, our hands behind our backs. Slaves and their noble owner, bound together in misery and headed for a land we didn't know. They marched us to their ship and we were dragged aboard for the short trip across the sea. I was freezing and scared, and I just wanted-
"Patrick?"
Patrick jumped a little, his pen leaving a long line through some of the words he had already written. He found he didn't mind. "Thank goodness, Padraig," Patrick breathed. He was so grateful to have been dragged away from his memories. "How are you?"
"Busy," Padraig answered shortly. "Or have you forgotten my country is in a state of distress?"
Patrick chewed on his lower lip for a moment and he managed to bite back any hissed retorts about Ireland being his too, or the US being in strife as well. The truth was, he wasn't in Ireland, and the recession was hitting Ireland worse that it was America. He let Padraig have his annoyance. "I haven't forgotten, Padraig. It's why I'm calling, actually."
I just wanted to be home with my family, but I was ripped away from them. In the boat, I was shoved up against a wall, and I could see the fires of home grow farther and farther away until they disappeared altogether.
After a moment of silence, Padraig spoke up. He dropped his defensive tone, managing to sound much more like Patrick thought he should. "I see. What were you calling about then, Patrick?"
Patrick sniffed and he scratched between Grey Cat's ears before finally taking hold of the phone with his cat-stroking hand. His neck was getting sore from the way he was holding the phone to his shoulder and he had to give up one of the things he had been doing. And he really shouldn't stop writing his memories down.
Taking the phone into his left hand, he took a deep breath and he tried to explain his vague plans. "A lot of people have been heading over here from Ireland. Immigration is higher than it was during the boom in the 80s."
"Do you think I am unaware of this?" Padraig asked, sounding defensive again.
"I'm not gloating!" Patrick gritted his teeth and he ran his fingers through his hair to push it away from his face. "Padraig, I'm worried. A lot of people have been leaving there and coming here only to be turned away again. And some of those that aren't turned away only end up jobless and penniless here too. And it is a lot harder to be unemployed in the US when you are not a citizen. Not...that it is ever easy. I heard them praying, Padraig and I think I can help. But I need your help too."
"I hear their prayers as well," Padraig said softly.
It never occurred to me to pray in those dark days. I didn't even have spiritual comfort, as I hadn't really cared all that much for religious teachings. I was totally and completely alone.
"The archdiocese here in New York know who you are, right?" Patrick asked. They had once known Patrick too, back many years ago before he had become so very different. "And the Irish Cultural Heritage Society does too?"
"Of course," Padraig said, as if it should be obvious that American foundations and diocese would know who he was.
"Well I have fallen off their radar in recent years and...as you know, we no longer look alike." Patrick pressed on before Padraig got gloaty on that subject. Patrick no longer hated what he looked like because he knew John thought he was beautiful, but he still wasn't entirely fond of the fact that he no longer looked like he should. "I can't very well show up and claim to be who I am looking like this. I need you to make contact with them and tell them I'll be coming in to see them."
"Of course, Patrick," Padraig said, accepting the responsibility surprisingly quickly. He really must have been glad to finally have some help. "But what are you planning on doing?"
"Irish Americans are notoriously tied to the country of their heritage," Patrick said easily. "And there are a lot of people here who have been for centuries now, but they consider themselves as Irish as Guinness. Some of these families have money to spare. Money they would probably donate to help Irish people just coming over and trying to find work, because their ancestors did the same thing two centuries ago. Immigration is in our blood-"
The first time I saw Ireland was when I was led out of the boat. It was wet and cold, and I was filled with terror. Bannaventa Berniae had been near the Irish Sea and I had grown up hearing stories about Ireland. It was a place of barbarians and fairies. A place of magic and myth and fear. I was led away from the boat with the rest of the survivors from the villa and we were kept shackled together, hungry and miserable, until we were sold.
Patrick took a deep breath and he shook his head. "Sorry. Uhm...I believe the Irish Americans here will do what they can to take care of any new arrivals. There was so much worry about the political state there. The people here care. The Heritage Society will know which families have been around a long time and which ones can spare the money. I can write up grants as well, in the Heritage Society's name. The Archdiocese will have to give something; if not money, then help and shelter. Maybe jobs. They probably already are but...dammit, they can do more. They can always do more. As for me, I can go charm old ladies out of their money. But...for a good cause." People did it for the ballet, he could do it to help his fellow human beings.
"Patrick," Padraig said softly, "that sounds like a really wonderful idea. I'll email my contacts today and then send you the information."
"Great," Patrick said, grinning widely. "It might take some time to get started, but the diocese can help in the meantime. Thanks, Padraig, I couldn't do this without you. If I showed up and claimed to be Saint Patrick, I'd probably be sent to an asylum."
"And we can't have you locked up," Padraig said easily, even though just those words alone were enough to make Patrick feel like he was choking, despite the fact that he had just been joking about the very same thing.
I was bought by a farmer and together we travelled many miles to his farm near the woods of Foclut. This area of Ireland seemed like it was worlds away from my home, and it just happened to be one of the wettest, coldest areas of Ireland. I had been a nobleman with slaves of my own, and I had been stripped of my rights in one terrible night, and sent to work on a farm that was so incredibly primitive compared to anything I knew from Roman Britain. My life was now subject to my owner's whims. He had control over my life and indeed by death. No one seemed to care that I was a nobleman. I was a Romanus. And I was in Hell.
"Patrick, are you alright?"
"Hmm? Yes. Sorry, I was just-" And then Patrick realised how very stupid it was to keep what he was writing down from Padraig. Back then, they had been the very same person. These memories belonged to both of them. "Some of my...our memories have been coming back. And not all of them are pleasant."
"Ah. I'm sorry for that, Patrick. What are you remembering?"
Patrick breathed out again and he finally looked down at what he had been writing. "Foclut."
"My dear County Mayo," Padraig said fondly, speaking of the land as it was known now. "I used to hate going through there, but now it holds no terror for me. When you visit, I will take you to where the farm was."
"You remember!? I keep reading that no one knows."
Padraig chuckled and he said, "that's because I don't think it is anyone else's business. I hardly want it to become a tourist attraction. Come see where Naomh Padraig ate pig swill to keep alive! And this is where his back was split by the whip because he dared to speak Latin!" Patrick squirmed uncomfortably then. He had forgotten that, but the memory came back to him as Padraig spoke. "But of course I remember where it was. And walking those fields as a free man will do wonders for you, Patrick."
Patrick put his pen down and he leaned back in his chair, lifting one leg off the ground so he could prop it up on the chair and hug his knee. "Really?"
"Trust me. Once you see you have nothing more to fear from that place, it gets much easier to remember it. You've done it before. You've probably just forgotten that too. And in the meantime, you have Andrew, Dewi and George there to help you, don't you? I would love to have them all here with me. As if is, I have to travel to see them, though I do my best to keep in touch."
"Dewi lives with me," Patrick said, smiling to himself. Padraig really was helping him. "And George and Andrew are in the city as well, yes."
Padraig's voice was full of envy when he said, "you're lucky."
"I know I am," Patrick replied, absolutely honestly. "Uhm...Padraig?" If Padraig could remind him of horrible things, maybe he could remind him of other things too. "Do you remember...during Mary Tudor's reign," a sound of disgust echoed through the phone and Patrick had to agree, "do you remember uhm...John the Baptist?" It felt so very strange calling John anything other than 'John'. He had long since stopped thinking of John as his title, but when he did say it, he was reminded of who his boyfriend was and it always filled him with awe.
There was a pause and Patrick actually felt like he might had made some terrible error by bringing up something horrible that he simply hadn't remembered as a terrible event. John hadn't made it sound like anything disastrous had happened, but maybe he just wasn't saying everything. Sometimes he did that.
Padraig started to speak slowly and it took a while before he mentioned John's name at all. "I was so happy when Mary took the throne. At first, anyway. She had been so lovely growing up. Do you remember?"
"Mmm. Kind of." Or he had watched The Tudors and thought Mary was really sweet. One of those.
"George and I...we...us...we used to talk to George about it all the time. When Henry died and Edward took the throne, the country was stuck with a Protestant ruler. In as much as Edward really was a ruler, being so young. When Mary took over, the country was reconnected with the Church and everyone was so hopeful. Until she started burning people. As much as I preferred the country in Catholic hands, by that point I was very much of the opinion that no one should die for their beliefs. Especially not...not like that."
"I remembered The Tower," Patrick confessed. "A few weeks back, I remembered what George had to do in the The Tower to keep us from being broken by someone else."
"He was very brave. We never talk about that. Of course there is no need, but he doesn't like to think about it. I will admit that my own execution for my religious beliefs did influence my feelings on the matter when it came to Mary's reign, though I had felt that way before. We not a martyr, and Henry made us into one. It lit a fire under me, so to speak. So when Mary started burning people for disagreeing with her, instead of hiding people of my faith, I found myself hiding people of other faiths."
"And we did that with George's help?"
"Of course. He heard of people being targeted and he let us know. We did what we could. Of course we couldn't save all of them-"
"But we saved John?" Patrick interrupted, sort of desperate to get back to the point, instead of having a history lesson.
"Yes, we saved John. It's little wonder he was marked for the flame. We took him to a safe house and, since he was pretty high on the list of people Mary wanted dead, we stayed with him."
Patrick smiled and he shook his head at himself. How had he not remembered? Of course, it all made a lot of sense. John had sent him a cookie bouquet which had made him laugh, and a teddy bear, and he had agreed to stay with Patrick to get him out of Michael's house. He had probably been returning the favour from so many centuries ago. Patrick knew John better than to think it had been motivated by lust. The fact that it had been motivated by friendship and love made him feel even more safe, if that was at all possible. "Was it just...uh...us?" It was so strange talking like this, being two separate people who had once been one.
"Just John and myself...ourselves? Yes. Most of the time, it was just the two of us there, though sometimes people would stay a night or two on their way to other places. And George would come sometimes, though it was dangerous for George to be there at all. Similar to Henry's reign, we had to be careful not to be seen together. We had to move twice I think, in those few months while the Marian raids continued."
"So...uhm, despite the...you know, danger and everything, it was...it was good?"
"Well we spent a lot of time talking about faith and sharing our views. He had a lot of influence on me, actually. There were obvious differences in what we believed, but we both respected that. Why do you ask, Patrick. Have you met up with John the Baptist again?"
Patrick bit his lip, though he could hardly contain his smile. That was how it usually went when he thought about John, let alone spoke about him. "You could say that. He lives with me as well. I'm in love with him, Padraig." He knew Padraig might not like to hear that. He couldn't be sure, but he didn't think, in the past, he had been one who thought that saints should be in relationships. It was possible Padraig still felt that way. But Padraig's response surprised him. There was a long silence and then, in a voice much warmer than Padraig has used for their entire conversation up to now, he said, "of course you are."
Patrick blinked and then he pulled his other knee up onto the chair too, including it in the awkward, knee-hugging, ball of Patrick. "You're not surprised?"
"Not...even a little. I know how John felt. He let me know, though he never said anything outright. He flirted, and it was...not necessarily subtle, but not overbearing, nor unwelcome. But I was-" Padraig trailed off and Patrick understood.
"You had things to be getting on with?"
"Mmm. A relationship was a foreign idea to me. It was and still is something other people had." There was silence again and Patrick unwrapped his arm from around his knees, lifting it up to his mouth where he began chewing on the cuff of his sleeve, absently. When he realised what he was doing, he shook his sleeve down over his hand and he balled his fist up inside it to save his poor cuffs from frantic teeth-marks. When Padraig spoke again, it shocked him slightly just because he had gotten used to the short-lived silence. "I'm glad for you, Patrick."
Patrick chewed on his lip again and he put one foot on the ground to slowly push his rotating chair in circles. "How do you feel about relationships now?"
"The same as I did then," Padraig replied, though the regret in his voice was obvious. "I feel I don't have the time. But I don't think it's wrong, Patrick. Wrong for me, perhaps. When I do something I do it completely, you know that. You're about to do something similar. I dedicated myself to Ireland and only Ireland a long time ago."
"And...I forgot that around the time I forgot everything else."
"That doesn't make it wrong," Padraig was quick to say, even though Patrick already believed that. "You're not in Ireland anyway. It makes a dedication to serve Ireland and only Ireland a bit difficult. You're going to do it your way. You should be happy while you do it, Patrick."
"Thank you, Padraig."
"Are you bringing John with you when you come to visit? I'd like to see him too."
Patrick wanted to bring John everywhere with him. "I think so. I hope he does." Patrick didn't ask for any elaboration on Padraig's feelings for John. He had an inkling he knew, and when he remembered what had passed between them, he would know for sure anyway. Padraig's words hadn't brought back those memories, but he had faith they would come back to him in time.
"Is everything else going alright for you, Patrick?"
Patrick smiled when Padraig asked, and he wheeled himself back to the desk so he could take up his pen again. "I'm alright. Some days are better than others in regards to the...alcoholism and everything. But I'm surrounded by support, so it never gets as bad as it could. When I fall, people catch me." Patrick knew if John hadn't been there to stop him after he had first heard the prayers again, he would have continued to drink until he lost consciousness. Just drinking the sherry had been bad enough, since he had a harder time not drinking all the beer that was now in the fridge than he would have had otherwise, but he was dealing. "Thank you for asking."
"You're welcome. You know...you could call more often."
Patrick laughed then, and he chewed on his pen for a second more before putting it to the page.
I was surrounded by people speaking a language I didn't understand, which meant that it was hard to know what I was being directed to do. I managed to figure out that I was to be in charge of the sheep, which was a lowly position, even among the farm slaves. I had seen such chores being done in my home, but they were beneath me. And suddenly, it was my job and any infraction or mistake in my duties resulted in severe lashings.
I was alone in a strange land and every comfort I had ever known had been taken from me. I had never known such cold or pain or hunger. My life became those sheep. I rose with them and followed them from field to field. I sheared them and aided them when they gave birth or when they were sick. I fed them while my own stomach ached for lack of food. And there, with nothing and no one, I found my strength inside, and I found my faith.
"I would like that," Patrick said warmly. "Thank you, Padraig."
"Of course, Patrick. Any time."
Patrick hung up the phone and he closed his journal, vowing to re-read it later when he felt he could handle it. He would show it to John, or read it aloud while John held his hand and cooed loving things to him to remind him he was safe now, and never needed to be alone again.
He rose from the chair and he planted a kiss on Grey Cat's head before heading out to find John. Maybe he could have one of those beers in the fridge.
He really felt like he deserved one. But just one. He had made a promise, after all.