Shireling
A Servant of King and Country
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<em>The following is a piece to explore the character of Michael Covington. Criticism is appreciated. Pats on the back are nice too. Hahaha! </em> Michael glanced at himself in the mirror, averting his eyes at first before finally settling them into position so that he might examine himself. He was greeted by the image of a young man of about twenty he recognized as himself: pale skin almost as white as the snow-shade of his scarf and lacking almost all color thrown in contrast to his black, priestly robe, cold to the touch, sallow cheeks, dark red eyes staring back at him, carefully trimmed, short hair and lack of a beard or other facial hair. He was an abomination. Carefully, he turned his back to the mirror and endeavored to look in it no more that day as he attended to his duties. Leaving his tiny cell, he walked with a certain measure of mechanical grace through the cobbled stone hallways and through the courtyard, robes billowing after him. He arrived finally at the Sanctuary, where he set about his early morning tasks by the light of the candle. He lit the candles in the holders across the walls and at the altar, made sure the pews were clear of all debris, and set out more consecrated water by the door, careful not to let any drip on him. Catching a snag on the carpet, Michael felt the white-hot searing agony as the holy water fell from the bowl and ran across his skin, slowly burning scars into his hand like acid. He choked back the pain and set the bowl down before wrapping his hand in his scarf. A man in black approached from the darkened entrance and put his hand on Michael's shoulder. "I meant to warn you that there might be a snag in the rug. It is very old." said the old priest, his cracked voice hitting Michael's eardrums like a warm, summer breeze. "My apologies, Father Hanley." Michael replied. "I should have exercised more caution." "Nonsense, my boy. We are all imperfect creatures. Let's go take care of this." The priest led Michael to the altar where they both kneeled and prayed. Father Hanley's muttered incantations seemed to multiply and amplify in the empty room, and as they did, Michael's hands tingled. He felt the familiar tidal wave of warmth wash over him, like he was drowning in a sea of gentle summer sun and lilac. The warmth clashed with the coldness of his skin only briefly, before battering down his body's defenses and forcing him to surrender whole-heartedly to the healing glow. The scarf came off of his hand, and he noted that the scar left by the water was no longer there. Father Hanley, by this point, was standing at the altar. "God pours his benefactions onto you, my son. Never forget that He laments your piteous state and wishes for you to dwell in the House of the Lord forever." "Yes, Father." Michael replied softly. He looked up at the old priest, but realized he was gone again. Silently, he rose from the floor and went out into the cemetery to complete his other duties. He picked up sticks that had fallen inside the wrought iron gate, raked leaves, and scrubbed graffiti off the walls of the mausoleum without paying much attention to what they said. Throughout the morning, he diligently worked then rested against an oak tree on the corner of the property, a sun-hat draped over his eyes. An older couple approached the gate, carrying flowers. It was not unusual, but Michael knew that this couple always came at this time. They were rather old, probably in their late 60's and retired. He watched them shuffle arthritically to their grave of choice and set down home-grown flowers, some tulips and feverfew. The man always cried a little, the woman always just stared blankly at the tombstone until they left. Everyday. Rain or shine. Like they could sense that the occupant of the grave plot was not at rest. Then finally, they would shuffle away for the day. After they had left, Michael rose and went to inspect the grave. He ran his cold fingers over the etching: MICHAEL ELIAS COVINGTON 1975-1997. Then he moved his hand down and took the makeshift bouquet, lifting them to his nose and being able to detect a hint of something, but his immortal vessel failed him ultimately and he set the flowers down in frustration. "Why do you linger about the site of your grave?" asked a voice. Michael turned to see Father Hanley again, the round, wrinkle-faced priest was munching contentedly on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, sipping iced sweet tea from a Mason jar. Michael slowly stood and dusted off his smock and robes. "It is the only time I may see my parents." "Your parents love you very much, Michael." He waited for the "but..." "But," Father Hanley continued, "it is better they stay unaware of your condition. I have faith that in time, God's plans will be revealed and you will join them among the saints." "How might I do that, Father?" Michael asked, some anger in his voice. "I cannot ever be put to rest. I am a monster." "You have the work of the Enemy wrought on you, a curse." Father Hanley said forcefully. "And if you let what He wants you to become be what you are, He will have won. You must have patience, Michael, that the Light of Lights will guide you on the proper course of action." The old priest threw the remainder of his sandwich for the birds and put a comforting hand on Michael's shoulder. Warmth radiated from Father Hanley's fingertips throughout his being. A calming, soothing warmth. "Life wins, Michael. You just have to have patience. Goodness triumphs." said the old man of the cloth reassuringly. "What that lich robbed from you, your eternal seat in the high place of Holiness, he did that with the Enemy's power, believing it to be his own. There are only two powers in this world. Good and Evil, and all in between are but indecisive squirrels before the headlights of a car. Your situation is unique, having the curse of Unholiness and the drive to Holy things. Use that. Let yourself be a tool for Good. Listen closely. Though your soul be chained, He will reach out to you in even the darkest prison." Michael averted his eyes embarassedly as he milled over the Father's words. Was he right? He turned back, and Father Hanley had once again vanished and been replaced by a small procession of mourners. The warm feeling lingered. He looked towards his gravestone and sighed contentedly. The Courtyard Revenant of St. Gabriel's.
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<em>The following is a piece to explore the character of Michael Covington. Criticism is appreciated. Pats on the back are nice too. Hahaha! </em> Michael glanced at himself in the mirror, averting his eyes at first before finally settling them into position so that he might examine himself. He was greeted by the image of a young man of about twenty he recognized as himself: pale skin almost as white as the snow-shade of his scarf and lacking almost all color thrown in contrast to his black, priestly robe, cold to the touch, sallow cheeks, dark red eyes staring back at him, carefully trimmed, short hair and lack of a beard or other facial hair. He was an abomination. Carefully, he turned his back to the mirror and endeavored to look in it no more that day as he attended to his duties. Leaving his tiny cell, he walked with a certain measure of mechanical grace through the cobbled stone hallways and through the courtyard, robes billowing after him. He arrived finally at the Sanctuary, where he set about his early morning tasks by the light of the candle. He lit the candles in the holders across the walls and at the altar, made sure the pews were clear of all debris, and set out more consecrated water by the door, careful not to let any drip on him. Catching a snag on the carpet, Michael felt the white-hot searing agony as the holy water fell from the bowl and ran across his skin, slowly burning scars into his hand like acid. He choked back the pain and set the bowl down before wrapping his hand in his scarf. A man in black approached from the darkened entrance and put his hand on Michael's shoulder. "I meant to warn you that there might be a snag in the rug. It is very old." said the old priest, his cracked voice hitting Michael's eardrums like a warm, summer breeze. "My apologies, Father Hanley." Michael replied. "I should have exercised more caution." "Nonsense, my boy. We are all imperfect creatures. Let's go take care of this." The priest led Michael to the altar where they both kneeled and prayed. Father Hanley's muttered incantations seemed to multiply and amplify in the empty room, and as they did, Michael's hands tingled. He felt the familiar tidal wave of warmth wash over him, like he was drowning in a sea of gentle summer sun and lilac. The warmth clashed with the coldness of his skin only briefly, before battering down his body's defenses and forcing him to surrender whole-heartedly to the healing glow. The scarf came off of his hand, and he noted that the scar left by the water was no longer there. Father Hanley, by this point, was standing at the altar. "God pours his benefactions onto you, my son. Never forget that He laments your piteous state and wishes for you to dwell in the House of the Lord forever." "Yes, Father." Michael replied softly. He looked up at the old priest, but realized he was gone again. Silently, he rose from the floor and went out into the cemetery to complete his other duties. He picked up sticks that had fallen inside the wrought iron gate, raked leaves, and scrubbed graffiti off the walls of the mausoleum without paying much attention to what they said. Throughout the morning, he diligently worked then rested against an oak tree on the corner of the property, a sun-hat draped over his eyes. An older couple approached the gate, carrying flowers. It was not unusual, but Michael knew that this couple always came at this time. They were rather old, probably in their late 60's and retired. He watched them shuffle arthritically to their grave of choice and set down home-grown flowers, some tulips and feverfew. The man always cried a little, the woman always just stared blankly at the tombstone until they left. Everyday. Rain or shine. Like they could sense that the occupant of the grave plot was not at rest. Then finally, they would shuffle away for the day. After they had left, Michael rose and went to inspect the grave. He ran his cold fingers over the etching: MICHAEL ELIAS COVINGTON 1975-1997. Then he moved his hand down and took the makeshift bouquet, lifting them to his nose and being able to detect a hint of something, but his immortal vessel failed him ultimately and he set the flowers down in frustration. "Why do you linger about the site of your grave?" asked a voice. Michael turned to see Father Hanley again, the round, wrinkle-faced priest was munching contentedly on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, sipping iced sweet tea from a Mason jar. Michael slowly stood and dusted off his smock and robes. "It is the only time I may see my parents." "Your parents love you very much, Michael." He waited for the "but..." "But," Father Hanley continued, "it is better they stay unaware of your condition. I have faith that in time, God's plans will be revealed and you will join them among the saints." "How might I do that, Father?" Michael asked, some anger in his voice. "I cannot ever be put to rest. I am a monster." "You have the work of the Enemy wrought on you, a curse." Father Hanley said forcefully. "And if you let what He wants you to become be what you are, He will have won. You must have patience, Michael, that the Light of Lights will guide you on the proper course of action." The old priest threw the remainder of his sandwich for the birds and put a comforting hand on Michael's shoulder. Warmth radiated from Father Hanley's fingertips throughout his being. A calming, soothing warmth. "Life wins, Michael. You just have to have patience. Goodness triumphs." said the old man of the cloth reassuringly. "What that lich robbed from you, your eternal seat in the high place of Holiness, he did that with the Enemy's power, believing it to be his own. There are only two powers in this world. Good and Evil, and all in between are but indecisive squirrels before the headlights of a car. Your situation is unique, having the curse of Unholiness and the drive to Holy things. Use that. Let yourself be a tool for Good. Listen closely. Though your soul be chained, He will reach out to you in even the darkest prison." Michael averted his eyes embarassedly as he milled over the Father's words. Was he right? He turned back, and Father Hanley had once again vanished and been replaced by a small procession of mourners. The warm feeling lingered. He looked towards his gravestone and sighed contentedly. The Courtyard Revenant of St. Gabriel's.
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