Reblogged from Jane Dougherty Writes:
Late night. Moonlight streams through the tall, slender lancet windows and silvers the cold stone of the nave floor. No light falls in the crypt below, but the air moves nonetheless, restless and cold. Tombs fill the vaults, row upon row of silent clerics and seigneurs, their palms together in prayer, stone eyes fixed on eternal light. For centuries the church has stood on the hill, upon ground once pagan and impure. Centuries ago the first monks led soldiers against the heathens and cleansed the impurity from the earth in a torrent of blood. The earth soaked up the blood, fire cleaned the heathen bones, and prayers chased the old pagan magic from the air.
Centuries ago, monks and warlords watched over the building of the church on the hill that they had taken from the pagans. They dug deep foundations, disturbing the blackened bones. Their masons laid dressed stone upon stone, craftsmen carved and sculpted demons, angels and monsters. One carved the master mason, another his wife, and some carved the faces of the old gods in corners not visible from the ground.
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