REWRITTEN: My apologies for previously putting out that half-arsed chapter. Exams. 3am. Losing the will to live. You know how it is. But no more excuses - hopefully this fic will be an improvement (but feel free to review and point out otherwise - tactfully, preferably!)
NOTE: Any resemblance to any Da Vinci Code fanfic is wholly unintentional. This is a theoretical parody, and not a mockery of any existing piece. Original Female Characters are the lifeblood of fanfiction, and nobody is to be discouraged from writing about them, right:)
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'Insert pointless quote that looks cleverer than it really is here'
- St Mungojerry (AD147- 156), Patron Saint of Nosebleeds.
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The cilice was causing a spot of bother.
Actually, that was a bit of an understatement - it was only 'a spot of bother' if your definition of 'a spot of bother' was 'inexplicably whopping puddles of blood all over the flaming shop that appeared to be spreading at an alarming rate with no intention of stopping'.
It shouldn't be doing this! thought Silas unhappily, clamping on a towel and hobbling unsteadily over to the dresser, where a few basic Bible-books and a medical dictionary were kept. He opened the book and thumbed through to the index. Legs..legs..legs...ah, legs! Femoral artery? But...I was just tightening it a notch - how in God's name did I manage to pierce a hole deep enough to bleed this much! Look at these diagrams, it's a medical impossibility!
Unless, Silas fretted, some fanfic writer/melodrama-obsessed novelist wrote me violently bleeding!
A small block of text caught his eye - Warning: If this main artery is punctured, your patient will have no more than 4 minutes to live.
Silas frowned, and looked at his watch.
Oh, shi...!
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Amaria-Susquehanna Roseheart Longbottom sighed - and to be fair, so would you if you had a name like that.
Her name, by strict fic conventions, followed the rule that a Mary-Sue must have a name suggestive of great beauty. Unfortunately, her name had also changed direction halfway through, and attempted to follow the OTHER rule of Mary-Suedom, that Mary-Sue's Mary Sue-ishness must be disguised to make her a convincing character - and she must not be called anything too fancy. And, as you can see, the results were rather disastrous.
She was sighing...but enough of that, nobody really gives a damn why. Let's cut to the REALLY VITAL BIT. Which is the all-important question of:
What colour hair did she have?
She could have been a fiery redhead. Or perhaps her hair was ebony (not merely black, remember, but...ebony). Or a startling, glorious honey blonde. Anything so long as it's not the colour which 90 of the normal european-caucasian population have, which is probably either an unmentionably biological shade of brown or the kind of grimy clay-gray that resembles the lovechild of a puddle and a hag.
As it happened, her hair was the sexiest shade of exotic jet-black ebony, which shone shimmering violet in the sunlight as the cascading waterfall of floor-length hair caught the light, crackling with gothically dramatic beauty and gorgeously healthy, silky enough to turn a L'Oreal model sick green with envy, shot through with shining streaks of positively edible purple, and veiling Amaria's pale, smoulderingly seductive body down to the ankles! And, you know, it grew like that naturally.And one day, when she rules the world, the Author is going to pass a law against mentioning an OFCs hair or eye colour.
Ladies and (?)Gentlemen(?), meet Silas' love interest!
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'Lucky we patched up your leg after that incident, eh, young man?' the Head of Silas' current Opus Dei centre said.
'Yes,' Silas nodded quietly in agreement. He hadn't meant to cause any trouble or give the Organisation any bad press, and the conversation at the hospital with the young doctor hadn't really helped:
Doctor: So, what happened?
Silas: I accidentally severed my own artery. It was extremely foolish, I apologise for troubling you.
Doctor: No, it's ok, accidents happen. What did you do it with - a powertool? A knife?
Silas: A cilice
Doctor: What's that?
Silas: It is...what is worn beneath my robes
Doctor: You mean like...underwear?
Silas: Kind of
Doctor (writing on Patient Progress Chart): Patient...lacerated...own artery...due to...underwear...being too tight.
Silas: Er...
Doctor: Well, it's crazy, but stranger things happen at sea! Just be sure to buy a bigger pair next time, ok?
Silas sat quietly, his hands folded neatly on his lap. From now on, he would be a paragon of good behaviour, a credit to Opus Dei, and not turn a blind eye when the other numenaries flicked the channel during 'Songs of Praise' to watch Wimbledon. Anyway, after all that nasty Da Vinci business, he needed to settle down.
'Would you care to show me the offending cilice?' the Opus Dei Head asked him, 'I beleive there was a Product Recall issued a few years ago on some faulty models - the Chaste-O-Matic 3000 had some nasty side effects, as I remember - but I had hoped that all of the faulty designs had been replaced by now. May I?' he held out his holy hand.
Silas fumbled in a voluminous pocket, and brought out his cilice. He laid it in the man's outstretched palm.
The man stared at it in shock.
'Silas...this is a crocodile!'
'Is it?' Silas frowned, peering myopically at the offending chastity-reptile. He poked it experimentally, feeling the dry contours of it's dead, stuffed body under his milky fingertips. The young crocodile, not more than eight inches long, was a fine specimen, it's jaws a little flaky due to years of being tightened up and down, but otherwise a valuable collectors item. The Head gaped at it, awed.
'Do you mean to tell me that you've been wearing this dead reptile around your thigh for all these years, and you never once noticed it wasn't a standard issue cilice! Silas, a cilice is just a little ring of metal with a few spikes in it, not a fucking dirty great big reptile with inch-long teeth! For the love of God, how have you not noticed!' the man screamed.
Silas raised his head from its currently position, drooping with shame. He coughed slightly.
'Well...it does explain quite a lot, doesn't it?'
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It had been an eventful week for Silas. No, not the pulse-racing excitement of being allowed marmite with his croissant (when you're this boringly holy, even the little things feel like an adventure), but the matter of being called to the Opus Dei centre Head's office twice in one week. Apparently, Silas had another task to carry out - no-one quite knew why, and yet everyone felt strangely compelled to usher him towards the office with the vague feeling that he somehow ought to be out having an adventure.
He sat down, his elegant frame folding up onto the antique chair like a strand of linguini.
'Well, to be fair', said the Head, looking out of the window as he addressed Silas, 'I don't actually have a plan. I just know you have to go and meet a delicious wench for the purposes of this plot'.
'What?' Silas scratched his angel-coloured hair, thinking he hadn't heard right.
'I said: I just know you'll have to meet with a vicious wrench if you trespass on the Lord's lot! Let it be known, Silas, sensations of the flesh and worldly pleasures are seen by the Lord, and he lays them out to tempt you – don't be getting involved in them, or you'll have a painful time tearing yourself away!' The Bishop wagged a finger ,'For is it not written 'And ye shall feel as though it were a band-aid, fulsomely being ripped-away from thy flesh, and taking all the tingly wee hairs on thine knee off into the bargain'?
'Is it?'
'I don't know. It might be, somewhere' the Head answered, 'Anyway, the point is that I think have a task for you. There are thousands of other Opus Dei members I could send, of course - most of whom manage to fit into society a damn sight better than you and also don't look like something nasty that slithered out of Star Wars. But heck, I'm a lovely guy, and besides, you need to get out more'
'Master, I will get out more if it is the will of God. I think only of the best way to serve him'
The Head nodded seriously, and then inclined his head towards the ceiling,'God, if you wish Silas to undertake this mission, please give absolutely no sign at all!'
Nothing happened.
'Ah! You see? God wills it!' he shook hands with Silas and handed him the mission code. Little did Silas know, the Head's orders not to fraternise with hot (or at least lukewarm) Mary-Sue girls were about to be severely tested!
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Back in his car, Silas opened it. A digital, robotic voice began to issue from a little speaker in the side of the electronic mission statement.
Listen carefully for instructions. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is…wait a minute, are you Tom Cruise?
'No, sorry, wrong actor'
Warning: violation! Mission access denied. This message will automatically self-destruct in three seconds
Silas stared at it for two, then:
'Oh, shit!' he said, lobbing it out of the window. Fortunately, it only blew the head off of a sparrow.
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To be continued...
Hugest thanks to anyone who previously left reviews for me - seriously, massively appreciate them, even if it's just a few words. It's good to know I've caused such widespread havoc and coffee-spilling at cybercafes and laptops across the globe :D .