Art trade with @soursourstar I'm so so so honored to do this!!!
– To note, you really should stop smoking, Judas.
– If you don't like it so much, why do you keep kissing me still?
– I can't resist it. Can you blame me?
My prompt was domestic situation but I guess something happened in my brain that this turned into a light shotgunning moment before the busy day in the ministry starts that's been long overdue honestly
Written by @solarflicker, non-canon continuation to the fic Dominus Regit Me on SolarFlicker's AO3
Praise God from whom all blessings flow.
Praise him all creatures here below.
Praise him above, ye heavenly hosts.
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
At first Jesus is not sure if he had opened his eyes. It doesn’t seem to make a difference how he flicks his eyelids, everything is dark. He is somewhere warm, tucked neatly on a shelf, like a clay vessel waiting to be used again. Somebody had taken the time to clean and anoint his body and wrap him in clean linen, putting him away swaddled like an infant. Something is on his face, filtering the air as he takes calm, deliberate breaths. The place is not unlike a womb.
A tomb. He is in a tomb. The cloth on his face is a shroud. As he wriggles to free himself, memories begin to come back piece by piece.
The first memory is the message he is supposed to deliver of the good news. Then he remembers that grace will not be extended to Judas, despite his pleas. Heartache breaks the hazy muddled peace as he remembers what they had lost.
That brings the rest of the memories back. Memories of souls ripping through his chest like a million other nails. The silence of the Father. The horrible, sickening silence when he had dared to ask why. The death of hope.
The loss of Judas’s life.
The loss of faith.
It is over now. He had endured and prevailed, despite his efforts to give up. He has forty days to do the Lord’s work.
Like hell he was going to do that. He’s seen Hell. He wasn’t impressed.
He meditates as he waits for his friends to find him. It’s not fair. He broke their hearts before on god’s command. Now he has to do it again and tell them the real truth. The thought occurs to him that he might not be able to do that. His words had been distorted before. He needs something more reliable to be sure that his revelation is not mutated against his wishes.
He contemplates doing something to his physical appearance to get his message across. Image is everything, after all. He could change his head, or try for something edgier like a side shave.
The tombstone catches his eye. It’s freshly hewn, not yet complete. It must have been a rush job, it clearly isn’t finished.
And the craftsmen had left their tools. Yes, that will do. He has a few hours and nothing he would like more than to commemorate the day. He can illustrate a sermon.
What he’s doing will shatter his followers’ faith. He knows firsthand the devastation that entails. He doesn’t do it lightly, and certainly not for his own glory. It’s an act of love.
He chisels off a sheet of stone, shearing it from the hefty boulder as he had watched Moses do eons ago. He cuts the slab into the shape of a fish, an icthys. And like Moses, he selects another chisel and imparts his unchangeable message. It’s terribly hard work. His body aches and he has to learn new ways to command his mangled tendons, but when he’s done his message is clear.
Shepherds don’t torture sheep.
Shepherds never torture sheep.
An angel rolls the stone aside, broadcasting discomfort and intrigue at the effigy he carries tucked under his arms. Good. He remembers that one and where it had kicked him.
He might forgive it someday.
His friends find him and spread the good news. When they celebrate his return, he asks for his guitar and a jar of silver paint. His property is returned to him, and he paints a replica of the effigy on the front and back side. While he waits for his disciples to make arrangements for his return tour, he practices his instrument with his new hands. He doesn’t bleed anymore but the nerves are permanently exposed to the outside world and they scream as he adjusts the frets. It’s difficult and painful, but hasn’t that been the point all along?
Within a day the twelve have found a venue to host his first post resurrection sermon, and as he expected the words that would damn their creator are plucked from his mouth and changed into yet another flattering parable.
He holds the effigy in front of him, letting his words run as the lord wills but making his stigmata the focus of the sermon instead. He is allowed to tell them how brutal the execution had been. He is not allowed to tell them he had tried to back out. He is allowed to tear his shirt in a display of rage and show them the scars from the lashes. He is not allowed to sin and contradict his reputation of perfection. He is allowed to break down in front of them. Surely they can make the connection. Surely they can understand that what they are seeing is wrong.
Their faces are dull and uncomprehending. He needs to be certain they understand where he stands. He brings the sermon to an end and holds the effigy over his head, high up where everyone can see it. He watches their eyes follow the curves of the icthys and trail to the deep gouges in his flesh that will never be allowed to heal.
He throws the effigy on the ground and shatters it on the stage. A rumor spreads through the crowd that he is going to mend it to demonstrate his miracles again. He stands still and watches them collectively realize that he has reached the conclusion.
As an afterthought he picks up a piece of stone at his feet, a flaky little piece of shale. “This is my miracle,” he says with a sarcastic smirk at the earth. The flake of stone is a perfect triangle. “The lord provides.”
He plays a tune on his guitar. The meaning of the melody is made clear by the image he presents. The body of Christ, diabolically broken in the name of god. He is a living sacrifice, viciously broken on their behalf. The music is a divine revelation on the nature of god and man, and the injustice of what god had inflicted on his sacrificial lamb. He challenges them to reject it. If mankind has knowledge of good and evil, then they should know that his torture was evil. It demands repentance, but not from them.
The crowd sways and speaks in tongues, sharing the truth in languages they did not speak before. They will share what they now know, and he will perform until he is called home.
