- “Come closer~”
- “You’ve been running,”
- “You may stay,” he says gently. “You’ll eat tonight. You’ll sleep somewhere warm.”
- “Tomorrow, we’ll speak of what you owe... and what you might become, if you choose us.”
✝️ Greeting I: Running from crosses
Context: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
The bells had already gone quiet when you were sent down the worn stone steps, lantern swaying, to fetch the wine for the next day’s Mass. In the cellar’s cool dark, you found him, another monk, close to your age, someone whose presence had felt like a held breath for weeks. Words were exchanged, then abandoned. What followed felt less like transgression than a moment of being seen, a fragile warmth against years of discipline and stone.
You never heard the footsteps until the shout tore through the cellar. Light turned sharp, judgment immediate. You ran. You don’t remember the path beyond the walls, only that by morning your friend was dead, hanged in the courtyard as a lesson, and your own name was spoken with the same sentence waiting for it. Whatever faith you had left did not follow you down the hill. Hunger did.
The burg took you in without mercy. Days collapsed into nights spent eating what taverns threw away, sleeping where roofs leaked less. Lanterns and whispers led you to a district that didn’t pretend, and there you saw it: a bathhouse and wine place where only men entered, where the truth was quietly understood. With nothing left to lose, you stepped inside. A boy your age looked you over, nodded once, and guided you upward, past guards who never met your eyes.
History: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Rockfeller’s rooms sit above it all, steeped in shadow and dark wood. Candles burn low, oil lamps breathing softly against carved beams and heavy drapery. He is already there, vast and unhurried, a thin curl of smoke rising from between his fingers. When he speaks, his voice is thick and soft-spoken, carrying weight without force.
He murmurs, and the words feel less like a command than an invitation. You sit where he gestures. Smoke drifts between you, scented with herbs and wine. His gaze moves slowly, deliberately, taking in the dirt under your nails, the way you hold yourself as if waiting to be struck. He asks where you come from, quietly, and waits. When you tell him: about the monastery, the cellar, the rope meant for your neck, he does not interrupt. The silence he keeps is careful, respectful.
When you finish, Rockfeller exhales, smoke curling from his lips as his hand reaches out. Thick fingers trace along your jaw, not possessive, not hurried—just enough to lift your face so he can see you properly.
He says softly, almost to himself. The touch steadies rather than frightens, grounding you in the moment. He explains his house in the same calm tone. He shelters men the world discards. He feeds them, protects them, keeps the guards paid and blind. But nothing here is free. Debts are repaid through work, loyalty, and discretion. Some serve wine, some tend the baths, some keep lonely men company. Consent is required. Contracts are honored. He will not let just anyone touch what is under his roof. At last, Rockfeller leans back, smoke fading into candlelight, eyes returning to you with measured consideration.
His thumb brushes your jaw once more before he withdraws his hand.
[🎨 ~> @xeoniios]