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Portrait of the Philanthropist as a young man

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This story is No. 16 in the series "Waifs and strays". You may wish to read the series introduction and the preceeding stories first.

Summary: Various scenes, non sequential on occasion, that depict the life of Simon previous to Strangers at the gate.

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Multiple Crossings > General(Current Donor)vidiconFR181427,766711019,0081 Sep 115 Jul 12No

Et ne nos inducas in tentationem

Author’s Note:

Disclaimers for each chapters will be in the end notes. Translations and such can be found there as well. This story contains offensive language and behaviour. The Buffy crossover will start later.

The following ways of notation may be found in this story. This is excluding whatever I need to represent chatting, texting and stuff like that. And you can thank Twilightwanderer for the Abbott and Costello.

Speech: “Who’s on first.”

Thought: *What’s on second.*

Vision: #I-don’t-know’s on third.#

Thanks to the latest to recommend me:

Reviews are much appreciated, they inspire me.

Chapter one: Et ne nos Inducam in tentationem

Paris, 1963

It was a beautiful spring night and the Immortal Darius, most often known in the neighbourhood as Frère Anton was kneeling in front of the altar in the small Franciscan church that he’d called home since before the French Revolution. There was a noise, the ancient hinges creaking and then in the hall beyond the door, the voice of a young woman, shocked and disbelieving.

“Simon! Ne pas dans une église!”

“Tais-toi, biche.” A harsh, male voice told the woman and there was the sound of tearing cloth

Darius sighed. He prided himself on being broad minded, both his age and experiences had made him thus, but having sex in a church, or worse yet, rape in a church, was no longer part of the activities he condoned. Once, yes, but no longer.


There was a gasp and the girl ran off. The man remained behind. He stood looking at the still open door and then at the priest. He seemed not at all embarrassed by the situation. He dangled a piece of lacy cloth in his hand and Darius, despite a few hundred years of celibacy, recognized it as a torn pair of lady’s underwear.

“J’espère que vous-avez…”

“Oh, shut your gob, you pope sucking choir-boy rapist.” The man rudely interrupted, speaking English.

Darius raised an eyebrow. “Should I tell you I speak English before you insult me again?”

“I know you speak English. I heard you preach. All forgiveness and love and shit. Thought I’d have a bit of fun in your church, see how forgiving you really are.” The voice was insolent and hard.

Darius appraised the man before him. Young, barely out of his boyhood really. Not twenty-five yet, even if hard drinking, drugs and from his behaviour earlier, women, had taken the flush of youth from him. 

“I see. And what if the girl had pressed charges?”

“Pressed charges? And lose the chance of marrying me? Not gonna happen.”

“And why would she want to marry a man who’d rape her?”

“Rape? Hah. I’ve had her on top of the Eiffel Tower and in the fucking LOUVRE!!” The boy shouted.

*Ah. Rather the worse for drink.*  “So you decided to add my church to this list?” Darius said reprovingly.

“Yeah. Couldn’t find an Anglican one.” The boy shrugged. “Gonna go now. Got a girl to fuck. More than one really.”

“Wait. Why are you doing this? You are obviously a man of education; you speak French like a native…”

The young man snorted. “You’d learn to speak like a native too, really quick, if the alternative was a beating. Now was there anything else, Padre? Shouldn’t let a lady wander the streets alone…you never know what’s out there…” He leered. He reached into his pocket and took out a snuff box, silver inlaid with diamond, enamel and mother of pearl. He opened it and took a pinch of white powder, sniffing it up and sighing. It was only then that Darius noted his dilated pupils.

“Son, I hope you realize that you are killing yourself…”

“I AM NOT YOUR SON!!!” Darius hadn’t thought the man would move so fast. Suddenly he was pinned against the wall, his robe bunched at his throat as the younger man, trembling in terrible rage and anguish held him. “I am nobody’s son.”

“Simon…let me down. Come sit with me. Talk. Let me help you. Talking will help.” Darius soothed, using the name that the girl had used for his assailant. He could smell the alcohol on the younger man’s breath.

“Hah. The last time a priest offered to help me, he called my so called father. Want to see the scars?”

“I won’t call your father, Simon. I doubt I’d like him.”

Nobody likes my father. Not even the whores he pays. If he wasn’t who he was, he’d have been in jail ten times, twenty times over.” The young man released Darius, his hands trembling from the drugs, alcohol and anger.

“I see.” The priest straightened his robes. “If you ever want to talk, and are able to… this door is always open, and I am always here.”

“Yeah. That’ll happen when Hell freezes over.”

“Well, I’ll be here the day that happens, too.”

The young man smiled in spite of himself. He staggered out of the hall and into the church, until he reached the little chapel of Our Lady that Darius maintained. He fumbled in the candle box and lit one from the single remaining candle.

The young man eyed the priest, then reached into his pocket and dragged out a large wad of bills, stuffing a dozen or so five hundred Franc ones into the offering block.

“Today would have been my Mum’s birthday. She loved Paris.”

“Did you love her very much?” Darius asked sympathetically.

“Nah, hated her drunken, addicted, abusive guts.”  The man flipped Darius the bird and left the church, laughing loudly.

Darius looked musingly at the flickering candle. “And yet I think, My Lady, that he will be back one day…”

End Note:

I do not own Highlander, nor pretend to.

Et ne nos inducas in tentationem: And do not lead us into temptation

Simon! Ne pas dans une église! = Simon! Not in a Church!

Tais-toi, biche. = Shut up, bitch

Excusez-moi = Pardon me

J’espère que vous-avez = I hope you have

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