☽ Invocation ☾

In every cathedral of ruin, there are relics left behind: a scuffed pearl, a single breath, a name spoken in marrow.
This is the first confession—the night blood crowned them brothers, and ruin gave them different prayers to keep.

This is the…

🕯️ Reliquary of Broken Sons

A Vignette of the Broken Saint & the Clown Prince
Prose by Rowan Evans

I. Crime Alley, then —

They called him Tommy — a name softer than winter’s breath, a name Mother spoke like a lullaby.
He always trailed behind: eyes on moth wings dancing in gaslight, heart beating its own distracted hymn.

“Tommy, hurry up,” Father’s voice sighed—warm, alive, wrapped in silk and fatigue.

That’s when the stranger stepped from the shadowed mouth of the alley.

The first gunshot rang out—a psalm cracked open by violence.
Mother’s pearls scattered across wet stone, prayer beads turned relic in an instant.

The second gunshot folded Father beside her, a ruin crowned in blood.

For a single heartbeat, the world held its breath.
Bruce dropped to his knees, hands trembling against still-warm skin, lips moving in a prayer no god would hear.

Tommy turned, too late to stop it, too late to save anyone—only to witness.

His gaze fell to the scattered pearls: white ghosts glimmering in gutter water.
He knelt—not by the bodies, but by the relics.

The first pearl in his palm felt like a sacrament.
The second, a curse.
By the third, laughter coiled in his chest—not joy, but something older, darker:
the knowing that ruin could be beautiful.

Two brothers crowned by the same violence:
Bruce, frozen in devotion and disbelief.
Tommy, hands shaking as he gathered the broken rosary of their childhood.

II. Crime Alley, now —

Years peeled away, masks and madness replacing boyhood.
The alley remains the same: cracked cobblestones, gutter water black as confession, and the echo of two gunshots still humming in the marrow of night.

Bruce stands silent: the Broken Saint, devotion calcified into armor.
Tommy steps forward from the shadows: the Clown Prince, painted grin cracked by memory, pearls still clutched like relics.

Moonlight spills ruin across cowl and greasepaint alike, turning them both into statues of grief.

The pearls glimmer between them—white scars that remember what words cannot.

And then—from lips painted red, voice husked by time and heresy:

“Hello, Brucey…
never thought you’d see me again. Did you…
brother…?” the Clown Prince smiles.

The word falls heavy as a funeral bell: part curse, part confession, part unholy benediction.

And in that breathless hush, Crime Alley remembers them:
not Saint and Monster, not Hero and Villain—
but blood, bone, and ruin born of the same cathedral night.

☽ Benediction ☾

May the ruin remember why it loved you both.
May the pearls keep your prayers, even broken.
And though salvation never came,
may your confessions remain holy in their endlessness.

🔗 Read Next (Suggestions)…

[The Vigil of the Broken Saint] – where the confession began, and ruin became devotion.
[The Vigil of the Clown Prince] – where laughter rotted into liturgy, and devotion wore a painted grin.

The Rest of the Vigils (so far)…

[The Vigil of the Twisted Harlequin]
[The Vigil of the Poisoned Rose]
[The Vigil of the First Son]

Or visit [About NGCR] to learn more about this movement—and if you feel called, [submit your own writing] to be featured.

If my words speak to you, and you’d like to help keep this flame burning — or if you’d like a custom poem woven just for you (or someone dear) — you can do so here:

Ko-fi — Poetry by Rowan Evans