The Last & Sins
Feb. 15th, 2018 02:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
adrammelechTitle: The last
Fandom: GP
Rating: G, General
Notes: Some mild Lelouch/Rolo, Religiousness, and blood, Second person pov.
Word count: 2700
Summary: Faith isn't faith until it's all you're holding on to
Once upon a time, you imagine you must have been wanted; your parents have told you so. They have told you time and time again how much they wanted a child, how they prayed, but in the end they didn’t want you. And really, can you blame them? You can’t imagine a person in the village that would want a son like you who can’t work without your heart skipping one, two beats in a row until your hands shake and the world grows dim in front of your eyes. Nobody wants a useless child.
Nobody will ever want you.
×××
The priests of the temple come when you are six.
You watch them quietly because by now you have learned to do everything quietly; a useless son is worse enough, a loud one terrible. After the talk, the priests take you with them, bring you to the temple and tell you it is your new home and that you were chosen by the old head priest for this.
You don’t care one way or another. You just wonder if the happiness you saw on your parents’ faces was because of this blessing or because they were finally rid of you.
×××
You first see Him when you are eight.
You are too young, of course. At this age, all an acolyte like you is allowed to do is help in the preparations of the ceremonies, but you cannot attend them yet. The reason you are there is not that you were chosen or even because you were a prodigy but simply because you are small and quiet. You hide in one of the large alcoves, your cheeks flushed with excitement and fear running through your veins; excitement because you might finally see the God you have been praying to for years and fear because you might finally see the God you have been praying to for years.
He might not want you either.
You don’t worry about the priests. The worse they can do, you know, is perhaps hit you or perhaps send you back to that house where no-one wanted you. They care as much for you as they care for any of the children at the temple, but Him…
You have been praying to Him for years. You don’t pray for a stronger heart or a stronger body. You don’t pray for any of the other things the rest of the children pray for; you don’t care for marbles or games or even friends. The only thing you pray for is for someone to truly want you. And you know it is a silly idea but maybe, just maybe, He will want you.
When the ceremony starts you press close against the wall, making yourself even smaller than you are already, your eyes wide as you watch. In the back of your mind you always wondered why the sanctuary in the middle of the temple was this large, but now that you see Him truly for the first time, you understand; He is huge, His wings spread out far enough to take away the light of the sun, and you imagine that with one swipe of His claws He could destroy as easily as He could create. Your breath hitches in your chest and for once it is not because of your weak heart but rather because His overwhelming presence that is enough to make you tremble and if you didn’t believe before, you do now. At this moment, your faith feels almost tangible to you, heavy and sticky-warm in your broken heart.
You don’t even notice it when the priests find you.
Their hands are tight on your arms when they drag you out, their faces are drawn with anger. And maybe you should feel more scared, but the only thing you can keep your eyes on is Him, the answer to all of your prayers finally in front of you. And you have to look now because, from the way the priests yank at your arms, you are pretty sure you will never see this again and you will be sent away.
“Stop,” His voice rumbles low and rich and you can feel it to the deepest of your being. It is almost tangible and like nothing that you have ever felt before.
“But, Lord-” the priest bites off his words as if he suddenly remembers who he is talking to.
Adramelech lands in front of you and His paws shake the ground, digging deep furrows into the dirt. His wings fold onto His back, and the sunlight is sudden and warm on your face as it streams past Him, haloing Him in light and warmth.
You don’t remember when exactly the priests let you go, but suddenly you are standing in front of Him alone and they have retreated back into the shadows. Adramelech tilts His head for a moment before He reaches down and curls one hand around you and despite the fact that His claws are easily as long as you are tall, His touch is gentler than anything you have ever felt before. He lifts you, light as a feather, spreading His palm so you can stand on it. “What is your name?” He asks, his voice the rumble of thunder and lightning.
“Rolo,” you answer, light and awed. Even in your wildest dreams and your deepest prayers you never dared to believe something like this could happen. His touch is solid and warm, thrumming with power.
“Are you trying to become a priest, Rolo?” Adramelech asks then, and Rolo can’t read the expression on His face, can’t presume that he knows what He is thinking, but His voice sounds amused.
“Yes, Lord,” you say, lowering your head. You know that despite all that the priests teach you at the temple and for all the ceremonies you will go through, the final choice of your priesthood lies with Him. And already the idea of Him finding you unworthy fills you with a deep, screaming panic.
Something rumbles deep in His chest, and you realize with a shock that it is laughter. Adramelech shifts slightly, bringing up His other paw to touch the top of your head lightly. “Bless you, but I think you are already more devout than some of mine, little priest.”
You feel your mouth go dry and your heart stutters in your chest, but you ignore it. This is no time to give into the weak sensation in your head and knees; for Him, you would never give in.
Adramelech touches you for a moment more, before he carefully sets you down again, careful with you as if He really, really cares. Then He straightens up again, His claws curling slightly as He looks back at the priests. “Carry on the ceremony,” He commands, and for a moment, you think He is looking at you, “and let the little priest stay.”
×××
The news of your encounter spreads through the temple like wildfire and for a while the other children avoid you. You don’t care either way; you didn’t really have friends before that day and now your mind has bigger things to think about. Then one night, after the evening meal, the other acolytes finally band together, collect their courage and surround you. The oldest one holds your arm, his fingers tight enough that they might leave bruises. The others murmur questions, too many for you to answer, but there is one thing that they all want to know: “what was it like?”
You look at them for a moment, lick your lips as you try to find the right words before you just shake your head and smile. They wouldn’t understand anyway.
×××
After you meet Him, you start getting up early enough to greet the sun in the morning. All around you, the other acolytes still sleep in their beds as you sneak out of the room. Your feet are silent against the old, worn stone of the temple and your breath puffs out slightly in front of you in the cool of the morning. You slip outside of the walls of the temple where it is easiest to see His light rise over the rolling hills and the village below. No matter how often you have seen this before, and how many more times you will see it, it feels like you will never get tired of it.
“Come to watch the sunrise, little priest?” The head priest smiles at you from the shadow of the wall, his eyes warm.
For a moment you feel ashamed; not at your faith, because that is something you could never feel shame for, but shame at missing one of the few people that you truly have come to love at this temple. After all, the old head priest was the one that chose you; the one that had cheerfully helped you pick up the pieces of a vase you had dropped in the first few weeks you had been here. “I apologize for not greeting you sooner, Head priest,” you say, lowering your head a bit before you glance back out of the landscape. “And yes. I came to watch Him rise.”
The head priest smiles and pushes away from the wall. His long ceremonial robes drag over the ground as he walks towards you, finally resting one hand lightly on your shoulder. “Sometimes, I think you are out after my position, Rolo,” he says with a smile and you just grin.
Together you watch Him rise.
×××
The life of the head priest is a tough one. Unlike the other priests, your tasks are so numerous that they leave you with little time for anything left. You don’t have a family like some of the other priests; you don’t have any children; you don’t even have something you love indulging in. You love it. You don’t need anything else but Him.
It seems He comes more often now. There is no predicting His visits, but more and more, He shows up in the sanctuary outside of ceremonies. He coils together contently in the warm, sunlit place, and He tells you of places you will never see, of things that you will never experience, and you simply bask in His presence.
“Does your heart bother you, Rolo?”
You glance up for your tea and tilt your head slightly at Him. He knows of your condition, of course. He knows that you cannot carry as much as the other priests and that sometimes after a long ceremony, you simply pass out, out of exhaustion. For a moment, you toy with your cup, thinking. “This is the body You have given me. I could never be unhappy with anything You gave me.”
Adramelech taps His claws against the stones for a moment, looking in thought. “I could fix it, I think.”
“Lord?”
“Your body, I could make it stronger. I could make it so your heart would never bother you again.”
You swallow hard, your throat tight and you set down your cup before you can spill any of your tea. “Please Lord, I don’t-“
“I want to.” He tilts His head, the sunlight glinting of His horns. “You have given me a lot, more than any priest, and I want to repay your loyalty, little priest.”
You squeeze your eyes shut. It has been years since He has called you that. “Then, please. Please make me stronger, Lord.”
He reaches in and curls His claws around you. Despite the years, you still feel small and childlike in His grip. He tilts His head, and His eyes gleam brightly in the light. “Do you trust me, Rolo?”
“More than anything, Lord.”
He lowers His head and for a moment you imagine you see kindness gleaming in His eyes before His claws tear through you and gut you. The pain is sudden, overwhelming, and then gone. You blink once, sluggish, and then again, looking down. His claws are curled around you, your blood staining them, your eyes widening when you realizing it is not the only blood that is there. His palms are cut, His blood dripping down His scales and over His claws, mingling with yours. He cradles you carefully, raising you up to His maw. Flicking out His tongue, He drags it over your chest, cleaning your rapidly healing wounds. This close you can feel His breath as it rumbles against you. His tongue flicks against your chest, and you shudder at how your body tightens, feeling better, stronger than ever before. “I killed you,” He says, His voice rumbling against your skin, “so you could be reborn in my light. I have bound my blood with yours. Your power is mine, and mine is yours.” He presses His claws gently against your already healed-over skin. “Your life is mine and mine is yours. You are mine forever; mine and mine alone.”
You swallow hard and lean your forehead against His maw on impulse. You already had been His alone forever.
×××
“Lord?”
He glances up, His claws curling and flexing against the stones in agitation. He seems different than normal today; tense and on edge.
“Is there something bothering You, Lord?”
He watches you, His eyes quiet and for a moment you worry that you have spoken out of turn. You may be the head priest, and your blood may be married with His, but that does not give you any authority to speak so freely with Him. All your power comes from Him, after all. You almost apologize, but then He shakes His head.
“Nothing,” Adramelech says, His head tilted back and watching the sky. “There is nothing wrong.”
×××
The angels attack in the night like cowards.
It is the screaming of the priests and the acolytes that wakes you, and by the time you are at their rooms, their blood already paints the floors dark. You don’t think as you grab the ceremonial knife from your belt --cleansed by Him, and now it will be baptized in their blood-- and reach for the nearest angel. They are strong, too strong but you have faith on your side and the knowledge that He will come, and He will save those faithful to him.
One of the angels manages to catch you, slams you down hard enough on the ground that you feel your collarbone break and snap. It stands over you like a wild-eyed, dark-haired thing, a sword bathed in unholy fire loosely in its grip. It watches you with pity and despite the pain, you lunge up to bury you knife deep in its thigh. You will not be pitied, especially not by something as lowly as this thing. The angel hisses, its bloodstained wings spreading wide as it slams you down again, a foot against your throat. “Choose,” it says, its sword close enough to your skin that you can smell the blood on it. “Deny him and you shall be saved.”
You gasp, struggling to breathe against the anger. Your nails scramble against the stone that is slick with blood as you try to push up. “Never.”
“Then you shall die.” The angel looks at you with pity in its eyes and that infuriates you more than the sword it shoves through you. “May the Lord have mercy on your soul.”
×××
By the time you are done, your fingers are cracked and bleeding and the wound on your side is open again. Your hands shake with the exertion and the anemia, but finally, your task is complete. Blood and sweat stain your ceremonial robes and the knees of your pants are scuffed up and dark with dirt and the once expensive fabric hangs around you in tatters as you fall back a step, standing in front of the graves. There is a grave for every man, woman, and child that was in the temple when the angels attacked; a row of simple white markers standing in a solemn line.
Falling to your knees, you raise your hands and although your throat is parched and dry, you raise your voice and you start to pray. Over your shoulder, the sun is starting to rise and you imagine that He is crying too.
GP; Rolo - sins
“Father, do you think all sins can be forgiven?”
Father Roberts looked up and glanced over his shoulder at the young man on the first pew. He had been sitting there quietly for a while and when he suddenly spoke, it startled him just a bit. It was rare to see a man as young as him in church these days and the fact that he had actually come here to ask something threw Father Roberts for a momentary loop before he managed to forget about his surprise and smile warmly at the child. “Of course, my son; God forgives the sins of all of his children.”
The boy hummed thoughtfully, his hands steepled together. “But who forgives God’s sins?”
Father Roberts turned sharply at that, staring at the boy. “Child, God has no sin. He is-“
“Liar. God kills.”
“God kills only those who are deserving of punishment. Besides, without death, there would not be-“
“I have watched God kill young children. I’ve watched him kill the elderly. I’ve watched him paint our temples with blood, so how can you dare tell me he killed only those deserving of death,” The boy snapped as he rose, his breathing quick and his eyes suddenly ancient old and filled with a hatred and anger that made Father Roberts take a step back, his heart thudding hard in his chest. The boy visibly struggled with his composure, closing his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again, they were once more impassive and quiet. “So, tell me, Father. Who forgives God’s sins?”
“Everything that happens is part of God’s divine plan. His actions may not seem clear to us but God knows-“
“Bullshit. God doesn’t know anything. He’s nothing more than a despot.” The boy smiled again, though it was not a kind smile. “Well, your god at least. My god is much nobler.”
Father Roberts swallowed hard, taking another step back until the hard edge of the altar pressed against his thighs. “There- There is only one God. Please, child. I see you are confused and lost. Let me help.”
“You’re right,” the boy said softly. “I am lost. I have been lost for a long while.”
Father Roberts’ heart thumped hard in his chest, but he had to reach out to his child. It was obvious he had strayed from God’s path, but perhaps a gentle hand and a kind word would guide him back towards the light. The least he could do was try. He owed it to the boy. “What is your name, son?”
“Rolo.”
“Very well then, Rolo.” Father Roberts tried to give the boy a reassuring smile. “You may be lost now, but you don’t have to stay lost. God has a plan for you as well. He is kind and-“
“You lie. God is not kind.”
“He is, Rolo. The lord is good to everyone; his compassion rests on all he has made,” Father Roberts recited with a smile. The passage was one of his favorites.
“And I will dash them one against another, even the fathers and the sons together, said the Lord: I will not pity, nor spare, nor have mercy, but destroy them.” Rolo smiled his sharp smile again, sliding one hand into his jacket. “That does not sound like a kind god to me.”
“Please, understand. The men God talked about were wicked. They-“
Rolo’s eyes narrowed and shone with an unearthly light and for a moment Father Roberts felt frozen in place, as if something kept him from moving and the next moment the slender boy crashed into him with more strength than he had expected of him, knocking him back and sprawling him out over the altar. “Wicked?”
“Yes. They were idolaters. They worshipped- Oh,” his voice stuttered as he caught sight of the knife that gleamed between Rolo’s fingers. “Oh, please. Please don’t.”
“Who decides which gods are false? Who decides who is wicked?”
“Please, Rolo.” Father Roberts shook under the boy’s grip. “Please don’t do this.”
“Answer me,” Rolo said, pressing the edge of the knife just against the skin of Father Roberts’ throat.
“Please. Please”
Rolo pressed his knife harder against Father Roberts’ throat, breaking the skin, his eyes still impassive as he watched the blood slowly starting to roll down his neck
“God. God decides,” Father Roberts said, his voice shaky and uneasy, his eyes wide. “Oh, please Rolo, don’t do this. Please.”
“Do you think your god listened when I asked his angels not to kill my people? Do you think he even cared?” Rolo leaned in close, his breath brushing over Father Roberts’ neck. “He didn’t. He killed every last one of us; women, children, he ordered his angels to kill them all until the blood painted our temple red. We weren’t even going against him. We were just trying to live our lives like we had always lived them, worshipping the god we knew to be real.”
Fandom: GP
Rating: G, General
Notes: Some mild Lelouch/Rolo, Religiousness, and blood, Second person pov.
Word count: 2700
Summary: Faith isn't faith until it's all you're holding on to
Once upon a time, you imagine you must have been wanted; your parents have told you so. They have told you time and time again how much they wanted a child, how they prayed, but in the end they didn’t want you. And really, can you blame them? You can’t imagine a person in the village that would want a son like you who can’t work without your heart skipping one, two beats in a row until your hands shake and the world grows dim in front of your eyes. Nobody wants a useless child.
Nobody will ever want you.
×××
The priests of the temple come when you are six.
You watch them quietly because by now you have learned to do everything quietly; a useless son is worse enough, a loud one terrible. After the talk, the priests take you with them, bring you to the temple and tell you it is your new home and that you were chosen by the old head priest for this.
You don’t care one way or another. You just wonder if the happiness you saw on your parents’ faces was because of this blessing or because they were finally rid of you.
×××
You first see Him when you are eight.
You are too young, of course. At this age, all an acolyte like you is allowed to do is help in the preparations of the ceremonies, but you cannot attend them yet. The reason you are there is not that you were chosen or even because you were a prodigy but simply because you are small and quiet. You hide in one of the large alcoves, your cheeks flushed with excitement and fear running through your veins; excitement because you might finally see the God you have been praying to for years and fear because you might finally see the God you have been praying to for years.
He might not want you either.
You don’t worry about the priests. The worse they can do, you know, is perhaps hit you or perhaps send you back to that house where no-one wanted you. They care as much for you as they care for any of the children at the temple, but Him…
You have been praying to Him for years. You don’t pray for a stronger heart or a stronger body. You don’t pray for any of the other things the rest of the children pray for; you don’t care for marbles or games or even friends. The only thing you pray for is for someone to truly want you. And you know it is a silly idea but maybe, just maybe, He will want you.
When the ceremony starts you press close against the wall, making yourself even smaller than you are already, your eyes wide as you watch. In the back of your mind you always wondered why the sanctuary in the middle of the temple was this large, but now that you see Him truly for the first time, you understand; He is huge, His wings spread out far enough to take away the light of the sun, and you imagine that with one swipe of His claws He could destroy as easily as He could create. Your breath hitches in your chest and for once it is not because of your weak heart but rather because His overwhelming presence that is enough to make you tremble and if you didn’t believe before, you do now. At this moment, your faith feels almost tangible to you, heavy and sticky-warm in your broken heart.
You don’t even notice it when the priests find you.
Their hands are tight on your arms when they drag you out, their faces are drawn with anger. And maybe you should feel more scared, but the only thing you can keep your eyes on is Him, the answer to all of your prayers finally in front of you. And you have to look now because, from the way the priests yank at your arms, you are pretty sure you will never see this again and you will be sent away.
“Stop,” His voice rumbles low and rich and you can feel it to the deepest of your being. It is almost tangible and like nothing that you have ever felt before.
“But, Lord-” the priest bites off his words as if he suddenly remembers who he is talking to.
Adramelech lands in front of you and His paws shake the ground, digging deep furrows into the dirt. His wings fold onto His back, and the sunlight is sudden and warm on your face as it streams past Him, haloing Him in light and warmth.
You don’t remember when exactly the priests let you go, but suddenly you are standing in front of Him alone and they have retreated back into the shadows. Adramelech tilts His head for a moment before He reaches down and curls one hand around you and despite the fact that His claws are easily as long as you are tall, His touch is gentler than anything you have ever felt before. He lifts you, light as a feather, spreading His palm so you can stand on it. “What is your name?” He asks, his voice the rumble of thunder and lightning.
“Rolo,” you answer, light and awed. Even in your wildest dreams and your deepest prayers you never dared to believe something like this could happen. His touch is solid and warm, thrumming with power.
“Are you trying to become a priest, Rolo?” Adramelech asks then, and Rolo can’t read the expression on His face, can’t presume that he knows what He is thinking, but His voice sounds amused.
“Yes, Lord,” you say, lowering your head. You know that despite all that the priests teach you at the temple and for all the ceremonies you will go through, the final choice of your priesthood lies with Him. And already the idea of Him finding you unworthy fills you with a deep, screaming panic.
Something rumbles deep in His chest, and you realize with a shock that it is laughter. Adramelech shifts slightly, bringing up His other paw to touch the top of your head lightly. “Bless you, but I think you are already more devout than some of mine, little priest.”
You feel your mouth go dry and your heart stutters in your chest, but you ignore it. This is no time to give into the weak sensation in your head and knees; for Him, you would never give in.
Adramelech touches you for a moment more, before he carefully sets you down again, careful with you as if He really, really cares. Then He straightens up again, His claws curling slightly as He looks back at the priests. “Carry on the ceremony,” He commands, and for a moment, you think He is looking at you, “and let the little priest stay.”
×××
The news of your encounter spreads through the temple like wildfire and for a while the other children avoid you. You don’t care either way; you didn’t really have friends before that day and now your mind has bigger things to think about. Then one night, after the evening meal, the other acolytes finally band together, collect their courage and surround you. The oldest one holds your arm, his fingers tight enough that they might leave bruises. The others murmur questions, too many for you to answer, but there is one thing that they all want to know: “what was it like?”
You look at them for a moment, lick your lips as you try to find the right words before you just shake your head and smile. They wouldn’t understand anyway.
×××
After you meet Him, you start getting up early enough to greet the sun in the morning. All around you, the other acolytes still sleep in their beds as you sneak out of the room. Your feet are silent against the old, worn stone of the temple and your breath puffs out slightly in front of you in the cool of the morning. You slip outside of the walls of the temple where it is easiest to see His light rise over the rolling hills and the village below. No matter how often you have seen this before, and how many more times you will see it, it feels like you will never get tired of it.
“Come to watch the sunrise, little priest?” The head priest smiles at you from the shadow of the wall, his eyes warm.
For a moment you feel ashamed; not at your faith, because that is something you could never feel shame for, but shame at missing one of the few people that you truly have come to love at this temple. After all, the old head priest was the one that chose you; the one that had cheerfully helped you pick up the pieces of a vase you had dropped in the first few weeks you had been here. “I apologize for not greeting you sooner, Head priest,” you say, lowering your head a bit before you glance back out of the landscape. “And yes. I came to watch Him rise.”
The head priest smiles and pushes away from the wall. His long ceremonial robes drag over the ground as he walks towards you, finally resting one hand lightly on your shoulder. “Sometimes, I think you are out after my position, Rolo,” he says with a smile and you just grin.
Together you watch Him rise.
×××
The life of the head priest is a tough one. Unlike the other priests, your tasks are so numerous that they leave you with little time for anything left. You don’t have a family like some of the other priests; you don’t have any children; you don’t even have something you love indulging in. You love it. You don’t need anything else but Him.
It seems He comes more often now. There is no predicting His visits, but more and more, He shows up in the sanctuary outside of ceremonies. He coils together contently in the warm, sunlit place, and He tells you of places you will never see, of things that you will never experience, and you simply bask in His presence.
“Does your heart bother you, Rolo?”
You glance up for your tea and tilt your head slightly at Him. He knows of your condition, of course. He knows that you cannot carry as much as the other priests and that sometimes after a long ceremony, you simply pass out, out of exhaustion. For a moment, you toy with your cup, thinking. “This is the body You have given me. I could never be unhappy with anything You gave me.”
Adramelech taps His claws against the stones for a moment, looking in thought. “I could fix it, I think.”
“Lord?”
“Your body, I could make it stronger. I could make it so your heart would never bother you again.”
You swallow hard, your throat tight and you set down your cup before you can spill any of your tea. “Please Lord, I don’t-“
“I want to.” He tilts His head, the sunlight glinting of His horns. “You have given me a lot, more than any priest, and I want to repay your loyalty, little priest.”
You squeeze your eyes shut. It has been years since He has called you that. “Then, please. Please make me stronger, Lord.”
He reaches in and curls His claws around you. Despite the years, you still feel small and childlike in His grip. He tilts His head, and His eyes gleam brightly in the light. “Do you trust me, Rolo?”
“More than anything, Lord.”
He lowers His head and for a moment you imagine you see kindness gleaming in His eyes before His claws tear through you and gut you. The pain is sudden, overwhelming, and then gone. You blink once, sluggish, and then again, looking down. His claws are curled around you, your blood staining them, your eyes widening when you realizing it is not the only blood that is there. His palms are cut, His blood dripping down His scales and over His claws, mingling with yours. He cradles you carefully, raising you up to His maw. Flicking out His tongue, He drags it over your chest, cleaning your rapidly healing wounds. This close you can feel His breath as it rumbles against you. His tongue flicks against your chest, and you shudder at how your body tightens, feeling better, stronger than ever before. “I killed you,” He says, His voice rumbling against your skin, “so you could be reborn in my light. I have bound my blood with yours. Your power is mine, and mine is yours.” He presses His claws gently against your already healed-over skin. “Your life is mine and mine is yours. You are mine forever; mine and mine alone.”
You swallow hard and lean your forehead against His maw on impulse. You already had been His alone forever.
×××
“Lord?”
He glances up, His claws curling and flexing against the stones in agitation. He seems different than normal today; tense and on edge.
“Is there something bothering You, Lord?”
He watches you, His eyes quiet and for a moment you worry that you have spoken out of turn. You may be the head priest, and your blood may be married with His, but that does not give you any authority to speak so freely with Him. All your power comes from Him, after all. You almost apologize, but then He shakes His head.
“Nothing,” Adramelech says, His head tilted back and watching the sky. “There is nothing wrong.”
×××
The angels attack in the night like cowards.
It is the screaming of the priests and the acolytes that wakes you, and by the time you are at their rooms, their blood already paints the floors dark. You don’t think as you grab the ceremonial knife from your belt --cleansed by Him, and now it will be baptized in their blood-- and reach for the nearest angel. They are strong, too strong but you have faith on your side and the knowledge that He will come, and He will save those faithful to him.
One of the angels manages to catch you, slams you down hard enough on the ground that you feel your collarbone break and snap. It stands over you like a wild-eyed, dark-haired thing, a sword bathed in unholy fire loosely in its grip. It watches you with pity and despite the pain, you lunge up to bury you knife deep in its thigh. You will not be pitied, especially not by something as lowly as this thing. The angel hisses, its bloodstained wings spreading wide as it slams you down again, a foot against your throat. “Choose,” it says, its sword close enough to your skin that you can smell the blood on it. “Deny him and you shall be saved.”
You gasp, struggling to breathe against the anger. Your nails scramble against the stone that is slick with blood as you try to push up. “Never.”
“Then you shall die.” The angel looks at you with pity in its eyes and that infuriates you more than the sword it shoves through you. “May the Lord have mercy on your soul.”
×××
By the time you are done, your fingers are cracked and bleeding and the wound on your side is open again. Your hands shake with the exertion and the anemia, but finally, your task is complete. Blood and sweat stain your ceremonial robes and the knees of your pants are scuffed up and dark with dirt and the once expensive fabric hangs around you in tatters as you fall back a step, standing in front of the graves. There is a grave for every man, woman, and child that was in the temple when the angels attacked; a row of simple white markers standing in a solemn line.
Falling to your knees, you raise your hands and although your throat is parched and dry, you raise your voice and you start to pray. Over your shoulder, the sun is starting to rise and you imagine that He is crying too.
GP; Rolo - sins
“Father, do you think all sins can be forgiven?”
Father Roberts looked up and glanced over his shoulder at the young man on the first pew. He had been sitting there quietly for a while and when he suddenly spoke, it startled him just a bit. It was rare to see a man as young as him in church these days and the fact that he had actually come here to ask something threw Father Roberts for a momentary loop before he managed to forget about his surprise and smile warmly at the child. “Of course, my son; God forgives the sins of all of his children.”
The boy hummed thoughtfully, his hands steepled together. “But who forgives God’s sins?”
Father Roberts turned sharply at that, staring at the boy. “Child, God has no sin. He is-“
“Liar. God kills.”
“God kills only those who are deserving of punishment. Besides, without death, there would not be-“
“I have watched God kill young children. I’ve watched him kill the elderly. I’ve watched him paint our temples with blood, so how can you dare tell me he killed only those deserving of death,” The boy snapped as he rose, his breathing quick and his eyes suddenly ancient old and filled with a hatred and anger that made Father Roberts take a step back, his heart thudding hard in his chest. The boy visibly struggled with his composure, closing his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again, they were once more impassive and quiet. “So, tell me, Father. Who forgives God’s sins?”
“Everything that happens is part of God’s divine plan. His actions may not seem clear to us but God knows-“
“Bullshit. God doesn’t know anything. He’s nothing more than a despot.” The boy smiled again, though it was not a kind smile. “Well, your god at least. My god is much nobler.”
Father Roberts swallowed hard, taking another step back until the hard edge of the altar pressed against his thighs. “There- There is only one God. Please, child. I see you are confused and lost. Let me help.”
“You’re right,” the boy said softly. “I am lost. I have been lost for a long while.”
Father Roberts’ heart thumped hard in his chest, but he had to reach out to his child. It was obvious he had strayed from God’s path, but perhaps a gentle hand and a kind word would guide him back towards the light. The least he could do was try. He owed it to the boy. “What is your name, son?”
“Rolo.”
“Very well then, Rolo.” Father Roberts tried to give the boy a reassuring smile. “You may be lost now, but you don’t have to stay lost. God has a plan for you as well. He is kind and-“
“You lie. God is not kind.”
“He is, Rolo. The lord is good to everyone; his compassion rests on all he has made,” Father Roberts recited with a smile. The passage was one of his favorites.
“And I will dash them one against another, even the fathers and the sons together, said the Lord: I will not pity, nor spare, nor have mercy, but destroy them.” Rolo smiled his sharp smile again, sliding one hand into his jacket. “That does not sound like a kind god to me.”
“Please, understand. The men God talked about were wicked. They-“
Rolo’s eyes narrowed and shone with an unearthly light and for a moment Father Roberts felt frozen in place, as if something kept him from moving and the next moment the slender boy crashed into him with more strength than he had expected of him, knocking him back and sprawling him out over the altar. “Wicked?”
“Yes. They were idolaters. They worshipped- Oh,” his voice stuttered as he caught sight of the knife that gleamed between Rolo’s fingers. “Oh, please. Please don’t.”
“Who decides which gods are false? Who decides who is wicked?”
“Please, Rolo.” Father Roberts shook under the boy’s grip. “Please don’t do this.”
“Answer me,” Rolo said, pressing the edge of the knife just against the skin of Father Roberts’ throat.
“Please. Please”
Rolo pressed his knife harder against Father Roberts’ throat, breaking the skin, his eyes still impassive as he watched the blood slowly starting to roll down his neck
“God. God decides,” Father Roberts said, his voice shaky and uneasy, his eyes wide. “Oh, please Rolo, don’t do this. Please.”
“Do you think your god listened when I asked his angels not to kill my people? Do you think he even cared?” Rolo leaned in close, his breath brushing over Father Roberts’ neck. “He didn’t. He killed every last one of us; women, children, he ordered his angels to kill them all until the blood painted our temple red. We weren’t even going against him. We were just trying to live our lives like we had always lived them, worshipping the god we knew to be real.”