𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇 | ✓

FOUR

"Let there be fire," Mills commanded, and it would have been breathtaking and spellbinding to witness such a majestic, fiery display of power if not for the underlying intention: to burn. To cleanse. To kill the village.

"You are not planning to kill all of them, right?" Y/n said desperately, "surely, doesn't the lord above want us—want us to spare people? To be kind? To be—"

He halted in horror as he watched the once lush greenery be swallowed up by the flames, licks of fire destroying the once beautiful village. If there was a eerie silence earlier, now it was utterly consumed by ear shattering screams, despaired shrieks, and the loud smattering of footsteps.

How ironic. Y/n never believed in god, but he found himself muttering prayers under his breath, quick and low. The fire ravaged. The fire killed.

"The fire cleansed the people." Mills struck his hands together, "oh, Father, you have granted us freedom and the power to strike against evil..."

"What did you do?" Y/n abandoned all caution, "what did they do to warrant this? You killed them."

"The village was a hell of people," Mills explained, "but at least, it's not a hell of people you love. They rebelled against his word."

"Whose word? God?"

"Father Anton's." Mills looked at Y/n strangely, "this is our mission to the priest. The esteemed, blessed messenger hailing from the heavens."

So you view them as interchangeable? People who can be switched on a whim? You think God is...Father Anton?

"He told you to do this?" Y/n asked in a strangled voice.

"Oh, yes he did." Mills narrowed his eyes. "You are a foolish, naive believer—now quick. Come help. There are still people alive." He passed Y/n a blade. "The latest you can do is to get rid of them—I prefer the word cleanse."

I don't want to.

I don't want to.

Funny, isn't it? All his life, Y/n regarded himself as rather morally gray. He remembered the listlessness his mother had when she cooked for him—she would take a singular bite of the delicious meal she made, and would then pop a cigarette in her mouth. Her eyes would follow Y/n's movements when he ate the food until he couldn't eat any more—and when he was full, if there was food on the table, his mother would make an angry exclamation: eat, child! Do you know how much I sacrificed for you?

Her body, her mind, her freedom. She sacrificed that much for him. She wasn't stupid: she knew of Y/n's father's frivolous behavior, but she worshiped him. She adored him. Yet hatred bubbled within her—some sort of homicidal rage. She would say it sometimes: that she was born with a howling soul that was a bottomless void—nothing could fill it. She told Y/n he was a product of a consummation they didn't want: yet it was clear she hung on because of her twisted obsession, her mindless love. Y/n grew immune to it—to the blind devotion one could harbor—which was why he grew accustomed fast to the cult-like behavior of the church. Yet somehow, something so irrevocably human was beckoning at him—to save, not to kill.

He had always turned a blind eye to people. He was worse off, Y/n would convince himself.

But this was different. The fucking church was crazy.

"H-Help me," A voice gasped out, and Y/n whirled around, "please don't kill me..."

Y/n's heart ached at the sight of a young, dirtied boy beneath the debris. He had sustained minor injuries, but was still alive and breathing.