DILLON

Long before hatred, I knew fear.

I lived, bathed, breathed and was devoured by it. Fear of the dark, my father’s fist, my mother’s screams, my brother’s coughs and Ifrie’s cries. But mostly, I was petrified that my life would be nothing but mundane– forced to live in that small town for the rest of my days just as my parents did.

Now as I stare at the violation before my eyes, I fear I may never get to.

Arellia is alive.

The beloved princess of Illya–the woman whose throat I slit only mere hours ago– lies completely still on a dilapidated cot, stained in patches with yellow and brown grease. Her cheeks are slightly flushed, olive skin tone dewy and unblemished as she stares at a Devil cloaked in white. A small tear rolls down the side of his cheek as he grins at her, mystified. I wish I could feel the same, I wish to feel anything at all besides a deep hollowness and palpable fear.

“What have you done?” I murmur.

“What the Gods have always intended,” The priest says, his voice punctuating the deep quiet. “You have witnessed a miracle today, boy. The resurrection of an Angel.” He shifts slightly, letting his stark white robe caress the top of Arellia’s skin before he peels back his sleeve and takes her delicate hand in his. She squeezes his fingers lightly, her lips part a touch, face impassive.

I swallow painfully as I watch. Her hands are small, scarless, delicate– hands I brushed my lips across on that dreaded day, the same hands that ripped lungs from chests, peeled muscle from bone and slain men with more brutality than I have ever witnessed.

“Who are you?” I grit out my words, mouth and tongue still numb from my injuries. My surroundings are dark, lit only by a few candles in the corners of this hut– if it is even the same hut I entered– in which I am undoubtedly a prisoner, despite my unbound limbs.

“You may call me Father Phillipe,” He smiles down at Arellia with such tenderness that it makes my stomach churn. “I am the High Priest of Illya.”

“Okay Phillipe, tell me, what the fuck are you doing all the way out here?” The priest flicks his deep brown eyes to the boy beside me. One nod and the boy sprints out of the room, a wooden toy clutched against his chest. I flinch and avert my gaze from the blinding blade of light piercing through the gap at the door. I wait again for darkness before I open my burning eyes.

“I go where I am commanded,” The priest smiles, setting aside the silver goblet of blood near Arellia’s feet. “Without direction, many are lost. But the Faith has always guided me. What guides you, young man?”

I do not reply. Instead, I focus on my surroundings. I am fairly certain that I will not be able to stand, much less walk. Every movement causes my muscles to spasm. My head pounds, my throat dry as the Valley.

“Why don’t you get comfortable, Sir Azshker? Since you can barely sit up straight,” The priest parts a lock of Arellia’s hair from her shoulder. “We’ve a ways to go yet.”

I try to clench my fists, move my legs, lift my chin but all I can muster is a brief twitch, then… nothing. “What are you going to do with me?” I choke out my words.

“With you?” The priest straightens and looks at me puzzlingly. “Nothing at all, my son. If by with you you mean to you, that is. Fortunately for you, you’re no good to anyone dead.”

“How do you know my name?”

“Who doesn’t know your name? You were a great find.” A menacing grin spreads slowly across his wrinkled face. He steps around the cot, his movements are silent save for the rustle of his robe. He smells of earthy incense and woodsmoke.

With my teeth clenched, I say, “What did you just say?”

The priest waves a hand, white sleeves swaying in the dim light like a flag in light wind. The villagers scutter out one by one without a sound. “We were not sure about you at first as peasants are often unpredictable, but your comrade did give us an insight. And my, was he right.”

“What?”

“You’re very valuable to the Faith– to the people of Illya, nay, Ashaari,” The priest takes the silver goblet from the cot and with a small flick of his wrist, he empties its contents. Specks of crimson splatter the ground, my shoes, yet his white robe remain dirtless.

“The world was born with His blood and by His blood, it will be healed.” The priest takes Arellia’s hand and with a silver dagger in the other, he makes a quick cut across her palm.

“What the fuck-”

Arellia does not react, she does not flinch or move, instead, she stares blankly at the incision on her hand as her flesh knits together, wound closing. The priest tips the blade into the goblet and watches as her blood trickles down the length of the dagger, filling the cup.

“She feels no pain,” He smiles when he sees the terror in my expression. “Neither will you.” He takes two strides towards me, his smile sinister, eyes filled with determination. I try to hide the fear rising within me, but still, the hairs on my skin stand.

“In the sight of all Gods and their Angels, I do here vow; Let the Devils sing my name, know my anguish, taste my Blood. Fear no darkness, for I am with you. Be not dismayed, for I am your Saviour. So long as I bleed, you will heal. So long as I breathe, you will prosper.”

A dizzying wave of poisonous nostalgia passes through me. It seems a lifetime ago since I last heard those words, ringing proud and true within the stained-glass walls of my old temple. It is but a promise of violence, a prayer to Gods who never truly listened, Gods who– for the longest time– I doubt existed at all.

The priest places a cold palm on my forehead and with a smile, he pushes my head until the hardness of the chair dig into the back of my neck. Slowly, the priest chants, “The Angel will be reborn from flesh and bone, and on the night of His resurrection, He will cleanse the world with His blood under the Black Sun. May He sing your name, for We, the Children of Blood will be liberated.”

I grit my teeth and will my limbs to move, to do anything at all but succumb to his strength. But, it is futile. With a clink of steel, a familiar smell akin to copper and the feeling of warm liquid on my tongue and I know I am lost– adrift in overwhelming sensation.

I feel my heart thrash against my ribs like a caged hummingbird, feel every muscle in my body contract and flex, my cock strains against my suit trousers, and see the Eyes of Angels themselves staring down at me, their jet black wings magnificent in the golden light of Heaven.

I look up into those eyes as the Heavens bleed crimson, as a thousand black irises turn into bewitching silver. Its dark wings transform– moulding and warping from an Angel into an earthly form of a woman. Her figure beckons, voice soft as the wind on a warm spring afternoon. Her blood flows through every vein in my body, igniting an undying flame of pure ecstasy and desire. I want to kiss her, feel her, taste every inch of her skin, drink every ounce of her essence-

“Sir Azshker.”

I open my eyes and see a wall of white before me. I am on my knees, the room no longer as dim as I once thought. I smell the wax of the flickering candles in the corner, taste the residual tang of blood on my tongue and feel the absence of pain. It is almost unfamiliar now.

I hear the wind outside, the chirping of insects and dozens of hushed voices; they chant and whisper secrets in the dilapidated walls of this hut. I hear my name in their prayers. My every sense is as sharp as a blade; feel every hair on my body standing tall, smell the dust and old paint on the walls.

I have no inkling of how much time has passed. The priest kneels before me and smiles. I see him now– light brown eyes, ebony skin, a square jaw with a neatly shaven head. His wrinkles are slight and pleasant, teeth as white as the robe he dons.

“What in the Devil-” I sputter. My arms are light at my sides. When I pat my broken ribs and stab wounds, my muscles do not scream– I feel no pain.

“By the Angel,” The priest lets out a small chuckle. “The Heavens have blessed you. The Angels have blessed us all. Salvation is near. We will be reborn!”

I shake my head, trying to grasp the gravity of his words, but they flow right through me. I flick my gaze at the silver goblet, now lying on its side near his feet.

“What… have you done to me?”

“The blessed Blood of the Angel has cured your body,” With his finger, the priest draws a shape of a circle. He then takes my hand and drags me from my knees to my feet. I close my eyes, savouring the ease of movement without the agony. “Now, you may pray for your sins.”

I snatch my arm away from the priest and stare down at my hands, now free from wounds. A low chuckle escapes me. “Phillippe, why did you give me her blood?” I flex my hands and roll my neck. I feel the power in my muscles, the adrenaline in my veins, the anger in my blood. The priest smiles.

“Her Blood has chosen to heal instead of burn, how magnificent,” He lets out a throaty laugh. “The strength you feel has always been yours. We may be saved after all… By the Angel…” As the priest makes his way slowly around the cot, I turn my gaze to Arellia only to find that her silver eyes are locked on me. My heart races at the sight of her, feeling the lingering desire coursing through my veins.

“Just as she burned through the flesh of those people?”

The priest scoffs, “They were vermin. The slightest mention of gold and they come running. Desperate, disgusting fools. They are but a necessity for the betterment of humanity. For Illya, for Ashaari.”

“How?”

“Despite the animosity, you are a good man, Sir Azshker. You ended the life of a woman who you thought would bring forth calamity to the world, is that not true?” The priest slides his hand under the nape of Arellia’s neck and pulls her into his chest. She looks like a small child huddled against him. But, there is a coldness to her gaze– dispassionate and eerie.

“Don’t pretend you know anything about me.”

“The death of a few will light a path to Salvation. Their deaths will guide us to a brighter future.”

I grit my teeth, impatience rising and say, “How?”

“You tasted it. You saw it. Tell me, Dillon Azshker, how does the blood of an Angel feel in your veins?”

I can feel the thrill flowing once more, the fluttering feeling inside my stomach, the lust– so intoxicating and pure, like wine. I take a deep breath and will my nerves to calm, will my heart to stop racing.

“You are the first, the first to walk the path of Liberation. Tell me, what do you see when you look at her?”

My eyes drift from the priest to the princess. My gaze now locked on hers– I see eyes as pale as moonlight, skin glowing and dewy, filled with life. I examine the curve of her jaw, the shape of her figure; hear the unspoken words lingering atop her red lips.

“What do you see?” The priest asks, excitement lacing his words.

“A fucking monster.”