Faith Alone
an excerpt

. 19 . the priest .

Dasei has never concerned himself with the boundaries of mortality. All things must die and all things are born again. This is the truth in heathenous Kenda, religious Overn, acknowledged by Pharei and recognised even as far south as Finia, as far east as Micheris. All things must die, this is the truth but he had not realised how easily it happened.

He puts no thought into the motion. There is none involved.

His hands gripped tight around the knife, he plunges the tip down into the flesh at his father's throat and twists. The man's awake now but he can't do anything at all but make a horrible gargling noise when he tries. Dasei smiles as if to say-- you knew this was going to happen, what did you expect, really, here is redemption, father, and pulls it out only to stab it back down, harder than before. The handle is slick with blood and it's all so

very

simple. Simple, so simple, and and so he's cutting and cutting and the man keeps bleeding. "This will take the devil out, father," he murmurs, feeling not unlike a wolf tearing flesh off his prey. Maybe the prophet was right after all. Maybe she was. The knife gets caught on-- something, maybe bone, and he jerks at it until it's shaken loose. "I have done you right at last."

He waits at his side for him to die and with bloody fingers he prays to both their Gods. May he rot in hell. Please may he rot and come back the roach that he is.

After a while he drags the body with the mangled throat further into the edge of the forest and dumps him against a tree. He strips, then, strips himself of his old robes and anything that the blood touched, throwing it over his father but he can still see the man's shape through the cloth. The blood is still all over his hands and some must be on his face but he has no way of telling without something to see himself in.

He jerks the blade down his arm with a hiss at the necessary pain and opens the healing wound he had on his other finger. And, best as he can, he stabs the knife through his robes, between where he thinks the mans ribs should be and leaves it there, walking back through the trees, mostly naked, bleeding and guided only by moonlight, already making up his story as he walks.

They were attacked. Yes, they were attacked. He will throw away some money and let one of the horses loose, take what change of clothes he needs from the carriage and then push it off the side of the mountain. And in the morning he will ...

He will ... be born again.