Into the Fire... :-)
Written for Fanfictarot, for the "Tower" prompt. :-)
The burning of the House of Pain, from the PoV of Lofty. (Involves Tonker, but she doesn't come up much).
Warning: Contains "blatant disregard for human life" -- but not *all* human life. :-)
Wrath of God
The nuns who called us whores and sold our bodies for ‘work-hire',
The priests who took us in their lust, damned us for their desire,
God is dead.
It is our wrath that sends them to the fire.
We broke the windows of every dormitory, throwing stones high up to the second floor, shattering the glass.
I wonder, did they run? Did they cower under their blankets as shards rained down around them?
They'll be thanking us now.
I strike the match and wake the fire - I'll make them pay, she promises with her flickering light, her voice that crackles and pops - let her go, through the store-room window, the room we escaped from almost a year ago, and watch as she grows, licking at the bales of cloth, the crates of barley and buckwheat, the boxes of candles, the jars of lamp oil.
They'll be thanking us now.
We barred the doors. The only way out is through the windows.
The broken windows.
The only broken windows are in the dorms.
Our sisters will escape - if they've got their wits about them.
But not the priests, and not the nuns.
Let them scream as their skin blisters and chars. Let them plead and beg (as we used to beg) for Nuggan's mercy.
But none will come.
God is dead.
It is our wrath that sends them to the fire.
*****
Comments? Criticisms? Questions?
:-)
The burning of the House of Pain, from the PoV of Lofty. (Involves Tonker, but she doesn't come up much).
Warning: Contains "blatant disregard for human life" -- but not *all* human life. :-)
Wrath of God
The nuns who called us whores and sold our bodies for ‘work-hire',
The priests who took us in their lust, damned us for their desire,
God is dead.
It is our wrath that sends them to the fire.
We broke the windows of every dormitory, throwing stones high up to the second floor, shattering the glass.
I wonder, did they run? Did they cower under their blankets as shards rained down around them?
They'll be thanking us now.
I strike the match and wake the fire - I'll make them pay, she promises with her flickering light, her voice that crackles and pops - let her go, through the store-room window, the room we escaped from almost a year ago, and watch as she grows, licking at the bales of cloth, the crates of barley and buckwheat, the boxes of candles, the jars of lamp oil.
They'll be thanking us now.
We barred the doors. The only way out is through the windows.
The broken windows.
The only broken windows are in the dorms.
Our sisters will escape - if they've got their wits about them.
But not the priests, and not the nuns.
Let them scream as their skin blisters and chars. Let them plead and beg (as we used to beg) for Nuggan's mercy.
But none will come.
God is dead.
It is our wrath that sends them to the fire.
*****
Comments? Criticisms? Questions?
:-)