[Never before had he experienced such a frenzied desire to slaughter a human before him. Not even in his most sanity-lost moments of bloodlust as a sadistic Regenerator could compare to this feeling. More powerful and desirable than the Temptations of Christ, the demon priest jerked to lunge for the brazen man and drain him dry. . .
Only to stop short when the red haze around his eyes cleared at the sorrowful cry of his name.]
[Scarlet stained fingertips nearly grazing Enrico's cheek, feeling icy-cold flesh upon warm flesh-tones compared to his own, Anderson quivered beneath a mountain of torn. Torn between the lustful abomination, and the semblance of man he once was.]
Maxxxx...wellllllllllllllllllll...
[No longer even needing to breathe, he feigned the motion of a heavy sigh through dead lungs, the heated sanguinary-craze replacing with cold anguish, frigid dejection, and sub-zero grievance. Here in the moment of his abandonment by his beloved God, the last righteous man he knew, he had nearly lashed out to kill in cold blood.]
[A misery welled up inside him as he shut his eyes, the cries of those miserable souls inside him hushing... from the deafening weeping of his own.]
[Collapsing forward as scarlet rained from his eyes, the fallen priest grasped his crown, curling rejectedly before the Archbishop.]
Maxwell... Maxwell, Yer Grace.. forgive me, forgive me, Ah've become th' very disgusting thin' 'at we're tae slay!
[Clawing a bare hand over his face, that sigil with the pentagram carved so deeply it branded into the very make-up of his soul burned brightly in the dark.]
Ye hae tae.. Ye hae tae end et! Ye hae tae be th' one tae end me, ye dinnae ken whit Ah'm capable av!
[ But the difference was: He hadn't. Given the choice, Father Anderson stayed his hand.
Ever so strong, ever so pure. Even like this, he could sense that there wasn't an ounce of evil in that transformed entity. But to see his proud Knight fall, not by his doing, but by another's, produced in him a hellacious hatred.
Never before had Maxwell born witness to the majesty of this man being torn to pieces.
Such heart-wrenching sobs was enough to make his black heart melt.]
Oh. Oh, Anderson. I would never...I couldn't.
[Hushed tones softer than the whisper of the wind, looking down at that stricken holy man with compassion.]
Your Grace Pardons you, Father.
[Furry Ears twitch to life from beneath a layer of golden hair, slowly peaking out from their flattened and otherwise unnoticeable position.
Sighs, taking that hand and leading it over his heart, clasping it between both of his own.]
You see, Father? We're all a little different, now. I know how much your humanity means to you...But you're still Beautiful in His eyes.
This is only temporary. But use it well. Use this...To remember who you are.
[The strange ears that flickered like a perking kitten's, reminded Anderson of that Nazi abomination that made himself everywhere and no where. Yet even with his hypersensitivity and new clairvoyance to freaks of all sorts, he couldn't gather just what Enrico had become.
Whatever it was...]
Et's nary comparable.
[His crown sunk again as his fingertips curled at the archbishop's chest, hearing his heartbeat loud in his ears even though they were parted so far. He was the earthly incarnation of the Devil himself. The darkness that wrought inside him was like an endless pit where only chaos reigned. He hesitated even attempting to recede into his own mind now, with the threat that he would instead be forced to go through the memories of millions imprisoned inside of himself.]
Thes blasphemous pow'r could turn against me... or ye. Thaur's ae perilous warrant 'at th' monster es kept sealed by these...
[Running his fingertips over the gnarled flesh on his hand, tracing the outline of that Satanic symbol.]
These shackles.
[A dead and blackened heart felt insurmountably heavy in the cage of his breast. Vermilion eyes cast to the floor, he was thankful for one thing throughout this.]
[ Crusted sanguine patches in smeared, scabbed bits, bringing vermilion rain to a stop. Streaks of the dried Red line porcelain skin and stain his ripped sleeves, the fabric stiffening after having soaked up all that metallic fluid.
Regardless of what Anderson had become, Maxwell knew an inevitable truth: Be he Monster or Be he Man, he was the only spirit that completed his own.]
I need you, Father. Don't you give up on me now.
[ Not when we've come this far. You brought me back, now I must do the same to you. Equivalent exchange.]
You're no monster, Father.
[Leans closer, warm breath mingling with deathly cold flesh, lips creasing into what he hoped was an amicable smile.
[No monster, was he? Then truly, what was the difference between he and the Hellbeast that originally was bound to this curse? Was he not the original monster? Did they not both share an affinity for the slaughter and savage bloodshed? Was it merely their creed or lack there of that separated them from man from beast? Or was there something more?
Truly, what makes a man and what makes a monster?
A lamentation in psalms sung by fallen angel and cherub alike.
As much as he longed to put his faith behind his Grace's utterance towards him, something told him, perhaps the whispers of those demons inside him, that he would have to rediscover if the man he was still lived in this wretched body.]
Sae be et, then.
[When his ward reached out for him, and leaned in with a familiar closeness that was unfamiliar to the man to do in particular, the fallen priest could nary hope to deny him. No matter how wretched and vile he was now, no ounce left of his original soul knew the word of "No" to Enrico Maxwell.]
Ah'll dae whit Ah must.. tae make yer words truth.
[God and the Devil knew, he did not long to be a monster. Merely a storm, an unstoppable, impenitence force of piety and righteousness.
Lifting a hand, his cadaverous fingertips hesitantly cupped the man's sharp cheek as he glanced up at those tweaking 'ears' of his.]
[ Unmortal; Undead; His precious chevalier vulnerable and alone, thinking the worst of himself. Beloved, beloved rancor. How she sings, O' Malevolence! O', Sacred blood ties. Power unto Power; Glory, glory, glory. And as a Masque of Red Death he would Devour, and Be Devoured into Emptiness in return.
Though he could not detect temperatures directly with this new found ability, on some instinctive level Enrico knew it had to be cold in the restroom in which they knelt.
Nostrils flare a little, but he takes the man's words without protest, making a point to lean into the touch and wrap a hand over that thick wrist. The furry appendages perk as though they were aware that they were being spoken of, tail rising out from the edge of his pants.]
[An ashen mouth still drawn in a hard line, he merely nodded. His palm that would usually tenderly accept his ward's unceremonious affection, shrunk back just slight. He that toucheth the flesh of the unclean. Becomes unclean. Dear Lord, let not the Holy Grace become unclean in the face of this Mask of Red Death.]
A..aye.
[Standing, with a fluid roll of his body, he rose like a sleek shadow at dusk, and lifted his ward by his hand with an equal amount of effortlessness.]
Yet.. if ye cood dae me one las' favour t'nigh'.
[He had already asked him to kill him, and was spared. Anderson was asking more of his ward on this island than he had ever dared to back home.]
Please.. please tell Miss Alice Ah'm alrecht, Ah..
[Sanguinary eyes averting he felt that sickening shame creeping up on himself again. How did the vampire even life with himself? Ah, right, no shame.]
[Arm lifting, beautifully sculpted fingers lightly pressing frigid palm in perfect sync with the gentlemanly gesture. He kept himself close, merging to the vampiric Priest's side if only to keep some form of physical contact to get him used to the idea that the Archbishop did not find him to be abhorrent in the least.]
She knows, Father. On some level, I'm sure. I promise she will have a message before too long. But, tonight at least, I am not letting you out of my sight.
[Diminutive figure crowds the Scotsman's hip, lingering there before stepping off towards the living room. He leads the man, yet not quite man, by way of an invisible leash clasped figuratively around his neck, patting one of the couch cushions to indicate that he wanted the other to sit next to him.]
[There were points in time on their short stay here on this island that he was sure the stiff-necked man he was brought here with was out of his zealous mind. Staring at him, such affliction in those ember-flecked russet eyes, Anderson expected him to find him the most putrid thing on this sin-infected earth.
Ye hate what is bad, sayeth the Lord. And let those who love the LORD hate evil, for he guards the lives of his faithful ones and delivers them from the hand of the wicked. The world itself was cruel and wicked, thus he saw his ward's hatred spread to all men and all things not of their creed. So why, when given the chance to hate the most wicked of all... did he not?]
Ah'm. . . Ah'm nae gontae be able tae sleep.
[Uttered rather sheepishly for such a demonic presence. That body wanted to seethe it's evil into the darkness of the walls. Yet his pious will bridled it as he walked with the archbishop into the living room.]
[How could he ever hate the man who had given so much of himself to his upbringing and to his Organization? Anderson had looked after Maxwell when no one else would. Cared for him. Taught him. Loved him. And who was he to throw all of that way? All those memories, all those years of laughter and tears. It did him no good to Cast Damnation on his most loyal subject.]
I will stay with you, Alex. Even to the last.
[Waits patiently with hands folded politely over his lap as though waiting for a dinner party guest to arrive, a placid smile fixed in place over his mouth. Perhaps Anderson didn't understand all that he did, but there were certain things that were not meant for him to grasp given the current circumstances. ]
[Ever the most meekest and sheeplike, the ones herald to inherit paradise, Anderson never felt his deeds, be it his guidance, protection, teachings, caring, and love, to ever be rewarded or re-compensated. The acts in themselves were his joys in life. Yet with such a mindset, he truly did not amount his worth to any tangible value. A simple priest, he called himself. . . the only things that made him special were the gifts God had granted unto him.]
O. . .Oh.
[Knitting his brows, dolor coloring those strange eyes a darker shade of cardinal, his mouth failed to upturn again. It was probably another blessing he didn't inherit Alucard's penchant for a perpetual smile ever stamped upon his horrible visage. The priest took a seat on the couch, scooting over so his brethren had room for himself next to the gargantuan beast.]
Ye ken.. Ah shoold be sayin' 'at tae ye.
[A willing obligation he had nearly forsaken for the sake of every soul on this wretched island.]
Yet. . . Thank ye. Thank ye fer showin' absolve en yer grace o'er me.
[For as far as he was concerned, he was undeserving.]
[Thrumming in a perfect inner pitch of Trust and a Faith as pure as St. Francis', the very portrait of a Saint dowsed in the Sacrosanct.
Lord, Give me Strength, In my companions Hour of Need. Lord, send me Your Blessing, if not for me but for my Brethren who Serves You. Spare your son, who is your Righteous Tool, and look Favorably upon him. Amen
Supplication: The first since his abandonment of the Trinity and Betrayal. The shame of the real Judas once carved Maxwell's heart. Now, it only defined him. The moment the prayer passed through his mind he felt a jolt of Light pass through his disgraced chest, basking him in its Warmth and Kindness.
The change was immediate: True compassion washed over his sullied tongue, coating the Serpent's forked muscle until only the purest of Love could pass through his lips.
Wordlessly he pushes up from the seating arrangement across to the kitchen, pulling forth a cloth and wetting it with hot water. This, the Bishop carries forth before kneeling down on one knee in front of the Inferno Incarnate, taking each of those great hands to wipe them clean of the encrusted blood.]
Nonsense.
[He snorts and dabs quietly at the Assassin's fingers, then slowly travels up with the wash cloth to his face, pushing up against those great knees while lifting himself up enough to reach.]
[The fallen priest sat hunched, hands folding over and over in his lap, eyes of Gehenna flames gazing with wonder at those Marks of the Devil. Marks of the Wild Beast. The power inside him pulsed against the sigils, casting a orangish glow through the intricate carvings of flesh. Yes, that's how it worked, binding a demon in blood, and sealing it with a black spell braided into the core of his corrupt soul. Slave to the liquid red life he craved, how the priest imagined the Red Specter to loathe his very existence. Was that perpetual grin but a mask to the lamentations within?
Did he shed tears of blood through his eyes just as he?
And how so then, if what he knew to be true. . .
Yea, when man's tears hath dried up, dost he become a monster.
That was why he had become one, hadn't he? To staunch the tears of a fallen kingdom, a fallen legacy, a dejection from his God.
Anderson clutched his chest as a pang wretched his heart like a silver dagger piercing the dead and black muscle and twisting violently into it. To walk that creature's path now, he felt a sense of pity for him, yet seethed still that his pride allowed him to continue onward without looking to the Spirit he had rejected. . . and still awaited his prodigal return.
With that thought in mind, Anderson realized the hope that still lied for him through Maxwell's words.
Incarnadine eyes lifting up, blond eye-lashes stained anew with moist droplets of sanguine, he stared somberly at the holy man who washed his face clean of those thick scarlet lines of caked sin.]
. . .
[There he saw his reason for existing. What physically kept him bound to this world. This man, the creed that followed him, and the holy temple they resided under. As damned a beast as he was, they still were in need of his protection, no matter how lacking in divinity he was now.
As the last remnants of scarlet were swathed away, cleansing his body free, like waters at baptism, the exiled priest reached out for his beloved child, now a man, who showed favor upon his wicked form. And with that fluid motion, long arms threaded about him, pulling him into an embrace that shuddered despair and relief.
Crown of darkened thorns dipping, his brow pressed to Maxwell's collar, as if it were a shadowed place to reside from the burning light of judgment set upon him.
[What self-inflicting agonies must be leeching themselves to his bronze bull's consciousness for those precious tears to be shed, drawing forth bleeding rivulets of carmine doubt and disgrace.
'Draught by draught therein creates The deep persisting crimson memory Of the last fleeting rose' ~
At the Darkest Hour, Their most Solemn Hour, Who would be there to Save them when Time ceased to have meaning, when Strength dispersed to the four corners of the world, when Life gave no purpose, only endless Tribulation?
Conquer Paradise and Burn it to the Ground; Making a Future all our own; Destroying all that you hold Dear.
The answer lie in the Question: 'Who'. The very essence of a Dream was produced in these two troubled Spirits, a Mirror Image cast back on the shattered lake of transmuted energy which gave every failure a second chance.
You and me against the World. You and me against Everything. Only you and I can stand Testament to this moment, only You and I to Face this Madness.
And even here, even now, they were creating their own Destiny.
A feeling that these Happenings were inexorable plucked at his threaded heart strings, that somehow everything had its place. There were no coincidences, only a series of inevitability.
Drawn into the Embrace of Darkness itself, Maxwell was sure of it. And while he feared no man or beast, the possibility lurking behind every Door had no end, could not be controlled.
The pinkened cloth, dampened with a mixture of water and blood, slips from his twitching fingers, shock and excitement fused within his quickening pulse. Extending limbs wind in their own fashion about the conflicted mastiff and draw him in just as he was drawn in turn, completely and utterly bound by their mutual sanction and want of solace.]
[In the Cradle of Sheol, the arms that spread the Shadow in the Valley of Death, neither would they fear the evil, and the wickedness that sought to corrupt the last remnants of their departing souls. They were men damned for the pyre, willingly and longingly, Martyrs and Saints for His greater purpose.
A fate all Iscariot embraced like they embrace their brethren. For sin to be free of this earth, Judas became a Devil and slandered the Most High so that He might be Martyred and the faithful be Cleansed in the Blood of the Lamb.
The faith-begotten priest knew all this well, yet never imagined it to come this.
Clawed fingertips hooked at the clothed shoulders and back of his ward, taking what sense of assuagement he could in the arms of the Faithful. Their Lord was still with them, he had to remind himself, even if he could not longer feel His sanctity, even if to utter scripture scalded his heathen tongue, even if to bear the cross branded his flesh. . . He would not turn away.
The folly of the monster who owned this corruption, owed his damnation not for God turning His back on him, but for he turning his back on God.
With that thought in mind, a croon shivered up the shield of his chest as he hummed a hymn to let Him know, His loyal ram still sought His shepherding call.]
Nearer, my God, tae thee, nearer tae thee. . .
[Quivered his highland's brogue.]
E'en though it be ae cross that raiseth me.
Still all my song shall be. . .
[Serrated teeth worried his lip, a small but feigned gasp leaving him as he felt the holy psalm tingle like coals upon his mouth, which refused to give in to the burn.]
Nearer, my God, tae thee. . .
[A softer pant, the small song of sanctification tampered off with a shuddered and a bestial mewl, a ghost of a smile etching the corner of his mouth, stamping triumph over that blasphemous body of his.]
[ Pressure built and pressure torn, a damage that cannot be faced alone. Lost in his cynical dust Maxwell drifted in the cradle of those arms, brought into confidence pulled free from woven treachery. Seen and unseen, clean and unclean, the dignitary of the Church would take all of the Priest regardless.]
You are my Shepherd, I have no needs.
[The opposites brought together in one body; Saturn and Mars, reconciled.]
Fear is bitter. Fear is unheard.
[An accompanying tenor of encouragement, the blood rushing faster under his translucent skin. His brave, brave Crusader, standing victorious over that which divided Beast from Men.
Venomous lips crease into a smile of their own, lulled into a sense of false security by how steadfast that control reigned.
Judas kin, standing by the Faithful on Most High.
There was no need to handle the other like a Wolf kept on a tether.]
[Never before had he experienced such a frenzied desire to slaughter a human before him. Not even in his most sanity-lost moments of bloodlust as a sadistic Regenerator could compare to this feeling. More powerful and desirable than the Temptations of Christ, the demon priest jerked to lunge for the brazen man and drain him dry. . .
Only to stop short when the red haze around his eyes cleared at the sorrowful cry of his name.]
[Scarlet stained fingertips nearly grazing Enrico's cheek, feeling icy-cold flesh upon warm flesh-tones compared to his own, Anderson quivered beneath a mountain of torn. Torn between the lustful abomination, and the semblance of man he once was.]
Maxxxx...wellllllllllllllllllll...
[No longer even needing to breathe, he feigned the motion of a heavy sigh through dead lungs, the heated sanguinary-craze replacing with cold anguish, frigid dejection, and sub-zero grievance. Here in the moment of his abandonment by his beloved God, the last righteous man he knew, he had nearly lashed out to kill in cold blood.]
[A misery welled up inside him as he shut his eyes, the cries of those miserable souls inside him hushing... from the deafening weeping of his own.]
[Collapsing forward as scarlet rained from his eyes, the fallen priest grasped his crown, curling rejectedly before the Archbishop.]
Maxwell... Maxwell, Yer Grace.. forgive me, forgive me, Ah've become th' very disgusting thin' 'at we're tae slay!
[Clawing a bare hand over his face, that sigil with the pentagram carved so deeply it branded into the very make-up of his soul burned brightly in the dark.]
Ye hae tae.. Ye hae tae end et! Ye hae tae be th' one tae end me, ye dinnae ken whit Ah'm capable av!
Reply
Ever so strong, ever so pure. Even like this, he could sense that there wasn't an ounce of evil in that transformed entity. But to see his proud Knight fall, not by his doing, but by another's, produced in him a hellacious hatred.
Never before had Maxwell born witness to the majesty of this man being torn to pieces.
Such heart-wrenching sobs was enough to make his black heart melt.]
Oh. Oh, Anderson. I would never...I couldn't.
[Hushed tones softer than the whisper of the wind, looking down at that stricken holy man with compassion.]
Your Grace Pardons you, Father.
[Furry Ears twitch to life from beneath a layer of golden hair, slowly peaking out from their flattened and otherwise unnoticeable position.
Sighs, taking that hand and leading it over his heart, clasping it between both of his own.]
You see, Father? We're all a little different, now. I know how much your humanity means to you...But you're still Beautiful in His eyes.
This is only temporary. But use it well. Use this...To remember who you are.
Reply
Et's nae... 'a..'at's nae.
[The strange ears that flickered like a perking kitten's, reminded Anderson of that Nazi abomination that made himself everywhere and no where. Yet even with his hypersensitivity and new clairvoyance to freaks of all sorts, he couldn't gather just what Enrico had become.
Whatever it was...]
Et's nary comparable.
[His crown sunk again as his fingertips curled at the archbishop's chest, hearing his heartbeat loud in his ears even though they were parted so far. He was the earthly incarnation of the Devil himself. The darkness that wrought inside him was like an endless pit where only chaos reigned. He hesitated even attempting to recede into his own mind now, with the threat that he would instead be forced to go through the memories of millions imprisoned inside of himself.]
Thes blasphemous pow'r could turn against me... or ye. Thaur's ae perilous warrant 'at th' monster es kept sealed by these...
[Running his fingertips over the gnarled flesh on his hand, tracing the outline of that Satanic symbol.]
These shackles.
[A dead and blackened heart felt insurmountably heavy in the cage of his breast. Vermilion eyes cast to the floor, he was thankful for one thing throughout this.]
Tis ae blessin'.. 'at Ah carry thes burden, an' nae other unfortunate soul.
Reply
Regardless of what Anderson had become, Maxwell knew an inevitable truth: Be he Monster or Be he Man, he was the only spirit that completed his own.]
I need you, Father. Don't you give up on me now.
[ Not when we've come this far. You brought me back, now I must do the same to you. Equivalent exchange.]
You're no monster, Father.
[Leans closer, warm breath mingling with deathly cold flesh, lips creasing into what he hoped was an amicable smile.
What would it take to convince him otherwise?]
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[No monster, was he? Then truly, what was the difference between he and the Hellbeast that originally was bound to this curse? Was he not the original monster? Did they not both share an affinity for the slaughter and savage bloodshed? Was it merely their creed or lack there of that separated them from man from beast? Or was there something more?
Truly, what makes a man and what makes a monster?
A lamentation in psalms sung by fallen angel and cherub alike.
As much as he longed to put his faith behind his Grace's utterance towards him, something told him, perhaps the whispers of those demons inside him, that he would have to rediscover if the man he was still lived in this wretched body.]
Sae be et, then.
[When his ward reached out for him, and leaned in with a familiar closeness that was unfamiliar to the man to do in particular, the fallen priest could nary hope to deny him. No matter how wretched and vile he was now, no ounce left of his original soul knew the word of "No" to Enrico Maxwell.]
Ah'll dae whit Ah must.. tae make yer words truth.
[God and the Devil knew, he did not long to be a monster. Merely a storm, an unstoppable, impenitence force of piety and righteousness.
Lifting a hand, his cadaverous fingertips hesitantly cupped the man's sharp cheek as he glanced up at those tweaking 'ears' of his.]
. . . They ur sortae precious.
Reply
You are of no threat to me. You know that.
[ Unmortal; Undead; His precious chevalier vulnerable and alone, thinking the worst of himself. Beloved, beloved rancor. How she sings, O' Malevolence! O', Sacred blood ties. Power unto Power; Glory, glory, glory. And as a Masque of Red Death he would Devour, and Be Devoured into Emptiness in return.
Though he could not detect temperatures directly with this new found ability, on some instinctive level Enrico knew it had to be cold in the restroom in which they knelt.
Nostrils flare a little, but he takes the man's words without protest, making a point to lean into the touch and wrap a hand over that thick wrist. The furry appendages perk as though they were aware that they were being spoken of, tail rising out from the edge of his pants.]
Let us come away now, Alexander.
Reply
[An ashen mouth still drawn in a hard line, he merely nodded. His palm that would usually tenderly accept his ward's unceremonious affection, shrunk back just slight. He that toucheth the flesh of the unclean. Becomes unclean. Dear Lord, let not the Holy Grace become unclean in the face of this Mask of Red Death.]
A..aye.
[Standing, with a fluid roll of his body, he rose like a sleek shadow at dusk, and lifted his ward by his hand with an equal amount of effortlessness.]
Yet.. if ye cood dae me one las' favour t'nigh'.
[He had already asked him to kill him, and was spared. Anderson was asking more of his ward on this island than he had ever dared to back home.]
Please.. please tell Miss Alice Ah'm alrecht, Ah..
[Sanguinary eyes averting he felt that sickening shame creeping up on himself again. How did the vampire even life with himself? Ah, right, no shame.]
Ah joos'... canne face her loch thes.
[Not right now.]
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[Arm lifting, beautifully sculpted fingers lightly pressing frigid palm in perfect sync with the gentlemanly gesture. He kept himself close, merging to the vampiric
Priest's side if only to keep some form of physical contact to get him used to the idea that the Archbishop did not find him to be abhorrent in the least.]
She knows, Father. On some level, I'm sure. I promise she will have a message before too long. But, tonight at least, I am not letting you out of my sight.
[Diminutive figure crowds the Scotsman's hip, lingering there before stepping off towards the living room. He leads the man, yet not quite man, by way of an invisible leash clasped figuratively around his neck, patting one of the couch cushions to indicate that he wanted the other to sit next to him.]
Reply
[There were points in time on their short stay here on this island that he was sure the stiff-necked man he was brought here with was out of his zealous mind. Staring at him, such affliction in those ember-flecked russet eyes, Anderson expected him to find him the most putrid thing on this sin-infected earth.
Ye hate what is bad, sayeth the Lord. And let those who love the LORD hate evil, for he guards the lives of his faithful ones and delivers them from the hand of the wicked. The world itself was cruel and wicked, thus he saw his ward's hatred spread to all men and all things not of their creed. So why, when given the chance to hate the most wicked of all... did he not?]
Ah'm. . . Ah'm nae gontae be able tae sleep.
[Uttered rather sheepishly for such a demonic presence. That body wanted to seethe it's evil into the darkness of the walls. Yet his pious will bridled it as he walked with the archbishop into the living room.]
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[How could he ever hate the man who had given so much of himself to his upbringing and to his Organization? Anderson had looked after Maxwell when no one else would. Cared for him. Taught him. Loved him. And who was he to throw all of that way? All those memories, all those years of laughter and tears. It did him no good to Cast Damnation on his most loyal subject.]
I will stay with you, Alex. Even to the last.
[Waits patiently with hands folded politely over his lap as though waiting for a dinner party guest to arrive, a placid smile fixed in place over his mouth. Perhaps Anderson didn't understand all that he did, but there were certain things that were not meant for him to grasp given the current circumstances. ]
Please. Sit.
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[Ever the most meekest and sheeplike, the ones herald to inherit paradise, Anderson never felt his deeds, be it his guidance, protection, teachings, caring, and love, to ever be rewarded or re-compensated. The acts in themselves were his joys in life. Yet with such a mindset, he truly did not amount his worth to any tangible value. A simple priest, he called himself. . . the only things that made him special were the gifts God had granted unto him.]
O. . .Oh.
[Knitting his brows, dolor coloring those strange eyes a darker shade of cardinal, his mouth failed to upturn again. It was probably another blessing he didn't inherit Alucard's penchant for a perpetual smile ever stamped upon his horrible visage. The priest took a seat on the couch, scooting over so his brethren had room for himself next to the gargantuan beast.]
Ye ken.. Ah shoold be sayin' 'at tae ye.
[A willing obligation he had nearly forsaken for the sake of every soul on this wretched island.]
Yet. . . Thank ye. Thank ye fer showin' absolve
en yer grace o'er me.
[For as far as he was concerned, he was undeserving.]
Reply
[Thrumming in a perfect inner pitch of Trust and a Faith as pure as St. Francis', the very portrait of a Saint dowsed in the Sacrosanct.
Lord, Give me Strength, In my companions Hour of Need. Lord, send me Your Blessing, if not for me but for my Brethren who Serves You. Spare your son, who is your Righteous Tool, and look Favorably upon him. Amen
Supplication: The first since his abandonment of the Trinity and Betrayal. The shame of the real Judas once carved Maxwell's heart. Now, it only defined him. The moment the prayer passed through his mind he felt a jolt of Light pass through his disgraced chest, basking him in its Warmth and Kindness.
The change was immediate: True compassion washed over his sullied tongue, coating the Serpent's forked muscle until only the purest of Love could pass through his lips.
Wordlessly he pushes up from the seating arrangement across to the kitchen, pulling forth a cloth and wetting it with hot water. This, the Bishop carries forth before kneeling down on one knee in front of the Inferno Incarnate, taking each of those great hands to wipe them clean of the encrusted blood.]
Nonsense.
[He snorts and dabs quietly at the Assassin's fingers, then slowly travels up with the wash cloth to his face, pushing up against those great knees while lifting himself up enough to reach.]
Reply
[The fallen priest sat hunched, hands folding over and over in his lap, eyes of Gehenna flames gazing with wonder at those Marks of the Devil. Marks of the Wild Beast. The power inside him pulsed against the sigils, casting a orangish glow through the intricate carvings of flesh. Yes, that's how it worked, binding a demon in blood, and sealing it with a black spell braided into the core of his corrupt soul. Slave to the liquid red life he craved, how the priest imagined the Red Specter to loathe his very existence. Was that perpetual grin but a mask to the lamentations within?
Did he shed tears of blood through his eyes just as he?
And how so then, if what he knew to be true. . .
Yea, when man's tears hath dried up, dost he become a monster.
That was why he had become one, hadn't he? To staunch the tears of a fallen kingdom, a fallen legacy, a dejection from his God.
Anderson clutched his chest as a pang wretched his heart like a silver dagger piercing the dead and black muscle and twisting violently into it. To walk that creature's path now, he felt a sense of pity for him, yet seethed still that his pride allowed him to continue onward without looking to the Spirit he had rejected. . . and still awaited his prodigal return.
With that thought in mind, Anderson realized the hope that still lied for him through Maxwell's words.
Incarnadine eyes lifting up, blond eye-lashes stained anew with moist droplets of sanguine, he stared somberly at the holy man who washed his face clean of those thick scarlet lines of caked sin.]
. . .
[There he saw his reason for existing. What physically kept him bound to this world. This man, the creed that followed him, and the holy temple they resided under. As damned a beast as he was, they still were in need of his protection, no matter how lacking in divinity he was now.
As the last remnants of scarlet were swathed away, cleansing his body free, like waters at baptism, the exiled priest reached out for his beloved child, now a man, who showed favor upon his wicked form. And with that fluid motion, long arms threaded about him, pulling him into an embrace that shuddered despair and relief.
Crown of darkened thorns dipping, his brow pressed to Maxwell's collar, as if it were a shadowed place to reside from the burning light of judgment set upon him.
Clutching to him then.
His last haven in this maelstrom.]
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[What self-inflicting agonies must be leeching themselves to his bronze bull's consciousness for those precious tears to be shed, drawing forth bleeding rivulets of carmine doubt and disgrace.
'Draught by draught therein creates
The deep persisting crimson memory
Of the last fleeting rose' ~
At the Darkest Hour, Their most Solemn Hour, Who would be there to Save them when Time ceased to have meaning, when Strength dispersed to the four corners of the world, when Life gave no purpose, only endless Tribulation?
Conquer Paradise and Burn it to the Ground; Making a Future all our own; Destroying all that you hold Dear.
The answer lie in the Question: 'Who'. The very essence of a Dream was produced in these two troubled Spirits, a Mirror Image cast back on the shattered lake of transmuted energy which gave every failure a second chance.
You and me against the World. You and me against Everything. Only you and I can stand Testament to this moment, only You and I to Face this Madness.
And even here, even now, they were creating their own Destiny.
A feeling that these Happenings were inexorable plucked at his threaded heart strings, that somehow everything had its place. There were no coincidences, only a series of inevitability.
Drawn into the Embrace of Darkness itself, Maxwell was sure of it. And while he feared no man or beast, the possibility lurking behind every Door had no end, could not be controlled.
The pinkened cloth, dampened with a mixture of water and blood, slips from his twitching fingers, shock and excitement fused within his quickening pulse. Extending limbs wind in their own fashion about the conflicted mastiff and draw him in just as he was drawn in turn, completely and utterly bound by their mutual sanction and want of solace.]
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[In the Cradle of Sheol, the arms that spread the Shadow in the Valley of Death, neither would they fear the evil, and the wickedness that sought to corrupt the last remnants of their departing souls. They were men damned for the pyre, willingly and longingly, Martyrs and Saints for His greater purpose.
A fate all Iscariot embraced like they embrace their brethren. For sin to be free of this earth, Judas became a Devil and slandered the Most High so that He might be Martyred and the faithful be Cleansed in the Blood of the Lamb.
The faith-begotten priest knew all this well, yet never imagined it to come this.
Clawed fingertips hooked at the clothed shoulders and back of his ward, taking what sense of assuagement he could in the arms of the Faithful. Their Lord was still with them, he had to remind himself, even if he could not longer feel His sanctity, even if to utter scripture scalded his heathen tongue, even if to bear the cross branded his flesh. . . He would not turn away.
The folly of the monster who owned this corruption, owed his damnation not for God turning His back on him, but for he turning his back on God.
With that thought in mind, a croon shivered up the shield of his chest as he hummed a hymn to let Him know, His loyal ram still sought His shepherding call.]
Nearer, my God, tae thee, nearer tae thee. . .
[Quivered his highland's brogue.]
E'en though it be ae cross that raiseth me.
Still all my song shall be. . .
[Serrated teeth worried his lip, a small but feigned gasp leaving him as he felt the holy psalm tingle like coals upon his mouth, which refused to give in to the burn.]
Nearer, my God, tae thee. . .
[A softer pant, the small song of sanctification tampered off with a shuddered and a bestial mewl, a ghost of a smile etching the corner of his mouth, stamping triumph over that blasphemous body of his.]
Nearer, my God, tae thee, nearer tae thee. . .
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[ Pressure built and pressure torn, a damage that cannot be faced alone. Lost in his cynical dust Maxwell drifted in the cradle of those arms, brought into confidence pulled free from woven treachery. Seen and unseen, clean and unclean, the dignitary of the Church would take all of the Priest regardless.]
You are my Shepherd, I have no needs.
[The opposites brought together in one body; Saturn and Mars, reconciled.]
Fear is bitter. Fear is unheard.
[An accompanying tenor of encouragement, the blood rushing faster under his translucent skin. His brave, brave Crusader, standing victorious over that which divided Beast from Men.
Venomous lips crease into a smile of their own, lulled into a sense of false security by how steadfast that control reigned.
Judas kin, standing by the Faithful on Most High.
There was no need to handle the other like a Wolf kept on a tether.]
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