"What good is the soul, my child?" asked the robed figure.
His voice had a feeble, throaty quality, like a hollow instrument played very low.
Clancy squirmed on the stone floor, agitated.
"Is the soul not the seat of our identity, father?" he replied with difficulty, twitching.
"Identity!" the bishop spat. Beneath his black veil, storms gathered.
"The inner self," Clancy cried in a faltering voice. "The part that decides, that continues, that discerns..." He trailed off, rocking back and forth and twisting his fingers in his hair compulsively.
The bishop knelt then with startling swiftness. Clancy fell still.
"My boy," the bishop murmured in a deathly whisper, dragging one withered hand along the plane of Clancy's cheek. "What do you feel?"
"I feel your hand, father," Clancy answered, trembling.
"Is it a kind touch, Clancy?"
"It is, father."
"How do you know?" the bishop asked, touching both hands to the boy's neck as Clancy raised his chin submissively.
"I can feel it, father."
"You sense it," the bishop rasped, satisfied.
With slow deliberation, he lowered his hands and parted his crimson robe. The hilt of a small sword gleamed at his waist. Without breaking his gaze, he unsheathed the blade and pressed it lengthwise into his subject's cheek.
"And this, Clancy? Is this a kind touch?"
The cell was quiet but for the low, broken whimper that now emanated senselessly from Clancy.
"You sense that this touch is dangerous, don't you?" the bishop continued, skimming the blade languorously down the skin of Clancy's face until it found his neck. "You feel the cold metal. The fine point—"
"Father," Clancy could not help but cry out.
The bishop tore the blade away, just nicking the skin, and concealed it once more. Clancy, whose panting whimpers had broken into a sob, collapsed into the fabric of the bishop's robe, sobbing convulsively.
"When the poisonous doctrine of the soul deserts you," the bishop said, running a finger over the spot where a bright bead of blood began to seep from the wound, "sense will be your guide."
The bishop rose, leaving Clancy curled and trembling on the cold floor. "Blade to skin, my dearest boy, is the keenest discernment we have."
* * *
Author's Note:
Had a rough day and just felt like writing something malevolent.
Lemme know whatcha think. ⭐💬👇
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Sword to Sleeve
FanfictionA quick, creepy #oneshot featuring an anxious Clancy and his sinister father figure, Keons. (May add more chapters down the road, when/if I have the motivation.)
