The Devil's Resting Place

. . .

Sebastian doesn't believe in gods. In his eyes, if they are real, they abandoned him, condemned him to a hellish existence from the moment of his birth.

He wants no grace, no redemption, and certainly no blessings.

As for the devil? If he's real, Sebastian would relish the chance to meet him, perhaps even become his companion, his apprentice, and offer his commendations.

Though the tower bells don't ring for him, he indulges in the fantasy that they do.

It's an odd location for them as is. Yet, in a way, it all aligns logically. But between the ordinary folk, even if their attire of dark, flowing fabrics draws more eyes than it avoids, they play their roles so convincingly, that it nearly deceives even Sebastian.

Sebastian doesn't usually care about the motives behind their gatherings. He hardly blinks an eye even if their intent is to reduce everything to ashes, to annihilate anyone who dared resist.

But this one, this time it is different.

It's almost amusing, really. Sebastian could accomplish the task in the blink of an eye. He could squeeze the trigger now, consider his revenge, head home, tune into the radio, sip on whiskey until he drifts into oblivion.

Actually, that is a lie. This can hardly be labelled as revenge.

The pistol isn't even heavy in his hands. Some of his other ones are. This one feels almost as light as his wand. The wand he had to give up.

Magic doesn't flicker at his fingertips anymore. That world was left behind long ago. Now, he lives among the common people, the people who fight in wars to get what they want. The people who kill and there's little to no consequences. The people who love and hate and lie and dream of fortunes and power– a different kind of power.

Sebastian doesn't want power.

What he wants lies within the squeeze of the trigger and the lingering effects of a potion. Add to that a pair of favours from a long-lost friend.

They have claimed the second row. Ominis sits on the far left. His pale neck, the evident tension in his shoulders, and his stature as the smallest give him away. Beside Ominis is Marvolo, as Sebastian soon recognises. Marvolo casts a glance toward Sebastian in the back row, then leans over to whisper something to Ominis, all while keeping his gaze locked on Sebastian.

Sebastian remains unfazed. While his presence isn't strictly a secret, discretion is preferable until the right moment arises.

Above, the cathedral's lofty ceiling is embellished with countless celestial beings. Golden-trimmed candles radiate throughout. Sunlight, filtering through the stained glass, paints the stone floor in a spectrum of colours.

An elderly woman, ancient beyond years, emerges from the confessional booth. Sebastian's eyes dart to the clock. Patience has never been among his virtues.

He strides to the forefront. Marvolo directs his attention to him. Sebastian wonders if, even without his wand, Ominis can still detect him. The odds seem monumentally uncertain.

Time has stretched since Ominis and Sebastian last shared a room. It feels like an eternity and a fleeting moment all at once. Actually, it feels as if it was just yesterday when a sixteen-year-old Ominis was running his fingers through Sebastian's hair.

Sebastian sparks up a cigarette and as a courteous gesture, tips his hat. Marvolo's lips curl in evident distaste.

Despite detaching himself from magic, he senses the electric buzz of their own dark power. For a split second, this familiar essence awakens a longing, a yearning for the gravitas, the lurking shadows, the murmurs, the intense tug it used to command.