𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇

ELEVEN

God. Was God real? Was the devil real—had he taken form in Anton himself, twisting, persuading, begging, tempting people to court evil, to withhold the stench of death? The crimson flames had not faltered for long, and had only seemed to welcome him with fiery contempt, only surrendering when everything had been destroyed in its wake.

Y/n longed to spit curses towards Anton—he longed for his limbs to connect with his face, and leave a mottled bruise there. He longed for his twitching fingers to wrap themselves around the priest's neck; to watch as oxygen slowly slipped from his lungs, out of his throat, before they expelled into the surroundings and his damned body would grow limp.

But Y/n could not do any of that, for it was foolishness.

Anton seemed unperturbed by Y/n's shaken state. In fact, he almost seemed to relish in his suffering. Almost like he loved the reaction that Y/n had given him: speechless, so obviously terrified, but unwilling to show it. Adamant on burying that boiling rage beneath his veins and leaving it thrumming.

"You—" Y/n gasped out. "You—"

You monster! was what Y/n desperately wanted to say. But he had to swallow those two hot, scalding words back into his throat. His eyes looked miserably upon the charred ground. The heat was so strong that little lines wavered and shook in the air, and for a moment, Y/n wondered if he was going crazy.

"Why did you do that?" Those were the words that escaped from his mouth. It was ironic and hypocritical the way he clung onto the priest: the way Y/n looked so desperately for a lifeline, and that very person who was around was Anton. The person he hated the most, yet the person he had to approach for his survival. For Lucas's survival.

"You must know of the feud we have. The knights and the people of the church, Y/n." Anton said calmly. "What is this about going to dinner with them? An act of rebellion?"

Oh.

Oh.

So this was to punish him. So it had been his fault.

"I merely wanted to rest," Y/n said desperately, fumbling for an excuse, "I...I was just trying to make more friends. To instill the teachings in more people..." His tone faded into a strangled whisper.

"Is that so?" Anton was unbelieving. His fingers never left Y/n's face. They continued to taunt him; stroking him with the very hands that commanded the fire—commanded the deaths of so many innocents.

"...." Y/n did not speak. His body lay crumpled on the ground. If—If it had been Lucas—his dear, precious child—

"Lucas is safe," Anton continued, as if he could read Y/n's mind, "he's really such an adorable child, isn't it?"

Y/n's blood felt like ice. Hearing Lucas's name from his mouth...oh, it was so unpleasant. Knowing that somehow Anton has fitted into the picture perfect family that Lucas had conjured...wasn't this essentially a baby trap? Even if (hopefully) Anton didn't know about his plan, he knew that Y/n—no matter what, would not be able to lay his hands on him because of the child.

Anton's tone was soft and affectionate, like he had truly enjoyed the child's company. "So naive, so untainted by the world. He adores you—he constantly speaks about you."

...Anton liked Lucas. Genuinely, it seemed. And what that meant for their already twisted dynamic, Y/n didn't know.

"Come. Stop wallowing." Anton held Y/n's hand, forcing him to stand and wobble on his feet, "we need to return to the church. I take it that you have already gotten what you intended to get?"

I intended to come here to rest. To be away from you. I didn't get what I wanted.

"I did," Y/n rasped out. A lie. A damn lie. He had gotten so good at lying that the lies were blending into an indecipherable fog.