Doors open to the dimly lit observation room used to monitor Spirits. From the outside, the walls retain transparency, yet the inside has the illusion of a cozy home, the heat of a false campfire comforting only one resident.
The Spirit, mostly silent, flips to the next page of one of its requested books—Dante's Inferno. The books on the round wooden coffee table contained a small stack, containing a King James Bible, The Call of Cthulhu, The King in Yellow, and, strangely enough, Fahrenheit 451.
The archaic Spirit takes hold of a bronze chalice on the table and swirls the red wine within it. She takes a sip.
Enters the purist with kind-hearted intentions, a tense stare permeates.
"Why did you do it?"
She talks lightly, ignorantly. "I obligate myself not to spur my tongue."
Internally distraught and angry, he sits down opposite her.
"They have families..." he ushers with a pained, strained tone.
"So they do," she acknowledges, taking one more sip. "Well, they had families." She puts one leg over the other, reading.
Her frame remains mature, bearing a tasteful, ripe fruit—beautiful.
"And you killed them," he pains as he says.
She promptly shuts the book and places it on the stack.
Hanging on to human hope, the purist cusps her hand outstretching to place the book, sandwiching her hand with both of his.
"But..." he hesitates yet continues, "I still believe in you... I believe that you can still be better if you just try." His smile of sincerity and empathy exudes a clear message to her, but her face remains unimpressed, save for a small scowl.
"Do not speak of family to me any further, boy." She retracts her hand. "Speak not the whims of humane, human beliefs. Do not preach."
He remains firm and determined, perhaps to a fault.
"But you can try to be better. You can still... try."
"Denial and refusal is my default to you," she dismissively relays.
Silence happens between them, and he proceeds to speak the wrong words.
"Then... let me help you! Let's go on a date!"
The walls crack and the false fire turns true, crackling red sparks and crimson hatred. Eyes as bloodied as the exodus of water from her eyes to vermillion.
"Your words cut me like daggers, boy. I bear one heart for another only. You will regret your choice of words."
She glances upward to her right as if communicating with a hidden power. A looming threat becomes apparent to it. Bloodshed and bloodlust against the purist startles the provocations of the void.
"Descend if you wish to see him alive, false idol!" she shouts with the blood of ancients dripping from her lips. Her wretchedness has had enough, corrupting the skin of materiality with a dark ritual and forbidden language, pulling the first light, the first Spirit into real space.
Then the false idol appears, plagued with a static field. The immediate threat to the proxy purist prompted her appearance.
"You are a Phantom, heretic." After the statement, the world goes dark. The vision of existence becomes stolen, seized.
As if defying the statement, the Phantom dispels itself, blinding all but the true one of darkness in a flashing, eternal light. She states but one thing.
YOU ARE READING
Date A Live: Red Crown Chaplain
FanfictionIf I was destined to be nothing, why have I been called up for such an ending? The Crown is mine, yet there are none to rule. But if I could bring you back, I would do it once, twice, thrice times over and so, so, so much more. I know who I am and w...
