The Angel Fell Twice

Chapter 19. Ragnar

His eyes met hers, calm and unflinching, a silent acknowledgment of her fury. Around them, the remnants of the battle were grim and telling—bodies strewn about, some still bleeding, others lifeless.
"You fool! I told you to stop killing—" she cried out, her voice breaking.
"You were about to be killed," he retorted.
"Just leave me alone... Leave me alone!" Her voice cracked as dropped her dagger, instead slamming a fist against his chest weakly. "You beat me up one moment, and then you save me the next?! Why do you have to be so complicated?"
"I know," he responded softly, the words almost a whisper lost in the rain that began to fall.
The heavy rain poured down, mixing with the blood on her face and staining her torn clothes. She glared at him. "You're heartless and ruthless, then so lost and vulnerable... I'm so confused... I hate you! I hate you for confusing me!" Her fists continued to strike at his chest, though her strength waned.
"I know," he repeated, gripping her wrists gently but firmly. His gaze held hers, steady and conflicted. She was a wreck, her clothes tattered, blood seeping from large gashes, and one wing severed, lying grotesquely on the ground beside her.

She noticed his hardened gaze soften. With a frustrated shove, she pushed him away and staggered back. Her movements were labored; pulling her cloak to drape over her shoulders, barely covering the grievous injury to her wing.
With one last glare, she walked away, her steps faltering, each movement a struggle against her exhaustion and pain. Ragnar watched her leave, his hand trembling– he seized a dead knight's sword, stabbing it into their head, blood spurting.

The forest pathway lay cloaked in oppressive darkness, the moon and stars lost behind a shroud of black clouds. The storm raged overhead, jagged lightning carving fleeting paths of illumination through the dense canopy. Ragnar's heavy footsteps squelched through the sodden earth, his breath forming clouds in the cold air.

The crumbling silhouette of the church emerged from the gloom, its once-grand form now skeletal and forlorn. Broken spires jutted into the tempestuous sky like jagged teeth, and the ruins loomed ominously against the roiling backdrop. Ragnar pushed through the sagging wooden door, which groaned under his weight, and entered.

Inside, the remnants of what was once a sanctuary greeted him. Rain trickled through the gaps in the roof, pooling on the cracked floor, reflecting the fleeting flashes of lightning. He wandered through the wreckage, the echoes of his boots mingling with the distant rumble of the storm.

He sank onto the cold, fractured altar, his eyes slowly rising. The image of Marina's gentle hands placing fresh flowers on this very altar pierced through his rage. Her touch had been delicate, arranging the blooms with a care that seemed to breathe life into the crumbling stone around her. Her movements had been a silent apology, an attempt to mend the bridge of understanding that had once seemed so fragile.
The memory of Marina tending to a small, injured bird played in his mind. Her hands had been soft and skilled, wrapping the creature in a makeshift bandage, her expression filled with a concern that had once irritated him. Her kindness, so starkly contrasted against the darkness that surrounded them, made his heart ache with a mix of admiration and frustration.

Ragnar's mind flickered to the night when Marina had arrived at the church with a basket of fruits and meat, lantern light casting dancing shadows on the walls. Her presence had been a beacon in the dark, a reminder of the peace he had once found here. Her voice, soft and sincere, had offered comfort and a sense of normalcy in the midst of their chaotic world.

As the storm's fury mirrored his growing anger, Ragnar's memories of the intimate moments shared in the small wooden confession chamber surged, both comforting and uncomfortable. The warmth of her body pressed against his, her scent of flowers, and the soft, urgent whispers had left a mark on him.

With a roar, he rose from the altar and slammed his fist into the walls. Shards of stone flew, the wooden pews splintered beneath his rage, their fragments scattering like broken dreams. Statues of angels and priests that had once stood as silent witnesses to their shared moments were torn from their pedestals and shattered, their broken forms lying amidst the wreckage.

The storm outside raged on, and his wrath seemed unending, consuming every fragment of the church until nothing remained but a chaotic mess of debris. His hands, now bloodied and raw, pounded against the shattered altar as he sank to his knees, his breath ragged and his heart pounding with a tortured rhythm.
"Damn her," he muttered, his voice strained. Suddenly, he stood up, glaring up towards the tree, "If it is a monster they want... I will give it to them."