FALSE SAVIORS

1

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The sacrifice was, as always, bloody and somberly chaotic.

Brittle autumn leaves kissed the ground on the outskirts of town, crunching under a parade of shuffling feet as the civilians of Ramrook Hollow gathered swiftly and quietly, eyes hooded as they watched Brother Florence drag a trembling girl before them. Rose was her name, the delicate curls of fiery red spilling over her shoulders, which a pure-white dress clung awkwardly to. Her build was too skinny, her height pathetic compared to the towering Florence, who clutched the ceremonial dagger as it winked in the weak sunlight.

Dense greenery spilled like a waterfall over the land behind Brother Florence's broad shoulders, foreboding and swathed in shadows even at midday. Ramrook Hollow's gods lurked there, waiting patiently for the meal that would sate them until the full moon came once more. Their eyes, though unseen, were caught on the sprawling assembly out on the cleared land, who's head dipped downwards to stare at swaying blades of green. Clenching his jaw, large hand absently flexing and nearly crushing Rose's fragile wrist, Brother Florence's storm-grey darted around carefully. Even if he didn't show it, the youth was scared. Deep, deep within his soul, the cowardly feeling was there.

"Brothers! We gather here, at the edge of the wood, to celebrate the coming of another full moon," he began strongly, remembering his father's exact words, the words that he had practiced since he was able to read. Florence's feathery, white-blond hair danced in the breeze, coming loose to frame his pale, angular face. Handsome, some called it. Swallowing back a stutter, he continued, "To give back to those who guide us, we offer them a sacrifice as a gift for all that they've done. Without them, we would be nothing. Let us thank them, brothers."

"We thank you, bringers of light, speakers of wisdom, children of moonlight."

The crowd spoke as one, practiced in the art of harmonious discord and melding to form one, rumbling voice, like the rolling calls of thunder playing on the distant horizon. Brother Florence felt Rose twisting within his one-handed grip, and only held her back tightly, eyes narrowing in annoyance down at her malnourished form. A puny runt, that's all she was. Everyone else that had volunteered to feed the gods had fell ill, or had already crumpled to the ground as a corpse. The passing winter had taken a toll on them all, and most were still recovering. The gods wouldn't be happy.

"I speak to you, my humbled gods." Florence turned to face the looming forest, Rose now trying harder than ever to escape. She thrashed her tiny body around, shaking her head and stamping her tiny feet. Her mind was not as weak as her muscles. She knew what her fate was; she's seen it all before. Soon, crimson streaks brighter and darker than her hair would be marring the alabaster gown she wore, the glossy color blooming from a deep, gushing wound.

"Take this offering, and may it let you rest easy until the next full moon. Until then, my gods, we promise to fulfill your code, and continue to praise you for the deeds that you've done." Brother Florence's voice wavered for a second, but as he raised the dagger, the glimpse of a fleeting shadow in the woods made him simper. Eighteen years of studious upbringing have taught him to look between the gaps, to look at what no other would dare to see, and cower in hopes of surviving. "The name of this child is Rose, after the blessed flower that you gave to us long ago. We return it to you, thankful, but unworthy of such a magnificent gift."

Brother Florence raised the dagger, the engraved whorls along the steel blade shining brightly for a split second. An ear-splitting screech of terror made him wince. Rose violently convulsed, tears wetting her flushed cheeks as she continued to scream unintelligible babble, maybe begging for mercy, maybe asking to get it over with. Trying not to tremble himself, Florence closed his eyes and—

The sounds of blood being garbled cut off Rose's constant stream of pleas, the dagger slicing her from ear to ear, right under the chin, and just as swiftly as a predator strikes. A spray of blood painted Florence's hands, rivulets of scarlet drip, drip, dripping the coat his fingers in warmth. Animalistic sounds tore their way out of Rose's gashed throat as the fair-haired youth drew the dagger away, slush-grey eyes flying open. His heart beat a heavy rhythm against his battered ribs, and only raced quicker as the people behind him rose their voices in a hymn. No one knew what the words to the spiraling, high-noted song meant, for the language was one other than their own, but that didn't stop them. Nothing except death would stop them.

Rose fell quieter and quieter, still gushing vermillion and already growing paler, leaving Florence to lower her to the ground. Her hands were arranged to be clasped over her tiny chest, body straightened out in the dying grass and pushed closer to the border between humanity and the divine. The ferns growing at the edge of the woods seemed to lean closer, and enveloped Rose as Florence drew away, the hymn reaching a nerve-wracking, bone-chilling climax before collapsing.

Breathing hard, Florence stood, the pale blue fabric of his shirt stained with Rose's life. The dagger, swathed in red at the edges, was slipped into the dark leather scabbard at his belt. The crowd started to slowly slip away, turning back to their lives in the ramshackle town. An eerie silence reigned, unbroken and untouched except for the shuffling of worn-out boots through grass. Brother Florence inched away with them, sidestepping the slight regret bubbling up inside him. A thought came to him, whispered in a sickly sweet tone as light as clouds passing overhead, so gently articulated that it was taunting:

You'll have to grow some thicker skin, Vincenzo. If killing a runt is bringing you such grief, then what will happen at the yearly festival? Your father will be dead by then, and corpses can't cut out hearts, can they?

Shuddering, like the cold hand of Death had slid a finger down his spine, Florence turned away completely, ignoring the tendrils of dark fog reaching out from the forest's depths. They slithered down like snakes, twirling around Rose's blood-splattered body and apathetically dragging her away. Now, Ramrook Hollow's gods showed themselves, when there was no one else to see them, bloodshot eyes with void-black irises glistening in the shadows as they feasted on the remains of innocence.