There is a certain crispness in blood that is only detectable when one is at their most vulnerable; like the priests staggering to their knees in frighteningly quick succession.
When it is fresh and deliciously warm, there is nothing to block curious fingertips from dipping into the puddles and toying with its essence.
It’s only when the air has become too dry for it that leads blood to dull and harden; creating a soft shield in a last resort in protecting itself from discovery.
Despite its efforts, curiosity is far too quick, and swift fingers will curl around that shield and burst through to the other side and dip into the lukewarm center. It is divine. It is human.
It is exquisite. Only when this is possible will one be vulnerable. If one wasn’t, such liquids would have been cleaned away at their earliest convenience. Not here though. Not now.
Soft crooning whispered up towards the cross of divinity, echoing back it’s silence. Among the fallen priests lay their rosary and holy candles that rolled down golden carpets.
A long finger caressed the sturdy brown benches placed in long neat rows. The stain-resistant gloss that was thickly layered shined in the brightly lit church.
Nothing was to stain the holy ground. We must not inconvenience Divinity after all.
The hand dropped from its place on the gleaming bench and strayed toward his side. Wet coughs escaped the last priest that lay belly up on marbled steps.
The priest still clutched his rosary tightly in his hands and stubbornly held onto hope. Oh, what a fool he was.
Silently making his way to the fallen man, The Reaper watched Father Atlas’s bones rattle with effort. He was weak.
The Reaper hummed from the back of his throat and loomed over the top step, admiring the shudder that rode down the Father’s spine before tensing.
“Tell me!” Father Atlas cried. “Who are you to be Judge, Jury, and Executioner!”
The organ seemed to purr with the priests words. The tall pipes shaking with excitement. H o l y, h o l y, h o l y. The golden bells on every sculpture and depiction shook and cried back at them.
The Reaper’s mouth stretched thin in an interpretation of a smile and his eyes were warm and delighted.
Father Atlas faltered beneath the expression; fear and confusion clouding his own bloodshot eyes.
“I am what you say I am every Sunday, Father. What you tell everyone we are.” The Reaper’s mouth sharpened minutely.
“I am God’s Creation.”
The priest choked and his rosary exploded within his grip. The charms scattered every which way. The bells rang louder and the pipes sang softer.
The blood did not cool within the halls of Divinity and the unmoving bodies of the others did not disturb the world around them.
The Reaper descended down the steps, his footsteps heavy and loud to remind any remaining ears that he is the only one there.
He fell into a bench to await the stillness to overcome Father Atlas. The marbled steps bounced the regrets and pleas that spilled from the elder mans gaping mouth.
The remains of his rosary were branded into his palm, allowing more of his life source to flow freely rather then staunch the clear wounds on his person.
Vulnerability to divinity is a weakness when one lets their own blood cool in hope of being saved by silence.
The Reaper lay his head back against the bench and basked in the warm sun that shone through the stained glass. The sunset washed the room in a wondrous glow.
The tall throne sat heavily below the cross.
The bells fell silent and the organ stopped whistling. It was holy in a different type of way.