With each slow drag of your boot against wet stone, the leering skulls of unnamed men judge the dark sins that cling to your soul like shackles.

The teeth marks sting, but the heavy weight of guilt stings further more.

What good of you to be a soldier if you were sinful enough the curse was trying to take you too?

Your allies haven’t noticed yet, thoughts too filled with ones of wariness and paranoia.

The Catacombs were designed not for armies of men— the walls thick, halls thin and suffocating. Close combat did not serve your men as well as you all perhaps needed it to.

Your skin burns, your heart aches— sweat runs down your brow as you try not to scratch the bite wound given to you by those cursed beasts, forsaken by whatever deity be up there, cursed to bare their sins to the world, cursed to show their rot, their guilt.

Your chaplain is right up ahead, but the shame hangs heavy over your head.

His gaze turns to meet yours on occasion, and you’re almost certain he knows, or at the very least, suspects it.

—

The men are weary— your commanding officer allows a small reprieve, a break, if no longer than ten minutes of rest.

Small, but welcome nonetheless by exhausted soldiers.

A hand on your shoulder breaks you from your sleep-deprived mind, and it takes all of what little willpower you have left not to jerk away violently.

“Come now, what holds you back from seeking forgiveness?” Father Claude asks, tone firm, his gaze intense like searching for the answer in your very soul.