They are both like this — bent, broken and torn, sewn-sewn with old threads and nightmares. Both have long been accustomed to bending to the world around them — so as not to hurt them, not to break them again. Both managed to roll off the top, completely absurdly hiding the traces of the fall now. A reminder to ourselves and each other.

Now they're both on the run. Here's a bunch: the Messiah and the Traitor, the crucified and the hanged. They were both buried, but it was too early. They sold Death for a song and thirty pieces of silver for two. Judas is ironic, of course, they left on their own, voluntarily, but... But. Jesus does not want to put his friends in danger, they have already caught all the troubles of the world next to him.

The Messiah would have left Iscariot too, but he knows that he will follow anyway. And so at least under supervision.

No one will remember Judas. The traitor's brand is the scarlet imprint of a rope, which still suffocates, does not let you sleep at night.

Jesus is broken, breathing every other time, raggedly, painfully. At night, he suffocates with nightmares and his own madness — the crucifixion was not in vain for the flexible human psyche.

He's freezing.

Iscariot returns to the shelter after midnight, carefully pressing a piece of bread to his stomach. "Stole it?" Jesus asks wearily, leaning against the cold stone of cave.