Rollo Flamme. Student president of Noble Bell College and the keeper of the Bell of Solace.

And a shameful beast, a sinner, a man scorned by himself, a devil in gentleman’s skin. For he tried to eradicate all mages, Fleur City drowned in a blaze of Fire Lotus glory, and yet, when he was stopped, life continued as normal.

Malleus was right. The worst punishment was living with what he had done with no one but God to forgive him.

God wouldn’t forgive him.

There was no divine punishment greater than seeing your face; his secret would stir in the pit of his stomach, and he would gag at the bile that rose up.

If he told you, you would understand. After all, you had divulged to Rollo of your backstory - your magic developed at a young age, leading you to accidentally kill, nay, massacre, the people closest to you. If he told you, you would understand, hold his face in your hands and tell him how noble it was to become a villain for the good of others.

You were good at being a villain. He was not.

Perhaps it was divine punishment that the only person Rollo ever tolerated would be like this. Although that was an assumption; would God even spare a glance at one so insignificant as him? A pasty eighteen year old boy with a little too much hubris and self-hatred to function properly.

He was just…

A lost child that God disowned a long time ago.

God wouldn’t waste his time with him. So when Rollo knelt at the pews to beg for something, anything, the words were leaden on his tongue.

He liked to hide in cathedrals. Though the roof was tall, as if reaching for Heaven and the large windows offered nothing but a voyeur’s ideal violation of privacy, Rollo liked to hide in cathedrals. He was the closest to God he ever could be.

(But then again, mortals were not supposed to gaze upon God. They were supposed to toil during the weary day and slobber at the mere thought of a divine, omnipotent being that planned their lives. Because when it got worse, one would have blind faith it would get better. And it usually did.)

Not for Rollo. Ever since his brother died, it all went downhill.

Where was God’s plan?

Where was He?

Was He ever with Rollo?

Probably not. A treacherous part of him whispered. God was gone, and that struck a deep, primal fear within him. Even under the cathedral lighting, the stain glass windows warping the sun’s rays into something holier, he felt terribly and irrevocably alone, like the world had fallen away from him leaving him in void.

Rollo didn’t even notice your approach, muttering to himself: “I feel myself sucked away from God day by day. Perhaps it is the taint in my soul, the festering hatred that is a result of the mages. I don’t know what it is, but there are maggots in me, feasting on my sordid soul.”

Something burned inside him still. It needed to be put out.

So take him down to the river.

Baptise him.

Rollo needed to be born anew to wash away the blood stained under his fingernails. He would see his brother hanging on the family tree, ashamed they shared blood.

But you were like an angel - not sent by God, but defected and descending down to bless him. He knew you knew of his transgressions. But he’d die before talking about them. He loved you.

That, too, was a sin.

You were both men, after all. Rather, boys.

Rollo would crawl to you if that were the only way to reach you. He’d often crawl to you in his dreams, pawing at your marble feet and begging for something, anything.

You were beautiful, finite.

He was a sinner. A wolf. Beaten and broken-ribbed after repeated failed attempts at the farmer’s sheep.

You were a wolf, too, one with a coat well-groomed and sharp fangs dripping with sweet sweet blood. It wasn’t the first time you killed and it wouldn’t be the last. Rollo admired you for that, your unabashed yearning for sin.

Sin burned Rollo.

You knelt beside Rollo, hands clasped and your lips (beautiful petals painted by a love-worn brush) moving to your own prayer. When you were done, the two of you stared at each other for a long time.