| Unholy Visitor |
[24 Jan 2008|11:37pm] |
In the cathedral, Rhiannon felt like the small girl she had been in her grandmother's formal living room, just trying not to stain anything. The sweatshirt bulge around her arm kept blood off the pews and the kneelers, but she worried anyway, that somehow Atia's filth had clung to her, that she had brought it into a sacred space.
She hadn't wanted to go home, though. There wasn't solace there, or any confirmation that she was doing the right thing by engaging Atia. In the heat of the fight, she'd felt so justified in her impulsive decisions, nearly righteous with the rightness of it, but afterwards she doubted. When her arm was shredded, and she was staring into eyes blacker than tar, there should've been caution. But she threw herself into things headlong, time and again, justifying it as a great sacrifice. Necessary somehow.
The church still smelled of 5 o' clock mass. She breathed it in deep. Was Michael with her, as she prayed for him to be? The field commander of God's army. Someone who had faced battles worse than this, probably without signing on with the devil to do it. Maybe he had some wisdom for her. A tip about how to stave off apocalypse without writing off his soul.
"This is the work I was meant to do," she repeated in earnest, pressing the sound of those syllables into her folded hands, wanting to believe it again. Maybe she was this shy of being a bad guy because it made her capable of things like this. She ducked her head in exhaustion.
"In a manner of speaking..."
( Hell's Way )
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