Y/n scrubbed. He scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, almost until the first layer of skin seemed to peel off, until it was red, mottled, and nearly bruised with the force. Until he shed off whatever impurities he had.

His legs ached. His body ached. It wasn't even a pleasant kind of ache; no. This was raw, primal pain at his fullest—every movement hurt, every breath he took hurt. The memories from the cursed night plagued his thoughts, rotting his mind, making the tears roll down from his cheeks.

Y/n felt like a monster in his own skin. He wanted to peel it off. He wanted to just...

Y/n hugged himself in the bath, shuddering. The water lapped over his skin—and Y/n wished to drown in it, feel the punishment of the cold, cold water freeze his bones and chill him, soak in it until he couldn't distinguish the days that blurred by, the seconds that crawled.

"...Is there even a God?" Y/n croaked out tonelessly, "even someone to...to listen to me? Was I right in believing that God was not—not..."

Not real?

The water sloshed to his neck.

Y/n shivered again.

Death was imminent, the agonizing, sweet release of death...Y/n could die here. Shiver until he froze, scratched his skin until the blood matted the water and turned it into a beautiful shade—

"Father?"

Y/n ducked his head underneath, drowning the voice out. If he listened, he would stop. He would stop his death...

The voice became more insistent, even though it was muffled.

"Father—!"

Y/n rose from the water, listlessly clothing himself with whatever garments or robes he found in the corner. When he stumbled out—(he could barely move)—Lucas rushed to his aid, immediately supporting him.

"Lucas," Y/n threaded his fingers through Lucas's soft, soft hair, "what is it, my dear child?"

He tried to keep his voice airy, light. It ended up sounding hoarse.

"Oh, I...I made some food for you," He twiddled his thumbs, "ever since Father Anton dropped you off, you looked really tired..."

Oh, sweet child.

My precious, darling child...

Y/n brought Lucas up, carrying him in his arms. The boy made a startled noise, but nevertheless, tucked his head into Y/n's neck, clinging on to him for warmth.

"Your hair grew pretty long," Y/n said quietly, "you look adorable. You're growing well."

Lucas hugged Y/n tighter, his small arms around Y/n's shoulder. The grip grew tighter, just a little more.

"Because you treat me so well, Father," The little boy mumbled sheepishly, "I just wanted to repay you. I love you, Father."

I love you too.

"You made food for me," Y/n said in awe, swallowing the choked sob down his throat, "you—you..."

"I'm afraid it won't be good."

Y/n shook his head, settling down onto a chair with Lucas on his lap. He kept one arm wrapped around Lucas's waist, supporting him, and the other picked up the plate, which had—

"French toast," Y/n blinked his eyes. "You made me French toast."

"You liked it. I tried making it," Lucas swallowed. "It was my first time, so maybe it's a little too sweet, or too tasteless."

Y/n took a bite of it. Lucas was right. It was too sweet; but...

"No," Y/n kissed the top of his head, "it's perfect."

How could he ever think of abandoning him, dying on his own? How could he ever, when the world still had a light in it? When his son still existed?

Lucas beamed. He adjusted himself on Y/n's lap, and truth to be told, it hurt. Y/n wanted to flinch, wanted to elicit a sharp hiss because every inch of his body throbbed. Fuck. Fuck!

Y/n ate the toast slowly, feeling the way the bread slid down his sore, hoarse throat, felt how the whole motion of chewing the food, feeling his jaw move...tiring. He was going through the perpetual motion of life now; waiting for it to spin and spin and spin...

And his heart throbbed further when he realized that he would have to see Anton again. After that night in which the priest had basically ripped out his innocence (or perhaps he was never innocent to begin with—he had killed, hadn't he?), something had explicitly changed between them. Anton craved him, like a moth to a flame. He had gotten a taste of Y/n, and he was not about to let his prey go.

The treatment he received from the public changed.

Y/n became the anointed, the savior.

Anton did it all in a mere flick of his fingers. He had changed everything. He was powerful, intelligent...

There was a knock on the door.

Y/n felt his hopes crash on the floor.

Another shift in behavior was that now messengers came to his door to fetch him. And every single one of them were different. Like they were for one-use; Y/n never saw any of the messengers ever again. Why? Was it because when Y/n stumbled, they would reach out for him, their fingers grazing him? Did Anton truly seek to covet everything of his, until Y/n was well and truly his?

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

"Y/n," the voice shook and trembled, "Father Anton has requested you."

You know this is your last day, don't you? Y/n bit his lip. But he was careful not to let a single bit of emotion appear on his face—now, if he showed any hint of interest...any sympathy—

Anton would kill them all.

He would murder.

Y/n pressed a farewell kiss onto Lucas's forehead, feeling his the boy desperately grasped at him—almost as if to tell him please don't go, Father. Please—and Y/n had to tear away from him.

"Where is he?"

The man didn't answer, but instead gestured to the side, where there was a private room. One that Y/n had never gone into before...

That very knowledge could mean plenty. Either it would mean another long and tedious night was ahead of him, or it could mean that the room was once forbidden to him. But perhaps Anton—perhaps Anton trusted him enough to...

"You're here." Anton's fingers touched his cheek gingerly the moment the door was opened, and Y/n had to resist the temptation to recoil; "how are you feeling?"

Like absolute shit.

"...a little tired,"  Y/n bit his lip. It was an obvious testament to how he was feeling, but just under exaggerated. Truth was, it...

"Does it hurt?"

Of course it does, you asshole.

"Yeah," Y/n swallowed, "I think it'll go away soon, though." He shuddered when the priest pressed against the mark on his neck that he had imprinted, before his hands grasped Y/n's and pulled him entirely into the room.

Y/n stilled, a horrified gasp slipping from his lips.

It was a huge room. A massive one. A luxurious one. So why were there blood stains on the floor? Why was there—why was there fire, crackling by the side? In fact, it seemed everlasting, like it was fueled by dark magic; something sinister, something warped.

"This," Anton crooned, "this is the room for sinners."

Y/n must have looked alarmed, for Anton pressed a kiss onto Y/n's skin, which made goosebumps crawl up his skin. Don't touch me. Don't touch me. Don't touch me.

"Not you," Anton even chuckled, "no. But I suppose it's something relevant to you."

Relevant to me...?

Panic rose up in Y/n. Surely, it wasn't Lucas, right? It wasn't going to be him, right? He wasn't here to burn, was he? He wasn't—he wasn't going to die? Y/n let out a strangled sound, which Anton smiled at. He seemed to adore and take pleasure in whatever reactions Y/n showed him.

"Bring her in."

There was relief at first, that Y/n was afraid to confess. Relief because it would mean that Lucas wasn't going to die, shame because he was finding solace in someone burning. Someone dying.

Wait. Did this mean that Y/n would have to watch? The horrifying scene..?

Y/n started to tremble, as realization settled in.

No.

No.

No.

.

.

.

"Brother?"

.

.

.

That singular word was enough to shatter Y/n, and time seemed to stand still. He could have heard wrong. He could have heard wrong. He could have heard wrong—

"Fuck," Y/n immediately collapsed onto the ground. He did not care that Sara had called him brother, he didn't care what the implications meant with Anton, he didn't care about all those things. Instead, he started to shake uncontrollably when he saw his sister—his sister, of all people—get escorted in the room fearfully, hands in chains and blood matting her feet. "No, no, no, no—"

"She chose this route herself." Anton whispered, "she said she wanted to die. She wanted to die pure, and that is why I have brought you here today."

"Oh, please, no," Y/n begged as he sank to his knees and started to release wild sobs, "not her. Not her. Not her. Please, Father Anton," Y/n cried, "please. I'll do anything. I'll do anything."

Please. Please. Please.

Father Anton kissed the tears off his face.

"That sounds very tempting, yes," was that a hint of a smile in his tone? "But your sister has made the decision yourself."

"She wouldn't," Y/n pleaded desperately, "she wouldn't. I know she wouldn't—she...she wanted to survive, Father Anton. There is no way she would ever—"

"I chose this."

His sister's eyes were emotionless. Void.

Y/n stared at Sara.

"You didn't," He said at last, shaking his head, "you didn't. You didn't. You didn't. You didn't. You didn't. You—"

"I chose this." Sara said, more firmly and harsher this time, "Father Anton was right. You were right on that day. I was a burden. I would be a burden to you. And that is why I chose this. Liberation."

"You're afraid of fire," Y/n choked out, "do you not remember? When we were kids...you...you...you refused to go near the stove because you didn't want to get burnt. I would help you, and you would thank me—"

Sara's expression did not waver, and instead, Y/n's desperate pleas echoed in the cold room. His mind raced—this was the sister he had desperately sought to protect in his past life. How could he disregard her? How could he...

Father Anton.

He had manipulated her.

"No, no, fuck no," Y/n laughed, "this is not happening. Yes, this isn't happening..." He started to rock back and forth, pure agony piercing his chest, "this isn't real. None of this—none of this is..." He could feel the eyes of Father Anton piercing through his very soul, relishing in it.

"Calm down." The priest murmured calmly.

"Please. There was just another way," Y/n implored, his voice strained with desperation, "I'll take her place," Y/n breathed out, "I'll ensure whatever punishment you have in mind. Spare her. Please—spare her."

"Of course not."

The sadistic satisfaction etched on his face was horrifying. "You misunderstand, Y/n," Anton spoke with sickening sweetness that it made Y/n's skin crawl, reveling in his anguish, "your sister chose this, she yearns for the purification through flames, to rid herself of the burdens that bind her."

Sara's vacant stare bore into him.

"Sara, please, I can't bear to lose you like this," Y/n choked on his words, "like what you said—like what you said—we can find another way out. Somehow. You can..."

Her lips parted to utter words that was the final blow. Words that carved through Y/n's soul like a knife.

Bleeding crimson.

Flickering flames.

Death.

"It's my choice. I've made my peace with it. Don't lie. You hated me, didn't you?"

"I don't," Y/n trembled, "I don't—"

"You hated me,"

"I never did, Sara. I never—I never..."

Y/n groveled. He pleaded. He begged. He threw himself at Anton's feet, begging and begging and begging.

"To liberate myself." Sara said slowly. "To liberate myself..."

"She's hesitant," Y/n whirled around immediately, "Father Anton, she's—"

Y/n felt the heat first. The strong, unwavering heat.

"Y/n," Anton murmured lightly, pulling the male into his arms as if to shield him from the fire, "don't."

It was enough to shield him from the flames. The vengeful, insatiable flames. It danced, crackled, licked the different places.

"No," Y/n tried to wrench himself from Anton's grasp, "no, no, no!" It left his throat in a guttural cry—"Sara..."

Embers ascended down, leaving trails of ephemeral sparks. So beautiful yet so deadly. The scent of burning wood mingled with the acrid smell of...

Flesh.

Y/n watched. He watched as Sara's flesh started to burn, the voracious inferno consuming everything. The pink skin soon melted, falling onto the ground in ashes. And her screams. Her shrieks.

Then there was bone.

"Fuck," Y/n started to break down all over again, "let me go—let me go to her, let me, let me, let me—"

The heat pulsated, radiating waves. Y/n was pulled back by the priest, who tilted his head.

"Y/n," His voice was soft, gentle. "You must not—"

Y/n saw the movement of Sara's lips.

Help, Y/n read, I'm scared of fire...

There was pure agony and fear in her eyes. She did not want to die, so earlier on, why...?

Anton. Anton. Anton. Anton. Anton. Anton. Anton. Anton. Anton. That cursed priest!

"I'm sorry," Y/n murmured, his voice a broken whisper, "I..."

"Brother," a scream called for him, "brother. I...love—"

"Ally." Y/n screamed, "Ally! Ally!"

The fire consumed the rest of her form.

Anton's grip tightened, restraining Y/n from futilely rushing into the inferno.

"Acceptance, my dear Y/n. She chose this fate."

Y/n's eyes saw the aftermath—a charred silhouette etched into the remnants of what once was his sister.

He was left with the cruel reality that he had been powerless to save her. Her choice, an irreparable wound in his soul.

If he wasn't careful...if he wasn't able to save his own sister, then how could he save his child?

Y/n crumbled onto the ground once more, his sobs joining the sound of the dying embers.

I love you too, Ally.