A ghost of a whisper weaves through the wind's assault on the clothed shield of the tent, frail and trembling,
heavy not merely with the cold of the flesh, but with the scars etched into his spirit.
A harsh cough trembles the stillness behind Pastor Gideon, the faint rustle of movement betraying the presence shifting there.
Pastor Gideon prays through chattering teeth, goosebumps rising as light strains through the thin blue clothe, dread swelling with the slow advance of heavy footsteps.
The footsteps pass, the guards' murmurs ebbing away as his world narrows into the frozen, death-quiet of water beneath ice.
The ice of stillness explodes as screaming tides rip through the hell of the gallows.
"Have mercy..." Tears fall as he folds in on himself, footsteps approaching the tent.
"Lord, have mercy—"
The tent fabric shifts.
A blinding flashlight flares against his shut eyes. "Come on out, Pastor," the guard drawls. "Time for your nightly rituals." A soft laugh follows another.
The men around him lie motionless, wide awake in the hitch of their breathing as Pastor Gideon moves to rise, the ritual of three harrowing weeks etched into instinct.
Snow crunches beneath Pastor Gideon's feet as he steps into the open yard of darkness between the two guards.
The earth trembles beneath the agony of a mother's cries, her voice bleeding as her child thrashes in a guard's grasp, borne toward an altar lit by trembling candles.
The serpentine mark of Leviathan sneers as the child is lowered onto the snow-covered altar, thrashing against her bonds, her cries gagged by the cloth in her mouth.
Pastor Gideon's fingers shake over the cold hilt of the knife, the steel gleaming against the gold of the tray.
Shadows surge around him, hissing for haste as the wind snaps at his cloak.
A hand not his own lifts the knife. Warm liquid flecks his face as steel finds flesh,
the frantic rhythm of a small heart cut to silence.
A river spills down the altar as the knife slips from his hand, staining the pure of snow, undone by the warmth of innocent blood.
His gaze lingers on the black beads of the little girl's empty eyes, his consciousness fleeing to the thought of another child—warm, alive, nestled beneath velvet quilts.
A father's lips press to her warm little hand, pleading softly for life, for health, for happiness, lifting his prayer to God—the God of her mother, her Heavenly Father.
"You pray to Him," a silvery voice slithers behind him, neither wholly man nor woman, "yet bow to me."
Ishmael tightens his grip on his daughter's small hand, her warmth bleeding into him, the life beneath her skin pulsing weaker.
"Fool yourself no more," Leviathan's voice falls, low and grave.
"And I will release you from your suffering."
He dips the wet cloth into the bowl of cold water,
tiny droplets glimmering on the wooden nightstand as he squeezes it out and rests it gently on his child's warm forehead.
Scales slither across the floor, the smoke of hiss curling into his ears before a quiet knock draws his eyes to the door.
"Come in," Ishmael answers, barely lifting his voice.
The door creaks softly, revealing an armed figure clad entirely in black.
"It's done, Boss," the guard reports.
"You may leave." When footsteps fade, unfeeling and still, every inch of him freezes.
A shadow of hell coils around him, the serpent's hiss slicing through his insides.
"You said she'd come back," Ishmael says.
Silence.
"Find her."
"Another bargain."
"Yes."