Father Fionnlagh jolted out of his bed, thrust his sheets onto the floor, and ran out into the corridor.
"What in the name of god happened here?"
As he began to walk down the corridor, he was greeted by the carnage brought about by the event; however, all of that damage was just superficial. Only one thing mattered in the church at this time, and it wasn't the paintings or the candles.
"The Children!"
Rushing into each and every one of the tightly packed rooms, Fionnlagh was able to do a rushed but surprisingly thorough headcount. However, there was a discrepancy. Even after a second counting, he realized he was one child short, and he knew exactly which child it was.
"Feyra! Feyra, where are you? Feyra, can you hear me?"
The old man's voice bellowed down the various halls and corridors of the church. And, as if it were an act of echolocation, the calls of the man resounded back to him.
"Feyra's here!"
Wrapped in Kerian's embrace, Feyra remained seated on the floor, arms raised upwards in repentance.
Feyra expected to be reprimanded and punished, maybe even kicked out of the church altogether for what she had done… whatever that might be. But instead, she was met with a warm gloved palm moving gently back and forth over her head, inexplicably soothing her tears.
"Good job, Feyra. I always knew that you were brave. god has blessed you many times over with that ability, and I'm happy to see now that you are thanking Him."
Feyra, quickly understanding the situation at hand, decided to play along, her guilt replaced by a fear of being caught and the desire to look mature and responsible.
"Oh, well, you know me. Feyra the fearless, that's what all the kids call me."
"You mean Feyra the afraid?"
"Not now, Kerian!"
Although the mood lightened slightly, the real threat had still yet to be approached.
"Do either of you have any idea what made that noise?"
Both of them shook their heads in unison.
Raising his own head to look at the door that stood in front of him, Father Fionnlagh made a single command to the children before he proceeded.
"Go to your room, and don't come out until I say so!"
The old man, known for his kind and welcoming appearance, shifted drastically. His long, flowing white hair and full beard, which used to frame a kind face, now only amplified his enraged expression. The deep wrinkles that used to indicate a lifetime of laughter now only displayed his cold determination.
His clothes, consisting of a worn, reddish-brown coat over an assortment of dark garments, always made him look tough and adventurous. But where they used to hang loosely on his body, they now seemed to cling to a physique that was tense and coiled.
The man was ready to fight, to kill, to protect. However, in order to do that, he would need a weapon.
The old man removed his glove.
And beneath his handware was a blackened fist, as though it had been permanently inked with shadow. In the center of the hand, not on the palm but the exterior, five lines fanned out, each one flared at both the base and the tip, growing smaller the farther they spread from the middle. The lines overlapped slightly, forming an almost geometric pattern against the darkened skin.
Kneeling down, the man pressed his newly revealed left hand to the floor, closed his eyes, and began to focus.
At that very moment, the wooden plank under his hand began to shake and writhe. As it bent and twisted, the wood groaned and creaked, reshaping itself with every move. The grain moved like water, bending and squeezing until it ceased to look like a simple plank, the once unassuming wooden flooring now taking on the unmistakable form of a blade.
The sword was blackened, baring a decorative design with a long, tapered blade and a ribbed grip. The upper blade was adorned with multi-layered scrollwork, while its lower portion was smooth.
Sword in hand, the man opened the door ever so slightly and surveyed his surroundings.
Before his eyes lay many things, but three demanded his attention. The most striking was the massive crater that now scarred the entrance to the church, chunks of stone steps shattered and strewn around it like debris from an explosion. The second was the large puddle of vomit, slowly seeping into the cracks of the crater, its sickly colour and texture almost reminiscent of an alien creature's lifeblood, pooling in the aftermath of a bloody battle. But the third, and by far the most important, was the small, swaddled baby lying at the centre of the devastation, its tiny eyes swollen and red with tears.
Was it the man's old age or perhaps his single-minded determination? Somehow, he was incapable of hearing the baby's screams until he looked directly at him. No matter the reason, the man was still at a loss for words at the scene that was currently before him.
"Did this little rascal… actually, for the love of all that's holy, explode?"
As he sorted through a flurry of theories in his mind, attempting to piece together the situation, a realization dawned on him, he finally remembered what he had intended to do, the reason why he wielded the sword now within his hand.
Closing the door behind him, the old man clutched at his chest, a sense of fear washing over him like a cold wave. His heart raced, thudding heavily against his frail ribs, and his breath quickened, sharp and shallow.
The sword in his hand transformed back into a mere plank of wood as it clattered to the floor.
"god forgive me, I was about to stab a baby!"