Blessed be our Mother, who guides us through calamity, whose words teach us, whose body feeds us, and whose mind tempers us. Let her be the roof over our heads, as she is the light in the darkness —the truth in the lies.
••••••••••
Calm down! Calm down! Calm down! Calllmmmmm dowwwnnnnn!
Sicily's palms were sweating, eyes close to tears. She couldn't help but think that she was going to die. After all, she was supposed to be a very devout bishop when she was anything but.
This troubled her greatly, finding it hard to believe that her first acting gig was a life-or-death situation.
No!
She shouldn't think about the danger she was in —she needed to be devout. Holy!
However, it was hard to feel holy when her heart threatened to burst out of her chest, each frantic beat a reminder that getting caught would be fatal.
Now, the chaos had begun only moments earlier when two bloodied and desperate men forced their way through and stumbled before her.
They hurriedly fell to their knees, reaching out, crying, "Mercy, Bishop! Please, forgive us! Please don't let her take us!"
At first, Sicily had just stood there, blinking stupidly, wondering what and who they were talking about.
Then she realized that they were talking to her, begging her to save their lives.
But before she could even open her mouth, a few believers descended upon the men and cut them down in quick succession.
Their throats were sliced cleanly, blood gushing out as they were dragged away.
Sicily had frozen in place, too horrified to move.
That was when it hit her: if she didn't act the part, she'd be next.
So she kept her head down and silently thanked the heavens for the head to toe coverage of the bishop's robes. For without it, everyone would've seen how terrified she was.
Now, this was a terrible situation to be in, especially considering Sicily had zero combat experience and even less survival instinct.
So, how did someone as hopelessly unqualified as her end up here?
Well… it started with a semi-truck. (Totally the truck's fault, by the way.) She got hit full throttle, which ended in her being the victim of a classic hit-and-run.
And when Sicily woke up, she found a contract shoved in her face, it being one of those long, wordy ones that no one ever actually reads. She skimmed it just long enough to catch a phrase like "revival of life and absolution of regrets" and, without a second thought…
She signed it.
Her eldest brother was going to kill her when he found out!
"Your Holiness," a man she heard the believers call Deacon, whispered from behind Sicily. It took almost everything in her not to flinch. "The volunteers are awaiting your anointment."
"Good work," she said, thankful that her voice didn't tremble with fear. "Has everything been properly prepared?"
Oh god, she was digging for something —anything —that could explain what she was supposed to do for the anointment.
"Of course," the Deacon said. Sicily didn't dare to turn around to face him. She had pictured him as some kind of monster. "Everything is ready for your use."
Great. That was so helpful! She definitely knew what to do next.
"Remember," oh, she was grasping at straws! "What happened before cannot happen again."
There. Foolproof! Humans always make mistakes so something must have happened before.
The Deacon's voice quivered. He sounded afraid. That made Sicily afraid too.
"Your Holiness, none of the volunteers will escape again. I promise you this."
Omg! An escape! Just great!
Sicily glimpsed at the corner of her vision eyeing the words, tinted a bold black, hanging over her, forcing her to do their bidding.
Damn this contract!
MISSION OBJECTIVES:
PRIMARY DIRECTIVE: HELP THE THREE SACRIFICES ESCAPE THE CHAPEL.
ANSWER THIS: WAS WHAT THEY DID JUSTIFIED?
HAVE A HAPPY GAME, PLAYER: SICILY LANE!
Yep. Doomed. So incredibly doomed.
"Perfect," she said, voice stern and strict. "Bring me to them."
The believers led Sicily to an iron door, its bolts sealed tight like it was caging a monster rather than a person.
Behind her, the Deacon straightened, as if the door itself had summoned him to speak.
"This one is our best volunteer," he said but then he hesitated, his voice dipping with unease. "However his personality is… quite wild."
"Wild?" Sicily echoed.
"We don't know why, but for some reason, he rejects our teachings."
Wow, Sicily was surprised that they didn't just kill the boy to avoid problems. Was he really that important?
"I shall be the judge of that." Sicily waved her arm. "Open it."
The believers hurried to do her bidding, quick to unlatch the iron door for her.
Inside was a white, padded room, completely sterile and stripped of anything sharp with only a dim light shining from above from a light bulb.
In the center sat a boy —no, a man. Sicily did a double take, unsure if her eyes were playing tricks on her.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, muscular. A fresh scar cut across his left cheek, still pink against his tanned skin. His glare burned hot, wild, and defiant, alive in a way that made her doubt that he was the best volunteer.
He wore only a plain white long-sleeved shirt and matching pants. No shoes, no accessories. Nothing else.
Just him. And the weight of his presence.
"Isn't he the most perfect lamb?" The Deacon said.
Lamb? Are you blind? Sicily begged to differ. He looks like he can eat a lamb.
"He looks adequate. Continue." Sicily said.
The silence that followed her command was brief, with believers quickly entering the room to begin their preparations.
One believer stepped forward, cradling a velvet-lined tray. Upon it rested a silver vase, its narrow spout stoppered tight; beside it, a small dagger, cloth, an incense burner, matches, and a worn leather-bound book cracked at the spine and darkened by years of use. Beside this believer was another, who was empty handed and did nothing but stand there.
Around the man the other believers knelt in reverence, murmuring prayers that buzzed like insects in Sicily's ears.
Behind her, the scary Deacon stood motionless. Watching. Breathing down her spine without making a sound.
What now?
Sicily had no idea what to do. Hell, she didn't even know what an anointment was.
Per chance, could she be allowed to Google it real quick?
"Your Holiness," the Deacon said, his voice still polished with respect, but now tinted with suspicion. "Is something the matter?"
Her throat closed. She needed to move, act. But her body locked up, and panic began clawing up her ribs.
Then—
"What is going on?"
A voice echoed, not aloud, but deep inside her mind.
Sicily staggered. Her body blinked twice, hand twitching, chest rising with a breath that was not hers.
Then came a rising excitement.
"Ah," the voice said again. "How amazing."