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The scent of coal, smoke, and frankincense floats through the air, sending adrenaline coursing through your veins as you dart through countless stalks of corn. The leaves whip against your skin, and you’re sure that you’ll be sore tomorrow: that is, if you even make it to tomorrow.
“In the book of life of the Lamb slain,” prayers and hymns fall from the lips of your pursuer, coming out in rasped murmurs more akin to that of an animal than that of a preacher. You pick up your pace, putting as much distance as you can between you and… whoever, or whatever, they are.
“By the crooked knife, Legion fettered every man chained.”
God above, you’ve never resented religion more. You stumble over a stray root, barely managing to catch yourself. Eyes peer at you from dozens of small, ramshackle houses, but you don’t call out to them. You know they won’t help you.
“If any man hath an ear, he that leadeth in captivity.”
No, you tried to ask for help a long time ago. But either they want you to die, or they’re too afraid of this… person… to help. And you can’t blame them for being terrified, but why should you have to pay for this? You bite back tears, forcing yourself to continue on.
“Bleeds false heaven's fear, beast seeds the cracked city.”
Your lungs burn.
“From seas heaven borne bear lion dragon leopard.”
You don’t know how much longer you can do this for. You have to lose them.
“Blasphemous seven horns of the mustard scion shepherd.”
Your heart pounds in your chest as you race through the corn and somewhere in the back of your head, you remark that your pursuer might be a woman. Her feet slam against the ground behind you, and yet her voice stays strong as she recites hundreds of thousands of twisted prayers. You’re not gonna be able to outrun her, and you know it. You burst through the corn field, skidding around the corner of a building and scratching your hands on the chipped and rotting wood. It stings, but you grit your teeth and bare it, for God only knows the pain you’ll be in if she manages to catch you. You duck between countless barrels and decks, trying your best to lose her.
“Here is the patience…”
Your foot hits a stray rock, and you feel your foot wobble as you try to right yourself and regain your balance. But that one moment of uncertainty is all that she needs as she rams into your back, wrapping her arms around your middle and pulling you down to the ground. You can feel what little breath you have in your lungs get forced from your body as you hit the cold, hard dirt. Stars dance in your vision, but you don’t let it stop you as you kick wildly, trying to pull yourself away, but to no avail. Smoke twists lazily around your form as you struggle, the scent of holy herbs and tainted rocks doing nothing to calm your nerves. Your nails dig into the earth as you crawl on your stomach, trying to find some purchase to haul yourself up from. Her own nails dig into your shoulder as you’re thrown onto your back, knocking the wind out of you once more. You try to dig your feet into her legs, her stomach, anything, but she swats them away with practiced reflexes and damn-near superhuman strength. But your movements are soon brought to a halt altogether as the crunching of dirt screams in your ears.
She throws the blade of what you assume is a pickaxe into the ground above your head, missing your skull by mere inches. Your breath catches in your throat as she leans down, planting her hands on either side of your head. Her tall form practically engulfs you, and you feel your heart pound in your chest. You dare not breathe, lest she change her mind and throw the crude, homemade pickaxe through you, instead.
“...and the faith of the saints,” she whispers.
The world is silent for a moment as her eyes bore into yours, unflinching and unwavering. The last words of her gospel ring through the air, and even after her voice has floated away, you can’t help but replay the passage in your head. Her eerie, icy blue eyes are lit up by the bright orange incense burner, and smoke once again finds its home around your form. Long, unkempt black hair falls from your hood, obscuring your vision and rendering you unable to see anything else but her. For a moment, you two are the only people in the world. And quite frankly, you don’t know how to feel about that. Although, fear is the most dominant emotion out of all of them.
“Have you come to destroy us, outsider?” She all but growls, and you feel shivers rack your entire body. You feel not unlike a rabbit, caged in the claws of a wolf.
“No! No, of course not,” you stall, racking your brain for a way out of this whole situation. But the way she’s staring you down only fuels your fear and anxiety. “I’ve… you’re The Hands of the Lord, right?”
Her hand wraps around your throat, pressing down without remorse. Her hand is strong and steadfast against your neck, cutting off your breath with supernatural ease. “What do you know about God?” she whispers.
You gasp for air, but keep your hands at your sides. Oh God, you don’t want to stay here, but you don’t want to die, either. You can’t fight back, not if you want to live. Your hands stay planted at your sides.
“I came here to join you!” You choke out. And like a blessing from the universe, she pulls her hand away like she’s touched a hot stove, and you suck in as much air as you can before spilling out your next falsehood. “I want to help you, all of you. The outside world is damned, but your people hear the voice of God. I want to help,” you lie. You stare back at her, watching her expression change and morph as she takes in your words. You really don’t want to live here, or join their… cult, or whatever they are. But you don’t want to die. You hope she doesn’t catch on to your lie. But the moment you’re accepted into their world, you’ll run: you have to. But you need to gain their trust first, right? If she even accepts you in, that is.
She tilts her head, features softening for a moment before hardening once more. Her brows furrow as she leans back down, placing her head less than an inch away from your own. Her eyes are practically white as she gazes at you, pupils constricted to mere pinpricks. And then… she laughs. Her hands move to cup yours, holding them in her own. Her hands practically dwarf yours, you notice, and you feel chills rise up your spine. You let her manipulate your hands, and she smiles.
“God loves you,” she whispers, “Perhaps you can be redeemed.” Her voice trails off for a moment, eyes darkening in a way you never thought was possible. The last few words of her sentence trails off in yet another growl, some sort of animalistic purr that sends fear coursing through your veins. And just like that, she’s okay again, smiling down at you from above. The light from her burner dances across her face, highlighting her scarred and aged features. She squeezes your hands once more before speaking yet again.
“God loves you. Pray with me, and let yourself be saved by the merciful hands of the Lord.”