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The place where Emil and Frau Faust had set up camp for their latest inquisition permitted the two to lay comfortably in a vast, decorated room. It was entirely unlike the empty dormitories of Nagel und Hammer, their usual place of respite back where they called home. The place where they’d stay for the next few nights had been covered from top to bottom in decorations which seemed to almost mimic castles from tales he had read at a young age.
Sinclair curiously looked around, messing with the heavy curtains and gazing at what lay behind them, then leaving to check how the dark red sheets of the bed they’d be sharing felt on his fingers, smooth as silk, all as he pondered on where he’d find himself a mug for the little courtesy kettle of boiling water with tea that had been left on a small desk in their bedroom. Just about everything in there caught his interest, particularly due to the odd nature of the decorations, so colourful, unlike anything he had seen in years. Emil would walk across the room almost as if he had been an animal freshly introduced to a new enclosure.
Curiosity was not something that was nurtured in his teaching as The One Who Shall Grip, so it’s best to take in as much as he can at times like these.
While he ran from side to side in the room, taking in all of the peculiar decor and the view from their window, Faust stood still by the fireplace, looking at it in a trance, despite it not even being on.
He recalled things she had talked to him about a while ago, supposed tales of times long gone, times that supposedly predate technology as they had known it, those tales being of old rites that involved the adoration and worship of fire. Admittedly, as their centre focus is the worship of man and the purity of flesh, he was taken aback about how passionate The One Who Grips had been as she told him about these beliefs and mythos he would have assumed to be heretical.
A quick snap catches his attention.
“My Sinclair?” Her gaze never left the unlit fireplace.
“Yes, One Who Grips?” His gaze never left her.
Her eyes met his for a second, or it could have been a trick of his mind. “Please, would you be so kind as to find me some matches?” With a dismissive wave, Faust sighed, finally turning back to where she had been staring with a quiet giggle. She had no other words to spare, and he knew the sound of him leaving the room would be a sufficient enough way to say “yes”. She knew he’d never deny her, anyway.
He’s in no position to do that.
Striding down the corridors and into the kitchen, he conversed with a cook that provided him with a set of matches. Chatting briefly with the chef as he scavenged for something to start the fire with, all he could do was wonder if he was aware of the fate his town would suffer in the coming days.
He must have been aware, though, as the stay in the hotel was a partnership.
Emil could only wonder what the man felt knowing what was to come. Relief that he would be unaffected? Agony as someone he adores might be a tainted heretic?
Who knows. That did not matter to him, in the end. All that resonated in his mind was his desire to appease his dearest Frau Faust.
As he returned with haste, she had already been sitting peacefully as though the fire was already on, having noticeably toyed about with the wood, the positioning having been shifted so the kindling would better bring forth flames. It almost looked like a campfire, or a setup for a burning stake of some sort.
Without a word he shows her the box, which is eagerly taken from his hands. With a strike and a toss of the match, small flames begin to lick at the branches until they are fully engulfed, crackling and emitting such potent heat, heat not much unlike the scorch that he brought forth to burn down his past to ashes.
It felt nostalgic, even if it had only been less than a year ago.
Faust needs not tell him to sit by her side, he knows what she wants, so he simply does as she’d wish.
As the flames flicker wildly, he feels her soft touch on his lap, her eyes, for once, no longer fixed on the flames, though his now were.
“Do you remember the tales I told you? Of ancient fire worship, of religions and beliefs long gone.” A beat of silence, before her hand takes his own. “Look onto them, my Sinclair. What do you see?”
He had already caught a glimpse of his old, burning home, though now he watched as two figures seemed to dance in that fire, one figure notably taller than the other, though the smaller one curiously seemed to lead the way.
He wasn’t sure if he had truly been seeing these things, or if they were a mere trick of his mind, but as the figures waltzed amongst the blazes, he could definitely see himself and his dearest Faust. As he led her to and fro, a chill ran down his spine, watching as he took her own blade in his hands, outstretching their arms in a delicate dance, pushing her further apart.
“In the flames lie your deepest desires, my Sinclair.”
He pulls her closer, nail in hand.
“It’s what haunts you deep in the depths of your subconscious, silent, ever lingering.”
The nail pierces her across the heart, and with a slump forward, she falls into his arms, where the dancing inferno overwhelmed the illusion that had formed of the two.
Unsure if he had snapped out of his trance, unsure if the illusion came to a halt with both their ends.
“What do you see?”
He opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out but a shaky exhale.
He swallows dryly, slumping back further, falling to the floor with his elbows propping him up. With a sigh and a weak smile, he assures her, it is definitely the most beautiful future, one he cannot wait to reach out for.