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It was Sabbath morning, and Sunday woke up to prepare for the sermon at his humble church. The coloured light from the stained glass windows of the rectory beamed through, a warning to the priest about the start of the new day.
Sunday stretched and reluctantly got out of bed. He shivered but he knew he had to get prepared. It was unusually cold today, and he wondered if this was some sort of... bad omen. He should mention that in the prayer.
It was very early in the morning so no one was awake yet. Not even a robin stirred. He rather enjoyed these rare snatches of peace to himself. A small humble breakfast of bread and wine suited him perfectly in the quiet hours of the morning. Sometimes he found himself wishing it to be his eternity… only sometimes, though.
In all honesty, Sunday loved his position as priest. It wasn't much, but he was content.
He changed into more… fitting attire (his usual suit), he glanced at the mirror, smoothing the fabric out and combing his feathers when he noticed something… He squinted. A…. crack? He sighed. With the budget of his frugally spent money, he wouldn't be able to do much about it for a long while.
He strolled down to the church building, humming along with the morning birds. The sky above showered him with a cascade of light, dappled with shadow from the tree’s waving branches.
He arrived at the church at precisely 07:06, and took a second to glance at the magnificent structure. It gave him solace. It was not only a sanctuary for its visitors, but for Sunday himself too.
He stepped inside.
It was quiet, as usual. Every footstep of his boots made a resonating sound on the wooden floor, echoing in the otherwise silent building. For now it was just him - and his church.
As he was retrieving some splints for the daily candle lighting ritual, he passed the confession booth. The church was not only frequented by followers of the religion but also by the sick, poor and guilty. The church was designed as a safe haven for all the people of the land. Really it was no surprise that it was a relatively popular place, given the state of the land. Corruption, poverty and a certain lack of scruples had been on the rise. At the confession booth, only a select few seek to redeem themselves by the assistance of a priest. However, it is mostly visited by the victims of these plights who seek an audience with the priest so that their lives are better supported. He thought that this shift from the original purpose of the booth was rather tragic.
He went to light up each candle, one by one. Ritual. It took
ages
, but it was fine by him.
Presently he stepped towards the pulpit, opening the Bible on the page with the verse of the day; Leviticus 18:22.
Bang!
Sunday, deep in analysing the verse, flinched, raising his head abruptly, eyes wide in shock.
“HEY, CHICKEN PRIEST!!!!!”
Someone stood at the church door, banging hard on it in rapid succession.
BANG BANG BANGGGAGH
Sunday panicked. “ What in the - ”
CRASH!
The door fell in with a further single kick, the candles blowing out in an instant.
What revealed was a giant angry mob, pitchforks and torches and farming tools in hand in all its entirety.
Shouts and screams disrupted the past serenity of the room all too suddenly. Complaints about land and taxes filled the hall.
No revolution can be complete without a figurehead leading the mob of people. So… just who was the valiant soul in charge?
“QUIET DOWN!!” A young ginger commanded the rest, and to the priest’s surprise, they shut up.
“I'M THE ONE LEADING THIS NOBLE REBELLION” He emphasised. “I, TARTAGLIA, BY COMMAND OF THE TSARITSA, AND THE WILL OF THE PEOPLE OF THE LAND!”
“And what exactly is your purpose?” Sunday questioned, regaining a bit of his composure. He sighed privately. Not only would he have to replace the mirror, he would have to replace the door too.
“ WE’RE ANGRY AT THE CHURCH!!” One of the rioters shouted, followed by a bunch of cheers in assent. The so-called Tartaglia looked at them as a message to shush and let him do the talking.
Sunday crossed his arms, keeping his stoic poker face despite his mild sense of bemusement.
“Why have you come here? You’ve interrupted and intruded on a holy space, which is one thing, but also my peace. If you are rebelling, speak to someone else. I am but a humble priest. You gain nothing from disrupting this space.”
Tartaglia humphed and turned back to the masses.
“Go guard the gates, my comrades!” dismissing them with a wave of his hand. He refocuses his attention on Sunday and smirks.
“We should… discuss in private.”
“YESSIR!!!”
The mob rushed out, leaving only the two behind the now closed doors.
The strict one stood in place, raising his head but keeping a stern eye on the other. The other in question left his courageous smile for a more… sinister one, twisting almost.
“Why so serious?” Tartaglia sauntered to Sunday, nonchalantly travelling the long distance across the church without a care in the world. His steps reverberated, as if he wanted the whole world to hear his presence.
“You have those people in the palm of your hand..” Sunday commented. This was more serious than he thought.
He glared at Tartaglia. He looked so… out of place. The tainted light from the painted windows only obscured and distorted his complexion, making it hard to read his intention, but now… to Sunday it was… fairly obvious.
This guy was only in on ‘rebellion’ for the blood and fight.
Tartaglia was now very close, but Sunday didn’t budge, maintaining his straight posture as the rebel walked around him, taunting him.
“Cat got your tongue?” Tartaglia reached behind his back, making sure to keep his (victim) negotiator in suspense.
Still, the priest did not budge. “I shall repeat myself. What is your purpos -”
In a blink, Sunday found himself a shining dagger underneath his chin.
But he stayed still and unwavering.
“I'll cut it off if you speak again. ” Tartaglia responded darkly.
Sunday reciprocated with silence.
“Good.”
“Now..” He lowered the blade, throwing and spinning it around playfully between his gloved fingers as he returned to pacing around. “Sorry to ruin your sermon, priest, but I need to talk business, not prayer…”
Sunday’s blood became cold.
“While you’re holed up in your cute little church, I’ve been leading a rebellion, visiting each church, one by one… and I suppose you can guess that I wasn't there for the preaching.”
“Do not tarnish the holy religion of this country-”
In a swift motion, the weapon was smacked out of grip and clattered to the ground. Sunday forced Tartaglia forward. It was a quick impact. He heaved as he was slammed against the church wall. Tartaglia was being held at the collar, panting for a few seconds, but then chuckled haughtily.
“You've got some audacity…”
“You've got some nerve… ”
He glared into Sunday’s bronzed gaze. “There’s more to you that meets the eye…”
Sunday, in close proximity, studied the other’s as well.
He grimaced. It was void.
“I could say the same to you.”
The now malefactor sighed, and his limbs weakened as his expression faltered. “This is your warning. Don’t ever come here again . I don't care how many priests you kill with those hands, just dont touch me. Leave . I’m done playing along with your game. ” His voice rang throughout the building, with an almost heavenly authority.
Tartaglia saw right through him.
“Well… now you've got me intrigued .”
He leaned closer.
“Who exactly are you really, dear Priest Sunday?”
The quiet that followed after these words was louder.
The priest sighed.
“I'll be blunt with you. I have no mercy with people who dare to reject redemption, and to me, it seems you are already far from it…”
“You’re too judgemental~” Tartaglia teased. He cocked his head to the side.
“…scared to sin again?”
He felt his shirt crumple up more in Sunday’s grip.
“Say, you and me… comrades?”
Sunday furrowed his brow. Tartaglia shrugged.
“Orrr… we could duel to the death? I don't mind- It’s just… it'll be a waste for me to not use your power somehow…”
“Stop it. I don't want anything to do with you.” His eyes narrowed. “Provoking me wont do anything more. I left that life behind. You relish in whatever bloodshed or chaos you wreak. …Please.”
Tartaglia chuckled. “You fascinate me. Join me, comrade.”
“Are you even listening you miscreant-”
“It’s either you join me or you live with the guilt of renewing your killing streak… so much for a clean plate… hm? ”
The disciple looked to the side.
“I won’t make you hurt anyone, dont worry~ I'm selfish, so I hog all the murders anyways…”
“Well Tartaglia , this is a war we’re talking about. It goes against everything . I’m adverse-”
“A war for the greater good . Sure, my intentions are different. You, on the other hand… you’ll help me in getting more influence to spread my ‘cause’ and I'll help you in…”
He waved his hand around. “giving your followers a better life..”
“Win win, is it not?”
“You…” Sunday paused. “If I do agree with your terms… I’ll strategise who and where you kill.” He commanded, using his other index finger to push the other’s chest with each emphasised syllable.
Tartaglia’s eyes glowed with bloodlust, he was already imagining his future massacre. The screams, the agonised screams and begging… it made his blood rush.“Count me in…”
“...But could you please let me down now?”
Sunday’s mouth gaped a bit as he realised he’d be holding Tartaglia there for so long. Releasing his grip, helet out a breath he didn't realise he was holding in.
“So?”
Tartaglia held out his hand.
Sunday stood still for a bit.
“...Deal.”