Work Text:
There used to be only one occasion in which a filled church was not a time of joy. Funerals.
Weddings, sermons, charity events, all of these were such happy times, and it used to be only the death of an individual that saw the seats full, yet quiet.
Until recently. Until ‘The Madman’s Rage’ staked its claim over the souls of Argenti’s homeland.
No one knew when it would happen. No one knew when the madness would come for them, if at all. Some declined over the course of weeks. Some woke up the next morning wrong. All wrong.
The church was a safe space. A bastion away from the violent madness that had plagued the world. It was a holy place, the place of worship for their beloved Idrila, that offered the sanctuary. Idrila’s very hands cradled them in their time of need.
Argenti was vaguely familiar with one of the priests. He was a quiet man, a wise man, a man with much faith. They were similar in their piousness towards The Beauty. When Argenti arrived at the church, alone and grief stricken, it was this priest that welcomed him with open arms.
Until he went mad.
It was slow. Gradual. At first, many could chalk the behavioural change up to stress, to the circumstances of the mad world they shielded themselves away from.
Argenti denied. Oh, how he denied, like how sinners deny divinity. How foolish he knew it was, to have seen first hand what madness does. What the mad do to others.
He ignored the redness of his eyes. He ignored the way the priest would wander the lawns of the church, even well after curfew. He ignored the way the priest would mumble to himself, unholy words of Idrila having abandoned Their people. Blasphemy. Bedlam. Insanity.
The priest would stare up at the stained glass images of Idrila, mother of all that is beautiful in this world. Hours would pass with not a single word leaving his mouth. Not even a prayer. Some whispered that he didn’t blink.
Refugees and church staff alike learned not to tap the priest on the shoulder unless they can avoid the swinging arm that would be sent their way. He lashed out. He grew angrier.
He only accepted it when he found the priest dead. There was screaming. Yelling. A gunshot had rung out and echoed between stone pillars. The priest's dead body bore the mark of the demons. A brother of the church had exorcised him in the only way that was foolproof.