Chapter Text
Pure Vanilla was a high priest who taught the faith to young children. Many of them loved listening to him; his voice was so gentle—a delight to the ears—that he even managed to engage children who had previously shown little interest in religion.
He had been found on the church steps when he was just a small child; neither he nor anyone else ever truly knew where he had come from.
Pure Vanilla had always been deeply interested in religion—its stories, its morals, and its figures—and had even asked to be baptized.
He had been an adorable child when the church took him in, but as he grew up, people came to regard him as a messenger of God. He possessed magnificent golden hair and striking eyes—one blue, one yellow—in which one could glimpse one's own true self. Despite his slender build, he was physically fit. Yet, he cared little for his own beauty, focusing instead on the children and remaining ever curious about the events recorded in the precious book kept by the church.
Pure Vanilla loved his routine: waking up early to open the church, then being joined by the other priests as they awaited the children. When the weather was fine, they would go to the small garden behind the church to tell stories. It was a modest, cozy spot; they would spread out a large floral blanket so the children wouldn't soil their clothes on the grass, while the storyteller took his place on an old tree stump.
He was gazing into the distance when a voice called out to him.
"Mr. Pure Vanilla! What happened to that man's mother?!" exclaimed a young girl, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
"Ah! You're very interested in her, aren't you?" "She is very beautiful... And I love her dresses!"
Pure Vanilla chuckled softly. "Of course I'll answer your question, but for now, let's focus on the story."
The little girl, her hair woven with dark blue pearls, nodded.
Pure Vanilla resumed reading as the children listened intently.
He simply wanted to stay beneath that tree, with the sun warming him and the breeze caressing his cheek; he wanted to remain right there on that stump, under the gaze of curious children.
If only...
___
He had gone inside the church—the children were outside, under a priest's supervision—to retrieve a tapestry he wanted to show them, one that related to a part of the story.
He entered a room—a dimly lit one—finding the door already ajar. He tried to make out what was inside.
Leaning through the doorway, he caught sight of a priest with... a child?
He tried to get a better look, straining to hear; he shouldn't have gone there—the children were waiting for him—but... he had to know.
He stared intently, and... his eyes widened—widened in disgust. He froze for a moment, the scene unfolding right before him.
His eyes narrowed in shock at the sight. He looked away, the trauma slowly setting in.
He let out a sharp breath and stepped into the room.
The child was in the priest's arms. Pure Vanilla shoved the child out. He closed the door behind him, leaving the child paralyzed by what had just happened.
Pure Vanilla's eyes gleamed in the darkness before a loud sound rang out through the dim room.
A body lay on the floor; Pure Vanilla, able to see in the dark, watched the blood flow. He looked at his own fist, stained with blood.
He exhaled and walked away.
When he opened the door, the child was still there—it was the same little girl with the blue beads.
"Sir..."
"What are you doing here?!"
"I... The man said he had paintings of my mother..."
Pure Vanilla sighed. "You should have told us... Go join the others. But are you alright? Nothing happened?" The little girl shook her head: "No, the gentleman didn't do anything..." Then she walked away, watched by Pure Vanilla.
Pure Vanilla looked at his bloodied hand, which he had been hiding behind his back. His eyes darkened at the sight.
He went to his room and into the bathroom, scrubbing his hands vigorously, wanting to forget the moment.
He finished and headed back toward the group of children.
He found the children laughing and chatting; he let out a breath, and his eyes brightened.
He walked forward, carrying the tapestry he had retrieved earlier.
"Sorry for taking so long," Pure Vanilla said.
"It's okay, mister!" a young boy shouted.
"It's a shame! You missed a blue tit!" a girl cried out.
Pure Vanilla laughed and sat down on his tree stump.
___
He had woken in the dead of night, his eyes dark with despair—despair over his pathetic humanity... He deserved it all...
He moved forward delicately; his white robes, appearing dark in the night light, trailed along the ground.
He had taken a weapon—sharp and pointed—and selected his targets. He was pressed for time, so he hurried.
His robe began to turn increasingly red, and his eyes shifted into shades of deep blue.
Having finished his work, he grabbed a hat and stepped out of that hell.
The end ?