Pact with the Devil verse x oropherion

[oropherion]

Saturday, 29th September 18xx,
Ciocanesti, Romania


It was a gloomy day with thick gray clouds blotting the sky and distant rumbling that warned of a potential storm. It was seasonably cold, a brisk wind whistling through the valley forcing the villagers to bundle up and light warm fires. Such fires could be spotted through the windows of the old thatched cottages, but the Romanian's were seasoned people and the cold didn't stop them from going about their daily lives. Coin could not be made if one remained housed up and there was plenty of laborious work to be done to maintain their village. They were mostly a quiet, stoic lot, deeply religious and deeply set in their traditions. Ciocanesti was nestled at the base of a mountain within a beautiful valley with an estimated number of at least 1,000 people whom lived there. Overlooking the small village upon a hill was a large, imposing gothic-style church with an attached monastery for the nuns that resided there. All villagers attended mass on Sunday, filling up the church with its loud organs playing hymns alongside a small choir, listening to the scriptures bespoken of by the priest. Each member of the church was well known among the masses, in and outside of the church alike. It was seeped with a long, dark and somewhat bloody history, but despite the wars and the plagues, the church had remained in tact and been in service for hundreds of years.

Sister Florenta Niculaie stepped from the monastery doors with a wicker basket hooked over her right arm and a written list of items she needed to retrieve from the market. It wasn't typical that she, or any of the other nuns, left the church except on certain occasions. With Sister Ramona recovering from pneumonia and a lot of the other Sisters busy with their tasks around the church, Florenta, whom was the youngest of the bunch, was given this task. At eighteen, Florenta had decided to take her vow as a nun and at twenty-one years presently, she had felt it had been the right decision. After all, she had been abandoned as a child by her parents and raised by the church. It was only right that she gave back by serving them, and most especially, their Savior.

Florenta shivered underneath her habit and tugged at her veil to shield more of her exposed face from the wind as she followed along the stone pathway towards the gate. The basket swung back and forth on her arm as she walked. It was a good couple miles from the church to the village so she could only pray the distance would warm her up as she took in the sights around her. While it was a mostly quiet village, there were always those who needed aid from the church. Whether it was just a need for a listening ear, or for the priest to help absolve them of their sin, or guidance in making the righteous and morally outstanding choice, and so forth. A lot of sick and dying came through their doors, seeking comfort for what time remained of them, and others were just lost folk with no path. Florenta had seen them all over the years, was fascinated by the stories she overheard, especially those that traveled beyond and from other villages. In her twenty-one years, she had never stepped foot outside of Ciocanesti, and had dreamed that maybe one day her devotion and missive in life would draw her out to serve people beyond all the familiar faces she knew too well.

She hummed a soft hymn as she walked, fingering the list in her pocket as if constantly reminding herself of her task as she finally breached the village streets. People were tilling around their homes or bustling around through the streets, running errands and fulfilling work-related tasks. Many shops were still open, bustling with noise as people perused and purchased their goods. The aroma of baked bread and sweets filled the air from one of the bakeries making Florenta's stomach rumble in interest. She hushed her stomach as she pressed on towards the village square where the larger market was set up. As she passed through, the people would pause and bow at the shoulders as they greeted her with, "Hello Sister," to which she would return with a smile and a bob of her head. She had become quite popular among the villagers, especially the young men. Florenta was beautiful and young, skin soft and pale, with large round eyes the color of moss, and rich black hair that would typically reach the lower portion of her back, but remained hidden beneath her veil. Many men had pleaded for her heart and hand, to give up her vows for them, to which she had simply giggled and hushed them, sending them off with a prayer of forgiveness for their audacity.

Since it was her first time in the village on her own in a long while, Florenta took her time as she reached the market. Delicate fingers picked up fruits and bags of grain, eyeing their quality before dumping them in her basket. She made small talk with the stall owners, sharing short laughs, and always maintaining her professionalism. She listened to the updates on their lives, of their complaints and frustrations, mainly towards the Romanian government. She reminded them that as long as they were loyal to the Lord and served him, then they were as rich as they could ever be. She was wandering towards a craft shop when she felt something draw her attention away from her destination. She paused in the middle of the street, her basket heavy and weighing on her arm, as she scanned her surroundings. It was like her eyes were magnetized immediately to this tall and brooding form of a young man standing near an alleyway. He was young, handsome, and something in his eyes made her take pause, feel a shiver run down her spine, and draw a small silent gasp from her plump lips. Their eyes met and caught for a few long seconds and for a strange reason, she felt heat rise to her round cheeks, giving her pallor some color as she stared. Her lips curled into a friendly smile and her head bowed just a tad to acknowledge his presence, but her feet remained still.

It was like a spell had been cast and she was rooted to the spot, but then someone passed between them and broke it. Florenta inhaled sharply as she realized she had been holding her breathe, as if expecting something to happen and was anticipating it. Feeling ridiculous and seeing the man was no longer standing in the spot, she hummed and shook her head as she turned and finally walked into the store to finish the remainder of her shopping. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled and every now and then she'd look up and look around, as if she was being watched. She couldn't understand this strange feeling that one would describe as paranoia, but she didn't feel afraid? She actually felt calm, content. It was strange and she kept looking to see if she'd see him again, even after she piled everything up at the counter and exchanged coin, adding to her purchases in her basket before finally moving to step outside of the shop.

 

[Verse]

"Did you see him, Sister Florenta Niculaie?" the lady Samona Ridicci asked. She had equal brunette and gray-fading-white strands in her long, thick hair, allocated mostly to her back with a blue band. She had the virtue of diligence and the sin of gossip in corresponding measures, and would test her knowledge against the nuns of the monastery if she could. Father Morato Di Santo would sometimes rely on her for information about his flock, since she made it her business to know everything. When she wasn't being overly superstitious or theorized too much, she could be very factual. Of course, it cost you an earful to extract that knowledge, but if anyone in the faith had something, it was patience with people talking. Samona liked to remind Florenta that she too, had been beautiful once. She was reminiscing about that beauty now, bolstered by the budding reds on Florenta's cheeks, made more prominent by her habit. The nun had seen a couple of people since her glimpse of-- the one in the alleyway, but there was this air of both the sister and the lady knowing he was the one referenced to in this prompted conversation. Samona was a few inches taller than Florenta, stepping up to her at the side of the threshold of the shop, strategically at a pocket where noone passed within direct earshot.

"You already know him." she said, leaning in with her hands on her apron. She smelled like apples and copper from helping taking money at one of her uncle's a fruit stands. Her own eyes were brown and she had the first wrinkles around her mouth. She'd held on to her youth long, but the winds and the sun here were taking their toll. There was a kind of quiet horror mixed up with the obsession of having something to talk about, on her face. She was a bit more excited about it than usual, and her tone was not as practiced as it could be, when she'd gone over it with many others, spreading gossip. Was this tidbit saved just for Florenta, then? "He's your beloved Vincenzo Strata." her voice was pulled into a bit of a gasp, and at the nearness she'd allowed herself even in these influenza times, Florenta would feel her breath on her face. That gust of air that had a tint of orange on its tail, also came with a wind of memories.

Despite Sister Niculaie's insistence she did not feel the way Samona liked to tease, she would have at least some affection for the boy. A lot of the townsfolk did. He was the blacksmith's son. But he had his mother's face, beautiful and elegant. When his pale skin was touched by the soot of learning his father's trade, he had been the epitome of defiant health and youth. Father Di Santo had even confessed to his own sin of envy, playfully, about it. But it was the Strata boy that suffered for that sin that lingered around him, not any envious onlookers.

He had confided in Florenta, bestowed on her a confession he could not be forgiven for, since she could not take it. But he trusted her. He'd said he believed more in angels than the other stone, wood, glass and oil-painted idols of their church. Because he believed more in the soldiers than in the general. They had been alone in the pews and he had just given her that, to lighten his heart a little. He thought nothing of it. She might have had the suspicions he was just another boy wanting to say something defiant and poetic to catch the heart of someone who was vow-bound never to reciprocate. And she would be right. He had smiled with all the strength in the world after that, and left her with an unapologetic shrug.

And then he had fallen terribly ill.

His already fine features turned victorian and then gothic in decay. There was blood in his cough and death in his eyes. He couldn't come to church anymore. Father Di Santo would make visits and the doctors would come, but none of them could stop or slow the pale dying that loved Vincenzo more than his grieving parents. He was allowed audience from Sister Florenta by his request, and Father Di Santo's grace. He'd hold her hand and she could feel the loss of strength in it by every visit. Once he showed her his forearm and three pinpricks there, black and deep, and said those were the cause of this. He talked about dreams of silver snakes and wayward angels. She could measure his descent into the grave by the prominence of his facial bones, shaded by the darkness in his bedroom, when she sat by his bedside. A handful of girls had confessed they dreamt about him, too, and his new beauty in his last days.

So, when Lady Ridicci mentioned him, referring to the formidable, long figure Florenta had seen in the alleyway, it would sound as a joke, or even mockery. But Samona's expression betrayed no such ire. "Strange, isn't it, Sister Niculaie?" she took up a pear from Florenta's basket and inspected it, judging her ability to pick good produce. Huffing with approval, she turned the green orb around in her palm a few times. "That he used to be a bundle of twigs and he's now become a collection of spears." Certainly, Samona liked her drama, and borrowed from Father Di Santo's prose. She rolled the pear off her fingertips and let it land back in Florenta's basket. It seemed the nun had the approval of the lady. She was wearing one of her sinister smirks now. It told of what category of beautiful woman she used to be, the kind that liked to play games with people.

"I have some time since I am not needed at the stand." she reached for Florenta's basket, both hands, fingers spread. "I'll deliver it for you, and tell them you went to the Strata house, to see about their son." And she would snatch it up, given half a chance. "So that you can delve into this mystery for us, and deliver us from wondering how the all but passed boy could now be the picture of health. Almost angelic, don't you think?"

The smith's cot with the adjacent forge was on the outskirts of town, almost touching a runaway root of the mountain. And if she came, the blacksmith would be a bit apprehensive to taking her to the room where his boy slept and sister Florenta had always been welcome. And in going in, the mother would breeze past her on her way out, a blush on her face, singing about finding food in the forest for her son. The woman had been beside herself with sadness, last time Florenta had come here.

The creature sitting in his bed was indeed the healthy male taking up the alleyway before, dark hair spilling around a thriving face instead of the skull-mask she'd seen on him last, when he clawed at her arm as though she was keeping him from falling into the afterlife. Red lips and brown eyes so deep they were almost red - her ward looked like a couple of sins in fruitful setting. His smile was inviting, and meant to stir her.

"Sister." he'd breathe. The perfumes in here were other than the bodily death she'd smelt before, but it wasn't flowers or other pleasant things mixed up with the candlewax. It was intimate. His notes. But they were different now. And, perhaps, death had not left. It had just changed. "I have missed you." He was wearing a tunic, entirely unbuttoned over a sternum she had seen his mother wash with a cloth, now filled in healthy flesh, though the elegant bone ridges still ran down the center line of his torso.

And if she didn't come, her way back to the monastery would be haunted by pale shadows the shape he used to be, warning her and coughing blood on her shoes.

 

[oropherion]

The uncomfortable, eerie feeling that arose when she spotted the man came from the fact that his youthful, handsome face was familiar. A face she had known not so terribly long ago, but it was impossible that it was the same person.Yet she still felt shaken to the core. Confusion riddled her features, but she tried to brush it off with a smile before she lost sight of him as she entered the shop. The way her heart pounded like a heavy drum beneath her breast made her worry that others could hear it loud and clear. But no one seemed to turn their attention to her beyond inclining their heads in greeting to a visiting nun. Greetings she returned with a soft smile and a bow of her head before she perused the stocked items for what she needed, thinking she could get the man in the alley off of her mind. It seemed the lady Ridicci, owner of said shop, had other plans in mind.

Florenta blinked almost owlishly at her in surprise at her inquiry, the tilt in her voice indicating she knew quite a bit more than she was letting on. The nun caught herself staring with mouth slightly ajar and immediately clicked her jaw shut as she hummed inquisitively. “What man?” She asked despite having a clue that Samona knew exactly what man she had seen. There had been plenty of people that had passed by the nun and the shop itself and plenty of men amongst that crowd, but the skip in her heartbeat and the cold tremble down her spine made it clear they weren’t discussing any of those. Thin brows came together as she bunched them up in confusion as Samona declared she already knew him. “How so?”

Of course Sister Florenta knew practically everyone within the village. It was small enough for the church to have gained a close repertoire with all of the villagers that they could all call each other by name if needed. It was always easy to tell the tourists from the regulars. Florenta felt a sense of anxiety grip her chest that she couldn’t explain as she saw the way Samona’s older, more experienced eyes twinkled with almost mirth and amusement, the way her dry lips cracked into a teasing smile as she gossiped. It seemed like a fun pastime for the older woman, something Florenta should have almost scolded her for because it went against her teachings to speak ill of their neighbors, but she listened regardless of how wrong it felt.

Florenta felt her fingers go numb and she nearly dropped the basket of items she had already gathered when Samona said a name she was quite familiar with. A name that belonged to a young man who had fallen ill and passed just months ago. She had watched him go from a healthy, vibrant young man who had sat with her in the church and made his confession to her, even though he knew she couldn’t return any feelings. It didn’t stop them from gaining some sort of friendship that was built on trust and understanding and Florenta had offered her ear plenty to his almost philosophical and poetic declarations. She knew had she not taken the vows of celibacy, she might have fallen hard for him. Might have promised and devoted herself to him, but her love and faith was with the Lord and the Lord alone. So all she could provide was kindness and advice and a comforting hand should he need it.

Then he had become gravely ill and to watch this spriteful lad’s health decline so drastically and quickly had been terrible to witness. When he had requested her presence specifically, Florenta had hurried to his bedside and sat with him for hours. She had held his frail, thin hand, ignoring how cold and clammy it felt in her meager grip, and she prayed and she talked with him. Every time she visited, she felt the strength in his hand waver, saw the light slowly creeping away in his eyes, saw how pale and gaunt his handsome features became. It was a slow, almost agonizing death and no amount of medicine or prayers seemed to be stopping it. Death would take him and it was inevitable so all she could do was pray that he didn’t suffer greatly and that the Lord would accept his soul. She listened to his ramblings, not understanding them and just brushing them off as delusions of the dying. She just sat there, held his hand, and felt the life drain from his body. At least he hadn’t died alone.

It was a death that had stuck with her, stained her soul and had filled her with a great sadness. Such a grand loss of life of someone who had such a long life ahead of him. Someone who could have become someone grand in this village and found himself a lovely wife and had children with, gone too soon. Florenta wouldn’t lie that she questioned the Lord at night during her prayers, then she would confess her lack of faith to the Father to gain forgiveness for her weak heart. Perhaps there had been a part of her heart that had fallen in love with Vincenzo, but it was nothing she could dwell on. So to hear his name again and for Samona to even declare that the man she had seen in the alleyway was the same man she had witnessed die was awful and cruel. It was a stab to her heart and she clutched her fist over it in shock.

“Don’t say such unholy things, Lady Ridicci! You know that could never be him! His parents had to bury him. We saw it.” Sister Florenta hissed under her breath even as she felt her pulse racing even harder now. Almost to the point she felt faint and overcome with emotions that were rather unbecoming of her station. Her cheeks became more flushed and she shook her head in denial of the idea that Vincenzo Strata was the man in the alley, but the image of his face flashed before her mind's eye. Made her squeeze her eyes shut and breathe deeply at the impossibility bestowed before her. None of it made sense and she just stared and barely registered Samona inspecting her pear as she made such wild declarations.

Florenta’s jaw dropped at the lady’s suggestion, eyes widening a fraction and she felt an immediate desire to decline. To stutter out an excuse and hurry out of the shop and back to the church to wash away these memories and this discussion. She was simply tired and was seeing things her mind wanted her to see, or at least that was what she might have told herself if she had convinced herself to depart. Instead, by some strange force, she found herself stiffly holding out her arms and handing over the basket as she swallowed the lump in her throat. “I suppose it might be benevolent of myself to visit the Strata home, if only to check on his parents. Perhaps they had a long lost son come visit or some member of the family that has similar features to their son.” She murmured, trying to come up with any excuse or reason why Vincenzo Strata might still be alive.

Wiping her sweaty palms upon her apron, the nun stepped out of the shop and made her way to the blacksmith’s home. A path she was all too familiar with having traveled it so many times. It was worn out with how much it had been trodden with feet and she walked slowly, diligently, trying to reason with herself the ridiculousness of Samona’s declaration. She was just a gossip, looking for a juicy story to tell her friends and the Father. But that wasn’t very nice of her to think so she silently asked for forgiveness for her sour thoughts and approached the door of the Strata home and lightly rapped on it with her knuckles. The greeting from the blacksmith was not the familiar warm and inviting presence she was used to when she had visited before, instead if felt uncertain, apprehensive. Florenta cocked her head slightly in curiosity, but said nothing of it as the patriarch admitted her into his home. She thanked him kindly, offered him a smile, then followed him towards his son’s room. The closer she got, the more that anxious feeling from before began to rise and she found herself twisting her apron in her grip before she quickly dropped it, smoothed it out, and composed herself.

A rush of air stirred her dress as Vincenzo’s mother hurried past her, talking to herself, barely acknowledging the nun in her home. Sister Florenta paused and blinked as she stared behind her for a second before turning forward once more and staring at the door leading to Vincenzo’s room. Apprehension gripped her heart as she finally found the courage to step into the threshold of the room that had once smelt like sick and death. And there he sat on his bed, looking the picture of health, like he hadn’t been sprawled on that very same bed, a bag of bones with skin stretched tight over them, with shallow eyes, and clawed hands begging her to help him. “Vincenzo,” she breathed out in shock and awe just as he greeted her, her lips parted and unable to form further words for a few seconds as she slowly approached.

The air in the room was completely different now. The smell was sweeter, warmer, inviting, but there still felt like there was an underlying note of death. Or perhaps that was just the memory so etched into the room that it was hard to get rid of. Looking at Vincenzo, Florenta couldn’t believe that this same young man was the dying youth she had sat with until his dying breath just months ago. It was impossible, but there he was. Every detail was the same except he was filled out, no longer a walking skeleton, just like he had been before he had gotten ill. The Sister felt weak in her knees and she clamped her hand over her mouth as he spoke of missing her, feeling a grip on her chest. “It can’t be you. You….” She faltered, not wanting to speak of the obvious because she shouldn’t be standing here talking like this with Vincenzo.

“How is this possible? It can’t really be you, Vincenzo?” The nun murmured as she slowly moved to kneel before him, tilting her head back to peer up into the shadows of his face. Peer into his eyes, into his soul. There did seem like there was something different about him, but he appeared all the same. A shaky hand lifted to cup his cheek, that had once felt as cold as ice, now felt warm and soft. Smooth with just stubble of hair that might have grown if he allowed it to. Shaking her head, she sat back on her heels and reached for his hands, turning them over and gripping them as she still looked upon him in awe and confusion. “This must be some sort of fever dream. I watched you go. I saw the light leave you.” She murmured and there was sincere emotion in her voice, like it had hurt her individually that he had gone. Like it had been personal and in a way it had.

 

[Verse]

The mischievous nature of Samona Ridicci had been a sore point between herself and the priest of Florenta's congregation. Twice, he had remarked outside the confession booth that she had a streak of cruelty in her, and that her gossip was her bridge into that. She confessed and she said whichever prayers would absolve her, of course, and nodded, pious, to the father, but she kept the small satisfaction of sharing secret news tighter to her heart than her religious pendants would ever come. From what she knew, the world outside had many more lures than this town, and she must find her pleasures wherever she could to survive this life. She had her sights set on other things, so she thought maybe her gossip was something that would save her from the worst of her impulses, instead. But she couldn't tell the father that, even in confession, on days that she felt particularly bad, she would just call it vanity and pride, and hope he could help her toward forgiveness even when he didn't know exactly what it was she regretted. But maybe Samona could see the father's point now, I'm her own delight as she was looking at Florenta and the beautiful emotions she spilled at the tidbits Samona fed her.

The older woman would have liked to play matchmaker for the two. She had spoken to Vincenzo when he was a strapping thing, running around, eating her fruit and gathering wood for the forge. But also when he was sick; the sisters from the monastery weren't the only women who'd see about the ailing Strata son. And Samona found that he loved to talk about Sister Florenta Niculaie. Samona would come just for that, some times. Because it sounded like real belief, like he clung to the idea of the pretty sister so that he could live another day. Samona even suspected, when she held his hand, that he liked to give her the one that didn't hold Florenta's, like he was saving it. In the end, that was all anyone could save. Except for maybe the boy's memory in Florenta's heart. It was evident now, in how the nun broke her over what Samona had to say. Indeed the older woman had to swallow down a welling sense of excitement over being involved. She was doing a good thing, reuniting them, but she knew there would be darkness in a resurrection as complete as Vincenzo's. The itch and clawing in her heart wanted to see it through. She realized she may burn the village and its church down to watch.

So when Florenta had gone through all the seasons of doubt and recent nostalgia, Samona was left with the basket, and great intent to carry out what she'd offered. She treated herself to some of the food as she wandered toward the convent, and she sang and waved at townsfolk on the way. Who knew, maybe she'd even try to keep this secret for the grief stricken and now hopeful sister? But only to make things more interesting, of course.

And things did become interesting, upon the meeting of two friends in a room that had belonged to a dying boy. It was an altar now, not of someone who'd passed, but of life itself. Or something awfully similar to it. What are miracles if they're not sanctioned?

He had a glow inside him, beyond what the candlelight could have provided. But it wasn't the sun's glow, or traditional fire either, or the red of blushing youth. It was a pale light, like bone underneath the moon. Something inhuman, or, rather, once human. Because what could have survived his illness, when the strong smith's boy couldn't? So, what kind of altar for what kind of worship was this, when he sat in the bed, wearing the ghosts of her dead, budding lover, whom her faith had forbidden her from. He smiled inviting, but also defiant. It was subtle like all things are subtle on a statue, but its immortality. He let her touch him, and the quality of his skin was decadent, velvet in the flesh. He laughed as though some of it tickled. He scooted as close to the kneeling sister at the edge of his bed as he could. He looked back with confidence, but the depths of his eyes, surrounded by almost red irises, were a bit fickle for her to read. He licked his healthy, filled-in lips as he let her take and know what she could from him.

Was it a trick of her eyes, from having come in from the sun to this atmospheric darkness, that his pupils elongated like afternoon shadows? He blinked and then the notion was gone.

She smelled so full of life. A bit of sweat too. From her haste here, or was it distress from the news that had prompted her visit? He drank up her breath as it filled his childhood room. She said his name so sweetly. The boy he'd been would have been elated to hear it like that. Not in reverence for the miracle that it was, but rather, something else. He let all her wonderings and sacrilegious theories settle in her human skull.

"Ye of little faith." he teased. She would notice he had grown. Not in heft but in length. Like his materials were just pulled at and drawn longer. The hands she'd been examining reached for her face, in turn. Long fingers locked around her cheek and outside her habit. He held her head still as his thumbs explored the edges of the fabric where it closed in on her cheeks. And, even though he had no rights to, the tips of his thumbs slid under, too, the broad of his nails touching that hidden, sun-neglected skin.

"I'm here. I'll tell you all the secrets of eternal life if you want." he said as though to console her. "You seem almost disappointed, Sister Niculaie." he tilted his head and let one thumb glide down, loosening the headwear further before taking his hands back. As he held her eyes, something moved around her ankles, as though having crawled from under the bed. She wouldn't notice until it was hugging her there, and when she looked down, it would be gone, but not its ghostly pressure. "Did you wish the boy gone?" he asked and sat up a little, and it made him shoot worryingly in height over her. "So that you wouldn't have to think about it?" he asked. "Maybe you don't know your own heart." he bowed closer. She would be able to taste the pear on his breath. And other sweetnesses. "But there is catacombs worth of knowledge you lack." he promised. Vincenzo had always been a bit bold, but never like this, even if she'd seen glints of it in his eyes. "Did you know, for example, that there were stories in this village before your church was erected here? They talked about an angel banished to the grounds. And that when the church came, they provided innocence to shackle this wayward angel." His mouth became straight and it looked honest in it's bitten-down bitterness.

He stole her hands and clutched them together and held them to his cheek. As he stroked her knuckles to the side of his features his visage plummeted into the skeletal depths he'd worn on his deathbed, when he used to ask her to marry him, in his dying madness. But it'd be further horrifying to see those starved features smile lecherously at her before they filled out to the unholy picture of health he was now. Pressing her hands tighter to his cheek he said with a tombstone voice

"Is that why you've come to the boy that you lost, sister?" Sounded like a wind from the crypt, large and hollow. Or, filled up with something other. His eyes were curious the way red and black things can be. Which was to say they were hungry. "He held on to the thoughts of you. Of your purity that he wanted to devour and take with him." Playfully, her boy then held her fingers toward his mouth, her palms together, cuffed by his grip. He opened his mouth as though he'd taste the tips. "Should we fulfill his dying dreams?"

It seemed he has not forgotten all the crazed wishes he'd blurted out to her. But now he said it with a conviction not fueled by fear of death.

 

[oropherion]

Florenta felt that same anxious energy, the almost poignant fear standing outside of Vincenzo’s room, as she had felt when she had seen him in that alley. It was an indescribable feeling because she had never felt any sort of fear or discomfort in his presence before or during his death. All she could do to explain it away to herself was that it had felt like she had been looking into the eyes of another worldly being, but that was impossible. Especially as she entered his room and saw him the picture of health upon the very same mattress he had died on. It was like she was stepping back in time entering through his doorway and it made her feel off kilter for a few moments as she slowly approached him. A state of awe and confusion was riddled across her beautiful, youthful face outlined by her habit. The impossible was there before her very eyes and when she reached out and cupped his face, he was very much real. Warm flesh under her soft fingertips, his facial structure easy to define and the same as when he had been healthy before.


The nun was almost mesmerized by the youthful decadence again of this young man, unable to comprehend what she was seeing before her very eyes. The confidence in which he looked back at her was all consuming, but there was something else in his red-rimmed eyes that she couldn’t quite decipher. There was something different about him, but inherently the same. For a breath of a second, it almost looked like his irises had stretched, but then she blinked and they were normal and she explained it away as a trick of the light. She was anxious so her mind was playing tricks on her. Her heart ached at what she was gazing upon, remembering the break it felt when the life had finally lifted from his body and it was a limp sack of flesh and bones that remained. She had still held his hands a few moments after death and she had reflected that had she not taken her vows, she might have been his and the heartbreak would have been worse.


Florenta let a soft, barely perceptible gasp when his hands reached and cupped her face in turn. There was a little subconscious flutter to her eyes and lean into his touch when his thumbs caressed her face. It was strange to find almost comfort in the gesture when she should not let someone touch her so openly and freely. Especially one that might woo her to sin. But she felt weak and vulnerable in the moment, like her heart had been flayed open and spread out before her. Even when his thumbs breached the fabric of her habit to stroke the neglected flesh beneath, she didn’t say anything as he spoke. His voice was rich and deep, coaxing, as he promised to tell her the secrets of eternal life. She shook her head and she wasn’t sure if she was trying to dismiss the offer or deny believing any of it possible or what.


His statement on her reaction to him made her flick her eyes open a fraction wider and to raise to meet his own as she frowned. “No. It is not disappointment that holds me. Just….amazed, confused, that this is real.” She murmured softly before her heart nearly jumped into her throat and almost crawled out of her skin when she felt something slithering around her ankles. She gasped and pulled up the skirt of her dress just an inch to look at her feet, but saw nothing that would explain away that feeling. Her heart pounded a little harder and she still felt an almost restrictive grip around her ankles, but she told herself she was just riddled with anxiety and stress. She was frightening herself for no reason.


Florenta didn’t have long to linger on the pressure around her ankles when Vincenzo’s voice reached her ears and she snapped her head up and back to see him sitting up straighter, almost towering over her in his position. She gasped and shook her head in denial at the claim. “Of course not! I am only in awe of the miracle I see before me.” She tried to explain over the racing of her heart and the uncertainty still wavering in her mind. She jolted back a fraction when he suddenly leaned in close to her personal space, making it hard for her to look away even when most of her wanted to. She felt his breath fanning over her face, hot and sweetened by the pear he ate, “No,” was all she could whisper back in response, but she knew she had often tried to bury memories of Vincenzo in order to go about her day, to not think back wistfully on the boy she might have loved.


The nun frowned as he rambled on about a story of the village, one she couldn’t quite recall hearing. It was even more offputting knowing Vincenzo had never spoken like this before, had never indicated he knew such old stories about their village. Florenta stared up at him with parted lips and brows knit in confusion as she shook her head stiffly. “I…was not aware of such a tale. The church has been here for so long.” It almost felt like forever so it felt like such a story was just a myth, a legend passed down from elder to elder, and perhaps that was the case and somehow Vincenzo had learned of it. But that didn’t feel like it was true, it felt like he had some unearthly knowledge just by looking into the depths and shadows of his eyes.


Florenta felt her muscles tense for a split second when his hands grasped hers, bringing them to press against the side of his face. She watched silently and in increasing anxiety as she watched the warmth and fullness of his features fade into the skeletal deathly look she remembered most vividly. A gasp of horror was pried from her lips and she almost felt the urge to yank her hands back to her body, but his grip was strong and firm and he continued to rub them against his face, The haunting voice that escaped those dry lips was just a mockery of his warm tones, like death was speaking to her instead of the boy himself. And the way he referred to himself made the encounter that much more frightening.


“.....” Florenta was speechless for a moment, feeling that icy grip around her heart as he spoke of Vincenzo, of his dreams before death. There had always been a little guilt in her own heart of not being able to give the boy what he wished; her heart. But she had always been content with her choice to join the church, to give herself over to God, and give up human wants and desires. The way Vincenzo spoke was almost a mockery of the affection he held towards her before, making it seem less sincere and more sinful, making her stomach twist as he brought her hands closer to his mouth. She summoned what strength she could find with her faith as she strengthened her gaze upon him.

“Who and what are you?” Florenta murmured as if she couldn’t believe this was the same boy who was prophetic and poetic with her in the fields, or upon the benches, who shared pears with each other and even enjoyed comfortable silence. The cheerful, energetic lad who was sometimes silly and pulled stunts to make her laugh, who liked to get hurt and have her tend to his cuts and scrapes, the same boy who had admitted with a mixture of nerves and confidence that he loved her. It felt like him, but not at the same time. Like he had been corrupted, but she was uncertain. Or perhaps she was just remembering him wrongly, thinking of only the good things she knew and what she wanted, rather than the reality. A deep sigh escaped her as she leaned closer to him, “Vincenzo, I must know. No more cryptic talk. How is this possible?” He had spoken earlier of eternal life and was that the secret? She didn’t want to accuse his parents of some kind of black magic or anything that would have defied the church and God himself, but it was in the back of her mind, because the dead didn’t just come back to life.

 

[Verse]

The memories of this room, of this body, and the borrowed but improved looks of this face, remembered the sister as she entered. There had been an aversion to death, last time. Not a celebration. But it had been love, cut short in the lull of this man's life. Maybe they would have been fated in another world, or even, if they had more time in this one. Florenta was always certain when she refused the advances of the males in this town, but she had wavered when she refused the Starta boy, just as much as he had been steadfast in pursuing her. To think, his heart, however renewed, had a similar kind of confidence, but against another object of light. That didn't mean he couldn't reach it through the pretty nun, whose beauty might be blasphemy on its own. Vincenzo meant to own her, and possess her. Didn't she look like a prize, coming to him in the darkness? Or, maybe pray would be more applicable here. Either way, his whole being hungered for her, and she moved as though her flesh understood it. He leaned his face into her touch. There'd be plenty of other intimacy, too, before he was done. And he might never be done with her. She would learn that.

Her cheeks felt sinful in their richness. They were a statue together then, arms out to establish contact for eons. She was affected. The boy alive hadn't been able to do this. But now, that he was whipped up with darkness and salted with debauchery, he was more her flavor. All you had to do was overwhelm the woman in the sister. Vincenzo got to explore her, at last, more than her hand that had been the last thing he felt on this earth, while his soul was intact. She had taken the same place as before, by his bed, it was part of a full circle, but this was other. This was the beginning of something. He would tie her to him irrevocably. Like the way she thought she'd chained herself to her beliefs. He tilted his head like something old watching something newborn. All the ways she looked at him, it was admiration and awe, but to him it was sacrilege toward her own church. She had such worship in her, and he would simply channel it some other way. The other Him slithered in the dark beneath them, ready to swallow whole.

He let her answer to his jest. No, Sister Niculaie wouldn't be disappointed her boy had returned, even if it was sinful to defy the death appointed to him. Maybe she could be honest with herself about that, in time. He watched her fret at the coils by her feet. She had more faith in her eyes than her heart, and that left the lengths on the floor invisible to her. They did not relent, and traveled up her leg. She might have perceived the her clothing moving for the long body, if she hadn't been so reliant on sight. He would help her delusion along. "You look so beautiful, amazed and confused." he complimented, so that she could continue this conversation instead of trying to find something that wouldn't catch the light as it rounded her right leg, and climber her. The former Vincenzo would have been livid to get the chance to feel her anywhere close like this. Now he had the power to. He would remold her into his own ambitions. She was a vessel for him now, but she hadn't been informed yet. Her awareness was not required for her compliance, but he looked forward to her realizing, one day. They had time now. No blood-cough to contend with.

She stuttered when he got her attention back. She was gorgeous, falling apart. The other boy had such respect for her. He wanted her truly. But this creature only wanted her in all the ways. He let her explain herself but didn't really care. He liked her fluster, and how close she let him be. In here, he was her world again. He was going to take more from her than his death did. What use was it to live in a heart, when your body was gone? The body was where all the fun was. The moving mass was hugging her thigh now, squeezing extra on the inside, and rubbing up against her neglected womanhood. Though, since she'd not been breached, it was her girlhood still, wasn't it? It certainly could be, since she was nothing short of girlish in his presence, looking at him like he was to kill her with his next words, if they were spoken at this distance. She was right. His tongue had otherworldly powers now. He was going to educate her on an entirely new gospel, and put her on her knees for reasons even her body could agree to.

She opposed the story, and veiled it in not knowing it. "Oh, so you haven't heard? Just like you hadn't heard about angels at all, until someone told you." he pointed out. "Well, now you have more truths to add to your little, lovely skull, sister." he gave teasingly. Though he had made lighthearted jokes before, addicted to her small laughter, he had never been a bully. Vincenzo hadn't learned about the hard edges that females like on their mates. Florenta hadn't either, even if the sensitive nodes in her cunt was directly connected to being dominated, and her church tried to keep that part of her dormant, so they could control her instead. It made it easy to ignite her. Her hands felt good on his face, and that's why he showed the real visage to her. She reacted accordingly, but this couldn't end just because a sister was a bit unsettled. He was amused by her recoil, though, but did not permit her to retreat fully. There was a long way to go in todays lesson. Vincenzo made the decisions now.

He grinned to see her crestfallen further by what the boy had wanted from her when he died. It was miserable to have such desires, and know your life had not contained them as it ended. But he had been too good to make his suffering hers. She reciprocated partially, with the agony she expressed now.

She had such agony in her when she demanded to know. The creature wearing her boy's skin borrowed Vincenzo's frustrations that had never won in life, but were now alive and well and ready for retribution upon the woman who'd created them. Who would have thought her holiness could be her detriment?

"Who, sister Niculaie?" He asked low but with a crackling calm. His meter changed. Not old, but eternal.

There was a well she'd known, growing up, it was forgotten and in a forgotten place in the old parts of the monastery, where the mortar crumbled and the hinges had rusted to splinters and aerosols. She used to go there to play and to mourn the architecture. Once that old well had caught the wind and spit it out, and that sound had always reminded her of a man's voice, the speech of an unimpressed God. That's how Vincenzo sounded now. "And How?" He continued to repeat. Not mocking her, but accusatory, as though that well had recanted thunder too. As though she was mocking him.

His hands came for her, and gripped her hand again. So she wouldn't be able to move. The slithering mass circled her body, sliding over her innocent cunt and winding around her waist. The motion would make good friction against her neglected womanhood at the same time as her stomach was being choked. His face suddenly pressed against hers, and this close, it would be his youthful beauty, and the decayed sickness, and another, monstrous face staring back at her, all of them interwoven and superimposed.

"I am that boy who loved you, but whom you abandoned to illness without reciprocation. I am all the gnawing thoughts of a forsaken angel. I am the pleasures you turned on, so you could serve." As he spoke and held her, unforgiving, all those features slid into one mask, horrible and glorious, with light encrusted lashes and abyssal eyes. The slithering thing rubbed scales over her pious pussy, ridges riding her tender. "And I am part your worship too, to remind you it is empty. But your list of sins is full."