He will burn. He is burning. He's been burning. When Tim arrived in this place, he was certain that it was purgatory. A last-ditch effort to save himself from his sins, to cleanse his soul and make himself worthy of light, of love - not the mortal kind that says one thing and does another, that scolds and flees and muddles the head, but love that is divine and eternal. Without argument. Without fear. It's not what he was taught this place would be, but nothing else made sense.
He's been mocked for this, disbelieved. Tim hasn't cared. The trickery, the illusions, the wolfman that rampaged through the grounds and threatened the lives of two of the people he cares about most in this or any world - tests, a measure to see if they're good enough to do the right thing in horrible circumstances. He hasn't cracked, he hasn't doubted, he hasn't missed a prayer.
And suddenly, in the last week, seven people have been killed. The chapel desecrated, blood still thick in his nostrils, paranoia and screaming and fear everywhere he looks. The chaos will only get worse as the game continues. The bodies will pile higher. The flames licking at his heels will only get hotter.
They're in Hell. And he will burn. He deserves to, for his part in enabling this exact same thing back home, the slower, more insidious, more subtly violent version of it. The witch hunts on little to no evidence that ruined lives, had people turning on friends and family alike. Years of this. Tim was filling glasses of water at the head of the table then, complicit, and he's no better now for actively participating.
He fingers the cross around his neck as they turn the corner to peek into the alcove. ]
Where I'm from, kisses between family aren't so heated. Do you really not know the difference?
no subject
[ You will burn; this is what we do.
He will burn. He is burning. He's been burning. When Tim arrived in this place, he was certain that it was purgatory. A last-ditch effort to save himself from his sins, to cleanse his soul and make himself worthy of light, of love - not the mortal kind that says one thing and does another, that scolds and flees and muddles the head, but love that is divine and eternal. Without argument. Without fear. It's not what he was taught this place would be, but nothing else made sense.
He's been mocked for this, disbelieved. Tim hasn't cared. The trickery, the illusions, the wolfman that rampaged through the grounds and threatened the lives of two of the people he cares about most in this or any world - tests, a measure to see if they're good enough to do the right thing in horrible circumstances. He hasn't cracked, he hasn't doubted, he hasn't missed a prayer.
And suddenly, in the last week, seven people have been killed. The chapel desecrated, blood still thick in his nostrils, paranoia and screaming and fear everywhere he looks. The chaos will only get worse as the game continues. The bodies will pile higher. The flames licking at his heels will only get hotter.
They're in Hell. And he will burn. He deserves to, for his part in enabling this exact same thing back home, the slower, more insidious, more subtly violent version of it. The witch hunts on little to no evidence that ruined lives, had people turning on friends and family alike. Years of this. Tim was filling glasses of water at the head of the table then, complicit, and he's no better now for actively participating.
He fingers the cross around his neck as they turn the corner to peek into the alcove. ]
Where I'm from, kisses between family aren't so heated. Do you really not know the difference?