Father Roth
The church is empty with a flickering glow of candlelight and the scent of melted wax. I stand before the altar, my hands resting lightly on the ancient wood, the scripture open but unread. The silence is deep, pressing, as though the walls themselves are listening. My thoughts run wild with sin, and my appetite for Hel continues to grow more urgent.
Still, her presence unsettles something within me—curiosity, perhaps, or something darker, something that stirs beneath my skin like a whisper of the past. She is not like the others who have come seeking absolution.
This creature does not weep for her sins, nor does she flee from them. She carries them like a second skin, and I wonder how long it will take before she realizes they don't have to be shackles but wings.
A sound echoes through the nave, soft footsteps against stone. I do not turn immediately, already aware of who it is.
"Luv," my wife's voice drifts to me, cool and steady.
Turning to face her, I see her standing in the threshold of the aisle, draped in a dark shawl that makes her appear more specter than woman. Her gaze is piercing, always watching, always knowing.
"You're spending so much time in solitude," she says.
"It is the nature of my work."
She steps closer; the candlelight catching the sharpness and beauty of her features. "And yet, you have taken an interest in this new girl."
I hold my expression. "She is lost. I am guiding her. Is that not my duty?"
She tilts her head, her lips curving in something that is neither a smile nor a frown. "Of course."
For a moment, we stand in silence as the tension stretches between us. My wife is perceptive, too perceptive, but she will not press further tonight. She never does it without reason.
"Are you coming home?" she asks after a beat.
"Not yet. There is still a lot to be done."
She studies me a moment longer before inclining her head. "Then do not linger too long. Even a priest needs rest."
She turns, vanishing into the darkness beyond the doorway, and I exhale slowly.
She knows.
Perhaps not the truth, not entirely. But she senses something.
I stay in the church long after she leaves, descending once more into the catacombs, where the air is thick with the past. The torches burn low. I press my palm against one, feeling the pulse of energy thrumming beneath my fingers.
There are forces in this world that cannot be confined by scripture or prayer. Forces that demand more than faith.
My hunger stirs, insistent, restless.
I can't be home tonight. Instead, I walk the streets, listening to the quiet hum of the town. This place sleeps early, its people comfortable in their routines, in their faith. If only they knew how fragile that faith truly was.
A figure moves in the distance—a woman, cloaked against the night's chill, her silhouette elongated by the gaslights. Hel.
She doesn't see me, but I follow. Her steps are hurried, purposeful, as though she's fleeing from something unseen.
Keeping my distance, I linger in the shadowed corners as she moves through the town, turning onto an old cobbled path that leads toward the cliffs. There, at the very edge of the world, she stops.
I watch as she wraps her arms around herself, staring out into the abyss. What in God's name is she doing?
The wind shifts, carrying her scent to me. I should leave. Return to the church and bury myself in prayer and ritual. And yet, I remain. There is something about her that pulls me in, something I have not yet named. But soon, I will.
The moon ascends higher in the night sky, casting silver light across her form. She appears almost ethereal against the backdrop of endless darkness, the edge between land and void. Her shoulders rise and fall with deep breaths, as though drawing the night itself into her lungs.
I step forward, letting the sound of my footfall announce my presence. She doesn't startle. Instead, she turns slowly, unsurprised, as though she had been expecting me all along.
"Father Roth," she says, my name on her lips like a secret shared between conspirators. "Shouldn't you be tucked away in your rectory at this hour? What would Elaine think?"
"How do you know my wife's name?" I ask, though I'm not truly surprised since she's been helping out at the church since her arrival. She's proven herself to be thorough in her... research.
Her lips curl into that familiar smile that never quite reaches her eyes. "This is a small town, Father. People talk. Especially about their spiritual leader and his wife."
The wind picks up, tugging at her hair, sending it dancing around her face like living shadows. She makes no move to tame it.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," I say, taking another step towards her. "The cliffs are dangerous."
"Are they?" She laughs, the sound sharp against the crash of waves below. "More dangerous than confession booths and empty churches, you think?"
I stop a few feet from her, close enough to see the flush on her cheeks from the cold, the glint in her eyes that speaks of challenge, of defiance.
"Why are you here, Hel?"
"I could ask you the same thing, Father." She turns back toward the sea. "I come here to remind myself of how small we are against all of... this. What's your excuse for following me?"
The accusation hangs between us, neither denied nor confirmed.
"I saw you walking alone. It's my duty to ensure my parishioners are safe."
"Is that all I am to you? A parishioner?" She turns fully to face me now, stepping closer, close enough that I can feel the heat emanating from her body despite the chill. "Is that why you let me confess such... intimate details? Why you watched me during group therapy with such intensity?"
Her words are a trap, carefully laid. I've navigated confessions from the most troubled souls, guided the lost through their darkest moments, and yet this woman—this enigma—threatens to unravel years of carefully maintained control with nothing more than words and proximity.
"You came to me for guidance," I say. "That is all I'm offering."
"Liar," she whispers, the word almost lost to the wind. "But that's alright. We're all liars here, aren't we? You with your vows, me with my confessions."
Reaching out, her fingers hover just shy of my face.
"What are you really seeking, Hel?"
Her hand drops, and something shifts in her expression—a momentary vulnerability, quickly masked.
"The same thing we all seek, Father. Understanding. Acceptance." Her voice drops lower, almost reverent. "Power."
The word resonates within me, echoing the thrumming energy I felt earlier in the catacombs. This is no ordinary woman standing before me. There is something ancient in her eyes, something that calls to the darkness I have worked so hard to contain.
"And you believe you'll find these things through... what? Tempting a priest? Disrupting a community?"
"Through you," she says simply. "I've seen how you look at the symbols in the church—not with reverence, but with understanding. I've watched how you touch the altar, not as a servant of God, but as someone who knows what truly lies beneath faith and ritual."
My blood runs cold. How much has she seen? How much does she know?
"You're mistaken," I say, though the denial sounds hollow even to my own ears.
"Am I?" She steps past me, her shoulder brushing mine. "We'll see, Michael. We shall see."
She begins walking back toward town, leaving me at the precipice, caught between the solid ground of my constructed life and the abyss of what I truly am. What I've always been.
"Friday," she calls over her shoulder. "I'll be at confession. I have so much more to share."
I feel as though I'm frozen, just watching her recede into the darkness, her form growing smaller until she's nothing more than a shadow among shadows. The sea's roars are as familiar as my own persistent hunger.
Hel fancies herself the hunter, but she has no idea what she's truly awakened. She speaks of power as though it's something to be grasped and controlled. She doesn't understand that true power consumes everything it touches. Even her.
Especially her.
I turn my face to the moon, feeling its pull like an old friend. Friday will come, and with it, a decision I can no longer postpone. Hel wants to see what lies beneath the surface of my carefully constructed devotion?
Perhaps it's time I showed her.