We are born. Crafted by the hands of the deity far above in the sky.
Masters of the land. Yet subservient to the orders of above.
Rectify purely by their will.
Which deity they see as their translucent savior, dictated by the person themselves. A rather conflicting dilemma depending on the factors present.
The church serves only the one true God.
Those they deem heretics, false prophets commanded by discordance outliers.
Whether they are the one true god and the others are fake, is utterly, truly, a hearing that can go on for hours.
Which ever way it may be seen to the common man of a weakened body, twisted mind.
The Word of God is always prevalent.
Heed it well, Saintly behavior.
Discard it magnificently, Demons incarnate.
Those of the church describe the laws and order of the world as those coming from their savior.
Equality underneath their savior. To observant eyes however, that is hardly a real order in this world.
However it is said, many countries of animosity follow the Word of God.
Disregarding it is not a wise move on the sovereign.
Hence their actions to at a minimum, recreate the goodwill all must have to live properly.
The act of goodwill, is a circle of procession.
They regard it highly.
A reminder and a justification to feel magnanimous.
It falls on the head of the person to keep it going. To repeat this benevolence.
In doing so, a lifting of the spirit.
Contempt however, can be found without the emanation of the act. Position and power, fuse.
Like light rain, they fall on everyone just the same.
Annoyance is neither fleeting in the eyes of the zealot.
For that nobleman is not as great as they look or say.
Appeasement and indulgence work their minds faster than the gravest issues in their territory.
"All should fall."
The zealot holds remorse for those who must conform to the whims of the scum.
Soon everything will be gone, under their prophet of truth.
Anew will it be the excellence of the system they wish to build.
"Wish for happiness. Soon it will be with you…"
Vows of great will. Sworn heavily in their heart as something that will be done.
With the time of tranquility, soon to be calmer.
The zealot returned to the start of their journey, cold reminiscence remaining eternally.
Before they reached their destination, they came across a prisoner.
The zealot thinks not of their title borne of their own volition.
"Is it a truth for the fallen to regain everything?"
A question.
Led from the discovery of but a shred of identity.
"Easy it can or will not be."
The prisoner mused.
"But even just the smallest doubt helps perceive actions."
With the grace of a hollowed smile, the prisoner disappeared. The zealot facing the figure that leaves sight.
Question not.
It was the only correct solution to this broken end of hers.
The zealot affirmed their vow. To never let the shading of the dark taint the freedom.
With any semblance of it, purified under the prophet.
The rain fell harsher on the day to come.
Happiness sounded inside.
Cold, whistling noise, splashing and covering everything.
The banquet of symphony, playing in a day with nothing to do.
Dancing in tune with the lost past of those who have come to reclaim.
Merely a goal.
Merely a choice.
Nigh was the time to make it.
All of them chose it for their prophet.
With an entrance, the blood, the vengeance.
Fulfilled.
The crumbling castle they so dearly saw with ecstasy.
The zealot did not wipe the hands stained in red.
The rain showered all equally.
With the lady and now the noble from before, fading light released under a sneer from the zealot.
Only the child remained.
Witnessing every moment of this freedom.
The birth of a new repetition.
One that has continued for far longer than anyone sees with their limited vision.
All had left.
The zealot achieved the freedom everyone but these scum had to now joyously live.
The child festers with the virtue that they claim it was.
No more is there but virtue.
The cycle of action, process, result, outcome.
The zealot lives with a virtue masquerade.
The child with revenge, marking the newest iteration of the cycle.