Battered and bruised.

Covered in blood, both human and Vermin.

Melcher Fitz staggered into one of the monastery bunkrooms and slowly pushed the door shut behind him.

The bunkroom was empty. Well, not empty. But Melcher was the only living soul in there. He was alone, listening to the sounds of carnage coming from outside. The rending of flesh, the spilling of blood, and the anguished screams of the dying.

What did Melcher expect? He'd allowed those accursed Templars to bring the Anti-Christ into his midst after all, and the Devil's progeny had brought his demon-spawn hordes to seek revenge.

Damn Giradin... Damn him to Hell!

This onslaught of evil had made everything clear for Fitz, Giradin was the Beast, and he had turned God's Holy Church on his whims.

Fitz staggered over to the nearest bed and supported his weight, fatigue making his senses dull and his knees weak.

He couldn't breathe in that mask, so he removed it. Black curls stuck to his brow from the sweat, and the scruff on his jaw itched fiercely. He tried to scratch, realized he still wore his leather gauntlet, then tore it off and clawed at his own face. Every time he satisfied one itch another popped up, more terrible than the last.

"Oh, God! Someone help!" came a cry from outside.

Melcher Fitz took a step forward, lost his balance, and stumbled to his knees. His patelas hit the stone floor with a crack, causing him to wince and whimper.

Every part of his body hurt. Like Christ, he had given his all and suffered much. In leading the Crows, he had descended into Hell itself, but found it far too harrowing for his limited, mortal spirit.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Casting his eyes upward, he spied a crucifix hanging from the post of one of the bunks. He beheld the cross, and the tortured, emaciated picture of Christ upon it. The eyes under that brow of thorns looked down upon him, as if he were all that existed in the world.

"My Lord, Jesus Christ," Melcher Fitz began. He held his sword with the tip on the ground and leaned upon the hilt. "Hear my prayer. I know that I have sinned, and that I have failed You. But I have strived my whole life to fight the good fight, as you taught us. I have stood against the forces of evil, and protected the people from the Devil's plagues."

Outside, terrified screams as something dragged a thrashing Crow down the hall.

"I ask but one favor of you, Almighty God," Fitz continued. "Grant me the strength I need to make things right again. In your name, I shall slay the False Idol and restore goodness to Christendom. The Church will not fall, not while I breathe."

Fitz reached up and gently ran his un-gloved fingertips over the figure of Christ.

"Forgive me my sins, and allow me to make my attonement!"

A cooling sensation ran down Fitz's fingers, a slight tingle like he was being pricked by a thousand icy pins. The sensation moved down his hand, his forearm, and to his shoulder. From there, it radiated throughout his body like an invisible spiderweb. The cold surrounded his heart, but it was calming.

Pain left his joints, and the sweat rose like steam from his brow, with spots of blood across his forehead.

Strength returned to his arms, and his sword felt light in his hands once again. The chain-mail was like a linen sheet upon his shoulders.

"Thank you, my Lord," Fitz said. He seized his mask and strapped it back onto his head, grateful to have its protection returned to him.

When he went to slip on his gauntlet, he caught a glimpse of the palm of his hand and yelped at the sight. A needle-like hole had pierced through his hand, between the tendons of his middle and ring fingers. When he held his hand in front of a candle, he could see light peering through from the other side.

Christ, fill me with your spirit and grant me all I need to destroy the forces of Hell!

Fitz left his hand bare and instead slipped his gauntlet into his pocket.

His arms felt like they were made of steel, his heart a fortress of unbreakable ice, his mind a blazing furnace. With his newfound strength, Melcher Fitz kicked open the bunkroom door and charged the Vermin with his sword held high.