Chapter 1: Daisy, The Innocence of Naiveness

"It's not hard to find such a child in the slums these days."

A man in a black cassock stood at the end of side street, with planted feet that guarded the opening to an dead end alley. His vestments communicated an atmosphere of absolute religious dogma. However, an offsetting wooden cross seemed contrary to the norm, with a crooked horizontal bar that intersected another that had a silver plate installed in top of it. It seemed ominous compared to the usual gold cross that exuberated a feeling of grafted wealth, not malicious intent. The shaved head and clean face also seemed to be contrary to conventional priests that had flowing beards and lush hair.

In short, the man was an imposter of religion; he believed in another doctrine than the official religion of Linus.

The man made some impositing but unnecessary poses, before looking straight at the little girl in front of him.

"But I've taken a liking to you. You have potential to be a sister that spreads the true doctrine of god!"

Seeming lifeless eyes followed the crazed man and his erratic movements before drooping her head down like a lifeless doll. It took a few minutes of religious preaching from the fake priest before he noticed the girl was halfway in the journey to the underworld.

He crouched down and lifted her head.

"Now listen to me. I am in need of an assistant. You seem to be a reliable investment for such. So, do you want me to save you from the slums, from the life of poverty, from the jaws of death?"

The girl's motionless head conveyed no sound nor motion. Her eyes remained as clouded as ever, seemingly wanting death's release from this man, and latter this world.

Contrary to the girl's desires, the fake priest gave a radiant smile that responded to an answer that the girl never gave nor ever wished to communicate. He lifted the weightless girl made of skin and bones before setting her gently in a bridal carry that seemed conveyed an atmosphere more holy than romantic.

The man headed down the road toward a district made of red bricks.

***

“Happy birthday my dear Rosé. Today marks the first anniversary of the day I found you.”

The faux priest sat across from the little girl that he found on the streets. A decorated birthday cake sat in between the parent and child. The cake was not fancy like the ones made for kings, but rather a humble loaf that was decorated to replicate the great cakes of the royals. It was the best present that a man who lived in a middle class district could afford. After all, good pâtissier and sweet sugar were hard commodities to come by.

However, the priest’s wealth was able to replicate the candles that the royalty used on their cakes. He had put the candles on a separate plate to prevent the wax from the candle that he haggled from a suspicious merchant from contaminating the cake.

“Now blow out the candles, dear Rosé.”

The little girl nodded and blew the candles with a puff of air. With the ceremony done, the priest took out the knife and cut the cake into pieces that could be put onto the ceramic plates that he saved a good sum of money to buy.

To Rosé, such cheap goods were life changing.

Her dusted, unkempt hair became a lush red that reminded those who saw it of roses. Her old, pale white skin had become flush with a human beige that was normal among the the city she lived in. She gained fleshed checks and a healthy complexion that contrasted the skin and bones she once was.

However, her glassy eyes remained. And while she did smile, her face radiated a cold, frosty personality that one would not expect from a girl of thirteen years of age (The age that the priest estimated Rosé was, which he put on registration papers. He had experience in such matters.). Alas, Rosé was a maiden that was rescued from poverty had yet to recover from her days in the streets.

But the mysterious man, the priest, always kept a fatherly image, though almost a prideful saintly one. After the candles were blown, the lingering light of the candles flickered away as the priest took out a present wrapped in ribbons that could be bought for a few copper coins at a stall. The present was naked except for the ribbon that wrapped tightly around the long, metallic object.

It was a sword and its sheath. For the priest, he looked satisfied with his gift, and gave a wide grin before cleaning up the tables. Rosé positioned her sword and sheath horizontal to her body and behind her. More like a dagger, Rosé’s placement of her weapon suited a street rat. After all, one had to protect oneself. And lately, like times before, there had been accounts of women being abducted. Satisfied with the gift, Rosé continued to eat her cake, while the priest looked upon her caringly.

And after the priest was done with his cake, he looked out, seeing the last glimpse of the sun fading over the horizon of the walls that encompassed the large city. It was the only time they could have the birthday party; it had to be dim enough for the candles to shine but the priest could not have infringed on their important evening prayer they did every day. Noticing the time, the priest walked towards Rosé, who was still eating pieces of her cake with rude manners fitting of a girl of the slum not yet adapted to the lifestyle of a home.

“Dear Rosé, we have to pray. Finish your cake and come.”

“Yes.” Rosé answered.

She split the remaining slice of her cake into two, each piece correlating to a single bite. Afterwards, she wiped her face in the way the priest instructed her to do so, presumably after she dirtied her face during the first dinner she had. She walked towards the room in the center of the house, the only room not exposed to the windows that exposed the surrounding walls to the outside world.

Entering through a wooden door, the inside of the room was filled with a fragrant smell of herbs. Rosé could pick out dill and ginger, with a slight fragrance of roses. The dimly lit room, with a light source of a single candle, only exemplified the smell of the various fragrances.

The priest, deep in meditation, was already conveying chants. Rosé, who entered the room, sat next to him, and started to recite the words of the holy text, one of the two in the world.

Coincidently, the priest read from the only other copy of the holy text.

Death is Beauty.

Beauty is Death.

Only beauty can be preserved by Death

As commanded by God.

Death is the one god who rules the living

And Beauty is the one god who monitors the living….

The two chanted in unison, something quite unnatural for priests do be doing. With their voices, the whole room echoed.

And it continued for an hour before the remaining flicks of the candle gave out. The week’s candle had burned itself out in six days, a day short possibly due to the longer praying session when a devotee had came to pray on the first day the candle was used.

“Dear Rosé, may you change the candle again. Fetch another wick from the storage room and place it on top.”

“Father, should I get a longer one? The candle was a day short.”

“No, it's fine. Just use the usual.”

Stolen story; please report.

So, Rosé, with the instructions of the priest, took a wick from the storage while the priest prepared the beds, located in separate rooms, for the two.

Reentering the praying room, Rosé took strides to the center to replace the wick. They had to wake up early, for the best bargains always occurred when the sun is just peeking out of the horizon.

Walking forward, Rosé tripped, feel face forward on the ground and scratched her face in the process.

Thinking it was her own clumsiness, she looked back at her feet which had produced unexpected pain when she tripped. Taking note at her twisted leg, she also noticed a misplaced brick, that seem to jut out of the ground.

Thinking that leaving the brick there would only produce more injuries, she took it out only to see an adjacent brick fall into the place, leaving a small indent in the floor.

It was suspicious to Rosé that there was a misplaced brick in such a room, and even more so another one that had not been placed correctly.

Thus, hoping to take the two bricks to the priest and having him fix it, she took the one in the ident out, having two to give to the priest to fix.

However, another brick fell into the indent. Rosé now had three to give to the priest. And then, another fell. Rosé had four. And then another fell. Rosé had five. And then another fell. Rosé had six.

And such a pattern continued until Rosé had eight or nine bricks, to which she noticed that the indent had a wooden trapdoor. The priest never told her about such things and when she first recovered, her unquenchable thirst for new discoveries and stimulations never found such a pathway in the house.

With her adventuring spirit that remained from her street rat days (For she had to find food, and a way to not get caught was to continuously change the places she stole from), Rosé entered the trapdoor with utmost confidence.

From a waft of the air, a scent similar to that of a neighborhood butcher mixed the mixture of herbs from the praying room on top that masked the smell well in the entrance to the underground cellar.

But there was something uncanny about the smell; it seemed more like the smell of the other butcher shop that closed down a couple of months of months ago.

Underlying such smells, there was a fragrant smell of roses that attempted to cover a far more putrid smell. One of rotting that occurred in the slums streets.

Ignoring such details in favor of her curiosity, she proceeded down in the cellar, where the dimly lit path down produced loud squeaking noises that could not be muted even if one were to make an active commitment to prevent it.

At the end of the flight of stairs that led to the cellar, Rosé peeked out from the side of the left wall that ended at the end of the flight of stairs. A underground room was revealed, that was seeming empty except for humanoid beings gathered around the center, lighted by a mysterious orange hue that radiated from the floor..

Rosé, coming out of the passage that led into the room, inspected with her eyes the room and the humans that made no response to her creeping footsteps. At closer observation, some humans had stiff, unnatural postures and were floating several centimeters off the ground.

Gathered around the source of light, the humans revealed the faces. They were all beautiful young girls with petrified faces that seemed to be in a peaceful sleep. From the right to left, they were girls that seemed to be around the age of thirteen and fourteen, distinguished only by their hair color. There were eight, with hues of orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, purple, white and black.

With caution, Rosé reached out her thin arms to touch the nearest figure that was standing floating, a girl with orange hair uncommon in the streets.

With a touch, the figure fell down into a heap on the ground with its joints bent in unnatural ways.

“Dear Rosé, what do you think of them?” A voice came from Rosé’s back. The squeaking of the stairs could be heard when the voice finished speaking.

Rosé knew already who it was, for it was the priest.

“Father, I don’t know if I don’t know what they are.”

The squeaking of the stairs stopped, and it took some moments until Rosé could feel the presence behind her. Soon, puffing air could be felt upon her shoulders.

“What do you think, dear Rosé?”

“Dolls?”

“No Rosé, they are taxidermies.”

The priest released his presence from behind Rosé, and revealed himself in front of her. Taking the orange haired figure, he lifted it up and presented it in front of the little girl.

“Dear Rosé, let me present to you the true epitome of beauty. This will never decay. This will never disappear. This will never wither. This is true beauty.”

The priest, finishing his presentation, took the figure and suspended it in the manner Rosé first found it, presumably through a hook.

“Dear Rosé, what do you think. Is it beautiful?”

Rosé, her cloudy eyes saw a sparkle of emotion.

It was not fear, but admiration.

“Yes father, it’s beautiful.”

The priest, first taken back by Rosé’s response (For none of the previous girls acted in such a way.), regained his posture. He looked straight at Rosé, ready to reveal his intentions. He had already memorized a magic spell to aid his endeavor, but it seemed unnecessary. It seemed apparent that the manic in front of him was suicidal.

“I need one more. A person of red hair for me to complete my set.”

“Yes father.”

“Dear Rosé, are you prepared to die?”

“No father, I’m still too young. I need to spread this beauty to the world.”

Taken aback, the priest realized that he had to continue with his original plan. It was a shame that the final piece of his collection needed to be subdued. He started the spell with his hands which were hidden behind his back.

Rosé, with new life in her eyes, looked at the priest.

“However father, you are too old. You need to die before your beauty disappears.”

The priest, hearing this, trembled slightly and hastened the chantless spell.

Rosé, standing opposite of him, jumped forward, drawing her sword to attack.

As the priest finished casting his spell, he fired it immediately.

“Die Rosé.”

But Rosé was faster. She lanced her sword into the priest’s mouth which jutted out of the back of the priest's head.

The priest's spell, finished, was fired, but missed anything important, forming a sheet of ice at the wall behind Rosé.

The priest fell backward with Rosé’s momentum and his eyes rolled back, losing consciousness for the last time.

Just seconds later, there was a loud thud upstairs with a clatter of metal footsteps.

Again, the stairs down into the cellar squeaked, only to stop when armored soldiers appeared at the end of it.

“Halt. This is a night raid. The priest living here is accused of being a fraud.”

To their surprise, the priest was dead.

***

“What should I do about this girl, commander?”

The local garrison of Kilinrig were in a mess. Various murders have been attributed to a local faux priest who killed eight and offended the deaths of eleven (Three bodies were found in chairs near the girls.).

“Private Roy, just send her to the military academy. I believe that the king instituted new policies after the riot last year. Starting next year, the king wants us to round the orphans to prevent another protest.”

“Yes sir.”

The private left, leaving the commander to the papers of the case.

“I wouldn’t understand such a man.”

Nearby, an eavesdropping secretary took interest.

“What happened in the case?” The secretary asked.

“It’s none of you business.”

“Oh come on, it’s bound to be a good conversation with my friends.”

The commander took some time to think, but decided on giving a limited version.

“Secretary Lee, I’ll can’t tell you all the details, but I’ll give you just a summary. Is that alright?”

“Commander, just knowing a little puts me ahead of the public.”

“Fine.”

The commander took a sip of tee on the table.

“So, this was a murder case involving the priest that lives down that street.”

“You mean that eccentric guy?”

“Yes. Well anyway, he committed killed several girls. We identified some of them as orphans, some of them who went missing years ago, and some of them as adopted children of fake names that he forged in the past. We also found three family members of his dead. They were registered with a him in a couple of official documents. It seems they died in the Mad Plague that happened a couple of decades ago.”

“Wait, how were you able to identify their corpses?”

 The commander, finding that his secretary was too insightful, stopped himself.

 “Secretary Lee, I said too much.”

***

Though there was an outcry from the populace, the priest was buried in a local cemetery. A gravestone barred his name with his fake occupation. Under that was the title: “The Butcher of Kilinrig”.

To find the priest’s name, however, was a tricky task. Most of the names he had on official documents were contradictory; as a result, they could not be trusted. The priest had little connections besides the few devotees who paid huge sums of money for his religious preachings. Authorities could not ask people with underworld connections with the priest (The priest had to support his church in some way.) and the priest had nobody to call family or friend. Naturally, the duty fell onto to Rosé, his adopted child, to provide his name.

Fortunately or unfortunately, Rosé never knew his name.