“I can tell you a story, little brother”, the knight said, and threw the last meat into the stew to cook. “This silence might suits you, but I prefer at least a little bit of chatter.”
“I won’t oppose you, Sire”, Father Tremo replied, without daring to let the stranger out of his sight for even a second.
“I would rather not keep you from your prayers, little brother”, the stranger remarked with an audible smile, but the unnatural darkness of the cowl made it difficult to verify.
“What kind of story would you tell me, Sire?”
“The story of the Divine Lord. Judging by your face, you do think you know it already.”
“I-I didn’t mean to offend you, Sire!“
“You did naught, little brother. And, as assuredly as the sun rises in the morning, you like any other person in this land think of knowing the story of the Divine Lord. How he marched like Archangel Micheal into the capital, but sized the crown like the Devil incarnate. How he took over the land with monsters and demons, all hell and beyond has to offer. But do you know how Rosomil actually became what he is today?”
“And why would you, who’s among his knights, bearing his insignia on your amour, tell me, a forlorn priest, this story?”
“Exactly because of that”, the knight said after a moment. “And you will listen and, most importantly, remember it well.”
Tremo felt an almost animalistic fear clawing at his innermost being. The way the knight had spoken had been as if those words were a command even the Devil would’ve to obey. What exactly was sitting next to him, preparing food and talking about the Divine Lord as if he were just a mere legend and long gone?
If the knight knew about the impression he just made or not, Father Tremo didn’t know or even dared to want to know. So, he just watched the stranger start to pour some of hearty smelling meal out of the pot into two wooden bowls. Along with a spoon, he gave one to Tremo, who took both in his trembling hands.
“Eat your fill, little brother”, the knight said, and placed his bowl down on the stone. “While I tell you the truth of the Divine Lord.”
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
—
Rosomil was a member of the Order of the Crimson Hand. A secret order meant to hunt down demons and all kinds of nasty fiends and those who would call them forth and dare to stain their hands with the blood of innocence. As it was customary, in order to become a member of the Order of the Crimson Hand, one needed to have had contact with those despicable powers without having wielded them themselves.
The man, who calls himself now Divine Lord, had thusly started his life as the child of a poor innocent girl who had happened to fall into the hands of a necromancer. He was raised to be a vessel for the necromancers vile magic experiments. Nothing more than a puppet to be played with and then discarded. But before the poor boy could be sacrificed, the Crimson Hand showed up and killed everyone but the little boy with the wide blue eyes and the golden hair.
You can rest assured, little brother. There hadn’t been any demon within the child. But instead, there was something very human growing in the boy's heart: the wish to do better. The wish to rid the world of misery and all those who enable it. A noble goal, easily corrupted, but we aren’t there yet.
Rosomil was taken in by the Crimson Hand and took all their teachings to heart, and with time the wide-eyed child turned into a handsome and fiercely devote man. The Master of the Order was so happy with Rosomil’s growth and advances, that he made the boy, upon reaching his presumably eighteenth year, a knight of the Order of the Crimson Hand. And all was well within the Order.
Time went by as it does and Rosomil managed to uproot whole convents of necromancers, devil summoners and worse things. He and his group of four knights were called the Blade of Crimson among the Order. There was no abomination they couldn’t defeat, but even the best have to one day face their master. Especially if there’s a weakness within the heart, ignored by or hidden from the conscious mind.
You see, little brother, Rosomil was the best the Order of the Crimson Hand had to offer, but he was plighted by despair. Yes, he saved countless lives, made the country safer and helped his Order to grow, but all of it was too slow for him. He desired to rid the world of all ungodly things, to return it into the paradise it once was. There was just one problem. He was merely human. For every evil, he uprooted and disposed of, two new ones seemed to take its place. What could he hope to accomplish within his life that wasn’t undone, either still during his lifetime or long after his death? Human nature is fleeting and ever-changing. Something he was well aware of.
Rosomil prayed to God, asking for help or a sign. But God stayed silent, seemingly content with what the young knight accomplished in His name. After all, Rosomil saved the lives of innocent people, pulling them back into the light of the Lord. His work was good, no questions asked, but to Rosomil it wasn’t enough. He had to do more. Help more people. Save more people.
With fervour, he doubled and tripled his work. Lucky for him, he had found companions willing to follow him to Hell and back again. And, for the time being, he was content, fighting the good fight.