[He listened. Through the beat of his heart deafening in his ear, through the dry quavering of his stifled breath, through the agonizing screeches of denial in his mind. Enrico Maxwell heard his priest, teacher, and shepherd beseech him as if his words flowered from the mouths of patron saints.
All his life day and night he had spent perusing the scriptures, taking them to soul and heart. Yet his own loathing for mankind, spurned by those who transgressed against him in his youth, had led him to corrupt the Word he coveted so obsessively. He interpreted the wrath of a jealous God as a reflection of what he was to become and would be lauded for. To be glorified and feared, that would bring him ever-lasting love and adoration. His name would be sanctified, and even he too would see himself canonized to sainthood.
Here and now, even after facing the truth that riches and fame bring no man any closer to God than the poor and downtrodden, he skewed his preacher's words from an outcry for forgiveness, to a hollow guilt plea.
Quivering lips hardened as salted moisture leaked from beneath the bandages and trickled down his sharp vanity. And he hissed as he tasted his own tears, disgusted with himself for allowing them to pour forth, and loathing for the man that spurned their escape from his dry husk.]
So... That what is, was it?
[The archbishop was at an icy precipice. His tone shallow and gelid. Frost so cold he was about to crack from the pressure and weight of his teacher's soul-shattering assent.]
I never... grew to your standards. Never to let go of my loathing for all who had trespassed me.. or would soon do so.
[The utterance left him like a hushing calm before the maelstrom. His body shook violently, the torrent of misery against the floodgates of his frail heart burst. Maxwell roared through the agony of his sobbing, stripped of all his regalia and majestic august. Before the shepherd was a crying sheep lost from the fold miles and miles away from home.]
And why should I have!?
Why, teacher!?
Do not I hate them, O Lord, that hate Thee? And am not I grieved with those that rise up against Thee?!
[Was it not written to loathe what was wicked? Had that not been ingrained into him since he was but a babe? Irate that all he had lived up to had brought him nothing but a lonely grave with none to grieve him, he strangled a scream through his stinging tears.]
My heritage is unto me as a lion in the forest; it crieth out against me.. therefore have I hated it. Hated, hated those revilers..
[His so-called mother and father. The whore and the selfish noblemen.]
...just as I hated the dissenters of Midian. It was divine retribution! There was nothing left for them! They dug their grave, teacher! To have slayed them all instead of turning them over to the ghouls of the damned...
That was My mercy!!
[Watching the flames of purgatory, he saw that damned island for what it was. A lake of fire within whom no one could escape. To have attempted to save a single soul there would have meant corruption to those who touched their sinful flesh. The ghouls were spreading like a plague. Iscariot was the cure. The final solution. Genocide.]
And you... You in in your... undeserved kindness and love and mercy... you slayed me instead.
no subject
All his life day and night he had spent perusing the scriptures, taking them to soul and heart. Yet his own loathing for mankind, spurned by those who transgressed against him in his youth, had led him to corrupt the Word he coveted so obsessively. He interpreted the wrath of a jealous God as a reflection of what he was to become and would be lauded for. To be glorified and feared, that would bring him ever-lasting love and adoration. His name would be sanctified, and even he too would see himself canonized to sainthood.
Here and now, even after facing the truth that riches and fame bring no man any closer to God than the poor and downtrodden, he skewed his preacher's words from an outcry for forgiveness, to a hollow guilt plea.
Quivering lips hardened as salted moisture leaked from beneath the bandages and trickled down his sharp vanity. And he hissed as he tasted his own tears, disgusted with himself for allowing them to pour forth, and loathing for the man that spurned their escape from his dry husk.]
So... That what is, was it?
[The archbishop was at an icy precipice. His tone shallow and gelid. Frost so cold he was about to crack from the pressure and weight of his teacher's soul-shattering assent.]
I never... grew to your standards. Never to let go of my loathing for all who had trespassed me.. or would soon do so.
[The utterance left him like a hushing calm before the maelstrom. His body shook violently, the torrent of misery against the floodgates of his frail heart burst. Maxwell roared through the agony of his sobbing, stripped of all his regalia and majestic august. Before the shepherd was a crying sheep lost from the fold miles and miles away from home.]
And why should I have!?
Why, teacher!?
Do not I hate them, O Lord, that hate Thee? And am not I grieved with those that rise up against Thee?!
[Was it not written to loathe what was wicked? Had that not been ingrained into him since he was but a babe? Irate that all he had lived up to had brought him nothing but a lonely grave with none to grieve him, he strangled a scream through his stinging tears.]
My heritage is unto me as a lion in the forest; it crieth out against me.. therefore have I hated it. Hated, hated those revilers..
[His so-called mother and father. The whore and the selfish noblemen.]
...just as I hated the dissenters of Midian. It was divine retribution! There was nothing left for them! They dug their grave, teacher! To have slayed them all instead of turning them over to the ghouls of the damned...
That was My mercy!!
[Watching the flames of purgatory, he saw that damned island for what it was. A lake of fire within whom no one could escape. To have attempted to save a single soul there would have meant corruption to those who touched their sinful flesh. The ghouls were spreading like a plague. Iscariot was the cure. The final solution. Genocide.]
And you... You in in your... undeserved kindness and love and mercy... you slayed me instead.
Was that it, Father?
Teacher?
Was that your mercy!?
Was that your love, Alexander Anderson!?