Title: Redemption
Author: Nataku
Part: Stand alone
Category: Dark/Horror, Taboo (anti-religious themes), Graphic (violence)
Rating: R
Pairings: None
E-mail: kokuneko7@yahoo.com
Site: None
Warning: I am WARNING you people. This story will offend those who are religious. It is not intended to but it will. Do not flame me if you don't like it. I am warning you. DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE RELIGIOUS. THERE IS VIOLENCE AND MATERIAL INAPPROPRIATE FOR THOSE WHO ARE SENSITIVE ABOUT RELIGION IN THIS STORY.
Author's Note: I am NOT anti-religious. I repeat. I am NOT anti-religious. I intend no harm with this story, so don't flame me. If you don't like anti- religious themes, DO NOT READ. Like I said, Marourin is my character and I will be extremely upset if anyone steals him. I worked hard to think him up so please, DO NOT STEAL.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Redemption
A lone, dark figure stood on top of a tree, gazing out at the silent forest. The wind ruffled his long, black hair and the moonlight cast him in an angelic halo. Slowly, he tilted his face up to be caressed by the glow of the leering silver orb in the sky.
The night was dark, and cold, the stars glittering in myriad numbers upon a black backdrop. It seemed so...dead.
He could hear the hooting of owls and the near silent rustle of feathers as one dropped down for the kill. Blood pounded through a mouse's veins, then it ceased. The man smiled softly. Such was the dance of life. You were born, you lived, and then you died. It has been that way since the dawn of time. Three harmonious beats dancing in an endless waltz, uncaring about the lives it dragged into the percussion.
So cold.
So dark.
Shadows covered the place like a blanket. Enigmatic and alluring, just like the black figure watching this still night. Around him seemed to be an even heavier darkness. It wrapped around his body, caressing, holding him in its icy embrace. He felt hollow inside.
So empty.
A howl drifted up. A lone wolf searching for its pack perhaps. The sound was forlorn and heart breaking. The man felt a numbness, a sort of longing...
Whistling, the wind moaned like a demon possessed, blowing through the treetops and whipping the man's black tresses around. His coat flapped like a pair of black wings and the moonlight illuminated his pale, beautiful features.
Like an angel of darkness he stood there, serene and calm. Marourin's golden eyes drifted shut, the wind gently brushing his face even as the moon caressed it with soft, silvery radiance. Another howl drifted up from the wolf, even more heartbreaking than the one before. He felt a wrenching in his chest, the sound echoing the black void in his heart. The swordsman could have sworn he heard a shattering sound.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Like ice splintering and littering his soul. How lovely was the crystalline sound. It would of been painful hadn't he been numbed to the sensation, so he just gazed with morbid interest. He could almost see the glittering shards, gleaming like the aloof stars
overhead. Uncaring, unfeeling. Just like himself.
The wind blew again and with it came the scent of people. His ears picked up the sound of young voices.
Ah, children singing in a church choir. So sweet and innocent.
He smiled softly, tilting his head and hummed gently to the tune. What lovely young voices...
In a black blur, he started racing through the forest to the source of the sound. So far away was this. After a short time, he appeared in front of a church. The cross loomed in front of him. It symbolized the sacred, holy place of worship, a sanctuary for souls who needed guidance. He had heard that the cross and all things holy burned the evil demons that dared to lay their claws upon them. They said that monsters such as himself could not touch anything blessed by the Lord. His black gloved hand reached up and brushed over the worn wood of the cross. A cold, cruel smile graced his face as nothing happened. The legends were completely false. Holy objects did nothing to harm him, neither marring flesh nor causing agony. The sun did not sear his skin and burn to ashes where it's rays brushed against him.
So much for the old wards against demons.
Slowly, he opened the door to the sacred house of God.
A child, a choirboy to be precise, came up to him and held up the tray. A beautiful smile crossed his face as he put in a donation. Walking slowly up the aisle, he looked around. The murals of the saints peered down at him and when he stopped, the figure of Jesus Christ stood before him, head crowned with thorns. Nailed to the cross, paying for the sins of humanity so the humans who made them wouldn't have to.
"Can I help you my son?" a priest walked up to him, polite and welcoming, if a tad confused. Wrinkles of age has long since weakened the strength of his jaw and his once black hair was now thinned and white. However his blue eyes were bright and his smile was kind.
"Father, I would like to confess my sins. I have many to release from my heart."
"Of course my son."
Marourin sat in the confessions booth, an angelic smile curving his lips gently.
"Father, forgive me for I have sinned."
"The good Lord is all forgiving."
"My hands father." the swordsman looked at his black clad hands. "They are stained and corrupted beyond all salvation."
"How so my son?"
"I have murdered many. And enjoyed the taste of their blood flowing down my throat." he could sense the slight tinge of fear in the priest.
"The Lord is almighty and forgiving my son." the old man's voice wavered slightly.
Slowly, the swordsman took off his gloves. His hands were slender and elegant, though strong from years of handling a sword.
"They are bloodstained father. Can't you see them? They are dripping with blood." he held his hands up, turning them in the air, as if he were playing some strange instrument, plucking strings and delicately cradling an object in his arms.
"No my son. Your hands are clean and pure." the priest was starting to panic, but he put his faith in the good lord that he would be protected in the house of God, the sacred grounds of which salvation was offered to all.
"You cannot see it father? Look. They are dripping crimson blood." slowly, Marourin stood up. He was gazing at his hands, face with an expression of awe. Dark shades veiled his eyes to the world, but they glowed beneath the tinted lenses. The left eye was a vibrant red, like rubies light from within, and the right was a glazed gold. He smiled and tilted his head slightly, the faint candlelight glinting off of his fangs for a brief second.
The priest felt a fine tremor run up his spine, and then started shaking slightly. He saw the suspicious glint and the man's voice, so soft and angelic, had taken on an insane tone.
It was too dark and purring, too smooth and velvety to be human.
The sound wove in and out of his mind like a web, entrancing, yet sinister at the same time. At last, his urge to flee was too strong and he stumbled out.
Marourin frowned slightly and with a languid grace, walked out of the booth and into the candlelight. The flames flickered, casting him in mysterious shadows. The fire illuminated his features and made him look like a black clad angel.
Serene, beautiful, and quite mad.
Crossing himself, the priest trembled and fell to his knees. He stared at the angelic man, who seemed to so resemble a demon as well. The sunglasses hid his eyes, but the old man was sure that they were not the eyes of one with a shred of sanity.
The swordsman walked slowly around the priest, his strides long and filled with a liquid grace. He stopped and tilted his head up, the dying light capturing his expression of calm. Slowly, he lolled his head to look at the old man, nightmarish in the smooth manner. He reached up with one slender hand and pulled off the shades. His eyes, one red, one gold, glinted and seemed to glow.
"P-P-Please. T-This i-i-is a house of G-God!" the priest was weeping, tears tracking down his cheeks. "May the good Lord protect his children." this was whispered softly to himself.
Tilting his head to one side, Marourin gazed at the priest, and then looked around. The statue of Jesus looked down at him, as if disapproving of what he was going to do. The saints all glowered at him, condemning his soul if he carried it through. Smiling beautifully, the swordsman faced the statue of Jesus Christ.
"So, you don't want me to murder one of your children in your own house? Are you going to condemn my soul if I do? I don't care anymore. Do you hear me? I'll murder your children one by one for by hurting you're children, I hurt you."
"My son. Poor child. It is not too late, the Lord is all forgiving. You're soul can be saved just don't loose faith."
"Faith?" the swordsman practically spat.
"I lost my faith the day the woman I loved was nailed to HIS sign. I lost my faith the day my love died by HIS hand. I lost my faith the day that HE turned his back on me. Where was he when I needed him? If God is almighty, he can't be all good. If he is all good, than he can't be almighty." A bitter look was etched into his handsome features and his eyes glowed with a pained light.
"He turned his back on me so I turn my back on him. I can't kill him but I can make him suffer by killing his children."
"My son! You are a child of God. He loves and adores all of his children, including yourself!" the priests tears still flowed as he stared at the poor soul.
"If God truly loved me, he would have been there when I needed him. You will find out for yourself what is feels like to be abandoned by him when he does not save your pathetic life!" his head darted forward and he sliced a gash in his wrist. He gathered the blood on his fingertip and slowly trailed it down the priest's cheeks. It left bloody tear marks on his face and he smiled, once again calm.
Flinching, the priest shuddered, praying and weeping at the feel of the potent blood. It was definitely more than human.
"God almighty, save your children."
"God shall not save you father. He will turn his back on you. Remember that when you die." Swiftly, Marourin hauled the priest up by the front of his robes and bared his fangs. They gleamed wickedly in the dim light and he was the very personification of the devil right then.
Tears trickled down the wrinkled cheeks, staining them with liquid trails of sorrow.
"Look into my eyes father and tell me what you see."
Unable to do anything but obey, the old man did so.
"My son!" he gasped in horror. The eyes, they were not the eyes of a sane man. Nor were they the eyes of a creature that believed in his own salvation. The color wasn't particularly dark, but an entrancing shade of gold and ruby; however, staring into them was like staring into the depths of a frozen glacier. Like staring into the cold vastness of space. The eyes, they were that of a demon's.
Haunted, hollow, cold. An emptiness that should not of been.
The last thing he saw were those eyes as an intense pain blossomed in his chest, then everything faded. As he died, his last thought was of pity for his murderer.
"Protect his soul, in the name of the father, the son, and the Holy ghost, save his soul..."
Snarling in rage, the swordsman tore open the chest and ripped out his heart. It was still bleeding even as he devoured the organ. Viciously, he threw the body against a wall where it left a scarlet streak as it fell, bloodied and broken. His eyes flared like a twisted flame as he looked around.
The saints all seemed to be radiating sorrow and the statue of Jesus Christ loomed over him, weeping bitter tears of remorse. Not for the priest, but for him.
"I don't want your pity! I don't need your salvation! I don't need you're fucking sympathy!"
He howled in rage and threw back his head. Energy radiated around his body as he
roared/howled/screamed. The gyrating blackness surrounding him flared and engulfed the
swordsman. Marourin's body seemed to fill with energy, an intense rush spreading through his veins even as the agony crept in.
His face made crunching sounds as the bones contorted and pushed outward to form a muzzle. His ears crept up to the top of his head and elongated into long, sharp jackal ears. POP!!! The sound of knees reversing direction resonated. Another sickening crunching sound and his shins grew longer.
Already, Marourin's legs were the muscular one's of a jackal. His feet ripped through his boots as they warped into paws with large, sharp claws. Muscles rippled up the swordsman's form and his hands twisted into lethal claws. A thick, furry tail sprouted from the base of his spine and his fangs lengthened in his powerful jaws. With them, he could snap bones like twigs.
When the transformation was complete, he tossed back his head, howling to the leering moon overhead. He turned as a choirboy opened the door.
"Father?" the child fell down and screamed in terror at the remains of the priest. His fearful eyes then trained on the jackal beast.
The swordsman, now jackal tilted his head to one side, looking at the boy. Then he lunged forward and ripped the child to shreds. Blood lust thickened his voice as he howled again, devastating the church and murdering the people in it.
He smashed the statue of Jesus and slashed to pieces the murals. Red clouded his vision as he swept through the church, bringing death and destruction wherever his dark shadow fell. Nuns, choirboys, anyone of the house of God were killed brutally, viciously. At last, when he inflicted all the damage he could, he stood there, panting and splattered with blood.
Calmly, he shifted back into human and looked at the scene with icy gold eyes. They gleamed like a twisting flame and he turned around, walking away. Fading into the dark and cold, he languidly flung his hand out. A bomb was sent arching through the air like a message. On contact, it exploded and instantly ignited the church, sending the old building into a writhing halo.
He listened to the flames crackling and licking the structure.
He heard the wood groaning and collapsing.
He smelled the scent of burning flesh and debris, yet he did not turn around. As silently as a shade, he disappeared into the dark, uncaring night.
Hanging mockingly pure and innocent in the night sky, the moon continued to glow softly, her silvery radiance the witness to the bloody murders.
The church was engulfed in flames; fire spread like a disease and thoroughly destroyed everything in its path. It burned and scarred, creating an inferno of which there was no escape. A hellish glow light up the building as it was slowly being extinguished. And in the middle of the carnage, laid the head of the statue. As the fire started to burn the figure, it seemed to be weeping.
Author's Note: If you read this much of my crappy story, you must be open- minded. Do not flame me because I warned you. It is dark and anti- religious. Constructive criticism is welcomed, but flames and death threats shall be used to roast marshmallows. Please don't flame me. DO NOT STEAL MAROURIN.
Author: Nataku
Part: Stand alone
Category: Dark/Horror, Taboo (anti-religious themes), Graphic (violence)
Rating: R
Pairings: None
E-mail: kokuneko7@yahoo.com
Site: None
Warning: I am WARNING you people. This story will offend those who are religious. It is not intended to but it will. Do not flame me if you don't like it. I am warning you. DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE RELIGIOUS. THERE IS VIOLENCE AND MATERIAL INAPPROPRIATE FOR THOSE WHO ARE SENSITIVE ABOUT RELIGION IN THIS STORY.
Author's Note: I am NOT anti-religious. I repeat. I am NOT anti-religious. I intend no harm with this story, so don't flame me. If you don't like anti- religious themes, DO NOT READ. Like I said, Marourin is my character and I will be extremely upset if anyone steals him. I worked hard to think him up so please, DO NOT STEAL.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Redemption
A lone, dark figure stood on top of a tree, gazing out at the silent forest. The wind ruffled his long, black hair and the moonlight cast him in an angelic halo. Slowly, he tilted his face up to be caressed by the glow of the leering silver orb in the sky.
The night was dark, and cold, the stars glittering in myriad numbers upon a black backdrop. It seemed so...dead.
He could hear the hooting of owls and the near silent rustle of feathers as one dropped down for the kill. Blood pounded through a mouse's veins, then it ceased. The man smiled softly. Such was the dance of life. You were born, you lived, and then you died. It has been that way since the dawn of time. Three harmonious beats dancing in an endless waltz, uncaring about the lives it dragged into the percussion.
So cold.
So dark.
Shadows covered the place like a blanket. Enigmatic and alluring, just like the black figure watching this still night. Around him seemed to be an even heavier darkness. It wrapped around his body, caressing, holding him in its icy embrace. He felt hollow inside.
So empty.
A howl drifted up. A lone wolf searching for its pack perhaps. The sound was forlorn and heart breaking. The man felt a numbness, a sort of longing...
Whistling, the wind moaned like a demon possessed, blowing through the treetops and whipping the man's black tresses around. His coat flapped like a pair of black wings and the moonlight illuminated his pale, beautiful features.
Like an angel of darkness he stood there, serene and calm. Marourin's golden eyes drifted shut, the wind gently brushing his face even as the moon caressed it with soft, silvery radiance. Another howl drifted up from the wolf, even more heartbreaking than the one before. He felt a wrenching in his chest, the sound echoing the black void in his heart. The swordsman could have sworn he heard a shattering sound.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Like ice splintering and littering his soul. How lovely was the crystalline sound. It would of been painful hadn't he been numbed to the sensation, so he just gazed with morbid interest. He could almost see the glittering shards, gleaming like the aloof stars
overhead. Uncaring, unfeeling. Just like himself.
The wind blew again and with it came the scent of people. His ears picked up the sound of young voices.
Ah, children singing in a church choir. So sweet and innocent.
He smiled softly, tilting his head and hummed gently to the tune. What lovely young voices...
In a black blur, he started racing through the forest to the source of the sound. So far away was this. After a short time, he appeared in front of a church. The cross loomed in front of him. It symbolized the sacred, holy place of worship, a sanctuary for souls who needed guidance. He had heard that the cross and all things holy burned the evil demons that dared to lay their claws upon them. They said that monsters such as himself could not touch anything blessed by the Lord. His black gloved hand reached up and brushed over the worn wood of the cross. A cold, cruel smile graced his face as nothing happened. The legends were completely false. Holy objects did nothing to harm him, neither marring flesh nor causing agony. The sun did not sear his skin and burn to ashes where it's rays brushed against him.
So much for the old wards against demons.
Slowly, he opened the door to the sacred house of God.
A child, a choirboy to be precise, came up to him and held up the tray. A beautiful smile crossed his face as he put in a donation. Walking slowly up the aisle, he looked around. The murals of the saints peered down at him and when he stopped, the figure of Jesus Christ stood before him, head crowned with thorns. Nailed to the cross, paying for the sins of humanity so the humans who made them wouldn't have to.
"Can I help you my son?" a priest walked up to him, polite and welcoming, if a tad confused. Wrinkles of age has long since weakened the strength of his jaw and his once black hair was now thinned and white. However his blue eyes were bright and his smile was kind.
"Father, I would like to confess my sins. I have many to release from my heart."
"Of course my son."
Marourin sat in the confessions booth, an angelic smile curving his lips gently.
"Father, forgive me for I have sinned."
"The good Lord is all forgiving."
"My hands father." the swordsman looked at his black clad hands. "They are stained and corrupted beyond all salvation."
"How so my son?"
"I have murdered many. And enjoyed the taste of their blood flowing down my throat." he could sense the slight tinge of fear in the priest.
"The Lord is almighty and forgiving my son." the old man's voice wavered slightly.
Slowly, the swordsman took off his gloves. His hands were slender and elegant, though strong from years of handling a sword.
"They are bloodstained father. Can't you see them? They are dripping with blood." he held his hands up, turning them in the air, as if he were playing some strange instrument, plucking strings and delicately cradling an object in his arms.
"No my son. Your hands are clean and pure." the priest was starting to panic, but he put his faith in the good lord that he would be protected in the house of God, the sacred grounds of which salvation was offered to all.
"You cannot see it father? Look. They are dripping crimson blood." slowly, Marourin stood up. He was gazing at his hands, face with an expression of awe. Dark shades veiled his eyes to the world, but they glowed beneath the tinted lenses. The left eye was a vibrant red, like rubies light from within, and the right was a glazed gold. He smiled and tilted his head slightly, the faint candlelight glinting off of his fangs for a brief second.
The priest felt a fine tremor run up his spine, and then started shaking slightly. He saw the suspicious glint and the man's voice, so soft and angelic, had taken on an insane tone.
It was too dark and purring, too smooth and velvety to be human.
The sound wove in and out of his mind like a web, entrancing, yet sinister at the same time. At last, his urge to flee was too strong and he stumbled out.
Marourin frowned slightly and with a languid grace, walked out of the booth and into the candlelight. The flames flickered, casting him in mysterious shadows. The fire illuminated his features and made him look like a black clad angel.
Serene, beautiful, and quite mad.
Crossing himself, the priest trembled and fell to his knees. He stared at the angelic man, who seemed to so resemble a demon as well. The sunglasses hid his eyes, but the old man was sure that they were not the eyes of one with a shred of sanity.
The swordsman walked slowly around the priest, his strides long and filled with a liquid grace. He stopped and tilted his head up, the dying light capturing his expression of calm. Slowly, he lolled his head to look at the old man, nightmarish in the smooth manner. He reached up with one slender hand and pulled off the shades. His eyes, one red, one gold, glinted and seemed to glow.
"P-P-Please. T-This i-i-is a house of G-God!" the priest was weeping, tears tracking down his cheeks. "May the good Lord protect his children." this was whispered softly to himself.
Tilting his head to one side, Marourin gazed at the priest, and then looked around. The statue of Jesus looked down at him, as if disapproving of what he was going to do. The saints all glowered at him, condemning his soul if he carried it through. Smiling beautifully, the swordsman faced the statue of Jesus Christ.
"So, you don't want me to murder one of your children in your own house? Are you going to condemn my soul if I do? I don't care anymore. Do you hear me? I'll murder your children one by one for by hurting you're children, I hurt you."
"My son. Poor child. It is not too late, the Lord is all forgiving. You're soul can be saved just don't loose faith."
"Faith?" the swordsman practically spat.
"I lost my faith the day the woman I loved was nailed to HIS sign. I lost my faith the day my love died by HIS hand. I lost my faith the day that HE turned his back on me. Where was he when I needed him? If God is almighty, he can't be all good. If he is all good, than he can't be almighty." A bitter look was etched into his handsome features and his eyes glowed with a pained light.
"He turned his back on me so I turn my back on him. I can't kill him but I can make him suffer by killing his children."
"My son! You are a child of God. He loves and adores all of his children, including yourself!" the priests tears still flowed as he stared at the poor soul.
"If God truly loved me, he would have been there when I needed him. You will find out for yourself what is feels like to be abandoned by him when he does not save your pathetic life!" his head darted forward and he sliced a gash in his wrist. He gathered the blood on his fingertip and slowly trailed it down the priest's cheeks. It left bloody tear marks on his face and he smiled, once again calm.
Flinching, the priest shuddered, praying and weeping at the feel of the potent blood. It was definitely more than human.
"God almighty, save your children."
"God shall not save you father. He will turn his back on you. Remember that when you die." Swiftly, Marourin hauled the priest up by the front of his robes and bared his fangs. They gleamed wickedly in the dim light and he was the very personification of the devil right then.
Tears trickled down the wrinkled cheeks, staining them with liquid trails of sorrow.
"Look into my eyes father and tell me what you see."
Unable to do anything but obey, the old man did so.
"My son!" he gasped in horror. The eyes, they were not the eyes of a sane man. Nor were they the eyes of a creature that believed in his own salvation. The color wasn't particularly dark, but an entrancing shade of gold and ruby; however, staring into them was like staring into the depths of a frozen glacier. Like staring into the cold vastness of space. The eyes, they were that of a demon's.
Haunted, hollow, cold. An emptiness that should not of been.
The last thing he saw were those eyes as an intense pain blossomed in his chest, then everything faded. As he died, his last thought was of pity for his murderer.
"Protect his soul, in the name of the father, the son, and the Holy ghost, save his soul..."
Snarling in rage, the swordsman tore open the chest and ripped out his heart. It was still bleeding even as he devoured the organ. Viciously, he threw the body against a wall where it left a scarlet streak as it fell, bloodied and broken. His eyes flared like a twisted flame as he looked around.
The saints all seemed to be radiating sorrow and the statue of Jesus Christ loomed over him, weeping bitter tears of remorse. Not for the priest, but for him.
"I don't want your pity! I don't need your salvation! I don't need you're fucking sympathy!"
He howled in rage and threw back his head. Energy radiated around his body as he
roared/howled/screamed. The gyrating blackness surrounding him flared and engulfed the
swordsman. Marourin's body seemed to fill with energy, an intense rush spreading through his veins even as the agony crept in.
His face made crunching sounds as the bones contorted and pushed outward to form a muzzle. His ears crept up to the top of his head and elongated into long, sharp jackal ears. POP!!! The sound of knees reversing direction resonated. Another sickening crunching sound and his shins grew longer.
Already, Marourin's legs were the muscular one's of a jackal. His feet ripped through his boots as they warped into paws with large, sharp claws. Muscles rippled up the swordsman's form and his hands twisted into lethal claws. A thick, furry tail sprouted from the base of his spine and his fangs lengthened in his powerful jaws. With them, he could snap bones like twigs.
When the transformation was complete, he tossed back his head, howling to the leering moon overhead. He turned as a choirboy opened the door.
"Father?" the child fell down and screamed in terror at the remains of the priest. His fearful eyes then trained on the jackal beast.
The swordsman, now jackal tilted his head to one side, looking at the boy. Then he lunged forward and ripped the child to shreds. Blood lust thickened his voice as he howled again, devastating the church and murdering the people in it.
He smashed the statue of Jesus and slashed to pieces the murals. Red clouded his vision as he swept through the church, bringing death and destruction wherever his dark shadow fell. Nuns, choirboys, anyone of the house of God were killed brutally, viciously. At last, when he inflicted all the damage he could, he stood there, panting and splattered with blood.
Calmly, he shifted back into human and looked at the scene with icy gold eyes. They gleamed like a twisting flame and he turned around, walking away. Fading into the dark and cold, he languidly flung his hand out. A bomb was sent arching through the air like a message. On contact, it exploded and instantly ignited the church, sending the old building into a writhing halo.
He listened to the flames crackling and licking the structure.
He heard the wood groaning and collapsing.
He smelled the scent of burning flesh and debris, yet he did not turn around. As silently as a shade, he disappeared into the dark, uncaring night.
Hanging mockingly pure and innocent in the night sky, the moon continued to glow softly, her silvery radiance the witness to the bloody murders.
The church was engulfed in flames; fire spread like a disease and thoroughly destroyed everything in its path. It burned and scarred, creating an inferno of which there was no escape. A hellish glow light up the building as it was slowly being extinguished. And in the middle of the carnage, laid the head of the statue. As the fire started to burn the figure, it seemed to be weeping.
Author's Note: If you read this much of my crappy story, you must be open- minded. Do not flame me because I warned you. It is dark and anti- religious. Constructive criticism is welcomed, but flames and death threats shall be used to roast marshmallows. Please don't flame me. DO NOT STEAL MAROURIN.