Prologue
"Ring a ring of roses
A pocket full of posies
Atichoo, atichoo!
We all fall down..."
The year is 1666. A man with brown hair and the remains of wealthy Tudor clothing walks through the dark, winding streets of London, there is blood on his face and his hands. He lurches drunkenly into a rotting door, a red cross daubed on it. Plague has hit the city hard, and still it does not relent. Letting go of a loud sob, he pushes away from the door and continues his slow, painful ramble of the rat infested streets.
He looks up into the night sky, and with every fibre of his body he curses God. The pale, angelic face of Drusilla haunts him, her singing the song they heard the children sing about the plague. Her laughter at his jokes, her delight at the words he wrote on paper. Every memory shreds his heart into smaller pieces. Who would have thought that the plague would strike his beloved Drusilla, of all people. They had both been careful of course, always wearing the white masks and avoiding the corpses, but Drusilla had always been unable to resist doing anything she could to help the suffering. She had always had the herb lore her mother had taught her, ingrained on her brain, and so she had always made any remedies she could to help those in suffering. But of course, when you cling to someone falling, they will often drag you with them. And she had fallen ill as well. He had not accepted it, not until he heard the hacking cough and the boils sprung up angrily on her skin. It had been his task to paint a cross on their door, she had pleaded with him to leave her, but he would not. Earlier that day, she had asked him to bring her flowers, and so running he went out to find flowers, he brought them back, only to find her on the bed, her body nearly empty of blood. She had taken her life, not being able to see him suffer more.
He knew God's law, she would go to hell for comiting the heinous sin of suicide. A wretched sob broke free, and he cursed God's name again. Looking up at the night sky, void of stars, he knew where he was going.
He entered the church, just as the rain began to fall. The crucifix above the alter caught his attention. He walked towards it, his eyes fixed on the statue of Jesus Christ on the cross. A dark smirk crossed his features and he picked up the candle next to the baptisimal font, he lit it on a burning candle and for a second his cornflour blue eyes were transfixed by the glow. Then he turned back to the cross.
"I denounce you. I denounce Christ. I denounce the Father, The Son and The Holy bloody Spirit" He threw the candle at the wooden cross and it crumbled on impact, the flame catching on the wood, slowly the flames licked up on the polished wood until the entire statue was in flames. Taking the knife Drusilla had used to cut her own throat with, he attacked any religious symbol in the church, cursing and denouncing his faith.
His words were cut off by an unpleasent hacking cough, as blood spilled out of his lungs. His eyes watered uncontrollably as blood ran from his eyeballs, and his body convulsed uncontrollably. A piercing scream, broken off by a gurgle of blood escaped him. It would appear that the almighty God did care about what His children did after all...
"Ring a ring of roses
A pocket full of posies
Atichoo, atichoo!
We all fall down..."
The year is 1666. A man with brown hair and the remains of wealthy Tudor clothing walks through the dark, winding streets of London, there is blood on his face and his hands. He lurches drunkenly into a rotting door, a red cross daubed on it. Plague has hit the city hard, and still it does not relent. Letting go of a loud sob, he pushes away from the door and continues his slow, painful ramble of the rat infested streets.
He looks up into the night sky, and with every fibre of his body he curses God. The pale, angelic face of Drusilla haunts him, her singing the song they heard the children sing about the plague. Her laughter at his jokes, her delight at the words he wrote on paper. Every memory shreds his heart into smaller pieces. Who would have thought that the plague would strike his beloved Drusilla, of all people. They had both been careful of course, always wearing the white masks and avoiding the corpses, but Drusilla had always been unable to resist doing anything she could to help the suffering. She had always had the herb lore her mother had taught her, ingrained on her brain, and so she had always made any remedies she could to help those in suffering. But of course, when you cling to someone falling, they will often drag you with them. And she had fallen ill as well. He had not accepted it, not until he heard the hacking cough and the boils sprung up angrily on her skin. It had been his task to paint a cross on their door, she had pleaded with him to leave her, but he would not. Earlier that day, she had asked him to bring her flowers, and so running he went out to find flowers, he brought them back, only to find her on the bed, her body nearly empty of blood. She had taken her life, not being able to see him suffer more.
He knew God's law, she would go to hell for comiting the heinous sin of suicide. A wretched sob broke free, and he cursed God's name again. Looking up at the night sky, void of stars, he knew where he was going.
He entered the church, just as the rain began to fall. The crucifix above the alter caught his attention. He walked towards it, his eyes fixed on the statue of Jesus Christ on the cross. A dark smirk crossed his features and he picked up the candle next to the baptisimal font, he lit it on a burning candle and for a second his cornflour blue eyes were transfixed by the glow. Then he turned back to the cross.
"I denounce you. I denounce Christ. I denounce the Father, The Son and The Holy bloody Spirit" He threw the candle at the wooden cross and it crumbled on impact, the flame catching on the wood, slowly the flames licked up on the polished wood until the entire statue was in flames. Taking the knife Drusilla had used to cut her own throat with, he attacked any religious symbol in the church, cursing and denouncing his faith.
His words were cut off by an unpleasent hacking cough, as blood spilled out of his lungs. His eyes watered uncontrollably as blood ran from his eyeballs, and his body convulsed uncontrollably. A piercing scream, broken off by a gurgle of blood escaped him. It would appear that the almighty God did care about what His children did after all...