'He did not wear his scarlet cloak for blood and wine are read
And blood and wine were on his hands when they found him with the dead'
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THE STORY BEGINS WITH A MAN...
The loneliest man in the world: The loneliest man in the universe. The most wretched, the most hated, the most pathetic, the most despised, the most haunted, the most vilified, the most alone - the saddest man.
The crowds clustered around, whispering and pointing, twitching and twittering amongst themselves with the sheer horror of the scandal.
He was a picture of penitence:
Sitting on the floor within the light, knees drawn up to the chin, trying to ignore the babble of the voices from the surrounding darkness but feeling the emotions and thoughts that filled the air all the same. Knowing what it meant – and blood and wine were on his hands – but at the same time trying not to know.
He did not wear his scarlet coat:
The once long hair had been carelessly hacked short. The silk, linen and velvet replaced by shabby grey. The head, once held proudly high, permanently bowed.
Only the shoes – the shoes given to him so long ago – the shoes that by pure chance had fitted so well – only the shoes remained as a sad reminder of happier days.
He stared at the shoes.
...........
'Everyone is sorry after the fact.'
'Bit late then isn't it.'
'He knew what he was doing. They all do: The Taker, the Saviour, the Lover, the Zealot, the Believer. Different reasons, but all the same. Always the same outcome.' There was a sigh. 'No, it doesn't change anything.'
'Think he is sorry?'
There was a pause.
'Yes. Yes I think he is.'
'Still – a bit late for that now isn't it.'
............