He sat alone, long, bony fingers positioned at the entrance to his bloodless lips, eyes set ablaze, like twin coals, cast in thought upon the moon's brilliant radiance, which soaked his chamber with its tranquility, a white blush. His pose gave off a wave of elegance, of grace and perturbing beauty, while his nature reeked of the putrid stink of death, almost a sweet odor if you didn't sniff closely enough, but under it, that rotted stench gathered. His features, set in stone, rarely ever hinted at his true age, which no one exactly knew. Instead of expressing the clumsy nature of a child, he displayed the power of a rightful ruler, the one who had been chosen to be the strong voice needed to carry out His words.

He was impatient, though it would do him no good to admit it. His stubborn cockiness wouldn't allow it, wouldn't allow him to be like all the others. Dogs.

This fact, however much he knew was daring for him to so much as even think, proved itself to him with each passing day. They would bow down to him if it meant for them to be in the Lord's favor, though inside he knew they resented him as much as he did them. And, avoiding the moonlight's sudden glare, he was afraid. He was frightened inside, of losing his power, of losing everything he had ever worked for. He could almost see it coming, foretell the future as the days turned into nights, and the nights turned into cold, numbing loneliness. He didn't want to be overtaken, but what would the Lord do if he had?

His heart, though many assumed his dwarf-like stature didn't contain one, constricted tightly, lost tears arising from someplace that could only be damned.

He wanted to remain their leader forever. But time, as it progressed, showed its true intentions—He Who Walks Behind the Rows' ambitions—and he knew he would not be blessed for that long.

Slowly, painfully, his time was coming to a crashing stop. And he knew.

---

"Outlander!" The voice called, cracking from the rage it held, a never-ending supply, it seemed. "Outlander, where are you?"

Shoes pounding against pavement, the rusted clangs of metal scraping against concrete.

"The old man runs fast," the voice muttered, cursing rather loudly in the brightness of the day, disbelief and annoyance channeling through Malachi's veins. He turned to his hesitant and frightful followers, who had fallen in step behind his massive ones, and glared deeply into their eyes, dousing their bodies with shivers.

"Find him." It was nearly a whisper, yet still received the same, tearful gazes. The children knew that if they did not find and seize the old man, the religious father who had snuck past them the night before, punishment in the form of Malachi's boiling anger would inevitably find them. Knowing that fact, that it could possibly mean death, they scattered, relief washing through them if not only for a moment, grateful to no longer be prisoner under his stare.

"We should have killed him already!" He screeched angrily, whatever crumb of sanity that still remained dissolving away. His fingers curled tightly around the comforting handle of his hunting knife, which he never was without, the blood of the mother still glinting wetly on it. He smirked, remembering the feel of the blade against her neck, her blank expression which had told him that she had submitted, and without much of a fight. Though he loved the feeling when they ran away from him, the feeling of another's fear, which he could smell from a mile away, and the rushing of adrenaline through his body, it was a change for him to feel a new kind of power, that power which made people accept death and take it silently. And the woman hadn't even screamed. He hated when they screamed, cried, or begged. It was pathetic.

His footsteps, doom echoing along with every one, claimed the street as his own for this portion of the day, afternoon, and the children knew that they were expected to avoid his path.

Not that they would ever come forth willingly. He thought, the satisfaction it brought keeping him from breaking completely. He knew it would be his ass if the father wasn't captured by nightfall, for it was his night for his blood to be shed for the Lord, his body His and only His to claim, not the loyal blade of Malachi's knife. The actuality of it all might have annoyed him further, had it not been for the sounding approach of another. Ruth, he realized as she came into view from under the blinding sunlight, and he forced himself to stand straighter, composing his feelings of contempt.

Two years, is that how long she has been burdening you with her presence? But he knew it was how it must go on to be. His slated eyes rested upon her protruding belly, catching himself from wincing, imagining the little demon that resided inside it—his child. The little wench just wasn't satisfied, was she? Didn't she realize that his love for her had crumbled after the first few weeks of their joining? He bit back his scowl as she stepped in front of him, blocking the sun from his eyes, a warmth surrounding the very air around her, and it wasn't from the sunrays, he knew.

"What is it?" He barked, glaring down at her tiny frame, such a startling comparison to his 6'3 stature.

She glared back, though he knew she didn't truly mean it—couldn't bring herself to. She loved him too much, though the reason why still lingered as a main interest in his mind.

"I have come to bring you news." She muttered softly, her eyes losing the battle of their little staring contest, drifting away toward the houses that rose behind him. She was weak, he knew, though nonetheless happy at that feat. She wasn't as strong as everyone made her out to be, that was certain.

"Then what are you waiting for?" He grouched, displaying his impatience as he tilted his frame to the left, seeing past her shoulder. Watching.

"Isaac has reached a decision." A small smile etched across her pretty face, her doe eyes twinkling slightly.

Suddenly, interest took over, his expression now hopelessly curious and less intimidating. "What are his plans for the disgusting interloper? Her blood only pollutes the street, for the corn has rejected it. It will take weeks to scrub it out," he mumbled, hatred searing through his bones.

"She is to live. Isaac has given me no other word, other than that she will, if she desires to, join us."

"He is giving her a choice?" He questioned, his loud voice shattering Ruth's collected stance. "She must die tonight, along with her father! She must watch him die first, and then wait for her turn! She has defiled the corn!" He ranted, his chest heaving with the scorching anger that had chained him to a leash of bitterness. He was speaking to her as if it had been her decision, and her eyes lowered as she took a step back, placing a protective hand over her stomach.

"Are you speaking out against His wishes?" She inquired, accusing him with her chocolate eyes. "You dare to question what He wants?"

He was panting, partly from the heat of the sun, but mostly from the sudden rampage that was occurring inside him, a war of strong emotions at battle. His alarm showed through, and Ruth smiled defiantly up at him, crossing her arms as if she had won.

"I believe everything He says, my only wish is to serve him." Malachi whispered hoarsely, though truthfully enough, as she reached up to brush his red strands of hair back affectionately, standing on her tiptoes in order to peck him on the lips. He turned his head away, closing his eyes tightly, shielding his thoughts as if she could read them. Knowing that she might turn against him and tell Isaac of his little outburst, he wrapped his arms around her waist, held her close, listened to the footsteps that hit the pavement, victorious shouts of glee interrupting them from the distance. Grateful for their return for once in his life, he quickly slipped away from her disappointed form and turned his back to her, walking toward their gathering bodies.

He needed to hear good news.

--

Isaac was almost always guaranteed to be found locked up in his chamber, a secretive, closed off section of the church, and though all the children knew of its location, the daring outlanders who had, in the past, stumbled upon the tidy white church by mistake, had been oblivious to its existence. It was his private place where he could reflect upon his most inner thoughts, as well as listen to the Lord freely without disturbance. In lesser words, it was highly convenient. It was essential.

Isaac's gaze was focused on what went on outside from the shaded view of his window, where he stood off to the side, his eyes sweeping across the children at play, the younger ones who had no clue yet as to what this existence meant, soaking up in the forbidden pleasures of tag and nursery rhymes. Seeing but not caring, because this was not a major issue compared to everything else flying around inside his head.

The Lord's words had confused him greatly, deep wrinkles of concern burrowed into his forehead as he tried to delve deep for the hidden meaning. He had made Isaac promise to allow Marie to live if she so wished and become part of the sacred family. It was a gift that wasn't to be wasted on anybody, especially an impotent little girl, which is exactly what she seemed, to Isaac as well as many of the others. Though he believed everything the Lord had said, and that what the Lord said was the law, a small flame of jealousy had ignited in his chest. What could He Who Walks Behind the Rows possibly need from Marie, when Isaac had always been here to loyally serve him? What could a helpless wench do that could possibly work in His favor?

His fists were bone-white at his sides as these thoughts and questions swirled around his head, becoming blank faces that jeered at him as the flames inside him began to flicker from orange to a deep, blood red. What could any of this possibly mean? Just what were His plans?

It was the first time; Isaac realized dimly, that he had not received any word of what they might be.

Was this punishment for sending the ambushers to dispose of her? Shivers traced up his spine, tangling deep inside his dark hair.

Everything seemed to vanish as Isaac listened to the three sturdy raps on the door, and a small smile crept upon his cracked lips. He had been expecting company for quite some time.

"You may enter."

And so he did, never one to be silent, as his black boots thumped loudly against the wooden floors, scuffing to a stop on the forest green carpet beside a mahogany desk, where a heavy bible lay.

Isaac twirled around in an instant, briefly leaving time for the redhead to grasp the agile movement, and smiled largely as Malachi unsheathed his knife, bowing down slightly before he replaced it and awaited permission to speak. Isaac stood still for a moment, as if to taunt him, and then nodded stiffly, smile never fading.

"The father has been captured, once again. We have left him with no further desire to run, so that will no longer be a problem. However, his blood spills fast, and we don't know how long he'll—"

Isaac was suddenly searing with rage, and underneath his skin he could feel the blood boiling. "The mother is dead. The father is dying. Can you not follow simple orders, Malachi?" His voice remained calm, and Malachi shrunk back slightly, his eyes downcast and stony.

"We had no choice!" He shouted, and Isaac smirked at the foolish statement, a pathetic attempt of an excuse.

"We?" He questioned, his tone mocking, as he faced the window once again, noticing that the children had vanished and the orange glow of the setting sun. His heart clenched tightly inside, but none of this made an outward appearance. "Do not underestimate me, Malachi, for I know more than you could ever wish. There was blood on your knife," he pointed out raucously, as if to provoke him even further. "Why?"

The redhead was silent behind him, and if Isaac's senses hadn't been so abnormally attuned, he would have considered the possibility of him sneaking off.

"The mother," he replied, as if unsure of himself. Isaac chuckled darkly, striding away from the window and toward the giant, stopping short at the desk, staring down at the heavy book.

"Yes, the mother," Isaac repeated the words, his tone still deriding, a glitter to his eyes as he thumbed absently through the book, staring at the names printed on each page.

"Tell me about her."

Silence, unusual, but nonetheless a blessing, especially coming from Malachi, drifted through the air.

"You know nothing!" Isaac suddenly roared, slamming the book shut and forcing the redhead to jolt unexpectedly.

"You disgust me. The father's blood was to be sacrificed to He Who Walks Behind the Rows, and yet it is out there, being spilled into the soil as we currently speak." Isaac growled, baring his canines. "The Lord is greatly displeased with you, Malachi."

He seemed to step back upon hearing that fact, a trace of fear glinting wetly in his eyes. "What about the girl?" He suggested, and Isaac closed his eyes from the distastefulness of the idea, though inside he felt that it was right. But his mind controlled his heart, and he only shook his head sharply.

"No. The Lord, a great rarity indeed, has accepted the girl. We are not to sacrifice her."

"But she is weak," Malachi hissed between his teeth, his thoughts converging on the night before, how easy her blood had spilt and how the corn had rejected it.

All that dispelled with the raise of Isaac's palm, demanding silence. Malachi relaxed, closing off any other foul thing he had to say, and Isaac was satisfied with how he obeyed. He was getting better, the biggest, yet hardest dog of the bunch. He was becoming his puppet.

"She has a purpose, as do we all. However, more important matters are to be looked upon. There must be a sacrifice tonight." Isaac was now trembling on the inside, looking desperately over his shoulder to now notice that the sky was a dark red, transfusing into a furious purple. "Or there will be consequences."

The redhead nodded once, seeming to consider something.

"Jacob will be nineteen in a few days. We could offer him to the Lord early."

Isaac was displeased with this suggestion as well, but it was the only alternative.

"Do what you must to satisfy Him. And do it well." Isaac turned again to the window, remembering something the Lord had instructed him to do.

"And make sure the girl sees her parents one last time. It is the Lord's command."