A P O L L O.
The night had bled into dawn as Marco had worked, desperately trying to save those in his care from being another name on a death notice in a mother’s hands. It took it’s toll, seeing so many die under his emerald watch, but he would not let unnecessary numbers add to death’s legions - not while he could help him. Reprieve came only in the short breaks he permitted himself - to eat, to sleep a little, or, when there was no time to find an empty cot or a meal, to pray behind the tent for a moment.
The prayer fell from Marco’s lips in the quiet, familiar words of his mother tongue, barely audible even to his own ears amongst the ever bustling sounds of the base over the smooth clinking of his rosary beads between his blood-stained fingers. He did not need to hear the words for them to lift a weight off his soul, even if just for a moment, they were meant to be heard by a higher power anyone - one who Marco believed could hear him on his knees, above the deafening clamour of war.
❝ Signore, fa di me uno strumento della tua pace: Dove è odio, fa ch'io porti l'amore. Dove è offesa, ch'io porti il perdono. Dove è discordia, ch'io porti l'unione. Dove è dubbio, ch'io porti la fede. Dove è errore, ch'io porti la verità. Dove è disperazione, ch'io porti la speranza. Dove è tristezza, ch'io porti la gioia. Dove sono le tenebre, ch'io porti la lu- ❞
Footsteps fell, halting Marco’s interrupted prayer, rosary slipping back into his pocket as he turned his face towards unexpected, though not unwelcome (never unwelcome) company. “Chi va li? - uh, Who’s there?”
Flesh had been shorn from dented bone. Veins protruded, taut lifeline tense within exposed muscle. Howls were muffled, their chance to spill villainous treachery smite by a crude, crimson rag. Perhaps next, he’d threaten the removal of his tongue. Scalpel slid from elbow to bicep, the Interrogator meaning to match a masterpiece of carnage among another section of punishable hide.
The flayed sinner atoned as the onslaught pursued, a petrified voice crooning its traitorous chorus. Erroneous promises were designed with an iron bite, a bullet slung from its chamber. The end was the same. Silent figures erased what hellish ordeals unfolded within the tent, and brought forth yet another victim, unprepared for the executioner’s guile. His tools met the palms of a subordinate. “Get them talking,” he directed, “I have something to see to.”
Damp fabric scoured arms of scarlet ink, drenched a once cleansed fabric. Dried specs were scrubbed from intact flesh. If it were another he meant to visit, there’d have been no mistaking his stained position. Sacred utterance greeted his wicked aura-- however hushed the sentiments. He knew-- always knew-- when the weight of war threatened to snare Apollo in a trance. Stepping forward, a hand curled around Marco’s, his spare delving into the medic’s pocket.
A single digit hooked itself around the exposed, intricate article. Withdrawing the armata bianca, Deimos wove its spiritual chain between intertwined hands. He expected the rosary’s fine beading to combust at his contact-- the devil’s prized demon projecting sin upon each holy grail. He held no place for God or his catechized prophecies; each prayer a fallacy against azure eyes. “What would you pray between us?”
















