"Sankta, Sankta!" they call, voices an undulating sea of requests.
Sankta. Saint, saint, they cry. Never my name. They cry for my power, my blessings. They cry for Sankta, but never for me.
I can feel the blood dripping from my nose. These blessings have taken their toll. I am dragged to the ground, pulled by the meaty fist of a child. She smiles, gleefully. "Sankta!" Her request is another chain around my throat, drawing more of my blood to coat their hands.
I smile, and wipe away my nosebleed. They are so helpless, so trusting. My people. I grant the child her request, another nail embedded into my coffin.
After all - how could I deny my people their Saint?
A piece I just finished of an OC of mine - also sort of vent-y, I suppose. Enjoy, and stay safe. <3












