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“UMBRA”

➛ warnings: father jester!au, gothic fiction, 16th century setting (early modern italy), religious themes and imagery, blasphemy, body horror, violence, mature themes and mentions of crime, smut (explicit sexual content), dark romance, psychological manipulation, death, tragedy, moral corruption, betrayal, unconventional self-insert, sudden and intentional narrative shift.

➛ characters: jester x “lilith” (female reader, if deemed appropriate).

➛ resume: two primordial concepts, impulse and limit, incarnate as monstrous creatures called “adam” and “lilith”. after their birth and paradoxical union, a secular separation distorts their paths and redefines their roles as primordial entities.

adam, now known as father jester, survives sealed as an ornament of the church — and as a devourer of sins. however, everything begins to unravel when, after centuries of separation, a fragile figure supported by crutches returns to haunt the judgment of the monster that feeds on the mist of human guilt.

➛ facilitating notes for this read: here.

For long did the heart of mankind endure grievous penalties, wrought by its own hardening and the conscious abandonment of the poor and weak. The Word of God had been forsaken, or turned to mere twisted utterances, a mechanism for the continuation of appropriation and the spread of enmity. Simply a book wielded by the Ancient Church as the mightiest weapon to instill guilt and fear in ignorant or fanatic minds, bending their wills to serve its absolute dominion.

Hate followed the human race with a subtle persistence, as if planting bloody seeds in their very core. Its malignant roots gave rise to insurrection and the lust for war. Thousands of men abandoned their families to meet upon the battlefield, which might at times have been a flowering meadow or a tranquil stretch of sand. There they slew one another. Some hideous souls hunted even children, taking advantage of unguarded homes and the absence of fathers to terrorize mothers, stealing honor and wreaking violent harm. Some warriors, driven by fervent, faith-filled speeches, devoted their gold and their bodies to the mission of restoring some sacred site, yet acted in ways scarcely holy to protect their cause and their creed.

Years later, more conflicts erupted upon that wretched continent, and the State, unsated, once again delivered its people unto the cold arms of death. Fathers and sons, tillers of the soil, were thrust into suicidal wars, from which most returned scarred and mutilated — or not at all.

All scenes were truly harrowing, the sort that might have drawn tears copiously from the Creator Himself, if perchance He hid within the heavens, witnessing husbands slay their wives and kin commit fratricide, a grim repetition of the tragic tale of Cain and Abel.

Yet the worst was still unknown.

As evils once afflicted tyrannical Ancient Egypt, so too did the Black Plague. Medieval minds judged this pestilence as judgment for their wicked acts, punishment for transgression, while observing heaps upon heaps of infected corpses occupying every corner they crossed. Many quaked with fear and remorse for their mortal souls, praying to the saints for absolution and fulfilling penitences. Yet those anguished and stunned by despair turned their backs upon the Most High, surrendering to desires and corrupt vices as never before, as if this were the final opportunity to taste such pleasures — and perchance it was truly the last.

They reveled in excesses almost Dionysian, their bodies entwined in an infinite embrace, in encounters so intense that a grayish haze, like smoke, hung above the participants. The scent of intimacy was so potent it seemed to obliterate the consciousness of men and women gathered in naked flesh, drawing them into a mysterious trance.

But permit me, humble scribe that I am, to tell this: beyond the gray tones of life’s palette, so laden with death, pain, and sin, there existed, in a distant and impossible space, naught but white. Not the whiteness of purity or innocence, but the shade of emptiness, of the absolute and absorbing vortex. Within this barren expanse occurred the Second Genesis.

THUS AROSE ERA 0, AND WITH IT, TWO CONCEPTS WHICH WOULD SEEK ONE ANOTHER ACROSS THE CENTURIES.

ERA 0 — THE SECOND GENESIS

FROM THE BOOK OF FIRST WILL

CANTICLE OF EMERGENCE

1. IN A PLACE UNFATHOMABLE, BEYOND THE REACH OF HANDS AND THE NAMES OF GOD, REIGNED THE VOID.

2. AND FROM THE SILENCE AROSE A FORCE CONSCIOUS OF ITSELF, WITHOUT FORM, WITHOUT VISAGE.

3. AND WHEN IT AWOKE, IT WAS CALLED FIRST WILL.

4. AND, CONTEMPLATING THE NOTHING, IT SPAKE: LET THERE BE SOMETHING.

5. AND THE WORLD, WHICH ALREADY WAS, STIRRED AS ONE AWAKENING FROM A DEEP SLUMBER.

6. FOR MEN WALKED UPON THE EARTH, YET THEIR HEARTS WERE SEIZED BY FEAR.

7. AND THE BLACK PLAGUE SWEPT THROUGH CITIES, AND WARS CONSUMED KINGDOMS, AND MANY CRIED WITH NO ANSWER.

8. THEN FIRST WILL DIVIDED ITS INTENT INTO TWO.

9. FROM THE FIRST BREATH WAS BORN IMPULSE, AND IT RECEIVED THE NAME LILITH.

10. FROM THE SECOND BREATH WAS BORN LIMIT, AND IT RECEIVED THE NAME ADAM.

11. AND WHEN THEY OPENED THEIR EYES, THEY BEHELD ONE ANOTHER.

12. FOR BEFORE, THEY WERE A SINGLE INTENT.

13. AND THEY RECOGNIZED THEMSELVES INCOMPLETE, BEING APART.

14. LILITH MOVED, AND THAT WHICH SHE TOUCHED DESIRED TO LIVE.

15. ADAM LAID DOWN HIS HANDS, AND THAT WHICH EXISTED GAINED FORM AND PERMANENCE.

16. AND THEY REJOICED IN EACH OTHER.

17. AND THEY WALKED TOGETHER AS LOVERS AND GUARDIANS OF THE WORLD.

18. AND YET KNEW THEY NOT THE SORROW THAT WOULD COME.

19. BUT MEN BEGAN TO DESIRE BEYOND WHAT WAS MEET.

20. AND FROM DESIRE WAS BORN ERROR.

21. AND FROM ERROR WAS BORN GUILT.

22. AND GUILT BECAME HEAVY AMONG THE LIVING.

23. AND ADAM, WHO WAS CONTAINMENT, BEGAN TO SWALLOW THE REPENTANCE OF MEN.

24. BUT LILITH, WHO AWAKENED THE IMPULSE OF LIFE, WAS FEARED BY THE MEN OF THE LAW.

25. FOR WHEREVER SHE PASSED, HEARTS BURNED WHEN THEY OUGHT TO HAVE FEARED.

26. AND THE LAW, NOT UNDERSTANDING, CALLED THEM DEMONS.

27. AND IT SOUGHT TO DESTROY THEM, BUT COULD NOT.

28. THEN ADAM, WEAKENED BY THE WEIGHT OF THE SINS THAT CONSUMED HIM, OFFERED HIMSELF TO THE SERVICE OF THE LAW.

29. AND HE PRAYED THAT LILITH BE SPARED.

30. AND THE CHURCH SEALED ADAM UNDER ITS AUTHORITY, THAT HE MIGHT DEVOUR THE SINS OF MEN.

31. BUT TO LILITH WAS RESERVED EXILE AND OBLIVION.

32. AND SHE WAS SEALED IN A DISTANT LAND, WITHIN A FORGOTTEN ABBEY OF THE EAST.

33. THERE SHE SLEPT, BETWIXT MEMORY AND VOID.

34. AND SHE BELIEVED HERSELF ABANDONED BY HIM WHO HAD BEEN HER OTHER HALF.

35. AND ADAM REMAINED AMONG MEN, CONSUMING THEIR SINS ACROSS THE CENTURIES.

36. AND THUS BEGAN THE ERA OF LIMIT AND DESIRE.

SMALL INLAND TOWN, 16th CENTURY — “THE SACRAMENT OF CONFESSION”

After two centuries and forty years, the Catholic Church had lost part of its influence, owing to the dissemination of ideas by a certain German monk named Luther, and to the rise of the Scientific Revolution. Along the narrow streets, the populace sang satirical choruses and whispered, once more, the faint susurrations of lust. Each murmur struck like hammering upon a sealed coffin in the depths of Cappadocia.

Human desire had once again been inflamed.

And with it, something ancestral was poised to awaken from a deep slumber, afflicting the heart of the Holy See.

The taciturn church rested ominously upon a ground that had once served as a gallows, where thieves and heretics were left to die for defying the established order. There it was raised, stone upon stone, with the purpose of purifying the soil stained with blood, and for decades it had prospered — initially modest and of common beauty to the untrained eye, though sustained by the secrets of a construction laid upon forgotten ossuaries.

On that cloudy late afternoon, however, the silence was thick. A fine drizzle tapped upon the slate roof, gleaming as droplets ran down the eaves like beads upon a liquid rosary. Inside, a few acolytes watched the street through the window, their chins resting upon their palms, bored by the monotony of the rain. They saw only stray dogs crossing the muddy road and, occasionally, a lost soul trying to return home before nightfall.

The faithful had not yet arrived.

At the rear of the building, seminarians moved about their rotational domestic tasks, crossing the cloistered garden that led to the parish’s small cemetery. Two youths walked slowly beneath the stone arch, discussing theology with the ease of their years, until the subject drifted, curiously, to a new form of entertainment spreading through the Italian cities.

They spoke of traveling troupes and of a strange, irreverent popular theatre, populated by masked figures: Arlecchino, Colombina, Pulcinella, and a certain melancholic Pierrot, as they murmured, eliciting laughter and unease wherever they went.

One of them chuckled softly, about to remark further, when both fell silent abruptly.

Footsteps echoed along the stone corridor.

The figure emerging from the shadows moved without haste, as if the very space opened a path for their passage. The black cloak slid solemnly over their shoulders, and beneath the dark bonnet, long violet hair flowed in gentle waves. Gloves concealed pointed nails as they approached the confessional.

The two youths lowered their eyes almost instinctively.

“Il Divoratore…” one murmured, in restrained respect.

The other, seeking to ease the tension as the figure receded down the corridor, inclined and whispered:

“They say he is dangerously clever. An archbishop once joked that, had he not been a sealed priest, he would have made the perfect jester in some palace.”

The boy stifled a nervous smile.

“Perhaps that is why they call him Jester. Tongue far too sharp for a man of the cassock.”

The confessional door opened in silence, and he waited patiently for the first penitent.

At the sinister toll of the small bell, the sacred rite of reconciliation began. The first man to enter the confessional was a pale redhead, almost anemic, with wide, petrified brown eyes. He trembled, evidently burdened by some recent event, barely managing the sign of the cross. Across from him, Jester remained still, listening to his uneven breath, seeking a steady rhythm.

The silence endured for a few moments until a faint, rumbling utterance finally emerged from the deep of his voice.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” whispered the redhead, his words punctuated by a soft sob.

“May the Lord dwell within thy heart, that thou confessest with sincerity, and mayest attain reconciliation. Proceed,” responded Jester dryly, already sensing the heaviness, the sinister imprint upon this languid soul.

“I have slain my aged father, reverend Father. I discovered he had been molesting my beloved wife for months whilst I was away on business.”

The man drew a long, hollow sigh before continuing, broken. Shattered.

“We quarreled, and in a fit of rage I pushed him. He fell and struck his head upon the hearth’s edge. He died instantly.”

Jester’s ordinarily violet eyes glimmered faintly with the hue of a shattered morganite upon hearing the words. It was a subtle reflection, mingling mild surprise and restrained emotion. One who had heard failures, accidents, and crimes alike for centuries — up to the brink of exhaustion — was fatigued; almost numb to human deviation.

Yet, as the confession settled like words carved in stone, the priest could not resist the strange, overwhelming sensation that always surged within him when evil escaped another’s lips. His body leaned slightly toward the grille separating him from the troubled penitent; the padded bench groaned beneath his familiar weight, and his claws grazed the wood of the dark cubicle in search of support.

A bizarre shiver ran across Jester’s covered flesh, unsettling it as a venomous scorpion might with its minuscule, cruel limbs. He shivered briefly, the feverish sensation simultaneously terrible and pleasurable. From the penitent parricide’s words emerged what seemed a shadowed mist, perceptible only to him, deliberately tracing its path to his parted lips and descending down his throat like a bitter-sweet wine, dense beyond tasting. And yet, he consumed it. Entirely.

When the last trace of mist settled in his lungs, the Devouring Monster was sated, but the priest still needed to speak the solemn words. First, he brushed a gloved hand over his lips, a human gesture concealing the satisfaction of his true nature. His voice returned, firm and solid as the stone that raises cathedral grandeur:

“The forced end of a father’s life by the hands of his own son is a stain which the river of time struggleth to wash away. But if thy heart be truly contrite, continuous atonement may lighten this burden.”

Jester paused, savoring the faint anguish of the man, audible in his sigh beyond the grille.

“As penance, thou shalt provide seven masses for the soul of thy father, that rest denied may be sought at the altar. Thou shalt pray the Psalter on thy knees upon the bare marble, until thy bones remember the weight of the earth that now covers him.”

Jester traced the sign of the cross in the air, a mechanical yet graceful gesture.

“I absolve thee of thy sins, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Go in peace, and sin no more.”

As the man departed, tripping between relief and gratitude, the priest reclined. He cared not for the hearth, the wife, or the corpse.

He merely savored the metallic aftertaste of guilt he had devoured.

“Next.”

The next man entered the confessional, clad in fine garments still damp from the drizzle, betraying a certain prosperity. He removed a dark chaperon from his head, revealing straight blond hair that fell just below his ears, carefully trimmed. A well-groomed mustache and narrow goatee framed his lips, lending him an air of studied gallantry — the sort of man accustomed to smile in halls and taverns, yet whose posture now betrayed a weight that not even wealth could lift.

“I have been unfaithful to my ailing wife,” he began, his voice hesitant. “She wastes away slowly with a terrible fever, while I repeatedly seek the company of women of the night without her knowledge. I beg thee, most reverend father, to intercede for my soul, that I may turn from the path of evil and from this accursed vice.”

Jester’s eyes narrowed behind the lattice. The scent of transgression reached him even before the man settled. He feigned a faint, bitter smile, lost in the shadows of the confessional, noting the merchant’s unease as he clutched the chaperon. As with all penitents who had crossed those doors for centuries, he would repeat his sins even after confessing them — but Jester relished imagining the fatigue and anguish that would accompany his penance.

The mist of guilt swirled around him, dark, almost liquid, with a bitter-sweet aroma, and he drank it in without haste. A shiver ran along his nape and spine, subtle, as if the very energy of sin whispered upon his skin. It was a minimal tremor, barely perceptible, yet enough to stir his muscles as restrained pleasure mingled with revulsion.

“Deceiver,” said Jester, his voice cold and firm as stone. “Thou delightest in the arms of other women whilst thy wife, once beloved, languishes without thy aid. Tell me, seekest thou in other beds the distraction of the stench of death that settles in thy home?”

The man swallowed hard, the chaperon nearly slipping from his hands.

“I am afraid, Father. The smell of her sickness is unbearable. Even the servants hesitate to remain in that chamber. I simply cannot bear to see her thus.”

Jester pursed his lips, bored by the feigned emotion. The mist of guilt returned, now lighter, with notes of overripe fruit and musk, and the tremor ran again along his nape, barely perceptible. He allowed himself a sadistic smile, imagining the weary, exhausted man bending beneath the penances yet to come.

“The ecstasy of thy flesh was brief, but thy expiation shall be long,” he decreed, his voice echoing like a somber melody. “Thou shalt offer thy body in honor of the sacrament of matrimony which thou hast defiled. Thou shalt recite the Holy Rosary with arms outstretched upon the cross until the final bead; should they falter, thou shalt begin anew. Thereafter, thou shalt return to thy wife’s bedside and, in vigil, recite the Litany of All Saints at each hour of her fever. Let each saint invoked stand sentinel against thy base desires.”

The merchant opened his mouth to speak, but Jester hissed softly before concluding:

“Go, and sin no more,” Jester whispered the last part, escaping almost like a growl. “Vermin.”

Darkness fell outside. The rain had ceased, and the rite continued for a few more moments.

Jester heard confessions on various matters. Some were truly tedious, such as those of masturbation or lust without a real sin — offering little sustenance and barely exciting the Devouring Monster. A young woman admitted her vice in gossip and the pleasure she took in ruining her enemies’ reputations, a delicacy of slightly more palatable flavor, yet still insufficient to sate him. Another, a repulsive old man, confessed to relations with his own niece. Jester savored the vile taste of that confessed sin, a depraved energy so intense that he almost felt full to the brim.

When the last penitent departed, he slowly closed the confessional door. He aided the few remaining parish staff in securing the church, adjusting candles and ornaments, and finally withdrew to the priests’ dormitory.

It was there that he customarily rested after a long day of labor. Or at least, he attempted to.

FROM THE ILLUSION OF MEMORY — “FEBRILE DREAMS”

That night, Jester, our primordial Adam, shed his cassock like a serpent discarding its dead skin. In a languid gesture, he ran his hand through his long violet hair, now loose, smoothing the strands once hidden beneath the bonnet.

In the near-sepulchral silence of his solitary chamber, the almost infernal heat of the sins absorbed rose through his throat like a burning reflux, as though those acts of lust and manifold crimes demanded release, some channel to escape. He therefore allowed himself to collapse upon the soft mattress and pillows with a muffled thud; his hair spread solemnly across the bedding as he stared at the ceiling, mind dazed, disturbed by a sensation unknown, stirring deep within the chambers of his inhuman heart. Something dangerously close to an impulse, something like the longing for a face he could scarcely recall. And yet, the cold night breeze stubbornly carried his thoughts back to it, like a subtle premonition.

A violent shiver ran through him, comparable to the sting of an enraged bee or the sudden spread of heat without origin. He despised such sensations that breached his normally resigned and insensible spirit; yet this night he had savored innumerable sins born of the weakness of flesh. He was no chaste priest, nor a faithful servant of the Church that had enslaved him centuries before, yet there was something profoundly exasperating in seeking relief within himself to expel the corruption of those coarse, detestable humans — though he knew that without them, he might not even exist.

He tried to close his eyes and summon the memory of the calm voice that had once belonged to that creature now faceless and nameless after centuries of absence. He recalled neither scent nor touch, but the nostalgia of iridescent eyes persisted, seeming to assume all colors, sometimes reflecting the same violet that burned in his own. He turned restlessly from side to side.

There was no sleep. Only yearning: musk, overripe fruit, and an ancestral tremor.

He yielded slowly. A restrained moan escaped his lips, almost a curse directed at his own existence.

ERA II — OF THE MEMORIES OF THE SECOND GENESIS

FROM THE BOOK OF THE FIRST WILL

LAMENT OF THE LONELY BED

1. ALONE, ADAM’S JUDGING HANDS SOUGHT THE CENTER OF HIS OWN FLESH, NOT FOR DELIGHT, BUT WITH THE FORCE OF A REPREHENSIBLE TREMBLE.

2. THERE WAS NO TENDERNESS IN THE ACT, FOR IT WAS A RITE OF RESTRAINT; AS THOUGH HE SOUGHT TO CRUSH THE PULSE THAT CLIMBED THROUGH THE PATH OF HIS VEINS.

3. AND HE SOUGHT IN THE PENUMBRA, AS IN COUNTLESS OTHER NIGHTS OF REPUDIATION, THE FACE OF SHE WHO HAD BEEN PRESERVED BENEATH A VEIL OF INEFFABLE SHADOWS.

4. HE GROPED THE VOID LEFT BY THE FIRST WOUND; THE ABYSS OPENED BY THE ABANDONMENT OF SHE WHO HAD ONCE BEEN HIS OTHER HALF.

5. FOR THEY RECOGNIZED THEMSELVES INCOMPLETE WHEN SEPARATED, AND DESIRE BECAME THE PAINFUL BRIDGE OVER NOTHINGNESS.

6. AND THE RELEASE WAS BITTERSWEET, LIKE THE SILENCE THAT FOLLOWS THE SLAUGHTER OF A LONG-LOVED SHEEP.

7. ADAM REMAINED ARCHED UPON THE BED, AND FROM THE LIQUID DEPTHS OF HIS GAZE SHONE THE WEAKNESS OF A SHATTERED MORGANITE UNDER A HAMMER.

8. AND HE FEARED FOR HIS ANCIENT SOUL AND HIS BEWILDERED HEART, FOR HE NO LONGER FELT THE PURITY HE HAD KNOWN WHEN FIRST EMERGING FROM THE VOID.

9. THEN SLEEP CLAIMED HIM, POPULATED BY SAND AND THE HEAT OF A DISTANT DESERT.

AN ORDINARY RIDE — “THIS NEW WORLD SHALL KILL THE OLD”

“Pray, take care whilst placing her and attend closely to the crutches, good sir. I also request redoubled care with my belongings; there are Venetian delicacies therein that would not withstand careless handling,” the matriarch commanded, though her voice retained a certain gentleness.

Her eyes, a faded blue from weariness, peered from beneath the rigid brim of a beige hat. The accessory, modest in hue, was adorned with trimmings so fine they spoke, without ostentation, of her solid fortune. Evidently, this was an influential family with ancient roots in Bologna.

The sharp crack of a fan opening dramatically followed.

“May we depart? The heat is unbearable today, mamma! My husband grows weary of this arranging and idle chatter,” complained a younger woman, dark-haired with a slightly upturned nose, fanning herself impatiently as she clutched her husband’s arm.

The tall man, with unremarkable features but elegant attire, merely maintained an annoyed expression.

As if to end the scene, the servant completed the luggage, closed the carriage door, and took his place beside the driver. The whip cut the air, and the carriage rolled along the uneven streets, swaying gently, while the matriarch sighed, embarrassed by her daughter’s lack of manners and her son-in-law’s apathy.

“Do not be insensible, child. I merely ensured Talith remained unharmed. She is our guest. Show some decency.”

The lady then turned to the young woman seated opposite.

“Are you feeling well, dear Talith?”

Talith nodded slightly, arranging the crutches across her lap with almost ritual precision. Her hands, protected by pale gloves, rested crossed upon the reinforced wooden support. She adjusted her fine straw hat, adorned with cream silk ribbons blending with her pale yellow gown, whose puffed sleeves revealed the satin of the inner garments.

A delicate yawn escaped her lips as she inclined her head slightly in reassurance of the hostess. In truth, she cared little for the daughter’s rudeness or the couple’s tedium. She merely rested her chin in her hands and observed with apparent disinterest.

Beneath that fragile appearance, however, lay a keen mind. Her eyes scrutinized everything with the patience of a predator. She preferred debates and games of ideas to enduring tedious murmurs or beholding landscapes that, though beautiful, grew darker as they approached the interior.

Settling herself in her seat, she replied in calm voice:

“I am well, my dear lady. No need to worry over me, nor any rudeness. Heat often renders one irritable.” She paused briefly, as if considering her words. “Though I confess to being somewhat bored. The landscapes are fair, yet I fear the inland may be less vibrant than the great cities I have visited.”

Sublime. With an innocuous and carefully measured phrase, she planted the small, promising seed of curiosity. It always worked.

The dark-haired woman halted her fan, releasing her husband’s arm. She arched a brow, intrigued, while her mother feigned interest in the passing fields.

“Great cities? I imagine you understand my concern regarding the monotony of this region. Yet, for a trader in fine goods such as yourself, perhaps a quieter place yields good business,” the matriarch remarked, allowing a discreet smile.

The daughter leaned slightly forward.

“I confess, you have piqued my curiosity, dear guest. Have you travelled to many places? Heard of anything remarkable?”

The husband, until then apathetic, cast a now more attentive glance at the supposed merchant.

“Yes. Throughout my travels I have met people of diverse origins. Widows who ran their late husbands’ businesses with admirable skill, scholars calculating the movements of the heavens, and writers filling pages debating the nature of the soul and the world. I also encountered a man who claimed that God dispenses wisdom as the sun dispenses light, choosing no face to receive it exclusively.”

Talith concluded serenely, observing with discreet satisfaction the growing interest of her companions.

The fan-wielding woman blinked, exchanging a glance with her husband, now cross-armed and attentive. The mother remained by the window but absorbed all in silence, torn between fascination and unease. Such ideas were uncommon.

“How curious. I have heard nothing like it, and it does not strike me as very convincing. Until recently, only clerics and scribes mastered the written word. Now, scholars arise, debating matters of God as if they were their own. All began after the words of that monk… and that invention… what is it called again?”

The husband replied after a brief pause:

“The printing press. It serves to multiply books and pamphlets.”

And as the carriage rolled along the wet road, no one noticed the faint smile that spread across Talith’s lips — the smile of one who knew that ideas, once set free in the world, never returned to silence. She exhaled a discreet, satisfied sigh, slightly amused at the perplexity of her companions.

“Ah, I thought you might find that interesting. It seems a bold notion to me. A man once told me that God speaks also to ordinary people, and not only through men of faith. He spoke of a young French peasant girl who heard voices and proudly led armies. Controversial figure.”

The mother nearly choked at the unexpected words. The daughter shook her head faintly, unconvinced by ideas and accounts that seemed extravagant — and, above all, improper for a conversation between women, even one as educated as she.

“God speaks in riddles, in parables and legends, fair Talith. Not all that is heard on the roads should be repeated.” The young woman laughed softly, though her gaze revealed slight censure. “And if these stories spread in the small town to which we travel, it shall be frowned upon. The folk are devout, and the priest would surely admonish you. The townspeople are conservative.”

Talith inclined her head lightly, accepting the warning, though the sparkle in her eyes betrayed another thought.

“What a pity. Still, I would like to meet him.”

The matriarch, relieved to see the topic return to a more acceptable line, nodded.

“We shall stop at the church upon arrival. We all require spiritual solace and reconciliation.”

The carriage pressed onward, creaking along the wet road, while in the distance appeared the dark contours of the small town — and above it, the church tower etched against the late afternoon sky.

OF THE REUNION OF ANCIENT HEARTS — “ARISE AND WALK (TALITHA KOUM)”

When the carriage halted before the austere façade of the church, the setting sun stained the stained glass in hues of amber and orange, contrasting with the sober exterior. The smaller bells — frail iron children — already announced the end of the day’s office. It was Lent.

The couple sighed as they stepped down from the vehicle, bored by a town devoid of the color and movement of their beloved Bologna, ever vibrant and artistic. The place seemed wrapped in an ancient gray mist.

While the attendant assisted the matriarch and Talith, supported by her crutches, the man and the young woman noticed a small tavern at the corner of the street. Without exchanging words, they decided to head there, intending to wait until the women finished their brief visit to the sanctuary.

“Forgive me, but my husband and I shall wait at the tavern. We need something to drink after the journey. Do not take long. The church is about to close,” the daughter said, her tone kinder than usual.

Her husband nodded, while the matriarch cast them a stern yet resigned look.

“Go, then. We shall meet shortly, children. Behave, and do not drink yourselves senseless.”

With the couple gone, only the elderly lady and Talith remained. The latter adjusted her footing before entering the sanctuary. In silence, they advanced through the shadowed space, absorbing its inner beauty. There was something sublime in the nave: six side altars, a delicately carved stone retable, Christ crucified with almost angelic gentleness. The matriarch nearly succumbed to emotion. Talith remained impassive, merely feigning a slight stumble to draw the woman’s attention effortlessly.

“I shall wait on the rear pews while you confess, madam,” Talith said, offering a discreet smile.

The sanctuary was nearly empty; it seemed only she and the Devourer remained. The matriarch frowned briefly, yet yielded, walking alone toward the confessional, resolute in appearance though inwardly shaken.

As she approached the booth, she made the sign of the cross and murmured:

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I have allowed vanity to guide me, neglecting charity toward the poor, thinking only of the splendor of my salons in Bologna.”

Jester remained motionless, hands entwined, sensing the dull flavor of aristocratic sins. Predictable: acid selfishness, untouched comfort. Lent was exhausting for a priest-monster like him. He longed to escape that ritual boredom.

Yet the matriarch continued, hesitating:

“There is something else troubling me, Father… since we welcomed a traveler months ago. A strange lady, who speaks of a world where God reveals Himself to peasant girls and the stars are not merely lights, but paths.”

Jester frowned. A double intrigue: a woman spreading modern ideas and a potential deviation from the Law. Not as delectable as raw familial sins, but worthy of attention.

The old woman sighed, clutching her red rosary.

“She awakens unsettling thoughts. And when light strikes her eyes, Reverend Father, they seem to shine in the very hue of your Lenten vestments. She is no witch, yet I fear for our house and our home. The people and the priest will admonish her. I fear she brings misfortune.”

The silence of the sanctuary seemed to compress the air, shadows stretching like spectral fingers along the columns. Father Jester kept his gaze fixed, breath restrained, feeling the weight of the woman’s words linger. An aroma of challenge and danger hovered, almost tangible, while upon the far pews a foreign figure sat slumped upon herself, apparently dozing before the crucified Savior.

He had not yet seen her face through the lattice of the confessional, yet he felt the shock: a galvanic tremor coursed through his body, an ancestral memory of a connection impossible to ignore. For an instant, her eyes gleamed with a faded lilac hue, fleeting and hypnotic, echoing the color of his own vestments and materializing memories he believed lost.

Jester choked slightly, the dry sound echoing in the sanctuary. His gloved hand rose reflexively to his throat, and when he lifted his eyes, he decided he would no longer tolerate human mediocrity around him.

“Go to your children, woman. I myself shall provide solace to that limping soul.”

The matriarch stood frozen, divided between fear and reverence. But he did not wait. He stepped from the confessional with measured, imposing strides, the purple fabric of his garments trailing along the floor, violet hair falling upon his shoulders with an almost supernatural sheen beneath the stained light. The air itself seemed to vibrate with his presence.

Upon seeing Talith leaning against the rear pews, feigning fatigue, he smiled — malicious, cruel, seductive. He approached with the certainty of one who commands time and space. A light finger touched one of her crutches, merely to show he knew she had no need of it, and his voice, deep and theatrical, rang like a command:

“Talitha koum. Arise and walk, deceiver.”

She slowly lifted her eyes, challenge and surprise mingling. A faint lilac flash crossed her irises as they met his gaze, and a brief smile curved her lips, contempt and fascination in equal measure. Jester leaned closer, catching every nuance of emotion upon her face, feeling the electric tension between them swell toward rupture.

“I thought thou wouldst take another two centuries to come find me, Adam,” Lilith whispered, her voice heavy with sarcasm as she rose. Her balance was flawless; she needed no support. “How curious. You have matured deeply, my lord. And now you possess a reputation, Father Jester. That is what they call you, is it not?”

She removed her hat with elegance and, as she passed, lightly brushed the collar of his vestments, circling him like a hungry lynx. Jester growled softly, fixing upon her the gaze of a vulture upon carrion.

“You look as you did when we dwelt within the void. As young as ever. Beautiful, yet painfully empty. Even with your stomach full of human refuse.” The Force of Impulse tilted her head with false sweetness. “A true pity.”

The condescension struck him squarely. As though he, devourer of guilt and master of human frailty, were being diminished by a creature newly awakened. He scoffed, seizing her abruptly by the arm and pulling her close. The crutches, left against the pew, fell with a dull crash into the nave’s silence. Lilith hissed, newly sprouted fangs flashing for an instant.

“You know not of what you speak, Lilith. Forced slumber corroded thy judgment.” His fingers tightened upon her arm. “While you provoke me, you fail to see I have become the foundation of these wretched souls. I am what remains when all else fails. And you…”

His violet gaze traveled her body with contempt and something deeper, more dangerous.

“You have become nothing but an echo of hollow desires. A hunger that unravels what I keep standing.” The gloved tip of his fingers rose into her hair, nearly digging into her scalp. “You may have been born first, Impulse, yet now you envy me. I am control. You are but a hunger that knows not how to die.”

Lilith tore her arm free, eyes piercing his like blades.

“I act thus because I thirst for life. For bodies, for minds, for transformation. While I rotted in a sealed coffin in the East, you played God under papal blessing.”

Her smile widened, cruel.

“The Pope’s good dog. Fed on others’ sins and proud of his captivity.”

Her voice lowered, venomous:

“And between us, Adam: if I have returned, it is because your labor has ceased to work. You are nothing but a necrophage of human guilt. You feed upon the remnants of a race you despise, yet still require to exist.”

The words alone were enough to set Jester’s ancient blood surging through his veins, hatred, resentment, and an old hunger blending indistinguishably. Such release of sensation was rare, a longing so profound that not even a thousand clouds of transgression nor the vilest barbarities could sate it.

He decided then. The priest would revel in the flesh of the anathema to exhaustion, a silent affront to the false authority he bore.

And perhaps she would yet regret the precise instant she broke the Seal and returned to the world, from which she should never have emerged to torment him.

With deliberate cruelty, Jester clenched his fist in her hair and dragged her mercilessly through the silent nave, their footsteps echoing beneath the sacred vaults. He growled low, each breath heavy with restrained hatred, leading her toward that cursed cell where, day after day, he was both executioner of souls and liberator of their burdens.

Lilith groaned, struggling violently, nails nearly tearing through his cassock as she was hauled along, the abandoned crutches clattering behind. Yet his grip did not yield.

In a brutal motion, Jester hurled her against the narrow wall of the claustrophobic confessional, the same where he had heard countless sins whispered through the lattice. The wood groaned under the impact, and for a moment the air seemed to vanish between them, crushed by fury and sudden closeness.

The next impulse should have been to crush her against the wood, to silence her insolence by force.

But something failed.

Her scent. That unbearable aroma once thought unreachable: musk mingled with ancient grass and a forgotten desert. The racing pulse beneath his fingers. The memory of a void that existed only when she was absent.

And above all, the subtle violet tones spreading painfully through irises of another hue, so close to his own eyes’ color. A memory of when they had been one within nothingness.

Jester hesitated for an instant, the woman sprawled at his feet, the pale-yellow skirts disordered and billowing about her waist.

Lilith raised her face without fear. The corner of her mouth bled slightly, and still she smiled.

That silent insolence struck him with painful unfamiliarity. Even beneath his merciless hand, she smiled. The monster stared at the beads of blood gathered upon her lips and thought, against his own will, how he longed to taste them, to lick the wound and tremble at a flavor he knew to be condemnable.

He watched her rise slowly and lean back against the confessional wall, claws sinking into the wood. The motion dragged Jester slightly forward, his face suddenly pale, heart divided, while his hands, once rigid at his sides, now climbed the delicate trachea of the Force of Impulse. The pressure was a limit, a desperate attempt at restraint. Had he been able, he would have gladly killed her there without hesitation.

But ancient beings were not slain so easily.

Lilith did not avert her gaze. Even as air grew scarce and her skin darkened, the laughter upon her lips remained cruel, nearly victorious. She tilted her head just enough to press skin against the leather of his glove and whispered through her teeth, her voice soft as a dagger wrapped in silk:

“Do not bite yourself with remorse, Adam. You have spent centuries devouring others’ rotten fruit. Taste now your own flesh.”

And Jester, as he had done the last time and through countless other nights upon his hostile, solitary bed, finally surrendered.

AN IMPIOUS RITUAL: EJACULATORY PRAYER

The final sentence fell between them like the sinister tolling of a monstrance clock, ending sacred time and opening a rift for the profane. Jester did not hesitate. With clinical precision, he leaned in and captured her breath, harvesting the bead of blood that had blossomed at the corner of Lilith’s mouth. A gesture too intimate to be pious, too brutal to be classified as tenderness.

The subsequent shove was dry. Her body collided with his, and the cold of the silver cross pressed against her cleavage, reduced to mere metal between two living abysses. Lilith opened her lips for another provocation, but Jester seized the word from her in a famished kiss, fashioned from ancient hunger and accumulated resentment. There was the taste of dust and secular thirst. When his tongue sought the cut on her lip, her involuntary shudder came as a response; in silent retaliation, Lilith bit his lower lip while her claws traced dangerous paths beneath his cassock.

Jester’s low snarl was half-warning, half-surrender. The kiss became a struggle for supremacy. The sound of their lips sealing and parting was the only melody in the somber nave. He sought to siege her, to ravish her, subjugating the very origin they once shared. At last, he had found the right supply for his ashen lungs, heavy with centuries of dust.

As they separated with a wet snap, an obscene trail of saliva formed a bridge between them. Jester attacked her jaw and wrist with crude kisses, until one of his gloved fingers caught in the lady’s conspiratorial neckline. With impatience, he stripped off his gloves, revealing claws of a smoky black — the color of death contrasting with the milky whiteness of his skin. Like the calculated movement of a treacherous serpent, Jester’s fingers curled beneath the mound of her breasts, hooked into the fabric, and tore it abruptly, exposing her breasts to the chilled air of the church.

He seized her left breast, enveloping the areola with sadistic cruelty. Jester pressed them together carelessly, his hand fixed upon them with unbridled caprice, only to slam his palm over both, squeezing so hard the skin flushed crimson, like the tinted wings of a fragile butterfly. Lilith merely grunted, a light slap against his chest. He did not care. He leaned into her, extending a pale violet tongue to lick the area around her sternum, as if savoring the dust of her bones.

He sucked one nipple fervently and bit the other hard, his hands twisting and turning her sensitive tips with the skill of a torturer. Lilith cursed him, pleasure and pain entwined, while she clawed at his violet hair. Jester groaned in exasperation, his lips glistening with saliva as he observed the purple bruises on her chest like a magnificent work of art commissioned by wealthy patrons. She embraced him, digging her claws into his back and baring her ivory fangs to sink them into his white skin.

“You insolent, blood-sucking whore!” Jester exclaimed, breaking away from her breasts to deliver a sharp slap. “You cannot control yourself for even a second. Impressive.”

The red mark stung against her skin. Jester panted, his eyes bloodshot with fury and an unconfessable desire to be destroyed by her.

“You want blood? You want to devour my soul without shame? Then do it right. Kneel, you treacherous creature. Show me that your mouth is good for more than just insolent lashings.”

Lilith cast him a mischievous, remorseless look. Jester freed himself from his trousers with feverish haste. His pale cock sprang out, lilac veins tracing the length toward a deep purple head already slick with pre-cum. Before she could breathe, he gathered saliva and spat upon his own flesh, a gesture of absolute contempt for delicacy. With his bare hand, he rubbed the cold, viscous moisture against Lilith’s lips, forcing them open under the pressure of his fingers.

With hatred and defiance, she sucked his fingers and the trail of loathsome saliva, eyeing his cock. She enveloped his member with agonizing slowness. Jester shuddered. Lilith tasted the length from base to tip, savoring the pre-cum while her hands descended to scratch gently at his testicles. Jester swore between his teeth to contain his satisfaction, bracing himself against the wooden confessional.

She moved her head with obscene surrender. Jester, united to her by a messy trail of spit and cum, forced her head down, making her gasp at the sudden violence. With a malevolent smile, he pinched her nose, holding her breath for an instant as he languidly penetrated her throat, throwing his head back in ecstasy.

Lilith felt the air grow scarce, her irritation flaring hotter than the slap. Yet, she did not recoil. Instead, she dug her nails into his thighs and began an aggressive suction, using her tongue like sandpaper against the sensitive glans, forcing the vacuum of her throat against him with a voracity bordering on cannibalism. Inexorably, he was the one who lost the advantage. Pleasure spread through his body like a pyre lit with hellfire.

“Selfish bitch, you’re going to...” The sentence died in a snarl as the first jet of semen flooded her mouth.

Jester could barely finish the attack. He came hard, accompanied by a low, affected groan that was not entirely his own. It was a sinister, discrete cacophony of the hundreds of thousands of sins he had swallowed, vomited out by the pressure of his orgasm. A trail of viscous semen ran down his cock, immediately licked clean by the woman whose eyes glowed with disdainful slits. Jester breathed deeply, trying to regain his composure, but his violet eyes betrayed a persistent, unsatiated appetite.

Wounded by the pleasure she had ripped from him, Jester pulled Lilith close in a rigid embrace.

“That isn't the only reason you came, is it? Beyond inciting chaos in my tedious city, you want more than what has happened here.”

“What do you mean?” Lilith laughed incredulously. “Since when are you generous for nothing, Jester?”

“I am not. Nor shall I ever be. Abandon these fantasies of a past faded by time,” Jester replied, his voice cutting like a winter gale. “But I know you want more. And I demand more.”

With a brusque movement, he forced her to rise from the cold floor. She ascended with the indolent grace of a wounded predator, wiping the corner of her mouth, smeared with cum, with the back of her hand, while he spun her around to face the dark wood of the confessional and hiked up her skirts. Lilith helped him expose her cunt, which glistened discreetly under the shadows like a weeping flower. He guided his sharp index finger to the surface of her vulva, outlining the contour of her soft folds. He was not a delicate lover, yet for a brief moment, he seemed careful not to crush her clitoris with the pressure of his claws.

The man emitted subtle, disdainful provocations in her ear as he handled her like a cursed violinist. His fingers worked with a cruel agility, making her arch her back and gasp for air. Jester accelerated the rhythm, his claws grazing her lightly as he alternated between meticulous circular motions and a bold, almost rhythmic lateral pressure. Lilith whimpered, her hips jerking forward uncoordinatedly in search of more friction, while he leaned his weight on her shoulder, his violet hair mingling with hers in a disheveled cascade as he masturbated her with heartless mastery.

She was close. It was indubitable.

“Come for me, woman. Now.” Jester commanded, watching her face contort between hatred and ecstasy.

She hissed, biting her lip with her fangs as she surrendered to the overwhelming pleasure. Jester waited only until her peak began to fade before pumping himself a few times and invading her overstimulated opening. She felt painfully stretched. Jester leaned over her back, anchoring her shoulders as he hammered into her with firm, rhythmic thrusts. Each movement was punctuated by a subtle snarl or a low insult: cursing her, himself, and the goddamn pleasure of it.

Jester fucked her deep, his hands roaming her body with feverish urgency; now pulling her hair, now squeezing her exposed ass or her soft breasts that swayed under the impact of the blows. His cock hit her cervix with precision, a shock of pleasure that made her tremble from head to toe. Lilith screamed against the wood, her face pressed against the rough wall of the confessional as he smiled, breathless, reveling in that bending of her ego.

In a sudden movement, she turned her face, seeking oxygen and his contact. Their eyes met for a second before Lilith pulled him desperately into a kiss that was pure desperation and claws.

There was no tenderness. It was a war of teeth and tongues, an accursed amalgam. Jester sank his teeth into the nape of her neck, savoring the iron tang of her skin while his hips pinned her with a depth that felt as if he wanted to bend her very bones. It did not take long for Jester to finish, letting out a muffled cry against her shoulder, his body racking with the final, violent pulses of his release.

He buried himself in her until his semen ran out, his length twitching deep inside her with a desperate, final possessiveness. After the last spasm, he withdrew slowly and, with skillful fingers and a lazy satisfaction, proceeded to shove the excess white fluid back inside her cunt, sealing the act with a possessive disdain.

Lilith collapsed into the confessional seat, finally sated.

Silence.

The absence of sound that followed was not one of peace, but of absolute weight. Jester was the first to pull away, rejecting her proximity with a gesture bordering on loathing — though the slight glint in his violet eyes revealed a fleeting vestige of emotion that vanished as he reached for his clothes. Lilith watched in silence as he struggled with the buttons of his linen shirt, now stained and disarrayed beneath his purple cassock. Each button he fastened seemed like an attempt to lock a demon back in its cell.

“Get up,” Jester ordered, his voice absolute. “Cover that filth and get out of here. Leave the city as fast as you can; it will be better for both of us.”

“You cannot ask that of me after all this.” Lilith rose, her yellow dress ruined beyond repair. “My clothes are rags. Besides, you did me the favor of sabotaging my stay! I have no choice but to claim sanctuary, whether you wish it or not.”

Jester let out a heavy sigh, adjusting the silver cross. He watched her with crossed arms.

“It matters not. You are cunning; you will find a way. Do not disturb my senses further. I am an exhausted cleric, not the Savior Himself.”

“Refusing me shelter would be imprudent, Jester.” Her smile was slow. “How many would survive the shock of discovering the man behind the lattice does not save souls, but feeds on them? It would be a pity if the poor rabble knew that little detail.”

The monster froze, his jaw tightening. He exhaled, defeated.

“You are an irrevocable mistake. Fine. Stay. But under my roof, my rules. If you destroy this city, I will make the effort to finish what they failed to do centuries ago.”

“I don't intend to burn your city today, Adam. I only need a roof.” She looked around the narrow space. “There is always a forgotten room in these buildings. Somewhere your assistants and seminarians won't poke their noses.”

“There is an old penitence room at the back of the presbytery. It has been unused for years,” Jester replied, his voice returning to a distant, clerical drone. “You will stay there. Locked during the day. You will emerge only at night, and for no more than two hours.”

“If anyone so much as catches the scent of your shadow, you vanish. Forever.”

Lilith smiled discreetly.

“A nocturnal pet, then. That will do.”

Her gaze swept over him one last time.

“Thank you for your charitable spirit, Father Jester. Your kindness almost makes you seem like a righteous man. If only you didn't have the mouth and heart of the godless.”

ERA II — FROM THE BOOK OF THE FIRST WILL

PSALM OF EMPTY GUILT

1. AND THE SEAL WAS DISCOVERED BROKEN IN THE EAST.

2. BUT THE CHURCH, WEARY AND WEAKENED IN TIMES OF INSURRECTION, FEARED TO ACT.

3. FOR ITS ARMS NO LONGER REACHED AS THEY ONCE DID,

4. AND ITS ENEMIES MULTIPLIED LIKE WEEDS IN A VAST GARDEN.

5. THEN THE DEVOURER PROVIDED SHELTER TO THE ONE WHO HAD RETURNED,

6. AND CALLED SANCTUARY THAT WHICH WAS ALSO A PRISON.

7. PIOUS CHAINS GIRDLED HER WRISTS IN THE LIGHT OF DAY,

8. BUT AT NIGHT THEY FELL LOOSE LIKE BROKEN PROMISES.

9. AND THEY MET IN FLESH, FURY, AND DESIRE,

10. LIKE TWO RUINED GODS REMEMBERING THE BEGINNING.

11. THEY LOVED EACH OTHER AS ENEMIES AND FOUGHT AS LOVERS,

12. WITHOUT EVER DECIDING WHETHER TO SAVE OR DESTROY ONE ANOTHER.

13. AND THE CITY BEGAN TO CHANGE WITHOUT NOTICING,

14. FOR MEN SINS AND NO LONGER FEARED GUILT,

15. AND WOMEN AND YOUNG GIRLS HEARD WHISPERS OF FREEDOM,

16. AND REPENTANCE BECAME AS RARE AS A MIRACLE.

17. THEN, LIKE A TRUTH QUIETLY AVOIDED,

18. HUNGER VISITED THE DEVOURER.

19. FOR THERE WAS NO LONGER MATURE SHAME TO HARVEST,

20. NOR CONTRITE SOULS TO NOURISH HIS DUTY,

21. AND HIS CONFESSIONALS TURNED EMPTY.

22. AND IMPULSE ROAMED, WANDERING THE STREETS IN DARKNESS,

23. INCITING DESIRES THAT ASKED NO FORGIVENESS.

24. WHEREVER SHE PASSED, CHAOS BLOOMED,

25. AND THE WORLD SEEMED TO REVEL IN UNREPENTANT SUBVERSION.

26. THEN SHE ASKED TO BURN THE ROOTS OF THE OLD YOKE,

27. AND THAT THEY TOGETHER TEAR THE NECKS OF THE LORDS OF FEAR.

28. BUT THE DEVOURER REFUSED, NOT OUT OF DEVOTION,

29. BUT FEARING DEATH ALONG WITH HUNGER.

30. THUS, THEY LIVED BOUND TO EACH OTHER,

31. FEEDING ON DESIRE AND RESENTMENT,

32. UNTIL SCARCITY BECAME UNBEARABLE,

33. AND LOVE BEGAN TO REEK OF SACRIFICE.

34. AND IT WAS UNDERSTOOD, IN SILENCE,

35. THAT ONLY ONE COULD CROSS THE END.

36. ONLY ONE WOULD BE CHOSEN TO SIT AT THE TABLE OF THE FEAST.

FINALE: THE INVERTED EUCHARIST

It was night. The dark nave of the church seemed more oppressive than usual. Amid the silent luxury of carved wood and the Solomonic columns of the high altar, cherubim with infant faces seemed to contemplate, in mute pity, the now evident thinness of Father Jester, who polished chalices and sacred ornaments with a fragile, almost feverish slowness.

The ciborium and the paten trembled in his gloved hands — something that had never happened before. The candles flickered beneath the wind that crossed the sanctuary like an ill omen, as if the very air conspired against him, disturbing flames that, for countless weeks, had no longer witnessed sincere prayers, sobs of repentance, or the trembling of human remorse.

There had been many sleepless nights. Jester had sought, with silent obstinacy, a way to repair the irreversible error caused by the presence of the woman who had returned to his existence.

He had considered every possibility to counter the advantage Lilith possessed by knowing his secret as the Devourer, a truth guarded only by the members of the Church who kept him captive. He drowned himself in forbidden readings, monastic manuscripts, and accounts older than himself, trying to understand how primordial beings were cast back into the void: by intervention of their own kind, by extracting the primordial heart made of the indistinct matter of the beginning.

But everything grew increasingly nebulous as his strength waned. The few remaining confessions were insipid, incapable of satisfying the hunger corroding him.

Jester would never admit it aloud, but he feared starving to death. He feared returning to the void. Or worse, to something hotter and crueler than the silence of the First Will.

Meanwhile, Lilith flourished. She wandered through the city like a lady of the night, spreading desire and unrest. A flower that bloomed only beneath the moon, feeding on human creativity and rebellion while he, bound to the altar, withered.

Just as he pondered these matters, Jester heard footsteps upon the smooth floor of the parish. He did not need to lift his eyes to know who approached. The sweet scent and unmistakable trace of musk followed her everywhere. And they tormented him.

Lilith emerged from the shadows of the nave, walking slowly down the central aisle. She now wore a deep purple cloak — similar to his liturgical vestments — contrasting with the indecent vitality of her skin and the restless gleam of her eyes. It was as though she had stolen the Church’s color and returned it with a meaning no longer belonging there.

Meanwhile, Jester seemed to fade within his own black cassock. Purple hair fell disheveled across his paper-pale forehead, and the shadows beneath his eyes betrayed sleepless nights.

She stopped before the altar, watching him in silence for a moment.

“It’s getting worse,” she observed, without provocation this time.

He continued polishing the chalice, though it had been clean for minutes.

“Go away, Lilith.”

She ignored the request and climbed the altar steps like one invading forbidden territory.

“Look outside. The city breathes for the first time in centuries. People live, desire, create. They no longer beg forgiveness for existing.”

Quietness.

“And you’re dying because of it, Jester.”

The cloth slipped from his hand and fell onto the marble. The monster inhaled deeply, as if the air had grown thin.

“Say what you came to say. Stop circling, woman.”

A slow smile bloomed on her lips.

“End this. All of this.”

She opened her arms in an almost solemn gesture. Jester blinked, stunned. Her words echoed in his mind. End this. Heaven and hell knew how much Jester longed for and feared the moment he would kill the Impulse. Perhaps he would regret it. Perhaps not.

But he knew he needed to eradicate her somehow. Make her disappear entirely if he wished to survive.

Lilith nodded faintly, almost empathetically.

“Kill the root of your yoke. The entire dynasty that keeps you chained. Let us cut the throats of the old lords together and live our freedom as we once did in the beginning.” A beat. “Come with me, Adam. We’ll find a way.”

Jester remained still. For the first time, he did not seem irritated.

Only tired. Profoundly tired.

He looked away for a moment, distracted by the sacred objects on the altar. A fleeting glimpse of something fragile, hatred and sorrow entwined, crossed his softened gaze.

“You would never understand. You act as though I accepted without resentment the curse of being trapped here. The Law shaped me and became my executioner so that I might serve as executioner and redeemer of the souls that cry and beg here.”

He lifted his chin to meet her gaze.

“Without them, I am nothing but repulsive dust. And you, in your selfish hunger to live, blindly steal the privilege of my meal and therefore my very existence.”

Lilith tilted her head, observing him like one looking at an open wound. For a moment, there was no irony in her expression. Only strange compassion.

“You lie terribly, Jester,” she said softly. “It isn’t the Law that keeps you here. Nor these walls.”

Jester merely stared.

“It’s fear. Fear of discovering who you are without these chains. Without someone telling you what to devour, whom to save, when to exist.”

She sighed.

“You call that purpose. I call it comfortable captivity. Torture with the sweetest delight.”

Her gaze dropped to his trembling hands.

“And now you blame me for showing people they can live without begging for absolution?”

She climbed the final step, dangerously close.

“You’re not dying because of me. You’re dying because the world no longer needs your kind of salvation.” Her hand rose slowly. “And that hurts. Because you don’t know how to exist without being necessary.”

Her fingers wrapped around his wrist, feeling the tremor beneath his skin. The touch was not aggressive. Almost sad.

“You don’t need to eat guilt to survive.”

Her grip tightened.

“Just live. Stop fleeing the inevitable clash of our wills. Because once we were truly one.”

Lilith’s hands rose and slid through Jester’s thin violet hair. He sighed deeply, eyes half-closed, nearly moved by the intimacy. Almost. He purred softly, hands trembling, unsure whether to hold her or the monstrance resting on the blood-red cloth covering the altar.

The sight of her parted lips, pale fangs revealed in a sweet hiss, filled with promises too good to be true, twisted like a filthy finger inside one of Jester’s deepest wounds. It was unbearable. And he knew he would not tolerate it. No matter how much he hated loving her.

Perhaps that was why he openly stepped back, even as she approached like a feline begging for touch and warmth. She radiated pure hope — the worst kind, naive for a creature so ancient. Jester could not blame her, though. She had not seen or devoured the evils of life sealed in an Eastern tomb. He had.

And for that same reason, Jester fixed his heavy gaze upon the object resting on crimson velvet: the monstrance. A piece of sadistic goldsmithing, a golden sun whose rays ended in needlelike points, crafted to glorify light but, in his hands, resembled instruments of torment. The central glass reflected her feverish face, twisted by blind, foolish yearning.

“You speak of freedom,” Jester murmured. “But freedom is the void where nothing blooms. I prefer the weight of my chains to the nothing you offer.”

The scent of chaos and life emanated from her skin, almost nauseating.

“Come, Adam,” she whispered inches from his face, her hands brushing against his. “Abandon everything. Taste our first dawn.”

Jester simply separated her hands from his in a cold, careful gesture. Then he slowly removed his gloves, letting them fall upon the altar with almost ceremonial calm — as though he needed to feel, with his own skin, the sacrilege he was about to commit.

“I shall taste,” he answered.

The sound that followed was not a kiss, but metal tearing silk and flesh.

He would taste you. Lilith.

With precise aim, Jester drove the pointed shaft of the monstrance directly below your sternum. You tried to grab the sharp, silver cross that hung across his chest and strike the artery in his neck, but you could do nothing in your despair and agony. Gold flashed against your chest as blood, dense and incandescent like molten gold, stained the altar cloths. As the metal pierced, Jester felt his own chest tighten violently. At last, he understood the legitimacy of ancient beliefs: you would not die from the wound, but from the forced removal of the matter you shared. Only a creature like him could annihilate you.

Jester did not hesitate. He plunged his hooked fingers into the open wound, tearing bone apart with the brute force of one slaughtering an animal.

Your blood bubbled between his fingers, fusing with his smoky black skin. Within the exposed cavity pulsed not a heart, but a nucleus of violet light. With an agonized snarl — a howl echoing like desert wind — Jester drove his claws deeper into your core. You sobbed as he twisted his fingers in search of the impossible remnant. With a dry crack, the monster staggered back.

You collapsed to your knees on the cold stone, suffocating in a vacuum. Driven by unbearable hunger, Jester did not devour the organ like an animal. He threw himself upon you. For the first time, his eyes shimmered with nearly invisible tears.

“Forgive me,” he gasped. “You would survive without me. But I no longer survive without them.”

In a desperately intimate gesture, he pressed his lips to the terrible wound, swallowing the Primordial Matter. The only sound in the nave was Jester sucking and chewing your essence while your body gave its final spasms. He wrapped you in a morbid embrace, imprisoning your being within his own.

You coughed weakly, your voice fading beneath betrayal.

“I always had the sense that you would choose yourself, Jester.” You smiled in final delirium. “But I thought the purity of Adam still existed somewhere. It’s a great sadness.”

He tried to answer, but survival sealed his throat. He merely brushed his claws through your hair as you gazed at the sculpted vault above. The cold bothered you, and you released one last breath, touching his hand with the lightness of a butterfly whose wings had been torn away.

“Together again at last, my love.”

With that whisper, your hands lost strength and fell upon the cold marble. Jester remained kneeling as the candles flickered and died. The altar cast tragic shadows over the final tableau: the Devourer, finally sated. And completely alone.

That same night, Jester buried your body in the church cemetery upon a bed of pale lilac lilies.

After that, he survived.

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