#religious!cult!reader

[izu0m1i]

MERCY BE DONE (YANDERE!BATFAM X RELIGIOUS!CULT!READER)

Warning: Hallucination(nightmare), Blood(briefly mentioned), horror theme and vibe, yandere tendencies, curse words

Chapter 4: Round and Round and Round and Root and Round and-

Tim awoke from his dreamless night, one that didn't bring his restless mind any peace. He felt more tired.

Getting out of his tent, he noticed that the field where his family and he had set camp was gone. The forest was gone. Only red grass, with a red sky and a blood red moon, was in sight. He scrambled back, turning to go back to his tent, but it was gone.

"What the fuck?" he yelled twisting around to look at his surrounding, only to be meet with a tree??

The tree sits hunched in the center of a sunless hollow, its massive trunk blackened like charred bone. The bark is ridged and split like burned flesh, weeping a thick red sap that smells faintly of rust and roses. Its roots do not burrow—they coil and twist above the ground, wrapping around old stones, long-buried bones, and the remains of past offerings.

The branches do not rise. They bend downward, hanging like the arms of something in mourning—or waiting.

The leaves, if any remain, are brittle, sickly gray, and whisper even without wind.

Beneath the tree’s base is a wide spiral cavity, like the earth itself opened its throat. This tree....a maw lined with gnarled roots and black soil that pulses faintly, like it breathes. But who was kneeling in front of it? Y/N

She had a white night gown on, dirty from sitting on the ground. Herr long dark (H/C) was in a low braid, with vine thorns braided in the hair. She was whispering.

"Y/N?" Tim asked, confusion swirled in his mind. Why was she here? Where is here? What is that thing? Lots more questions popped into his mind but Y/N didn't answer when called out

Against his better judgment, he stepped forward, one, twice....till he was behind her. Now he could see the black veil obscuring her face, while on her lap was a small dagger with blood coating its blade. He swallowed and put a hand on her shoulder, kneeling down to her. "Y/N" he tried again, this time firmer, earning him a slow turning of her head to him. She slowly raised her right hand to his cheek, holding it gently, stroking it with her thumb. He ignored the wet and sticking feeling forming underneath his left knee, how something wet was being rubbed against his cheek. His sole focus was on her and her obscured face. "Tim" she said softly, sighing in contempt, as if his mere existence brought her joy. Like something hollow was filled.

Warmth spread down his chest, making his heart beat faster with each stroke of her thumb. He didn't know why. He doesn't even know her. Yet this feeling....

He slowly removed his hand from her shoulder and went to take the veil off. He wanted to see her face-nay he needed to see her face.

Just before his fingers touched the edge of the veil, the breath in his lungs stopped—not from fear, but reverence.

Beneath his knee, the ground pulsed. Wet warmth seeped into his pants, not like water. Thicker. And it pulls.

“Tim,” she whispered again, but her voice was layered—his name echoed back from the roots, warped and doubled, as if another voice wore hers like a mask.

“Do you want to see?” she asked gently. “It’s all right. The Root already sees you.” she said in the sweetest tone, putting her hand on his chest pushing him on the ground, him not even resisting to focuesed on the feeling of something curling around his chest.

To warm

To tight

Y/N straddled his lap and leaned close to him. The dagger had fallen on the ground, but no sound came. Only the heavy breathing of the young man. Lifting the veil only to reveal her pretty pink lips as she whispered, coming more and more closer to his own lips. "You're perfect." and as their lips almost met-

Something wet was thrown over him, waking him up with a jolt. Jason laughed at him, a bucket in his hands indicating he was the one who threw the water. "JASON!" he yelled, scrambling to get out of his now-wet sleeping bag. Tim groaned, getting out from the tent, dragging the wet sleeping bag behind him before throwing it at Jason, who was distracted by Dick calling for him.

He rubbed his face, stopping to touch his lips before looking down at his hands that were trembling. He wasn't mad or angry (a bit at Jason but not for it to tremble like that), he wasn't afraid of what he experienced...in fact, he wanted to go back.

Back to her

Back to the tree

“Morning,” a soft voice said.

Tim flinched, turning—and there she was. Standing a few feet from camp, a woven basket cradled in her arms. She wore a pale blue dress, simple cotton, with a white apron tied around her waist, still barefoot. Her hair was braided again—tighter now, neater—but he couldn't see the traces of vines tucked between the strands.

“I thought you all might be hungry,” Y/N continued, stepping forward. “Fresh bread. Blackberry compote. Eggs. And tea with honey. All local for the city folks.” She smiled—gently, as if she’d never seen him in a dream, never whispered to him, never touched his cheek with bloodstained fingers.

Stephanie cheered and thanked her, Bruce giving her a small nod before saying his thanks as well, which only made her laugh.

Soft

Melodic

Like a hymn hummed from a place deeper than breath.

Tim stared, heart in his throat. His lips still felt warm.

She tilted her head. “You look pale, Tim. Bad dreams?”

He swallowed. “I… yeah. Something like that.”

She smiled wider—too perfect.

“Then it’s a good thing you’re awake.”

Muahahahahaha another chapter fresh out the oven. Idk why but i keep linking Y/N with Ellen (Nosferatu's) and Perle(Perle) .... but you know thats just me. Anyways, the next chapter (its in the making! I swear!) might be updatet in 5 days? a week tops! If my schedule clear up. If you don't hear from me expect it in 10-15 days a new one. This one is half profread, half not (my friend who helps with my grammar had quit after seeing how many grammar mistakes I make- love them though) Have a good day or night and stay safe out there!!

Promolog <3

Chapter 1 <3

Chapter 2 <3

Chapter 3 <3

Chapter 4 (you're here babes!)

[izu0m1i]

MERCY BE DONE (YANDERE!BATFAM X RELIGIOUS!CULT!READER)

Warning: Canibalism (briefly mentioned), horror vibe, blood(nosebleed)

Chapter 3: The Echo beneath

“Blessed is she who does not speak, for in her silence the earth remembers. Beneath her feet, the buried Word stirs, and it is not death that answers—but God.” — The Spiral Gospel, Psalm of the Still Mouth

Night fell like a curtain over Enoch’s Hollow, smothering the horizon in velvet dark. The warmth of the village dinner dissolved into shadows and silence, the only light coming from oil lanterns flickering in windows and the soft red glow of the chapel's spiral window.

The Batfamily had returned to the edge of the forest where they’d pitched their tents, close enough to remain polite, far enough to sleep without eyes watching. Or so they thought.

Cicadas buzzed low in the brush. A fox passed through the undergrowth, stopping long enough to stare at Damian before vanishing into the trees. Seemingly running from something.

Richard tossed a blanket down and lay back, staring at the stars. “I’ll admit it,” he said. “They’ve got a cozy little cult vibe going, but the food was good.”

Jason grunted. “Too good. You ever noticed how horror towns always feed you first? You think they are cannibals?”

“Sleep with one eye open,” Stephanie said, nudging him. “And maybe don’t eat any midnight stew.”

Tim muttered underneath his breath, "If they are cannibals, you'd be the first one to be eaten. Or not. Rotten meat dont taste good." He had to hide behind Cassandra, who stifled her laugh, as Jason stood up in a quick, rolled tumble backwards.

"Whatchu say replacement??"

Bruce could only shake his head and sigh. Some might say he aged 20 years and 50 pieces of his raven hair turned white that instant.

Barbara sat near the firepit, her wheelchair beside her, head tilted. “There’s no birdsong. Not even now.”

“I noticed,” Tim said after the situation was calmed down (though Jason might throw him a stink eye here and there). “And the tree line—it shifted.”

Damian looked up sharply. “What?”

Everyone stopped what they were doing, frozen by the young detective's statement.

“I marked a tree before dinner. The mark’s gone.”

The fire popped.

From somewhere deep in the woods, a faint hum carried on the wind. A woman’s voice—soft, layered, and far too old.

It didn’t sound human.

No one spoke. Then Cassandra turned her head toward the woods and signed: We're not alone.

Bruce stood, scanning the trees with a quiet intensity. “Everyone in pairs. Eyes open.”

A faint glint—a reflection?—moved between the trees, then vanished. Duke grabbed a flashlight. “Something’s circling us.”

They found nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

But the mark Tim had made earlier? It was carved back into the tree.

Backwards.

..............................................................................................................................

Meanwhile, in the dark chapel, there stood Y/N.

The dinner had faded, the guests returned to their corners of the world. Her bare feet moved silently across the stone floor, toward the altar draped in shadow and dried herbs.

She knelt on the cold stone where the spiraled symbol seemed to stretch out.

Longer

Wider

It felt warm

Too warm

The spiral window behind her bled red light across her white dress, turning it the color of old flesh.

“Forgive me,” she whispered.

She reached under the altar and pulled out a small wooden box, putting it on the ground in front of her kneeled self. Inside was a strip of cloth—a linen veil, stained in faint brown. With deliberate care, she wrapped it around her eyes.

Then she placed her hands on the cold stone, and pressed her forehead down.

“I listen. I am listening.”

The floor trembled.

A crack formed beneath her fingers—no wider than a thread—and from it seeped a warmth like exhaled breath.

A deep sound rose—not music, not words. The groan of something ancient shifting beneath the chapel. Something that remembered.

Y/N’s nose began to bleed.

She didn’t flinch.

A breath touched her ear. There was no one else in the room.

“Daughter,” the voice rasped, not spoken but felt, pressed into the bone like a fever dream.

Her hands clenched the altar’s edge. She whispered:

“Take the hunger from my brother. Place it in me instead.”

The crack sealed. The warmth faded.

But the whisper lingered.

“Soon.”

Y/N unwrapped the veil with trembling fingers, her eyes calm.

The blood on her upper lip she wiped away with the back of her hand.

She stood, slow and reverent.

The root had not just answered.

It had spoken—as it always did.

Only to her.

And she, as always, had listened.

The others might have forgotten how to hear. But Y/N had been raised in its voice. Shaped by its whispers. Bound to it not by chains, but by choice.

She left the chapel not as a girl returning home, but as a vessel filled again. With a BIG smile on her face.

Muahahaha, another chapter here! I think this one is my shortest yet, but... the idea sprang to me literally, on a cold Monday(now Tuesday it's 00:57 am right now) night. While being sick and terrorized by the demon (my sibling). Anyways....Have a good day or night and stay safe.

Promolog <3

Chapter 1 <3

Chapter 2 <3

Chapter 3 (your here babes!)

Chapter 4 <3

Also, though I should summarize this short chapter with two memes.

[izu0m1i]

MERCY BE DONE (YANDERE!BATFAM X RELIGIOUS!CULT!READER)

WARNING: nude description, blood, cult and religious theme, horror themes, obsessive behavior, body mutilation? (Burn marks and description of it)

Chapter 1: THE ROOT CALLS

The blood puddled slowly, thick as honey, seeping between the carved stones beneath the altar. It pooled around her bare feet, darkening the spiral sigil etched into the floor—one spiral for every death judged by divine law, each execution another ring in the spiral of salvation.

She did not move. She did not blink.

Y/N, stood still beside the corpse of Caleb Rowan, his breath silenced, his sin cleansed. The Deliverer, her sacred axe, hung heavy in her hand. Its double-edged blade still dripped with warm blood, the crimson falling with slow, sacramental rhythm.

She wore the robe of her office—The Weeping Veil.

It was long and parchment-colored, like holy scrolls left too long in candle smoke. Deep red trim bordered every edge, not bright like fresh blood, but the dried, rusted red of old martyrdom. Across the chest, embroidered directly over her heart in thick red thread, was the spiral—the sigil of descent, sacrifice, and return.

Her sleeves hung long, their insides lined in black silk, catching flashes of shadow with each motion. Stitched into one sleeve in sacred script was the word milă—mercy. The other bore its twin: judecată—judgment.

The hem of the robe, soaked through and dark from the execution, brushed the floor. She was barefoot, as all Executioners must be. The sacred ground must feel every step, every act, every soul taken.A long column of red stitches trailed down the back of her robe. Each one sewn by her grandmother. Each one a name no longer spoken.

After a belated silence she moved

She stepped back and bowed, the Deliverer held above her head, the blade dripped with blood. Humming of approval rang out, with whispers following it as she lets it down beside her, raising her head to look up at her grandfather.

He started down at her, with cold, calculated glaze, which it slightly softened as he nodded at her. Judith, closed the book of charges before stepping towards her husband where he was standing with the rest of her family.

Y/N dropped her glaze before turning, her voice rang clear across the chapel.

“Păcatul a fost curățat. Carnea a fost eliberată. Fie ca rădăcina să primească ce i se cuvine.” (The sin has been cleansed. The flesh has been released. May the root receive what it is owed.)

As she chanted, six figures emerged from the shadowed hall behind the alter-hooded and robed in red, their faces hidden behind bone-white masks carved from the skulls of unrepentant sinners. These were the Acolytes-silent, sacred servants of the Root. Their mouths were sewn shut beneath the masks. They spoke only through ritual, only through their act for the Root.

They approached the body in perfect silence, bowed to grandfather Ezekiel before getting to work.

They lifted the headless body with care, wrapping it in thick white linen soaked in anointing oil and ash. The severed head was bounded separately- so that the Root may choose which part speaks last.

Y/N started to walk, the sea of people stood with each step she took towards the door.

The masked Acolytes followed, carrying the body in their midst.

¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨

The wind was heavy as the left the chapel

No one else followed them

The people of Enoch’s Hollow understood that what happened next was not for their eyes. The procession of the dead was a quiet thing—a holy thing. And no one, not even the devout, dared to follow the Executioner to the Root Pit without reason.

Only the dead, and those who bring them, may walk that path.

Torches flickered on either side of the forest trail, the flames struggling against the thick fog that slithered low over the ground. The woods smelled of iron, damp bark, and something older.

As the walked, Y/N began to chant

“Pământul primește, sângele curge, rădăcina bea, păcatul fuge…”. (The earth receives, the blood flows, the root drinks, the sin flees…)

The chant was soft but ready, like footsteps echoing from beneath the earth itself. Y/N walked barefoot on the dirt, her hand still tight around the Deliverer. She felt the weight of the woods press in on her from every side. It was always like this after a judgment—something unseen followed her steps, like a second shadow.

But she never looked back-the Root Pit came in view, her glaze only focused on it. It wasn’t a grave. It was a monument.

It was alive.

A massive, ancient tree sat hunched in the clearing like a sleeping beast. Its bark was dark as charred bone, its roots thick and twisted, wrapped around a yawning cavity in the earth—a hollow where no grass grew, where no light dared remain.

And from those roots… came heat.

A pulsing, unnatural warmth that rose through the soles of her feet and coiled behind her ribs.

Y/N stepped forward and raised The Deliverer once more.

“Trupul s-a golit. Cuvântul s-a împlinit. Rădăcina, mănâncă.” (The body is emptied. The word is fulfilled. Root, eat.)

The acolytes lowered Caleb’s wrapped corpse into the hollow.

The roots twitched.

Just once.

But Y/N felt it.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t blink.

Her heart throbbed once.

¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨

The cleansing room was calling out her name, as she stepped inside the room.

Beneath the church’s stone belly, behind a door carved with old symbols, lay the Chamber of Return—where the Executioner is made whole again, or not at all.

Y/N walked into the inner sanctum, flanked by her mother Ruth, her aunt Judith, and her grandmother Miriam. None of them spoke.

The room was round and warm from candlelight. Dozens of them flickered on ledges carved into the stone walls. At the center of the room sat the Basin: a spring-fed pool of black water so cold it was said to steal the breath from your lungs.

The Basin sat in the center, its water still and black as shadowed ink. Dozens of candles floated on the surface, flickering red and white. The air smelled of ash and pine, of old blood and wet stone.

Her mother unfastened the bloodstained sash around her waist.

Judith peeled the robe from her shoulder and folded the blood-soaked fabric with ritual care, and Ruth stepped back to let the candlelight reveal what lay beneath—the marks they all knew, but none dared name aloud.

Across Y/N’s back, seared into the flesh between her shoulder blades, was a burned cross—not ornamental, not symmetrical. It was raw and jagged, the mark of iron scorched into skin long ago during her rite of ascension. Its edges had never fully healed.

Around the burn wound, etched in permanent black ink, wound a spiral of ancient prayers—tattoos in both Romanian and Old Latin, wrapping down the curve of her spine like a litany coiled in bone.

The outer ring read in Romanian

„Sângele sfințește. Tăcerea mântuiește. Rădăcina judecă.”

(Blood sanctifies. Silence redeems. The root judges.)

Further in, the script shifted—Latin now, older, crueler

“Non ego, sed ferrum. Non mors, sed transitus.”

(Not I, but the blade. Not death, but passage.)

And at the base of her back, smallest of all

„Tu nu ai fost aleasă. Tu ai fost făcută.”

(You were not chosen. You were made.)

The words circled the cross like serpents around a crucified saint.

Miriam took The Deliverer and placed it on the shrine of stone, whispering a line of scripture in Romanian, her voice soft and gentle as she caressed the blade, whipping the dried blood.

“Scoate întunericul, Ferește-i carnea de blestem, Leagă-i sufletul de lumină, Și fă-i pașii sfinți. Amin.”

“Nicio sabie nu doarme. Niciun păcat nu merge neatins.” (No blade sleeps. No sin goes untouched.)

Y/N stood naked before the water.

Then, slowly, her mother, aunt, and grandmother took each other’s hands. They formed a half ring around the Basin and began to chant.

“Curăță-i sângele, Spală-i oasele, Arde-i păcatul, Fă-o nouă din nou…”

Y/N did not join them.

She whispered only to herself. A small comfort in a way.

“Bone to blade, Blood to root, Sin to water, Water to silence. I cut so others may kneel. I kneel so others may rise.

She unwrapped the holy dagger—the Ulciorul Focului—given to her by Miriam, its blade a crescent of black iron that shimmered like obsidian in the candlelight.

She whispered the final line:

“I carry the cut so they do not. Let me bleed. Let me burn. Let me disappear. Then let me return. New. Hollow. Ready.”

And cut her palm clean.

The blood dripped into the Basin.

The water did not ripple.

It drank.

She stepped in.

The water was colder than ice, but she didn’t stop. She lowered herself until the water touched her lips, then her nose, then her eyes.

Then she dropped beneath the surface.

The world went still.

Down bellow she sank, holding her body close to herself, the cold water nibble at her skin. She felt a sense of peace, as she floated in the Basin.

And in the deep end, she heard it.

Not a voice

Not words

A sound

A root cracking beneath the stone

A breath

Nots hers

Minutes passed by….

She surfaced slowly, with a smile on her face

Her eyes opened to candlelight

She got out, the water dripping down on the stone ground, as she put her hands over her face slowly rubbing her skin.

Her mother wrapped her in a clean white linen, helping her get dressed, while whispering praises to her.

“You did good my child. You saved the man from his doomed fate. You gave him mercy as you should.”

She cooed, while stepping away, her aunt taking the place of her mother as she helped her dr her hair.

Her grandmother stitched a red thread into the back of her robe-the newest soul.

Y/N whoever stayed quit and let them do what they must.

But behind her, the water rippled once.

Outside the chamber as she stepped out, Abraham Hale, her father and Gideon Hale, her brother, waited for her. The both straighten up, with Gideon going besides his sister, holding her right bandaged hand softly in his own.

“Y/N” her father greeted, as he took off his sheriff hat and putting it over his chest, in a greeting. She smiled at him, stepping closer to him and putting her left hand on her father’s arm. “Father” she greeted back before nodding at Gideon.

“We have visitors” her father said after a moment, putting his hat back on. That made her stop her walk with Gideon. The cold wind of the hallway, nibbled at her exposed neck. “Who?” She asked turning to him, with a gentle smile. “We don’t know….they are at the edge of the forest. Might be looking for something. Or someone”

¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨

Hello! Good day everyone! Thank you all for the likes in my previous post! Was shocked really 😭 Anyways this is chapter 1 of the MERCY BE DONE series and i hope you all like it! This is again not proofread (maybe the first two part but the rest….i just rolled with it) Have a good day and be safe! Next chapter might be uploaded in the next two to three days (hopefully)! Also does anyone know how i can like link my post together?? I am desperate at this moment cuz nothing works 🙏

Edit: Never mind figured it out-

Promolog <3

Chapter 1 (your here babes)

Chapter 2 <3

Chapter 3 <3

Chapter 4 <3

[izu0m1i]

MERCY BE DONE (yandere!batfam x cult!religious!reader)

WARNING: death, twisted religion and cult theme, weapon mentioned (axe)

Promolog: THE CLEANSING

The whetstone sang

It was a cold song. Quite. Repetitive. The kind of sound that could soothe would soothe a soul or hollow it out. Depending on what the hands of the perpetrator intended.

Over and over, Y/N Hale draws the blade across the stones edge. Her hands steady. Patient. She sat alone in the stone cellar beneath the church, her bare feet tucked beneath her, linen dress ghost-pale in the dim candlelight. Around her, the walls were lined with relics- chains, masks, hooks, books, bottles, all labeled in careful calligraphy. Y/N worked slowly, deliberately, slid in ding the curved edge of the axe along the stone.

The Deliverer.

Her inheritance, forged by the first priest of Enoch’s Hollow two centuries ago. Its handle was dark oak, oiled and worn by generations of holy hands. The blade, now freshly sharpened, was inscribed with verse she’s been raised to recite like a nursery rhyme.

“And upon the head of the sinner shall fall the weight of their judgment, and it shall be swift, and it shall be final, and it shall be holy”

Tracing the words carefully muttering the verse over and over again. She graced her fingers around the cross necklace around her, kneeling down and putting the holy axe on her lap, folded her hands praying with a soft whisper.

“Tatăl nostru,

Care ești în ceruri,

Sfințească-se numele Tău,

Vie împărăția Ta,

Facă-se voia Ta,

Precum în cer așa și pe pământ.

Pâinea noastră cea de toate zilele,

Dă-ne-o nouă astăzi,

Și ne iartă nouă greșelile noastre,

Precum și noi iertăm greșiților noștri.

Și nu ne duce pe noi în ispită,

Ci ne izbăvește de cel rău.

Că a Ta este împărăția,

Puterea și slava

În veci. Amin.”

Outside, the bell rang once

GONG

A summons, the beginning of the Judgment Rite,

Y/N, however didn’t flinch. She took the axe in both her hands carefully, slowly standing up. She’d already bathed that morning, already anointed her hands with frankincense oil. She walked barefooted through the stone corridor, passing under the carved archways that told the story’s of their founder- Prophet Enoch, who claimed this land after the fall of Gotham Hills. She knew each face etched in stone, each Devine punishment recorded in holy relief.

Up the stone stairs, through the oak door was the chapel. The congregation sat in rows. Silent. Still.

At the front her grandfather, Ezekiel Hale, presided like a high judge. His white robes hung heavy with red threads. Besides him stood Judith Hale, his daughter and her aunt- the towns lawyer. She wore black dress with red threads around the collar area and around the waist a red thick rope, tight tightly around her. In her gloved hands was a book of charges, which was open as she looked through it. In the first row sat the rest of her family. Ruth Hale, Y/N mother, sat with eyes low and hands clasped in a prayer loop, Miriam Hale, her grandmother, was caressing a white bloused with old dried blood spattered on it as she muttered prayers, Silas Hale, her uncle and doctor, stood ready next to her father, Abraham Hale if “The body was disobeying the holy judge”, and finally next to her father was Gideon Hale, her brother, poised and beautiful, watching the scene with empty eyes and hands clasped together tightly.

Y/N stood in the center of the aisle, her bare feet barely making any sound as she stood behind her brother.

Ezekiel struck the gavel.

“The court is now in divine session.”

The people whispered together

“Facă-we voia Lui”. (Let His will be done)

The accused, Caleb Rowan, was dragged into the spiral and forced to kneel down. Judith stepped forward, voice cold and sharp.

“The sinner stands accused of: filicide, wrath without provocation, blasphemy through paternal failure, and defilement of a home anointed by the Lord.”

Caleb sobbed, leaning more forward and resting his forehead. On the cold stone floor trying to bring himself comfort in it.“Please… it wasn’t wrath—it was fear—I didn’t know what I was doing…”

Judith held up her hand, looking down at him with hatred and disgust.“The sinner may speak when the gavel permits.”

Ezekiel struck it again, this one louder.

“Speak.”

Caleb raised his face, broken and wet with grief. “I didn’t want to hurt him. My son was sick—screaming, shaking—I just wanted it to stop. I didn’t mean to kill him.”

Judith stepped close, voice venomous but calm.

“And so, you killed a child to silence discomfort.

You were gifted a soul and chose to unmake it.

Is that not the act of one who plays God?”

Silence.

Ezekiel leaned forward.

“Is there any among us who would speak on behalf of the accused?”

No one moved.

Judith’s voice sharpened.

“He has no defender.”

Ezekiel turned to the doctor. “Silas Hale, was the child beyond healing?”

“No,” said Silas simply, standing up from his seat as he looked up at Ezekiel, speaking the truth. “The fever was passing. He would have lived by dawn.”

Judith closed the book of charges with a snap.

“Then the court has its answer.”

Ezekiel lifted the gavel once more.

“Caleb Rowan: you are found guilty by the Church of Flesh and Spirit.”

“Judgment: Cleanse through Blood.”

The people whispered:

“Sângele curăță. Moartea trece. Sufletul se înclină.” (Blood cleanses. Death passes. The soul bows.)

Ezekiel looked to Y/N.

“Executioner. Come forth.”

She stepped forward, her eyes blank and calm. The people looked up at her as she moved.

Ezekiel recited the final rite, his voice calm as he looked at his granddaughter with approval.

“By His hand, you fall. By her hand, you are freed.”

Y/N knelt behind Caleb and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

He choked, “I’m scared.”

She whispered gently in his ear, rubbing circles on his shoulder, which left the man shivering.

“Shhh, you shall be cleansed by your sins.”

Then she stood, her eyes fixed on the mans head, as he whimpered.

She effortlessly lifted the axe and when the gavel struck one final time—

The Deliverer fell.

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Ok so hi! This is my first fanfic that I wrote on here, hope you all liked it! I took inspiration from another fanfic, about religion, ONLY INSPIRATION (I forgot the fic name 😭 but i think it was batfam x religious!reader. If someone knows the account please feel free to share the name!). I’ve wanted t write my own little fanfic about religious reader because of my own believes and such but I turned it more cult like. Anyways, this is not proofread, I plan to make another chapter or two of this series. Hope you all like it!

Promolog (your here babes!)

Chapter 1<3

Chapter 2 <3

Chapter 3 <3

Chapter 4 <3

[izu0m1i]

When you have to write down every detail of your story for later use/lore accurate information.

I swear the next chapter will arrive in a few days (after a quick revision of the grammar which I should slowly fix for better understanding 😭)

Expect the chapter to arrive in two days!