Only God Forgives
A righteous man walked into the abbey with rage in his heart.
It was not the first time Randal had visited a church in anger. Nor, he knew, would it be the last.
The evening service was winding down. Townsfolk shuffled out in a steady stream. Some nodded politely to him; most simply scurried out of his way, for the towering Crusader didn’t look like he’d stop for anyone. He closed the doors behind him as soon as he passed the threshold. He slid the latch into place quietly. None would escape judgement tonight. Randal strode towards the altar, each footstep heavy. Saints looked down at from stained glass windows; their expressions were impassive. He glared at them from within his helm; as if daring them to intercede. To stop what he was about to do. They didn’t. Of course they didn’t.
The monsignor and his two attendants bustled about the altar. There was no rest for the righteous, and without proper staffing there much to be done before the next service. Randal knew the dedication they had to the humble abbey. Knew how much they cared for the old stones and delicate glass.
Toustain cared for the abbey, too. But that hadn’t stopped them from burying her alive. “Ah, Ser Randal!” The priest said, catching sight of the Crusader. He bustled over and took one massive, gauntlet-clad hand in his own, smile on his face. “So good to see you. What brings you to the abbey this evening, hm?” “I have come seeking advice, father,” Randal whispered, his head bowed. “Might you join me as I kneel before the altar, and listen to my confession?”
The priest frowned; concern was written all over his wrinkled face. He knelt down on the stairs of the dais alongside Randal, hands clasped before him. “Speak, my son,” he said. “What weighs upon your soul?” Randal, head still bowed, breathed deeply before speaking. “Once, when I was fighting in Lithuania,” he said, “I came across a man who claimed to be righteous. He was loved by all in his flock; he was noble, honorable, pious. The sort of man all Crusaders aspire to be.” Another calming breath. “But I learned, father, that he’d been extorting the poor. Stolen coin was spent on pleasure houses and dens of inequity; bribes were given in exchange for favors among the nobility. He was corrupt down to his very soul...so I killed him.” His breaths came in heaves; his pauldrons shifted as shoulders shook. His visor turned towards the priest, and the candlelight did nothing to illuminate the face beneath. “How could a man do such things, father?” He said. “How could the Light let such a man serve it?”
Silence reigned in the abbey. Agatha and Simaline had stopped to listen; their expressions were solemn. The monsignor closed his eyes and reached out to touch Randal’s forearm, pity gleaming in his eyes. “It is a sad truth that such people exist,” he said. “It pains my heart to know you went through this ordeal, Ser Randal. But consider this, perhaps: If that man was given ample opportunities to repent his awful ways, and did not...then maybe you were meant to meet him that day. Maybe the Light chose you, son, to be the instrument of its judgement. To help those who had suffered beneath his wicked thumb.”
Randal looked back at the altar and nodded slowly. He stood up, one hand gripping the hilt of his sword. “I...I see, father,” he murmured. “Thank you. It does me a great service, knowing that the Light chose me to act as judicator.” He tilted his head back and laughed, the sound bouncing off the abbey’s cold walls. “A shame I don’t believe a fucking word of it.” He drew his blade quickly; too quickly for Sister Agatha to even register what had occurred before it removed her head from her neck. It was only when blood sprayed over the candelabras, and the nun’s body crumbled, that Simaline began to scream. Randal’s footing was sure and swift. He stepped back and reversed his grip on his sword, holding the blade with both hands and slamming the pommel into Simaline’s temple. The force knocked her to the floor, and the last thing she was Randal’s armored form looming over her before his sword smote downward and crushed her skull inward.
Bone crunched. Blood spattered. He swung twice more for good measure before turning his attention away from her still corpse.
Just one more rat to deal with.
“Help!” The monsignor shouted, moving as fast as his old legs could carry him. “Oh, God above, have mercy! Help!”
He tripped partway down the isle and rolled onto his back, scrambling on his elbows as Randal stomped forward slowly, inexorably; no force on the planet could stop the steel-clad titan in that moment. One hand reached into a pouch on his belt and drew out a tattered, singed scroll. “This is for Toustain, you whoreson,” the Crusader seethed, blood dripping from his sword. “God won’t save you. The angels won’t save you. The Light and all its worthless fucking creations won’t save you from me.” He slammed a foot down on the old man’s chest and pinned him to the floor. “Burn with the creatures I slay in the Warrens! Burn with the thieves I slaughter on the Old Road! Burn with every devil, every monster, and every sinner who waits for you below! Burn, burnt, BURN!”
The scroll unfurled, and the priest could only scream as his flesh came apart in blistering torrent of furious gold light.
A righteous man walked out of the abbey. He took a side-door out, leaving via the graveyard. The bodies would be found in due time, no doubt. But he’d be long gone by then. He turned his thoughts towards the inn, and the notion of getting a drink struck him as downright heavenly.
