The Church without Saints
@traversia
The church was like a graveyard itself. Inside, the oppressive atmosphere of loneliness, the stone still fragrant with incense after perhaps centuries of rituals.
Beneath the unblinking eyes of the statues and the cold, sacred darkness of the atrium, he could see the dusty altar. The unsettling tingle of reminiscence spread across his back. How many times had he sat on those benches, mocking the sanctuary of a god?
Gilgamesh stopped, close to the altar, standing on the floor sprinkled with colors of the falling light across the circular window above. The stained glass depicted the two-faced gods of the native culture.
Clad in the dark civilian clothes he had used during those ten years in the human world, he would be a recognizable figure as the proud king of sinners.
