text: Where once was a sanctuary, now lay decimation. The shrine that held their union had been long since robbed of its divine architecture, monuments of pure silver, drapes of sapphire which blew softly in the sweet breeze. However, the pews remained filled with witnesses. Bloated. Decayed. Mouths agape with flies and their offspring. Should a fire take this place now, the surviving insects would creep away lamenting their own sanctuaries, just as the Wretch who now knelt before an altar of void faith. The wings of rot now the only praise heard. For the Wretch, this region of disease held no more apprehension than that of simple regret. He would want nothing more than for his memories of purity to be rebuilt and the stench of abandonment swept away. However, should a miracle break through the smoke of desolation, seize hold of the altar, purge the sanctuary with searing light, and finally leave behind a hollow but pure temple for troubled souls to find, the Wretch felt that he himself should be excavated. For the rot had taken him as well. He was simply a fly in search of another corpse, another of Hope's carrion. Yet, his trembling hands were raised. The rags which encased his body he wore as Holy as filthy robes could achieve. The tingling of many tiny lives scurrying beneath his flesh were forgotten. The faded silver image of the crescent moon enveloped his whole consciousness. Should the past return it would find him here faithful. Then her steps filled the sanctuary. Soft but echoing. She had found him after an ongoing pursuit that began at this very shrine. The Wretch lowered his hands and bowed his head in defeated prayer. “I am here for you.” Her voice was that of a clear spring found in the lower valleys. He wanted to taste those waters again. She halted her approach. The sound of silk and metal falling silent. The Wretch lowered his hand instinctively towards his own rusty blade. However, the scent of her was carried through the wind. The stench of the sanctuary and he dissipated for a precious instant. The Wretch's hand hovered over the weapon, but he rose instead from where he knelt and turned to face her unarmed. Her eyes gazed into his immediately as he turned. This was always the beginning of opposition. She stood still in the midst of the pews of decay. Her lovely features never flinched in disgust at her surroundings. Instead, she eyed her espoused with the glee of a young maiden awaiting to be betrothed. Her black hair falling down her back and to her breasts. Her femininity, unhidden by the golden shards of war. There was blood on her age. “Let...me...worship...” The Wretches voice flaked with the dryness of long silence. Her eyes flicked for a disregarding instant. “Worship what?” She asked with a smile. He had no answer to give, for she already had it to begin with. After all, it was she who stood with him before the crescent moon. At least the illusion of her. The Wretch felt his legs quiver as she slowly approached. She sheathed her blade, however, spying his laying upon the stone floor. “Are you submitting to me?” The girlish tone mingling with the sound of flies. “At last, you long to be mine?” The Wretch held up his desiccated palm before her and inhaled strenuously for words. “There is...a...large crevice...between longing...and being...” She laughed as she took hold of his outstretched hand and placed it gently to her breast. Her heart pulsed through her warm skin. “Then let me extend a bridge to you, my love. We can walk across together.” Her veins slid from her smooth skin and entered his wrist. Warmth passed through his body. His heart began to beat again. The first time she had performed this act was in the golden city of Rehcash'pl. He had very little rot for her to devour. Now her eyes rolled back in ecstasy at the banquet prepared after so long a chase. Her scalding blood poured through him. He breathed in deeply her sweet scent, feeling the strength of youth returning and the weakness of his lust. The Wretch fell into her soft arms and they both sank down to the stone. His back was to the moon. He was kneeling before her now. All that stood in this hollow shell of former radiance was her radiance. Her beauty. Her voice heaved softly in his ear. Why not just submit? Even if the moment was fleeting, it would be his. She would belong to him as his bride. No, not a bride but a harlot. Then she would be his harlot! She belongs to no man. She was all he ever wanted in this life! No power over the corrupting serpents! No miracle performed in the name of That Which is Whole! No tongue to teach and spread the hope of the forgiveness of the Crescent Moon! What good did it do the faithful? They rot in the presence of their Hope! Yet they can still be found before it. The Wretch felt the tears fall down his rotten cheeks. He took up the rusted blade and pierced her side. She screamed and withdrew her veins from him. The warmth now gone. It would be easier now. They clashed together. The eyes formerly that of a pure young maiden now filled with malice. They fought all over the sanctuary. Falling into the pews of corpses. Shattering the images of their Faith. It didn't matter. For her, the fight was simply to cause agony to the Wretch. For The Wretch, it was to simply contend with this entity that had hindered his very existence. Their conflict brought them once more to the altar. Her blood spilled from the wounds of both combatants. Their forms identical battered flesh, ripping at one another, till finally she pinned down The Wretch and began to reign blow after blow till whatever could be recognized as a countenance crumbled. When his resistance faltered, she lowered her broken hand down to the remnants of The Wretch. “Submit.” It was a tired voice. A defeated voice. For she already knew the answer, but she was constrained to hear his response. “Never.” She rose up from her former victim now Victor. With broken steps, she stumbled her way out of the sanctuary. Her thoughts never considered the many victories she had achieved, but the hatred for these few failures. Before she had exited the doorway of dilapidation, her beauty had returned and her flesh no longer retained any semblance of her struggle with the Wretch. Her steps renewed with vigor. There were more like him. Far too many more that would give in. Yet, when she looked into their eyes, she always feared that which had just transpired. But she would die before she ever revealed that fear. Die. The Wretch lay unmoving till nightfall. Eventually, the lunar glow of late evening shone upon him through a break in the clouds. He rose whole like before. A Wretch. Yet he turned again to the faded altar and knelt once more. As he worshiped, his eyes caught sight of his reflection in the faded silver, with hands raised in praise and a congregation of fellow worshipers behind him.