the nightmare

Her knees are wet with tacky mud. Grass caught between her fingers as she grips into the earth, presses her forehead against the damp blades. The smell is grounding; the freshness of the rain meeting the earthy tang of the dirt.

“O Morninglord,” she chants into the ground, spoken enough times now to become a brainless hum between her lips, “deliver me from this evil. Shine your Light upon me. O Morninglord."

How long has it been? Of this endless prayer? Of begging for mercy, for forgiveness, of it all falling on deaf ears? That place in her heart that once held her boundless devotion is hollowed. Nobody is listening.

“Deliver me from this evil,” she says. It is far too late for that. The evil had festered—become something pulsing with rot, oozing with decay—because it was easier than facing the shame of it. And now she was paying the price. She was unclean. Filthy. Unholy.

She’d never be able to scrub it out.

“Shine your Light upon me.”

The world is silent but for this desperate plea. The world is afraid, beaten back in fear of her. Not even the wind has the courage to blow. The planet does not have the courage to turn.

“Deliver me from this evil.”

Power that rushes to her head like an opiate with that thought, too heady to try to deny it. The image comes, unbidden, of the world at its knee, its back bowed, its head low.

Blood spills into her own mouth with a bite on her own tongue. It stings, but it beats back the plagued thought for a moment.

Just a moment.

The blood feels luxurious inside of her mouth. She savours herself like a holy wine, painting her teeth with it before swallowing. It’s warm in the back of her throat, diluted with spit and, Gods, indulgent. Purely her. In all of her divinity. In all of her heresy.

If she held the world in the palm of her hand, they should count their blessings if all she made them do was kneel.

name	rosine
age	23
pronouns	she/her
sexuality	straight
occupation	paladin
source	baldur's gate 3

more to come...