A Night of Oaths
The sun was dying in the sky, but the last wisps of its light struck the stained glass of the chapel in such a way as to illuminate its interior in rainbow hues. It was an ancient building, well cared for, and that housed the echoes of countless centuries of prayer. The devout had worn the stone floors smooth in prayer before the pulpit, yet the chapel bore no worshipers, and held no pastor in fervent speech. There was but one man within kneeling before a statue of a crucifix: nails were crudely driven into the stone Christ’s palms, his crown of thorns recreated in bloody detail, while his face wore naught but sorrow. The man before the crucifix was wearing crimson armor, its metal covered in scratches and dents, his white hair streaming down from his bowed head.
“I have not lost faith,” the man muttered, his voice rasping. “Whatever trials You put before me, I will not waver. From my very birth You have sought to test me, but I have never given in to defeat. I am but Your loyal servant.”
The man tilted his head up, the light shimmering in his red eyes. Behind the head of the Christ, painted into the stained glass, was an image of a halo. The stained glass depicted images of a grand blue sky opening to Heaven above; the hand of God reaching down to Earth; and of the Archangel Michael with his flaming sword ever watchful over the world.
“I beg of Thee for strength.” The man clasped his hands together tightly, his armor rattling. “I’ve heard tell that the Devil has returned to our beloved Sarance. I failed You. I failed my country, my people, and my king. Let me earn Your redemption, and let me do it right this time! Let me be Your righteous hand to cleanse this land of the sin that threw You out. I would give my life to Thee, and I hope You will let me spend it for my people.”
The man slowly rose, letting one see that he stood almost six and a half feet tall, with the hefty build like a bear. The drafty nature of the old chapel made his white hair flutter, his piercing eyes staring straight into those of the Christ as the glass shards of Michael’s flaming sword burnt orange hues upon the snow white of his skin.
“In Heaven, Earth, or Hell, wherever this mortal soul may dwell, it serves You. I will be Your vessel, I will be Your voice, and I will be Your judgment.”
