Love in Blood & Gore

You knelt before the altar, spine bowed in silent reverence, hands folded tightly against your chest, head bowed low. The stone floor was cold beneath your knees, but you welcomed the chill—it grounded you, reminded you that you were still here, still breathing. Before you, the altar stood adorned in quiet devotion: tall candles burned steadily despite the draft, their wax pooling like melted gold; delicate chains of gilded prayer beads glimmered faintly in the filtered light; small trinkets and offerings, placed by trembling hands over the years, stood as testaments to desperate faith.

Above, the tall, narrow stained-glass windows cast fractured light across the room—panes of crimson, violet, and gold bleeding color across the chapel’s bare stone. Dust shimmered in the air, caught in those holy beams, drifting slowly like ash in a silent storm. Everything felt still. Unmoving. A breath held between moments.

The chapel was empty.

Not just in body—but in breath, in warmth, in love. This was the quietest hour, when the others busied themselves with chores, sermons, or gossip. You had slipped away as you always did, unnoticed, unwanted. The silence suited you. It always had.

Mounted on the far wall, just above the altar, hung the old oil painting.

You lifted your gaze toward it, slowly, as if afraid your stare might disturb the sanctity of it. The frame was heavy, blackened gold, its edges worn from time. But the painting itself, though faded and cracked with age, still burned with presence.

There, rendered in aged brushstrokes and reverent detail, were your gods.

Orvath—the Judge—stood tall and solemn in the centre, one hand raised in silent verdict, the other resting upon a tome sealed in gold leaf. His face was grave, timeless, eyes painted in a way that made them seem to follow you no matter where you knelt.

To his right loomed Dazkiel—the Punisher—his crimson tones darkened by age, his exposed musculature rendered with unsettling care. He held his flail coiled at his side, his stance tense, as though waiting for judgment to be passed so he might carry it out. Even cracked and dulled by time, his image radiated a quiet, inescapable wrath.

And to the left lounged Varkhul—the Reshaper—half-swallowed in shadows, his form coiled and lean. One eye gleamed from beneath heavy lashes, his lips painted in a wry smile. A crown of black thorns and gold leaves encircled his brow. His presence in the painting felt alive, like he might slip free from the canvas if you stared too long.

You had looked at them your whole life.

You had no one else.

Your prayers to them were not ritual. They were conversation. Confession. Pleas whispered into stone and silence. You told them your fears. Your dreams. Your grief. You spoke to them not because it was commanded, but because they were the only ones who never looked away.

The commune had never loved you. They feared you. Reviled you. They said your blood was cursed, that you were a reminder of a sin none of them would name aloud. A filthy inheritance. A stain on sacred ground.

No one embraced you. No one listened.

But maybe the gods did.

Maybe in this quiet, in this dust-drenched light, they watched. Maybe, behind their painted eyes, they heard every word you offered. Maybe—just maybe—they loved you back.

“Good morning, my lords,” you began quietly, voice barely louder than the flicker of the candles. “I hope my words find you today… I hope you still hear me.”

You folded your hands tighter; fingers laced with quiet desperation.

“Life has been difficult,” you admitted. “Hard in ways I no longer have the strength to name. But… in suffering, there is strength to be gained. That is what your teachings say.”

A soft sigh escaped your lips, the memory of the morning still fresh on your skin. You touched your cheek unconsciously—where Mother Kain’s hand had landed with sharp precision after scolding you for being late to breakfast. A meal you ate alone, outside the great hall, where you wouldn’t have to feel the weight of every sneer, every pair of eyes that wished you gone.

You swallowed down the ache in your throat and continued, voice softer now.

“But… like your teachings say, a day lived is still a blessing.” You hesitated, letting the silence breathe between your words. Then, more quietly still, “Still… I wish not every day began with pain. With contempt. With eyes that see me as something wrong.”

You lowered your head further, voice falling to a hush.

“I just want one day—just one—where someone looks at me with kindness. With joy. With… love.”

The words hung there, fragile and trembling, like a prayer too tender to survive the world outside these walls.

After a few moments of silence, your voice returned, softer now—fragile, but hopeful. “…At the very least, I hope to have your love,” you murmured, the words hanging in the still air like a thread between you and the divine.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of your lips at the thought—maybe, just maybe, your gods loved you. Perhaps theirs was the only love you were ever meant to know.

You rose slowly from where you knelt, smoothing the creases from your long skirt with care. “Forgive me,” you said gently, dipping your head toward the altar. “I must go. There are many duties that wait for me today.”

You took a few steps backward, reluctant to turn your back on the oil painting. You held their eyes just a moment longer—Orvath’s cold judgment, Dazkiel’s burning silence, Varkhul’s ever-knowing grin—before finally turning away.

By the chapel doors, you reached for the woven basket you had left there earlier, hand just brushing the handle—

The door burst open.

You staggered back as it nearly slammed into you. The wind caught your skirt, and for a brief moment, the cold bit into your bones.

“Oh, I’m sor—” a familiar voice began, then cut short.

Father Michael.

His surprise vanished the moment he recognized you. The warmth that had touched his voice instantly chilled, replaced by the stony detachment you had come to expect.

“(Y/N),” he said curtly. “Don’t linger near the door. You’ll be in the way.”

You bowed your head slightly. “Yes, Father. I’m sorry.”

You didn’t bother explaining. There was no use. Just like always, no matter the circumstance, you would be at fault. You gathered your basket quietly and stepped aside as he passed, his robes trailing the scent of incense and cold judgment.

“Go now, (Y/N). I’m sure you have plenty of tasks waiting,” Father Michael said with a dismissive wave of his hand, his gaze already fixed elsewhere—anywhere but on you.

“Yes, Father. I was just leaving,” you replied softly, bowing your head out of habit rather than reverence.

You turned and stepped through the heavy wooden doors of the chapel, pulling them closed behind you with a low creak that echoed faintly in the stillness. The moment they shut, you were met with the sharp bite of winter air. Your thin coat did little to keep the cold from seeping through to your bones, but you bore it without complaint.

For a moment, you stood there in silence, letting the quiet of the outside world settle around you. No one lingered nearby—no passing glances, no muttered slurs, no eyes burning into your back. Just the wind, the snow, and the emptiness.

You allowed yourself a small hum of satisfaction. Solitude, at least, offered a kind of peace.

Turning away from the chapel, you set off down the worn path toward the woods. You had been tasked with foraging again—dried herbs, winter roots, anything the commune could use. It was a job they gave you often, under the guise of utility.

But you knew the truth.

They wanted you gone. Out of sight. Forgotten.

Perhaps they even hoped the forest would take you one day. Let you vanish into the snow and branches, swallowed by the silence. And perhaps… part of you hoped the same.

You had been wandering the woods for some time now, your boots crunching softly over the frost-hardened earth. The basket on your arm had grown heavy with the morning’s harvest—winter roots unearthed from beneath frozen soil, a handful of ice berries still clinging to brittle branches, and a small hare, claimed from one of the old traps laid days prior.

By the time you found an old moss-covered stump, your legs ached with the cold and effort. You sat with a quiet sigh, setting the basket at your feet. The sight of it—full and brimming with your efforts—brought a flicker of satisfaction to your chest.

If the others in the commune hadn’t despised you so deeply, maybe someone would have thanked you. Maybe someone would have looked at the bounty you carried and smiled.

But you knew better.

They would only meet your return with narrowed eyes and bitter silence. No matter how much you brought back, it would never be enough to make them see you as more than what your blood made you.

You rubbed your gloved hands together, trying to coax some warmth back into your fingers. The leather was thin, worn, and did little to shield you from the deep chill of the forest air. Still, you pressed your palms together and blew softly into them, watching your breath rise in a pale mist—only to vanish into the stillness as if it had never existed at all.

Another sigh escaped you, slower this time. The kind that came from somewhere deeper than your lungs.

You leaned back gently, bracing your hands against the edge of the stump, letting your gaze drift upward through the lattice of bare winter branches above. Shafts of pale daylight filtered through the canopy, catching in the fine mist of your breath and glinting off the frost that clung to the bark and bramble. Despite the cold, it was a beautiful day—the kind that reminded you, in some quiet, aching way, that life itself was a blessing. However hard it might be, however lonely… it was still life.

Your eyes wandered across the stillness of the forest, soft and quiet in its slumbering state. And then—movement.

Perched on a high branch nearby was an owl.

It sat perfectly still, its pale shape nearly blending into the snow-crusted bark. Yet what struck you wasn’t its presence—but its eyes. Deep and unblinking, fixed directly on you.

You tilted your head slightly, studying it—and the owl tilted its head in perfect mimicry.

A soft smile tugged at the corners of your lips.

“Hello,” you said, your voice barely above a breath, not expecting a reply.

But you got one.

“Hello,” came a gentle voice—not from the owl, but from behind you. Calm, smooth, and entirely human.

You startled, whipping around so fast you lost your balance. Your back slid off the edge of the stump, and with a soft cry, you tumbled down into the snow-dusted ground.

“Oh—oh, I didn’t mean to startle you,” the voice said again, lightly laced with concern.

You scrambled upright, brushing the snow from your coat and skirt as your heart pounded in your chest. And then, slowly, you looked up to see who had spoken.

There stood a man—a stranger you had never seen before.

He was tall, his presence striking against the winter-white backdrop. He wore robes of deep, inky black, layered and flowing in a way that reminded you of the ancient Roman garb you’d once seen illustrated in an old book, though these were far more elegant—modern in cut, but timeless in weight. They billowed softly with the breeze, yet he didn’t seem bothered by the cold at all. No shiver. No stiffness. As if the winter air had forgotten to touch him.

His hair was black as onyx, thick and wavy, falling to just past his shoulders in loose, tousled strands. But it was his eyes that held you still.

Golden amber.

They burned like sunlight caught in honey, glowing faintly even beneath the soft daylight filtering through the trees. They didn’t merely look at you—they reached into you, quiet and intent. Something about them made your breath hitch. They were beautiful.

You opened your mouth, ready to speak—ready to ask who he was or where he had come from—but before the words could form, a sharp screech pierced the stillness.

The owl.

You turned your head quickly, gaze flicking back up to the high branch.

The bird spread its wings and took flight, gliding soundlessly through the air before descending in a slow, graceful arc. It circled once overhead, then came to land gently on the man’s shoulder, talons finding their place with practiced ease. The man didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. As though the owl belonged there.

As though the two of them had always belonged together.

You stared at him in silence, your heart thudding quietly in your chest. You said nothing. You didn’t dare.

Because standing before you was a man wrapped in mystery, his golden gaze unblinking, his owl companion watching with equal intensity.

And you couldn’t help but wonder—

Who was he?

“I’m sorry,” the man said gently, his voice low and warm—like candlelight flickering in a cold room. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

There was sincerity in his tone, something soft and careful in the way he spoke. As he stepped forward, he extended a hand toward you, palm open in a wordless offer of help.

“Here… let me help you.”

You blinked, staring up at him from where you’d fallen, snow dusting the edges of your skirt. Your gaze flicked from his hand to his face, then back to the offered gesture again.

He wasn’t from the commune. That much was certain. His clothes, his presence, the way he stood so unbothered by the cold—it all marked him as something other. Stranger. Outsider.

And yet…

There was no threat in his expression. Only calm. Patience. A faint trace of concern.

You hesitated—but then, almost against your better judgment, you reached up and took his hand.

His fingers closed around yours with a firm but careful grip, lifting you to your feet in a smooth, almost effortless motion. You barely had time to brace yourself before you were standing again, your hand still caught in his.

You could feel the warmth of his skin even through the worn leather of your gloves—steady, grounding, almost too warm for someone exposed to the winter chill. It wasn’t just physical warmth, though. It felt… comforting.

You lingered in the contact longer than you meant to.

When you realized, you pulled your hand back too quickly, clutching it behind your back as though caught doing something wrong.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice barely louder than the breeze. You didn’t quite meet his gaze, instead glancing upward through your lashes, unsure why you suddenly felt so shy.

The man offered a small, enigmatic smile—not mocking, not amused. Just gentle.

“As you wish,” he replied, voice soft and strange, like a secret spoken into snow.

And though he said nothing more, you had the unsettling feeling he already knew far more about you than he should.

This man was strange.

Not in the way most things in your life had been—cruel, cold, or cutting. No. This man was wrapped in something far rarer: kindness. A quiet sort of gentleness that felt foreign on your skin, like warmth after too many winters. It made your chest ache in a way you couldn’t name.

You weren’t used to being looked at like this.

Not with softness.

Not with... care.

It startled you more than the sound of his voice had. You swallowed, uncertain, your breath catching in your throat.

“W–who are you?” you finally asked, voice barely above a whisper, your hands tightening behind your back.

He smiled then—just a faint curve of his lips, more shadow than sun. “I’ve been known by many names,” he said calmly, “but for you… you may call me whatever you like.”

That answer made you frown, the corners of your mouth tugging downward in quiet confusion. “Whatever I like?”

He nodded once.

You stared at him, unsure what to make of it. Why wouldn’t he just tell you his name? Was this some strange custom of outsiders? Did they not have names? Or did he simply not wish to share it?

Your mind swirled with uncertainty, but still—you thought.

Names held power. That’s what Mother Kain always said. You wondered if he was giving you that power on purpose. Or maybe he just didn’t care what you called him.

Your eyes dropped to the ground for a moment as you sifted through the few names you knew, names that might suit him. Then a word surfaced—one from an old Latin passage you had once read in secret.

A word that made your cheeks flush with quiet shame.

“Amantis,” you said softly.

Lover.

The word hovered between you like a fragile thread of silk.

He tilted his head slightly at the sound, and repeated it—slowly, as if tasting the syllables. “Amantis.”

A pause.

Then, with a faint glimmer in his golden eyes, he gave a small bow of his head. “Very well,” he said, his voice like warm honey over cool stone. “You shall address me as Amantis.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest.

You hadn’t meant it—not truly. You hadn’t believed he’d accept it. But he had.

You looked away quickly, the heat rushing up your neck, blooming in your cheeks. You had always wanted to call someone that. Not just anyone—but someone who could be yours. Someone who would look at you not with disgust, or fear, or scorn… but with tenderness.

A lover. A partner. A name passed between hearts, not mouths.

And now you had spoken it. Even if it was only pretend.

Even if only for a moment.

“And what of your name?” he asked, stepping closer.

You watched as he leaned in slightly, tilting his head so his gaze aligned with yours—close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes, close enough to feel your breath catch.

Now he stood within arm’s reach.

Your face flushed at the sudden proximity. “It’s... (Y/N),” you answered quietly, your voice soft, a little breathless. You bit your bottom lip without thinking, flustered.

He straightened slowly, his expression calm, composed—but still carrying that strange softness.

“What a lovely name,” he said with simple sincerity.

It struck something inside you—unexpected and warm. You looked away quickly, cheeks burning, your heart fluttering in your chest.

“T-thank you,” you murmured, trying not to smile, but you could feel it pulling at the corners of your lips. You weren’t used to kindness. Not like this. But it felt good. It felt... right.

You hesitated, then looked back over your shoulder at him. He was still there, watching you gently, the faintest smile playing on his lips.

“You really think so?” you asked, uncertain but hopeful.

He nodded once. “Almost as beautiful,” he said, “as the one who bears it.”

You blushed deeper, your gaze dropping again as you turned away, unable to face the weight of his words.

No one had ever spoken to you like that before. Not with tenderness.

And a quiet part of you hoped—desperately—that he wouldn’t stop.

You hadn’t even heard him move.

But then—his hands were on your shoulders, resting there gently. His warmth seeped through your coat, through your dress, straight into your skin. You looked up, startled, and found him already gazing down at you, so close, so calm.

“Why turn away from me?” he asked softly, one of his hands beginning to move—gliding up your shoulder, along the curve of your neck, until his fingers brushed the side of your face.

You couldn’t help it—your cheeks bloomed with heat under his touch.

“Why hide away such a beautiful face?” he added, his voice smooth, affectionate, sincere.

Your bottom lip trembled. Not from fear. From joy. From disbelief.

You turned toward him, facing him fully now. His hand remained against your cheek, cradling it like something precious.

“You don’t really think that,” you whispered, doubt creeping into your voice like a shadow.

But he smiled. Softly. Steadily.

“I do,” he said without hesitation.

You stepped back, unable to hold his gaze, and his hands fell away from you. The loss of warmth was immediate.

“No,” you said, shaking your head gently. “You can’t.”

Your voice cracked—not from anger, but from old hurt. You were certain now he was only being kind. Or worse—mocking you.

“You don’t know what I am,” you said quietly. “You don’t know what’s in my blood.”

He took a step forward, closing the distance again. “Then tell me,” he said. “Why would I not mean what I say?”

You stared at him, searching his face for the cruelty you were so used to. But there was none. Just kindness.

“Surely... surely you jest,” you said, testing him. Warning him.

“I do not,” he replied, his voice firm but not forceful.

You hesitated, then said it—softly, almost ashamed, “M-my blood... it is of filth.”

The word tasted wrong in your mouth. Familiar, but wrong.

But before you could say more, he interrupted you—gently but with sudden intensity.

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t call yourself that.”

His voice was low, steady. Serious. No playfulness now. No teasing.

“You’re not filth,” he continued. “You’re anything but that.”

You blinked at him, stunned.

“I know what they say about your blood,” he added, stepping even closer, “and I don’t believe it. I don’t care for old fears or twisted stories. I see you.”

His hand came to your face again, slow and reverent, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear.

“And what I see is someone beautiful.”

The words struck you hard, almost painfully.

He meant them.

You could feel it—not just in his voice, but in his touch. In the way he looked at you like you weren’t something to be cast aside, but something to be held.

And still, a part of you couldn’t believe it.

Did you dare to?

Then you heard it—The distant tolling of chapel bells.

Their sound echoed through the trees, slow and mournful. A call not of joy, but of return. Back to the commune. Back to the cold. Back to the pain that always waited for you there.

“I have to go,” you said, your voice quiet, reluctant.

You stepped away from him—passing him like a shadow slipping from the light—and bent to retrieve your basket.

He watched you move, his expression unreadable, though his voice betrayed something softer. “If you must,” he murmured, a faint sadness curling beneath his words.

You stopped. Turned. The basket now gripped in your hands like a weight you weren’t ready to carry.

“Would…” you began, unsure how the words would land, “would I see you here again?”

He smiled then—gently, like the warmth of sun through cold leaves.

“I’ll be here,” he said.

And something bloomed in your chest—warm and wide and aching.

A real smile broke across your lips, unguarded and bright. A smile you hadn’t worn in years. Maybe ever.

“Then I’ll see you again,” you said.

And with a final glance, you turned back toward the chapel bells—toward the world that never loved you—and began the walk home. But something had changed.

Something in you was lighter. Because for the first time… someone had looked at you as if you mattered.