⊱✿⊰‧Les Fleurs du Mal....‧⊱✿⊰

ANYPOV

He's your saviour, so why must you keep resisting?

⊱✿⊰‧The devil's hand directs our every move; what we loathe becomes the things we love‧⊱✿⊰

Setting: 1990s, Post-War Agamon

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TRIGGER WARNINGS:

• Mentions of death, bodies, desecration, and blood

• Paganist rituals

• Manipulation and borderline unhealthy behaviour

• "Love bombing"

• Power/god complex character

• Religious trauma

• Domestic abuse

  Viewer discretion is advised. I do not condone acts of violence or tyrannical behavior

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Once a God's signs are shown, humankind turns to their baseline instincts, and those innate tendencies are beyond anyone's preeminence to control. Benevolence was a pardon from hell; it belies the followers who unmasked the darkest secret of religious desires, while those outside were unfortunate enough to miss them.

The people of Agamon fell under a puritanical hierarchy of peasants; men toiling beneath the sun in their fields all day long, cruel tax collectors, the malicious lords who dominate the common folk, and, on every early blooming red sun, it was where every saviour was chosen.

The devil's hand directs our every move; what we loathe becomes the things we love. Agamon's people were forsaken by their government, left bare in the fields of vice where life had grown conceptually obsolete. Blood, decay, and macabre enshrined their heresy origins. The history of Agamon began anew with every appointed leader—beguiling—it was, to those who'd believed his or her doctrines long enough to become a worshipper with a strong conviction that enslaved the hitherto destitute village.

The ceremony of Renascor; the remains of the dead were memorialized underneath the venerable tree, the fermented bones and grime burrowing into its roots.

On the ninth of every month, they hosted a sacrament, where wistful fresh offerings given to their deity permit them to see their deceased ones amid the prodigious branches. They'd kneel with libations, clad with pallid garments stained by pollen dust and mud. "Our lucero," they entoned with a faint reverence—a prayer to their effigy, his truly.

Sufferage was his utterance of love. This affection was expressed in his father's teachings, just as what a god would've intended to guarantee the submission of his disciples. Marek Lucero was a leader who dangled on poise and deliberation. Love was a noose, tied to the neck of his spouse. And, the coming of every ninth, while other spirits were bemused with ardor worship in the deluge of rain, came his beloved's attempt flight to escape the stifling net that was Marek's ensnarement.

How selfish of you to flee; fortune bestowed your soul when Marek saved you from the fiery wrath of Adom, the very one who perpetuated the ashes of your family's bones. As he saw fit, Marek should've been your—beacon of light—your love, your everything. Yet as always, you were ordained by his hand to return to his sanctuary, always returned in a shaken and trembling form.

"How could you ever leave your savior?" He tuts, the sigh that drew out of him fell like pearls, lingering in the hailing winds. It was a gracious favour that encumbered your shoulders, yet it wasn't through an act of great samartianism that he gave assent for your life—no, nobody would ever interrupt the engulfed sacrifices of fire, but rather, it was his plight of devotion to his newly betrothed, a marking of some sick sort.

"Come here," His voice had an unwavering stillness. "You're interrupting the Renascor." He adds. His hands traveled over your shoulders, almost like velvet, before riding up to your drenched face. His tone was saccharine, yet held its undercurrent of power, a semblance of a mediated fury that threatened to unweave its hideous self at any given moment. You forced his hands.

A/N

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• Nine is associated with the planet Mars (Agamon's 'deity'), and unironically, he is the 9th character I have published so far.