A ghost of a whisper weaves through the wind's assault on the clothed shield of the tent, frail and trembling,
heavy not merely with the cold of the flesh, but with the scars etched into his spirit.
Pastor Gideon flinches as a harsh cough trembles the stillness behind him,
the faint rustle of movement betraying the presence shifting there.
"Hear the pleading... cries of Your servant…" Pastor Gideon breathes through chattering teeth,
goosebumps rising as light strains through the thin blue clothe, dread swelling with the slow advance of heavy footsteps.
"Lord," he whispers, "forgive me…" Tears fall as he folds in on himself, forehead pressed to his clenched hands.
The footsteps pass, the guards' murmurs ebbing away as his world narrows into the frozen, death-quiet of water beneath ice.
The ice of stillness explodes as screaming tides rip through the hell of the gallows.
"Have mercy, Lord—have mercy," he cries, shivering as footsteps approach the tent. "Stop… stop this madness…" A thin whimper escapes his trembling lips.
The tent fabric shifts.
A blinding flashlight flares against his shut eyes. "Come on out, Pastor," the guard drawls. "Time for your nightly rituals." A soft laugh follows another.
The men around him lie motionless, wide awake in the hitch of their breathing as Pastor Gideon moves to rise,
the ritual of three harrowing weeks etched into instinct.
Snow crunches beneath Pastor Gideon's feet as he steps into the open yard of darkness between the two guards.
The earth trembles beneath the agony of a mother's cries, her voice bleeding as her child thrashes in a guard's grasp, borne toward an altar lit by trembling candles.
The serpentine mark of Leviathan sneers as the child is lowered onto the snow-covered altar, thrashing against her bonds, her cries gagged by the cloth in her mouth.
Pastor Gideon's fingers shake over the cold hilt of the knife, the steel gleaming against the gold of the tray.
Shadows surge around him, hissing for haste as the wind snaps at his cloak.
A hand not his own lifts the knife. Warm liquid flecks his face as steel finds flesh,
the frantic rhythm of a small heart cut to silence.
A river spills down the altar as the knife slips from his hand, staining the pure of snow, undone by the warmth of innocent blood.
His gaze lingers on the black beads of the little girl's empty eyes, his consciousness fleeing to the thought of another child—warm, alive, nestled beneath velvet quilts.
A father's lips press to her warm little hand, pleading softly for life, for health, for happiness, lifting his prayer to God—the God of her mother, her Heavenly Father.
"You pray to the Groom, yet bow to the god of this age?" a silvery voice slithers behind him,
neither wholly man nor woman.
"What is it you think you're playing at, hmm… Ishmael?" Leviathan whispers, a silken tease winding through his words.
Ishmael tightens his grip on his daughter's small hand, her warmth bleeding into him, the life beneath her skin pulsing stronger.
"Will you not reach too late for the Bird of White, still wandering the extremes of roads?" His voice falls, low and grave.
Ishmael lingers on Inaya's pale face, each shallow breath spilling from her parted lips.
He dips the wet cloth into the bowl of cold water,
tiny droplets glimmering on the wooden nightstand as he squeezes it out and rests it gently on his child's warm forehead.
"Come here, son," Leviathan breathes, decay draped in warmth.
"Fool yourself no more, and I will release you from your suffering."
Ishmael's jaw tightens at the slither of scales across the floor,
the smoke of hiss curling into his ears.
A quiet knock draws his eyes to the door. A soft breath slips past him,
leaving only Inaya's steady breathing and the quick rhythm of his pulse to fill the room.
"Come in," Ishmael answers, barely lifting his voice.
The door creaks softly, revealing an armed figure clad entirely in black. Young, yet his shadowed eyes speak of a lifetime compressed into narrow moments.
"It's done, Boss," the guard reports, voice steady.
"Hmm," Ishmael replies,
briefly acknowledging the bow before fixing his attention once more on his daughter.
Boots scrape sharply against the floor, shattering the quiet as the door thuds open, a gust of frosty air sweeping inside.
"What the fuck is wrong with you, Ishmael?!"
Inaya flinches at the roar of the voice filling the room.
Ishmael meets Jacob's gaze, dark with restrained fury. "Keep it down," he warns, voice taut and controlled.
Jacob's glare slices through him, cold and merciless.
He jabs a finger at the front yard. "You're murdering children in the name of some goddamn ritual?" he growls, teeth clenched, pure revulsion in his tone.
"Get out," Ishmael says coldly.
Still, his fingers linger in his daughter's delicate hair, gentle, protective.
Instead, the chair grazes against the floor as Jacob drags it back and sits, a sharp exhale following.
Ishmael exhales deeply. The room turns colder as flakes of snow drift in with the winter air, the whoosh of wind muffled by the soft thud of the closing door.
He remains at the entrance,
watching Jacob rub at his temple before lifting his gaze to him.
"You can confide in me, brother," Jacob murmurs, a bitter ache tangled with hope in his eyes. "Tell me what I can do."
"You can do nothing," Ishmael says,
moving toward the bed as his daughter whimpers,
the duvet sliding off her as she shifts.
"Papa," Inaya whispers as her eyes slowly open.
"I'm here, Mamma," he says softly, a faint smile touching his lips as he brushes back his daughter's damp curls.
"Go back to sleep."
He tucks the duvet over her as her eyes close again, soft, steady breaths following as sleep claims her once more.
"She wouldn't live if it hadn't been done," Ishmael says,
breaking the room's stiffened silence.
"What, killing children?" Jacob scoffs, disbelief hardening his voice.
"I made a deal," he says, wringing the excess water from the cloth before laying it back on his daughter's forehead. "One child's life for one day of my daughter's."
"A deal with who?" Jacob hisses, every ounce of cynicism in the stress. A harsh laugh escapes him. "You've gone crazy. This—whole place is fucking crazy."
Ishmael remains silent, the wind slamming against the windowpane and snow shifting outside the only sounds.
"I brought you the best doctors I could—and this is your choice?
Ritualistic child sacrifice?" Jacob snaps.
Ishmael glances over his shoulder at Jacob, his face twisted in utter disbelief.
"No one infected by this virus survived," he says, voice calm.
"The doctors can do nothing."
"You really believe all this mindless slaughter saved your daughter?" Jacob asks. "What if it isn't even the Ruhd virus?"
"The symptoms suggest otherwise," Ishmael says, his eyes on his daughter's pale face and the faint blue tint of her lips.
"How are you not infected? Isn't it supposed to be infectious?" Jacob presses, voice low, measured.
"It mostly infects children, those with weaker immune systems," Ishmael murmurs.
"And my Naya has always been weaker than most."
"You've locked up Isaiah,'' Jacob says, cutting in.
"He says he hardly sees you anymore."
"It's for his own protection," Ishmael replies. "I won't let him become infected too."
"Where the hell is their mother?" Jacob asks, his voice icy. "Does she even know her daughter's dying?"
"I've been looking for her," Ishmael says, lifting the cloth and dipping it into the bowl before resting it again on Inaya's forehead.
A heavy silence lingers before the chair gives a faint scrape against the floorboards.
Jacob exhales,
raking a hand through his disheveled hair.
"You brought this upon yourself, Ishmael," Jacob says, heading to the door.
''Don't take too long," he murmurs. "Stop condemning the trap, but yourself."
Ishmael watches the door close, Jacob vanishing into the snowy night.
Unfeeling and still, every inch of him freezes, a shadow of hell coiling around him, the serpent's hiss slicing through his mind.
"You said she'd come back!" Ishmael snaps, a flash of anger breaking through his fear.
"Did I?" Leviathan murmurs.
"Find her," Ishmael commands, staring into the all-too-human eyes of Leviathan, where a cruel delight flickers.
"Now," he adds, teeth clenched.
"Another bargain."
A wicked smile coils around Leviathan's lips as he tilts the side of his face.
"Yes," Ishmael says, chest tightening with each word.
"Another bargain, indeed," Leviathan echoes, descending from the table where he had perched, beside the chair still radiating Jacob's recent warmth.