THE SAINT
Navona City is a small, small place—this is a fact known to its citizens, but it’s something that’s glaringly obvious when one looks at it from the top. Sitting on top of the highest building within the center of the city, the moon being the only witness to the one who dares climb toward the heavens, he hums a tune familiar only to his ears as his eyes watch the city.
If he closes his eyes, he thinks he can imagine the streets of Navona City after dark, the streets he’s grown familiar with after having nowhere else to go. If he closes his eyes, he thinks he can see men chasing the promise of money; thinks he can see men trying to survive another night by ending another life. If he thinks hard enough, then he thinks he can imagine the entire world in his palms.
Like this, the world he’s in suddenly feels small.
Like this, he feels untouchable.
Like this, he feels like a god.
Which is strange, really, for he’s never pegged himself to be one with a god complex. God knows how much he loathes those who do—the rich who have never once batted an eye when those beneath them reach their hands out to them. But he supposes that might make him a hypocrite.
After all, he’s the one who dreams of drowning this city in a world of fire.
Perhaps if he does so, then this city will be reborn from its own ashes, rid of the impurities that shouldn’t have been here in the first place.
He lets out a laugh at the thought, and he falls to his back, gaze now facing the skies. He reaches an open palm toward it, his lips curling into a mocking smile. If he stares hard enough, he thinks he can see blood on his hands—blood that he’s spilled, and has yet to spill. If he stares hard enough, he can see the answer to his own question.
He will burn with the sinners of this city, after he’s burned every single one of them.
If he closes his eyes, he thinks he can imagine the streets of Navona City after dark, the streets he’s grown familiar with after having nowhere else to go. If he closes his eyes, he thinks he can see men chasing the promise of money; thinks he can see men trying to survive another night by ending another life. If he thinks hard enough, then he thinks he can imagine the entire world in his palms.
Like this, the world he’s in suddenly feels small.
Like this, he feels untouchable.
Like this, he feels like a god.
Which is strange, really, for he’s never pegged himself to be one with a god complex. God knows how much he loathes those who do—the rich who have never once batted an eye when those beneath them reach their hands out to them. But he supposes that might make him a hypocrite.
After all, he’s the one who dreams of drowning this city in a world of fire.
Perhaps if he does so, then this city will be reborn from its own ashes, rid of the impurities that shouldn’t have been here in the first place.
He lets out a laugh at the thought, and he falls to his back, gaze now facing the skies. He reaches an open palm toward it, his lips curling into a mocking smile. If he stares hard enough, he thinks he can see blood on his hands—blood that he’s spilled, and has yet to spill. If he stares hard enough, he can see the answer to his own question.
He will burn with the sinners of this city, after he’s burned every single one of them.
Designed by scammer | Coded by xiangling :: For GOS RP only, do not recreate or steal.
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