Deep Sleep
The night when even the moon had squeezed its eyes shut was noisy. Little could be seen, but much could be heard—enough for the man trapped motionless in his room to picture the corridor beyond.
"F-forgive our sins... deliver us from the abyss of darkness..."
He raised trembling hands in prayer, but it did nothing to block the sounds burrowing into his ears. Chants echoed from the hall, guards assembling. Cheers rose ceaselessly, endlessly, then cut off sharp. Like screams from those plummeting off a cliff. They too.
Thud.Thud.Thud.
Then came the heavy clang of metal tolling like a bell. The kind rung for every corpse buried.
Thud.Thud.Thud.
His legs went weak, but the prayer didn't stop. Inertia kept it going. Why else did soldiers drill through endless boredom? So even when reason froze, the body would move.
The archbishop did the same. Prayer gave him strength. He dragged his fat bulk to light the candles, hands shaking as he yanked open the wardrobe, rings slipping from sweaty fingers. Wax candles tumbled to the floor with a patter. Unblessed ones. He muttered a low curse, shut his eyes, and bestowed a blessing. It was grueling work.
Once he'd blessed a filthy commoner's wooden idol thrust at him by a scabby plague-ridden child. Revulsion had risen, but he'd smiled and prayed anyway. He'd blessed a noble lady's eyes, bluer and clearer than a lake. Her flat chest had jutted so insolently he'd nearly glared, barely holding back. Placing hands on her golden hair had summoned a scent of moon oranges. To warriors. To heretic inquisitors. To priests, nuns, monks—countless blessings.
Inertia moved his lips now too. His body jerked like a puppet. Candles stood in every corner, lit in a frenzy. But it wasn't enough. His chambers were as vast and lofty as his station demanded.
So the archbishop shattered the grand mirror—a gift from the pope himself, authority set aside in panic. He flung open the wardrobe, hauling out clothes to drape the shards, directing light into every corner. No sooner had he set the last piece than black smoke seeped under the door. Shadows.
But they couldn't pierce the light. Footsteps and screams drew nearer, sweat poured down his brow, yet he felt safe.
"Darkness cannot overcome the light."
—Right. Exactly.
The smile vanished from the archbishop's face. Mocking laughter. Cackling. Jeers.
Absurd. The shadows were gone. Nowhere in the room could cast one.
—If you were the light, maybe.
"Ah... aaah..."
The archbishop sighed. The room blazed bright. Everywhere but him. His own body blocked the light.
Between his feet, a shadow grinned. White fangs, blinking eyes, swirling. Like the Demon King's wolf packs. They hadn't trusted mere numbers, fangs, jaws. Cunning and greedy as their master, they'd waited for prey to weaken—when its own fear strangled its throat, snapped its wrists, clamped its ankles.
The archbishop collapsed to the floor, legs splayed like a child's. He spun his rosary, chanting. "Forgive our wicked deeds..."
But the shadow already draped his ear, whispering.
—You know it, don't you, Archbishop? Fear hatches like a chick. It can't break the shell alone.
Ignore it. Must ignore it. Listening meant the end. He pressed eyelids shut, focusing on the prayer. "Remember only our good deeds..."
—The mother hen must peck from outside. So even if the outside terrifies you, if your heart's pure, nothing happens.
Thud.
His door shook. Eyes snapping open, the archbishop gasped.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The door rattled violently. Something outside battered it.
It can't break through. Eyes shut again, he slammed the bolt of his mind, declaring firmly. Ironwood harder than steel, reinforced with layered, hammered iron. Even a battering ram couldn't breach it. Not even the Demon King's fire could burn it. Safe. Just hold till dawn...!
—Of course, nothing to fear, right, Archbishop?
The shadow spoke with mock puzzlement.
—Last week? The week before? Your sermon: 'Envy. Jealousy. Fear. Anger... Sin's a starving beast in the heart, fattened by attention. Ignore it. Let it starve.'
Bang! The door splintered under blows. A guard screamed, charging. His cries choked off into gurgles, then silence.
—Great speech, Archbishop. Obvious, but holy from your lips. So holy. While front-row men wept with eyes shut, women gazed at you enraptured.
"Do not count our sins..."
—So it wasn't your fault you ogled their exposed cleavage. What sin in you? They dressed lewdly for holy Sunday mass—immodest noblewomen. Or was the countess better? Her cleavage wasn't sunburnt white. No sunlight pawing it rudely.
"Count our good deeds..."
—So you did the sun's work for it. Confessional? This room? No—stable shed? Wait, no. The count's bedchamber. Blessing him for quick recovery that day.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The archbishop wailed at the ceiling. "Even if we've sinned ninety-nine times, remember the one good deed!"
—Ah, truly, your fault? The count's the fool—crippled half-dead from war, with such a young, passionate wife. How else could he lie silent as you rolled with her beside his bed?
"Have mercy, have mercy!"
—Tongue cut out? Blinded? Not comatose. Cripple bastard, veins bulging on his hands! Your words, remember? You laughed harder seeing her convulse with laughter... But how's that your fault?
"Who can withstand your reckoning, who pass your judgment!"
—You just blessed wife and husband, body and soul. No fault. No sin. Nothing to fear.
Thud... thud... bang!Creak.
The archbishop's eyes flew open. Wood shards rolled across the floor. The door sagged like a drunk rousing, then steadied.
"A... aaaaah...!"
And he saw it. Iron gauntlet forcing the gap. Crack, crunch—prying wider. The stench of sulfur from the Demon King's gates.
—Nothing to fear, Archbishop. Truly.
—Holding novice monks' shares briefly? Redistributing to new nuns for a small fee? Wrong?
"Have mercy, look upon your servant!"
—Budget for ten guards, hired five? Everyone does it. Fake beard, sneaking to brothels festival nights? Anyone would.
"I went where I must, did what I must, fulfilled what I must!"
—Witches. All those witches you judged. Witches only destroy, never create. To know true witches, test if they can conceive. Village girls or real? Who cares?
Bang! "Have mercy!"
—You did your duty. It was your job. Good deed. But, Archbishop?
The gauntlet seized the door. It held to the last. Did its duty. But hinges failed. Stone wall too. The door ripped free.
A knight shrouded in pitch shadows loomed, staring. He felt it—couldn't see eyes in the helm.
Shadows swarmed in, joyful. Circling ceiling, walls, like a benediction. Oddly evoking the countess's negligee.
—Why pray?
"I... I..."
—No sin. No fear needed. Fear only God. Yet you clutch rosary, light every candle to banish shadows. Why? Pissing yourself, curled like a babe?
"I am without sin."
The archbishop rose. Grueling. Soaked pants, stiff legs, parched throat. But he rose. He who hadn't knelt before the Demon King.
"I am without sin. I fulfilled my duty. I carried out my calling faithfully. If sin, if flaw—born of loyalty! Judgment God's alone! You scum!"
Candles blazed like torches. Light and heat rippled in his right hand, forming a man-sized hammer. Before archbishop, he was a hero. Before hero, saint-knight.
"I fear no puny ghost like you!"
The ironclad knight said nothing. Just stared.
The archbishop slammed the hammer down. Shadows flinched, retreating. Ecstasy surged—youthful passion, pure zeal slaying evil.
—Then why pray? Why arm yourself? If it's harmless, if no fear—why tremble so?
He recoiled. The voice from his hammer.
The light warped. He dropped it. It pooled like mercury on the floor, faces rising—happy, laughing crowds dissolving to black smoke.
—Can't tell light from shadow now, Archbishop? That tense?
No answer. God silent. He eyed the twin-eagle crest on the wall. Left dead, right head high. God's symbol.
"Salvation..."
—No. Wrong, Archbishop. You waited. Knew this came. Jerked off in secret to this moment.
The iron knight melted to gray shadow. Like backed-up sewage, chimney soot, it flowed under candles toward him.
—Not salvation you awaited. Fear. Sin? Forgiveness? Vengeance? Judgment? No. One fear.
Smoke rose before him, reforming the knight. From steel helm, unearthly grate—not voice, not metal.
"Fear of losing what wasn't yours."
"How dare you!"
The archbishop roared. Mind forgot, body remembered. Lashes, hunger etched novice saint-knight chants surfaced.
"Defile God's child, will you!"
Judgment flames erupted from his fist.
"Cripple shit, how dare you invade here! Your mistake slipping among us. You and your bitch—fated to whelp like dogs in some village dump! You—"
Fist battered armor. Dented, crumpled, tore free. Nothing special.
"One bite of sacred fruit, and you a hero? Steal ours, mine? Unjust! Unjust, unjust! No justice! Wicked thing, crawling back like this!"
Fist smashed helm. It clanged, rolled. Body flopped back with a creak.
"Not even a mouthful's worth..."
But words failed. Shadows swarmed the helm. It floated up, reclaiming body. Knight reformed in armor.
One difference. Sword in right hand. Sheathed.
"A scabbardless cripple dares block me!"
"Confess."
Metal rang.
"Confess your deeds. If proud, show the world. Proclaim them, kiss the earth."
"Fine! I will!"
Fury drove him to the wardrobe. He tore the lock, seized the hammer—unseen since slaying the Demon King. It gleamed, recognizing master.
"I'll proclaim the lowly stay low! How a muck-munching bastard fell! How you shattered our bond, how we reformed! Thousands of times told—once more!"
Hammer swung. Knight swung scabbard. Sluggish as ever.
Senses knew. They'd clash. But no mere scabbard blocks this god-empowered hammer. It'd rebound, smash skull.
Knight pulled scabbard to body. Surprised, but swing committed. Foolish for talentless whelp...
Clang-grind.
Body bloated, eyes same. His pride. They showed: scabbard deflected hammer aside.
Floor shattered noisily. Miss. Hammer cratered beside knight's foot. Helm should've been pulp.
He raised hammer. Scabbard plunged to wrist. Sluggish as parental whipping of hated child—unblocked.
"Aaaah!"
Screaming, he reeled. Candles guttered, wax burned hand. He shook flames from pant legs.
Clunk, clunk. Knight advanced, scabbard high, slow strike.
Once. Left shoulder pulverized.
Blackout near, but right hand rose, palm out.
"I can explain! I can! Please, hear me out!"
Knight paused. Metal rang. "Speak."
Tears blurring, jaw chattering. "Y-yes! It was like... aaaah!"
Words cut. Scabbard cracked palm. Fingers bent back, glaring at owner.
"I said explain!"
"Heard."
"What..."
—Your screams explain all, Archbishop.
Shadows cackled. Scabbard rose like verdict. Slow as switch, it fell.
Novice days. Bones unset. Botched prayers. Mishandled staff. Failed errands.
Yes. A dream. He understood at last. Still six-year squire. Archbishop? Delusion. Slaying Demon King? Lie. Buried whelp alive, back to beat him dead with scabbard? Madness.
Tomorrow's breakfast? Oat porridge? Fish-bone soup?
Fat body tumbled. Last thought: Up early to sweep hall.
Thud, thud.
Lulled by emotionless blows on living flesh, the archbishop fell into deep sleep.