Blood pooled over pearlescent tiles.
It draped the white in a deep red. Almost black. Dragging itself through the castle hallways. Spreading over every inch of the floor as though water. Coagulating. Deepening. Seeping between tiles. Staining the grout. Turning white to crimson.
It took three seconds for the dead to rise again.
But Alfonse could see those empty eyes that Kiran once held when the sword ran through their abdomen. How that black sword cracked through its ribcage. Shattering the upper right rib. Piercing through the lungs, heart, and muscles. It wasn’t Kiran’s scream that he remembered, but the way the guts spilled out of the hole that Fafnir carved through. Piling against the floor. Lumping together in some heaping pile of filth.
It stood from the once dead spot. The gore hanging from their stomach as it slowly healed back into place. Spoke words to quell the Desolate King’s rage.
And in one blink. They were both gone.
But the blood remained.
He stared at the spot that his God once bled.
That unsightly visage that once tainted the very halls of Askr had been cleansed in prayer and a thousand holy hands wiping clean the tiles. But even gone, Alfonse could recall the very spot where the blood had pooled. He knew every stain that kept in the gout. Although bleached, he could pick out the particles of blood that clung against Askr’s halls. As if God himself was telling him that it was still here to receive in his touch.
It had been a week since the treaty had been brokered.
Often, the prince would be sat atop his gilded throne with hands tented staring down at that spot. Even receiving company, he’d avert the gaze of the visitor to relish in God’s grace. His sight unable to be broken from the unsightly memory of blood pooling.
When Henriette noticed this, she called for the halls to be redecorated.
But the blood remained.
A carpet had been laid out where the blood once fell.
It was white and embroidered with beautiful blues and golds. But even if the blood had been hidden, Alfonse could still pick out the specific spot where Kiran had once laid. How its limbs had spread in such strange ways while its body laid lifelessly against the holy ground. Clergy would often step over it. Forgetting where their God had died for them. Alfonse would often step around the holy spot. Never forgetting his failure to keep his God safe.
Closing his eyes, he could envision the very scene play out in front of him.
The squelching. His heavy breaths. The way that Fafnir’s boots tracked blood all over the hallways. How he pressed his lips against Kiran’s bloodied ones. It smeared all over the Mad-King’s face. His tongue jut out to lick away the blood over his cheeks and Kiran’s body. Able to savor in God’s taste that Alfonse was unable to.
He hated to think of Fafnir’s indulgences now that he had Kiran in the palm of his hand.
He stared down at the carpet. Stared at the blood that began seeping into that beautiful white.
The blood could not recede.
The moon held aloft in the night sky. It shimmered gently against windows creating a strange moonlit glow against stained glass. The colors were not heavy, almost blue, as it shimmered over the grandiosity of Askr’s hallways. Gentle fires were lit to lead the way over and across the dizzying halls of the castle. But Alfonse remembered the pathway carved to Kiran clearly. He had ventured to this spot so often in dreams. Holding his God’s body close to his chest. Grasping at flesh. Digging fingers into the gaping hole that Fafnir had made. Drenching his arms in Holy Water. The sticky ooze staining his beautiful white armor.
Killing was so easy for him. He had become accustomed to slaying under his God’s command. So often he would stare at the killing fields. Rolling hills of pastures transformed into bogs of blood.
Kiran’s robes would keep the pristine white. Unlike Alfonse’s own, drenched completely in blood.
It had been the first time he had ever seen Kiran’s clothes tainted in red.
The spot on the carpet grew.
There was an outline of Kiran’s body made with blood. He could remember exactly how God looked laid dead on the floor.
Often sat on the throne, he would touch his own lips when staring at that spot. Thinking of what Fafnir must have felt tasting Kiran’s blood.
Alfonse had never given much thought on what blood tasted like.
One night he had found himself standing in front of Kiran’s grave.
The carpet sprawled out from under him with its beautiful white and embroidered blues and yellows. Stained glass fell over the hallways with depictions of historical accounts, embellished with the Divine. The throne loomed behind Alfonse, drawing a shadow over him where Kiran would often sit.
He could not turn around and stare who sat atop Askr’s seat of royalty. Someone stared at him as he faced the grave where blood bubbled from the carpet. Was it God? Was it Fafnir? Or was it himself who weighed his actions?
Prayer was expected of him.
He got down on his knees.
Staring at the carpet he saw Kiran’s body.
Prayer was required of him.
He leaned down to the carpet drenched in blood.
As he pressed his lips to Kiran’s mouth he felt their tongue enter him.
He pressed his lips to the carpet, receiving in his God’s taste.
Alfonse felt Kiran’s mouth against his as the taste of iron spread over his mouth. It was sweet, just as he envisioned the place between Kiran’s legs would taste. Fingers furled into the carpet, ripping open the seams of the Divine’s robes to find the gaping hole in Kiran’s chest. He traced every intestine as he fingered the gap in their chest. Wondering if this is what Fafnir would feel in the dead of night when he would indulge in Kiran’s immortal flesh.
It should have felt warm. But all he could feel was the cold chill crawl up his spine.
Eyes were on him. Of all those he had killed. Of all those he failed to save.
But most importantly, the person who sat on the throne kept its stare down at him as he writhed against the blood soaked carpet.
Was it God who stared at him praying?
He began to suck the blood from carpet.
Surely that is what the Divine would want from him.
Its blood would always remain inside of him.