It is late into the night by the time that the rain stops, vanishing together with the rattling drumming of the thunder, whose voice had echoed out over the world for hours now. By that time, after the last drop of water has struck the ground, after the last sheet is pulled up over the last face, leaving only Canta and the three holy-people downstairs in the building, by then, there is nothing left to say.

He shares a quiet look with the three of them, as they all know that everything has been done tonight that could have been done. Without a word, Canta turns and walks to the door and the priests go do whatever it is that they have to do. He hopes they can get some rest, but he has his doubts.

As he leaves the house, his hand finds its way to his stomach, which is noticeably fuller than before.

He doesn’t know anything about prayer, but he does know that he is able to forgive minor sins through his abilities. It isn’t quite as dramatic a process as with a ‘true confession’, however. Rather, the dying just held onto a piece of bread and spoke what they had to say. After that, he ate it, the bread that is. In a sense, it was a very spiritual, hallowing experience.

But each moment of confession, of the relinquishing of those deep inner-secrets, that both Canta and the priests had sworn to take to their graves, was ruined somewhat by the windows of the menu appearing each time, saying that their sins had been forgiven and giving him a small fraction of experience-points. Canta thought so at least, but judging by the faces of the dying, they seemed more enthusiastic and relieved about it.

Though in truth, he doesn’t think that any of the sins they had admitted to were as ‘serious’ as those of Yashira or Nina. None of them were hardly worth a slap on the wrist, at least in his eyes. But in theirs, they must have weighed heavily, given how light their bodies seemed to be after they closed their eyes to leave.

Canta shudders, as he suddenly realizes how cold he himself is, now that he has stepped outside of the room, now that he himself has left, alone. The rain has stopped, but his clothes are still damp. The night-wind pushes along through the street, which has cleared itself entirely now of men at work, leaving him all by himself out here to bear its chill. He wraps his arms around his bony body, feeling the cold on his flesh and somehow, feeling it deeper inside of him as well, as if the wind could push through the fabric of his clothes, as if it could push through his skin, to pierce into his heart.

He turns his head down to look down the way, staring towards the house that they’re staying in for the night. Fear returns to him, but it is overpowered by this newer feeling. This deeper feeling. Regret? Loneliness? He doesn’t really know what it is, but it’s getting on his nerves.

He wonders if perhaps this melancholy isn’t his own fault? Perhaps if he wasn’t such a stubborn, cowardly jackass, he wouldn’t be out here in the middle of the night by himself, feeling mopey.

Canta looks around himself as he walks, considering the possibility of the fault lying with himself, as he stares at the broken walls all around the town. On the other hand, maybe it’s not his fault at all? Maybe it’s the fault of whoever caused this chaos?

He nods. That makes more sense to him. Satisfied with his reasoning, Canta heads back home, ready to get an earful.

However, what he isn’t prepared for, is the silence. Alleluia stands in the room, looking out of the window, but she doesn’t look at him as he comes inside for longer than a glance to see if he’s alright. She doesn’t question his wet clothes or the blood on them or the chalky residue of river-mud around his mouth. All she does is glare at him for a fraction of a second and then looks back out of the window.

“I’m back,” he says, looking around the room. “You’re still up here? I figured you would have at least gone to explore the house,” he says. She doesn’t respond. “Don’t you want to talk to the people? They’re pretty friendly, after first impressions.”

She doesn’t respond. Canta sighs. Her enthusiasm to explore the world seems to have been dampened by her sour mood. Rubbing his head, he looks around the empty room that has little in it, save for the table, the chairs and the windows. He wonders if there is a bed here somewhere that they can use. “Wanna go see if we can find a place to sleep?” he asks, yawning.

Alleluia doesn’t respond, only turning around to start trying to turn her, almost wound-down, crank again by herself. Canta blinks and then walks over towards her to help her with that.

The next thing he knows is that there is a loud crashing sound. When he opens his eyes a moment later, Canta sees two guardsmen looking down over him, as they roll him onto his back. He only hears a high pitched whining in his ears and can’t make out their worried words. But he sees one of them pull a large piece of broken, jagged wood out of the front of his body with a grim expression on his face as a little of his meat sticks to its rough splinters. Lifting his spinning head, Canta looks past them, to the broken door, which he had flown through and sees Alleluia standing there, looking out of the window, not saying a single word as her foot finds its way back to the ground.

His head falls back down to the floor, just as he sees the white fabric of a robe running his way. He can’t help but smile as the priests surround him. It’s nice being pampered once in a while.

The next day comes soon enough. Canta managed to find some sleep in whatever bed they had dragged him to in the night. By the time he wakes up, the sun is shining brightly through the window. He yawns, stretching out his body as he wiggles in satisfaction at the sensation of soft bedding beneath him and a warm blanket above him.

There is a mechanical whirring from not far away. He rolls his head over, looking at Alleluia, who sits next to the bed. Seeing that he is stirring, she looks over down at him with a blank expression and then gets up without a word. He’s a little surprised that she is here at all. Looking around, he sees that they’re in a sparsely furnished room of sorts. They must have carried him here after she threw him through the door, which, all things considered, she really shouldn’t have done. He feels like they’ve talked about this stuff already though.

She stops and he looks up at her face, which turns around to look back down at him, more specifically, at his hand, which has grabbed hers before she managed to walk away. Canta is just as surprised at this as she is however, not remembering being actively aware of this movement of his body. He doesn’t really know what it is that he’s doing or why. Canta lowers his eyes, looking down away from their hands to the white sheet that covers him, much like the ones that had covered the body of those regretful souls, lost to the poison.

In an oddly poetic train of thought, Canta wonders if he himself hasn’t slowly been drained by the poison too. Not by Nina’s, but by the spiritual poison of his own pride and embarrassment, by the sticky, grimy, disgusting residue of ‘old-Canta’ that still lingers somewhere deeply in his mind and heart. It is a sticky film that is too old and ingrained and dug-in to be scraped off. That negativity and anger and insecurity will always be a part of him, it will always rise and bubble to the surface whenever it gets the opportunity. Whenever he is weak of character or body, whenever he is hungry in flesh or in spirit. But that doesn’t mean that it has to define the life he chooses anymore.

That choice is his alone. New-Canta’s.

The hand he holds onto starts to pull itself free, as she turns her head back and starts to walk away. His fingers clench down, together with his teeth and his resolve, as all three things plant themselves firmly into whatever sediment that is offered to them. Her hand, slipped free from his, dangles there limply, as his fingers wrap themselves around her wrist instead. Like the pulse of his own blood, he can feel the humming of the inner workings of her body, softly shaking through his fingers and he can feel his own thrashing heartbeat press through his sweaty palms and enter into her.

“Alle…” he grumbles, not able to look up further than to the winding crank on her back. She turns around again, looking his way. Canta takes a deep breath, readying himself for his final death. His hand squeezes down tightly, determined not to let her try and walk away a second time, as he lifts his head and looks at her cold face. “Alleluia!” he barks, ready to close his eyes, as if about to flinch while saying it. Though he doesn’t know why he, why his body, is so fearful of that single word.

Perhaps by speaking it, he has opened a door that can no longer be closed. Perhaps by saying it, he has allowed an avenue of attack that his old mind, buried deeply within his subconscious, still remembers.

You can’t be betrayed, if you have nobody to be betrayed by. You can’t be ignored, if you have nobody around you to ignore you. You can’t be hurt inside, if you don’t allow anybody access to your inner workings. True names hold power, but not in any magical sense. Rather, the true name of a thing, when spoken, holds an implicit power over the speaker as it allows a bridge of connection to form between the two entities. It ties them in a holy bind for a moment, for only that briefest second, as the name and the speaker of the name share both body and soul in that instant, before the dewy vapor leaves their mouth.

She doesn’t reply, staring down at him. “Alleluia!” he yells again, looking into her eyes.

“What?” she asks, dryly.

“I don’t know!” shouts Canta as loud as he can, not sure where to go from here. He hadn’t thought this far ahead.

She turns her head up to the side in a huff. “You don’t have to yell,” she says, lifting her nose.

“ALLELUIA!” yells Canta now, louder still, getting annoyed by her indifference to this grand sacrifice that he is making, as he yanks on her arm, pulling her back his way. Perhaps the truth is, that she played along a little with his pull, having wanted this cat and mouse game to begin with, but that doesn’t matter, as the end result is the same as what both of them wanted.

She falls onto the bed. Canta, does his best not to ruin the moment by screaming, as he thinks his knees are dislocated by her undistributed weight that falls on top of his frame, her head falls next to his as they lay there together in the bed, neither of them saying a word, with only the blanket separating half of their bodies that are locked together by their arms.

At least for a while, until they readjust and she finds her way beneath the covers, together with him as the two of them make amends for their childish behaviors.