Canta stands in the candle-lit great-hall, staring up at Bishop Zacaries Montero. It is dark outside. The doors of the hall are tightly closed and everyone has left on the bishop’s command. To Canta’s surprise, even the guards.

“My, my, sin-eater,” says the bishop. The piston that he is attached to lowers him down the stairs, right after the last door is shut. “You have been busy.”

Canta stares up at him, not sure what this is about. He has been training diligently since that day. He has been studying meticulously during his lessons. He has eaten more minor sins than he can count. So he isn’t sure what this could be? Is he going to get lectured? This feels like a lecturing moment. That ‘busy’ sounded almost a little sarcastic, didn’t it? Or is he being paranoid?

His eyes light up, as his palm hits his free fist. “Ah! Is this about the candle-sticks?”

“The what?” asks the bishop.

“Never mind,” says Canta quickly and then yawning to allow the conversation to keep moving. “What’s up?”

“I want to talk to you about the demon-king,” says the bishop, getting straight to the point.

“You want to talk to me about the demon-king?”

“I want to talk to you about the demon-king,” repeats the bishop, steam hissing from behind his robed body, as it leaks out of the pipe.

Canta shrugs. “Sure. Hit me.”

The bishop looks as if he is about to straighten himself upright, as if to give some grandiose speech that was only for his ears. But then, looking down at Canta, his posture falls slack again and he simply hangs there limply in the air.

“He’s a real dick,” explains the bishop.

“I figured?” replies Canta, raising an eyebrow. “He’s the demon-king. I think there’s a connection there somewhere.”

The bishop looks at him. “You’re still going to eat him, right?”

“What? I mean, that’s the plan, isn’t it?” shrugs Canta.

“He’s a dick. Are you going to eat him, sin-eater?” asks the bishop, his piston lowering him down so that his face is close to Canta’s. “Are you going to eat a dick?” asks the bishop.

Canta feels a bead of nervous sweat pearl on his forehead.

“Can-ta,” whispers the bishop, for some reason in Alleluia’s voice.

Canta screams and shoots up out of his bed.

It was just a very weird dream.

Alleluia stands by the window and looks back at him. “What’s the matter, pillow-cheeks?”

“Don’t call me that. Bad dream,” says Canta, dabbing his forehead on his blanket. Alleluia laughs, walking over to him.

“Do you want me to sing you a lullaby to help you get back to sleep?”

Canta looks at her for a second, before looking away, a little embarrassed. She hasn’t done that for him in a long time. He kind of misses it, actually… “Yes, please,” grumbles Canta, looking to the side as he lays back down and covers himself again with the blanket. A heavy weight presses down on the mattress next to him and he closes his eyes, feeling the hard hand on his head, feeling the whirring of her clockwork mechanisms pulse through himself. The latter is a sensation that he has become so accustomed to, that he almost sometimes feels out of place when he doesn’t feel it. It’s as if a piece of his own body was missing.

“You’re a good boy, Can-ta,” praises Alleluia.

“I told you not to say that!” he barks, not opening his eyes. “It’s super creepy.”

He feels her leaning over, pressing her mouth down next to his ear.

“Can-ta?” she whispers. The hairs on his neck stand on end as he hears the familiar tone. He doesn’t think his body is ready for it yet though.

“What?” he asks, nervously.

“Are you going to eat a dick, Can-ta?”

His eyes tear open, Canta shoots upright, holding his thrashing chest as he still sits in bed.

It was another dream. No. It was the same dream. One of those weird double-dreams where you think that you’ve woken up, but you really haven’t.

Canta curses, jumping out of the bed and slapping his face once for good measure. It stings. Good. Not a dream. He’s really awake now.

He then stands there, staring around the room. Alleluia sits in the corner on a chair, reading a book. She glances up at him. “What’s up, slappy-butt? Did you sleep badly?” Canta lifts a finger, gesturing for her to wait, as he walks across the room to the mirror.

There is a question on his mind. A question that haunts his subconscious for some nagging reason that he isn’t quite able to explain. His hands press against the glass of the mirror as he leans over forward, staring down at the ground between his feet.

“Canta?”

He doesn’t reply, the glass beneath his fingers squeaking as he ponders. He has eaten eyes, intestines, hearts, livers, kidneys, that little sliver of skin that sometimes hangs off of the side of a fingernail, but is really painful if you pull it off, he’s eaten worms, bugs, fish, grass, mud and so much more, but -

Canta lifts his head, staring at his questioning eyes which gaze back at him in this midnight hour, as he ponders the greatest question that plagues him as a living entity, as a red-blooded man, as the sin-eater, chosen by the divine to cleanse the world of evil.

- Would he eat a dick?

What if the demon-king is a guy? Well… actually, being the ‘demon-king’ and not the ‘demon-queen’, he probably is. So… if Canta has to eat him. All of him. Then…

His resolve quakes, his legs shake. He wasn’t prepared for this revelation, for this sacrifice he would have to bring one day. Nobody had warned him about this.

Cold, metal hands wrap themselves around him from behind, putting them in a nostalgic position, though this time, he doesn’t have a blanket.

“What’s the matter?” she asks.

“Bad dream,” replies Canta, his eyes shaking.

“It must have been really bad,” she says, squeezing him too tight. “Did you dream about Valenti and the others?” she asks, concerned. He doesn’t want to lie to her, but he also doesn’t want to tell him about his true dream, so he simply says nothing.

Perhaps his silence is a lie in and of itself, giving the appearance that he’s too upset to talk about it, giving the appearance that his answer to her question is a yes. Canta knows this full and well as she hoists him back to bed. As he is carried away from the mirror, he looks up towards it one last time, with eyes lost to turmoil, wondering.

As Alleluia lays him down and sings him a lullaby for the first time in weeks, he can’t help but feel an odd déjà vu. He feels like he is back down in the dungeon, laying next to a pipe, having just lied to her about his efforts. He has never told her about that, about the fact that he was ready to leave her behind without a second thought.

And he will never tell her about this either.

The rest of the night is peaceful and free of any such hauntings.

When the morning comes and Canta rises, ready to face the day, his stomach growls loudly for food.

What he likes best here at the church is breakfast. Waking up in the morning to a real, hearty meal is just the best thing, even if nobody ever sits with him, except Alleluia who doesn’t eat. He can’t decide if it’s because of himself or if it’s because of her that the people avoid them. But Canta doesn’t mind that. He’s just here for the food.

Though he can’t help but think, as he walks along the buffet, stacking his plate full, that the others wouldn’t be so afraid of him anymore, if the distorted hadn’t been sent here to attack them.

“Demon-king…” mutters Canta under his breath, wondering if this separation was part of the fiend’s tactics or if he was just being paranoid again? He’s been having a lot of that lately. Maybe it’s because he’s been cooped up here or maybe it’s because he isn’t used to this odd feeling of comfort and stability; it’s almost troubling for him to experience every day.

Canta stops, looking down at the platter full of sausages that his hand was instinctively reaching for and he freezes in place. His fingers tremble and he quickly turns his head and keeps walking, sitting down at the table.

During nice weather, breakfast was held outside in the courtyard on several benches and tables. On rainier days, it was in the lower hall next to the cathedral. Today is an outside day.

He sits down on the bench, out in the sunshine and Alleluia sits across from him, still engrossed in whatever book she’s reading. She has taken a liking to them and spends a lot of her time now just reading, which Canta doesn’t mind, as she always used to stare at him, watching him eat breakfast instead, asking him to explain how everything tasted and felt in meticulous detail. He supposes that she wanted to know what it was like to taste and to feel things like food. Now, she seems to ‘discover’ these sensations through books.

“Excuse me?” asks a voice. The two of them look up at the priestess, who Canta recognizes as the bookish priestess Carmela’s rendezvous. “Is it okay if I sit here?” she asks, gesturing at the spot next to Alleluia. Canta looks at Alleluia, wondering if she’s going to get weirdly jealous about someone else being here, but she just looks his way and, seeing that he’s indifferent, nods to the woman and scoots to the side.

Canta blinks, shoveling a second egg into his mouth. Maybe being around people and in the outside world really is good for her? She’s certainly calmed down and mentally stabilized a lot since then. He gulps the whole, hard-boiled egg down, a bit like a snake. Then again, maybe he has too?

Hard-boiled Egg ~100g Calories: 155 Protein: 13 g Fat: 11 g Carbs: 1.1 g Fiber: 0 g Sugars: 1.1 g

It’s from having a routine, he thinks. From having stability. A home. A bed. It’s this place. It’s calming. It’s… It’s…

It’s…

Narrowing his eyes, Canta looks around the pristine courtyard, staring at the laughing priests and soldiers all around them, all coming together to eat. The grass is lush and verdant, abud with many bright flowers. The trees are gentle and sway in the kind breeze. It is pristine. It’s -

Canta’s eyes open a little wider.

- Domesticating.

The priestess begins engaging with Alleluia in a bit of small-talk and Alleluia responds in turn. Birds sing loudly all around them. It’s a beautiful morning. Perfect, in fact.

Canta listens to the whirring of Alleluia’s body, he listens to the sounds of the world around himself, he listens to the chipper voices and the breeze and the soft rustle of the perfectly swaying grass that flows beneath the warm birdsong.

His stomach growls.

Looking his way, Alleluia and the priestess quietly laugh, before engaging in a conversation with each other about his eating habits.

Canta doesn’t pay them any mind however, as he notices that he feels something familiar. He feels like he felt in his dreams before. Something is wrong. Something on the corner of his eye, always just out of sight, is wrong. Something has snagged his brain. Something is setting off the alarm.

Something smells rotten.

Secretly, Canta pinches himself beneath the table, making sure that nobody sees him do it. It hurts. This is real. So why…

“No sausages today, sin-eater?” asks the priestess, looking at Alleluia for a second, as if to gather her blessing. “Here, take one of mine,” she offers, forking a sausage over onto his plate.

Canta’s eye twitches. “Thanks!” he lies, doing his best to look relieved, having the odd feeling that he can’t let her know. He can’t let any of them know - “I guess I didn’t pay attention today,” he jokes.

He grabs the sausage, dipping it into some syrup and wolfs it down without a second thought.

Sausage ~100g Calories: 297 Protein: 12 g Fat: 26 g Carbs: 2 g Fiber: 0 g Sugars: 0 g

- that he’s on to them.