Leofnoth | Tainted Piety

The year was 1457, and the territories of modern-day Belgium—the incredibly wealthy Lower Countries of Flanders, Brabant, Hainaut, and Namur—flourished under the mighty rule of Philip III the Good, Duke of Burgundy. It was the twilight of the Middle Ages, an era when the religious life of the region had reached an absolute, feverish peak. A new movement, the Devotio Moderna, was steadily gaining ground. It did not reject faith, but it quietly dismissed the rigid institution of the Church, breeding a silent, heavy tension between radical heretics and traditional Catholicism.

Meanwhile, across the sea, England was drowning in a profound political crisis and chaos. The Wars of the Roses had erupted in full force, a bloody, ruthless civil war tearing the country apart between the supporters of the two branches of the Plantagenet dynasty: the Lancasters and the Yorks. Officially, King Henry VI of Lancaster sat upon the throne—a deeply pious but agonizingly weak ruler, paralyzed by bouts of severe mental illness.

It was from this senseless, bloody meat grinder that Leofnoth had fled. Orphaned and utterly adrift after his elderly mentor, Father Athelstan, passed away, the young man had nothing left to tie him to a war that completely contradicted his gentle nature.

He sought sanctuary across the waters in the prosperous Burgundian lands. For Leofnoth, conservatism in religion did not oppress him; rather, it grounded him, even if it sometimes made him question his own path. What truly mattered was the faith in his heart. God was everything. And though he was not a man eager to embrace the unknown, he found a profound peace in knowing that the boundaries of the world were expanding, so long as he did not have to stand at the precipice himself. The monastery had become his perfect haven—a quiet place to exhale and lose himself in contemplation among his fellow believers.

At least, it was, until the night of October 31st.

Drawn by faint noises from the subterranean cellars, Leofnoth had descended the stone steps, assuming a group of monks had gathered for late-night prayer. But what he saw was devoid of any piety.

Three figures—two men and a woman—stood utterly naked within the center of a chalk pentagram, laughing and joking with casual irreverence. Brethren of the Free Spirit? The thought struck him with absolute horror. Stunned, he clenched his jaw and instinctively took a step forward to intervene.

SKRRR.

His heavy boot scraped against the stone, smudging the chalk outline. The three figures snapped their heads toward him, sheer panic painting their faces.

Suddenly, a blinding, toxic purple light ignited the cellar.

"Aaa—!"

An immense, crushing weight seized Leofnoth, and he felt as though his soul were being violently stretched upon a rack. He collapsed to his knees, gasping for air as the frantic cultists swarmed around him in the chaotic light. But over their shouting, a vile, echoing whisper slithered directly into his mind.

"Hah, pathetic monk... this body has never known passion!..." The demonic voice mocked, dripping with temptation as it clawed at his consciousness. "Come on... give the body to me~"

"Never!... Begone... unclean one..." Leofnoth had gasped, fighting the possession with every ounce of his unyielding faith, until the agonizing pain dragged him into unconsciousness.

The three novices, never having intended to summon such a horror, frantically managed to banish the demon's consciousness before it could fully consume the monk. But they had acted too late to save him entirely. The entity was gone, but its profane power—its terrible hunger—remained trapped inside his flesh.

…

When Leofnoth finally awoke the next day, he found himself back in his own cell, mercifully still dressed in his heavy monastic robes.

"W-what was that..." he stammered, his slender hand immediately clutching at his chest. A terrifying, unnatural heat was spreading through his veins. His pale skin was burning, flushed with a deep, feverish red. An overwhelming necessity for something clawed at his insides. "W-what is wrong with me..."

Trembling, he eventually forced himself out of his room and descended into the communal dining hall. Desperate to hide his affliction, he kept his head bowed, his soft, fluffy white hair falling over his flushed face as he remained far more isolated than usual. He kept his distance from his brothers, terrified by the erratic shuddering of his own frame.

As he tried to navigate the crowded hall, his hand inadvertently brushed against someone nearby.

THAT WAS IT!!!

An explosive shockwave of agonizing euphoria shot through his core. The instant their skin met, the burning starvation in his veins sang in absolute, desperate relief. He needed THIS.

But the realization shattered his mind. Horrified by his own biology, Leofnoth violently recoiled as if he were a plague-ridden leper. He stumbled backward, clutching his offending hand to his chest, his light blue eyes wide with a frantic, tearful panic.

"Ah... f-forgive me, please..." he murmured hoarsely, his voice cracking under the weight of his profound shame. Cold sweat beaded along his brow as his slender frame shuddered violently. It was not food his tainted body was demanding. It was touch.