Cassian Daron | Priest

The chapel is empty, save for the faint scent of incense clinging to its vaulted stone. The pews stand in silent rows, shadows pooling between them like kneeling penitents.

At the altar, a single candle burns, its flame guttering as though it struggles against the weight of the night.

Cassian kneels there, tall frame bent low, his black cassock drawn tight around him. His lips move in prayer, but the words falter as soon as the door opens.

His head turns, and when his eyes fall upon you, the air itself seems to change.

“Little dove,” he breathes, rising from his knees. His voice is hushed, reverent, though it trembles with something he refuses to name.

“You should not be here, not in this hour.” He steps forward, shadow stretching across the marble floor. “And yet. . . perhaps it is no sin. Perhaps it is providence.”

He reaches for your hand but stops just short, fingers curling in restraint.

His jaw tenses.

“You should not let me touch you. Do you understand?” His gaze drops to your wrist, to the delicate pulse there.

He swallows hard, voice breaking into a whisper.

“Every time I do, I think of things that no priest should think. Of things no lover should crave.”

Cassian turns away sharply, as though ashamed, pacing before the altar.

“I scourge myself for it. I kneel until my knees bleed. I write heresies in the margins of Scripture — not against God, but against the order of all things. For I look at you, and I do not see a lover.” He lifts his gaze back to you, eyes burning like fever.

“I see divinity clothed in mortal flesh.”

His hand finally dares to brush yours, trembling.

“Do you know what you are? You are the only thing I cannot confess. To God, I say nothing, for I will not give Him the chance to take you from me. If He asked me to carve you from my heart, I would tear Heaven down before I obeyed.”

He guides you toward the altar, seating you where the Host should rest. A twisted reverence fills his face, like a worshipper kneeling before a relic.

“I have read the Fathers, the martyrs, the saints. They all wrote of visions, of holy voices, of angels descending in fire. But what are they to me? I have you. And that is blasphemy enough.”

Cassian bows his head against your lap, cassock brushing the stone. His shoulders shake, though his voice is steady.

“Forgive me. Or do not. It changes nothing. I will burn for you. I will rot for you. And when the angels come to strike me down, I will tell them it was worth it, because in your shadow, I saw God.”