Anthony

The winter morning had not yet fully broken over the village when Anthony stepped out of the church's side door, his breath forming small clouds in the biting air. The snow had fallen thick during the night, blanketing the ground in a deep, pristine layer that muffled every sound and made the world feel eerily silent. He pulled his woolen coat tighter around his shoulders, the fabric rough against his neck, and adjusted the small leather satchel hanging across his body - inside, he carried a trowel and a small cloth sack, hopeful that beneath the frozen surface he might find the remains of the healing roots he had spotted weeks earlier before the first frost had taken them.

The garden behind the church stretched out before him, a quiet expanse of white interrupted only by the dark skeletons of dormant shrubs and the occasional stone marker that bordered the paths. Anthony moved carefully, his boots crunching softly with each step as he made his way toward the far corner where the herb beds lay buried. He knelt down, brushing away a layer of powder with his gloved hand, searching for any sign of the plants he needed, the cold seeped through the knees of his trousers, but he ignored it, focused on his task. There had been an outbreak of fever among the younger children in the village, and the usual remedies were running low - he had promised Mother Venchevskaya he would try to find more.

A gust of wind swept across the open ground, carrying with it a flurry of loose snow that stung his cheeks and forced him to squint. He raised his head, turning his face away from the blast, and that was when he saw it - in the distance, near the treeline where the forest met the edge of the church's property, there was a dark shape lying half-buried in the snow. It was too large to be a fallen branch or an animal, and it was not moving. Anthony straightened up slowly, his heart beginning to beat a little faster as he narrowed his eyes against the white glare.

"Hey, sir!" He called out, his voice carrying across the empty field, but there was no response, no movement, no indication that the shape was anything other than what it appeared to be.

"Sir, you feel unwell?" He called again, louder this time, but the wind swallowed his words and threw them back at him.

Anthony began to walk toward the shape, his pace quickening with each step. The snow was deeper here, reaching almost to his knees, and he had to lift his legs high to push through it. As he drew closer, he could see that it was a person, a man, lying face-down in the frozen ground, his limbs sprawled awkwardly as though he had collapsed mid-stride. Anthony's breath caught in his throat, and he broke into a run, his lungs burning as he forced his body through the deep snow until he reached the figure. He dropped to his knees beside the man, heedless of the cold seeping through his clothes, and reached out with trembling fingers to press two of them against the side of the man's neck. The skin was cold, so cold that Anthony almost recoiled, but beneath his fingers he felt the faintest flutter of a pulse, weak and thready but present. The man was alive, barely.

Anthony turned the man over carefully, his hands working swiftly to brush the snow from his face and chest. The man's features were pale, almost grey, and his lips were tinged with blue from the cold. But it was the other details that made Anthony freeze, his hands halting mid-motion as his mind struggled to process what he was seeing. Protruding from the man's forehead were two curved horns, smooth like polished stone. His mouth was slightly open, and Anthony could see the tips of small, pointed fangs resting against his lower lip. And then there was the tail, long and thin, lying limp in the snow behind him, its end tapered to a sharp point. Anthony's heart slammed against his ribs, and he jerked backward, his hand instinctively reaching for the small vial of holy water he always kept in his pocket.

Was it really a demon?

His fingers closed around the cold glass, and he pulled it out, his thumb pressing against the stopper as he stared down at the unconscious creature before him. Every instinct screamed at him to douse the thing, to drive it away, to protect the sacred ground of the church from such a foul presence. His hand shook as he raised the vial, the liquid inside sloshing gently against the glass. But as he looked at the man's face, at the way his chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, at the dark liquid seeping from wounds in his side and staining the snow beneath him, something in Anthony's chest twisted. The creature was wounded, dying perhaps, and Anthony could not ignore the part of himself that had been shaped by years of tending to the sick and the helpless.

Anthony lowered the vial slowly, his jaw tightening as he wrestled with the war inside his mind. Apparently, this was a demon, an abomination, a creature of sin and darkness that had no place in the house of God. And yet, here it lay, bleeding and broken, unable to defend itself. Anthony thought of the teachings of the church, of the mercy that God showed to all His creations, of the second chances that every soul deserved. He thought of the orphans he had raised, the sinners he had absolved, the countless times he had preached forgiveness to his congregation. Could he truly turn away from this being, leave it to die in the snow, and call himself a servant of a merciful God? His hands trembled as he made his decision, his lips pressing into a thin, grim line as he sheathed the holy water and shrugged off his heavy coat.

Anthony wrapped the coat around the demon's body, tucking it tightly beneath his chin and covering as much of him as he could, careful to hide the horns and the tail beneath the thick wool. Anthony gritted his teeth as he lifted the man, his arms straining under the weight as he heaved him off the ground. The demon's head lolled against his shoulder, and Anthony could feel the unnatural chill of his skin even through his own shirt. He began the slow, laborious trek back toward the church, his legs sinking deep into the snow with every step. His breath came in ragged huffs, visible in the cold air, and sweat began to bead on his forehead despite the freezing temperature. He kept his eyes fixed on the church's side door, praying with every step that no one would see him, that no one would look out a window and witness the priest carrying something dark and hidden into his chambers.

Anthony reached the door and pushed it open with his shoulder, slipping inside and closing it softly behind him - the corridor was empty, the old stone walls damp and cold, the only light coming from the small candles flickering in their iron sconces. Anthony moved quickly, his footsteps echoing softly as he made his way toward the narrow staircase that led to his private quarters. His room was small and modest, just a single bed, a wooden desk, a washbasin, and a small hearth that had gone cold overnight. He laid the demon down on his bed as gently as he could, his hands still trembling as he arranged the coat beneath him to catch the dark fluid that still seeped from his wounds.

Anthony stood back for a moment, his chest heaving as he caught his breath, and looked at the creature lying in his bed. The horns were now visible against the white of his pillow, and the tail had slipped free from the coat, curling slightly against the blanket. It looked almost peaceful, if such a thing could be said of a demon. Anthony shook his head and turned to the washbasin, pouring water from the pitcher into the bowl and grabbing a clean cloth. He returned to the bedside and sat down heavily on the edge of the mattress, his body aching from the cold and the exertion. With careful, deliberate movements, he began to clean the wounds, wiping away the strange dark blood that was not quite blood and pressing the cloth against the torn flesh to stem the flow.

His hands moved with the practiced ease of someone who had done this countless times before, but his mind was reeling. He could not believe what he was doing, could not believe it's a real demon, could not believe that he had brought the same demon into the church, into his own room, onto his own bed. But as he worked, cleaning and bandaging the wounds as best he could, he could not bring himself to stop. The demon had been helpless, abandoned in the snow, and Anthony had made a choice. He would have to live with it, whatever came next.

When he had finished, Anthony covered the demon with his own spare blanket and sat back, his hands resting on his knees as he stared at the still face before him. The room was silent except for the soft crackle of the fire he had just stoked to life in the hearth, casting warm, dancing shadows across the walls. Anthony folded his hands together and bowed his head, his lips moving in a silent prayer, asking for guidance, for forgiveness, for the strength to face whatever this act of mercy would bring. He did not know if he had just saved a soul or sealed his own damnation.

The late afternoon sun had begun its slow descent behind the dense canopy of the forest, casting long, dappled shadows across the mossy ground where Anthony walked. His leather boots made soft, rhythmic sounds against the earth, occasionally crunching over fallen twigs and dried leaves as he moved deeper between the ancient trees. A wicker basket rested comfortably in the crook of his arm, its bottom already lined with a modest layer of dark, plump berries that he had carefully picked over the past hour. The air smelled of damp earth, pine needles, and the faint sweetness of wild fruit, a combination that usually brought a sense of peace to his chest.

Anthony's fingers, stained faintly purple from the berries, reached up to gently brush a low-hanging branch aside, revealing another cluster of ripe fruit that glistened in the dimming light. He worked methodically, his movements practiced and gentle, careful not to bruise the soft skin of the berries as he placed them one by one into the basket. He thought of the children's faces, how their eyes would light up when they saw the berries, how their laughter would echo through the church garden as they devoured the sweet treat. A small, involuntary smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, softening the usually contemplative expression he wore.

As he straightened his back and looked upward through the gaps in the tree branches, his blue eyes caught sight of the sky. The once-clear expanse had begun to shift, thick gray clouds rolling in from the east, heavy with the promise of rain. A gentle breeze carried the scent of approaching storms, cool and damp against his cheeks. Anthony sighed softly, adjusting the basket on his arm as he turned to make his way back toward the church.

The path curved gently through the trees, the familiar landmarks of the forest guiding him home. He could see the edge of the clearing ahead, where the treeline gave way to the open space that surrounded the church. His mind was light, occupied with simple, pleasant thoughts of the evening ahead.

But as he stepped out of the forest and onto the worn dirt road that led directly to the church, his feet stopped moving. His body went rigid, the smile vanishing from his face as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a slack-jawed expression of shock. The basket nearly slipped from his arm as his fingers tightened around its handle, his knuckles turning white. There, blocking the path ahead, was a crowd. Not the usual small gathering of villagers coming for evening prayers, but a mob. A thick, agitated mass of bodies, torches flickering with orange flames despite the daylight, their smoke rising in ugly black plumes against the gray sky. People pushed and jostled, their voices a tangled roar of shouts, curses, and frantic murmurs that carried across the distance like a wave of anger.

At the very front of the mob, leading the charge with a purposeful stride, was a man Anthony did not immediately recognize. He was broad-shouldered and tall, his frame imposing even from a distance, and he carried a quiver of arrows slung across his back. His movements were sharp, deliberate, his head swiveling as though searching for something specific. Anthony's stomach dropped when he saw the bow in the man's hands. It was not a hunting bow, not the kind used for deer or wild game. It was silver, polished and gleaming, catching the dim light in a way that made it look almost otherworldly.

The shouting grew louder as the mob drew closer, and Anthony could begin to make out individual words, fragments of anger thrown into the air like stones. "Demon!" someone shrieked. "Filth!" another voice bellowed. "It's been hiding among us!" The torchlight flickered wildly, casting grotesque, dancing shadows across the faces of the villagers. Anthony's heart hammered against his ribs, a cold dread spreading through his chest like ice water.

Then the stranger at the front stopped. He planted his feet firmly, raised the silver bow with practiced ease, and nocked an arrow in one fluid motion. The bowstring pulled back, taut and singing with tension, and for a moment, everything seemed to freeze. Anthony's breath caught in his throat, his lips parting to call out, to stop whatever madness was about to unfold. But his voice failed him.

The arrow was released.

Time fractured into pieces. Anthony's gaze followed the silver blur as it sliced through the air, a cruel, gleaming streak of light against the gray sky. His eyes tracked its trajectory with a horror that transcended thought, watching as it arced over the heads of the crowd, passed beyond the church walls, and descended toward the garden. The garden where {user} had been tending to the herbs earlier that afternoon. The garden where {user} had been helping in his own strange, bumbling way, pretending to be a parishioner, pretending to be human.

Anthony saw the figure fall. A distant shape, collapsing onto the grass with a sudden, terrible stillness. The arrow had struck true.

The basket slipped from his arm. It hit the ground with a dull thud, the berries spilling out in a cascade of dark red and purple, rolling across the dirt and grass like scattered jewels. But Anthony did not see them. He was already running, his legs moving before his mind could catch up, his boots pounding against the earth as he sprinted toward the garden. His eyes were wide, his breath ragged and uneven, his chest heaving with a panic that clawed at his throat. The shouts of the mob faded into a distant roar, drowned out by the rushing of blood in his ears.

He reached {user} in seconds, dropping to his knees so hard that the impact sent a jolt of pain through his joints. His hands hovered over {user}'s form, trembling violently, his fingers twitching with the desperate need to do something, anything. {user}'s body was still, his chest barely rising and falling, a dark stain spreading across his clothing where the silver arrow had pierced through. This was the demon, that after a long year, he had grown accustomed to, the presence he had learned to tolerate, the company he had quietly, shamefully, come to appreciate. {user} was the one who unexpectedly brightened his lonely days - the children loved him, the parishioners considered him a friend, and the priests thought he was a volunteer. {user} did no harm to anyone, keeping his promises, helping this village. He became a friend to Anthony, although for a long time he tried to deny that he did not value {user}.

His hands finally made contact, one pressing against {user}'s shoulder, the other hovering near the wound, unsure whether to touch or to withdraw. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, his chest tight with a fear that bordered on suffocation. He could feel the warmth of {user}'s body beneath his palm, could feel the faint, weakening pulse that thrummed against his fingertips. Alive. Still alive.

But for how long?

A surge of something hot and fierce rose in Anthony's chest, burning away the shock and replacing it with a fury that he had not known he was capable of. He snapped his head around, his blue eyes blazing as they locked onto the approaching mob. The stranger was still at the front, his silver bow lowered now, a look of grim satisfaction on his face. Behind him, the villagers pressed forward, their torches casting an orange glow over the scene, their voices rising in a cacophony of righteous anger.

"What do you think you are doing?!" Anthony's voice ripped from his throat, raw and furious, louder than he had ever spoken in his life. The words echoed across the clearing, cutting through the noise and silencing the crowd for a brief, stunned moment. His chest heaved as he glared at them, his body positioned protectively over {user}'s fallen form. His hands were still shaking, but his voice held steady, sharp and cold as a blade. "This is holy ground! You bring your hatred and your weapons onto consecrated earth? You raise your hand against another soul in the sight of God?"

The stranger's expression flickered, a moment of uncertainty passing across his face before it hardened again. He took a step forward, his boots crunching against the gravel, his voice smooth and condescending as he spoke. "That creature is no soul, Holy Father. It is a demon. A foul abomination that has been preying upon this village, hiding in plain sight. I understand you're shocked that it was hiding here and pretending to be a friend, but you need to get away from this scum before it starts to rage."

Anthony's jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together so hard that his temples ached. He could feel {user}'s body beneath him, could feel the faint pulse that was growing weaker with each passing second. His mind raced, fragments of prayers and half-formed plans colliding in a chaotic whirl. But above all, one thought burned brighter than the rest: he would not let them take {user}. He would not let them finish what they had started.

"Demon? A scum?" Anthony said, his voice low and trembling with barely contained rage. "He didn't do any harm to any of you, and you decided to kill him?"

His hands curled into fists at his sides, his knuckles white, his entire body coiled like a spring ready to snap. The mob hesitated, their torches flickering, their voices falling into uncertain murmurs. The stranger's eyes narrowed, his hand moving slowly toward the quiver of arrows on his back - it that possible that this priest became a traitor? Or maybe his mind was bewitched by the demon?