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Death isn’t really something Gilbert likes to imagine, most of the time, if he can help it.
It’s certainly something that was constantly brought up around him, though. By his parents, on the way his features looked; a threat that was often conveyed with such frequency that the effect already lost itself. By the villagers, who also loved to give him lip about how he was cursed the moment he was born; again, the same old insults that eventually faded into nothing.
So was there really any surprise that, as a way to compensate for the longevity of his life, he was to be sacrificed to the village God; to repent for his sad and pathetic existence? Gilbert didn’t really think so, but of course, that wasn’t important to anyone but him.
The leaders of the church were more secretive and reclusive than usual at the time, and had Gilbert noticed sooner, he would have slipped away in the middle of the day before they could have tried anything. But the loud clanking of the heavy iron locks around the outside of his house is what wakes him up in the first place. Every window and door had been sealed shut by the time he’s even able to stand.
Instead of panicking, he finds a spot in the attic of the home and tries to hide himself. No one can follow him up; no one is as nimble as he is and even if they threw things to force him down, they’d have to find him in the darkness first. He wedges himself between two very thick wooden rafters, trying to rest his eyes back into slumber but finds he’s unable to. It’s not safe to sleep and all he wants is to go outside.
The uncomfortable position he’s forced himself in is making his ass numb, but Gilbert forces the annoyance down trying to stay still. To stay hidden and maybe, just maybe, ride this full moon tonight out. Today is the day of the sacrifice and the full moon is at its peak.
Gilbert’s done a lot of hiding like this before, when people thought it funny to break into his home and beat him up until his skin ‘looked normal’ under the adrenaline and bruises. He’s sure that none of the elders were the kind to do that to their chosen sacrifice; he is supposed to stay ‘pure’ and all. And the thought of injuring himself to avoid the ritual was probably absurd too, as who’s to say that they weren’t going to make exceptions for Mr. Abomination?
By the time he’s able to finally find enough peace to move, Gilbert hears another noise that costs him the mistake of peeking from his hiding place. A large and blunt something hits the side of his head and he can only remember falling to the ground before everything goes black.
Phantom whispers and leering looks pass by him like watercolors. He feels his head aching, but the pain comes worse from his ankles. Someone’s probably dragged him from there, finding some hilarity in treating him like a dead carcass whilst unconscious.
His vision isn’t clearing fast enough to determine anything conclusive, but the feeling of cold, smooth stone underneath him implies that he’s made it to the altar. His wrists and legs are tied in front of him like a common animal to be slaughtered. Gilbert blinks a few more times, and eventually makes it back to the physical world with some strained effort to lift his head. It’s immediately slammed back down with a very rough shove of a hand.
One eye, he notices finally, is hard to open. The other one is swollen and hurts when he attempts to force it. Gilbert turns his gaze upward to the moon, and the chanting echoes in his ears like a muted song. He’s going to die here, but it doesn’t scare him really. Anything was absolutely better than being here.
A blinding light interrupts the blanket of stars above him, and his eyes manage to close in time before it reaches its full brightness. And when Gilbert reopens them again, a figure floats above him, wings spread with a welcoming aura.
The Adjudicator has come.
Gilbert struggles in his restraints and his shoulders immediately protest in fear of dislocation. He arches himself as best he can, but his toes and fingers are numb from the lack of circulation.
“Be still,” the voice says, almost too quietly to be heard. Gilbert supposes it’s for him, but he closes his eyes again. “Have you any last words?”
Another hand is placed on his abdomen, though the touch is less aggressive. Gilbert spends no energy in trying to fight it. If Arthur the Adjudicator could kill him in a single, painless instant, he would take it.
“So,” Gilbert says instead, trying to play it off in the way he knew; sarcasm. It was a trait even the elders hated of him. Defiant until the end. “Is one person really enough to stop you from destroying an entire village off the face of the map?”
The response alone causes the angel to be taken aback, but he’s not looking at Gilbert. It seems he’s being talked to by the old man nearby; the leader of the church. The angel, Arthur, pretends to not hear him, and it's obvious in the way he moves. The same speech, same mantra, every single time.
“If that’s the case,” Gilbert tries again, forcing the same aggression that normally grinds the gears of the townspeople. “Then you must be really desperate for sacrifices if taking a deal from just anyone gives you satisfaction.”
The voice of doubt pulls the angel from the gaze from the head overseer, and they burn with an annoyance that only spurns the raging heartbeat in Gilbert’s chest. Sure, it’s a risky move. But what has he to lose?
The figure comes, illuminated so bright Gilbert can’t help but squint in response.
“Bold claim,” the angel murmurs, almost tickled by the accusation. “It’s almost as if you’re asking for me to kill you.”
“Maybe,” Gilbert counters quickly, shifting his gaze to meet its eyes. The bright white is immediately mixed with the green hues around the angel’s eyes, and perhaps if he stared long enough, they would burn holes to the back of his head.
“But if I had to think about it,” Gilbert continues. “What reason would you have to make deals with mortals? For fun?”
Arthur raises an eyebrow. His stance changes only the slightest bit, weight shifting to the other leg as he tilts his head. “What is your point?”
“I’m sure you have other things to do with your time than to grant your ‘blessings’ upon people who do nothing but give you one measly sacrifice every month,” Gilbert replies, and the way the angel narrows his eyes, makes him only smirk in response. “But I can give you a better offer than what they’re giving you.”
“ Don’t insult your God, abomination. You–”
The angel’s hand rises, but by the time it reaches its full extension, the woman nearby who makes the outburst explodes into flames, screaming as she disintegrates into a pile of ashes. Gilbert watches, but manages to compose himself in a single exhale when he turns back to look at Arthur.
“I see where you come from,” Arthur purrs, hand gently placed on his cheek as if in some mockery of sympathy. Gilbert knows there’s no kindness behind the gesture, and maybe that small bit of intuition may have saved him from saying a cockier response.
Gilbert responds by leaning into the angel’s palm. It’s warm to the touch.
“And you’re right. The taste of humanity has gotten quite stale over the years. Stubborn souls, easily molded by a single sliver of hope and a shiny effigy to admire.”
Effigy? Gilbert’s scarlet gaze blinks as he meets Arthur’s smile. It’s polite but sinister.
“You’re no God,” Gilbert exposes and the angel chuckles in delight. “You’re … just playing the role of one.”
“No,” He confirms. “But they seem to think I am. I take the form of whatever benefits me the most. And loyal villagers like this ensure my longevity. Unlike you.”
Gilbert clenches his jaw. He knows Arthur’s teasing the offer, but he lifts the tone of his voice a little bit higher.
“Maybe it’s time you get out of that form,” Gilbert reasons, his good eye raising an eyebrow. “Longevity doesn’t have to come from playing the same trick every full moon. You should change up your strategy.”
“And how do you think, perhaps, I could do better?”
The albino scrapes the back of his brain, desperate for an answer that could be just as fulfilling. If he were an all powerful deity, what exactly could dissuade him from playing the role?
“Free me,” Gilbert eventually says, straightening up as best he can. “There’s another town west of here. More people. I can be your prophet; bring you more souls to choose from than a single small place like here with the same, silly ideals. Provided you…” he clears his throat. “Let me live the rest of my days as natural as possible.”
A stunned silence. A horrific cackle echoes through the town. Gilbert’s blood runs cold as the leader of the church, in desperation, implores with all his might to get the angel to not listen to Gilbert’s offer. Arthur does not listen.
“Sounds entertaining. Deal.”
He raises his wings upward, ascending amidst the crowd as if attempting to return to the heavens.
But then, he stops. The pure light highlighting the form of the Adjudicator starts to flicker out like candle light. Gone are the incandescent wings highlighted by gold, and they begin to burn like embers, into pitch black. His body arches as a tail sways behind him, and the once blond hair melts into a bloodied red, with horns protruding from his skull like sprouts of a tree.
The followers panic and yell, some already starting to run. The stars above suddenly start to grow in size like blooming flowers, coming closer and closer until they crash into the nearby houses.
More screams. The leader points an accusatory finger at Gilbert as he falls backward on the ground.
“You’re a monster,” the old man rasps. Gilbert barely witnesses the sharp tooth grin Arthur makes before he turns to regard the elder leader. “Your evil knows no bounds. That our God has been defiled by the likes of you…!”
Arthur wastes no energy to let him continue the speech, bending down over to place his talon-like hands upon the man’s skull. It’s not a rough hold; not barbaric of any nature despite the inhuman shape of how the hand appeared. It grasps the old man in place as a wispy, smoke-like substance escapes from the orifices of the human’s eyes and nostrils, right up into the creature’s mouth.
The man goes silent, staring blankly at Gilbert as the rest of the villagers flee. Gilbert is hooked, unable to make himself look away as Arthur straightens up, walking back over to him with the sight of comets crashing into the trees. Into the church steeple.
He hoists Gilbert up to his feet; the rope restraints fall off as they burn. A soothing effect brushes over his body, and the pain washes off him like dirt. It’s almost like running underneath a waterfall.
Arthur clicks his tongue, likely trying to savor the taste of the soul that he just consumed. He peers at Gilbert with a humored gaze and offers his hand to him.
“Lead the way, prophet,” Arthur hums. Gilbert takes the hand silently but there’s something strange about the way it’s held. He’s known all kinds of facades that people have played on him through the years. Genuinity and reassurance, Gilbert realized, was a foriegn feeling.
“I want to ask,” Gilbert eventually says and he already feels like he’s overstepping. He knows this is the worst thing to say after he got away with such a very kind end of the deal. But it plagues him.
“You’re placing a lot of faith in someone like me,” He says simply. “Why?”
The Adjudicator returns his concern with another smile.
“You’re like me,” Arthur states as if it were obvious. “A gambler. Willing to juggle odds if it means sure survival,”
Arthur’s tail swishes as he peers at Gilbert with humor. “I take your offer, mortal. But you will not die a natural death, no. Nothing depressing like that. A fair deal for my eternal longevity,” he puts his hands on Gilbert’s shoulders, standing behind him while leaning into his ear.
“Is giving you exactly what you deserve.”
Again, Gilbert’s heart pounds. But he is, strangely, unafraid.
“… and what is it,” his breath hitches, turning his head to the voice. “What is it that you think I deserve?”
Arthur’s grin is so wide, it threatens to split his face. The sight of it makes Gilbert’s heart flutter.
“Companionship. Power. Me.”
Arthur lifts Gilbert’s hand, kissing the back of it.
“A man who’s known nothing but despair, is the best one to speak of salvation,” Arthur advises gently. “And who better? You’re mine now, mortal. Gilbert. All mine.”
The perspective makes Gilbert tense. The logical part of him knows there’s an addendum that may arise when he least expects it. Maybe even something that could result in his quick demise.
But eternal servitude had never felt this appealing before.
Gilbert finds the smile to return to Arthur.
“Alright then. Deal.”