#—💋ྀིྀི 𝒷𝑒𝓇𝓇𝓎’𝓈 𝒸𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝑜𝒻 𝒻𝒶𝓃𝒻𝒾𝒸𝓈 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝒸𝒽 𝓈𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓈 𝒹𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓁𝓎

[rottenstrawberrigirl]

I strongly recommend everyone check out Quality's "Creatura Innocentiae" series!!! Trust me, you will not be disappointed. It will surpass your expectations. ⸜❤︎⸝‍ ‪‪

Creatura innocentiae - Fyodor x Reader

PART I PART II PART III

Synopsys: In a secluded village ruled by devotion, where sacrifice is a form of love and faith demands blood, you are forced to choose between Scylla and Charybdis.

Warnings: No ability au, cult themes, religion, manipulation, murder, death, graphic violence and depiction of blood, dehumanization, power imbalance in relationships, emotional and physical abuse, self-harm, gaslighting, brainwashing, philosophical musings on love, faith, and autonomy.

These themes will be present throughout all parts of this fic. Please read with caution and take care of your mental well-being. If any of these themes are distressing to you, proceed carefully or consider skipping this fic.

A/N: The people have asked, and so here it is—another story featuring cult Fyodor! (Note: This is not a continuation of Ultima Sacrificium). This will be a multiple-part series, an undertaking that has me shaking in my boots. I hope you enjoy the ride as much as I enjoy writing it!

Word Count: 7,000

What is love, exactly?  

Is it the absence of fear—the willingness to be vulnerable? To let yourself be known, to be accepted, and in turn, to know and accept another? Or is it something darker: a devouring hunger, the need to consume until the lines between you blur and dissolve?  

Perhaps love is neither of these. Perhaps love is sacrifice.  

That is what you’ve been taught. That is what you’ve always known.  

Love is the red that stains your hands, the warmth that spills from you into the chalice, filling it until it overflows. Love is the smile of the priestess as she raises the cup to the heavens, the murmured prayers of your people as they partake of your offering. It is the ache in your body after each cut, the burning sting that lingers long after the blade is gone.  

You were born with a gift, the blood of apostles coursing through your veins. Your mother tells you this gift sets you apart—makes you holy. Your lineage is pure, unbroken since the time of the first apostle, the one who communed with God and returned with commandments and covenants carved into his flesh. You are the living proof of that covenant, a vessel of divine will.  

Your blood is sacred. Your body, an altar.  

You are also her favorite lamb.  

The priestess—the High Priestess, your mother—says so often. She says it when her hand cups your cheek and her eyes gleam with pride. She says it when she watches you kneel, docile and sweet, always so docile and sweet, before the altar. You hold very still when they put the rope around your neck, your heart calm, your steps obedient. You trot along so happily when they lead you to the place of sacrifice.  

They do not even have to tie you down. You lie so very still.  

When the blade comes down, it cuts through you like butter. You offer no resistance. You bleed so prettily all over the white robe that marks your holiness. When the crimson pours from you, it is beautiful, they say. It runs smooth and golden, like delicious honey. 

God herself whispers to the High Priestess that you are her favorite lamb. You are the lamb with the softest wool, the lamb with the sweetest eyes, the lamb with the most trusting gait. Your cries are the prettiest, your bell the shiniest. When the blade cuts, your blood flows clean, your flesh opens like a ribbon unwinding, like shining yarn spinning out onto the altar, sacred and infinite.  

And your eyes—your animal, dumb eyes—hold no accusation.  

This is why they love you. This is why they call you blessed. You are the lamb who gives everything and asks for nothing. You do not fight, you do not bite. You do not make them see the burden they place on you.  

You are God’s gift, her favorite. That is why they love you.  

It is another lovely morning. The village has gathered in the grand wooden church to welcome a new life into the fold. The High Priestess, rests her hand on your shoulder as she recites from the tome, her voice soft yet commanding. Your thoughts drift, not to her words but to the bundle of innocence on the altar.  

The child’s arrival is a reminder of the cycle: birth, sacrifice, and servitude. The blood that flows through you—the divine gift passed down from generation to generation—will now mark another soul. Another child to be bound to the community. Another life to be claimed by God.  

Your father stands at the edge of the ceremony, as he always does. His gaze is downcast, his presence barely noticeable beside your mother’s radiance. He is a quiet man, small and obedient, a shadow of the High Priestess’s power. You often wonder what your father might have been like before your mother. What parts of himself he sacrificed to remain in her orbit.  

You kneel before the child, the robe you wear heavy with the weight of your purpose. Though you are an adult, the sheltered life you have lived has left you unformed in ways you cannot explain. Your days are dictated by rituals, by prayers and offerings, by the endless cycle of giving. You have never left the village. You have never known a moment where your body was not watched, your steps not dictated by the expectations of others.  

Your mother calls you divine. You feel more like an artifact—precious but inanimate, bound to the will of those who hold you.  

Her hands, as always, are warm as they guide you.  

You hold out your hand, trembling slightly. The baby’s forehead is smooth, untouched by the world, unmarked by sacrifice. Your blood, drawn from your palm, pools into the small silver chalice. The room is silent but for the murmurs of anticipation. Every gaze is fixed upon you.  

The blade, your constant companion, is an extension of your soul. It cuts so effortlessly—an offering so pure, so sacred. You dip your fingers into the chalice, the blood still warm, and trace the child’s forehead with the mark of the divine.  

The seal that binds this child to the community. The mark that ties them to you and the God you both serve.  

“In the name of our God,” you intone, your voice steady, though your heart wavers. “I bless thee with the blood of divinity. May you give as freely as she does, and may your soul be as pure.”  

The crowd bows their heads in reverence. The baby is returned to its mother, who smiles with quiet joy. You watch, still kneeling, your fingers stained red with the blood that defines you.  

This is love, isn’t it?  

To give everything of yourself until there is nothing left. To be adored not for who you are, but for what you provide.  

But somewhere, in the deepest part of you, a quiet voice whispers: If love is sacrifice, why?

Why does it feel so much like theft?

The sun dips low on the horizon, painting the valley in hues of molten gold and soft pink. The flames crackle in the rustic heart of the community, surrounded by dirt paths and timber homes adorned with garlands of wildflowers. Chants ripple through the gathered crowd, a haunting melody that rises and falls like a breath.  

As you walk among them, hands reach out, brushing against your robes, grazing your fingertips. You keep your eyes cast low, always aware of the weight of their touch. They call you their savior, their precious lamb. They murmur soft praises, their voices as reverent as the prayers they whisper to the heavens. You smile at them all, meek and kind, because that is what they expect of you.  

Because that is what you are.  

But you are not part of their revelry—not truly. You are both above it and apart from it. Too sacred for the mundane, yet too ensnared to escape.  

They came, as they always do, led by one of the cult’s missionaries—strangers seeking sanctuary, redemption, or something they cannot name. A group of four approaches the square, their steps hesitant yet guided by curiosity. Among them, one figure stands out.  

Unlike his companions, who wear expressions of tentative hope or awe, this man moves with unsettling calm. His dark coat sways with each step, and his pale hands rest idly at his sides. His gaze, sharp as razor, sweeps over the scene, lingering on the faces of the villagers who rush forward to greet them. Children dart past him, their laughter ringing as they offer garlands of wildflowers. Women follow, balancing baskets of bread on their hips, their blessings a cascade of honeyed words.  

The villagers’ warmth finds little purchase in him. He bows his head briefly but does not take the offered garland. The refusal isn’t rude—it is deliberate, as though he already knows the weight of the rituals and chooses not to sully them with empty gestures.  

You watch from the edge of the square, though you hadn’t intended to join the crowd. Your role as the sacrificial vessel makes you a fixture in the community, both revered and burdened, and yet his gaze finds you as if drawn by some invisible force.  

When your eyes meet, the world narrows. His are a shade of purple you cannot place—endless, like a winter river, a color that doesn’t belong in the warmth of the valley. A quiet stirring blooms in your chest, like the first pang of a wound, and you quickly look away.  

The High Priestess emerges from the crowd, her presence as commanding and warm as the rising sun. The villagers part instinctively, their heads bowing as she passes. Her voice, kind yet unyielding, carries through the square.  

“Welcome,” she says, her smile practiced and serene. “You have come far to join us. We are honored to receive you.”  

The missionary steps forward, clasping his hands together in reverence. “Mother Maria, these are the seekers I found beyond the valley. They have come to learn the truth, to find purpose in our fold.”

The High Priestess studies the group, her sharp eyes pausing on each face until they land on the pale man. Her smile does not falter, but the air around her sharpens.  

“And you?” she asks, her voice soft but probing. “What brings you to our sacred land?”  

He steps forward, his movements unhurried. Bowing slightly, he clasps his hands behind his back. “I am drawn by the promise of truth,” he says, his voice low and smooth, each word carefully picked out. “All my life, I have sought it, and I believe I will find it here.”  

His companions shift uncomfortably, their nervous energy a stark contrast to his poise. The High Priestess’s smile thins, almost imperceptibly, before she nods. “Truth is indeed what we offer. But truth requires sacrifice. Will you accept what it asks of you?”  

“Gladly,” he replies, his gaze steady.  

The High Priestess holds his gaze for a moment longer, then turns to the villagers. “Prepare the cleansing waters. Our new friends must be purified before they join us at the feast.”  

And so you now stand beside the High Priestess at the stone basin where the sacred spring pools cool and clear. Your hands holding the sacred bowl of anointing oil. Its scent was sharp and metallic, mingled with the faint iron tang of the single drop of your blood that had been mixed into it.

“Before you may break bread with us,” the High Priestess intones, her voice soft yet resolute, “you must set aside the burdens of your past lives. This water will cleanse your path, and this oil will mark the first step toward truth.” 

A trembling woman steps forward first, kneeling before the basin. The High Priestess murmurs a blessing as she dips her fingers into the bowl, anointing the woman’s forehead with a streak of oil. She guides the woman’s hands into the water, watching as her expression shifts from fear to quiet reverence.  

When it is his turn, the pale man steps forward without hesitation. He kneels, his posture straight, his head slightly bowed. The High Priestess reaches for the bowl, but her fingers still as she looks at him. For a fleeting moment, tension crackles between them, unspoken but palpable.  

Then, slowly, she dips her fingers into the oil and presses them to his forehead. The warmth lingers, and he closes his eyes as though in prayer.  

“You carry no fear,” she remarks softly.  

“Fear is a choice,” he replies, opening his eyes. His tone is calm, yet there is a subtle edge to his words—a challenge, quiet but deliberate.

Her expression remains unchanged, though her eyes narrow slightly. She motions for him to wash his hands, and as he does, his gaze flicks to you. You feel the weight of it, sharp and unrelenting.

But you do not look away this time.  

Under the open sky after the cleansing, long tables groan with the weight of food: roasted meats, fresh fruits and steaming bread. The villagers—families, children, elders—gather in celebration, their voices mingling with the hum of the torches and the soft rustle of the night wind. The scent of wine and cooking meat fills the air, thick and intoxicating.  

The feast spills into the courtyard, a sprawling affair where life and ritual intertwine seamlessly. Plates are passed with laughter, cups brimming with wine are raised in toasts, and bowls of fruit are shared between children with sticky hands and shining eyes. Beneath the surface of the revelry lies the unspoken truth: this is a celebration of service, of sacrifice, of taking joy in what has been offered.  

You are not seated among them, not truly part of this gathering. You are both guest of honor and object of worship, and even in celebration, your place remains apart.  

At one of the tables near the edge of the festivities, he sits. His presence is understated but magnetic, drawing your attention again and again. He does not eat much, nor does he join in the villagers’ laughter. Instead, he watches in serene silence, a shadow of a smile on his lips. 

His dark eyes sweep over the crowd, taking in the scene with a quiet intensity that makes your chest tighten. He sees everything—the reverence in their glances toward you, the careful choreography of a community bound by something unseen. His companions sit with him, their discomfort gradually giving way to nervous smiles as the warmth of the celebration softens their edges. But he does not soften. He remains apart, like you, even when surrounded.  

You notice the way he holds himself: isolated but not uncomfortable. Detached but not cold. He moves little, as though every moment of stillness is a choice.  

When his gaze finds yours once more, it is as though the air between you thickens. For a moment, the world around you blurs. The laughter, the clinking of goblets, the soft rustling of the wind—all fade into a distant hum.  

There is only him.  

His dark eyes seem to hold something you cannot place, something unsettling and sharp—a knowing, a deep, calculating curiosity that makes you feel as though you are being seen for the first time. Your breath catches as his lips curl into the faintest of smiles. The expression isn’t warm. It is quieter, sharper, almost as if he carries a secret meant for you alone.  

You cannot look away.  

The moment stretches until your chest tightens with the strain of it, and you force yourself to turn your gaze to the food in front of you. Your heart pounds in a rhythm you cannot explain. You wonder if anyone else noticed the way he looked at you, or if it is something only you could see.  

You feel his gaze again, even when he is not looking at you. It lingers, a rope stretched taut between you both, one that will not break.  

The feast continues. The villagers laugh, their joy spilling into the cool night air. Yet, though you are surrounded by celebration, you cannot stop thinking of him. You catch glimpses of him between the faces at the long table. The others shift and laugh and drink deeply, but he remains steady, his movements as precise and deliberate as his words had been.  

You wonder, if he sees you for what you truly are. Not the lamb, the holy offering, but something else. Something unknown.  

The thought makes your stomach twist in a way you don’t understand.  

Days pass, as they always do.  

The sun had long since set, leaving the valley cloaked in shadow. The High Priestess’s home stood at the heart of the village, a structure of wood and stone adorned with intricate symbols of devotion into its walls. It was a place where warmth was performative, where every smile and gesture carried a double promise.  

Inside, the flickering fire cast long shadows across the main room, its golden light unable to dispel the chill of tension that lingered in the air. You stood beside your father, your hands clasped in front of you, waiting.  

It was tradition: a private supper between your family and the newcomers, an act of hospitality meant to welcome them. But you knew better. Hospitality was a veil, a courtesy offered with sharp teeth behind it. This supper was a test—a subtle but ruthless scrutiny that no one could escape.  

Your father adjusted the goblets on the table for the third time, his nervous fingers trembling slightly. “Are they nervous, you think?” he asked softly, not meeting your gaze.  

“They should be,” your mother said from across the room, her voice sharp yet measured. She stood near the fire, her white robes glowing in the shifting light. “Truth demands reverence. Only those who understand this will remain.”  

Your father nodded quickly—too quickly—and you felt a pang of something close to pity. He never challenged her, never pushed back. You wondered if she even noticed how much weight he carried to keep her world in order, how his silence shaped the foundation of her power. His submission was a lesson you were never allowed to forget.

Your eyes drifted to the table, to the goblets your father had lined so meticulously. You thought of how often he moved in silence, his presence fading into the edges of her authority. His hands trembled not from age, but from the strain of servitude.  

The first of the newcomers entered, hesitant and uncertain, their shoulders hunched under the weight of the High Priestess’s gaze. One by one, every night, they came and went, each leaving with lowered eyes and nervous smiles. You remained mostly quiet, watching as your mother’s words—soft and smiling—peeled back their defenses with careful precision.  

Your father, dutiful as ever, poured wine into their goblets, his trembling hands careful not to spill. You watched him with a tightening in your chest, the tension in the room coiling like a spring.  

And then it was his turn.  

When Fyodor entered, the room seemed to shift. His movements were fluid, as though he had already rehearsed this moment in his mind. His dark coat was gone, replaced by the white robe of a supplicant, but the simplicity of the garment only emphasized the sharp angles of his face, the cool, precise energy that surrounded him.  

His gaze swept the room, lingering on the fire, the worn table, and finally on you. His eyes paused, and there it was again, that unsettling feeling from the way he watched you—not with the reverence you were used to, but something sharper. As though he saw through the layers of expectation draped over you.  

“Welcome,” your mother said, her tone light but pointed. “You honor us by joining us this evening.”  

He inclined his head, his hands clasped behind his back. “The honor is mine, High Priestess.”  

He took his seat at the table, and your father poured his ceremonial wine, the trembling of his hands spilling a single drop onto the polished wood. Fyodor accepted the goblet with a quiet thank you, his eyes flicking briefly to you before returning to your mother.  

“We have found that those who come to us seeking truth often carry burdens from the world outside,” your mother began, her words smooth and rehearsed. “What burdens do you carry, Fyodor?”  

He sipped the wine slowly, his movements deliberate. “We all carry burdens, no? Mine are no greater than those of any man who seeks meaning.”  

“And yet,” she pressed, leaning forward ever so slightly, “You seem unshaken. Most who come to us are eager to shed their burdens, to kneel before the divine. But you... you carry yourself differently.”  

He met her gaze evenly, his expression unreadable. “I hold the belief that I kneel in my own way.”  

The fire cracked softly, filling the silence that followed.  

Your mother’s lips tightened, though her composure did not break. She leaned back, her eyes narrowing slightly. And then, as if testing both of you at once, she turned to you.  

“What do you think of our guest, my child?”  

The question caught you off guard. Your pulse quickened as you glanced at Fyodor, his sharp gaze already on you. His expression betrayed nothing of what he was thinking in that moment, and that somehow terrified you. 

“I... I think he speaks with conviction,” you said finally, your voice measured. “It is rare.”  

“Conviction is admirable,” your mother said, though her tone had grown colder. She gestured for your father to refill Fyodor’s cup, and he obeyed quickly, his trembling hands spilling a few drops of wine onto the table once more.  

“Careful,” your mother snapped, her voice cutting like a blade. Your father flinched, dabbing at the spill with a cloth.  

Fyodor’s gaze lingered on the interaction, his lips curved into the faintest of smiles, it felt like understanding—something quiet and unspoken passing between him and your father.  

“Your child is observant,” Fyodor said softly, his eyes returning to you. “Rare, indeed.”

“They have been raised to see the truth,” your mother replied sharply, her suspicion deepening. “It is their duty to understand what others cannot.”

He inclined his head slightly, a faint smile brushing his lips. “A remarkable gift, to be so attuned to truth. Few possess the clarity to rise above their own fears and expectations.”

The room fell silent, the words hanging heavy in the air. Your breath hitched as your mother turned back to you, her gaze sharp and searching.

“Have you grown timid, my child?” she asked, her words laced with quiet menace. “You hesitate more often than before.”  

“I... I have been reflecting,” you said finally, your voice small but steady. “On the path you’ve set for me. On how best to serve.”  

Her expression softened slightly, though her gaze remained piercing. “Good. Service requires focus. Distractions lead to ruin.” Her eyes flicked briefly to Fyodor, then back to you. “And you are not easily distracted, are you?”  

“No, mother,” you replied, though your voice lacked conviction.  

Fyodor’s gaze lingered on you, quiet and piercing, before he leaned back slightly in his chair. “The strength of their will reflects well on their upbringing,” he remarked. “Few can maintain such clarity when placed under so much... weight.”

Your mother’s lips curled faintly, though the smile did not reach her eyes. “Weight builds character,” she said curtly. “And clarity comes from discipline.”

“Discipline,” Fyodor murmured, as though weighing the word. His eyes flickered to the fire, the light casting fleeting shadows across his face. “A virtue that molds strength and focus, no doubt. And yet... even the finest melodies are not born from silence alone.”

Your mother’s expression did not falter, though the room felt colder for it. “Only weak voices fear silence,” she said finally, her tone clipped. “The strong will always be heard.”

The words hung in the air like a closing door, shutting out any chance for response. The tension that had built over the evening seemed to settle over you like a shroud, heavy and unyielding, wrapping itself around you with quiet insistence.

By the end of the evening, as Fyodor rose to leave, your mother placed a hand on your shoulder, her grip firm. Her fingers pressed into your skin, a silent command to stay grounded, to remain tethered to her will.  

“Do not stray with him,” she murmured, her voice low and meant only for you. Her words slid between you like a blade, cold and deliberate. “There are paths you cannot walk, no matter how curious you may be. Do not forget your duty.”

Her grip tightened on your shoulder, just enough to make your chest tighten in turn. “Your future has already been secured,” she continued, her tone soft but unyielding. “Do not squander what has been arranged for you with fleeting distractions. You belong where you are needed, my child. Where you are destined.”

Then, her hand eased, and she leaned down to press a kiss to the crown of your head. The gesture was warm, loving, but the weight of it was undeniable. It was not affection, but a mark—a silent claim, binding you to her will. Her lips lingered just long enough for her breath to ghost against your hair. “Remember who you are,” she whispered, the words as much an order as an expression of care.

The weight of her words sank in, unspoken but unmistakable: the engagement. It had loomed in the background of your life like an unfinished prayer, a promise made on your behalf that you had not been given the right to question.

You glanced at Fyodor, who lingered at the doorway, his dark eyes catching yours once more. The air seemed to shift between you, an unspoken tension thrumming just beneath the surface. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said, his voice smooth and composed, the words polite but aimed at you rather than your mother.

Your mother’s hand remained on your shoulder, her presence a wall between you and the door. “Do not forget your place,” she whispered as Fyodor turned to leave, her voice as sharp as the steel she so often wielded in ceremony.

Her warning echoed long after he was gone, her words a chain you could not yet break.  

The weeks since Fyodor’s arrival had passed like the turning of a slow wheel, the rhythm of village life unchanged but for the murmurs that followed wherever he went. The people had embraced him and his group with a swiftness that was almost unnerving. Children brought him flowers, their giggles rising like birdsong as they placed the blooms in his hands. The elders nodded in satisfaction, their wrinkled faces lighting with approval at his humility during communal tasks. Even the skeptical seemed disarmed by his quiet confidence and sharp wit, his every action a masterstroke of timing and grace.  

Yet, to you, there was something unsettling beneath the surface.  

You watched him carefully. There was a deliberateness to his movements, a precision that felt unnatural. He walked as though every step was part of a dance only he could hear, every word chosen with the precision of an arrow. And yet, despite your unease, there was a pull to him, like the dark waters of the river: cold and dangerous but impossible to resist. The pull lingered, growing stronger each time you saw him, until his presence became a constant undercurrent in your thoughts. 

And you couldn’t help but wonder—what would it feel like to let yourself fall into those dark, unyielding currents? To surrender to the cold pull, knowing there would be no way back?

The sound of the ceremonial bells pulled you from your thoughts, their solemn toll reverberating through the wooden church. The candles that lined the space cast flickering shadows across the gathered congregation, their flames bright against the deepening dusk.

This was a sacred night, one that would truly bind the newcomers to the community, sealing their integration with an oath to serve the divine. 

The group stood in a line before the High Priestess, their white robes glowing in the soft light of the candles, their heads bowed in solemn reverence. Even in their uniformity, Fyodor stood apart, as he always did. His posture was relaxed but not disrespectful, his expression unreadable. He wore the robe as though it were a costume, an adornment that could be shed the moment it no longer served him.  

In your hands is the small bowl of crimson liquid—your blood, drawn hours earlier, thick with divinity mixed with anointing oil. Its sight sends a shiver through the group, though none dare speak. The ceramic was warm against your palms, though it felt heavier than usual tonight.  

Your mother stepped forward, her voice ringing through the church with a practiced authority that silenced the crowd.  

“You stand here as seekers, strangers to the divine. But tonight, you will be bound to our truth, reborn as one with this community. Are you prepared to leave behind what you were?”  

A murmur of assent rippled through the group. Some voices trembled with fear, others spoke with quiet certainty. Fyodor’s voice, low and steady, cut through the air, drawing your attention despite yourself.  

“Step forward,” your mother commanded.  

One by one, the newcomers approached her. She dipped her fingers into the blood, marking their foreheads with the sacred blessing as they bowed their heads in submission. The ritual unfolded as it always did, a solemn repetition of words and gestures. Yet when it was Fyodor’s turn, the moment seemed to stretch.  

He stepped forward with that same deliberate grace, his movements unhurried but precise. His gaze met your mother’s with an intensity that did not falter, the air between them charged with unspoken tension.  

“Kneel,” she commanded.  

He obeyed, lowering himself to the ground with a calm that bordered on defiance. He looked like a man kneeling of his own volition, not one forced to bow.  

Your mother dipped her fingers into the blood, but instead of marking his forehead, she paused. Her gaze turned to you, sharp and expectant. “Come,” she said. “Place your hands upon him. Channel the divine insight.”  

Your breath caught. You had never been asked to do this before. The bowl in your hands seemed to grow heavier, the scent of the oil rising like smoke to suffocate you. Slowly, you stepped forward, setting the bowl down on the altar before kneeling in front of him.  

Your hands trembled as you reached out, resting them lightly on his head. His hair was softer than you expected, but his presence felt sharp, overwhelming. The noise of the congregation—the chants, the crackling of the candles—faded into a dull hum, drowned out by the pounding of your heartbeat.  

You closed your eyes, trying to focus on the divine connection you were meant to channel. Yet all you could feel was him. The steadiness of his breath. The quiet tension coiled in his body. The way his very existence seemed to demand your attention.  

“What do you see?” your mother’s voice cut through the haze, expectant.  

You opened your eyes, startled, and found Fyodor looking up at you. His gaze was piercing, calm yet devastatingly aware. There was no fear in his eyes, no deference. Instead, there was something that stripped you bare—a knowing, as though he could see every thought you had buried deep.  

“I…” The words caught in your throat.  

Then his lips moved, so faintly you almost missed it. A whisper meant only for you:  

“You bleed for them. But will they bleed for you?”  

The words hit like an arrow to the throat, leaving you breathless. Your hands jerked back as though burned, and your heart thundered in your chest.  

Your mother’s gaze bore into you, her eyes narrowing. “What do you see?” she demanded again, her voice growing cold.  

You forced yourself to look away from him, your trembling hands lowering to your lap. “I see… clarity,” you said finally, though your voice wavered. “He carries clarity.”  

Your mother studied you for a moment, her suspicion evident. Then, without a word, she marked his forehead, murmuring the blessing with an edge to her tone. She gestured to the congregation, signaling the second part of the ceremony.  

“The waters of renewal await,” your mother announced, her voice carrying over the crowd. “As children of the divine are first welcomed, so too must our newest seekers be reborn.”  

The group was led toward the river, that snaked just outside the church, its surface shimmering like molten glass in the torchlight. An ancient tree’s roots reached toward the water’s edge, twisting and intertwining with the stones that framed the riverbank. The current hummed softly, carrying the weight of generations past.  

One by one, the newcomers approached the river. Your mother took each by the hand, murmuring blessings before the attendants guided them into the water. They were gently lowered beneath the surface, the current swirling around them, and when they emerged, gasping and glistening in the firelight, the water clung to their skin like a second robe, consecrating their transformation.  

When it was Fyodor’s turn, the moment stretched again. He stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes flicking to yours for the briefest moment before returning to your mother.  

She took his hand, her grip firm, and guided him towards the river’s edge. “This water cleanses,” she intoned. “It washes away the remnants of your former self, the burdens of your past life, leaving you free to serve.”  

The attendants lowered him into the river. For a moment, it felt as though the heavens themselves leaned closer, waiting. The current surged as if tasting him, its pull cold, and the uncanny stillness gripped the air, as if even the wind dared not move. 

When he emerged, his hair plastered to his face, his eyes sharper than ever, he did not gasp as the others had. He rose to his feet with an unshaken calm, water streaming from his robes. His gaze found yours again, and the weight of his whispered words returned, heavier than before.  A fleeting thought filtered through your mind: Would they bleed for me? As I do for them?   

When the ceremony ended, and the congregation erupted into joyous chants, you found yourself unable to join in. Fyodor stood among the others, his expression serene, but when his eyes met yours again across the clearing, it felt as though the ritual had bound something unseen between you both.

The sounds of the crowd became hollow, their jubilation a distant echo. He was all that remained. The air between you filled with an unspoken understanding that you dared not name.

You were skittish, of course, like a cornered animal. And you squirmed—not to escape, but to inch closer, as though his gaze has already avowed you. But what use is there for such a connection, when the end is as inevitable as the tightening snare, already closing around you both.

The announcement of your engagement came as no surprise.  

For months, you had felt it coming: in the quiet tension in your mother’s tone, the way her hand lingered on your shoulder during evening blessings, and the faint but insistent weight in her gaze whenever she spoke to you. It wasn’t love she offered in those moments, but a kind of ownership—a reminder that you were hers to mold, to shape, to offer as she saw fit.  

The ceremonial bells tolled at dawn, their echoes rippling across the valley. You rose without hesitation, the weight of the day already pressing against your chest. Your mother was waiting for you, her hands warm and steady as they guided you to sit before her. 

She began braiding your hair with practiced precision, her fingers gentle as they wove the strands together. The scent of sage and beeswax clung to her robes, a reminder of the sacred rituals that bound you both. 

"You’ve always had such beautiful hair," she murmured, her voice soft, almost wistful. For a moment, her touch lingered, more a mother’s than a priestess’s. "Do you remember when you were little, how you’d fuss when I braided it too tightly?" 

You nodded, though your throat tightened at the memory. "I thought you were punishing me," you replied, a faint, bittersweet smile tugging at your lips. 

She chuckled softly, the sound rare and fleeting. "Never, my child. I only wanted you to look your best." 

Her fingers paused for a fraction of a moment, resting against your temple. "You’ve grown so much," she said quietly, the words carrying a weight she rarely allowed herself to show. Then her hands resumed their work, and when she finished, she placed her hands gently on your shoulders. "There," she said, her voice soft but steady. "You are ready." 

The warmth of her hands lingered as you rose, her gaze following you with something that almost resembled pride. Yet beneath it, you could feel the unspoken weight of expectation, as heavy as the ceremonial robes draped across your shoulders.

You carried that weight with you as you stepped into the grand wooden church, its high vaulted ceilings towering above like the heavens themselves. The air was heavy with the scent of burning herbs—lavender mingling with a faint undertone of sweetgrass. Smoke curled upward, coiling like restless spirits toward the intricate carvings that decorated the beams, each depicting scenes of devotion and sacrifice. Candles lined the altar and walls, their soft, flickering light casting long shadows that seemed to shift with the murmurs of the congregation.

People stood in hushed reverence, their faces illuminated by the golden glow. All eyes were on you and your betrothed—Abel—as you knelt together on the raised dais at the center of the sacred space. 

Abel knelt beside you, his head bowed, his posture straight and unassuming. His robe hung neatly on his frame, its stark simplicity emphasizing his earnestness. He was the ideal partner for someone like you: devout, humble, willing to serve without question. You could see why your mother had chosen him. He was what the village valued—what the cult demanded. 

Yet when you looked at him, you felt nothing but a hollow ache. 

Your mother’s voice carried through the church, steady and commanding. Her words wrapped around the congregation like a net, binding them in shared reverence. 

“May this bond bring harmony, as two threads are woven into a single tapestry. May purpose guide them, and may their lives serve as offerings to the divine.” 

Her gaze swept across the congregation before settling on you. The weight of her presence was palpable, pressing against your chest like a stone. 

“Abel,” she intoned, turning to him. “Do you accept this bond, this sacred duty to serve beside them in devotion and purpose?” 

“I do,” he replied, his voice calm and steady. 

The crowd murmured in approval, a low hum that rolled through the church like distant thunder. 

“And you, my child,” she said, her attention returning to you. Her voice was softer now, but it carried an edge of expectation that left no room for hesitation. “Do you accept this bond, this sacred duty to serve with him in faith and unity?” 

Your hands clenched tightly in your lap, hidden beneath the folds of your robe. Abel’s gaze flicked to you briefly, his expression warm, even reverent. He looked at you as though you were a gift he had been unworthy to receive. 

The thought made your chest tighten. 

“I do,” you said at last. The words tasted foreign in your mouth, like something borrowed. 

The murmurs grew louder now, the congregation’s approval rising like a tide. Your mother lifted her arms, her robes catching the candlelight as she began to recite the vows that would bind you and Abel together. 

“I give you that which is mine to give. I shall serve you in those ways you require, and the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand.” 

Her voice was steady, deliberate, each word falling like a stone into still water. 

Abel repeated the vow, his voice soft but unwavering. 

“I pledge to you that yours will be the name I cry aloud in the night, and the eyes into which I smile in the morning.” 

Your mother’s gaze moved to you. The air seemed to still as she spoke the final words of the vow. 

“I pledge to you the first bite from my meat, and the first drink from my cup. I pledge to you my living and dying, equally in your care, and tell no strangers our grievances.” 

The silence that followed was almost suffocating. 

You repeated the words, your voice steady but hollow. They rolled off your tongue like a prayer you had recited too many times to feel their meaning. Yet each word seemed to settle in your chest like a weight, binding you to Abel, to this life, to this role you had never chosen. 

As your mother raised her hands in blessing, the congregation erupted into murmurs of approval. A collective sigh of satisfaction rippled through the church, their voices carrying into the evening as they began to move toward the feast awaiting them. 

But you remained kneeling on the dais, your hands clenched tightly in your lap. The smoke from the incense stung your eyes, though you weren’t sure if that was the reason they burned. The whisper of movement behind you was so faint you might have missed it, but then his voice followed. 

“Congratulations.” 

You turned your head slightly, just enough to see Fyodor standing at the edge of the dais. His expression was calm, but there was something in his eyes, something that made your breath hitch. His white supplicant robes, so similar to yours, seemed to carry none of their weight. 

“Thank you,” you murmured, though your voice betrayed you. 

His gaze flicked briefly to Abel, who stood a short distance away, speaking with the elders. “He seems... reliable,” Fyodor said, his tone measured, as though he were commenting on a piece of furniture. 

“He is,” you replied, though the words felt bitter on your tongue. 

Fyodor stepped closer, slow and deliberate, the faintest smile playing at his lips. “Do you think he’ll understand you?” 

Your breath caught. Something in his tone—quiet, knowing—stirred a knot of frustration in your chest. “What is that supposed to mean?” you whispered, your voice tight. “You’re always speaking in riddles.” 

“Not riddles. Questions,” he corrected with a soft smile, his voice like a whisper of smoke. “Do you ever ask them yourself?” 

The memory of his whisper at the river returned unbidden. You bleed for them, but will they bleed for you? His words had rooted themselves in your thoughts, growing like weeds in the cracks of your carefully constructed faith. 

“At the river,” you began, your voice faltering. “You said something to me. Why?” 

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze unwavering. “Because it’s the truth. You give them everything—your blood, your life, your love. But what do you receive in return? Do they even know you, beyond what you offer?” 

You swallowed hard, your fingers curling into the fabric of your robes. “That’s not how it works,” you whispered, though your voice quivered. “I’m here to serve. To protect them. That’s my purpose. That’s why they love me.” 

He regarded you for a long moment, his expression almost gentle. “And who protects you?” 

The question lodged itself deep in your chest, and you looked away, unable to meet his gaze any longer. “You don’t understand,” you said quietly. “This is how it’s always been.” 

“Ah,” he murmured, the faint smile returning to his lips. “I can understand the comfort of tradition. A powerful thing, isn’t it?” He straightened, his tone shifting to something lighter but no less piercing. 

You turned back to him, anger and something deeper—something desperate—flaring in your chest. “What do you want from me?” 

His gaze lingered on you, searching, and then he stepped back. “Nothing,” he said softly. “I suppose I’ve overstayed my welcome. Enjoy your new kinship, won’t you?” 

Before you could reply, he turned and disappeared into the crowd, his presence dissolving into the sea of voices and movement. His words remained, echoing in your mind like a bell tolling in the dark. 

Who protects you? 

PART II

Dividers: saradika-graphics