The August wind swooped down from the Cimmerian sky. With a dark autumn whisper; from the tops of trees, it surf withered leaves, across forgotten graves, around weather worn tombstones, and down the hill; through the open gates, and across the street; where, underneath a waning gibbous moon, the last of summer grass lay dying.
The Priest and the grave diggers—gone, leaving a single mourner with events once so large in life, now so infinitesimal in memory. The path chosen should’ve been the road not taken. But who could’ve known, the autumn whisper that marked the end of an odyssey, marked the beginning of a journey.
His very existence was a blasphemy because his creator. A mortal man whose repulsion for humanity, was an open secret, spawned him out of the dark ideology of the light. But even now, counted among the dead, his legacy will be praised in the dark hearts of the ones of the same order.
Tomorrow the sun will rise. And those of the order will make the most heinous of his mortal sins, venial, and proclaim him blessed. But his stench will continue to stain humanity. Time will erase his true nature, as it has with the others; and the autumn whispers still bring no justice, for neither the living, nor the dead.
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