Better things to come

*Pay no attention to this, this is from a creative writing group, I am posting it in my journal to save it!

And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death.
Book of Revelation 6:8

The snowflakes flittered through the air on tufts of a chilled breeze. The trees, twisted, gnarled and dead lay silent along the path that Vladimir walked the day that Peter found him. A pale haired, pale skinned child, roaming coatless through the freezing air. The wind blew behind him, obscuring his footprints as he walked, as if erasing proof of his existance from the landscape. The only clue that one would have towards his wherabouts was the blood that dripped from his bare hands as he walked, aimlessly, through the forest in the Ural valley.

From above him, Peter watched, knowing that the creature was following the boy, taunting him, letting him bide his time as if to make him suffer more. Demons knew no mercy. Peter knew this, he'd seen it many times before. At times he intervened, at times he didn't. It wasn't Peter's place to play God, it was Peter's place to watch and to learn, and if he found the right candidate, to teach. Watching the boy wander, freezing and in shock, he had to wonder if Father Madigan had been right about this one, but it wasn't Peter's place to question.

The boy stopped suddenly when he heard a sound behind him. The dead, decaying winter branches crunched beneath the feet of his pursuer, alerting him to it's presence. Peter watched as what appeared to be a woman stepped from the shadows, eyes as red as garnets, and hands mutated like claws. The boy showed no fear. He just stared, blankly, at the woman. No emotion on his pale cherub's face.

The demon roared at the boy, yet the boy stayed still, not a peep, not a whisper escaped from his tiny mouth.Temporarily confused, the demon stopped and took stock of it's prey.

"Vladimir..." It sputtered in broken Russian dialect. "Come give mother a kiss."

"You are not my mother." The boy answered plainly, no tremble in his voice. "You are a demon. You killed my family and you will be punished."

Peter nodded, for this was all of the proof that he needed. Madigan was right after all.  He would have to say penance for doubting the church.

Before the demon could strike at the boy, Peter lept from his perch above and sprinted toward the monster, drawing the spear from his fur cloak, Peter stuck the monster down, watching the smoke from it's remains drift and mingle with the powdery snowflakes which fell from the heavens.

Peter then turned to the boy matter of factly, speaking in the boy's native Russian, as opposed to his own Sweedish tongue.

"Hello Vladimir. My name is Peter. I've come to collect you and take you to the church in St. Petersburg. You will be my prodigy, and you will learn to do as I just did, but better."

17 years had passed since that day, and Vladimir, now not a boy, but a man, kneeled against the alter and prayed to forget that day and the nightmares that had plagued him since. He showed no outward emotion, emotion to him was weakness, with the exception of rage. Rage fueled him, made him stronger. Other Christians would argue that it is love, not hate, which will save humanity, but after the things he had seen, Vladimir knew differently. So, along with his prayers to be forgiven of his sin of weakness, he also prayed for his chance to preform his holy duty. For as much as he wanted to live in a world free of the demonic pestulance that plagued it, he craved the possibility of killing more. Vladimir had grown up training to be a holy warrior, and nothing in life gave him more pleasure than battle.

Slightly broken footsteps echoed on the marble behind him. Vladimir lowered the hood of his cloak and turned to face his Father, bowing as a show of respect.

"Come, Vladimir." Peter, now grey with age and with a lame leg commanded his student, his tone cold. "It is time. We leave for Rome in one hour."

Vladimir fingered the cold steel of the sword sheathed inside his monk's robe, and gave silent thanks to the Father for answering his prayers.

Hell would know his vengance once again.

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