Gunmage
Chapter 87: What is love?

Chapter 87: Chapter 87: What is love?

"Lost?"

The word rang through the cathedral, clear and sharp. A single voice, but it carried through the high arches, bouncing off stained glass and polished stone.

The congregation stilled.

At the pulpit, the head priest turned toward the disturbance, his gaze locking onto a pair of inhuman eyes staring back at him. He staggered.

"Ah... Ah, ah!"

The reaction was abrupt, almost violent. His breath was uneven, his face twisted in sheer horror.

The others—ushers, clergymen, the gathered faithful—watched in stunned confusion.

Then, the priest’s body seized as if something unseen had gripped him.

"Ah! Demons! Demons! They’re everywhere!"

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Some looked around in alarm. Others stiffened in place.

He stumbled back, colliding with the altar.

"They’ll kill us all! They’ll kill us all! We’re all going to die!"

His voice had risen to a shriek, frantic and fevered. Then came the crash. His hand swiped across the altar, sending holy relics tumbling. Golden candle stands toppled, their sacred flames licking at the fallen cloth.

The fire spread rapidly, curling over the fabric, consuming it in hungry colors of red and orange.

For a moment, no one moved. Bewilderment and panic fought for control over the congregation.

"Demons! They are demons!"

His screams tore through the cathedral as several helpers rushed to restrain him.

"Father, what’s wrong?!"

A struggle ensued. Hands grasped at his robes, his arms, but he thrashed against them, knocking over pews, feet kicking wildly.

His shoulder slammed into a table, cloth ripped free, sending more candles rolling. A flicker, then another spark. The flames climbed higher.

"Get them out of my cathedral! Banish them from my holy—!"

A hand clamped over his mouth. Others seized his arms, his legs. He was dragged back, his cries muffled now, swallowed by the cathedral walls.

Meanwhile, others moved swiftly to put out the fire. Cloaks and hands smothered the flames, stomping them out before they could spread further.

And then, silence.

A moment passed. Then another.

Finally, a woman stepped forward.

She was in her early thirties, her long blonde hair falling freely down her shoulders. White robes, trimmed with flowing red patterns, draped over her frame.

A beauty, in her own right, though now, she was sweating profusely.

Sister Marilyn.

Half the altar was burned. The head priest had lost his mind. And among the gathered faithful were journalists, vultures ready to pick apart every last shred of dignity her parish had left.

This is bad.

If word spread, and it would, the backlash would be brutal. They’d be torn apart.

She forced herself to exhale. Then, with a well-practiced, reassuring smile, she addressed the crowd.

"I deeply apologize for what unfolded just now. Father Axel has never acted this way before.

We understand the distress his words may have caused, and we assure you that he will receive appropriate disciplinary action."

Lugh watched, expression unreadable.

He had been told to observe humans. To learn from them. But their actions continued to confuse him.

Axel, the priest, was going to be punished. Stripped of his rank, perhaps even exiled. And yet, was he not the only one who had truly seen?

He had recognized, in his own delusional way, what Lugh had become. His intuition had been sharper than the rest.

Should that not be praised, not condemned?

Meanwhile, Marilyn’s mind raced.

Her words had calmed the initial panic, but it wasn’t enough. She had to steer things back to normalcy, to control the narrative.

What was the sermon again?

The fire guiding lost souls?

The shepherd, the lamp, the lamb?

New beginnings? Fate?

Damn it, I should’ve been paying attention!

Slamming her head against the wall in frustration was tempting, but her parish had suffered enough humiliation for one day.

Instead, she inhaled deeply, steeled herself, and did what she did best.

She preached.

The chapel flickered with candlelight, the scent of burning incense curling through the air. Marilyn stood at the altar, hands folded before her, her voice steady.

"Our faith is like fire."

She let the words settle before continuing.

"It spreads, it gives warmth, and it does not withhold itself from anyone. And so, we are called to love. Not just in comfort, not just when it is easy, but in all things."

Her gaze swept over the congregation.

"We must love ourselves, for we are kindled by the sacred flame. We must love our neighbors, for they share in its warmth. And yes, even our enemies. Even those who have wronged us, for they, too, are within the light of the fire."

The words drifted through the chapel like embers.

Then, a voice rose from the back.

"You say we should love our enemies?"

The air tensed.

It was not loud, but it reached every corner of the room. A simple question, yet it demanded attention.

Lugh had been there the whole time, seated in the farthest pew, his presence radiant yet distant.

Marilyn turned. His gaze was steady, but there was something else beneath it.

He was the only one who had spoken. Twice now.

She nodded.

"Yes. That is what we are taught."

Lugh tilted his head slightly.

"What does that mean?"

Marilyn hesitated.

"It means... that we do not answer hate with hate. That we do not seek destruction, even when we are wronged."

Lugh considered this. Then, after a moment, he asked.

"Is ’not seeking destruction’ the same as love?"

The question was gentle. Unassuming. Yet it pressed against something deep.

Marilyn blinked.

"It is... a part of love."

"A part of love,"

He murmured, almost to himself.

"What is love?"

Silence.

Marilyn felt the weight of the room shift. The congregation was watching, waiting.

"Love is..."

She hesitated, then steadied herself.

"Love is passion. Devotion. A longing."

Lugh did not waver.

"Then that must be the case in ’love your enemy’, yes?"

A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face.

Because it wasn’t. It couldn’t be.

No one here believed they should long for their enemies. That they should feel passion for them, or be devoted to them.

And yet, if that was love, then what was she talking about?

Her own words were folding in on themselves.

Shit. This is going south fast.

Most people just listened to the sermon and kept their mouths shut.

Now she truly understood why the head priest had stopped preaching on this subject as the war dragged on.

A yell broke her thoughts. A sudden shuffle of footsteps.

"Stop him!"

She turned sharply.

Father Axel had broken free.

"No! I’m not crazy! I’ll prove it!!"

He charged forward, panic flashed through the congregation as he raised a large, metal pail of holy water.

And his target was clear.

Lugh.

With a final, desperate motion, he lunged, pouring the entire contents over him.