Moros froze, he'd spent the entirety of last night reading up on the different denominations, expecting the theoretical exam to be based purely off of that.
'Of course I just had to open my big mouth and ask about the pit.'
"Candidate Moros? I'm waiting," the nun said fixing her glasses again.
"Blood of... blood of the innocents," he whispered hesitantly, recalling one of the priests mentioning something or the other during congregation.
The nun smiled. "A wonderful way to buy time, Moros," she replied. "But which innocent?"
'Innocent? As in singular?' Whether she'd willingly given up that clue or just slipped up was beyond him. But he had one rule when it came to the church; when in doubt, mention the lord.
"The lord."
The nun sighed at that. "While not technically correct. It is a valid answer," she replied before looking back at the pit.
"The correct answer was blood of a Saint. In this case, Saint Joan."
"Next question. Which denomination, does Saint Joan guide?"
This one was easy enough. "The denomination of Raphael; Health and Inflictions."
The nun nodded at that.
"It seems you know your denominations better than you know the scripture itself." Moros didn't like the expression she had on her face.
"Tell me Moros, what purpose to the denominations and the apostles that serve in them, hold? What enemy do we fight against?"
A dark memory flashed in Moros's eyes; screaming children, people burning... shadows strangling his parents.
He looked to the ground, trying to mask his fear... his anger. "We fight the shadows, " he said.
The nun patted him on the back. "We fight the unfaithful, child," she said softly. "The shadows are but one of many heretic children that plague our world."
A sinking feeling turned Moro's legs to noodles. "Does that mean I failed?"
The nun smiled and shook her head. "Though you weren't technically correct, I think the shadows was a good enough answer."
"Now it is time for the lord to decide whether you are meant to be an apostle or not," she said gesturing to the pit of blood.
Just then, there was a knock on the door.
"Come in."
A young priest stepped in drenched in sweat. "Apologies Sister… one of… candidates…they…" He struggled to form full sentences as he gulped for air.
"Out with it."
He took a deep breath. "Heretic denomination."
The nun went still. "Dear lord, no," she whispered, looking to Moros with a worried expression.
"Wait here and dont touch anything," she whispered, muttering prayers under her breath as she and the priest rushed out.
'Did he just say heretic denomination?'
Moros stood there, frozen, as a thought burrowed to the front of his mind. He shook his head, trying to push it down. But he could not escape it.
'Laura,' he thought, his chest tightening. He fell to the ground, hyperventilating.
The church would send inquisitors for her. She'd be burned in the city centre as a show of strength. He'd seen so many others scream as their flesh was melted, only for the citizens to cheer at the death of a threat.
He never considered that one day, he'd have to watch his own twin die on those same pyres.
'I should've stopped her when she told me.'
Hot tears blurred his vision as he slowly came to terms with it. This world was going to take the last thing he held dear. And just like all those years ago, he was powerless to stop it.
He curled up into a ball, the memories of her smile already fading like those of his parents.
"No," he whispered. First softly, and then with more determination.
"Not this time... not again," he looked to the baptism pit.
'This isn't like back then. I have a choice,' he realized, wiping away the tears as he got to his feet.
He hesitantly approached the pit. 'If Laura is a heretic, does that mean I am too?'
He'd read that there was little evidence of denominations being hereditary. But the vast number of holy families filed with apostles said different.
Still, he didn't care. If it meant having a shot at saving his sister, he'd take any power given to him. "Unfaithful" or otherwise.
He slowly submerged himself into the blood pit. It was disgustingly warm, and clung to the bare skin beneath his trousers like mucus.
He took a deep breath. 'For Laura,' he thought, before submerging himself completely.
As the blood trickled down his windpipe into his lungs, his brain screamed at him to get out. His arms flailed in an attempt to save himself from drowning, but he held on, forcing himself even deeper.
Normally, a nun would be present, using a healing mystery to soothe the discomfort. But he had no such priviledges.
Relief came in the form of unconsciousness. The realization that if he failed... he would surely die came only as his stregnth left him.
'Please lord.'
*
Moros dreamt of distant sands... of golden silks that fluttered past high rise dunes. Dry and arid, but untouched by the hand of men or the evils they harboured.
He dreamt of Jenevah, he dreamt of a home yet unknown.
Atop the highest of these dunes, lay a man adorned in black. A sword of gold, and a pistol of night silver lay beside his bleeding corpse.
His hand was outstretched to a sky painted wrong. Torn in half as the sun and moon fought to cover it in light or darkness.
As his vision dimmed, an eerily familiar voice called out.
"And ye who shall be called Umbriel the Light-tearer: Widower of light, and son of shadows."
"Ye, shall lead the peoples to paradise."