Keeper of the Devil's Flame

aesthetic post for @firebrightspark

“ You sleep coiled; tightly wound.   Hands are fists beneath pillows,   clenched above cotton sheets.

HV. “Welcome to Silent Hill.”

Rosten’s own desk is a wasteland of cigarette butts.

“Or possibly roasting some marshmallows?”

There’s an acid bite in his voice. Rosten sounds twenty, no quaver of age in his tone; the red hair coiling over his mask is streaked with gray.

The whites of Matthew’s eyes glisten with suppressed tears.

“I-I swear as the S-Sun God-”

Oh no, no he means to swear on Her Divine Presence as they taught him but if Father Rosten doesn’t believe him... no. No this is a bad idea. He knows he’s telling the truth, that he didn’t consciously start the fire but... but... this fire always follows him, doesn’t it?

He’s a ghost in white, all hissing breath and ash-smell. Father Rosten fingers the scorched book; the soot crumbles onto his glove.

“Ya mind telling me how this got burned, Matthew?”

Or should that be, does it?

He’s all of twelve years old, just skin and bone after a brief growth spurt. There’s puppy fat at the edges but he’s too thin for his age already. He knows this without looking in a mirror, without considering all those extra years and memories pushed aside to make room for a familiar encounter.

The snake in his gut gets to biting so hard he damn near throws up.