♡ snippet time! — tw: graphic depictions of violence and religious imagery
. ⟡ ݁ . this is a snippet from "the taste of God", a brumis au that it's been on the works since 2023! —(i'm a little insane so i had to create a whole lore around it to actually write it, i'm kinda obsessed with details)
. ⟡ ݁ . keep in mind this is a horror fic, so it might contain sensitive subjects for some people
. ⟡ ݁ . i love werewolves
A breeze sweeps through the shadows cast by all the candles across the tables and steel candelabras, leaving trails of wax that resemble the holy tears of the Virgin that saw her Son bleed and suffocate on the wooden cross, and all the walls seem even smaller than they ought to be; this is how the image of excellence shows itself to the eloquent men, bowing their heads beneath the gaze of those symbolic figures, crowns of light and sharp daggers; nothing escaped the sculpted eyes of the great angel standing in marble, unsheathing his sword above the smiling face of the most impertinent demon. It was the closest a sinner could get to heaven, when forgotten in the plagued land of Italy. La Santa Passione is the home of priests and nuns; it is for the saints, the angels, the hunters, and, above all, for those who fear the hunger that comes from within the forests.
The sound of heavy footsteps on the floor echoed through the silent corridor lit by flickering flames that led to the farthest room in that wing. The steady, slow pace accompanied the man guiding Bruno to his destination. He was in no hurry; he knew they would wait for him as long as they needed to. There was no reason to rush; when dealing with demonic beasts, patience and calm were essential. For seven days, God worked in patience, shaping the mountains, filling the rivers and drawing the leaves, for God knew that with patience the world would be created, and like that, a monster was also cornered. Waiting, observing, and studying those creatures so that the silver blade would not falter as it tore through the flesh tainted by the Devil’s blood and finally freed the poor souls from their sorrowful existence.
Bruno is the perfect image of the patron Saint who guides them, an invincible spirit born to unleash the good Christians from the claws of darkness, the one who wields the sacred sword and strikes the head of the ancient Beast, like the Archangel Michael himself. A Saint that walks among the mortals, white fur cloak— a piece of clothing that one day had been a werewolf— flowing behind as he reaches the tall and heavy mahogany door at the end of the hallway. The soldier that accompanied him pushes the panel open.
Murmurs cease when Bruno steps foot inside of the place, wooden walls rebating the sound of his heels touching the floor and approaching the hard gray stone table in the middle of the room. At each side, one of his subordinates, looking down at the corpse resting in front of them. Giorno, the younger one, keeps his green eyes anchored on the body, while Fugo looks at his feet. White skin, pale lips, he looks about to vomit.
“They found her this morning” Bruno craned his neck to see the streaks of bright red tracing a path from the legs up to the face (or what was left of it) the exposed flesh blooms like a red dahlia, replacing the features of what was once a beautiful visage: eyes, nose, cheeks, mouth, disfigured until becoming an indistinguishable mass, stripped of skin; little remains of the tissue leading to a loose jaw and the shadow of her teeth. If Bruno closes his eyes, he can watch the meat pieces hang from the beast’s mouth before it is swallowed (red, fur, saliva) sharp teeth trying to find the soft part that will break the body apart the fastest. The kind of striking of a sickly calculated savagery; only a wolf with a full stomach and nothing but hunger for violence is capable of creating such a scene. Naturally, after knocking out its victim, a hungry wolf will know what to go for, completely ignoring the face and moving straight for the most protruding limbs; this reversal of action creates a sense of perversity and vengeance. Icy blue irises still staring at the lifeless figure, “Are you okay, Fugo?”
“Yes, Santo” with a shaky voice, the golden reflection of artificial canines caught Bruno’s glance for a brief moment, reminding him of how Fugo lost all of his teeth after arriving at the Convent (an infection caused by some forest plague, according to the higher priests); rotten bone plucked and replaced with dead people’s good remaining ivories, held by a golden bar. And those odd metal canines, “I just— I haven’t eat anything today”
The explanation is not important to Bruno, as that woman’s corpse lies in front of him, smelling of rotten flesh and dried blood; he’s reminded of the other three bodies that arrived at the same state in the last two months. The way they had been killed was cruel, and those were not the only victims—of that he was certain. Those three were merely the ones who had fallen into his hands. The image of the beast tearing apart their fragile bodies had haunted his mind day and night ever since he had learned of those events; along with the sensation of cutting through profane flesh with the silver blade sheathed in his leather belt once more, ending once and for all the evil that ravaged the lands where God the Son had walked, washing with blood all the places the demons had soiled with their enormous paws and long claws. A shiver of excitement runs down his spine.
“Giorno,” he called, finally causing his subordinate’s green eyes to look away from the corpse and meet his gaze. He was one of the best under his command, with a delicate, innocent face that made him resemble the serene, gentle image of the guardian angels to whom the faithful prayed for protection before stepping out of their humble homes. Golden curls fell over his shoulders, covered by a thick layer of black wool; Giorno was the image of the protector Christians wished to see, while Bruno represented the terror and menace of the true forms of seraphims and cherubims. It was him they truly needed. “This is the third one to reach me—how many have truly been killed this way?”
He seems to hesitate for a moment. Both Fugo and Giorno were not yet permitted to go out hunting, confined to the Convent just as Bruno had once been, learning the Word, studying the beasts, and training with the sword, all under Buccellati’s tutelage. Fugo was intelligent, strong, and skilled in combat strategy, yet his anxiety and sensitivity to the terrible consequences of the beasts’ attacks held him back; Giorno, on the other hand, was unfazed by human corpses and dissected wolf carcasses, even remaining locked away for hours on end within the cold walls of the morgue to analyze the bodies of the people and creatures that arrived there, it was not a surprise he was the one caring for the key of the room right now; however, he did not seem to have much interest in hunting.
“I’ve seen about five bodies in this condition, Santo,” his voice is sweet and youthful, yet firm. Buccellati suspected that his superiors had been shielding him from the true gravity of the situation until that moment. When he was summoned that morning to view yet another of those mangled bodies, he knew the hunt would finally be handed over to him. “Not counting our own,” Giorno adds.
“How many of ours?” One of his eyes twitches involuntarily, though calm prevails in his demeanor. His superiors always hesitated to allow the hunt, claiming that his holy hands should not be stained with the rotten blood of insignificant demons; Bruno knew that, in truth, the priests simply despised his methods. Werewolves fascinated him in a way, and it was noticeable—Buccellati had been studying them ever since he set foot in that Convent at the age of seven; he knew every muscle, every movement, every spot on their hideous bodies that would hurt the most when wounded. This frightened the other hunters, the very same ones who had given him the nickname “Santo”.
“Three,” Giorno says, glancing at Fugo, who keeps his red eyes closed and seems to be holding his breath so as not to inhale.
Information as important as that, hidden from Buccellati. As always, they had expected to use his body merely to eliminate that beast, as if he were a hunting dog. His gaze is once again drawn toward Fugo, who takes a deep breath of the air around him to fill his lungs and hold his breath once more. It would be easier if he withdrew, but Bruno needed his best students there.
“All women?” he asks, now pulling back the dead woman’s eyelid to examine the empty, lifeless eye sockets stained with blood.
“One man,” Giorno can’t help but feel curious and approaches the Saint to continue his examination of the corpse. “The man was injured before he was killed—an unhealed wound… As for the others—the women… They were all menstruating. I suppose this one in particular is drawn to the smell of fresh blood,” a brief pause to turn the corpse’s neck and show the marks of sharp canine teeth that pierced the skin first in that spot, striking an artery, A dental arch the size of a human.“They were all naked, but the clothes weren’t torn; they seem to have been removed voluntarily by the victims themselves, and… There are traces of semen on at least three of them”
Bruno knew that those creatures had invaded this plane solely to perpetuate the evil wrought by his former master, yet the information still causes him a strange unease when faced with it head-on; the fact that those victims were killed after the sexual act is, to say the least, contradictory. Buccellati could already tell that the dead hunters didn’t have the same features as the bodies he’d seen; this beast, unlike the others, seemed to seek out its targets not out of rage or hunger, but out of desire, for the simple pleasure of satisfying itself and killing. Anyone would be terrified by the thought, but it only served to further awaken the sickening fascination growing in the depths of Bruno’s mind, his attention fixated on a tuft of tangled brown hair among the dead woman’s hardened fingers.
“I’m going out tonight,” Bruno turns his back on the corpse and his subordinates; as much as he wanted to begin the hunt as soon as possible, haste would be his enemy in a situation like that, so he needed to use all the time he had left to prepare. “Saddle my horse and sharpen my blades before midnight.”
In unison, the two reply, “Yes, Santo,” and at that moment both Fugo and Giorno could warn that leaving the Convent at night to hunt was suicide; yet they knew it would be useless to protest. The Saint acted under his own rules, ignoring practically all the training he had received in his youth. And not a single tongue would be raised against him, the Archangel, for he never fails—a winged soldier born solely for battle and subservience to the Creator. Buccellati had never returned from the hunt with clean hands. “I’ll be getting ready in my bedroom.”
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