Armen grabs his small book of rites and banishments and a vial of holy water. He opens the warped leather cover and crinkling pages to the section with verses that rebuke devilry and evil. He uncorks the vial with a soft pop and begins reciting as he flicks the vial towards various locations around the room.
"James, two-nineteen: for you believe that the Lord is the one; you do well. For the demons also believe, and they shudder by him." he splashes some drops against a wall. "Second Corinthians, four-four: In their case, the false gods of this age hath blinded the minds of the unbelievers so they cannot see the light of gospel of the glory of Christ, whom is the image of God." another splash. "First Timothy, four-one: Now the Spirit proclaims that in later ages some will depart from the faith, giving mind only to deceitful spirits and the teachings of demons." splash.
"Revelation, chapter twenty, verses seven and eight: When the one-thousand years has spent, Satan will be released from his prison and will go out to deceive the nations at the corners of the world, Gog and Magog, to gather for battle. Their numbers as the sand of the seas." splash. "Psalms, one hundred and six, thirty-seven and thirty-eight: They sacrificed their sons and daughters to demons. They shed innocent blood, the blood of their sons and daughters whom they sacrificed to the idols of Canaan; so, the land became polluted with blood. Therefore, the Lord's anger burned against them, and He abhorred His own inheritance." splash. "Lamentations, one-fourteen: Our transgressions have been formed into a yoke, fastened together by His hand; they have been placed upon our own necks, and the Lord has broken our strength. He has handed us over to those we cannot endure."
With another dash of water upon the stone bricks, he feels the air clearing and a weight slowly releasing from his back. Confident that progress is being made, he elects one more verse, for which he has one more drop of holy water with which to punctuate it. "Ephesians, six, ten through twelve: Finally, be strengthened by the Lord and by His vast strength. Put on the full armor of God so that you can stand against the tactics of the Devil. For our battle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the world powers of this darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavens..." and with a final flick of his vial, the last drop of holy water is sent unto the ground, finalizing his exile of the evil entities within.
Armen breathes deeply and closes his eyes. A silent prayer for himself spinning through his own mind. After a moment of silence, he collects the remaining mop and bucket and exits the room. Stepping throughout the convent and into the chapel, espying the door at the narthex, he leaves the building. Exiting to the outside was a welcome feeling. The evening sun now dipping behind the horizon, painting a black and lavender sky above him as the moon rose into the heavens and replaced the sun.
"A breath of fresh air after some weeks of isolation is something I hadn't thought I would long for." he murmurs to himself. He brings the mop and pale with him as he moves around the building and to where Mariette and Collette were preparing to burn the remains of what was mother. As he approaches the two, busy pouring oil onto the mess, his voice startles them, "Is the fire ready?"
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"Oh! Sir Armen. Y-yes, indeed it is ready for thee." remarks Mariette, jumping at his sudden appearance behind her. Armen nods in approval as he tosses the foul bucket and mop onto the pile, and Collette drenches it as well. "Very good... The flame?" Armen asks either of them, to which Mariette bows her head and briskly leaves, returning shortly with a lantern, its glow illuminating her bosom and jaw as she carries it hurriedly.
"Here you are." she says, presenting the lamp to Armen. He nods, "Thank you, sister." and grabs a small twig from the ground. He hovers the stick over the lit flame of the lantern until is smokes and lights with the beady yellow drop floating on the end. Placing the stick into the oily remains, the fire crawls over the mass. Its orange tongues lapping at the air while the yellow foot pools over the top, engrossing the entire thing into itself. The bloody pulp and bones crackle and burst in the fire as they cook.
The two sisters stand stoic near Armen as they watch the fire consume their once dear matriarch. The remaining sisters from the chapel soon filter outside to join the three of them. All standing around the fire in a circle. While the nuns bowed their heads, in either respect, mourning, or prayer, Armen draws his sword. The quiet chime of his blade caught the attention of a few nuns, but they say nothing as they glance at him for merely a moment.
"Retrieve the bedding from her chambers. As well as any furniture or books that are marred by her blood or devilry..."Armen commands to the group that circled the fire. Some of the nuns, all too eager to leave the pyre and the gruesome remains atop it, turn and go back inside. After a few of them leave to gather any befouled items, Armen plants the tip of the blade into the earth and kneels on both knees, removing the rosary from his satchel, he wraps the thorny chain around the handle and pommel of his hilt. Armen removes his gauntlet-gloves and sets them upon the ground at his knees. He then touches the crown of his helmet onto the pommel and closes his eyes as he clamps his hands onto the handle. The chain of spines piercing into the flesh of his hands, his blood trickling down his wrist and forearm, pooling into a sopped mess in his chainmail sleeve.
Mariette looked upon Armen as he knelt down at the fire. Only after he pricked his hands had she gasped, her brow furrowed with concern, her thoughts digging for any solace in justification of his seeming masochism. "What does he do? Why do his prayers seem focused unto suffering and lamentations against himself? What kind of Christ does he follow, for it surely is not of mine. This cruelty to oneself seems to be the opposite of our Lord's will..."
She tries to peel her eyes away from him as he prays on his knees, but she is entranced. The thin streams of blood running down his arms and the handle of his sword are the focus of her awful stare. Shaking her head free of her stupor, she glances at her sisters that still stand in the circle around the fire, finding that none of them notice Armen's self-inflicted punishment mere steps away. With a disquiet glance back to Armen, she pulls her head to face the fire once again. Occasionally flicking her eyes to their corners to see him: silent and still.
