Will

I saw him bound on his hands and knees, in a pool of his own sweat. For long, he writhed within his bindings, helplessly trying to piece himself free, his efforts in vain. Incapacitated, he lay there, slump in a pool of his own failure.

Sad, isn't it?

He was beautiful too. A work of God's art, from his long, flowing brown hair, his crisp blue eyes and a very defined nose.

His hair cut, locks scattered in a puddle of blood, which had poured from his now cracked and misshapen nose. What could have done this to him?

One thing.

It is a almost holy thing, talked about all one's life.

It battered his will, once wrought of iron. Tore his mind, cast of gold. Shattered his heart, once of glass.

His cold eyes meet yours and you feel them, piercing your soul, melting your heart.

Everything he does is a blatant attack of your home, your temple. He only seeks now to defile every temple he can; to steal the tithe and upset your font.

Nothing can save him, he is unbound. His soul was swept away from him, as he lay bound. Wisps of smoke rose above his head, the soul sought no more anguish. He forced it from himself.

He feels no longer.

His body is warm.

His touch is cold.

His eyes?

Much colder.

Your temple will become his own. A house of pain and sorrow. He will pray to your god so that he might be set free, but the same of him will happen to you.

You will know sorrow, you will know pain.

He will smash the stained glass windows, mutilate your effigies and destroy your altar.

He will become your god.

He will become all your think of.

All you dream of.

You will have many sleepless nights.

All because you let love crush you the way it had crushed him.