Cathedral, such a simple name for a holy place where the Saints and those alike gathered—bringing delight for those who believe and petrifying for those who don't. This place served as an oasis since ancient times, a hospital for the wounded; thus, it became a place of hope, confession, and atonement, all in one. It was also built before any of these men came to life—except, maybe for one. 

Thud, thud, thud. 

The men marched with purpose as if they were part of a procesíon, with the priest leading the way. Matthias trailed behind, followed by two other men: Henry and June. The row of sconces illuminated the path they took—as if the sun had risen. The candles flickered, watching their every move. 

The air was thick. Breathing became an exercise, and the musky smell amplified. No one spoke; all that could be heard were the sniffles and coughs as they continued this excursion. 

The hallway’s design almost triggered Matthias’ instinct to fight or flee. No window could be seen, and the walls were made of cobblestones. Claustrophobic and trapped, that was what the young man felt as they continued. For the young man, it brought back bad memories—it reminded him of the dungeon. 

His eyes scanned the area. Bare, decorated with those candles. Deep cracks within the walls. 

‘I forgot that electricity wasn’t a thing yet in this era,’ he almost giggled at his stupidity, sweat forming on his forehead as he tried to distract himself. It threatened to stain the pristine wooden floor. He gulped as his eyes became hazy, making him squint. His back became cold due to the dampness that formed. He mentally groaned, ‘It’s so fucking warm, and cold,’ but he continued to walk. 

The creaking got louder with every step they took, truly showing its age.

The scenery soon changed. Light was emitted from each stained window glass despite it being night. It felt like a sacred pilgrimage. Every windowpane depicted images of Mary with the baby, Jesus ascending to heaven, Him in glory, in pain,  and followed by those martyrs who followed his teachings. They were everywhere.

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus—! 

Henry’s psyche unravelled, his eyes widened—bloodshot. He held his breath so as not to inhale more of that incense that drove his mind numb. He could feel his heart pounding against his chest, wishing to be freed—but he did not dare to exhale, not yet. His eyes trembled under those gazes that mocked him, laughing at him. His clenched hands were inside the pocket of his cloak, hidden from the prying eyes. 

‘I can’t let this affect me,’ he whispered to himself, in his mind like a mantra. Nothing but a bunch of simple paintings for those who believed, a nuisance for those who didn't. An exaggerated huff of breath soon escaped his lips. A trail of sweat formed from his forehead. He inhaled deeply, regretting holding his breath for so long. That musky, citrusy yet sweet scent did nothing but worsen the fog slowly forming in his head. 

That smell again—nothing but trouble. Henry's facade had cracked. The smile he held for so long became a frown.

Triumph, that was what Chris felt as he continued to walk. No matter how many times he does this, satisfaction always manages to caress his ego, like a mother praising her child. The power of this hallway truly brought him joy more than he’d like to admit, a hum escaping his lips—and it echoed.

Perhaps it was a sick hobby of his.

Despite being appointed as a priest—the one who God can use to share his teachings, to lead people to Salvation, he craved inflicting pain. To brand those heretics who left God’s teaching and sought something else. He knew that he should forgive, but he was a human before he was a priest.

And, what's a better way to remind them of God's power and grace other than pain?

Chris led with devotion like he was the herder of unruly sheeps—eager to keep these three within his range, especially those two—Henry and June for their own sake. Their own bodies cried for salvation yet they refused to attend even one of his masses, thus a sick face graced his lips as he thought, ‘Perhaps this would at least cleanse their nasty souls even for a little bit.’ Albeit, unknowingly letting a ghastly—no, a sick enough smile play with his lips, grabbing Matthias’ attention.

“Is something funny?” Matthias tilted his head.

The younger man was a tad shorter than he was; thus, he needed to look down. Chris could not help but keep his smile plastered—the one above must have favoured him, after all. 

Despite their failed conversation, God had not forsaken him; instead, He presented him with another opportunity. This time, he was the one who reached out to him—clung to him. For Chris, Matthias was like a rose—a flower, alluring yet dangerous, full of thorns. Not a force to be reckoned with, but must be known.

“What do you think of the paintings, Matthias?” Chris probed.

“What do I think? I think they're gorgeous but unnerving…they look too real,” he replied. His eyes glistened with awe and wonder. His heart drummed with excitement and appreciation. 

Matthias then noticed the silence from Henry and June. It started to become unnerving, even for the young man. Enough that his awe turned to worry—eyebrows furrowed, as his eyes trailed behind.

However, Chris couldn’t care less.  This was a divine punishment served on a platter for those who left the kingdom of God, and a reward for those who didn’t. The exact reason why he decided to walk through this instead of taking the easy path. 

Had it been just him and the young man, he would not have resorted to this hallway, but with the two other men here?

He felt obliged to do so, as it was his purpose. It was tasked to him after he became the head priest. To ensure that the walls of the Cathedral remain pure and untainted, just like how the Virgin Mary was. 

For believers, walking on this hallway felt like a piece of heaven. And for those who weren't—it felt like a holy purgatory where the flames don't burn you, but brand your soul. 

June’s forehead was dripping with sweat, but he wiped before it could even fall. The coldness and humidity that hugged his being provided no relief or comfort. Warm and cold, no in-between. His stomach churned. It whined, as if he was starving for years. He coughed. The food he ate felt like a prisoner wishing to escape—his Adam’s apple moved up and down as if to relieve the sensation. His lips drew into a thin line. 

He hid his discomfort with grace, showing how much of a good butler he was, just as Henry taught him. Despite the challenges he was experiencing, he never broke a sweat. Even once.

He never did, he was a good butler after all. 

June’s hands remained clasped behind his back as he followed his master. Eyes trained on him and those in front of him. He smiled, with his eyes squinted and his muscles coiled—ready to pounce, just as a good trained hound would. His footsteps were slow and deliberate, like a guard dog watching their rear for any sudden threats that could emerge. 

Their breath left a ghostly mark; the coldness was unforgiving, yet it was also warm. The holy purgatory–that should be the name of this damned hallway. Despite this adversity, June and Henry let out a small laugh, enough to grab the crooked priest's attention. 

“Is something funny?” Now it was Chris’ turn to ask the question.