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no clearer. they speak neither of martyrdom nor murder, merely a garbled recount of hysterics. 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩, reads one weathered fragment. 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮.

with what came after. whatever transpired beneath the earth is dejected memory. eyes are closed to the screams of the mountain —— as far as history is concerned, the 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 arrived before the hand that made it. the oldest liturgies are

to certainty. but always, there is blood. it gathers at the lips, stains the fingertips, pools beneath bare feet, yet 𝑛͟𝑒͟𝑣͟𝑒͟𝑟 mars the face. curiously, no surviving work centres the blade. painters concern themselves only

heart that still bleeds into the earth. there are no worry lines upon her perpetually calm visage. sweet summer maiden does not seem troubled by the scarlet creeping through the hems of her linen. the centuries that follow grow no kinder

swallowing the 𝘩𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑠 themselves. two centuries later, pages depict a woman of impossible 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑦. she, draped in white linen, contested to be a veil concealing her form. but darling bride has no groom, hands instead cradling a

the oldest surviving frescoes depict a broad-shouldered youth adorned with 𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒𝑑 halo. smiling, and glowing. but the mouth of the golden child stained a glowing crimson as though he is regurgitating rubies, caught in the act of