The singers were resplendent in crimson and cloth-of-gold, their child-like voises raised in soaring arias, filling every cranny of the cathedral's graceful stonework. The First Choir - composed of the the youngest and purest voices - had always been his secret joy. Despite his determination, the old man's eyes misted; no longer would he look on these sweet faces or hear their hymns to the Red God. His shoulders bowed under the weight of his sorrow and his duty, The Magister turned to take his leave. The shame of his failure burning like embers in his belly, The Magister vowed he would torture himself no more. It was time to make an end.
intriguing!
ReplyDelete