The Godling Flame

Donville moved with trepidation as he entered the church. His eyes darted about, scanning the choir stalls and sanctuary above. Empty. He’d have found a mob more comforting than this silence.

“My child,” a voice boomed. Donville spun toward the sound, reaching for the dagger at his side. Fire given form stared at him with a face as serene as if Donville had reached for a coin purse for offerings instead of a weapon.

Donville twisted his head sideways. “Which one are you?”

The fire ran a finger beneath his chin. “In the end, does it matter?”

Donville shrugged, forcing himself to release his dagger. No good against a godling anyway. “None, I suppose.”

The fire godling turned from Donville, moving toward the altar. “It is good you have come,” he said.

“I wasn’t aware I had an option.”

“There’s always an option.”

“Not always a good one.” Donville couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice.

The fire face him again, holding a chalice. He nodded slowly. “To that, I can offer no argument.” The godling didn’t move, but when he extended the chalice slightly, Donville felt as if he’d been punched.

Donville sagged against the door. “Has it come to that?”

The fire godling nodded. “It has, if you wish to preserve the world.”

Donville stared at the chalice. How many years since they’d first offered it? He’d refused it then. He’d had a choice then. Now, he could only wonder how bitter would it tasted becoming a godling.