Quantus tremor est futurus

Written for Flash! Friday vol. 2-47. This week’s prompt was to include a monk, along with the photo prompt shown.

Flames flickered on the horizon; ashes flew like snow in a blizzard. Within the concrete walls of the monastery, Dom Exos folded four of his tentacles in prayer. “Miserere mei, Deus.”

Nearby, Teuthida peered through the barred window, weeping inky tears. A flurry of demon ash, unleashed by terrible new weapons, threatened to bury Sepiidan civilization. “If we receive His mercy,” she said as a sudden gust blew debris through the window, “it will not be in this life.”

The Monastic Order of the Seraphim had long studied this fundamental paradox. From the ruins of the Seraphim, the Sepiidan had recovered ancient writings that now guided their beliefs — and terrifying technologies that had led them, by all appearances, to complete destruction.

“If such is God’s plan,” Exos said laconically, bowing his bulbous head and genuflecting on six tentacles to resume prayer.

“That Savior from the Seraphim’s holy writings died for their sins,” reminded Teuthida. “Not ours.”


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