The middle-aged deacon knew what it was. On his way here, he had seen similar marks and the same terrified looks in people's eyes at least ten times.
The deacon swallowed hard, his stomach churning.
It was disgust and fear, but more than that, it was the bewildered sorrow of watching the foundations of his faith begin to crumble. He wore the very same Holy Water Pot at his hip, and the cold metal pressing against his skin now sent a phantom sting through him.
He looked up at the butcher before him, whose face was plastered with a smile while his body remained rigid. He saw the averted gazes of the people around them. The deacon opened his mouth, wanting to rebuke them, to proclaim the Lord's majesty as he always did. But in the end, caught in a storm of conflicting emotions, he said nothing at all.
He simply tightened his grip on the heavy scripture in his hand, forcing on his usual mask of lofty indifference to conceal the tempest raging within.
