silver platter

Susceptible? Perish the thought. One would never think of the proud Quaestor Amalthus as susceptible.

Well. Maybe the quaestor. Perhaps the magister. Certainly the child, not yet even a monk.

So let us rephrase, reframe: one would never think of the glorious Praetor Amalthus as susceptible.

But, then, by the time he's become Praetor, it's already too late. Misplaced devotion to a callous god has driven him to heights and depths that no ordinary, unpromised man could ever know.

But this is Lord Zanza we're talking about-- Say, Lord Zanza of which we so reverently speak.

For Zanza has built the world into a cycle of absolutes and cleansing. Zanza does not tolerate rot and regression and filth.

Zanza consumes. Zanza devours. Amalthus has found a point about which to affix himself, and he does it gladly. Gloriously.

In golds and whites, godly effigies. Righteous sneers and pouts. The depiction of an agelessness that even the squinting papacy cannot provide.

It grows to be a love that makes vicious poignance, in its mirrors.

Love? Who could think of love? Who could call that salvation?

For Zanza's childish single mind, Amalthus has only one antidote: to please and please, dishearked from the planet, as sacrifices' succor.

He satisfies the decree that divinity is not created, but assumed. Only a god has right of fate, but only those fated and willful enough will ascend behind the curtain and make of themselves that majesty.

A monk. Prayerful timidity. Solemnity in silence.

The Praetor measures his words so well, but he is not a sergeant of silence.

He will say on earth what Zanza is and says on heaven. He will make this gloam manifest for all here to see.

And if the god were not Zanza, the god would look different. Amalthus's devotion might wane.

Lord Zanza demands forever - and he shall have forever! He shall have whatever atrocities he wishes to claim.

Amalthus will work, an unaided disciple. Lord Amalthus will be Zanza's improphetic flame.