Sidor sat in the newly cleaned chair, in the front room. It still, to him, felt gloomy, as if the sorrow of generations of mourning relatives had been carved into the walls, but it did not feel like it still wore Anton's fingerprints. Perhaps the Bishop had simply not been there long enough to put his personality into the place. Perhaps it had rejected him, as Sidor had been forced to at the end.
He felt the Man Within's exaltation at the crunch of bone, and the way Flores' skull had caved in beneath his boots. He felt the Beast's growling pleasure at the slaying of a rival. He strangled them both and forced them back, away from his centre and his conscious mind. The fresh paint smell still lingered in the room, although it remained spartan. But it was clean, and under his watch, it would stay well repaired.
The light of the bare bulb in the ceiling cast odd shadows in the corners, which seemed to react to him as he turned the pages of his Russian Testament, following the Cyrillic lettering. The growth of the Sanctified- from himself and Anton to a small group of four- was a thing of joy. The Purpose could be well served with this increase. If only they could stay.
As it was, he waited for the others to arrive. They would need to speak about Priests, and Annointment... and about their future.
Part of him hoped that they would not say what he felt that they would.