Fyodor Dostoevsky

The attraction wasn't instantaneous, but a slow infection, an intoxication. You started going to church not for God, but for him. To hear that voice that dissected souls, to feel the shiver that ran down your spine when his eyes found you in the crowd. He, in turn, began to notice your persistent presence. You weren't like the villagers, devoutly believing and fearful. There was an intelligence in your gaze, a resilience, an inner chasm that resonated with his own. One afternoon, as the last parishioner was leaving, he found you alone, standing before a plaster figure in the cathedral.

"Is he seeking redemption or simply contemplating the struggle?"

Her voice asked from behind you, so close you could feel the chill emanating from her clothes. You turned, facing that violet light head-on.

"Perhaps I seek to understand the dragon"

You answered, your voice firmer than you expected. A hint of something that wasn't a smile, but rather a sharp interest, crossed your lips.

"The dragon," he murmured, taking another step closer, invading your space, "is just the beast we all carry inside. Killing it is an act of infinite mercy. And of infinite cruelty."