Hesitant, almost wary, a pair of feet alighted on the first of many cold, slick marble steps. The owner of the feet stood in a way that betrayed his inner turmoil and anxiety. Resting on the balls of his bare feet, his muscles tense and coiled, his body trembling and his knuckles white with anticipation and fear; this was how Trinity found himself in front of the building. His shredded jeans brushed his ankles as he took the first step closer to the towering church. His hair, soaked dark with rain, hung in his eyes but failed to block the young man's view of two huge mahogany doors.

His bare chest, pale under its tan, heaved with exertion—but not a single breath passed his lips, lips that were blue with cold. In contrast to the grey atmosphere, swollen ruby blood-drops rolled down his arm and back, flowing from the deep wound that extended from the side of his jaw, down his neck and wrapped around his shoulder to end at the base of his spine. Scarlet dripped from fingers that were curled into white, shaking claws at his side.

His vision swam, his head spun, but still he walked slowly up towards the doors. His body was numb from the cold, but he knew he was wounded. Badly. He'd lost a lot of blood, he was aware, but still he trudged on. Vaguely he knew he'd pass out in a few moments more…but he couldn't get the thought across to the part that was ruling his mind right now. He was on autopilot; it was all he could do to breathe correctly, let alone take two steps at a time.

Finally, swaying and slipping on the wet stone, he found himself in front of the doors he'd traveled so long and hard to find. He'd gained and lost friends on the way to his goal, and now he was here. All he had to do was extend his lily-white fingers, grasp the silver handle, and open the door. His joints cracked as they slowly curved around the handle; he tensed his shivering muscles, and he pulled. The door remained closed, obstinate in its unmoving presence. Again he pulled, but still it remained as if untouched.

He had no strength left.

For a few moments he stared despairingly at the carved wood before him, unable to make out the designs, but not caring—for a few more moments he leaned against their comforting strength. Then his knees gave out, and he clutched the wood in vain before collapsing onto the cold stone. A bloody hand came to rest beside his face; the crimson was a stark contrast to his alabaster skin, he noted with a detached sense of panic; but he was too tired to move again.

The trembling had ceased. His long form sprawled out in front of the church, and his eyes closed slowly, allowing a few hot tear-drops to roll out from under his lashes. The rain poured down ever harder, but he could hardly feel it now through his numb outer shell. The cross hung above him, as did the twin angels with their glorious wings spread in glorious splendor, but all this was lost upon him as his consciousness faded out of this world and into a much calmer, peaceful place of dreams and memories.

I want to see the statues of those who'll bear my soul away upon their wings…

A pair of wings curled around his body, sheltering him from the evils of this world.

I want to hear the bells before I die…

And so the bells tolled.