A Holy Nightmare
George had barely processed his impending doom when he was met with another horrifying revelation. Or, perhaps, a brief escape.
His eyes fluttered open, but instead of the rough wooden beams of the attic, he saw the soft glow of morning light filtering through familiar curtains. His sheets were crisp, cool, and smelled faintly of lavender laundry detergent. The distant hum of engines and the occasional blare of a car horn filtered through the window, mixing with the scent of city rain on asphalt. London.
He exhaled in relief, sinking further into his pillows. Of course, it had all been some ghastly nightmare—a fever dream brought on by too much reading before bed. He would go downstairs soon, be greeted by his father’s half-hearted nod, his mother’s absent hum. He would sit at their long, polished dining table, silverware clinking as the maid served breakfast. He would—
A floorboard creaked.
George’s stomach twisted. That was not the gentle footstep of a servant in his home. That was something heavier, more familiar now. The scent of aged wood, of dust and candle wax, crept into his lungs.
Then came the voice.
“Get dressed, mate. We’re headin’ to church.”
George’s world shattered all over again.
George blinked up at his uncle from where he sat, still cocooned in the remnants of sleep, his mind struggling against the cruel grasp of reality. "Church?" he repeated, his voice slow, reluctant—half a plea, half a denial. No, surely not. He was in London. He was in his soft sheets, where the scent of lavender still clung, where cars still honked outside his window. He squeezed his eyes shut as if doing so might transport him back, might undo whatever horrid twist of fate had placed him here instead of home. But when he opened them again, his uncle was still there, standing in the doorway, expectant and unmoved by the devastation unfolding before him.
Phil nodded, adjusting his hat. "It's Sunday."
George's stomach sank. "Oh, wonderful. What a delightful thing to be informed of at such an hour," he muttered, rubbing his temples as if warding off an oncoming migraine.
Phil chuckled, entirely unfazed by the devastation written across George’s face. "Well, ‘round here, Sundays mean church. Everyone goes. No exceptions."
George’s lips parted, his expression morphing into one of slow, dawning horror. Church. As in, sitting in a cramped wooden pew with a congregation of people he had never met, listening to a sermon while suffocating in candlelit righteousness? Had he not suffered enough?
He inhaled sharply, straightening his posture as he grasped for some semblance of control. "Ah, but you see, Uncle, I should really—oh, I don’t know—Question myself first? Gather my thoughts? Take a moment to reflect upon my sins, as it were?"
Phil clapped a firm hand on his shoulder, steering him forward with the force of a man who had absolutely no intention of entertaining nonsense. "No need. You'll be fine. Get dressed."
George opened his mouth to object, to plead his case like a man condemned, but Phil had already walked off, calling for Tommy to put on his shoes.
George collapsed back onto the bed, eyes to the ceiling.
He was in hell.
Church.
Of course there was church.
————————————————————————
The building itself was small but sturdy, sitting at the heart of the town. The moment George stepped inside, he was met with the murmur of voices, the scent of aged wood, and the soft flicker of candlelight.
He had never been particularly religious, but this was something else entirely. This was not a grand cathedral, not a place of solemn hymns echoing off marble columns or the dim, reverent glow of candlelight against intricate gold detailing. No, this was something stranger—humble, unadorned, and yet filled with an undeniable energy. There were no stained-glass saints watching over the congregation, only plain wooden walls and flickering lanterns, their light casting long, distorted shadows. The people here did not whisper Latin prayers beneath vaulted ceilings; they murmured something else, something rhythmic, something oddly… rehearsed. George swallowed. This was not a church. This was a ritual.
And then—
He saw him.
A boy, sitting a few rows ahead.
Golden-haired. Broad-shouldered. Tan skin and rough hands, his sleeves rolled up slightly as he leaned forward, listening to the preacher with an easy, natural confidence.
He looked like he belonged here.
George did not.
Something about this realization unsettled him.
Wilbur nudged him. "You’re staring."
George’s spine stiffened. "I am not," he hissed, snapping his gaze away with such urgency that it felt like a physical wound. Oh, dear heavens, had he really been caught ogling? How utterly humiliating. His ears burned, and he resisted the urge to adjust his collar, to fan himself, to immediately flee the premises. No, no, no, this was unacceptable. He was a gentleman. A composed, refined, dignified gentleman—
Wilbur’s smirk widened. "Oh, you so are."
George clenched his jaw. "I— I was merely observing!"
Wilbur snorted. “You are. That’s Dream.”
George blinked. “Dream?”
Wilbur nodded. “Lives out by the fields with his ma and his little brother, his brother used to aswell but he wasn’t the best of influences...” He smirked. “He could snap you like a twig.”
George bristled. “That is hardly relevant.”
Wilbur gave him a knowing look.
George ignored it.
And, just to be extra sure that this Dream person did not think he was staring, he kept his gaze firmly on the preacher for the rest of the service.
Which, in hindsight, was perhaps an even worse mistake.
Because now he had to actually listen.
The preacher, a tall man with a commanding presence, was speaking with fervor, his voice rising and falling in rhythmic waves. The congregation nodded along, murmuring in unison at certain points. George, however, caught only snippets— words like "pride," "fairness," "forgiveness," all spoken with the weight of something deeply ingrained. But the longer he listened, the more he realized… this was not quite like any sermon he had ever heard.
And then—
"George."
His breath caught. The preacher was looking directly at him. The entire congregation was.
Wilbur smirked. "Good luck."
George turned his head slowly, his heart sinking as the preacher gestured for him to stand and approach the front. No. No, no, absolutely not.
But Phil was looking at him, beaming with pride.
George felt his soul attempt to leave his body. No, no, this was not happening. This was not real. Surely this was some elaborate joke, some cruel jest at his expense. Initiation? A book? Singing? What kind of deranged, candlelit nightmare had he been dragged into?
He swallowed thickly, barely managing to force his trembling limbs into motion. Each step toward the front of the church felt like walking barefoot over hot coals. The congregation watched him with expectant smiles, their expressions warm, welcoming—so blissfully unaware of the sheer, all-consuming horror coursing through his veins.
The preacher placed the large, leather-bound book before him. "Write your name, son."
George hesitated. Could one refuse? Could he claim illiteracy? Insist his hand had fallen off in a tragic accident just moments ago? He forced a smile, stiff as the starch in his old school uniforms, and took the quill, scrawling his name with the trembling grace of a man signing away his soul.
The preacher nodded approvingly. "Now, the Rules of Pride."
Oh, wonderful. More rules.
"Be fair. Be kind. Be forgiving. Those are the laws to which you must abid. for the powerful god XD and goddess Kristen watch above, and from the moment your name has been written, they have begun looking out for you. To please them will grant you their guidance and love, to seek your own desires selfishly would gravely wound them."
George bit his tongue to keep from screaming.
And then—
"Now, the prayer."
His heart plummeted.
The congregation began to sing, their voices unified in solemn reverence: "Pogchamp. Let there be primes. Pogchamp. Let there be primes." (there is an actual prayer song on youtube)
George's entire body locked up in sheer, visceral secondhand embarrassment. His throat closed. No. No, he would not do this. He could not.
But Phil was still smiling, so damn proud.
George's lips parted. He barely croaked out a whisper: "Pogchamp... let there be primes..."
Oh, he was going to perish on this spot.
Phil beamed with pride, clapping George on the back with enough force to nearly send him forward into the preacher’s podium. "Knew you had it in you, mate," he said, his voice warm, filled with an unsettling amount of approval. "Didn’t even hesitate. That’s the spirit!" Sam added, looking very pleased.
George did not have the spirit. George had humiliation, dread, and an overwhelming urge to sink into the floorboards and never resurface. He forced a tight, brittle smile, his face burning. "Oh, yes. Quite… quite the moment. A real honor."
Phil nodded, utterly oblivious to the sheer turmoil raging beneath George’s carefully maintained exterior. "Gonna fit right in here, I reckon."
George very much doubted that.
George had fully intended to lock himself in the attic for the rest of the day.
Unfortunately, his cousins had other plans.
“You’re playing with us,” Tommy declared, practically vibrating with excitement as he seized George by the sleeve and dragged him outside with the enthusiasm of a hound on a scent.
George, still sulking from his public humiliation, stumbled after him with an indignant huff. “Excuse me? I most certainly am not.”
“Too bad,” Tommy grinned, undeterred. “We’re playing rounders.”
“Joy,” George drawled. “And what, pray tell, is rounders?”
“A bat-and-ball game,” Techno supplied, leaning against the barn with a knowing smirk. “Simple enough.”
George groaned, rubbing his temples. He had endured enough for one day.
Wilbur tossed him a bat. “You’ll manage.”
George sighed dramatically. If he refused, they would never leave him alone.
He adjusted his sleeves, straightened his posture, and lifted his chin. “Fine.”
Tommy whooped. “City boy’s about to get destroyed!”
George immediately regretted his decision.