Chapter 4
Don Quixote seemed more zealous in her purging today, if such a thing was even possible. Why, one might wonder?
It was the night before. She was called to the personal chamber of the One Who Grips—a prodigious honor indeed! The Mittelhammer lacked time for a true shower, but she hoped the remnant scent of slain heretics would not offend the divinely perfect woman. Opening the door with excitement, she laid eyes upon the illustrious One Who Grips... in her underclothes. Don Quixote averted her gaze immediately, thoughts of penance instantly at the forefront of her mind. But the merciful leader of the inquisition told her to rise, allowed her to gaze upon such perfect humanity! Don Quixote felt honored beyond words. She was told a reward would be given for the diligence and zeal she displayed above all others.
The One Who Grips drew closer, a breath catching in Don Quixote's throat... and that glorious figure bit into the flesh of her shoulder, slowly yet inexorably tearing meat from the Mittelhammer. She let out a moan at the ecstasy of being touched so intimately by one whose word was followed as gospel, desperately thanking the One Who Grips for seeing her fit for such a reward. As the blood flowed from her shoulder, she watched the icon of her faith swallow down flesh from her own body, sanguine remnants running down the chin of the pinnacle of humanity.
Don Quixote was dismissed, allowing her to read her scriptures twice more before retreating to sleep. She fervently wished to receive the personal attention of the One Who Grips once more.