( what other ritual was there for them but sacrifice? they were not here to be anointed, to be baptized, to be sanctified or forgiven or purified. if that were the case, their welcome to this world and their journey here would have been very different things. no, they had been captured and corralled like livestock, and what is it that you might do to a beast of burden, primed upon an altar to God?

this one folds so quickly. to avert one's eyes in the hell makoto is familiar with is the same as baring one's throat, an automatic assumption of hierarchy. personal experiencing navigating those rungs tells him there's nothing he has to worry about from this one, but still, there's something inexplicable hooked into his interest, a gut instinct he refuses to ignore even if the stranger shrinks with his proximity.

he shakes his head. he doesn't know — he can't say? makoto had assumed as much even before his hand lifted to the indent between the bow of his clavicles. his eyes search out his throat, his mouth, curious if it were a physical or a psychological limitation. )

You don't need words to answer me. ( his words are as smooth as the surface of a placid pond, sweet and pacifying; his head cants slightly to one side, himself silent as he follows the slow path of the stranger's hand as it drifts down to settle over his heart.

makoto seems to think this over for a long moment. ) A good enough guess. God ever concerns Himself with the contents of people's hearts. ( he hesitates another moment, perched on the knife's edge of a decision. he ends up deciding to continue, even if it's information he would typically keep to himself. after all, who is he going to tell? )

The soldiers that captured me said that it's our souls that they seek to claim. ( he searches him for reaction. ) Claim for what, do you think?