You. You will be like the mountains and you will melt like wax. Such apostles as you, unholy Bishops and a Pope who hungers for young flesh. Your bones will be inside the caves and crevices, strewn like brittle sticks in a rubbish canal. Of the swords and adolescents that lay beside you, none shall see Heaven, charred bodies in heaps, pawns sitting in the darkness, there will be wooden crosses in the water, God will pick His own.