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Context and Background: “he Night Before the Fall” is a modern-day reimagining of the life and martyrdom of St. Apollinaris of Ravenna, adapted from Christian mythology to a dystopian future where faith and belief in higher powers are criminalized. In this speculative world, the protagonist, Apollos, parallels the historical figure of Apollinaris, a bishop and disciple of St. Peter, who stood for his faith despite relentless persecution. Here, the mythological themes of martyrdom, silence from the divine, and the struggle to uphold faith in the face of overwhelming odds are brought into a contemporary setting where religious and spiritual autonomy is ruthlessly suppressed.
This work explores the inner tension between doubt and conviction, embodying universal themes of human resilience, hope, and fear of abandonment. While drawn from historical mythology, the retelling reflects modern existential dilemmas about purpose and faith in a secular, totalitarian society. Viewer discretion is advised as the story contains sensitive themes relating to belief systems, martyrdom, and existential despair that may be deemed challenging for some audiences.
Summary: In a dystopian world where faith is forbidden, Apollos, the last remnant of a forgotten age, faces his impending execution. Offered a chance to live if he renounces his beliefs, Apollos confronts a young regime officer in a final, tense conversation. As the candlelight flickers in the ruined cathedral, Apollos wrestles with doubt and silence from above. With time running out, he must decide whether to abandon his faith for survival or embrace the inevitable for a greater purpose.
The sound of the sea had never been this loud. It crashed against the crumbling walls of the cathedral as if it, too, were an executioner, relentless and indifferent. Apollos sat on the stone floor, his back to the altar, staring at the last light he dared to keep burning—a candle, small and fragile, its flame wavering in the coastal wind that snuck through the cracks of this forgotten place. It flickered, as if it were unsure whether it wanted to fight the darkness or give in to it.
He rubbed his wrists where the scars of old manacles ran like rivers of memory, reminders of every prison cell he’d been thrown into. His body ached from the last round of beatings. They had come for him three nights ago, dragged him from the ruins where his dwindling congregation used to gather in secret. They asked the same questions, wanted the same surrender, and for the hundredth time, he had refused. Now, dawn would bring exile, and with it, execution.
Apollos wasn’t afraid of the exile itself. It was the silence that terrified him—the silence from above. In the long, lonely nights, when he begged for a sign, a whisper, anything from the God he had devoted his life to, the heavens had remained closed. Even now, as he sat in the once-sacred cathedral, staring at the candle that seemed like a metaphor for his own flickering faith, he felt utterly alone.
“You don’t need to die, you know.”
The voice startled him. Apollos had not heard the man enter. The young man stood in the shadow of a broken pillar, watching him with eyes that were too calm, too certain. His face was smooth, expressionless, the kind that had been trained to never show doubt.
“You don’t need to die,” the man repeated, stepping closer. He was dressed in the plain, functional uniform of the regime, a gray that matched the world outside—a world that had been drained of color, drained of meaning.
Apollos didn’t answer immediately. His gaze remained on the candle, as if it might extinguish the moment he looked away. Finally, he spoke, his voice hoarse from days of silence.
“I’ve heard your offer before.”
“This isn’t an offer,” the man said, crouching down so they were at eye level. “It’s a reality. You’re being stubborn. The world has moved on, Apollos. The old gods, the old stories—they’re dead. You’re the last remnant of a time that no one remembers, or cares to.”
Apollos allowed himself a dry laugh. “If no one remembers, why bother with me? Why does it matter if I live or die?”
“Because you’re still here,” the man replied evenly. “As long as you’re here, you’re a symbol. Symbols inspire people to do foolish things. Revolts, uprisings, faith.” He spat the last word with thinly veiled disgust. “If you renounce it, if you say it was all a lie, we can save you.”
“We?” Apollos asked, raising an eyebrow. “Or you?”
The young man hesitated, a brief flicker of something passing across his face—anger, perhaps, or doubt. It was gone as quickly as it appeared.
“I don’t need saving,” Apollos whispered, but his words felt thin, even to himself.
The young man stood, his boots scuffing against the stone floor. “You’re lying to yourself. You’ve already lost faith. I can see it in your eyes. You’re just waiting for a reason to stop pretending.”
Apollos swallowed the bitter truth that threatened to rise from his throat. “I don’t need you to tell me what I believe.”
The man walked slowly toward the altar, his fingers brushing against the weathered stone. “You’ve spent years running, hiding, leading these people in secret. And for what? Look at you now. You sit in a ruin, clinging to a dying light. Your God has abandoned you.”
Apollos clenched his fists, but his voice was barely more than a whisper. “No.”
“Then why is he silent?”
The words hit like a blade. It was the question that had haunted him, that had kept him awake at night, staring at the sky, waiting for an answer that never came. Why was there silence? He had led his people faithfully, had sacrificed everything—his home, his family, his own safety. Yet, in his darkest hours, there was nothing but silence.
“Maybe,” the man continued, circling the altar now, “your God is as tired of this charade as you are.”
“You don’t understand.” Apollos’s voice cracked, emotion bubbling up from deep inside. “It’s not about comfort or answers. It’s about faith.”
The young man stopped and stared at him, eyes narrowing. “Faith? What is faith but the stubborn refusal to see the truth? You’re alone, Apollos. There’s no one watching over you. There never was.”
Apollos’s chest heaved, the weight of the words pressing down on him. But even as the despair clawed at him, something else flickered in the back of his mind—like that candle, dancing between life and death, between hope and nothingness. He stood, slowly, his legs weak but determined.
“I won’t renounce,” he said softly.
The man’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes hardened. “You’re a fool.”
Apollos turned, staring at the candle again. He could feel the man’s gaze boring into him, waiting for him to break, waiting for the moment of collapse. And perhaps he was a fool. But in that small flame, in the way it defied the wind, even as it bent and wavered, there was something that spoke to him. Something that was beyond reason, beyond certainty. It was fragile, yes, but it was still burning.
“You don’t need to die,” the young man said again, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “This is your last chance. Say the words, and you’ll live. Say the words, and all of this ends.”
Apollos shook his head, his hand brushing against the edge of the altar, where the stone was worn smooth from centuries of prayers. “You misunderstand what it means to live.”
The man stepped closer, his frustration finally breaking through. “This doesn’t have to be the end.”
Apollos turned to him, meeting his gaze for the first time. “It never was.”
The young man opened his mouth, but no words came out. For a moment, they stood in silence, the weight of it settling between them. Apollos could see the doubt in the man’s eyes now, that flicker of uncertainty, the same doubt that had haunted him for so long. The regime had trained him well, had taught him to believe in the strength of the new world, in the fallacy of faith. But even he was not immune to the cracks in his certainty.
“You think you’re saving me,” Apollos said, his voice quiet but steady. “But the truth is, I’m already free.”
The young man stared at him, his jaw clenched, his hands balled into fists. He wanted to argue, to shout, to break Apollos’s calm. But there was nothing left to say. The silence stretched between them, and in that silence, something shifted.
Outside, the first light of dawn crept into the cathedral, casting long shadows across the stone. The young man turned, his face unreadable, and walked toward the door. He paused, just before stepping out into the light.
“You will die for this,” he said, his voice barely audible.
Apollos smiled, though there was no joy in it. “We all die for something.”
The man hesitated, then disappeared into the morning, leaving Apollos alone once more. The candle’s flame sputtered, the wind howling louder now, as if in protest.
Apollos knelt before the altar, his knees pressing into the cold stone. He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer, not for salvation, but for understanding. And in the silence that followed, there was no answer. There was only the faint sound of the sea and the soft flicker of a flame, refusing, against all odds, to go out.
