"Father Allard! Father Allard!" The dog chorister burst into the priest's study, his surplice billowing out behind him. "Come quick! It's - !"

Allard raised an admonishing finger. "Hush." He finished the sentence he had been working on, then put his quill down before turning to the trembling choirboy. "Now, what is it?"

"It is Marc!" the boy blurted. "He is on the roof of the Great Nave! He - !"

But Allard was not listening. At the mention of Marc's name he leapt to his feet, pausing only to confirm where he had to be. Then he was galloping through the cathedral's precincts, his cassock gathered up so he didn't stumble or trip. The priest hurried up stone steps, taking them two or three at a time, to arrive breathless and disheveled on the cathedral's roof.

On the northern side of the roof, a small crowd had gathered by the balustrade. Allard elbowed his way through the press of bodies. There, on the other side of the parapet, his back to the crowd, was a fair-haired youth.

"Marc!" Allard cried out. The youth did not respond.

Allard turned to a senior chorister. "Pierre - get the boys out of here. This is a delicate situation."

As the crowd retreated, Allard approached the balustrade. He glanced over the edge, regretting the sudden sensation of vertigo. It was a long way down to the courtyard and its flagstones ... . Allard composed himself. "Marc?"

The fair-haired youth barely acknowledged him. "Father." His face was deathly pale, streaked by tears. Alcohol tainted his breath.

"What is wrong?"

"Father, I don't want to live."

There was desperation in the youth's voice. "My son," Allard said, and reached out towards him. Marc recoiled. "Why?"

"Because I am worthless in the eyes of God."

"No-one is worthless, Marc. Are you not privileged to sing God's praises?"

Marc turned his smooth, beardless face towards Allard. "No, father. I am not. Do you know what was done to me? I was cut, father. Then they did foul things to me. Abominable, sinful things."

Allard gripped the rail of the parapet, steadying himself against a sudden gust. "A castrato's voice is sacred. Like an angel praising God. Manhood is trivial, compared to that."

"Castrato?" Marc gave an agonised howl. "I am an angel! One of the heavenly choir! My wings were taken and - !"

"Marc! You are distressed. Please. Let us talk."

"You don't believe me?" The young man tore at his robes. "Look!" The shredded cloth fell away, revealing a pair of tattered wings. Marc flexed them, opening them to show their mutilated glory. "See?"

Allard took a step back. "I am sorry." He tried to understand what he was seeing, but could not. "I did not know ... ."

"No. But those who did this knew."

Marc turned away, and stepped off the parapet.

He hung, momentarily suspended in mid-air.

From the courtyard below came the sound of a hundred throats screaming in unison.

Inspiration taken from Gang of Youths' song, 'Achilles Come Down'.

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https://music.apple.com/gb/album/achilles-come-down/1272833584?i=1272834375