It is by some gracious miracle perhaps that the clergyman was content to remain within that circle of blue flame that so shielded him from the darkness that haunted that church and stalked its halls. How difficult it might have been to protect the man had he protested and yet that Holy Fire so often worked to sooth just as it did burn. Especially those who might find their very souls sensitive to its very purity. That clergyman, in that moment, was surely given to question the very depths of his religious consideration as he seemed to watch those flickering flames with questions anew. Now, however, was so hardly the time in which to consider the deeper fate of an elderly man. Not when his niece stood upon the very precipice of her own destiny. Matteo reached backward to unsheath that fabled blade at his back. The power imbued within that very sword alone was surely felt the moment it was drawn from its scabbard and yet, today, it was so hardly his hand that was destined to wield it as it had done so often before. The sword was tossed toward Anastasia. The Hunter woman's hand was already open to receive it. Her judgement in its trajectory and arc as flawless as her own Fathers as that sword landed neatly within her grasp. The light from that fire had robbed Rasputin of his treasured darkness and oh how that outrage from the charlatan seemed to shake the very foundations of that holy space.

Rasputin had not seen that sword or its exchange between them. The ancient man, focused upon his hate and outrage, careened toward Anastasia with a single-minded purpose. His mistake realised far too late. The near sickening sound of flesh on metal momentarily echoed within that illuminated space. Anastasia and Rasputin both were given to pause. As if, for but a moment, time itself seemed to halt in its flow as if in sombre homage to that singular moment in which a stain upon history- had been made right. A moment in which order had been restored to the world. An unbalance so finally made even. Matteo remained where he stood, even as Rasputin's fingers extended upward to caress his beloved niece's cheek in a gesture that appeared almost affectionate- those near whispered words held the rasp of a dying man. The blood that coated the blade was near black in the half-light. It ran in streams to stain the floor beneath. Anastasia's own words, filled with passion, with righteousness, and the very snarl of revenge echoed within that space before she twisted that blade. It's sharpened sides sliced with ease through the flesh and sinew and innard of the impaled man. The final strike. Rasputin offered little more than a gasp. That very sound all that demonic man could manage before his very body seemed to...crack, like the surface of a desert long parched of water and life. Whatever magic had kept that man alive so very long had been broken. Shattered. Destroyed at his niece's hand. Rasputin was left to crumble into ash and dust. A plume of smoke rose from those broken remains. The church filled with silence once more.

A single lift of Matteo's hand so readily saw the flames that surrounded the priest simmer and burn low before vanishing entirely. The baffled being was left staring in awe at his surroundings as his hands so repeatedly offered the sign of the cross over and over in some effort to grasp at reality through religion. For several long moments Matteo simply remained where he stood. Anastasia was afforded that silence, that chance to find within herself a peace that had long evaded her. Matteo loath to interrupt that very thing until a sigh left her lips. That sound was heavy with purpose- with relief. It was only then that the Frenchman stepped forward. The sound of his shoes echoed atop that stone floor as he made his way toward his niece. His hand reached silently to rest atop her own as it clutched the hilt of the sword.

"I hope, ma nièce, that this will bring you peace. The world is better off without him. His removal has brought a balance that was lacking to fate itself."

How readily Matteo could feel it. A restoration of equilibrium in that fabric of time and space. A wrong so finally made right. For a moment the Frenchman simply allows that quietude to persist once more before his hand offers Ana's own the softest of squeezes- only to release it. His arms lifted to fold across his chest. Matteo at last allowed the return of the Fae impishness that he was nearly incapable of containing for any true length of time. One eye so merely lifting to eye her curiously.

"I want my sword back, Mon Cherie, but I think perhaps I shall let you clean it first, non?"

c'est dur d'être un dieu.