Chapter 8: Endure

"The flesh is weak. The mind has faltered."

Music

"You shouldn't have done that—!"

Your breath is labored, as you struggle to knit your hands back together. It's useless. Your long digits can barely press against one another, and every attempt is more agonizing than the last. This attack against your prayer is the greatest offense you can conceive of. Your green irises bolt up— furious and terrified— while your hands hang uselessly at your sides.

"I like that look." Its wet voice drips over you, as you stagger backwards. Revulsion stirs in your dangerous miasma of emotion. "It seems I should have done just that, Father. It would appear that I've saved my life."

You try to project your voice. "Stay back...!" Your words waver. Your vision blurs. Blood is pouring from your hands at an alarming rate.

Is this Mercy's doing? Is She trying to save me from this creature? Is this retribution for my outburst?

The ground is giving out from under you. You can't even see Ray.

"What have you done— what have you done with Ray?!"

"Nothing, Father. Nothing. I am taking you to a place where your blessings will not be of any use to you."

"What are you talking about?! Where is he—?!" You struggle to hold your ground, and fall to one knee. Though your vision is blurred, you can see the blood pouring from your hands well enough. The stream is intermingling with new bloody tendrils that extend from the greater demon's shroud. Your plea is almost made to your own body. "Stop..."

Mercy's protection carries a faint, radiant light through your veins. You know that the wounds will slowly heal.

But this is too little, too late.

Your eyes bolt open even wider as you realize your sacrilege. It's a good thing that you're already on your knees. You curl into yourself— wanting to beg for Mercy's forgiveness. Yet the demon interjects your thoughts with streams of laughter. "What's the matter, Father? It's clear to my eyes how deficient you are. Does this really come as a surprise—? To be devoid of the blessings you seek? To be on your knees before a greater demon?"

You sneer, trying to raise your head from the weight of your sin. "Stop. Stop talking..."

A moment of horror is spent struggling against the literal weight that you realize is pressing down upon your skull. A bloodied stalk of viscera drips into the back of your shirt, along the nape of your neck, and is creeping up into the strands of your filthy hair. Every hair on your body stands on end in utter revulsion as you shout. "Get away from me!"

Stalks of bloody fingers tighten against your scalp. "Only when your eyes have opened."

The shadow around the two of you deepens even further. You can't see anything.

"Let me go—!"

"I'll release you in the Catalyst of your own choosing, Father. Tell me. Tell me now..."

The blood pouring down your scalp seeps behind your eyes. You try to bring your hands up to tear them away, but it's useless.

You can't see Mercy's light.

"Tell me where you wish to go."

Your mind feels like it's breaking. You scramble to not panic. To focus. All you can think of is Mercy. You've questioned Her blessing, and now you're going to die. If you could just go back. You want to show Her that you haven't forsaken Her tenets.

You need to do something. You need to make things right. You've been a Father of the Church of Mercy for years. You've served the church almost your entire life.

You know where you wish to go.

You need to go back.

You war with yourself to think of just one moment in time. You've dedicated almost your entire life to Mercy's tenets— but you've done more than that. Your mind slips somewhere darker. Back to your first time with Vengeance...

Not now. I need Her.

"Take me back..." The pain in your head and hands is robbing you of your senses. It's a struggle to speak with the crushing weight upon your skull, but you continue to mutter, "to the face... of the undeserving..."

"What's this?" The demon leans in and tightens its grip around your head even further. You can't help but let loose a scream in agony from the pressure. "A childhood memory? Enough to trigger a Catalyst? I doubt it, Father. But... let us see..."

The pressure mounts even further, reaching a level of pain you did not think possible. Your scream cuts through the darkness as light bursts before your eyes, and obstructs all shadow.

From the piercing light all around comes a familiar view. The sky overhead is gray and muddied— almost as much as a peasant's mockery of a trade route.

The glare fades before a dirt road. Ramshackle houses line either side of the little fishing village, petering off into farmland that's struggling to get through the famine. Sprawling weeds and the steady forest beyond your childhood home leers over you with an enormous sense of dread that cannot be seen. Your face is in the mud.

​

You cough and splutter, barely able to breathe. The continued pain in your head is almost as crippling as the dirt you're being pushed down into by a small group of children.

Children?

Every attempt made to look up, to clear your eyes, or to wipe your face is met by being shoved down again. "Come on, get up Richard!" The boy standing over you teases, as his heel presses down against the small of your back. "What's a matter? Scared that Mercy is going to hurt you if you do? Ahahahha!"

The voices of three other children call out to mock you. "Mercy! Mercy!"

A redoubled attempt to right yourself gives a glimpse at your awkward limbs. The sight of them nearly makes you collapse all over again from shock, as your arms have yet to be marred by the Gods. They're too long for a boy your age. "Leave me alone—" You cough from further surprise. Your voice comes out timid and weak— younger than the crops on the horizon. To make matters worse, the pain in your head is making you sound even weaker.

The children's taunting redoubles. One of the other boys comes over, and kneels down. "Or what? Are you gonna tell on us? Are you gonna beg for Mercy?"

Pain shoots through your skull. You nearly collapse. The bully seizes the opportunity to spit in your face.

One of the girls nearby croons, while egging him on. "Oooooh, is Richie scared?"

"He should be!" The boy in front of you boasts, and moves as if to leave you in peace— but quickly turns and kicks you in the face. There's a sickening crack as your nose breaks. You can't help but let out a sob as blood bursts forward from the bridge of your nose.

That's never going to heal.

The boy takes a step back to better shout at you. "Serves you right! Ha—!" He calls to the other children. One of the girls balks, but the other boy seems impressed. "Didja' see that?!"

You know how this went. You could stop it now. You could stop them. You could keep them at bay. You could quell this boy's hatred. You could even kill him, if you so wished.

Instead, you stay recoiled while trying to protect your face. So much blood is weeping from the site of your injury that it muffles your voice. Any attempt to wipe away any of the blood from your upper lip and mouth just smears more across your features. It muffles your speech even further. "Leaff me alowne."

There's another kick. You double over, trying not to cry.

There's a voice in the back of your head.

"This isn't enough, Richard. I know you've endured worse."

You mutter, "get out of my head..."

The children around you all go silent for a blessed moment.

"Are they talking to you?!" The boy that shouts kicks you again— this time in the ribs. There's another disgusting CRACK as you recoil into yourself.

"Stop..." It's not clear if you're speaking to the demon or to the boy. "You don't understand."

"I can, and I will. You're still blind, Father. Blind to what has broken you. Blind to what can make you whole. Let us see where your sight truly lies."

You can endure the pain. You have before. You know that your parents show up in a few hours to find you lying in the dirt. You nose is never the same, sure— but wounds do eventually heal. You have been through worse.

You mutter in a haze of pain and blood, "I'll leave them alone..."

The children around you are terrified. The boy that's been beating you down even pauses for a moment.

The demon agrees. "They're not of any concern." Its wet voice sticks to the insides of your temples. You want to rip your skull open, and get him out— but you can barely lift yourself up, struggling as you are with the broken bones.

The boy takes his foot off of your back. He looks about ready to run when you continue speaking, despite the excruciating pain you're in. "I was tired of being alone. There was no... Mercy here..."

"Good. Show me."

The pain in your head impossibly intensifies. You can feel the cracks in your body and the tears in your bones, as the agony splits you in two. You find yourself running. Running from the pain.

There are trees. Anson forest. The sky overhead is brewing with Storm. Clouds roil, and you think of the Gods for just a moment.

Uttering a small prayer for Storm is purely a request for Him to leave you alone as well. You were tired. Tired of the pain. Tired of the Gods. Tired of the backhanded clergy. Tired of Father Edmund asking what was wrong with you. Tired of the priests who you knew were whispering— muttering— resentful that someone of such low birth was permitted into their ranks.

You were tired of being watched. Tired of everyone being so afraid. Tired of being forced into service. Tired of your tenets, of the abstinence, of the chastity. Tired of everything.

You're running.

You emerge exhausted— head splitting— out of the woods. You're young. A teenager, dressed in stolen clothes. Disguised. Not wanting to be seen as a member of the Church. You hide your symbol of Mercy beneath your shirt. The gold chain may yet give away who you are, but you have not abandoned the Gods.

You're just tired. The wider houses and bustle of the city of Anson was comforting. You didn't know at the time that you would save the lives of everyone in this city, and have your station respected as the leader of the Church of Mercy.

They didn't know your face now. Scarred, yes. Gaunt, yes. But not that recognizable— you'd hope. You'd hope— as you slow down, too tired to run— that your feet would leave little evidence of your escape. You step into the soft soil leading up to the city. Father Edmund couldn't have known you ran away. Not yet.

It's the dead of night, and most of the streets are empty. You did not know the streets of the city then, and it took you a long time to find a bar.

​

You were tired of abstinence. Smoke and silence choked your senses as you stumbled— head still reeling— before discovering a dingy drinking hole near the outskirts of the city. No one but the barkeep paid you any mind as you collapsed into the first stool you saw. Pushing coin at him, you put back drink after drink.

You numbed the pain. Numbed the thought of Mercy, and of Vengeance. Even the pressure in your head seemed to fade ever so slightly.

Your eyes and the barkeep's met a few times, weighing one another with one another with equal disrespect. You hoped he'd not remember you as you silently left— barely able to walk straight. The wine at the Church of Mercy was always too watered down. It would be years before you'd pray to Agriculture and lose the ability to enjoy these simple pleasures.

Vision blurrier than ever, you staggered the wrong way down dark streets. Your long fingers brushed against something soft. Softer than you'd felt in years.

Horror sinks into the pit of your stomach— as you've realized that you have brushed up against a woman.

"Get away from me!"

Her shrill voice practically screamed. You must have startled her. "Sorry, sorry—"

Your voice is coming out too softly. It's barely audible over her increasing panic. You try to gesture— to articulate an apology— and manage to somehow bump into her again.

"GET AWAY! HELP—!"

You stagger backwards, trying to apologize. To explain. "It was just an accident— I'm sorry, I'll leave—"

Taking another hesitant step backwards, you catastrophically manage to bump into someone else in the street. It's been years since you last drank. You've horrifically overestimated your limits. Immediately, you turn to get away. "Excuse me—"

As you turn, a fist slams into your face. The wet impact is deafening, and knocks you off your feet. All that registers is the pop of cartilage and bone permanently shifting out of place. The immediate attempt you make to drag yourself upright is cut short.

A nearby puddle catches on a teenager's reflection. This is closer to what you're used to. You're paler than any human rightfully should be. Awkward, twitchy, and tense. Scrawny, with hair that's a complete mess. Ill-fitting and stolen clothes adorn your broad shoulders. All of your gaunt recesses and scars show far more battle and wear than anyone your age has any right to have.

It's no wonder that the woman was afraid.

The figure above you bellows, "get away from her!"

Panicked cries fade into the distance. She must have ran.

"I didn' mean do— you don'd undersdand—" The blood coming from your nose is completely obstructing your words.

"Shut up." A familiar kick drives soundly into your chest. Air rapidly leaves your lungs as the strike sweeps you onto your back. Any attempt at staying upright is stolen away as the man kneels down beside you. He notices the chain around your neck. Your soul leaves your body as he snatches at it. "What's this—?"

You try wheezing. Leave it. I'll kill you. Don't you dare touch Her symbol. But nothing comes out. The wind has been completely knocked out of you.

The man yanks at the chain, and pulls it cleanly off from your body. The clasp digs into the back of your neck and breaks off— leaving the holy symbol dangling from his grasp. As his greed eagerly eyes the gold, the peasant suddenly exclaims in recognition. "You—!"

Rapid steps take him backwards. He drops the symbol like it's been put to a flame. You manage to swipe the symbol out of the dirt, and clutch at it as if your life depended on it. The man frantically looks around him to see if you're with anyone.

As he steps back over towards you— and raises a foot over your face— it's clear that it's you he's recognized. "I haven't forgotten what you've done, Richard. Edwin wouldn't have forgotten, either."

The boy you crippled. Your eyes bolt open in recognition to this figure— blurry as he is. You grew up together.

Crunch.

He keeps kicking your face in.

Crunch.

It's getting harder to breathe.

Snap.

The pain in your head reaches a crescendo.

"Are you still there, Father?"

"Please—" You rasp the words through a crushed throat. 'The pain—'

"I knew you could endure, Father. You see? You see that this isn't enough. The... blessings are not here, Father. But you still are."

He's right. There were no Gods here. The Church found you that night, after some merciful peasant dragged you indoors and reported the assault. Mercy did not save you that day. It took you months to heal. Months of constantly being watched. Waiting. You thought you had learned your lesson— but you still abused Them. You turned from the Gods.

Choking— lying on the streets, barely able to breathe— rain pounds on your face. Storm clouds erupt overhead. You manage to speak out, even though no one is there.

"Take... me... home..."

You close your eyes.

When you open them, you let out a sob. Your face is wet, still. You're back in the Church of Mercy. No light filters through the small window in your room within old stone walls. Rain and thunder beats down with reckless abandon on wooden Storm shutters. You're younger, and are wearing old flaxen robes. The frayed hand-me-down garments are even older than the ones that you took with you to the ruins. A few scars are missing from your hands as you look them over.

The corner of your eyes catches in your reflection in a cracked mirror hanging on the far end of your room. Your hair is mussed, but your green and wet eyes stare back at you. You're sobbing— completely overwhelmed by something at the back of your thoughts. The pain is still there. It punctuates every heave of your chest.

A melody echoes down the corridor, as a number of men and women sing praises to Mercy. The choir mercifully disguises the sound you're making, but it can't stop the cascade of intrusions into your mind.

You beg, and ask the voice directly this time. "Stop."

The demon's voice echoes. "No."

It might as well have been a lifetime ago that you were in the ruins with Spirit alongside you. This was different. This time. This place. This memory. You had begged the Goddess. Pleaded, even. You suspected that the clergy resented you. That you were an unwanted intruder.

​

You needed to know. She's in you. This didn't feel like abuse of Spirit's blessing. This was knowledge that could aid your mission, and aid your service of Her.

This is what you told yourself before you invoked Her: to know beyond a shadow of a doubt what the clergy truly thought of you.

"I don't want to remember—"

You sob, and clutch at yourself as the voices come. Her white light courses through your veins. Spirit causes the blood to protrude from your skin, as She fills your mind with their words. Their thoughts. Their secret and most hidden sentiments.

Their Spirit.

"He's a blight on our good families. It's unthinkable. He's a scar on the Church."

"Did you hear? What he'd done? I thought we were putting him down like a dog— not some pet to be paraded around."

"This has to be a mistake. The King wouldn't permit it. I'll take my complaints up to His Mercifulness personally, if I have to."

"If we can't get him to leave willingly, we'll push him until he snaps. The boy already looks like a demon. Better to contend with one more and be done with this nasty business."

"Stop! Stop it—!" You clutch at your head, and curl up on the straw mattress. Trying to hide from the sound does nothing. Your body heaves as you continue to cry. Each motion only intensifies Her blessing.

"Keeping him alone hasn't done a damned thing."

"Don't want him actually losing it. Give the boy a dog, at least. We won't even have to mind him if he goes collapsing on us again."

"A priest!? I'll die before I have to work with that lunatic—scaring the people half to death. I have half a mind to transfer now—"

"Besmirching our good name! Getting the people up into a frenzy! Making the rest of us look like charlatans! My sons nearly died in that last sermon! I'd kill him myself..."

"Wouldn't be too convenient to send him on another expedition? I'd rather risk five of our men and see him gone—"

You can't speak. You couldn't hear yourself, even if you did. Sobs continue to punctuate the choir, as they echo throughout the high halls beyond your small room. It feels like the walls are closing in.

"Ugly son of a bitch."

"No better than a demon."

The demon reminds you, "they're all right, you know."

Hysterically clutching at your head, you screw your eyes shut. Tears overflow. You can feel it tearing at you. Threatening to consume you.

The Catalyst.

Clutching at yourself tighter.

Spiraling.

Your body is draining.

Millions of little cracks along its surface are leaking every fiber of your being.

"The man's so obsessed with the Gods. Can't even see the people around him."

"I'll die before I serve under him."

"Maybe one of these prayers will finally kill him."

"I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I'm so sorry."​

"Richard. Richard, it's okay. I'm going to get help."

No one at the Church calls you by your given name. Fear for your sanity opens your eyes. You frantically look around.

The demon is lying on the floor, still as stone. Ray is unconscious right beside it. Your dog's breath is ragged. He's obviously been badly hurt. There's too much blood all around to deduce the extent of his injury straight away. You immediately move towards him, but a hand is on your shoulder. It feels like the greater demon's shadow is still leering over you, as you sob and fight in a panic to get to your dog. There's blood covering you from head to toe, and the damp resistance of your slick sleeves and shirt does nothing to help matters.

Blood is up to the upper arms of the halfling you met— how long ago could it have been? She's leaning over you. The white light of Spirit has left you— but your heart is racing faster than it ever has. The blood on her matches the jet-black poison leaking out from the demon's body, and onto the floor of the ruins. "Hey. Hey, Richard. It's Ofelia. It's okay. It's okay. I'm going to go get help."

Hysterically— hands shaking— you try to move Ofelia aside. Your body is so ragged, it's hard to get your limbs to cooperate. It almost feels like the greater demon's weight is still pressing down on your skull. She sees how hard you're struggling, but keeps putting up a resistance anyways. It's infuriating. "You're hurt, Richard. That thing was— I don't know what it was doing, but you should stay still."

"Just— JUST let me see RAY—!" You keep trying to push past the halfling, and finally she steps aside. It's impossible to properly stand. Staggering, you nearly collapse next to your dog. "Ray—"

Kneeling down next to him, it seems that he was wounded while you were under the greater demon's control. There's a deep injury in his side. It's deeper and wider than your thumb. He may have been impaled by one of the bloody barbs. Though your hands are still lacerated— and it takes some nudging with the sides of your chest and arms to get your fingers to sit how you want— you knit your fingers together.

Ofelia is staring at you, and she opens her mouth to say something.

Your voice is hoarse and torn from crying so hard. "DON'T LOOK AT ME—!"

Kneeling over your mastiff's body— face turned from her— you know that Ofelia closes her mouth and moves to leave. "I'll be back." She's speaking from a distance. "The demon is paralyzed. I'll be back. I'm getting Celegwen. She should be able to help. I'll be back as fast as I can. Don't get near the demon again. The poison will last. Just keep away from it."

Exhaustion won't permit you to reply.

You would never forgive yourself if you couldn't heal your boy.

The words of the clergy intermingle with demon's, in an unholy, internal chorus.

"They're all right, you know."

"Did you hear? What he'd done? I thought we were putting him down like a dog— not some pet to be paraded around."

"Don't want him actually losing it. Give the boy a dog, at least. We won't even have to mind him if he goes collapsing on us again."

Though you'd like to keep crying, you tighten your fingers instead. The pain is intense enough to make you suspect tendons are near the threat of snapping, but you don't care. The Church of Mercy has little respect for animals. Unfit as they are for the blessings of the Gods, Ray was purely given to you for protection. To use your gifts to save him borders on sacrilege. Though this wound you're eyeing may not be able to be healed through medicine...

You choke out each word. "Hold on, boy."

The pain is immense as you force yourself to move. To keep going. It's an ordeal to get your fingers to cooperate, let alone to get your equipment. On shaky legs, you stagger over to your backpack. Its contents remain untouched.

The Gods are Merciful.

Falling to one knee— too weak to stand for long— you try to pilfer through your things. Even gently moving aside the contents is excruciating, and you're getting blood everywhere. Ultimately, you settle on looping an arm through the bag, and drag it over to Ray.

Collapsing next to him, your breath comes out in shallow pants. Your head is going lighter and lighter as you examine his wounds. Suffering through manipulating the cut bone and flesh of your hands, you speak almost as much to yourself as to your dog. "Hang on— Mercy— hang on. This won't take long—"

You're beside yourself, and can't help but sob as you gently look to his underside. The full extent of the damage is unthinkable.

"No—!"

The wound goes through the other side of his body. Remnants of the black poison clings to the interior of your boy's skin. You're beside yourself. The amount of care it takes to manipulate your cut hands, to keep your blood out of Ray, to produce tinctures, to unwind bandages, and to work all the herbs that you need is taking too long.

Every attempt is made to correctly apply mixtures. To fasten them securely. To suffocate your weeping, even as your eyes spill with tears from the pain. Ray's breathing isn't improving. The herbs are slow to act, and the best that you have. They should keep a man from the brink of death, and will certainly slow his bleeding— but there is something fouler at work here. Something beyond the measure of mortal healing.

Ofelia and Celegwen have yet to return. You're alone with Ray. Alone with the paralyzed demon. Alone with its poison spilling onto the floor.

This wound is too severe. Your headache still hasn't subsided. It feels like you're going to pass out— vision swimming, head light, with your hands shaking horrifically.

You crumple to your dog's side, sobbing hysterically. One of the empty medicine vials in hand shatters as it uselessly falls to the floor. Oozing, creeping, black liquid threatens to inch ever closer to you and Ray. You might have bought his wound some time— but there's something worse coming.

The broken glass is of no concern as you clutch onto the side of Ray's body. You're soaked with blood and exhaustion, but you can't rest. You need to get him to safety— at least until Ofelia comes back with help.

It's out of the question to pray to Mercy for Ray... but Flesh...?

The weight of Mercy's symbol presses heavily against your chest as you force your hands together again. "Please—" Your breath hitches. Hands burning cold with the intensity of their pain, you can no longer tell if the blood drenching your sleeves is coming from the wounds or not. There can't be much time left for you if you keep pushing yourself. "Flesh of my flesh, lend me Your strength. I ask not for Your blessing for myself, but for another—"

You sway, dizzy from the blood loss and pain. Smoke and heat rises from your hands. In spite of the fear of death, your trembling voice continues. "Take my weakness. Make my hands whole, that they may lift Your name higher. Fill me with Your blessing, that I may continue to serve You. Let my weakness be Your strength."

The tendrils of smoke build. Skin and muscle— bared open, and torn seemingly beyond repair— begins to stitch itself back together before your blood-shot eyes. You are luckily already on your knees, and graciously thank Flesh with the little wind left in you. Not a second of Time is wasted. You take hold of Ray's body, despite him weighing more than you do. Every ounce of strength and violent intent in you stares at the demon's inert form for courage. You barely manage to drag your dog's body away.

The women still haven't come back, by the time you laboriously reach the furthest edge of the room. Ray sleeps soundly.

The faint red light of candles in passages beyond illuminate your swaying shadow. Your prayers cease. Flesh leaves you. You can't stop crying— unsure if it's because watching over Ray is bringing you little comfort, or because you feel so empty.

The poison must be doing a number on Ray's body. You can't help but note as you kneel over your dog that his breath is ragged— but he's holding on. You tighten the healed, pink, and newly healed scars atop your knuckles in fury. Kneeling beside your boy, you unfasten the side compartment of your pack containing the cinders of the occult.

One vial should be enough.

Thanking Flesh once more for your steadier hands, you tear off a length of clean bandages to safely handle the glass. Nothing greets your prayers in reply. Not even His familiar warmth.

You try to not think too much about the growing emptiness as you bundle cloth around the liquid-filled vial. The fabric blessedly hides your reflection from sight. Unsteady from blood-loss, you precariously tilt on your careful walk over to the demon. Poison clings to the soles of your shoes. The monster's form is completely inert. You would have mistaken it for dead if Ofelia hadn't said anything.

Tossing the bundle from a safe distance ignites the greater demon's form. Bright blue flames spread instantly over its skin, but stops short at the liquid seeping from its body. It's almost as if the fire is eaten away by the toxin. You shudder, and back up— never taking your eyes off of its form as it burns away. There is nothing beneath its shroud. Nothing but blood.

As the sapphire flames lick at the stone— and illuminate the last of the demon's smoldering form— you collapse next to Ray. Holding his body next to yours is a battle to keep from trembling. You can't stop crying.

Why do I feel so empty?