Chapter 47: A Man Possessed

"Under the black light sun."

Music

You instantly want to step back.

A black light sun hangs overhead. It casts a dark parody of radiance over meat, veins, bone and blood. There is no sky. There is no ground. Across the lengthy expanse of sinew— slowly eclipsed in the coming sunset— is a building coated entirely in red. It looks to be rising from the enormous mass of muscle and tissue that comprises the domain you stand in. The hideously geometric structure is punctuated with dark windows. There are no demons in sight, but you hear them off in the distance. Their moans, and a dull throbbing of something reminiscent of music. The beat pulses through the veins beneath your feet. The screams off in the distance rise and fall to the sound. Everything smells like copper.

You clasp your holy symbol with both hands, and feel entirely compelled to implore Flesh for his forgiveness this very moment.

The sun is setting, and you have a party to attend.

​

Celegwen offers you a grimace. "Perhaps I should have stressed why it was so strange." She tightens her grasp on Ofelia. "We should be able to reach it in time, if we hurry."

Your steps falter for a moment, and your hands unclasp from Mercy's symbol. You bring them back together, touching no gold. No symbol of Hers. You wish to evoke that of another.

Your own trembling Flesh.

"Flesh. God of the Material— harbinger of strength— I— I implore you. Forgive me for my weakness."

Looking out onto the field of blood and viscera before you, you can't ignore the cold fear running through your abused and neglected form. Your palms are slick. Celegwen's ring fits you properly now, as it rests firmly against your left index finger. The flawless metal clashes against your old wounds and pale skin, catching against the last of the sun.

The sun is coming down.

"Father, I would not dare to intervene with your work— but we are on a mission. We must keep moving."

She's right.

There's heat in your face, and you're entirely aware of how much stronger you feel— but there isn't a God working through you. It may be tainted. You've been gifted something by a demon. But you can't stand another second of abusing Flesh's works. You're stronger than you've ever been, and there's no better way to express yourself to the God of the Material than to use His gifts.

You feel like a man possessed. The religious fervor and abject fear in your eyes is unmistakable. "You're absolutely right. Celegwen. Let me carry Ofelia, and everything else."

She looks at you like you're insane. As a few moments pass, she seems as if she wants to protest, but your gaze is unwavering. The deathly seriousness of your request eventually makes her will crumble. Gently— gracefully— Celegwen helps you take literally everything off of her shoulders, and you both set out. Neither of you even look back towards the door.

Picking up the pace, you take the lead, and watch with Celegwen as darkness eclipses the land. You're exhausted from the march earlier in the day, but there's a drive to move— to do something with the demon's excess— and to express your worship, even in this small way. Though Ofelia's form is completely slack, you're able to keep her shouldered with extreme ease. Her small frame scarcely covers your broad shoulders, so you try to focus on practicality. On how excellent your lungs feel (even when filled with the scent of copper, liquor, and smoke) as you try to keep your breath steady.

You're torn between holding her closer, and enduring the sensation of her pressing against your knotted scars— or holding her loosely, and risking rousing her while you're in a compromising position.

You want to show Flesh that you have not forsaken his tenets.

Through the demon's domain, and under your steady breath, you murmur a prayer. You want Him to hear.

I need Him to hear.

Music

The prayer is low, and you quickly find your voice. Your confidence. Your passion. "Flesh of my flesh. Delayed is my worship. Too long has it been since I have walked beside you. Now, now, cloaked in shadow— marching through a valley of sin— I implore you."

Mercy may always be with you, but you have been distant from the God of the Material for far too long. "Hear me. See me. Feel me."

You've never taken care of yourself. You've called on Him time and time again, and He has always seen fit to bless you— yet you have given Flesh so little in return.

"I have disgraced the wisdom of the corporeal. My veins have run with neglect and indulgence, with far too much restraint and far too little and I beseech you."

It's difficult to miss how much harder brisker movement is, and how heavy as you feel. Even prior to Agriculture working through you, you've never had any bulk. "Not to forgive me. Not to take from me that which is rightfully broken." You could scarcely help out on the farm as a child. You wasted away for most of your youth. "You do not take. You do not mar my form." Obsessively studying, praying, and having the Gods take your vessel has always taken precedence over doing anything with it yourself. "Your wisdom is boundless, your gifts are immaculate— and I pray, Flesh— I pray that you will permit me to retool this form."

Your voice has gradually picked up in confidence, in vigor, in verve and in faith as you and your friends have made your way across the demon's lair. "Grant me this weakness. From the broken and marred pews and bloated congregation of sin that has filled this most unholy church— I will find Your strength."

This is no place for prayer. You finish regardless.

"My weakness is your strength."