Chapter 63: A Lighter Soul

"May all the Gods be praised."

Music

You place your hands to your holy symbol, close your eyes, and let its warmth overtake you. Though you are soft-spoken, your conviction and your reverence shines through. You resonate with divinity as you implore your Goddess first. The formality that you typically speak to the Gods with leaves you. Overtaken with the intimacy of Her embrace, you speak not only of Her gifts, but permit yourself to be encompassed by all of Her love.

"Mercy, Goddess of Compassion. My guide. My saving grace. I have been utterly unfit for Your blessing. You have led me to Your light, Your immaculacy, and I must confess that I have strayed. There has been little restraint in my actions of late. I have inflicted pain on the undeserving. I have failed to extend my compassion, Your tenets— and for that I cannot hope to beg for Your forgiveness. I cannot hope to atone."

Your voice has not wavered through your confession, and it does not falter now. She must understand.

"I will be benevolent. I will be better. I will uphold my word to you— my bond— as I always have sacrificed everything to uphold. You are my family, my home, my partner and my blessing. You have guided me, seen fit to show me Your very form— and for that, I cannot hope. I will know how to serve. I will carry out my title, and all of Your gifts. I will not stray. I will not falter. Past temptation and sin, I will alleviate our pain, and the pain of so many others."

For only a moment, you lift your eyes. The green is lanced with gold. The sky overhead is black, but you see light.

"You have always been with me. I am never truly alone. We have completed Our mission, but Our work is far from done. We are the vessel of Your gifts, the leader of Your Church, the Father of Our children, and We are Merciful."

Reluctantly, you move your clasped hands from your holy symbol. The light dims, the gold parts, and you close your eyes once more.

You will need more than Mercy to get home.

Though the Relic of Mercy has filled you with warmth, alleviated your pain, pulled you from the brink of death and instilled in you a will to live, your vessel is still cracked. Your emaciated form sits beneath loosely fitted robes. The tremor, the wasted sinew, the countless scars and years of neglect are barely concealed. You have been beaten, bloated, broken and blessed— yet you have done so little in the way of alleviating any of it. Preventing any of it. Healing any of it.

The old burn markings, the raised scars and the pallor on your hands catches on the candlelight as you tense. Digging your nails into your palms, you implore the patron of action with the smallest of offerings.

"Flesh of my flesh. O Strength, O Power, O Resilience, O Endurance of the Gods. Long have I neglected Your works. How firmly have I suffered Your absence. How softly have I spoken of Your will. This vessel has never been fit for You. I know You have left me. The sin that has coursed through these veins— the abuse and neglect, the strain, the swell— it has all been an affront— and for that I implore You to witness my betterment. I wish only to serve, to lift Your name—! To shape this figure into a material worthy of Your gifts. I will see to it that I show You strength of my own. This altar of sin will be reformed, Flesh— and with it— I will rescind my blasphemy. Flesh of my flesh. God of the Material. My weakness is Your strength."

Your words hang empty in the air. Almost as empty as the pit of your stomach, the words you've left unspoken, the blessing that has robbed you of bounty, and the intense desire you have.

There is a creeping dread, a fullness, and an intense urge to vomit as you recall everything that has been forced into you in the last few days. You unclasp your palms for a moment, to etch something into the soil before you.

With your bloodied hand, you carve out a scythe. The symbol is so simplistic that it leaves you wanting for more— but you are acutely aware that you have already taken in too much.

Placing your hands to the dirt— into Her symbol— you pray. "Agriculture, through Your bounty and Your gifts, we have tilled the fields of sin. We have asked before for Your harvest. For that, You have our unending devotion. We have failed to express it. We have failed to convey our thanks and all of our reverence. For it, our appetite has been culled. There is nothing to say or to do to give back to You all we have abused— but from the decay, the swell, and the overabundance we will grow."

The utter absence of the Goddess as you pray tells you everything you need to know.

You pull back, looking once more to the sky. To the black moon. To the land that you've seen before, though you could not hope to understand in the darkness.

You close your eyes, close off reality, and lock away the waking world. "To interpret You is naught but a fantasy. Asleep is my speculation. Lost within the world of the waking, to repeat, to be recalled in moments long past and that may never be— Your blessing, Your works, Your gifts have led me. I go now to— from— within this reverie. May I one day contemplate. May I one day wish. May I one day rest. Blessed be the Dream. Blessed be the night."

Your words drift away. They are forgotten almost before they leave your lips.

You don't want to forget. You want to know. You want to change. No part of you wishes to continue your neglect, abuse, or angst.

"Spirit, Goddess of the Incorporeal. You have tested and broken us more than any other. I do not profess to understand Your works. There is so little that I know. I have turned from my support, my friends, my family, and my home. Not that of the Gods— but of Your domain— and I have rarely attempted to learn. I have abused You more than any other, and for that I pray— I pray for Your study, for Your essence, for Your soul. I pray to one day have the wisdom to understand Your works. Though my faculties are lacking— though I cannot see— the immaterial must be known."

There is very little to say, and less still that you understand. One day you hope to tame your ignorance, but you know that there is no way to ever fully control some Gods.

"God of the Tempest— you have visited us with your very form. Your might is absolute. Your power is unfathomable. As you move the flame, the sea, the sky— you have moved us. Through your fury and your calm, we thank you, Storm."

You tense, dreading reaching out to the final two deities in your pantheon with almost equal reverence.

"It is only fitting, it is only fair— it is a matter of justice to reach out to You. My God. My retribution. My hand has been forced to extend our connection— to call upon You so many times before. I do so now with a level hand, an even mind, and a heavy heart— for You deserve my respect. You deserve my pain. You deserve the blood, the bile, and the RIGHT to withhold Your judgement. You have my integrity. My vessel. I hope to one day again deserve your reciprocation and Your Vengeance."

In a low voice, with a deep breath, you do something you have never done before.

"Time I wish for nothing more—"

There's a cold sweat on you. You force yourself to slow down.

"...than to demonstrate my unending respect. From each and every grain that falls through the cracks of this vessel, You have blessed me with this: this hour. This moment. This eternity. I will continue to observe, to count the ways of our devotion. To make the most of the Time that is given to us. Your will is unchangeable."

With a ragged sigh, your anxiety fading fast, you end your prayer to the deity of ages.

You keep your hands clasped, and bow your head to your hands.

"May the all the Gods be praised."

You stay kneeling for some time, permitting yourself a moment to recover, to reach out, and to feel.

The Gods have not forsaken you. Your connection to Agriculture, Flesh and Spirit may be dramatically weakened, but Mercy is still with you. Dream, Storm, Vengeance and Time are still with you. They have all seen fit to listen to your prayers.

You rise to your feet, and take Mercy's Relic in hand with a lighter soul.