Chapter 70: Restraint

"Stay my heart. Still my screams."​

"Father Anscham? Father Anscham, can you hear us? Can you understand us?"

You are Father Anscham. Father Richard Anscham, leader of the Church of Mercy. There is something in your hand that reminds you of melted gold.

Pain wracks your body, mind and soul so intensely that you immediately roll over and try to vomit. It's a pain worse than any you've ever felt before.

It's perfect.

There's nothing left to give. You dry-heave, sobbing with such intensity that you still can't see. But you want to give. You want to be better.

Torn between clutching onto yourself and holding onto the gravestone for support—

The stone isn't there. There is no cemetery. You are not on the soil.

You back up, trying to back up, trying to find shelter, to get away from the sensation, the sight, the sound, the decay, the retching, the horror, the mist, the hands. A wall is up against your back, crimson, dripping, sticking. It's in your hair. It's on your back. Blood. Viscera. The stench of sin.

You are in the chamber of the demon, surrounded by death. Bodies are stacked to the ceiling, and a demon made entirely of hands is before you.

The dry-heaving continues, punctuated with mutters to all the Gods as you are utterly incapable of looking away. You can hear them somewhere in the back of your mind talking.

But you can't hear. You're crying, you're retching, and are completely unable to stop from knowing. You see the cracks and creases of congealed blood in every last nail on the demon's twenty-one hands. You see the pores on its skin, the indentations and callouses adorning the male, the gentle and delicate movements of the female, the small and unassuming of the child.

The worn and scarred. The familiar. You're retching so hard that white-gold spills forth, as you can't stop looking at a hand that distinctly resembles your own. The burn marks and old lacerations of war are unmistakable.

There's a sharp pain in your chest below your holy symbol. The weight of the gold in your hand ensures you that there is no pain. There is a blessing. You can breathe. You can move. You can live. You can serve. You aren't dying just yet. You aren't panicking. This is a blessing.

You look, you see, you feel, and you take in the ashes of the fallen mother of the Church of Mercy smeared over the demon's body. She's all over the floor, in a haphazard display of utter insanity and an inability for them to know what they are truly doing.

There is a pile of bodies of old demons in various states of decay— of humans— stacked to the ceiling. Periodically, another falls onto the top of the stack.

There are spiders on the edges of the room. Their webs cling and stick to the edges of your mind, promising that something is watching. Someone is waiting.

You are never truly alone.

You scream. You scream, stopping the vomit, stopping the sight of everything, you scream with so much exhaustion, pain and insanity ravaging your body that you

There's no sight of the demon, the fingerprints trailing across the corpses, the decay, the utter lack of hope, or the absence of life. There's no need to focus on anything other than the fracture. The tear. The cracks in your mind, heart, and soul.

You want to know.

You want to feel.

You want to understand.

You want to show compassion.

Spirit.

Mercy.

Spirit.

Mercy.

You do not need to speak your Goddess' name to feel Her immediate embrace, but prayer falls from you like rain. Mercy washes away your terror. She rushes to hold you, to guard you, to guide you— but you can't stop your devotion. Your longing for protection is the very same need to be shown all the kindness you exhibit towards the undeserving.

The tilt to your voice, the quiet panic, and the erratic rhythm of your heart gives way to desperation as you implore Her to watch over you. "I beseech you, Mercy: guide me. Though I have walked through the valley of the shadow of death I have looked upon Your light, Your works, and here I must find Your compassion. Stay my heart. Still my screams. Halt the procession of my panic. Grant me restraint."

Tolerance, sympathy and restraint falls over you even before the prayer begins. By the time the last words leave your lips, you know without question that it is unnatural. A reassuring, familiar, and gentle glow catches on your eyes. The yellow-gold in your palm radiates with an even more intense light still.

Pain courses through your frame. Yet your acute distress, immediate trauma, the presence of the demon splayed out before you, and the pandemonium of your pulse all softens.

Beltoro is expressing their love and devotion. Their Catalyst was knowledge, though they did not know how to use it. They have meant well. They have strove to show me their understanding, their wisdom, and their misplaced Spirit.

I have seen corpses before. I have felt the touch of death so many times. This is the chamber of a demon, but I have faced other demons. I have faced monsters who could not hope to understand themselves or another.

This demon has tried. They are still trying. There is no need for fear. There is only Mercy.

There is a nightmare at the back of your mind that you know will resurface. Your overwhelming need is encompassed by the will to preach, worship, and serve. There is an unaddressed need to run, to hide, to get as far away from this place as you possibly can— but your anxiety is replaced with stillness and calm. A very large part of you feels like passing out, but you are being embraced, caressed, and taken into the protection of a greater force. She has seen your devotion and loves you utterly. There's a small comfort— a vow that you've upheld to the best of your ability— that you have always wanted to protect.

There is a Goddess. Her symbol weighs gently against your heart. She is a treasure.

Proof of your devotion is within your hands.

May there come a day when I can serve all the Gods with as much diligence.

She is slow to heal, but the pain is subsiding— enough for you to bow your head and steady the shaking that had consumed your body. You're no longer screaming. Your words are level, radiant, and resonate with repression as you thank the Goddess on bended knee.

"The Gods are Merciful."

So many moments pass in silence that you start to question again if you've died.

There is no voice, claw, or sensation of the demon before you reaching out to your mind. One of the male hands nearest to you simply makes a slight gesture. It's difficult to interpret, but it seems apologetic. Withdrawn. Tense. The demon of knowledge is not making any further attempts to harm you.

You strongly suspect that Mercy is shielding you from Beltoro's ability, keeping them out of your thoughts, and staving off any further harm to your person.

The demon makes the motion again, and simply mimics a hand holding a pen while writing on paper.

The Goddess has you, speaks through you, supports you, and guides you. Your compassion is absolute.

You also know your limits. "We will comply with your request, but we will not endure your Spirit again."

The hands before you are subdued and withdrawn. They creep backwards, making no motion to attack.

Your pulse is steady. Your breath mellows. Your hands are as level as your voice as you move through your pens, pull out paper, and smoothly walk towards the demon with the utmost control of your demeanor.

Beltoro waits for you to take a few steps back before fishing blindly for the pen and paper. Their over-sized hands seem to be remarkably dexterous, as they take almost immediate purchase over the (comparatively small) tools and set to writing.

Within a few moments, a message is slid across the floor towards you. The demon keeps a fair distance, knowing its place.

Mercy stills the emotion that rises in the back of your throat, the corners of your eyes, and the fracture in your Spirit as you look upon the letter. The handwriting is sloppy and erratic, as if the demon hasn't held a pen in several hundred years. It's scarcely legible, but you read it to yourself a few times just to internalize the sincerity of their words.

Father Anscham,

Thank you for coming back. Thank you for upholding your word. Thank you for already doing more than she swore to do. Thank you for attempting to help us find ourselves once more.

You know I cannot speak of it, but you have so much more than even I once possessed.

Please accept our apology.

The Relic that's melted and smeared across your palm scarcely moves, thanks to how tightly it's held in your grasp. Folding the letter with your steady hands, you place the sheet of paper back inside of your journal, and look with Mercy upon the demon before you.

You would be a fool to turn back now. You would have learned nothing to not extend everything you have to this demon in turn.

You would have gone back on your word, your suffering, the works of your mentor, and all that you've sacrificed to stay your hands. This is her will.

This is your mission.

Music

You close the distance between you, the demon, and a war within the hearts of humankind.

The radiance of a Goddess, Her all-encompassing love, divinity, and your unfathomable Mercy is cast over the form of a nightmare. Your word and bond echoes over the corpses, the ash, and all of their decay. "We accept your thoughts, your words, and your apology. We know you have done everything in your power to aid us."

The hands before you remain inert. They are unafraid of your form. Unknowing. Unquestioning. They are unable to see.

They are blind to your light.

Your fingers unwind from around the Relic, and reach out. The demon is in so much pain. Their form is bent, broken, and unable to withstand the weight of all the knowledge they carry. They cannot know the meaning of restraint. You know they will take everything they can, until there is nothing left.

You place a hand upon the demon. Their flesh is hard, as cold as ice, and devoid of all life. Devoid of all hope. Devoid of all meaning.

Your warmth is infinite.

Everything you have to give— everything you have endured— every last ounce of gold empties into the Relic within your hands. The Goddess will not see fit to bless a demon— but you will.

"Take our light. Take our hope. Our compassion. We will give to you all that we have within Us. It is unbearable to endure, as our children suffer."

The cracks within your soul brim with radiance, and undo themselves as the light fades. They collapse into the gold within your hands, pool, and flood into the image before you. Light cuts across your vision. Gold. Heat. The Goddess of Mercy.

You look upon the demon with eyes of divinity.

"We grant you peace, through Our symbol."

The demon will gain respite from their pain. There will be no suffering. They will know restraint for a time— but you cannot control the Catalyst. The demon will turn from your light, your works, and they will grow cold once more. In time— as all things do— they will lose your guidance, and all of your warmth.

But not now.

You are the Father of the Church of Mercy, collapsing to your knees in exhaustion as you remove your hands from a demon. The Goddess parts from your frame. She loves you. She adores you. She is so reluctant to leave— so willing to stay— but to stay with you for another moment would be your undoing.

She has given you more than Her embrace. She has given you the power with which to heal your pain, and the pain of so many others.

The gold within your hands is no longer immaculate. It flows freely over your scars, your badges of service, and the honor the Gods have bestowed upon you.

Beltoro does not extend a hand, a word, a hymn, nor a prayer. They offer their restraint.

You stagger towards the door— back to your friends, back to your allies, back to sanity— back to the hope of one day seeing the sun again. You feel like you're dying, yet offer one final sermon to the demon. "Be at peace. A day will come where you will not know compassion for yourself, or hold this love in your heart— but may I have granted you peace of mind. Take meaning from your wisdom." Your steps are haphazard. Your vision swims. Pain is back in full force. You cringe, and cough up a fair amount of blood from pushing yourself to move.

You will preach. You will serve. "You have had the will to fight. To know. To kill. Have the will to live."

You hang on the doorway, looking back to the demon one last time. Beltoro's form has relaxed. They are blessed by you and your works.

This was only possible because of their efforts.

"This is a life of your own making. Not by your misery." Warmth is on your chest, and in the cusp of your hands. Though you can scarcely think, feel, or see, you know what must be done.

"Show yourself Mercy."

At the end of your strength— overflowing with determination— you take one final step through the door.

You collapse.

To your unending relief, no one visits you in the darkness.

You rest.