Chapter 74: The City of Darkness

"The waves are ahead. The tides of destruction."​

You are not so naive or hopeful as to believe that Mercy could protect you from an army. To wait another moment here would be to die. You can scarcely stand, let alone wield a mace and shield.

You are nothing without the Gods.

You know the risks.

There is one God— one might— one power great enough to contend with a force of nature.

The cane in your hand is a welcome respite. Completely releasing your hold on your Relic, you nearly collapse forward. Your dog— terrified beyond all measure— stays as close as he's able for protection. Yet you implore all your companions to stay with a ragged voice, and your body on the brink of destruction.

Ofelia— with the eyes of a Goddess— cuts down and deflects as much as she's able. You throw up your shield in front of her with great effort as Yech steadies you. The sorcerer is leaning against your back, keeping you pinned in between all of you companions, and protecting you as he swore he would. He's soaked to the bone. Blood drips off of him as he screams, belittles his demons, and promises them so much death for their disobedience and ungratefulness.

He has time to talk. You do not. There is no time for explanations. The archdemon is scarcely able to hold off the tide as you all come to a slow stop. The flowers behind you are long gone.

The waves are ahead. The tides of destruction.

You bow your head, release your invocation to Mercy, drop your cane, discard your shield, and make your hands free to clasp one another. You pray.

There's a slack. A pause.

There is a God. His figure eclipses the very sky, yet remains merely an aura.

The alarm on Yech's face and in Ray's body is so immediate that they both drop what they're doing to grab you, to attempt to still your body— you're being pinned down. Yech is screaming something.

In a flash, He is beside you.

"Storm..."

The name scarcely leaves your lips before there's a feeling in the back of your throat. Water floods from your lips. You stiffen.

​

He is not beside you. He is with you. He is in you.

Everything is black.

You are at the bottom of the ocean. You are being tossed. You are shaking. You are shaking. The contractions, convulsions, and the current pulsing through your skull has happened before.

There's no presence of the God, but there is the presence of a demon pinning you to the floor. He's holding you down and screaming to your companions as they stave off an incoming army.

Everything blurs. You feel like you're underwater. Like the tide rising from your lips is anything but a mumble, a curse, or a blessing.

Everything swims. You're pinned to the floor. Your companion is shielding your body with his own, screaming to Ofelia to keep them off of him while he buys you a little more time.

There is an arc of lightning. The Storm in your mind is building.

Thunder claps across the back of your thoughts. Lightning coalesces into your eyes. The sunset, the sea, the flame, and the might of a God is in you.

The tremor subsides.

Your thoughts are slowed.

The weight of the world is beneath you.

Few can withstand so much power.

You are pinned to the floor, and stop shaking entirely. The temperamental God, His wrath, His ruin, and His might flows over you. You can see lightning. You can see the rain. You see wind and thunder. Flame and focus.

There is no God here. There are demons. Hundreds of them. They're coming down upon you and your friends— but a God wishes to flow through you.

I may be fit to wield the might of Storm, but I am still the Father of the Church of Mercy.

Twitching, you rip away from the restraints of your ally, and stagger to your feet. With a spread of your fingers before you— the motion is slow. Everything feels like it's dragging.

Music

There's so much you don't understand.

Tightening your grasp, you hold onto the air and sky. The wind howls.

Yech clings onto Ray, having promised to protect him. The demon is speechless and backing away. Despite being drenched in blood, Ofelia's long hair kicks up into the current. Her cloak nearly goes flying. She has to grab onto it— looking wildly towards the sky— then back to you.

Orange lightning crackles in your eyes. With a wave of one arm, there is a surge down from a nonexistent sky. From all there is and ever could be comes your will. A hurricane. You cannot control its might, but you implore the God to understand. You wish to run. To help. To heal. To be whole.

You swipe up your cane from the floor with a breeze. Flower petals pick up from the corridors behind you and to the stairs beyond. Before you, there are hundreds of bodies falling. Their screams carry over the wind. Your robes, your hair, and the lightning in your eyes billows.

Devastation looks down to your friends as you spread your arms wide, and part the crowd of demons before you. Currents of wind, of gold, of silence and of motion pick up. The force of His blessing tears the soil from the earth. He rends the stone and stairs. Rocks begin to part in clusters within the gale.

Your touch is gentle. Your intent is to protect. To serve.

The Tempest is terrible to behold.

Ofelia is so stricken with shock and terror that you do not need to tell her to run with you. The archdemon at your side sweeps your dog from the floor, carrying him as you continue to part the tide of battle. Sheer walls of wind rocket skywards, keeping hundreds of demons at bay.

There's a drift in the back of your mind.

The Gods will not forsake you. Not now. Not ever.

You need not exert your vessel. Storm has you in the lightning, the wind. The orange dust— the trail that sweeps the very skin off the few demons with the gall to oppose your might— they cannot withstand you. It only takes a few moments for them to know their place. You are far more terrible, command far more might, and know far more respect that any demon.

You are a man of the Gods.

You run, cane in hand, and take your shield back from Ofelia to guide her. There is real wind in her hair. It moves along the rivulets of blood on her paling skin, and across the gold in her eyes. The archdemon beside you starts to stumble and fall from exhaustion, yet he keeps to your side as you all approach the bottom of the stairs.

You have cleared the labyrinth. Behind you are golden flower petals. Their gilded flurry builds into the hurricane surrounding you on every side. Hundreds of demons are held at bay by your sheer force of devotion, and the roar picks up with the deafening might of the God. His word. His will to protect you. An exhibit of your strength.

Above you stretches an impossible stair. It took you hours to descend it before, clutching as you were onto Mercy. You have changed.

You will run, but there is something else you need to do, first. After all, you cannot maintain your connection to Storm forever.

There is a steady procession of elements, the wind in your hair, and the turmoil as you clasp your hands together once more. Demons from the city above are tumbling, crashing, and spilling down the steps. You can hear their promise: their threat of certain death.

They will hear us, instead.

You look to the sky. There is no sky here, but you can still see it. You can see from the bottom of the world that there is a God and a blessing working through you. The sparks in your eyes, the current in your soul, the flood of devotion, and love moves you. He keeps you steady.

You hold off an army, with only your hands clasped before you.

Looking to the end of the world, you take a few more steps forward.

Your pace slows.

You stop.

Yech and Ofelia stop running. Ray skids to a halt alongside them. They're unwilling to charge forward into utter destruction. It's written all over their faces that they are trusting you to hold off the attack. The wind crashing against the walls of your restraint— the repression of your own making— howls along the stairs. Behind you screams the corridor of demons that you've carved out of tempest. Piles of bodies stack alongside the steps. Wind-flayed demons mount as their kin struggle to push past them. They care not for restraint. They wish to wreak havoc, and to assert their dominance over the ruins.

You elevate yourself while leaning on the support of a cane. The skeletal hand under your grasp is a constant reminder of the support of an archdemon who has risked everything to protect you. You'd almost forgotten him, as taken as you are with the tempest, the rush, the waves of demons and the energy arcing through you. The pull. The catastrophe building in the sparks before your eyes.

You raise a single hand. There is a peal of thunder so devastating that every lost soul before you tenses.

They are anticipating what is to follow. Silence falls over the ruins. In quiet terror, an army— assembled to take control, to dismantle their new leader— looks to you with abject horror. They brace for utter annihilation.

You permit their anxiety to build. There are whispers and pandemonium in their bubbling, frothing tension. There is the question of whether or not you will strike down every demon before you with a wave of your hand.

You raise a hand.

The archdemon at your side looks to you silently, dripping with wine and with blood. He nods— more than willing to give you the floor to speak.

You call out to the unholy congregation. There is a clap of thunder and a trembling within the earth as your voice resonates with all the might of the Gods.

"We know you are afraid."

Absolute silence follows in your wake.

Your allies stand beneath you, but you cannot see them. You see the sky. His veins. Branches of lightning. Fractures of amber and the God of the Tempest Himself are elevated as you take a few steps higher onto the stairs, with your hands open to the demons before you.

"There is another you should fear. One with far greater compassion, far greater generosity. One befitting of his title! An ARCHDEMON, who will see to it that you are all given what you deserve!"

You open your arms, imploring every demon beneath you to gaze upon your mentor: A drunkard, a glutton, a gambler, a sinner. A fallen lord. A man who had pushed you to stray from the path of the Gods. A friend. An ally. An archdemon willing to sabotage your efforts not only to push you, but to help you. He has given you everything he could, all in the name of teaching you how to grow.

The demon lord— holding onto your dog for protection, standing half a foot beneath you— looks up. His absence of lips are kept shut tight. He's utterly unwilling to stop your devotion.

"We are not here to preach what you know. Idonea has passed on. We are here to move on. We will pass from your ruins as well, for We are the salt in the sea. We are the heat in the sky. We are the wind, the water, the flame. And as the salt envelops the sea— as the light lances the sky— the wind will ravage your skin. The water will creep into your lungs. The flame will swallow you whole. I am his ally."

The roll of thunder deepens and ripples across the bottom of the world with such intensity that you utterly silence any and all dissent.

"To defy him is to defy Our will, as well. You have looked upon Our works. You have entered a maelstrom of your own making. You have attempted to withstand the gale!"

Your sermon reaches a fever pitch. The lightning in your eyes crackles and sparks. Energy catches on the edges of your mind as the God leans into you, a disaster. "Dare to defy him! Dare to defy Our will! Turn from Our path! GIVE INTO YOUR WEAKNESS! Look away from this demon's generosity, all that he has to give, and continue to gaze upon the might of the STORM!"

The resonance, roll, and absolute devastation quakes the very ground that you stand on.

Everything is silent before you.

It feels terribly wrong to end anything. Your speech, the spectacle, the threat of utter destruction at the hands of a God— you want to keep going. You are lacking restraint. You are utterly lacking control.

The deity in your mind, body, and soul, holds the millions of little cracks together. He's imploring you to continue His works. He does not want you to die. He has been watching over you for a very long time, though you do not often seek His blessing.

You feel compelled to do something about it.

Music

There's a streak of lightning. The brewing tempest within the depths of your soul has you pull into yourself.

Your congregation remains silent. Ofelia and Yech wordlessly trail behind you, looking to you for your power and protection as you step forward.

The flame within your gaze trails to the city above. Flame licks at the underbelly of the city, bearing the promise of destruction. There are so many screams rising from its depths. There is a faint light— an indication of what once could have been— but it is an affront to your eyes.

This was no tribute to the Church of Mercy. This spectacle is of sin and of darkness, and you want to make it complete.

You tighten a fist, and draw deep into yourself.

You want release. You don't want to be revered or held as a figure of terror. You are the Father of the Church of Mercy. "I've done enough."

You are compassionate. You are serene. You step forward silently, determined beyond all measure to part ways. You wish to thank the God within you for His blessing in any way that you can. You want restraint. You need to be better.

"We will not withstand an affront to the Father."

You are not restrained. You have given everything you could to a demon to be better.

I need to serve.

I need to try.

Your determination twists into a plea. "I've done enough."

I need to live.

Your allies keep a respectable distance behind you, avoiding the crackle of lightning. The spark of divinity. You cannot see them.

You see the sky.

"We are the Tempest. We will cast ourselves over this offense. We will obscure. We will haze. We will cleanse. We will extinguish this sin, and guide you from darkness and shadow. We will take you from the City of Lights."

You need Him.

"Yes."

You were never in any condition to withstand His gifts. You have never served Him. You scarcely know Him, yet He is within you. His turmoil. His wrath. The fury.

The calm.

You subdue the ruins. Your procession is silent. The army before and behind you— brought into submission by the respect of a God— stays their wrath.

You have a God within you, a building Storm, and there is nothing you can do before His might. This is His will.

You reach your hands silently to the city above. Storm reaches out across the sky and sea. Anything and everything in between is but a barrier to serving Him. You need not see. You are the Tempest. You are the Storm.

You close your hands.

You close your eyes.

There is darkness.