Chapter 10: Eternal Devotion

"I love you, too."​

There are no windows in the small chamber you've slept so much Time away in, but you're grateful for the privacy. Father Wilhelm reappears after an unusually long period, interrupting your thoughts to present an armful of equipment. He hands you your journal, satchel, mace, shield, and other possessions.

"Terribly sorry about all of the trouble again, Father Anscham. Not everyone can have so much prudence as the Church of Mercy."

You gesture to a tidy corner of the room, helping as best as you're able to assist with what he's carrying. The priest is having an absurdly difficult time with the shield and mace. It would be cause for concern if you didn't handle both items with the same ease you always have, but he still manages a few more pleasantries while you get everything set aside.

"If it's any consolation, he did at least attempt to honor your tenets after the fact."

"My only issue— the only complaint I could possibly have— is that I could not openly share anything with him."

"It's regrettable, but it all worked out in the end, didn't it?"

"He still— he did provide me with the opportunity to confess—"

"Keep this as safe as you're able, alright? It shouldn't leave your person, if you can help it."

"I could not help it, Father Wilhelm."

"Good thing I'll be keeping an eye out for you, too! Leave the preparations for the morning to me. I'll leave you to Her. Here!"

A final package for the evening lights your eyes up. The long candle and other tools of prayer within are graciously accepted. There's no residual smell of animal fat. No indication of anything but a luxury that you've only had the pleasure of using thanks to the Church of Mercy. "This— this is beeswax, isn't it?"

An extremely broad smile is directed at you. "I keep a few for special occasions! It's a trifle! Don't worry yourself about it." He has the cheekiness to wink at you. "I won't blame you if you stay up a little later. Blessed be the Night, Father Anscham."

You're not so flustered as to misstep, finishing the exchange with a subdued smile. "Blessed be the Dream. Thank you."

He's already gone, having left you to total silence.

The hearth belonging to the small room goes entirely ignored. Though the floor is as cold as ice, you're burning from within. There's heat within the deepest cracks of your soul.

You close the door neatly behind you. Every limb burns as well from the slight exertion, but it's of little concern. There's only a temporary need to use your vessel.

Moving aside any distractions on the floor, you kneel before the foot of the bed, set out a number of tools to collect any wax, and discard and trim the wick. Properly expressing the light takes mere moments.

As the flame kindles, you do not need to clasp your hands in prayer. There is no need to speak, as the Goddess of Compassion will always hear you. You do not take your Relic in hand, nor do you obtain your war-torn holy symbol from your satchel.

You remove the chain from your neck, and set the Relic down beside you so you can more easily place a hand over your heart. There's no need for words, but you want to express yourself to Her in every conceivable way.

Closing your eyes, extinguishing the light before you from view for mere moments, you can see Her radiance as clear as day.

You look back upon the flame with flecks of gold swimming in your vision. Adoration brings warmth and sincerity into the remnants of your smile. Angst and any memory of a nightmare falls from you. The warm embrace of your Goddess slowly takes you.

"I know. It is a gift to feel you, too."

You want to apologize, but you asked for nothing but forgiveness the last time you spoke to Her.

There's a deep comfort, and a sense of absolute understanding. She's listening, so you say as much as you feel She deserves to hear.

Music

There are no arms around you, but you're taken in by the heat and all-encompassing adoration of something so much greater. There's no need either for any distance, your flowery speech, or any of the ceremony so typical of your prayer.

"I love You, too."

She doesn't need you to say anything, but you want to show Her how much you care. You're really only soft-spoken with people who you aren't intimate with— and you're enamored. There's so much gold, and a softness on the edge of your mind.

The lingering pull of the Goddess has you lean your head back, and close your eyes. She runs through your scars, along your back, and up, away, and into your scalp. Your lips part. Praise slips from you. "Thank You. You've done so much for me. I don't know what I could have done without You. You've given me so much more than purpose, or a mission. You've given me hope. You've given me a will to live." There's a hitch in your breath. "M-Mercy—"

The hand on your chest sears with so much heat that it may as well be on fire.

​

The object of your devotion persists before you. Flecks of metal dances before your vision.

There is no flame or wax upon your flesh. Countless scars litter your fingers. Reminders of your bond that can intertwine along your skin.

She's so soft.

"I know You have always been with me. Mercy, I— I love You. I love you— I love You, too..."

She visits you that night. The Goddess.

Mercy.

You wake of your own accord. The sheets wrapped around you and the bed beneath your frame are still warm, yet they pale in comparison to the radiance coursing through you. You can't help but to lie there for some time, silently enjoying the memory. The heat. The light. The gold.

She's still here.

It's a blessing to enjoy the silence, to get dressed, and to make yourself presentable. It only takes a few moments to gather the objects of prayer still littered across the floor, to clean up the wax, to ready your supplies, and to enjoy the warmth that lingers in your frame well after you've parted from the bed sheets.

There's no need to murmur a small prayer to Her as you finish readying yourself for the day to come, but you do so with a soft smile regardless. You want Her to hear.

With your weapon, shield, supplies, and Relic at the ready, you realize that it still must be terribly early in the morning. You peek your head out of the door to your room, down the main hall, and see that the sun is just beginning to rise.

Beside the door— obviously placed outside of your room during the evening— is a massive pile of supplies. There's a great number of prepared ingredients corresponding with the meal plan Father Friedrich mapped out for you, equipment for making camp, and proper tools that you'll surely make good use of in the coming days. On top of everything is a small note. It's written in blue ink, though it elicits so much red in your face as you read it that you aren't sure whether to hide the paper or tear it up immediately.

Father Anscham,

Don't worry if you need a little extra rest in the morning. I'm getting some extra sleep tonight, too!

Don't wake me.

—Father Wilhelm

A glance down the hall confirms that the door is firmly shut.

Mercy.

The first rays of the sun cuts through cold glass. The edges of the main hall are all aglow, and there's a smile cutting across your face as well.

May all the Gods be praised.

Leaving everything but your journal, a few blankets, and the heavy fur coat Father Wilhelm set out for you, you gear up as best as you can for the cold before heading outside. Ray is sleeping so soundly by the dwindling embers of the hearth that you don't have to sneak to make it out the front door without waking him.

The heavy wooden frame shut slowly behind you as you cut across the field. There's little snow dusting the amber treetops. Yours and Father Wilhelm's footprints from yesterday are still visible, without any new flakes having come down the night before. You're smiling broadly, veering back towards the lake to get a good view of the light peeking out over the trees and mountain tops.

It's stunning. You settle a few blankets in the sparsest patch of snow you can find, with a gorgeous view over the lake. Despite the frost gathering outside of your breath, there's so much warmth in you that you happily sit along the crunching, snow-dusted grass. Hues of rose and gold climb steadily as light falls across the ice, lifting the passage of night into a new day.

The old pens you took with you— the ones you brought with you to the ruins— are so battered and stained with use that they take quite some time to get to cooperate. You don't mind. They're the same implements you took with you to the bottom of the world, in service of a Goddess who has given you everything She possibly could. She's been beside you all this time. You couldn't think of any tools more appropriate to express your devotion.

You're hardly a man of the arts, but you're driven by so much more than a desire for a commission or a story to tell. The words you seek come quickly, though the structure you frame them on is messier than it could be. Your passion, your conviction, and all of the adoration you hold for the Goddess guides you into something you eventually feel is worth looking back over.

You feel a little silly by the time the sun has fully risen. The structure of a sonnet is more sophisticated than anything you have ever heard before— but you carry with you hundreds of years of history, the knowledge of scholars, and the passion of preachers.

The words of lovers.

You glance around a few times, ensuring that you're both alone. There's religious fervor in your heart and soul, and such an unconventional method of reverence should be heard aloud. You want Her to hear.

Your voice still remains soft and intimate. She is always with you, after all.

"Merciful Goddess, Your love is my light.

Our passion, our flame! It rivals the sun.

What more could I wish for, to fill my sight?

My vessel is whole, each time we are one.

Even in the night, darkness before,

Mercy, how dearly I long for Your knife.

Oh, through new wounds You will always restore,

Our passion, our heat, Your blessing, my life.

Each time that we meet, in darkness and gold,

I pray our embrace will be without end.

More than perfection in Your hands I hold,

There is nothing from which we can't transcend.

Tears from You are a perfect emotion.

No break can end eternal devotion."

The heat in you couldn't possibly be from embarrassment alone. It's abundantly clear that She was waiting for you to finish speaking. You're held instantly, and swept into Her embrace.

It would take a Goddess of compassion to take to my poetry, wouldn't it?

You bask in the sunlight for so many blessed moments that you genuinely pray for it to never end.

"I'm so glad that You liked it. I love You, too. Mercy."