Chapter 4: Gold Blooms

"Misery and bliss."​

The cessation of smoke on the horizon has you fearing the worst. While you struggle with the urge to grab onto the wound across your own arm, you do everything in your power to focus, to exercise restraint, and to uphold Mercy's tenets. You need Her. You need Her to lend yourself and Her gifts to the injuries of another.

I will not charge in blindly to certain danger. There is so much in this world worth living for. Worth protecting. Worth defending.

Behind you roars the sound of battle. The unhinged smile plastered across your face fades, and you turn to your allies.

Ray's fur is on end for how alert he is. His growls are directed off towards where you're certain Father Friedrich was fighting.

There is never enough Time.

The King's men have been searching for you. Invoking Mercy will give away your position in an instant to trained eyes. Saving this man's life might compromise many things, but you don't care.

There is more at stake here than your comfort.

No amount of respite is worth the life of another.

Your mutilated hands go from the hilt of your mace to the gold around your neck. One holy man beside you is on the brink of death, his eyes hazy. The other looks to you with extreme concern. "What do you think you're doing?"

There is so much gold. Your Relic fits tightly between your palms. The locket is concealed. It's in your hands, in your eyes, and in your soul.

All the misery and bliss coursing through your wounds shifts. There is more than Her gift. The Goddess ensures that there is immediate relief from your pain.

Heat and light takes you for the first time in weeks. Relief floods into you.

Mercy.

You take your hands from beneath your robes. The way you stand as straightly as you can, the absence of any exhaustion, Her slow healing, and your obvious change in demeanor should be enough of an answer for the priest beside you. Still, acknowledging the question seems appropriate. You are Merciful.

Daylight and gold murmurs to the wounded priest beside you, "saving as many lives as I can. Please, permit Us to heal you."

Wide eyes bore into the gold chain about your neck, and frantically dart to the imps in the distance. More are coming.

The clergyman places a hand to your shoulder, and hisses through the motion, "hurry."

The Goddess knows of your urgency. There is no need for words between you both. Before a single word of prayer and invocation leaves your lips, heat that rivals the very sun possesses you.

"M-Mercy, Goddess of Compassion—" The hitch in your breath is unavoidable. She loves you. You have endured so much in devotion to Her.

Countless nights in the dark, seeing nothing but Her light.

Your hands are trembling. Divine ecstasy courses through the wound in your arm, the exhaustion in your limbs, and every last inch that She can embrace. Before your eyes— before you have even asked anything of Her— you can see the priest's wounds mending. Your intent and Her blessing works through your outstretched hands. The gaping maw that was his chest laces together with bands of spun gold. Light and flecks of metal part into the air.

You make a point to speak aloud. To demonstrate to the dying man before you that your works are for his benefit.

He's speechless, and clutching so hard onto your shoulder that you fear it may break, but there is no injury. No pain can come between you and Mercy.

"C-come unto Us. Pure are Our hands. Pure is Her blessing. Pure is the blood— w-when..."

There is no blood. The wound is already mended in full, faster than any priest of Mercy should be capable of granting relief— save for one. She wants him to know.

It's too difficult to stop yourself. To stop Her. You are ardent. She is amorous. You want for Her, and She is on you.

She is in you, and you need each other.

We are Merciful.

Exercising all of the restraint you're able, you level your voice, and still your breath. "...when held in everlasting compassion. Closed are your wounds. Open is our heart, guided by Mercy."

Flecks of gold dance in your vision as you scrutinize Her healing. The man's wounds before you are not just mended in full. Light is in his eyes.

The soul you've saved smiles softly, and pulls you into a tight embrace. It only lasts a moment. He murmurs, "thank you, Father."

The gold is gone the moment you part, but he is as whole and hale as much as a mortal man in the heat of battle can be. Still, the priest's soft smile melts into a grimace. Five demons at least are rapidly approaching from off in the distance of the courtyard.

The other priest— for his broken shield and sword, the wounds littering his arms, and his obvious reverence— says nothing. He's sternly staring as you put your Relic back beneath your crimson disguise.

Wordlessly, you all break into a run. There is no exhaustion, or even the slightest indication of a burn as you sprint. A gentle pressure is in you. The soft edges of the Goddess. Her form and Her faith.

She's reverent, immaculate, and it's clear that your shortness of breath is not coming from the exertion. It has been weeks since you were last together.

Without any pain, you and the priest you healed pull ahead. It leaves Ray and your valiant defender only a few feet behind. There's an enormous barricade erected on the building in front of you. Wooden beams and rocks have been put up, blocking the door from opening outwards. The structure may have once been a stable, but you hear human voices on the other side.

The two priests of Flesh beside you rush forward without hesitation, and start tearing away the makeshift barrier. You would like to help, and command Ray to seize a number of wooden planks as well, but compassion seizes you.

It's too much. Your motions halt. There is someone here in greater need of aid than your immediate allies.

Father Friedrich's voice hits you first, through the thick and barricaded door. Though his words are stern, he sounds heart-broken. "That is a direct order. Not from Flesh. From your Father. You gone soft on me, boy? Do we need to do this the—"

The voice that follows is broken beyond salvation. "Stop. Stop— stop. I'm going to stop them. I'm trying to help—! Oh, Gods—"

You rush forward, unable to listen any further. Tearing down the barricade would be excruciating, were it not for Mercy. Slow mending caresses your tortured muscle and bone. With it comes relief from your pain.

Gold blooms in the corners of your mind, vision and soul with the exertion.

The combined efforts of three holy men and a trained mastiff makes quick work of the wood and stone. The man you healed knocks back his hood, rolls up his only sleeve, and sets about heaving the colossal door before you single-handedly.

His partner bravely brings up his shield, dives behind you, and catches a projectile seconds before contact. The imps have closed the distance between you all, and hurl daggers made of coagulated blood.

The source of the first attack— a small, gelatinous demon— leers at you both. Though its shape is humanoid, the creature is nothing but a solid mass of blood and clots.

Both priests beside you lose all of the color in their face. Their recognition of your association with the Church of Mercy immediately becomes evident, as they seem bent on protecting you.

"Get inside!"

"MOVE!"