Chapter 10: Living Weapons

"Born and bred."​

Father Wilhelm demonstrates so much Mercy towards the demons before you. Before they can completely cross the courtyard, and with a wave of his hands, every imp headed your way collapses in a fit of slumber.

Stepping over five bodies of their allies, the next line of demons hesitates to approach. It costs them dearly. Weapons hurled from the height of the battlements stabs and skewers them alive. Their corpses fall onto the demons at their feet. Eternal rest seizes them in an instant.

The only cure.

Music

It's enough for you to approach the monstrous demon at the center of the courtyard. Its discharge, the flame, and heat on the ground below is not a threat. Its healing is. The instant you get within reach of the creature's might, you can see the rate at which it is repairing. It's working frantically to undo Father Friedrich's administrations. Swirls of paint no longer spin inside of the beast's body. It prioritized removing your ally's work, leaving countless tears, rips and wounds littering the enormous scab. Gallons of pus leak out from beneath.

Father Friedrich is bent entirely on wearing it down, unfazed by the grotesque. Keeping the nightmare's focus off of any of his allies is what he has been born and bred to do.

The men atop the walls are culling the remainder of the imps, directing their focus towards the demon lanced with spears. Their Father is clinging, perched to the side of the beast, his muscle visibly aflame with every strike and tear against the demon. He's not calling out, but is in a visible fit of ecstasy. So much force is applied through his Flesh to the creature beneath, it cannot hope to match his might. Every strike is another roar of bliss and religious fervor.

You cry out, "give US your hand!"

A wide-eyed, crimson look is frantically whipped around to you. The man is grinning wildly, incapable of understanding what you're asking of him. He neither has visions of the future, nor understanding of the mind. He does not know of the passage of Time, the blessing of the night or the knowledge of the immaterial.

He is a man of the corporeal. Looking down to the sapphire littering your frame, the cracks about the battlefield, and Father Wilhelm's unwavering conviction, he at least seems to understand a fraction of what you ask. "Protect them all, dammit—! Stay back—!"

Beneath the priest and his outcry is another convulsion. The force with which the demon writhes must be impossible to tell at a glance, as it causes even the lord of musculature to plummet.

With a shout, a surge of flame, and an extreme display of dexterity, the man's hands dig back into the demon. He slides, dragging a colossal tear into the side of the behemoth.

Through the wounds he creates, there comes a flood.

It has not transpired yet. You gaze upon the point of the vision, unable to stop him in your haze, and do what you do best.

With stroke of the Gods, and a motion of your hands, you create a defense. The series of platforms are of solid gold, jutting out from the side of the demon to the ground beneath you both. The nearest one is just a leap away from Father Friedrich's precarious position.

You scream, "GET DOWN!"

The priest jumps not a second too late. A surge of toxin and clouds of smoke billows from within the demon.

Through the wounds he creates, there comes a flood. You cry out, meeting an explosion of sulfur and lava with the heat and protection of the Goddess. In a field of light and vision, you encompass every ally you can.

Whipping your head to the opposite end of the courtyard, there's an impression in the back of your mind. Your ally is holding his own across the field of battle, charging towards you and Father Friedrich fearlessly. He winds through a path that you both can see. Every expanse of bare stone, gaps between molten flame, away from the carnage, and each break in the enemy's ranged attacks cannot harm him. Death will not take him. Not in your wildest imaginings.

You take hold of the locket around your neck. Your free hand drips with paint and gold. Father Friedrich staggers over to you, out of breath, and dripping with blood.

You grasp as firmly as you can onto his hands. His skin sears with a fire that rivals the very sun, but there is no need for you to rival him.

Your grip tightens, embracing the agony. "Will you trust Us?"

An involuntary twitch, and the reply that follows is not of this world. Flesh has seen your work. He has heard your prayers. He has witnessed your devotion.

"You have yet to disappoint him."

With the might of the Gods, the Fathers of Flesh and Mercy grasp hands. Your arms tense— flexing your strength, your compassion, and your unparalleled devotion. Though your grip is wasted and scarred, every fiber in your body surges with newfound strength.

"Reform this altar of sin. Rescind this blasphemous form. Hypocrisy ends. Our deliverance begins."

Heat and flame rises with enough intensity to scorch the earth. Crimson and gold intertwines with your ally's grip, his power, and all the passion he holds. It is no work of imagination. You share in His works, in the physical, and tighten your grasp for one more moment before wrenching away.

It robs the field of everything but your mutual reverence. The cracks of pooling blood, the sapphire and gold, and the very magma beneath your feet cannot withstand your might.

Grinning wildly back to Father Friedrich, you look to streaks of gold. It intertwines in the plumes of smoke rising from his body, in a swirl of paint, and oil that keeps the flame ablaze. The smoke climbs from the demon, your respective bodies, and is stoked by a Dream of what is to come.

Father Wilhelm interprets your unparalleled unity. There is no need for words between any of you. This is the will of the Gods.

A monstrosity leers overhead, having repaired itself as quickly as it was able. Plumes of smoke drift along the field of battle, but there is no burn in your lungs. Not for how quickly you have to sprint aside, not for the inescapable need to dodge, or all the protection you grant from the incoming attack.

The enemy is closing in fast— having realized the sheer intensity of your mutual threat— but not even a streak of more misplaced spears can threaten your sanity. You move with impossible speed and agility, while Father Friedrich catches one projectile clean out of the air.

He happily drives the weapon straight into the first demon before you, and rapidly backs up. Discarding the weapon, he extends an arm to you. His protruding veins course with gold. Unshakable devotion stretches across a manic smile, pointed at the gargantuan monster dead ahead.

Music

Unable to suppress an unhinged laugh, the sheer love of the fight, or any of the Gods who are working through you, you back up just enough to have room to break into a sprint.

The ground between you and Father Friedrich closes in second. He braces to hurl you skyward.

An explosive leap— as you've practiced for weeks— lands on his outstretched hands. He matches your laughter with a shout, using the momentum and your mutual strength to launch you clean through the toxic air.

You soar through smoke and flame.

Breaking over the top of the billowing plumes, you catch a glimpse of the city beyond, the top of the battlements, and land cleanly atop the horrific creature. There is still wind in your lungs, a fire in your Flesh, a Dream littering the field of battle, and a Goddess who is eager to protect it all.

Metal pours from your hands. You laugh like a mad thing, and coat your fists with solid gold.

A number of spears streaks across the field. You can only hear them whizzing through the smoke and fog below. Cyril screams over the onslaught in the distance, swearing at his Father.

You can't make out their coordination over the rising screams of imps and more civilians in the distance, but you see it. A network of weaponry heads straight towards you.

A ladder, reaching up to the nightmare.

The first of the weapons plummet into the side of the demon, causing it to spasm. A huge flood of pus and a scream rises from the monster.

You exacerbate the cacophony. Breaking into a run along the top of its form, you dig your molten fingers into the creature's hide. The continuous coating of scalding metal creates huge rivers of open wounds for each one of your fingers, and cauterizes them over as fast as you dig in. Blood rises in trails of smoke from the creature, and in a massive expanse behind you.

As you claw deeper, you reach down past your wrist, up to your forearm, and are forced to slide to a halt almost on hands and knees. You stop just as the edge of the demon looms. All of your Flesh and Mercy goes into holding on for dear life.

It bucks. No fewer than ten spears impact the demon's side right where you would have just fallen.

From underneath the top layer of the scab— despite the pus and smoke sloshing underneath— you can feel the demon mending. In a horrific mockery of the God of the Material, its skin thickens, trying to encapsulate your limb that's below its surface.

You are an intrusion on its body for only one more second, and pull your arm out as quickly as you can.

The spears protruding from the demon's side— a ladder, reaching up to the nightmare— bends and cries from the force applied to it. Father Friedrich finishes scaling up the beast, and leaps from the last weapon. He rips it out in a spray of pus and blood, and takes the time to extract one more as he calls to you.

"She's always been more devoted to her own body!" He smiles in an equally insane way, obviously speaking of the demon. In his own hands are two polearms. One is tossed to you, which you catch effortlessly between your gold and sapphire. Its handle is bladed two feet along hilt.

You know his intent. Several other voices are eager to offer Their word, and to aid in your reply.

"We will grace this demon with the true meaning of devotion."

Nothing further needs to (or can be) said, given how hard the next pulsing attack comes. The demon beneath your feet sobs and screams, wrenching forth an explosion of crimson and decay.

You let loose another wide grin, a cry, and launch yourself alongside Father Friedrich off the side of the demon.

Both of you swing your weapons into the side of the beast, dragging the blade with all of your might, and holding on for dear life. Careening back towards the ground with the wind in your hair and blood pounding in your ears, you hardly hear the rest of the battle raging.

A great number of cries still carry over the chaos as you descend, digging into the carnage as deeply as you can.

"DO YOU SEE THEM?! The FUCK—"

"What was that?!"

"Keep to the walls. Trust in your Fathers."

"ANOTHER VOLLEY—!"

You make it less than halfway down the demon— parallel to the second floor of the Church of Flesh— before the demon bucks hard enough to wrench you and Father Friedrich into the air.

There is no injury that cannot be healed between the blessings of Mercy and Flesh. It's a Dream as you collide with the stone, the hardened rock, and the splinter of bone. Joy and light is all through tender sinew, through your grin, and you immediately force your body to break back into a run.

Father Friedrich is obviously impressed by your will to persevere. Rather than part from your side, the warrior pulls just slightly ahead. He leaps again to scale another ladder of projectiles, while raining a barrage of punishment on the demon.

You follow suit, laying in strike after strike. The flurry of blows between you, the Gods, and the Father of Flesh goes without interruption, as Father Wilhelm commands the troops in the distance. Dodging and weaving between a hail of spears from the imps beyond becomes child's play— compared to the redoubled efforts of the demon under your hands.

The monster begins to tear itself apart in a final attempt at taking you all down. All hopes of self-preservation seem to be lost, thanks to your combined efforts.

Every God within you works in tandem to hold the defense. You see the explosion of pus and rot a moment before it hits. Diving in front of Father Friedrich as he's hurled to the floor, an explosion of light and gold flares forth between you, the priest at your side, and thousands of congealed daggers. They're made of organic material, and melt instantly before your shield.

The man you are dutifully protecting is awe-struck, and has the restraint to not move. You tense— every motion searing like a hot brand to your skin— as the defense holds. A radius of soot gathers in a sphere outside of the barricade. Your very soul is aflame. The ground before you chars black.

The attack falters. You drop the shield, and nearly drop to your knees.

The man beside you slams a hand on your back in gratitude. The force is enough to knock the wind and all of your sense out of you, actually sending you to your knees. You let loose a laugh of relief.

Father Friedrich's smile falters. He tenses towards the beast leering above, and doesn't offer you a hand out of sheer respect for his patron. "Thanks. Now get up. Let's go finish this bastard."

You assume a horrific grimace, fighting against the blessing of three deities and yet another source of sensation coursing along your skin.

Together, you fight.

Together, you charge.

Breaking into a run alongside the creature— enabling your soul and mortal form to shatter through its defenses— you coat your fists in more than gold. There is blood. Each quake of the stone beneath your feet, the heat in your lungs, the force behind your blows and the dying cries in the distance sinks into you harder than the Gods, harder than your muscle, and harder than even the man of the Gods beside you.

He's laughing. His body is similarly coated in viscera, for how hard you have pressed your attack.

You pummel the beast. Each strike lays deeper than the last, revealing a void. The creature has expelled the entirety of its interior contents. Its Flesh is in tatters in countless places from the outburst of one thousand daggers. In her desperation to strike you down, the demon enabled its own undoing.

Good.

You guarantee it.

Music

Dodging under another barrage of spears, you cry out across the hardened lava— cooling rapidly for want of any further heat from the demon— over to the radiant priest beyond. Gold and gems glitter within the cracks of his frame.

"Father Wilhelm! Let us put this demon to rest."

He telegraphs an unseen glance to the demon, through his blindfold and the night. You glance over your own shoulder just in time to swing up another shield.

The creature is unfolding, creating a number of appendages out of its torn scabs. One of the decaying wounds is at least twenty feet in length, and threatens to slam down on you in full.

A behemoth leaps to your aid. Father Friedrich dives in front of you, ahead of your barrier, and catches the tremendous piece of decay in mid-air.

As he lands— practically crushed under its weight— you rush forth and grasp onto the appendage and help to keep it straight above both of your heads. There isn't any room to spare for a moment of weakness. Muscles screaming from the strain, you drag a shield from the gold in a singular hand, and try not to scream.

From across the field is the smaller demon of spears. It's charging, writhing, and threatening to unleash an assault on you both.

Restraint has many definitions. You shout at the top of your lungs, "HOLD! WE NEED COVER!"

The movement of your free hand blocks the opening to your side, erecting a wall of illumination between the freed demon and your ally. It manifests not a second too late. The demon unleashes every spear within its body. They litter the field of battle, sticking into stone, into dirt, the corpses still protruding from the magma, and every inch of your shield.

Father Wilhelm makes his way across the field, having clearly waited for the attack to subside. Smoke and flame is coursing off of Father Friedrich's strain in such huge plumes that you can scarcely see with your mortal eyes. The defense holds. Your conviction stays firmer than any mortal weapon.

"NOW!"

The Father of Dream closes the last of the distance between your holy trinity. From his outstretched hand, he provides ultimate relief. The weight of the creature is removed, robbing the tentacle of all shape or form, and drenching you and Father Friedrich in oil paints.

A swarm of unholy limbs retaliates. The priest of Flesh by your side lets loose a yell, using nothing but his bare fists to punch back and wrestle the demon into submission.

He takes hold of the largest flap of skin that threatens to swing down. The skin on his shoulders threatens to break from the strain of its weight.

Your flame rises. Your body may as well be on fire, for how much heat is in you.

Alongside the Father of Dream, you close your eyes.

With the gold and pigment, you raise your hands.

Your eyes open. From them comes a blessing. A building pool of devastation gathers in the enemy, and with a wave of a single hand, you motion to Father Friedrich's splitting skin.

The weight of the demon presses down with enough force to tear his arms and shoulders asunder— were it not for the lord of compassion by his side. You grant him relief from his pain, in the demon's final efforts at self-preservation.

The last of Dream's works are to be looked upon with his partner's own eyes. Father Wilhelm casts aside his blindfold, revealing irises pooled with indefinite canvases of paint and gold. You forget his words the moment they leave his lips.

Divinity parts from his prayer. It was a Dream.

The demon's form goes slack.

Every nerve on fire, soaked with sweat, sticky with oil and charred by flame, you clasp a gilded hand tightly about the locket around your neck.

"Too long have you suffered. We give you not the cure to the Catalyst, but the cure to your pain! Rest now, with Our blessing! Rest through Our symbol!"

An incoherent scream replies. It's too lost to pain and insanity to be saved.

You permit Gods and a Goddess to flow through you. Dream and Mercy intertwine from your tortured Flesh in an instant current. It flashes across the battlefield in streaks of color, pooling beneath the demon, spilling over its lost form, and coursing deeply inside of its shell of a body.

They build in a fire, melting gold, and flowing oils.

Your allies subdue the creature's last efforts at wiping out the Church of Flesh. Father Friedrich is punching, swinging, and wrestling the monster down as best as he's able. It writhes against Father Wilhelm's efforts at subjugation, despite all he has made it forget.

Coordination rises from every direction.

"TO THE WALLS!"

"Get back!"

Priests along the peak of the battlements fell the last of the imps and the demon of spears, bent with all their might on reciprocating your protection.

"MERCY!"

"Where have they been—?!"

A crowd of civilians gathered during the fight, though you've been too distracted by your allies' survival to notice them. Many of them cry out in reverence, lean on one another for support, or are awe-struck by the display.

"Sweet Father of Mercy—!"

"What in the name of—?!"

Sweat and gold drips off of you as you bring your hands together. Paint and gold follows the motion. You bring in the entirety of the sapphire, ruby, magma, and metal throughout the field of battle.

"KEEP UP THE ASSAULT!"

"By all the Gods!"

"Get to cover!"

The will of three Gods works through the prayer kept underhand, under your breath, and into a miasma of divinity. You splay your palms to the ground.

With the downward thrust, the world threatens to give out from under you. All of the material you have gathered follows the motion, flooding into the demon, filling it, and melting its form beyond all recognition. Your vision swims.

The destroyed figure decays from the highest reaches of the Church of Flesh, covering the hardened magma as its body spreads out and dissolves. The mass spreads faster by the second, painting over the courtyard, lapping at your feet, and sinking deeply into the stone.

With eyes of gold, you look upon your works. A swirl of radiance and devotion pools from every melted corpse littering the battlefield. Dozens of daggers, swords, halberds, and shields are taken into the melted blend. Countless charred bodies are consumed into the luster, the crimson, and sapphire. Ultimately, it leaves nothing but light in its wake.

A faint glow breaks out into tufts of illumination over the entire courtyard, and carries away like pollen on a soft breeze. In the absence of death, a field of golden flowers spreads across the dirt and blackened stone. It fills the cracks of your alliances, and tinges with red and blue.

More than a fantasy. Proof of Their strength. Evidence of your union.

"Mercy."

Dozens of civilians gathered across the courtyard drop to their knees. Many more take hesitant steps backwards, or freeze in place— unwilling to infringe on the work of holy men.

Father Wilhelm moves right by your side, and gives you a proud pat on the back, taking care to keep you straight. "Her works are a sight to behold, Father."

The priests along the walls run to the stairs, to the side of the battlements, to towers, and descend to your level. They call to each other, coordinating the last of the assault, and ensuring that you and your fellow Fathers are kept safe.

Though the battle is won, men of the Gods have much more work to do.

"We're not done here." Father Friedrich's words make your eyes go even wider than they already are. He places a hand firmly to your shoulder, and to Father Wilhelm's in turn, while murmuring quietly enough for no one else around to hear. "There is another demon for us to 'attend' to. It may be prudent to let Father Wilhelm take over, from here— if that's alright with you, Father Anscham."

The exhaustion ravaging your body is plain to see, even through the works of three Gods.

You need to rest.

Your devotion is Our strength.

You have accomplished so much, but there is more to be done.

Before any civilians gather their courage to venture into the courtyard, you gather your strength. Your pulse is still racing a mile a minute. Sweat is slick against your robes. Blood is in your hair, pus adorns your arms, and gold flows freely from your hands. Still, the men and women ahead have more than you to thank for their survival.

There's a little hesitation while you look out over the field of golden flowers. The gemstones littering the field are precious, and worth more to you than all the riches of the world. They are obviously not fixtures of Agriculture, as the blossom is entirely unnatural. No soil lies beneath them.

There is a swirl of paint and gold, intermingled with crimson and cooled magma. It pains you, but you know you need to part from your companions. You're certain you're not seeing clearly.

There's still fire in your soul as you break away from the holiest of alliances.