Chapter 11: Blue Ink

"A warning of everything that is to come."​

With the release of your alliance comes another weight. It's so extreme that it's as if the entire world was pressing down on your shoulders. You almost drop completely to the floor, struggling with the might of all the Gods to maintain your composure.

Nothing but Mercy is in you. Mercy for yourself.

No one could ever be disappointed with You. You are a miracle. You are a blessing. You are the Father, and the Mother is here. She would never Dream of leaving your side. She would never forsake you, and never your Flesh. She loves you—

Both of your allies come to your side. It seems he and Father Wilhelm immediately released their patrons, and they recognize what's happening without you needing to say a word.

Father Friedrich kneels down beside you, just enough to swing your free arm around his shoulders. The motion sends a burst of heat and gold across your vision, and into every recess of your body. You're lifted to your feet and walk alongside him, trying to not groan for every exquisitely agonizing step.

Patient and exhausted, the church leaders guide you away from the courtyard, back towards the Church of Flesh. You haven't heard a word from either man as you limp. The way that Father Wilhelm is looking back to the courtyard leads you to believe he's communicated something, or understood some meaning from the priests stationed in the field beyond, but it really doesn't matter.

The grin directed back towards you is cheeky, playful, and nowhere near as respectful as you'd prefer. It's easy to forget Father Wilhelm's age, for how juvenile he can be. "I suspect you'll need a room?"

You want to groan, (biting your lip is getting you through the worst of it,) but suspect making a single sound will be your undoing. Shaking your head is safe enough.

A snort is produced by the priest supporting you. Father Friedrich fires back, "maybe a stiff drink and a smoke."

"I can see to at least half of that." With a chuckle, Father Wilhelm tries and fails to find an unbroken cigar on his person. As he walks alongside you and Father Friedrich, he must pull out and shove away ten bundles of dried spices and herbs.

The leader of the Church of Flesh mutters under his breath, "after getting some rest."

You don't care to observe the attempts at further aid, and cast a longing glance back to the courtyard. The priests who fought alongside you are attending to the mass of civilians at the gate. Without any fuss, they are negotiating and managing the effort, cleaning up the rest of the carnage, seeing to the wounded, and serving all of the Gods as best as they're able.

Father Wilhelm and Father Friedrich work together to get the front door to the church open. You are granted with the sight of an evacuated interior hall. The high stone walls, stairs streaked with blood, simplistic archways, and ornate foundations grants you even further reassurance. No one else was attacked here. The Church of Flesh did not fall.

Your legs are threatening to give way from under you. Ecstasy and heat robs you of all coherent thought.

Father Friedrich is all compassion and empathy. Blisters form along his shoulders when your wrist brushes across the bare skin for an instant, but he doesn't wince or pull away. Instead, he grasps onto your arm all the more tightly, pressing on into a corridor. "Don't give me any shit, now. You fight like a demon. Keep fighting. Just a little further."

Tossing aside another broken cigar absent-mindedly, Father Wilhelm jogs ahead of you both, and opens a door with a grand gesture. You do not see its contents, though he frowns, and closes it again. "Pantry?"

"The next door over, Father."

"...armory?"

"No, the other door— don't grin at me like that. You've seen exactly which one I mean."

A mocking bow bends Father Wilhelm at the waist, as he plays at servicing you and Father Friedrich. He opens a broad, wooden door without so much as knocking first.

Staggering forward, you hardly look through a curtain of gold to the room before you. It's intended as servant's quarters, but is vacant at the moment. There are no windows, and not even slits for arrows. Folded blankets rest in a dusty corner. There are a few chests for clothing and personal items, but little else of interest.

It is terribly quiet as the door closes behind you, but not for a moment longer. Biting down harder on your lip— trying to muffle the groan that is begging to escape at the promise of even more relief— you draw blood, and lose the battle to maintain your composure. "Mercy..."

You're set down on one of the straw mattresses lining the floor. Before you even fully settle onto it, you're given something to bite into. "I insist," Father Friedrich murmurs, glancing to the door. "He'll be alright, won't he?"

You take the band of leather without question, practically unable to see or hear. The radiance in your heart and soul is blinding.

You have always been perfect. Blessed, by all of the Gods.

The heat in your face and the rest of your exhausted limbs is too much to endure. You try to lay back at least, to avoid any injury in the event you pass out. There's no question in your mind that you've overextended yourself and can still do so much more.

"He'll be just fine." Father Wilhelm's smile must be audible, for you're completely incapable of looking at him. "Father Anscham, please, do try to rest. It's quite alright. We'll give you some privacy. I'll come back to check in on you." He's too pleased with himself to not linger an extra moment. "You won't get much sleep after everything We've accomplished—"

"Show the man some fucking Mercy," Father Friedrich ushers, rising from the mattress and pushing Father Wilhelm back out the door. "We have business. He's done more than we could ask for. Come on. Out."

There will be time for thanks, to demonstrate your sanity, and to be looked upon as an ordinary human later. Searing, golden light courses through you. The door shuts as you wordlessly writhe.

You saved them. You have shown immaculate compassion and conviction. You have never swayed from your duty.

You are sworn to Us.

"M-Mercy— Mercy."

You restrain as much as you're able. It ensures that the release of a Goddess stays between only you and Her.

At some point, you must have fallen asleep.

The room quickly fills with so much water. You're sinking deeper, darker, beyond faces obscured in shadow. It takes you away from the screams and the nightmare in the back of your mind. You love the current. You love the sea. Memories of misunderstanding, abuse, and demons all fade.

Within the depths of darkness— the void, a vessel— is the promise of divinity.

You want to love, to share, with the form that appears before you. It shows itself to you before any other, crackling. The flame and flow can't hope to give itself over to you. It's been badly broken.

Something is wrong.

Through the water rises smoke, obscuring your sight even further. Only the sinew along your bare hands is visible as it unravels into strands of white thread. A scream has been building in the back of your throat. The thread snakes its way along your body. It is familiar, though it has never truly known you. The white and immaterial form creeps along your vision, devastating in all of its good intent.

The thread burrows deeply into your eyes, lifting them to an hourglass on the horizon. Temptation looms at the edge of the world. Each grain of sand that crashes to the base of the glass creates another star, another burst of light.

You've never been so terrified.

There are men at your side. Their faces are shrouded in black. They are envious because of your suffering. There are thirty-two of them, looking up to you as you persevere. A corpse floats by, smelling heavily of liquor. The grotesque form passes just within your grasp. You want to reach out. You want to extend yourself, but the shroud is over his eyes and hands.

The struggle to swim towards the lost form takes you to a tree. It spreads from the base of the sea, up to the horizon. The base is hale, but the uppermost branches have rotted.

You reach out as far as you can.

As you extend your hands, you see with perfect clarity. There is no thread in your eyes. There is no sinew. There is gold. It is the only trace of the metal in the entire world.

At the peak of the sky, you see it. Between your outstretched hands, the gold, and beyond your skin and bones are the moon and the stars.

You have reached out to Dream.

​

The God dwarfs the planet itself. Painted glass swirls in a great expanse beyond His robes and scepter. Visions of what could be in past, present, and future matter little. There is no matter, no Time, and no comprehension of anything but the night.

There is an impression of something soaring beyond the realm of your understanding. Above the sea, above the Storm, and above your hands of Mercy is a gift. A blessing that you do not fully comprehend.

More than anything, you wish to interpret what you've looked upon. With absolute clarity— though His face is obscured from your vision— you see a shadow. An abyss, locked away from so many.

He looks upon you with love and devotion.

You are the key.

You wake up drenched in sweat and several other things. Old, sticky, darkening blood litters the robes still adorning you. You're atop the thin sheets, practically bare, and covered in remnants of battle and a Goddess.

You jerk upright— eyes wide, horror slaking you— as you hope beyond hope that you're actually alone.

The room is blessedly empty. The few servant's beds beside you are vacant and neatly made. A plain black robe, more clean clothes, a few sheets of blank parchment, a pen and a note are placed atop the mattress directly across from you. A wash basin is beside it, the water gone cold.

With a groan, you manage to rise. An intense pain is lancing your temples, but no exhaustion clings to you. Mercy appears to have mended your torn muscle, your overextended body, and every wound you suffered in full.

"Thank you..." you murmur, along with a number of other praises and methods of devotion. "...Mercy—"

The prayer is cut short, as you feel around your own robes. Panic hits you again. You had not taken Father Wilhelm's advice to never let your journal leave your person.

Longing for parchment and text, you swipe up the note on the clean clothes. Your hands are still caked in demon's blood and pus, remnants of gold, soot, and paint. The digits are trembling like usual, but your frown is even more convicted as you recognize Father Wilhelm's writing.

Blue ink? Does he know nothing of restraint?

You read the note in your head, making quick work of the man's elegant writing. His words are almost as gracious.

Father Anscham,

I've ensured you'll be left to rest for as long as you need. Thank you for all of your efforts! Try to not concern yourself with any other matters until you've had some proper sleep. To Dream is a blessing, and the Gods are Merciful.

Hope the paper helps. Call for another pen if you need it. Ray and I will be staying in the guard tower to the southwest. There's been a great deal of business to attend to!

Come and find me when you're ready.

— Father Wilhelm

I'm sure I'll get better answers if I speak to him in person, but this can't wait.

With a shaking hand— before ever touching the water beside you— you take up the pen and paper. The ink is blue as you record a visit from a God.

The quickening of your pulse, the shortness of your breath, and the panic of a nightmare begins to fade. There are no screams in the back of your mind.

There was a Dream.

You look over the recording, letting the ink dry for a few minutes before glancing to the room around you. It's quiet. A soft bustle of movement can be heard from the church beyond, though no one comes to pester you with any further business. The legitimate privacy— the first space you've had alone in weeks— finally eases your nerves. It's difficult to believe the space and respect is real, compared to the constant pressure of the Church of Mercy.

Looking around, you confirm that this is definitely still a church building. Faint candlelight dwindles on the edges of the room, likely having been lit less than an hour before. You move towards the tallow, paying no mind to the scent of animal fat. It's familiar and comforting while you set to putting up even more light.

There's gold in your vision, and all along you. Searching for anything resembling soap is your top priority. Moving to the supply chests around the room, you hesitate— letting your filth-caked hands hover for only a moment.

The wash basin is more inviting, at least before you dig through the items of another church. For all of your experience with herbs, medicine, cleanliness and appearances, you instantly recognize its aroma. The scent of thyme, sage and clove intermingles with the candles around the room. Scrubbing the bulk of the filth out from under your nails and out of the deepest of your scars is not an issue. Every station in the church— be they humble servants or divine leaders— pay particular attention to their vessels.

The problem is with your hands. It's not so much a problem as a question that becomes more and more apparent. The harder you scrub— as the majority of the pus, blood and decay parts from you— you can see the question in full.

You pull back from the water, alarmed beyond all reason. The worst of your burns, and the deepest evidence of mended wounds are entirely gone. It's as if they were never there. Turning your thin wrists and long fingers over several times, you struggle to believe your eyes.

"Mercy—"

You grab a candle in utter disbelief, and go back to the water. It's no trick of the light. The majority of the scars along your hands are completely gone. The skin is healthy. Pale, and still thoroughly scarred in places, but healed.

You are immaculate.

What's more, there is literally gold on you. It's not only from the Relic that you have yet to remove. It's in your reflection, catching against the light and your scrutiny.

The metallic strands you felt in your hair in the heat of battle have persisted. Far fewer crevasses and pockmarks litter the hollows of your cheeks too, for how much Mercy has worked through you. Your nose may be bent, the bags under your eyes plain to see, the hollows under your prominent cheekbones clear to any who may look upon them...

You have endured so much.

You put a hand through your hair, pulling very slightly, completely baffled by your appearance. The threads of luster are as tangible as the rest of your hair. Scruffy as it is, you can't help but to get a little water into the mop to better confirm Her works.

There's unquestionably the mark of a Goddess on you. You're speechless.

The heat on your skin persists. There's something more. It's delicate and compassionate, in appreciation of everything that you've done. Everything that you are.

Every thought you could possibly have is focused entirely on Mercy.

You look to the wash basin. It's already clouded, and you feel more than a little unclean as your robes continue to stick to you.

Without any urgency, you return to looking for something to properly wash yourself off with. Drying off your hands, you set to fishing about a number of wooden chests, drawers, and even look under the mattresses. There is an ample supply of dusty towels and old robes all in crimson, a handful of rotten candles, sewing supplies, and further cleaning equipment that fills the storage. A few personal items are all symbols of worship. No written text greets you. There are carvings, weights, and measures of devotion that need no written language to comprehend. A wooden needle or two is even among the sewing equipment, along with a box containing a stack of unworn holy vestments.

"May all the Gods be praised." A small box of soap reveals itself. You blow off the dust from the item, permitting flecks of gold to dance before your eyes.

Light persists in your reflection as you go back to scrubbing. The scented water is frigid, for how long it's been sitting out for. A chill trickles down your spine, but you are diligent, patiently working over your haggard skin and bone. Though the ridges of your spine stands starkly against your skeletal back, you are consoled. Not for the weeks of dedication you've paid to Flesh, Not for your training, the knowledge that you will recover in Time, or even for how many battles you've won.

A familiar sensation slowly works up along your spine. It's as if slender fingers were walking over the sensitive skin with the same care you're paying to yourself. The caress trails from the nape of your neck, and up into your gilded hair. It replaces the dull remnants of your headache with a soft, golden light. There's heat in you. On you. For all of the cold water, only one thought commands your full attention.

"Mercy."

This Dream was no mere coincidence. They are all trying to show me something that I have never fully understood.

You need compassion.

"I know exactly what You want."

Though your shoulders are broad, your waist is still alarmingly thin, and your limbs are substantially longer than most, it seems to have made little difference in having your needs met.

The trousers, shirt and robes provided for you are all are suspiciously well-fitted. It takes a good deal of time to finish cleaning yourself off, but you manage while inspecting the garments with a good deal of heat in your face. They're all in black which— for how much dye must have been used— could not have been an easy commodity to obtain on such short notice.

I can only pray this was only Father Wilhelm's doing.

You try not to deliberate for too long on who else may have visited you while you slept. The recording you made of the visit from Dream is neatly folded and placed in your pocket.

There's no desire to fuss with your hair or to worry about your appearance beyond one item. There's still a holy symbol around your neck. The gift of a Goddess, and a demon.

You have to take a few deep breaths to regain your composure. There are going to be a lot of questions, and you aren't certain how many you want to deal with just yet.

Opening the door as cautiously as you can to your room, you're greeted with a divine sight.

The hall is almost entirely empty.

​

A few clergymen are up and about for an evening guard. No more than three are in the corridor. Each one— clad in haphazard pieces of armor— is all bulk and muscle. The priests of Flesh are best suited to using their bodies as weapons, and seem infinitely more at ease than any of the men you fought alongside during the battle. They are talking quietly among each other, though their voices are too low to hear the context of their conversation.

Only faint candlelight illuminates the men before you and the lanterns that they are carrying. No light of day shines through the few slits in the stone walls on either side of the hallway. The smell of burning oil and animal fat is hot in the enclosed space, for how much more light is emanating from the main hall further down the way.

You decide (wholeheartedly) that you would like to avoid as many men and as many questions as humanly possible. As you creep out from the door to your room— closing it as silently as you're able— you're intensely reminded of evenings long past. Slipping out of the Church of Mercy in the dead of night, for want of a little extra time to yourself.

The bags under your eyes are not just from the stress of battle or abuse.

You likely have only slept a few hours again today, for all of the blood that is still streaking the floor of the main hall. You pass by a few priestesses on hand and knee, scrubbing the stone dutifully. Their hair is tied back with the same diligence they've paid to the rest of their forms.

Respectfully averting your eyes (the weather is not warm enough to warrant so little clothing), it's heart-warming to see a few civilians among them. They've come to their Church's aid even after the battle was won, and you recognize one them. It's a woman who's life you saved on the field of battle. She looks to be in the peak of health, and red is in her face for how hard she's working to clean up the last evidence of lives lost. Her wavy, brown hair hangs in a few loose tendrils over her shoulder, peeking through a messy bun. The strands keep parting from a yellow pin she's obtained.

For how much effort she's putting into serving Flesh and Mercy, her shoulders are tense. Every inch of her is committed to devotion.

You glance away, reminding yourself to pray for her at another time, and for all of the women and men hard at work inside and out of the Church of Flesh.

Pausing at the first window you come across, you glance to the stars and moonlight from your lofty elevation. It reminds you of just how deep into Beorward's defenses you are.

You recall that the Morinburn river flows behind and below the Church of Flesh. The building is built straight above the water on at least a 100-foot rise. While the city benefits from its close proximity to the Morinburn, it is connected in full to the Eventide river to the east.

It took you half a day to cross into the Church of Flesh (with an escort and no small measure of bribery). Over the branch in the connecting rivers, past countless barricades, deep inside the fortress, beyond the bulwarks, over several bridges, having left behind an entire city.

The defense of each holy city serves another function: They excel at keeping threats in, as well.

The gold in your eyes is likely unhinged, catching again on the few windows to the distance. There is a sheer, unguarded cliff just outside, and you have a deep urge to go see the river. Under the cover of night, you know that your movement would surely be easier to go undetected no matter where you go. It's an equal certainty that getting any measure of privacy outside of the church is going to be difficult.

I've earned the respite. A little solitude is not too much to ask for.

Mercy, I need a break— even if it kills me.

Your thin frame goes to the closest wall. You're clad all in black, but your pallor would surely be a dead giveaway against the night. You toss up your hood, and start slinking along the edges of the corridor. Avoiding any scrutiny from the infinitely more sociable guard proves fairly simple, given how occupied they are with each other.

You skirt past the edges of the main hall, and immediately pull away from the stone.

It would be a waste to get any more blood or decay on me.

It's not that you're a prude, but after the lengths you went to carry the scent of clove and thyme, you'd rather not be clung onto by any more death or demons.

The women attending to the floor and walls of the church are entirely too focused on their work and themselves to bother another priest, even if your identity may be apparent. You find a side door in minutes.

A quick "Mercy," escapes you at the heavy wooden defense. Though it's banded with iron, it seems to be unlocked.

A rush of incredibly cold air greets you. It is the end of the Thundering Moon, and the start of a new season is rapidly approaching. Nearly at the beginning of Worship, snow should already be upon you.

Rolling clouds loom overhead. Luckily, the gathering Storm seems to have been a massive deterrent to the men that should be occupying the courtyard. The expanse of golden flowers— tinged with red and blue— are devoid of trespass. It seems almost everyone is seeking shelter from the cold, the wind, and the start of a frigid shower.

A few guards clad in heavy furs and bristling with strength are fearlessly standing watch at the guard tower. It's on the opposite end of the courtyard. They care not for the weather, and don't bother with the divinity covering their church's grounds.

They also fail to notice your lithe and fully shrouded body as it peels around the edge of the building. You make your way out from the interior defense, and test no fewer than four doors before finding another that's unlocked.

With more caution and prudence, you make your way past several more guards. Tracking in the shower has your steps slick against the polished stone floor.

You've walked silently for weeks on end quite recently, and practiced for years before. It's no trouble to get past them unheeded, and to ultimately arrive back outside.

On the outermost walls, you find your purchase. An unmanned ladder is a welcome sight. You test it briefly, then scale it in a matter of moments. Two rungs at a time is no challenge thanks to your unusual height.

At the peak of the Church of Flesh, you knock back your hood, and can't help but utter your thanks. "May all the Gods be praised."

You're so stunned, you linger for a moment at the top of the ladder, simply taking everything in.

Music

You can see for miles. Streaks of oil and blue intermingle in the night sky in every direction. It's a blessing to look upon the Dream, to see evidence of His works. They stretch beyond your mortal sight, beyond the peaks of the Folorast mountains. The moon is full, and shining with divinity. Countless specks of light further illuminate everything that falls under your vantage point.

"Blessed be the Night."

​

Though you are terribly high above the Morinburn and Eventide, you can still see the clear water below. The twin rivers guard almost every reach of Corcaea's civilization. This close to the center of the country, the wide current of Morinburn sits closest. It's nearly still. Compared to how quickly the water ran where you last forded Eventide, it almost could be seen as lazily winding.

You follow the river with your eyes, away, and into the rest of the land. Around the city's walls— the little districts for trade and worship— are still so many other human settlements. The lack of immediate protection is no deterrent, as the peaks of Calunoth beckon in the reaches beyond. Through the frigid and light shower, you can even make out farmland. The works of Agriculture are guarded by brick and wood, littering the furthest reaches of Beorward. You and every other citizen take solace that there are many other holy cities in the land beyond your immediate sight.

If you squint, it feels like you might almost be able to see Wearmoor. Your parent's home.

Eadric lies even further beyond.

It's a long road back to The Church of Mercy.

Thousands of trees cover the myriad roads, the comings and goings of the last of humanity. It all feels surreal. You steady yourself against the slick stone, and fish out your own Dream.

The parchment is immediately threatened by the light shower of rain. You hold the precious item close, blocking the worst of the mist with an outstretched sleeve. The black linen provides enough protection, but you make a mental note to retrieve your journal as soon as you're able. Its leather bindings protected your notes even at the bottom of the world, and you desperately want to protect these pages, too.

Through the shadow cast over the page before you, you try to work out an interpretation as best as you're able. Your brow is furrowed by how many ways you could construe its meaning.

To interpret is to serve. I need to stretch my imagination. I will make sense of this Dream.

There is no one else atop the battlements. Amidst the light shower and the faint blue cast of the moon, you slip into your dream, murmuring your notes aloud.

"'The room quickly fills with so much water... memories of misunderstanding, abuse, and demons all fade.' Relief. It— surely, it would be granted to me by the Church of Storm. '...within the depths of darkness— the void, a vessel— is the promise of divinity.' My Relic." You take the item in hand from the chain, rather than to hold the locket itself. You ensured that the blood and gore was cleaned off, but you are a man of temptation.

A black sleeve wraps around your wrist, before compulsively buffing the surface to a sheen. You look to your thin wrists. They've been healed as well, but are still littered faintly with scars. "It's also about me, isn't it?"

The item goes back under your collar, concealed from view. You want so badly for more privacy. "'I want to love, to share, with the form that appeared before me... it's been badly broken.' Mercy. I— She— there must be more to it than this. I know She accepts me, just— just as I am—"

You search your immaculate memory. Doubt plagues you. Your broken nose, the wounds still scarring most of your body, or the countless scars under the skin has you questioning more than just Mercy's lack of appearances before you. Your emotional turmoil, the mental breaks you've suffered...

The light rain on your sleeves and the gathering clouds overhead reminds you of a man who's rumored to be crippled. "Storm showed Himself to me before any other God. Even Mercy." You've never met him in person, but he's written to you occasionally as respectfully and level-headed as you could hope for. A man who you've needed to contact since one of your first days in the ruins. "Father Barthalomew."

Pouring urgently over the blue text, the end of night comes over the horizon. Ample light casts over your Dream. Between night and day— before the sunrise— you gaze upon a little more darkness.

"'Only the sinew along my bare hands was visible as it unravels... the white and immaterial form crept along my vision, devastating in all of its good intent.' Knowledge, like— like Beltoro taught us. Blinding. Powerful. My divinity. My ability to channel all of the Gods..."

You can't help but pause. There's hope in your heart, for everything you've learned, and everything you've suffered through."...without harm."

It may only be a fantasy, but you are a man of faith.

"'The thread burrows deeply into my eyes, lifting them to an hourglass on the horizon. Temptation looms at the edge of the world. Each grain of sand that crashes to the base of the glass creates another star, another burst of light.' I've never been so terrified."

You look out to the sunrise. To the little winding roads, obscured by the wilderness and constantly under repair. To the heavy fortifications of Beorward. To the re-purposed stone, and the ruins of countless civilizations fallen.

"Time. Every grain— every moment— each one is more sacred than the last."

Looming dread and a cold sweat is on you. Fear of a Goddess is in you. "Cascading towards the event. Another age. Closer. Inevitable."

Her will is unchangeable.

"Time is running out for us. For humanity."

Feverishly, you work through the text before you. All promise of respite makes way for your work. "'There are men at my side. Their faces are shrouded in black... I want to extend myself, but the shroud is over his eyes and hands.' I've lost so much. More lives than I can count." Something incredibly misplaced is in your voice. A love of the night, of the dark, of a God of Vengeance. You're reverent, and more than in service to just Him.

There is only one cure.

"I've killed even more. Ultimately, so many of those lives— the demons I killed— they were for an alliance. Weren't they, in the end? To aid Yech. To aid a new archdemon." You risk getting a few drops of rain on the parchment as you fish out your flask. You absolutely have made certain to never let it leave your person, even in your sleep.

Looking to the underside— to the thirty-two check marks engraved in the gold— you whisper, "I've defied the Catalyst so many times. No matter how far I've been pushed— no matter how badly I've abused myself— it's failed to shatter my vessel."

You look from the markings in the gold to the markings on your own skin. The wounds that even Mercy has yet to heal. Marks of devotion. Burns from flame you voluntarily endured. "The more that gather..." Lacerations from the invocation of other deities. "...the more that I suffer..." Collapsed veins from outpourings of blood and bile. "...the frequency—" Burns from flame you voluntarily endured. "—the abuse." Countless scars adorn you. They could have been avoided, yet you accepted every last one that remains eagerly. "...the stronger They get."

You keep the flask out, longing for a drink. "The people are envious." You are not a braggart. It's a fact. "For how much I can endure— even my brothers in the Church of Mercy— especially in the Church of Mercy— they know that I won't break."

A horrific thought occurs to you. For all the rest you've had from your expedition into the ruins, it was still a suicide mission. You were desperate for an escape, and for relief from your pain.

The thought of a corpse, of liquor, of envy, and of a man who has remained concealed from you for weeks has your nerves on fire.

You might be unhinged from everything you've endured.

Your paranoia hasn't subsided by any measure.

It feels like, maybe, saying the suspicion out loud will ease your nerves.

"Something has happened to Yech."

Your hands remain tight on the flask. You keep it in hand purely for the comforting reminder of a friend. A reminder of so many sacrifices.

More than anything, it's something to fidget with as you finish your interpretation. "'The base is hale, but the uppermost branches have rotted. I reach out as far as I can.'" Another suspicion plagues your mind. Though you've never met the King and scarcely know your own people, you're seeking the best interpretation of the information before you as you can. "The King and the court is corrupt. Their fruit, their peaks... they're slowly rotting the rest of the land."

With a grimace, you think to the rotten land. To an enormous sacrifice you made, that no other priest of Agriculture could surmount. To a woman who lost herself in a way that no God could repair. A mentor. A guide. Another Church leader. "Mother Bethaea killed herself, like so many leaders of the Church of Agriculture before her."

Your ignorance is stifling. It feels like you're drowning in it. You have asked so few questions of others, and you're sick of it. "I need to find out why."

You keep reading, desperate for more answers. "'As I extend my hands, I see with perfect clarity. There is no thread in my eyes. There is no sinew. There is gold. It is the only trace of the metal in the entire world.' Compassion is a rarity among men." You are no liar. It's a fact. "I need to find a way to see it— to reach out to it."

A nightmare plagues the back of your mind. Belittlement. Cruelty. "Even when it feels like I'm the only merciful man left alive."

You put away the flask, comforted beyond all belief by the reminder of compassion.

The other gift you possess, your Relic, might as well be on fire. Another truth comes your lips. "Mercy loves me."

She is your Goddess.

"I am Her key."

The heat in your chest— working through the item resting upon it— is unmistakable. There's a fire in you. You want to do so much, for everything you've been given, and everyone you have yet to help. "'I have reached out to Dream. I am the key.' This is about more than the Dream. I am an important piece of this puzzle— but I am only a piece, aren't I? The Gods work through so many vessels."

There are so many alliances I can still make.

"I must bring them all together."

It won't be easy.

"This is a warning of everything that is to come."

You fold up and lovingly place your interpretation of Dream inside your robes, right alongside your flask.

As the items are fully concealed, the sun reveals itself at the base of the horizon.

"Mercy." A very slight smile crosses your face. You indulge yourself for an extra moment, enjoying the heat, the light, and a few extra minutes of relief from the promise of Worship. The company of your Goddess does not seem like such a sin.

You want to make light of how much responsibility you're plagued with. there's still a measure of dread in your voice— for all the duty you've postponed, the people who still need your aid, and a country that is on the brink of destruction.

"There is never enough time, is there?"