Chapter 18: The Only One Who Listened

"There's no Gods here."​

The bandages all go to Cyril, who seems delighted to be tasked with simply carrying cloth. "You sure this is all you need?"

"Keep your voice down. Yes. For now."

Walking down the halls of the Church of Flesh side by side, you both run into a priestess at the end of a nearby corridor. Tan skin, neatly pinned black hair, and not a single fine line on her would place the girl in her late teens, at the very most. Her toned arms are exposed, and a dirty apron covers most of her lower body. She's tending to a table full of bloodied bandages, wringing them out one by one into a bin brimming with hot water.

You approach her as quietly as you can, speaking up to not startle her. "Excuse me, sister—"

She snaps her head up, eyes red and bleary. It looks like she hasn't slept in days.

Cyril coughs to the side, muttering something you don't quite catch. Assuming he's being rude, you try to disregard him. "Sister, if I may?"

"Of course."

"Father Anscham, of the Church of Mercy."

The bandages are almost dropped. Her eyes go wide, her face pales, and she silently waits for permission to speak.

"Father Friedrich has extended his hospitality to me, so that I may help you all in any way that I can—" You cut yourself short. The Sister is practically crying. Her shoulders are shaking. She starts wringing out the towels before her more intensely. You try to continue, "if you could please direct me to anyone responsible for the care of your sick and wounded—"

Reddened eyes flit to Cyril, back to you, and back to Cyril again. "He didn't bother telling you?"

Cyril points to himself, his mouth hanging open stupidly, knowing exactly what the woman is talking about.

You frown at both of them. "I have absolutely no time for this—"

"I'm all that's left, Father. I heard you were there. I heard how many you saved." The woman's voice catches. She chokes out, "no one came back. No one that could help. I don't know why. I've been working."

Resisting the urge to reprimand Cyril in front of the exhausted healer, you try to soften your frown. "I am here now, and I am here to help."

The filthy rags drop. Grateful, reverent hands wring together. A delicate voice cracks, "thank you, Father."

You say, "you must be exhausted. I am terribly sorry that no one has come sooner. The Church of Mercy should be here. Can you please show me to anyone you have yet to see? Anyone in need of my aid?"

The woman beside you looks incredibly overwhelmed by the request. Enough to look blearily up and down the hall. "I'm going to be honest with you, Father. I don't know how much you can do. I don't want anyone else's life on my hands. I've been trying to see to the dying as best as I can..."

The exterior of the Church of Flesh is easily several hundred feet long on each side. It's a perfect square surrounding the interior of the keep, and you estimate that you've passed by no fewer than several dozen rooms just on your way back to your own quarters.

"Sister...?"

"Enart."

"Sister Enart. How long have you been seeing to this ward for?"

She's choking up, and uses the back of one hand to rub at her eyes. "I just started, Father Anscham. Maybe a month? Two, at the most?"

"I will have words with Father Friedrich, Sister. We will get you the relief you need. I can personally stay through the afternoon, if you would have me."

Cyril is coughing stupidly again into his shoulder. Something along the lines of "me, too."

Sister Enart keeps her hands clasped in gratitude, and leads you all down the hall. "Thank you, Father. I at least received enough instruction to keep the most seriously injured to the furthest reaches of the keep..."

The sound of moans and cries for Mercy increase the further away you get from your own quarters. It occurs to you that Father Friedrich likely knows exactly what's going on in his church, as you approach the precise opposite end of the ward.

The smell of rot, filth and blood is hot in the air. You're so used to it that it doesn't phase you, but both Sister Enart and Brother Trebbeck make a point of covering their nose and mouth.

Through a cloth, the teen murmurs, "I really don't know where to begin, Father."

"Start from the first door, Sister."

"The man to the southernmost room has been here since before the outbreak. Lost a leg in the city during a construction project. The gentleman next door to him has had some illness I can't make heads or tails of, but he's been covered in sores that won't cauter. These seven were all from the outbreak. Not sure if they'll make it through tomorrow night."

"Can you please be more specific?"

"To be honest, I haven't had the time to check on them all as thoroughly as I'd like—"

Something between urgency and panic discolors your voice. "Which ones have you not seen to?"

"Those three. All men. They've been sleeping. Burns on all of them."

"And the rest?"

"Very deep wounds on two of them, from you-know-what's. Smoke got in the lungs of the rest, the ones you hear coughing. I've done everything I could—"

You gesture to two more doors that weren't mentioned. There's sobbing coming from one, and absolute silence from the other. "What of these?"

There's a dark laugh. "That's a storage room—" She points to the silent door. "The other is from the stable."

Horrified beyond belief, you try to not vomit. "I thought—"

A scream rises from the door you just pointed to. It just barely rises above the level of nausea on you.

Mercy. It's already nearly noon. I can't possibly have time to see to everyone here.

"I don't have time to see everyone here."

"Father...?" The priestess beside you takes a full step back as you take the chain at your neck in hand. "Father, I— I don't wish to overstep myself—"

Cyril obviously does. "Let the man mind his own business, huh?"

You raise your eyebrows in surprise to the blonde. "Thank you, Cyril. Sister Enart, please, go get some rest. I will attend to the rest of this ward personally. Cyril, if you could see if anyone in the room ahead is lucid enough to speak, I would sincerely appreciate it."

"Need a translator, huh? I know we're—"

"Cyril."

"Yes, sir! Right away, sir!" Arms full of bandages, the priest makes his way to the room ahead.

Sister Enart lingers a moment. "Aren't the hands supposed to be outstretched?"

"This is not the symbol of Mercy, Sister."

A confused look is directed to you for only a moment. The gold in your hair is probably catching on the light, for the way that it's being scrutinized. "I see. Thank you, Father Anscham."

"It is the least I could do, Sister. If you will excuse me."

"Of course." She doesn't move.

She wants to watch?

"Sister Enart."

"I'm sorry, Father, I—"

Cyril peeks his head out of the room, shaking his ponytail and frustratingly unscarred face at you. "Nothing, boss. Want me to try the next one?"

"Yes, please. Keep the doors open as well. This shouldn't take more than another moment."

The bloodied hands beside you are wringing themselves together against an old rag. "You know we can't heal. Not like the Church of Mercy can. It's so frustrating, Father. I was hoping—"

You are the Father of Compassion. "It— it is quite alright, Sister. I sincerely do not have time for any explanations, but you can see to the work, if you wish."

A small smile hits you like a beam of sunlight.

You take your Relic fully in hand. The lingering soreness in your jaw, the stretch and mild pain in your stomach from overindulging, and the ache in your muscle from all of the exertion this morning all fades.

Lighter than light itself, you take a few steps ahead into the closest room. The smell of death is hot and heavy, beside three men who have been placed on simple straw mattresses. You cringe at their obvious neglect, the lack of care given to old bandages, and the rot lacing a number of their wounds.

Kneeling down at their side, you keep a hand suspended in the air before them all. There's no time for prayer, and no need. The Goddess of Mercy has always been in your thoughts. She has always been by your side, in the darkness.

She is my light.

An all-encompassing surge of heat and of devotion courses from the depths of your very soul, into every the last fiber of your being. There might as well be a woman around you, embracing you, holding you flush. You pull yourself back, staggering for a split second, and opening your heart to those in need of aid.

The men beside your feet are not sleeping. These men are on the brink of death, in too much pain to speak. Their breath has not slowed in rest. Their lungs are full of soot, and they are struggling.

There is so much light in your eyes, it feels as if you're looking upon the sun itself. Not to charred Flesh. Not to exposed bone.

With a hand aloft, your Relic clasped in the other, you extend a blessing. The inert forms at your feet all look as though they could cry. Their eyes are charred, but they look up to you with so much relief from their pain it breaks your heart.

The prayer that follows is wordless. She listens. She's heard you. She knows that your children are suffering.

There's a gasp at the door from the young priestess who's been hanging back. She doesn't care about the blood on her hands. Both palms cover her mouth to muffle her outburst.

You kneel down beside one of the men as he immediately tries to sit upright. "Stay down."

Your touch drops every flake of blackened skin on the man's body that isn't bandaged over. Healthy tissue is underneath.

A moment passes, while he registers that you've healed him in an instant.

He wraps his arms around you, sobbing hysterically. Though his voice croaks out, it's only parched, with no trace of a cough. "Thank you. Thank you. Mercy, thank you. Father—"

You pat him on the back a few times, and wordlessly go to the other men. They're too shocked to say anything. One is crying harder than the first, simply from the anticipation of living to see another day.

It takes less than a minute to cure them in full. A few words you've read by an old priestess of your Church seems prudent. "Pure are Our hands. Pure is Our blessing. Pure is made blood spilled, when held by Mercy."

Every eye in the room is on you as you turn to leave.

"You will all heal. The Gods are Merciful."

Urgency presses at the back of your mind.

This is far worse than I expected.

One more glance back at the burn victims confirms their persisting health. You break into a run. Cyril must be in one of the other rooms, as you don't see any figures in the hall.

Bursting into the next wing, you look down on four more mattresses. You immediately realize why two are empty, for the intense odor of rot on the air.

Without any disgust, you wrap the chain in hand around all of your unscarred digits—

There will be time to think about this later.

The palm of your hand stays firmly around your Relic as you hold it aloft. Taking a few steps forward, you look to confirm that both men lying on the floor are still alive and have responded to your works. One has been dead for hours. It looks to have been a young priest, taken in the prime of his life. You try to not swear, kneeling down beside the figure to confirm that he is completely cold to the touch.

As quickly as you're able— making sure that there's no blood on you— you place a hand to the figure on the bed across from them. She's unconscious, but breathing and warm. Her breath is shallow. You marvel for a moment, horrified beyond all reason. The young woman's spine has been pierced by a barb. She's been holding onto life, despite likely knowing she should never be able to walk again.

There's a fire that rivals the very sun in you. You get on both knees. The chain around your hands goes back around your neck. You place a free hand beside the base of the woman's spine, and unwind her bandages.

The wound is festering. It looks as though it's never been properly cleaned, and the end of a blade is protruding from her back. The surrounding skin is a network of green and rotting veins, leading you to suspect that the weapon (made of coagulated blood) has continuously seeped in.

There's time for this.

You place a hand a few inches behind the blade, and focus. Your devotion is unparalleled. A Goddess courses through your hands— one who would do anything to demonstrate Her love for you. Gold slips over the tops of your palms, intertwining with your fingers, guiding your motions, aiding you, and working with you. Together, you extract the blade in full. Solid light lingers within the opening, knitting the skin, mending her muscle, and leaving no wound behind.

The woman before you curls in on herself the moment that the blade is gone. She's utterly silent.

You walk around to the other side of her, and sit on the mattress opposite.

She looks furious.

You look to the door to see Sister Enart. She's speechless as well. "Sister. Will you please clear the body out of the room?"

The woman on the bed practically lunges forward, grabbing onto your wrist before you can try to walk away. She hisses in sharply, and pulls away from you as if she's burned herself.

You look in alarm, to see that there's blisters on the palm of her hands. Despite having scalded herself on the liquid gold along you, the heat in her voice persists. It's terribly strong. More than the hand gripping onto yours. More than muscle you've saved from wasting in her back and legs, and more than the fire in her brown eyes. "Wait. Who the fuck are you?"

"Father Anscham— of the Church of Mercy." Your proximity has healed the blisters along her hands. She obviously has been in no pain, and only pulled away in shock.

The woman is still shaking, and moves to sit upright. "What the fuck is this? Where the fuck were you yesterday—?!"

"I am terribly sorry."

"I prayed— I prayed to all of the Gods, and you're the only—" Her shoulders are shaking hard. She's trying not to cry. "You're the only one who listened. No one listened, not for him—" She's looking to the corpse on the bed right next to her. "Not for any of us—"

"There are others praying—" You stress the next word, pulling away as you do so. "—here, who need my help now. The Gods are Merciful, Sister."

You fire such an intense look at the priestess standing in the door that she immediately obeys your earlier request, rushing in to clear the corpse.

With the doorway open, you leave both women behind you, and break into a run. There's not a second to waste.

Cyril is back in the hall, and lets out a shout as he sees you sprinting. "Father?!"

You don't bother replying, turning hard into the room that all of the commotion has been coming from.

Heavy metal bars with chains are strapped down to the floor. There's a man strapped to the bed. You recognize him immediately as one of the civilians that was in the stables yesterday afternoon. His dress is humble— likely that of a farmer— but he's filthy from being moved from one set of restraints to another. A gag has been pushed out of his mouth.

You could tell why long before even entering the room. He's screaming incoherently.

You approach slowly, hands in front of you. Your Relic is aloft in one palm. The other has its fingers softly splayed in a gesture of goodwill. "I am coming into the room. I know you can't see me from there. It's alright. We are here to help—"

The man's screaming stops so suddenly that it sends a cold sweat down your back. Given that a Goddess of heat and light is working through you, you have to wonder just how hard your nerves are on end.

Taking a few more steps forward, you close the distance towards the singular mattress. The thrashing slows down. His wrists and knees are bound to the opposite ends of the chains, in heavy manacles, rubbed raw and bloody. Gazing upon the man through eyes of divinity, his Flesh works itself back over the closer you approach.

"I know you are afraid. Everything is going to be fine. The Gods are Merciful."

The man's head whips around so hard towards you, you're certain he's hurt himself. The prisoner shows no indication of pain, thanks to your Relic. Still, a disjointed and utterly inhuman voice croaks out of the body before you. "There's no Gods here. What do you think the fucking restraints are for, Father. I'm not here for my health, you know."

You take a step back, horrified beyond all reason, and realize that this is no demon. The man has simply lost his mind. For reasons unknown, he hasn't turned to the Catalyst— at least not in a way you can tell.

You've heard of this. You've felt it first-hand, in the mind of a demon. A killer, a scholar, and a prior priest of the Church of Spirit.

Beltoro studied men like this, hoping to better understand the Catalyst. Studied their corpses. Tried to learn from them— what exactly defined the transformation.

You've never read about it yourself, but the sudden recollection doesn't shock you. There's an itch in the back of your mind, and Mercy is in it, around it, and keeps it off of you like acid from a limb.

Someone grabs hard onto your shoulders, pulling you back and away from the sinner. It's Cyril. You're aware he's been talking for some time.

"...Father? Father Anscham! Hey, can you HEAR me?!"

"Stop shaking Us—"

Cyril keeps his nerve and tries to lead you out of the room. "Let's get you out of here. That's not fucking normal, even for guys like you. Come on."

You wrench firmly away from Cyril. "We will attend to the rest of the ward, but you are staying right here."

"I already have my orders."

"Your orders are delaying Our work." You drop your voice. "Just how quickly do you think We could mend you back together, Cyril?"

"Very quickly, sir."

"Do you think a break would be faster than Mercy's blessing?"

"Certainly not, sir!"

"Sprains take much longer to heal, but We could make the time for you, Cyril."

"Understood, sir!" He takes a step towards the prisoner ahead of you, and makes a mock salute with two fingers. It's terribly stupid, but the blonde seems to understand.

You call over your shoulder as you break into a run. "Do not make me demonstrate Our tenets!"

"I know you're no liar, sir!"

Sister Enart is back down the hall, having placed and carefully wrapped the corpse from the prior room on a sheet. She's dragging it out per your earlier request.

Your grimace intensifies. Skidding to a stop, you help her to move it aside, and out of the center of the hall. "Sister. I am terribly sorry, but we have an immediate concern."

"Father Anscham, I mean no disrespect, but Father Friedrich is entirely aware—"

You cut her off, but your tone remains soft. A melancholy reminder. "Father Friedrich's neglect has already cost lives. Our duty is to save them."

She's completely unable to argue.

"Run as fast as you are able. Go to Father Friedrich. If you must, tell him that I personally demanded you disobey his instruction. You are not forsaking your duties, Sister."

"Yes, Father Anscham—"

She turns to run, but you stop the woman in her tracks merely by speaking again. "After you have seen to your Father, send a messenger to the Church of Spirit. The fastest you can find. We need their aid. This is not my field of expertise, and there will be another outbreak if this is not handled appropriately. Do you understand?"

"Y-yes, Father. Right away."

Sister Enart doesn't even wipe the blood off of her hands before turning to run. You can tell at a glance that no amount of exhaustion will hinder the woman's devotion to her cause. The priestess of Flesh is gone in a matter of seconds.

The sound of screams seems to have subsided, for now.

Cyril has a good head on his shoulders. He may be an idiot, but he will be alright.

Trusting in the men and women of the cloth, you run back to what you suspect is the worst of the injured. Persistent coughing is one of the last sounds you can hear in the sick ward. You almost slide a foot past the next door for how hard you're running. Pivoting at the last second, you tear into the sick bay.

The door was open per your instructions, but you're certain these men cannot speak. A small pile of used handkerchiefs is next to both of them. Their visible injuries are milder than the burn victims you saw before, but they're wheezing, coughing, and struggling hard for air. Their breath is ragged, and their bodies are weak from strain.

At least, they are before you enter the room. You rip the chain from your neck, and press the closed locket forward. Taking a few methodical steps inside, they're granted immediate relief from their pain.

Both figures permit their shoulders to relax, and let their coughing slow. The man sitting closest to you seems to have suffered the more severe attack. His entire right side is bandaged. From around his torso, all the way down his entire arm, he shows absolutely no indication of pain for all of his burns.

His wheezing has already improved, but not even relief from certain pain can mend internal damage. You sit on the bed beside him, and place a hand very gently above his back. Keeping your distance from tender Flesh, you splay your fingers. A ray of light is cast from each one. The scalding heat and blinding radiance creates a fracture, winding itself along the top of your hands.

You are all light. You have spent your life in service to a Goddess of healing, and can easily look upon Her efforts. You've done so many times before in the dark.

Every gap in the bandages before you surges with divinity. Ragged lungs, seared muscle, scorched skin, and decaying flecks of matter mend underhand.

Hairline fractures wind, dancing up and along the top of your knuckles and around each finger. In between the cracks and around your skin, there's an embrace. Old scars fade as quickly as they came, and climb ever higher. She does more than work through your vessel. Mercy wants to make you whole.

The wounds along the man before you heal in full. It can't take longer than a minute before his coughing subsides entirely. He takes in a deep breath. It comes out ragged, with so much relief that he is utterly incapable of speech.

Several more follow. He's panicking.

"Restraint, Brother. Show Us the measure of your devotion."

There's no time to waste on further explanation, but the priest obeys your instruction to the best of his ability. His hands go to his chest, unwinding bandages in sheer disbelief. Flakes of dead skin are peppered with gold leaf, which all comes off cleanly. Only healed skin lies beneath the grotesque powder.

You don't bother with sitting beside the other patient. Blood-soaked linen adorns his face, and only his face. He likely was wearing heavier protection than his Brother beside him.

He may not be able to see you clearly. "Father?"

"Mercy."

You place a hand gently to the man's forehead. He leans in, permitting the cloth dressing to drop from his face.

Strands of gold are left in their wake. You are having trouble seeing, for all of the light that's in your eyes. It took only a minute, but the priest before you is mended in full.

He places a hand to his face. The skin is smoother and healthier than you could ever hope for it to be. He can't believe it. "Not even Flesh should be able to do so much, so quickly—"

His brother's mouth hangs open, as you leave both figures behind. "Where are you going? What—?"

"Thank you, Father—!"

Silence takes the halls of the sick ward. As you approach the second to last hall, the smell of decay is thick and heavy on the air. It reminds you more of the lair of a demon than a man.

The Goddess of Compassion would never impose more on you than She knows you could stand. You are so wanted. So needed.

There's heat in your hands. It wraps through and around your palms, your fingers. A caress is along your wrist, up your arms and back, and keeps you in a tender embrace.

You want to take a knee, to allow Her love and devotion to course through you unfettered, but you fight through it with as much restraint as a man could hope for.

There is unmistakably a human lying on the bed before you. He looks up, smiling weakly. His beard is untrimmed in an attempt to not disturb the worst of his disease.

You are determined beyond all compare to finish what you've started.

There are so many prayers that need to be answered.

The sheer tenacity of the figure before you is baffling. Over his chest, beside his eyes, along his legs and on nearly every visible inch is a landscape of oozing, weeping pain. His body is laced with so many craters that it's clear why his sores could not be cauterized. They sink into his body, revealing glistening and raw muscle in the worst of places. You assume that they are horrifically painful to the touch, for almost none of them are bandaged. The few that are dressed are obviously rotten, but in places too delicate to bear being cut away.

You immediately recognize how he's endured. His hands— for all of their injury— are knitted together. No holy symbol lies between them. This man has been seeking the aid of all of the Gods.

You step forward, Relic aloft. "We have heard your prayers."

His hands stay together, but his voice wavers, weak from disuse. "Mercy, Father."

There's a look in his eye that you place immediately. It's not recognition of your station, or relief. He wants to die.

You want to help in any way you can. "We have sought an answer to Our children's pain."

"Thank you, Father—" The man is seized by a coughing fit. Still, he's starting to find his voice. "—but I've suffered enough."

"To live is to serve."

"I haven't been doing a whole lot of living or serving."

"We know you have been faithful. Permit Us to serve you."

"What could you even hope to do? I'm a goner, Father. They've all stopped coming. Everyone know it. You're still just a priest of Mercy. There's nothing left for me. If you can't help me, just go. Go like the rest of them."

You are more than a priest of Mercy. You always have been.

Music

"I can do more than hope. I can do more than to slowly heal. I have heard your prayers. I am the Father of the Church of Mercy. We are extending Our hands. We have extended Our light, and all of Our blessing. We extend it to you." The locket is back about your neck, that you might better demonstrate the symbol of your church. You literally outstretch your hands, your light, and your healing towards the man who is in need of your help. "Will you accept Our aid?"

Brown eyes look up to you, unmarred by demons or divinity. There's still hope in them. "I won't stop you from trying."

"We can do so much more. My child, no sickness of the Flesh can withstand Our might." You clasp your hands together, taking a knee beside him. "What is your name?"

"I haven't served Flesh in a long time. Simon is fine."

There is so much Mercy in your vessel, it can't be contained. Pulling apart your palms, threads of gold lie between each and every digit.

Simon snaps his gaze to the metal, concern written all over his face. "What the fuck is that?"

You don't answer immediately, stretching the weave further. It's beginning to resemble a dressing to a wound, thanks to the density of the metal. Light courses through the fibers. The radiance runs along your hands, but also through you. Each and every remaining scar on your body seems to be flooded with Her blessing.

Tensing— winding the bandages as firmly as you can— you finally answer. "A gift. This will leave a lasting impression, Simon, but We intend to heal you in full. No pain. No injury. Only Mercy."

"That's impossible."

"Please do not insult Us." The intensity of a Goddess permits you to force your grimace back into a smile.

"I mean—"

"We have granted Our protection to more of your kin through this vessel than you can possibly comprehend." You have manifested a binding from strands of molten gold. So much heat rises from the material in your hands that the very air around you glows. The heat is blistering, but your skin does not remain burned. It is healed in full, for each and every inch of you that's been damaged.

"The Goddess of Compassion has seen to relieving the pain of so many more. So many, and they were far less deserving than you. We have healed wounds more severe. More dire. More plentiful."

The heat of a Goddess is in you, and She is as desperate to help as you are. You love your work. You love each other. Every splinter in your vessel feels as if it's being bound together. "She has even worked alongside Flesh Himself, through this vessel. She has pulled me back from the very brink of death, time and time again."

You're embraced by your lover. The Mother of your children. Your breath catches. "Her works are that of the impossible."

"Mercy."

"Yes."

"This looks like it's going to hurt."

"Do you feel any pain?"

"No."

"Do you trust Us?"

A quick nod. A very deep breath in. "I can't possibly get any worse."

"We will not let any further harm befall you. Uphold Our tenets. Grant yourself temperance. Exhibit all the restraint that you can. This will only take a moment."

The priest before you grips as tightly as his ulcerated fingers can manage onto the bloodied sheets beneath him. You place a single unwavering hand to the worst of his open wounds. The skin bubbles and boils from how much heat is in your touch. Though your patient looks terrified, he shows absolutely no indication of feeling a thing. He remains as still as he can, while you carefully tend to removing the bandages directly over his heart.

A raw and gaping sore greets you, blackened and foul. A pool of decay is nestled in the center. You can see the glistening rot tremble with his shallow breath. Though you've granted him relief from his pain, he is dying without question. Unflinching, you stretch the weave of gold and light over his skin. The rot is taken in full, before ever touching the priest's skin. As the gauze soaks in the liquefied tissue, boils, and rot, you lift the expanse up and away from his body. From it comes no remnant of poison.

A shower of light trails behind the metal band. Flecks of gold rain out, and cast over his body— not only over the lighter wounds adorning the man's torso— but over every inch of the disease. Relief washes over the man's face in an instant. You can feel his shoulders relax, and his breath levels out.

The yellow-gold sinks into the deepest recesses and pockets of decay. It fills every last space, pooling forth with more of Mercy's blessing. Before long, the metal leaks and winds in trails from lesion to lesion.

You place a hand firmly to Simon's shoulder. He's panicking. "Are you in pain?"

"N-no— but the fuck—?"

"Stay still. You are not in any danger. Permit Us heal you."

One of your hands is taken into a terrified, crushing grip. "You'd better know what you're doing."

"I know you are afraid. You will be alright. There is nothing to fear. Our skill is without compare, and the Gods are Merciful."

Your vessel belongs to Her. With your free hand, you splay your fingers. The golden wire lacing the man's body lifts in an instant.

He lets out a shout.

The vice on your hand is wonderful.

Beneath the gold is a thick trail of the last of the blood, the decay, the rot, and a lifetime of poison. It hovers for the briefest of seconds.

"Are you alright?"

"Y-yes—" All of the color has left Simon's face. He's practically reflecting the radiance all around him.

The strands of gold fade, shimmering across the last of the material world. Tufts of light persist in your eyes, and disperses from your patient's body into thin air. The man's Flesh is no longer littered with holes, with gold, or the Goddess. Healthy skin and fully formed muscle remains speckled. Luster catches slightly on waning candlelight as the man moves, releases your hand, and brushes at himself in disbelief.

"What the—" The flakes fall harmlessly fall to the bed. He looks to you, stunned beyond words.

You move to stand, and nearly collapse from the effort. Your vision explodes into a flash of light, and the rest of you feels as if it might as well have burst. Ecstasy drenches you in waves, robbing you of any hold on reality for a few blessed moments.

You have done so much good. You have been so devout. You have saved countless lives. You have protected the weak, sheltered the weary, healed the injured, and upheld every last one of your vows. You have never faltered in your conviction.

"M-Mercy—"

"Father— Father, are you okay?"

Staggering, teeth gritted, you attempt to right yourself again. The heat in you is like nothing you've ever felt before. More intense than the blessing of Flesh and hotter than a flame is a fire in you that could rival the very sun. She can't keep Herself away for another instant. She's in your soul, working through your veins, your scars, the light in your eyes, and everything in between.

"Mercy— yes, Simon, I am— I am perfectly fine."

You take a few very deep breaths, and blindly find a wall to hold onto. The slightest motion is divine. Forcing yourself upright puts a solar flare and chills through the rest of your body, but you manage to look back towards the hall.

There's still no one coming for aid. It's very quiet. Speaking is rapidly becoming impossible.

Our work is not done.

You are flawless. You are divine. You are Merciful.

There is still one more patient to attend to in this portion of the exterior ward. An amputee, who's limb you could not possibly hope to

You can do more than hope. You can heal. You are the Father of the Church of Mercy. The Mother wishes to work through you. She wants to be with you, to serve your vessel.

You are a miracle.

Clutching hard to the stone wall before you— steeling yourself— you resolve to continue doing the impossible. With several deep breaths, you wrench yourself away from all physical support, and walk out of Simon's room. "Remember Our tenets. To live is to serve, Brother."

"Thank you. Thank you, Father."

There's utter silence in the corridor. It likely only took you a few minutes to bring a dying and diseased man from the brink of death. Back to the peak of health. Staggering, tilting sideways from each and every wave of devotion, you arrive at the last door at the end of the hall. It's closed. Cyril never made it to the last patient.

You will.