Chapter 33: Sobering

"Cold water."

​

Cyril seems to have stoked the fire at the hearth, and set out a basin of hot water. The room is swept clean once again, with nary a cobweb in sight. Ray trots ahead and drops himself near the fire, immediately enjoying himself.

As you glance around, your heart comes to your throat.

The priest has scattered flower petals on the bed. They're yellow. Likely roses. You have no idea how he could have obtained them, but it doesn't matter. You close the door firmly behind you, and there is heat on you in an instant.

For the briefest of moments, you think you might be coming down with a fever.

Putting a hand to the back of your head, you nearly drop to the floor. The slightest touch is more intense than any drug you've ever had. It might not be helped by the tea, since your head is still swimming, but it's unmistakable.

Mercy—

You have been VERY Merciful.

Ray whines with concern, picks up his ears, and trots back over to you as you stagger to the bed.

Kneeling down beside the frame and mattress, leaning hard against the sheets, you try to reassure him. "It's fine, boy. Go lay back down."

His obedience is immediate, but he glances back to you occasionally while sauntering to the hearth.

There's more heat in you than a kindled flame. You clasp your hands together, muttering ("Mercy—") between hitched breaths. It takes a few minutes to regain anything resembling composure.

Prying your hands apart for a moment, you find salvation in the flask in your pocket. It's slick with sleet, and nearly as wet as the rest of you, so you cling onto it for dear life. "Something sobering. Anything that will clear my mind and body."

Another tea is rapidly produced from the endless flask. It's cold, cream-colored, and fragrant. You take only a sip, and are greeted with a sugary, exotic brew. It's reminiscent of raisins, sweet as honey, and as restorative as the energizing brew you had this morning. It easily eclipses the properties of both strange beverages you've had from the flask today.

Almost immediately, you begin to feel a bit more like yourself. The tremor in your hands is back after a few more swigs, but you don't mind in the slightest.

Straightening up a bit more— still on your knees— you put the flask away in lieu of clasping your hands back together. It's been a long time since you last prayed to all of the Gods.

At the bottom of the world— desperate for forgiveness— you implored them all to not forsake you. Now, with far more confidence, you hold onto your vessel.

Fingers intertwined, you bow your head, and pray. "Mercy," you try to start.

Bringing your hands just below your lips, biting down hard on your knuckles, you manage to stifle a moan that wants to rise. A current of ecstasy wraps in and around the slightest movement. The stick of the fabric against your skin. Each digit interlocked between another. The tension. Teeth. Only your unparalleled devotion to a Goddess of Compassion keeps you from drawing blood in a surge of heat, gold, and divinity.

With a very deep breath, you are the embodiment of discipline.

Self-control.

Restraint.

A little sterility comes into your voice. You try to stay detached, to keep the Goddess on the edge of your vessel.

"You permitted me to give everything I had— freely— to another. To sacrifice myself— Your tenet— to a demon. I feel you, Mercy. My heart goes out to you. My restraint. I never once doubted that I would feel You again. You have always been with me. Thank You for Your blessing. Thank You for Your compassion. Thank You for Your love, and endless devotionn—"

It's too much. It's as if She has you in Her arms, Her bosom, for the soft gold that's infringing on the borders of your mind.

She's in your heart, and in every last inch of your body.

You pull back with another breath, maintaining your composure through every hairline crack in your soul. "My love for you is endless, as your vessel, the Father, and a man of all of the Gods."

She's still on you, as you try to ride out the overwhelming pull.

At some point, you must have keeled completely over the bed.

A few long moments pass.

You drag yourself upright. Using your elbows for stability, you bow your head. Your gaze goes to the sheets for only a moment, with your clasped hands pressed to your brow.

Eyes shut, breath ragged, you implore another. "Flesh of my Flesh. Your home has been opened to me, yet I know you have forsaken this vessel. I ask not for your forgiveness. I will earn the right to show you my devotion. It will be Your strength."

It's hard to breathe. For the chill on your shirt and trousers, the fire in you is stifling.

There's an intense urge to pull away from the prayer, and to attend to the water that's been set out for you, but you quell the compulsion. You are a man of all the Gods.

"Spirit. Goddess of Knowledge, Wisdom, and Sight." She's listening. Your eyes are closed, attuned to what cannot be seen. "I have been blessed by your very children. I will serve You as diligently as any other. I have strayed from Your sight, and wandered long in the darkness. You have helped me see. Thank you. The immaterial will be known."

Another deep breath. It's impossible to not unclasp your hands for a moment, to clutch at the sheets, to bury your face for another blessed moment.

"Mercy—!"

Dragging yourself away from ecstasy...

Looking earnestly to the wash basin across the room...

There are two words on your mind.

"Cold water." It's scented with clove and sage. A gift you cup into your hands, and clean your face with. The water is frigid, and jolts the last of the drug out of your system.

There's still the promise of divinity.

There are not enough herbs or cold water in all of Corcaea to rival Her blessing.

Even the rush of a chill and remedies from the Church of Flesh do not hold off Her caress. From your discarded and sleet-stained clothes to the last of your scars, there is the sensation of something delicate.

It's tender. Reassuring. Up, along your spine. Around the base of your scalp, caressing along your broad shoulders.

The frigid bath should have you shaking.

You attend to it as quickly as possible.

Prudence is all over you, as you quickly dry off and get dressed.

There's still a caress.

A few sounds escape you, fighting with the sensation.

You slip back into a clean set of jet-black clothes, stiffly and quickly. The high collar of your shirt is rapidly fastened with a few cloth buttons. It's nowhere near as revealing as the usual attire of the priests of Flesh. Long-sleeves, simple linen trousers, and the spare robes you throw on are all just as modest and optimistically loose-fitting.

The Father of Flesh clearly hopes to do some good for you. You have to wonder where he acquired so much exorbitantly dyed fabric, and realize you're a lot more sober.

Despite all of the heat still in you, you stoke the hearth a little higher, and kneel back beside the bed.

No matter how pressing your engagement is later this evening, there is another prayer that demands your attention. Someone who you have paid an enormous amount of devotion to, and still want to respect.

"Time."

Heat falls from you in an instant. A cold sweat takes its place.

"You seem to always escape me. I ask not for Your eternal grace. Not for a single moment. I wish only to serve. To pay respect to You. The sands. The age. Here, now, then, and after. Your will is unchangeable."

With a cold sweat still on you— wishing to make the most of your courage, dedication, and restraint— you reach out.

Hands still clasped, head bowed, you glance to the flame. The fire. The hearth. A current of fear is running through you. You wince, wanting for stability. Not convulsions, or the might of the Gods, but a simple prayer.

"Storm."

The temperamental deity does not inflict anything on you, so much as the opportunity to speak freely.

"You have blessed me with the vision of Your tempest without my service. Without my dedication. Without ever knowing Your family. Without my life. I wish— more than anything— to understand. To better serve. To sail beneath Your sky. To grace Your open shores. To feel Your flame and ride the lightning that is Your fury. Your calm. Your form. Thank you."

With another deep breath, you try to still the tremor in your hands. The twitch in your wasted muscle.

The weight sunken into your gut— taken in without pain— has you worried. Not for your appearance or anything so petty, but for blasphemy. For the gifts of demons. A curse of ages past. Sacrifice. Agony.

"Agriculture. Your harvest has been bountiful— your generosity without compare. Help me best serve You. Your children have thrived. Your lands have blossomed, yet the halls of Your home are ravaged with grief. Help me nurture the seeds of prosperity. I do not wish to blaspheme. I have suffered that our country may flourish. Help me. Permit our prayers to blossom. Guide me, that I may grow."

The heat in you is nearly gone. The warmth of the fire across the room is more than compensating for any Harvest chill. The linen shirt against your skin, and the wool robes adorning them, are all reassuring. It's a constant reminder of who you first served.

It's all in black.

"Vengeance."

Nausea threatens to infringe on your chill. The memory of blood, bile, and thirty-two Catalysts.

Clasping your hands together as tightly as you're able, you grit your teeth and manage to spit out a prayer. "Your retribution is always proportionate. Your will, Your unremitting justice, Your judgement is faultless. Your vessel, Your balance, Your level hands are here. Grateful. Reverent. Thank you, again."

With a very deep breath, you close your eyes, and try to keep your composure. No blood comes to your lips. Neither does bile. There is no heat, no lightning, no spasm, no convulsions. No loss of weight or muscle, and no break in the back of your mind.

There is simply a caress, and an embrace. The Mother of Compassion holds you, keeping the Father as close as She can.

"The Gods are Merciful."