Chapter 35: Children of Mercy

"Continue my work." ​

Rope tugs on your body with impossible force. Wind is taken from your lungs. The world flies past you. Everything shifts. You can't see.

The rope snaps.

You're falling.

No.

Music

You are standing on flat ground, grasping onto a knotted cord with all your strength. You look up.

It's like a Dream. Beneath a red moon lies a field of grain. The stalks wave in a forgotten breeze, and bask in a pale yellow light that emanates from up above. The scent of dust intermingles with life of ages long past. You breathlessly spin around in a panic. Hundreds of doors lie in the distance. They punctuate the grain, and reach out into an impossible, stony-gray horizon. Enchanted, dry soil is underfoot. Ofelia, Celegwen, and Ray are unconscious on the floor beside you. The rope that kept you all together is lying around them.

Gasping for air, tearing off the harness, you fall to your knees at their side and try shaking each one of them. They aren't responding. No one has any of their things with them, though it looks like Celegwen at least grabbed her staff.

Everyone's hands are slick with blood, and there's a bit of red around Ray's teeth as well. A scream catches in your throat as you whip your head back around, and try to figure out what's happened. There are no mountains or hills in the distance. There lies a deep fog on the outskirts of this domain— and sheer walls in every direction. They stretch from the bottom of the abyss, above the moon, and beyond the highest reaches of the sky.

Making a thorough examination of everyone's injuries isn't possible. There's something dripping in the grain. There is a woman— a demon— walking towards you.

Staggering to your feet, your panic reaches critical mass. It's impossible to tear yourself away. Your eyes burn with every attempt to glance away from the monstrosity, once you truly catch your eyes on her.

An ancient skull drips with golden paint. Molten light cascades over an intangible body. Everything from her pools over a shifting, nearly-fleshless form. Though she is unclothed, only rot and radiance can be discerned through the halo of light surrounding the demon. Decaying tissue clings to what little bone you see beyond the veil. She leaves a trail of gold and light in her wake, cutting a path through the grain.

​

With her are five minor demons. The small girl you saw before is among their number. They're all dripping with liquid gold, bearing faces made of light. As she stops their procession, the radiant corpse's arms and hands are opened towards you.

You step in front of your friends, catch your breath, and abandon all pretense of restraint. "What have you done?!"

The archdemon's words are soft and warm. "The question is not, 'what have I done?'" She lowers her arms. "It is, 'what will I do?'"

A single step comes closer. She practically glides across the grain. You bristle, and clutch onto your holy symbol so tightly you draw blood. "NOT A STEP CLOSER—"

"Father Anscham, there is no need to fear me. I wish to answer your questions. All of them."

Homicidal intent threatens to cloud your vision and judgement. A trickle of blood weaves through the vice you have on your holy symbol. Celegwen's ring nicks your skin, but the gems on the interior of the band draws forth no pain or pleasure. You're far too distracted by the unconscious bodies of your friends at your feet, and by the demons before you. It's all you can do to put yourself between them.

This is impossible.

There is no conceivable way you can protect your companions. Not while facing down an archdemon and five of her children. It cost the last Father of Mercy his life to take down a demon of lesser power than this, and he had the entire church behind him. This woman— this demon— is a creature of legend. You have never contended with one so influential.

You've certainly never dealt with one so calm. The air is warm. A faint breeze drifts by with the smell of grain, in a mockery of childhood memories.

You derive no comfort from the association with your family's farmland. All of your focus rests on the heat and power rising from the figure before you. The archdemon's patience is unsettling in its completeness. She neither moves nor gestures towards you. Absolute dominance over her demons keeps her children at bay, while you grit your teeth in agony.

There is no fear in your heart for yourself. You reserve you fear for your friends, and take confidence in your hatred of this creature. Hatred for their kind. Hatred for anyone who dares to harm those under your protection. No timidity creeps into your voice. All hint of the usual insecurity and doubt cracks with raw intensity as you hold your ground.

"Not another step closer. I don't want to see you move. If your claim is true, answer me." Crimson catches in your vision as you rip your gaze back to your friends. It pools behind your eyes, and sticks as hot and fast to your memory as it has to their hands. The bloody image lingers after you've torn away, with enough heat in your voice to rival the archdemon's. "What have you done?"

It seems that the woman is taking you seriously enough to respect your wishes. Gold and light remains almost completely still before you. Her dripping shoulders and immaterial bosom do not heave, nor does any breath falls from her lips as she replies, "I have done much, Father Anscham, but I have not harmed your friends. I assure you, they will be fine. This is a place of healing. If you wish, you may take the time to tend to them. I will not disturb you."

An intangible cascade of gold and light stares back at you without judgement. She has no motion to discern, no tension, and no indication of any sudden violence.

It's impossible to get a read on the archdemon's intent. Your brows knit with stress. The minor demons accompanying her are as small as children, but no doubt possess enormous power to be so close to her company.

"Disturb me? How do you think you can even help me? Why aren't—" It's worth the risk to hazard another glance at your companions. Their still forms and shallow breaths drive a blade through your heart and lungs as you struggle to articulate yourself. "W-why aren't they awake—?"

The archdemon does not move or gesture. Softness defines her interjection. "Father, I can help you in every conceivable way. I know what you seek. I know of your pain. I know of your journey. Of your suffering. In order to help you, I needed to speak with you, and you alone. I have granted your companions reprieve from what is no doubt a distressing experience. I assure you, they will rise again."

This demon's tone has every nerve in your body on fire. Nothing about this seems right.

Demons are universally homicidal, violent, and unable to control their impulses. Yet this one is attempting to exhibit Mercy?

"You are nothing like any demon I have ever encountered. I don't understand. Why? What about you— what do you even want from me—?"

"My Catalyst was my empathy, Father."

What?

There's no movement towards you. No sign of a threat. The grain waves slightly in the breeze, unaffected by the heat emanating from the archdemon. You reel for only a moment.

"W-what?"

"I have remained the Mother of this place for many an age. I tend to my children, as I always have. You know I cannot speak about this at length, but I implore you to understand. I wish to end their suffering— much as you do. I need your help, Father Anscham. The ages wear on me, on my mind, on my home. You know this, as I know this."

As you scrutinize the minor demons around her, your pulse is so high you fear you might collapse. Their discipline is absolute. The slight twitch of their hands tells you that they are more than metal, but little else.

You clench your hands, try to steady your breath, and to get a hold of yourself.

The steady gold coursing over the archdemon's frame remains the only indication that she is even alive. "I understand that this is too much to ask of you now. I understand that you have been hurt. I wish to help. To heal. I will give you a week."

"What?!" You take a step forward. "Wait—!"

The archdemon makes absolutely no indication of moving, yet her words are growing fainter by the second. "This is a place of healing. You may partake of anything here you so wish. I will give you one week— to decide if you will show me and my children that which you love. Learn of them. Meet them. Kill them if you must. I wish for you to understand. To exhibit that which you have utterly failed to do so, time and time again. Show us that which you claim to love, Father Anscham, and I will give you what you seek."

That which I love...? Mercy?

"Wait!"

As you take step after step forward, Mercy flickers through your mind. Her visit. Her mission. Her embrace. Blood slicks against your palm as Her holy symbol crushes into your scarred and worn skin. Panic is tilting over into crushing fear. The thought of what this demon wants to do with you is unbearable.

I can't make a deal with a demon.

I can't ignore Mercy's word.

I can't leave my friends here to die. She could take them hostage. They could kill me here and now. I have to buy us time.

I need answers.

Your scream is hoarse and raw with worry and strain.

"WAIT!"

The archdemon remains inert. A hand comes to your lips as you immediately try to mask the outburst. "Mercy, forgive me." The peak of your panic only serves to escalate your terror. "Wait. Please. I— I'll listen. Just— please, don't go. You said that you wished to help me. I still have so many questions—"

Luster and presence returns to the archdemon's voice. "Very well. What is it you wish to know?"

"The weight of the unknown, it's— it's a terrible burden. I can't possibly heal anyone like this. How am I supposed to, given this—" You look around, so wide-eyed that the sage of your irises are fully exposed. The low grade headache behind your temples, the rapid beat of your heart, and the red moon overhead is impossibly close. The bodies of your friends behind you serves as a constant reminder of how vulnerable you all are. Your voice comes out so on-edge that you doubt anyone could question your sincerity. "Why should I trust you?"

"I do not expect you to— hence, why I was quick to leave. You do not trust me or my kind, Father. Much as we are reluctant to trust yours. I cannot hope to undo lifetimes of mistrust in a single conversation. I can only hope to make the most of the time that is left to me."

A long silence passes between you two.

Anger catches in your throat, drowning out reason. It's impossible to not take offense to this creature after everything she's implied. The longer you think about it, the more uncomfortable you are.

I have given everything in the name of the Gods.

"Are you doubting my devotion? After everything I've been through— do you seriously question my connection to the Gods? To Mercy?"

"Yes."

A disgusted sound emerges, despite your best efforts to contain it. You feel physically sick. The stress of dealing with this archdemon is making it unbelievably difficult to show any sort of restraint. Under normal circumstances, you could easily deal with someone questioning your faith. You know beyond any shadow of a doubt that you are unwavering in your conviction— but this demon has you questioning everything. Your accusations are as ugly as you feel, but you can't stop yourself. "What connection, then, do you claim to have to Her? The fact that your children are familiar with Her litanies is questionable, at best— and your forms are a blatant mockery of Her light. What do you presume to know? What are you? Speak, demon. Tell me as best as you're able. I know you can't even utter the name of Mercy."

"I've already attempted to tell you, Father. I was once a Mother of..."

Righteous indignation further discolors the brewing storm of emotion in you. You finish her sentence. "Mercy."

"Yes. You, no doubt, are familiar by now with our home. I served this place, and—" Though no breath rises from her lungs, it almost seems as if the archdemon's words catch in her throat. "—my—" Her struggle is deeply satisfying, and you let her butcher her words to accommodate her meaning. "—children. I fell, after witnessing the fall of our— home, and my people. I could not bear to endure their suffering any longer. Many of them are still here, contained to the best of my ability, as I've—"

A terrible smirk crosses your face. You can't help but interject, "prayed?"

"...yes. For a time when we could heal— could learn— could leave this place. I suspect the world has only grown darker in the ages that have passed without hope. Without light. There is no doubt that I have taken this form as a reflection of what I felt most."

This woman is raising more questions than she's answering. Your smirk is already long gone. "What happened to Ostedholm for it to fall this far? I have learned so much of this place, but many of the records had omissions. What do you know of the information that the city of light's libraries did not contain?"

The archdemon's voice remains soft and unwavering, but a slight darkness creeps into her words as she speaks. "I strayed too close to the light, Father. Many of us did. They could not strike everything from the records before we were contained and destroyed. There are so few of us left. So much was lost."

There's still no movement from any of the demons as the fallen Mother of the Church of Mercy finishes speaking. Her voice resumes its usual lightness. "I suspect you must still have questions. If you swear to me to not bring me or my children any harm, I will remain here for a time. It is incredibly taxing for me to remain in this form, but I swore to answer you. I can leave my children here as well, to provide food and healing for you all. You did not accept my gift previously— but I assure you, I mean you no harm. I wish to help."

The fear of this demon killing you and your friends outright stills the brewing turmoil in you for the briefest of moments. "Don't go. Not yet." There's something that you came down to the ruins for. Your obsession. The very thing that has ruined the life of this demon and countless others. "I need to know. How exactly— what caused your Catalyst?"

The steady drip of gold onto the soil beneath your feet is the only reply for several long moments.

Your eyes glance along the field, to the hundreds of doors stretching out into the horizon, and up along the gray walls climbing up from the abyss.

"Emotion," the archdemon finally replies. "It was my emotion. I fell too deeply into myself, Father. I professed to— serve, but I did not live up to the tenets of my station. I did not uphold my vows. I did not show restraint. I felt for my children. I felt for our home. I could not withhold all of the love in my heart, and it consumed me. It utterly destroyed us all."

The same ugliness— the urge to let out your spite, your insecurity, and your utter lack of self-worth— comes rushing back. For this demon to have questioned the one thing that you value about yourself is more than you can stand. "It's ironic, to hear of failure in devotion— from a former Mother of the Church."

You know how badly your words must sting her, but the archdemon shows no sign of responding. You dig deeper, desperate to assert yourself in this situation. The threat of these demons is intense, and your prolonged helplessness is more than you can stand. You want a foothold- anything that might help you not feel so weak.

"Mercy has blessed me with her light— yet she has abandoned you and your children."

The scathing remark actually makes the archdemon recoil. The motion would be imperceptible, if you weren't staring her down. Her radiance catches on the bags under your eyes, the pockets of emaciated skin drawn taught over your prominent cheekbones.

The old scars adorning your expressionless face scarcely moves as you mutter, "maybe it is you who isn't worthy. Maybe it is you who should prove herself. I've come close to the Catalyst many, many times. I remember each one vividly, yet here I stand..."

Your voice drops even lower, as you glare at the archdemon. "...not as disgraced as you."

Something in the archdemon stirs. You can't tell if it's pain, or a threat, but it stills your voice for a moment. There's a pull deep in the pit of your stomach.

This is still a demon. She could kill us all at any moment.

With a hard swallow, you try to quell the nausea, your racing heart, the frothing anger and a lifetime of strain.

What am I doing?

You take another deep breath, and pray to level your voice.

To live is to serve.

To serve is to be Merciful.

"You said that you knew of my mission. How did you come by that knowledge?"

You know she must be hurt, but the archdemon levelly replies, "Malimos. His webs extend through the ruins, as I know you are aware. Our children have brought me word of your journey, your travels, and your mission— though I am aware that it has changed in your time here."

"You knew of my search for the cure...?"

"Yes."

Sudden desperation seizes you. You can't stop yourself. "You must tell me. Is it true? Is death the only cure?"

"I do not know."

You invoke Her name, rather than spill every rising curse. "Mercy—!"

"I understand how important this must be to you— but in all my many years, none of my children wished to change form. I could not attempt to bring them away from the Catalyst, even if they wished for me to try."

"What...?"

"I have conducted my own research, Father. I have a tremendous gift from my service in life. Something that I know you seek. I cannot give it willingly, but..."

Your anger rapidly gives way to desperation. "What? What— what would you have me do?"

"It is as I said before. Speak with my children. Meet them. Show them—"

"Mercy."

"Yes. See if you can sway their hearts. Their minds. Their forms. I suspect there may be a way to reverse what has transpired here. If nothing else, I wish to help you. To pass on this gift before I die. I know you wish to prove yourself, Father. I know you have suffered. I would see to it that you continue my work, as you already sought to do of your own volition."

Your mind races as you struggle to internalize the implications of all of this.

The demon's voice becomes painfully radiant. "Would you permit me to move? To awaken your friends, and grant you rest? I can grant further entry to my children's chambers, if you would see to them. Though I cannot hope for them to show you the same courtesy that I have, I suspect that you can contend with the mildest of them without issue."

"What other choice do I have?"

"You can certainly remain here, until the week is out. The new moon will come— and with it, the end... of our discussion. I will not wait here indefinitely. My form will not persist much longer. I wish to answer your questions, but I cannot waste my time." For the briefest of moments, the light in her voice is utterly searing. "I may be disgraced, but I will not be trifled with."

The archdemon's voice softens. The light dims. "I understand the difficulty of your position, Father. You are not the first to suffer in this way. I implore you to exhibit that which you love. Please."

Hands still around your holy symbol— wondering if you could pry away from the gold if you tried— you nod towards the demon with a level voice. No doubt is left in your mind. "There is a Relic of Mercy here. You, as a Mother, should know where it is. Please, guide us to it—" Your confidence wavers slightly, through sheer desperation. "—and I will see to your children."