Chapter 60: Define "You"

"Face the truth."

Music

The shadow and light before you is silent as the grave. The deafening stillness does not come to you as any surprise, as an expanse of tombstones before you stretches out for miles. Overturned, neglected tombstones are littered over ancient soil. The ashen wasteland is so dry and forgotten that you can't fathom a living soul having ever traversed the endless expanse. Adorning the skyline is a spectral building. Drifting across the edges of your vision, the structure seems comprised of only wisps and white shadow. A colossal staircase winds from the base of the building to its peaks.

You are reminded of a church.

​

There is not a single demon in sight, but you suspect there are thousands underfoot. Reflexively, you clutch tighter still onto your holy symbol, and take a step back.

The door is gone.

You turn around frantically, looking to where you had stepped mere moments before. There is not only no door, but there seems to be no end to the demon's domain. Masses of fog reach out to the farthest corners of your vision. There is no sky— only transparent shrouds, fallen graves, and the sensation of something in the back of your skull.

You stagger to the side, clutching at your head. Stone cracks underfoot as a trampled piece of rubble presses into the ash beneath you.

It feels like there's a set of fingers running along the back of your scalp, though you can't feel anything there with your own digits. The sensation is horrifically familiar.

There's a loud pounding of heavy footfalls, far off in the distance. You've heard them before. Still clutching at your head— lifting your gaze to the horizon— a thought cuts across your mind like a knife.

This demon has known me since the very beginning.

The sound of rushing water, of hands crawling along your body as you collapsed before a crumbling, and impossible set of stairs hits you hard and fast.

You appear to be alone, but it feels like you're surrounded. Like there are hundreds of eyes on you.

Don't panic.

Don't make the same mistakes.

Don't rush through this.

Restraint. Compassion. Mercy.

Taking a deep breath, you steady yourself, and take your trembling hands off the back of your head. The cloying sensation of fingers running over your scalp persists, but you focus instead on the landscape before you.

Holding your holy symbol loosely, you fidget with the gold, and take a few methodical steps forward. Off of the tombstones below your feet, the ground is so marred and dry that it's difficult to find any footing, but you manage to pick your way through.

The prodding and pulling under your hair is incessant while you pass through what is obviously a tribute to the fallen city of lights. Inspecting the writing on the markers all around, you try your best to keep your breath level. Across the stones are names and dates. All are unknown to you. Most are too faded to be read. It matters little.

Your breath steadies. Your hands calm. These are not like the cemeteries you have passed through on the surface— filled with men who have followed you to their death. This is not the site of your fallen mentor, or of clergy who have passed away. This is an ancient burial site. One that has likely been forgotten for ages.

You lift your head and call out. The usual timidness of your speech is entirely absent, as your resolve to take on this demon's challenge emboldens you to do better. To be better.

"Beltoro!"

Your voice echoes impossibly in the open air. Though you see no one and nothing around you, the resonance of your speech carries over the graves as if you were delivering a sermon within the very Church of Mercy.

You draw back for a moment, entirely unsure of how to proceed— until something answers back.

The sensation on the back of your skull intensifies. It feels like a nail drags itself behind your scalp and under the skin. You're reminded simultaneously of a needle and a demon, and instantly want to retch as you recall Tsilorm digging into your mind. The movement into your head is accompanied by the intensifying pressure of something— someone, a crowd or a congregation— boring into you with their eyes.

The silence of the domain is absolute, but something is conveyed to you wordlessly. It wraps itself around your thoughts, punctuating the scream that wants to rise to your throat and stifling it instantly.

"Late is the hour of your arrival."

Confusion and terror drenches you. The point of the needle drills into the back of your skull with no pleasure. There is no blossoming relief. It's a different kind of pain. One that's coming from a rampantly intensifying desire to remove the intruder from your mind.

"Your vessel is weak, and your mind weaker still."

There's something piercing, pushing, and clawing out from the front of your skull. It's creeping its way up and into your hair. It feels like a spider made of knives, though nothing is there.

You hold your ground. Fear drenches you. Hands to your holy symbol, an unstoppable plea to Mercy for Her protection falls from your lips.

"We know what you seek. We know what you are. We know of your weakness. Your pain. Your failings. You are inadequate. You are confused. Yet you are not afraid."

Each syllable is punctuated by another pull on your scalp. There is no wound, but it feels as if blood is dripping into your eyes, drenching your hair and blinding you entirely.

White begins to cloud your vision.

"We care not for your bravery. Your honesty is meaningless. Your words are empty, filled as they are with ignorance. You preach, knowing not what to believe in. We will not tarry. We will give you courtesy. We will show you the respect that none will show us. We will show you, if you know what you must do."

I need to communicate.

I need to listen.

What do I say?

What do I know?

"We hear you." The cacophony of impressions claws at the back of your skull. The hand of a man, a woman, a child, a sinner, a demon— the sensation of a thought trails across your doubt, your inner conflict, and your desperation to do the right thing.

What do you intend to show me?

"Everything."

The white across your eyes goes opaque. It courses through your veins, flooding you with an impression. An intent. A feeling.

A Spirit.

You are Ofelia Banks: a halfling woman who has traveled far from Spira— your home— your capital of the world. Your friends call you "Eagle Eyes," but no one here is truly your friend.

As the daughter of an illustrious crime lord, you have spent your life desperately trying to prove yourself. You have fought, you have struggled, you have suffered the abuse and ridicule of everyone who has ever known you, and it has all been in the name of proving yourself. You have earned your position at the head of the family. You have earned the respect of others. You took control. You took what was rightfully yours. You protected your sisters, your brothers, your mother, the business— but you could not protect your reputation.

You could not protect your father. He pushed himself too far. You do not know the details of the negotiation, but he attempted to bargain for something and lost. He was near death five months ago— wasting away— begging you to do everything you could to save him.

To prove yourself one last time.

You have been in the ruins for months. Having traveled halfway across the continent, under the dead of night, you have—

"STOP—!"

The pain in your temples is so excruciating that you rip back into yourself, into your body, into the agony, into the hands in the back of your skull. You're on your knees— bent over a tombstone— clutching onto something in the present for dear life.

"Are you so weak? Are you afraid? Do you not wish to know?"

The pain lancing your nerves and pumping through every beat of your heart pales in comparison to the static, the noise, and the intermission of the demon that is inside your head and pausing their display.

Your thoughts are racing a mile a minute. Each one is more agonizing than the last as Beltoro reaches into them.

This is now or never.

I can't break my vows, I can't betray my friends, I can't come to any real understanding without their consent— but haven't I invoked Spirit towards them before?

This isn't weakness, is it?

Haven't I told myself over and over again that I want to see them again?

Haven't I accepted that I likely never will, when this is all over?

Do I even need this knowledge?

Don't I want to know, even if that isn't the case?

Am I not desperate to learn, to grow, to uphold my mission, to be true to my convictions?

I have to do this.

I need to face the truth.

"You already have."

You are Ofelia "Eagle Eyes" Banks, and you are a careful woman. You have spent your family's fortune on protecting yourself, concealing yourself, and ensuring that your travel to the land of Gods and demons would not result in your immediate demise. You told yourself that it was worth it. That stealing a magical form of protection and ensuring you found someone to heal your father was worth more than all you held to your name.

You cannot go back home without an answer.

It was five months of travel, of hiding, of pilfering, of research and of fear before you found one. The answer did not come in the form of an artifact, in Magic, or in demons.

Your tenuous alliance with a sorceress has proved utterly worthless. Though Celegwen was a masterful combatant, she professed that she could not heal. Her talents were for manipulating the fabric of what could be— not fixing what was.

The mortal coil. The body. The soul. It is all the domain of the Gods.

You were familiar with the deity of your people. A singular and often neglected worship of the land. Halflings respect what little is left of the world, but they rarely worship it.

You thought that the devotion of humans was a myth. A fairy tale. More often than not, you were told that they were all insane. That there was no redemption to be had among them. That their most devout were still cursed. That their land was tainted. That they had no hope and were a dying breed.

You rapidly realized that their reverence was real when you looked upon a man who could call forth lightning and fire from his very soul— even when on the brink of death. The creatures that had threatened your life fell before him without effort.

You were afraid. You are still afraid. The days that you watched over him as he fitfully tossed and twitched— wracked with the illness and tremor that his Gods inflicted on him— led you to believe that he could not be saved. His unwavering obsession with himself, his reverence and his pain had you question his sanity from the first moment you held him at knife-point.

He never once questioned you. He confided in you, and bore his soul countless times. He has leaned on you for support and security. The first time he left you suspected you would find his dead body not long after. You often wish you did.

He has given you hope for a cure. Hope for an answer. Hope for redemption and for an answer to your pain. Hope not for humanity— for the curse that plagues his people, for his twisted Gods or his insanity— but for your own Father. For your family. For the children you want to have, the quiet life you want to lead, your retirement, and your quiet retreat back into something sane. You do not want to suffer and die alone in a hole at the bottom of the world. You do not want to be here. You have never wanted to venture so deeply, to test your mettle with Gods and demons.

You have hid. You have stolen. You have lied. You are a blasphemer that has cursed every God, demon and human in the forsaken land of Corcaea.

You have never once stopped reminding yourself that to fight is to die.

Yet you've endured. You've trusted in this man, and followed him to the bottom of the world. Your conviction is unwavering. Your devotion to your principles— to yourself, to being decent, to sharing your passion, to looking after those who cannot help themselves— has never left you.

You've always tried to make the best of a bad situation. You've been there for Celegwen when no one else has. You've distracted and killed countless demons from abusing the unholiest of men. You've lost countless nights of sleep making sure that he's gotten rest. You've tended to his wounds, you've ignored your needs as a woman, you've dismissed your pride, and you have never stopped believing that it will all be worth it.

You need to go home.

You don't know if the priest is even capable of remembering his Gods, who he is, or what he needs to do to ensure you all survive, but you are trapped. You have not slept in four days, and you are starving to death.

You have been accused by the man you've risked your life for of being a demon. You suspect that he doesn't remember most of what you have done for him, but you understand. He is only human.

You are a halfling woman, with a family to go home to. Even if you die— trapped, a failure and without a friend at the bottom of the world— you know that you've at least tried to do the right thing.

You will see to it that Richard survives, and completes his mission. You'll make sure that you find your cure.

You've killed over far less.

"You have survived, Father, though you have yet to complete your mission."

You're vomiting. Something white and clear is coming up as you blindly heave, clinging onto a tombstone. The pain in your skull is so intense that you can't fathom it ever leaving, yet the demon somehow continues to press deeper into your mind.

You can't stop. The out pour is unbearable. It's hot, smells vaguely of lilies, and so thin that you wonder if it's even coming from your own body.

The opacity obscuring your vision persists. You can't see anything as you clutch onto the stone, finish your retching and struggle to even stay on your knees.

It's a small blessing that the demon can read your thoughts, as you are utterly incapable of speech.

The hand drags a nail— a spike, a barb— across the back of your agony. "We are not finished."

Music

I have to do this. I've been a fool. I don't know myself, the women I've called friends, my place in this world or anything else for that matter. I need to know. I have to understand.

Please, Beltoro. I wish to do for you the same that I have done for Yech, for Remigius. I wish to show you Mercy. Even if it kills me.

Please. Show me everything.

"Though it remains to be seen if you can fulfill your mission, I will ensure that you know what you are facing. Who you are facing."

The pain lancing your mind subsides, if only slightly.

Everything goes numb.

Everything slows down.

You go by the name of Celegwen. You went by another name for a very long time.

You don't hate the name, but you hate its inelegance, how awkward it looks and sounds when written and spoken.

You hate that it was given to you when you were exiled from the Verdant Dominion.

You no longer remember what you were once called.

You no longer remember much of anything.

You remember the pink of rose campion on the beaches of your home. The sound of the sea. Rough water.

The faces around you are blank. They have smeared over like an oil painting. The shores were smeared and speckled with ice.

There was not ice. There was once heat, and warmth.

There was a demon— stronger than any you had ever faced. Cold. Relentless. Faced down by light and compassion. You remember a man willing to risk his life to protect you.

You remember flowers. You prefer to remember the smell of old parchment, of countless tomes you've poured over, hundreds of years of accumulated knowledge.

There is a cloying feeling in the back of your mind. It's ever present. Your research was for something very important. You're reminded of it often when you see Father Anscham.

You prefer that he doesn't ask you about yourself. You've always been very quiet. You have been more talkative of late, but you would prefer for it to be quiet.

It's reassuring that he's also come to the ruins to die. It's of little comfort that his Gods are real, but it is reassuring that your research has led you to correct conclusions about his people. You have never believed in the Gods.

You have believed that they are all insane.

Humans have had animosity against your people for so many of their generations. You have been told all of your life—

You're reminded of it often, when you see Father Anscham.

It's reassuring that he's also come to the ruins to die.

It's of little comfort that his Gods are real, but it is reassuring that your research has led you to correct conclusions about his people.

You have never believed in the Gods. You have believed that they are all insane. Humans have had animosity against your people for so many of their generations. You have been told all of your life—

There's that nagging feeling again.

You like to remember nagging him. Of secrets shared in the dark. Of someone so young and innocent. So eager to share. A rare smile, a smirk, the confidence in which he speaks of the things he believes in. The resonance of his voice. His light, the color and hope.

It's far better to remember. You like to remember the bend in your staff. Worn grooves from hundreds of years of shaping space into something new. Something whole.

It's a miracle that he was able to survive your work. You are not a healer.

You remember facing down a major demon at the height of your power and knowledge. You were so strong. You were terribly, horrifically strong— able to defend yourself and the halfling for months without issue— able to conjure, to dissipate, to protect...

What else was there?

There's the sand of the beach. The sound of birds. You have been in the ruins for seven months now. There are no birds here, other than in the lair of a demon that has attempted to ruin Father Anscham's body.

You prefer to remember him using his mind and soul to endure knowing even a fragment of you.

Nothing could kill you. You did not fear humankind, demons, or Gods. You did not fear Father Anscham. Not when you saw him for the first time, and never since. You've seen him risk his life for you, time and time and time and time and time again.

You've seen him endure so much suffering with the utmost conviction. He

is desperate to prove himself and to do the right thing. You've seen him reeling from the embrace of a Goddess blessed with divinity, with light, with hope and with purpose.

You remember promising to help him. You remember giving him something to hold.

He can't hold you.

You've never wanted intimacy. You've never wanted a family. There's something else you wanted enough to have dedicated over three hundred years to the study of it.

You were a fool to want someone to hold after months of darkness, isolation and death. You are forgetting yourself. You are an exile. You have no family, no friends. The smeared, ice-stricken faces were easy to give up. There is no one to go home to. There is no one you wish to make a home with.

There is something you still need do.

There is that damn feeling.

There is a bolt of lightning. A dream. Knowledge, sinew, bounty, justice, Mercy—

It doesn't matter that he's unhinged. You've lived for three hundred and fifty-two years, and in a flash of ice and paint, of crimson and of sin, you've had your mind and body ravaged beyond repair as well. You have had no home for a very long time. You have been losing yourself for far longer. It's taken you three hundred and fifty two years to learn. You've been in the ruins for seven months. Youlosteverythinginafewminutes.

You are still losing. You are still failing.

There is a man who you have followed to the end of the world in the hopes that he will give you something.

Not his hand. Not his story. Not his Gods. Not his word.

There is something you need to remember. Something so important that you have traveled halfway across the continent, braved the borders of humankind, has led you to never let on your intent, your purpose, your reasoning, your wisdom, your loss, your pain, and your hope.

Something to heal.

Something to hold.

Something to take home.

Something to remember.

Everything

speeds up.

You are Father Richard Anscham— on your hands and knees— fighting against an out pour of vomit. The collision of your perception, the speed at which time seems to pass by, a shadow, a movement, and the mist in the sky passes and twists above you.

You are in your own body. Your emaciated, scarred, and altogether abused body.

The movement from the depths of your Spirit to the upper reaches of the door before you is apparent. You are no longer in the cemetery. You are on a stair. You don't know how long it's taken, or for how many seconds or hours or days you've been retching.

The hands along the back of your head— the itch of the ethereal— travels from the inside of your mouth, and along every inch of your body. the door before you.Up and inside

Before you is a white staircase, leading into a red room. The room is not painted. It is reflecting the viscera of hundreds of corpses. There are demons inside, stacked to the ceiling in various states of decay. Between the smell of death— the rot and the ruin— is no fewer than twenty hands. Paler than ash, they are affixed to arms, and grow by the second. They eclipse your vision, the passage, and your sanity.

There is a motion. A feeling.

A Spirit is deep inside your skull.

"She did not see—"

​

You're no longer coughing. You're practically catatonic. Your breath is so ragged and strained that you can only choke out one word to finish the demon's sentence and pray that they permit you to live. "Time—"

"We have run out of it. You have never had any to spare. Will you make enough for us? Will you do for us what you have sworn?"

The sting of knowledge, of the acid in your throat, of the gaping pain in every recess of your mind, of the weeks of trauma and the utter uncertainty of what the demon is asking you

burns all the more as you realize you aren't going to even have a moment to deal with everything you've learned.

"You have not failed yourself. You have yet to fail us. What we ask will upset you. What we need is relief. Compassion. Understanding. Respect. Our kin are ignorant of their needs. Our Catalyst has been our knowledge. It is unbearable, Father. You must understand."

The hands all simultaneously beckon you forward.

"We will release you without complaint when we are no longer able to. When you grant us release from our pain. This is all we ask. That which no other can give. We wish you had come sooner, to not prolong our suffering. We have given you everything we have. Everything we could know. We hope you can see. We hope you can know. Late is the hour of your arrival. Late is the hour of our wisdom."

They want to die.

They want me to kill them.

I can scarcely stand.

Music

With a ragged breath, you wipe off your face and stagger upright. Each step is unbearable, but you have to keep moving forward. You've always had to keep moving forward— and this time you actually want to, with every fiber of your being. To complete your work. To be the man you know you can be.

Your resolve keeps your procession firmer than the hands around your holy symbol.

The knuckles, fingers and palms outstretched before you are whiter still as they creep back into a domain of knowledge and death.

The sensation of your own imminent demise is all too familiar. You step forward into it. Embracing it. Into the chamber of piled corpses.

There are no furnishings to be seen. There lies only an expanse of impossible space. From the lowest depths of the abyss, it stretches outwards and upwards. The dizzying height must lead all the way back into the ruins.

A body falls from a height so staggering above you that your head reels. The corpse plunges onto the top of the mountain of death, emitting the first sound you've actually heard in some time. The sickening squelch of old meat and the snap of bone impacting from miles above resonates throughout the chamber for a full minute.

You do not need Time here.

You need Mercy.

The hands before you are inert and defeated before you even speak. You recognize their self-hatred, their instability, their neuroticism, and their lust for death. There is more lust— for pain, for battle, for wisdom— but it is bent. They were broken before you ever met them.

They do not have a face, but you see so much of yourself in them. You desperately wish to help. "My child. I wish to grant you that which you seek. That which you know. That which I cannot hope to understand unless you impart your knowledge to me." You reach your hands out to the demon, in a gesture you haven't made in weeks. The symbol of the church of Mercy is so familiar to you. You are remembering yourself. "Please, Beltoro. Will you confess?"

"We have given you only one request, and you wish to deny us even this small—"

"Mercy. Yes. There is no telling how much time Idonea has left. I cannot abuse the Gods, Beltoro. I cannot undo my work, my life, and my mission to grant you this request. I will die if I do this for you. You know your strength. You know the madness that's ruined you. Your Catalyst has pushed you, and the way that you have helped me has nearly left me too weak to stand."

You remain standing, and look to the demon with no fear in your heart. It is agony to remain on your feet and to contend with the pain, but you persist. You look on with compassion. You stand with the will to serve, to uphold your tenets, and to be better.

"I have failed your kin so many times. I have failed my allies, my enemies, and myself— but I will not fail you. Not now. Confess, Beltoro. Confess."

"...you have not failed us, Father." The hands before you remain inert and utterly incapable of conveying all of the respect that is pouring into the furthest recesses of your mind. It feels like every fracture is whole.

It reminds you of the Gods.

The cacophony of impressions gives way to singular thoughts— singular Spirits— that are desperately pulling themselves apart. Sorting out their emotion and wisdom, their collective is desperate to bestow upon you— "You are the leader of—"

You immediately complete their thought. Pride swells in you.

"The Church of Mercy."

"Yes. You have never forgotten. We— I confess. I confess to having worshiped. To have known nothing of restraint. It has been ages since I have looked upon anything with eyes. I have extended myself. Reached out. Taken what I have wanted, until nothing was left of me but—"

The hands retract almost imperceptibly.

"We do not know what we were. We do not know what we are. We know others. We know what it is to suffer. To wait. To stumble blindly in the dark. To have fallen. To have sinned. We will not trivialize or demean you. We will not compare our suffering. No one can ever truly know another. No human or demon can ever know what it is to have felt the life of another. We can only offer glimpses. We can only feel. We cannot see. We cannot know. We can only try."

It's too difficult to remain standing at such length. You kneel— looking intently to the demon— and offer them as much of yourself as you can possibly give.

"You are Father Richard Anscham. Though you have been labeled as many things, you scarcely know yourself. You often forget the full extent of everything you have endured. You know that your parents loved you, and that they strove to protect you against your pain. You know that you have always been weak. You know that you have been nothing— not in your entire life— without—"

One of the fingers along the closest hand twitches, slightly. It reminds you of your own tremor.

"Without the Gods."

"This is a falsehood. You could never have endured without your strength. You could not always call—"

"Upon them. No. I could not always invoke them. It has been torturous. The way I use the Gods is unnatural. The clergy of each church does not have pain, or blood, or bile. Their Spirits do not break, nor does their Flesh waste away. They do not abuse Them. The Gods see fit to bless their lifelong devotion— their family— their service. They have thrust this blessing upon me— through years of restraint and agony. There is light in the Church of Mercy— but I have almost entirely known it through the Goddess, and— and mere glimpses of what it truly means to serve. I have been an usurper. A prisoner. Guarded, monitored, kept away from the world— save for the Mercy of my mentors. I have never been a part of their family. I have never been their Father. I have served and worked tirelessly, but to them it has always been in name alone. I know you cannot speak of it, Beltoro. I understand that you know. Please, continue."

"You have endured. You still wish to return to the world outside. You are no demon, Father. You are brave. You are kind. You are resilient. You are an unwitting diplomat within your very home. You have surrounded yourself with people you do not know— who will be your undoing if you do not stop them. You are quick to trust. You are desperate to learn. You can learn. You can grow."

The hands before you tense.

"You must understand the weight of your responsibility. You cannot trust so easily. You will be faced with endless scrutiny. You will have to know yourself and defend against pain of a different kind. You must know of betrayal, of poison and of slander. You have been kept away from the world, but it is coming for you, Father. You will not be able to hide. Not if you truly wish to live."

A palm stretches out before you. "We wish for nothing more than to prepare you for what is to come. We wish for you to know. Idonea is not disgraced. She has strove for ages to protect us from ourselves. She has asked you to bestow this kindness upon her children with her dying breaths. She has known nothing but empathy, but compassion, and she was fit to serve. She was fit to lead. She was more than even—"

"Her Catalyst was her empathy. She could not serve. She fell."

"She has exhibited that which you wish to express. She has known in greater ways than you could imagine. Her gift— her curse— will break you if you are too blind to see. You must try. You must feel. You must know. Mind, body, and soul. You will need to be strong, Father, if you wish to take after her. If you wish to lead. If you wish to serve."

The palm closes. The demon draws deeply into itself.

"We confess to still not knowing you. We confess to not knowing where you will go, or what you may do. You are a broken man, Father Anscham, and my kin have done everything in their power to test you. I do not wish to. You are at your limit. What you do with this knowledge will define you."

The door behind you grabs your attention, but you don't dare to even look away from the demon.

You offer yourself, your compassion, and your Mercy.

Every hand points to the door beyond, commanding your attention. Begging you to go. "Leave us. Leave us to rot. Leave us to suffer. We thank you for your compassion, and for your strength. We cannot ask you again to fall for our own selfish means. We will no doubt never see you again. Leave us, and go to her. Go to your mission. Go to your choice. Know who you have seen. Know who you can trust. Know the truth."

The door that has materialized beyond leads back to the abyss. It has closed off the cemetery, the stair, and shows a field of grain.

The moon is black.

You have run out of time, and there are several figures gathered beyond your line of sight. They are all illuminated.

You can see.

You see Idonea, surrounded by her daughters and by Yech. By her family.

Beltoro makes no indication to join you. "We have confessed. We will thank you for this final gift, but we will not endure. We will suffer. Now go. Leave us."

You turn to leave. The motion ravages your body with exhaustion and torment. The claw at the back of your mind persists— pulling, dragging— threatening with the promise of death if you misstep.

The demon is insane, but they have aided you in so many ways you scarcely know how to thank them.

"Beltoro." You look over your healed shoulder, wracked as it is with tremor.

The hands of the demon are tense, waiting for you to leave them to their suffering.

"Beltoro, thank you. Thank you for your understanding, your restraint, and your confession. You deserve to be commended. Your strength and your knowledge is far from a curse. You have been a blessing. I don't want to make any more promises that can be so easily broken— but I want to aid you with an answer to your pain. With Mercy."

You move to leave, and turn away, back towards the abyss.

"I hope to see you again. To thank you."

The demon remains silent. They slip out— away from your mind— away from your Spirit.

The release of their pull is so gradual that it's difficult to tell where the hand once was, where your mind has been, who you have seen and what you know.

Everything seems to fall apart, as your vessel is so cracked that only the Gods can hold you together.

Fractured, alone, full of hope and conviction— brimming with knowledge and on the very brink of death— you step through the door.