Chapter 8: The Lord of Healing

"It's a miracle."​

The ground beneath your feet might as well not exist, for how quickly you flit around the edges of the magma. Divinity and gold flows from your hands. Another shield of radiant light flares forth, and shines before the civilians across the courtyard. You head as quickly as you can towards them, sparing a precious moment to pull back your hood.

The King of Corcaea has been chosen by Mercy, and you are His hands. This is a matter of life and death. Your identity and presence will be known. No holy man can question your authority.

"Aid your Fathers! MOVE! Get away from the civilians! LEAD THE CHARGE! NOW!"

As you sprint to the end of the courtyard, there is a moment of recognition and hesitation. Several priests cry out between strikes, lances, spears and swords.

"As soon as we're able, there's just—"

"Where have you been?!"

"YES, FATHER! RIGHT AWAY!"

Any further exclamations are cut short. Fire and plasma surges from the demon at the center of the courtyard, threatening to consume them all.

Sliding to a stop before the priests, you raise another defense to redirect the assault. Your white-hot divinity matches the intensity of lava. It flows in you, out of you, and Mercy floods the attack.

The blistering gold rises from your hands, streaks along the dirt, and diverts the worst of the flow.

With a twist of your hands, you gather your works. The current of fire courses along a solid wall of metal, splashes against the force you give back, and thrusts the entirety of the plasma to the demon within the center of the courtyard.

The monster's cry is not of any pain. The magma floods back into its body, granting it more bulk. The pustule leaks and writhes from countless wounds, intermingling decay and the stench of death with its heat.

The unholy noise its emitting is one of lethal intent.

Father Friedrich leaps from the courtyard. As he sails through the air, every man in your presence works to defend him. Countless spears soar from behind you, amidst the sobs and a demon's cries for relief.

Father Wilhelm clutches his fists all the tighter. The demon bows down, seeming to forget for a moment where its attacker is coming from.

The lord of action plunges from an unnatural height straight down at the demon, screaming in righteous ecstasy. From the instant he lands on the creature's hulking form, he viciously tears into the beast of flame with his bare hands.

Father Wilhelm anticipates every counter strike, and redirects the monster's attention. It's horrifically disoriented, as if it can't recall where Father Friedrich has last struck.

Everyone's efforts on the field of battle redouble.

"It's about Time!"

"FINALLY!'

"MERCY!"

Thin trails of smoke and heat manifest at your side. Cyril is caked in blood and ash, burnt up to his shoulders, and smirking as if he wasn't literally on fire. "Well wouldn't this have been great a whole fucking day ago?" His momentary pause came from a good place. He hazards standing still before demons and death, just to look you up and down. "Nice hair, by the way."

Baffled, you bring a hand to a few strands of gold. They stick to your scalp, lacing the mortal and shortly trimmed mop about your head. It's unlike the flecks of metal littering your robes that fall to the floor with the slightest motion, and stays attached even when gently pulled on.

An outline of Cyril's body persists for a second in ash and fire while he breaks into a run, off to a high wall.

There's no time to deliberate, or even to call after him for the pain that's threatening to rain down around you all. Another barrage of molten crimson is heading your way.

With a cry, you sweep the liquid light from the courtyard's floor, and blast a solid wall of gold before you and every priest by your side. Forces of blasphemy and divinity collide mid-air. The hand you've kept to your head is a blessing, for the spike of pain that rises in response to the assault. It shakes you to the core, and you drop the defense as quickly as you can.

The waves of cooling metal that lap at your feet threaten to unseat your footing. The depths of your core are drained— but you can't stop now.

The two priests that have allied alongside you catch up to their Brothers. The fighter with his broken shield discards his defense, trusting in you and the other church leaders fully.

Every holy man on the field is fighting for their life. They know you all will grant as much protection, respite, and strength as you're able.

You trust in them as you turn and run to the edges of the interior defense. Pulling around the edge of the courtyard, you sprint to the other side of the battlements.

Music

Laying in rows of carnage, there is a line of at least one hundred men, women, and children. They likely were the only ones brave enough to come to the city's defense. Ribbons litter the hair of little girls. Stains of beer and revelry adorn the men. Most of them are covered in some form of blood. Many more are softly crying, attempting with all their might to not lose themselves.

To not add to the horror. To not activate the Catalyst.

Not a single priest remains among them. All have been pulled into the field of battle, the Church, their home, and the last defense between the Church of Flesh. They are reactionary.

You are a master of prevention, of medicine, and of the Church of Mercy.

You scan the crowd frantically. Dirty, hungry faces look up to you. A few immediately recognize you— not for the crimson robes you wear— but for all of the light, gold, and obvious connection to the Goddess.

There are countless murmurs.

Borderline panic follows.

Humanity cries out in pain.

Our children.

"PLEASE—!"

"My husband! You HAVE to help!"

"There isn't anything they could do—"

"SAVE MY CHILD! BY ALL THE GODS, PLEASE!"

"I can't feel anything. I can't feel anything. Mercy, Father? Why aren't they answering?"

"MERCY! FATHER—!"

Even your trained eye can't scrutinize such a huge mass with absolute certainty. Not as quickly as you need.

You drop to your knees beside the first dying man you see, shaking off the hale woman clinging to your robes without injury.

The figure before you is silent, though the screams around you persist. Pain contorts his face. For the intense burns lacing his body, you know he likely only has moments left to live.

Placing a hand just above the expanse of burns, the fabric singed into his legs, you need not utter a prayer. There is no need for words between you and the Goddess of Healing.

In a flood of light and gold, you apply bandages of divinity. Your skill and swiftness drops all pretense of disguise. Multiple men and women around you break out sobbing with relief, literally dragging the dying and wounded towards you.

There is no need for restraint here. Not when your allies are fighting with everything they have. While you heal countless souls— slower than any of these people have Time for— you call out with compassion.

"Your Fathers fight on your behalf! The men of the Gods are here for your protection! You all are fighting just as VALIANTLY! Be it within yourselves or on the field of battle, PERSEVERE! Continue to grant yourselves restraint! I am the Father of the Church of Mercy, and I have heard your prayers! I come to you with all of the blessing of the Goddess! Permit Us to grant you Our aid! Please, show me your dying— ONLY the dying! Permit me to heal them! EVERYONE ELSE WHO IS ABLE, RUN! SEEK SHELTER! THE CHURCH OF MERCY WILL PROTECT YOU!"

The reverence and hope pointed at you makes your heart want to break. The survivors pick up their pace— then freeze in place.

There is a horrific screech from the courtyard. Screams. The demon facing down Father Friedrich and Father Wilhelm has expelled another wave of magma. It's infringing on the edges of the courtyard, and pushing towards so many that cannot defend themselves. The priests remaining in the courtyard are fighting as best as they can against overwhelming odds.

Frantically, no fewer than three dozen people rush to the edges of the battlements. Shields, spears, and javelins are rapidly swept up from the dead and dying. They hurl their final assault into the courtyard beyond, while wounded men stagger behind the first line of assault. A weaker, secondary barrage is unleashed just moments later.

You have to pull away from another dying man. A single hand stays over his form, granting him health, and the promise of life. Your other hand raises to the sky.

You look to the field beyond, close your fist, and manifest a shield over as many as you are able.

You have to pull back from the man at your feet. His skin is healed in full, and light is in his eyes.

He looks to you with as if you were a God.

With a sweep of your arm, you drag a colossal curtain of gold down before the wounded and dying. Your soul is spread thinly. Sweat trails down your brow, and flecks into the air as you whip your attention to the city beyond. The cascading light is higher than the walls of the courtyard, broader than the church, and grants your people enough protection to bark another order at them all. A solar flare echoes over the expanse of death at your feet, commanding the attention of every last living soul.

"RUN!"

Their obedience is absolute. While the fighting force and countless children are picked up, carried and dragged away, your attention goes back to those who cannot obey your command. Those who cannot even stand. Shaking even through the support of a Goddess, you tense your arm.

With a sweep of the entire limb, you reform the light before you. It coalesces into a smaller, denser, and air-tight wall between the demons and the dying. The courtyard becomes inescapable, and your attention focuses completely on the twenty-something (uninjured) souls that have stayed behind. The handful of citizens that remain standing— certainly able to flee— run straight to your side despite everything.

At least one hundred bodies remain crying for aid on the floor. Many more have died.

In a fit of devotion, conviction, and love, you release your tenuous hold on the barrier. It should evaporate into the light of day, but there is enough of Mercy's intimacy coursing through your veins that your blessing persists. Magma flows against evidence of the Goddess, granting you all safety for another blessed moment.

Your mind strains.

The Goddess. The heat. The gold.

Your every thought races, and not for repressing a groan of release. Your temples ache, for how difficult it is.

Ragged breaths escape you. Waves of relief crash into you.

She is divine.

For all your training and experience, you can't lose your focus.

You have spent your life restraining yourself, and it's coming back to you.

You need to prioritize who needs to be seen to first.

"Father, please, my husband!"

"I can heal, Father! I can help—! Just tell me where to go, I'll do everything I can—"

"This man's burns need immediate aid!"

"My wife, sir— Father— her arm, it's gone—"

"My baby! My poor baby girl, PLEASE, she's been stabbed, oh GODS—"

You rise from the wounded at your feet, ignoring every cry around you for a moment. Light blooms and bursts before your vision from the slightest motion. The yellow flowers, the light of day, and a Goddess looks out from your eyes of gold. It disguises a gaping wound, a protruding bone, a child's face knitted in pain, a man begging for death, more burnt Flesh than you can stand—

You focus.

Music

Quelling every wave of relief, you rush to the worst of the injured. Those who need your aid the most. The first amputee you can find.

The victim is middle-aged, worn with heat and flame, and catatonic in a pool of his own blood. The entirety of his right leg has melted away. A substance akin to meat (from a grinder or worse) hangs from the stub of a limb onto the soil beneath his still frame. His breath is so irregular and soft that you could have mistaken him for dead.

There are many more like him all around.

A sole, uninjured woman kneels in the rows of missing limbs and grief. She knits her hands together the moment you approach his form, and rises from the side of who you suspect to be her husband.

You silently point towards the citizen who claimed to be a healer.

Her obedience is terrifying in its immediacy. She must be afraid for more than her spouse's life, runs, and grabs the individual you indicated. The cries of the dying all around you are heartbreaking, and the real looming terror. You command the gentleman she brings to you as you begin your work.

"Attend to everyone you see is at risk. Give them your support. Grant them healing. Comfort. Hope. Mercy. Go!" Your hands raise, palms turned skyward. The haze of light on your eyes intensifies into razor thin sharpness. The scent of sulfur and flame is hot in the air. Screams on the field of battle threaten to drown out your declaration. "Take as many as you can to aid you. We will see to the dying."

The two figures reply almost instantly, grabbing and rallying the remaining survivors who can bear to part from the injured.

"Right away."

"Y-yes, Father."

Cries for your name, for the Goddess, and for your hands intermingles with the rising chaos and panic of a fight raging just a few hundred yards away.

Devastation. "GAZE UPON OUR WORKS! OUR STRENGTH!"

Loyalty. "Give 'em everything you've got, sir—!"

Faith. "Look not upon the day. You will see only the Night."

Fear.

"HE'S GOT ME FUCKIN' LEG—"

"GET TO FATHER WILHELM!"

"WATCH THE FUCKING FIRE!"

"To my side! NOW!"

You have to focus on a different heat.

Focus.

With raised hands, you close your eyes. Embraced by the Goddess, you reach out to the victim before you.

Mercy cannot restore his broken Flesh. She grants relief. Compassion.

From within the exposed bone, broken veins, and trickling of blood is a surge of warmth. Life. The bleeding ceases. Exposed muscle and bone weaves back over with interlocking bands of yellow gold.

The patient's eyes remain closed. She is Merciful.

You've never seen Her work in such a way before.

In the wake of the light—without sparing another moment— you trust in Time. Eventually, She will mend the rest of the man's wounds. Your own work is needed elsewhere.

Rivulets of ruby-red sticks to the inside of your mind, dripping along with the gold. There are so many you cannot save. Your initial estimates of how many civilians survived was clearly a mistake. Despite how quickly you're working, there are many more that are dead, or beyond all aid. A number of them look up to you with fear in their eyes. Several more die at your feet, grasping at you for comfort in their final moments. More die further beyond, laying in the dirt. More still wind up clinging to your robes, embracing you, screaming against you in utter agony while you mend their wounds.

They're looking to you to restore more than their faith. These are men that have forsaken entire pieces of themselves, in the name of protecting their kin. Stubs of charred, tattered, and missing limbs all sear into your memory. Blood flows in quantities you can't hope to replace.

You are rapidly remembering why demons are universally reviled.

I've saved so many.

There's a Goddess, in you, on you—

A woman missing her arm clean at the shoulder sobs hysterically as you save her life. The strands of meat move with the shake of her shoulders, though she is exhibiting an unholy amount of self control. The bleeding slows and ceases. Bands of solid gold fit over the absence of her arm. Her breath is as level as her words, for all of her trembling, your healing, and your mutual light. "It's a miracle. The Father. The Mother. Thank you. Thank you. Mercy. Thank you."

Appreciation falls from her lips like the gold dripping from your hands. Her relief is so immense that she trails behind you— your devotion and love— until you command her to help aid the rest of the wounded.

Something is surging, coursing, and fitting together through the cracks in your mind and body. It's growing with each and every blessing. Every unspoken prayer.

You've done worse things than to stay with the Goddess for so long.

No fewer than five other amputees— missing limbs or enormous swathes of Flesh— are seen to by your hand. You're rapidly losing count of how many lives you've saved today, and it wouldn't be the first time.

It is not a sin to heal so many.

You are a blessing.

The praise and screams swell as you move wordlessly, and as quickly as you're able. Dropping to your knees, you come upon a spread of at least fifteen charred bodies. Several of the burn victims are still moving. While some are only capable of rasping out in pain, others are disturbingly alert.

Beside the healer you commanded earlier are two healthy men. They all were commanded to attend to those at worst risk of activating the Catalyst.

They are all kneeling in the dirt and blood, looking disturbed beyond belief, but keeping themselves as composed as one could hope for.

"He's coming. It will be over soon. Please." One is unraveling a number of bandages, attending to a significantly less burned man.

"GODS—!"

The other calls over his shoulder, pinning down another body with all the strength he possesses.

The healer by his side tightly binds a limb that needs to be removed. "Keep it together. We're here. You aren't alone."

"HELP ME! WHERE ARE THEY?!"

"Father, please— you have to do something," the man with soaked bandages murmurs. The grief lacing his face is too severe for him to scream out in turn.

You can hardly hear him over the cacophony of suffering on the field. His eyes are dry, but you feel the cracks in his soul.

You drop down beside him, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. He has a severe wound in his side. It's not lethal, but bound to turn foul in time.

Closing your eyes, you reach out. Cauterizing the spoiled tissue, sealing the injury shut, and fighting off your own weariness is almost more than you can take. It isn't weariness that has you trembling. It's a Goddess—

Devotion and so much thanks is directed towards you, you become conscious of just how ravaged your own frame must surely look. It's all you can do to jerk your head aside, to ignore the blossoming relief, and to command both men to leave your presence.

They refuse to leave your side. One goes to the side of the man before you, placing a hand to his shoulder while you work. He's screaming. He's been screaming this entire time, and Her Grace has been keeping the worst of the cries at bay.

Mercy, he won't stop screaming.

The blood on your hands clings onto bitterly charred fabric.

Gold sticks inside fresh wounds.

Protruding organs.

There is another life lost, further down the row. The scent of death and sickness is inside of your nose, sticks to the back of your throat, and you don't retch.

Wet, bloodied, open, raw, in row after row.

Pallor.

Blackened skin, flaking into the air.

You are compassionate. Your strength lies in your restraint.

There is simply not enough Time for everyone. This is a task that could have benefited from every clergyman at your disposal.

You have to stop, but there's more cries demanding your immediate attention. You're running

Focus.

There is a boy no older than ten. Far too young to be of any use in a fight, but brave enough to have come to his family's aid. His lungs are devastated, for how much he's coughing. His left foot— charred and decayed from the work of a demon— is evidence of a narrow escape from the start of the outbreak.

He was a first responder.

You recognize that the youngest of the children must have already turned over to the Catalyst. There's an itch at the back of your mind. A reminder.

Imps.

There's that turn again in your stomach, as you keep your fists tight. There's more of the young and devastated. They've been brought together by three women who would make the Church of Mercy proud. They dutifully calm and console those who have enough strength to see or hear their prayers.

Looking with divinity to the brave figures gathered together, you say, "We're here to help."

The two women about you nearly collapse. They were so involved with their work that they had not even recognized your approach. Relief drenches them in waves.

Only one of them has the energy to breathe her gratitude. "Thank all of the Gods."

"Mercy." The statement is not a correction. It's a promise.

You remain standing, and gently lift the palm of your hand towards a small figure laying on the dirt. Her tousled hair is tied with green ribbons. Impossibly, her slight figure has survived a horrific injury. A dagger made solely of congealed blood sticks out from an enormous stab wound in her side.

With your outstretched hand, you coax the blade away. It falls harmlessly to the ground beside her. You remove the poison from her wound, the smoke from her lungs, and keep your expression unreadable.

You will save as many lives as you can.

The little hero curls in on herself, coughing reflexively, though she does not have anything in her body to expel. She looks up to you with mortal light, too stunned to comprehend that she's still alive. Speech escapes her.

You hang back, permitting the women to aid you in assisting the worst of the dying. The young, and undefended. All of them have so much smoke in their lungs. You wonder for the health of all of the civilians who poured back into Beorward, seeking shelter.

The work becomes a blur. As you extract the last of the viscera and agony— placing a hand to one of the women beside you to not collapse on the spot— you try to focus.

The screams are a haze against the nonexistent edges of your mind.

There are voices, and They are not your own.

"Take the children. Take them to the city. Seek as much aid as you are able. Send word to the King. Let Him know what has happened here. He will understand. WE are Merciful."

Father. We have more work to do.

There is no question in your mind that

There is no question in your mind.

We can't stop. Not as long as We have people to protect. We need to reign in our thoughts, show our restraint and soldier on to make sure We protect as many as We can.

You're right.

We have more work to do.

It's too difficult to speak out. Something perfect is working through you. The heat in your face and all the rest of your body rivals the very sun— yet for all the weariness in your limbs, you manage to tear away from the last of the wounded.

You trust in your children, and your aid is needed elsewhere.

Compared to keeping your breath level, or your voice from rising out of you like a man possessed, each agonizing movement is effortless. You welcome it, and sprint towards the courtyard as quickly as your long legs can carry you. Every surge of torn muscle is a curse. A caress. Your vision is swimming. The barrier you erected is dismantled. Heat rises above and before it.

Lava coats the entire courtyard. There are fewer priests than you last laid eyes upon, beyond the battlements. Five have fallen at least, but it's difficult to make out any forms with absolute clarity.

Obstructing a third of the field is a large demon comprised entirely of spears. All of its focus is bent on Cyril. The blonde's fists are dripping with blood, but his smirk persists. He fires more projectiles from atop the surrounding wall, along with six other clergymen. He's tossing a ludicrous volume of spears alongside them, using the corpse of an imp as a makeshift shield.

It occurs to you that the demon may simply be so full of weaponry that its original form has now been lost.

Smoke no longer rises from Cyril's body. His eyes are an icy shade of blue, as he takes on a monster without divinity. Invoking a God (more often than not) is enough to destroy a common man. To stay with one for as long as you have is a gift, a miracle, a blessing—

Besides Cyril, you only recognize two of the other priests. The man you healed, and the shield-bearing Brother (with his now-broken sword) are weary. Even from their elevated position, no one even recognizes your approach.

Aside from the fifteen imps that still remain among the magma, all eyes are fixed on a monstrosity. It has moved to infringe on the Church of Flesh. The demon's colossal form seems weakened, for how much mass it has been ripped clean away from its body.

Like a man possessed, Father Friedrich is riding atop the demon in the center of the courtyard. The punctuation of sickening wet tears and rips in the demon's body carries across the field, but not over the raw grief in his voice.

"Do you feel Our works?" He is punching clean into the demon, up to his elbows in guts and gore. "Everything you have lost?" Every strike is punctuated with another syllable, despite how quickly he's moving. "Everything you've taken?!" His body is aflame with fury. "We're going to kill you, you miserable wretch, if I have to tear you down to the last muscle! Have you found it?! OUR GIFTS?!"

There is little fear in your heart. You charge across the molten flame and rock before you. Bands of light and metal manifest beneath every rapid step.

Magma and rock parts under your feet. Searing divinity is left in your wake.

The imps eyes are all fixed on you, and fire a volley of sharpened projectiles. You weave through the thickened barrage of blood. With another wave of your hand, a clenched fist, and a cry to the Goddess, you create a shield to hold. The solid sheet of light flares and withstands every barb that threatens your vessel. Countless more streak past you, into a wall of flame and molten rock.

It feels like nothing can touch you.

I am the Father of the Church of Mercy.