Chapter 19: Aureate

"A phantom of love and gold."​

Swinging open the door before you— Relic in hand— you look upon a middle-aged worker. The amputee is sitting upright in the small space, nestled between plenty of pillows on a humble mattress.

There is a Goddess in your mind, body, and soul. It is difficult to behave in line with typical mortal affairs. You try to ground yourself by focusing on the accent of the rustic man. One who hasn't had his speech conditioned out of him by the church. A man who is not used to speaking through the Gods. A farmhand, who must have been aiding in reconstructing the city after one of many outbreaks.

Shaved, still bristling with energy, and yet to lose any muscle for how recent his injury must have been, his dark eyes dart up in mild alarm. "'scuse you, but mind knockin'—?"

There are so many who need your aid.

"Please excuse the intrusion. We are— I am Father Anscham, leader of the Church of Mercy. We are here on behalf of Father Friedrich—"

"Great. More priests! Yer no use here, Father. I've been seen to. I don't mean no offense, but you don't need to waste no time here."

A bloodied wad of bandages is crassly waved towards you at the end of an amputated limb. The man's leg is propped up above heart-level, and is easy enough to inspect from a distance. His trousers are clipped up to the top of his thigh. Networks of old bandages— packed with dried blood— cover what little remains of the right appendage. The left seems completely intact.

"None taken. Do you mind if I...?" Trying to keep yourself level, you don't wait for a reply as you enter the room. Collapsing on the edge of a nearby empty mattress is absolutely necessary as your vision swims. For how disoriented you feel— from your irregular breath, your unsteady gait, and the manifestation of metal swimming through your body— it's as if the room itself is ablaze.

"See if I can stop ye—"

You feel so much more. A caress trailing up and along your spine runs along the back of your neck. Every mortal urge tells you to keep your eyes down, but there is something working through your hair. You tilt your head back. A phantom of love and gold laces in and around your scalp, pulling gently, and begs that you set your gaze upon the figure across from you.

"Are ye a'right?"

There is light in your eyes, and a Goddess on every inch of you. The voice that comes out is decidedly not your own.

"He has never been better. Would you like to be healed?"

A pause so long and poignant across from you feels like it might as well take an eternity.

It's a blessing to have an additional moment with Her. Her heat and light intensifies by the second, in anticipation of something incredible. The impossible. Something that you could only experience together.

You must have been holding your breath. Several ragged breaths escape you, while you're slammed back down to earth by the simplest of replies. "Yeah, I mean— there ain't gonna be no catch or nothin'? I'm a God-fearin' man, Father. I don't need no trouble—"

You find yourself somewhere in a haze of ecstasy. "Excuse me, sir. I..."

Deep breaths.

Another.

Keep breathing.

"What is your name?"

"Dumphrey."

You're caught a little off-guard. "Just— just Dumphrey?"

"I don't 'spose my family name matter fer much, anymore."

You're seized by so much fervor and devotion that you can scarcely stand it. "It matters."

"Hayward."

"Mr. Hayward. The Gods are Merciful. No righteous man has any reason to fear Them."

Liars, blasphemers, and heathens have besmirched your good name. You are unique. You suffer as no one else has, yet you endure. We seek an end to your suffering.

This is only the beginning.

"We have sought to aid you— and your fellow man— to the full extent of Our ability. I swear to you by all of the Gods that no harm will befall you under Our care. No pain. No further injury. No retribution— not for respecting Them— and never for accepting Our aid."

"Well, yeah. Sure. You the one that's made this—" He waves the severed limb again. "—feel right as rain, I'm assumin'?"

Proudly, you show the locket in hand to the man before you.

Mercy loves you in so many ways.

"Yes. He possesses a great many gifts."

Without further question, the humble citizen leans back a bit further. "Go right on ahead, then. Let me know if you need anythin'."

"Do you know of Our tenets, Mr. Hayward?"

"Yea, yeah. I won't go causin' a fuss. Do whatever it is you need to do, Father. I'm not gettin' any younger."

You take in another deep breath, close the distance between you both, kneel beside the amputated limb, and tear Mercy's gaze off of her child to the task at hand.

Focus.

Music

Removing the packed bandages around the limb as delicately as you can, you rapidly realize the potency of your Relic.

This man should be in agony. Layers of dried blood and decaying linen part to reveal a spoiled wound. Networks of green and black creep in tendrils up his veins, and far deeper into his flesh. Between his necrotic skin and what little healthy tissue remains, there persists crushed remnants of bone and muscle. The exposed ivory cracks and protrudes from a shattered injury that was never attended to. Splinters of white are still stuck to the surrounding wound.

The caress that's wrapped itself through your scalp, behind the nape of your neck, down your shoulders, and through the base of your spine becomes a singular embrace. Your hands are held, and taken into a band of solid gold.

The metal compacts, and winds itself around your skin with density, light, and yellow gold without compare. Nestled at the base of your ring finger, unadorned with gems, and unfettered by the trappings of mortals lies evidence of a perfect union. The fit is as flawless as the Goddess who created it. Its impression rests in your soul.

This is what devotion and love is meant to look like. You are more precious than all of the gold in the world. You are Our light, Our joy. You are beloved and blessed beyond all measure. This is Our promise to you: There is nothing that can come between us. When we are together, NOTHING is impossible.

Compassion drenches you. You are the Lord of Light, the Father of Gold, and the embodiment of healing. It spills from your hands as you extend them.

The metal and illumination flowing from your hands parts. The band around your finger persists. Uncovering your palms, outstretching them in an offering to the neglect before you, you press forward.

The heat in your very soul obliterates every last trace of rot in the wound before you. Your child brings his hands reflexively to his face, not the site of his injury. Incapable of looking upon the works of the Gods with mortal eyes, he gives a shout while masking his eyes.

Steam rises from his seared flesh, instantly cauterizing the site of injury. The wound seals shut in an instant with a coating of pure gold. Pink, healthy tissue is everywhere around the sheet of metal.

The light radiating from your eyes and hands reflects off the limb's new covering, around the entire room as you keep reaching forward. "Too long have you suffered. Too long have Our children endured. Look not to the works of mortal men. Look not to a land of demons, blasphemers, and sin."

A flood comes from the depths of your soul, threatening to rise uncontrollably into the object of your devotion.

Nothing will stop you. "Look to LOVE—!"

Tensing your hands, you grasp onto your kindness, your might, and your good will. It ripples and courses, and from the base of the wound, you extract a new form.

Nothing will stop your union. "Look to COMPASSION—!"

You aren't certain if it's sweat or liquid gold dripping from your brow. The sheer intensity of the invocation has you ravaged, on the brink of collapse, and you fear you may lose consciousness before completing your work.

You redouble your efforts with a clench of your right hand, and a hard sweep across the full span of your patient's body. "Look to MERCY—!"

From the sweep— in an instant— comes the hollow frame of an entire leg. Your right hand remains tight, holding the shape, while the opposite palm remains several inches away from the cooling surface. In fluid motions, you coax out a network of metallic muscle, sinew, and bone. Fibers wind and undulate in a never-before-seen labyrinth of reverence.

You have spent your entire life in devotion to the Goddess of Healing, and are intimately familiar with the craft. Almost too exhausted to speak, you work the solid form and function of a new limb into being, and drop your hands to your sides.

"Look to Our works."

A fully formed, aureate limb lies on the bed. It's flawless— seamless— in every conceivable way.

The man at your side is speechless, and shifts slightly. His new limb responds as if it was made of his very own flesh.

You clasp your hands, knit your fingers together, and conclude a prayer. A band of solid gold at the base of your ring finger is the last thing you see.

"Rejoice, for the Gods are Merciful."

The world gives out from under you.