Old Testament of the Light: A Fanatic View
We save those worthy, never forget that. Those within the hall of light are blessed; they are free from the rot and given sanctuary to rest, yet tolls must be paid for the sins we forget, and the goddess needs our gift of mana and life, so give freely, give all, for selfishness is to reject the light that made you blessed.
—Burned pages lost to time from the remains of a book of light
The glow of candles behind him radiated against his form, casting him as a beacon among the shadows that clung to the church’s corners. Beyond him, the sacred space bloomed with light—shafts of divine illumination streaming through stained glass windows, falling in perfect angles across the stone floor. The goddess’s blessing made all things right, guiding each beam to shine just before his altar, illuminating the worn carpet that led to his feet as if he alone could channel the light’s mercy to any soul brave enough to approach.
"Kneel, and I may show mercy."
The bishop began his favorite part of the day: the submission of those beneath him.
The person bowed low, trembling. They were not gutter trash—he was allowed to show mercy, yet it would cost them. The light demanded much, even from the church, and they would get it back from those beneath them.
Still groveling, the man presented a pouch of coins. He knew well how to receive the light’s mercy. The bishop took the coins. The offering was meager, which was disappointing, but still coin.
So the bishop gently brushed him with his hand—proof the light could show kindness and mercy—choosing to stand above the man while he still groveled. The bishop addressed the room, all lowered in prayer, watching his newly anointed be blessed by the light’s mercy through his hand.
The final step was for them to present him a cup of wine as trust between the light and the forgiven, to show even the lowest may serve those above them.
"Those gathered here today bear witness to my mercy." The bishop pointed at the kneeling man. "He has come asking for forgiveness of his sins, and I shall grant it with the light’s blessing." He paused to let the words sink in as he relished the moment before continuing. "As proof of my trust in he who sought forgiveness, I shall let him serve me and drink the wine to wash away his sins."
As he watched the man crawl to the altar and shakily pour the wine, the bishop’s smile grew, swelling with pride. The man knew his place and crawled back, presenting the cup. It was a divine drink—everything as it should be.
"Be well, you are forgiven, but know there is always a cost for the goddess’s mercy. Remember to keep giving, or the goddess will take what little mercy she gave."
As the man left, the bishop gave one last look among the faithful. Worry crept into his mind at the sight—it seemed a few were missing. Did they doubt the need to hear his sermon? Were they mocking his mercy by avoiding the light?
He reached for the nearest disciple, lost in unspoken prayer, who jerked when the bishop pulled him up. The disciple saw his scowl, and fear bloomed, lacking understanding of why he drew the bishop’s wrath.
"My lord, I serve well enough? What is the issue?" the man asked, hoping to quell his rage.
The bishop smacked him in disgust. "It is not your place to say what is done well."
"Where are the other disciples? I noticed fewer attending." Reflecting on those words, the bishop had been noticing it for days—fewer had been showing up. He watched the disciple for an answer, yet the man looked away.
So the bishop smacked him again, harder, causing others to look up, wondering what was happening. An example had to be made. They seemed to be getting lax in focusing their wrath on whores and beggars.
"The light is devotion, not empty promises. When you deny the light, you deny salvation." They listened, hanging on every word, waiting for the true lesson. "So why is it that those among you do not attend every sermon as if my words—the goddess’s words—are not absolution?"
They had no answer. They thought showing up with prayer and faith was enough. He could see it in their confused eyes, so he relented, showing sadness instead.
"Poor lambs, it is true you are faithful and worth loving in the light." He reached gently for the man he had smacked and rubbed his cheek as if offering forgiveness for his failings, then looked at the others. Even as the man wished to jerk back, he knew better than to try, for far worse wrath would come from denying the bishop his version of mercy.
"Yet the light cannot face the darkness alone every time you deny the word spoken—when you do not pray and give everything." He wept as he composed himself. "When you do not try and let your brothers and sisters turn away even for one day, you let darkness win."
He waited to hear the begging and pleading for his salvation. It was all he could do not to smile in satisfaction, waiting for the chorus praising him and the goddess.
No words.
Only silence.
What in the holy flames? He looked around, unsure if they were mute or he had gone deaf and not heard their desperate cry to absolve themselves of sin. Yet they watched, fearful but not regretting their sins.
He would remember—he would get the knights to punish and whip them later. For now, he needed to be calm. Why was there this change? He focused, weighing his words carefully.
"Please speak freely. Why do you not regret your sins that I cannot absolve if you don’t confess? Why do you let your brothers and sisters rest when the gods ask to be heard?"
The man nearest him risked speaking: "Vespera said all should be loved equally, and a true god would not force devotion but embrace what you give willingly."
Who? He had never heard that name. And why was there talk of any name but his and the goddess’s? A new church of light? A rival god?
Wait—no, that was a lie. Between the random lashings and denouncing he brought to the unfaithful or whores, he remembered they seemed to speak of mercy from a name that meant nothing before.
Vespera.
A pointless name whispered in the wind, a final cry to the void he could ignore. Yet now that he was reflecting, he did notice they spoke it many times before, and it even made sense now why, when he went to mock those as before, they did not hide as quickly nor beg as much on the floor. Even those visiting for his mercy seemed to happen less often than before, as well as the coin not being as much.
Madness. It had to be gutter trash that someone managed to corrupt them with. He knew showing mercy had a price. The rats were gnawing at his feet and acted surprised when he stomped them.
It seemed he would need to step a little harder on this trash, but for now...
"Thank you for trusting me," the bishop said to the man, then waved his hand to the rest. "All of you. You came to hear the word of God, and I will remember the others will be forgiven in time."
Even saying that, it will be a light beating for you all and worse for the rest, he thought. The goddess is merciful for letting you kneel, not choosing to ignore my words, as it seems the rats forget that.
He needed time, but he would change all that. He did not do what he must to gain power just to watch it all fade to gutter rot. No—they would all pay and know it is only thanks to his mercy they can stay. He could not speak to the goddess—she would smite him for being in the way—but the guard may listen, or the knights if it went that way. He had options, and they would all pay, for it is his mercy that has the final say.26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZJpptY58aH
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