Final Days of the Light: A Fanatic's View
There's nothing you can't do, O goddess, your light heals all. So I pray to you, O goddess, save your faithful before they fall. But save me most of all, for I guide the flock after all.
O goddess, the pain grows worse each day, yet my words hold no sway, for you have not answered this day.
O goddess, why do you not bless me when I have given all you need? I fear the poison is spreading with my dread. O goddess, do my prayers mean nothing? Why does your light not come? Perhaps more praying, the answer will come.
I'm… fading… I fall... yet still I call... O... god...dess... my... mind... grows... dim... even... as... the... pain... does... not... end... are... you...
—A lost prayers in a sea of a city of poison from the bishop.
Phase One, Day One
Panting hard from fear of the new riot and shocked that he was poisoned, the bishop could not understand how it came to this. He pissed himself in shame and fear, fleeing the crowd, trying to be the first into the sanctuary of his church to get others to heal him with light.
When he finally made it past the door, he screamed for them to board and seal all exits—no ways out or in.
Finally seeing them listen, his panicked mind calmed a bit and he had time to think.
He couldn't care less who was out there. The knights would restore order, and all would be well. The flock watched him with concern from his screaming and seeing him covered in filth and sweat—an odd contrast to what they assumed would be him coming back to announce their next step: adding a church to the middle class as one of them became the bishop of the slums, spreading their power.
He studied them, seeing if any could call him out for what transpired, yet all he saw was concern and confusion—fear to speak lest he slap them for disrespect. He could work with this.
"The slum whores lie, but fear not—we still have control," he said, trying to look dignified. Even smelling of piss, he stood straight to defy their looks. He really needed to bathe, and supposedly he was poisoned...
Yet... he felt fine? Was it a lie?
No. The wine was fine, but her conviction was too strong. He saw the look in her eyes—it made him feel fear. Not the look itself that was bad, but her words.
The Light Goddess does not care and something about a new god... Abaddon.
This was absurd to even entertain. There's only one god. But the champion is missing? Nobody really told him why he'd been gone. He remembered the past—he always came to the church to cure his rot well before he was blessed. Since then, he'd sent the knight back and allowed them to convert them easily thanks to his mercy. It was easy to spin that it was thanks to them being tied to the goddess.
"I will commune with the goddess. All will be well, but we must lay low while the knights handle the... unforeseen lies the slums like to spill. It's why our mercy must be fleet, lest they prove—like now—how much they're willing to take."
Really, he was going to clean himself. The goddess would never talk to them ever. Rumor was the champion could on his whims but refused to abuse the right—perhaps that's why she offered it to him.
No, the closest they could do was call a messenger, and even then it needed to be big. Well, talk of a new god should be enough. He doubted they would care a slum revolted, even attacking their church. But a new god? They may burn them all to ash.
That thought made him smile as he washed himself with a rag and water, then immediately dropped the rag in shock and panic.
The goddess could turn them all to ash for allowing the darkness to exist unchallenged if it was true. So was it worth risking trying to call? No... wait for the champion's return. Let him take the fall. He will defend us.
After cleaning up and calming his flock, he had those with the most mana do a strong cleansing spell. It always cured rot, even bad spreads. It could be draining—he'd even done it before for enough coin. But with the amount healing him, all would be well. The slum whore lost before it even started.
Phase ?, Day Two
The bishop was feeling better. He slept like a baby. The walls held—nobody trying to break in. Well, there were those that begged to be let in, but they refused until the knights swore it was safe. They could defend themselves. They'd made sure to hold stock of water and food to last a few weeks, partly from bribes and tributes from their blessing, but also from making sure they always had a source of clean, good food versus the rot the slums ate.
He remembered hearing rumors they ate rats, which made him lose his desire for what little meal he'd eaten. He wasn't sure why that thought was making him so sick to his stomach. He threw up, unable to hold it back, then his bowels released, shaming him.
Madness. Was the food bad?
Cold sweat broke out over his skin. O goddess, no. He was still poisoned.
He'd just assumed since the day went on yesterday and he felt nothing, he was fine. Yet now, covered in shit and bile, he had no choice but to believe the whore's words.
How? The goddess blessed him with light. Was this... new god real? And did it have power? Why choose to save whores? It made no sense.
Unless.
It was a lie.
She wanted them to doubt the goddess in hope the poison would hold. It would fail otherwise. Yes, he doubted the goddess and she was punishing him with sitting in filth—a lesson he was learning well. Now, having to clean up his shame before others could see it.
They would only see his perfection. The goddess demands it.
Later the same day, after the bishop recovered a bit, he still heard outside the walls those begging and pleading to be let in. But he knew it was a trick and told his flock such—this was a test from the goddess. Can we hold with our resolve and keep to our convictions?
Yet even as the day went on, the sickness did not pass. He was very careful not to eat, lest he repeat what happened before, and only had a few dry heaves he played off as the torture of having to endure others suffering, not being able to open the door.
Why, they asked, why not let them in? He made sure to beat them to remind them of their place, just as the goddess would demand. He tried going to bed early to ease his nerves and stomach, assuming the worst had passed. If it got worse, he would demand healing. But since it was so weak and slow-acting, he knew the whore was bluffing. Maybe it was even rot mixed with some kind of laxatives for street trash to help clean them out, disguised as poison.
Yes, they were not very bright, but he commended their effort to break his power.
As he lay asleep, he awoke in the night in cold sweat as a voice kept whispering in his head—random madness. The worst was when it promised a slow death.
You took from me. Now I take from you. All that is yours is now mine.
Those were the cruelest words he could hear—losing his power. He wondered if it was just his fear and assuming the worst. He would get healed tomorrow. Things would be better then.
Phase ?, Day Four
The dreams never got better. Assuming he could even call it that. Eating little, he somehow was still puking and shitting black bile—not a lot, but enough. And the smell—goddess, he could not get far enough away from it. It seemed to cling to him, and from the faces of the flock, they agreed.
Yet none dared question him as he spun it: it was a test from the goddess. A darkness was trying to consume them all and focusing on their main focus of light—HIM! So they needed to make sure he stayed safe.
They took shifts healing him. It helped... a little.
Yet now it was from nausea to a burn—a slight burn and itch that would not stop even when he bled from the wounds. Still, the meat under his flesh and bones burned and itched. He was willing to risk breaking them off just to make it stop if it were not everywhere.
Looking around, morale was still high. They believed this was a chance to prove their faith. Yet for him, it was an all-time low. The goddess was not answering him.
He broke down earlier that day in hopes of seeking validation, or at least judgment to not question her from her messenger. He wasn't stupid enough to try the goddess directly.
Yet nothing.
If things stayed like this, the poison would have to break soon. No, this had to be a sickness—yes, a side effect from the poison. He'd already won. Just needed time.
Phase ?, Day Eight
The days of the sickness and mild burning were now seen as a blessing. Boils covered his skin and he was constantly burning as if in a fire. His mind became more addled and it was harder to speak. Yet the only saving grace was that the others now suffered similar to him.
The few times he was able to mumble beyond utter prayers was lost to a sea of others' bile and waste—a sea of sickness. The more they prayed, the more the goddess did not listen.
He missed the sound of others begging, pleading to be let in. He would let them in now. They could share his fate—the true blessing of the light: to be ignored even when you did everything for them.
Casually walking around the once holy place, he noticed fewer faithful? He suspected betrayal, but the barricade held firm. No... the only change was more black puddles and an endless sense of dread that all was for naught. Goddess, where are you?
He went to his study, long since filled with filth. He hated the smell of his rot, but he had to scour his secret spot—his ace in the hole against all odds—and pulled out a translucent medallion with a faint light.
He'd sworn never to use this unless death itself was all that was left. And well... it was.
It was not his—not even the bishop's before him. It was a gift from the champion. He said he would defend them at any cost, but only when needed. This medallion would alert the goddess and tell her it was a favor he'd won for his service. But in exchange, the goddess said if she felt it beneath her, she would kill them for wasting her time.
It was not a toy or item he would use lightly. Yet in his stupor, he figured what did he have to lose? He could regain his power in time and earn her mercy. A few lashes or lost years in tribute versus death was an exchange he would make.
It glowed with his prayers—a message sent. And no answer.
Panic did not set in. He was too far gone to feel it anymore, lost in a sea of pain. No, he just needed to wait. He would have his answer.
The goddess sat on her throne, bored. She finally felt better and was not moping anymore. Now, now it was far worse—that feeling of nothingness, a lonely truth she'd long since ignored with indifference until...
Him.
She sighed, a soft whisper. She wished she wasn't so hasty killing the messenger. She'd wanted him to scout just to have something of news. She was still waiting for events with the elves to fester, and she had no desire to interact with the other races.
No, she had nothing.
A soft chime entered her mind. Someone was calling her?
HER CHAMPION!
She immediately looked to see how the impossible became possible. She thought him lost to darkness. How was he contacting her now? Why did he wait so long? None of that matters—HE NEEDS ME.
Yet when her excitement settled, confusion took its place. A scene of utter horror replaced it, though she felt indifference beyond confusion upon her face as she observed. There was shit and bile covering the floor all over the place, mixed with dark taint, as a lone bishop she did not know was using her champion's amulet to send a prayer.
She almost burned the whole place to ash in retaliation without a further thought, but barely held back, regretting that same impulse with the angel. She was smarter than that. She would learn what transpired.
Reflecting, she seemed to recall vaguely the nature of why she even gave that amulet to her champion. He did say something about mortals and using that... Bah, meaningless. A waste of time. And for what? To witness a failure praying for salvation?
Yet now that he had her attention, it was something to watch at least. What a disgusting form. His words were even becoming more delirious. It seemed whatever was affecting him was tired of waiting for his death, and he was now melting into a puddle.
What was fascinating was now she could only see puddles of darkness, and they were bleeding into the walls, dimming her sight. If not for the amulet itself, she would not be able to see even this much.
Abaddon.
She felt that name flow through her, giving her chills, and she shivered, looking to see if any noticed. But all was still calm here. As she watched once more.
Why was that name spoken to her? No, not to her... towards her. A voice in the darkness was reaching out. Someone from her past. Not her champion. Another god.
How do they reach me? I only made a pact with two goddesses—one dead and the other in hiding in grief.
Unless... the goddess was not dead. And they knew my champion. Her light grew brighter even as her sight faded from the darkness consuming her amulet—what little left she saw enraged her.
The voice whispered once more: Abaddon, as if mocking her. How was that god alive, much less near her champion? She'd feared the elf queen being a threat. She never assumed she needed to worry about other gods touching her champion.
Yet it made sense. And it made her simmer in impotent rage. Her champion lived thanks to this god, it seemed. What she thought was a fluke sparing his life was truly an intervention. But it did not give them leave to freely touch him—to bathe him in darkness when he was my light.
A cold realization. She named him. She's mocking me by naming him.
A scream broke the serene halls, and prayers and songs stopped as all scattered, unsure how to act. For anything strong enough to challenge their goddess meant their death, and anything that upset her enough to fear anything also meant their death.
So most agreed to flee and hope for the best. The others submitted and accepted it as a test.
All this was lost to the goddess, feeling she'd solved the game. A new god intervened in her courtship and was taking back her champion. She would find a way to bring him back and carve the goddess's touch from his flesh.
Her champion.
But she needed time and to understand more about this. Did the elf queen know and let it happen? Or was she as blind as me? Either way, it's another reason to kill her. This once more justified.
She wished she knew her champion's games and why he chose another god. It seemed—tears gently fell once more. Boredom long since lost. She thought she was getting closer to getting him back, but now he was further than she could believe.
Yet she'd survived for eons with nothing. What was a little longer? It seemed he was testing her devotion, perhaps punishing her for striking him. Such a petty game, but she would concede she did strike first, so she couldn't blame him for hitting back.
She just needed time to make him understand. She was new to these things. Once they worked it out, it would be endless light, love, and joy.
Her grip dug into the golden armrest on her throne, indenting deep gouges she was not aware took place, staring off into the distance, wondering what was taking place beyond her sight.
She would get a new messenger to restore her missing sight—one that knew its place. But first, a new throne. It seemed this one had worn down with time without her notice. It had marks and dents that were beneath someone like me.20Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLFVOPui0sP
and then Add to home screen.