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“We welcome you,” the cultist is saying, breathlessly. “To the mortal realm, oh father of Chaos-”
Bernard slowly raises his head, meets the cultist’s gaze, and he stutters to a stop. Tim’s breath catches, because Bernard smiles, manic and benevolent and totally devoid of humanity.
The cultist, shaking with excitement or awe, bows his head. Bernard floats down, and reaches to delicately touch the side of the mask, cupping his face.
“Stupid animal,” he says, kindly, “Why would I thank you for this?”
The cultist starts to raise his head, confused.
It’s not Bernard, says Tim’s brain, even though he already knew that, even though he was putting the pieces together the minute the knife flashed down, even though he shoved the knowledge away because it was unbearable to consider, it’s not Bernard, and it’s only that thought that keeps him from fumbling when vines explode from the cultist’s eyeball.
At the ritual altar, Bernard gets possessed by Dionysus. Nobody liked that.
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