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In the life of Beyonders, mistakes were costly things. One fumble here, one misunderstanding there, and the result was more than what one could repent for.
Divination had presented a positive outcome for their choices. Entering the basement filled with dead bodies carved up for a bloody ritual, Gehrman was quite sure that this did not count as positive in any way.
There was not much left to do for the dead but to offer justice. He, Croft and Moriarty combed through the entire village, searching for the few culprits that had gotten away from them. Gehrman was on high alert, making full use of his spells as flowers and trees everywhere gained a mind of their own and lashed out. The village was being consumed by manifestations of increasing resentment and corruption, its occupants affected by waves of powerful emotions.
Innocents that they had been, Gehrman tried to dodge them and limit the damage, but there was only so much that could be done.
In the end though, they succeeded, if barely. The matter had been contained to the place and the perpetrators taken care of.
But all the lives lost would not return, nor would the power they had garnered for the Mother Tree of Desire through their negligence.
For all three of them, it was the first time they had made such an error in judgment.
As usual, they arrived in Sefirah Castle to report on their mission, each one taking their turn.
Mr. Fool listened and said little. ‘His’ figure was more thickly hidden by fog than usual though, and what words ‘He’ did speak were rather curt.
There was no doubt they had failed ‘Him’. None of them made any attempt at justification, awaiting whatever ‘He’ might have them do. But after their explanation, they were only summarily dismissed and returned to the real world.
Even in the days that followed, Mr. Fool’s distance remained as it was.
Gehrman had dared not say a word on that day, and Croft and Moriarty were continuing as they were, but the guilt weighed too heavily on him to do the same. His usual nightly prayers went completely unacknowledged, though he persisted with that routine. He, who had always been trusted—perhaps unworthily, considering the present—felt like a limb had been rended from him.
Mr. Fool was a kind god, forgiving of much, even for those undeserving of it. But Gehrman did not wish to rely on that grace alone.
When he was summoned to Sefirah Castle once more, his mind was already made up and his words prepared.
They had not failed in what they set out for. Zhou could acknowledge that. But at the same time, there was a welling disappointment in ‘Him’.
‘He’ couldn't deny ‘He’ had expected better. Perhaps most of all from Gehrman.
It blindsided ‘Him’, for while ‘He’ did wish for the least loss of innocent life, ‘He’ was rarely emotionally involved even in the matters handled by ‘His’ Blessed. Yet this feeling persisted.
‘He’ let it be. ‘He’ had lived long enough that even these sparks would fade quickly. Perhaps as quickly as a few days, while ‘He’ revised ‘His’ plans to deal with the uptick in the Mother Tree of Desire’s influence and ‘Her’ obsession with ‘His’ Blessed. An issue only aggravated by the previous mission…
‘He’ summoned Gehrman to discuss investigating a connected matter, but the moment his figure had appeared in the endless fog, he had knelt down and looked at the ground.
Though confused and displeased by the change in itinerary, Zhou chose to hear him out.
"As the head of the mission in Roane, its failure was my responsibility. Please punish me as you see fit."
So that was the matter.
“Punishment will not change what has already passed.”
“...”
Even blindfolded, Zhou imagined ‘He’ would feel the dismay radiating from Gehrman. In the past, long before ‘He’ had become what ‘He’ was, ‘He’ might have joked about the masochism on display, although ‘He’ knew that for Gehrman, this was simply a way of atonement.
Was that healthy? ‘He’ was hardly in a position to consider things like that.
“Forgive me, my Lord. I understand—”
“Do you still wish to go through with it?”
‘He’ would not let it be lightly. While ‘He’ had called Gehrman to carry out something else, that could easily be assigned to another person.
Gehrman nodded without hesitation.
Zhou didn’t even have to raise a finger for the carefully-concealed chaos in Sefirah Castle to reveal itself.
It started with saturated colours and whispers. Soft, surrounding, gentle, hurried. It was resemblant of the sequence advancement, which Gehrman had gone through a fair few times.
He clenched his jaw as the noise increased in intensity, resisting the urge to use Cogitation and clear his mind.
His breathing was becoming faster, hitched—air went out of him—he was no longer on solid surface. Crashing down, through an endless spire of grey fog and multicoloured lights, dimensions he wasn’t meant to handle. The voices were stronger, demanding. He could almost understand them.
Was it one, or two, or a thousand? He was curled in the jaws of a massive monster of consciousnesses, their teeth pressing on his skin, piercing gently… or was he the monster, piercing into himself, eating through his own being?
Inside and outside, he was being dissected, floating on a sea of nothingness. A sense of calm filled him. Every part of him was aching but his thoughts were clear as ever. Everything was returning to normal.
The sounds were no longer intruders. His own voice was one of them, melding with the chorus, clearer and clearer, and he could understand every word…
…He gasped, shock coursing through him as he crashed again but this time back onto solid ground. He…
There was ancient architecture. He was seeing them with eyes. He had arms and hands, hanging down, trembling. Trembling?
Why was he… what was he…
He pressed those hands against the ground, until his bones might shatter from the pressure. Bones, he had them too. There was flesh attached to them, covered by skin. Nerves and tendons and ligaments.
Flesh… was supposed to be covered…
Yet he could see it, the reddish tints, through his skin, or maybe there was no skin. The voices nestled in his ears, indifferent, displeased, happy, senseless.
In the strange chaos, dark spots danced in his eyes. Each pound of flesh was squirming, as if wishing to pull away and become their own entities. With a whoosh, he could feel his lungs, aching, drawing in and out, too much, too little for his body.
His vision blurred and was replaced, combined, with all those thousands, colours dulling and brightening with flicking switches…
…
When everything became painfully silent, the only thing he was aware of through the heat and cold was “life”. A state of existence.
…
There was something in contact. Warmth but not burning. Something that wasn’t him. Another “life”.
The extremes decreased, approaching equilibrium. There was no sight, but there was touch.
And after what could have been forever, sound.
"Who are you?"
The answer came without thought. "A follower of the Lord."
That was right. The details eluded him, but that was right.
He vaguely registered a sound, startled but amused, then an emphasised change in the question.
"What is your name?"
Name. There were things like that.
Fleeting images of people, whispers of voices. Not the ones from before.
He shuddered, briefly losing his thoughts, before he managed to collect himself and answer- "Gehrman Sparrow."
“Pathway.”
“Seer.”
The haze of confusion was being parted.
Simple question after question, and a light touch on his skin, suppressing the wriggling bumps on the boundary of breaking through, bringing his scattered sense of self together. The sensations of pain and exhaustion appeared, bone-deep. Everything felt like they'd been torn apart and clumsily put together.
Through it, he continued to reply to the questions, the voice eliciting obedience. When he struggled for the answers, there was a patient wait, simply reminding him now and then that he was asked something. Slowly, the need for the waits reduced.
It could have been minutes or weeks, but at last, the back and forth came to an end, and a soft whisper reached his ear. "Enough. Sleep."
He didn't have even the thought of fighting against such an order. As if those words had cut his strings loose, he collapsed.
Zhou stared at the person sprawled out on ‘His’ lap, his body only now regaining its human form. The fog that was curled around him, cleaning up the blood and healing him, dissipated.
‘His’ punishment had been intended to make Gehrman think twice about requesting such meaningless things again. Sefirah Castle held the imprint of the original, and the madness it could induce was of an unmatched level. There was no mercy… and neither had Gehrman come close to requesting such a thing.
‘He’ knew what loss of control was like and what effects it had. Gehrman had suffered, obviously, and yet he had maintained some awareness. He had even remained in the same position throughout, prostrating, as he walked the boundary of becoming a monster.
How very… stubborn.
Zhou had always seen his sense of responsibility but underestimated his grit.
A rare emotion washed over ‘Him’, something very much like fondness, and ‘He’ ran ‘His’ hand through the other's hair. Gehrman would likely not have enough strength to even move for a while, but his breathing had become a little less ragged now.
Zhou watched him softly. The disappointment from before had trickled away like water in the face of the stoicism Gehrman had displayed. ‘His’ Blessed were dear to ‘Him’ and ‘He’ valued each one, but…
Well, ‘He’ supposed there was a reason Gehrman had become their representative, barely a demigod as he was.
Until he fully recovered, Zhou didn’t mind letting him stay in Sefirah, by ‘His’ side.