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Outsiders say that they are blessed.
Steele is, after all, the perfect city. Built under the blessings of the Great Gods themselves, every golden engraving in the castle walls down to the measly bricks forming the streets at the city perimeter swirl with eternal power. Eternal life. Rigid towers twisting towards the sky, their roofs adorned with flags and murals proclaiming perfection, challenging the elements to dare tear them down. Walls stitching the lands together, cutting surely across the hills and valleys— so very imposing, yet built up with white marble that shines in the perfect golden Sun in a way that says come in. We welcome you. We adore you. Spotless, copy-paste houses, all even in rows, red brick and bright-rooved, dripping with flowers and lined with immaculate hedges. Windows, always light, always open— for who would want to block out the warmth gifted to them by the Sun? Not a single bit of dirt dares grace the streets. Not a single person dares let that happen.
It’s perfect.
And what if you asked Red?
Well.
Red would say that they are cursed.
Never out loud, of course, never: to commit such a transgression would be no less than an act of treason. An act of suicide. To say such a thing aloud, releasing your words to the air, would be the same as throwing yourself off the highest spire and expecting to land perfectly fine at the bottom. To sneer at gravity is useless. Arrogant.
Hopeless.
The same is to be said about mouthing off the gods.
So he’ll wander the streets. So he’ll upkeep his house, like the model, perfect citizen. So he’ll go to work. So he’ll kneel at the altars and murmur praise. So he’ll hide amongst the whispered cacophony, drowning blasphemous thoughts in the sea of prayers. So he’ll pray to something else, something that probably doesn’t exist, begging that the gods will see him as perfect too. Perfect, and, most of all, average.
Invisible.
A thought that settles heavy in his chest, cold and bitter. A thought that leaves an aftertaste in his throat, something sticky and sour that no amount of swallowing will remove. Once, twice, three times, throat convulsing.
Just breathe.
But he’s alive. He’s breathing. No one stares at him, blank and still, perfectly imposed. No one stops to whisper to the guards, glances slipping across the street to make connection with him. He has a job. He has money. He’s comfortable.
Leaving’s not possible, he’s pretty sure. Not unless you’re a soldier, but Red will gladly throw himself into the ocean before ever enlisting. No one ever leaves Steele— why, they we would ask, would you want to leave perfection?
Yet, all the same, very few arrive. Very few outsiders, save from those travelling caravans that are so graciously accepted inside. Graciously offered a place to rest their heads, a warm meal, a place to settle down, if only for a moment before they move on.
(So why, no one whispers, do those caravans never leave?)
(Where did they go?)
(The pyres always burn those nights. A celebration. The stench of burning meat hangs heavy in the air.)
No one who arrives from outside, save for the children, ever stays.
So why, begs the question, is there a new man in the Collective Temple today?
He kneels, perfectly still, posture reminiscent of the statues that line the walls: a perfect worshipper. Back straight; shoulders forward; head bowed; hands clasped; arms a perfect 90 degree angle. Long black hair (is it black? It seems to glimmer almost purple in some places, woven into a graceful pattern of waves) braided neatly together and flowing down his back, not a single strand out of place. Positioned only a few feet away from where Red kneels, one row ahead, the perfect level to sneak glances through eyelashes as he recites the prayer he knows by heart in his head, counting the seconds before release.
Not a single breath disturbs the newcomer's body where he rests. In the blurry view provided by glances snuck through mostly-closed lashes, doubt begins to grow that it isn't just another statue. An interpretation of the perfect citizen. Inspiration. Without any wind to disturb his clothing or hair, there isn't enough data to be sure.
Despite the lack of movement, despite the lack of information, despite the lack of anything, the stranger is still far more interesting than the prayer that's been repeated identically a thousand times over. So Red shifts, wincing at the way cold stone digs into his knees— makes a mental note to arrive earlier only to get a mat to sit on— and watches through the shadow obscuring his eyes. Picks out the luxurious purple silk of his clothing, the warm, patchy brown of his skin, the flow of his hair. The chains of gold and silver that drip across his body, woven into his hair, wrapped around his body, twinning around his arms and armouring his fingers. The dark stones adorn his ears as well, creating a glittering shield between the skin and the air.
All in all, he's rich. Very rich. Rich enough to be a walking treasury without fear— although, Red mentally kicks himself, no one steals here. A better question, a more intelligent question, would be why he isn't in the section for those better off than he? A simple lowly peasant?
Although— Red shifts again, under the pretence of silently clearing his throat in small off chance anyone else may be peeping— although, there's something wrong with the stranger.
Very very wrong.
Red squints. Blinks rapidly. What is it? The light could just as easily be playing tricks on him, but no. Something is wrong.
The shadows. It's the shadows. They don't look right. They exist in all the wrong places. Darken too quickly in all the wrong spots. Shift too much in a single second to be natural.
They're imperfect.
Blink. Blink again. Feels the itch of a nervous yawn. Resists rubbing his eyes.
Imperfect. Imperfect.
Imperfection isn't— it's not— it doesn't— Red has to shut his eyes again, closing his teeth around a retch. Something about the stranger— no, not something, he knows what it is— is simply and plainly sickening.
He wants him gone.
He wants to look at him more. If he could just—
The stranger is staring at him. Red snaps his eyes back to the ground, heart in his throat because holy fuck his eyes are purple. His eyes are purple and they're beautiful and he's looking at him and when did he turn? Red could swear he never moved an inch. Suddenly, he was just staring.
He's not human. Whatever he— it is, it's not human.
It's not even Earthly.
(Why isn't it perfect?)
Blink. Blink again, struggle to suck in a breath, heart pounding like it’s trying to escape his ribcage. Something warm trickles down his cheek, and his hand flinches up to brush it away on instinct.
His fingers come back stained with blood, sticky and gelatinous. Dark, deprived of oxygen.
Red looks up.
The temple is desolate. Not a single soul, save for his own, and it's debatable that it still resides within him given the previous encounter, breathes within its walls. Not even the priests remain behind, usually the last to vacate its sterile roof. The lights remain on, flickering candles and glowing orbs that speckle the arched ceiling like starlight. Smouldering pots of sacrificial oil, flaming representations of the Sun, light from outside tumbling through stained-glass and casting abstract shapes on the floor. It’s bright, but cold. Cold, despite the acrid scent from the oil smoke.
Blood dries sticky against his cheek where it’s spread thin. It cracks when facial muscles twitch, tugging at near-invisible hairs.
Bracing his hands against the floor, wincing when the still-wet blood smears against the white tile, he pushes himself shakily to his feet. Whatever. An extra sacrifice, he supposes. People bleed a lot in these halls, voluntarily and involuntarily. At this point, whichever unfortunate soul who cleans the temples is used to it.
(Who does clean the temples? Oh, gods, he's never checked.
Although, now that he thinks about it, perhaps standing isn’t the best of ideas: his legs tremble at a worrying degree, protesting at the weight they are forced to carry. Black spots dance in his vision, mingling with glittering sparks that flicker to-and-fro, in and out of existence.
Walking takes a herculean effort. Each step is less of a step and more of a series of barely controlled stumbles that send him careening this way and that as if drunk. The Temple is barren and desolate of anything but vast, isolated marble pillars and golden engravings, yet still he manages to trip over absolutely nothing. Nothing but the very best, the most expensive, the most lavish, may remain in sight longer than strictly necessary; there are no helpful sticks or bannisters to grasp onto.
Grey overtakes his vision long before the last of the stairs to the exit are cleared. Outside, the Sun hangs lower than before, shifting from white-hot gold towards a more comfortable orange. The air, too, is cooler, but does nothing to cool his burning skin. Its rays do not cleanse the dry blood stuck to his cheeks, to the skin below his eyes.
It's no use. No matter if he has a walking stick or not, he will not make it to his house. No carthorse would accept him with his bloodied face and stumbling frame.
There is a closer option. One that, given the circumstances, would accept him.
One that he would prefer not to go to.
Preference, however, does not and cannot outweigh necessity.
He needs Branzy.
-
“And you woke up like this? No memory?”
He offers only a nod, a jerky motion that sends sharp pain lancing through his skull. At the moment, his vocal cords feel as solid as stone. Too much effort to bother forcing air through.
It's well into the evening by now; the trip itself had taken nearly an hour, despite the office's close quarters to the centre of the city and, therefore, the Temple. Much of it was spent trying to make it across the square without getting jumped by the guards, stumbling the whole way. Warm golden light tumbles through the dusty window panes, illuminating the countless perfect little tools in their designated trays and reflecting off the glass-framed posters on the walls, proclaiming all sorts of things: information on bones, on eyes, on muscles, on curses and blessings, on health recommendations. Dust motes glitter in the streams, never daring to settle on the instruments or posters; they must remain perfect.
Branzy’s eyes narrow further. They've been doing that for the past thirty minutes, following each and every question, starting when Red first collapsed (literally) through the doorway. Now nearing the point of complete blindness, the doctor settles with scrunching up his nose. “Interesting,” he hums. Again.
With a gentle, gloved hand touching beneath Red’s chin, he angles his face towards the light. After a moment of investigation, he brings up a delicate, long-handled instrument, coppery-gold in colour, with a piece of glass fixed to the end. It is held to his eye, the other squinting shut. A beam of light from the skylight above collects and focuses through the glass, lancing through his pupil. He flinches, but keeps obediently still. It's not as bright as it should be, he thinks.
“Interesting,” he murmurs. Again. “There doesn't appear to be any damage. It's like your eyes just started crying blood instead of water.” He tips Red’s head to the other side. Magnified by the lenses, Branzy’s eye resembles a dark purple gem. Purple, an unnatural colour. Branzy, one could say, is lucky (or unlucky, in Red's opinion). Noticed by the God of Blood, Slaughter, and the Circus— not something one would usually want, but Red's never been one to shame— he instead caught his attention in a different way. Somehow, some way, though Branzy, usually so talkative and willing to spit out information, has never said how gained the Clown's favour. Walked away, unaltered except for purple eyes. And something else. One more addition to the contract. Something he has, just as well, never revealed. Either way, no person dares touch him anymore. Not after— well. The sight sends a momentary flicker of panic through him, the memory of the god’s piercing eyes burned forever into his mind. “How's your vision? Nothing feels stuck inside?”
Red shrugs. An ache has been spreading through his eyes, independent from the light. The movement disturbs his head slightly where it rests against his shoulder, knocking Branzy off focus. “Fine. Still a bit dark on the edges.”
“Shock.” Branzy nods. “Or blood loss. Maybe a mixture of the two.” He sighs. Heavily, sort of bored. “I have no doubt at all that you did meet one of Them, so unearthly intervention is a good possibility.”
Them. Safer to say that than what They really are. Truthfully, if They were listening, saying a substitution would do nothing to protect themselves.
It’s the thought that counts.
Maybe.
“Will it go away?”
Now it's Branzy’s turn to shrug. He releases Red, setting the magnifying glass back onto its table with careful movements. It clicks, gently, on the metal, followed by a near-inaudible ting of vibrating glass. “Like I said, there's no damage. Then again, I haven’t dealt with many impermanent or small otherworldly injuries, like yours. I know how the bad ones heal, which is, uh. Not at all.”
Sensing imminent release, Red sits up, scooting backwards in the reclined chair. Even the simple, short movement leaves black patches in his vision, slow to fade. Yeah, blood loss. Sure.
Branzy digs through a desk a few feet away. “I'll get someone to walk you home, and someone to check on you in the morning. And a doctor's note, I think.” Branzy turns, levelling his inquisitive gaze with Red. His eyes still glitter purple. “I would like to study you a bit more, but I don't think you'd agree.”
Red doesn't answer. In the semi-darkness behind Branzy, unlit by sun or artificial light, the stranger god looms, a horrible, off-putting, wrong mimic of a shadow. Its own version of a "shadow" shrouds the air behind it, the air itself becoming darkened where it shouldn’t like some evil cloud, masking their features into smears of dulled colours. The only truly visible part of his face are his jewel eyes; glowing, impossibly, in the darkness, glittering from a light source that doesn’t exist, deep and bright at the same time. So very, very different from Branzy’s that he wonders why he even shied away from them at all.
It’s grinning. The— thing— the god, is grinning. All too sudden, as if teeth suddenly teleported onto its face. Too many, interlocking, shifting from animalistic canines to perfect flat human teeth.
“Are you okay?” Branzy’s voice filters in from miles away, or from underwater. “You're looking very pale. Are you dizzy? I can give you a draught, but I don’t know if it’ll work.”
Red cannot tear his eyes away from the god. It’s presence is overwhelming, omnipresent, filling the whole room with shadow. The objects on the desk shudder— or, their clones do. Purple-red-blue and filled with imperfect horizontal cracks, they strain against the bonds of their real selves, swaying back and forth in imperfect harmony. One after the other, as if being hit by a slow-moving wave. The walls slide in and out of focus. He can't breathe. He can't—
He blinks. Focuses on the steady purple of Branzy’s eyes, purple that doesn’t jump about restlessly, and says, “That’d be great.”
So Red goes home that night, mouth filled with the bitter aftertaste of whatever the fuck was in that draught, a steady arm of another guiding him through the streets, a letter of exclusion in his hand, and a very strange, probably very vengeful god following behind.
Completely invisible.
Great.