Work Text:
Spring’s warmth made the altar space a bit stuffy when it came time to burn paper offerings. Four times a year they would gather, the three of them, and scratch down offerings onto soft paper to burn as a ritual to sleep. On the longest day and longest night, and on times perfectly balanced between, the room would fill with the sound of pens against the paper. They would write whatever they pleased, speaking directly to Sleep, asking for guidance, or asking for good fortune. They could write as many of these as they pleased, as long as they were all burned before the night was done, which was typically Vessel’s duty. And once the ashes had been cooled and cleansed overnight by the light of the moon, they spread them around the outside of the manor, as a fun activity. Before, they used to smear it on each other’s skin, but since it has taken on that naturally ashen appearance, they compromised to do something else.
They have a fourth now, a new fourth. A fourth who has never known the ash smearing, a fourth who can’t recall the occasion that II wrote several more letters than did anyone else. A fourth who doesn’t know how deep their devotion to their God goes. A fourth that they do not know.
But Sleep has provided him, as it always provides to them. They will not question the judgment of their God, most holy and merciful. Their God that has gifted them with such a peaceful and beautiful purpose.
Vessel has had one thing on his mind this entire night as he moved back and forth in monotony burning the offerings and chanting and breathing in the thick smoke and chanting and burning the offerings again. Again and again, as the flames licked up eagerly at the gentle paper, he found his mind wandering to IV. The fourth. The outsider. The way he followed the others around with such rapt enthusiasm and attention to detail. How he smiled so wide you could see it in his eyes, the way they sparkled when they caught the light at just the right angle. His low but gentle voice, his skin so soft and coated thick with charcoal paint that made him seem like a cheetah among honey badgers.
He didn’t flinch away from Vessel’s face, his mangled lips, or many eyes, or ragged breaths. He leaned closer when he spoke so that he would be able to hear his voice gentle and soft like a breeze. His eyes, his limbs, his fingers, it was all mesmerizing, dizzying. Vessel had never felt this way about anyone, not someone he had only just met. He watched in reverence as II poured him a glass of water, he stood in silent awe as III sighed and lay stretched across the floor of the sunroom reading. He has known them, he knows their character, their motivations, their desires, and wishes. He doesn’t even know where IV came from, how could he feel this way? Why does he?
God, why does he feel this way?
He’s been staring down at the pot of mostly ashes with only a small scrap of paper lit and dying out quickly. He pulls another paper and allows it to act as kindling, the prayer feels heavy, like sharp metal against his tongue, scraping against the roof of his mouth. Is it guilt he feels? He’s unsure. He can’t remember the last time he felt so human and so humiliated. He is the mouthpiece of his God and he goes weak in the knees and dry in the mouth when IV says good morning. His body, his mind, it’s not meant to feel this way about anything, about anyone. He shouldn’t be so weak, so vulnerable.
But it feels so holy, so renewing.
Is it natural then? Is it his base instinct to want to love? To want to be held close?
Tears burn all his eyes as his mind juggles the prayer and the increasingly suffocating need to apologize, to repent for these thoughts so human. To prostrate for his God and offer his blood, tears, and body as penance for such horrible thoughts so unfortunate, so defiling and contaminating. Poisoning his mind and his devotion. Rotting it from the inside out like a fruit. He craves nothing but the sticky sweet juice from inside.
Vessel huffs defeatedly and the flame flickers and regroups again, almost seeming more emboldened now, begging for another shred of tinder to return it to dust. He turns his face to the window casting a blueish-pink light at his side. The outside smells sweet as the day nears its end. The birds in the branches chirp and whistle and the tree sways its leaves heavy, calmly. The world is at peace and Vessel wants it too. He wants the peace and quiet of love. He wants the sweetness and the gentleness. The calm water and cool breeze, the honey running through his warm veins, the salty spring water pouring from his eyes, the rosy vision.
He grabs a pen from his pocket and plucks a folded bit of paper from the table. Unfolding it, it seems to be II’s? He’s unsure really. It doesn’t matter anyway. He flips the page over and begins scribbling into the thin paper, detailing everything, all his wants, and it all leads back to him. He wants to have him if his God will allow, he needs to put his devotion to IV into writing, no matter how blasphemous. No matter how wrong, no matter how much he is punished. Living in this lonesome quiet is punishment enough. He wants IV so badly, and if his God wills it, he will have him soon.
His words are sloppy and spelt wrong and crossed out and his tears smudge the ink around the page and he can hardly breathe even as the soft spring air cradles his face. Vessel finally manages to pull himself away and drops the paper into the fire without another thought. A weight is lifted off his shoulders as he can just barely hear the crackling of the flames and the fat plumes of smoke begin to appear. The prayer feels empty. It feels light and easy. Easy on his heart so sore now with sorrow and a sense of grief. He knows his God is displeased at such a sickeningly human display, but Vessel doesn’t yet know to what degree. It makes him sick.
He stares at the fire for a second longer before he wills himself to continue the ritual, eyes still rimmed red with the remains of his sweet tears. It only takes a few moments more before the smoke dies down, and all that is left is a fine pile of hot ashes. It must be cleansed in the moonlight before it is deemed pure enough for the vessels to themselves handle. He begged his God’s mercy, so graceful and so just. He had no regret and he knew it, for not one second did it cross his mind. He places the pot on the windowsill and stares down at it and tries to imagine how gentle IV will look tomorrow. How happy he will be to spread the ashes. How they float along in the breeze that pulls at his clothes. How when the sun comes through his fingers, they still reflect red.
Vessel looks up at a tree, following the leaves as they swing lazily in the early night’s hazy wind. The beginnings of flowers have popped up all over this tree, and its branches seem to curl and twist endlessly. He’s enthralled by them the way they turn and seem to shoot out in every direction. It’s in following one of these such branches that his eyes all fix on one bird, perched a ways away. It sits calmly, not frightened by him and in no rush to flutter away. It’s a beautiful grey-blue with a reddish patch around its orange eye so piercing. It sings a bit- no- purrs? Something of the sort, like a rolling coo that Vessel can’t quite imitate. Some of its feathers are grey, some are brown, some are blue. It sits and basks in the fading light and coos gently, as if wishing the sun away.
Vessel studies it carefully, mind calming some as he takes in the sight. There’s a distant sound behind him, and then there’s a form next to him. It’s too tall to be II, too short to III. His heart nearly stops then and there.
“Oh, a bird!”
Vessel nods quietly, biting his lip as he tries to figure out what he can possibly say. How does he reach him? How can he connect?
“I like birds, I think they’re real pretty looking.”
“Me too.” He says.
“Nature’s a real marvel, I mean, have you ever seen something so beautiful?”
And Vessel nods silently.