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The first time Pearl prayed, it was a last-ditch, joking effort from a mind on the brink. She was starving, staring up at the stars as the cold night air stole what little warmth she could muster right from her skin. It had been days since she last managed to find any food and it was starting to really show.
Hunger had long since passed into delirium.
"If you're out there, Lady Cleo, I could do with a favour." The Godless was sometimes known to bestow blessings; her mother had told her so. So long as they were reasonable. "Just something to tide me over until the next town."
She didn't stay awake long enough to feel the air change. Didn't notice as the wind blew with the attention of something ancient and half rotted. Her mind and body were so whittled down that there was nothing left to alert her something was watching her as she slept.
However, she did find a heel of bread in her pack the next morning. Wrapped in brown paper that looked on the verge of rotting away. The bread itself looked hard and desiccated. Had she not been as desperate as she had been — the hunger of true starvation nipping at her heels — she would never have risked it.
When she ate it, it tasted warm and fresh. Exactly what the baker always delivered to her family in the early morning, for them to eat with jam. Before she ever realised just how good life was and how low it could get.
Such a small blessing mattered little to the Goddess. They handed out such things to their faithful semi-regularly. Always to those in deepest need, perhaps, but they recognised the mortal's plight. They weren't heartless and they could spare a heel of bread.
***
It was months before Pearl prayed again. Her parents had taught her to be wary of the divine — it tended to steal those it wanted away into the heavens forever — so it had never been habit. But she, in the back of her mind, recognised that something had answered last time. Out in the snow when there had been no other option.
She started the boar down, her sword drawn. It was hopeless, she knew. She'd already run all night and could hardly stand. The blood on her sword showed she had already won one battle while the state of her body demonstrated how close that victory had been. She knew she had no hope now.
"Lady Cleo," she held up her sword and touched the red stain. "In your honour."
It was reckless. Even she didn't know if she was dedicating the blood of her kill or her own death to the Goddess. It would be their choice what to take — if anything. The Goddess would likely want nothing to do with the cursed blood on her sword, nor the kill it represented. They would likely have even less desire to take the cursed blood inside her.
Neither were worthy sacrifices to something divine.
When the blood blew away as ash on the wind, Pearl didn't notice. She was too busy feeling renewed strength fill her veins, empowering her past anything her mortal frame was designed to contain. Divine strength, the kind that filled storybooks and delighted children, washed over her.
The dormant wolf stood up and howled. It was so loud, Pearl never knew if it had echoed out into the night, or just bounced around her mind long enough to deafen her. Her fingernails extended into claws, ripping her own flesh in the process, but the wounds didn't get chance to bleed before the Goddess's blessing healed them.
Afterwards, she wouldn't remember what she did to the wolf. But the Goddess did. The Goddess watched as Pearl tore the boar's throat out with sharpened claws. They watched as she built a pyre for it and burnt it, in the name of the Goddess. They let themself smile.
***
It never grew easier, seeing the destruction the supernatural left in its wake. Sometimes it was a single person, marred beyond recognition that required a mercy killing. Sometimes it was a homestead that had attracted a fae's ire.
At its worst, it could be whole towns. Entire people who would die at the whims of those too powerful to stop. Cities wiped out by capricious gods and patient demons.
It was the latter that stunned Pearl to the point of near non-function, on a rainy day in midsummer. She had been travelling for weeks and needed somewhere to take stock. An old farmer had told her of the nearby town, so she'd stumbled her way to it.
Every single person lay dead, as though they had dropped down without any cause.
Some lay in the street, while others were slumped in chairs or over tables. None looked scared or nervous. There was no blood, or signs of affliction. Nothing that would indicate plague or any other possible natural cause.
They were all just dead. Like the silent hand of the reaper had reached out and just taken them all in an instant.
They didn't even smell yet. That was what rattled Pearl. It had happened so recently that they hadn't even started to decompose.
"My Lady, lend me your aid."
She didn't know why she said it. The Goddess was one of action — one of need. It was a core tenet of their faith. They wouldn't answer such a pitiful cry.
She started to drag them, person by person, to the centre of the wasteland. There was no way she could dig even a mass grave for this many, but she could manage a pyre. It might not have been these people's custom but it was better than nothing.
As she moved among the dead, she felt protected. As impossible as it was, she felt the Goddess's attention warding off the carrion and keeping their rot at bay. It wasn't a lot.
But it was enough.
The Goddess watched as her faithful burnt the bodies. They had been powerless to stop the needless killing. Even had they not lacked in strength, they wouldn't have intervened anyway. But their faithful honoured them, so the Goddess would too.
***
Pearl took to dedicating her kills to Cleo. Not those of people who were turned to monsters against their will and lost themselves — those she buried deep, in consecrated ground and paid the ferryman's coin herself.
No, she gave Cleo the monsters. Those who revelled in the slaughter. Those who stained themselves with blood and viscera. Those who upset the balance of the world and took more than what was theirs.
As she stood over a defeated pack, blood running openly from the gouges they'd opened in her skin, she smiled. They had dared to trespass against what wasn't theirs, so she had killed them. It was as simple as that. She had become the hand that righted the scales.
They had fought hard. Some were even brave, in a way. They'd tried their damnedest to make sure it was Pearl who died here, so they could continue on their rampages.
As she dried her sword and wrapped her wounds, she smiled wild and free, drunk on her victory. "As always, my Lady. In your name."
When they burnt, their bodies didn't reek like burning flesh. Instead, the scent of sun-warmed wheat and crushed grapes filled the air, replacing the butcher's scent. With it, Pearl felt the Goddess's love. It wrapped around Pearl's shoulders and seeped into her skin, healing the cuts and driving away infection.
A blessing for a job well done; a champion to reward. The Goddess didn't bless every one of Pearl's battles thus, which made her appreciate the times they did all the more. It marked them as special moments — made special by the attention of something divine.
The Goddess smiled down on her favourite. The one who she had named her high priest had dedicated a great moment to their name. They would understand what that meant, one day. In this moment, they directed their power to ensure no infection or harm would come to her. Everything else could come later.
***
"Leave the priestess to her prayer." The old priest told his son, pulling him by the arm out of the graveyard.
Pearl didn't react. It wasn't the first time she'd been called such. Her body practically exuded a divine aura, her Goddess had been forced to heal her so much. It was only natural for people to make assumptions.
Her wounds hadn't scarred in years. They were always washed away by the Goddess's power, renewing Pearl to continue on her crusade without slowing.
She knelt on the ground and prayed. A few simple words, as always. Like she tried to do at least once a day. Her parents would be horrified, to know the devout servant their child had become. It scared Pearl, sometimes, to know just how close to the edge she was. It didn't scare her enough to stop.
The graveyard was full of sunflowers, the morning mist making shapes hazy and indistinct. Some graves were covered in carvings and offerings, while others crumbled to nothing from the harsh conditions. Somehow, it felt the kind of place her Lady would like.
From under the shadow of a grave — one that was nearly crumbling to dust and with illegible scribbles all over — she heard a pitiful cry. She recognised it all too well as the sound of an animal on the verge of death, waiting to die. It was a noise she heard on the worst of nights, from both victims of monsters and victims of herself.
One glance confirmed her suspicions. Tucked in the darkness was a cat, curled into itself and shivering. The whole space stank of damp and blight, to the point Pearl had to recoil to cough.
It took time to coax the cat out. When she got a good look at it, she knew it was too late. Rot had claimed its forepaw and she could see its ribs pointing painfully through mangy fur. Its shaking didn't abate, as it pulled itself out. The poor creature had been abandoned far too long for anything she could do to matter.
But it stared at her. Its eyes were innocent and full, pleading to live. It looked so much like the eyes that met her whenever she saw her reflection. Knowing it was doomed but wanting to continue anyway.
"Goddess?" she asked, despite herself.
When the wind blew, she smiled. Her Lady had answered once more.
The Goddess drew the rot from the cat like lancing a boil. Moving quickly, it filled out a dying system with power and revitalised the poor creature. It had earned that much by staring up at their love with love and innocence. Pearl knew so little kindness from the world — had no one to rely on other than the Goddess. It would be well for her to carry a piece of their power with her as she travelled.
***
Pearl was used to the kind of terror that moved. The adrenaline of placing your life on the line and accepting you might not survive. It sharpened her, much like a whetstone sharpened a blade into a perfect edge, but it took from her. The same way a whetstone slowly ground a sword down to nothing.
Then there was the terror that froze. She saw it in the victims of monsters, or the townspeople too scared to go after their loved ones. It made swords fall from hands and weakened knees until people fell and couldn't stand back up. In short, it was an anathema of everything she wanted for herself.
The altar she was strapped on instilled that terror in her. She saw her father's harsh amber eyes in her mind's eye, pinning her down. Reminding her of inevitability. She felt the ropes they'd used biting into her arms and legs — felt as they wore away skin and her blood started to leak free.
The clawing scent of the rag they'd used to gag her filled her nose with the stench of the grave. It tasted like copper, right on the end of her tongue. Like it was reused from the last poor person these cultists had executed.
At least they hadn't blindfolded her. She could see the cruel knife as it rose towards the sky, silhouetted in the harsh light of the moon which shone down through the church's ruined roof. She could look her death in the eye and that would be enough.
She watched as the hand began to descend. Watched the arc of iron as it fell towards her chest. Felt the tiniest first cut, as it started to pierce into her chest.
She did not close her eyes, so she saw what came next. The vines of the church wrapped the cultist in a cocoon, stopping the knife from falling any further. With a sickening crack, they snapped taut. Blood oozed from between the branches, dripping onto the ground.
"You have touched what is not yours to touch." A voice she had never heard but knew intimately spoke. "There can only be one cost."
Some tried to run. They didn't make it far. They had taken Pearl to a ruined church, well into a forest and into a village that had already fallen. The wild had taken over every inch of this place so there could be no escape from the Goddess out here.
The Goddess had no eyes for them as they died. Their deaths were automatic to them — not worth an ounce of attention while Pearl was still in danger. They didn't walk, as that would imply they needed to. They simply appeared at their love's side.
With a gentle touch, they caused the ropes to fall away. Then, with trembling hands, they unbound Pearl's gag, casting it aside to flutter to the ground.
"My Lady," their love said.
Cleo smiled and held out their hand. Pearl took it without hesitation.