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The prophet Faulkner sat himself within the chambers of High Katabasian Roemont, with a peaceful smile upon his face.
"Are you ready?" asked the High Katabasian. His voice echoed throughout the room and commanded the respect that was due to any elder of the faith.
"Yes," Faulkner replied with a nod. "But first, I would like to say that I am so very grateful and honoured that I am to be granted the title of Katabasian, even though my deeds pale in comparison to the achievements of others like Katabasian Mason — may he rest in the Trawler Man's garden — and yourself."
High Katabasian Roemont smiled at the prophet's humility. To see a young man like him acknowledge the greatness of those who had come before him and had shaped the history of the Parish — why, it moved his heart.
"Then let us begin the Drowned Man's Hearing."
The High Katabasian cleared his throat and began spreading silt around the young prophet.
"Who stands at the whirlpool's heart?"
When Faulkner spoke, he heard nothing but pure devotion to the Trawler-man:
"Faulkner, of the Parish of Tide and Flesh."
"Who lingers at the river's edge?"
"Faulkner, of the Parish of Tide and Flesh."
"To become a Katabasian of the Trawler-man is to lose sight of light and love beneath dark waters; it is to renounce one's past, to forget one's old loyalties of family and fellowship; to become naught but a vessel of faith floating upon the currents of the divine." There was a beat of silence as the young man took a deep breath, closing his eyes to take in the wise and weighty words of the High Katabasian. "Speak now of the man you will leave behind, the man you have been. Gaze deep into his reflection. Confess his weakness, his crimes, his frailties. Renounce this man; strip his flesh free from your flesh; drown him in the river's depths." Another moment of silence, as the powerful words echoed. "…And be rid of him."
The young prophet peered into his own reflection upon the water's surface: the image of a young boy, whose childishness still clung to his features.
"I confess that I have been misguided in my leadership, High Katabasian," he began, a hint of sorrow. "I have fashioned myself a leader to the people of the Gulch, drawn their attention to me and made myself the object of their worship. Lost in this wretched pride, I have neglected our god, the Trawler-man. But no more."
Faulkner straightened his posture, and the High Katabasian saw in him both regret and fervour.
"I have seen the error of my ways, and from this day forward, I will dedicate my every moment to the Trawler-man, as I should have from the beginning. I am free of my hubris, which has led so many other children of the water astray. I long to be a proper Katabasian like yourself, my faith unwavering."
The High Katabasian smiled in approval of the boy's determination.
"The river rises."
"LINGER'S GLORY, LINGER'S MIGHT!"
A figure emerged from behind the curtain, a revolver in hand.
"High Katabasian—!"
A deafening bang rang throughout the chamber.
High Katabasian Roemont recoiled, the bullet surely having found purchase within his chest, but realised then that he felt no pain. Instead, he saw a body blocking his view of the attacker, blood spreading through the whiteness of his robes.
After a moment that seemed to stretch for an infinity, the young prophet fell into his arms, blood gushing from the wound upon his bosom. His eyes wandered, unfocused, until they found the High Katabasian's and regained their earlier clarity.
"We have been misled…" he muttered, and despite the pain it must have caused him, the High Katabasian could not bring himself to silence what would surely be the boy's final words. "All of us, tricked… We were taught that our enemy was the government, the policemen, our comrades of this great nation."
Faulkner's hand reached for his, weakly, his strength now fleeing him. His voice became quieter and more distant, filled with forlorn affection.
"I am dying, High Katabasian… I can see my life's true love, Sister Thurrocks, waiting for me beneath the waves. I find comfort in the knowledge that we will soon be reunited—"
"Hush," the High Katabasian said, wiping a tear from the young prophet's cheeks. "Speak no more, do not strain yourself—"
"Let me finish," Faulkner replied and, although his voice was a nigh-inaudible whisper, High Katabasian Roemont relented. "Before I go, dear friend, I pass on this final message from the Father In The Water, one weighty task I leave in your trembling hands… There has been so much bloodshed, too many lives lost. Let there be peace…"
His head fell as he closed his eyes, his life quickly draining away.
"At long last… between ourselves and the Legislatures… let there be peace…"
And with that, the prophet Faulkner died in his arms.
"Your sacrifice shall not be forgotten, young Faulkner," he declared. "Your name shall go down in the Verses, as a hero whose life was cruelly cut short, who protected the elders of his faith to his dying breath. May you find your rest — and your love — within the Trawler-man's garden."