QuiteTheSlacker
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Chapter 38: Through Patches of Violet
🕑 Added 2024-05-13 07:12:30 +0000 UTC“When I found my mother dead, body pummeled and blackened from my father’s final rampage, I did not mourn. I couldn’t, for her blood was still that ever bland shade of grey. There was no color in anything, so why must I feel sad? Life passes by, and even that old fool’s hanging corpse appeared to be at peace in the end. At that moment, I thought myself not so dissimilar to them. Could this emptiness truly be called living? Every day was the same dry routine. The same smog-ridden sky. So I despaired, for I knew then that I would never be happy.
“Nonetheless, I continued to slave away. I returned to the factories, and I buried my parents in the same garden that once bloomed with my dreams. I do not know why I chose to bury them there—perhaps, I wished for them to have what I could not: to become a part of something so much grander than oneself. I wanted to be beautiful.
“And then, one day, I returned to that garden. Years had passed, and the buds I once planted had all but withered away. I wished to end it all; I desired to finally become one with the earth. And through my flesh and bone, the soil would nurture and new life would spring forth. I wanted to become a seedbed, and with my death would I finally become something of worth to the world.
“But I faltered, for nestled within that graveyard of violets and roses was something I had yearned to see for so, so long. There, atop the patch of dirt where my parents layed, were two radiant flowers. I cried, and for the first time since I lost my eye, I saw color again.”
Satanael of the Bloom
———
The Knight
The blob rips its way out of Satanael’s torso with a shuddering wail. Bit by bit, its form shifts - undulating and sticky - until it begins to faintly resemble the figure of a human being. It breaks free, and then it soon falls with a splat. Twitching. Yet the thing rises with a deformed leg. It stands up and basks in the sunlight’s rays. The light showers it, burns away its membrane of mucus, and thus is left a complete replica of Lorelai—body bare and skin gleaming like that of a newborn child. Indistinguishable. Only, there is one difference: the thing’s face is unmarred. Smooth. And it is through the copy that the Knight can see how truly stunning Lorelai must have been.
“This form… it truly is beautiful,” the thing says in Satanael’s voice. He runs his fingers along the arm of his new vessel, groping and inspecting every bit of his naked surface. He delights in the touch, revels in the wind sending waves through his golden braid, yet the Knight does not sense a morsel of lust in his caressing hands. It is not sexual perversion; rather, a form of freedom. A degenerate pleasure in taking away the identity of another. “Why you choose to remain scarred, I know not. From these supple breasts, firm torso, and toned muscles: It is not so disingenuous to proclaim your body as a work of art itself. Truly, there is no more fitting model for my rebirth.”
“What is the meaning of this?” the Knight questions. There is no benefit for Satanael to halt his assault, so why display this grotesque ritual of birth? It does not matter what form he takes when the entirety of the garden is his flesh and being. An endless number of false bodies could attack it right now if he so wishes, but instead he stops and performs this farce for only one reason: sadistic glee.
“Whatever do you mean?” he teases with a giggle. “I desired a change in appearance, that is all. Does it bother you? To see your face in another? I do wonder… would even a mighty Throne hesitate to cut down their mirror image? Would you squirm? Flinch as your blade slices through what is your own? So many questions, but I am not worried. We have all the time in the world to solve them.”
Satanael does not merely wish for its death. No, he wants to dominate it. To torment its emotions and enslave its mind. For others, this would be a rather diabolical tactic—a way for even the meek to slay one who is strong.
But for the Knight, they are merely empty words. The woman he seeks to subdue isn’t here. That means his tactics are futile as well.
“Now, come to me. Can you truly cleave your own—”
The Knight rushes forward mid-way through his speech and pulverizes his head into a fine red mist. Contrary to before, the body does not crumble. Instead, the headless torso freezes in place and crosses its arms as if baffled by what has just occurred.
“… No hesitation?” Satanael’s disembodied voice echoes once more. “That—hrm, is surprising. Even for you. I don’t know quite what to feel. Every plan of mine, this stage designed to bring your beauty to its highest peak, has been completely dashed away. I am starting to feel a little bit vexed, if I am to be honest. ”
“Then end this farce already. No more dramatics. No more feeble attempts at manipulation. Either you use your full strength to bring me down, or you will give up and allow me to exit this realm.”
Satanael sighs. “Such a bore, you are. Do you not realize I am trying to help you? To realize your full potential so that you may bloom at your best? Now it’s all ruined; when you perish here and I use your body as a seedbed, your buds may not be as lovely as they could have been. Does that not frighten you?”
“I am not dying here, Satanael,” it says. “Not to you, nor to the source of this grotesque power. Were you truly not swayed by the lies of a Star?”
“How many times must I tell you?” His voice grows enraged, spitting and assaulting its ears with sharp rumblings and a disgusted grunt. “I was blessed by the Mother. I saw her form on the day of my first sacrament - the day I rediscovered my passion for art in this world - and I will not have the likes of you tarnish mine devotion.”
He saw that lonely being’s form? “And how do you know that was truly Cosmos? Think back to that day and look very clearly. Look at their face. Their hair. Their eyes. Can you remember exactly what their appearance is?”
“I—I…”
The headless body trips on its own steps and falls to the floor. It stumbles there pathetically, rolling on the dirt as its limbs flail about as if each one has a mind of its own, and Satanael’s distressed voice rings clearly in its head: confusion. Rejection.
“N-No, you… you cannot trick me. How dare you attempt to shake my faith! That form was clearly the Mother’s. No other could have shone with such love - such tender warmth. No—”
“What did you see, Satanael?” It pushes his sanity further down. It pries open his heart and plants a seed of doubt: such exploitation should be familiar with him, and yet he is just as vulnerable to its effects than any other. “Tell me clearly. What did you see?”
“I saw…” He pauses, and for a moment the Knight believes him to have finally succumbed. But he soon proves it wrong. Instead of facing his insanity, he chooses to delve deeper within. “Hah. Ahaha, ah… I saw my face. It reflected off the flower’s dewdrops, and it was in there I saw a light glaring from my lost eye. I understand now. That form of hers was me. I was Cosmos all along—her avatar. Her sacred reincarnation. And when I realized my purpose, my body bloomed. It turned into the seedbed I had always wished for, but this world could not handle the birth of another. It could not handle the birth of a new divinity, and so I hid in the space between reality. I could only exist in the possibility of what lies beyond the doorway.”
Hm, it appears I have made him worse.
“Yes. I am Cosmos, and Cosmos is I. My purpose isn’t false. This truly is my calling—my sacred duty. Oh, Lorelai… I am more devoted than ever before, and I have you to thank for this wonderful epiphany. Do not worry: Even without the pruning ritual, I am confident now that I can bloom you into a truly special existence.”
Words have failed. In the end, the Knight must fall back to its prior strategy: physical resistance. Though it does not have much hope for its continued use; Satanael is becoming stronger, the garden’s frenzy is rising, and his zealotry is causing the space to distort even further. Aegis squeezes his little head in pain, and if something is not done soon, then his concentration will falter and his body will be revealed before the madman.
“My dear madam, have you not accepted your fate?” Satanael chuckles while manipulating the husk’s body forward into an indifferent stride. “There is nowhere for you to escape. Nowhere for you to hide. And while this is a rather dull method, I could simply watch you starve here rather than exert the effort to make your death a stunning one. But I do not want that. I want to respect your strength—to give you an end befitting that of the Heaven’s Throne. You cannot destroy this Eden, Lorelai. Please, I am an artist. Allow me to make you my masterpiece, and so you shall thrive here in paradise.”
As loathsome as his goading may be, Satanael’s confidence is not misplaced. The Knight cannot destroy the garden in its current state; it has never faced a foe like this before. The only option left is to tear through the field and bring about as much destruction as it can.
But that will take some time. This realm stretches far beyond the horizon; I know not if Aegis will be able to endure such force. It is unfortunate I cannot use the Solgas to cause a wildfire, but perhaps I can—
The Knight stops. It looks at the Celestial blades, and then it peeks at the still-invisible child atop its head.
When we entered this garden, Aegis already had his spell invoked. It persisted—brought in from the outside. But the blades are different. They require to be called upon before using the surrounding Creation as a medium. They were not invoked beforehand. That is why they can not respond now.
The Knight can never invoke Creation’s aid. But that does not mean the divinity’s presence is absent. No, it lurks deep within its chest as a plague—one the Polus know very well.
“Lorelai,” Satanael says, outstretching his blood-soaked palm. “Accept me, and I will gift you an eternity of happiness.”
It can feel it bubbling, that sickening mist. It wishes to escape, to infect everything with its resentment. And so it shall have its wish. The Knight is done holding it back.
It takes a step forward, and then it grasps his hand. It can feel his smile, though his head still remains a fleshy stump. That joy does not last for long. “Unfortunately, I am quite tired of eternity.”
Before he can react, the miasma toiling inside the Knight explodes, and it rushes out in an uncontrollable wave—swallowing everything within its murky ocean of ink.
