(Preparation — Unclean Intrusions — Recollection — Survey — The Rite Begun — A Strangeness — The Rite Undone — Reproach of the Self)
~~~ are used for changing the perception of vision (POV)
••• denotes flashback
*** denotes time skip
'...' denotes internal thought
() denotes layered perception
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'…I feel… unwell…'
Nay.
Avaunt, thou profane imaginings! What boldness is this, that such base wanderings should trespass upon a mind consecrated?
I incline my head and press my fingers hard against my temples, as though flesh might succeed where will alone faileth. Below me, in the vast and sanctified hollow, my brothers and sisters—of every stature and form—labour with trembling diligence. They prepare the invocations, rehearse the measured cadences, and polish each syllable as though it were a jewel to be laid at the feet of Divinity.
All is readied for the Most Solemn Occasion:
the Attunement of Our One and Only God,
that They abandon us not again to silence.
And yet here sit I, enthroned above them in my appointed cathedral, watching their industrious striving—and their many, many imperfections—whilst my own thoughts rebel like mutinous servants.
These intrusions come oft of late.
I summon them not.
I welcome them not.
I assent not unto them.
Yet they come.
(And shall ever come.)
From mine eyes there still issueth that sacred sable ichor, the pure effluence of the Void. Once it burned like molten glass. Now I feel it not. The absence of pain hath grown familiar—nay, almost cherished.
For have I not been blessed? Have I not been chosen to bear within me the very Essence of my Lord?
I am grateful.
So grateful, indeed, that I would not gainsay if They should pour yet more of Themselves into this frail vessel.
O Lord, instruct Thy servant how she may restrain the riot of her own mind! For if such thoughts were discovered, I know not what account I could give—least of all concerning matters so… intimate… to Thee.
'Although…'
Ah! No more of that! Begone, thou foul suggestion!
This hour demandeth sanctity, not indulgence. We prepare to welcome again the Lord of Shades, returned to us after ages uncounted. The fruit of so long a devotion must not be cast aside through weakness of spirit.
Therefore must the ceremony commence unmarred.
Below, I behold them striving still—murmuring their verses, correcting their tones, aligning their breaths into one harmonious utterance. Their zeal is commendable. Mine own must equal it.
I must not tremble.
I must not falter.
I must not cough—curse this wretched flesh!—nor stumble, nor shame the office I bear.
For I am their Voice.
Their Beacon.
Their Interpreter of Darkness.
Through me alone is the Path made visible. Through me alone is Their will discerned.
Should any stranger dare approach this sanctified realm, we shall not greet them. We shall not succour them. We shall not even acknowledge their misery.
Let them first endure the Wrath of God.
If they survive—then, and only then, shall they be worthy of notice.
Such is our mercy.
Such is our law.
For I am the Instrument.
The Favoured Devotee.
The one most needful.
(And I shall prove it.)
It hath been so very long since last I served a God worthy of the name. To imagine standing once more before the True and Only One—He who conquereth not merely by annihilation, but by absolute dominion—maketh my spirit recoil and rejoice in equal measure.
At length, I clap my hands, the sharp report echoing through the chamber.
"Is all prepared," say I, though a cough striveth to betray me, "my dear brothers and sisters?"
As one body they answer:
"Yes, O Hazel, our Speaker and Guide. All is made ready to please our Lord."
Their voices, though varied, align into one sound. It is… beautiful.
I swallow the bitterness rising in my throat and begin:
"O God Above Gods, we seek Thy mercy. We who once clung to lesser truths confess now our folly…"
The litany unfoldeth. Each phrase rehearsed a thousand times. Each word a stepping-stone across eternity.
"Thine origin is unknowable. Thine might beyond replication. By that might shall we follow Thee unto an age without measure."
The dryness of my throat groweth severe. I press onward.
"If Thou demand worship—we give it.
If Thou demand sacrifice—we are Thine.
If Thou demand a banquet—consume us whole."
Yes… yes, the cadence is right. The others follow, emboldened.
"We would be made part of Thee! Thy will is absolute!"
Soon—soon—our Lord must hear us.
"O Graceful Liberator, we beg Thy acknowledgement. We plead for Thy presence. We plead—"
…
What was that?
A tremor—not of sound, nor of sight, but of… recognition.
Again.
Something moveth at the edges of perception. Foreign… yet dreadfully familiar.
"Hazel?"
I start, torn from contemplation. My congregation stareth upward, concern writ plain upon their forms.
"Are you well, Great Speaker?"
Well?
Pah. I am merely… distracted.
"No matter," I say. "Continue."
Yet another cough wracks me, sharper than before. My chest burneth. My limbs feel ill-arranged within themselves.
They hesitate.
I command again. They obey—reluctantly.
Still that presence lingereth.
It is subtle. Infectious. As though another will hath brushed against the sanctity of this place.
Who dareth intrude?
Some lesser remnant of godhood, perhaps—one of those abandoned things that feed upon echoes of glory.
Foolish creature.
Knowest thou not whose house this is?
I form a silent prayer of rebuke, imagining the intruder scattered like dust before the Deep Lord's gaze—
"Hazel."
"WHAT—?!"
I near leap from my seat.
'Tis only another Godseeker.
She regardeth me calmly, as though I had not nearly expired of fright.
"What troubles you?" she asketh gently.
Troubles me?
Only the collapse of my dignity, good sister.
"I am… adjusting," I answer, forcing composure. "This new state requireth time."
She lingereth, unconvinced.
At last she departeth.
I breathe.
Then remember—
The others have ceased chanting.
All eyes are upon me.
A surge of fury riseth—swift, violent—
Why have they stopped? Why do they stare? Were they not born for this purpose?
I clench my hands.
No.
This is my failure, not theirs.
I, who neglected to prepare them for change. I, who polished mine own devotion whilst theirs remained unfinished.
It is my fault.
All must begin again.
I bow my head in bitter acknowledgement.
And then—
Why do they look so afraid?
Something… standeth behind me.
Slowly—very slowly—I turn.
"My Lord?"