hierophant

and we’re in! hello, i’m KB (he/it), also known as local bastard mod rook, who is available for punching at any time (not really, sorry). find me on twitter! i’m an idiot but i’ll do my best!

a few things about my son...

grumpus

he’s a priest but he’s probably not going to be a freak about it

really loves his friends and his sister

probably also really loves you but is too afraid to show it

healbot 4000 up until he unlocks his dps spells at which point you can heal your own ass he has smiting to do

Each step closer had more strength behind it, by the time she ran into Dogma’s arms Cody was using all her strength to reach him. Her brother’s tight embrace was filled with a warmth that blocked out any of the chill she had been experiencing even seconds before, and in an instant she felt like a child once more, safe and secure in the arms of her big brother. As he lifted her up and spun her in the air, Cody couldn’t hold back the innocent laughter that rang out in response.

As she was eventually placed back down, and the moment faded to the present once more, a genuine smile stayed firmly in place as she looked up to Dogma, barely even noticing the snow he carefully brushed off of her.

“There… There’s no reason to cry, silly. It’s not like I could leave you alone!”

The confidence she tried to portray was false, shaky, and her arms screamed to reach out for him again, to truly make sure this moment was real. She didn’t know how this could happen, but even standing by Dogma once more felt like more than a miracle.

“What kind of little sister would I be if I wasn’t here to keep you out of trouble?”

It feels like the cold has melted away entirely, like there was a shell of frost over his heart that has finally cracked and fallen away. Seeing her smile is healing in a way he’d somehow managed to forget, and he wants to kick himself for it--how could he ever forget the warmth of her, the way having her by his side again makes him feel complete? She is every missing piece--always has been, always will be.

When he speaks again, it is strained, like he’s having to force the words past sobs caught in his throat, like it’s taking everything he has not to break down. Isn’t he supposed to be the responsible older brother? Act like it, Dogma--

“I know. I know. I always believed you would come back to me--I prayed for you every day, and God listened, and you’re--really here. Oh, I’m so happy to see you, Cody. My dear sister--I’ve missed you so much.”

It feels like everything is in slow motion, Russell doesn’t know how to react and everything seems to freeze up as Dogma brushes away his tears. He doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t know what to do–

It repeats over and over in his head as the priest speaks, a strained sob escaping the boy against his will. Dogma had wished he was here, prayed, that he would arrive here. Why was he waiting for him after everything he…he obviously knew the truth, even if Russell’s memory said nothing of ever telling him.

There’s still no reason for him to be this affectionate with him.

Why, why why why.

There’s so much he wants to say to Dogma, so much he wants to apologize for, but he can’t. He can’t and it frustrates him to no end now. Part of him wanted to push his hands away, deny his affections. He’d even started in the movements, hands shakily gripping at the elder’s wrists before releasing them again. He couldn’t, he couldn’t find the will to do it. Feeling as if his feet had frozen to the snowy ground below. So, he does the only thing his shell shocked mind can manage to direct him to do.

He cries more.

It’s the opposite of what Dogma had wanted, for sure, but it’s all he could do. Strained, odd noises being pulled from his throat as he stands there and sobs. Maybe he just needed to let it out, for better or for worse. Hiccuping and sniffling, he hadn’t even been aware of how cold he was until the older had mentioned the weather, hadn’t realized he was shivering - perhaps from a mix of nerves and the temperature.

Dogma…Dogma I’m sorry…

You shouldn’t want me back. Just be angry with me do something other than this-

When the boy closes small hands around his wrists, Dogma nearly pulls away. He’s never behaved like this with Russell before now--he doesn’t know what the boy’s boundaries are, what would make him flinch away--and he feels a little helpless, despite his desperate attempts to maintain composure. All those years spent maintaining careful distance from anyone other than his sister, who he knows almost better than he knows himself, have not done well to prepare him for--anything like this.

And then Russell starts to sob, tears flowing down his cheeks in earnest, and every part of Dogma that was trying to persuade him to step back is silenced in an instant. Instead--instead the priest bends down and wraps his arms around the boy, pulling him into a fierce embrace. He’s holding Russell too tight, probably--he can feel it in the strain in his arms--but he can’t help but feel like if he loosens his grip even a little, Russell will disappear, dissolve into snowflakes and melt into nothing.

Dark eyes are deceivingly attentive. That silence speaks words Kirei need only decipher, that stiff tone whispers things not yet told, that scratching a repeating hymn of something painful. He was dangerously interested now. 

“Heathen as it may be, I may make time to see it up close–tomorrow, as you say.” His attention is brought back ahead of them–he can see it now, The Crystal Tavern carved into wood and embellished by crystalline glass. “I find bonfires to be a comfort. They remind me of good times. Some of the happiest moments of my life, truly.”

He trusted the smile on his face was warm, and not reminiscent of the grin he once wore as he stood upon the curse-burnt remains of a proud city. 

What he wants to say is something along the lines of no, don’t say that, surely you don’t know what a fire can do, you’ve never felt it. What forces its way past gritted teeth, eventually, the priest counting down the steps until they make it through the door of the tavern and they can talk about anything else, is: “Is that so? Well, it must be a welcome sight to you, then. Be careful not to let it draw you in.”

How much can he say? He’s spent the past month biting back every honest word about how he’s feeling, how he’s coping with being undead, some captured spirit a million miles away from his own charred bones, and a great part of him wants to continue the trend, but... he’s tired of keeping secrets. “I cannot say it brings me anything but dread. Still--the festival will be over soon enough. I suppose I will come to miss it when the cold sets back in.”

She doesn’t know if she’s doing any good, if she’s doing anything by keeping herself out of the very danger she’s put herself in. But if Sasume can do anything she can do this, deflect blows of crushing void with the sound of screeching metal as they ricochet off her blade, because she’ll be damned if she does nothing.

She watches Dogma like a hawk as he approaches the Burying One, one part tense anticipation three parts fear she can barely work into her muscles without bolting toward him. It isn’t his mother, it isn’t, but it is to him and that’s all the Fields care for, she thinks.

She hopes.

The Burying One’s spells have stopped by the time Dogma has embraced her, all raw tears and aching heart, and again Sasume can barely keep herself in place. Maybe, if the illusion is anything at all like the mother it was made in the image of, it, too, is struck immobile by her son’s grief.

Sasume can’t imagine losing a child, losing her sister, but if Shida were to suffer even after the fact—

The Burying One disappears. It smells of lilies, still. No, stronger? Then the air flickers and—

No.

No!

Her stomach drops with her sword and she’s already running, running, shoving all her strength into each pound of her feet she can’t think, can only focus on how fucking far away Dogma is and how short her legs suddenly are and the bright motes like static flickering in the air and—

“DON’T YOU TOUCH HIM—!” she shrieks without thinking, praying to the Burying One or Theama or Diaidem or whoever behind this that he won’t be taken from her that she won’t lose him, she can’t—

Sasume’s hands plant firmly across his chest and shove him clear back, away, safe—

She feels herself relax, lets herself enjoy the relief—

The air turns even more cloying in the same instant, just in time to miss him—

(And she’s thankful, oh, she’s so thankful—)

She forgets about it, almost, until a blinding light sears her retinas from just outside her peripheral, and—

Copper meets the smell of lilies and she screams.

He is going to hate lilies forever, he thinks.

There will be a bouquet of them somewhere, bright blooms, collected so neatly in a little glass vase and put proudly on display, and he will see the softly curling petals and think of Sasume, screaming, bleeding and bleeding and bleeding. Even his own blood doesn’t look so red, drying to rust on his shoulder.

When the petals melt away like early spring snow, and the scent of lilies fades to nothing more than an aftertaste, a bitter note on the back of his tongue, he finds a Bible, stark against the white. The cover is flecked with red and all he can think is I hope the pages haven’t been stained. God would be displeased to see it in such a sorry state.

Time moves forward, inexorable.

The priest remembers himself, remembers where they are, remembers what his mother did. He lurches toward her, finding purchase for feet that threaten to fall out from under him. There’s nothing but copper and he wants to retch but he swallows it down as he thrusts his arms out, catching her in her slow fall forward. She’s not heavy, but in this state--she’s a dead weight, and he falls with her, solid ground giving way to his knees in red snow.

Didn’t they do this last time--only all the pain was in the heart, enclosed, not spilling out all over the clearing--Dogma chokes out a rough sob, pulls her close. The wound is deep, a broad and fearsome gash, and the world feels like it’s ending. He can’t lose her here--he only just met her--it isn’t right, she’s so young--

He finally reacts, finally, and if they had the time for it Sasume might have wept with relief—but the Burying One is still there, hovering about all too calmly with god knows what up her sleeves, and her chest feels cinched despite the pounding of her blood for the sake of a single warning: it’s not over yet.

It’s not over, and yet and yet—

Dogma’s fear is real, it is now, and her own visceral fear for his sake makes her unsure if she has superhuman limbs or no limbs at all. She is the fighter, she is, but she’s the one who gets Dogma’s dear rosary over her head even with the distress clear in his face.

“I can, but—” Sasume grips the little wood cross until an arm digs itself into her palm, much like the healed gash, and it’s not what she wants but when she tries to reach for the man himself even his robes have fluttered past her reach.

Her forehead burns, and she feels she can’t breathe between the pressure in her throat and the heat from the flames. She can’t she can’t—

No.

No. Sasume shakes herself off and staggers to her feet, shucking off her sheathe and jacket and grabbing her sword as she does. She grips it, hard, with both hands, and glares at the Burying One with a quickly suffocating rage that she can barely push back enough to keep herself in control.

She breathes in, steadies her stance, ignoring the patches of flames and how sweltering they feel even without her heavy coat; ready to snap against her much more vulnerable if not exposed skin if she moves wrong.

She breathes out.

She will not lose him. She won’t.

And she runs, resisting the urge to fight the Burying One outright—disgusting, vile, monster that it is, disgracing his mother’s image and torturing him with it—and instead skittering about in front of her. Sometimes slipping closer, sometimes tumbling away for a quick maneuver, her ears ringing near-deaf with the sharp sounds of deflecting the creature’s spells with her blade.

Up this close, the scent of lilies is dizzying. It seeps into his pores and lays itself like a heavy blanket over his shoulders. There is red sap twining its way up his legs like something living, a vine seeking out a new life to choke away, and all he can smell is this one-tone bouquet, and for a moment he feels like he’s going to pass out. The world spins, sways, goes dark at the edges.

“Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name--thy kingdom come, ah--I am your loyal servant, as always, your vessel, thy will be done--” The prayer comes out broken, distracted, but it helps to piece the world back together, familiar words and familiar fervor stitching him up into something approaching stable. It won’t last long, but--it doesn’t have to. She’s so close. Just reach out, and--

From here, he can think about it like a warrior would. The clasp of her sundress--if he had a blade, he would aim for that, drive it through her ribs, angle the steel up into her heart and be done with it. The pale skin of her neck is unprotected; if he had the strength, he could choke the life from her, slow and vindictive.

Dogma does not do either of those things. He stands there, trembling, tears streaming down his face like a dam somewhere broke wide open, and he thinks about how much he misses her, and how sorry he is to have left her all alone--and then he flings himself at her, wrapping his arms tight around her. It feels like he’s five again, like the first day of school, where he sobbed and clung to the hem of her dress because it felt like the last time he would ever see her.

The priest breathes in lilies, pollen filling his lungs, nearly enough to make him sick with it. “Mother,” he whispers, just a boy, just her son, “poor thing. You have to go home, now. No need for a prayer.”

He’s alive, she thinks, but the thought doesn’t help as much as it should because that thing’s still there, waiting like a goddamned reaper, and Dogma’s alive but he is broken and he is hurting and damn it all she can’t fix him—

“I do,” Sasume repeats, eyes burning hotter with the pain of his grief and the grief to be found in her own pain. She’s crying already but still she feels like she’s ready to cry, feels like breaking over him like dried out dirt or maybe wailing and somehow hiding in him despite how he’s hiding in her, like there’s ever a way to wash off the blood of the people you care the most for. “And that— that’s not your mother. I swear it, Dogma, please, it’s just the Fields. It’s not—”

The air starts to pull and twist and she swallows back the urge to vomit and instead uses her panic as fuel instead of a cripple—fumbles, shifts an arm off of Dogma, unsheathes her sword, moves it to her other hand, and—

She shoves the blade out, more like a brace than a sword, and it shoves the warping space of the spell away by its epicenter, and—

C L A N G !

It implodes against the steel with an ear-splitting grate of metal against metal, the force simultaneously pulling and shoving her arm with it and making her idly wonder how she kept her arm, but—

Sasume drops the blade, palm stinging, the weapon still within reach, and refocuses on Dogma to run her hands soothingly—yet frantic all the same—up and down his arms, his back.

“I believe in you,” she rasps again, swallowing hard and dropping her hand on his head once more. “I’m here, Dogma. I—I’m real. I’m helping you. I will help you. You don’t have to do this alone. You won’t. I’m here, Dogma. I’m here. So… So please…—”

The force of the magic is enough to jolt them both, a shudder running through with all the immutability of an earthquake--like the Burying One’s tearing the world open around them. It lights something in Dogma, some low simmering fire; not the dramatic, confident blaze he’d expected--nothing confident at all--just a glow, fanned by the fear of Sasume getting herself hurt into something that might survive a gale. This is his trial. He’s supposed to be the one risking life and limb, not--not some poor soul he coerced into coming along--

The priest lets himself rest in the haven of her touch for a breath longer, and then pushes her away--gentle but firm, long fingers gripping her shoulders tight before letting go altogether.·“Right. I--right.” Everything feels fake, from his manufactured resolve to the very air around them, but he can only pray that it holds together long enough for them to finish this.·“You’re right. Of course you are. Here--”

There’s a lull in the attacks, like the Burying One is holding her breath, playing the part of the strategist, and Dogma takes the chance to slip his rosary off his own neck and lower it onto Sasume’s, instead. “It’s a blessed charm,” he bluffs, hoping the stricken look on his face is enough to excuse the hesitance with which he lies to her. “No harm can come to the one who wears it. Bring it back in one piece, please. Can you keep her busy? I can’t hurt her, but I--we shouldn’t have to worry about that.”

And he leans up to kiss her on the forehead, a fleeting touch. It means thank you and I’m sorry and goodbye, for now all at once. When he takes off again, it’s less of a mad dash--he’s circling around, making for the fallen tree, keeping an eye on where he plants his feet because if he falls again that’s it.

Gloved fingertips trace over silver with a careful consideration, the cross bound by the black cord around his neck oft kept hidden now brought to light in this prolonged silence, lost within a sea of thoughts to choose from yet left in this quietude with another alleged Man of God.

The Count decides that for now, he will choose to believe him when he says so.

    “It was my will that guided me out from Hell,” and for all of his decisions, it does not stop the cruel, almost scathing bite to his tone. “But God’s will is different from ours, isn’t it, Father?” His fire reflects his emotions within: small, blue embers rising from his fingertips while the jet black flames clinging to his cloak flicker with an added strength, creeping higher than where his shoulders lie in between his words.

    “If God wills it, it shall be—even if that results in the very atrocities committed against Him to come forth in droves. Is that not ironic?” Does that not fill you with hate?

@alrosary

Another day, another unfamiliar voice spitting his title at him like it’s venomous. The priest wants to say he’s used to it by now; everyone has their reasons, of course, and he has never tried to force the faith on anyone who seemed particularly averse, but in all his years as a priest he’s never had to deal with quite this much vitriol. Irritable parishioners are one thing, argumentative atheists another, and the response he’s been met with here in Eidolon--quite something else entirely.

The flames, in particular, are a fun surprise.

But his tone is carefully controlled when he responds, all his irritation forced down and out of his throat where it threatens to choke him; it shows itself in the way he’s clicking the beads on his rosary with a little more force than he necessarily needs to, but otherwise the priest is the picture of calm. “It would be far beyond my station to question the will of God,” he responds after a moment, mild. “He has a plan for all things, even if at times His workings seem... obscure.”

It was….it was him. Right here in front of Russell now and – as much as Russell still wanted to turn tail as Dogma approached he found himself stepping forward to meet him in the middle. Swallowing roughly as his hand dropped away from his neck.

Of course, perhaps that wasn’t for the best considering what’d it reveal to Dogma but, Russell wasn’t really in a place to think critically right now.

A shaky exhale and Russell couldn’t help but feel the tightness building in his chest, Dogma was happy to see him, happy. It was almost hard to believe but with how the priest had rushed towards him, tears in his eyes it said enough.

Now Russell felt the tightness creep up into his throat and it was suddenly a bit hard to breathe, he wanted to say so many things but he couldn’t and it was so, so frustrating. All he could do was stand there and let tears run down his face. He wasn’t going to bother stopping them, even if he himself didn’t have any right to cry right now.

Perhaps it was a panic response but, it’s what was happening right now.

(I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.)

He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve this type of reunion–

Russell stumbles back a bit, sniffling. It was a bit too much, he wanted to be yelled at something, anything to affirm the self loathing he’d built up for himself now but, that wasn’t the case here. Why would it be, for all Russell knew it wasn’t the truth but he still found himself wanting something.

(Why are you greeting me like this.)

He can’t help the sharp gasp that slips out as Russell’s hand drops from his neck. There are a million questions rushing through his head--what happened, who did this to you, are you all right, are you safe--but louder than all of those, a mantra that grows louder and louder with every step closer to the boy, a single thought.

Oh, Russell. I should have protected you.

Russell is crying, and Dogma swallows down the urge to do the same, refusing to let those pricking tears fall. It will do neither of them any good to have them both break down, out here in the snow--they’ll catch cold--no, it’s better for him to stay composed, as much as he wants to bundle the boy into his arms and sob out everything he never managed to say in the dream.

I should have protected you...

Instead, Dogma cups the boy’s face in his hands, careful to keep the edges of his palms away from the livid scarring. The priest’s thumbs brush over Russell’s cheeks, sweeping away a fresh round of tears. It must be strange, to see him like this--Dogma was barely companionable in the dream, let alone this affectionate--but he’s been waiting weeks, now, and he’d wished for this. It was all he’d wished for. Forgive a poor dead priest the gratitude he’s finally letting himself feel.

@alrosary·

The air was colder than Cody remembered being possible. Her body, expecting to be surrounded by flames and instead met with a chilled wind, shuddered as she looked around the surroundings, baffled.

This wasn’t the false happiness of the imaginary town, nor was it the truth of heat licking at a small church and those within it. Russell didn’t seem to be lingering nearby, and she felt… real, now.

Widened eyes, confused and trying to find answers, stopped abruptly when a familiar sight met them.

“Dogma?”

She was certain that she could see her brother sitting on the side of the clearing, with hair that looked just like her own in color and texture, with the same traditional priest wear she had grown used to seeing him in years ago.

It felt too good to be true, after everything. But could this finally be the answer to her lifetime of prayers? 

This wasn’t the dream. This was, miraculously, the real world. And knowing that drove the girl to run forwards, shouting.

“Dogma!!”

How many days has it been, now? A month and some to spare? Thirty-something days of telling himself, as dawn breaks over the village, as his wandering feet leave crisp prints in new snow, that today is the day he will see her again. Every morning, up at first light, down to the heart of the village, waiting anxiously for a glimpse of brown hair, red eyes. He still hasn’t given up hope, has he? Today, and the words are worn-out and weary, is the day God will bring her back to me. Oh, Cody.

Your brother misses you so.

And despite his prayers, despite his desperate wishes and all his best preparations, he still--doesn’t know what to do when he sees her. Thank you, Lord, for hearing my prayers, for giving me this blessed gift, I am as always your devoted servant--he’s glad she’s running to him, because though he leapt to his feet at her calling his name he finds he’s rooted in place, like if he looks down he’ll find violet-studded vines tying him down.

“Cody--!”

He finds a way to move again once she’s close enough, darting forward the last few steps to pull her in for a tight embrace. This isn’t a dream. Dogma lifts her up, spins like he’s a giddy little boy of twelve again, sets her back down gently on her feet when his arms start to ache. There are snowflakes collecting on her shoulders, and he steps back to dust them off, barely able to believe that she's--here, that she's real.

Dogma, is all the mess of her mind can make out from itself. It’s desperate and hurting to match the look on his face and it’s pleading, Dogma, please—

“Dogma—” she feels her voice break under the strength of him having none, of trying to hold him up and keep him together but the absolutely insufferable little priest just slips through her fingers and— “Wait—”

And he’s gone, air beneath her fingertips, off without a plan, off to his fucking death, and she can feel the world splinter out from underneath her again. Again. It’s happening again and she wants to scream already, not again not again not him not again—

Sasume runs after him, knees weak to match her shaking hands, and no matter how much her focus narrows on Dogma she can’t think, dammit. She can’t move fast enough, another spear of light sending her stumbling, blinded and reeling and slowing her down just too much slow too slow—

Red spatters across the dark and dank soil and she shrieks, incoherent and visceral and raging, closing the distance between them all and swiping once she’s close enough—the Burying One either avoiding or phasing through her blade on her own hand, the other gripping Dogma around the waist and sending them both tumbling far away from her.

“Dogma, Dogma—” she isn’t sure if she feels eight or thirteen again but she’s crying, first time in a long time, feeling like her heart’s been ripped out from her chest along with everything good in her life, third time coming far too soon but far later than she’d expected.

Her hands flutter about, nervously, flitting against the wound only to yank away even faster, slightest tough against the blood making her want to vomit. It’s small, she thinks, but the thought far too soft to be anything but swept up in the panic. Odd, notably, and maybe not close to severe, but—

“Dogma, please—” Sasume shakes him, hands shaking but careful like he might fall apart the rest of the way if he’s a hair too firm, pleading for him to look at her but look at her like him and not the echo of that ghost of a monster. “I believe in you—”

Rosary sounds like an absence; rosary sounds like the sudden onset of a storm, dead air and pressure. When the magic lances through him, all he can hear is Sasume calling his name, a landmark in the deafening nothingness. Dogma, Dogma, and her hands are fluttering around his shoulder and coming away with red-stained fingertips, and only then does he realise that it hurts. That’s his blood--there’s a gap in him, skin giving way to flesh giving way to empty air and pain--and he’s felt this before, of course, been knocked down a hundred times facing the monsters in the dream, but this isn’t a dream.

This isn’t a dream. Sasume is here and he looks at her, lets the haze clear from his eyes and really looks at her. She’s crying, again, she’s crying for--him. It doesn’t make sense. He wants to scream. He doesn’t deserve these tears, he doesn’t, he doesn’t--

“But I don’t,” and it’s a strangled cry, more emotion welling up than he knows how to deal with at the best of times, let alone now. “Sasume, she’s alone, I can’t--do this to her--we were all she had, and now she’s left with some charred bones in a flowerbed, Sasume--” He curls into her, hiding, like he’s ten years old again, waking from a nightmare and finding comfort in a warm body when he hasn’t yet learned how to find it in God.

It took four of them to beat her, last time. Him and Cody and Russell and Kantera. Even then--even then they came out bloody and bruised, even then she nearly won, bearing down on them with holy fire. How can Sasume expect him to fight her alone? He’s a healer, not a warrior. His magic is sealed behind stone walls and the closest thing he had to a weapon was taken away from him, day one.

Now is not the time, is all she can think, over and over and over again as methodical as footsteps—Sasume doesn’t want it to ever be time, not for this. Not ever for this; Dogma deserves as little so as to not have to strike down his own mother, again, to not have to deal with any of it, at all, but—

He’s not a fighter, and his damned status as a Priest is enough to show it. He isn’t he isn’t he isn’t, and she’s so used to the acrid burn of blood that murder hadn’t been something she’d ever hesitated on nor looked back on to doubt.

She’d do this for him, if she could. She wants to, oh, she wants to—wants to pull him close and protect him and slay this abomination one-handed and without her powers if need be—but—

This is Dogma’s trial. His. She can’t do it for him, and she knows the Fields wouldn’t let her even if she tried.

Still—his Trial or not, Sasume will hold him up and hold his hand as much as she fucking can through it all, no matter what this place tries to fucking pull.

So she holds him close, doesn’t even go for her sword, yet (and really, what use will a blade do against something with such ranged magic, anyway?), one hand gently running through Dogma’s hair as if he’s woken from a nightmare; continues the gesture even as she twists them both away from another blinding bolt with a disgusting aftertaste of flowers.

“…You focus,” Sasume whispers firmly, running her hand over his head once more before settling her grip on his shoulder. “Focus. You’re here, now, and that’s all that matters. You want to get rid of that disgusting bastardization of your mother? Then beat it. You want your second chance, here in Eidolon?”

“Earn it.”

You want your second chance, here in Eidolon?

How does he say no? His lips won’t move, won’t shape the word. He should act grateful, should hang his head and insist that of course he wants his second chance, of course he won’t waste it, but the fact is that any good servant of the Lord knows that the dead should stay dead. He’s been trying to ignore it, to pretend that his very existence isn’t a slight against God, but there’s something about seeing his mother here like an avenging angel, here to put the world to rights, that snaps him like a twig--

There are tears sliding silent down his cheeks, cool against his burning skin. “Isn’t she beautiful?” he asks, eventually, leaning into the touch of her hand on his hair, on his shoulder, firm and reassuring. “I was always so proud to call her my mother... Please be careful, Sasume. God will protect you,” and he nudges her hand off his shoulder, and he plants his heel in the dirt, and he takes off running.

If he’s going to die here, he’ll die alone. Maybe Sasume will get the hint--maybe his mother will forget she’s even here--this is his trial, after all. If the Fields turn their gaze on anyone, they will turn it on him.

“I buried you who were burnt up. Alone, I prayed to God. I made graves. Dogma... don’t you see? It’s time for you to rest, poor thing. Poor thing.”

Her voice rings through his head like nails on a chalkboard, and the steadily-building ache in his skull spikes--the priest stumbles, winds up on his hands and knees in the dirt, wrists aching from the fall. Come on, Dogma. Come on--he heaves himself back to his feet. The Burying One is close, close enough for him to see her laugh lines, little leaves caught in tangles in her hair--had she been gardening? Tending the flowers that grow on their graves?

She almost loses any concept of her hand being held at the shock that punches through her like a boot to the gut. Her mind reels and she isn’t sure why because she doesn’t know this woman she doesn’t and yet Sasume’s mind is screaming at her like nails on a chalkboard.

Brown hair, red eyes, both like Dogma’s but on her, not in a damned looking glass not a bit of ice suddenly anywhere in fucking sight, the woman’s voice alone grating on her ears as her own thoughts shriek with the reasoning for it: This is wrong.

And yet and yet and yet— wrong as it is, disgusting as the Fields’ use of Dogma’s own other, it isn’t fucking false. The woman is here, before them, and despite the sudden freedom of the area around them Sasume feels more trapped than she ever had in the maze.

“Dogma,” she finds herself rasping, fear grasping at her throat because he is doing nothing and she already can’t bear to see him do this, to have him need to, but—

The very air around him shudders.

“Dogma!” panic takes over and she yanks, gripping his opposite shoulder with her free hand and whirling to shield him with herself as the space near-invisibly crushes in on itself where he’d just stood. Her stomach churns just with the glimpse she sees. “Dammit, Dogma—”

Sasume pulls back and stares him down, gaze hastily flickering back and forth between Dogma and the woman—his mother—as she prays for him to get his head back on. She claps her hand against his cheek.

“FOCUS!”

His mother is hardly moving. Her arms shift to move the cross in great, imposing arcs when she makes to strike, and her skirt billows in the wind as it picks up, shrieking through all the sharp angles of the labyrinth, but her eyes never blink, and her feet do not move an inch from where she stands, red to her ankles. Behind her, buried in the corpse of the fallen tree, is a mirror.The clearing reeks of lilies, overpowering.

Dogma wants to cry. Dogma cannot let himself cry. Dogma has forgotten how to cry altogether.

“Return to your grave at once. It’s time to sleep, isn’t it?”

It takes Sasume striking him for his head to clear--he blinks, horrified, gasps something unintelligible--yanks Sasume back unceremoniously as there’s a flash and a spear of light strikes the ground nearby. It smells like ozone--like the inside of a crematorium--like lilies, stronger than anything else. There isn’t--he doesn’t have a spell like that, doesn’t know how to counter it, never saw her use it in the dream. What have the Fields done to her, he wonders, taking her for its own purpose, warping her with barbarous magics, it’s not right, it’s not right--

“W--We called her the Burying One, in the dream,” and all his words are coming out in a rush, “and she is weak to magic that draws on darkness but I--that was never my area of expertise, and they took away my magic when I came here--” He buries his face in Sasume’s chest, clinging to her like a child. “I can’t fight her, Sasume, not again, I’m supposed to be dead, she just wants to put me to rights--”

The fields are… unnerving as ever, even with Dogma at her side; he’d clearly remembered the feeling too well, despite how it hadn’t been his Trial or his memories the Fields had used or even him it’d targeted at all.

Really, without poor of an actor he is, him _waking _her himself had been a dead giveaway of his nerves. If it had been any other time, or anyone else (like Cú, in which case she’s sure Dogma might have a heart attack hearing about it), he’d settle for waiting and babble about how important it was to _not _intrude and the like.

But priest or no priest, even the soundest of faiths can’t protect him from threats, not really, and Sasume isn’t sure if she prefers him being aware of that fact. Ignorance is bliss, after all, and she’d rather not have him stressed or upset… if it were a possible or at least safe mindset at all, anyway.

“Mine _was _easier,” she can’t deny, loathe as she is to admit instead. It’d been a “Trial”, after all, and yet hers had felt more like a painfully nostalgic gift than anything. “Please, I’m perfectly ca—“

Then, Dogma all but jumps out of her skin and she feels her heart mimic the action. Sasume goes to reach for his hand and finds his already scrambling for the silent reassurance. She frowns, worried, and resists the urge to hide him close as if he’s younger than her or otherwise in _need _of her. Her brow furrows.

The wind blows through the ice, clamoring—

The labyrinth had finally decided to wake up, it seems; between the look on his face and how this is called a Trial, she isn’t sure just how good this is supposed to be. She squeezes his hand and carefully tugs him along, remembering as he’d done before and running her thumb across his hand in idle patterns.

—but it’s not gentle it’s low and angry and hating—

A shudder passes through her and she hopes it’s in time with an _actual _breeze, her stomach suddenly dropping like a stone as if she’s actually back home, running around as if she’s playing and not running for her life because they all want to kill her for what she did but what did she do what did she do—

“Well, come on,” Sasume says seamlessly, thankful for all her practice at that damned place. She looks around, casually as she can, but the lack of inexplicable angry townsfolk does nothing to quell her sudden nerves. _Damned Fields. _“Then that means we’re almost there, right?”

He can’t tell if the snow is picking up or if he’s trembling from something other than the chill. Not that he can feel the cold at all--he should, with how this most recent flurry is sticking to his his eyelashes and the soft, sparse hair on his jaw--it’s all warm, too warm, a horribly familiar heat.·“Hopefully you’re right, and God shows us a little of His mercy. The sooner we can get out of this place for good, the better.”

(...Yes, those children burned as easily as flower petals.)

Not for the first time, he finds himself thanking God that Sasume was willing to come with him. He’s sure he could have dealt with this on his own, but--what would be the outcome? Bent and broken with some little trinket from the dream to show for it? No--better not to wonder at all, better to look ahead, to the curve in the path, to the looking glass, to the journey home.

They round the corner, Dogma gripping Sasume’s hand nearly tight enough to bruise.

“Dogma... welcome back. Where did you get to? You weren’t in the grave, so I was worried...”

She looks the same as she did in the dream. The neat blue dress she loved to wear on Sundays in the summer, the broad golden cross clutched to her chest, red eyes as lifeless as his should be. There is the tree behind her, ancient and felled from a cruel gash right through its trunk, bleeding scarlet sap into the dirt, lifeless branches reaching for the sky.

It’s strange, really. He’s fought her twice before, weathered her blows and dealt her a few of his own--he knows that her face never shifts when he brands her with rosary, despite the pain--but this time he finds that he misses her. He’d called her a blasphemer, once, the ruin of Darcover town, but--but she’s his mother. He can’t find such stern words, this time. He can’t find anything at all.

Rational thought tells him to shift his gaze and squint through the illusion like he did last time, parse it as something false·and harmless, but he is stuck there--staring at her, lips moving soundlessly in something that might be a prayer and might be a eulogy--

It is snowing over the Fields of Theama; restless flurries that wax and wane with the shifting of the wind and manage to find their way into Dogma’s robes no matter how tight he pulls his little cloak around his shoulders. He’d gotten Sasume out of bed far earlier than he really had any right to, noting the dreamcatcher hanging by her head with resignation--at some point in the night before, sleepless despite his best efforts, he’d gotten it into his head that if they reached the Fields early enough they might catch it by surprise. For the first stretch of the labyrinth, it had actually seemed like he was right. Glass had stayed glass, and the priest hadn’t caught a single glimpse of anything better forgotten.

(Maybe, in hindsight, the way he lowered his guard after long minutes of peace was the reason for the worst of it. Maybe he should never have let himself breathe easy.)

He’d worn the letter thin through folding and unfolding, forced to leave it tucked under his pillow back at the bunkhouse, but he knows he doesn’t need it, every word memorised like scripture. Travel well, search well, believe well. He doesn’t know what he’s following, exactly, only that there’s a cord wound tight around his heart pulling him deeper in. The draw of the final looking glass, perhaps; somewhere different, some other spire--he doesn’t recognise any of these paths from Sasume’s trial.

“I don’t recall us venturing this deep last time,” he grumbles after a while, giving up all pretense of optimism and good cheer. “Honestly, had I known, I would have packed us both lunch...”

(Return to your graves.)

Dogma jumps, startled, steps closer to Sasume and grabs blindly at her hand. They’d started off with fingers intertwined--like before--but when the Fields showed no sign of hostility, he’d let her go, content to have her at arm’s length as they meandered through the glass. “Sasume--did you--?”

(You are already...)

The voice seeps out of the ground underfoot, mingles with the snowflakes and lays itself down on every patch of bare skin it can find, and everywhere the snow falls blooms red, fever-hot. His head is starting to ache. Deep breath, Dogma. In and back out, a sigh like he’s taking the weight of the world on his shoulders. “...Never mind. We should not let this trickery distract us. Surely we should be close. Around that corner, perhaps...”