⋆ ℭ𝔞𝔦𝔫 𝔖𝔦𝔩𝔞𝔰 ⋆

The smell of petrichor grows stronger the further the young disciple ventures into the forest. In his hand, he clutches the rosary gifted to him by the Abbot, mumbling prayers under his breath. His stomach is in knots as he focuses on his words and not his thoughts.

He was brought to the church by his father shortly after the boy had turned eighteen. He had caught the young man looking at the blacksmith’s son the same way he looked at the shoemaker’s daughter, with a deep longing, a desire. He told the young man that his inability to pick one was a sign of deviancy, that he is driven only by Lust and must repent. He swore himself to Chastity, and devoted himself to Mellines. He partook in their ceremonies, memorized the scripture, and attended every sermon.

It did not quell his thoughts. For nearly seven years in the church, he found himself still thinking of the blacksmith’s son and shoemaker’s daughter, then of his fellow monks, and sometimes the Abbot. He did not want to think of them this way, but he could not help himself. He told himself that desire and temptations were pure sin, but all that did was make him sicker and sicker whenever those thoughts arose. He could not simply ignore his feelings, but by the Virtues, he tried desperately.

Tensions within the church have grown as of late. The number of worshippers living in the dorms have been dwindling, most of them simply being there one day and then seemingly gone the next with hardly a trace left. For the visitors attending mass, it was easy to miss at first, but when one missing voice in the choir grew to nine, people began to notice. They began to worry. They began to gossip. When rumours about an infestation of spiders began circulating amongst the worshippers, that is when the Abbott stopped making threats about punishment and began following through on them, something the man hadn’t done in nearly a decade.

Aching feet and blurry eyes cause the young man to stumble over a root into flowering brambles. He throws his arms up and over his face to brace for the thorns. He crashes through, the rosary getting tangled in the mess of leaves and flowers, and keeps falling. He looks up to see there was no solid ground behind the bush, it was a ledge. He yells, but there is no one to hear him, much less catch him as he plummets to the ground below.

Sunlight peeks out from behind the clouds, but the foliage of the forest is too dense for light to adequately penetrate through it. The light casts a golden glow when it manages to slip through the gaps. Golden like the stained glass visages of Mellines herself during their daily sermons, depicting her in a garden of young disciples or fighting valiantly against beasts resembling arachnids. While the young man tells his church the garden scene is his favourite– how her dark skin and golden hair and shining halo reminds him of his mother’s beloved sunflowers, his eyes are always drawn to the beasts she has encountered in her war against sin. 

His senses return bit by bit. First it’s colour, then it is pain. It is a full body, bone deep pain, and a stinging in his hands. He reaches up to grasp at the golden light, and sees the blood beading along the scratches on his hands. Bright red, like tiny garnets. Scent is not at the forefront of his thoughts, so the dulled smell of petrichor has no bearing on him. As he lays on the forest floor, staring up at the cliffside he tumbled down, he fears he has gone deaf. There is not a single sound to be heard save for the dull ring in his ears. There is no wind to rustle the leaves, no insects to chirp or buzz, and there is no birdsong. There is a pulsing in his ears but he feels his heart beating more than he hears it. 

He does not know if he should move. He thinks he can, as he feels the pain all over his body, but does not know if it is safe for him to do so. He can not even bring himself to try and sit up, to try and look at his body and assess its condition, but he can feel blood running down his shin. He is in too much pain and fear to do so, but a deeper part of him knows it would not matter. He’s ventured deeper into the woods than he reasonably should have, he has fallen off a cliff and has hurt himself. No one knows he is here and he is in no state to help himself. 

It is the sound of his pained cries that tells him he has not gone deaf, but that does little to comfort him. 

He shuts his eyes and clutches his stinging hands together, as tight as possible. He prays.

“O Lady Chastity, f-for… for whom I d-dedicate my body and soul t-to eternally,” he chokes out between hiccups and gasps, “I beg of you to pl… please guide me as you have b-before, and grant me murh… mercy, like how I have granted it f… for others.”

He opens his eyes for a moment to see the little bit of sunlight has now been blocked out by the clouds. He shuts them tighter, and tries again, forcing himself to speak clearly, as much as it hurts.

“I have fought t-temptation,” he dictates, “for it is the path that leads to sin. I have saved my soul for the pure and true pleasure o-of your love and your mercy. I beg of you, save me from the pain and despair I am in. Please grant me, O Virtue of Chastity, the str… strength to save myself from my w-wounds and return to my brothers and sisters.”

He hears the wind but does not feel it on his face. The looming dread sinks into him, and his tears pour out from his tightly shut eyes. He presses his palms to them, and he weeps.

“Save me,” he cries in such a small voice, “anybody, save me…”

What are you willing to do to save yourself? a voice in his head asks.

“I-I’ll do anything,” he mumbles, “just please, please m-make the pain stop…”

He feels a sharp pain in his leg, where he felt the blood coming from. It’s quick, but it stings terribly. Then he feels it in his hands, the skin being pierced by something so small yet so painful. His head, his back, his chest, every part of his body suddenly erupts in these spots of horrible, burning, pinching pain. They sting, then they burn, then they freeze, and the young man shrieks in agony. He removes his hands from his eyes but his vision remains dark, with vague swirling patterns as though there is still a force pressing into them. The coldness turns to nothingness, all the sensation beneath the skin dulling. Before the numbness takes his body over, he feels them. He feels little legs, too many legs, skittering along his skin. He never felt them before, they’ve seemingly just appeared from thin air for the purpose of littering his body with bites. He wants to cry more at the barbarity of it all. To have begged for his Angel’s help and be fed upon by insects is the cruelest joke of all.

The sun is still behind the clouds.

The young man blinks. He is laying at the bottom of a cliff, staring up at the heavens through the thick foliage of the forest. His pain is gone. All of it.

Cautiously, he pushes himself up into a sitting position. He can still feel his robe sticking to his leg where the blood soaked into the fabric, but it is growing colder and tackier already. He looks at his hands, and the only signs of his scratches are the drops of blood that formed along them. He is able to hike his leg up, more than enough to pull the fabric up and see there is no broken skin. There is only a bloodstain where he felt it. There is no aching, no gashes or broken skin, not even superficial scratches and bruises. There are no signs of bugs or bites. The pain is gone, but the looming dread and memory of a million little legs has remained.

The creaking of old woods and rustle of bushes makes the man’s head spin around. Immediately he is dizzy, clutching his head as it throbs. Tears well up in his eyes, but he doesn’t know why, just that there are spots of colour in his vision. He feels nauseous and his body feels heavy. Something is wrong, deeply wrong. He finds himself extremely aware of the way his clothes rub against his skin, how his tongue sits in his mouth, and how his saliva tastes. His beating heart sounds so painfully loud in his ears, and the spotting in his vision gets worse, the colours nothing like he has ever seen. 

It only lasts a few seconds, but the memory lingers. He swallows, and tries to rub the lingering discolouration away. It is like he was looking into the sun, even though he was looking into darkness. 

Slowly, he lifts his head back up, and turns to look again. His eyes hurt for a moment, but the pain dissipates quickly. His eyes narrow into a squint as they readjust to the darkness of the forest in front of him. He blinks, and his eyes open wide when his mind perceives a pale mask shrouded in the darkness, on a body taller than any man or woman he has ever beheld. 

“Do you ache?”

The voice is beyond adequate description. It sounds neither male or female, yet it sounds like both, but also sounds like one or the other. It is not multiple voices, but one. It does not fluctuate in its pitch or its tone, and it speaks clearly, but it cannot be placed beyond the fact it is coming from the strange figure.

The young man does not answer. He stares, frozen in place.

“Do you feel pain?” the figure asks.

The young man hesitantly shakes his head.

The young man can see movement as it seemingly claps its hands together. “Delightful. That was quite the fall you had, I was worried you would pass on before we would have had the chance to speak.”

“... You saw?” the young man asks.

“I did,” the figure replies, “and though I wished to help you, I could not.”

The young man swallows. “Why… why could you not?”

“Why, you did not grant me the permission to do so,” the figure says, tilting its head, “you were asking for Mellines to save you first. I could not step in without an invitation, or an offering.”

An invitation… an offering…

The young man feels sick to his stomach as the dawning horror of who, or rather what his saviour actually is sinks in. It approaches, its body not moving in any way that is natural to man, until the form becomes more visible and he can see spindly appendages and a rounded body. He realizes it does not wear a mask when the features become more distinct. Hollow spots are revealed to be dark eyes, and the markings around where the mouth would be are revealed to be large, dark fangs. Black curls frame its face. There are strange markings on the chest, and the young man recognizes the odd shade of purplish pink as one of those unfamiliar colours in his vision moments ago. 

The larger part of its body remains obscured by the foliage, but the top part, the humanoid part, is able to lean forward and get close to the young man, hovering above him. Up close, he can see it’s smiling down at him.

It raises a black clawed hand, beckoning the young man to come a little closer. “Let me get a good look at you.”

He leans forward, just a little bit, and it gently lifts his chin up. It hums, still smiling down. He gulps, but is unable to look away from its face. He knows who this is. He’s stared at the beast’s form in the stained glass many times before.

“Such a handsome thing,” it remarks, “your brothers and sisters were right.”

It traces the young man’s face with the tip of its claw.

“A jaw that is not too sharp, but not too soft.”

It traces along the hairline.

“Soft curls, the colour of a night’s sky.”

Around the socket.

“Dark eyes you can get lost in.”

The cheek bone.

“A mole beneath each eye, a rare form of symmetry.”

The lips. “Soft things, these are.”

A gentle tap on the nose.

“And a cute pointed nose.”

The young man feels himself blushing, and then feels shame for being flattered by the demon’s words. It just makes it laugh as it carefully cups his face in both hands.

“Tell me your name,” it says.

“N-No, I can’t…”

“You said you would do anything for someone to save you,” it reminds him, “and I do not take kindly to insolence.”

“...... Ambrose.”

“A name just as beautiful as the one who holds it,” the demon coos.

“W-What more do you want from me?” Ambrose asks. “Do you ache?”

“I already said–”

“Oh you know very well I am not asking about pain, Ambrose.”

Ambrose’s face flushes, and he wrenches himself away from the demon. “How dare you imply such a thing!” he yells. “I have dedicated my life to serving under Mellines, Virtue of Chastity, and sworn myself to a life of celibacy. You dare question my faith and tempt me?” It laughs heartily. “Do you think you can lie to Lust itself about hidden desires?” it inquires mockingly. “Your brothers and sisters who grew tired of your faith’s restrictions came to me, for they knew I would not question or judge the way your beloved Angel would.” It steps slightly closer so it can stare down at Ambrose. “Your life may have been promised to Mellines, but you cannot lie to me and say you chose her guidance for yourself. They have told me stories, but I can see the shame eating away at your heart and soul, and it tells me more than mere words ever could.”

Ambrose looks away. “That does not matter,” he says. “Had my father not intervened–”

“You would have committed the sin of loving all those around you,” it tells Ambrose. “Is that really a sin? To be able to love someone regardless of their form?”

Ambrose stammers. “W-Well, you would certainly believe that, wouldn’t you?”

It cackles. “Oh dearest Ambrose, I do not feel shame for indulging in the pleasures of flesh,” it tells him, “nor do I hide such a thing, so trust me or not, consider it when I tell you that being drawn to men in the same way you are drawn to women means nothing. It is certainly not something a young man should be forced into celibacy over.”

“But I am– was greedy, m-my eyes would wander, and it has only gotten worse–”

“You mortals cannot help but be fascinated by concepts of the forbidden,” it says, “and though you agonize over such things, you also cannot help yourselves from creating new rules, new restrictions, just so you can continue to agonize over temptations you yourselves created.” It leans forward to brush hair away from Ambrose’s face. “That is why you are aching, dearest Ambrose. You ache because you are starving yourself of something you cannot help but need.”

“It is wrong,” Ambrose insists, though his conviction is wavering. “It is wrong to want any of it. I-It does not matter if it is man or woman I like, for all desire is sinful.”

Ambrose watches the Spider as it fully comes into the light, the movements disgustingly natural for an arachnid and unsettling for a man. It reaches for him, and he initially flinches away from its claws, but allows it to take hold of his jaw once more. It first guides him to look up, then sit up more, then finally stand. It still towers above him, but it is less intimidating from this angle. 

“And you enjoy this life?” it asks.

Ambrose looks away. “I have already sworn myself to Lady Chastity–”

“Mellines can always get new followers,” the Spider tells Ambrose, turning his head so he can look at it, “followers who actually are willing to live a life of celibacy. You may have chosen to stay with her church, but are you doing her any service when you lament having to abide by her rules?”

“I…”

“Not to mention you and I have already made a deal, something your church will not be pleased to learn.”

“N-Not on purpose!” Ambrose argues. “I did not ask for your help!”

“Do the specifics matter when at the end of the day, when Mellines did not answer your prayers, you were willing to let any other power help you instead?” The Spider’s hold on Ambrose’s jaw grows firm, its head tilting inquisitively. “And to you, should you force yourself to worship an Angel who would not answer your prayers, or ease you of your doubts? Does that seem fair to you? Does that seem fair to her?”

Ambrose knows the answer, but cannot bring himself to say it. Instead of answering the Spider’s question, he asks it one instead.

“What would you even want with me?” he asks, a silly thing to ask the embodiment of Lust itself. 

The Spider’s smile stretches in a way a mortal’s cannot, wide and full of teeth. Ambrose feels a shudder run up his spine as the Spider looks him over once more with an unashamed hunger.

“All of you.”

Ambrose swallows. “All… all of me?”

“You are untouched,” the Spider tells him, “a virgin soul who yearns for but has never known the delights of men or women. Your body’s purity shines brightly through you, and I want it.”

Ambrose’s face turns bright red. “Y-You want to…”

“I want to claim your purity,” the Spider purrs, “and in exchange, you will be my apostle.”

Apostle. “Y-You can do something like that?”

“I can,” the Spider says, “for Mellines is not the only one who values the purity of a soul.” Its eyes shine as it cradles Ambrose’s face. “Mellines will reward you when death takes you, and will only reward you in life if she thinks you are truly exceptional. I know you are exceptional, and I will reward your devotion for eternity, so long as you give yourself to me and me alone.”

Ambrose feels his mouth water, and his body growing warmer. Uncertainty and a deeply repressed aching need muddy his thoughts. 

“There’s a catch,” Ambrose manages to spit out, “I-I may have made a deal with you already, but I will not do so again, not without knowing what is in store for me.”

The Spider lets Ambrose go and steps back to the edge of the treeline. It stretches its legs out, flattening itself on the ground as much as it can. The humanoid top part, perched where the eyes should be, lowers itself until the chest touches the ground. Clawed hands dig into the dirt, and they pull.

The wet cracking of its skin splitting echoes through the silent forest. Ambrose is hit with a pungent smell– something overly sweet that straddles the line between fermented and rotted, something heavy, musky and metallic, a smell so thick he can taste it. The Spider’s top part drags itself along the ground, but the larger body stays still. Ambrose watches, horrified, as the humanoid part begins to stretch out. The joints of the legs pulse unnatural pink as it stretches further and further from the body. As it continues to drag itself along the ground, Ambrose realizes the Spider is not stretching out, but pulling itself free from the larger arachnid body. The glow disappears, and a dark blue slime that stinks of blood and rotting fruit oozes from the now gaping hole in the top of its body, leading to a pair of blue stained legs attached to the humanoid torso of the Spider.

The Spider, no longer attached to its spider body, pushes itself up onto its hands and knees. With its head down, Ambrose can hear the clicking, chittering sound of its mandible fangs clacking and rubbing together. Its head still bowed, it pushes itself up into a kneeling position, and grasps its fangs in both hands. With a hard tug and a sickening crunch, the fangs are pulled free and tossed aside.

Its movements are unnaturally fluid as it goes from kneeling to standing. Ambrose reflexively recoils at the sight, shutting his eyes and covering his face with his arms. He hears no footsteps approach, yet he can feel it take hold of his arms and pry them away from his face.

It’s a man now. A tall man with pallid skin, no longer covered in viscera from the waist down. There is not a single blemish or imperfection on its skin, though its eyes are still dark and its teeth are still a little too pointed. It is also completely in the nude, and its anatomy is… generous, for lack of better phrasing.

“When you give yourself to me, you will belong to me entirely,” the Spider says, and though its voice has not changed, it sounds more masculine. It lets Ambrose go and steps back to better show off its new form. It is smiling at Ambrose as it speaks. “However, I will take whatever form you desire most and do as you wish. You can have me as this…”

Ambrose watches the Spider’s body reshape itself, fat redistributing itself and the skin stretching or shrinking to accommodate the new form. What once appeared as a man is now a woman, the figure donning the curves and fat only seen in well fed noblewomen, yet there are no stretchmarks on the skin. Its face is rounder, softer, with plump, red lips.

“Or you can have me as this,” it says, its voice now sounding feminine.

Ambrose’s eyes glance downwards to see if the previous form’s anatomy remains, but shame forces him to cover his eyes, as staring at a woman in the nude is sin. It laughs at his embarrassment, silently stepping forward to cup his face in softened hands.

“You can also pick and choose which parts you like best,” the Spider coos, “you may even have me in my true form if that is what you desire most.” It leans in to kiss his forehead. Its lips are soft and warm, and Ambrose’s tensed shoulders relax. “You are free to do as you wish with me, whether you wish to take me or be taken. Anything you want, for all time, so long as you swear yourself to me and me alone. No one but myself may touch you. That is the catch.”

Ambrose knows what he should do. He knows this is wrong. He knows the correct thing to do is to deny this Demon’s offer and resist the impure thoughts that are infecting his mind like a plague. The church will punish him for his first deal with Lust, but will forgive him and commend his honesty and his strength of will for coming face to face with a Sin and escaping with his life. Mellines will celebrate him, thankful she has not lost another follower to such a disgusting creature.

Ambrose also knows what he should do and what he will do are not the same.

“I’m scared to accept,” he admits, “I have never done something like this.”

The Spider tilts his head up. Its face is close, lips mere inches from Ambrose’s, but he does not feel its breath on his skin. It smiles sweetly, but stares with a primordial hunger that Ambrose cannot help but feel drawn to.

“Do not worry, my darling,” the Spider whispers in a voice Ambrose can only hear in his head, “you will forget fear soon enough.”

When curfew sets in, the Abbott will notice he is down another follower again. Young Ambrose, a troubled young man, will be missing from the church grounds. The Abbott will search the grounds until his eyes struggle to stay open, to which he will return to his living quarters. Come the morning, a letter will be sent to Ambrose’s father, and the rumours of the spider infestation will grow louder.