God must not leave us, they must echo in themselves….Since when were humans like this? It tastes like sin, that or the tongue-stain. Change. They had changed into something different. But even that could be undone: Simple words it would take: 'I am not a god. I am a caster." That and the myth shatters.
That and their minds break into desperation.
That and chaos take the mines.
What then would it look like, this new world? Chaotic for sure, but…the mind would rein. They would not see him as savior—a chill rests in him with the words…But they would survive, change again.
Merrin openly sighs. "Who did this?"
They shudder…Ah…this was planned, he realizes. The woman was hectored to this, maybe. He doesn't know, wishes not to.
"You think I will eat the flesh?" He infuses the pain in his tone; they must hear the sorrow in their god. "You would sacrifice the life of another to feed?"
All eyes depressed—downward. Shame. Shame. That is all they know. That is all they should know.
"You would give your bodies to me?" Merrin frowns. "Why not eat yours? Feed yourself with yourself. Why not take your own lives?"
"For god…" One whines, and Merrin burns a glare into him. This causes the poor creature to lower.
"For god?" He repeats. "For god, you give your flesh?" He tears his shirts, charred skin revealing itself. Like black armor, he is covered in brittle blacks—a vest of darkness, some spewing yellowish pus from many sores. He is a marred thing, and they see it now.
One recoils, covers his mouth. "sunBringer?" He says it as a question. They all share that horror as one. A break in a perceived reality. God is harmed, they guessed, but not this. God should never bear such burdens.
One screams: "Give me your pain!"
"So you make me obsolete?"
He staggers.
"So you will take away my wish from me, to impose yours?"
They know nowhere to look. It is as though god is omniscient.
"You will take my own as you have lost yours?" Merrin steps forward, letting them see him bleed. "Humans, all of you. Where is it? Before me, you weren't this small. A facile creature. What have you done to yourself?" His tone accuses them—and they shrill to it.
"Men. Men. Men." He says aloud, "God helps does who help themselves."
And they freeze.
"You drown me with your petty worries. You make me bear the weight of your mundane attributes. Food? Water. Mind. Things you should gather by yourselves. God is the potential, you are the motile force. What happens then when you do not act your role?"
Merrin splits his skin with stone, blood spewing, pus dripping. He is stained from the belly down; red in yellow. And what horror they see in it. Together, as one, they gasp. One falls to his knees, head slapped into the earth. Another grabs his throat, screaming.
God is bleeding.
The woman to the side slides her hands over his stomach, kneels, weeping. Blood trickling down fingers, leaking over her face. She mouths words in tears.
"This is the harm you give to me!" His voice strikes into the chamber, drowning their trepidation. "You make this of me. You become children instead of men. You seek no paths for yourself…." The pain is like fire. "I am the path, but I am endless. All will inevitably lead to me. Move first. Fight first and leave the rest."
They scream like children.
"God has not forsaken you." He says, "But god stands now as mortal. That he does, to enjoy his creations. But they must first prove themselves…or." He raised the bloodied stone, stray blood splattering atop the woman's head. She is silent, whimpering, but hushed.
"Or god will leave them!"
They wail, tearing clothes in mad, fernetic passion. It is strange, seeing this. This change in a person. From man to beast. Merrin notes the standing Ron—to the side, he is silent, observing. A strange venator. Could or could not.
Then there is Catelyn, beside him, she frowns, eyes blue with that piercing quality. She is angry—as always, she alone sees what he does. The game he plays with their minds. He has made soldiers now. From slaves to soldiers. From wood to spears….
Ah, nothing can change it now. Merrin sees the men move strangely, some screaming, howling. They are less men now. Creatures of true passion. He has become the cue; a damn mental force that would make them strong. What future would that strength create?
He imagines Excubiotors violent, buried by the hurling bodies of men. They would do that, these ones he has created. They would willingly die for him. For god to bleed is now a sin to them…But it gives them strength, Merrin replays the notion, sinking the rejective thoughts.
I have done something good. He tells himself…I will protect them as I have always done. But now they are strong too. He staggers back, head heavy, world blurring. Mist!
The woman below wraps him, arms behind, pressing her face against the wound, blocking the blood. She wails and repeats. "Praise be to the sunBringer. Praise be to the sunBringer!"
She, too, is a fanatic, more so, as he feels it in her. She would kill herself if he died…May I never be forgiven for this, he thinks, closes his eyes, and falls into mentation. This had been accomplished—the howls still echo, but now calls for a future plan. To save his people, the other witnesses, the untouched ones, he must lead these ones to safety.
I must do this for them…Merrin thinks, fears what these ones will drip into the wells of the others. Unlike these, the others are a different breed. They know him—have seen his 'miracles'. To them, he is savior with proof. What happens when this mythology stokes the other…
Something would rise from it.
Something different. Something never before seen since the days of the conquest of the song. When men fought for god. Merrin clenches, light-headed, but fueled by desire.
It doesn't matter. Let them live first. He thinks, then I will worry about it.
He opens his eyes and beholds a figure standing beside the woman. She is utterly bathed in blood, his blood, and she trembles. Excitement in her motions. But the other is a child. A young boy with red odium hair, eyes a queer crystal shade, calming to see. He wears a blankness, tilts and says, "You really haven't learnt anything about symbols, have you?" He laughs. "You neglect learning your power, and now it is partly taken from you."
Merrin tries to wonder, but his knees buckled. He falls, leveling over the stunned lady. She thinks something else, he knows, his mind betrays the collection. Breath escapes fast, a wave of vertigo washing over, blurring the edges of vision. His muscles, once taut, feel like water, heavy, unresponsive. Breath becomes shallow, and chilled sweat breaks over his flesh.
He is startled—more so as limbs trembled, movement became a task. All solid. World tilting. He tries to speak, strength is siphoned. It is gone. What was happening?
Then he hears a word, a soft contralto: "YES!" It screams. "YES! POWER FOR KNOWLEDGE. POWER FOR KNOWLEDGE. ALL KNOWLEDGE. EVEN THE ORAL HISTORY!"
-----
And Ivory feels the flooding of something alien—a duo sensation. It collides with each other—one calming, like sweet, gentle air, the other is mad, fervent, like true force. She is torn between them, knows her mind heightened beyond normal. She thinks now, ah, she thinks millions in seconds. What power.
It also nulls the emotions. Strange. Odd that even thinking about Kabel seems an insipid endeavor. Horrid. So she stokes the memory; him, always there, smiling, mocking, genuine. The step draws, and she opens her eyes and sees the world in a strange greyness.
It is bizarre, as in none of her archived memories was such a record known. Casters did not see the world in grey. None did. Not that it mattered. Ivory presses against the earth, white screening over the floor. It is a brilliance like Ivory. She wonders why she is radiant; Casters weren't radiant. But it matters not.
Now, she is standing, faced with a man, face wrapped, body the same, but eyes exposed. He is a thing of complete blackness, even the skin around the eye was soot-smudged. A pathetic attempt at a mask.
He won't live to believe his identity is unknown. She will nake him, and he will know his secrets are gone. Oddly, he does nothing but stare. He steps back, kneels, and screams: "Velira!"
Fermen superstition
He makes her recall Kabel. Bad. There is, of course, no rage, but the memory is there. And it calls for sure retribution. This she gives with the foreign power—it came with something. Something that lived long within her. Wonder calls curiosity, and she reaches in, pulling out that familiar unknown. It is a moment, and a chalk appears in her hands.