The Song of Roland Ch. 21

Traditional death rites for Sphanor's chosen involved casting them off a high cliff, into a deep chasm, or fissure. But there was no time, there was too much to do, and her remains had to be laid to rest. It was a final indignity to one who had risked much to save her fellow men from the Demon horde. Almyra's honest display was enough for Roland himself to whisper a quiet prayer, low enough that none could hear. Gosvin guide you. He mouthed. Kelsea's eyes turned to look at him. Sphanor lead you to whatever afterlife belongs to you. He said nothing to her as he walked away.

The villagers took to clearing the Inner Cloister, repairing what damage they could and burning the hated Imps in great pyres that eerily resembled the destruction caused by their attack. Roland had stood, staring into the flames as the fire consumed the unnamed Succubus's form. I'm waiting for you. Said a voice upon the wind. He did not know if it was Callie, Kelsea, or the dead Succubus herself who uttered it. Lifting and lowering the dagger at his belt, he mused that such distinctions were ultimately irrelevant. He was ensnared regardless: strung to the mast of a ship, whose fortune and fate were tied to the stormy whims of his capricious captors.

It was hard to see Kelsea at work, moving amongst the villagers. She had become something of a celebrity in the aftermath of the battle, donning the Cult's robed attire and helping Almyra with the severely wounded and mentally scarred. Having living proof of their Fiery God's mercy had made all of them just a little more at ease - if no less fanatical. Many now came up to her, asking for quiet blessings from an inhuman creature.

Roland's instincts told him that she was ingratiating herself to the populace, weaseling her way into the good graces of her unsuspecting prey. It was commonplace for a concealed Demon to have almost supernatural charisma in the presence of others. If they spent a long enough time in any given community, they could quite literally overturn the established structure of society. Roland had heard stories of entire city-sections rising in revolt to defend the life of a single, beloved citizen who had attracted a bit too much attention from the local inquisition.

But... he couldn't stop her. Rather: he wouldn't stop her. Roland now knew at he had truly crossed the threshold. Her word was law; his will was not his own. The day after the battle, he had caught her alone in a quiet moment as she tended to the wounded. "Our task is finished." He'd said to her, staring at the outline of her body through her robes as she cleaned a stab wound from a young guardswoman that had become infected. Her sleeves were rolled up, exposing her slender forearms. "We have protected the villagers, as Bogdan asked us to. We should leave, before it gets worse." He did not specify to her what was getting worse.

Kelsea stopped what she was doing and looked up at him, her eyes flashing with a fierce protectiveness as she shook her head back and forth. "No." She said.

And that was that. Roland did not bring up the idea again.

Resolving to make the most out of a situation he had lost all control of, the mercenary took to joining the patrols of men sojourning out into the ruined Outer Cloister in an effort to clear the area. The company of guards that had defended the villagers had been severely depleted by the Imp attack. Between the dead and wounded they had lost nearly half of their original number. Adding on the need to have at least a skeleton force defending the inner walls from further attack, and the Guards could barely muster more than five men at a time to clear the entire town. Roland, the only man with any real experience hunting Demons, volunteered to lead them.

Picking his way through the half-frozen wasteland, Roland marched through the burnt section of the town where he had had his first fight with the Succubus. The well before which she had committed her awful sacrilege now stood, forlorn amongst heaps of piled Imps. While the Inner Cloister had been mostly cleared, the Outer Cloister remained littered with the rotting corpses. The young boy with the spear to Roland's right gagged at the sight, and even the middle-aged woman to his left turned noticeably green when she stared at a particular spot of ground that had been stained with syrupy white corruption.

"Eyes on the perimeter." Roland growled, recalling his time as a leader of men, well over a decade ago now. "The little bastards like to hide in the aftermath o' fights. Keep to the edges, watch where ya step. Weapon at the ready."

"On your order, brother." The woman guard murmured. Roland's mouth twisted in distaste.

"Yer brother's not here. I am. Now pipe down and check. Keep a special close eye on the ones without arrows stickin' out of 'em." He stepped gingerly over a pile, diving his sword deep into the flesh pit. There was no response. Kicking aside a few off the top, Roland rooted around the gore, his eyes sweeping the assembled pile of dead filth in search of movement, of inhuman twitches or lustful gazes. He found neither in the first pile, moving deeper into the courtyard.

It was slow, disgusting work. More than a few guards had begged off the task, and soon only a few, dedicated regulars dared to venture out in search of Demonic squatters. They had passed several days like this, and even still they were less than a third of the way through the circuit of the Outer Cloister. At the rate it was going it would be weeks before it was even cleared away, much less habitable.

The Cloister's tiny farms on the west side of town had been all but annihilated in the explosive combat. Most of the planted crops had gone up in ash alongside the hovels, and what little remained would not be enough to feed the townsfolk for long. Almyra claimed that they had some stores that would last them for a time, but Gods only knew what that meant. The Cultists were still slow to trust, and Roland lived off of the generosity of their nightly handouts.

They'd found some dead cultists in the search, some more who had been abused by the invaders, and even a few that had managed to hide in their homes: in tall attics or cellars covered by thick carpeting. But most of those unfortunate souls who had been trapped outside the gates that terrible night were gone. Roland had seen enough of the tracks to make out where they'd been taken: out of the Cloister, away into the forest's depths, towards an unenviable fate best not considered in these grim days.

Amidst the search there was a screech, followed by a frightened cry. The young man in his company stumbled, his heel tripping backwards as he leapt away from the little thing that staggered to its feet from beneath a pile of its dead comrades. Moving quickly, the older woman dove forward, thrusting her spear into its face before it had time to recover. It trembled and fell, its last chance at treachery stymied by her quick thinking. Roland gave her a stiff nod and carried on.

The day trickled by. Sunlight gave to sunset, sunset retreated to a failing dusk. The torchlight of the inner walls welcomed them back to the embrace of the huddled community. A keening bell rang, and the villagers gathered together in packed groups as they streamed towards something familiar, something comforting. Many habitually moved to enter the Church of Gosvin, but found the doors barred. Almyra remained with the wounded, working her way through those whose injuries could not be healed quickly before moving on to those whose suffering was not life-threatening.

Cut off from their usual source of spiritual absolution, the cultists split into rough groups, making for one of the still-occupied churches led by the other priests. Most moved to the shelter of Maghas' church, an unassuming, flat construction carved into the earth itself. The only thing visible from the outside was a set of stone pillars holding the ceiling up, and a set of earthen stairs leading downwards towards a solid, granite door. They descended like the walking dead into a tomb, stepping onto the aged and worn steps as they entered Dorthanc's deep domain.

A few others braved the open-air pit of Varric's domain: a well-trod chanting circle around which was piled a great ring of mats upon which the parishioners could observe his curious, bestial ceremonies. The square perimeter of this most chaotic of Goddesses, Excellia, was surrounded by spokes of animal bones lashed together with thick, uncured leather and hides. His ceremonies were more mundane, repetitive actions and chants meant to ward off evil spirits and summon positive ones to chosen fetishes he assembled daily in the pit. Often some blood was spilled, sacrifices and offerings to a god whose holiest communion was the hunt, the chase, the struggle.

None of the villagers - desperate as they were for some sort of spiritual comfort - dared to enter that most grim of God's houses: the gothic grey edifice of the lord of death, Horax. Its twin spires were topped with carved gargoyles, and its gaping maw of an entrance led into a hollowed, barren chamber devoid of seating or even a raised dais. The back of the church was empty, open to the Outer Cloister and led directly into the graveyard. Bogdan preached with his back to the chamber, facing his true adherents over the graves. He stood atop his makeshift stand: the very coffin in which he slept and would, one day, occupy eternally. Heedless of the lack of listeners, he entered into an animated sermon, gesturing wildly with wide, sweeping arms as his grey, stringy hair streamed down his face like floating strands of cobwebs.

Moving through the crowd, Roland received more than his fair share of greetings, blessings, and reserved nods of acknowledgement from the passing townsfolk. "May the Spider's Gaze fall upon you" had become so commonplace a saying that he had to make a conscious effort not to repeat it back to them when they blurted it out. These people and their strange ways filled him with unease; Roland felt as if he were a lone silver perch, swimming amidst a cycloning school of rainbow trout: tolerated, accepted, perhaps even welcomed. But always wary, always watched.

Shaking the unsettling thought from his mind, Roland marched to where he knew Kelsea and Almyra were: huddled amongst the masses of wounded as a score of other men and women attended to them. The crush of hurt and maimed had thinned out considerably from the initial glut that had accompanied the battle's conclusion. Most of the worst off had passed, and many of the severely wounded had either been treated or left to convalesce in the aftermath of her limited supply of priestly power. There was just too much of Gosvin's blessing to spread around for her to heal them properly. The Fire Priestess had even managed to steal a few hours' sleep here and there.

Kelsea had become her on-hand nurse, helping with the wounded long into the night, spending superhuman lengths of time tending to those they could. The whispers and rumors that swirled around her - already at a fever pitch due to Almyra's declaration of a miracle - grew louder still. She was becoming a literal image of mercy to these people. Roland wanted to laugh. If only they knew. He thought as he approached Kelsea and Almyra, sitting together.

"Roland!" Kelsea said, standing to her feet and rushing over to him. Her arms went about his neck and she pulled tight against him. He could feel her warmth through her robes, and felt a stirring within his person. Gods, it had been days since he'd last laid with her; the tension of not getting his allotted fix had left him near-insatiate with need. Kelsea, somehow, managed to keep up appearances, and merely left him with an unsatisfying kiss on the cheek. The crook of her eyebrow and the smile she gave him told him how much she wanted to indulge his fancy. "You're back!" She said. Her smile was genuine, her blue eyes shining with tired joy. Her arms were scuffed and her hands were caked with something red. She'd been working for hours.

"Aye." Roland said. He wanted to step away, to pull back and allow himself a clear breath from her stifling presence. Despite himself, he reached down and pulled her closer to him. The secret Succubus' fingers curled and ran down his chest. They shared a long, awkward stare. Neither seemed willing to remove themselves from the other's presence. It was only when Almyra spoke that the two finally, reluctantly separated.

"How fares the Outer Cloister?" She said, her voice clearly voicing the displeasure she refused to enunciate aloud. The Priestess' eyes flicked from Roland to Kelsea and back again.

"As well as can be expected." Roland sighed. His hand remained at Kelsea's hip, feeling her idly through the fabric. "It's slow going. Lots of places to clear. We found a half dozen of the creeps hidin' amongst the piles today. Meryl almost took a claw to the gut from one, but we killed it quick enough."

"The Spawn of Huzra are as perfidious as they are vicious." Almyra said, her eyes turning directly to stare at Kelsea. "My... my apologies for my wayward tongue. I did not mean to cause offense, I am still getting used to addressing you properly."

But Kelsea did not seem fazed. "It's nothing, Almy." Her voice was soothing, reassuring. The Priestess allowed a small sigh of relief to escape her lips. "I have heard far worse than that before," The Succubus turned and shot a sly glance to Roland. "-Sometimes even from this lug!" Kelsea laughed. Almyra let a clumsy smile creep to her face. Roland looked from one to the other, his gaze hardening.

Too soon. He thought. It's too soon. You took weeks on me, maybe more than a month. She was getting better at it: the honeyed geniality, that easy ingratiation. Roland said nothing as Kelsea turned her eager eyes and pulled him towards the enthralled Priestess. "Sit down, Roland!" She said, her voice bright and excited. She was like a lion having just spotted its prey: arisen, filled with the energy of action. "Almyra said it's time."

Roland's hackles rose. "Time for what?" She couldn't possibly mean to... in front of all of these-

Almyra bent down, settling on her knees in front of him. Kelsea tugged at his shirt and he jerked in place. Her hands across his bare skin made him shiver, reminding him of everything he was missing from her. How had she become so brazen? It was only when Almyra reached out and grasped his still-healing shoulder that understanding settled in like a relieving splash of frigid water. "Ah." He said, to no one in particular. Almyra let out a small hum as she examined his wounds.

"It isn't too serious. You've broken a small bone in your shoulder, and the claw marks the Imps left you with are already starting to heal." She began to channel some of her power into him, her short chant wishing the warmth of healing upon his person as it began to pump power directly into him. He felt a wave of numb warmth permeate through his body. "Once the bone is mended, we can-"

Roland screamed. The world went an awful, explosive white as his vision disappeared. He couldn't stand it: it was pure suffering disseminated through his whole body. The unexpected onslaught was the collected accumulation of every type of pain he could possibly imagine, and some that he had never felt before. Liquid fire permeated his veins and flooded his capillaries, stabbing needles jabbed his thigh and scraped him down to the bone. His temples hammered so hard against his skull it felt like his head would split apart.

But the worst by far was the gaping, sucking emptiness that filled his stomach. Suddenly he was out of breath, his lungs unable to pull in enough air to maintain his person. His hand reached down to grasp his stomach, a tide of blood pouring through his fingers as he tried in vain to find some vein of air to breathe. His throat closed as he toppled to the ground. He was soaking wet, warm and slick with something that filled him with uncomprehending dread.

"Roland!" Shouted a voice as lovely as springtime. "What have you done to him?"

"I- I didn't do anything!" Said another, wiser voice. "Roland! Can you hear me?" It was all so far away, as if he had fallen down a well. It was dark where he was. Deep, and filled with voiceless anguish. "Why did the spell reopen his-"

"Wha-" He tried to say. His tongue was fat and dry upon his lips. The last of the lingering air escaped his throat as that emptiness in his gut spread. It was worse than when the Hautviech had planted it's awful toe into his insides. In fact, Roland realized that it was in the exact same place as the wound had once been. He tried to lift himself up off the ground, but his strength failed him; he began to suck in airless breaths, his body heaving in place as someone laid him flat upon his back.

"Gosvin save this wretched sinner." Almyra gasped, staring in astonishment. "It's like he had a dozen wounds open all at once." Regaining her senses, she bent over Roland, gently probing the sites of his sudden impairment. He seemed to be bleeding everywhere.

"What's happening to him?" Kelsea said, kneeling next to Almyra. Seeing her there, her face written with concern, only seemed to deepen Roland's misery. He was beginning to suspect the truth. Even as his breath failed him he reached a weak hand up and brushed the right side of his cheek, where the banshee had cut him, months ago. The back of his hand came back red, stained with blood. His cheek throbbed. "Do something!" Kelsea cried.

"...These wounds are not fresh." Almyra murmured, her own eyes flicking to Roland as the two traded a moment of unspoken understanding. "Several of them are quite old, I can see infection in the cuts." She shook her head, "This is not something that Gosvin's might can mend."

Frantic, Kelsea pushed her companion aside, bending down and lapping against the wounds. Almyra was horrified. "Kelsea, No! What do you think you're doing?"

The Succubus ignored her, continuing to lick and slurp across the injury. A much different feeling entered Roland's body, and there was a tingling in his nerves. Slowly, painfully, the wounds began to mend themselves. She focused on the hole in his stomach first, licking it away. Roland gasped in a short breath, then a deeper one. Eventually, he regained the ability to breathe. Moving from wound to wound, Kelsea fixed what had been re-broken. Soon enough she ran out of what little fluid she'd gotten from Roland, and he was left just a bit worse for wear than he'd been before. Groaning, he laid back, catching his breath as he tried to process what had just happened.

Almyra glanced over at the anxious Succubus. "-You said your party was attacked by that beast upon the High Road." Her hand trailed along the now-featureless place on Roland's stomach where there had once been a gaping chasm. "'...Some of you were hurt.' That's what you told Bogdan. But only you showed up at the gate, claiming injury."

"That-" Kelsea's eyes widened, "But I fixed it! He was going to die, and I-"

"You've been filling him with your essence, saturating him in Demonic corruption." Almyra corrected her. "Every time you've done this, you stole a bit more of his humanity away from him. That is why he follows you: you've been nourishing him on your power, addicting him to your marrow."

Roland met Kelsea's eyes, her face going white as the awful truth of it began to germinate in her mind. Worse than the lingering pain was the sight of her running head first into the detestable reality of her own existence. In a flash she became that same, helpless girl crying on the High Road. "I was healing his wounds!"

"You think what you're doing is healing him?" Almyra let out a bitter, contemptuous sigh. "Sister: you are destroying him."