Effloresce

From that day on, two and a half months into the fast, the pain, noise, and sickness progressively subsided into calm. The thread of warmth within me grew, nurtured like a small bird, until it was a core pushing against the dying shell of numb cold. My breath steadied again. I stopped sweating, shivering, and came out of the fever.

I sat on the bed, rubbing my eye. Suddenly I felt like I could at least go outside again, if not get back to work—but Vicar Harrat advised I stay housebound until my condition had settled.

“I feel like it already has, though,” I protested. “Well, there’s an ache, still, but it’s the kind of pain you’d feel after running a sprint...”

Ah, well.

I craned my head back and sighed. Herrat could go ahead and stay cautious.

Day after day, the Archbishop informed us that the hole was steadily shrinking. I felt it. The Hunger wasn’t even a whisper; its carcass was being devoured by a prevailing warmth of calm, which broke, and became a flood of serenity.

Life was perfect. The world was in order; every little mechanism aligning to a great whole more beautiful than anything on earth. Everything, absolutely everything would be okay—not just for myself, but for everyone, who had ever suffered pain, or hardship, or even those who hadn’t: for every illness, every death, every hunger, every torture, the ending was resplendent and good. The world was gloriously alive, and death was simply a passage into a world that was even greater.

Spectral fires of white, gold, and blue licked across my arms, and my whole body.

“Woah,” I mouthed.

Argent fervour. A marker of serious alignment with the divine. Madjea had it; and the thought that it was manifesting on me bordered on unbelievable.

But only bordered. For in my tranquil state, the shock smoothed easily into acceptance that this phenomenon, too, was in order, and heralded even greater things. Herrat was speechless at the sight of it.

“Praise Czjeir! Mephi!,” he exclaimed, running his hands through his hair, over and over. “It really has worked,” he said, once he reclaimed himself. “The curse of anathema is truly over.”

“Not quite. There’s still an ache left, a little. But I feel much better,” I said, pushing myself off the bed. Where was once a hole of hunger was now a warm core of satiation and fulfilment. I went out for a walk with Herrat, marvelling at the keen beauty of Vish’s architecture, and art, and nature, and life.

“I want to get back to working,” I told Herrat. “As soon as possible. I have too much to offer to w-waste my time doing nothing, and, and, we need to talk to the Church again, because I can’t stay in Vish. I have to... go where people need me...”

Herrat held me back. “Hold, hold. Let the ‘Hunger’ be completely defeated before we speak of how to station you. Ah, praise Czjeir!”

I was back servicing the hospital the next day. A patient came to me with a fractured leg.

“Be calm. This will only tingle a little, and only take a second,” I urged.

“Hoy... git to it then, Mister Bishop,” the man grunted through clenched teeth.

I nodded, raised my hands, and administered the healing magic. The patient’s face immediately returned to a healthy colour and he sighed out in relief.

And as he sighed out in relief, a holy fire of love rose within me that warmed me from my core. It peaked in the satisfied bliss of Heaven—that same orgiastic rush of feeding the Hunger, but purified into something good. The blue flames of argent fervour flared over me. Tears pricked my eyes. Life was so beautiful.

So the argent fervour flared with every patient. Instead of eating, rewarded for serving—I was being reversed, turned inside out.

But the argent fervour was tempering down, outside of those moments. And when I wasn’t using my powers to help someone, an itch and an urge played at the back of my mind: I could be doing more. There were more people that needed help. They were out there. I knew it, staring at the horizon. And a thought flickered through my mind that if I only let the Hunger die, finally, and allow this new sense to preside, I would be able to find them.

I would probably still be a tool. But this time, I didn’t mind it.

So my thoughts wandered. When, “Oh,” I startled, on my way back to the penitentiary.

Demishah. My destroyer. I had completely forgotten to track her during my ordeal with the fast, and only now thought to check up. I focused, and the black sea came to my mind’s eye, and the signal shone from—

“—Whoa.”

Demishah had moved over the past months, such that she was now only a day away from Vish. She could be here tomorrow morning, at earliest.

The shock of the realisation drowned under the sheen of the euphoric peace and calm.

“Excuse me, Herrat, just need to say something,” I said, coming to pause in our walk, nicely in a wider square with a myrtle tree casting its shade.

“Yes?” Herrat asked.

“Remember that time I told you that there was someone Czjeir told me to kill?”

Herrat smoothed his hand down his chin. “I dreaded the day you would speak of this.”

“Sorry, but the time I need to make right on that edict is, probably, coming very soon. As soon as tomorrow morning. I hope you don’t have any objections.”

“How could you expect me to have none? Even knowing by the Church that Czjeir did say this to you, my heart objects very strongly.” He sighed. “Tell me, Mephi, how dangerous is this person? Should we call for palatines to support you?”

“They’re dangerous to me,” I said. “If they can threaten me, they’re probably worse for an ordinary person. I wouldn’t want palatines to get injured in the crossfire...”

“That is their job, Mephi. They take their oath knowing the risks of the occupation, ghouls and witches. No, I rather insist we station palatines with you, at least as support.”

“It should be over quickly anyway,” I voiced, my mind wandering idly.

“We ought report to the Keshdanji that you will be late tomorrow, then.” Our course through the streets diverted toward the home of the Charity leader. Herrat shook his head, “Mephi, I loathe to encourage one to kill another, but are you not worried at all that this combatant may truly hurt you? For someone who Czjeir warned you about, you do not seem particularly frightened...”

“Uh...” I fingered my chin, forcing myself to think—but the worst case scenarios weren’t materialising. Bolstered by the core of warmth and serenity, every tract of thought diverted into an easy victory for me. “I just need to get a good first hit in. That shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Mephi! Listen to yourself.”

“I know I can’t shapeshift, but I have like, so much magic that can handle this.”

“Ah... moreso upon the palatines’, but may God’s light shine on your steps,” Herrat spat out as a sigh.