God must not leave us, they must echo in themselves…. Since when were humans like this? It tasted 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 reign. They would not see him as savior. He paused…a chill resting in him with the words… but they would survive, change again.
Merrin openly sighed. "Who did this?"
They shuddered… Ah… this was planned, he realized. The woman was hectored to this, maybe. He didn't know, wished not to. "You think I will eat the flesh?" He infused 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 was all they knew. That was all they should know.
"You would give your bodies to me?" Merrin frowned. "Why not eat yours? Feed yourself with yourself. Why not take your own lives?"
"For god…" One whined, and Merrin burned a glare into him. This caused the poor creature to lower.
"For god?" he repeated. "For god, you give your flesh?" He tore his shirt, charred skin revealing itself. Like black armor, he was covered in brittle blacks—a vest of darkness, some spewing yellowish pus from many sores. He was a marred thing, and they saw it now.
One recoiled, covering his mouth. "SunBringer?" He said it as a question. They all shared that horror as one. A break in a perceived reality. God was harmed, they guessed, but not this. God should never bear such burdens.
One screamed: "Give me your pain!"
"So you make me obsolete?" Merrin roared. "So you will take away my wish from me, to impose yours?"
They knew nowhere to look. It was as though god was omniscient. "You will take my own as you have lost yours?" Merrin stepped 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 accused them—and they shrilled to it.
"Men. Men. Men," he said aloud. "God helps those who help themselves."
And they froze.
"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 in your role?"
Merrin split his skin with stone, blood spewing, pus dripping. He was stained from the belly down; red in yellow. And what horror they saw in it. Together, as one, they gasped. One fell to his knees, head slapped into the earth. Another grabbed his throat, screaming.
God was bleeding.
The woman to the side slid her hands over his stomach, knelt, weeping. Blood trickling down her fingers, leaking over the face. She mouthed words in tears.
"This is the harm you give to me!" His voice struck 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 was 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 screamed like children.
"God has not forsaken you," he said. "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 was silent, whimpering, but hushed. "Or god will leave them!"
They wailed, tearing clothes in mad, frenetic passion. It was strange, seeing this—this change in a person. From man to beast. Merrin noted the standing Ron—to the side, he was silent, observing. A strange venator.
And then there was Catelyn beside him, she frowned, eyes blue with that piercing quality. She was angry, as always; she alone saw what he did. The game he played with their minds. He had made them soldiers now. From slaves to soldiers. From wood to spears…
Ah, nothing can change it now. Merrin saw the men move strangely, some screaming, howling. They were less men now. Creatures of true passion. He had become the cue, a damn mental force that would make them strong.
What future would that strength create? He imagined Excubiotors violent, buried by the hurling bodies of men. They would do that, these ones he had created. They would willingly die for him. For god to bleed was now a sin to them…, but it gave them strength. Merrin replayed the notion, sinking the rejective thoughts.
I have done something good, he told himself… I will protect them as I have always done. But now they are strong too. He staggered back, head heavy, world blurring. Mist! The woman below wrapped him, arms behind, pressing her face against the wound, blocking the blood. She wailed and repeated, "Praise be to the sunBringer. Praise be to the sunBringer!"
She, too, was a fanatic, more so as he felt it in her. She would kill herself if he died… May I never be forgiven for this, he thought. He closed his eyes and fell into mentation. This had been accomplished—the howls still echoed, but now called 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 thought, fearing what these ones would drip into the wells of the others. Unlike these, the others were a different breed. They knew him—had seen his 'miracles'. To them, he was a 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 clenched, light-headed, but fueled by desire. It doesn't matter. Let them live first, he thought. Then I will worry about it.
He opened his eyes and beheld a figure standing beside the woman. She was utterly bathed in blood, his blood, and she trembled. Excitement in her motions. But the other was a child. A young boy with red odium hair, eyes a queer crystal shade, calming to see. He wore a blankness, tilted his head, and said, "You really haven't learnt anything about symbols, have you?" He laughed. "You neglect learning your power, and now it is partly taken from you."
Merrin tried to wonder, but his knees buckled. He fell, leveling over the stunned lady. She thought something else, he knew; his mind betrayed the collection. Breath escaped fast, a wave of vertigo washing over, blurring the edges of vision. His muscles, once taut, felt like water—heavy, unresponsive. Breath became shallow, and chilled sweat broke over his flesh.
He was startled—more so as limbs trembled and movement became a task. All solid. World tilting. He tried to speak; strength was siphoned. It was gone. What was happening?
Then he heard a word, a soft contralto: "YES!" It screamed. "YES! POWER FOR KNOWLEDGE. POWER FOR KNOWLEDGE. ALL KNOWLEDGE. EVEN THE ORAL HISTORY!"
And Ivory felt the flooding of something alien—a duo sensation. They collided with each other—one calming, like sweet, gentle air, the other mad and fervent, like true force. She was torn between them, knowing her mind was heightened beyond normal. She thought now—ah, she thought millions in seconds. What power.
It also nulled the emotions. Strange. Odd that even thinking about Kabel seemed an insipid endeavor. Horrid. So she stoked the memory; him, always there, smiling, mocking, genuine. The step drew, and she opened her eyes and saw the world in a strange greyness.
It was 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 pressed against the earth, white screening over the floor. It was a brilliance like ivory. She wondered why she was radiant; Casters weren't radiant. But it mattered not.
Now, she was standing, faced with a man—face wrapped, body the same, but eyes exposed. He was a thing of complete blackness; even the skin around the eye was soot-smudged. A pathetic attempt at a mask.
He wouldn't live to believe his identity was unknown. She would nake him, and he would know his secrets were gone. Oddly, he did nothing but stare. He stepped back, kneeled, and screamed: "Velira!"
Fermen superstition!
He made her recall Kabel. Bad. There was, of course, no rage, but the memory was there. And it called for sure retribution. This she gave with the foreign power—it came with something. Something that lived long within her. Wonder called curiosity, and she reached in, pulling out that familiar unknown.
It was a moment, and a chalk appeared in her hands.