CRUMBLING CASTLE TOGGLE DARK MODE BACK TO NEXUS Sewale was a third through their extant last rites before they felt liquid light pool up in them. The tips of their fingers, the very edges of their teeth, a great burning which chopped their breath into eddies of contained agony. Their legs trembled, their hands shook as they strove to keep up the proper gesture. They sought words and only found a weak gag as that brightness slipped in deeper. Veins lit up from the inside out, the intermezzo which bisected the night to two; graced by the moon in their sleep, now visited by the sun with gravedirt still caught underneath their nails. It hurt. Breath stifled to only the very depths of their lungs, not enough air no matter how long they sought to pull it in, a buzzing fog of the mind which leapt upon them the instant the light pooled too deep in their head. Grabbed by the back of the neck and forced face first into an ocean, their discipline dropped in favor of desperate search for some support against the tidal wave. From their feet to their knees, hands braced upon the upturned soil and dug back into it for some tactile sensation beyond fire- the fire in their nerves, rushing too fast and too heavy to be contained in such an insignificant body. Priests trained up from birth cried when graced by the mere voice of Thule. Sewale knew better than to fight the bile creeping up their throat. Burned worse than it should’ve when it came up, out, and onto the earth. They shivered around the pain and remembered themself just long enough to clasp dirty hands together to bow their head into before the light overtook such polite reasoning. The dragon was loving, but prostration was proper. They clenched their eyes shut and ground their teeth, from left to right, and prayed for the crescendo. They were a clay jar with only one hole, they were a home with the door unlocked and reverence for all who entered. They were an open vessel. In went the inhale, out went the exhale, and their fingers twitched one at a time. Thumb, index, middle, ring, pinky. A simple tempo meant to shore up the mind. Again. Again. It was a visit, not a seizure, and it would not do to not be present when their most honored guest arrived. They opened their eyes and saw nothing but the sun. Felt nothing but cool mist, pressed up against the entirety of not-their body, from the feathered folds of not-their wings to the tip of not-their plated tail. The horned helm, the heavy gauntlets which tucked away not-their talons. Thule, ever-merciful, ever-loving, bore the agony of their own visitation upon Sewale’s body and gave them relief in the form of a brief glimpse into the dragon’s own. Sewale could not feel the tears which slipped down their cheeks, but they knew they were there. The warmth of a bonfire pressed against their heart-and-soul, a burning presence which could not be refused and would not be ignored. The Arch-Being, the progenitor of creation, the root of all- they nuzzled into Sewale, as close as they could without rending the simple body apart from the inside out, and they spoke between the crackle of embers and the quiet rush of wind up and up, so far away, in the Respite. “What are you doing?” Sewale received none of the grand posturing, the great gestures which the priests did. No winking reminders of past communications, no quotations of the Behestments. They were the dragon’s vessel, the one and only of their kind, and that granted them a far more intimate understanding of them than any before had been given. Such ease, such willingness to meet such a low mortal upon equal ground- it took away their breath, even as all they heard was the gentle chime of the heavens. It was unlike anything else, and they felt stupid for daring to think that. Such a small summary of such a magnificent experience. They never knew what to do with words- but speak they must, for one could not deny Thule. “My last rites. I have confessed my sinful natures-” The doubt, the drink, the lust, and the wrath, the ins and outs of their life even as they fought against it, piety and conviction never quite imparted upon them by even the most patient of the church, “-to the dark of the sky, and I have dug my own grave already.” A representative one, at least. They did not wish to wait for morning, nor wake the sexton and demand a shovel. A scar upon the earth, carved out by fingers stiffened by the wind and chewed up by the winter-solidity of the graveyard, which they had spoke their sins into and then buried once more. Extant last rites were a mass practice, traditionally, but Sewale did not fit within the lockstep rituals of the church. Not anymore. One was never free from their actions, nor their thoughts. The confession-grave was not the one which they would be buried in, but it was where their soul would reside. Kept company by their sickness until that test was passed and they were allowed passage to the beyond. A quiet contemplation in the belly of the earth which would smooth away all which made man cruel and all which made the individual unique so that the soul could be processed into some new life. They would die, but the very core of them, that spark born straight of Thule’s breast, would carry on. And that would be it. (They did not know if they hoped for some special treatment, a love beyond what any other had been shown by Thule for the task which they had chosen them. A vessel did not deserve the likes of dead saints which had been scooped from their bodies and left behind nothing but hollow meat to expire moments later while their souls were exalted to seats up in the Respite. A clay jar with one hole was used, perhaps appreciated for that utility, but never loved. When it broke it was replaced, and the shards were swept from the kitchen to avoid cut feet. Perhaps repurposed, if a use was found.) Sewale thought that by the end of their life, their dancing embrace with the holy spirit of Thule, that their would be too ragged for any of that. No chance for that bright light to carry on and on- a trout, a sunflower, a sheep which grazed upon the hillside- and no chance for anything higher. Just a death in service of the Arch-Being and then a quiet sweep-out. They were sure that their death would be a shattering. The pieces would be too risky to keep about.) “Why?” Thule felt the dirt under their nails, the sting of eyes open far later than they were meant for. Surely, surely they could feel the unease of a dream already passed, the quiet shine of the axe which hung above Sewale’s head. Sewale did not know how to explain the feverish energy which had forced them up and out into the night. It had felt real, but in a way that did not compare to the burn of the Arch-Being. In their presence, they began to doubt. A sinner’s mind, dreaming up anxieties with no grounds upon which they could stand. Formless fears of the future that would come for them, the fate of the vessel. The dragon was hated by cruel folk and Sewale was meant to act as their hand against those forces. The death they would die would not be a kind one. It was natural to fear it. Unnatural to bear the visit of any but they who they were already bound to. (The dark had circled about them, a constrictor which sought to prevent escape without death. Coils upon coils of feather and fog wrapped tight. The shine of bright things in the pitch dark. Talons which weaved through their hair and tapped at their scalp, a gentle tugging which almost had them writhing before they recognized it for what it was. Preening, although indelicate when worked through unfamiliar materials. The chill of a midnight rain, the weight of the full moon as it blinked at them. Crows settled upon the light edges of the clouds, ravens circled with curious eyes. A brief pain as one claw caught upon a knot, a low murmur from the mass when they winced. It had hair itself, a great curtain which concealed its face and softened its voice, but it still treated theirs with unfamiliarity. Care, yes, but the sort of care which was clumsy. A hand pressed at their chest, another gripping their arm just hard enough to feel the curve of talons upon the soft meat of it. Sewale had never been the one to pull ahead of the others, as insignificant as they come. The sort of sinful which could be overlooked, a body meant to fill a seat and keep up the look of the church. A louder whisper. A tighter grasp, fingers which needled into their chest and towards their heart. Above, a warning cawed out from one hundred beaks. The distant flash of lightning as all of that dream-reality pressed in tighter. Words from behind the hair. “Don’t.” They didn’t. “Listen.” They listened. “You will never return once you leave. Make your peace with the stonework and the creak of your cot. The details which you do not appreciate but have still grown accustomed to. The folds of the church which you have learned and the ones that you have carved out for just yourself. Nobody will find them. If they do, nobody will understand them. They and this place will only remember the vessel. Not Sewale.” It was the first time Sewale had heard their name spoken aloud by a god- for they were not stupid and they recognized the magpie-bib upon the bird’s breast. The emissary of the dark, the wide eye of the moon. Fluisau had shattered themself into one thousand pieces to appease Thule, every star hung in the sky a pin feather ripped from godly skin still developing. The nighttime clouds their blood pooled up thick. If anyone were to understand the terror they clutched close enough to their heart that they could deny it, it would be the midnight prophet. If anyone were to sympathize with it, it would be Fluisau. They carded their talons through their hair once more, hummed a tune composed of five seconds and ten low notes, and then Sewale woke to their face bathed in the light of the full moon. They stole out of their room and out to the graveyard to dig a grave more fit for a rabbit than a vessel.) “A dream,” Sewale settled upon, “Unsettled me. I find comfort in the ritual.” A through-and-through liar. Thule was them, was curled up in the deepest pits of their body, was the light which burned through their veins, there was nothing but the discovery to be had, the moment they were found out and the moment they were punished, the instinct to duck their head and crawl towards the most simple answer even in the face of such brilliant love an instinct which would get them killed- “Ah.” Such understanding in such a gentle sound, such divine grace all in a single breath- Sewale shivered, felt the waves of it throughout not-their body and had to fight down a wave of revulsion at the thought of what they had just done. The lie and the motion both- such presumption to shift the Arch-Being’s body a single inch, such an entitled, assumptive action which deserved naught but blood and bones as punishment. But none would come, because Thule loved them. (Somewhere in their blackest depths, a piece of Sewale delighted at the apparent deception. Even as the more intelligent meats of their brain already suggested that the dragon knew all along and simply did not choose to confront it- such patience with such an unworthy sort!- they could not help but indulge in the thought. To fool the Arch-Being themself, to have the power to wriggle out from underneath such heavy inspection-) “What will you do now?” A test. Would Sewale succumb to their terrors and carry out the rest of the last rights, or would they trust in the good grace of Thule and give themself over to the comfort of their presence and nothing else? It was a test, could be nothing but, and the palms of not-their great hands itched at the thought of leaving the process interrupted and unfinished. A grave with nothing but regrets and mistakes and sins left out in the open like that, it could not mean anything well. Someone could step into it, tripped up by their lifetime of ignoring the line just a bit too much. Would they seep into the ground and foul the entire graveyard, interrupt the quiet reflection of those buried with burdens not their own? Make work aplenty for the sexton, undeserved and unneeded? It would not do to leave then, but it would be a great insult to carry through with a ritual which was already too close to spurning the Arch-Being made manifest. They were their vessel, and so they would not fear death. Extant last rights were a direct doubt of that. “I will,” And the words ached on their way out, but there was no other answer, “Return to my room. I have realized this is unnecessary.” “The night draws long. Rest will do you more good than sitting out in the cold.” A tone of agreement, easy to read in the low hum of the dragon’s voice. Quick to reassure Sewale’s own decision as the right- a test indeed. It was the same from everyone and everything. All a damn test. “I will.” Thule had first come to them on an overcast day when they were sat upon the edge of the church parapets, swinging their feet in the open air and thinking of nothing. The dragon's scales were of the clouds, blues and grays solidified into dazzling ivories which locked together as if they were dancers with arms tight around each others’ waists and as loud as a serpent’s rattle as they all shimmered together. They spiraled out from the heart of the sun, around and around, until it was naught but an eye upon their blind-man’s helm, and then they ripped themself from the fire’s embrace and swallowed it whole. Radiance emanated from the Arch-Being- the throat, stomach, and veins- and there was naught in the sky but them, and there was naught in Sewale’s heart but a love so sudden and immense that they almost fell from the roof. What a stupid, meaningless death that would’ve been. The one thought in their mind amidst all of the surprise and the terror of such immense quantity and quality of an emotion they’d always thought lacking had been to throw themself to their death. Then, their last moments would be of no comparison, not to anything in their life or anyone else’s. To die, so wholly loved and seen , it had felt terribly tempting in the moments between the dragon’s appearance and the title- the task, burden, and ultimate death all in one- which they bestowed. To die with the presence of Thule so wholly intertwined with their own soul would not give them those brilliant, final moments, but it would be an escape. Self destruction was a sin, but it took far more grinding of not-their teeth than it should’ve to resist any other motion when Thule spoke with a gentle “Leave now and rest well.” And then they were gone, and Sewale was but a human once more. The light died fast, but not fast enough that they were spared the tail end of it. A burn throughout every nerve of their body and a shiver so intense it knocked them from their precarious balance upon hands and knees to the cold embrace of the earth. Two inches to the right and they would’ve fallen into their own vomit, such a doggish fate befitting such a crooked scoundrel as themself. To lie to Thule, to feel some measure of relief as the dragon’s presence left- to be gifted such a high honor and not welcome every single moment of holy pain with tears of gratitude! The fire burned bright and swift, and it took only a moment before it was gone. Nothing but a cold, empty vessel in its wake. A forest which would never recover. Their hands dug into their own grave, miniscule and incomplete, and rocks bit into their fingers. The extant last rites would have to go unfinished, then. Nothing but a hole with their sickness tucked away in it- Sewale hoped that would not dilute the meaning of the rite when they fully went through with it. That the sincerity of their confession would remain true, that their sins would leave the rabbit-grave and reside within them once more, waiting for the time to be purged properly. (It took them a long time to fall asleep, but they dreamed of the same midnight hollow. The same spectator-birds, the same god which curled in the sky rather than circling all around them. Between the gaps in their feathers, Sewale saw pits gouged into Fluisau’s skin, silver which ran in thin rivulets from the meat of their body to the belly of the clouds, a slow drizzle of blood-rain which did not wet them. Crows sat upon their shoulders, ravens along their back, and mockingbirds tucked away where the feathers grew in thick. Fluisau peered down at them from between knotted strands of hair. Unfolded their scaled hands from where they had been clasped at their breast to mirror the gesture which Sewale had been carrying out the moment Thule visited them. The thumb, index, and middle of the left hand pointed up towards the sky, the right balled up and pressed into the other’s palm. They spoke softly, nearly drowned out by the rumble of distant thunder. (They were carrying out the ritual which Thule cut short. Sewale recognized that in an instant and had to bite down upon the soft meat of their cheek to stay as still as a statue. No gasps, no pitiful, thankful tears over a ritual completed so that the palms of their hands would stop itching, even as it went against the most holy of entities. It would be finished, and there would be no ill pit left behind in a graveyard they would never be able to return to in order to resolve themself.) “Now, with the regrets, cruelties, and sins of the life confessed and buried, the body must be attended to. A kiss upon the cheek to ease the pain of a life lived, no matter how long or short,” Sewale pressed the back of their left hand to their lips, then to their right cheek, “And a drink of wine to remind you of the good that there was.” Sewale did not have wine. Not in the midnight-dream- they’d carried their flask with them to the graveyard in preparation, a humble tin thing which slipped in well into the folds of their clothes, but they knew that even that would be a poor substitute for the proper extant last rites. They were meant for a mass ritual- born from perilous times, battalions of soldiers who kissed each other and then drank together to lighten the natural fear of a death approaching- not the quiet affair that they were making of it. Still, the taste of it flooded their mouth. Sweet and piquant at once, peppered peaches which lingered long after a single swig would last. In the clouds, Fluisau hummed through the ritual quiet. If Sewale dared to think it, they sounded pleased. “Now that life has been mourned and celebrated in equal turn, the final thought. You live yet. Understand that, think on it, and accept it. Go in whatever way you find, and go with peace.” Sewale could not go with peace. Too much uncertainty piled up without a single avenue to express, now that every single eye was upon them and the expectations so drastically shifted they haven’t a clue how to navigate them, and too little resolve in the purpose gifted to them. If only their death was in that visitation, their final moment bafflement over such grand love rather than the creeping dread of just what that love expected of them. A shattered clay jar was good for nothing, and a solid one had only one true purpose. To be used until the end. The colors of that might change- to collect water, to store grain- but it was all the same in the end. A life of service and then a death in pieces. They were too weak to accept that with the gratitude and the grace which they had been raised up to embody since they were brought to the church, barely four years old. Fluisau did not wait for their resolution- “Now, trust in the eternal embrace of your soul and spirit.”- and they did not close out the ritual with the right line. A full stop after that and one hundred and one expectant stares down at them after that. Now, trust in the eternal embrace of your soul and spirit, and in the love of Thule. Sewale had read over the last rite well enough, though they had never witnessed nor partook in one. They knew the lines, and they knew that Fluisau did. And the crow knew that Sewale knew them as well. It felt deliberate, but it did not feel like a test. A simple moment of quiet staring until Sewale nodded once, hesitant yet not ignorant, and then a chorus of low caws. There, between the more bestial, they caught the god’s own, and they recognized that self-satisfied tone now that they had heard it twice. “Rest now, Sewale, in the comfort of your soul’s security, and rest well.” And then the magpie turned tail and burrowed into the great expanse of cloud, retreating to darker corners which Sewale could not follow or see, and their little birds followed suit. Sewale was left alone, but they were not ejected from the quiet night where the stars streaked across the sky, watercolor-smooth, and the grasses which held them swayed along to a secretive summer wind. They were left to a night so dark that details were made up to convince the mind that the world existed yet, a little dream where the presence of the magpie still shone through in the brightness of the moon, the thunder in the distance and the suggestion of lightning shimmering through the air, and they rested well.)