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Tear off your mask and let it fall at my feet.
What remains of you?
He leaves the winding corridors of the Enigma behind, sand crunching beneath the soles of his boots. Each step echoes like sharp knives banging against his eardrums. The voices of his companions swirl around him like autumn leaves on the wind. The portal that takes them back to Golarion almost gives him whiplash; sand and stone turn to snow, rock and icy winds.
The Enigma won’t leave him - the final victory of Areshkagal, the Faceless Sphinx. He could beat a demon lord into submission, but even the mythic commander of the fifth Crusade cannot defeat an idea. Once it comes into existence, it digs its roots into you, and the only cure is ignorance. Forgetting. The mercy of Pharasma’s court.
He remembers Kiny. He thinks of the Storyteller, who forgot. He thinks of Nenio, who never was and somehow became. He thinks of Hilor, whose mind has undone a painful truth.
He inhales a deep breath. The world has continued to exist in the span of time it took him to break through Enigma‘s riddles. The masked strangers continue to mill about, muttering things about questions and answers.
Here‘s a question for you, he thinks bitterly. Don‘t you have anything better to do?
They don‘t answer, of course. Nothing here provides an answer. Nothing isn‘t an answer.
They make camp in the caves not far off the ruins, seeking shelter from the harsh conditions. The darkness feels oppressive to him, and his holy nimbus somehow cannot shine bright enough to ward off its creeping tendrils. He works through his chores quietly, speaking only when spoken to, and never more than three words at once.
The Enigma has dug into him. Does Areshkagal get to their victims like that? By frightening them into desiring non-existence with endless questions? No wonder Areshkagal values circles. The Sphinx‘s entire reasoning is circular logic.
He pries off his chest plate. At which point has arguing with demon lords become an endeavor worth pursuing? They all think themselves gods of the multiverse, propagating truths that are anything but. Deskari considers himself the end of existence, after all.
Freed of his restrictive armor, he feels that he can breathe a little easier. The cold, moist air stings his lungs, but he breathes in deep again and again, reminding himself that he is alive. That he is. And that Nenio, too, is. For a short time; a minuscule moment in the life of the planes, but grains are still grains. They make deserts. They make eternity. They aren‘t nothing.
He lets himself fall against the rough wall of the cave, hands clutching his dented shield. Metal burns cold against the skin of his chest. His two pendants; Daeran‘s key, his most precious gift, and his holy symbol of Iomedae, an oath made without memory, side by side in a display of cosmic irony. They rest beneath his shirt, ever close to his rhythmic heartbeat. One of them has grown colder than the other.
His prayers to Iomedae ceased a long time ago, and they have left deafening silence in their wake. Though he hasn‘t dared to openly renounce her, the pain of rejection cuts deep. She doesn‘t remember him, doesn‘t even know him, he whom she granted divine powers in her name.
Perhaps it is his failing as a mortal soul to feel slighted by a deity‘s indifference - but maybe he no longer needs to care. It‘s his own power that fuels his spells now; when he burns demons with light, he draws from the endless luminance that shines within him, warming his soul and breaking through the cracks of his mortal shell. He would have thought this blasphemy once, but he no longer understands why. He understands nothing. He remembers nothing.
On a whim, he digs into the hidden compartment inside his shield, searching for the familiar shape of a small, folded piece of parchment. Its edges are fraying, and folding it over and over has left the material strained, but he can‘t leave it behind. Not anymore. Words in jet-black ink, penned in elegant arches, leap off the page and reawaken their familiar, comforting resonance as he mouths the words one by one.
In this ever-changing world, memory is the only constant. Remember me.
His companions continue to chatter idly by the fire, but one of them is silent, watching him over his half-finished bowl of something-probably-edible for dinner. Arueshalae is engaged in soft-spoken conversation with Seelah and Ember, and between the three of them, Nenio seems to have given up on moping over her supposed non-existence for the time being. Daeran takes a sly side-ways glance at the company beside him, then at the bowl in his lap, and finally discards his broth on the stack of dishes by the fire. No one speaks up when he disengages and casually strolls across the camp to sit beside Raziel. He crosses his legs and leans - with some hesitation - against the damp rock. Any sense of casualness dies with the discomforted look on his aristocratic face.
„Smooth,“ Raziel notes blankly. He quickly folds the note back up and shoves it back into his shield.
With feigned indifference, his disenfranchised lover manages a stiff shrug. „You could have picked a better spot to brood.“
„What makes you think I‘m brooding?“ he retorts.
If looks could speak, the one he gets for that half-baked rebuttal would likely perform litanies. „Oh, please. Don‘t bother. You haven‘t even touched your bowl of vaguely edible slime.“ Daeran smirks, observing him through half-lidded eyes.
„I‘ll eat it later,“ he says, lying through his teeth.
The azata-touched aasimar beside him cranes his neck in an exaggerated display of spying on their companions by the fire. „I think you‘ll have to hurry. The paladin is going for seconds.“
Raziel snorts. „Fine. I‘m not hungry. Happy?“
If he is, Daeran makes no indication of it., „Don‘t tell me you let the cryptic ramblings of a demon lord get to you,“ he drawls. „I thought you knew better than that.“
He didn‘t. Not really.
Maybe he did. Only because he is already feeling torn in three different directions at once, however. One does not get internally ripped apart and fused back together as a Celestial without some issues.
He frowns. „Of course I didn‘t. It‘s not about Areshkagal.“
Indirectly, anyway. It‘s not technically a lie, is it?
Daeran looks at him for a long moment, expression entirely unreadable. Raziel often struggles knowing what is happening in the nobleman‘s head. Even with the Other gone, he doesn‘t often open up. The rare moments of utter vulnerability are precious, heart-warming and worth every moment of pain and hardship the count‘s mercurial disposition has put him through.
„But there is something,“ he concludes, gaze still locked on his face. His eyes briefly dart towards their companions by the fire, but they remain engaged in their own conversation, entirely unaware. „Something is bothering you. You‘ve hardly said a word since entering that puzzle-riddled labyrinth.“
There is. Of course there is. But he‘s not one for sharing such things - usually he has his priorities in order, and it‘s not like any of the personal problems plaguing him are especially new. Raziel sighs, head falling back against the rock just hard enough to leave a pang of pain. „Do you remember what you said when I asked you what you hate most in life?“
Daeran quickly averts his eyes. „Equestrian statues, I think.“
Asshole.
Raziel rolls his eyes and moves to get up. „Fine. Forget it.“
A slender hand darts forward and grasps him by the wrist, gently tugging, pleading for him to sit back down. „I remember what I said, Raz. Of course I remember.“
A flash of discomfort passes over the aristocrat‘s sharp features. Daeran doesn‘t know how to handle this, he realizes. But he‘s trying. He‘s trying a lot. The restless anger in his chest quietens to a soft, agitated murmur. He lets himself plop back down, nonetheless feeling a little sour. Barbed as the count‘s tongue may be by nature, he knows that the man is capable of compassion. If he is going to walk over here trying to be supportive, he could at least try to look like he‘s taking it seriously.
Raziel takes a deep breath and shakes off the fog that seeks to settle over his mind. „Tell me, how‘s this for lack of control.“ He pauses briefly to risk a quick peek at Daeran, but the man is merely watching him, expression still unreadable. „Picture this... you‘re a crusader. Not just a crusader, you‘re a cleric in the service of none other than Iomedae, the patron of the crusades. At least you think that you are all this on the day you wake up in the midst of a busy festival square with a massive hole in your chest. Before you know it, a giant bug is tearing the city in half. For the next few months, you‘re so caught up in the events of the crusade that you don‘t have much time to think, but slowly, cracks in your memory begin to show.“
Daeran raises a brow, but says nothing.
„It‘s small things at first. You don‘t know where your belongings came from.“ His gaze immediately darts to his bracers; they are worn and damaged from the many months spent in his possession, but the words ‚I Promise‘ remain neatly engraved and readable. Knowing what he knows now, it sends shivers down his spine - and still he simply cannot bring himself to take them off.
„But they grow,“ he continues, tearing his gaze away from his arm, „they keep growing until they have dug into every single piece of you. There are questions you simply can‘t answer. Who are your parents? How did you grow up? You realize that you have no idea. You know where you are supposed to be from, you know what you are supposed to be called - but you have no memory of these things. Nothing.“
A sense of understanding seems to dawn on Daeran, but despite his expression shifting, it remains somewhat hard to parse for Raziel.
He takes another deep breath. Speaking from the heart is hard, he thinks. He gets Daeran‘s struggles now. „Then the so-called Architect of the Worldwound appears to you. Claims that you are her creation.“
Is that pity on Daeran‘s face? Or is it sympathy? The two can be hard to tell apart.
Raziel runs a hand over his face, feeling a bone-deep exhausting coming over him like a sudden downpour. „And it turns out that you are just a madwoman‘s way of alleviating a mother‘s grief while attempting to snub the universe. Because a normal resurrection was too much to ask for, apparently.“
Because your soul was already judged by Pharasma, a tiny, discontent voice adds. And probably turned into a disgusting abyssal maggot.
You‘re born of the Abyss. You felt it all along.
„My soul is an abomination,“ he groans; the full weight of it all only crashes down on him now, put into words and made reality, and it has the heft of a city stacked on top of it. For a moment, he thinks he can‘t breathe, something heavy crushes his chest. Words don‘t find his tongue that lies dry and lame in his mouth. When he finally speaks again, his words are shaking. „A dead soul grafted onto another... and I don‘t remember anything. I don‘t...“
He falters; his hand nearly reached for the sword pendant still hidden under his shirt, but he stops just short. „I don‘t even remember why I worship my goddess. I just woke up knowing that I did. Can you imagine what that feels like?“
And your goddess has no idea where you come from.
Raziel falls silent. Daeran says nothing for a long time, and when he finally speaks up, he is soft-spoken and quiet. „I didn‘t realize your memory loss was this extensive. You never brought it up.“ His green eyes seem to lose focus as he gazes ahead, listening for something that will never come. The long years lived with the Other still haven‘t left him. „As for lack of control... I would rate that fairly high on the scale of unpleasant circumstances indeed.“ He pauses, maybe turning over words in his head. „Perhaps I took your unshakable confidence for granted? Truth be told, I don‘t think the godly powers you got out of all this were worth it.“
Daeran, even in all his prickly glory, somehow has a soothing effect on him. The restless anxiety has subsided to a bearable level. He tilts his head. „Are you saying that because I chose to become a ‚sour-faced prig‘ or would you think the same if I had turned into a dragon? Because I could have done that.“
„Well, I can‘t say it doesn‘t play a part,“ Daeran responds, drawling, „And imagining you as a dragon is tempting indeed, although perhaps not so much considering the source of your draconic inclinations.“ Raziel half expects a dig aimed at Terendelev and her tender-hearted mentor, yet no such thing follows. „But no, I don‘t think it would‘ve been worth it either way. And just so you know,“ he adds, voice just a smidgen more urgent, „You don‘t fit with the prigs, which makes it all the more baffling that you picked them to be your entourage.“
„Do I not fit,“ Raziel muses, „or do you simply have a warped picture of them? Because I think I feel quite at home.“
His words earn him a sour look. „Which of us grew up in the Crusader state, home-turf of all the prigs, I ask you?“
Raziel eyes him. „I can‘t tell you, because I don‘t remember. And Iomedae is hardly the only inhabitant of Heaven.“
„I can‘t wait to meet the rest,“ Daeran replies with a slight sting to his voice - though Raziel can sense that at least for now, the mood remains playful. „Will you introduce me to your new family? Are they going to disapprove of the bad influence that I bring? Should I register at the front desk of abyss-aligned romantic partnership for proper processing so the heavenly bureaucracy doesn‘t get overwhelmed by our liaison?“
Raziel gives his shoulder a light shove before he can descend any further into his overly eloquent hatred of celestial governing structures. „I‘m not ashamed of this relationship, if you‘re trying to imply that.“ He pauses before adding, „And you‘re not going to the Abyss. You‘re an ass, but not enough for that.“
Daeran seems startled by the sincerity, but his expression quickly settles on a self-assured grin. „And why would you be ashamed? I‘m the best catch in all of Mendev.“
„Just Mendev? Very humble of you.“ He leans over, about to drop a quick peck on his lips, but stops just short. The target of his affection has grown tense in an instant. He is about to pull back when his partner suddenly speaks up.
„Just do it.“ Daeran‘s eyes briefly drift towards the busy campfire as his shoulders slowly relax. „They know anyway.“
„It‘s fine,“ he replies, voice soft; „It‘s hardly fun when you‘re not comfortable.“
The expression adorning his features turns unreadable, marred by a slight frown. „Doing that ‚caring‘ thing again, I see.“
„For you? Always.“
„Your utter, unabashed sincerity when you say these things is... perplexing.“ Daeran‘s voice has gone a little more quiet. He is watching the scene by the campfire still; their companions are slowly beginning to clear, three of them to sleep, one to keep silent vigil. His eyes remain on their little saint for a moment longer than the rest. „It‘s something you have in common with Ember. You both have far more sincere kindness in you than is good for you.“
Raziel laughs, bemused. „You concluded that because I care about my lover? I think that‘s the person you‘re supposed to care about.“
„No.“ Daeran takes a little too long to elaborate, perhaps realizing too late that his words have slightly unintentional implications. „I say that because I am the person you picked to care about more than anyone else - in spite of your Dogma, no less. Ember can do such things because divinity is meaningless to her. But you?“
Raziel averts his eyes, studying the fascinating patterns of dust on the ground beneath him. „I didn‘t murder for you, did I?“
„So you didn‘t commit one of the most vile acts imaginable to people like you,“ Daeran scoffs, „impressive.“
He‘s right. He‘s right, and it hurts.
There‘s a moment that he spends in silent hesitation, floating between denial and shaken acceptance. When it passes and another wordless eternity begins, he pulls his holy symbol of Iomedae out from under his shirt. The metal seems to have lost its shine, and the pendant no longer hums with warmth. It lies there in his palm lifelessly, a piece of metal devoid of power.
It‘s not because of Daeran. Raziel refuses to believe that. Caring for another person, even one who is often unkind, cannot be in conflict with the tenets of Iomedae‘s faith. If nothing else, Daeran is his comrade too, and a valuable crusader above all.
It‘s not that. It‘s him. She must have known when she welcomed him to Heaven, yet took him in anyway.
A tidal wave of guilt rolls over him as he thinks of Seelah, of Yaniel, of all the faithful who thought of him as their own guiding blade. He‘s not the chosen of Iomedae - and now he‘s no longer even her faithful. The symbol is dead, it has been for a long time. Perhaps Daeran has known that. Perhaps he assumed that he is the cause; he doesn‘t know of the battles raging in Raziel‘s mind, the lack of memory. The feeling of just being the tool of higher powers playing games.
He runs his thumb over the blade. Next to him, Daeran is watching him in bemused silence, refraining - at least for the moment - from running his mouth.
Raziel begins to lift the silver chain from his neck with tender care, taking a moment to gently untangle it from the key pendant still resting near his heart, untouched. The once living metal of Iomedae brushes against his lips one last time, now a loveless, cold burn.
He thought of ripping it off his neck and tossing it into the next river, once - the day Iomedae herself descended from the mosaic window of her own likeness to demand that he reject his powers. He felt anger that day, like the whole world had given up on him. He crawled his way out of the Abyss forsaken by Heaven, only to also be slapped in the face by it upon reaching the surface through nothing but his own determination.
Now it just aches. A lonely kind of ache that spreads its tendrils through his chest as he gently ties the chain around the details of his shield. On the morrow, he will give the pendant to Seelah, hoping that the Paladin won‘t smite him on the spot for being a faithless coward.
He risks a glance at Daeran, whose face doesn‘t reflect what he expects; his eyes have gone wide, giving him the appearance of a spooked animal. There‘s a hint of bewilderment, too; like he cannot parse the events that just transpired. „Just so you know, it was not my intention to make you outright reject your faith.“
Raziel laughs, devoid of joy and mirth. „It‘s not you. I adore you, but I would never renounce my faith for the sake of a lover - any lover. You did not convince me that I am too nice to pray to Iomedae.“
„Fair enough,“ Daeran replies, voice heavy with dismissal. An eternity has passed before he speaks up again, and when he does, he doesn‘t dare look at Raziel. „You know, I thought I would be celebrating the day you dropped your allegiance to a higher power. But it doesn‘t exactly feel joyful like... this.“
„Yeah, well,“ Raziel bites. „Sorry the loss of a deeply personal part of my identity is not a joyful occasion for you. It‘s almost like it meant something to me.“
„It shouldn‘t. You‘re free.“
Raziel exhales, willing the rising anger away. „It just hurts to let go. My faith has been with me for what little of my life I can remember. I already don‘t know who I am. You hated the Other, didn‘t you? But them being gone is still confusing for you. It was a part of you.“
He seems to understand that part, at least to the extent it could ever make sense to someone like Daeran. Still, he frowns. „But if it‘s not me, then... why?“
Raziel shrugs. „My heart is no longer in it. I don‘t expect you to get it.“
„True, I don‘t.“ Daeran averts his gaze in obvious agitation.
„Nor do I plan to turn to atheism,“ Raziel announces after a moment of hesitation. „I will find someone better suited. Sarenrae, perhaps. I have grown fond of her dogma and her congregation in Drezen.“
Daeran sours a little more, still. „From the queen of knights in shining armor to the embodiment of self-sacrifice and bleeding hearts. I cannot contain my joy.“
„Nothing is going to change for you, sourpuss. More kindness than is good for me, isn‘t that what you said? That‘s the kind of person you‘re personally involved to begin with!“ Raziel does not glare at anyone often, but he manages just barely; Daeran can bring out the worst in him. „And whatever happened to not trying to get me to reject my faith?“
The fiercely prideful aasimar raises his chin, demeanor most true to his blue blood. „You already rejected one, why waste your breath crawling on your hands and knees before a new master?“
There‘s a piercing quality to Daeran‘s words now, not out of malice, but pure distaste. He has reached the lowest layer of his personal multiverse, the layer that genuinely cares about things to an extent he himself probably finds most uncomfortable.
„I find comfort in making a higher power listen to my problems all day,“ Raziel scoffs with as much sting as he can muster. He feels like saying nasty things, like digging fingers into open wounds. „After some of the shit advice you‘ve given me during council meetings, one would think you of all people would get it.“
A beat of silence. He feels his heart sink.
„My, my, Raziel. Is that befitting of a future follower of Sarenrae?“ Oh, he‘s hurt; it‘s in his eyes, the angry gleam, the overly biting tone. He‘s hurt. Raziel feels his own anger deflating, but it seems Daeran isn‘t done. „I just think you would be better off without that drivel.“
„And I think you would be better off as a nicer person, but that hasn‘t stopped you, has it?“
It‘s a weak retort, and though his own fury has long subsided, they glare at each other for an eternity and a half. Raziel gives up first - his shoulders drop as he sighs. „I shouldn‘t have brought this up.“
Perhaps waving the white flag has soothed him just enough to relent, or perhaps he was already tired of arguing about stupid things, but Daeran waves him off with a gesture. „It‘s fine, let‘s just forget about this,“ he mutters.
„Yes... let‘s.“
There‘s just exhaustion now. It gapes in his chest like a hole greater than his Worldwound. In one evening he has lost his faith, argued with his beloved about it, and poured out his heart about his loss of... being anyone at all. That seems like more than should fit in a week, let alone a night.
He leans to the side in blind faith until his head hits Daeran‘s shoulder. The man says nothing, but for a moment, Raziel can feel warm breath pass over his scalp as he turns his head to look.
„You know,“ he hears Daeran speak, far more quiet than before, „It‘s frustrating to think that you were feeling like this right next to me. How long have you been struggling and said nothing?“
Raziel says nothing for a moment that takes too long to leave. „A while. It didn‘t seem like something to bother you with, considering... well, you know. Everything.“
Daeran huffs, but says nothing more. The world has grown more lonely somehow. He nestles further into his side.
„I feel like I‘m not really a person - never was. Just a thing that people project their desires on.“
It is hard to put into words, but he finally realizes - he feels like Nenio. Something created solely for a purpose.
„That‘s why Areshkagal got to you, I take it. You know that thing was talking nonsense, don‘t you?“ Daeran‘s voice is a volatile mix of sincerity and agitation. „You don‘t stop being someone just because you no longer have words to describe it.“ He vaguely gestures with his hand. „I can remove meanings from objects all day long, they still happen to be there. All those cultists in there who tried to become ‚nothing‘... fools, the lot of them. They were scared of life and threw it away.“
Raziel remains silent for a moment, pondering. „That may be so... but they weren‘t created with purpose. They instead sought to have one. It‘s... different, to choose who you are, instead of being what you were made.“
„I can‘t believe I‘m saying this but... do you really think she intended for you to pick up a holy sword you found in a pile of rubble and turn yourself into a mortal angel? After she went through all this trouble to inject you with distilled demon lord essence? It‘s the most perfect act of defiance imaginable.“
Raziel snorts. „It physically hurt you to say that, didn‘t it?“
„Yes,“ Daeran replies, utterly sincere. „Appreciate my sacrifice.“
„I do,“ he whispers. „Very much.“
A yawn overcomes him. The exhaustion has finally made way for genuine tiredness. He lifts his heavy head and searches for his beloved, sharp-tongued aristocrat‘s piercing eyes. „Daeran?“ he asks, and thus grabs his attention; „Thanks for coming over. I didn‘t know I needed it.“
The piercing focus of his emerald eyes rests on him for an uncomfortably long moment. His face is just as unreadable as before, but slowly a smile begins to tug at the corners of his mouth. Daeran averts his gaze before too long, denying Raziel the pleasure of seeing his full smile. „No idea what you mean. I just felt like chatting, obviously. And now I shall sleep.“
„Of course.“ A playful whim overcomes him; he leans in close to his elf-like ear and whispers, "I still love you, though.“
It takes Daeran physical effort to restrain the budding smile now. He pointedly looks the other way.
„Feeling shy?“ he teases.
Perhaps he shouldn‘t have challenged the infamous Lord Arendae, because Daeran quickly whips around and catches his lips before another word can pass over them. It‘s a short kiss, no longer than a few seconds, and once he pulls back looking smug, he is already in the process of getting up. „No.“
Raziel manages to blink - and nothing more - as Daeran casually strolls over to his bedroll, wishing him a pleasant night with one last glance over the shoulder.
The rest of the party has already gone to sleep - except for their night watch Arueshalae, whose ruby eyes gleam like distant lights in the dark. For a moment brief enough to be missed just by blinking, he feels like he can see an amused smile pass over her lips.