| Stained Glass |
|---|
| Byㅤ |
| Published on 07 Jun 2022 00:33 |
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Info
Something About God
Written by
Fish^12
Bloodborne canon when muffins. muffins. hello? muffins.
Oh, what's this? It's my author page.
"Good tidings, stranger."
A mummified man, wrapped in the rotting remains of a nursing gown, spoke to Mr. Filia. The sudden break in silence startles him, and he reaches for his sabre, before deciding otherwise.
It seems that the other man had been slumped against a pew, in a position not unlike death. His eyes were glassy, nearly doll-like in composition, and horrendously sallow. He was shriveled, his skin simultaneously tight across his bones and drooping, like drying sheets on a clothesline. He was so convincing that Mr. Filia had simply walked past him.
"Do you like it?"
Mr. Filia looks back up at the stained glass window, its opulence almost offensive. Time slows down as he begins to ponder the manhours dedicated to it, how much life this art must have secreted away. He nods.
"Good. Good."
His voice was hoarse, rattling about his chest with worrying sickness. Suddenly, he coughs violently, bleeding phlegm in a shotgun blast. Clawing at his heart, he breathes with the intensity of a last breath, clutching desperately.
The old man's head droops, and he leans over to the side, body first. His shoulder hits the ground, the hollow crack of bone on stone echoing, paired with a disturbing stillness.
This time, he's truly dead.
It was Mr. Filia's job to follow death.
Doing so led him to the outskirts of the world, where ash and dust lay thick on the achievements of mankind. Where the earth has retaken the path, smelling of mildew and overgrowth. Where there are travelers but no merchants.
Today was a quiet day. He found that churches did deign peace. The ennui of travel gives way to dogma, and he begins to see memories of Sunday mass, rows of people with their hands folded, echoing the children's choir, led by a stoic shepherd.
He thinks. There is no better place to die than in a church.
…
Of course, he still had a job to do. Man cannot rely on God to do all our work. We must earn our pay, our food, as all powerful as He may be. Mr. Filia must prepare the body, among other things.
Mr. Filia takes out a tiny bottle, a concoction of holy water, silver, and a selection of choice metals. When he originally mixed this viand, he kept some measure of trepidation, unsure if such a convenient item would work. A brief test sundered a piece of vampire skin, curdled rotting flesh, and burned werewolf fur. He reveled in the results.
He carefully balances the bottle over the old man's skull, aiming at an indent where the liquid may rest. The drop seeps into his visage, leaving behind a small deposit of salts. No reaction. Amazingly enough, he was entirely human. He wonders how he survived so long alone.
Suppressing discomfit, he picks up the corpse and finds that it is disproportionately light, a sign of malnutrition or disease. He carries him to the Lord's Altar. God knows my duties, and it is only appropriate to help my fellow brother.
How has this one died?
The ceremonial knife slides over the sternum, pulling back skin with the steadiness of a blooming flower. Confidence is key in post mortem affairs, and Mr. Filia was used to peeling back the layers. With unrestricted view of the rib cage, he firmly grips the largest bones and squeezes inwards, snapping the brittle marrow. He removes the bones from the body, a latticework of osteology.
First, the lungs.
Blackened. Shriveled. Chalky.
A result of working in the mines. Surprising, given his current stature. Excessive coal inhalation must have crippled his vitality. Curiously, it is uncommon for miners to suffer from this condition. Many more die from collapses, immolation from lit coal dust, even the occasional dormant monster.
The hands.
Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a discrepancy, a certain softness. The old man's hands are smooth, uncalloused, an oddity, given his previous occupation. He touches his palm, and finds no fingerprints. The skin feels like sandpaper, leveled, as featureless as a blank slate.
Interesting. Why?
Instinctually, he pinches the skin and smells the residuum, and a connection is made. It's faintly reminiscent of antiseptic.
As he suspected. A felt cloth, made from the pelt of a sheep. Lukewarm water in a brass pot. A variety of rare herbs and fragrant oils. A wooden tub, hidden in the corner of the church, tucked away underneath a set of scaffolding.
The old man had been cleaning the stained glass windows.
From how well trodden the area was, it seems he never stopped, taking apart each window piece by piece, taking painstaking care never to damage the glass. It would be folly to question his motivations, only that he has earned the right to reside in heaven with God. But perhaps that was never his goal to begin with.
Mr. Filia hoped it was out of selfless obligation.
With the man buried and gravestone placed, Mr. Filia took one last look at the church, admiring the stained glass windows, and traveled west, in the direction of the setting moon.
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