God risen

His brain processes it only long afterwards, when he has been molded anew already. The signs start slow: he stands with his naked feet on broken colored glass and his skin is broken too, certainly, for even with no sting there is a red mass pooling and staining the sacred grounds. And this too is a sign – how he stands, here. How the acrid and sour of his mouth have molded into pure salt, how his skin has settled and no longer jitters and prickles where it is bathed in deep crimson, shades deeper than the one by his feet. How he can feel it, all around him, in the parts missing and new – that this is no longer sin. No longer profanity, not sacrilege. Like no such word could ever defile him.

The church, a hallowed meadow constructed by community faith, is devoid of any previous sanctity it may have worshiped. The glass panel that once stood for meters and miles and told more of the people’s adoration than the sanguine stories of deities they so beautifully depicted — and now, strewn across the ground as it were, it told too of the anguish and the sorrow.

They left it bereft and empty and its people abandoned and–

No. Not empty.

He stands taller and feels as his chest expands, grander than ever before, beyond all he'd think himself capable of here. He shuffles, languidly. Steps would feel like too much in the quaint, ruined altar; a simple skid, so he'd face his crowd of faith-made, faith-lived people.

But he can't just leave them here, can he? So fragile in their blind devotion, left here, devoid of their adored... why leave them now, when he could repurpose them? Give them a home to fall under, bigger than ever before. Cherish them in equal, of their deserved nature.

He'd always wondered and questioned the patronage of holy saints. Holier beings, caring for the devotion of humans? Now, though, he understood. 

It's a two-way street, faith. He sees the broken sobs still stuck in their throats, how fire has died out in their eyes but there is still brimstone, still hurt, still fear, and the desire to maintain the status quo of an easy, understandable and controllable world. Looks at them, and remembers how eagerly they had run their mouths on his perdition, blindly following the words of a long, long dead soul. The presence of the father's body mere steps behind him burns the back of his eyes, stings his scleras, but he stills himself to look, still, a little more, unblinking, because he sees it — the faith that had led them all here. Sees how so fundamentally human it is. Egoistic while managing to be selfless, burning in hate while drowning in love, so filled with despair and perdition so that it can bring promises of hope and penance and — and he can fix this. He looks at them, fragile, and thinks, he can fix this. He will. Because it's such a heady thing, the faith he sees, and he wants it for himself.

It must be this; it has to be this. The thing that has moved all others before him. As different – as human-born and human-made – as he is, he still craves it.

And so it moves him, too, now.

He raises his hands, slowly, with limbs heavy-filled with lead and dying nerves that haven't finished being remade. Cups his hands, feels the blood they're stained with still warm as they form into a sign. Notices, minutely, the small trail of red his moving arms cause on the ground.

"Oh, what a tragic sight," he lulls, voice airy like he is breathless— and he feels, in a way. 

His chest is almost caving in itself as he looks down into the rapt contemplation the people have on him. His legs are weak, too, like it's dizzying. So much adoration, oh, so much devotion...

"You build a holy, sacred ground, for your deities to hear your adorations... and then, they leave. With no concern for you."

His cupped hands cross. Left fingers over his right ones. His thumbs touch.

"Simply because they are scared of me."

He raises his hands until they align with his chin. His arms have never felt heavier.

"Oh, woeful creations of God..."

In the crowd beneath him, he can see the slow rise of hands as they reach to carve words of their own. A response. "Penance before god", rising one after the other. He can feel it, like electricity cruising through his body.

It's intoxicating, and he is too far gone now.

"Abandoned children, in a destroyed home."

Like breathing, his hands drop into his next sign. Forgotten is ‘forgiveness’, and with the church's stained glass still burned into the back of his eyelids, he moves. Brings his left hand – the one that means heart, he remembers – to the middle of his chest, palm facing upwards. Copies something that mere hours ago couldn’t be meant for him but now, forms easily into his pliant hands.

He touches his thumb to his middle finger, stands his pointer. Closes his ring finger and pinky into themselves.

‘I am God.’ He doesn't need to say it.

Just like that, the spell is broken. A snap of fingers' time, and the herd of pure-white sheeps explodes, set loose of their shepherd's control and running out the door and into the waiting, wolfish jaws of the outside world. It's heartbreaking. 

It's breaking him, the newly assigned god's mind blanking into a mixture of fizzy static and pure nothing with the unexpected refusal. He opens his mouth, and chokes between "wait" and "why", words and emotions fighting and scorching his everything. Like a fire lit in the pit of his stomach whose flames now licked his insides and spread slowly into every inch of his body and whose smoke filled his lungs and dragged across his trachea into the back of his eyes.

He watches them, eyes hollow of much anything and cheeks wet – stained by and with humanity. He is human-born, man-made, he remembers again, and wouldn’t escape such. A contradiction, he thinks, maybe, is bound to such. To rip at its seams and shatter to its core, unable to abandon either realm on a whim.

Like a spell breaking, he remembers between blinks. Like this is going too far, he thinks, but then again knows it isn't. As one by one the church adherents stand up on shaky limbs and scramble for the door, he thinks, maybe this too was a lesson learned before. That as much as divinity brought humans crawling onto temples and confessionals and martyrs, like Icarus flying too close to the sun, it could frighten the weak-minded and fear-oriented.

Closing his eyes, the deity parts cracked lips and sighs. He is exhausted, and a moan embeds, laces, and stitches itself at the long line that escaped his mouth. He is so, so tired. Everything aches, in a buzzing kind of way; nerves alight, counting one by one, but not prickling discomfort into his skin. His muscles tremble and spasm, every now and then, but are overall coated in the sinusy mix of hormones that always come after overexertion and leave every strand of tissue feeling numb and torpid.

The black water of unconsciousness is rising, inch by inch devouring his body and mind. His eyelids grow heavy. Centimeter by centimeter, he feels any reasons not to succumb fade and wash away.

He dreams of faraway lands.

.

.

.

When his body begins to emerge from the thick, honeyed daze of slumber, the god knows instinctively he is somewhere different. Behind heavy eyelids his pupils move, dancing slowly from side to side in an impulsive manner to shake the last drops of drowsiness from his body. He really should open his eyes, and he really wants to, really, but there is a strange kind of thing tugging at his limbs that, by the second, as he becomes more and more awake and aware of himself, he can notice is in no part lethargy. It commands him to stay, too, sure, but still… It feels different. It’s not a ‘you can’t get up’ kind of stay, it is not nearly as physically damning and demanding as that; it’s something much more inviting, comfortable even. He has never felt this and so he cannot name but it intrigues him, this minute and shakeable thing and–

Well… maybe not “shakeable”. It was not unwelcome and not harmful, so there was no real need for that, was there?

The god hums and arranges himself further deep into where he lays, only now realizing how soft it feels against his skin. He had been so entangled in such fine, silky smooth material that he had not even noticed it. Huh. Weird.

When the god finally concedes and opens its eyes, it’s no surprise that his surroundings are unfamiliar. Again, he had felt it; knew it. Was soul-deep sure of it, since his very moving had been ingrained into his body and into his consciousness as soon as it happened– the perks of a god, he guesses, since he also knows he had been so stone-cold out there was no way he awoke through any of it. It had just taken his brain a bit of stimulus to actually comprehend it.

So, again, not surprised.

But still, curious. Irredeemably so, in fact, and vehemently set on discovering what the person by his side had done with the receipt of the ceiling’s paint. 

But, oh, yeah, right, the person. Right. The one who has been prostrated to the side of his makeshift silk bed since who-knows how long; but they had certainly been at it for quite some time, and would possibly keep the pose for much longer if they did not realize their… guest, so to speak, had in fact regained consciousness.

As such, the god moves. Sits up while deliberately ruffling the sheets as hard as he could against one another, against his skin– and enjoys endlessly the reaction it plucks from the puny human. They move while trying very hard not to, caught between surprise and the rules of their own mind, and end up almost spasming in a seizure while plastered against the hardwood floor. It is incredibly entertaining and endearing to watch, so much so the god almost wants to stop himself from saying anything and just poke around the one in front of him, bony fingers against fragile skin, to see how they would react to such a direct ‘attack’.

But before he can do anything at all, mouth hanging open and voice stuck somewhere in his chest, they speak.

"My Lord." and as soon as the word unsticks itself from their tongue, something explodes behind the god's eyes. He can hear the human's gasp as they get stuck between what else to say and the 'should he say anything else' of it. Like they don't know if their voice and presence are welcome and like they don't know how much one single word had been enough. How it tied itself around his throat and torax and stomach and everywhere. 

So the deity takes it upon itself, with gusto, to continue.

"Who are you?" He asks, voice hiding none of the wondrous feelings that settle into his chest. That someone has seen his divinity and deigned it theirs, too. "What is your name?"

The worshiper, seemingly baffled at their God's curiosity, works their mouth around nothing – like they want to answer quickly, but fight against the urge to let such trivialities grace the divine's ears. The need to give without questioning wins, in the end.

"It is Malak, my Lord," they say, timidly falling lower in their position, feet shuffling behind them. "But you need not refer to me as such. Call me any name you see fit, and I will happily be it."

Something blooms in the newborn god's chest, warm and spreading. He is tickled by a profound need to see his adorer's face, but knows they would not dare to look him in the face just yet. So he hums, instead, and lets the vibration push down his wants.

"And what has made you so devoted, Malak?"

There is a note of silence. They rise, ever so slowly and ever so slightly. Just enough so their prostration turns more into a deep bow.

"I saw you. In the church." They exhale, like it's a secret they feel oh so very guilty about, but could not help themselves from sharing.

The god smiles something irrevocably blasphemous, preening, and edges them further with only an "Oh? Is that so?"

In the sudden quiet that falls on the quaint, unembellished house, their uneven breaths sound louder than life to the god's ears. He sits, and waits, expecting a response as meek as the ones before; but then like a whip, their head cranes up. Divine and mundane lock eyes. Stars go out behind eyelids with every careful blink.

"You were beautiful." They say, whispered out in one single breath, mouth agape and moving like they are still trying to find the right words to describe him and– "Are beautiful. Were, are, will be." A shy splatter of pink tongue darts out, wetting their chapped lips. "I'm sure."

He doesn't know what will happen to him first – will he combust, here, alight with their words, or  will he succumb to desire and nature, to take them then and there.

He looks at Malak, sees them. Sees that their body is marred and marked and molded, by Malak's own hands he's sure, into their shape of being. It is miles away from the usual sacrosanct understanding of pureness, of virgin-like innocence; the pristine, untainted and untouched body. This is a warrior, someone who has fought against their own mind.

“You…” He starts, cautiously, “Are filthy, aren’t you?”

They shiver, sitting up straighter, and it allows him to see a sliver of tainted skin that was hidden so precariously – and it makes sense, now. He understands, He truly does. There are handprints all over their body, after all, claiming what was no-ones, what was left forgotten and whose disappearance wouldn’t be accounted for.

“A body so dirty; so stained and soiled,” he murmurs, a stream line of conscious thought that broke free, made itself known, and carved itself on his tongue in a manner that had never felt so right. It feels morbid, like tampering with a grave in an scavenger hunt for bones and forlorn prayers – but feels necessary, too.

Like a spark – and another, and another, and isn't this one good at that, lighting flames all around him – just in the back of his brain. This is something they need, he realizes. Says,

“A body so crude…” because, isn't this what it's all about? Religion, gods. Suffering as a step for achieving peace of mind. Torturing for the greater good.

Malak is caught hook, like and sinker. A ghost fish, pale and dead somewhere, somewhen, someone. But still a stargazer yearning for the supernovas in their Lord's eyes.

“I… I know…! My Lord is correct, a-and has the complete right to judge me for such, but…!" The shrill, sharp inhale of breath, caught between teeth and unsaid words, sounds like pain and like glitched playback of the word please. Like this is what they are keeping themselvesfrom saying; please, please, please. Please listen, please forgive me, please believe my sorry and untrue excuses. 

The god's human core of guts, innards and organs spin around like a trepidation carousel. For him, truly, Malak could say anything; it has been decided long ago what he would do to the human, no amount of nothing would change it. But it does not make this part any less satisfying. Or riveting. Malak's face, like a trapdoor by their feet has engulfed him in darkness and their deity's eyes become further and further away, their only light and only plight, escaping them, leaving them barefooted in the liquid devotion of this man- and mind-made well.

This is a desperation that, anywhere else, would be distraught even to him. But not now, not here. Here, it follows him. Commanded by, made by; here, sitting in satin and draped in silk, the god is in full control. As much as it was him who put that expression in Malak's face, so it will be him to remove it – and isn't that the most thrilling part? How he knows this. The certainty. The anticipation of it all, resting calm in his sternum, because there is only one outcome here and it has been premeditated to its finest grains. A song and dance, push and pull, and he is the leading force because he is the only one who knows the steps. It's warm. He wants to see them warm, too.

(Their waltz is this, he imagines. Religion. Gods. Pushing away, pulling back in. One, two. All so that he may see Malak's face when he dips them, but doesn't let go.)

Unaware of it all, they carry on. 

"I promise… even with this body, I can be useful! I-I can… I can serve my Lord. Devote myself to you, your cause, I–!”

The god smiles. He is carnivore and wonders if he would feel those words, hear them, taste them as he bit and licked their mouth and tongue, their throat and sternum. Devoured them whole. Cataloged in extreme detail the lavish flavor of dedication, of affection. Of devotion.

But there is no time for that now, the deity ponders, is there. He has a job to do. A role to fulfill, and a soul to save in his hands.

“Oh, why, of course you can," He says, low and heavy, full of the unspoken sentiment that he had never once thought otherwise. The raw truth. 

Faith is a two-way street. He'd give as much as he would take, and he planned on taking everything.

Malak only blinks, caught off guard between the sincerity and the message. Voice and words weighing the world in his chest.

“Huh…?”

It's both the easiest and the hardest thing he's done yet: the god reaches out. Fits his hands in Malak's face, fingers spread wide as if to capture as much of the human as possible. The tip of his thumbs rest snug in the dip of each lower lid crease, his pinkies bend beneath their chin and touch each other as they provide support. Keeping Malak's eyes trained upwards, keeping their jaw shut in place. He is not supposed to touch them so but they are such a willing creature. 

“So goes a God’s purpose, no? To keep you by my side, in spite or because of. If you shall choose to follow me, then I, too, will choose to keep you. I will take, as tainted as your body is and as much as you may be soiled. I will hold you in this state, so I can hold you in others. So you can reach them, through me. Because of me. With me. By my side– and no one else’s.”

“My Lord…!”

Their face in his hands, ever so gently, burrows itself further in respite of any instincts to keep the holy intact and pure; free of sins and humanity. That is not the kind of god he is, however, and isn't that just it? The point. The grandeur of it all, of him, of it. The thing that has adjoined itself to his bones; his godhood.

Rough pads against soft cheeks and a warmth that kept spreading relentlessly and deliciously. It calls to him the same it fizzles it. He rests his forehead against the top of Malak's head for one, two breaths, then moves and whispers into their scalp.

"I will nurse and nurture you, you have not to ask. You have only to stay."

He is a god in its temple now. Cloths draped around his shoulders in rivulets like a river, the sturdy mass of his body a solid mountain made of prayers and the scrapped skin of knees amounting together. He is light to Malak's eyes, predator of their sight. 

His salvation and his damnation both, he knows, as there could never be anyone else.