[Gift] The 11th Hour | Blessing

The light that pierced the gloom was quickly beaten back by an all-encompassing, oppressive darkness. The frail form lit by that needle-esque spotlight drew away from the encroaching shadows, trembling. The sound of hooves scraped over stone, and he fell over himself, scrabbling across the tiled floor.

Upon seeing the terrible, awesome shape in the dark—confronted with the unmitigated force of them—he turned away, chose to expose his fragile, vulnerable back rather than face it.

It felt safer, more comforting than confronting it.

The Horned God was not merciless.

This wretched creature had been thrown into their shrine by crueler hands than their own, fear burning at the center of him, feverish consumption that would swallow him whole if given the chance.

“I do not require your death.”

This, understandably, did not quell his fear. There were many things worse than death.

“You were not a sacrifice I asked for.” The Horned God sneered, the bridge of their snout wrinkled, sharp teeth bared. “I do not dance at anyone else’s tune.”

They approached with a gentle step, the noise echoing off the stone walls of the shrine. Into the thin beam of light, stretching one wing over the fallen man, bathing him in shadow, protecting him from the world.

Slowly, his tremors never ceasing, he turned his face up to them. Once he looked up, he did not cower again. He was terrified, yes, but awed. Comforted, in some way, that the terrible beast he’d been fed to had not opened its maws to devour him.

The Horned God took his face in their hands, and heat bled into the body beneath them, fortifying them.

This was how a disciple was made: a blessing in a lonely and desolate place.