Story Reader / Festival Event Story / Mercy in All Things / Story
"...One of the most painful examples of the martyrdom of knowledge about love: the martyrdom of the most innocent and most desiring heart,
which was never satisfied with any human love, which demanded love, to be loved and nothing else,
with hardness, with madness, with fearful outbreaks against those who denied him love;
the history of a poor man unsatisfied and insatiable with love,
who had to invent hell in order to send there those who did not wish to love him—
and who finally, having grown to understand human love, had to invent a God who is entirely love, who is capable of total love—
who takes pity on human love because it is so pathetic, so unknowing!
Anyone who feels this way, who knows about love in this way—seeks death.
—But why dwell on such painful things? Assuming we don't have to."
Dawn breaks; gears turn. In this reality shaped by Ishmael's "guidance," a precious "second day" begins.
You wake as sunlight pierces the curtain gaps, setting the dust motes adrift in the air ablaze.
The bed is still soft, the books on the bedside night stand in their same precise order.
But one thing is different.
Your hand slides across the sheets to the pillow beside you. It's cool to the touch. You press your palm down—the space is utterly empty.
Ishmael is gone.
Raheleh, have you seen Ishmael in the basement?
A panicked shout echoes from below. The voice is Etha's. Soon, the frantic drumbeat of footsteps pounds up the stairs, and she bursts onto the attic landing, her voice now a desperate clamor.
She's not upstairs either... Oh no, Ishmael is really gone!
All the luggage is packed... Where could she have gone at a time like this?
Silently, you get to your feet and start to pack.
While turning up your collar, a cold object slides across your collarbone, tumbles down inside your clothes, and lands on the bed.
You retrieve it: a die, the number "1" stained with blood. Holding it, you finally still your movements.
What did you say?
Whoa, whoa! First Ishmael disappeared, and now you've completely lost it? What is going on with everyone today?
Raheleh approaches from the attic stairs, her eyes searching yours in confusion.
...You're the one Ishmael brought here. Go ahead. What is it you plan to do?
Clutching the die Ishmael left behind, you see no need to reiterate the facts Etha and Raheleh already possess. Instead, you walk to the window and pull back the curtains in one decisive gesture.
Perhaps from watching for too long, or simply out of impatience, the sun and the moon are shifting back to their natural states. Today, the sun is a stark, blinding white.
You stare directly at the pale, dim sun.
You pick up the die, letting it spin between your fingers just like Ishmael always does.
The sun doesn't move, but everyone can feel its piercing gaze fixed intently on the die in your hand.
A fleeting, unsettling laugh escapes you as you toss the die. Your hand darts out, covering the result before it can settle.
Abruptly, the sunlight stutters.
You leave the verdict covered. Without a single glance at the hidden fate, you pocket the die.
Then, you offer a wink to the sun, just like Ishmael always does.
The flow of seven days accelerates, and in the blink of the sun and moon, the day of the new Pontiff's inauguration arrives.
Countless dark specks swarm the square beneath the glass tower, coalescing into a dense, suffocating mass.
The crowd presses together, forced to share the same stifling air.
Despite this, more pour in from every direction—by carriage, automobile, train, and ship—layering the square in a seething black cloud.
In their hands, crimson "tendrils" flutter and intertwine, creating the ceremony's most magnificent spectacle.
At ten o'clock sharp, under the gaze of the pale sun, the ceremony begins.
Brothers and sisters... we are all children of the Holy, gathered here today by the divine will.
Amid the loudspeakers' howl, the new Pontiff raises his arms skyward, intricate rope-like tendrils spinning wildly at his fingertips.
The sea of people prays as one, their summoned tendrils dancing in a frenzied concert.
Yet the appointment itself is not the true focus.
Everyone here knows the real purpose: to pass judgment upon the former Pontiff, Ishmael.
As if reading their minds, the new Pontiff rushes toward the main event with jubilant impatience.
We stand united to address the grave charges brought against the former Pontiff, Ishmael.
That single "we" from the new Pontiff's lips heralds the merger of ecclesiastical authority and judicial power.
Today, we shall render judgment upon Ishmael.
Ishmael... you falsely claimed to speak for the Holy to seize the office of Pontiff. How do you plead?
His gaze falls to the base of the steps, where the crowd is thickest. There stands a narrow prison cart, and within it, the accused.
Though bound hand and foot, she stands tall.
Her attire remains immaculate, still radiant with light—a glory none can strip away, and none dare touch.
Be careful. Don't push forward.
"Conformity" is a dangerous dance. You're forced to match the steps of those ahead, lest you stumble and be trampled.
Ishmael ignores the new Pontiff's proclamations. She offers no plea, shows no regard for the charges, and instead fixes a sorrowful gaze upon the flock surrounding her.
Ishmael! You conspired with foreign powers, maintaining ties with Kerentos, even staging your own assassination to incite unrest and cover your escape. How do you plead?
Traitor! Enemy of Thebesia! Confess your sins now!
An angry young man hurls a stone, but as his arm extends, the crimson "tendril" at his fingertips is pulled by an invisible force, drawn straight into Ishmael's chest.
Come. Surrender those threads controlling your mind, to me.
High above, the new Pontiff continues listing the charges.
Ishmael, during your tenure, you illicitly controlled multiple bishoprics...
Child, come closer. Give me your hand... I won't harm you.
...You abused your authority for personal gain...
Come, all of you. Gather outside my cage. Raise your furious hands to me, if you must.
The crimson tendrils are rapidly being absorbed.
...Ishmael. You have the right to present a defense.
The laughable charade of a trial, now mere background noise, concludes swiftly. As expected, every charge against former Pontiff Ishmael is upheld.
Only then does Ishmael reluctantly cease converging the tendrils, her strength finally waning.
I have no defense to offer. Or rather, any defense would be meaningless.
A cage seeks a bird. An altar seeks a scapegoat.
The judged—and the worshipped—are of the least concern. How Ishmael is judged has little to do with what Ishmael is.
To think that guidance and conformity have been turned into a universal principle... How tragic.
...Ishmael offers no defense.
The new Pontiff dismisses her words, descending from the platform as if the cage and altar have been prepared for this day since the beginning.
By the will of the Church, by the will of its people, and by the admission of the sinner Ishmael... I sentence you to death.
And by the will of the Holy, with immediate execution.
...And does the Holy will have no objection?
Brothers and sisters! Let us recite the Hymn of Divine Mercy!
He offers no answer to her question. Instead, he calls upon the crowd to join him in a hymn.
O divine one... bestow your mercy, touch me with your grace...{226|153|170}
As the final note fades, they raise their hands and eyes to the heavens.
But the sky is silent, offering not even a passing bird.
The Pontiff lowers his hands and solemnly proclaims the divine will one last time.
The Holy has no objections.
Whoosh—
Under the silent approval of the divine, the pyre—long prepared for its scapegoat—finally bursts into flame.
...Heh. It's done. The "guidance" that clouded you has been removed. When this ritual ends, you will finally see clearly.
"Humanity"... is always the same. In any world, any civilization, you so readily embrace ideas you don't understand, handing over your own judgment without a second thought.
...But still. My time here was not without its joys. Genuine ones.
For that, you have my gratitude.
Tendrils of flame lick at the condemned's robes, and the kindling crackles hungrily below.
—To hell with that! I've got objections enough for all of you!!!
Then, from the edge of the dark cloud-like crowd, a high-pitched roar of defiance erupts, drowning out the fire.
A slight girl climbs onto a wooden barrel, a flash of blue hair against the dark mass.
She is dressed exactly as she was on the day of the assassination—hair tied back, scholar's soft leather shoes on her feet—once again brandishing her blade for the "truth" she believes in.
Every single one of you, including that holy man on his high horse, you're just as blind as I was!
Etha! Now! Ram this stupid ceremony!!
Before the eyes of the entire crowd, Lesti stands tall on the wooden barrel, brings her fingers to her lips, and lets out a piercing whistle.
Cries of alarm erupt from the fringes of the crowd, but they are instantly drowned out by the thunderous approach of a horse.
A carriage bursts violently through the mass of onlookers, charging into the execution grounds and scattering people like ink in water.
Well, guess I'm a real carriage driver now! Juice, ram everything in sight! Don't hold back!
The horse, "Juice", charges wildly through the chaos. On the carriage, the driver plants her feet firmly and, with impossible balance, rises to stand upright on the animal's back.
From this precarious perch, she raises a rifle and takes aim at the large lock on the prison carriage.
In this moment, she is every inch the seasoned hunter.
Bang! She fires the very first shot.
Ishmael, you deserve to be free. And that is my will!
The cage door bursts open, freeing its prisoner from the encroaching flames.
In response, the world itself seems to convulse. The sun trembles in the sky, and the crowd begins a grotesque transformation.
Fingers twist into tentacles, cellular division redirecting as limbs splinter into arthropod segments.
The primitive, monstrous mutation strips them of all will. Without the threads of "guidance," the "world" can only resort to this primitive method, forcing them to howl and lunge at Ishmael and her rescuers.
Just like that person said... it's panicking now.
The second shot. Etha raises her hunting rifle again, this time aiming at the puppet pontiff on the high platform.
Before their operation, the lunatic in the attic had told her that she could open fire.
All this time, she has been Ishmael's shadow, a silent witness to her encounter with that person. She understands Ishmael—knows precisely why she places such faith in that other person.
And beyond that understanding, her recurring dreams have lately granted her knowledge that surpasses even the spacetime theories of her "original self."
To put it simply—she, Raheleh, Etha, and all the rest... they all exist because Ishmael exists.
Therefore, she trusts
...May the Four-Winged White Raven protect us.
Etha fires her second shot.
It strikes the "new Pontiff" dead-center. The creature falls, its pious disguise sloughing away to reveal the horror beneath. Etha exhales, a wave of relief washing over her.
...It's your turn now, "Gray Raven". We can't defeat these monsters on our own. That was the last shot I could offer you.
She looks up and shouts toward the glass tower behind the monsters, her voice carrying the same tone as when she'd posed as a carriage driver, waking that drowsy visitor at the suburban cemetery gates.
Hey! You—"Gray Raven"—you haven't forgotten, have you?
In the next instant, the tower explodes from its center. Whether
From the heart of the explosion, a gray mecha descends, landing with a force that gouges a crater into the plaza.
Hurry, get Ishmael out of there! Whatever freedom means to her, let her choose it for herself!
You know this machine so intimately—not as a tool, but as an extension of your own body. Bringing its systems online is as natural as your own heartbeat.
You thunder down the path that Lesti and Etha bought with their efforts, a relentless force heading straight for the prison cart burning under the harsh sun. Any creature foolish enough to block your path is simply erased.
Grrrrr!
Finally, you are there. The mecha stills its roaring engines and, with impossible delicacy, gathers the shackled Ishmael into its embrace.
Click-clack... The armor of the faceplate unfolds, revealing you within. You emerge from the shell of steel, leaning close through the dissipating steam—
—and plant a merciful kiss on Ishmael's forehead.
