Saint Amaranth

I can see them in my mind's eye even now, the verses that were beaten into me in my childhood. They swim before me in the sightless void, waiting to be plucked from my memories and employed. I had paid dearly for every misremembered word, but now, even though I shall never read again, I remember all of it lucidly. I remember the cadence of every harsh reprimand, the soreness of pages turning against my raw fingers, the way my eyes burned with tears as I cowered beneath the whip. I remember whether I want to or not, each lesson branding the holy scripture into my mind with singular clarity. The scripture states that the sacred rites must start with a prayer. They must always start with a prayer. This prayer must be heartfelt, earnest, and unique. To disrespect Him with recited verses and tones is heresy.

And so I search and search, but there's nothing. No words, no thanks, no feeling. I am unable to muster even the barest hint of genuine gratitude towards God, and I am far too weak to fake it. How can I, knowing the pain he will inflict on me so callously and so imminently? How can I think of a prayer when all I can feel is dread? It's hopeless. Futile. My entire body is shaking in terror, and I am certain I would be crying right now if my eyes were still able to.

But my fear of displeasing Him is far stronger. A creeping paranoia tells me He is here with me, waiting, watching, judging. I can feel His gaze on my back, condemning me. I am failing Him, and He hates me. That is why He hurts me so much. It's the only thing that makes sense. My existence shames Him, my mind poisoned by selfish thoughts of self-preservation. The crusaders fight and die in the holy wars against our enemies, and it is a sin to not sacrifice my own life and livelihood to help them. At least that's what I tell myself again and again, that I am needed, that I've earned nothing and deserve nothing, that I am a martyr. But the assurances grow more empty every time I repeat them. Still, with a poor facsimile of resolve built up, I reach out, groping blindly until I feel the cool glass of the vial. Seraph's Blood, my salvation and my damnation. I shudder, and, with a badly trembling hand, wrap my fingers around it, kneel, bring it to my heart, and start to pray.

"Oh great and venerable one, please... Please, I can't... I can't take anymore..." I begin tentatively, sounding more like begging than like a prayer. "Please, just... Have mercy. Don't hurt me again. I'm s-so... so scared. I'm scared of the pain, and... And I'm scared of you. I just want to be numb. If you will it, let it all end now, without any pain. Please. Let this be the last time. Your faithful servant is tired..."

Completing my broken prayer, I tilt my head back and bring the vial to my lips, forcing myself to down it all in one clean swig. The blood is unstirred and congealed, a mix of flavorless watery liquid with large gooey clots amidst it. It might almost feel like porridge going down my throat if not for the foul taste, which is sharply bitter and makes me gag. It's an honest and unapologizing flavor, carrying hints of both medicine and toxin. There is a faint undertone of something metallic too, but I've grown so used to tasting my own blood that I hardly notice it.

I notice the effects of the Seraph's Blood almost immediately, a numbness forming in my temples and creeping slowly towards the back of my skull before settling there densely, suffocating my thoughts. My ears begin to ring next, and vertigo overtakes me suddenly, the blackness that I live in seeming to stretch, swirl, and contort around me. Even these minor symptoms are so much worse than last time, promising horrible things to come... or perhaps the end of my failing body. Perhaps this is the answer to my prayers. I find comfort in that thought as the vertigo proves too much. My balance is lost despite already being in a kneeling position, and as I fall forward my arms are too sluggish and heavy to catch me. My head hits the tiles with a hard crack, but I feel disembodied and numb to care. I puddle onto the floor, my muscles going limp. I'm not alarmed when my breathing stops; in fact, I feel strangely at peace. Maybe this is the end... Maybe I'm finally going to die...

But my brief peace is abolished by the white hot blaze of divinity painfully flaring through my body and snapping me back into focus. I try to will myself not to breathe, but my muscles force me to as they begin to contort and spasm in a violent seizure. As I try and fail to contain the force of the divine, my blood seems to boil in my veins, molten heat stitching through my flesh in tiny strings of agony. The blood vessels in my eyes are the first to burst, the tears I am unable to cry running in bloody rivulets down my cheeks and soaking into my blindfold. My nose and ears are next to pop, oozing with fresh gore that trickles down my face and cheeks. But even this does nothing to abate the pressure I feel threatening to rip me from the inside. My face and limbs start to swell obscenely, red beads forming under my finger and toenails as my body rejects the foreign substance. I try to scream, but all that escapes is a muted, gurgling sound as blood surges up from my throat. Choking, I start to vomit blood, a hot, metallic taste driving away the bitterness from before. The pressure continues to surge as my body refuses to tolerate the divine, but before it can crush my heart and put an end to me my skin starts to split open. Dozens of lacerations erupt across my body, staining the bandages that I came pre-wearing red.

Neither death nor unconsciousness comes for me as I thrash and writhe on the hard tiles, open wounds being ripped wider by my flailing. I cannot scream or even lose consciousness in protest, nor can I die, forced to live through every moment of this holy hell. After several agonizing minutes of finding no abatement nor sleep my body finally starts to acclimate. As the seizures and convulsions finally subside, I lay limply upon the hard tiles, gulping at the air. For how long I lay there in a puddle of my own blood I do not know, for the throbbing in my limbs and veins robs me of my other senses. I lay there and try not to feel disappointed that I'm still alive, disappointed that I'll have to go through this again when my powers fade and I am required to do these rites once more. Eventually my swollen limbs shrink back to normal, and the burning feeling in my veins dulls. The only pain left now is from the gashes crisscrossing my body and from where I cracked my head into the floor when I first fell over, but these start to heal as well. The familiar tingle like spiders under my skin tells me that my saintly magic has returned, and won't be long before I regenerate. But not all the way. Never all the way. If I could regenerate completely I would not be blind or lame.

But the rite is not completed yet, and I cannot allow myself to rest before my duties are fulfilled, not while I can feel the eyes of God judging me. Although my battered body protests it horribly, I force myself to rise back to a kneeling position, cupping my hands and bringing them to my chest. The holy scripture reminds us that we must pray with 'thankfulness overflowing from our hearts' after receiving gifts from God, and although I feel no such gratitude, I dare not disobey.

"Thank you, mighty God, for blessing your humble servant once more." I flatline exhaustedly, trying to convince myself the words hold meaning for myself as much as I am God. "You strike me down so that I may be reborn in your glorious light, so I may rise anew to be the gentle hand of your grand design. May others suffering become my suffering. May every wound of my own heal one thousand more each twice as dire so that I may bear the burdens of my fellows nobly."

My claims ring hollow in my own ears. Healing one thousand wounds for each of my own might have been possible when I first became a saint and my body had not developed a tolerance to Seraph's Blood, but now? Now I'll be lucky to last a couple weeks in the infirmary. My healing powers will exhaust themselves, and I'll be sent back here. The cycle will repeat. Again, and again... and again. The texts say I should feel honored to self-sacrifice in this way, that charity is among the highest virtues, but all I feel is dread. The only hope I have left is that maybe I can die soon.

As I find the strength to start crawling out of my pool of blood, my thoughts drift to my retainer, the one was assigned when I first became blind to help me navigate. In a life marked by cold sermons and religious self-sacrifice, their presence as one who expects nothing from me is an anomaly, but a welcome one. The scripture warns of forming connection with anyone save for God, but God has been nothing but cruel to me while my retainer... Well, their aid does not go unnoticed. Naturally, they are not allowed to observe the sacred rites, but I'm sure they're waiting nearby. I need to let them know I'm okay.

As I crawl forward, I feel blindly at the ground for my cane, until at last my fingers wrapping around the familiar wooden handle. It takes a moment of feeling along the edges to find which side is the top and which is the bottom, but once I have I plant it into the ground and barely manage to hoist myself to my feet. My stride as I move towards where I remember the door being is lumbering. It starts with me throw-falling my arms and shoulders forward to plant the cane front of me, and then step-dragging my legs behind me until I'm standing once again, almost like I'm rowing a boat. Thump by thump, I make my way towards the door until my cane collides with the door during one of my lurches.

"Retainer, are you there? The rites have been completed. I am alive and have started to regenerate. You may enter now. Please, return to my side." I call out, my throat clogged with drying blood and my voice hoarse. "It is His will that I return to my duties soon. I am certain many of our righteous brethren are awaiting my healing in the infirmary, and it would be best not to keep them waiting. I will need your assistance arriving there, of course."