Chapter Text
“Every god demands your spine before it asks for your soul.”
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You wandered the cathedral like a ghost.
Pathetically, aimlessly, stupidly wandered, like some torn doll loose at the seams, stumbling on limbs no longer wholly yours. Somehow you could still smell the chapel clinging to you, sulphur and incense, blood and death. However, the air here was no better. It was heavy with the breath of old wood and rotting petals. You had fled the chapel in blind panic, tears drying on your cheeks once again, your breathing too loud in corridors too quiet. Every step echoed but you didn’t try to walk silently anymore. What good would it do? You weren’t hunted.
You were merely forgotten.
Your skin was clammy, cold sweat stuck your shirt to your back like a fevered hand. Your cheeks were streaked with new tears that clung stubbornly to your lashes, threatening to fall at the smallest sound and at the smallest thought. You kept wiping them away with the heel of your palm, only to feel the next one begin its quiet descent.
You didn’t know where you were going. Without a vessel to guide you, you were nothing but a lamb without a flock. The wicked building stretched in every direction, turning against you, its doors shifting when your back was turned. You sobbed once, a hitch in your throat, and you hated yourself for it. It was getting exhausting, all the crying, the trembling, the begging, the screaming. The silent hoping that someone might come and save you, even if to mock you afterward. You were getting tired of it, tired in a way that sleep wouldn’t fix. You swallowed the scream that rose up your throat and pushed forward.
You stumbled down another spiral staircase, your hands dragging along ancient stone walls. You couldn’t shake the feeling that you were walking in circles, passing the same column over and over again. You reached a corridor bathed in some sickly green light filtering down through stained glass windows, so tall they must have brushed the heavens, but you found no salvation in their glow. You wondered if someone like you had gotten lost in here before. If someone like you had wandered too long, until they simply vanished.
Forgotten even by the vessels.
Forgotten by their god.
You shook your head sharply, trying to force the thought away. You walked through hallways lit only by flickering candlelight, beside closed metal doors and along staircases that spiraled downward before folding back upon themselves like intestines.
And then you saw an opening.
A grand hall taller than any you had yet passed through, bathed in a strange, artificial gold light that spilled from no source. The walls were lined with nothing, no murals, no archways, no statues. There were no other doors either, only thresholds veiled in black silk that trembled though no wind passed. In the very centre of the hall stood an ancient wooden loom. It was enormous, its frame carved with symbols you couldn’t read. The material looked older than time, darker than night, smoother than polished bone. It stood untouched, unguarded, as if it had always been there and would always remain.
You stepped toward it cautiously.
The sound of your feet on the floor had never seemed louder.
Then came the pain. That horrible and familiar pressure at the base of your skull that made your knees buckle. You winced, hands flying to your temples, fingers digging into your scalp, as though something had reached through the back of your spine and gripped your mind. The pain grew sharp, stabbing, a hot wire twisted between your thoughts.
“No—no, no, no, leave me alone, no—”
Then came the voices.
“You are already theirs.”
“You are already ours.”
“They will feast on your body.”
“But they will love you. Oh, you were born to be adored.”
“They lie, even when they ask you a question.”
“V. V. V. V—”
You clutched your skull as if you could wring them out, tear the whispers from your flesh like thorns. However, they threaded themselves deeper instead, wrapping around the tender meat of your brain, curling into the roots of your spine.
A dozen tones, a hundred mouths.
“Please,” you gasped, “please stop—just stop, just stop—”
But they didn’t listen.
“You will drown in an endless sea.”
“Your bones will be instruments.”
“Your mouth will be a vessel.”
“He is watching.”
“He is waiting.”
And then the loom moved. A long length of pale thread dragged itself through the empty space between the frame, looping and twisting like a hand guided by invisible purpose.
You screamed.
You scrambled, limbs thrashing, and you ran. But the voices chased you. They followed like shadows, close enough to kiss your neck. You ran until your lungs burned, until your vision blurred again with tears and your legs threatened to give way. The cathedral blurred past you, through corridors that narrowed like hungry throats, past stained doors and candlelit stairs, you sprinted toward anything that looked like an exit. Anything that might taste like air. You slammed into a door, pushed it open with your entire bodyweight, and spilled into what felt like open space. You finally burst through a familiar archway and found yourself outside.
It was the garden.
A thousand winding paths snaked between beds and shallow pools of still water. Raised stone flowerbeds lay in geometric patterns, overgrown with vines. Trees grew in impossible shapes, spiralling upward or bowing downward as though to drink from the earth. Luckily, with every step, the pain in your skull dulled. Your chest heaved as you collapsed into the dirt, fingers clawing into grey sand as your knees sank. You gasped and cried and choked on the air all at once, every cell in your body singing with the sensation of finally not being chased anymore. The garden stretched before you in careful rows, an uncanny mimicry of peace. The flowers here were strange and small, their petals soft pink, almost translucent, growing from thorned vines that imitated the colour of bruised flesh. And slowly, like a fever lifting, the whispers finally faded. Their final laughter fizzled out like steam over water, melting into the soil, into the cracks of the cathedral wall behind you, into the nothingness of the vastness beyond.
Before you could catch your breath, a figure emerged silently from between the plants. Your eyes widened instantly, heart thundering, and you found yourself staring into II’s impossibly blue eyes, brighter by the blank cruelty of his mask. He loomed over you like something born of shadow and disdain. A bowl rested in one of his hands, its surface streaked with damp grey sand. In his other hand, he clutched something that looked like garden shears and surgical scissors at the same time, keen blades catching the grey light. The sleeves of his robes were stained with soil, evidence of tedious labour.
You froze, curled up on the ground as if you were nothing more than a startled animal, caught and helpless. II looked down at you like a man who had stumbled upon litter in a holy place. As if you were offensive to the divinity of this garden. There was something in II’s coldness, an emptiness so complete it nearly devoured all light around him.
II released a sigh that dripped with frustration, as if simply laying eyes upon you had drained him of any remaining patience. Without a word, he turned away, dismissing you utterly. You stared after him for a heartbeat, dazed, then forced yourself to your feet.
“II,” you managed, the sound pathetically soft. “Wait!”
You stumbled after him, breath still broken, chest still aching.
“Please,” you called again, louder this time. “Can you just—can you just wait?”
But II didn’t stop. He didn’t even hesitate, slipping effortlessly between the sprawling vines as if they parted willingly for him. You rushed after him on weary legs, your heart slamming so loudly in your chest it nearly drowned out the sound of your own footsteps.
“II,” you said, desperation edging your voice sharper now, nearly breathless. “Wait up!”
He stopped so suddenly you nearly collided into him.
Your feet skidded in the sand, knees buckling slightly as you halted just inches from his stiff back. He turned to face you slowly, with a motion so deliberate it felt like a threat. His sharp, unblinking gaze pinned you to the spot and you felt yourself shrink beneath his stare.
“Where’s IV?” II asked, each word clipped with quiet menace, spoken in that smooth accent that made your skin prickle. “You were meant to be with him.”
You blinked.
You didn’t ask how he knew that. Instead, you swallowed down the confusion, shaking your head slightly, words catching in your throat before falling out like snow.
“He’s with III,” you mumbled. “In the chapel. He—he said—”
II cut you off with another exhale through his nose, shorter this time, as though this revelation caused him further inconvenience. Even if his expression didn’t change behind his mask, the subtle shift in his posture showed a mixture of annoyance and resignation. Shaking his head slowly, he turned without further acknowledgement and began to walk again.
You hurried after him, feet slipping slightly on the uneven ground.
“I don’t—I don’t know the way back to my room,” you pleaded gently, hoping to reach some shred of empathy buried deep beneath his cold exterior. “Can you show me how to get back?”
II didn’t slow his stride.
“No.”
You frowned. “But I don’t know the way—”
“That’s not my problem,” he said flatly.
He continued walking calmly, as if you weren’t there at all, and you forced yourself to keep up, trailing behind him like a wounded animal begging silently for scraps of kindness. Your breath rattled softly, your pulse roaring against your temples. Eventually, II stopped beside a small wooden stool set near a basket filled with dried stems, neatly organized like bones left out to dry. Without acknowledging you, he lowered himself smoothly onto the stool.
His elegant fingers adjusted the grip on his gardening tool, and you just stood there, feeling utterly pathetic as he began cutting the vines before him. The blades made quiet snip sounds, each one followed by the rustle of a severed vine falling into the bowl. The plants bled when he cut them, the sap thick and faintly luminescent, trailing down his fingers. His hands moved gracefully, as though the garden itself were something delicate, sacred even, deserving of the reverence he denied you. You felt strangely intrusive, standing silently behind him, watching this ritual unfold, but you had nowhere else to go, too frightened to move closer, too terrified to leave. It was surreal, standing there, like sleepwalking through a fever dream that refused to break. Only a breath ago, IV threatened you with oblivion, then came the voices, clawing at your mind like fingers beneath your skin. And now this, this dreamscape of warped roots and cold blossoms, face to face with a creature who seemed to loathe you.
The world twisted at the seams. Nothing felt linear anymore. Gods above, it hadn’t even been a full fucking day, but the hours stretched and split like cracked mirrors. It felt like you had lived and died a hundred times since you woke in this place.
“Please,” you tried once more, softer, the word barely audible above the quiet rhythm of II’s pruning. “Can you just—”
He paused and the shears halted.
For a heartbeat, he remained perfectly still, his back tense beneath the stained robes. When he finally spoke, his voice was so quiet, so coldly calm, you had to strain to hear it.
“You were supposed to stay with IV,” he repeated, the words weighted with irritation. “And yet, here you are. Demanding more than you’re owed.” He resumed his snipping stems with sharp, precise motions. “I don’t enjoy being interrupted,” he declared emotionlessly. “Do you think I want you here, human? That your pathetic pleas move me?”
Your breath caught, shame pooling hotly beneath your skin.
“I didn’t—I didn’t mean—”
“You didn’t mean,” II interrupted smoothly, inspecting a colorless stem between two fingers. The sap smeared across the ridges of his hand like milk spilt over gravestone. “I’ve learned a long time ago that you humans never mean anything. You’re all impulse. Instinct. Weakness. You act, then you regret, and then you beg for forgiveness.”
He paused, placing the shears aside, then turned just enough for his blue eyes to cut into you again, pinning you helplessly beneath their cruel indifference.
“You should find something to do.”
You blinked. “Me?”
His gaze lingered on you a moment longer, heavy with judgement, then he turned back to his task without another word. “You do nothing, yet you are fucking loud. It’s getting boring. All that crying and complaining.”
Humiliation burned hot beneath your skin, rising quickly through your chest and pooling at the back of your throat uncomfortably. It took all your remaining strength not to let the tears spill again. Instead, with the brittle dignity you had left, you glared bitterly at II’s back.
“I’ve only been here for a day,” you huffed, your voice trembling but louder now, defiance glimmering beneath the surface. “What exactly do you expect me to do?”
“I expect you to listen,” he replied, as if you were some daft child, sounding bored and utterly detached from your struggle. “All of us are free to do whatever we wish, as long as our tasks are finished. Perhaps, instead of all the whining, you should find something that interests you. Something useful. Something quiet, yeah?”
He sounded exactly like IV had, same disdain hidden beneath the elegant accent. You could still hear IV saying it in that mocking lilt, lounging against cathedral walls with a smile that never touched his eyes. You had hated it when he said it. You hated it now, too. As if they had agreed on a script when it came to handling you. As if all of this, every look, every move and every cruel sentence had been rehearsed.
You turned your gaze away, staring down at the soil. You reached out absently, picking up a torn flower from the ground, twirling it slowly between your fingertips. Its pink petals felt strange against your skin, its colour bruised and faded. You shook your head slightly, feeling the weight of the emptiness within you deepen again.
“Yeah, right. I don’t even remember my name,” you mumbled bitterly. “Let alone anything I might enjoy.”
II’s movements slowed slightly, though he didn’t look directly at you. For a long moment, the only sounds were the rhythmic snip of his blades and the faint rustling of dying vines. The air grew heavier with the silence until finally, II broke it, his voice low and measured.
“Vessel likes to write,” he said slowly, almost reluctantly, as if weighing each word carefully before allowing it to escape. “He fills the library with endless diaries, poems, and songs. He claims it helps him remember. Pages and pages of things no one but him will ever read.”
You lifted your head cautiously, listening more closely, desperate for anything that resembled clarity or truth. II continued without looking at you, fingers gently twisting a bruised vine.
“III, of course, enjoys hunting Sleep’s other creatures,” his voice contained a mild but clearly audible disdain, “His is a much simpler pleasure. More direct. He wanders the forest, mostly, when he’s not sulking. Keeps things in check.”
You nodded faintly, remembering the brutal ease with which III had carried the corpse into the chapel. You shivered, and you tightened your grip on the flower between your fingers.
“And me,” II paused, turning the shears thoughtfully between his fingers. “I tend the gardens. I make things that are useful, things that make our existence here more tolerable.”
It was really odd, hearing this.
Mundane, almost.
As if their roles were as natural and fixed as the sun rising in the human world. As if it made perfect sense for a monster in a mask to trim vines and craft tools in a cathedral swallowed by a god. Your heart thudded painfully in your chest, anticipation knotting in your stomach. You let the flower droop and whispered, before you could stop yourself.
“And IV?”
You felt it before you saw it, the way his spine stiffened, the way his gaze drifted back toward the plants without looking at you. You waited, breath caught like a thorn in your throat. When he finally spoke, his tone was guarded, almost cautious.
“IV is our youngest brother,” II said carefully. “He gets bored more easily than the rest of us.”
That was all.
Your heart sank slightly, recognizing the careful avoidance in his response, mirroring exactly what IV had done earlier. Another incomplete answer, another dead end. But you didn’t dare press further, sensing instinctively that II’s patience was already stretched thin, when every kindness here could be weaponised and every word might become a blade. You watched him work in silence. It felt surreal, speaking with II like this, when the last time you saw him he was ready to send you back into the forest without any hesitation. You still remembered the sharpness in his voice, the way he told IV he should have left you where he had found you.
And yet now, somehow, he tolerated you.
Both he and III did.
The memory of III’s fury when you arrived still haunted you. The laughter as he loomed over you, mocking your horror. The flash of canines behind the mask, threatening to eat you. But something had changed. Both he and II, for all their cruelty, were no longer trying to push you into the woods. They weren’t trying to drive you out like an intruder. They tolerated your presence now. And you couldn’t help but wonder what had caused that change.
“Did Vessel—” you started, then stopped, trying to form your suspicions into words. “Did he tell you to be nicer to me or something?”
The sound that came from II was shockingly human.
He snorted. Actually snorted.
“Vessel doesn’t give orders, human.”
You tilted your head.
“But he—he’s sort of your leader, right? The one in charge?”
“Leader?” II echoed unimpressed. “No.”
You frowned, confused. “But he speaks for all you and—”
“He’s been here the longest,” II said, cutting you off, as if the word leader were something he disliked intensely. “That’s all. When he was born, this land was entirely different.”
“Different… how?”
He didn’t answer. You noticed the shift again. He was doing what all the vessels did, pivoting so that your questions fell into silence without being denied outright. You swallowed, feeling the quiet anger rise again, the simmering frustration at the vessels’ cryptic manipulation, their endless evasions, their hidden motivations that felt just beyond your grasp. Frustration burned beneath your skin, a raw and biting sensation that mingled uncomfortably with the exhaustion and fear already coiled around your chest. You felt pathetic, manipulated, powerless, trapped between the walls of their silence, drowning in a fog of unanswered questions. Why did they all dance around your questions, shifting topics? Why push so hard for your compliance, your obedience, yet deny you clarity, deny you even basic understanding?
You pulled your knees up to your chest, resting your forehead briefly against them. “Why won’t any of you just tell me the truth? You all want me to... behave, right? To become one of you, or one of your… followers, or whatever. But none of you will tell me how. Or why. Or what I’m even supposed to do. Why do you all act like this?”
II paused again, longer this time, and something in the stillness shifted. It felt as if, for just a heartbeat, he might finally break through the cold barrier between you. When he spoke, his voice was softer, yet somehow that fake gentleness cut deeper. He turned toward you, the blue of his eyes so sharp it stole the air from your lungs.
“Is that what you think? That we all want you to become like us?”
You stared at him.
“Don’t you?” you asked.
He tilted his head slightly, then returned to his work. The silence stretched so long you began to think he wouldn’t say anything more. He moved with the calm of someone who didn’t question the work, who understood his role in the mechanism. You envied that certainty.
“The truth isn’t something you can handle yet,” II declared after a moment. “You’ve not yet earned the right to hear it.”
You stared at him, his words sinking into you like teeth. A weight bloomed behind your ribs, tight and suffocating, as the truth curled in your gut like something rotting. Maybe this was a test or one of their cruel games. Just another layer in the labyrinth they built from half-truths and lies. Your surrender was the end goal, that much was clear. Obedience at the altar. And they wanted you to kneel before it, offering nothing in return but fucking riddles disguised as revelations, fragments dangled like bait. Just enough to keep you circling the void for the truth, blindfolded and begging for all eternity.
“You can’t demand clarity while refusing obedience,” II continued calmly, almost soothingly, as though he could read your mind. “You want trust, yet you offer none in return. If you want answers, learn to give something back.”
II didn’t know it yet, but your mind was already made up, a decision rooted somewhere deep within you, long before this moment. Despite the short time spent in their presence, you had begun to see the shape of their game, or at least enough of it to recognize it. You watched II speak, but it was Vessel’s voice you heard echoing in your skull and IV’s words rotting under your skin like spoiled fruit.
Oblivion or belonging.
As if either were mercy.
They wanted you to surrender to the idea that hollowing you out was love. That devotion to a heartless god who erased you was freedom. As thought the same god of theirs hadn’t already scraped you clean of name, memory, meaning. What did they think they were saving, really? You had nothing left. You were already the void they threatened you with. Already unmade.
You were being tested. Or softened. You didn’t know which was worse. And now, II dared speak of trust, of clarity, as though he hadn’t once suggested throwing you back to the forest. How convenient. Good gods, how hypocritical they all were. You nearly laughed aloud. What purpose did they offer you, really, when they had already taken everything you were?
You blinked rapidly.
“And if I don’t?”
II tilted his head slightly, the cool indifference of his gaze returning, piercing you like a spear. “Then you’ll remain exactly as you are now. Lost, afraid and alone, crying for the rest of your life for something you’ll never receive.”
You swallowed down the bitterness in your throat, his sharp words burning into your mind, branding themselves against your consciousness. You stared at the back of his head, digging your hands into the soil, gripping the coarse, grey sand so tightly it hurt. The tremble in your arms returned, but not from fear this time. And with that, the same hatred that could be heard from his words was now taking root in you too. Resentment that curled beneath your tongue like poison you no longer had the strength to swallow.
You would never trust them. Not any of them.
No matter how much you might crave comfort, no matter how convincing their lies became, how gentle their words turned, how beautifully they spoke of salvation, you wouldn’t fall for it. You swore to yourself, then and there, with fists clenched, that you would never kneel. Not before them. Not before their god. Not even if it meant dying on your feet with nothing left in you but spite. You would never trust them even if this fucking colorless sky cracked open and Sleep Himself descended to whisper love into your ear. You wouldn’t belong to them.
You would not become one of them.
You were just about to stand, your resolve turning sharp in your chest, when movement from the edge of your vision cut through your thoughts like a blade.
Vessel.
He emerged like a dream fading in reverse, stepping out from the crooked shadows between two overgrown hedges, his bare chest glistening faintly. His long limbs moved with elegance, his presence immediately shifting the mood of the garden like gravity bending around a star. He tilted his head carefully to one side, and you saw the curve of his neck elongate, almost inhuman in its fluidity. His skin shimmered, and the curve of his jaw was soft, delicate even, almost painfully beautiful if not for the unnatural stillness that haunted every part of him.
He didn’t even look at II when he spoke.
“Love,” he said, voice silk wrapped around steel, “you are not supposed to be here.”
His tone was gentle and rehearsed, just as it had been every time before. However, before you could even gather breath to reply, II’s head turned slightly toward him.
“I found her here,” II declared, turning his masked head slightly toward Vessel, “crying again. Said IV and III are in the chapel. Playing with another corpse, I’d imagine.”
There was bitter acid clinging to that word.
Playing.
Vessel only nodded, as if this information barely moved the needle of his interest, like it was all somehow beneath him. His six eyes turned to you slowly, one pair blinking just a second behind the others.
“I see,” he said at last, his long, painted fingers extended toward you, graceful and measured. “Come now, you’ve seen enough of the garden.”
His palm was open in a gesture of false warmth.
For a breath, you didn’t move. You looked at his outstretched hand and then sideways at II. He had already returned to his shears, snapping stems with a finality that made your ears ring. You could almost feel the tension radiating from his spine, a silent declaration, that you were no longer his concern. Your pride sparked hot again, so you stood up by yourself. You did it with dignity, brushing the dirt from your shaking hands. You ignored Vessel’s hand entirely. His smile didn’t falter, but it shifted, just a twitch in the corners of his lips, as though he had expected you to take his hand, and your refusal now amused him.
“Thank you, brother,” Vessel said then, looking down at II, voice honeyed with something darker all of a sudden. “For looking after her.”
There was something in the phrasing meant for II like a private joke they had been telling each other for years. II didn’t look up. He only hummed, a low grunt that could have meant you’re welcome or go fuck yourself, and you wouldn’t have known the difference.
“Keep her out of the garden,” he only murmured.
It wasn’t a request. It was a warning.
Vessel’s smile twitched wider.
You clenched your jaw, swallowing down the words that threatened to rise. You really wanted to spit in the dirt, to say that you loathed his company, that you wouldn’t return to this cursed patch of grey if he begged you on his knees. But you said none of that. Instead, you turned on your heel, walked with Vessel, and let the hurt sit unspoken beneath your tongue.
You passed through the garden gates, back beneath the stone archways that breathed cold into your bones. The cathedral air wrapped around you again, damp and perfumed with incense.
“You mustn’t let him get to you,” Vessel said suddenly, his voice low but clear.
“Who?” You frowned. “II?”
Vessel chuckled, the sound sliding from his lips like honeyed silk. It was alluring, yet beneath its charm lay something dangerous, something edged with sharpened intent. You saw a brief flash of sharp canines glinting pale in the flickering candlelight as he turned towards you.
Your breath caught.
Your gaze faltered, just for a moment, lured by the gentle curve of his voice. But you refused him the satisfaction of your attention, refused to let his voice seduce you once more.
“Tell me,” Vessel murmured, voice curling around you with practiced gentleness. “Have my dear brothers revealed the true purpose of this world to you yet?
Your mind flooded with fragments, words like freedom, devotion, salvation whispered to you. But you felt no comfort in their promises. Only fear, numbness and that endless, consuming cold that had nested deep in the marrow of your bones since the very first moment you had opened your eyes in this fucking nightmare.
You nodded reluctantly, arms tightening around yourself as if sheer pressure might somehow ignite warmth within you.
“Yes and I want none of it,” your voice trembled, edged with exhaustion and anger, as you spoke. “I just—I just want to go home.”
Vessel said nothing for a long moment. The silence stretched out in front of you like a chasm. You couldn’t look up, but you felt his gaze carving shapes into you. Slowly and methodically, as if he was measuring your soul, weighing it in the palm of his painted hand.
After what felt like an eternity, he hummed.
“What is it that you miss so terribly, love, that makes you ache so deeply to leave?” His voice was strangely tender, quiet enough to resemble intimacy.
You stared at him, disbelieving.
The question was absurd. Because how could he ask that? How dare he ask that? How could an abomination like him understand what you had been robbed of? But when you opened your mouth to spit the answer, the words refused to emerge. They felt foreign and brittle, only shards of something precious already shattered beyond recognition.
After a trembling breath, you forced them free.
“I miss freedom,” you whispered. “A life. A family.”
He nodded, slowly, thoughtfully.
“The vessels are your family now.”
You flinched at the word.
“We belong to each other,” he continued. “As we belong to Sleep.”
Your jaw clenched instinctively, teeth grinding together at his phrasing. “That doesn’t sound like family,” you muttered bitterly. “That sounds like ownership.”
Vessel’s lips curled slightly at the edges, patient and unperturbed.
“Ownership,” he repeated carefully, as if he was considering its shape and sharp edges. He took a step closer, fingers folding gently behind his back. “Do you truly not feel free here?”
You didn’t answer him, unwilling to voice the awful truth, that you felt trapped, imprisoned, stripped of all choice. Vessel watched you closely, his black eyes shining with understanding, even compassion, though you refused to believe it.
“Sleep gave me freedom,” he said quietly, his deep voice slipping easily into the silence you refused to break. “Because of Him, I write. I sing. I keep IV steady when his heart starts to crack, calm III when his mind goes off the rails, and sit with II when his silence gets too loud. That’s what He asks of me.”
Something in his words tugged at you, drew your attention despite your best efforts. Your gaze rose slowly, hesitant and wary, finally meeting his face with open disbelief.
“You sing?”
It didn’t make sense. Not from him. Not from that monstrous mouth, from that echoing voice that sounded like cathedral bells submerged beneath black water, beautiful yet terrifying. But Vessel’s eyes creased slightly at the corners, an expression that, for once, felt genuine, not the careful performance you had come to expect, but something more real, more human.
“I do,” he admitted. “I sang long before I was born.”
You frowned, shaking your head slightly.
“That doesn’t make sense,” you whispered, turning away, uncertainty coiling tightly around your spine again. “How could that be true?”
Vessel’s gentle smile widened, revealing those pale canines again, briefly sharp and glistening in the dim candlelight, yet oddly reassuring.
“It will,” he promised softly. “It always makes sense. Eventually.”
You stared at the cracked stones beneath your feet, your mind spinning uselessly, grappling desperately for clarity within the cryptic, impossible promise he dangled before you. Silence stretched taut between you, filled only by the quiet hush of your shared breathing.
“I won’t lie to you,” Vessel added. “This world is harsh. Unforgiving. Cruel. But Sleep grants meaning. He gives us purpose beyond mere existence. He binds us, our mind, body and soul, to one another and to something splendidly eternal.”
You shook your head, throat tight, words barely escaping your lips, small and broken.
“I don’t want eternity if it means giving up who I am,” you shook your head, gripping your own elbows tighter. “You all act like I’m supposed to feel grateful. Like I should thank you or something. Like your god is some—I don’t know, some great benevolent thing. But all I’ve felt since waking here is fear. I don’t feel reborn. I feel butchered.”
The longer the two of you talked to each other, the colder the air seemed to grow around you, as if something old was listening, judging and deciding whether to speak up or not.
“You ask for truth,” Vessel said softly, “but truth isn’t earned through questions, I believe it is offered when the heart kneels of its own accord.”
You scoffed.
“Is that what you think? That I’ll kneel for you? For your god?”
Vessel didn’t reply.
But his silence said everything.
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“The dream never ends. It only forgets where it started.”