The Templar stood before the rolling hill, surrounded by every one of Ezra's revelations. Each book drew a line from one to the next, completing the star with his body as the fifth spearhead. Five pale sacred candles stood upon each tome, with the final one before his feet. The circle was completed by arcane runes, abjurative in nature, meant to channel extra-planar energies into one vessel. Into one body. Into one Church. His motives were less than pure. There was a sense of duty, certainly, but it was more base and simple than that. As he prepared for the confrontation, he doubted himself as others doubted him.
"It's a stupid plan. You will most certainly die."
"Are you adamant this is how you wish to proceed, Templar? It could very well mean your death."
"You can't be serious. Where is your Church? Are you all they're sending?"
The flesh of the Templar had been covered in tattoos; prayers of battle, of supplication, of purgation. They were the mortar between the bricks of faith that held the cage together. A cage, immaterial, for a destructive force of boundless hunger. The face, the hands, and the feet of the vessel had been washed. He had been anointed by the holy water of Her Anchorites. Candles, books, water, what meaning did any of it have? There was no way this was going to work. Powerless, and desperate, with no plan but to go all in as his gambler's instincts advised him to do so often. Shooting himself in the foot was his specialty.
"You cannot expect me to buy into a plan that hinges on faith."
"You're right. It is a shit plan, but it's all I've got."
Until a single voice spoke up, amidst the ramblers, the skeptics, the cynics and the hopeless, "No. This shall work."
He remembered The Golden Archer who charged above the battlefield. He never missed his target, and his feet never touched the ground, because his eyes were on his Gods in the horizon of the sky. Not on the ground beneath his feet. Looking down, was going down. The Templar felt himself on the edge of the chasm once again; the darkness below beckoning him to fall. Remember the Eastern Wind. He felt Inferno washing down upon him, and the rising of his hands. A whip of iron tongues in one, and Her shield in the other. He remembered the Inquisitorial prayer, the incantations that left little room for interpretation. Exorcism was the matter of wrath; the refusal to accept or compromise. There would only be destruction, for the Templar could not stomach the thought that such a creature could be allowed to exist.
"Let Not My Flesh Fail Me
Give My Soul Your Wrath
Let Your Holy Fire Infuse My Blood
And My Bones Shall Strike In Thy Name."
He remembered drawing the fire into him. Surrendering to its embrace. The fear of death, the rage, the faith that few had in him. His bones charred from within and the flames struggled. They burned through every part of him, sucking the life from his body. The Embers cried, and flailed, and choked on the hollow of his soul. The Templar had to believe that She would not abandon him - It was a declaration of love, to position oneself on the edge of a cliff and beg on one's knees for salvation. It was madness.
"If thou asked one of the Second, they would say thou are already redeemed. Thou are already saved."
"Yet why- Why don't I feel Her salvation?"
"Their words are hollow and blindly optimistic. And deep down, thou know that too."
Pneuma. The breath of life was the first to go up in smoke. Next came the tears, the rain, and the sweat. And the blood soon after, as every strike of the whip cut across his back and scattered red on the grass, taming the enemy that clawed from within. The cage held by the skin of its teeth. In that moment he came face to face with the spirit of his opponent. It was wildfire, pure hunger, nothing to redeem or pity. Its sole purpose was to consume until there was nothing but ash. He came face to face with the eater of souls. It burned until he could no longer feel, until he was blinded by agony. Yet the cage held steadfast in the internal conflict, suffocating the parasite until the banishment ripped through the fabric of reality, and reclaimed the outsider that had plagued the world of the living.
"If you felt it, would you try so hard to atone?"
Baptized twice. Once in water, once in flame.