This chapter took forever until I realized I was going about it all wrong XD. I tried to write the day after from Heather's POV and it just came out really forced and awkward and off-topic... Bottlenecked me forever and finally I just had to post something so I could keep going XD
It was with a flurry of rust and orange light that Valtiel suddenly appeared on the Lighthouse tower. He snorted and looked around wildly for any sign of danger. Than the hunched down and clawed frantically at the ice-coated roof with his gloved fingers. As he exposed the Seal of the Metatron, he felt gingerly over its markings. At first he sensed nothing, just snow and ice. Then the gentle throbbing of a heartbeat came to him from many stories below. A shudder ran through his body and he moaned.
Alive.
Of course she was alive. If she hadn't been, he would have already known. But still, feeling her life force sent pangs of anxiety and relief coiling through his stomach and chest, even at this distance. For a moment, he relished her safety. Then he whined and clawed helplessly at the ice again.
Valtiel wanted to go down to her. He wanted to touch her hair and taste her sweet face. An unhappy croon escaped his throat and then he settled down against the lighthouse tower and rubbed his face into his gloves.
Xipe is watching. If I am to help my Heather, I must preserve the element of surprise. I cannot be seen; or the outcome will be the same as last time.
A bitter wave crested through him and he snarled.
I am lucky she is even still alive. To protect her, I must leave.
Yet still he lingered, aloof divine instincts warring with mortal anxiety such that neither side could take much action. He didn't want to go; and he couldn't get any closer; so he huddled there, wiping away snow and ice and feeling utterly pathetic. The ice continued to rain down, pattering sharply off his back and limbs, and he mumbled out another unhappy coo. Heather had given him a winter coat for Canada, and he wanted it so badly now; not because he was cold or suffering much due to the hail, but because it had been her gift to him. Although temporarily lost in nostalgia, Valtiel's face crinkled slightly when he suddenly sensed a presence he did not expect. Then his breath caught in his chest.
Merciful Goddess.
The Demon. The Demon! It is down there with her!
Valtiel was already halfway down the tower, claws scraping frantically at the old stone blocks.
Do not touch her! Do not hurt her! She is not the same, she is not the witch, she- No, no, no! Heather- Heather-! Am so addled, am so broken-
How could he possibly have forgotten it!? He'd brought it to her side! The 'faithful' woman at the hospital had mentioned a demon and he'd seen her through its eyes, scented her hair, tasted the soft flesh at the back of her neck as it- it-
Not hostile.
He pulled himself up short from placing one gloved hand down on the roof of the main building. His body shook violently, his head jerking rapidly back and forward, his fingers contorting helplessly just inches above the slate shingles. He stared aghast straight through the walls of the Lighthouse, at where he could sense a familiar Red Hate wrapped gently around a fragile human life.
What...?
Valtiel swallowed hard, slowly drawing his hand back up to rest on the lighthouse tower. He had gathered up a handful of his own discarded memories, but now was struggling to make sense of them. Xuchibara was Lobsel Vith's worst nightmare in this moment; the judicious half of the twinned god was neigh unstoppable and loathed Alessa with every fiber of himself.
And yet right while Xuchibara had been preparing to unmake Heather Mason, this Red Avatar had begged Valtiel to save her life. If Valtiel remembered correctly, he had collaborated with it to 'rescue' Heather from another executioner immediately afterward! It was not hostile towards her; in fact it had been... benevolent. A uncertain mumble gushed out from the Metatron's lips, and his face pinched together in hesitant fear and envy.
What has been done to it?
He wanted to descend into that Lighthouse, rip the avatar apart, and take its place at Heather Mason's side. But it wasn't attacking; it was behaving very oddly; and Valtiel did not have the luxury of being seen. He frowned, huddling down against the wall of the tower, rubbing his face into his hands.
...But then... What is its purpose?
Heather was sleeping, so Valtiel reached down to touch them. He felt... pain. On his own, he had no means to understand that which she had suffered. But her mind provided a context for the ache. A sympathetic agony washed through him.
They murdered your consort... Heather, sweet Heather, so sorry, your pain...
...But... this is not...
Hmm...
Elle was the first one brave enough to try and take a shower that morning; though of course that meant she had to wash the room first. There was blood and grime everywhere, but Elle faced the task with a solemn expression and few words. In truth, if she'd told anyone she'd planned to clean the bathroom, someone probably would have helped her; Eileen, Laura, or Lisa chief among them, or even one of the boys if necessary. But Elle didn't want help. She just wanted some physical activity to keep her busy. The faster the bathroom was clean, the faster she'd be left alone with her thoughts. She took her time.
She'd been at it for almost an hour when she heard someone come up beside the door and pause, watching her. At first she thought it might be Travis checking up on Heather. Then, when the footsteps didn't start up again, she realized it was someone else checking up on herself. Irritably she glanced behind her.
Murphy Pendleton was watching Elle quietly.
She frowned, the hairs on the back of her neck bristling as she remembered what Heather had said about him. In a way, she was grateful for what he'd done. Elle had no more desire to be a murderer than anyone else. And she vaguely remembered that Murphy had also pulled her off of Henry once before.
"Something you want?" she asked.
"Do you need help?" he asked.
"No," she answered quickly, then shut her eyes and took a breath. "No... I... needed something to do."
He glanced around. Bathrooms and blood; not exactly his favorite mixture for avoiding trips down memory lane. After a moment he looked back at her.
"I know how you felt."
"No you don't," she laughed, going back to scrubbing the floor.
"Do you really think you're the only one who's ever lost someone?" he asked.
"It wasn't like that! You heard the story about the angel."
"Then why didn't you just tell her the plan? Why put a knife to her neck?"
Elle was quiet for a moment. "Just... just go away."
"I'm sorry. But yesterday I saw myself standing there with a knife thinking how badly I'd wished someone would have taken it away from me. It didn't stop the nightmares, and it didn't bring my son back. And the few people I had left? I lost."
This time Elle didn't respond. After a long silence she heard soft footfalls as she man came into the bathroom. She looked up as he crouched down beside her. "Do you want some help?" he asked her again.
Elle frowned. "Y-you..." She looked away, smeared hair out of her face, and then looked back at him. "You're not a sexual predator are you?"
Someone like Henry might have interpreted Elle's bizarre question more along the lines of: "are you going to take advantage of me while I'm emotionally vulnerable?" But this was Murphy, not Henry, and he had more than one reason to look utterly horrified by the question. "No," he answered bluntly. She was practically young enough to be his kid.
Elle looked down and then nodded, and offered him one of her scrub brushes.
They put another hour into cleaning the disastrous bathroom, and Murphy had just begun using a can of spray-and-wash style shower foam over the inside walls of the shower when he saw Elle perk up. She was staring at something above their heads, and after a moment of indecision she clambered up onto the toilet seat to have a better look. Murphy blinked and stepped out of the shower, looking up at whatever it was she'd caught sight of.
Painted against the glass in coagulate blood, much higher than Heather would have comfortably reached, someone or something had drawn a red heart onto the glass of the shower door.
Travis made a face. He'd pushed the door open a foot or so to have a good look, and now he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned in the doorway, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Heather was still fast asleep and, hopefully, the rest was doing her some good. But beside her was the Pyramid Head, one of his arms flung out over the bed and Heather was curled up with her head pillowed on the bicep. The other arm was draped over the curve of her hips, and the fingers clenched gestural into the sheets.
Weird as hell.
The huge brute was more or less laying beside her, although he was much too large for the bed. His hips dragged down the edge and both knees were likely on the floor. His red helmet had been lolling at a seemingly comfortable angle with the mattress, but now he shifted and lifted a few inches in response to Travis's presence. A mumbled growl oozed across the room.
"Not gonna hurt her," Travis muttered, wondering if the Red Pyramid could understand him. The monster wasn't behaving in a way that made sense to anyone involved; and it was pretty hard to tell what he might be thinking or planning.
The Pyramid Head rumbled, lifting his free arm and clutching at the air for a moment, before grabbing slowly at Heather's shoulder. He seemed to be trying to decide whether to lunge at Travis, roll on top of Heather, or spontaneously call down Armageddon. The old trucker grimaced and backed up a step. Samael regarded him for a bit, trying to hold his incredibly heavy helmet steady at an awkward angle. Then his hand slipped down over Heather's shoulder blade and the creature rocked slightly towards her, surrounding her in a careful and protective hug.
The truck driver shook his head in disbelief, backed out of the room, and pulled the door carefully closed behind him.
Travis came up to where Henry and Douglass were sitting with some of Eileen's freshly made tea in hand. Honestly he would have preferred coffee, but with the constantly hail outside he wasn't going to turn down a hot cup of anything to wait for a more preferable beverage.
"How is she doing?" Douglass asked of him as he approached. "That thing still up there?"
Travis nodded, "And being a splendid teddy bear." the trucker answered dryly, setting down a cup of tea for Henry and looked at the papers they were examining.
Douglass looked pained. "Are you kidding me? Jesus. We need to figure out some way to obliterate that thing..."
"I don't think Heather would appreciate," Henry said, flipping through pages.
"It's a giant walking death machine," Douglass growled incredulously, lifting a hand up as if he couldn't believe this wasn't obvious to everyone else. "This whole thing is nuts, you can't tell me you don't see that."
Henry blinked at the detective and then shrugged.
"That's it? A shrug. You don't know it's crazy? Sherlock, this town breaks people unless they learn to let go. We need to find some way to help her. Maybe she's just gotta deal with what happened ta... ya'know... the boy."
Travis wasn't sure what he felt about the situation was, but he knew a philosophical fight between Douglass and Henry wasn't going to help things. "Is this what you and Elle managed to track down before the Lighthouse transition?" Travis asked, gesturing to the papers Henry was looking through. The question temporarily derailed the old detective.
Douglass nodded. "Not a whole lot," he muttered. "This Edwin character just came outta nowhere. No records, no past... Just a few blips on the radar here and there, and nothing we had time to follow. He was in Utah a few years back, right around the time of that unsolved mass suicide, but whether he was involved or not we don't know."
"That's quite a stack of paper for "not a whole lot"," Travis noted.
"Most of it was Elle tracking down the names of the cult gods. For example, the name 'She-pay' turned up nothin' until Elle typed in some phonetics and came up with this Aztec God. 'Xipe-Totec,' spelled with an 'X.' It's a life-death-rebirth god called 'The Flayed One,' and... well anything Aztec is right up Silent Hill's alley. But it's not a 'Scribe' or anything like one. More a god of agriculture and metalworking; and not female."
"Often in mythology," Kaufmann noted, coming up with his own tea, "deities of agriculture and metalworking were associated with commerce and therefore the invention of the alphabet and writing. The Aztecs were detailed record keepers, but most of our knowledge of them has been lost due to the destruction of artifacts through Spanish occupation."
"Well, whatever," Douglass said dismissively, though Henry and Travis both looked at Kaufmann in surprise. "Creepy thing is, people were sacrificed to him by giving them mock weapons and having them fight a losing battle against soldiers with live weapons. But, otherwise, no real lead there on where Edwin's 'Xipe' came from."
Henry had been looking through some of the papers, and he pushed them forward so the others could see. "This says Samael and Metatron were both names of Jewish angels."
Douglass nodded in confirmation.
"And that according to the Kabbalah, the angels Metatron and Samael originally shared the same existence. Samael became the god of death, while Metatron remained an archangel and God's right hand. Samael was the 'severity of God,' and can alternately be seen as an archangel, demon, or devil. And... Hmm. It looks like these writings suggest a blending between angels and demons where mysticism concerns itself. Like the two aren't as polarized as we modern people would think. Here's a reference to some other angel who is simultaneously a demon."
"You'll find it's 'Samael' in some places, 'Sandalphon' in others," Kaufmann noted.
"You've researched this before?" Henry asked.
The doctor nodded. "Before my memories returned. I looked up all of the mythological names Heather gave me. Later, I ended up remembering what I had learned as a cultist."
"I forgot we had a cult expert on hand," Douglass noted grumpily. "Why don't you share what you know?"
Kaufmann blinked and took a slow sip of his tea, looking thoughtfully out at nothing. "I'm not an expert," he disagreed. "I didn't devote myself completely to the religion and I wasn't what you'd call a 'conjurer,' or someone with 'divine insight'. I knew the lessons and prayers; which are too many to number and would disturb you rather than give hints. I can, however, tell you the sum of what I believe. Maybe that could help. I was thinking of starting with Mrs. Townshend's questions about 'Red' and 'Yellow' gods from yesterday evening."
He set his tea down and continued: "There are many angels and demons; The angels are forces which guide and protect humanity, and the demons are tests and punishments. Both are direct servants of God. Neither is 'good' or 'evil;' because those concepts don't really exist in cult philosophy. Instead, we could say that an angel exists to work with the faithful, and a demon exists to work with the sinner.
"The 'Right Hand of God' is a twinned deity, split into two halves commonly called the 'Red' and 'Yellow' gods, and known by the names 'Lobsel-Vith' and 'Xuchibara.' One is typically seen as a demon, and the other as an angel; one's an executor and one's an executioner. The angel is Valtiel. In theory. But which is which? That differs depending on who you ask. Once the two's domains start to overlap, things get blurry."
"Well what's the truth?" Douglass asked.
Kaufmann looked surprised by the question. "Here? Often, I suppose, there isn't one."
Douglass wrinkled his nose. "What are you getting at?"
"It means that, at any given moment, the 'truth' is partially shaped by the people who believe in it. Or, in other words, that our minds, our psychology, our beliefs, our values, and our moral character contribute to how Silent Hill works. And that our character can even change the truth about vague events that happened in the past, or cause chronological inconsistencies."
"This isn't just a psyche trip!" Douglass protested. "That monster up there is real. You could see it, Henry could, I could- we all could! There was a thinking mind behind that helmet, a vile one! It isn't just some pipe dream these cultists smoked up!"
"I didn't say it was," Kaufmann answered, offended. "But technically, I'm dead. And I was a terrible person before I died. So who am I now, and who made me into this man?"
Douglass hesitated and actually scooted slightly away from the doctor at the reminder of where Kaufmann came from. "You're saying... You're saying Heather- and all of us- that we change Silent Hill just by existing and staying sane? Wait, wait, we effect not just the monsters, but that we effect things higher up on the supernatural chain?"
Henry's brows furrowed curiously, while Travis waited for Douglass to get this new revelation into layman's terms.
"So you think we effect how the supernatural 'energy' or 'magic' or whatever of the place works?" Douglass asked. "How? Where's the guidebook or math equation for how all these things add up?"
Kaufmann shifted slightly. "When I last saw Lobsel-Vith, I knew he intended to kill me. And when I realized that I prayed with all my mind for him to spare me so I could continue helping Heather, and I pictured in my head one of her most ridiculous drawings... And as I watched... he sprouted wings. Huge wings, larger than any man was tall, and feathered like an angel's. And he spared my life."
Kaufmann looked up at them. "Heather is much more than any of you give her credit for. She senses things you don't about how this place works. You and I can't put this place into words except to say that it's awful, vague and difficult to understand; but we can see it seems to operate on a handful of ideas and premises. Heather goes beyond that. She has a unique intuition. And just because she can't articulate it in a way that makes sense to us, doesn't mean she's wrong."
"So what's your suggestion, we just sit back and do nothing?" Douglass asked, irritated by all this cloudy mumbo-jumbo.
"My suggestion is we do whatever it is Heather thinks we ought to do," Kaufmann answered. "And support her and look for ways to further her goals."
"She's practically going crazy!" Douglass hollered. "Did you not see the giant scar-covered monster with blood up its arms!?"
"Well, then we help her refine her own brand of 'crazy,'" Kaufmann said slowly. "But I'd like to point out there's a large demon with a pyramid for a head following her around like an overzealous guard dog, and I don't exactly want to argue with those kinds of results; or undermine the instincts which commandeered him in the first place. She has done something to the rules of this place."
"You support this 'save the evil cult-angel' plan then?" Douglass asked incredulously.
"I believe that's the path she needs to follow to find the answers she requires. That it's the only way forward. And that her influence on Valtiel still has a role to play. Somehow, all of these things are going to lead her to her confrontation with Edwin. We need to be on her side, no matter what she believes that side to be."
"I can't believe this," Douglass sneered. "Are you two hearing this? Do you honestly believe this stuff?"
Henry scratched at his jaw uncertainly; he hadn't had time to shave over the last few days and a slight stubble was coming in. "Sort of," he said after a moment. "I think Valtiel was at least temporarily on her side. And even though this executioner monster is significantly less docile, it is still clearly concerned with her well-being. That should be proof enough that she's undermining the cult belief system."
"Should of known you'd listen to something like this," Douglass answered disapprovingly, and looked to Travis, who of all of them was the most level-headed. "But you I don't get, Travis. Why aren't you up in arms?"
Travis shrugged. "Alessa didn't have to change any gods to be able to control monsters," he said, distancing himself from Kaufmann and Henry's religious explanations. "Even ones the cult intended to destroy her."
"You agreed with the picture plan, though, what was that?" Douglass asked. "You treated a monster like a person!"
"What else was there to do?" Travis asked. "At least it was an idea that involved doing something."
"Well I say we do something now," Douglass retorted, "and find a way to kill that Pyramid Thing before the cult 'rewrites' it and turns it back against her! Gotta be a way; maybe send a bullet up under the helmet into the head."
"So," Kaufmann aggregated, "we have four different perspectives on the Red Pyramid Monster and Valtiel. The detective believes both to be dangerous liabilities. I believe them to be signs that the heavens have been altered. Mr. Townshend believes they are monstrous but individually friendly towards Heather. Mr. Grady believes they are commandeered puppets."
"I didn't say that," Travis answered.
"Well then what do you think that helmeted thing is?" Douglass asked. "That's the question we've been tossing you."
Travis eyed the old detective a long moment, and then answered in a deadpan. "He's what's left of a dead soldier; and he started a job he plans on finishing."
"You gotta be kidding me," Douglass exclaimed. "Just cause she compared the two of them, doesn't make him-!"
Travis shrugged. "There's two gods and a few layers of monster in the way."
"What about the pictures? And Valtiel?" Kaufmann asked.
"If memory serves, didn't Harry die right before the first time she saw the 'angel'? Doesn't have to be the full man to get a few of his instincts, after all. Silent Hill ain't picky."
"You're all clueless, just admit it!" Laura hollered from where she was enjoying a cup of yogurt and a hot chocolate milk. "You want to know what's going on? Here, let Laura tell you, she is a genius after all. First, there are two gods: and they're Yellow and Red. The Yellow one is as adorable as a kitten and likes baking. The Red one is hawt and shirtless but has anger issues. Walter's the hypothetical offspring of both and therefore has mommy problems. Two fathers, after all. What else do you need to know? The answer to the life, the universe, and everything? It's forty-two."
All four men looked at her blankly, as if they had registered she'd spoken but failed to successfully hear the words.
Laura rolled her eyes dramatically. "Look it's not complicated guys. The monster is currently friendly, so keep the pointy-sharp ends faced towards the enemy and the puppy-nice ends faced towards Heather."
"That could change at any second," Douglass protested.
Laura laughed. "So what? If it changes, adapt. None of you had any idea what the truth was when you went through Silent Hill; It showed you 'real' in its own time."
"So just do nothing?" Douglass snarled. "That's all I'm hearing from you people!"
She smirked. "Like I said, you're all clueless. Deal with it. Enjoy not knowing. Welcome to life. And don't make any stupid decisions cause you're scared and want control over the situation. Because you don't want to be like a politician. Everyone hates politicians."
Laura lifted up her chocolate milk and was about to drink a toast to the dumbfounded looks of exasperation on the four mens' faces. Then suddenly it was as if oil and tar had suddenly precipitated into the room beside her, and these components rapidly rushed into the shape of a man and became colored. A young adult Walter reappeared unharmed and fully dressed, clutching his doll to his chest. He grabbed at Laura's elbow, looking around nervously.
"It's coming," Sullivan said.
Laura nearly leaped out of her skin at the contact. "You- where have you- your arm, it's back!"
"It's coming," he repeated, tugging nervously at her."
"What's coming?" she asked, looking around in bemusement. "More arms?"
"The puppet," Walter responded, the doll melting away and his form strengthening, solidifying into an older and less vulnerable shape. The transformation, so close to her, cause the look of cocksure arrogance to drip off of Laura Sunderland's face; especially when Walter stepped closer and grasped her shoulder almost painfully tight.
"What are you-?" she hazarded, looking around. Then she set down the chocolate milk and pointed at something behind the other four men with a wide-eyed expression and a pale complexion.
"Lauren are you alright?" Travis asked, then went cold as he heard a curious, gurgling mumble.
"Yellow God!" Laura whispered in a high pitched meep. "Yellow God, Yellow God!"
Le'gasp. Apparently he can't be seen by Heather, but he's fine with stalking her friends. It's like Facebook all over again.
