A/N: This is a little further what I usually write for this fandom. I don't know where this came from, and it's there on the line. It's farcical but still, I could see this actually being canon in some universe. (I'm sorry, Jacob.) And I'm sorry to fanfic. addicted01 who had to Beta this.
Once again, Jacob is forced to admit that the life of a fake Prophet is an arduous journey with very little reprieve as he walks to the South-Western Village in the moist early morning air.
For over a thousand years he has had to face so much death, and even if the number of surviving Remnants has become smaller over the centuries, the deaths seem to have become greater in numbers. Like today, when he has been asked to give his final blessing to the 78-year-old Valeria, weakened by illness and age.
But the deaths are not the worst part. No, not the dwindling numbers that weigh his mind on quiet hours. Because as the Prophet, he is the listener, the supporter, and the confidant to so many - and against his deepest of wishes, his people do not live a sinless life.
Not that he'd expect them not to collect any specks of mud in their feathers with his own web of lies, but he simply wishes them to harbor the same secrecy as he does. It should be a legitimate trade: his people don't know about his fabricated position, he does not wish to know about their darkest secrets.
And so, he walks closer to the right house with a heavy heart and prayer on his lips.
Valeria is an old weaver, someone who Jacob has seen grow up from a shy child. They have a long history together in providing the Remnants the necessities in life which makes it all the more unbearable.
Still, he bows his head upon entering and greets the old woman warmly in what they both know will be the last time. And he listens with understanding eyes and a supporting gentle hold of Valeria's hand when she reminisces about her life.
But when the talk goes on, Jacob is forced to break the touch and lace his fingers together on his lap, nodding gently in appropriate intervals.
Because he can sense it. He has become so attuned to it that he could see it rise to the dying person's mind like the first sun after the polar night even without the gifts from the Divine Source.
No. No. Not this shit again.
And when the woman starts to talk more heartfeltly about her past relationships and her voice starts to falter, Jacob places his hand on Valeria's arm. For an outsider it would look like a moment of support amidst hesitation, but inside, he is begging her to just stop.
Do not go there. Do not open your heart that deeply.
But no, his praying is as empty as his calling when Valeria takes a deep rasping breath and turns to look at him, the lifeline and the mercy in the Remnants' lives in front of the petrifying, faceless death and judgment.
He squeezes Valeria's arm softly but it's no use as she starts to talk about her regrets and sorrows. And he knows that it's coming. It's already another object in the room like the hand-crafted wooden chair, the well-worn furs, and the personal memorabilia that will be passed on to the next of kin.
Jacob puts his head into his free hand, wanting to shield himself.
This is his punishment for lying to his people.
"We... Stefan and I, we used to have sex in the mines-"
And the rabbit hole is found...
"-The old shrine for worship. We knew, it was wrong to desecrate the place, but we were young and those days it was so difficult to find a secluded spot in the Valley-"
He tries, he desperately tries to mute Valeria's shrift out of his awareness. In reality, he just wants to cry out that he is not a true Prophet! It's all lies! Sharing their past sins with him won't grant the Remnants any more mercy in the afterlife.
He. Does. Not. Want. To. Know.
But he cannot break the faith of his people and blow his cover, so, he stays silent, praying in his head while his people and followers clear their conscience. They will leave this world more comfortably after this. And he is not engrossed anymore, because a couple having sex in an abandoned location is by far not the worst that he has been told - or asked to do. Because there are sometimes those whose fear towards death or old age makes them more daring to reveal how they always admired him, so couldn't he not, on their last days, offer them a simple kiss if nothing more.
The requests make him lose his appetite for weeks afterwards.
And wherever he looks around his Valley - his home - the past stories are there, vivid and unbleached, tainting the paradise he had worked so hard to create.
And when the heavens finally call his people and the burial is organized, he will be far away, isolating himself in the Observatory to clean the mental images from his mind with star charts. And people will whisper, the descendants bowing their heads at how his sorrow must run so deep that he cannot even stand to attend the funerals.
On some days, it truly was burdensome to be a Prophet of one's own making.
