Interlude 6:
For Mine
A sun, hanging at its highest point, envelops me with its warmth. It burns the dirt from my skin, that which was not washed away in a deluge of water minutes before. I stare at Your radiant visage captured in all its glory in all its forms on the shrine in front of me. A small slice of dark heaven, an island of blackened, wretched fantasy in the middle of a room swept in warm, swampy reality. I reach into one of the shelves of the shrine and produce clothing, fashioned immaculately in the style of Your own. It is grimly beautiful. I am almost moved to tears just beholding it. I told myself long ago that I would walk into the grand convention halls brimming with other EleStrainiacs as Your vessel once I was worthy enough. My fingers tremble as they unfold cloth and run down seam and stitch, my eyes buzz as they take in the full form of Your splendour. 'Am I worthy now?', I ask myself.
My brain fills with images of combat. Buzzing, psychic energy bursting forth from my hands, or consuming my body and head, violence crashing into beings of unimaginable ferocity, the triumph after the fact. I feel claws rake my skin, fire scorch my clothes, barbs pierce my arm and ice shatter my leg. And I feel the triumph afterwards. The exhilarating rush of victory, the perfect harmony of a team in lockstep and bound together as one. I see a great void before me, darker than even Your holy aura, a blinding phoenix at its centre. I see that phoenix crumble to ash, and not rise again, as we return the land to its rightful state. In a way, it is a feat not unlike those You have accomplished. But it is what comes next that I regard as a true victory.
A group of people who shared in that victory sharing a hundred more. Large ones. The joy of reunion. A blossoming romance. Attempts to overcome grief. Small ones. Teaching the basics of Tin Pin. Watching a golden sun set across acres of glass and concrete in Tokyo's great urban sprawl. Taking pleasure in the company of light-dwellers. No amount of noise erased, of Reapers bested, of godly creations felled, could ever take away those delights. They are what I revel in. They are where I find my worth. Before I even know it, I have donned your robes.
I reach into the wardrobe and pull out a wig – meticulously styled every week for just such an occasion. I can imagine it on my head now, as I assume Your full glory and become Your lowly vessel. My heart races with the thought and I can feel myself salivate. I hold the mannequin head the final piece of You sits upon and stare out the window of my room. I can feel the rays warm my skin now. It is a sensation I think I have ignored long enough, and so I drink it in – gulp down the light that pierces my cold flesh and seeps into my pores, bathe in the glory of the midday sun. It is not something You would do. I can almost imagine you chiding me for doing so. But I do not care. The head of the mannequin is smooth, and holding it up to the light I can see my warped reflection within it. I can see the way my hair flows down my body like a stream of darkest purple, and the ribbons that keep its flow seem almost golden in this faux-mirror. In Your robes, I am radiant like You are. Even in that white gloss, I can tell this for a fact. And I smile. And there are tears. For the first time in a while, I can register that those tears, too, are warm upon my flesh.
I return the final piece of you to where it lay before, and shut the door with reverence. I hope you can forgive me, Your Wretchedness. You are unerringly Yourself. To be a pale imitation of you would make me an imperfect vessel. Mimicry of you would, for me, be tantamount to sacrilege. I only ask You forgive me in that it took this long to realise. I see myself in a mirror. A proper one, this time. The river has held its flow, the gold its form and the radiance is still blinding. I smile, and a fresh round of tears fall down my face. I grasp your sword, weighty and magnificent, in my hand and sling it across my back. I go forth in Your name alongside a light-dweller. Think not less of me for doing so – though I almost believe it would not be in your nature to do so, edgy and dark as is it is inclined to be. I turn to the blinding rays that cut through my room one last time, as I tie the lace on my boot. That light-dweller is perhaps more radiant than they. Perhaps as radiant as I. Perhaps as radiant as You.