Chapter Text
You could feel them. The hands that held you, pulling at your skin and caressing you. They were warm, dark, painted black like the night itself, saving you from the burning pyre, from the searing heat that licked at your feet and threatened to consume you whole. The way the fingers would dance across your face and end up in your hair and tug at the knots in your curls. Their touch was soft at first, almost tender, but whenever you would move, twitch even the slightest, the grip tightened, insistent.
The world around you blurred, the edges of reality slipping away as you were pulled deeper into something vast and unknowable. It felt like sinking into a thick water, your limbs outstretched above you as you fall. The ground beneath you – gone, replaced by an endless void, weightless, yet heavy with unseen presence. You could still feel the heat, the crackle of distant flames, but the fire was no longer the threat. The hands, the way they wrapped around your limbs, guiding you towards the darkness, caressing your skin in patterns that felt familiar and foreign all at once. You tried to relax into them, hoping the action would calm the hold.
The air hummed with voices, faint and fragmented, like a melody carried on the wind. They whispered words you couldn’t understand, syllables that slipped through your consciousness like smoke. There was a rhythm to it, a chant that seemed to pull at the very fibers of your being. You floated there, suspended between the voices and the flames, and for a moment, you felt… safe. The hands cradled you, holding you close, their touch gentle, almost reverent. You felt as though you were being welcomed, drawn into something larger, something eternal. Your gift for relaxing and allowing their hold.
But then, as the chant grew louder, more insistent, that warmth shifted. The caresses became possessive, the hands tightening around you, not holding you but binding you. Like they knew you wouldn't fight them anymore, and they wanted something different now. You looked down, and the black paint that covered their skin was now smeared across yours, marking you as theirs. The realization was slow, like trying to grasp onto a fleeting memory. This was not a ritual of salvation. It was a claim.
You felt the flames again, though they were distant now, a flicker in the corners of your vision. But you wouldn't burn for the same reason you would've on the stake. They had saved you, pulled you from the fire, but there was a cost. The heat that had once threatened to burn you was now inside you, smoldering beneath your skin, a slow burn that spread through your veins. The hands pulled you closer, deeper into the dark, and the whispering voices grew more urgent. Overcome by something deeper, snarling, angry. The chant was no longer soft; it was sharp, piercing, driving into your mind like a nail. Overcome by something deeper, snarling, angry. You wanted to pull away, but the hands gripped harder, their touch almost bruising. Reminding you of the debt that you now owed them. Of the promise you made for family.
The world around you shifted again, and the fire returned, roaring now, higher and hotter than before. The air grew thick with smoke and ash, choking, suffocating. You could feel the flames, but they did not burn your skin. Instead, they danced around you, swirling like ribbons, wrapping you in their heat, but never quite touching. The hands kept pulling, tugging you through the fire, through the void, through the endless night that stretched before you.
You were no longer in control. The hands moved you, guided you, their grip unyielding. Their little puppet. One arm up, the other yanked behind you, one leg in front of you, the other tugged to the side. And you kept falling. The heat of the flames was nothing compared to the searing pull of the black paint that now covered you. It clung to your skin like a second layer, heavy and suffocating. The voices continued their chant, rising and falling like waves crashing against the shore, but you couldn’t make sense of them. The meaning was lost, but the power behind the words seeped into your bones, anchoring you.
You tried to move, to escape, but the more you struggled, the tighter the hands gripped, the deeper you were pulled. They made you feel as if you were drowning. The hands caressed you again, their touch no longer gentle, but cold and invasive. There was no comfort here, only ownership. The night, the fire, the paint—all of it was theirs now. And you were, too.
The vision twisted, there were no faces, no figures to see, only the endless void and the hands that refused to let you go. You could sense the ground beneath you again, but it shifted, unstable, crumbling away with every motion. The fire was no longer a threat but a reminder, burning behind you, waiting to devour whatever pieces of you were left if you kept fighting him. Him?
The chanting had become a roar, indistinguishable from the flames, as if the two were one. If you had free reign of your limbs, you'd cover your ears, but they dangled somewhere around you, twisted and broken in the shadows that hid them. The chanting was a beat. A painful beat that was neverending. You wanted to scream into it and tell it to stop, yet no sound came from you. And if it did, it was silenced like it was nothing. So you screamed louder while the hands found their way to your chest. You thrashed against their hold as they moved to your neck. You closed your eyes as the fingers pushed themselves down your mouth, stretching the skin tight enough to rip and tear at the sides, popping your teeth out as the hands reached for viscera.
You snap awake with a pitiful choked scream. Your breath in ragged gasps, your heart racing as you fling your arms out, searching for the hands that held you. But they’re gone. The room is still dark, the only sound– your own shallow breathing, the thud of your pulse in your ears. For a brief moment, you feel relief, the nightmare already slipping away, but then you realize—morning is here. The night is over, but it lingers, clinging to your skin like a shadow.
The night always felt different here, like it was alive in a way the day could never be; unless it was raining. There was something in the air when the sun dipped beyond the hills, something that stirred in the darkness and made the very stars feel like they were watching, waiting. You’d always thought it was Sleep—the god the village revered at the behest of the Priest and the others—breathing life into the shadows, a reminder that He was always present. The nights were never quiet, not really. They hummed with energy, with a power that you could feel deep in your chest like heaven itself came down to exist with you, as if your very soul was pulled toward it.
But then morning would come. It had to.
You lay there now, awake but unmoving, staring at the thin shafts of pale light creeping through the cracks in the wooden clapboards. The sleep in your eyes made it hard for you to blink. Like your body didn’t want you to acknowledge that it was even awake. It couldn't be, there weren't even birds singing yet. The roosters weren't even calling. The dawn felt… forgotten, as though it were a thing that no longer held the village in its grasp. You’d always wake with a vague sense of loss, of nostalgia for the night that lingered in the back of your mind. There was a yearning, a pull that made you long for the return of darkness, though you didn’t understand it. You weren’t sure you wanted to. The day was quiet, too quiet, lacking the pulse of something larger, something that thrummed in your veins after sundown.
Still, you couldn’t stay in bed forever.
With a groan, you force yourself up, the rough linen sheets scratching against your bare skin as you move. Your bed is uncomfortable, but that’s nothing new. It’s hard, uneven, the straw mattress doing little to soften the wooden frame beneath it. You’ve grown used to it over the years, though there are mornings—like today—when you crave more. You want something lush, something soft, something you’ve never known but often dream of. A bed that cradles you like the night itself, enveloping you in warmth and comfort. But you’re just a peasant, and peasants don’t sleep in luxury.
You push the thought aside as your feet hit the cold floor, your body aching from the stiffness of a restless night. The morning air is cool, slipping in through the cracks in the cottage walls, and you pull your blanket around your shoulders, trying to shake the chill from your bones. You have to wake up. You can’t linger here, lost in thoughts of the night and the things it stirs in you. There’s work to be done, water to fetch, food to prepare, and the church to attend. Always the church.
As you stand, stretching the weariness from your limbs, and the pops that sounded in your joints, you can still feel the remnants of the night clinging to you, like a whisper that refuses to fade. The yearning gnaws at the edges of your mind, the memory of the night calling you back. You push it away. It’s daylight now, and whatever Sleep brought with him has receded into the shadows.
For now.
The morning air clings to your skin like a damp shroud, the faint chill of autumn settling deep into your bones as you step out into the quiet village. You almost have to wrestle with the door behind you, making sure it stays closed. The sky is still heavy with mist, the rising sun casting the world in a muted palette of greys and golds. The village stirs, but slowly, as if a weight lingers still, pressing down on the cottages, the earth, and the people themselves. There’s life here—always—but in the early hours, the village seems wrapped in something heavier, something unseen but deeply felt.
Your boots sink slightly into the dew-soaked ground as you make your way down the winding path. The rough wool of your peasant skirts clings to your legs, wet with morning moisture, scratching your skin as it swished around your ankles.You tug your shawl tighter around your shoulders, trying to ward off the chill, though it’s not just the cold that seems to settle in your bones. The village is quiet, save for the occasional creak of a door or the soft murmur of a distant conversation. In the distance you can hear the slight clink of the blacksmith working, and a few hammers pelting on roofs. People are beginning to move about, but they do so in silence, their faces drawn, their gazes averted. Something unspoken presses against you, like a shadow that never quite lifts. And you know why.
You think of the Church of Sleep, of how it now dominates every corner of the village. The cathedral looms in the distance as you walk along. You observe how the fog covers the building, an integral part of the design. You've never seen it not shrouded in the wisps of fog. It’s woven into the fabric of life here, as natural as the seasons, as inescapable as the passing of time. The church has grown in influence, its teachings sinking deep into the hearts and minds of the villagers. What began as sermons whispered beneath the stars has become something far larger, far more consuming. The Church of Sleep is no longer just a place of worship—it is the pulse of the village, dictating the rhythm of every day, every breath.
And at the heart of it all is Vessel.
As you walk, your thoughts drift to him, as they often do, the crunch of rocks underneath your boots becoming duller as you lose yourself to what your mind deemed more important to think about. His presence is inescapable, lingering even now as you make your way to the well. You’ve seen him countless times, standing tall at the altar, draped in his flowing black robes, his body covered in swirling black paint that marks him as something otherworldly. It was for these rituals when he would forgo his shirt, showing just how far he painted his body. The paint crawling across his skin like shadows dancing in the firelight. It’s mesmerizing, the way he moves, the way the paint seems to shift with him, giving the impression that he is not entirely of this world.
And then there’s his mask.
The mask is smooth, pearly almost, and unnervingly emotionless, save for the six eye holes cut into its surface. Behind those holes is nothing—no glimpse of his eyes, only the mesh that obscures them, leaving you to wonder what lies behind. The village whispers of what might be hidden beneath, but no one knows for sure. His gaze feels omnipresent, though, like it’s always on you, watching, judging, even if you can’t see it.
The mask is more than just a barrier between you and Vessel—it is a symbol. The carvings etched into the lower half are delicate, intricate, and a deep, shocking red, the sides of the masks coming off as sharp tusks. They seem almost alive in the dim light of the church, catching the flicker of candles and glowing with an otherworldly intensity. The Sleep symbol painted on the mask’s center, a stark reminder of the power Vessel wields, the power the village bows to.
But it’s his mouth—the one part of him not hidden away—that sends a shiver through you. His lips are exposed beneath the mask, painted with the same black that covers the rest of his body, visible as he speaks, and there’s something raw about that detail, something too human amidst the godlike aura he carries. You’ve seen him bare his teeth during rituals, sharp and white against the black paint that covers his body. His canines are unnaturally sharp, gleaming like a predator’s fangs, and the sight of them sends a jolt of fear through you every time.
There is something primal, something violent about it. The way his teeth flash in the fires that blaze around him is not just unsettling—it’s dangerous. It cuts through the haze of devotion that the church wraps around you, reminding you, even for a moment, that Vessel is not like the rest of the village. He is something other. Something capable of violence, of blood. When those teeth are bared, you feel as though he could tear you apart, and the thought both terrifies and mesmerizes you. In those moments, the veil of his divinity slips just enough for you to remember that he is, at his core, something far more dangerous than the rest of the village seems to realize.
You shake the thought from your mind as the well comes into view. It stands like a sentinel at the edge of the village, worn and weathered, but as much a part of life here as the church itself. The walk to the well feels longer than usual today, your thoughts weighing heavy as the autumn breeze swirls around you, carrying with it the scent of dying leaves and wood smoke. The trees have begun their slow transformation, their leaves turning from green to a patchwork of red, orange, and yellow, though today the colors seem dulled, like a painting left out too long in the sun.
You reach for the well’s winch, your fingers brushing over the rough, cold wood as you begin to lower the bucket into the depths below. The rope slides easily through your hands, the sound of it scraping against the stone walls echoing faintly in the stillness. The bucket splashes down into the water, and you begin to pull it back up, expecting the familiar sight of clear, cold liquid. But as the bucket reaches the surface, something is wrong.
The water isn’t clear.
It’s red.
You freeze, staring at the liquid swirling inside the bucket. It’s thick, viscous, the color of blood. The sight of it stops you cold, a chill creeping up your spine that has nothing to do with the autumn air. ‘It has to be an animal’, you thought to yourself. The water wasn't even fully red. Just hints of blood. Swirling around the top of the water like an ink blot, stealing your gaze. The village remains quiet around you, but the distant sound of chanting reaches your ears, the familiar hum of the Church’s morning prayers floating on the wind.
Your heart races as you stare at the crimson water, the sound of Vessel’s voice echoing in the back of your mind. Devotion. Sacrifice. Words you’ve heard him speak a hundred times, words that now take on a darker, more sinister meaning. You glance around, but no one else seems to notice the change, the way the air feels thicker, the way the earth beneath your feet seems to shift.
‘It’s just a creature. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’ But still, unease crept up your spine, cold and relentless. You couldn’t pull your eyes away from the water, watching as the red stain spread wider, deeper, swirling through the bucket in delicate tendrils. It wasn’t all blood—there was still clear water beneath the surface, still patches of clarity. But the blood was creeping in, threading through the water like veins.
And in the back of your mind, you wonder—just how much of this village has already been swallowed by the Church’s grasp? How much more will it take before there’s nothing left?
You swallowed hard, a chill settling over you despite the warmth of the sun now rising over the trees. You’d have to tell someone—Vessel, perhaps, or the others. They would know what to do, surely. They always knew. You glanced back at the village, its houses still quiet and dark, the thin plumes of smoke just beginning to rise from the chimneys. The weight of their presence pressed against your thoughts, the constant hum of the Church of Sleep always lingering in the back of your mind.
‘It’s just an animal.’, you repeated, though the words felt hollow now, fragile against the growing unease in your chest. You stared into the bucket again, willing yourself to believe it, to see it. The body of the creature must be there, caught somewhere below in the depths of the well. It had to be.
You leaned closer to the well, gripping the worn, cold stone rim as you squinted into the dark, gaping mouth below. The bucket hung there, blood swirling lazily across the surface of the water, but surely, there had to be something more. Something must have fallen in and died, contaminating the water. It had to be that—nothing else made sense. You just... Needed to find out.