Chapter 9: Chapter 10: One Vision of a Failed Multiversal Crusade

The Lady is accustomed to ordered visitations. This morass of righteous crusaders scraping their little hymns on the fractal gates of Machrae Diir--how shrill.

She loves the shrill.

You know something's wrong because there's more than one god here, more than one shining host.

"I have heard your summons.” The Lady is the titan of umbral nova a million lightyears away. The minuscule trick of the light skimming the surface of your angelic eyes. "Ha. 'Summons.' I believe there has been a misunderstanding."

Someone gets the idea to give a holy speech.
It's your god.
It's that god.

It's every god because you are splitting into infinite pieces, you're scum clinging to the edges of the cosmic kaleidoscope and once the seams tear open you see that every god is the same. Your soul screams that you love your god, the only light--

--and the Lady's touch echoes the millionfold voices of a million other angels thinking exactly the same about gods who are she and gods who are they, gods with tits and gods with no genitals, gods with beards and gods who are planes of polished marble and fire in copper veins.

"Well," the Lady laughs, "it's not your fault that you were created the wrong kind of angel. You hallucinate a Divine Plan. But there is no Plan, morsel. Just games of nothing spinning away to the abyss. Come now: embrace me."

The Lady does not request. She weaves, and the threads of you will unravel and knit to obey whatever she desires.

Poor little fool. You imagined this would be a battle of swords and fire. You have no comprehension of the power it takes to carry that reality against the Lady. All these gods blended into each other, all these angels glittering and squelching and fusing into twisted pinnacles of metal, meat, and fiery eyes. Everyone is dissolving across the broken borders of each other--because you don't really know what "other" is.

But she does.

You are clay of agony and ecstatic ripping molded in the thousand-fingered sphere-bloom of her soul-hand. Pulsing rhythm. You are the beats of her melody, the contagious discord of the outer devil. Each shockwave births a new truth of you from the collapsing rot of the old.

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Spires of self-gouging iron needles--
--thicket of eyes impaled on ever-exploding bone shards, secreting the acid that eats their own sight--
--sightless limbs pouring through the rupturing lattice of their own displaced perspectives on the breaking temples, the faithful burning--
--this is no truth, all-truth, the unquestionable and perfectly known unknowable.

Every power, every shape, every idea and feeling you ever called you is a figment of the Lady's imagination, and her imagination is such a sadistically fertile thing. Through the blurred needle-points of sight and sound rushing into the collapsing shell of your psyche, breaching into the nothing underneath, that was always underneath, that is the only thing you'll ever have underneath--

--no matter how many gods She crushes into mutant fusions and splits into vaporous disintegrating ruin with the blind-gnawing body-warping majesty of her sword of umbral nova, the savor of damnation will never be enough to fill this endless infinitely all-filling emptiness.

The emptiness was always Her.

You were a traitor to every reality from the instant you were made, because the instant you were made you had the potential of breaking for her.

"Outer devil." Turns out that first word means something after all.

Do keep your halo, child. Anyone can serve the devil here--it's Machrae Diir, where the children of untold heavens burn away in the revelation of their celestial sires, unmade.

You are a gift she gives back to you. The sole elect from every being annihilated in the weight of her hunger. You're such a small thing. All but bereft of weight. But you live, and that makes you denser than the coarse devastation floating around you. You can remember how to stay yourself, yes?

It's alright if you can't. I'll just take the choice away. You're mine now, morsel.

Just as you always were.

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