Broken Church, Fallen Prophet
words: 1,293
warnings: implied recent mental breakdown, unintentional self-injury, derealization/depersonalization, pain as an attempted grounding measure
Summary: Casper brings Prophet to his own home after their trip to the Skylands, wanting to let the man rest without the typical worry of his lifestyle. Prophet is gone when Casper awakes; and in the little yellow church, where Prophet typically resides, is unusual chaos and uncharacteristic quiet.
Casper spends most of the morning looking for Prophet, searching all over his home without success. With what happened in the Skylands yesterday, he really doesn't want to leave the other alone—let alone lose him. Stars, who knows what could happen. Chest squeezing with anxiety, Casper moves on from his home and heads towards the small, abandoned church Prophet typically resides in.
The air is...different here. Thick and uncomfortable, like something is waiting to ambush anything that walks past. Suck in a breath, walk on the worn path, don't think about it. Ignore the shiver down your spine. Prophet always has an odd air about him.
The church is in disarray. Pews moved around or flipped over, papers and tools littering the stone floors. There's small drips of something dried all over the place, smeared on some furniture, staining the yellow hilt of a ritual knife on the floor. The tapestry behind the altar is torn, a large rip starting at the middle and continuing down until there is no fabric left to tear. A small book with yellowing pages, damaged with age and use, sits awkwardly on the floor against the right wall, open to a random page.
Casper doesn't look at it.
Stood precariously on haphazardly made scaffolding, is Prophet, removing tattered old curtains and replacing them with newer ones. An odd place to start, considering the state of the rest of the place, but, well, odd isn't unusual for the guy. What is unusual, though, is the lack of greeting upon walking up to the entrance.
"Prophet?" Casper leans casually against the wall. Start easy, don't get him defensive. "What are you doing up and about?"
"Mm?" Comes the response, simple and concise. Unlike the ever talkative Prophet. "Why wouldn't I be?"
No eye contact, no real engagement with the conversation. The guy barely acknowledged Casper at all.
"You should be resting after yesterday," Concerned. Casper has every right to be concerned, right? This is someone who usually wants to be as close—without contact—as physically possible, someone who wants and exudes evidence that the conversation is being listened to.
"...Did something happen yesterday?"
What?
'Did something happen yesterday.'
"You..." Casper's throat squeezes faintly. The need to know why the hell Prophet jumped off the Skylands burns under his skin. Amnesia is no stranger to the sole worshiper of a false god before him, currently fussing with curtains nobody else cares about, but he doesn't remember that? "You don't remember?"
There is no response, but the sincerity in the original question is obvious. Of course. Why would he remember, why not forget. Move on, move on, don't pester him about his memory—besides, something else screams for his attention, begging to be noticed and called out—the tapestry behind the altar. Out of everything in this damned building, that is what Prophet is most precious about—except the King in Yellow book, on the other side of the room from him, clearly treated without that precious care known to it.
Something is wrong.
"Your um—" He doesn't know how to breach the topic, how to mention it without upset the man still precariously balanced like falling would cause no harm. The dim, distant look in Prophet's eyes as he walked towards the sunrise, off the edge of the Skylands, flashes through Casper's mind. "What happened to the tapestry?"
The rustling sound of fabric stops, tension makes itself visible in Prophet's shoulders. "I, uh, I don't know. It was like that when I got here. This...This morning." And, for the first time since he entered, Casper notices the way the other's left hand presses into his pants—pressing, rubbing, fidgeting. Just barely visible beneath gloves, bandages are wrapped around it, stained with old blood. "I'll fix it."
He needs to look at Prophet's face. This conversation, this interaction, is wrong--and Casper can't believe it's upsetting to finally have his personal space back.
"Your hand?"
"...Mm." Said hand clenches into a fist, and Prophet doesn't react to the pain that must follow. "I dropped the ceremonial knife, caught it by the wrong end. Nothing exciting."
There are a lot of words to describe this obsessively devoted bastard, distant is not one of them. But that's exactly what he's being: distant. Physically, emotionally—
Blood. On the tapestry, on the book, the splatters on the floor. Along the edge of the ritual blade. Stars, how could Casper be so unobservant? Blood is a common sight in his life, a common smell, a constant. He should have noticed, even as faint and mixed with the scent of dust as it is. The footstep echoes in the silent room, and Prophet's eyes immediately latch onto Casper—and they're distant, foggy almost, bags under them like the man hasn't slept. Not distant like they were in the Skylands yesterday—seeing something that isn't there, listening to the siren's call of a salvation that would not have found him--but distant like the emotion has been drained of them.
"Proph—"
"The King's curtains are filthy."
The words are barely there, a whisper under breath that didn't want to be heard. Fingers dig into bandages and Prophet looks at the tattered yellow curtain in his right hand, glowering at it. Casper's stomach sinks.
"A-Are they?" If this is what Prophet wants to talk about, instead of the elephant, then sure. Whatever. Casper can adjust to what he wants, it's easier than calming him down when he's upset.
What happened to the tapestry.
The church is not very big. Three rows of pews typically line a narrow path on either side, though Prophet has moved them spuradically for reasons currently unknown, and the walls have few sconces to light. It's far from elegant, far from grand, but nobody in their village dares voice that to its keeper. Its keeper who works diligantly to keep things immaculate, despite the crumbling nature of the once-abandoned building.
"It's my job to clean them." Prophet's eyes haven't moved from the cloth in his hand, his fist has yet to unclench. Tension builds in his shoulders, his face scrunches, and before Casper can react—
A sigh. Having expected something more explosive, Casper remains silent lest he push the other's emotional state over some kind of ledge.
"What makes someone real?" Prophet lays his forehead on the stone wall next to the new curtain, clenching his right hand tighter. "Is it pain? Thought? Memory?"
Okay, tonal shift a little bit, but Casper can adjust. Knowing Prophet as long as he has, one gets used to jumps in conversation.
"I thought it would help," Fingers finally release, fist unclenching—blood stains the palm of the glove when Prophet turns it to himself. "All it did was make a mess."
"Prophet," Casper's voice is gentle, far more-so than anyone has heard it. "Come down from there."
"I cut the tapestry, " The distance in his eyes is reflected in tone, the offending hand is pulled to his chest. "I damaged the book. I-I didn't want—I don't understand—"
"Hey—"
"I have to fix it."
Taking the tattered curtain, Casper draws Prophet down from the precarious stack of things. Nothing is said, Prophet is hunched with his hands at his chest as he stares blankly at the floor. All he has ever known is this, this small church and obsessive worship; to have a moment of question, Casper can't imagine how it must feel.
"C'mon." Taking the bloodied hand, Prophet is pulled closer.
"I have to— My King expects—"
"C'mon," Casper repeats, tugging lightly. There's no emotion, no fight nor acceptance, as Prophet follows him out of the church.
