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In the nave of the basilica of the Agony, at the sixth hour of the fast, the congregation howled beneath a hundred silvered chandeliers, each forged in the shape of a man being flayed alive. The scent of burning resin and musk drifted from censers, mingling with the odor of sweating flesh and spent ecstasy. On the altar, High Priest Ingersol, naked save for his copper gorget and ceremonial boots, pressed the hilt of a relic-blade to the throat of a weeping acolyte and spoke the invocation in a voice hoarse from four days without sleep.
"By blood, by agony, by truth unsoftened—so we recall the birth of a world."
The nave roared. It was not only the nobility in their viperous silks but the butcher's daughters and canal-haulers, the lowest dregs clad in sackcloth and penitence, all rapt as the blade pricked skin and the acolyte sang her part in the agony—pure, artful, and exalting. It was a fine morning.
When the confession runner arrived—a boy, bare-shanked and trembling with awe—he knelt at the foot of the altar, uncertain whether to keep his eyes on the floor or risk a glimpse at Ingersol's glistening torso. "High Priest," the boy managed, "the penitent begs audience. He comes from the Fenlands. It's… urgent."
Ingersol, who had not yet tasted the climax of the day's worship, felt a flare of irritation. "Let him steep in his misery," he muttered, but even as he returned the blade to its sheath, he sensed a familiar pulse of compulsion. Duty—sulfurous and relentless. He dismissed the congregation with a gesture; the deacons would see to the rest.
He stalked from the nave, boots slapping wet marble, through the incense haze and into the deeper shadows of the basilica, where the air was cooler and smelled of age. The confessional was a blackened iron cage, its door dented from centuries of self-flagellation. Ingersol paused outside, composing himself—straightening the gorget, letting his heartbeat steady.
Inside, the penitent sat huddled on the grated bench, face hidden beneath a cowl, hands clenched around a wooden idol painted crudely with red flowers. Peasant. Ingersol entered, the door clanging shut behind him. He let the silence stretch, savoring the contrast between the reverent hush and the howls still echoing in the nave.
"State your affliction," Ingersol said at last.
The penitent raised his head. He was younger than expected, cheeks mottled by sun and wind, the eyes an unsteady blue. "Forgive me, your Holiness," the man began, words tumbling. "They call me Elwin. Elwin Marsh. My people—they've no more hope. The Fen's gone sour. The crops—drowned in red water. Our children wither. The elders say it's the old curse, the one you…" Elwin faltered, voice trembling as if the next words would burn him. "The one your Church promised to break."
Ingersol regarded him with mild contempt. "You come for absolution, but bring only complaints. The Agony favors those who bite the bit, not those who bray at the reins." He watched Elwin shrink into his cloak, waiting for the tears or threats that usually came at this point. Instead, the peasant simply unclasped the idol, cradling it as if it might bite.
"Holiness," Elwin said, the word thick with desperation, "my child is already dead. The mire takes them, one by one. My wife and I—we did all the rituals, fasted, bled, took the sacraments. But now she's fallen to rot as well. Please. Send a miracle, or a curse, or even the blackguard priests. Anything."
The plea was nothing new. What caught Ingersol was the fervor in the man's voice, the way he recited misery as if it were a holy text memorized since birth. Ingersol found himself almost admiring it. He reached out, gently prying the idol from Elwin's hands.
"You understand what you ask? The old ways linger in the fen. If I loose the Church's wrath on your village, not one stone will stand. You may gain a brief harvest, but at what cost?"
Elwin met his gaze. "Cost me nothing, Holiness. I've nothing left to lose."
Ingersol turned the idol over in his palm, noting the crude runes carved into the base. Beneath the paint, the wood was dense and very old—likely relic from the pagan cults predating the Agony. He felt a flicker of disgust. Or perhaps curiosity.
He pressed the idol to his brow, breathing in the tang of blood and pine resin. For a moment, he let himself drift—opening that old wound where revelation came, the spot at the center of his skull where voices nested like hornets. The world tilted.
He saw: A field of reeds taller than a man's head, bending under a sky the color of rust. The ground rippled, then split, vomiting up hands, faces, whole bodies—all tangled in roots and sorrow. In the distance, a horned shadow loomed, picking at its teeth with a silvered nail. The scent of brine and rot and unborn rain. Through the vision ran a whisper, dry as old parchment:
"Send him. Let the agony take root. Water the world in grief."
Ingersol came to, still clutching the idol. His hands trembled, a rare and delicious thing. He glanced at Elwin, who sat with eyes screwed shut, knuckles white on his knees.
"You're in luck," Ingersol said softly. "The Agony hears you."
He rose and slid the cage door open, gesturing for the peasant to follow. The corridors beyond were darker, colder. Torches spat resinous flame. They passed beneath frescoes of saints devoured by jackals, martyrs on fire, the victorious wreathed in vines and thorns. Elwin stumbled, still blinking as if stunned by the memory of hope.
They reached the reliquary. Ingersol produced a ring of iron keys and unlocked the smallest of the armories—a stone cell holding an ancient, leather-bound tome and a phial of black oil. He handed both to Elwin.
"Return to your people. Perform the rites as written. Burn the oil at the four corners of your marsh. If you falter, if you doubt, you will die. If you prevail, the fen will be remade." He smiled, though his face hurt from the effort. "Do not look for mercy in it."
Elwin nodded, cradling the gifts to his chest. "Thank you," he whispered, but Ingersol was already turning away.
Back in his chambers, the High Priest washed his hands in rosewater and stared at his reflection in a battered tin mirror. He saw the lines of exhaustion, the little flecks of blood, the tired lust lurking in the corners of his mouth. But most of all, he saw the fire rekindled in his eyes.
There would be a miracle. The hinterlands would burn. And in the charred residue of suffering, the Church would find its next harvest of faithful. This was the true work of saints.
He donned his finest cassock—black velvet crusted with bone fragments—and returned to the nave, where the congregation awaited. The deacons arranged the kneelers, and the naked penitents filed in, voices hushed. Ingersol looked out over the sea of need and wretchedness, and felt himself newly sanctified.
He lifted the relic-blade, and the people bent as one. His words rang in the cold air:
"Rejoice, for suffering is never wasted. Through pain, we are made new."
Beneath the chandeliers, a thousand throats screamed Amen, and the day of agony began anew.
"By blood, by agony, by truth unsoftened—so we recall the birth of a world."
The nave roared. It was not only the nobility in their viperous silks but the butcher's daughters and canal-haulers, the lowest dregs clad in sackcloth and penitence, all rapt as the blade pricked skin and the acolyte sang her part in the agony—pure, artful, and exalting. It was a fine morning.
When the confession runner arrived—a boy, bare-shanked and trembling with awe—he knelt at the foot of the altar, uncertain whether to keep his eyes on the floor or risk a glimpse at Ingersol's glistening torso. "High Priest," the boy managed, "the penitent begs audience. He comes from the Fenlands. It's… urgent."
Ingersol, who had not yet tasted the climax of the day's worship, felt a flare of irritation. "Let him steep in his misery," he muttered, but even as he returned the blade to its sheath, he sensed a familiar pulse of compulsion. Duty—sulfurous and relentless. He dismissed the congregation with a gesture; the deacons would see to the rest.
He stalked from the nave, boots slapping wet marble, through the incense haze and into the deeper shadows of the basilica, where the air was cooler and smelled of age. The confessional was a blackened iron cage, its door dented from centuries of self-flagellation. Ingersol paused outside, composing himself—straightening the gorget, letting his heartbeat steady.
Inside, the penitent sat huddled on the grated bench, face hidden beneath a cowl, hands clenched around a wooden idol painted crudely with red flowers. Peasant. Ingersol entered, the door clanging shut behind him. He let the silence stretch, savoring the contrast between the reverent hush and the howls still echoing in the nave.
"State your affliction," Ingersol said at last.
The penitent raised his head. He was younger than expected, cheeks mottled by sun and wind, the eyes an unsteady blue. "Forgive me, your Holiness," the man began, words tumbling. "They call me Elwin. Elwin Marsh. My people—they've no more hope. The Fen's gone sour. The crops—drowned in red water. Our children wither. The elders say it's the old curse, the one you…" Elwin faltered, voice trembling as if the next words would burn him. "The one your Church promised to break."
Ingersol regarded him with mild contempt. "You come for absolution, but bring only complaints. The Agony favors those who bite the bit, not those who bray at the reins." He watched Elwin shrink into his cloak, waiting for the tears or threats that usually came at this point. Instead, the peasant simply unclasped the idol, cradling it as if it might bite.
"Holiness," Elwin said, the word thick with desperation, "my child is already dead. The mire takes them, one by one. My wife and I—we did all the rituals, fasted, bled, took the sacraments. But now she's fallen to rot as well. Please. Send a miracle, or a curse, or even the blackguard priests. Anything."
The plea was nothing new. What caught Ingersol was the fervor in the man's voice, the way he recited misery as if it were a holy text memorized since birth. Ingersol found himself almost admiring it. He reached out, gently prying the idol from Elwin's hands.
"You understand what you ask? The old ways linger in the fen. If I loose the Church's wrath on your village, not one stone will stand. You may gain a brief harvest, but at what cost?"
Elwin met his gaze. "Cost me nothing, Holiness. I've nothing left to lose."
Ingersol turned the idol over in his palm, noting the crude runes carved into the base. Beneath the paint, the wood was dense and very old—likely relic from the pagan cults predating the Agony. He felt a flicker of disgust. Or perhaps curiosity.
He pressed the idol to his brow, breathing in the tang of blood and pine resin. For a moment, he let himself drift—opening that old wound where revelation came, the spot at the center of his skull where voices nested like hornets. The world tilted.
He saw: A field of reeds taller than a man's head, bending under a sky the color of rust. The ground rippled, then split, vomiting up hands, faces, whole bodies—all tangled in roots and sorrow. In the distance, a horned shadow loomed, picking at its teeth with a silvered nail. The scent of brine and rot and unborn rain. Through the vision ran a whisper, dry as old parchment:
"Send him. Let the agony take root. Water the world in grief."
Ingersol came to, still clutching the idol. His hands trembled, a rare and delicious thing. He glanced at Elwin, who sat with eyes screwed shut, knuckles white on his knees.
"You're in luck," Ingersol said softly. "The Agony hears you."
He rose and slid the cage door open, gesturing for the peasant to follow. The corridors beyond were darker, colder. Torches spat resinous flame. They passed beneath frescoes of saints devoured by jackals, martyrs on fire, the victorious wreathed in vines and thorns. Elwin stumbled, still blinking as if stunned by the memory of hope.
They reached the reliquary. Ingersol produced a ring of iron keys and unlocked the smallest of the armories—a stone cell holding an ancient, leather-bound tome and a phial of black oil. He handed both to Elwin.
"Return to your people. Perform the rites as written. Burn the oil at the four corners of your marsh. If you falter, if you doubt, you will die. If you prevail, the fen will be remade." He smiled, though his face hurt from the effort. "Do not look for mercy in it."
Elwin nodded, cradling the gifts to his chest. "Thank you," he whispered, but Ingersol was already turning away.
Back in his chambers, the High Priest washed his hands in rosewater and stared at his reflection in a battered tin mirror. He saw the lines of exhaustion, the little flecks of blood, the tired lust lurking in the corners of his mouth. But most of all, he saw the fire rekindled in his eyes.
There would be a miracle. The hinterlands would burn. And in the charred residue of suffering, the Church would find its next harvest of faithful. This was the true work of saints.
He donned his finest cassock—black velvet crusted with bone fragments—and returned to the nave, where the congregation awaited. The deacons arranged the kneelers, and the naked penitents filed in, voices hushed. Ingersol looked out over the sea of need and wretchedness, and felt himself newly sanctified.
He lifted the relic-blade, and the people bent as one. His words rang in the cold air:
"Rejoice, for suffering is never wasted. Through pain, we are made new."
Beneath the chandeliers, a thousand throats screamed Amen, and the day of agony began anew.