High Inquisitor Patrus was anxious.

His Grace the Archpope, Voice of Mitla, Most Blessed of the Faithful and Holiest amongst all Men had been hidden away for hours already in the Most Purified Sanctum of Light, performing the Blessing of Divine Resurrection. It wasn’t supposed to take that long. It never took that long.

“Tomaas!” he thundered as he entered the Most Holy Sanctum, making the young man that was kneeling in front of the large, golden statue of Mitla jump.

“S..Sir?” the boy stuttered. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost.

If it hadn’t been for the tragic circumstances around it, it would have brought a tear to his eye to see how attached his apprentices had been to each other.

Patrus had worried that the hazing had gotten out of hand when Davaad had stolen Tomaas’s clothes during his ritual bath in the Waters of Purification, and forced the boy to run buck naked through the entire chapter. It was good to see that the it had rather brought them closer, as he’d expected would happen.

“Has there been any news?” Patrus demanded to know. It hurt his heart to see his apprentice like this, but coddling the boy would do no good. Normalcy! That’s what the boy needed right now to deal with his grief!

“My… my mother, Sir. I sent word to her that my brother was still alive, but she… she…” Tomaas started, but Patrus cut him off.

“About Davaad, boy! I realize his death hit you hard, but we must stay focused! Family is good to help you grieve, but take it from me, lad, only by facing the facts head on will you move past them!” Patrus nodded to himself. Another valuable lesson for the boy. How unfortunate that it required such terrible circumstances to teach such lessons, but Mitla worked in mysterious ways.

“N.. No, Sir. No word has reached me here, yet,” Tomaas stammered, “and obviously I could not go into the Highest and Holiest Sanctum to ask for the latest news from His Grace’s attendants, Sir.”

Patrus snorted. Of course he couldn’t, he would have been slain on the spot! There were five sanctums, arranged in order of holiness - as was proper, by the teachings of Mitla - and apprentices were only allowed in the first three, on pain of death. Only full Inquisitors and His Grace the Archpope, Voice of Mitla, Most Blessed of the Faithful and Holiest amongs all Men and his attendants were permitted to enter the fourth, the Highest and Holiest Sanctum.

And only the Archpope himself could enter the fifth and final sanctum, the Most Purified Sanctum of Light. It was said that that was where Mitla himself dwelt, and for any other mortal but His Chosen to gaze upon Him would result in their instant death.

“I will go to ask, then,” Patrus stated. “Have no fear, young Tomaas, trust in Mitla that He will return Davaad to us, safe and sound, as if he had never left.”

The boy’s face fell, for just a moment, before it returned to an expressionless mask. “By Mitla’s mercy, Sir.”

Ah, that boy. Clearly his faith had been shaken by the events in that Mitla-forsaken place. Imagine, to doubt that Mitla would bring back his friend, his closest companion! The boy was clearly having a crisis of faith, brought on by the doubt seeded into his mind at the hands of the evil spider-creature. What a vile abomination, to bring doubt to such a young and vulnerable mind!

As he stepped through the thick curtains separating the Most Holy Sanctum from the Highest and Holiest Sanctum, Patrus found the Archpope, Voice of Mitla, Most Blessed of the Faithful and Holiest amongst all Men busy washing his hands in the Basin of Purification.

If the Most Holy Sanctum was exquisitely decorated, with gilded pillars and intricately detailed inlays, then the Highest and Holiest Sanctum made it it look like a peasant’s hut. Every inch of the walls were covered with colourful murals and frescoes depicting scenes from the four holy books, each surrounded by intricately detailed, gold plated frames.

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Patrus could only imagine what the final sanctum, accessable only via the downward sloping passage on the opposite end of the room, was like.

He immediately knelt and bowed his head. “Your Grace! My apologies, I did not expect to find you here! I thought you were still inside with my apprentice, otherwise I would have come immediately!”

“Calm yourself, Patrus,” the Archpope spoke, his voice a gentle, soothing tone, as always. “I have only just finished with him. I was going to send for you as soon as I’d cleansed myself. The resurrection proved to be… most difficult.”

Patrus rose from his knees and looked at the Archpope. He looked young, perhaps mid-forties with hair that was only starting to turn grey. Younger than Patrus himself even, though he knew that looks could be deceiving. This particular Archpope had been serving for almost as long as Patrus had been an Inquisitor, which had to make him significantly older than Patrus himself. Those that were most blessed by Mitla seemed to be protected even from the ravages of time.

But perhaps not from the ravages of an inactive lifestyle combined with plentiful, delicious food. The Archpope was somewhat rotund under his holy vestments, but that only served to make him seem kind and generous; a jolly, kindly uncle who cared deeply and worked hard to protect his flock. His sleeves were even now rolled up in a most undignified manner, revealing lingering red stains on his hands and fingers.

“Was it… successful, Your Grace?” Patrus asked carefully.

For the longest time, the Archpope just stared sadly at him. Apprehension coiled in his gut like the snake that tried to tempt Mitla in the Holy Book of Gnosis.

“It… was,” the Archpope finally spoke. There was a note of sadness in his voice that seemed out of place for such happy news. “The young man lives. He is resting, now, under Mitla’s peace, but I will go fetch him once I have taken a moment to collect myself.”

“Mitla be praised!” Patrus exhulted. “Thank you, Your Grace! I apologize for ever doubting…”

The Archpope, Voice of Mitla, Most Blessed of the Faithful and Holiest amongst all Men, raised his hand to indicate that Patrus should stop. “However,” he continued, as if Patrus hadn’t spoken, “it was a long and difficult ordeal. I am afraid that while he is alive, he will never truly be the same again. Death has left a mark on him. One that not even I could erase, despite all of the Blessings that Mitla has bestowed upon me.”

Patrus’s brows creased. “Your Grace, what are you saying?”

“I am saying, High Inquisitor Patrus,” the Archpope continued, his voice uncharacteristically serious, “that your apprentice will never be able to carry a Blessing again. That, while he is lucky to be alive, he will never be an Inquisitor and execute Mitla’s will directly.”

For a few moments the High Inquisitor just stared wordlessly at his Archpope. Then he collapsed into one of the comfortable chairs positioned around the elegant baroque walls. The Archpope dried his hands on a white towel, offered by one of his attendants, before sitting down next to Patrus and gently patting his hand.

“This is going to destroy Davaad. Being an Inquisitor was his dream,” Patrus muttered. “And Tomaas! He is going to be crushed! He and Davaad were like brothers! Why, just the day before last, Davaad slipped a caltrop onto his seat just before he sat down, the prankster. He had to call on Mitla’s holy light to heal the wound! How did this happen?” he demanded.

“That is what I am hoping you can help me to understand, Patrus. As you know, during the resurrection, Mitla’s power washes away all toxins and poisons as it heals the body. However, when I tried to bring dear Davaad back, I was stymied by a most peculiar venom in his system that seemed to react to any holy energies.”

The Archpope withdrew a small vial from his vestments and handed it to Patrus. “This is all that I could successfully draw out. For the rest I had no choice but to burn it out the directly, causing irreparable damage to poor Davaad’s spirit in the process.”

The vial contained only a few drops of faintly shimmering, grayish liquid, like little gray pearls of death.

“The spider.” Patrus growled, clenching the vial in a fist. It was going to pay for its crimes. “Your Grace, while we were out, performing Mitla’s will, we were assaulted by a creature unlike any I have ever encountered before…”

Deep in the heart of the Nightmare, something ancient stirred. A green tower slowly rose upwards from the cracked asphalt, reaching upwards into the sky to retake its former position. To drink in the power radiated by the light above.

Slowly, the eldritch mind that inhabited the form… well, ‘woke up’ would probably be the closest approximation. It’s thoughts were, for the most part, utterly alien and incomprehensible to things of a human persuasion. A few of them, however, were disturbingly familiar.

Embarrassment. It had succumbed to its own creation. That was akin to poking out your eye with your own tentacle.

Pride. Nevertheless, it had been a success. Even just a tiny drop of the venom had been enough to lay even itself low. A fantastic outcome.

The Tree tried to reach out to its creation, but it was just barely beyond the edge of even the borders of its dream.

Frustration. Its creation was gone, the link broken. Even if it came back, it would be other. No longer of itself.

Unconcerned. The test was successful, and that was what mattered. The vessel itself was unimportant.

It could always make another.