Paul
Killing you. We talked about this earlier, remember?
Pharos strolled over to grab the iron lantern in one hand and Paul’s shirt collar in the other. She proceeded to drag Paul, clutching the conch in a rigor mortis grip, down the stairs as if he weighed nothing.
The flames spread. Nothing could stop the conflagration. His cottage home was a ball of fire when Pharos left him to lie curled in the grass a safe distance away. He watched her back as she watched his home—and his body—burn.
“Why?”
She didn’t move. I care about you, Paul. You’re too young to understand now, but one day you’ll see this was for the best.
The cottage collapsed, and the wood vaporized, burning supernaturally fast, but the fire did not die. The flames rose as the last scraps dissolved, and the inferno reached its apex. Dozens upon dozens of molten glass spheres rose from the ashes inside the bright blaze and floated toward Pharos like bubbles on the wind. She selected one from the bunch, pulling a picture frame from inside as the glowing hot glass peeled away.
With His symbol destroyed and your body purged of Yang magic, Girandole can neither see nor touch you. As your unbound lifeforce searches for a concept to grasp, now is the time for me to remake you in my image.
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One for the inside, one for the out. She tossed the iron lantern and the picture into the fire, but they did not burn. Instead, as the flames licked the objects, the fire metamorphosed into glass and metal and concrete. The conflagration twisted and solidified into a foundation and grew its structure layer by layer.
It was their apartment building from Radio World.
The pain subsided, and Paul stood. He looked at himself with two sets of eyes. The Paul inside his head had the bat necklace and held the conch in wax hands, unchanged. He felt… himself.
The Paul in the outside world, however, was different. He stood naked in the inscrutable center of the white flame rose, his body one of energy, his blood pure light. Layer by layer, the petals clothed him, covered him, converged his essence from possibility to certainty. The petals condensed into glass that stabilized and intensified his light. He felt… powerful.
Where you were weak, now you are strong.
More petals solidified into metal that bent to his will like a second skin. Paul wasn’t slowed by the added weight but moved this new body with ease. His hands were steady, statuesque. The metal enveloped him, armored him, and focused his light so he could control it. He no longer felt numb. He felt… unbreakable.
Where you were soft, now you are hard.
His mind filled with names, concepts, and schematics as his body took shape: he had convex and concave lenses for converging and diverging beams of light, expanding and contracting apertures for focus and power, the hollow tubes of cold blast lanterns that admit cool air to create a stable and brighter flame, plus dozens of other details. His perception expanded in all directions, his knowledge entering the realm of causality. Paul navigated the ocean of information as a lighthouse’s beam pierces a stormy night. He felt… brilliant.
Where your head was clouded with smoke, now your mind is clear as glass.
He knew what he had to do. Nothing could stop him.
Look at you, Paul.
Now, you are beautiful.
Now, you are my Son.