In Chapter 144, Dora performed psychometry on the scalpel Grip and Dabwick had found on the floor of the ballroom in Sarnath:
She saw a young man walking through the streets of his adopted home. There was something a little weird about his body. His wrists were so skinny. His arms were so long. His head was a bit big. He couldn’t quite keep his hair out of his eyes.
Though he only answered to “Ray” now, and soon… soon… he would be known as “Father Ray,” he still thought of himself as Brayden. Even though the hateful old witch gave him that name. And left her mark on his soul.
But he was no longer a child. He’s an adolescent now. Physically developed, but emotionally stunted. Yet trying to grow.
He was in a period of Transition.
He walked the streets of Egorian, the capital of Cheliax. His hands were deep in his pockets, where he gripped his favorite scalpel tightly. No one could see it.
It was a secret.
Brayden left Dice End, in Cheapside. He strolled through the Triumph. He made his way to Hellhound Hill, barely noting the world around him. All the gothic buildings, with their barbed minarets and sharply pointed roofs, passed him by. The Hellknights in the Long Market. The slaves in Whipcrack. The prostitutes outside the Tall Tail brothel. All of it… all of it… passed him by. None of it mattered.
Because he had a secret.
Today was the most important day of his life.
Brayden had never been a person of faith. Not until recently. The “family traditions” held NO interest to him. He could care less about Abadar or Desna or Iomedae, any of the typical gods the sheep of this world prayed to. He tried out Asmodeus—that’s how he ended up here, of course. And he tried. He really did. He attended services. Regularly. He made all the motions. But here, at the heart of Asmodeus worship on the continent, where it’s all so open and public… even with the human sacrifices, none of it grabbed his imagination.
Because Brayden needed a secret. He loved secrets. That feeling of holding something important in your heart—or your hand—while nobody in the world knows but you… it was intoxicating. And he’d missed that feeling.
Until the church of Zon-Kuthon found him.
And the first time he’d laid eyes on a painting of his Lord, he saw a kindred spirit. A brother to a beautiful sister, broken by the machinations of a darkness beyond comprehension. Atop his scalp, a crown of spikes pulling his skin open into a disturbing sunburst, the back of his skull completely gone, his brain naked, open, exposed—in all its pain—to the world. A kindred spirit. Agony made flesh. Suffering without end.
And from that day, the church of Zon-Kuthon became his life. It gave him purpose. It gave him meaning. It allowed him to put the horrors of his childhood behind him, to stop the cutting, to let the sleeping ghosts lie. The church became everything to him. And even though his superiors insisted he lacked the wisdom and understanding to rise in its ranks, he was determined to prove them wrong.
And today was the day.
He walked into the finest, the most exclusive club in the city, and took his seat.
Soon, the man arrived. Handsome, fit, patrician. Perfect hair. Infectious smile. His clothing was the finest of the fine. And there was a package tucked under his arm, obviously too heavy for him.
A gift for the celebrant.
It turnd out to be weapon. A van Horten family heirloom. It’s a good gift. Brayden was pleased.
They feasted, to build up their strength.
And then later that night, the celebrations began in the crossroads of a series of murky sewer tunnels. Gray stone walls covered in oily black fungus. A smooth obsidian table with restraints. A cluster of acolytes preparing the needles and saws.
But Brayden brought his own scalpel.
Weiralai had hounded him mercilessly about how weak he was, and weak-WILLED. She climbed up into his head and convinced him he was worthless, he wouldn’t amount to anything, he couldn’t DO anything, he couldn’t WITHSTAND anything. He couldn’t SURVIVE anything.
Wiping away a tear, Ray began.
With painstaking care and slowness, he sawed van Horten’s right hand off. The acolytes stopped the bleeding. Then the left. This went on for days. Right foot. Left foot. Right forearm. Left forearm.
Sometimes he stopped so the acolytes could pour the protein paste down his throat. The nutrients kept him alive. And Joyous. After all, his suffering must be prolonged. This was not sacrifice.
This was torture.
On and on and on it went until it was almost all Ray knew, and almost all he could remember.
And hurting someone else was even better than hurting himself.
He never wanted it to end.
When Weiralai found him on the street one morning, three months into the celebration, she simply eyed him up and down. He’d been ordained by this point. He was “Father Ray.” He had proven his strength. He had proven it upon the Joyful Thing. He had proven his strength.
Hadn’t he?
Then why did he feel so weak at the sight of her?
“I thought you should know,” she whispered. “There has been a development.”
Brayden, the child, the eternal child, felt the bottom drop out from under him. He will never be allowed to grow up, will he? He will never be free.
“She. Walks.”
Brayden wept. Sobbing and choking.
“You just can’t finish anything, can you?” Weiralai howled a hideous cackle of glee. It lasted an uncomfortably long time.
And the next thing Brayden remembered was standing over the Joyful Thing, the holy vessel once called Kristoph, and he held his favorite scalpel in his hand. The words ring in his skull: You can’t finish anything.
Brayden leaned down and kissed the Joyful Thing. It had no lips, and no teeth anymore, but still he forced his tongue into it, tasting deeply.
You can’t finish anything.
Brayden raised the scalpel. And even though it was anathema to end someone’s suffering, even though it would surely result in his excommunication from the church and might even mean the Prince of Pain would no longer answer his prayers…
He finished something.
And it was easy this time: killing.
And this time, only his second time, believe it or not, it was a Choice.
A choice made to prove the strength of his Will.
He didn’t ask for this life, but he would take control of it.
All he’d wanted, for years, was to die.
But he was too weak to kill himself. Or anyone else.
Now, all he wanted was to live. To survive this.
And to bring as much darkness and pain into the world as he humanly could.
And…
To kill his fucking mother.
Screaming and weeping, Brayden stabbed the scalpel into the Joyful Thing’s heart, over and over and over.
And the vision faded.
First Reference: Chapter 144
Other Notable References: —