#priest of rathma

[nightscreeching]

Portraits for wasps for a friend's fan fiction that she will write someday.Instead, we're burning through the evening in D4

[pebsterino]

another lil sketch as a treat 

Let me imagine that Rathma is a hopeless romantic whos also like smooth??? and idk im stupid but thank u for comming to my ted talk 

[firebastardextraordinaire]

Ngl the fact that apparently Rathma has been dead for literal years by the time Lilith gets inside his temple is honestly so sad?

Like she has no idea until she’s standing before his corpse that she was too late. She was always too late and there is absolutely nothing she could’ve done to get to him in time. He’s been dead for years and she’s only been back in sanctuary for a few weeks. Even if he would’ve let her save him, she never would’ve had the chance to.

It really puts the confrontation between Lilith and Inarius in the final act into perspective imo? Lilith is struggling with the fresh grief of her son’s death while Inarius has been applauding himself and patting himself on the back for it for years. Like no wonder he dismissed her words about Rathma so easily. He’s convinced himself he did the right thing years ago and you can’t overturn years of telling yourself you’re in the right with a single conversation.

It’s just. GAH. It makes me feel so much sympathy for Lilith, and hate Inarius even more.

[west-tokyo-incidents]

It's quiet here.

How many times will he come back to stare at the Black Lake? Rathma isn't here any more. His body lay where it has for however long it's been since Inarius came back and spread the prophecy as gospel.

No amount of speed or lack of distraction would have let him meet Rathma personally.

The wanderer huffed under his breath and leaned on his hand. He's perched above, just inside Kasama, looking down at the barely-submerged platform where Vhenard died twice over.

"The first necromancer... Wow, I bet this is a big deal for you, huh?"

"Hm? ...I suppose so."

Neyrelle's question to him, when they'd first come across evidence of where they were.

"Well, isn't it? Aren't necromancers priests of Rathma?"

He remembers his thoughts from back then. Should he pretend to be in awe? Excited? Something other than skin-crawling anxiety about meeting the nephalem his people worshipped?

"I guess I'm just... Nervous."

The wanderer considers going back down there. Hell, he even walks through the City of the Ancients to the entrance of the Cradle... Only to stop and stare at the mural on the floor in front of it.

He must've not seen it before. Rathma's face, scrolls falling from his hands, a skeletal mage at his side.

Nope.

The wanderer turns back around and goes back to his spot overlooking the lake. Back to the little food he'd packed himself. Even if he went, he couldn't cross the lake. And even if he could, Rathma would still be dead and his spirit gone from this place.

And even if he wasn't...

Best not think about that. He stuck a piece of bread in his mouth.

"Well, Neyrelle told me I'd probably find you here."

Only to nearly choke on it in shock.

"Donan...!"

The wanderer, coughing, turned to look at the man.

The man is grinning at him, "Hey, now, don't die on me, you're the only necromancer we've got!" The man walks over as the wanderer manages to get a drink and clear his throat, "Mind if I join you?"

"No, of course not. Why were you looking for me?"

With a heave, Donan sits beside him, "You'd been gone for a while got concerned. I guess you couldn't resist coming back here while we're in the area, hm? Neyrelle told me all about how you two met."

A soft grunt of acknowledgement.

"...I can't imagine it." Donan sighs, his voice becoming soft, "I guess, in a way, it's like if Inarius had just. Suddenly died one day. No glory, no songs... I can't imagine how the church would react."

"Hah, yeah, except it's as if that arse died locked away in the Alabaster Monastery and the world forgot about him. Hidden away with a key you can never get again. And why would you even want it?" A dry laugh, "Just to see a dead body?" The wanderer stares down at his food. He can feel the heat of anger beginning to boil in his stomach.

Donan goes quiet, "I'm sorry... For what it's worth, he isn't forgotten--"

"His prophecy isn't forgotten, you mean." He spits, "There are no crusaders for him. No knights to guard his tomb. His temple is sunken beneath the rancid sea and his tomb is rotting. I've heard so many people talk about him ...But no one but me and Lilith seem to grieve."

"...I thought you said you weren't religious. Yet you sound as devout as Prava. Don't go falling into Lilith's arms just because she--"

"It's nothing like Prava. And I'm not falling into that bitch's arms." He snarls suddenly. Wolven teeth snap behind his own. He can feel Hatred in his words, and Donan does, too. "She grieves him... But what she does... It's too much like... Like where I came from. Except Rathma never actually demanded the things my people did to me." His hair bristles on the back of his neck. Donan clenches his hands into fists in his lap.

"...Wanderer... What happened to you?" Donan reaches and gently places his hand on the necromancer's shoulder. He flinches, but doesn't pull away. He glares at Donan, but the man meets his eyes evenly back.

Donan seems to be considering his next move. Almost like a young boy eagerly expecting to find a small hind on his hunt and running into a great hart who has no intention of being shot.

But this hart trusts that will not be shot, and he will not run, either. The wanderer rolled his shoulder, shrugging off the hand.

"We were terrible people. Isolated from the world on an island south of Hawezar. I thought I loved what We were. We took trips to the mainland to get corpses for Our craft. They weren't dead when We got there." His hands ball into fists in his lap.

"...you were an instrument in the Death Song..." Donan's voice is barely a whisper.

The wanderer tilted his head, "Is that what your name is for who We were?"

Donan scowls softly, "Well, it's what we heard from travellers who came from the south. What do you mean, were?"

"How long ago was the last time you heard a story about Us? I imagine We'll become nothing but a fairy tale to children before too long."

Donan frowns, "So... They're gone?"

"Yes. We're gone. For the most part."

Silence. The wanderer just stares at Donan, waiting for the next word.

"...What did you do?" A look of concern and caution crosses the man's face.

"I think you've already guessed the answer. Why do you think I travelled so far north? Why do you think Mephisto haunts me?"

"Answer the question, wanderer."

"I killed them." Tension hangs like a heavy stone in the air, "Say what you want about it. Yell, storm out, threaten me." The wanderer looks back at the lake.

A slow sigh, "No, I don't think I will." Donan's hand reaches to take one of his hands, and the necromancer realizes he's bleeding from his own nails, "I know you, wanderer. Whatever they did to you to push you to such a point. You still consider yourself one of them, even after killing them."

His shoulders fall. He pulls his eyes away from Donan carefully wiping the wound off with a cloth. And he decides to speak again, "I'd been a bad omen since birth. White hair. Pale eyes. And they treated me like it, only barely a part of the Whole, no matter how hard I worked, how many I killed. They only gave me a name when I was bathed in the blood of someone I loved." There is more to it. But he can barely conjure the words to speak it, "My mentor cursed me and stripped me of my name with her dying breaths. Probably the best thing she ever did for me."

Quiet, again. He glances to Donan and sees the man deep in thought as he wraps his palm. It stretches out for a while. The wanderer simmering slowly in his own head as the water below gently splashes onto the shore and stones.

"So why do you feel so strongly about Rathma? Why are you still a necromancer?"

"My craft is Mine, not Ours." He snaps, yanking his hand back and his lips peeling back from a snarl, "Made for One, not the Whole. I am a necromancer because that is who I am. My people may have shown me the path, but that's the only part they play."

A hum. He suspects Donan is confused, by what he doesn't know. It's clear to him, but Donan doesn't press on whatever it is.

"And what about Rathma?" He motions to the lake. The Necropolis beyond, "Your people told you everything was his command, didn't they?"

"Yes. And for a while, I hated him as much as I hated the Whole." The wanderer leaned against rubble nearby, looking down at his hand and finishing the wrapping himself. "And then I sought to learn more of my craft, beginning to struggle on my own. I read his teachings in the wider world, and I began to question what I had been taught."

The binding tight, he let his hands fall back down.

"First to learn he was a flesh and blood being? And not a serpent at all, but that he looks as human as you or I. And then to read his teachings and find that the Balance I had been taught was twisted." He shakes his head. He reaches into his pouch and pulls out a beaten up book; his journal. It's scarred and stained with who knows what all.

"I don't see him as a god, I don't worship him. He was a person. A teacher."

His fingers flip open the pages and his eyes flick between each one. And then he stops. The page he'd written after returning from the city of dead. There, delicately sketched, is Rathma's face.

"Almost every word I was told about him as a child was wrong. Coming here, suddenly being thrust with the realization that I could possibly even meet him. Only to find him dead. Killed by Inarius with his own weapon." A shaky breath.

"In a way, I guess I am devoted to him. But as one is devoted to a loved one, not an angel nor a demon."

Donan has been quiet for a while now. The wanderer snaps his journal shut.

"I hope you're satisfied now."

Donan still doesn't answer. After a second, the wanderer looks over his shoulder, almost wondering if the man had snuck out at some point. But no, he's still there.

"You've been through a lot, haven't you, wanderer?" Donan hums softly, "I can see why you aren't eager to let Neyrelle try and think of a new name for you."

"I am happy being a simple wanderer."

"Perhaps I'll have a word with her in private, ask her to stop."

"You don't have to--"

"No, I think it's only right." He stands up, then pauses. He wants to say something... But it escapes him, "We have to make for Hawezar soon, though. I don't want to rush your meal, but we're ready to leave when you are."

The wanderer stares at the Black Lake, but nods and begins to pack up, "I was nearly done anyway. Go on ahead, I'll meet you there."

[rage-claw]

"Once hailing from the far north of Khanduras, Zikeziel's harsh upbringing in its dangerous poverty-stricken swamps drove her to join the Priests of Rathma. A skilled necromancer corrupted against her will by the blood of Lilith, Zike appears to find herself struggling to reject the curse, believing it and Lilith may somehow be the key to restoring balance to Sanctuary." - From 'Observations on Deathspeaker Zikeziel', part of the Cathedral of Light's private records on active Priests of Rathma.

[necr0-mantix]

{{Major expansion spoilers under the cut.}}

We've been dabbling with the concept and chatting about it a lot on Discord, but after finishing the expansion and seeing Akarat ascended into a spirit guardian, I'm going to be extremely surprised if Rathma doesn't show up again at some point during one of the patches with a similar thing going on.

They've been drilling the death is a transformation thing for quite some time now, and also brought up the modified doomer version of Rathma's prophecy at the end of the campaign too.

The necropolis entrance is featured as a stronghold, with a dungeon beside the necropolis featuring an unnamed depiction of a massive draconic serpent. (click me for image) There's been discussion that Kepeleke - a Nahantu diety - is actually just Trag'oul, and Trag'oul does seem like he could be one of the OG, if not the OG, spirit guardian. There's also an NPC, whose name I've forgotten because it's 5am here, there to try and fix things up there as it's been seemingly abandoned since Malthael's genocide. (Which poses some other questions like how the Priests are even functioning right now without their base of operations, but this is stuff I'm going to dwell on later through RP.)

Necromancers draw from the same realm too in general.

We've seen Rathma's spirit already.

You can say I'm snorting hopium here, but I sincerely doubt they'd have released the animated short and comic right before the expansion if he wasn't going to play a role at some point.

I'm excited.

I actually love in RPGs when there's some heavy cross-over between class dynamics for world building, and as a necromancer main for life, yeah the focus is on the spiritborn right now, but there was a lot for us here too if you read between the lines and look at the details.

Something's being set up right now. I'm really hyped to see what it is.

[xjulixred45x]

This is just a question not a request. How would a Platonic Yandere Nanami react to having a Necromancer adopted child. Like the child was brought in the ways of the necromancer in a cult environment mind you this cult believes in maintaining the balance of the world and so they fight evil with their profane gifts sometimes at the cost of their own well being ( The child was raised by the priest of rathma aka the diablo necromancers) They don't know how to act " normal"

Mm... Dificult.

Nanami (yandere or not) tends to be a man who prioritizes the younger ones, so knowing that Reader's family raised them as necromancers at that point would definitely set off all the alarms and lead him to try to teach Reader certain "everyday" things so as not to leave them out.

He does not intervene in the reader's beliefs as long as they are not harmful, but he definitely does not want him to continue as a necromancer, and we already know what Nanami can do if you don't listen to him...

[lisa-and-shadow]

Or you can be me and go, "Oooooohhh big snake!!! Big snake!!!! 😍"

Seriously though, I feel like as a necromancer all this Rathma and Trag'Oul stuff should have been more meaningful to my Wanderer. Seeing an embodiment of Trag'Oul would be a religious experience if you're a Priest of Rathma. That's as close to a diety as you get in their religion. And don't even get me started about finding Rathma's body. Oh it's just, you know, our holy prophet and visionary. I'm gonna leave him here unattended and let him just lay sprawled on the floor forever. 😫 There's just a lot of necromancer specific lore woven into the plot and necro Wanderers don't get to so much as make a single comment about it. Worse, you have NPCs npc-splain it to you. 😤

Did Barbarians go through this during the Mount Arreat part of D2? If so you have my condolences. It's maddening.

[dangergrandpa]

🍄 [MUSHROOM]

For Cu

Thankfully, the Priests of Rathma teach their students to identify inedible and edible things - there's an entire mandatory class for it.

So yeah, he'd eat all the random things, but he knows what's safe at least!

[natalieironside]

ヽ(✿ﾟ▽ﾟ)ノヽ(✿ﾟ▽ﾟ)ノヽ(✿ﾟ▽ﾟ)ノ just found your Diablo fanfiction today and while i already enjoyed your work i am thrilled to find you are a personage of refinement and good taste (priest of rathma enjoyer) in what is my first and oldest fandom (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

=D So happy to find another person of taste and refinement

[nightscreeching]

[pebsterino]

I have to keep these in mind when making Miel’s reference sheet qfasdfasfasdf

[firebastardextraordinaire]

You know, it’s insanely funny to me that out of all the various mage clans and organizations, the priests of rathma ABSOLUTELY are the ones having the least amount of sex considering they’re the ONLY one who can use their magic instead of Ye Old Fantasy Viagra

I mean, they’re the ones with blood magic! They can control the blood in other creatures bodies as well as their own! WHO needs a potion when you can consciously control the flow of your own blood!

Don’t tell the other mage clans, they might get pissed

[west-tokyo-incidents]

The Black Lake shimmers no more. The bridge of light… is gone.

The necromancer stands there. He isn't sure if it's grief or shock that holds him there, staring at the distant spot where he knows the entrance to Rathma’s Sanctum… now his grave… stands. Somewhere in that dark mist.

He would be the first to admit, there had been some hope in his hollow chest, to meet the first necromancer. Rathma himself.

Hope that had become butterflies at seeing the projection of him...

Offspring of an angel and a demon. The pinnacles of human desires, both flesh and spirit, come together in one. Of course he had been beautiful. 

Nothing to say of his work. The gorgeous, spanning necropolis, something he, himself, could only dream of. Its sculptures beautiful and the resting places of the dead in the sanctum so carefully placed… 

The sanctum. Those butterflies had become stinging locusts when he opened those doors. How long it had taken for him to kneel beside his body to see what the petals would show him.

The memory of Lilith finding his body. Her so gently moving his hands to place them on his chest, where his father had just left him to rot. Is it a mother’s grief that makes it all the harder to turn his back on the place? Was it her influence that urged him to gently fix a lock of hair on his cold face? Her blood still pulsing inside of him, making him boil alive with anger at his death?

He lifts a bony knuckle to his mouth and bites down on it, trying to relieve himself of some of the emotion. It's painful. It's supposed to be. Just… just a little catharsis. Such a valuable life lost. Such an awe-inspiring legacy left to collapse and crumble to dust across a lake to be abandoned.

Oh, that he could be the one to repair it, to restore it, to raise it from the dead–

One of his servants gently nudges him.

Right. He yanks his knuckle out of his mouth. He has an amulet to return and a demon to track down… 

He turns and glances over his servants. Only seven. He is young, a meager child of a necromancer. He would barely be able to clear out a single room, much less repair a whole city of dead. Much less that Rathma's servants would even bother with rising for him. A young necromancer with what to his name? Barely the title of 'Priest', seven skeletons, and a puppy dog’s admiration for someone not only dead but leagues more important than him. Someone who's in over their head and drowning in it.

He flexes his injured hand and walks towards the stairs. 

His blood drips into the water, mere wisps to dissipate in seconds in the flow.

Dissipate... But not disappear. Not truly. A piece of him would linger here for just a bit longer.

[ao3-diablofic]

by 4_Goblins_in_A_trench_coat (CGT80811x)

The smell of blood and crack of bone has been her comfort, the dead her friends. For the past 20 years, Taylor fought, killed, and learned. Back to where it all started, Brockton Bay will tremble at the coming of The Priests of Rathma.

Words: 723, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Parahumans Series - Wildbow, Diablo (Video Games)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death

Characters: Taylor Hebert | Skitter | Weaver, Colin Wallis | Armsmaster | Defiant, Dragon (Parahumans), Mephisto (Diablo Video Games), Danny Hebert, Missy Biron | Vista, Empire 88 (Parahumans)

Additional Tags: Other Additional Tags to Be Added, and characters, Alt-Power Taylor Hebert, Overpowered Taylor Hebert, Hero Taylor Hebert | Skitter | Weaver, technically, Religious Cults, Necromancer Taylor Hebert

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61075021

[necr0-mantix]

The Spirits of Westmarch

It was so very hard to believe in gods that - simply put - were never there. But, I believe now. A group of 3 of us, and a half technically, Dezren had brought his child apprentice, all Priests of Rathma, were in close vicinity to Westmarch when word of the city’s destruction had spread to the north. Each of us had felt the terrible loss of life, but we could not comprehend what we had seen or felt upon seeing the smoldering remains of what was once one our world’s most renowned cities; it had been reduced to a ruin that still haunts me to this day.

Surprisingly, there were survivors. Those who had been close enough to the gates when the angels descended managed to flee, and it was by their word and their word alone that we had some understanding of the carnage that had befell the capital. I could not believe it at first, but the legends of angels had been passed down for generations within the order. We never saw them as the holy and righteous beings other people did, especially the church, but rather, the opposite side of the same instinctual coin as demons. This could have happened. There was no sense in denying it.

We all expected more bodies to litter the streets, but the stories of the recently dead turning upon the living made that all the less surprising. The only concern was that our art - necromancy - had been turned against us. And that chilling waft of essence still lingered in the air as we walked, denying us any chance at disbelief. All we could do was mourn, and seek any souls that may have managed to survive and linger within the hellscape.

I couldn’t help but whisper a doubt myself; this was not balanced. Death had overtaken life in this place in a manner that was unprecedented in our time. Thousands of lives snuffed out so quickly. I questioned to Dezren, away from the child of course, about if the man was still alive, how he could have let this come to pass? Would this not have warranted divine intervention of some kind? The serpent, even? Even the might of our order seemed as if it would not have been enough to stop the butchering, and this certainly would have been that race case we would have needed to intervene.

Dezren did not have answers. And it seemed that the rumor of our patron being long dead himself seemed to be so. That was not what broke my heart, however; I always had my doubts Rathma was nothing more than an idol that represented the best of what we could be at times anyways. It was Croix, the child student’s, cry that piqued my own rare sadness. We had never been the monsters society claimed us to be, and in the face of such horror, even an adult would weep.

But all we could do was let him cry. His emotions, ours, were all what made us human still. We were allowed to mourn the dead, just as much as we were allowed to use them.

The lack of looters made me feel comfortable to make the call that the boy could rest on his own. He could study from us if he so chose, but no matter how harsh our methods could be towards our youth when it came to our art, we could not bring ourselves to subject him to more than he could handle, especially as we ourselves struggled. And thus he would remain to weep upon the rubble of the square’s fountain.

I opted to do my investigation close enough to the boy that, should something do go awry, I could reach him quickly. But, I felt so little while also feeling the energy of the departed still lingering. As if I couldn’t pinpoint any souls directly, just that they had been here. And it did not take me long to discover why this was so.

I caught the flicker of a spirit out of the corner of my eye. It was faint. And small. A child’s. The girl was crying, as most children were upon being released from their body. I had little experience with the sort, and none of us wished to. But, it was as it was, and all I could do was approach her and kneel, setting my blade aside to show her that despite my appearance, I meant her no harm.

And she said nothing. And continued to say nothing as another approached from behind her, slightly older by perhaps two years, and with a solemn expression that was so typical for these affairs. I could only presume it was a brother, but never found out if that was so. They never spoke to me directly. I would never force them to. I couldn’t.

They looked at each other, and I couldn’t help but feel they knew what I was - it was hard to deny, we were the subject of terrible fairy tales to children - but they showed no sign of fear. They shook their heads in disagreement at each other, before staring with that blankness that never stopped twisting my heart. I wanted to ask them questions, but, before I fessed the nerve to do so, the girl had waved to somebody beyond me, and they began to walk, their gaze meeting mine just once before they pressed forwards.

And I would follow instead of moving further into the city. And to this day, I am thankful that I did.

They had begun to follow somebody who had beckoned them, a boy seemingly no older than ten years of age upon his passing. I was unable to hear his words, I did not follow close enough as to not potentially scare them despite them knowing I had trailed behind him, but I did see him signal a hand towards the fountain as their pace hurried. My instinct was that perhaps they had seen Croix, who could have been mistaken for a survivor. The dead did try to speak with the living on many occasions, even if they could not be seen, and children were more apt to speak to other children, and children were also more sensitive to souls than the grown. 

I had not expected to see even more children’s spirits populating the area around the fountain, but it was so. There were enough to make me feel sick to my stomach, and worry for the sanity of our young pupil for seeing something so depressingly strange.

I was so distracted by the sight of the crowd that it took me a moment to spot our boy within it, and he was not alone as a living being. Nor did it seem that we were the only ones of our order here. He sat with what appeared to be an acolyte, but I had never seen the man before despite my aid in seeking them. And he was strikingly beautiful; he almost seemed to be a moving statue, his paleness as deep as marble, and his long hair glistening like onyx. He was uncanny to behold, and as he stood, taking Croix’s hand in his, it became all the more so; he towered over even I to a height that seemed unrealistic. .

At first, I thought they were to leave, and I was to stop them should they do so, the safety of the boy not in question as I trusted our own more than any, but they did not. Instead, the stranger seemed to only stand to gesture towards the children with his scythe gently, who rallied to him like mystified lambs. And I could hear his words despite my distance, the voice ringing like a strange nostalgia to me,

“They were left behind because their essence was too weak to be of use.” he would state with an educative tone, sitting down once more beside the apprentice, “And for that, I am thankful.”

Croix would question the stranger, as inquisitive as always as some of the children placed themselves beside him,

“Where are they going to go?”

It seemed he spoke for many of them. Some nodded at the inquiry. One of the youngest would approach the man, raising her arms to be picked up. And surprisingly, he both could and did, resting her upon his lap, sitting once more, as Croix also reached to aid in her comfort - but was unable to touch.

“To rest.” the stranger would state firmly with a fatherly gentleness, “After everything you’ve all been through, you deserve rest. And when you wake, you will be somewhere else, perhaps even be somebody else, but you will be away from here. And you will not be alone as you were.”

I could already tell by how the speech was delivered that this man was not a typical acolyte. Curiosity got the better of me, but I dare not approach and make myself more known than I was. Only a few of the lot would have not noticed me by now, but I did not want to interrupt, for it seemed I too had something to learn from all this.

The anxiety within the children was very evident, but it was fascinating to see how they took to this man and seemed to trust him. There was no protest, nor were there any tears. In fact, they seemed comforted by his presence, whereas I was unsettled by him. Perhaps they had been with him longer than I could have assumed.

“...and I need you to rest, for your own safety.” he would begin once more, “As you grow tired, you can allow yourselves to fade. It will be akin to falling asleep. You will feel no pain, you will feel no sorrow. Only relief as you cross. There is no need to be afraid.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at one of the children’s remarks to his comforting words.

“I don’t want to go to sleep mister!” 

Of course she didn’t. There was always one in a crowd of children. Some things, even in death, did not change.

It seemed he too found amusement in it and chuckled, shaking his head a gentle no. Rare was it that such a dismal display would have some sense of heart to it, but yet, even there, it seemed humanity was being itself. 

“Come now, Alice. What must I do for you to behave? Name your price, and I shall pay the toll.”

For the first time in so many long moons, I heard laughter.

And I took notice immediately that the crowd was smaller; some of the children had passed on already within that moment. And it was then that I realized what that man was doing. He was shepherding them.

“Mama never put me to bed without a lullaby!” the little girl demanded of the necromancer, her hands upon her hips and all. Clearly, she had been comforted enough to tease for play.

The youngest of them seemed to huddle closer upon the demand, sitting at the man’s feet and alongside him. Their desire for comfort even in death being something that a man such as I could admit brought a tear to my eyes.

“Oh, come now. I haven’t sung for many many years, my dear. But, if that is what you ask of me… I do remember my mother’s song. If you insist.”

“I do!”

There was a hesitation from the stranger, his exhale was a sigh and I could tell her request was something that pained him, but, like a man, he endured and would adhere. For who could deny a child’s final wish? Certainly not I, and certainly not him.

But he did indeed sing, and in what language, I still do not know. The tongue was so foreign that it seemed unlike any spoken by man, and with the perfect gentleness of his voice, I mistook it for the chime of angels. There was a beauty and grace to it that could move souls, and it indeed did; for Alice would disappear as she buried his face into his chest, his fingers toying with her hair before it was simply no more, her final wish fulfilled. And one by one, the other younglings would depart as well, leaving only a few of the eldest to listen to the hymn with a wonder that matched my own. There was a silence afterwards that felt as how things should have been, the man and the children exchanging sorrowful glances as they too began to disappear, the oldest among them nodding between themselves as they, I presume, fulfilled their duties of protecting the little ones.

I had never seen anything like it, and I pray that I, nor anybody else, ever will again.

When the spirits had passed, I stepped forwards, and my gaze met the stranger’s without words. It was Croix who would break the silence, calling to me, rushing to my side with teary eyes. I placed my hand upon his head to ruffle his hair, but I did not coddle; we were not supposed to, even though I truly wished I had in that moment.

“Master Kareem!” he blurted, his fingers grasping around my wrist as he pulled me forwards towards the stranger, “You saw all that?!”

The boy was oddly excited despite his sorrows. He wiped the tears from his eyes as he gestured a hand towards the stranger. They exchanged a nod and a smile, and I gave one in turn as well in a more proper greeting.

I was prepared to introduce myself and ask the stranger’s name, but he spoke before I could.

“...there is nobody else remaining in the city.” he stated, his voice losing it’s softness from before, now gruff with the choke of misery, “I made sure of it.”

Sitting back on the rim of the fountain once more, the stranger’s head would fall into his palms as he began to sob violently. It was rare any of our order would display their sorrow so profoundly, we were taught to manage our emotions and keep in best of control of them as we could, but this man was an acolyte. Nobody so new to our ways would be able to handle this level of destruction, let alone comforting so many children at once after their murders. Despite my own ranking, I let myself submit, and stepped forwards to him with Croix in tow. I had to show my appreciation for his efforts, and extended a hand to rest upon his shoulder. I would have smiled if he looked upon me in that moment, but he did not.

“Rathma would be proud of you.” I stated, not one to be the best with words of comfort.

The man looked at me with an awkward apathy to his expression, his eyes welled with tears. And in that moment I realized something more was off about this person’s appearance; his eyes were a moon-lit silver unlike anything I had ever seen before, and there was just something about them that harbored wisdom and age. There was a shiver down my spine that I hadn’t felt in decades as I peered deep into them.

I had to question it.

“You… all of that. You are no acolyte, aren’t you?”

There was no response; he held his head low once more, breathing in heavily.

The apprentice broke the newfound quiet with an unfathomable question.

“Rathma? Are you okay?”

In that split second, I thought him insane, but the moment that man looked to him and nodded a yes with the most broken smile I had ever seen upon a person, I knew. And the proof was him disappearing in the blink of an eye, not a single word spoken to us upon his departure. 

We had seen a god.

The boy and I had agreed to not tell Dezren and Taylin about what we had seen, nor have I spoken of this event to many through the years bar the Deathspeaker, who did confide in me that she too believed that we had seen Rathma himself after her own brief sightings of him through the years. That these sightings were not exactly as rare as our legends made them out to be, and that the man preferred it this way. Which did leave me with more questions than answers, but I had answers. And that is more than many could say.