I don’t have much memory of how we ended up in that roadside tavern. At the time, it was a routine stop – a chance to ask for directions, have a drink, and maybe sleep in the warmth for once. We weren’t there to rob – that was one thing Xanti was strict about.

You don’t shit where you eat.

As a temporary break, it was uneventful. The food was mediocre, the nearest town not far, but not too close, either, and the tavern was half-empty.

Then a man entered. He was young, with a defined, handsome face accented by the tinge of olive-gold in his skin. His most striking feature though, was an elaborate, heavy-looking headdress – an ornate crescent of gold stretching from one temple to the other, adorned with bells that jingled softly with his every step.

Even if it was just gilded and not solid gold, it was undeniably expensive, particularly compared to the young man’s simple clothes. He wore no other jewelry, had no weapons or companions, and only asked for a glass of water, but the innkeeper treated him with respectful haste.

Xanti shot us a meaningful look, and we set about finishing our drinks.

The innkeeper, who’d until then been pretty quiet about what we obviously were, spoke up.

“Stop thinking about it. He’s Body of God.”

Xanti didn’t listen, and didn’t ask for clarification. Sects and priests were dime a dozen around here – many with money and jewels to spare – but for some reason the innkeeper’s words caused a pit in my stomach.

Soon after the young man had left, we followed. He was on foot, regal and slow, and we were on horseback – he didn’t stand a chance of running away, not that he tried to.

He just stood there, regarding Yago’s blade warily.

“Give us the gold,” Xanti demanded, and the young man sighed.

“I have nothing I can give you,” he said, calm, resigned.

“The crown,” Xanti repeated, and the man repeated as well.

“I cannot.”

“Is it really worth dying for?” Yago sneered, pressing the blade further, drawing blood from the delicate throat, and once more the man replied.

“I cannot.”

I felt goosebumps at the top of my back.

“Ya looking down on us?” Yago hissed, but I was quite certain it wasn’t disdain on the young man’s face.

It was pity.

Yago slashed before I could finish saying “stop”.

Blood colored the light brown robes a murky color. The bells on the headdress jingled melodically even as the young man choked and shuddered, trying to inhale through the blood filling up his throat. He took half a step back and then fell, the thump of his body against the ground dull and heavy. The hazel eyes stopped moving a moment after he did, and Yago kicked him, then stepped into the growing pool of blood to take off the golden headdress.

He touched it and paused.

“What is it?” Xanti asked, impatient. There was no one else on the road, but there was no telling when someone else would come along. The day was clear and the road straight – this was a risk that I wasn’t sure was worth it.

“It won’t come off,” Yago explained. “It’s like it’s… fused into his head.”

“Oh, cut the bullshi –” Xanti started, but Yago pulled on one end of the headdress to illustrate, and the dead man’s head rose along with it.

Xanti frowned and a murmur spread across our ranks. I don’t think I was the only one to have reservations, and even Yago quickly stepped away from the body, tapping his shoulders to ward against the evil eye. He wiped his boots and his sword of the blood, but said nothing more.

“Gah! Shut up, cowards!”

Xanti pulled out a knife and knelt over the man’s body. I wanted to leave or at least look away, but found I couldn’t even as he put the edge of the knife above the dead man’s ear and started peeling the golden headdress off, as if butchering a deer for a hunting trophy.

Blood seeped from the fresh cuts, dying the ground and Xanti’s hands red.

And then the corpse moved.

Its hand rose to stop the hand holding the knife, and Xanti bristled, freezing up from surprise if not from fear. Soon enough though, he adjusted his hold of the knife and went to stab the young man again, quick and sure-footed.

But the dead man dove under the strike, suddenly agile, and grabbed Xanti by the throat. He held Xanti up as if he were a child or a doll, easily blocking Xanti’s desperate attacks with one hand. Xanti kicked out, panic clear on his face, before his eyes bulged up and he let out a pitiful, high-pitched groan.

The next moment, the dead man’s hand closed, crushing and tearing out Xanti’s throat.

We stood and watched.

Yago fell to his knees the moment the bloodied corpse turned to him.

“Please,” he stammered out, “It’s all his fault, I didn’t want to do it –”

His pleading fell on deaf ears. A god’s pride, I suppose, is as fragile as its body is everlasting.

At least Yago’s death was perhaps quicker, if just as unnatural and gruesome, heart ripped out and thrown over his mutilated chest.

We stood and we witnessed.

No one tried to run. Maybe we were too petrified, but I think we also knew it to be pointless. When the man turned to us, there was no human recognition in his eyes; no previous pity or understandable fury. A mask painted with blood and illuminated with the gold of the headdress. His eyes met mine for a brief moment, and it felt as if breath was punched out of me.

But perhaps his god was a merciful one, because that was where the carnage stopped.

The young man’s eyes darted down to the bodies at his feet, and he hurriedly stepped away, brows scrunching up and lips pressing together in a human display of disgust. He regarded us warily, and without thinking, we all fell to our knees.

The sound of bells announced his departure. He didn’t say anything, didn’t even stop to wash the blood off his tainted skin and clothes. It was only after the delicate chime had died in the distance that the prayers and thanks started, relief and terror tangling together in a sudden burst of devotion to the unknown deity.

We buried Xanti and Yago there, on the roadside. There were no tombstones, and there were barely any words exchanged. There was also a quiet understanding that we wouldn’t be staying together much longer, but there was only one road, and our supplies were shared, so we continued on until we reached a town.

There, we split everything. There were no arguments – everyone was just eager to leave it all behind.

I don’t know where the rest went. Some moved forward, some turned back. With haunted faces, they were running, and I couldn’t blame them.

But my eyes saw a cathedral, majestic golden domes shining in the sun, and my feet carried me there.

The sound of the bells took me by surprise, even though I had expected it. They were there – the Bodies of God – many of them, sharing the same grace even as their faces were different.

I stood, unsure how to worship this God or if I had the right to, when a woman approached me.

Dark skin and yet darker hair, full and split evenly between front and back to allow space for the headpiece, the same solid crescent of gold, the same bells.

“Greetings, stranger,” she said and I bowed as well as I could. The hint of an amused smile on her face quickly gave way to neutral politeness. “You seem lost.”

“You… are a Body of God,” was all I could say, the memory of blood spilled over the dirt too fresh.

She tilted her head with a chime of the bells. “The Body of God. It’s what we all are.”

I didn’t quite understand the difference. She changed the subject, “Why are you here?”

I didn’t know that, either. I said I felt drawn there, and her eyes widened, regarding me with some new emotion I couldn’t read.

Once more I felt goosebumps across my spine, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know more or to run, when she asked, “Would you like to understand?”

I didn’t. I couldn’t. Whatever had killed on that quiet road was best left alone.

I nodded and leaned closer.

She put her hand to the side of my head. For a moment there was just the warmth of a human body, and then suddenly it felt like there was a wire harshly squeezing my head, splitting the skin and sawing through bone, gnawing straight into my brain in a wave of unbearable ecstasy.

I was screaming, I’m quite certain, and the presence dug even deeper. We were in pain, but we’ve never wanted something to stop less. Our voice was hoarse and beautiful from it.

It was the sound of the bells that woke me up.

The young man from before stood in front of me. He was holding the woman by the wrist, and I tried to reach out to stop him, but found my hands shaking, unwilling to obey my will.

“He’s not fit,” the young man said.

The woman tried to reply, but he repeated, colder, “He’s not fit.”

The finality of it made me move.

It perhaps would have been proper to say goodbye, but I just walked past them, out of the cathedral and out of the city. I could feel the blood running from the top of my head, soaking up my hair and collar. Where a belled headdress would have been, was a throbbing ring of pain.

I looked back only once. The young man’s face held the same expression I’d seen before when he was about to be killed, that of a man and not divinity.

If it was mercy or rejection, I still don’t know.

—–

I’ve been sick for a while, and at some point my brain woke me up at 2 am and dictated me the following thing. Where did it come from? What’s it about? I wish I knew. Anyway, I guess that’s a new year’s resolution to write more weird shit when I feel like it.