Chapter Text
Desmond wakes up refreshed. No back ache, no weariness – his body feels nothing of the usual aches it did just the night before and his neck feels fine, the chronic spinal pain gone. Before he even opens his eyes he knows something had happened and sighs.
It takes a while before he musters up the strength of will to get up. Maybe if he just lays there, the world would not find him and time would pass him finally by and he could lay down and just… never get up again.
Outside the Mercy Bell rings, signaling the end of the morning prayer. Well that explains why he feels so much better today – he'd overslept and missed the service and no one had come to wake him up. He had been feeling a little under the weather before, which also explains the lack of acolytes underfoot. Obviously this was planned.
The bell rings seven times in total, and with a sigh Desmond sits up, staring at the covers of his bed for a moment and then looking at his hands. As expected, the infection has grown overnight – all of his fingers are golden now, from tip to the base of the knuckle. Would it start spreading over the knuckles next, spilling out to his palms, eventually covering his hand completely?
How soon until he had Midas' hands?
Snoring tiredly, Desmond pushes the duvets aside – they don't turn to gold at his touch, thankfully – and then goes to do his morning ablutions, ignoring the shimmering of golden circuitry that runs throughout walls of his chambers and even in his bathrooms. Instead he splashes water on his circuits-adorned face before taking a close look at the mirror.
No changes there, not that he can see. Still grey haired and bearded, with amber gold eyes – they're not glowing, thankfully. Maybe a few wrinkles less than last night, but overall it's the same weary old man in his reflection. They must've not shaved much of his age, thirty years maybe. Not as bad as he thought.
And he can't say he minds the spine correction.
Desmond finishes in the bathroom and then goes to pull on his robes, forgoing all the ceremonious stuff someone had laid out for him as he usually does. Pants, simple white hooded robe, scarf, shoes – that's about as ceremonious as he's feeling this morning.
Of course, there are acolytes waiting for him outside the door – and one of the elder Adepts. Her face visibly brightens at the sight of him standing up straight rather than at a forward bow. "Oh, a Faithful day, Mentor! You look so much brighter today! Please tell me, how do you feel?"
She must've conducted the Faith then. "Prayed upon," Desmond says with some wry amusement and steps forward – she falls into step with him, the acolytes falling behind them into an eager procession, ready to obey their every whim. "I assume the morning's mass was about me, then?"
"Yes – we prayed for your health and long life," she agrees happily. "I am overjoyed to see it had made you strong once more, Mentor. I believe you should conduct the noon prayers – I am sure the congregation would be glad to see you, and the good effect their Belief had on you."
Desmond smothers a sigh. "Certainly," he says. "I can say a few words. What's the subject?"
"A new prayer hall by the fourteenth street – here," she says and holds out her own, circuit-adorned hand. A hologram of a map appears above her palm and behind them the acolytes whisper in amazement, as she shows a map of the city and the space intended for the new prayer hall. "Connected by the line of the 14th street to the Main Street, it will be directly connected to the Great Temple."
"As are they all," Desmond says and takes the hologram from her hand. "Do we need a new prayer hall?"
"The people in that area have expressed that is is difficult to reach and take part in mass from where they are – and the prayer hall in the area is often very full."
"Right. Do we have a new design or are we using an old one?"
"Adept Devon has a design, he designed a new hall with the architects – it can accommodate comfortably more people."
"Someone get Adept Devon for me, then," Desmond says and immediately one of the acolytes dashes off to fulfill the order. Desmond glances after them, abruptly realising he had no idea what the acolyte is called, and then looks ahead.
He doesn't even know what the Adept he's taking do is called.
Looking ahead, Desmond concentrates until he does know. The acolytes names and histories appear into his mind like entries on a database and so does the Adept's at his side. Adept Jessica of Turin, a Third Adept of the Mentor's inner circle, second only to Adepts Mark and Susan, the second and first respectively.
How many that makes, now? Desmond has completely lost track.
They make it to the main hall, where people are getting into their first meal of the day. It's being shared around the room in bowls and baskets – bread, beans, corn and hell of a lot of salad. Damn, but Desmond misses the dairy and meat industry.
Then his eyes are drawn to the head of the hall, to the table where he usually eats with the Adepts – and sees they have guests. Armoured and well armed guests, who are tucking into the food with gusto while taking to Adepts Mark and Susan.
"We have guests?" Desmond asks Adept Jessica.
"Yes, Mentor, the emissaries from Boston," she says. "Here to pay their respects to you. They arrived yesterday."
"Yesterday I wasn't feeling very well."
"No, Mentor, but today you are healthy and strong," Jessica says serenely and points him helpfully towards the table.
Desmond clasps his hands behind his back and goes, nodding his head to servants, Adepts, acolytes and the rest of the Faithful, accepting their quiet words with smiles.
"Good morning, Mentor."
"It's good to see you strong again, Mentor."
"My Faith is in you, Mentor."
The procession of greetings and supplication catches the eye of their diplomatic guests and as they turn to him, Desmond concentrates until information avails itself to him. Misters Barrow and Kennedy, huh? Of the Boston City Council, nonetheless. Impressive.
"So, this is the Miracle of God King of the Golden City of Turin," Mr. Barrow says. "You make an old man slightly less old. We can do that in Boston too – its called makeup."
Desmond arches his brow and glances at his senior Adepts – who look somewhat uncomfortable at the sight of him. Had they tried to make him younger? Probably.
"Good morning Mentor – a Faithful day to you," Mark offers.
"It is good to see you strong and healthy again," Susan adds. "Our prayers were with you this morning."
"I felt it," Desmond agrees and takes a seat among his Adepts. "What brings members of Boston city council to Turin, then? I was under the impression we were heretics and demons, going by the last time we saw your kind."
The two diplomats look dubious.
"Mentor, that was almost eighty years ago," Susan says delicately.
"Was it?" Desmond muses and reaches for the food "I guess I stopped paying attention to them after they threatened to sack my city and burn me at a stake. What do they want?"
There's a moment of hesitation before Mr. Kennedy speaks. "Boston city council is looking to open new avenues of trade with neighbouring city states," he says and launches into explanation of their growing shipping industry and all the great goods they have to offer, the pre-Flare technology they had resurrected, there old sciences they are willing to share…
Desmond loses interest halfway through. This explains why his Adepts held a mass for him now – they were looking to impress the Sceptics.
"What does Boston have that we want?" Desmond asks Mark, breaking a piece of bread half. Man, he misses butter. "That we can't make ourselves."
Mark coughs. "Access to the ocean, my Mentor," he says quietly. "And shipbuilding."
"Month of prayers and we'll have a canal right to the ocean and I can design ships myself if we really need foreign trade that much," Desmond says and looks up as another Adept situated the high table. "Devon?" Desmond more guesses than greets.
"My Mentor – a Faithful day, you are well again," the man says.
"The congregation's Faith is strong," Desmond sighs. "You have a new prayer hall design?"
"Yes, Mentor – here."
The emissaries from Boston watch the data transfer closely, as Devon holds the hologram over his gold lined palm and Desmond takes it in his golden fingers. Desmond examines the design idly – it's not bad, though a little foreign to his eyes. He prefers more old-fashioned designs. Well, if the Adepts agreed on it…
"Is that the thing you wanna build in Boston?" Mr. Barrow asks.
Desmond blinks. "Excuse me?"
"There have been talks of a prayer hall in Boston," Mark explains delicately and softly - as if to a child. "The Boston City council is considering building one in your honour. It would be a great opportunity to spread the word of the Faith."
Ah, Desmond thinks and closes his eyes. "Very well – do as you will," he says and gets up, his appetite gone. "You seem quite adept at it."
"Mentor –"
"I will see you all at noon prayers – or I suppose you will be at the site of the new prayer hall?" Showing the power of Faith off to their guests...
"Yes, Mentor," Mark says, subdued.
Desmond nods and walks away, ignoring the acolytes that quickly follow him, and leaving the Adepts to their diplomacy, sighing at he leaves the main hall behind.
He's quite lost the control of his city, hasn't he?
Desmond walks out of the building and into the clean streets of the Golden City of Turin. It has spread all around the Temple Hill on which the Grand Temple of the Faith stands, still taller than even the tallest towers and prayer halls in the city. More streets, more buildings, more prayer halls, most of them old fashioned one way or another. There's still a bit of his own bias there, in the design of the city – he could never shake off the fondness for Renaissance architecture.
Hell, the Great Temple itself is an exact replica of the Santa Maria del Fiore, murals and all, with perfect duplicate of Giotto's Campanile beside it. It's stood for hundreds of years now, unchanged – not bad for a building held together by prayer.
Faith had helped him build a pretty damn impressive place – he doesn't regret it. Tens of thousands of people live in Turin now – that's higher population than some countries got these days. It's nothing to scoff at. But….
But Faith has gone down the paths he can't say he enjoys treading on. From a necessity to a way of life to a religion. With that path the city had changed and people with aptitude for controlling the Belief of others became Adepts, which is really just another word for a priest. How long until there will be bishops too? Probably not long. Honestly, the Adepts already serve that purpose for the most part.
And now they want to spread the Faith.
Desmond sighs and turns towards the Temple Hill. There is a statue at the foot of the stairs that lead to the Great Temple. It depicts their return to the surface – him, Shaun, Rebecca and his dad. They are all long gone now, but the stairs are perfect, of course – he believed them into existence himself.
"How old am I now?" Desmond asks.
"My Mentor, you are 327 this year," a young acolyte says eagerly, stepping forward. There's a line of gold running down her check – she can't be older than seventeen, and already she's made herself part of the machine that is the Golden City of Turin.
"Thank you," Desmond says and sighs. Too damn old, it's the answer there, really.
Not that he ever truly thought that the Faithful would just let him lay down and die, but – he wouldn't have minded it. There's a limit to how long someone should live, and he blew past it two hundred years ago. And he can't even tell his Adepts to just let him die, because then they will pray for him to find joy in life again and to regain his will to live, and then he'll go another fifty years without thinking about it twice. And Desmond understands why they do it, but…
He's tired. He doesn't care. It's been too long and he misses how things used to be more than he cares about building the future from this dystopian mess he created. The Faith let them survive and rebuild, but it's become a machine beyond what he imagined and it fucking terrifies him, how it's changing people, and what people can do with it.
Desmond looks at the city he's made with the power of his Faithful, and he thinks, Juno would have loved this place. And if that's not a sign of something having gone horribly wrong, he doesn't know what is. And sure, he could still take over the control of the city and the Faith, his Prayer is still the strongest, but…
Well, that would make him just like the Isu, wouldn't it? And looking the part is bad enough.
Desmond wanders the High Temple district of Turin for a while, until one of his acolytes says, "My Mentor, it is soon time for noon prayers, we should begin making our way back."
"Certainly," Desmond answers, and together they turn towards the Great Temple, walking past the statue and up the stairs. Hundreds of people are doing the same, and as they pass him, they bow and murmur in supplication.
Desmond thinks of the past.
Almost three hundred years ago, there had been a cave where the stairs now sit. The Great Temple of the Faith is built right on top of the Grand Temple of the Isu – that's where all the circuitry runs, it's the foundation they built everything on – it's how the by now hundreds of prayer halls are connected and how tens of thousands of people can pray in perfect unison and harmony. The city itself is the machinery that makes it happen.
And whoever Guides the Prayer and Conducts the Sermon from the Grand Temple… chooses what the Faith of those tens of thousands of people will do. This morning they decided to make a man in his third century a little bit younger. This time, they will make a building from nothing – just like almost every building in the city was built.
And Desmond is tired of it. This ridiculous power and the hollow would-be-immortality. Juno was right.
There was nothing worse than becoming a god.
Some of his Adepts are waiting at the entrance with one of the emissaries – Mr. Kennedy. So they'd sent the louder Sceptic to witness the miracle of Faith, huh.
"Mentor," the Adepts greet him and bow him on the way in, all ceremonious. Desmond nods, wondering when all this pomp and circumstance became such a major part of his life, and then walks in.
Inside, the cathedral's beautifully tiled floor is covered in cushions, blankets and pillows, and already well over thousand of the Faithful have taken seats. Desmond walks past them to where the church altar would be, taking stand on the podium.
It takes about ten minutes for the hall to fill, with people murmuring. The Adepts sit near the front with Mr. Kennedy with them, watching.
Eventually the murmur quiets down, the temple doors close, and Desmond begins.
"Our Faith is an engine of Great Change," he begins, one of his older openings. "It can heal and build and remake. It can also destroy and unmake. This morning it healed," he motions to himself. "And now it shall build. There has been the call for a new prayer hall. Join me, and we shall make it be."
With that, he activates the city.
In unison his Adepts and acolytes begin following, the circuitry on their skin activating. Under their feet the Temple's connections turn on, line by line. Main Street and the adjacent streets, one by one connecting to the Great Temple. Then the smaller streets. Individual buildings.
Prayer halls.
Desmond closes his eyes and feels the power accumulate, as the people of the Golden City of Turin give themselves over to the soothing pull off the Apple's power, inlaid into every building of the city – and in almost every person too, these days. They've all given themselves up to Isu technology – they've all accepted its infection in return for power.
Desmond collects that power, a resource like no other, and then he bends it to the task designated for it. With the building designs and location in mind, he turns the Faith to that place, and together with minds of almost fifty thousand people… he begins to build.
And in that moment, he's shot through the chest.
A gunshot echoes, and part of the Faithful are shaken from their prayer – in the Great Temple, people scream with alarm. Desmond doesn't stop, doesn't break the connection with the city, but he becomes aware of his body. The impact was taken into the sternum and it bent the bullet's trajectory – it didn't hit his heart but went through his lung instead, and came out near his armpit. A lethal injury, nonetheless, unless someone takes up the prayer and turns it to healing him instead.
Desmond opens his eyes to a horrified, screaming congregation – and to find all his present Adepts painted red. Not the red of blood, but of enemies.
Kennedy is the shooter – he's still holding a gun in his hand, a proper old world revolver. How fucking ironic.
"The mentor had been wounded!"
"Someone, conduct the prayer to healing –"
"Adepts, help the Mentor!"
Desmond eyes his traitorous Adepts and for a moment he almost understands. He's never been a fan of spreading the Faith – there was a time when he strictly forbade it. He might be little more than a symbol of Faith's power these days, but then Jessica went and prayed for his healing – Mark and Susan hadn't agreed to it. Now he's clear-minded enough to oppose them again – and he's old, his politics are out of favour. And if they want the Faith to spread and become more powerful… he is in the way.
So, they arranged his assassination and he never suspected anything at the seat of his power, the place where he should be most invulnerable. And once this would all be over, they might use Faith to make people forget it ever happened.
It's just what he didn't ever wish to see all this become – a tool for personal power. If only he could've just died before it came to this, blissfully ignorant of the mess he'd made. The future that will follow from this will be hideous.
Someone is sobbing – the poor seventeen year old acolyte who told him his age. She's at his side, holding his hand, crying and trying to take the Prayer from him while the Adepts do nothing. She's trying to to save him, but she's not far enough in her training, she can't do it. Still, she tries.
And just like that, Desmond doesn't want to die.
He wants to undo a system he'd made, that made young girls cry at the death of fools at the behest of would-be-mind-controlling-tyrants. Once he died and the power of Conducting Faith fell in the hands of his killers, that's what it would become. Tyranny.
"What is your name?" Desmond asks the young acolyte, his mouth tasting like blood.
"Maria," she sobs.
Of course it is. "For you, Maria," Desmond says. "I'm going to undo everything. Do you believe me?"
"Always."
"Then have Faith."
The Prayer is still going – the prayer halls are unaware of what had occurred and are waiting, patient and eager for him to conduct them.
And so he does.
Take me back before gods, before Faith, before Prophets – take me back so that I can undo this all.
And ever Faithful, the congregation Believes.