The Pain Eater

“Guaranteed salvation of the mortal condition is a heavily sought after gift, a gift that does not come at a material price. If something so deeply and profoundly primal were to be erased from the body, what ethereal chain would fill that immediate void?”

- Ruth Ironroot, Pontiff of The first pain eater (Literal Translation)

Sat in a horribly dark cell lined with stone and wooden trim, there lies a sad and just as horribly bent creature in the form of a withered old man. Littering the floor around him are chance objects of devotion and offering. A deep scream can be felt in the room and although it is not audible, it is just as loud and dreadful. These objects show light to the manner of his service and such services can only be that of a Pain Eater.

For many years, this Pain Eater has been held captive under the highly polished foot of the Holy Church. He is believed to be able to absolve sins and the torment they bring. Even the highest ranking member of the church is unable to offer the same level of euphoric pardoning. Forgiveness of that which is of the mortal coil and not some spiritual or ephemeral means.

Those who have undergone the communion of this monster would tell that there are specific rules to follow when patronage is requested. One must bring an item of deep sentimental meaning, may it be a locket, ashes of a loved one or some other intangible personal value. The amount of pain eaten is equal to that of the meaning of said objects.

The rumor of the Pain Eater has passed the ears of a man and his frail daughter. Both are victims of an old war that is not theirs to pay for. Countless atrocities of human design have graced both their eyes, leaving the imprint of dead children and their loved ones. An ash flavored fire licks at the bottom of their hearts, reminding them that there is no greater remorse in this world than not being able to do enough to save the family that used to share songs and embraces. Leaving their home land behind and escaping in the cover of night, the father and daughter have traveled long and arduous distances to reach the last salvation available.

At the large door of an old building, there is a brass knocker in the form of a screaming lion. At such a door, the father and child stand shivering in a heavy downpour. The water drips from their worn faces, following the long dired wells of sunken eyes. Eyes that have seen subjects of the deepest human torment. Young eyes that should be looking at flowers to pick and chickens to feed are now looking down at the puddles forming amongst their bare footprints.

The father reaches forward with a large and hay fed hand to rattle the knocker. Just before his flesh feels the cold metal effigy, the door opens with no obvious reason. With a hushed gasp, they both walk forward to whatever fate awaits them beyond their known world, for anything is better than what is already outside these doors. Just as breezy as the door had opened, it breathed shut with a solid thud. This thud, for only a moment, matched the thud within their chests. A unified pounding that was acknowledged between them in silence.

From the corner of the other side of the room, there stood a large candle sconce. A source of light and warmth that had not been felt in many days. This welcoming sight is almost too much to handle as they are both drawn to it’s soft glow. As they stood clasped to each other and cowering against the sound of distant thunder, nothing felt better than to have a moment of solitude to themselves. As the weight of their buzzing skulls rested in the silence, they both shuddered and cried into each other.

The father, trying to hold his composer for his sweet and gentle daughter, could not help but give in to this moment and gurgle out his sadness with her. Their tears burned and tore into their cold and pale cheeks giving way to deeper feelings that had not yet been given time to bloom, for there was no time for the luxury of crying alone while fleeing.

A soft and chilled voice calls out from the shadows asking the two what they are seeking. The two look behind them to see an old nun holding a dimly lit hand lantern. For that moment, they could see the comfort and worry in her folded face. Light blue and cloudy eyes peek out behind an ink black habit. She did not require the light, as she had already seen the brightest light to behold. She held out a hand to the crumbled duo. The father takes her hand and his daughters, letting the old woman lead them down a clouded spiral staircase. There is a thick smog seeping from the spaced in between the steps leaving the father and daughter to fully trust their guide.

At the last step, the woman motioned to the two to keep walking. There was no hesitation in her fleeting grasp as she let go. She asks the father if he truly wanted to partake in communion with the Pain Eater. This was the first time he had heard that title that was not included in a fairytale. The father confirmed and the woman nodded solemnly, extinguishing her lantern.

In the dark, the father and daughter are left alone. He hugs her, heavily breathing as they await what may come. Just as soon as the thoughts fill their head of what the Pain Eater looks like, the father pulls out an old book. Within, the book held a lock of hair cut from his first born son who succumbed to sickness as an infant. His piece of lamentation, a penance that served to remind him of the fragility of life. In the girl’s hand, she held a painted rock given to her by her mother to scare away the imagined monsters at night. Both clutched onto these tokens of salvation, praying that they were enough to erase their deepest pains.

The smog cleared and before them sat an old man, slouched over in a rotten chair. His long silver hair obscured his face and body. Ashen dyed skin was barely visible behind the numerous open wounds that covered his hide. Without notice, both of his hands slowly rose forward with his knuckles cracking as boney fingers unfolded. He uttered words that were not recognizable to human ears. An old tongue that had not been spoken since the dawn of man. Although the gutteral sounds could not be understood, it did not stop every nerve in the two bodies from shaking in primordial awe. As if neither of them had heard before, finally opening their ear canals for the first time. Hearing the voice of such a monster. There was no fear, no love or hate. Only tremendous veneration for this living false Christ.

Both the father and daughter fell to their knees, placing their items in his palms. The old man took the items and held them to his chest. He looked through the silver threads of hair and dropped the items as he stood. Just as slowly as the smog had cleared, the Pain Eater placed his hands on either side of the father's head. The father started weeping and confessing his pain to the Eater. He told of all the horrors he witnessed. His beloved wife being flayed alive, his eldest son consumed by soot and embers. His precious daughter who could no longer sleep and woke screaming for her mother. All of the words spun into an unintelligible chorus of sorrow and throbbing agony.

The Pain Eater listened and embosomed the father deeper into an embrace. All of the darkness and hurt flooded out of the father and into the open wounds of the Pain Eater. The father clung to the Pain Eater as his tired body slowly became numb to every trespass against him.

The father thanked the Pain Eater and went to reach for his daughter's hand as she partook in communion. He grasped at the air, as there was no longer a body next to him. He lashed out in the dark, searching for his last joy in the world only to be met with stale air. He scrambled around on the ground, foraging for any sign of his daughter. He cried out asking where she was, clawing at the ground and sweeping the forgotten trinkets of past patrons across the floor.

“Such is the price of communion with a monster” The Pain Eater scolded.

The father turned to the creature only to be met by the open air of a field. There was nothing where the church had stood. Leaving the father alone and absolved of all sin.