Basked in a New Kind of Wamth

Annointment

Polytheism (n) - the belief or worship of multiple gods

    Traffic Light is deeply religious in a way that is impossible for anyone but himself to understand. His worship consists of marching and saluting, standing at ease, following commands, simple chores that he was much too big to carry out properly. This is simply how he was made and how he was trained and he has never found the mind to care or question why this was his purpose or why he had to do these things. When you are born into a religion it is not often that you manage to bring yourself to ponder the thoughts or rationality of what you have been raised to see as an all knowing all loving savior, for there is no reason to because being all knowing and all loving means that there is no room for them to make mistakes. It is considered selfish in every way to question such a divine being, to even think about doubting it is a sin so damning you may as well already be dead. Traffic Light remembers being warned of the dangers of defection long ago when he was still small enough to perhaps be seen as a normal child if it weren't for his proportions.
    He remembers being compared to an angel once, a backhanded comment from one of his commanders, something of his strange anatomy and mindlessness. He had not thought about it much because if he is an angel then he has no room inside of his hollow body for anything but the will of his God, every crevice and gap in his brain stained with lavender.
    Traffic Light has never met this God that he serves, he has seen her and praised her name, in paintings, on screens, she is distant and absent, Traffic Light has heard all throughout his life that she cares for all of her soldiers and for all of her people with all of her being, but he thinks that if she cared then she would perhaps visit, or speak to them, or anything, yet her voice remains perpetually divine and beyond his perception, she speaks to her children and he as an angel is not included in the crowd. Yet he wears her mark on his body, and he is reminded everyday when he wakes up in the same body why he was made to serve and why what he does is important.
    It is also to be known that the death of the body and the death of the soul are two very different things: the death of the body can be reversed, Traffic Light has felt the hands of death upon his skin, they offered more comfort than any sort of prayer did. The death of the soul is an irreversible thing, anyone would fear it, and Traffic Light wonders if he could feel fear if he would not have strayed from her light. His God leaves no sheep behind but she has not yet left the ninety-nine behind and drawn him back to the herd.
    He knows not what has spurred his blasphemy, why all the sudden doubt pulled at his skin and the purple marking against his neck began to sting. What he does know is his punishment though, and pools of sulfur and fire burn away his wings and feathers and he finds himself wandering back roads and alleys, heavy combat pools thudding against wet concrete, fading angelic light illuminating the pathway ahead of him. He has lost his God, she has not come for him as she said, and as such he has lost his faith. Why was he to trust a God such as her, a God that never spoke directly but in the form of messengers, a God that preached love yet her touch was cold?
    His eye catches his face in a puddle and Traffic Light knows with the dimming of his lights that he has fallen, for an angel that is righteous is unable to see their own face because the light of God shines so brightly upon them. He has been cast from a haven of milk and honey all because could not stifle his questions. Angels are not meant to think, they are meant to carry out demands of the God that so graciously created them, and when they were not doing that they simply didn't exist. Traffic Light knew that he had escaped her light voluntarily, broken out of the ranks and never looked back, he had not yet been caught, he was still missing in action. He knows the capabilities of the military, he thinks they would have found him by now if he was so valuable.
    He wonders if there was really a promised land for him though, because the work that he has done has not been kind to his body and he spent much time surrounded by death commanded by her grace; his work was not the eternal life that he was meant one day to receive. He remembers clothes stained in blue as he steps over corpses and his eyes scan the ground for friends and for foes. His face and hands are caked in dirt and blood, his uniform is slimy and moist against his warm skin. His boots have soaked through his socks and the overcast sky is still hot enough to leave Traffic Light panting with an open mouth. He has been taught that this is what he must do so that others may be spared from this fate, and he is built for his work in every manner. It is difficult but he does not complain and he does not dislike it, but he wonders if this is so because he isn't sure how to dislike anything that his superiors don't tell him to.
    The smell of rot and gunpowder is something that he will never be able to truly wash out of his clothing, the vague undertones of mildew and dirt and sweat that seem to have bound themselves to the very molecules that make up his being, burrowing into his skin and hair.
    As much as he mulls over the many faults of his old God with increasing guilt and feelings that he is unable to label, he finds that having a God that you do not trust but continue to follow seems more preferable than having no God at all, and as he starts to carve his own path, slowly, he wonders if one day his faith will be renewed, for there is no one better than the great Empress and to say otherwise is the highest treason. He finds his old God everywhere, she has claimed all the land around him and her eyes remain dutifully watching her children at all times, yet she still doesn't come for him.
    A new god greets him in an office building, frightened, his body is small and Traffic Light thinks that he is no God at all, for Gods are not frail and fearful, but something divine wafts off him and Traffic Light nonetheless begins to follow, perhaps his body just longs for the familiarity of having something to worship.
    At first he is sure that he will live the rest of his life with no God and no direction but as blue curls and freckles begin to fill his days Traffic Light gives himself up to him completely. He meets other Gods along his way and finds himself basked in a new branch of polytheism with Gods that are palpable and almost always present. They talk to him as if he is among their ranks and their hands grace his marred skin with soft palms and Traffic Light thinks that this is everything that a God should be.
    They intricately integrate themselves into his mind and purple shares room with splatters of blue and grey and red and all of the little shades in between. Everytime he falls down in an act of worship they simply pull him back to his feet and when he begs their forgiveness they kiss his head and whisper prophecies to him with a smile. He sits below them on every level as a simple follower yet they tell him that he is one of them, and he begins to think that they truly are Gods afterall. Unlike with the religion he was raised in, he can feel their love, it is truly there and he holds it in his hands in the form of little gifts and hands of their own.
    His being is anointed in holy oils in the form of hugs and every time they touch his body he is born anew. He needs not ask permission to be in their presence, they seek him, and they love him, and when he begins to stray they pull him back to them just as he'd craved before. Days are filled with learning of how Gods behave [Cherry hands him a large cookbook and Traffic Light flicks through it curiously, Camera tells him how much detergent to use when he is doing laundry, Cylinder shows him he doesn't have to make the bed everyday and would prefer that he doesn't, because he tucks the sheets in so tight that getting it at night feels like being vacuum sealed].
    He absorbs what he can of their commandments to the best of his ability and when he fails at doing so his sins are absolved with a shrug and a "It took me a while to get it too," and even though they are trying to make him feel better he still feels that there is not reason for them to treat him as they do when he can't even correctly remember their teachings.
    Slowly, slowly he learns that there is always room for forgiveness and when tears prick his eyes from the prospect they are wiped away with loving digits that caress him with such care that he forgets all about the God he was made for. Simply being allowed to touch them feels like something that should be expressly forbidden and when others touch them he feels almost the same way.
    Faults and cracks that ruin his body his Gods seem to love, they say that they do not want perfection from him, the heaven they invite him into is not pure white and sterile but something entirely different, something of color and peace. They fawn over him in such strange ways and to be truthful Traffic Light is not yet sure how to feel; he cries and laughs and hides from their judgement yet there is no place to hide and at the same time nothing to hide from.
    Now Traffic Light breathes softly as fingers card through his black hair, there are bodies on either side of him, one at his head curled around him. These ones breathe and love, one snores, they do not call for him to take lives or to give his own life up, they are happy with him the way he came to them. Understanding why they don't want him to submit himself to them is out of his reach, something that only a God can understand. It is not meant for him, but he thinks that if it is their will for him to treat them as equals then who is he to question it, and this time he finds that he doesn't because he is unable to, but simply because he doesn't care to. He is pleased to stay where he is, in their light.
    His chest rises and falls evenly and his breath matches Cylinder's, the one at his head. They four of them lay on the floor, a dumb place to nap but there are blankets down and no one can really find a reason to complain at the moment. He catches a glimpse of a halo hung absentmindedly on a chair, divine eyes trace the features of his face and the hand of God clings to his shirt for warmth. These are what Gods should be, and for a moment Traffic Light lets himself feel like he is deserving of being among them.