Eldritch Guidance-Chapter 101 – Feeling Watched

Early morning sunlight streamed through the kitchen window of Crowley’s modest home, casting a warm glow over the simple space. The former Hand of Light moved with practiced ease, preparing himself a quiet breakfast. These tranquil moments had become a cherished part of his new life, far removed from the chaos and responsibility that had once defined the religious leader.

Today, Crowley decided to keep his meal light—a single piece of golden toast, its edges perfectly crisp, accompanied by a small selection of fresh fruit. The fruit was colorful, its bright colors a testament to the care with which Crowley had chosen it at the market the day before. He arranged the slices of ripe apple and wedges of juicy orange on a small plate, their aroma faint but inviting.

The shrill whistle of the kettle broke the ambiance, signaling that the water had reached a rolling boil. Crowley moved to the stove, his movements unhurried, and lifted the kettle with a steady hand. He poured the steaming water into a waiting teacup, where a bag of black tea rested. As the water met the dried leaves, a rich, earthy aroma began to rise, curling around him like a gentle embrace.

Crowley paused for a moment, inhaling deeply as the herbal essence filled the kitchen. The scent was grounding, a small but welcome luxury in his otherwise quiet life. He watched as the water darkened, the tea infusing it with its essence, the process was unhurried and almost meditative.

He set the kettle aside and placed the teacup next to his plate of toast and fruit, the small breakfast a perfect reflection of his current state of mind: simple, deliberate, and free of complication. As Crowley sat down at his modest table, he allowed himself a genuine smile. This was a life now, a life of small pleasures and quiet mornings. The past seemed distant now, though its weight still lingered in the corners of his mind.

Suddenly, a sharp knock at the door shattered the quiet of the morning, pulling Crowley from his peaceful reverie. He froze for a moment, his hand hovering over his teacup, the warmth of the freshly brewed tea forgotten as his thoughts shifted. “Please, let it just be the mailman,” he silently wished.

The alternative—that it was yet another person from the Church of Light—made his shoulders tense. They had been relentless in their attempts to bring him back, trying to coax, guilt, or outright plead with him to resume his role as head of the Cathedral of Light in Graheel. But Crowley had made his decision, and every knock that came with their persistence only deepened his resolve to stay away.

He sighed heavily, the weight of their expectations settling over him like an old, unwelcome cloak. Pushing himself up from his chair, he moved toward the door, his steps slow. His bare feet made soft sounds against the worn wooden floor, and the faint aroma of tea followed him as he walked.

Reaching the door, he hesitated for a brief moment. His hand hovered over the handle, the faint hope that whoever stood on the other side was only there to deliver a letter or package flickering in his mind. With a resigned breath, he finally turned the knob and opened the door, bracing himself for whoever was waiting for him outside.

As Crowley opened the door, a wave of unease washed over him. The man standing on his doorstep looked utterly disheveled. His clothing hung loosely on his gaunt frame, as though he had lost weight too quickly, and his bald scalp gleamed with a faint sheen of sweat. The most striking feature, however, was his sunken eyes—dark hollows that betrayed an alarming lack of sleep. Those eyes carried a haunted look, one that spoke of desperation and perhaps something darker.

Crowley’s first thought was that the man might be a drug addict. The Church of Light had run a rehabilitation program during Crowley’s time, offering aid to those struggling with addiction. Crowley had often been directly involved, providing comfort and support to participants through prayer, counseling, and unyielding compassion. But the sight of this man stirred memories of some of the most difficult cases—those who had reached the very brink before they sought help.

His concern deepened as another thought struck him. “What if he’s here because of the Church?” Crowley’s stomach tightened at the possibility. Was this man one of the many souls he had once helped, now sent to his doorstep as part of a manipulative plea for his return? Perhaps he was here to tell Crowley a sob story, to use his suffering as leverage in a guilt-laden bid to bring him back to the Cathedral of Light.

Crowley’s expression softened, but his guard remained firmly in place. He had seen too much and endured too many attempts to pull him back into the fold, to let his guard drop completely. Still, he couldn’t ignore the man’s state. Whether sent by the Church or not, he clearly needed help. Crowley took a steadying breath, forcing his voice into a tone of calm compassion.

Crowley: "Good morning," he said, his words gentle but measured. "Are you alright? How can I help you?"

Even as he spoke, Crowley prepared himself for what might come next, his mind already grappling with how to navigate yet another entanglement with the world he had left behind.

Sunken-eyed Man: “F-Father Crowley. C-Can I come in and speak with you?” he said while stuttering.

Most people, upon seeing the man’s disheveled state, would have likely shut the door, offering only a polite but firm dismissal. But Crowley was not like most people. Once a leader in the Church of Light, his life had been dedicated to helping others, regardless of their circumstances or the darkness they carried. That calling still lingered in him, even now, when he no longer wore the mantle of the priesthood. Crowley’s compassion ran deeper than his doubts, and his instinct to aid those in need always outweighed his reservations.

Truthfully, he had encountered people in far worse conditions during his time with the Church. Individuals teetering on the brink of despair, bodies ravaged by addiction, souls weighed down by guilt and pain—these were the people he had strived to help most. Compared to some of the dire situations he had faced, the man standing before him now, while clearly troubled, didn’t intimidate him in the slightest.

And even if this encounter veered into something more dangerous, Crowley had no reason to fear. Years of dealing with the unpredictable had taught him to be prepared. He was proficient in a repertoire of defensive magic, spells crafted not for harm but for protection. They were a last resort, honed over years of necessity rather than aggression. Crowley preferred to de-escalate through words, kindness, and understanding, but if push came to shove, he was more than capable of ensuring his safety.

Crowley: “Of course, please come in,”

Crowley led the man into his modest living room, his movements calm and deliberate as he gestured toward one of the plush chairs near the fireplace. The chair, well-worn but inviting, seemed to beckon a weary soul to rest.

As the man sank into the chair with a reluctant nod, Crowley suddenly recalled his neglected cup of tea sitting in the kitchen. The soothing warmth of the brew would undoubtedly help him maintain his composure during what promised to be a delicate conversation. He gently excused himself with a reassuring smile.

He moved quickly to the kitchen, retrieving his teacup from the counter. The familiar aroma of the black tea was a small comfort, grounding him as he turned and made his way back to the living room. The faint clink of the porcelain in his hand seemed to punctuate the stillness, a quiet rhythm as he walked.

Re-entering the room, Crowley took a seat opposite the man, cradling his cup in both hands. The steam from the tea curled upward, a momentary distraction, before he focused fully on his guest. He took a slow sip, allowing the warmth to steady him, then set the cup down on a small table beside him.

Crowley: “Can I get you anything to drink? I do have some Moor root tea, which is said to slightly help with withdrawal symptoms.”

Sunken-eyed Man: “W-Withdrawal? O-Oh, I suppose it d-does look like that. D-Doesn't it?”

Crowley: “Is that not what it is? What is troubling you, then?”

Sunken-eyed Man: “M-my wife came to you a little while. I-I don’t know much she talked to you about it. Her name is Stacy.”

Crowley: “Stacy?”

It took Crowley a moment to piece together the context of what the man was saying. His mind sifted through the fragments of memory, and then it clicked—Stacy. A woman by that name had come to him some time ago, her demeanor marked by a quiet yet palpable worry.

She had sought Crowley out with concerns about her husband, speaking in hesitant, half-formed sentences that hinted at trouble within their marriage. Though she never said it outright, her words had carried the implication that her husband might be unfaithful. Crowley had listened patiently, offering her a safe space to express her fears without judgment. He remembered her struggle, the way she seemed torn between wanting answers and dreading what those answers might reveal.

But now, as Crowley looked at the man seated before him, a different picture began to form in his mind. The man’s gaunt appearance, the exhaustion etched into every line of his face—it didn’t seem like the marks of infidelity or guilt. This wasn’t the look of a man weighed down by the typical strains of a troubled marriage. This was something deeper, something far more unsettling.

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Crowley: “Oh, I remember now. Stacy did come to visit me. You must be Larrs.”

Larrs: “Y-Yes.”

Crowley: “What in the world happened?”

Larrs: “I-I don’t know.”

Crowley: “Hmm? What do you mean?”

Larrs: “I-It’s e-exactly what I said. I-I don’t know what's going on,” he said with raw fear undertoning his voice.

Crowley: “Maybe… start from the beginning, then? Your wife had explained to me that whatever it was that was happening to you had been going on for a while now. “

Larrs gave a slow, deliberate nod, his shoulders rising and falling as he drew in a deep breath. It was the kind of breath someone takes when preparing to unburden themselves of a weight they’ve carried too long. His hands trembled slightly as he clasped them together, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere on the floor.

Larrs: “It started a few weeks ago. I started to get this strange feeling.”

Crowley: “A strange feeling?” he said while cocking an eyebrow.

Larrs: “Yes. I don’t know how to describe it other than it feels like I’m being watched,” he said before swallowing. “It made me a little jumpy, and people like my wife started to notice it. I tried to ignore it, thinking it was just my imagination. But, that feeling has gotten worse, especially lately. I haven't really slept in the last five days because it’s gotten so intense.”

Crowley: “So you haven’t been sleeping. That explains a little why you look like that.”

Larrs: “Y-Yes. I don't know why, but I feel like if I fall asleep, something terrible will happen.”

As Crowley observed Larrs, a sense of unease crept into his thoughts, like the faint whisper of Pandora's box being nudged open. Something about Larrs' demeanor—the haunted look in his eyes, the unsteady way he carried himself—suggested he was grappling with more than just external troubles. From what Crowley could surmise, it seemed likely that Larrs was battling some form of mental illness, a struggle far more insidious and personal than any external conflict.

Crowley’s heart ached with the realization, but he also felt the pang of helplessness that came with it. As much as he wished to aid Larrs in every way possible, he knew his abilities had limits. The Church had taught him to believe in the healing power of prayer, and while Crowley still held faith in its ability to bring comfort and clarity, he also understood the importance of pairing spiritual guidance with professional care.

Prayer, in Crowley’s eyes, was not a substitute for treatment but a companion to it—a way to soothe the soul while proper therapy and medical expertise worked to mend the mind. Without the latter, prayer alone could only do so much.

Crowley: “Have you talked to a therapist or psychiatrist yet?”

Larrs: “NO! PLEASE! Father Crowley! Everyone says that, but I know it’s not that. I’m not crazy! Please believe me!” he shouted out.

Crowley: “OK, OK. Calm down, I believe you,” he said, trying to calm Larrs down.

Larrs: “I-I think I might be cursed or something. M-Maybe by the N-Namless Gods. Please, Father! Use your magic on me and perform a purifying ritual or exorcism. Just anything, please.”

Crowley: “I’m not sure if that would help.”

Larrs: “Please! I asked the others at the church to use their healing magic, and they said nothing was wrong. But if it’s you, I'm sure it will be different.”

Crowley exhaled a weary sigh, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on him. If his suspicions were correct and Larrs was grappling with a mental illness, no amount of healing magic could provide the relief he so desperately needed. Healing magic was a miraculous art, capable of mending broken bones, closing wounds, and even curing diseases of the body, but its reach stopped at the threshold of the mind. The complexities of the human psyche were beyond its grasp, untouched by the restorative energies that flowed so freely through physical forms.

It was precisely for this reason that Crowley was intent on steering Larrs toward the kind of help he truly required. A skilled therapist or mental health professional could address the root of his struggles, offering understanding and support in ways no healing mage or priest ever could. Crowley knew all too well the limitations of both magic and faith when it came to the labyrinth of the mind.

Crowley: “OK…” he relented.

The former priest considered his options carefully. If nothing else, a touch of healing magic might help ease Larrs' physical tension and calm him enough for a more candid discussion about what steps he needed to take. Though healing magic couldn’t mend the mind, its soothing effects on the body might at least provide a momentary reprieve.

Rising from his chair, Crowley moved behind Larrs.

Crowley: "Lean forward a bit," he instructed gently, his tone warm but firm.

Larrs hesitated for a moment before complying, his hunched shoulders a clear sign of his exhaustion and unease.

Placing a steady hand on Larrs’ back, Crowley closed his eyes and began channeling his aether. The familiar warmth of his magic flowed through his palm, spreading in gentle waves throughout Larrs’ body. He directed the energy with precision, ensuring it reached every corner, seeking out any physical ailments that might be contributing to Larrs’ distress.

As the aether moved through Larrs’ system, Crowley’s heightened senses allowed him to "feel" the state of his internal organs. The magic coursed through Larrs’ heart, spleen, liver, bones, and every other major organ, its presence like a soft light illuminating the dark recesses of the body. Everything seemed normal—no signs of illness, injury, or imbalance. The only anomaly was a slightly elevated blood pressure, which was unsurprising given the stress of Larrs’ obvious insomnia and mental strain.

As Crowley prepared to withdraw his aether, confident that there was nothing physically wrong with Larrs, he hesitated midway through the process. Something faint, almost imperceptible, caught his attention—a subtle disturbance in the flow of energy around Larrs’ heart. It was so minuscule that most healing mages would have overlooked it entirely. Only through a combination of sheer luck and his finely attuned senses did Crowley notice it at all.

Above Larrs' heart, nestled among the natural ebb and flow of his aether, was a tiny black dot—a flicker of energy that didn’t belong. Crowley froze, his breath catching in his throat. This wasn’t Larrs’ aether. It was foreign, invasive, and wrong in a way that made Crowley’s instincts scream.

Focusing his magic, Crowley carefully probed the anomaly, trying to discern its nature without disturbing it. The more he examined it, the stronger his unease grew. The black dot radiated an energy unlike anything he’d encountered before—cold, dense, and unnervingly still, as though it were holding its breath, waiting to be noticed. It wasn’t simply out of place; it felt... malignant.

A chill ran down Crowley’s spine, and his hand trembled slightly as he stopped channeling his aether. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his palm from Larrs’ back, his expression now grim.

Larrs: “I-It's a-still there. That feeling…” he said as if he was about to break down in tears.

Crowley: “Hold on a second,” he said as he quickly rushed past Larrs.

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