Chapter Text
Kristen Applebees is in church. It's her old church, with its cheery brick walls painted to resemble the colorful kernels of a cob of corn—mostly a mix of sunshine and butter yellow, with a scattering of reds and deeper blues here and there. Pastor Amelia stands on one side of the altar, raising her hands to the vaulted ceiling, her fingers dyed a riot of reds and yellows and browns by the beams of light filtering through the stained glass windows high above. On the other side of the altar are Mac and Donna Applebees, their heads bowed as they rock back and forth with the force of their prayers.
The whole scene would be painfully familiar, if Kristen were kneeling before the altar, looking up at the man-sized corn skewer that hangs from the wall (as a reminder of Helio's painful martyr's death by impaling). She is looking at the corn skewer, but from an awkward sideways angle that makes it look completely different and vaguely sinister. Mostly because she's not kneeling beside the altar, or standing behind it to address the congregation, because instead she's been bound with corn silk ropes and draped over it like an altar cloth... or like a sacrifice.
"Mmf," she says. (Her mouth is stuffed with corn husks, so that she can't say anything to profane this holy church. Like, maybe, that they are all completely insane for doing this and she would like to go home now. Or just the fuck word, a lot of times.)
Standing in what should have been her or Pastor Amelia's place, behind the altar, is a man dressed in a burlap robe that falls past his knees. Its hood obscures most of his face, except for the very tip of his chin. (He has a deeply unfortunate scraggly blond goatee.) He's been talking for a long time. A lot of it in tongues, which isn't very useful for Kristen trying to figure out what the fuck is going on, but she picked out a bit in Common about "trusting his soul to the Lord on high, in death and in life, blah blah blah," so she figures he's not actually a cleric or a paladin, but a warlock of Helio. She didn't realize those were a thing. (She honestly can't imagine trading her soul to Helio for magic, when Fig's dad seems way nicer. Hell, Mr. Seacaster wouldn't even take her soul at all!)
"Easy, sweetheart," her mom says. Her hand is on Kristen's forehead, gently smoothing her hair back. "Everything's going to be alright. We are so sorry, Kristen, we never should've let you go to that darned school."
"That was our bad," her dad agrees. "Sending you off to be surrounded by elves and worse..." He reaches for her hand and grips it tight. "But we're going to make it right, okay?"
"Mmf!" Kristen bucks against the restraints, which accomplishes very little other than slamming her head against the altar.
Her mom turns away. "Oh—! I hate this, Mac. She looks so scared."
"I'm not scared!" Kristen tries to shout. "I'm pissed!"
"Mmf-rmf!" Kristen says. "Mrrf!"
"Don't," Pastor Amelia warns, when her dad reaches for the corn husk gag. "I know this is hard, for all of us, but who knows what sorts of ideas those people have been putting in her head? Who knows if she might be able to get to us the way they got to her? Or what she might cast if we give her the chance."
Her dad scowls. "Our Kristen would never hurt us."
"She's enthralled to a God of night, Mac." Pastor Amelia's voice goes very soft and sad. "That's not Kristen anymore. Not right now."
Kristen makes some indignant (and muffled) noises through the gag, then cuts off abruptly when she hears... a sniffle. Her jaw goes slack against the corn husks stuffed between her teeth as her dad brings a hand to his face, pressing thumb and fingers against his eyes, and draws in a shuddering breath. In all her sixteen years of life, Kristen has never once seen her father cry before.
"Helio," he says thickly. "When I think about... about what those people must've been doing to my baby girl..."
An angry, spiteful part of Kristen wants to say, "Nothing I didn't thoroughly enjoy."
A frightened, hurt part of Kristen wants to say, "Look at what you're doing to me!"
A soft, loving part of Kristen wants to say, "Don't cry, dad. I promise I've been okay."
Kristen can't say anything at all. She can only lie there, thrashing against her bonds, as her mom holds her head steady between her palms.
"She... she'll still be her, after, won't she?" she asks, her voice trembling slightly.
The warlock continues to chant, paying their conversation no mind.
"Of course, Donna," says Pastor Amelia. "There wouldn't be any point in this otherwise. She won't be... as she was, exactly. This isn't the kind of corruption magic alone can heal. We've got to strip away all that wickedness they've been filling her head with, and... well. There's no neat way to do that. Think of it like trying to save a cob of corn that's been struck with blight—you've got to work fast, and some kernels are going to have to go that aren't rotten yet. But you save what you can, and no matter how many bad parts you've got to get rid of, the core's still there."
Kristen was frightened before—frightened because the warlock looked an awful lot like a Harvestman, and she was fucking tied up on an altar, and the whole setup looked a bit too much like she was about to be sacrificed to bring forth the apocalypse. (Again.) But that's nothing compared to the bolt of cold, numbing dread that shoots down her spine at the way Pastor Amelia says strip away. She writhes in blind panic, wrenching free of her mom's grip and slamming her head against the altar so hard that she sees stars. She catches a glimpse in them of Cassandra's face, scattered with constellations, leaning over her with her own wide and terrified eyes.
"Help me!" she screams into the gag. Her parents, Pastor Amelia, the warlock... none of them understand her. But somebody does.
"I'm sorry," whispers a soft voice in her ear. "I can't stop this... but if they think it will take me away from you, Kristen, I promise you—they are wrong."
The warlock raises his hands. Her mom pins her head to the altar and kisses her hair, leaving hot tears in her wake. Her dad falls to his knees, still clinging to her hand, begging Helio to forgive her and take her back into his loving arms. And all the while they are talking to her, at her, telling her how sorry they are that they ever let her become herself.
Kristen stops shouting into the gag. The last sound she makes, as the light of the stained glass windows strikes the warlock's outstretched palms and they begin to glow a poisonous shade of yellow, is a strained whimper.
A thumb brushes gently across her cheek. "Don't cry, sweetheart," her mom says. "It'll be alright now. You'll be safe again. You'll finally be able to come home."
She sees a flash of light through a blur of tears.
Her parents keep talking.
Kristen can't understand them anymore.