Honeyed Pasture for thou shalt not be cured

There were segments of cloud trying desperately to retain the glow of the sun, while others rolled about in blue-grey pits, and others still looked more like the undulating ocean that fed them. He licked his lips and felt the cold rain on his tongue, tasted the salt there, and wondered if coastal rains were supposed to drift this far inland. Gilead glared up at the sky for a moment longer but eventually settled back to a natural pose, and began to hike across the pasture again. Every so often he would shake the excess water from his coat, or pause to inspect the dark streaks across his limbs; this darkness, trying its best to soak in to his every inch and correct the blessed whitening of his lower parts. A foolish notion to anyone not of the faith — but fully justified, according to Gilead.

He recalled a brief memory of his childhood while he milled about there; the elation he felt upon realizing his body was undergoing a change that was usually reserved for the elderly. His purification had begun when he was merely a year old, and even his mother knew she could not claim he was entirely corrupt. Not when the Lord had touched him and introduced this lightness to his vessel. Gilead snorted softly and a spray of rain splatted off his nose; he broke from these idle thoughts when he felt a warmth on the back of his head.

When he turned, he saw the ink-clad stranger watching him. Gilead's coat would have spiked with surprise had it not been soiled by the rain. Instead he narrowed his eyes and raised his head confidently, squaring his shoulders off in the direction of the interloper — he wasn't certain this was a mortal after all, or perhaps another manifestation of the Darkness. He finally called out through the sussuration of the rain, Who are you?