Tides of Longing (Bendy and the Ink Machine)

7- The Second Face of a Blind Prophet

Author's Notes: This chapter is a fan favorite so it has a...fair amount of art. >v> The art for this chapter is by Startistdoodles. In order, the art within the chapter is by MetallicArtist, Slipnslideblog (Silver), Silver, Silver, and TheDarkPuddles on Tumblr.

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"As we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal." – 2 Corinthians 4:18

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There's a certain given level of unpleasant intimacy when you make yourself vulnerable to a friend- a certain breathlessness. It's scary. It's new; even if you've done it a thousand times before, revealing something about yourself will never find its sting in wane. This is because the unraveling of the mystery of a human being isn't too far from a cut in the skin; it's a fresh opening, time and time again, and if it's in the same spot more than once than it will eventually begin to scar, to callous. Only then can it numb- that is, if it doesn't simply hurt more instead.

Now it was true that it was merely a fact to Sammy that he could only see through the image of his lord. It was also true that it was so ingrained into his life of devotion that he had thought nothing of it- to the point that it was just as unremarkable to mention it as it was incredible for Francine to hear. So this was not his vulnerability.

Then what made him feel so?

What was it then, that made the space between his shoulder blades tingle with unease, his heart's pulse run up and down his neck with the flight of anxiety?

As he and his rediscovered companion stepped into the band room yet again, he let her go in first. Unexpectedly, he noticed this discomfort crawl into his chest, and as the door fell behind him, so did his arm fall to grip the other; slight dints of pressure appeared under his fingertips into the soma just above his elbow. He walked in a slump, head craned forward and down- the thin painting of Bendy looking into the room where tones of worship reigned supreme.

Sammy felt it staring. It always did, and most of the time it was...comforting. An assurance that he was always cared for, never alone. But today as the cutout in the viewing window looked down upon its believers, what was always assumed to be a loving gaze now pierced instead of cradled his soul.

To say he no longer had faith was incorrect. To say that the ink demon could not be his savior was incorrect.

And it was the same if he had said he knew how to feel about these things.

It made Sammy lower his mask and look inward at the woman who sat herself upon the stage and picked up her- or rather his- instrument of choice, assuming that another violin lesson was what they had come for.

That is, until she observed that he didn't come any closer.

...Well, it wasn't like she was going to be able to pay attention anyways. Not after what he had just said.

Her eyes became half-lidded and the expression upon her face scrunched with thought. She noticed the way his head fell almost somberly down from its look to the devil's visage.

And so the recent revelation of his mask and the past upset about her chasing after the demon finally blended, and Francine thought she understood why Sammy's mood was so low.

Emphasis on "thought."

Still in her seat, she set the violin down onto the chair beside her, folding her hands upon her lap and steadying her gaze towards the fellow disciple as she searched for words.