Summary: Valtiel lays down the dead God's body to rest.

Warnings: Post-SH3; obviously, spoilers. Character death, mentioned. Cannibalistic fun.

Author's Note: A drabble. Short, straight to the point. Wrote through sleepiness. Forgive the drool. Wrote in about, 15 minutes. I'm taking Anatomy II in a few days when college starts back up; expect this to be revised, at some point.

Disclaimer: No own, no sue.

"Communion"

God breathed her last.
She returned to the dust promising to come again;
When the path to paradise will be opened.

--- Excerpt from'Sun'

The other angels had long paid their respects to the fallen God; no else had been closer to God than Valtiel, and He alone would carry out this task. They would remain as they were: alive, thriving, perceived beyond human comprehension, available only to those seeking salvation within Her womb (the damned, the guilty, and the summoned). Her faithful clergy still bound in earthly desires come home for the birth, and death, of Paradise.

Her Judge would mourn in His own way. He listened to the heavy footfalls of His oldest friend drift off accompanied by the sound of metal shriek and tear under His blade, as He left the Church's labyrinthine walls. Valtiel looked down at the task at hand. God was not held long enough within the woman's body, before violently birthing Herself, stitched together by the remaining flesh of Her Host.

From the moment She had died, parts of Him began to unravel; before much longer, He would be but a pile of ashes, and tendrils of darkness and smoke, remnants of leather. The bindings on His left arm began first, from the tip of Metatron's tattoo nearly down to His wrist, and His life was pouring out. Her body would strengthen His own bond to this world, in the afterbirth of her advent.

Valtiel's nimble fingers ran carefully over the still-warm flesh lay spread before him. As glorious posthumous as She was alive when She first arose from the serpent, and the reed, and the darkness and desires of man. His fingertips caressed through the viscid pool of coagulating blood spread around Her half-formed spine, where it poured from Her malformed body. He brought His fingers to His mouth, His tongue curled around them, savoring the metallic taste.

Her eyes, the soft matter of her brain, her tongue: these are the first He takes into Himself. To see all things for Her, to remember all She knows, and to speak all She says. Strips of monochrome flesh were gingerly tore from Her skeletal visage and consumed, starting at her throat down to her navel. Sternum cracks, ribs are broken – removed out of the way. Her vivisected body welcomes Him to its guarded viscera. He extracts Her lungs, taking in Her breath. Her heart, biting into its tender flesh, the fruit of it so He may live as long as She. No part of Her sanctified body would be wasted. Through Him, She will live until a suitable Host is found for ceremony. When He is finished, her meticulously picked clean bones will be buried deep within the Church's bowels.

Eat of my Flesh,

Drink of my Blood.

This is how Silent Hill preserves its Holy.