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guyfieriii · 1 year

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Get Us Strung

We're back to our regularly scheduled programming with another angst-y piece. Inspired by the song Dirty Love by Mt. Joy comes the tale of John Price and his best friend. My apologies if it seems a bit disconnected, it was originally much larger but I decided to scrap a lot of it (See? I can be nice sometimes.), but I tried my best. Also, this was edited on pure audaciousness, a bottle of wine, and a pitcher of margaritas. Do with that what you will.

Lastly, the biggest thank you to @mvtthewmurdvck for once again tolerating me bombarding her with snippets galore and supporting me as she always does.

(Can we consider this as a somewhat happy ending? My original one was A LOT worse.)

Pairing: John Price x f!Reader Warnings: Explicit Sexual Scenes and a gallon of pain :)

Nostalgia is a cruel consonance of sentimentality and longing. A honeyed trap you could easily get caught in if you aren’t careful.

You weren’t.

All it took was one precarious step forth into its birdlime confines and you’re stuck, forever adhered to moments gone by. Try as you might to break free, to rid yourself of the persistent fog that looms and live in the present — you’re simply unable. The struggle of it brands ropes into your skin. A chemical burn that scabs eventually, but it leaves you debilitated of every ounce of strength you have to leave.

With time, you make do.

You adjust to the circumstances you’ve found yourself in. It’s easy enough — to simply give in. It’s like the call of a warm bed on a cold winter morning. The arms of a man you love held open in an invitation. It’s the perfect balm to your stinging disappointments and embittered thoughts.

Witness, reminisce — rinse and repeat.

A moment here. An admission of love there, just not the right kind. Not enough to keep you satisfied, just enough you keep you—

There. Still. Stuck in time. Recycling the same out-of-date echoes through your trench of despondency till they fossilize.

It’s his eyes that do you in, really. Lapis set in moonstone white reminding you of the ebb and flow of deep ocean currents that gently coax you inwards to drift among the waves.

They were the first thing you noticed about him.

A skinny kneed boy of eleven, head full of bistre-brown hair, and the bluest eyes you ever saw that suddenly wanted to be your friend. He was loud and brutish in contrast with your more reluctant and constrained demeanour and yet—

He was your best friend. Your first. Your only.

Is your best friend.

Five years later, he left to join the infantry.

He departed, eager to prove his worth. While you stayed back with a poor facsimile of a supportive smile as he promised his eventual return.

I’ll be back on leave before you know it.

But—

I’ll be back.

And I’ll be here.

You clung to him when he told you he was enlisting, fingers curling into the sleeves his Fleetwood Mac t-shirt — a gift from you for his fifteenth. He’d asked if you wanted to keep it, as a reminder of him.

Wouldn’t need to if you just stayed, Johnny.

In the fortnight leading up to his departure, you prayed for a last-minute change of his mind. Maybe the realization that he couldn’t stay without you would finally come to the surface.

It had to. Eventually.

You couldn’t bear the thought of walking up the morning after he left, just missing a part of you. Feeling a crater right in the middle of your chest grow wider and deeper as the distance between you and him extended.

But as the days counted down, his excitement grew nearly as fast as your despair.

It began with you pulling out all the stops, reminding him of the comforts of home, of you. To him, it was only the perfect gift farewell.

It wasn’t until just the day before that you decided to take the cheap shot and just beg.

Don’t leave. Just— please just stay, okay? You don’t have to go. You don’t have to leave me— please, Johnny. I can’t—

He stood at an arm’s length and listened to you in silence, watched you scrounge every ounce of emotional ammunition you could, until your voice ran hoarse, and your tears ran dry.

The pained expression that your outburst gradually chiseled onto his face left you shamelessly hopeful, and you took a step forward to close the distance between you and him.

He wordlessly took a step back.

The time slowed, and the seconds hemorrhaged until he finally spoke.

All he responded with was—

I have to.

You saw him standing out on my pavement by your house the next morning, walking across the same yard over and over. He’d glance upward at your window every now and then in such excruciating hope that you might grace him with something as simple as a wave goodbye.

But you didn’t. You simply stood there, watching from the shadows, trying to find some relief in tears shed, but you came up dry.

And he left.

When he returned, he came as Private Johnathan Price.

Nearly half a foot taller since you saw him last. Mostly the same in disposition if only a bit more self-assured.

In the 18 months of his absence, all you had was a shoebox full of unopened letters and that chasm left behind that grew deeper, still. Every week, unquestioningly, there’d be an envelope addressed to you. And every week, you’d hold it with measured trepidation and excitement. The first one brought you relief to know that you hadn’t lost him in your near ruinous parting of ways. But as you felt the weight of it in your hands, your fingers prudently tracing the ink, you couldn’t bring yourself to read what lay inside. It felt it would be ripping the bandaging off of a wound that had barely begun to heal.

So, you kept it aside.

18 months. 72 weeks. Every corresponding letter that followed underwent the same approach. You held them, appreciated them for their infallible arrival, and locked them away with repentance as the pile grew.

The letter that followed, came hand-delivered.

“You could have written back at least once, y’know.” He says with a smile.

“I’m—”

Sorry, Johnny. Forgive me. Forgive me. Please—

Your ensuing apology dies at your lips, and you nearly suffocate under the weight of it until—

“It’s okay.” He promises.

“It’s not.” You assert back.

His gaze softens and he tries again. “Hurt ya when I left, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“So, it’s okay.”

He means to placate. You know this and an infinitesimal part of you appreciates it. But what takes more prominence is one blazing question left behind.

It blisters and leaves behind the blackened soot of your unmatched expectations. A skeletal impression of his well intended albeit anticlimactic confession.

All you’re left wondering is—

Why didn’t it hurt you to leave me, too?

You met him in London to celebrate your collective 21st birthdays some time halfway in between them.

It took some coordination, between your school and his training in Sandhurst. He never told you — said he wanted to keep you detached from that part of his life.

How’re the— I don’t know what to ask, John. You never tell me anything.

I tell you plenty.

He does well— his mother informed you as much. But the details remained vacant. You try to fill in the blanks, hazard a guess — a poor approximation of the real thing, you’re certain.

It wasn’t something you liked, but never fought him on it. It felt as though your paths diverged at too steep of an angle and you were the only one trying to get them to realign. He seemed content in this compartmentalization, while you worried your margin in it would grow smaller still.

The disconnect it created left you unsettled. Like a trail down the woods that suddenly ends midway. You’re disoriented and unanchored, forever caught in an abridged narrative with his part missing.

But you couldn’t keep waiting around—

Something you tell yourself to make it better.

“Didn’t bring him with you, then?” He slides a glass of ale across the table to you, the bottom of it catching on the adherent buildup of many a spilled drink, causing the foam at the top to dribble over.

“You asked me not to, John.” You mutter, indignant.

You wouldn’t have asked to begin with, but for appearances sake—

“Didn’t want to have to share you with some other bloke, is all.” His self-satisfied grin tells you he sees right through it.

The implications that simmered beneath that statement cut through you instantly.

He didn’t want to have to share.

What would happen if you told him that it was never even brought to question? That you were his, and his alone.

Would he make it come true?

Would he—

“I’d like for you to meet him eventually, y’know.” You opted for a safer route. Something more dependable. Everything John isn’t.

That’s a lie. He’s nothing but.

“If he stays around long enough.”

“Johnny.” You snap, irritably.

“Been a while since you called me that.” He murmurs, his grin slipping into something less presumptuous and more unshielded. Vulnerable.

“We’re not kids anymore.” You turn your gaze downward, nails digging into the chipping laminate on the cheap bar top until he flicks the side of your palm to make you stop.

“No, we’re not.” It’s his tone that makes you look back up— hinting at some kind of unspoken understanding that you recognize right away.

Let’s not pretend, then.

It’s in the dimming obscurity of alcohol when it finally happens. With your dress hiked up over the curve of your ass, and panties pulled to the side — he fucked you in a rush, outside in the cold fall air. The grain of the brick wall scratched your cheek with every thrust he buried himself in you. His ale-laden breath at the cusp of your ear, his hands cupping your breasts, squeezing — they were your only source of warmth.

“Fuckin’ hell, I’ve wanted to—” He confessed.

“So have I, Johnny.” You matched his revelation with your own.

But this wasn’t how it was supposed to—

You’ll take what you’re given. Even if it’s just this once, just tonight. A fleeting taste is better than the fantasy of him you’ve held on to.

He’s better than what you’ve had in the past. Better than what you’d thought he’d be like.

Or maybe, it’s just how well knows you.

He knows how deep you need to feel him, no matter if it hurts just a little. It’s the kind of hurt you enjoy.

How many women have you been with, John?

Does it matter?

Yes. No. Maybe?

It was you that crossed the line. A temerarious lapse in judgment, a flick of a wrist that knocked down an already precipitous house of cards when suddenly your lips descend upon his. He tastes of stale beer and the cigarette you bummed off an old man at the pub. With a grunt of surprise, he reciprocates, his tongue invading past your lips.

In a flash of somewhat sloppy adjustment, your back remained firmly pressed against the brick wall of the side of the pub, while his hands to the side of you effectively cage you in.

It’s not soon after that he takes the reins.

His mouth is everywhere — your lips, glossing over your jaw to the underside while he firmly grasps a fistful of your hair at the root, tilting your face upwards. He lays siege to the delicate column of your neck, armed with a stinging bite and the consolatory swipe of his tongue after.

John. Johnny.

The straps of your top hang loosely off your shoulders as he pulls the front of it down haphazardly to latch on to your nipple. You helplessly mewl beneath him, fingers trembling as they undo the buckle of his belt.

“Tell me to stop, love. Tell me, or I’ll—” He groans. Your hands sink in past the zipper to palm his erection. Warm. Solid.

“Please, don't.” You sink to your knees with the excitement, the need to taste him chafing at your rib cage with every beat of your heart.

“Fuck— fuck, okay. Just slow down—”

“John. Please.”

“I’ll make it good, yeah? For you. I will.” He swears.

I know you will.

You moved to Liverpool a year later. Something about staying in Hereford without him just kept you trapped in a state of inertia. Spending your time waiting more than anything else. It was time to move on.

Or try to, at any rate.

Humble beginnings for you — a modest apartment, a job that paid the bills and nothing else.

You settled into a routine — oscillating between work, home, and bisected friendships that you formed.

It’s not the same. It’s not the same.

It’s hard not to hold him somewhat accountable for your perpetual state of futility. There’s an essence of banality that follows you wherever you go. A life lived in half measures, mediocre and prosaic. It isn’t fair, and yet—

Why couldn’t you just stay, John?

It’s usually at night when the bitter tendrils of your regret slink up your limbs, like stalks of Golden Pothos, that collect around neck and squeeze.

A fire that kindles all too easily.

Can you even call it your own, when it’s caused by the choices of another?

It’s when you think back to that night in London, the weight of his cock in the palm of your hand— the way his eyes pinched shut and his head tilted back as you attempted to take him all the way in.

“Where the fuck did you learn how to do that?” He’d asked in a choked groan.

Had the head of his cock not been pressed against the back of your throat you’d have answered with:

Upset you weren’t the one to teach me, aren’t you Johnny?

Whatever remnants of that night that weren’t washed away by the glassy comber of one drink too many, replayed themselves a hundred times over. Every reiteration leaves you breathless and wanting — the evidence of it clearly shining on the inside of your thighs and the tips of your fingers.

Until—

A knock.

“You moved.” His voice was weight down by many an unspoken accusation.

“I did.” There’s no point in an apology— he’s here now.

“You never said.” Anger. Hurt. Betrayal — all in coalescence that lacerates you so deeply, you might stain the walls blood red.

“I— Do you want to come in—?”

He walked across the threshold, brushing past your shoulder before you even finished inviting him in.

“You— it’s not much. I’ve only just—” You stumble your way through some kind of explanation as he sheds himself off his duffel and coat. Any reasoning you were able to muster trickles back down your throat as he makes himself comfortable on your sofa, the floral embellished cushion sinking under the weight of him like it’s his right to be.

“It’s nice.”

You’d have expected him to feel out of sorts in this new home of yours, but he finds his place in it so naturally it fucking stings.

It really could have been that easy— a life with him. It’s a dangerous thought experiment but you wonder if he also aches for that near miss of a surrogate life. A peripeteia of decisions that might have led you down a different path entirely.

“How long are you on leave this time?” It’s a jibe and he notices. There’s an unmistakable clench in his jaw, a steely look set in his eyes at your question like he’s willing you to challenge him.

You almost do.

Good of you to waltz by after a year, Johnny. I’ve been waiting.

You really have.

“Two weeks. If you’ll have me.”

You considered turning him away simply out of spite. A laughable thought, really. An egomaniacal deliberation you pretend to have.

You’d never—

“Aren’t you going home?”

Don’t say yes. Please, don’t say yes.

“Would’ve — yeah. But you moved.”

Fuck. Don’t—

“You make it sound like I’m the only reason you come back.”

The words decamp themselves from you without any realization. Subdued embers relight themselves. Veiled desires now unwrapped — a festering infection that itched beneath near-mended dermis now touching air simply because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut.

“Would— would it be so bad if I said yes?” He asks, wavering slightly in his footing only to gauge your reaction, and you pray you’re not giving anything away.

Yes. Yes, it fucking would, John. Because—

It means nothing in the scheme of its payoff. You don’t know what he expects, because to you his disclosure only exacerbates the acridity of his absence tenfold. It makes his eventual departure seem like a harsher slap to the face.

You could accuse him of pretense. Tell him how hollow it makes you feel.

Or simply—

“No. Of course not.” You lie with a smile, instead.

He believes you.

His parents pass within a year of each other. He attends both funerals in uniform — having only singular days granted to him in lieu of bereavement.

It might have been a personal choice in his father’s case, which happened to be the latter.

The first was an open casket, the second closed — both lowered into the ground while his hand firmly grasped yours.

And after—

On both days, he found himself buried in you, however in polar opposite ways.

It began gentle, with his need to be held and your need to oblige. You straddle him in the backseat of your busted-up Mondeo Estate, soaking in his silent grief as you whisper condolences. He finds his home in the crook of your neck, bedewed with the warmth of his breath and his tears.

He tastes of grief.

Regret, even.

Maybe, one day, you’ll tell him it didn’t have to be that way.

Imagine what we could’ve been, John.

Only seven months later, you find yourself in circumstances alike only in one solitary way. This time, it’s his anger that transcends the grief. You’re turned away, bent over the disjointed desk in the corner of his childhood bedroom. His fingers etching your skin in a mosaic of blue and purple, willing you to acquiesce to his baser instinct rather than envelop him in comfort. He fucked you, brutally — bare teeth, white knuckles. A lacquer of vitriol to coat you in. Only apologetic in the aftermath.

And—

He wouldn’t let you kiss him.

Change is a weight borne poorly by most relationships.

You try to blame the distance between his visits, and the fact that he always seems more worse for wear than the last. A chronic transformation with every visit, like rust on iron — sandstone shaded corrosion bleeding into his edges.

He tries to shed himself of it when he’s in your company but it’s ever-present, like a phantom limb. An undeniable extension of himself.

You tell him not to pretend.

Not with me, John.

You might as well be white noise.

What started out as concern he’d brush off with a ‘this isn’t something you need to be worrying about, love’ slowly evolved into disregard which concluded with blatant contempt.

This isn’t what I—

He stopped himself a moment too late.

“This isn’t what I came back for.”

“Glad we’re both disappointments to each other.”

Finally, some truth spilled out. It felt oddly cathartic, even if it meant having your worst fears confirmed.

He makes an implicit plea to retract what’s been said, undo the hurt caused, and return to your perpetual state of synthetic decorum. Two people who tip-toe around each other, chat about the weather, and when all redundancies are through and done with—

Let’s just leave it be. Dinner’s nearly—

He feasts on your cunt like a man starved.

It’s funny how rarely you consider the sheer probability of his safe return. Is it simply denial? Is he so deeply rooted within your being that imagining him not being there isn’t an ending you can enumerate?

To you, there is simply no finality to John Price. Forever seems like a paltry presumption to have in his line of work and yet, you can never imagine the alternative.

You’ve tried. You even asked him once.

Just once.

“You’ll be informed if— I — they know you’re my— you’ll be informed.” He spoke with such unambiguous apathy like he was reading it off a manual.

Ten different ways to prepare your loved ones for your eventual demise.

“I’ll be informed?” This isn’t the hill to die on, but you just can’t help yourself.

“I don’t know how else to—”

“I’m glad to know I’ll have the privileges of being your widow without you having to marry me, John.”

He recoils away like you just struck him.

It was an unscrupulous remark to make. Atonement is futile, he’d see right through it. All you can do is wait for the dust to settle and carry on.

But he—

“I’d marry you tomorrow if I thought it would fix things.”

It wouldn’t.

Some things are just predestined to remain broken, you suppose.

“I know you would.”

You find yourself at an impasse. Anyone pragmatic might think to cut their losses and retreat. Start anew.

That’s just not who you are.

You find other ways to meet each other halfway, on an equal plane of vulnerability and certitude. Nothing to hide behind in the arms of one another. There are shared breaths, harmonies of impassioned confessions and you find yourselves in the other once more.

You shed the pain you wear like a second skin, disrobed in ways both actual and metaphorical.

He’s kinder and you’re more forgiving.

He tells you it’s his last night with you for a while and you request your goodbye before the morning. You need something to remain unsoiled.

He leaves before you wake.

Sometimes, he leaves a note.

I’ll be back soon, darling.

Empty words. Hollow promises. An interminable echo in a cave that ripples in the subterranean waters you float in.

Except—

I’m doing the best I can.

And that’s enough.

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everyday-is-brighter-with-you · 2 years

Video

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Warning for flashes.

[Video description: A MV of the Faith The Unholy Trinity games set to the song ‘John My Beloved’ by Sufjan Stevens. It is made up of clips from the game. The title screen is the Faith logo with 'John my beloved' under it in the game font.

It cross-fades to the scene of a car driving with Father Allred in the front, and the date 'September 21, 1986'.

Lyrics: ''Are we to speak, first day of the week Stumbling words at the bar''

John Ward and Father Allred are in the car talking. Father Allred says, ''I don't need to tell you that this assignment is top secret.'' John replies, ''Yes, sir.'' Father Allred says, ''Based on what I saw during my previous visits...we could be in for a very long night.''

''Beauty blue eyes, my order of fries Long Island kindness and wine'' They enter the Martin family house. John looks unsure while Father Allred smiles at the Martins. He says, ''Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Martin.'' At 'Wine' the screen cuts to a closeup of the family photograph where only Amy is colored in purple.

''Beloved of John, I get it all wrong I read you for some kind of poem'' John performs his first exorcism by reading from a holy book in Latin, ''Exorcizo te, creatura salis. Adjuro te, maledicte diabole.'' He then crosses himself. The scene cuts to Father Allred on the ground, with Amy appearing and holding his head in her hands, making his eyes go wide and bleed as he speaks. Then back to John reading, ''Adjuro te, serpens, discedas ab hoc virgo.''

''Beloved of John, I get it all wrong I read you for some kind of poem'' John performs his first exorcism by reading from a holy book in Spanish, ''Exorcizo te, creatura salis. Adjuro te, maledicte diabole.'' He then crosses himself. The scene cuts to Father Allred on the ground, with Amy appearing and holding his head in her hands, making his eyes go wide and bleed as he speaks. Then back to John reading, ''Adjuro te, serpens, discedas ab hoc virgo.''

''Covered in lines, the fossils I find Have they no life of their own?'' John exits the house and looks back at a high oval window. Lightning flashes in parts to reveal Amy standing there, hair down over her face, watching him.

''So can we pretend sweetly Before the mystery ends?'' John holds up a key before a purple mirror and smiles in a very pleased manner, unsettlingly. He puts it back down and the spirits in three sitting cultists leave their bodies, having been exorcised. John walks out the room. The screen cuts to text reading 'the morning breaks'

''I am a man with a heart that offends With its lonely and greedy demands'' John wakes up in his bed and walks to a note beside it. The note reads, ''John, I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry. I will always love you back. Karen''

''There's only a shadow of me in a matter of speaking I'm dead'' John re-enters the room with the key and holds it up again, smiling, before stabbing himself in the eye with the key violently. He walks out the room, blood dripping. Then is a shot of him with a melted bloody, sharp-toothed face, momentarily possessed. His outline becomes more purplish. The Death\Mortis screen appears.

''Such a waste, your beautiful face'' John confronts Amy. There is a trail of blood leading to her and her face is covered with white cloth. John asks, ''My God...what happened to you?'' Amy replies, ''Do you think my face is pretty?''.

''Stumbling carpet arise'' John firmly states in reply to Amy, ''I have to finish what I started.''

''Go follow your gem, your white feathered friend'' Amy pulls off the cloth and faintly swerves her head around, revealing a red hole where her face is supposed to be. Then it cuts to the interrogation scene with Gary Miller. On asking him about the twins, he looks up with his face distorting into a sharp-lined open mouth, laughing. He answers, ''Oh John...deep down, you always knew that the twins were an illusion. But you could not resist chasing after lost souls.''

''Icarus, point to the sun'' A black screen appears with Amy speaking, ''Unforgivable.'' Then it cuts to John leaning down before an effigy of the fake twins, hanging his head in defeat. It slowly fades to black.

''If history speaks of two baby teeth I'm painting the hills blue and red'' Gary viciously smiles and delivers the injection preparing him for the Unspeakable to John, catching him by surprise. John writhes and catches his wrist before his whole form turns red and scribbly, screaming. The screen fades to white. Theres a brief shot of a butterfly struggling in a spider's web. Then John is shown again, his pupils white and with an unnaturally wide and bright smile, hands spread out in front of his face. Slowly purple hands come in from the top over his own. After that it cuts to a thoroughly blood-stained room in the cultist's hold with mangled corpses, one crawling away from John. Fade to black.

''They said beware, Lord hear my prayer'' John driving away from the Martin house after he came back to finish Amy's exorcism. He says, ''I can only have faith that I did the right thing.''

''I've wasted my throes on your head'' A confessional screen is shown. John confesses, ''A year later, the girl reached out to me again. But in the end I couldn't save her. I left her to die. I am sorry for these and my past sins.''

''So can we be friends, sweetly Before the mystery ends?'' John's car stops in front of a large group of cultists, the one nearest to his car is holding a pitchfork. Some fires by them are seen too. Fade to white. Then is shown John breathing slowly, bleeding slightly from his eyes and mouth. He turns to look at a figure beside him. It's Gary.

''I love you more than the world can contain In its lonely and ramshackle head'' John walks to the center of a pentagram in a forest filled with cultists. The Unspeakable demon slowly makes its way towards John to intiate him into the cult.

''There's only a shadow of me in a matter of speaking I'm dead'' Gary reaches out towards Amy who floats above him. The demonic hand from her face grasps Gary's face and calls him, ''Failure.'' He is sucked into Amy's face hole.

(Instrumental) The hole in her face closes and she appears normal again. She has a slight smile. Blood rains down behind her. John apologizes, ''Amy, I'm so sorry. I couldn't save you.'' Amy reassures him,''John...it's okay. It's over now. They can't hurt me anymore. You've been so brave. But now...It's time to finish what you started.'' Crossfade.

''I'm holding my breath My tongue on your chest'' There is a sepia overlay to these parts, indicating that they happened previously. John prays to God to aid him in his fight against the demons, ''This abomination's power is too great.'' His call is answered as he opens his eyes and they shine bright, dripping yellow. He thanks God, ''Yes, Lord, I feel thou art with me.''

''What can be said of my heart? If history speaks, the kiss on my cheek Where there remains but a mark'' Only text appears as Gary greets him, ''Hello, John. It's nice to finally meet you.'' John pleads, ''Lord, help me. Somebody, please help me.''

''Beloved my John, so I'll carry on Counting my cards down to one And when I am dead, come visit my bed My fossil is bright in the sun

So can we contend, peacefully Before my history ends? Jesus I need you, be near me, come shield me From fossils that fall on my head'' God, a bright white figure, materializes in front of him. The screen flashes white as he says, ''I hear thee.'' He continues, ''John, son of man, what dost thou wish?'' ''This is too much for me. I'm so afraid. Please let me escape this place.'' ''And the girl?'' ''I just want to go home.'' ''If I leadest thou to safety...her fate shall be sealed upon thine head.'' ''I'll do whatever you want. Just take me away from here.'' ''Swear it.'' ''I swear it.'' Fade to black.

''There's only a shadow of me in a matter of speaking I'm dead'' Brief shot of John covered in the blood-rain, exhausted, breathing slowly and heavily. He holds his golden cross. The battle is over. Then the scene changes with a cinematic fade that has faint white floating dots. There is a choice shown, where John must go with either Lisa or Father Garcia. Both stand in front of him. Garcia is chosen. They clasp their hands in a manly handshake from the Predator films. John says, ''Let's go fight some demons.''

The song ends and a breath from the singer is heard. The music fades to Faith's main, upbeat theme. The ending scene appears of John sitting alongside Father Garcia as they both drive away. Credits of the game read, ''New Blood Interactive presents A game by Airdorf Faith: Chapter 3'' (the 3 is in roman numeral) A 'The End' screen appears with a bottom text of 'Ending 2- A New Journey'. The music fades.

Credits of the video appear in yellow game font, ''John My Beloved by Sufjan Stevens Faith The Unholy Trinity by Airdorf Games Music video by me; Ay-Machan''. end video description]

Talk under the cut!

Video description is in the pinned comments below too if you want to click through to the link. Couldn't fit it in the youtube description.

Closed captions available. - I made a document explaining the meaning and connecting the song with music video, I recommend reading it if you're having trouble. I did as the song was vague: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1K...

I tried to make it more accessible to screenreaders...any suggestions for improvement are welcome. - Thank you for watching!! I really love the Faith series and John Ward has been a particular interest of mine especially with how human they've made him in a limited medium. The whole story of the games and their presentation really leaves me in awe. So here's a tribute and I wish luck and good things to Airdorf moving forward!

#faith game #faith the unholy trinity #faith chapter 3 #faith chapter 1 #faith chapter 2 #john ward #gary miller #amy martin #music video #flashing tw #horror tw #blood tw #sufjan stevens #john my beloved #amv #mv #fan video

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