Chapter 131: Spiritual Vision and Salvation

In a daze, Solomon saw a strange pedestal with Randolph Carter sitting atop it. Behind him loomed a chaotic blend of countless visions, and Carter himself had transformed into something amorphous, neither he nor it, but rather, Him. Behind Him was a door that contained possibilities beyond imagination and mathematical logic, an expanse of answers to all questions. Solomon sensed that beyond that ultimate door lay every answer.

But Randolph Carter blocked his view.

"It is not time yet," a thunderous voice boomed, seeming to emanate from nowhere. The voice carried an extraordinary power and melody, flashing with incomprehensible entities that twisted to its rhythm. It conveyed to Solomon just how childish and narrow his three-dimensional world was. Every possibility in existence presented a tantalizing glimpse to him, instilling an overwhelming fear. The fragments of visions he'd once dismissed as absurd fantasies returned with a terrifying reality. He yearned for more knowledge, but the entity denied him. For now, he had to repay his debts; only after doing so would his fragile mind be broken, allowing him to pass beyond the veil and understand secrets from beginning to end. That would be his reward.

"You may use this to settle your debt," said Randolph Carter, seated on his hexagonal throne. "Out of all possibilities, this is the only chance."

When Solomon awoke, the grand doorway was calm once more. Carter had vanished, along with the fervent crowd that had gathered outside. Tituba, Abigail, and Coulson were nowhere to be seen. Only Natasha stood quietly beside him. "You've been standing here a long time," she remarked. "None of us knew what was happening. We just saw Randolph Carter say something to you, and then you went still. What did he say?"

The mage closed his eyes and held his head, feeling as though it might split. Even with his eyes closed, colors swirled across his vision, like the boundless stars he'd seen or the gaseous beings burning at unfathomable temperatures. Deep within the nebulous minds imprinted upon the stars were thoughts like the aurora. Beyond that, a sharp, mocking laugh echoed from an unreachable darkness. He realized these visions and sounds were unnatural, yet he couldn't muster the spells to shield his mind with Hogoth's power; his soul was burdened with too much, making his holy sigils react in an uncontrollable way, further clouding his thoughts.

He now understood Carter's intentions—what he wanted him to do—but wasn't sure if those terrifying beings shared the same goals. The crimson shroud protected him enough to allow speech. His jaw felt stiff, as though it hadn't moved in centuries. "Nothing," he finally managed, regaining some clarity. He reoriented himself and asked, "Where's Coulson? What happened next?"

"The townsfolk believe the Williamses' deaths were due to Tituba's curse," Natasha said, sneering. "They arrested her, and Governor Sir William Phips sent a judge named Matthew Hopkins to oversee the witch trials here. Coulson went with the townsfolk to the church to track the proceedings. But as for you, I think you need rest, and not here. Randolph Carter is growing increasingly suspicious. Let's go to the inn, and I'll send someone to inform Coulson."

Solomon barely heard Natasha's words; the lingering dread clung to his mind, and without the mental discipline he'd gained from facing Dormammu and the protection of his holy cloth, he would have been driven mad. Eyes half-closed, he allowed Natasha to guide him toward the town inn. Everything he now saw felt different—the mud and animal waste beneath his feet, the stars in the high night sky. Solomon could hear their whispers, and with those whispers came a strange fear. He knew he needed to wait for his soul to settle before casting spells, but thankfully, he was experienced in such matters. The holy sigils had tempered his spirit; he just needed rest.

When Coulson returned to the inn, he found Solomon lying on the bed, his eyes closed, while Natasha had wrapped him snugly in blankets. "What happened to him?" Coulson asked, pointing at Solomon in surprise, but Natasha had no answers. Regardless, getting him away from Randolph Carter had been the best thing she could do under the circumstances.

"Well," Coulson nodded, puzzled. "They locked up Tituba in prison. I went to check on her; the conditions are terrible, and she may even be flogged. The judge is Matthew Hopkins, England's infamous witch-hunter. He specializes in capturing women accused of witchcraft, and his brutality is well-known. She's likely already being tortured. Commander, I need you to help me break her out and bring her here."

"Are you serious, Coulson?" Natasha asked. "You know this is just a reenactment."

"Yes, I know," Coulson replied with a somber expression. "I know that what I do might not change anything, but I'll still do it."

"Fine," murmured Solomon from the bed, barely opening his eyes. He withdrew a hand from the covers, reaching toward the dimensional pouch on the nightstand. "Natasha, open it. Take out the glass vials with the red and golden potions."

"What are these?" Natasha asked as she searched. "Some kind of magical elixirs?"

"You guessed it," the mage replied weakly. "The red is a minor healing potion, and the golden one is a lesser restoration potion. I think these will be enough to help Tituba."

"Why?" Coulson asked. "Why change your mind?"

"You're asking why I would change my mind, right?" Solomon closed his eyes again. "This is all just a game to certain beings. Our job is to continue that game, to put on a worthy show for those great entities. The villains are already on stage, so we, as the just side, should also make our entrance."

Coulson didn't understand Solomon's cryptic words and glanced at Natasha, who shrugged, unable to explain. "Either way," Coulson sighed, "thank you, Solomon."

"Now, leave me to rest," Solomon's voice softened until it was almost inaudible. "I must…"

"Sleep well. Commander Natasha, let's get to work."

---

The Salem town jail wasn't heavily guarded. Natasha and Coulson had broken into more fortified places, so this was hardly a challenge. For this mission, Natasha had switched out of local attire and into her form-fitting combat gear. Coulson, who avoided killing, merely subdued and knocked out the guards, while Natasha electrocuted any prisoners who dared to yell. They finally found Tituba in her cell, still in her servant's attire, though it was tattered from lashings. Red-black blood oozed from her skin, mingling with shredded fabric clinging to her, and flies swarmed over her wounds, sucking up her fluids and warmth. The poor girl lay limp on the thin straw, barely whimpering.

The cold, damp ground continued to sap what little warmth she had left, and the stench filled the entire cell. Coulson frowned, but Natasha showed no reaction, having seen worse.

Natasha picked the lock, and Coulson hurried inside. After crushing a scrawny rat attempting to gnaw at Tituba's flesh, he knelt and placed a hand on her forehead. "She has a fever, but she's stable for now," he whispered, careful not to echo through the stone hallway. "We don't have antibiotics…we'll have to use Solomon's potions for now, but we should move her to the inn first."

"I'm ready," Natasha said, unrolling a large piece of felt she'd brought. She then wrapped Tituba in it, cradling her in Coulson's arms. "You carry her. I'll lead."

"Alright. No intel support, so we're doing this the old-fashioned way," Coulson muttered, though pleased to have saved an innocent person. "I trust you, Commander; flintlock pistols shouldn't be a problem for you. But I'll need your help with one more thing."

"What is it?"

"Take care of her," Coulson nodded toward the girl in his arms. "I can't exactly clean her wounds myself, right?"

"You all need me to take care of you," Natasha sighed. "Fine, I'll look after her. At least she won't wake up screaming in the morning."

Solomon slept alone that night. In his turbulent dreams, he saw a city bathed in sunset, with high walls, temples, colonnades, and arches built from veined marble, all shimmering with a radiant, enchanting brilliance. A silver-based fountain stood in a spacious plaza, spraying rainbow-hued water. Beautiful trees, lush flower beds, and ivory statues adorned the cityscape. Then his vision sped up uncontrollably, racing past 700 steps and a glowing enchanted forest, across the icy wastelands of the gods' domain, finally stopping at an onyx castle more majestic than any earthly fortress.

There, he heard the same mocking laughter he'd heard at Randolph Carter's threshold.

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