The Prophet carefully finishes the last word, a perfectly elegant curlicue of vermillion ink that fills her with a flash of sinful pride. Thankfully, this fades almost immediately. She is glad. She must be in a state of unsullied grace for this final part of her holy task.

The parchment is of finest quality, the ink almost indelible against all time can throw at it. It remains only to bind her Revelation, safe as she can make it for the children of God to come.

She spends time considering her selection carefully; it must be of sufficient size to bind all of a piece, yet leave her capable of performing the binding with the appropriate, perfect care necessary for her Gospel.

She is satisfied, finally. She selects the correct knife, and, singing a soft psalm of grace, begins the first delicate cut into the fine skin of her inner thigh.

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