Information

Valtiel has a minion!

Heather the Pinhart

Valtiel

The

Steamwork Aeanoid
Owner:

Balloon

Age: 12 years, 4 months, 1 week

Born: December 6th, 2011

Adopted: 4 months, 1 week, 4 days ago

Adopted: December 7th, 2023

This pet has been nominated for the Pet Spotlight!

Statistics

Level: 134
Strength: 164
Defense: 16
Speed: 12
Health: 11
HP: 11/11
Intelligence: 295
Books Read: 291
Food Eaten: 0
Job: Operative for the Light

Mirror Holder for Shinwa

The god is dead.

Heather kicks Her a couple times, just to make sure, drives her boot into the god's face that looks so much like her own.

She looked like me, she thinks. She came from me.

All of this is because of me.

Heather breathes deeply, trying to calm her racing heart, and looks for the last time upon the god she'd killed. With Her pale cracked face and eyes that had never once opened, Her gangly limbs and skeletal lower half, She looks like a broken doll someone cast aside—even one of Heather's own dolls, maybe. No good to anyone anymore.

Heather turns to walk away, slowly. . . but where is there to walk in this dead, empty place, the chapel of the god she's killed? The god is dead—and so is everyone and everything else. Heather doesn't know if there's a way out of this pit beneath the sanctum, and even if she finds one, now that everything is stopped and still and dead, she doesn't know how she'll ever make her way back to reality.

“Is that the end?” Heather asks of nobody, because there's nobody left to ask. “I guess it's time to roll the credits.”

She looks around her in the near darkness; then her face crumples and she whimpers, “Dad. . . .” She drops to the floor, sobbing his name. She's won, she's still alive, but what the hell does it matter? The god's death won't bring her father back. Heather might as well be dead too, because what does she have left to live for?

Heather sits for a moment, head bowed and shoulders slumped, until she's able to calm her breathing.

No, she thinks, he fought so hard for me. He did everything he could to make sure I lived, so I have to live for him, even though it means living without him.

Heather gets back to her feet, holds her head up, and begins again to walk away, to search the darkness for a way out of the bowels of the chapel.

Then—a sound, behind her, something between a growl and a chitter. A sound in a place where no sound should be, in a world where everyone is dead. She stops, looks back. Her hazel eyes widen; then her brows draw closer together in consternation.

Everyone isn't dead.

The monster who stands behind her now is the one who's followed Heather all along, the one she's seen crawling in the walls; endlessly torturing Lisa, the nurse who had cared for Heather's past self; ceaselessly turning valves to no purpose that Heather could discern. He terrified her at first, but after she saw him again and again without him ever attacking her, she came to think of him as the only creature—human or monster—who bore her no ill-will.

Neither had he paid her any attention, as far as she knew. He followed her and preceded her, sometimes appearing ahead of her in one room right after she'd left him in another—and somehow she knew it was always the same being she saw, not several identical monsters of the same type. Whatever he was, there was only one of him, and he ignored her. He seemed forever absorbed in his own activities and behaved as if she wasn't even there.

Once, Heather could have touched him. As she climbed a ladder in the hospital, she'd passed right behind him as he turned one of the valves, body contorted in a way that seemed almost physically impossible with his booted feet braced on the wall and his right hand clinging to the platform above him while he worked the valve in his left.

She was mere inches from his head, and he must have been aware of her presence, but he never acknowledged her and just kept turning the valve on and on. It must have been a stiff valve, for he turned it in sudden jerks that made the muscles stand out prominently in his otherwise thin arm. With each movement, he tossed his head in the involuntary jerks that seemed to plague him constantly.

Heather stood there on the ladder behind him for several minutes, watching him. It was the first time she'd been able to see him clearly, but she still couldn't really tell what he looked like because his body was completely covered save for the pale sinewy arms with their mottled, parti-color skin. That body was human-shaped, the slender and wiry torso accentuated by tight, corset-like laces up the back of the leather apron he wore. (Heather tried not to speculate on what sort of skin that leather had been made from.)

His hands, though, weren't so human. His red gloves had thumbs and pointer fingers and pinkies, but only one wide digit where his two other fingers should be. And his head. . . he was masked by a featureless hood with no openings even for eyes. Now that she finally faces him head-on, Heather realizes that there's no bump in the mask where a nose should be, either. The only thing resembling an organ on his face is a line where a mouth might be on a human, but it's only a wrinkle in the mask. That isn't where the creature's mouth is.

His mouth, somehow, is on the back of his head on the upper left, the only feature exposed by his hood. It's wide and full-lipped, and as she'd clung to the ladder and stared at him, Heather had tried to tell herself that it wasn't a real mouth, just some deformity that looked like one.

She gave up on believing that when his lips parted slightly and a long, thin, serpentine tongue flicked out for a second.

Still, Heather had seen far more revolting monsters by that point, and she found his appearance more intriguing than grotesque, although she did wonder how it was anatomically possible for even a monster to have a working mouth near the top of its head.

Who are you? she'd wanted to ask. What are you? But then she'd left him and climbed onward without speaking to him, because she didn't think he'd respond. Even though he had to have some purpose in following her, she felt as if she herself meant nothing to him, and even if she spoke to him, he would forever see her as beneath his notice.

Elsewhere in the hospital, Heather caught glimpses of him, or something she thought might be him, but she didn't come near him again until she found him unexpectedly—crammed into a locker, of all things, like the victim of some middle school bully. Upside down, even.

Rusty wire mesh over the front of the locker separated them, yet Heather still might have slipped her fingers between the wires to touch him. But she didn't, instead remaining a couple feet away as she watched him twitch and writhe in the narrow metal confines scarcely wider than his body. His back was to her again, and she had no idea what—if anything—he was doing.

One arm reached downward past his head, and the other seemed pinned to his side. Maybe he was turning some unseen valve. . . or maybe he was just struggling within the walls of his prison.

Heather still didn't quite dare to speak to him, so she murmured her thoughts to herself instead: “Something strange is cooped up in the locker. I think I'm safe, but I shouldn't get too close.”

She stood there studying him as she had on the ladder. Now that she saw him alone, divorced from the tortured nurse usually found near him, he wasn't frightening in the least. In fact, there was something almost familiar about him.

“Actually,” Heather told herself, “the more I look at it, the more pitiful it seems. Like a child locked up in there with no chance of escape. . . .”

There wasn't anything she could do about it, though, so she'd finally turned away and moved on. He'd followed her, or preceded her, or whatever, so he had escaped, but she'd wondered what she would see if she went back. . . if maybe some part of him writhed there in perpetuity.

Maybe not, because it seems that the sum total of him is facing her now.

Heather turns fully towards him and stares back at his blank masked face. How can he see me? she wonders, but then, how did any of the eyeless monsters see?

Now he does not twitch or jerk, only stands there still except for a slight flexing of his gloved hands. He makes another growl, a low sound that isn't exactly threatening but makes her nervous all the same.

Even though she wonders if he can use words at all—maybe growl is all he does—she finally speaks to him: “Who. . . are you?”

He can use words, and he speaks one of them. It's not a growl, but it's still deep and rusty, like he hasn't spoken in a long time. The sound of it comes from behind him, apparently issuing from the bizarre mouth on the back of his head.

“Valtiel.”

“Val. . . tiel,” she echoes in a whisper as her stomach clenches.

She knows the name because her past self knew the name. And that's why he seems familiar, because that self had an idea of what he looks like, from the paintings and the glimpses she'd caught of him as he shadowed her constantly, protecting her. . . her guardian angel.

No, she thinks now, not her—our—my guardian angel, but Hers. That's why he followed me, to protect that thing inside me, to make sure that the god would be born. And now that the god's dead, maybe he's come to punish me for killing Her. . . .

All the fear he'd aroused in Heather at the beginning comes rushing back, but now, for the first time, she's angry at him too. There's no one else left for her to be angry at, no one else to take her anger out on, and she decides he's as much to blame as anyone.

“Valtiel,” she repeats in a voice that sounds kind of rusty too and rises with every word. “You were always with me—no, you were always with Her! You never cared about me, did you? Only the god!”

All the hatred that had been stoked in Heather, the anger and loathing and lust for revenge intended to feed the god growing inside her, now she turns it all on that god's attending angel.

“Well, your god is dead—and I killed Her!” she cries in a near shout. “What about that?”

He twitches once, his head thrashing back and one shoulder shrugging violently, then is still again. Unless he considers that to be a response, he doesn't answer her.

Heather continues to face him, breathing hard and more frustrated with his silence than with anything he could have said. Then, slowly, her breath and heart calm once more as she remembers her earlier pity for him. Like a child locked up in there with no chance of escape.

It doesn't make her any less angry at him, but it does make her realize that in a way, she'd been exactly right.

“You don't understand, do you?” Heather asks more quietly—rhetorically, for she doesn't expect a reply. “You can't, because you can't care about anything but your god. Everything you do is for Her because that's the way She made you. You were created to serve Her, and you have to keep serving Her even after She's dead.”

He twitches again, just a little—just turns his head to one side and back, almost like he's shaking it “no.” She doesn't know if that's confirmation or denial or just an involuntary spasm.

“So how are you going to serve Her now? By punishing me?” Heather's eyes move over his face and down his body. He carries no weapon that she can see, but of course, he doesn't need one. “Are you gonna try to kill me like you killed Lisa? You think you're gonna keep me here forever and torture me, like you do to her?”

He doesn't move or make a sound.

“I killed your god,” she tells him, “and if I have to, I'll kill you too.”

No chance of escape.

He didn't choose to be who he is, she thinks, any more than I chose to be who I am.

Heather says softly, “I will if I have to, but I don't want to. I don't want to hurt you, Valtiel.”

It probably doesn't make any difference to a monster like him, to an angel, but she still wants him to know.

Valtiel had chosen to let her see him: scuttling downward with the elevator, working the valves, crawling in the walls. He could have done all that undetected; after all, he'd watched over her unseen for seventeen years, ever since her father carried her away from Silent Hill and he followed.

But when the time came for the Mother of God to return home and give birth, he let his presence be known—not for the Mother's sake, but for the god's. He thought that perhaps She would be awakening, becoming aware within Her host. If so, he wanted to reassure Her that he, her good and faithful servant, still attended Her.

He knew he terrified the Mother, the girl. Heather, she was called this time. He would have preferred not to frighten her—though not a compassionate creature, he is neither an inherently cruel one—but it had to be done. Between the two of them, Mother and god, she mattered nothing compared to Her. Valtiel had fallen into the habit of repeating that to himself over the years, and he had repeated it more and more frequently the closer she drew to her destiny.

You can't care about anything but your god, Heather says. He had told himself that too—not as a statement of fact, the way she said it, but as an injunction.

Everything he did, had to be done. Sometimes he was given a direct order, but most often, he had no instructions. The proper course of action was left up to his judgment and discretion, and he acted in the way he thought would best serve his god. For instance, when the nurse charged with the Mother's care began to lose her mind, he had no orders then. He had nothing from nobody, only silence, so it was up to him to decide what to do in order to protect the nascent god from potential harm at the hands of a madwoman.

The most efficient and certain way was to kill her, so that was what he did.

And when her spirit lingered in Silent Hill and tried to interfere, Valtiel decided the proper course of action was to punish her. So that was what he did, and continues to do because he has no orders to stop. His actions towards her are no more to him than the turning of another wheel, her screams no different than the metallic protests of an unoiled valve.

Now, Heather says, Everything you do is for Her because that's the way She made you. You were created to serve Her, and you have to keep serving Her even after She's dead.

Valtiel twitches at her words. They are true, but this is another case of him having no instructions. No one had predicted that the Mother of God would survive Her birth. And certainly no one had predicted that this girl would do what her adoptive father had done, killing the god's physical manifestation within moments of Her birth.

What has changed in her, between then and now? Valtiel wonders, studying her pale face and wounded hazel eyes. She is the same human soul that had been fractured and made whole again. But now she is something more, too.

Then he decided, It is because this time, she is innocent. This time, she was raised as an ordinary human child and not the Mother of God—she had almost become an ordinary human woman.

So how are you going to serve Her now? Heather demands. By punishing me? Are you gonna try to kill me like you killed Lisa? You think you're gonna keep me here forever and torture me, like you do to her?

Valtiel doesn't know. Is that what would best serve his god, punishing her for thwarting Her resurrection?

(Or would it only be serving himself, if Valtiel chose to keep Heather there in Silent Hill forever. . . forever beside him?)

I killed your god, she tells him, and if I have to, I'll kill you too.

No, Valtiel might have replied, you won't. Heather had been able to kill the god's physical manifestation only because She had been born incomplete and weakened from an inferior vessel. Hideous and malformed Valtiel may be in Heather's eyes, but he is neither incomplete nor weak.

She looks up at him, into his masked and seemingly featureless face. She had been so angry at him, but she doesn't look angry anymore.

Now, she looks at him the way she had when she came upon him writhing in confinement, when she had murmured in the scantest whisper which he could still easily hear, Something strange is cooped up in the locker. I think I'm safe, but I shouldn't get too close.

She had looked upon him then with curiosity, but also with sympathy, with compassion—the only compassion he had ever known from anyone.

Actually, the more I look at it, the more pitiful it seems. Like a child locked up in there with no chance of escape.

She thought him pitiful, she thought of him as a child—him ancient and her little more than a child herself! She thought of him as “it.”

But she did think of him, and she is thinking of him now when she says far more gently, I will if I have to, but I don't want to. I don't want to hurt you, Valtiel.

Heather cares for Valtiel in some capacity and that, he realizes, is what has changed in her. The life made for her by the man she called her father, it granted her the ability to care.

Killing her now, condemning that caring soul to an eternity in purgatory (an eternity with him), would not serve Valtiel's god. Heather had killed the god's impotent manifestation, but no one could kill the god Herself, and She would be born again at another time, from another Mother. Punishing this girl would serve no purpose at all.

She should go back to that ordinary human life of hers, Valtiel decides. This is the proper course of action.

He finally speaks to her words other than his name, his voice hoarse and rusty from disuse as it issues from between the dry, cracked lips on the back of his head: “No. You may go.”

Heather stares at him, lovely eyes almost comically wide, then stammers, “I. . . I can?”

Valtiel nods his head jerkily, once.

“Uh. . . great! That's, that's—thanks.” She takes a step back from him before stopping and looking back over her shoulder, the way she had been going when he approached her. Then she looks at him again and asks, “Um, so, which way do I. . . go?”

He twitches, flexing the digits of his hands and pulling his head to the side and back like a human cracking his neck, before he replies, “I will guide you.” He lifts his sinewy left arm and holds out his hand to her. It flexes again; then he is able to hold it still as she gazes at it. Despite the red glove forcing his digits into a semblance of human fingers, it is a very different hand from her own.

Heather's eyes lift from it to Valtiel's face, apprehension evident in them. But then they fall to watch as she comes closer again and slowly, slowly extends her own right hand and places it atop his palm. His digits contract in an uncontrollable spasm at her touch, almost closing over her hand before he can force them open again. She flinches, but she doesn't take her hand away, and after a few seconds, she closes her own fingers and holds his hand.

He twitches again, all over, and makes an involuntary low sound like a brief, choked growl; then he folds his digits over her hand that feels so small and delicate in his, even through the glove.

“O-okay, let's go,” Heather says in little more than a whisper, accompanied by a quick nervous laugh—welcome after he'd witnessed her anguished tears a few minutes before.

Valtiel walks into the darkness with her at his side, and in an instant, they emerge into the shadows on a sidewalk near the amusement park. She draws in a sharp breath and looks around cautiously, but they are where they appear to be: the ordinary human world where she belongs, and he does not. She loosens her grip, and he releases her hand. It slips from his as she takes two quick steps away from him, and he thinks she's going to walk away without looking back.

He expects nothing more. She doesn't know the truth—all the times she had lost her life to the monsters of her own psyche, all the times he had stood over her bloody body, growling and flexing his hands, before leaning down to grasp her ankles and drag her away and bring her back to life (grasping her ankles because he did not trust himself to pick her up and carry her in his arms).

Even if she did know the truth, she likely wouldn't thank him for resurrecting her over and over: she would be angry instead and accuse him of doing it only for the sake of the god inside her. She'd be correct, so he doesn't feel that she owes him any gratitude.

But she stops after those two steps and after looking around once more, turns back to face him.

“Thanks for bringing me back,” she says. He nods again.

Still Heather does not go, instead bending her head to look down at her boots on the sidewalk and fidgeting as she mumbles, “Um, Valtiel. . . ?”

He twitches. “What is it?”

“Lisa. . . the nurse. Don't hurt her anymore. Please?” She lifts her face towards him again and takes another step closer. “If you're punishing her for not taking care of me—of Her the right way, I guess I can understand. . . but she was kind to me, really. There's no reason she has to suffer on and on! Please let her go.”

There: a command, a direct order. One he doesn't have to obey—she is no longer the Mother of God—but an order all the same.

“I will,” Valtiel says. Heather looks so startled, she clearly hadn't expected him to agree.

“You. . . will?”

“Yes.”

Heather smiles—the first time anyone has ever smiled at him—and says, “Thank you. Then I. . . guess this is goodbye, hunh? The god's gone, so you don't have to protect me anymore. I'm on my own now, right?” Her smile fades as she speaks. “Really on my own. Alone.”

“No,” Valtiel says. Her eyes widen again with hope.

“Someone is waiting for you,” he says. His voice is less rusty now but still little more than a growl. The god had created him to attend Her, not to talk to Her. He nods towards the amusement park.

“Oh.” Heather's eyes drop, then she looks back at the park behind her. “Douglas. . . I forgot. Guess I got a lot to tell him—he's the only person left who'd believe me, anyway. . . and the only person left to care about me.”

You were always with me, she'd said. No, you were always with Her!

Valtiel doesn't reply.

Heather faces him once more and says softly, “Goodbye, Valtiel.” She reaches out and up, as if she means to touch his masked face, and he twists violently back a step, turning his head aside with a jerk. She curls her fingers and lets her arm fall to her side.

I think I'm safe, but I shouldn't get too close.

As Heather turns away, Valtiel growls, “Goodbye.”

She steps off the sidewalk into the street, pauses, and looks back at him standing still in the shadows. She smiles at him.

Unseen, the lips on the back of his head curl, and he smiles too.

Then, like a child with no chance of escape, he watches her walk away without looking back again, finally free.

Credits

• fan pet for Valtiel from Silent Hill 3
• profile and story by Balloon
• story adapted from my fanfic "Angel of the Silences" on An Archive of Our Own
• Heather image from an SH3 screenshot, edited by me
• Valtiel image from official SH3 artwork, obtained from Silent Hill Wiki