Divine Intervention (Unfortunately, Not for George)
Sunday.
A day of rest, reflection, and—
Oh. Right.
Church.
Phil stepped forward with an unmistakable glint of mischief in his eyes, holding out a neatly folded set of clothes. The fabric was stiff with fresh starch, the buttons slightly mismatched, and the overall appearance screamed plain, practical, and overwhelmingly rural. A farm boy's best.
"Here you go, mate," Phil said, grinning. "Your very own farmboy church suit."
George stared at it, aghast. The muted tones, the scratchy-looking material, the absolute lack of tailoring— This was an insult. A crime. A personal attack against everything he had ever stood for.
"No," he said simply.
Phil clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Oh yes. Get changed."
—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
George mourned his fate as he was practically herded into the chapel with the rest of them. The wooden pews were uncomfortable, the air was stuffy, and oh Prime, why was Dream here again?
George stiffened. Across the room, seated with Puffy and Tubbo, was Dream.
Looking far too smug, arms lazily draped over the back of the pew, as if this was his domain.
George scowled. Of course, he thought bitterly. Even in Prime’s house, he’s insufferable. Sam led the congregation in a solemn voice:
“Oh Prime, let thou into each soul present here.”
George zoned out.
He continued, “Let thy heavenly love nurture the spirits of our youth.”
George considered running.
Maybe if he faked an illness, Phil would let him go.
Maybe if he dramatically collapsed, they’d be forced to take him outside.
Maybe—
Oh Prime.
Dream was looking at him.
Smirking.
As if he could see the suffering written all over George’s face.
George glared and snapped his head forward.
No.
He would not give Dream the satisfaction of knowing how much he hated being here.
The congregation rose to sing.
Tommy, naturally, was off-key, and far too confident in his abilities for someone who was making everyone's ears bleed.
Wilbur sang like he was the tragic lead of an opera, or the main character to a tragedy. Perhaps both.
Techno barely opened his mouth. George didn’t even try.
Dream, to his horror, had the audacity to sing well. George gritted his teeth. Of course, he can sing. What’s next? Is he secretly a scholar, too?
The sermon dragged on for an eternity. Then, finally..
Sam cleared his throat, standing tall before the congregation. "And now for the word of the day!" he announced with a certain practiced authority. George may very well die in this church.
"Minx’s bookshop is having a two-for-one deal on encyclopedias, so for those of you who have ever wanted to know far too much about obscure topics, now’s your chance, next, I am going to be organising a church youth meeting this evening—" Phil, without hesitation, got up to go scribble all their names down. "—horses are no longer allowed to be left unattached in the center of town, which I’m sure is a crushing loss to someone here. I’m looking at you. Yes you. And lastly, there is a tornado warning. If the church bells ring outside of service, that means take shelter immediately. That’s all for now. Prime bless."
By the time Phil finally dismissed them, George was out the door in seconds.
He took one deep breath of fresh air and sighed.
“Prime above,” he muttered. “Never again.”
From behind, a voice—Dream’s voice—chuckled.
“See you tonight, city boy.”
George’s eye twitched.
Before he could snap back, he felt a heavy hand clap onto his shoulder. Phil stood beside him, an easy, amused smile on his face.
George blinked.
No.
NOOOOO!!
The Youth Meeting!
——————————
Sam gathers them in a large circle inside the church, lantern light flickering off the wooden beams. The vast wooden interior creaks with every movement, the air thick with the scent of aged oak and melted wax. Shadows stretch long against the rustic pews, the altar looming at the front, bathed in soft candlelight. The high ceilings seem to drink in the sound, making every whisper feel weighty, every breath part of the silence. Outside, the wind howls against the old walls, rattling the stained glass windows, adding an eerie edge to the warmth of the flickering lanterns. It is both comforting and unsettling—holy ground wrapped in the embrace of the unknown.
Sam starts with a warm smile, asking each of them to share what Prime means to them—how they find faith in their daily lives, what gives them purpose. Some answer earnestly, others shuffle awkwardly, unsure of what to say. Tommy, of course, loudly declares, "Prime means being the best!" while Wilbur takes the opportunity to wax poetic about divine purpose and the beauty of the unknown. George remains quiet, listening, lost in thought.
He didn’t know what prime meant to him. Or rather Prime was just another form of torture Phil made him go through.
Well.. he did get that weird dream? With kristen and XD. Maybe it was just the fact it was really on his mind, and with the candle burning it probably kept his thoughts on it..
They recite scriptures, Sam helped them, he guided them! through the passages about trust in the path set before them. But then, the tone shifts
Sam's voice deepens as he speaks of a merciless god, of judgment and sacrifice. "Blood for the blood god," he intones, and George shivers, though no one else seems disturbed. There once was a god, so powerful, so strong, and so merciless. He brought chaos and destruction, his followers were the only ones spared, from his demands of blood. Even when the other gods confronted him, telling him to grant forgiveness. The twisted god only spoke three words before vanishing into the night."I choose blood."
The words echo in the empty church, and George wonders if faith should ever feel this sharp.
Next comes the tale of a mortal god—fallible, breakable. "If gods can bleed, gods can die," Sam reads, his voice steady, reverent. The weight of it lingers in George’s chest, heavy with unspoken implications. It was a story of a boy who met the blood god, and by pure chance, had managed to scrape his cheek. The god was so impressed by the ten year old boy that he spared his life.
Then, a different story: a man striving to be good but failing to be just. "Am I the villain in this story?" Sam asks, looking over the group, his gaze piercing. “That was the question the ruler spoke finally. he’d tried to spread the words of Prime, but to people who didn’t believe, he tried to be fair to everyone, but forgot to forgive. Finally this ruler looked before his kingdom, and declared "If I can’t make people smile, I’ll make them cry." George exhales slowly, gripping the edge of the pew. He doesn’t know why, but this one feels familiar.
“You all see, he wasn’t following prime out of good, but out of self interest. He wanted to be loved by Prime, and ended up searching for power.”
Finally, Sam speaks of small gods, of forgotten power, of voices lost in the din of greater beings. "We’ve been overlooked for way too long." The words settle over the group, a quiet hum of undersanding passing through them. George struggles to focus, his mind caught between the odd comfort of shared belief and the gnawing thought that he doesn’t belong here. He doesn’t know if he envies them or if it unsettles him. Maybe both.
Then comes the game—a massive, brightly colored parachute is spread out before them. At Sam’s signal, they all grab the edges and begin lifting it up and down, the fabric billowing like a great, living thing. Laughter erupts as Sam calls for them to run underneath.
George hesitates, but before he can step back, Dream catches his wrist and pulls him in. The world is suddenly different beneath the parachute—dim, muffled, and filled with breathless energy.
They crouch there together, laughing as the air ripples around them, their hands brushing as they try to keep balance. George can feel his face heat up, but before he can fully register it, Dream is already moving, grinning, tugging him along as they crawl to the other side before the parachute comes down again. They burst out, still laughing, still running, the cool night air biting at their cheeks. George tells himself it’s just the excitement making his heart race.