A touch of guiding light glowed mightily in his fist. Raised so far up his head through the clouds and all the blurring mist. Stuck on that pedestal, a god to them all. Watching in awe and amazement, sipping and tapping into his heartening glory. Enchanted by his story of hope and survival, thriving on tortured memories of his past and finding their strength in the scars he wore so proudly on his back as a sign of triumph over evil and despair. They immortalized him in their hearts and legends to be told to generations after generations, each time, with a different added flair. To them he ceased to be a man. He ceased to exist in the same realm of feelings and emotions they did. For he was a god!
In their minds they became intentionally oblivious of his near ascension to divinity and justified their idolatry with aching and misfortune that they said only he could solve. They shoved reason and sense aside because it felt so good to have someone they could offload to. Someone who could take away the pain and not ask for anything in return. Even the worst of felons trudged along his way, looking for some certain kind of absolution that supposedly tricked down from the very sweat he shed.
And he bore it all.
Through time and ages as varied as the seasons, he stood firm upon his makeshift pedestal, never wavering, never stumbling. He bore their suffering as his own and carved their scars into his already numb heart like he deserved it. He spoke of heaven and better times, of forgiveness and other lies and he shut their eyes as he wove perfectly into the holy coat they had sewn him. And okay for a while. For he wore their pain like a crown, so they only saw the beauty of it and not the icy tentacles it sank into his head. The only alive part that was left of his already mutilated body.