Chapter 40: A Little Hospitality

"You look like you need this."​

"Tried to show you some fucking hospitality before and you didn't get it. Here. You look like you need this. Should put some fucking meat on your bones. The dog shouldn't eat it, but you'll be alright. And I'll send some salads to your lady friends, or some shit. I don't know. Just don't do anything stupid."

Looking between the sickened demon lord and the completely contrasting banquet that's materialized before you— vision swimming intensely— you still try and act decently. "Thank y-you, Yech. I didn't m-mean to inshult you. Pleashe, if you could— if you could offer your hoshpitality to my friendssh asss well—"

With a groan and a wave of his hands, a small branch extends from the wall of the cavern. The demon lord murmurs a few words under his breath to the vine, which leaves as soon as it came. "I'll send the bitches some flowers. See if I care. Just— just come and eat something. You look like you're fading on me, and I'm not explaining shit to Idonea if you die out here." Yech tosses his cape beside him, conjuring a set of wooden chairs and a makeshift table out of the vines along the floor.

You stagger over, looking sidelong at Ray. He's devouring the bone Yech threw at him with delight, and looks up to you expectantly. You offer him a slight smile, though you can't help but worry for your dog. "You shaid thish— thissh isn't alright for R-Ray?"

"Bad for their health. Call me a monster if you want, but I'd never fuck with a man's dog. The bones will be fine. I'm sure you can figure something out for him later. Sit your ass down."

Looking to the demon lord with a sense of complete dismay, you take a seat at the natural table and look properly over it. Though you can't understand how, the food is piping hot. Steam rises from several baskets of hot rolls, fresh fruit and a solid slab of ham at the center of the spread.

With a bow of your head, you take a moment to pray.

Yech tosses a roll at your head, interrupting you before a single word to Agriculture falls from your lips. You were so distracted you don't even manage to dodge out of the way of the grain, which falls harmlessly to the table. Ray barks at your attacker, but he's altogether too pleased with himself to bother leaping to your defense.

"Don't." The same disgusted glare shoots your way, as the demon lord drives a large knife into the slab of meat in the center of the table. "I gave you this. Don't you dare fucking start. Thank me all you want, but don't—"

You put your hands up, trying to reassure him. Though the digits are shaking intensely, you try to make yourself clear. "H-habits die hard, Yech. Shorry. Th-thank you."

A huge slice of some meat is placed before you. It reminds you vaguely of beef. You hesitantly poke at it with the smaller knife that's next to your plate, while sliding a few pieces of fruit and cheese next to it. Everything smells incredibly fresh, but you can't help but hesitate. "I undershtand that you d-don't want to hear of the G-Gods, Yech, but—"

"You just don't fucking quit, do you?" Exasperation edges into light laughter. "Are you always this obsessed? Is it the whiskey? What is your issue? Do you not understand the words I'm speaking? Can we talk about anything else?"

"It'sh rel-relevant. You ashked me earlier—"

There's a sigh, and as much of a frown as a skeleton can manage. Yech slowly gets up, and fetches two enormous goblets of wine for you both before sitting back down. He slams yours on the table next to you before settling down, seething. "Fine. What?"

The red chalice sitting before you is robust. You can't help but appreciate how much it compliments everything else set out before you. Sipping at the wine through your slurred speech, your words and gaze are heavy as you try to explain. "Thish wass long after your time— but Corchhaea had a terrible, terrible famine."

"Oh. Is that why you're...?"

"No, no. No. Agriculshure blesshed me. I askhed Her for far too musch. The Mother of Her—" You really stumble trying not to butcher the next word, but it's impossible. "Her chsursch. Bethaea washh her name. Very, very kind lady, really— but sshe couldn't take it. Took her life inshtead—"

"This isn't exactly appropriate dinner conversation, Richard. I would know. I specialize in inappropriate conversation."

"It'sh important."

"Fiiiine. Go on." Yech impatiently looks to you. You realize he likely can't— or doesn't need to— eat any of the food laid out before you. Instead, the skeleton works at the goblet before him.

"I— I ashked Agriculshure for her blesshing. Sshe gave ussh the land and the harvesht, and I no longer feel— I no longer feel h-hunger, or thirsht. B-but it isss very painful to partake of H-her giftsh. I wanted you to— I wanted you to undershtand. I mean no offenshe."

Yech has entirely stopped drinking. He's staring at you with incredible intensity. You almost expect him to be speechless— but of course, he has something more to say.

"How did you not die?"

"The Godsh are M-Mer—"

You really don't want to say Mercy's name with a slur. You stop yourself, looking down at your plate and slowly picking at some of the fruit. Like usual, it's like glass going down.

Yech stares at you with (somehow even more) intensity. "Sure. I suppose living like that is a real treat. What else have— you— done to you, I wonder? You get all those scars on your arms and face from bar fights, you fucking freak? And I'm assuming the liquor doesn't matter since it's not a gift, or some shit." The demon lord refills your goblet even though you've scarcely touched it.

You take a bigger drink the moment it's back on the table. Trying to wash down the sensation of seeds in your lungs, and of meat cutting into your throat, you try and choke out a few words of reassurance. It takes a moment, but you manage to cough, "m-most of them are from fighting."

Decidedly still curious, Yech leans across the table (throwing another slice of meat at your plate). "Most of them, huh? You into some sicker shit than I thought, or what?"

You frown through another mouthful of food, swallowing your distaste with absolutely no amusement. "N-no."

He can't help but laugh again. "Haha, oh, wow. Oh, wow. I get it. But really? The high and mighty Father— you've been bullied, haven't you? Can't even stick up for yourself?"

With a firm motion, you drive your own knife into the meat in front of you, and glare at the demon across the table. He properly shuts up for the first time since you've met him.

He's clearly still afraid of you.

No small measure of revulsion cuts through the building discomfort as you silently work at your plate. You aren't entirely sure when to stop eating, and the demon keeps plying you with more food. Your head is swimming from the sheer volume of alcohol you've been taking in— and the weight of the meal feels like it's literally sticking to your ribs. You try to push your plate away, and catch a glimpse of your wrist peeking out of your robes.

It actually looks fairly healthy.

Shocked, you can't help but pull back on the fabric, and look over your own skin. It's still scarred, but the vein and bone is nowhere near as visible as before. Unrolling the sleeve a little further shows no glaring bone. The pallor isn't nearly as bad as before. Through the patterns of old wounds, you could almost pass for a normal weight.

Sure, you're still aggravated by the periodic spasm in your back, limbs, and chest— but something feels better. You may just be flushed from all of the alcohol, but you're utterly floored, and look up to Yech.

"W-what have you done to m-me?"

"Thought Rem might appreciate it. The sick fuck likes 'em with some meat. Besides, you're of much more use to me if you can hold your drink. Don't look too much into it."

There's quite a few questions brewing in your mind, but it's so fuzzy that it's hard to articulate anything.

Music

It's hard to not at least try to look at Yech with complete amazement. His irritated, fuzzy and entirely drunken frame is unfortunately hard to look right now.

Through the haze and your swimming vision, you look at your wrists and arms again. You scarcely can believe your eyes. Running a hand along the scarred flesh, you confirm that the muscle is firm and healthy underneath. "I have n-no idea... how to thank you."

"Don't. I'm not doing this for you." Despite his words, the demon lord slides another glass of water across the table to you, and more food.

You take it without complaint, grinning at him. The motion is so foreign to your face that you aren't entirely sure if you're doing it correctly, but you're far too drunk to care how goofy your smile must look. "That shounds like a lie to me, Yech."

"You calling me a fucking liar? I mean it. There's other demons down here who'd care a lot more than me if you died straight away. It's rare for us to get a new toy, you little—"

A little bit of laughter escapes from your lips as you ease back into your chair. Though you rarely drink, you recognize how much more relaxed it's making you— and you can't complain. The occasional tremor running through your body fades into the back of your mind. You're far happier to have a full stomach and some heat in your face that isn't from the divine than to worry about a few spasms.

Yech stops himself from berating you, and refills your wine for at least the third time. You seem to have lost count. His voice— irate and disgusted though it may be— has at least some hope in it. "You don't really want to go, do you?"

"You're not half bad, Yech. I might've been too harssh earlier."

"No fucking kidding. That stick is so far up your ass, I bet Tsilorm couldn't see it."

Your stomach turns at the name. You aren't entirely sure who he's referring to, but you have a sinking feeling. Vague memories of blood and flame. They stick to the back of your throat and the unusually large quantity of food you've consumed.

"Don't go losing all the wine— for fuck's sake. I heard he did a number on you. Let's drop it, seriously. Here—" Another drink gets shoved at you. It's bubbly, and fairly clear. You nurse it while the demon lord continues. It seems to help immediately with your nausea. "You don't have to stick around. I get it. You've got two bitches waiting for you, and you were entirely right about me." Yech lolls his head around, a fair bit of wine spilling out of his lips over the table as he drawls. "I don't know why the fuck I'm telling you this. You probably think I'm a fucking sucker for letting you in here. Any second now you're going to drop the act, burn my home and pulverize this miserable pile of bones, right?"

A bony finger pokes at your chest. You're delighted by how little of your bone pushes back. You've got some mass on you.

Beaming, you look down to the skeleton before you, and swing an arm around his shoulder. It almost feels like wine spills from your own lips as you speak, but it's merely the liquor talking. "I don't n-need to. Really. Thanksh. Thish issss great."

Yech pushes you firmly off of him.

You slump back into your chair, finishing off your drink. It's hard to not goad him on. "You th-think pushing me away is going to h-help? It d-doesn't work. I know— I know better than mosht." Your smile could not be broader. Self-deprecation is all too easy to slide into with your defenses so low. "You're af-fraid, right? Of letting anyone c-close? It's— it's terrifying, isn't it? Much s-scarier than a demon, or a p-priest—"

"Shut the fuck up. You have no idea what you're talking about."

Your grin turns to a leer as you lean forward, pointing at your chest.

Mercy, it feels so good to not be so skeletal.

"You're afraaid, and I know why, Yech."

The demon's fist tightens. Bone rubs against bone. "I'd punch you if I didn't know you liked it, you sick fuck."

"Y-you're angry that y-you're powerlesssh— deshpite everything, aren't you? Desspite—" You take the hand off of your chest, looking again around the cavern. It really does feel like a Dream. Your eyes settle back on the sorcerer. The demon lord. Your host. "—deshpite all of your kindnessshh. That'sh not what people sshe. Humanssh are cruel. We're awful to eachsh other."

Bone comes off of bone. Yech's fist goes to his goblet instead, drinking more heavily. You didn't think it was possible, but he's managing. His voice is watery and wet— nasally and cloying— as the overabundance of grapes hangs around his and your breath. "You said it. But what's your fucking excuse, then? You just decide to help me out, and you go back to killing? I gotta look after my own kind, you know. As much as I fucking hate the lot of them, you've done some pretty twisted shit, Richard."

You don't know how to respond. It's not that you hadn't thought about it. You're simply far, far too drunk to articulate such an important and complex issue. So, you settle on shrugging and drinking.

The wine feels fantastic. You feel fantastic.

Have I ever been this drunk?

It's hard to not muse aloud. "I've been k-kicked out of a bar before, you know."

"Were you even fucking listening to me?"

"Of courshe I wassss, but thish ish much better dinner convershashion."

"Horseshit."

A long pause hangs in the air between you two.

Yech predictably breaks it, probably realizing that you have no intent of answering his question. "What happened?"

It was the second time you went to Anson. The Beggar and Spear was pretty dingy, but you were hoping to not be recognized, and you really needed a drink. You had several. It was right before a massive demon outbreak, and you're not entirely sure if you were responsible. You may have saved the town, but the bar?

"The fight wassh probably— definitely— entirely my fault."

It's only been two years, but it feels like a lifetime ago. You struggle to remember the vaguest details, slipping into the edges of the memory.

The beer at the Beggar and Spear was terrible, but you weren't about to be picky.

"Richard. You piece ae shit—!"

The hand on your shoulder— worn from farming and calloused from a lifetime of aggression— spins you around so quickly that you spill your drink. The man you turn to face looks just as disgusted at the liquid as it splashes all down the front of his shirt and trousers.

Despite the stranger's rudeness, you try to maintain some decency. "Sorry. Barkeep, can we get this man another— wait—"

You know this face. This furious, utterly hateful face. Worn from manual labor, hardships of the famine, and the constant threat of demonic outbreaks. "Jack...?"

It's difficult to not cringe away from the burly, mustached and entirely pissed acquaintance staring directly into your soul. It's harder still to not recognize the collection of men sitting near you who immediately turn around to see what's happening.

Jack looks straight down at you, and spits on your face. His words are just as wet, having had more than his fair share of the tavern's abysmal service as well. "Mighty Merciful of you tae speak tae me, FATHER. It's gonnae be the last thing yae ever do."

It all happens so quickly— the memory is a bit of blur.

You have been serving the church for over a decade by this point. Your spry limbs from working in the field had become scarred, wasted and altogether not as fast as they used to be.

Jack punches you right in the nose— confirming beyond all shadow of a doubt that this was the same bully you had dealt with for most of your life in Pontos.

The collection of the men around you can't help but turn and protest.

"What's the big idea? He's not hurtin' anyone."

"Tryin' to have a drink, have some fookin' Spirit!"

"Take that shit outside—!"

The latter man stands up. It's the bartender— so inept at his position that he's on the other side of the bar with the patrons. He attempts to glare up at Jack, but the farmer is entirely unconcerned with anything other than his blood lust.

While you nurse the crimson flowing from your nose, your attacker glares straight at the bartender— and punches you again.

You try to dodge the second attack, and manage to get it to only graze your jaw. The pain is mostly in your nose, but it's still enough to have you seeing red.

Knocked against the bar, you grope through the haze of blood to swipe at the nearest object, and slam it against Jack's head with perfect contact. Almost as soon as the glass shatters, it sends him staggering backwards. He remains silent, possibly too stunned or furious to let loose another shout.

The entire bar stirs. Several men around you stand to protest. More patrons near the back get up to watch.

Jack finds his voice and throws himself at you, screaming, "I'll kill you! You'd BETTER pray, you bastard—!"

You deftly throw yourself out of the way at the last possible moment, leaving Jack to plunge into the hard wooden counter.

His enormous frame practically splinters the wood. You can hear the wind knocked out of his lungs as he collides with the surface.

Reading this bully's wide, familiar, and predictable motions is altogether too easy. You can't help but smirk. Getting a hit in has your blood flowing, and you are remembering yourself.

A groan rises from the nearby patrons of the bar, sarcastic and altogether in your favor.

"Hey. Jack." You smirk, unable to help yourself. "Stop hurting yourself."

Music

Coughing for air, the bully spins around, red-faced and homicidal. One of the men standing next to him pats him on the back, looking to you with a smirk as well. Jack gets his breath after a few seconds— remarkably faster than you'd expect— and throws himself again at you.

He doesn't even attempt a comeback, screaming at the top of his lungs as he hurls a series of fists at your face. You duck to the side, weaving in between the jabs with a fair amount of grace for how drunk you are. The pain in your face is intense, but it's got your heart racing and your blood pumping. His swings are wide and terribly easy to navigate, so you jab back with your words rather than your body.

"Mercy, are you sloppy— haven't you learned anything since we were kids—?"

A few of the men in the back of the tavern start jeering.

"GET 'IM!"

"YOU GOT 'EM, COME ON—"

The jeers are only encouraging you. "Really, Jack— I'd think you'd have done something more with yourself—"

"TRY A LEFT HOOK!"

"No, he's too fast! He's gotta' do somethin' different, they prolly know each other—"

"Here!"

A bottle sails through the air. Jack catches it with a fair amount of grace. You take a step back, watching with horror as he smashes the bottle against the counter.

"Fuck— he's actually goin' to do it, isn't he?"

"KEEP IT UP, KID—!"

You leap across the bar, sliding over the splintered surface and immediately ducking down for cover.

The broken bottle soars, and barely clips the top of your shoulders as you cover your head. As the glass contacts the back wall, it destroys several full containers of liquor. A shatter precedes the downpour of spirits over the counters, into the back of your shirt, and all across the floor. You didn't wear your robes— you didn't want to be recognized— and now you're going to reek like liquor going back to the church.

Furious, you stand upright, spitting at Jack. "Is that the best you've got?!"

The burly man finds a few words to spit back as he menacingly walks towards you, rolling up his sleeves. "I don't need no fuckin' Gods to kick yer ass, Richard. Yer gonna pay for what yae did to Edwin! They might've let you off, but I won't!!"

With a heave, he rips a nearby bar stool up and out. The wooden furniture is chucked at you with absolutely no hesitation.

You duck under the bar again. More glass and alcohol shatters.

The bartender is absolutely screaming. "OUT!! GET OUT, GET OOOUTTT!! SOMEONE GET THESE BASTARDS OUT BEFORE THEY RUIN ME!"

There's a commotion behind the bar. You don't dare look up, as a number of bottles are still splintering and breaking overhead. The assault Jack is launching almost drowns out the next thing you hear. It gets your heart racing faster than the attack.

"I'LL CLEAR THE TAB OF ANYONE THAT GETS 'EM OUT! NOW HURRY IT UP!"

The entire bar explodes as a number of men rush forward. Your heart sinks as you see a few bodies slide over the counter towards you.

Holding your hands up, you try to stand while dodging more bottles being chucked at you by Jack. His aim is terrible, thanks to several men that have grabbed onto his arms in a poor attempt to restrain the hulking peasant.

You dare to take your eyes off of him for a moment to look at the eight burly farmers that are closing in on you. They must have heard the comment about you being a Father. With a wink, you slide past the end of the counter. "I'm going, I'm going. Easy."

It's hard to not see how tense they all are. Several of them have bottles in hand, and one even has a knife. You wince— acutely aware of how dangerous they assume you must be— and continue slowly backing out.

Everyone jumps as a roar cuts through the bar.

Jack manages to toss off the three men on him. As they stagger, each one is knocked into a few bystanders.

A chair sails through the air.

The bar bursts out into more chaos as the seat slams into your bully, and splinters to pieces.

Jack screams— and rather than going for the reasonable target that threw the chair— he picks up one of the wooden stakes from the floor. He charges at you instead.

Four of the men standing near you throw themselves at the beast of a man—screaming in turn— and try to subdue him. You seize the opportunity to slink through the crowd, trying to shake off anyone that touches you.

"I'm going! Step aside—! Get your hands off of me—!" You try to shake off yet another patron— and to your horror, Jack peels himself off of the wall of bodies between you two.

Seeking any cover you can find, you duck behind the bartender.

He eats a fist to the face on your behalf.

Your heart sinks.

Jack screams in frustration— diving after you as you rip away from the surrounding men— and is on hot pursuit as you sprint to the front door for your life.

A quick glance behind you as you approach the exit shows the place in utter disarray. The commotion rising from the dozens of men fighting is deafening. They tear at Jack and each other through the strewn glass and broken furniture. Many of their eyes are on you, screaming at you to run.

You happily oblige, tearing out into the streets of Anson. The warm air of Grace and the coming harvest hits you hard— sweating and soaked in liquor as you are.

Running through the streets of the city, you hoped you would find refuge, only to hear screams off in the distance...

"The d-demon outbreak was intenshe. The schity was greatful, of courshe, but..."

Yech has been plying you with drinks throughout the tale— but he's been quiet up until now. "You're a fucking maniac. Surprised you weren't barred from the city outright. What did you do, for Jack to want to kill you? That's pretty fuckin' extreme, even for a lunatic like that."

You almost feel like you could sober up from the question.

"Lishten, it— it involves the Godssh. Are you sshure you want to hear thish?"

"If it's anywhere near as entertaining as the last story? I think I can suffer through it. Keep eating, though, you're swaying and I don't want you to pass out just yet. This is some good shit."

With a sigh, you loosen your belt, knock back another drink, and look over to Ray. The mastiff is sound asleep, though his outline is hazy and it's hard to discern anything more than his general shape.

You nod— righting yourself— and shoving down a bit more bread with no small measure pain before looking to the demon lord. "You shure you want to hear th-thishh? Really? No tantrumssh?"

Yech returns your sigh— topping it with a groan— and kicks his feet up onto the table. For the first time, you realize that he's wearing house slippers. You can't help but laugh at the sight as he replies (while tossing another roll at your head), "oh, come the fuck on, I'm not that bad. Let's hear it already. I'm sure I've done worse."