Chapter 1: A Normal Life

"...what?" ​

It feels like an age passes by before Father Wilhelm's wrinkled robes, long night cap and tidy beard come back into your view. Though his hair is as dark as yours, it's mussed with sleep, kept so much longer, and hangs in his face from time to time as he seems to compulsively smoke. The wisps drifting around him are soothing. It's a welcome distraction from the anxiety running through his thin frame.

There are dozens of chairs littered throughout the main hall of his retreat, nestled largely around the flame you're sitting next to. Ray is rather close to the heat, enjoying himself even through his slumber.

The blue peeking through the myriad cracks in Father Wilhelm's skin catch on the light of the home of Grace around you. The glow of Mercy's radiance filters in through thick panes of glass, struggling to keep out the cold of snow. You try to relax, and sink deeper into the blankets wrapped around you as he slowly approaches.

As usual, you don't quite meet his eyes of blue. You settle your focus on the dirt caked under his worn house slippers. The smell of the tobacco and spice wafts towards you. It's nothing like the blood, moss and stone you'd become so accustomed to.

The man's frame is nowhere as thin as yours, but he seems physically fragile, and practically shakes as he slides down into a chair across the hearth. There's something terribly morose in his voice that reminds you of a grieving father. There's warmth, and the promise of respite, but there's a familiar sadness as well. "You're awake."

Father Wilhelm whispers constantly so as to not wake anyone. You suspect it's force of habit— given his position within the Church of Dream— but you don't want to make any assumptions. This man saved your life, and risked traveling so far from his home to meet you as you left the ruins. He even took along five of his children to aid you.

Companions. Saviors. Those who would follow a holy man without question.

His children. They haven't come back. One was screaming for awhile— something about a demon.

Your name was in there, in the horror. It's been some time since any of them showed their faces from the rooms down the main hall.

Why did they come for me?

You pull your gaze away from Father Wilhelm's house slippers and his disheveled robes to look for your other rescuers. The walls are bare and devoid of any decoration. The stone and many rugs littering the floor is almost as inviting as the smoke steadily building within the main hall. You have been shivering since you arrived, but the blankets are helping, too.

Many long moments pass between you both before there's another whisper. "How did you sleep?"

So much has happened.

Your voice is barely above a murmur. It's not for lack of trying. Though your words are usually timid around others, you're simply so exhausted that you hardly have it in you to speak with any volume. "I— I'm not entirely sure."

There's another long silence.

The Father of the Church of Dream shifts in his chair, stands up, and slides down on the recliner alongside you. Reflexively, you pull away— trying to place some distance between you both— but your limbs are heavy with exhaustion, and the blankets wrapped around you make any movement terribly awkward. It's harder still to pull your gaze up, but you manage— needing to confirm the sensation of Father Wilhelm's eyes boring into you.

With you both sitting, you're still a good deal taller than him. There's no helping how tense and upright your posture is, even when your back and broad shoulders are ravaged by your ordeal. The teeth staring out at you are just as tense, chewing on a cigar.

There's softer eyes, full of so much concern and divinity that it makes you pull back. "No, Father Anscham. How do you sleep? How can you sleep?"

The screams make a lot more sense now. There's only one thing you can fathom eliciting so much terror in a man of the Gods in what should be a house of rest: your journal. There were things in there not meant for the eyes of another. Things you wish you could have said and never did. Sketches of women from other lands who traveled with you to the bottom of the world. Observations of how all of the Gods had worked through you. Named demons, and how they had helped you.

I'm probably being paranoid, but what else could it have been?

Looking up at the ceiling and the rafters suspiciously free of cobwebs is vastly preferable to meeting Father Wilhelm's gaze. With a very deep sigh, you try to recline, and echo a sentiment that got you through the worst of your ordeal. "Our kind have no use for pride."

The disheveled man next to you furrows his brows so deeply you almost hear it. "...what?"

You bring your gaze back down. He looks confused, and mildly alarmed, but you can't really care. "I sleep like the dead— but it doesn't matter, does it?"

You cringe, forcing your gaze back onto your savior to try and speak at greater length. Your volume scarcely increases. The church distilled all traces of your childhood accent into something more serviceable. Something more respectable. Most people can't place your accent now through the soft-speech and timidness. It's habit after all these years. Your companions in the ruins never would have noticed, but you're acutely aware of it next to another man— one who is no doubt aware of your lack of pride. "There's so much I don't understand, Father. So much I need to know. Why— why am I— what's wrong with me? What do— what can you do? You must have heard—"

You look wide-eyed to the corridor beyond. The stone. It's an intense reminder of weeks of wandering.

There's a hand on your shoulder, pulling you out of the beginnings of another reverie. "He confessed immediately, to everything. It's a good thing, isn't it?"

"Isn't..." You tense, recoiling at the sensation on your shoulder. "...what?"

"That men are not the Gods. That I can make my own judgement, and take a little time to interpret all of this? Isn't it swell—" The hand on your shoulder loosens, apparently aware of how uncomfortable it's making you. Father Wilhelm's voice pulls your attention back to him, away from the cracks in the stone, and to the cracks in his own skin. To the blue, the Dream. He's smiling very softly, and fishing for something in his robes. You suspect it's another cigar, though his is scarcely touched. "...that we have all of the Time here in the world?"

There's a cloying fear still, in every fracture in your mind. "I understand the severity of my actions—"

"I strongly suspect you don't, but please, go on."

You hesitate. The immediate reprimand acutely reminds you of several veteran clergymen that were always too quick to put you down.

"Father Anscham. I did not risk life and limb, or spirit you away from your home to make matters worse." Those sad, sleepy eyes are back on you again— boring into you with the same intense divinity you suspect you carry with you as well.

It's hard not to squirm under the scrutiny, so you squirm deeper into the blankets around you, instead. "You have been terribly kind to me. I never— I simply wish to acknowledge—"

Something is being extended towards you. It's not a peace offering, or a gift, but a simple gesture of hospitality. A box of cigars. "I won't lie to you and say that this is fine, but there is no danger here, Father Anscham. Do you smoke? It might help with your nerves while we talk."

You deflate slightly, worming your arms out of the blankets to accept the wooden box being extended towards you. The chill in the air isn't nearly as intense as it was when you first entered the retreat, and your thin robes keep out an additional layer of the cold.

You want to groan upon seeing how loose the garment you've been fitted with hangs off from your frame. Thanks to the coarse fabric's utter lack of indication of your position, and the secrecy you must have been escorted with, you're not sure whether to be humiliated or simply ashamed of yourself. "I— I normally don't, but I can make an exception, I suppose—"

You fumble a moment with one of the rolled bundles of tobacco, having absolutely no idea what to do with it. Something so mundane is still so foreign to you that you wind up staring blankly at the box for several minutes.

Patiently, Father Wilhelm fishes out a stick of cedar. He methodically cuts, lights and hands over the cigar you've unwittingly picked.

You both smoke quietly. Your tremor has improved so much that ash safely gathers. You're also reminded how to drop it evenly, to maintain the shape of the gift. The movement is methodical, and surprisingly soothing. The heat of the hearth, and the warmth spreading through your body pulls the remains of the chill out of your skin and bones.

It's hard to resist the urge to inhale the earthiness and spice. Your palate is untrained, and you gave your restraint to a demon.

There's no laughter or demeaning as a fit of coughing takes you. You're left to your own devices until you catch your breath.

The Father of Dream doesn't seem to mind the return to silence either, nor your neuroticism, or even patiently reminding you of how to do such a simple task.

Both of you try to recline, and assume a semblance of normalcy. The smoke filling your senses really is a welcome distraction. Enough so that you must have visibly wound down, and for your host to try broaching the conversation properly again.

"It's very difficult to know what to make of all of this."

You don't reply, smoking silently, trying to remain respectful of the man who saved your life.

"It's abundantly clear to me that Dream blesses you with respite, because you do not know how to give it to yourself."

You cringe again. You could easily count on one hand the number of times you've voluntarily eaten or slept in weeks. "Is that why?"

"He has only visited you once before, has He not?"

"Yes."

"You have never called upon Him, have you?"

"No. I scarcely knew how to interpret His blessing. There— there was nothing I could hope to do with His works. Not— not with—" You can't quite finish. It's not that you're ungrateful. You simply have no idea what to make of your ordeal, either.

"The ash, Father. Mind it."

Your eyes widen further, spilling the edge of the cigar onto a small container on the side of the hearth. They're littered throughout the main hall. It's another welcome distraction, alongside the dozens of plain pillows and stacks of blankets.

"It would be best to try to understand this one thing at a time. You've called upon almost every other God. You've abused Them, Father. I understand you've abused yourself— your vessel— as well. My son has shared much with me. Do you wish to confess, as well?"

You draw back. Every fiber of your being says to draw back, to take Ray, and to run for your very life. You draw back on the cigar instead.

Your tremor is instantly back as you silently deliberate on whether you're capable of replying.

The panic written all over you must be immediately evident. Father Wilhelm's voice remains soft and utterly forgiving as he implores you. "I would vastly prefer to hear your thoughts directly from you. To interpret— to rest— is to serve. Nothing you say in this house needs ever leave these walls. I cannot hope to understand who I am aiding or if I can trust you if I cannot understand your own thoughts on these matters. Will you do me this service, Father Anscham, so that I might better serve you?" It's as if he's afraid of pausing, like you may actually turn and run, but Father Wilhelm's voice softens. The sadness that hasn't left his voice is clinging to every word. "If for no other reason, will you confide in me, that I may reassure my children? They deserve to rest more than anyone."