Chapter 2: Confession

"I wanted to die."​

Panic and building fear reaches a fever pitch as you shakily set your cigar down, and stare straight at the church leader before you. You'd place him in his late 40's. The few lines around his eyes and soft smile are indicative of so much more time spent in this world that what you once knew. You've known so much more, though. Hundreds of years of knowledge, of elves, of men.

You do something you've never had the chance to. You confess— properly— to a man who wants to listen. Someone with context, and the kindness to actually welcome you into his arms.

You almost immediately break down. Hysterical sobs devastate your body.

"I wanted to die—"

It takes several hours to choke out the details. In between it all, Father Wilhelm remains reassuring, and you could not be more grateful for trusting him. You're too ashamed of your actions to look at him directly, but you let out your insecurity, your doubt, and every little conflict in the million cracks of your soul.

The sun— Mercy's radiance— begins to set for Storm. It's too close to the Folorast mountains for rain, but a slurry pelts against the windows, blending with your sobs and the retelling.

The night draws near: The blessing of Dream. The slurry continues as your sobs subside.

A horrific amount of self-awareness, insecurity and the slightest understanding of your own actions weighs on you with such intensity that you want to crumble.

You endure.

"I never stopped— not even once. I never— I couldn't turn back. I never knew how many answers I needed— how lost I really was— until an archdemon forced me to understand. I shed so much blood. It's still under my nails. I couldn't get it all off, not with boiling water, Father— I can't get it off. We spent our lives fighting, killing, trying to survive— haven't we? How could I have ever known what I was doing? We know nothing of their hierarchy— of what lies within the ruins. Or maybe we do— and I was kept in the dark before I ever entered. I never knew. I couldn't have known Ofelia or Celegwen, not even if I tried. I never asked. I never wanted to know, not— not truly— not if I hadn't been so obsessed."

The panic attack that's been waning in and out of your confession threatens to steal your composure from you again. The tightness in your chest and the impending feeling of death just won't go. "I've been obsessed, and broken down so many times I can't even count them all. I've felt so weak, so lost, so confused and afraid— how could I have ever stopped to think about it all? I wasn't trying to sympathize with Offala when she came at me for blood. I never once thought of Tsilorm as a leader or anything but a monster when he tried to break me. I relished killing him, Father. I watched him burn and would do so again without any hesitation."

It's hard to breathe. It's hard to swallow. "I'd have avoided aiding Remigius, even knowing how far she pushed me. I never could trust a succubus— and she proved me right, didn't she? Beating her at her own game was one of the happiest moments of my life— even if I was tortured for it. Even if I was broken for it. I was already broken, Father."

You're altogether too distraught to take hold of the locket around your neck, but you clasp your hands around some of the chain. "I kept telling myself that I could take it. I wanted to take it. Even the Gods want to grant me respite from my pain, Father—" The old habit of fidgeting with your holy symbol is far too hard to break when you're this upset. "I can't rest, even now. I don't even understand what it means to. I don't claim to understand the Gods. I was never really raised in the church, Father. Not in the way I was meant to. Every time I remember it is like a knife through my heart. Nothing has ever been right for me. I couldn't have known how badly I was abusing Them. The way They work through me is no indication of how things ought to be."

Your breath calms. You're stricken with so much reverence and devotion that you have to pull in— wrapping your arms around your frame— trying to remember the sensation of Their embrace. "I love Them, no matter how bad things have been. I've never hesitated to use Their works. I've never questioned why they hurt me the way that they do. Even at the very end, so much of me wanted— needed to know what would happen. What He would have done, if I could have survived, or if it would have been the blessing to finally take me away from this nightmare..."

You're slipping. The aura, the tremor, and the sight of God pushes on the edges of your mind.

You try to ground yourself, and focus. This opportunity— this blessing— to be able to actually speak your mind to someone who wants to understand is so important.

You're rambling, but you don't care. "I want so desperately to be better, Father. I know I must sound insane. I have seen so much. I have endured. I NEEDED the Gods to survive. I ultimately have always wanted to survive."

There's no hitch in your breath, as your raw and red eyes blur. The mist that gathers grants you relief from everything but the hearth before you. "Mercy never would have seen fit to embrace me if I ever forsake Her. I've never forgotten what it's meant to serve Her. I've never forgotten my title, despite how much I've disgraced it. Despite how abhorrent my actions have been, I have LIVED to serve. Every immaculate wound— every scar— every step I took into and out of the ruins was for more than just Her! The demons I killed, the demons I saved, the archdemon I guided to power— it's— Mercy, it's been so much— I don't know what to make of it, either."

You're definitely rambling, but you gave your restraint to a demon. "I never knew what to make of all of it. I have been wandering in the dark for so long. I still need guidance. It took Idonea a solid week, everything she had to give, and her very life to try and turn me from a path of slaughter and sin."

You keep gritting it out, through tears and all your tremor. "I still failed her. I have no idea how to use my Relic. I don't have the faintest idea of how I can function back in the Church of Mercy. I was far worse than a demon towards Ofelia and Celegwen. I abused Remigius, and I have to wonder how she ever found the strength to aid me. I risked my life to aid Yech, and still feel as if I never knew him. I don't know you, Father Wilhelm. I don't even know your first name. I don't know why you saved me. I don't know your sons. I know so little of the Church of Dream— of any of the world. I've been kept away in the dark for so long."

Your voice cracks. "I don't know what you should think of all of this. Of me. There's little use—" Your breath is catching again, as you're so overwhelmed you can scarcely speak. "—for all of this knowledge, if I can't do anything with it—"

You keep fighting and trying to let out everything while you have the chance. It feels like there's never enough time for anything. You're afraid that you might never be able to speak like this again. "I did show Mercy, time and time again. I trusted Orgoth immediately. I never pursued him. I made every attempt to protect Ofelia and Celegwen— no matter how little they shared— no matter what their motives were for staying by my side. I trusted them, too— even after they held me at knife-point. Even when Celegwen's 'healing' nearly killed me. Even when they insulted the Gods, I never judged them. I always strove to uphold Mercy's tenets. It may have cost me my restraint— my connection to Flesh, to Agriculture— but I never strayed from my mission to aid Idonea's children in the end. I gave them everything I could. In the end, I did stay my hand. I held back an army with as few casualties as I could muster. I shielded my friends. I was there for Idonea, for her daughters, and for Yech. I stayed his hand after a battle that should have been our undoing."

Your voice levels. "I showed Mercy to myself. I came home." You try wiping your eyes, instantly regretting using your sleeve as the coarse fabric merely irritates them further. Regardless, you finally look to Father Wilhelm, wanting to ask for his aid and guidance.

It's abundantly clear that his cigar has been unlit for some time. The cool ash hangs as he keeps his hands clasped, looking to you with disbelief and so much pity you actually draw back. He looks unbearably tired. As tired as you feel. His eyes are dry, but his heart looks broken.

The blue is boring into you with the stare of a man that understands. There's so much understanding. He knows. A confession is for catharsis. For guidance.

With a few blinks and another poor attempt at wiping your eyes dry, you try to ask the question you've been meaning to for hours. "Father, I want forgiveness. More than anything. I may have prayed to every God and Goddess, but we both know—"

The Gods are not so forgiving.

"Please. How can I start to make this right?"

The heavy silence that hangs between you both is so nerve-wracking that you nearly start crying again, but Father Wilhelm finally replies.

"You already have. You're starting to."

That's enough.

Your shoulders shake as you collapse back into yourself, wrapping your arms around your impossibly narrow abdomen for comfort you can tolerate. Your sides ache, and your chest burns from crying for so long, so you merely allow yourself to hold onto your ribs and waist to try to find some relief. Your silent cries are a blessing, as you can hear some real reassurance.

"Thank you for your confession, Father. I could never presume to understand everything you've been through— not in another age— but thank you. It may not be in my power to undo everything you've endured, but I will do everything in my power to interpret, and to grant you rest. You do deserve a reprieve. Please." There's a pause, as the cracks sitting across from you catch on the light of another cigar being lit.

The swirls of painted glass and divinity throughout the priest's hands keep their distance with due respect, rather than fear. "Try not to be so hard on yourself. It's a miracle you've come back as whole as you have."

You don't feel whole, staring hard at the dozens of scars littering just your hands and the bits of exposed wrist under your robes.

"Father. Richard."

You lift your eyes, green laced with red. It's normally a terrible offense to refer to a church leader by anything but their family's name, but it helps. You were called almost nothing else by anyone who's even pretended to care for you.

"Richard, do you know why I traveled halfway across the country to grant you my aid? Why I took my own sons from their home? Why I came straight back to your side the moment I was able, to ensure that you are alright?"

"N-no."

"I respect you. Father Friedrich, Father Barthalomew— even Father Pevrel, to a degree— most of us do. I can't imagine what life has been like for you. It's not right, what's been done to you— and I'm tired, Richard. I'm tired of sitting idly by while you're pushed to death. You deserve some rest. Some reprieve." There's a very, very slow motion— enough so that it doesn't send every nerve in your body on end. Father Wilhelm merely moves to drop some more ash into the container across from you both.

You can't help but wonder how tense you must look, for him to try so hard to not catch you off-guard. It is helping, though. Your eyes are much drier, and you do feel a good deal better for it.

"I haven't been doing my job. Will you trust me enough to take some more time, and to sleep, while I attend to a few matters of business?"

This man is trying as hard as he can to help me. The least I can do is extend the same courtesy to him.

As irritated as they are, your eyes are completely dry as you try to sit up a little straighter. "I'll trust you, Father Wilhelm, and— I have to be honest with you—"

Your hosts lips part slightly. He removes his cigar, glancing between it and you with no small measure of endearment. "Yes?"

"I— I don't particularly care to hear the details."

Disheveled sleeves cross in mock offense. Father Wilhelm's amusement increases. "You don't say."

"You're aware that I'm to uphold Mercy's tenets: To remain honest. To stand by my word."

You try not to get too flustered. Pulling the blankets back around you in defense, you do your best to relax as he clearly enjoys your wholesome request.

"Of course!"

"It would be unbecoming of me, to have to— to have to hide whatever it is you need to do. What you may have to go through to grant me shelter here— in addition to what I can— what I imagine you've already endured. I understand at least that not— that not everyone will be so understanding of everything that I've done."

"Certainly, Father." The shift back to a more formal recognition of your title is suddenly a lot more encouraging.

You may be naive, and learning your place in everything, but you are sharp. Sharp enough to know what questions to ask. You lean in with that permanent frown, just enough to make yourself clear. "You made an oath to me, Father Wilhelm. One that I hope you intend to keep." Your memory has always been impeccable. "'Nothing you say in this house needs ever leave these walls.' What do you intend to do with your son? What will leave these walls?"

You're aware that this probably sounds like a threat— especially given everything you've just confessed to— but you're so taken aback by Father Wilhelm's reaction that you can't really care.

He's smiling. A slightly unhinged expression beams back at you. There's shades of blue swimming in the priest's eyes, and divinity that you're so familiar with.

"Nothing."