Chapter 3: Spare the Details

"We help to forget."​

"Nothing?"

"What has the Church of Mercy taught you, Father?"

"To read, to write, to serve— Her tenets, medicine, how to heal—"

"It was a rhetorical question." His sadness creeps back in. The mania fades. "You have no idea what you're doing. It's alright." There's still a slight smile directed at you. One of patience and a lifetime of actual experience. "Richard, the Church of Dream does more than grant respite to the weary. We do not merely interpret and rest. We help to forget. Why do you think we travel so often alongside the Church of Spirit? Why do you think we are stationed alongside convicts and killers, mercenaries and thieves in our outposts? Why do you suppose we grant asylum?"

This is the first confirmation you've ever had of most of these things. You feel like you should probably hold your tongue. Then again, the thought of your memories being so scarring that Father Wilhelm would immediately elect to remove them from his children is disturbing to a degree you might not be fully equipped to even comprehend.

More importantly, you've had Dream work through you before. You know how fleeting the God's gifts are. That you possess them, as well. There's a current of excitement blending with your paranoia, residual fear, self-resentment and disgust. "...Mercy."

Above all other things, you're still confused. The desire to know and to understand weighs out over the obsession and fear. You try to grab Father Wilhelm's attention before he turns to leave, and to your relief, he immediately sits back down.

"Father Wilhelm—"

"Yes, Father Anscham?"

"After everything I've endured— I would never wish to— I would never wish to impose this burden on another. I genuinely cannot comprehend the severity of it all, and I lived through it—" You try not to reel again. The chain firmly clasped underneath your hand is enough to keep you grounded, to be better. To seek answers. "I do not wish to forget myself, but please, why is this necessary?"

A disjointed, fractured smile beams back at you. Father Wilhelm sets down his cigar completely, practically glowing with excitement.

To interpret is to serve Dream, isn't it?

The level words of the man before you are absent of divinity, but Father Wilhelm sincerely looks as if he's having a religious experience as he relays his characterization of your ordeal back to you. "My son was willing to risk life and limb to come and rescue you, blessed by ignorance of the trials you endured. He and so many others have heard you preach, and know you to have served the Goddess of Mercy with more devotion and love than many men can ever hope to possess. My son saw you emerge from the ruins looking so battered and broken that we all easily could have mistaken you for a demon, yet he rushed to catch you as you fell. Farmer Jack may not understand the sincerity and depths of your service, but we do, Father."

A pit sinks deep into what little there is of your gut at his next words.

"Or at least, thought we did. My boy— my son, does not need to know the way that the Gods work through you. Not to the extent that they do, not how often you abused them, and never that you turned from Their works. Your ability to invoke all of the Gods is terrifying to an extreme, Father. To be able to invoke two simultaneously is so unprecedented—" With extreme excitement and no indication of fear, Father Wilhelm brushes his hair out of his face. He's been leaning slowly closer towards you, hands clasped, reverent.

He remembers himself, backing up slightly while still smiling. "I believe there is much work for you to still do, Father. It would be an unparalleled privilege to be able to help guide you. But you cannot do this. Not yet. Not as you are. Not after so much sin. Your willingness to invoke the Gods on a whim— despite the damage it has done to your vessel— is tantamount to sacrilege. Your voluntary abuse of your body and mind as you consorted with demons would have you exiled the very moment someone were to discover it."

You want to interject— already opening your lips— but you're cut off.

"No matter how deeply you allied yourself with a demon, Father, do try to remind yourself that it is their fault that Flesh and Agriculture have forsaken you. You may have sought death, but the opportunity was only granted to you so easily due to their inherent insanity. Their violence. Their inability to even speak of the Gods' works. Those demons did everything in their power to weaken you, and to make you unfit to wield your blessings— that you might not threaten them. Did they not succeed? Did you not ultimately bring a new leader to power? Did you not ultimately save the lives of demons?"

You can't help it, and are shaking with righteous anger. This man heard snippets of a journal second-hand. He might have read it in full, at best. He has no idea what you've been through. "It was Mercy."

There's still that infuriating, manic smile beaming back at you. Though he seems incapable of stilling his excitement, Father Wilhelm at least tempers his speech. "That you granted to the enemy destroying our country, our homes, our families and ourselves from within. The few individuals in this country that would be willing to learn of this will want to use it against you. You need to choose your confidants carefully, Father, if you wish to not be labeled further as a traitor to King and country. It is a miracle that I reached you before anyone else could."

His smile actually does wane slightly. "I am not threatening you. I believe you've been through enough to warrant my absolute honesty. You carry with you physical evidence of Mercy's blessing. You have demonstrated devotion and deserving service to Her— well, possibly more than any other. That could be interpreted as very threatening to many people. Many people. Not only do you have the capacity to exert the will of the Gods, but you've shown yourself disturbingly capable of doing so."

The smile drops completely. "Many would seek to undo it. I suspect they have been trying to for a very, very long time. Too long. I know you are very tired. I offered you my asylum to help get you back on your feet, Father Anscham. I could never have fathomed how badly you would truly need it. Your neglect of your vessel has been so absolute that I believe— sincerely— that nothing but absolute dedication you yourself will set you back on your path to righteousness."

The concept of self-care is so alien to you that you must be making a comical face, even through your anger and frustration.

Father Wilhelm tries to not laugh, but his smile is a little skewed as he beams back at you. "You said you trust me. Permit me to safely gauge a few of our allies. Not manipulators or schemers, not back-stabbing lunatics so full of themselves they can't even invoke, and certainly not demons. Certainly not creatures who would destroy everything you've ever worked for to further their own selfish ends. I do not wish to see you abused any longer, Father. Permit me to seek out real allies to us both while you take your rest. I will attend to my son, ensure his entire world does not crumble around him, and that he can go home with the same faith in us that he had when we first left Somerilde."

He doesn't want me to breathe word of my journey to anyone?

Your grimace is so intense that your face is starting to hurt, despite how familiar the expression is.

He legitimately thinks no one will follow me if I do. They'll label me as a heathen. A traitor. That I'll be executed without hesitation. He doubts if I'm deserving of Their blessings at all.

"Father Anscham. I am not asking you to gamble, to eat or drink to such excess that you destroy your vessel, to make a spectacle of your position as a priest, to use your blessings on a demon, or even to abstain from using Their gifts. I'm asking you to sleep, and to trust me. You don't have to decide on anything right now. Take some time to rest. We've already talked for far longer than I intended for us to."

The Father of the Church of Dream extends a gesture of Mercy to you. A single one of his hands is outstretched. It's custom to extend yours back, and to accept his grasp in formal acknowledgement of his compassion.

Your scars clasp over the cracks and fractures adorning the Father Wilhelm's hand without hesitation.

You almost pull back immediately, shocked by how soft his skin is. Though he's also littered with remnants of the God working through his vessel, it's as if he's never used his hands a day in his life.

The warm digits only remain around yours for a moment. He actually pulls away from you after only a few seconds. You can imagine how unpleasant your myriad burns, callouses and blemishes must feel to someone unfamiliar with them. It's reassuring that Father Wilhelm has the decency to even extend so much hospitality, given everything he's said. You try to look up to meet his gaze.

He's still smiling sadly.

You continue to frown. "I don't— Father Wilhelm— I haven't the faintest idea what's been happening on the surface. I needed to know. I can't express my gratitude for your honesty. You've already been an enormous help."

"It's the least I can do. Really. You act as if..." There's some hesitation, a scratch of his beard, and those blue eyes wince slightly at you. He's obviously forcing himself to be as frank as possible. "...well, as if you've never had someone speak to you this way before."

Your grimace is on in full force. "I have. You— with all due respect— you cannot possibly comprehend everything I experienced within the ruins. Those demons— they guided me. They once served the Gods. They may have not made their intentions clear— I may have been manipulated, tortured, abused— they may be our enemies now—"

It might as well still be day, for how much you still feel the presence of your Goddess. Through your scowl and your pain, there's warmth, and light. An embrace, and a gentle weight on your chest. A blessing. Your grimace softens, if only slightly. "But they were once our brothers and sisters. We mustn't forget that. I won't forget that. I won't forget everything they have done for me."

Either your tremor is back, or you're so driven by your conviction that you can't physically contain yourself. You stare as intently as a man can at the preacher before you, exceeding his capacity for compassion in every way. "Who else could show them the light of Mercy?"

There's no hesitation as Father Wilhelm places a hand on your shoulder. "Father Edmund knew what he was doing. I can't imagine anyone doing a better job."

It's very hard to see, as your vision threatens to swim with tears again.

The Father of Dream mercifully stands and moves to leave, to grant you the respite you need.

You catch him again. "I'll rest, Father. How long—"

"However long you need." He's being terribly respectful, giving you some space and not staring at you as you battle with yourself to not break down.

"Would you? I wasn't— it wasn't a joke, Father Wilhelm. I really do sleep like the dead."

"Good. You need it. Give me a few moments." There's a motion on the edges of your blurred vision, as you wipe your eyes. "Here." The box of cigars has been left behind for you. "I'll be back. We'll get you situated with a proper bed. Will you make me another promise, Father Anscham?"

You don't respond, looking anywhere but at the man who's showing you more compassion than any priest of Mercy ever has. He kneels down beside you, placing his hand on your knee and looking up to you with so much sadness that it forces your gaze elsewhere.

His nightcap is utterly ridiculous. It's adorned with an elegant embroidery of moons and stars, and is so long it nearly hangs down to his waist. The blue thread is far easier on the eyes, as the hand on your bones tightens. "Eat something before you rest. Please. I'm writing to Father Friedrich before anyone else. You— to put it simply, Richard, I'm terribly worried. Our stores here can last the entire Worship. You don't need to show any restraint. This isn't the Church of Mercy. I want to be sure you wake up."

Mercy, is it really that bad—

You realize that the hand on your knee really isn't grasping you firmly. There's no tension in his hands or wrist. There's simply so little of you to hold onto that Father Wilhelm must be actively trying to not hurt you. Since your first prayer to Agriculture, you have not once felt proper hunger or thirst. You don't feel much of anything, but Father Wilhelm sounds as if he's imploring you to stop from starving to death.

I've made so many promises to take better care of myself. I may have disgraced my connection to Agriculture and Flesh, but I can't imagine doing much more harm. Not with good intent. Surely, I can make up for further sin, if this is ultimately in the name of respecting Them.

Articulating such a delicate subject to a fellow man of the cloth is beyond your soft speech. You settle on stumbling through it. "Yes. I mean to say, I promise— but, Father Wilhelm, it's as— it's as I told you before. I gave everything I had to Beltoro. Everything. I hadn't the faintest idea of how the Relic would have aided them. I— I can't restrain myself. Couldn't. I assume I still will be unable to."

The hand on your knee persists. You glance up from it with absolute conviction. It's unbearable how morose and exhausted your host looks, but he remains silent and respectfully allows you to continue.

"Agriculture— Her blessing— I don't want to suffer, Father. Not any more than I need to. If you could portion out something reasonable? I want to accept your proposal."

The hand on your knee tightens very slightly to try and reassure you. "I'll keep an eye on you. You'll be alright." The mustache before you curls up alongside a smile. "Have any preferences?"

Your wasted muscles and the utter lack of substance anywhere on your frame has you longing to do something before anyone asks the Father of the Church of Flesh for aid on your behalf. "Can you set aside something— something rich? I don't wish to impose on you, but— I need the respite. Something to help me heal. I'll be sure to get as much rest as I need when we're finished."

"Of course. Sit tight, Richard. I'll be back."

You watch with no small measure of worry as Father Wilhelm casually walks away, out of the main hall, and disappears around the corner.

The stone of the building you reside in— devoid of all decor— is almost a welcome respite. It gives you some time to watch the flame of the hearth, and to listen to Ray's steady breathing. He's been sleeping for hours, and it's safe to assume that the Father of Dream put him under, as well. You don't mind, assuming that your boy needs his rest just as badly as you do.

There are no screams, only the faintest impression of blue in the back of your mind.

In what seems like no time at all, Father Wilhelm reemerges with all five of his clergymen. They remain completely silent, lowering their eyes respectfully as they proceed through the main hall and head right back out into the woods.

They're traveling under the cover of night?

There's no explanation or reassurance. The ridiculous nightcap that's clearly blessed their journey vanishes again. You look out to what little silhouette you can see through a scarce window or two. The thick glass is frosted over with ice and darkness, making it impossible to determine how late the hour may be or where your saviors have gone off to.

I did ask explicitly to be kept in the dark. This may be for the best.

It takes less than an hour for Father Wilhelm to return. In his arms and rapidly placed before you comes a tray of something that smells of meat, cheese, and something more that you don't even properly get to look at before tearing into like a man possessed.

As promised, he keeps a little distance and a close eye on you. There's at least an additional attempt at conversation— maybe to distract you from the immediate agony of eating something of extreme substance. "To spare you any further trouble, I've sent my sons back to the Church of Dream. We'll be alright, won't we? Good company is a commodity. Much more than a few stores I couldn't hope to get through by myself! You're doing me a favor, Father, really. Try not to worry yourself."

There's dried game, salted fish, two bowls of barley gruel thickened with something you don't even taste, and a number of things you really didn't get a proper look at before inhaling.

Father Wilhelm makes a small prayer to Agriculture on your behalf. He seems to have been keeping a flagon of wine in hiding, and portions out a fair amount for you in-between your coughing and inability to moderate yourself. It takes a matter of moments to feel excruciatingly full, and what must have been an eternity before the last of the fruit, cheese and preserved meats are out of your sight and sitting in your pained stomach.

Despite the luxury, it's all something you'd rather forget. At some point you're led out of the main hall and taken to a small, almost entirely vacant room with a disproportionately large bed. Insisting that Ray be brought back to your room is a small matter. The discomfort of making any demands are entirely outweighed by the persistent pain in your throat and the excess in your gut.

"I'll see to him just as soon as you sleep. Get some rest, Richard."

You suspected you wouldn't even be able to lay down comfortably— but mere moments after the Father of Dream steps out of your sight, you can't help but to sink deeply into the bed beneath you. One that isn't under a red moon, the canopy of a demon, or in the halls of your own home.

You sleep, comforted by the knowledge that only Ray and a priest of Dream will visit you in the darkness.