Chapter 7: A Simple Matter

"I bet your mother would be proud."​

The rest of the letters are filed away, excluding the notes from Father Friedrich. Your host and budding coach is happy to start assisting you with getting everything sorted out for supper. He seems mildly confused— but earnest enough— as you both attempt to look over your new diet and exercise plan. Figuring out an equivalent volume of the meal you've prepared is a simple matter, even if a few assumptions have to be made. It's agreed that the fish and greens are a fine stand-in for whole milk, cereals or animal fats, but you have to fight not to grimace.

Neatly laying out all of your hard work completely covers the table before you. Your servings are easily triple that of Father Wilhelm's.

You're reassured repeatedly that you'll space it out more in the coming weeks.

There's a scratch. A claw. A pull.

Your hands are twitching not with tremor, but the need to take in everything before you.

You keep the urge back. It's far easier to keep your hands steady while portioning out the poached fish, numerous sauces, roasted vegetables, all of your painstakingly prepared herbs, and the drink Father Wilhelm had carted out at the start of the evening.

Scratching.

Clawing.

Pulling.

The priest beside you is kind enough to toss a cloth over the table. As it vanishes from your sight, so too does the compulsion, and you almost immediately regain your composure.

There's little discourse as you both move to clean up the remains of the cooking utensils. It's a short matter, and before long you both slide next to each other, ready to pray. You've got your hands clasped together, whereas his eyes are merely lowered in deference.

Father Wilhelm is more than happy to elbow your side with a smile. "I had suspected you'd be able to take care of the cooking, but now we know! Phenomenal. Simply phenomenal. Thank you. I know it couldn't have been easy."

He's been testing my limits with restraint almost since the moment I've woken up. I can't even imagine how difficult this would be without any distractions or all of his help. I asked him explicitly to not discuss anything with me regarding the Gods, but Father Wilhelm is still trying to guide me into serving Them, isn't he?

I've done so much good. I don't regret any of it. There's Time— more than enough— to show my respect and devotion to the Gods. I know Agriculture hasn't forsaken me. I know I have the favor of Mercy and Spirit. All of this has happened for a reason.

"I— I couldn't possibly have done so well without your help."

The elbow pulls away from your side. You both smile and utter a small prayer to Agriculture without prompting. It's custom before any meal, but you both clearly feel it's warranted to make a more formal effort with the bounty placed before you.

The knowledge that you were able to prepare so much food without any issue is enormously reassuring. Enough to dispel your discomfort as Father Wilhelm pulls back on the cloth to expose a fraction of your serving. You tear into it immediately, completely unable to hold yourself back.

Father Wilhelm is talking. There's more reassurance. You really don't have to show any restraint here. With the amount of effort you'll be putting into your body, the miles you're certain to soon be running, the hours you'll be pouring into weapons training...

You find it far easier to fight through the agony and volume. There's always a disproportionate discomfort when anything of proper substance is involved, but you truly outdid yourself. The fish is second to none, and your work over even Father Wilhelm's old vegetables made them befitting of two men of your station.

I'm no stranger to pain.

I might even be able to enjoy this.

I need to give myself all of the respect and devotion I've been preaching since I entered the ruins. This has to be worth it. Father Friedrich must know what he's doing. Father Wilhelm is trying so hard to help me. Flesh has always answered my prayers. I'm going to make them all proud.

You made such quick work of everything spread out before you that Father Wilhelm has scarcely touched his own fish by the time you're done. He's obviously far more concerned with helping you slow down. Concern and some more reassuring looks are cast your way.

You clear your throat— accepting a modest amount of wine— and literally appreciate his efforts more than you can say. Further heart is taken in the promise of normal conversation. Though you have all of the charisma of a farmer's son and the social experience of a man who's spent most of his life in the dark, your conviction is endearing enough to carry you through a few simple questions.

"You know— I never did properly ask for your first name—"

"Don't worry, no one is keeping some terrible secret from you. I really just don't like it."

"You don't have to tell me—"

"Oh, no, it's quite alright. Atticus does have an awful ring to it, though, doesn't it?" Father Wilhelm— Atticus Wilhelm— laughs awkwardly, looking to you almost as if he wants you to argue with him on the matter.

You cough a little harder, with absolutely no judgement. "I don't— there isn't anything wrong with it. I would be more comfortable referring to you by your title, still—"

There's a firm pat on your back. It's not to help aid you with breathing, though the sensation of food caught in your lungs persists. He's clearly relieved. "Great! Great. I haven't meant any offense, calling you by your given name so often, but— well, I can't help it, Richard. You seem much more comfortable when I do."

You wave away the hand patting you, automatically moving to get more wine. The cup has intentionally been left empty. Your stomach is already complaining, so you try to relax, and take a moment to breathe. "None taken, Father. Do you visit often, or do— or do many clergymen visit you, like this? You had so much correspondence— I don't need to know the details, but Father Friedrich at least seemed to be aware that you enjoy smoking—"

As Father Wilhelm merely picks at his own plate, he pulls back on another ridiculous portion of the food laid out. You don't complain, and listen intently to his speech rather than to your body's insistence that you've had enough. He's likely using his conversation to take your mind off of things.

"There's very little he doesn't know, and the man is a fiend for a good smoke— but I do try to make the time to rest. To give everyone a reprieve, when I can. You know how busy things get! Everyone needs respite, Richard. Not just you, or Father Friedrich— everyone! I don't often get away from Somerilde during Worship, but most of the warmer months I like to take my work here. You would be surprised how many people need a vacation. You can talk with your mouth full, it's alright—"

You had started to ask something else, and stumbled immediately into silencing yourself.

Years of conditioning into proper table manners feel like they're being undone in moments, but a hand goes back to your shoulder. "This isn't a church— there's no one to impress here! You're quite alright. Really." As if to make a point, Father Wilhelm slides his elbows onto the table alongside you, making a show of pulling on his cigar and sliding his own plate closer. You trail after it for a moment— nearly touching his fine smoking jacket— but manage to pull back.

Swallowing hard.

Upholding some semblance of appearances. "Why— why cigars? The Church of Mercy scarcely discusses any form of smoking. Drinking, yes, but..."

The tenderness in your gut has you wanting to go lay down for another week. You trail off. The scent of tobacco and spice is a fairer point of your focus than your increasingly taxing speech.

"We'd better get this over with— stop me if you feel like you're actually hurting yourself, alright?"

The last of the fish, vegetables and sauce gets slid over to you. The rest of the cloth is neatly folded aside. You're able to at least stop yourself for a moment to complain. "Mercy— I'll do it for Flesh, but there has to be a better way—"

Father Wilhelm gives you an extremely apologetic look as you suffer through the rest of the meal. "King Magnus goes through far too much trouble to not make the most of our new connections. You're familiar enough with herbs and medicine, aren't you, Father Anscham?"

"V-very."

"I'm willing to bet— my, that's insensitive, isn't it? I'd hazard a guess that you couldn't place most of what you smoked, could you?"

There's a long pause, and some very welcome respite from the present moment as you try to recall what the cigar you had was like. You really couldn't tell at all. There isn't a window in between mouthfuls to convey your meaning, but the priest beside you is entirely understanding of the situation.

"It's not a trick question. You would have been able to tell— from what I understand, you're something of an expert— but that's neither here nor there! I've made a bit of a hobby, experimenting with what comes in from our pointy-eared friends to the east. Nothing like what we have here at home. Opens the mind! Don't worry yourself. Father Friedrich and I have been more than happy to confirm that no poison or anything more harmful than a brief distraction comes into the country. Peace offerings are a wonderful thing. Let's get this away from you— toss this to Ray for me, alright?"

"Th-thank you—" You remove yourself from the start of political discourse (and the questionable nature of what your host has been occupying his time with), taking a half-eaten portion of fish and calling Ray over from the hearth. He's more than happy to sit, to curl up beside you, and to politely take the food from you without begging for more.

You're in far too much pain to give him any further attention, but he's more than understanding. Your boy settles down next to your chair, giving you plenty of space but something to keep your attention on. You give him as much praise as you can manage while Father Wilhelm quickly clears the rest of the table.

The priest keeps mostly out of your sight, and reappears properly after a few minutes with a huge smile. You try to offer one back as best as you're able. "If Father Friedrich thinks I can do this every day—"

"I told you, he's insane. We made a lot of substitutions too, but it doesn't need to be all at once. I really was more concerned about getting something in you before we set out tomorrow. We'll break it up. You'll be alright!"

Relief sinks into a proper smile, while the rest of you leans hard over the table for support. It's entirely too difficult to sit upright, but you do feel better than you have in a very long time. Enough to poke some fun at the situation. "You seem to be more comfortable with prayer than this sort of exertion, Father Wilhelm."

Mock offense and the bristling of a mustache accompanies a few muffled footsteps.

You wince, raise your head from the table, and glance over your shoulder.

Clean house slippers kick up on the table next to you. Another welcome distraction. You try to scrutinize the embroidery of moons and stars while their owner pretends to be upset with you. "Oh? You think that tired old Father Wilhelm can't keep up? I'll have you know I was harder than anyone! Five sons don't go making themselves, you know—"

You can't help but laugh. Sure, you immediately regret it— battling another spike of pain in your gut— but it's well worth it.

Father Wilhelm leans over, pats you on the back, and gives you another wide grin. "You'll be alright, Richard."