Chapter 8: Tempera

"Egg, pigment, resin, water..."

Music

A groan is the most you can offer in reply. Though it's a struggle to move in any capacity, you try to recline a little in your chair, to get a little more comfortable, and to turn back to your host.

He meets your pained smile with a grin of his own. There's all the time you need to speak without interruption. He doesn't interject your prayers for relief, keeping his cigar masterfully between exposed teeth.

"I have— Mercy, grant me strength— I have no doubt that you can keep up with me, Father Wilhelm. Is there anything— any way you'd care to pass the time?" You have to close your eyes for a moment to try and contend with the discomfort, unable to express just how severe it is. "I doubt I could make it across the hall right now."

A genteel laugh meets you in reply. "How kind of you to ask, Father Anscham! It would be my pleasure. I must confess, my idea of an exciting evening probably pales in comparison to a demon..." You don't know whether to grimace or laugh. A teasing grin is flashed back at you. Father Wilhelm moves to fetch something from across the main hall, and calls out to you with so much amusement in his voice that you decide to fight off your frown. "...I'd love to do something to commemorate our catch today! You don't have to go anywhere. I'll bring everything over!"

Leaning back is providing no measure of relief, so you slump back onto the table before you. Watching out of the corner of your eye as Father Wilhelm gathers up the painting easel from the corner, a small trail of smoke hangs behind him.

He moves rapidly back over to your side, and pats you gently on the back. Your low groan nearly drowns his whispering out. "Sit tight. I'm going to get some things from my room."

You couldn't follow him if you wanted to. All of the blood and heat in your body has unquestionably relocated to your stomach. Even speculating for several long minutes next to Ray and the fire is almost more than your dizziness permits. It's enough to nearly fall asleep, resting as you are against the hard wooden table beneath your arms.

"Richard."

You can't bolt upright, but manage to at least look at the stained smock that's replaced Father Wilhelm's smoking jacket. His arms are full with a number of pigments, brushes, powders, containers with metals you're entirely unfamiliar with, and several eggs. In addition to the garment plastered with paint, he's wearing an even more ridiculous nightcap than before. The embroidery is in a contrasting thread of yellows and golds, depicting a variety of animals.

"...nice hat."

Before you can protest, it's dropped atop your own scruffy hair. "Keep it safe for me while I paint."

"The fish?"

"I was thinking of something a little more spectacular! What do you say? I'd keep it here, of course, but a proper portrait of our catch seems much more fitting!"

"Spectacular? Father Wilhelm— I've— I've had enough responsibility placed on me, after these last few weeks. More than enough to last a lifetime. You could make this a tapestry of legend, or worship— but I'll leave it to your better judgement."

"A dangerous gamble, Father Anscham. Very well! Nothing short of my very best will suffice!"

The table is rapidly covered with gold leaf, containers full of metallic powder, deep pigments that you suspect came straight from nobility, and countless dishes full of strange liquids that smell as if it would kill you if you consumed them.

The grin facing you has turned into a smirk. "You seem to have decided to like the hat, at least."

Not only have you made no indication of taking it off, you've adjusted it to sit properly atop your scruffy hair. Making a mental note to get a trim as soon as you're able, you shyly smile back. "It would be dishonest of me, if I— if I were to deny that I love it, Father. This is real goldwork, isn't it?"

"Of course."

You sweep the nightcap off to look it over again properly. You've only seen such skill employed on proper church vestments (offered to you countless times due to your position in the Church of Mercy). You usually reject regalia, and it seems tasteless to use something so valuable on a sleeping cap, but the absurdity of it is tugging at your heart strings. The yellow-gold brocade paints a number of fantastic creatures, and you've always been fond of animals.

"Keep it."

You put your hands up to protest, "I couldn't possibly—"

"I insist! I'll be offended if you don't take it. It's been collecting dust for ages. I've got far too many to make use of them all. You'll be doing me another favor."

There's no disguising your delight as you slip the silk and gold back atop your head. It's long enough for the end of the cap to hang past your shoulders. You feel ridiculous, but the simple pleasure is more than you could ask for.

"Thank you."

"You're very welcome. Now, do you think we should be wearing suits of armor, or glow with divinity in this? I'm thinking both."

"It would be a sin to exaggerate so—"

"This creature was a beast of legend, Richard! I warned you! I'll be putting a border with the tale! The combined might of only the Fathers of the Church of Dream and Mercy could tame the ferocious— oh, we do need a name for it, don't we? It's alright, I'll save it for the end. Pass me that dish, I need to make this quite thin..."

You watch with the utmost amusement, handing off supplies as best as you're able while Father Wilhelm applies the framework of the painting. Within the hour, proper figures take form. You're entirely too bloated to get up and tend to the fire, and simply watch it occasionally as time dwindles on. Eventually Father Wilhelm is satisfied enough with his progress to step away— if only to bring the hearth back up to a roar.

You get a complete look at the painting, and can't stop smiling. A muted blue sheen adorns a priest in full, nightmarish regalia. He's wielding a spear that would strike terror into the Gods themselves. The cracks in his frame are littered with the deepest hues you've ever seen, but pale in comparison to his weapon. Its massive barbs skewer a fish that's easily the size of two men. The ferocity of both fishermen is eclipsed by the orc-like face on the creature of ice beneath. Cracks within the lake stretch up to a pink and red sunset. It's all utterly encompassed by gold from the heroic figure by Father Wilhelm's side.

You can't help but laugh. He's painted you as a hulking, glowing God. You're using nothing but your bare hands to wrestle away the monstrous fish— slick with blood and metal— as you guarantee the catch. The fish still eclipses you both in size and terror, but you all form such a gallant scene that you don't want to look away.

The painting is far from finished. A spot is left for Ray, and the borders are unadorned for now, but will likely be occupied with further additions to the tale.

The painter returns, eyeing his work as the first few coats of egg yolk, pigment, resin and water rapidly dries. The entire thing smells fairly pleasant, thanks to the myrrh that's been added to the mixture. You recognized the warm spice and woody components of the herb instantly. It's difficult to obtain, but your expertise with it for medicine makes it catch your notice, even when used as a perfume. The medicinal association is hard to break, but you're more than grateful. Any new bloom of nausea would be your undoing.

You try to recline a little further, taking a deep breath and battling as best as you're able with the strain in your gut. The near constant distraction Father Wilhelm has been providing has subsided entirely as he focuses again on his work. It's all so polished and skilled that you don't feel guilty in the slightest for staring. The paintbrush he's produced only has a few hairs on the end, and to your amazement, he's begun to work on adding individual leaves to the forest canopy in the background of the painting.

While Father Wilhelm remains completely focused on delicate brushwork, you pick up the letter once more from Father Friedrich. The pages likely will become terribly worn in the coming weeks, so you try your best to commit the contents to memory.

It will simply be impossible to stick to the routine to the letter without massive adjustments to your travel. With a grimace— holding back another groan— you manage to get to your feet. Father Wilhelm doesn't even glance up. He's entirely occupied with his painting as you grab the parchment and quills you set aside earlier in the day.

Collapsing back in your chair as soon as you're able, you set to a series of addendums and additions to the routine. You've traveled Corcaea far more extensively than most, and thanks to your work with the Church of Mercy, you'll be able to make the most of the natural terrain. Accounting for carrying all of the supplies you'll be taking on the venture, the hiking involved, and all of the natural resources that will be at your disposal seems to make the most physical portions of the regimen much more manageable. There's no telling how you'll be able to requisition enough supplies along the way, but you trust completely in Father Wilhelm to attend to it. You even factor in potential times of hiding or recovery along the most rural reaches of the Eventide River— hoping your travel will be much faster when you inevitably reach proper civilization.

While you don't know what you'll find in Wearmoor, its close proximity to Beorward is extremely reassuring. The two locales are only a few days travel apart on horseback. There was no mention of swimming in Father Friedrich's notes, but you'll take it into consideration as well. The prospect of having to cross the Eventide River multiple times to even get there (let alone to avoid any scrutiny) would usually be a headache, but your determination to incorporate as much exercise as possible into the trip makes it exciting.

I've pushed myself to far greater limits before. This will all be worth the effort.

Folding up your modified notes, you tuck all of the parchment aside in a shirt pocket. How tightly the fabric sits against you has your grimace back in full force, but your attention is called back to Father Wilhelm in seconds.

He clears his throat, making it evident that he's been watching you without wanting to interrupt your planning. "What do you think?"

He gestures with a slick brush to the painting beside him. You're awe-struck, and entirely unable to reply for a few moments. Hundreds of leaves have been meticulously painted onto the background of amber and gold. Little blue flowers litter the forest floor in the distance, dusted with snow. The only portion of the image that seems to be missing is Ray, the border, and what you imagine will be additional layers of paint and detail.

"It's— it's lovely, Father Wilhelm."

"It is, isn't it?" He's beaming, looking it over the canvas with ample pride, and goes straight back to the project.

"I never could have conceived— not to say anything of your skill— but for a man of the cloth to be such an expert at the craft..."

There's no interruption, only a bemused smile as the painter makes a terrible rendition of your dog. It's immediately evident that he's never had to portray one before, and you almost laugh.

"Are you self-taught, Father?"

He does laugh, shaking his head and a hand at the terrible depiction. "What gave me away? Wait. Don't answer that!"

"I appreciate the effort, Father Wilhelm. The rest of the portrait is stunning. Is this— your work— is it something more of a hobby for you, then?"

The brushes in hand are quick to get back to the portions of the image he's more comfortable with. "A hobby, a gift for my guests, a little extra aid for the Church of Dream— for any patrons in Calunoth— these powders didn't make themselves, you know!"

"The herbs, as well?"

"I do garden, but the soil isn't the best this close to the mountains. Most of them were gifts as well, yes."

"I recognized your myrrh, at the very least. It was a welcome surprise."

"Not too medicinal for you, eh? I was a little worried, but it's much better than eggs and vinegar—"

"M-Mercy, Father Wilhelm."

"Sorry, Richard. You need some mint, or something?"

"No— no, thank you—"

"I'm joking. You'd probably know better than I would about these things, wouldn't you?"

"There are plenty— there are plenty of herbalists in Corcaea, Father Wilhelm. It's— it's nothing special. Not like this." You gesture to the image before you, still marveling at it. You could probably count the number of paintings you've seen intact on one hand. You've heard stories of the Church of Dream being a patron to craftsmen, but you hadn't fully understood the implications until now. Art— in any form that you know of it— is considered such an exorbitant waste of resources that it's typically reserved for nobility. Even then, men who have the time and resources to devote themselves to the craft are rarer still.

"To be entirely honest with you, Father Anscham, I reserve most of my supplies for Dream. Put up as much as I was able before you came in, and you did ask me to not discuss anything of the sort. I'd be happy to share them with you another time, if you ever feel up to it. Besides—!" You almost groan at the ham-fisted attempt to change the subject, but maintain your composure and respect. "Your skill is something to be applauded! Not everyone is sharp enough to learn as much as you have, let alone know how to apply all your teachings. I've heard the stories!"

"Mercy, Father Wilhelm—"

"No, no, you need to hear some proper praise. You don't need Mercy to heal, do you?"

"If it weren't for Her, I would have never been taken in by the church to begin with—"

"I bet you could pin every plant in and around this building, couldn't you?"

"I— I mean— if it grew in Corcaea—"

"Didn't you tell me all about saving poor Ray here, with just a few herbs?"

"Celegwen did, really—"

"Don't be ridiculous, she was a butcher. You did even more for her, too! Haven't you taken men back from the brink of death with even less?"

"Yes— I mean, th-the quantity isn't as important as the potency, Father."

"Absolutely. You're absolutely right. You must be turning your nose up at all my dried up and dusty supplies here. It's a blessing, really, that we're taking a more rustic path to see your parents! Imagine what we might discover in the coming days, and with your skill, no less?"

You're starting to reel from so many compliments. The only thing that may rival your fishing or healing ability is your mastery at deflecting from a proper conversation.

It's a stretch, but you try broaching a subject you've never been able to get a straight answer for. "We won’t— we won't be passing anywhere near Eanlac, will we?"

"Eh? Mercy, no. It would be another few weeks out of the way at best, this time of year. Why do you ask?"

"I've never been anywhere near the Church of Time. You reminded me of how little of the country I've explored. Not just to the east, but— but to our other churches, too."

"Astrid hasn't said a word to you, has she?"

"Mother Aimar?"

"I'm forgetting myself. Yes, our lovely Mother Aimar."

"I received a single letter from her— the— the day I took up Father Edmund's title. Nothing since."

There's a very sad smile directed straight at you, as Father Wilhelm puts up his hair in a loose knot with a nearby paintbrush. He steps back from his painting, eyeing it briefly before sitting back down beside you. "You have a serious problem, Father Anscham."

Your frown is so deep that you feel like your old self again.

It's met with a slight laugh. "Please, don't give me that face. I'm joking. You really can't help yourself, can you? I know you have so many questions— it's alright. It's quite alright. Do you actually want to talk about this? I told you I'd keep my lips sealed about any church business, but I really don't care to."

The look being directed at you is tinged with mania. It's obvious that Father Wilhelm is struggling to not launch into discussion regarding the Gods. The cracks along his skin— the shades of blue— are a constant reminder that his devotion at least rivals your own.

"I— I do. Sincerely. More than anything. I don't care if you were being entirely serious, Father Wilhelm. Maybe there is something wrong with me— but you want to discuss Them just as badly as I do. I know it."

You're trembling, and so is the hand that's set firmly on your shoulder. The cracks in the man's skin before you are only kept apart from your own scars by a scarce amount of silk. You know unquestionably that Father Wilhelm has been fighting with himself to not discuss the Gods since your arrival.

His blue eyes are swimming with frustration. "I am trying my best to keep my word to you, Father Anscham. You're making it exceedingly difficult."

Fighting every urge to pull away or glance aside, you stare back as firmly as you can. "Please— forget my request. I've been in the dark for so long. I need answers. I need respite from my ignorance, Father."

The priest's will dissolves the instant that you appeal to his God. "What do you want to know, Richard?"

More than seven hundred years of knowledge has your eyes maddeningly wide, gnawing at everything they possibly can. You say only one word— starved for a sane reply.

"Everything."