Chapter 14: The Father of Defense

"The fuck, Richard?"

Music

Your mother has her back to you, busying herself with cleaning the kitchen and the last remnants of supper.

This is the safest place I could possibly lower my defenses. Mama has always been so devoted to Spirit. I know she'll understand.

With trembling hands, you lower your hood. Taking your eyes off of her for only a moment— desperate for approval— you glance to your father.

His eyes go wider than you'd expect. It's enormously reassuring that he breaks into a smile, patting you hard on your shoulder. Still, the fact that he drops his voice to a whisper (pulling you around so your back is to your mother) and holds you in a huddle right beside the fire is what you really anticipated.

"I was worried you were going to keep those rags up all night."

You let the green of your irises, the pallor, your busted nose, your sunken cheeks, the bags under your eyes, and dozens of scars catch on the light of the hearth. "The last thing I wanted was to worry you both."

"Would you just look at you, Richard— of course we're worried. You'd really be better off wearing gloves or a mask, if you wanted to hide anything. Mercy..."

"I am so tired of being in the dark, papa. You both deserve to not be, either. I would never want to hide anything. Not from either of you."

"Not that you could! The fuck did these come from, then?"

He's looking intently at your hands, as they fidget with the metal around your neck. The chain is still tucked mostly out of sight, so the only visible gold rests near your collarbone. You hadn't realized you were indulging the nervous habit, but you really can't stop yourself, even after becoming aware of the motion.

There's a strong urge to glance behind you— to make sure that your mother isn't staring you down— but there's little choice but to keep your gaze ahead. You're practically being strong-armed into keeping yourself turned away towards the fire.

Lifting a trembling palm to the light, you scrutinize the old burns, the lacerations, and countless attempts to shield others from harm. "Would you believe me if I said they were all from serving Mercy?"

"Not as far as I could throw you." Your father has to swipe up a mug of beer to stifle his laughter.

It's the least you can do to humor him. "That— that would be extremely far—"

"Maybe not. Takes more than putting down a few bullies to get like, well..." He's still smiling, gesturing vaguely to your face. The top of his mustache curves up around the wooden cup in his hands.

You frown firmly back at him, fighting the strong desire to look away. There's a fire of a different kind in your eyes. "Putting down demons."

The hand around your shoulder tightens protectively, and the tone directed at you is stern. You know your father well enough to tell when he's trying to conceal his worry. "I can tell. They haven't let you get too soft, Richard. Can feel the scars just on your damn shoulder. What's this all about? You trying to tell me the Church of Mercy hasn't had you picking flowers all these years?"

"I have been fighting. Tirelessly. The demons I have faced— papa, I could fill a book with all of the stories—"

Both of you have always been more fond of a direct approach. Not only does your father not know how to read, but he likely doesn't need to know a single detail of all the stories you have to tell.

You pull down on your collar, exposing the raised tissue from the last dagger you pulled out of your shoulder. "Over a dozen imps. Less when I left. A lot less, when I had everyone safely out of harm's way. Didn't lay a scratch on anyone in my company— even after they shattered enough glass to fill a church."

A baffled and utterly awe-struck stare is directed at you. Your father pulls his hand back, as if he doesn't deserve to even touch your Flesh. "You're kidding."

"You know I'm a terrible liar, papa. I would never."

"What about this one, then? Your knuckles are fucked, boy."

"Punched clean through a demon's carapace. Nearly half a foot thick in places."

"Mercy."

"In a more tangible form."

Your father has to take a moment to try and compose himself. There's a deep look of alarm in his face, but it's mixed with so much pride he clearly can't stop himself from asking for more information.

"How long?"

"At least forty feet."

"No. There's no way."

"She had nearly two-hundred, papa."

"Feet?!"

A mutual wince is made at your father's outburst. You both simultaneously glance backwards, confirming that your mother has yet to look to either of you. The housewife seems to recognize the desire for a little quality time between the two of you. Enough at least to not make a single remark or indication of hearing your conversation.

The air between the two of you crackles with more energy that the lightning storm brewing outside. You're pulled back into a huddle. "Tell me the whole story some other time." Another gesture is made towards your hands. "The burns look a lot nastier. The older ones, at least."

You want to thank all the Gods for the tasteful dismissal of the more recent, self-inflicted burns. Instead, you proudly look over the old, mottled remnants of blisters and exposed muscle. It's almost the heaviest of your scar tissue. "More intelligent demons don't always target us directly. They take livestock— homes."

"No. Richard, your mother would kill you if she found out—"

"Father Edmund certainly tried enough times, papa."

"I hate hearing you call them that."

"Sorry, papa. You never cared for me calling you father, either—"

"You trying to dodge me, boy? I'm giving you a chance here, don't go changing the subject."

"There— there isn't much to it."

"All the Gods won't be enough to help you—"

"B-burning buildings are a lot less intimidating than the— than the thought of losing someone, papa—" The rest of your attempt at the tale is cut short.

Your head is wrapped into a tight embrace, as your father wrestles you into a ridiculous hold. It gives him perfect leverage to ruffle your hair, cutting off your breath. "What if we lost you with all this nonsense?"

"It— it's n-not nonsense—" You slip out of his embrace expertly, and frown back at him. With a shaky finger, you point to a deep series of pockmarks along your cheek. "Shrapnel. From the Church of Mercy coming under attack. I was right at the window— it was a blessing, papa— to have been able to be between the congregation and what was coming. Not nonsense."

Though his eyes are shining with pride, his hand is immediately back around your shoulder, and pulls you into another hug. He speaks right next to your ear.

I caught up to his height.

"I'm so proud, Richard. My boy. I don't want to ask, but— shit—!"

You're quickly pulled apart, as your father snaps his gaze to the woman who absolutely cares about your conversation.

Your mother is standing right behind you both, with her apron knitted tightly in her hands. She's fidgeting with the fabric, and looking to you both with tears in her eyes. "It looks like it. Like your new home comes under attack often. Is that right, dear?"

Mercy, she was listening the entire time, wasn't she—

With the urgency of a man who's accustomed to frequent situations of life and death, you gesture for your mother to come over and sit down beside you.

Her eyes pour over every exposed scar with ever-increasing anxiety. The request is met instantly by a woman who obviously has missed and fretted over her son's absence for over a decade.

It's a good thing you've spent as much time restricting your emotions. You allow her to take your hands in her own without more than your usual tremor. It's also far easier to keep your eyes averted from her reasonable concern, than to see that your father looks equally upset with himself. He clearly wants to give you the opportunity to reassure them both, and there's no need to lie. Your words are level and clear. "I know you are afraid, mama— but the Church of Mercy is one of the safest buildings in the country. Under my supervision, I have ensured it is the safest."

You allow her to tighten her grip around your hands. It's abundantly clear that your mother is terribly proud of you, but still terrified. You wrap your hands properly around hers, squeezing on them very slightly. She doesn't pull away, but you can feel her anxiety boring into you.

"I never thought I'd see the day. Your hands feel rougher than your father's."

"I have been working very hard, mama."

"Too hard, dear."

"I would never lie to you. You know how hard it is. How the world is. How we all are—"

You would never explicitly talk about the Catalyst with your parents, and they show no indication of even acknowledging your statement beyond the extreme fear and discomfort in their silence.

"But there— there is light in the Church of Mercy. Every member of my clergy is sworn to protect the country with everything they have. To protect me with everything they know. I have never been alone, mama. Not in the church— not for a moment."

"Beanstalk, I don't want to insult your friends."

Friends?

You don't correct her. "You should be honest, mama."

"They don't seem to be doing a very good job." The frown you give to her is so intense that she can't help but laugh. "I'm sorry, dear."

Your frown persists. "There is only so much a man— or a woman— can do. I have learned so much, mama. Not only how to pray, to protect— but how to heal." It's hard for you to speak kindly of yourself, but your determination to reassure your mother is outweighing your own anxiety. "I— I even have something of a reputation for it. You both taught me so much, already. They say that I— that I have an incredible aptitude for healing. I have brought so many back from the brink, and cured their pain. I have been saving lives within the church, and even far from the field of battle."

A very firm pat lands on your shoulder. Your father is more than happy to piggy-back on your reassurance and side-tracking. "So you were picking flowers."

"Th-there's more to it than that, and— and honestly, I rarely have the opportunity to do any gathering myself—"

"Hear that, Helen? Our boy has his people doing all the work for him!"

"No, papa. That— that is to say, I am terribly busy. There are simply other matters that are usually more pressing, such as— such as healing." No one minds that your speech is worsening by the second. You confirm with a quick glance that your mother's tears have dried, and squeeze her hands a little tighter. "I was not given my position for nothing, mama. I am so sorry for worrying you— but you should know. The Church of Mercy is under my protection. I have saved so many lives— so many souls in my time there. I must look terrible to you, but—"

The hands holding yours part. She takes you back into a hug. "It's alright, Richard. I'm just happy to have you home."

It's very likely that your frown will never leave your scarred and pallid face.

Mercy. She could have at least attempted to argue with me.

Returning your mother's physical affection is the best thing you could do to reassure her. You hug her back, but there's an itch in the back of your mind. There is her immediate dismissal of your appearance, your father's relative silence, and their constant aversion to addressing any of the questions you're sure they want to ask.

You need more than answers.

Ugly son of a bitch.

Can't even imagine what his ugly mug'll look like when he gets back here.

Scared the shit out of me, first time I saw you.

No better than a demon.

Keeping your mother in a firm embrace, you manage to pull back enough to look earnestly to her, and to your father. You need to be comforted, too. "At least I— I must be better looking than a demon. Right?"

The immediate response from both of them is an enormous relief.

"Of course—"

"Don't be ridiculous—"

Their brows furrow with worry. Your parents look to each other for a moment, and then back to you.

Your father makes a point of sitting beside you, wrapping an arm awkwardly around your shoulder in something resembling a hug. "It's clear as day that you're working yourself to the bone, boy. I know you've got my cheekbones, but you could cut yourself on 'em. I'd be lying if I said it wouldn't scare anyone—"

"Robert—!"

"You don't think he knows? Coming in here all secretive, practically after dark? Wouldn't show us his damn face?"

There's so little desire to say another word, to disrespect your father, or to argue for even a second that you keep your cracked and scarred lips entirely shut. Your mother doesn't interrupt, either— simply holding onto you as tightly as she can while her husband speaks.

"Richard, you don't need to hide anything. Not from us, and not from anyone else. Somewhere in that bone I know you've still got my chin. You still have your mother's eyes. Don't let anyone tell you that those scars aren't something to be proud of, either. But don't you have anyone taking care of you, in that big church of yours?"

Horror laces with legitimate curiosity. A very small smile comes across your mother's face. She leans over to shove his arm. "Robert."

You can't breathe as well as you'd like, and are still so sickeningly full that it's all you can do to hope they give up on the line of conversation. "It— it is getting late, isn't it? I could do with looking after myself. I'm sure I have kept you both up for long enough—"

A proper hug from your father steals the rest of your excuses away. The mop of unkempt hair atop your head is ruffled. "Don't just think you can dodge the question! I know you're your mother's son. Clever little bastard. You mean to tell me there isn't a girl for you back home? Someone who's happy to have a man who can protect her? I'm not getting any younger, Richard—"

Your mother manages to put a stop to the physical bullying, taking your father's hands in her own. It brings no relief. She redoubles the line of questioning. "He has a point, you know. You don't need to be as muscular as your father to protect your wife—"

"M-Mercy—"

"Don't you Mercy me. We've heard a few stories, dear, of what good work you've done. You must have someone helping you? You're so handsome when you take care of yourself, Richard. Any girl would be happy to bring you a few children, especially with such a large home—"

It's everything you can do to not squirm or run out of the room. Though it's a small comfort that your parents still think you look well enough to have a wife, they clearly have no idea that you've taken a vow of chastity before ever having a wife or children. Short of the congregation you saved from the ruins, there are no friends waiting for you in the Church of Mercy, let alone any romance. You've been an outsider, a pariah, and a prisoner for most of your life.

Even if I had the option, every interaction I've had with a woman— it's all ended before anything could come of it. Save for working with a succubus... or my worship of Mercy.

You're actually squirming, and unable to fire back a solid answer. Slipping away and retiring early seems prudent— but the loving way you're being held by both of your parents really has you trying to justify something to say in response to their questioning.

I at least managed to hold Celegwen's hand, but Mercy, they really have no idea what is going on in my life. I would hate to lie to them, but telling them that they won't be having any grand children— after such a long absence, no less? Would they even believe me if I were to say that I swore myself to a Goddess? Would they even be capable of understanding?

Helen asks, "Richard?"

"For fuck's sake, what's the problem?" Robert's frown is deepening by the second.

"I don't know how to say this. I don't—" It's difficult, but you manage to wrest yourself from the embrace of both of your parents, and look to them despite all of the conflict brewing in you. "The last thing I want is to frighten either of you any further—"

The confusion and obvious concern written across their faces is enough to remind you that they're already terrified for you. It's also abundantly clear that they need answers, and are simply being too kind to truly push you for them.

"I know you both won't understand—"

"It's alright, dear." Your mother's expression softens considerably. "You can tell us anything."

You know you can't. There's gold in your eyes, in your soul, and they can't possibly know the depths of your devotion.

Music

You place a hand over your heart. The soft fabric of your robes conceals your Relic from sight, but you can feel the heat and immediate comfort it still brings. Warmth spreads to your voice as you speak of who you love more than any other.

"I swore myself— all of myself. I swore my heart, my body, my soul, to Her— to the Goddess— as the Father of the Church of Mercy."

Your parents have little idea of how the upper echelons of the Church operates, and are deeply confused as to what you're saying. There's a great deal of worry written across their frowns at the implications alone. Your father's frown intensifies with each subsequent word.

"Mercy has blessed me with Her love. With our mutual promise. I took a vow of chastity. No mortal woman—"

Your father's disappointment is too intense to not interrupt. "You're joking."

"No."

"The fuck, Richard?"

So much nausea and anger crushes into you that you practically want to scream.

There's no articulating your frustration, so you pull the promise ring off of your hand, and show it to the couple before you with distaste.

There's a small nightmare. Dried blood is caked to the pointed gems on the interior of the band.

The ring is quickly clasped back in your palm. You have no intention of getting rid of the item, and clench your fist back around the gold. Hurt carves into your voice. "This was my choice. I swore myself to Mercy out of love, and devotion. It's not for lack of trying, or of options. I— I don't want to get into the details. I have known women— I don't want to get into how difficult things have been for me. I am entirely aware of the severity of this. I cannot— I don't have any hope of having a normal life."

You shove the ring into an empty pocket, glaring at their convinced faces with more hurt than you thought possible. "You must be thinking it would simply be a matter of finding the right person. You both know how hard things were for me as a child. It never—" Tremor returns to your voice. "It has never improved."

Your father's dismay seems absolute.

You want to cry as you clutch at the chain around your neck. The gold is a more welcome reminder of comfort than what any man or woman has brought you. "It's never gotten any better. The only thing either of you know about me is how awful my childhood was— and I don't— I can't hide anything from you. I don't have a wife. I've never had any children. I never will. Not in the same way as you. Not how you want. The church is my home— the clergy, Corcaea's people, and my congregation. They are our children. Mercy has been my guiding light. My partner. My ally. I love Her, and I don't expect either of you to understand. I don't want to have to defend Her—"

Your mother pulls you back into a hug, crying all over again. "Richard, please, don't be so hard on yourself. I can't stand to see you like this. Robert, you leave him alone."

"You can't tell me you're okay with this."

There's a sniff, and so much bitterness in your mother's voice that it's hard to recognize her words. "It's been thirteen years, Robert. What's wrong with you? Our baby is trying to share his life with us. He's absolutely right. I don't understand. We have no idea what's been going on in his life, or what he might have been through. But I want to know." She's holding onto you with far more strength than she should be able to manage.

Isn't she turning forty-eight, this First Sowing?

She feels so much frailer than she should. Is this all because of me?

Is she hurting herself?

"Mama, it's— it's alright. I'm sorry—"

"Don't you dare apologize for talking to us. This is our fault."

The farmer sitting beside you is clearly furious, but as he stands and glares down at you, you rapidly realize he's only upset with himself. "No priest had any right to raise you in my fucking place. You deserve a normal life, Richard. None of this is right."

He isn't moving.

Your mother leans behind you, keeping you in her firm embrace. You know she's holding her husband's hand. "We could have done so much more for you, Richard. I thought— we both knew— that you haven't been back in all this time..."

She's crying so hard she can't speak.

Mercy, no, they really don't understand at all—

Your father gives up on his anger, kneeling down beside you both to pull you all together into another tight hug. "Listen. Richard. We never blamed you for not coming home. I always figured— I mean, we knew that they had to have been treating you well. Better. And for everything that they've done for us— for how many times I wanted to march up to your damn church and drag you back home— I knew it wasn't the right thing to do."

You can practically feel his brow knit together. The hulking man pulls you as close to him as he's able.

It's plain as day that I've been hurt, isn't it?

Helen grasps onto the back of your robes, with a catch in her breath. She can easily feel your raised scar tissue through the thin fabric, and finds a few more words to murmur. "We've hoped you've been happy. We're sorry, Richard. None of this ever had to happen. We're so sorry. You could have— you deserve a quiet life. A wife, and children, and a little farm of your own—"

Your father's interjection is stiff and extremely unconvincing. "He's made his own choices. He said so himself. He wants this."

Her sobbing redoubles. "Our baby deserves so much better."

"Mama, please— don't cry. I have had better. Been better."

It's not easy, but you work your arms from between your father's hold. Hugging them as tightly as you're able is the least you can do.

"The Church of Mercy has given us all so much. You both have been safe. They saved me, mama. Papa. They saved my life, and have taught me everything. Even when I'm not at home, I've learned so much. I've saved so many lives. So many people— hurting, who have needed me— I have done so much good. Not just for them, but for myself, too. None if it would have been possible if I had stayed at home. If I lived a quiet life." You pull back, just enough to look firmly at both of them. "You know that I've missed you. No one needs to apologize for anything. I don't need to forgive you both, when you have done nothing wrong."

The tears in your mother's eyes are definitely from pride. Your father doesn't look up to you, having laid his head down on her shoulder. You safely assume that he doesn't want to show his disapproval, and put on a brave face in his stead.

"This will always be my home. Here, with both of you. But the Church has given me more than shelter. They have shown me Mercy. I owe more than my life to them. I— We— have saved my soul. I have been given so many opportunities."

Tightening your grasp as much as you're able, you look down to the small woman beside you, and the hulking farmer who's too emotional to speak. "But you gave me my life. I am going to make the most of it. I want to make you both proud."

Your mother clutches onto you. Her tears have stopped. "We're so proud of you. Don't you ever think for a second that we aren't. I just want you to be safe, and happy."

"You might want to take care of the whole damn country, Richard—"

"Robert, please—"

"...but you need to take care of yourself, too."

"He has a good point, beanstalk."

"Doesn't matter how many lives you save if you forget about your own."

"We have more than enough to get through even the worst of the winter, dear. Thanks to you. Maybe I could send you home with something?"

"Write to your damn mother sometime."

"He doesn't need to do anything of the sort—"

"No, mama, I— I wouldn't mind. You both are— you're absolutely right."

Their eyes are red, but as dry as your tattered robes. The heat of the hearth beside you all has dwindled considerably. It's hard to not wonder if the neglect has been entirely from how hard your parents have been focusing on you throughout the evening.

"I'm sorry for not— for not coming home sooner. You both need to know. I really— I have you to thank. For everything."

Knitting her hands back around her apron, your mother permits the man beside her to keep an arm around her shoulders. He straightens up, and looks to you with a great measure of respect. There's no small amount of concern.

"Father, is it?"

You might cry.

There's no helping it. A few tears fall as you look up to your father, reflecting his expression as you both brim with pride. He permits you to firmly wrap your arms around him, and to stutter through your thanks.

"Y-yes. I n-never thought I'd hear you say—"

"Father Anscham, then."

The rough pat on your back nearly knocks the wind out of you, but you don't care. Your shattered composure permits you to choke out a few more words. "Th-thank you, papa."

A broad and worried smile flashes back at you. "Don't thank me. It sounds like you've earned it."

You bury your face in his shoulder, allowing yourself to be held by your mother as well. The fire eventually dies out. Ray continues to sleep soundly through the rain, your tears, and so much support that you scarcely know what to do with yourself.

Eventually, you all retire for the evening. It's likely long after your parents should have gone to sleep, and they happily direct you to a spare room. It's more than reassuring to know that they've lived in relative wealth and security.

It's hard to not assume that they've been keeping the extra space just for you.

Father Wilhelm is sleeping soundly in a rather small bed. His nightcap hangs stupidly off the side.

It's a relief for your red eyes, to close the door behind you, and to slip back into darkness. Though the ends of your ankles don't quite rest on the spare mattress, you don't mind curling up and drifting off with Ray by your side. The pounding rain on the roof, cracks of lightning, and an evening that passes by with no more distress is more than you can ask for.

No one visits you in the darkness.