Chapter 1: A New Beginning

"I need your help."​

You have not emerged from the depths of the world, traveled halfway across the country, and arrived at the Church of Flesh for nothing. This is a new beginning.

Screams of the dying cut across the cold Harvest air. So many lives have been taken in the holy city of Beorward. But distant as the screams are, each echo for relief cannot be ignored. The peals of agony carry across the stone, the wood, and all the way up to the drawbridge before you.

It is the end of Harvest. No end is in sight to the smoke that gathers. It comes from your breath, and in red tendrils on the horizon.

Father Wilhelm has foreseen your path here. Another tendril of smoke snakes just ahead of you from his dwindling cigar.

Thoughts of running to aid the injured are carved into you, but the urge forms into something so much worse than recurring suicidal tendencies. It lingers beyond the forefront of your mind, ahead of the gatehouses, and beyond all of your companions.

You hold a veteran position in the Church of Mercy, but you are surrounded by your elders. Ten other priests— your current guides— cut a more striking image than even the carnage littering the courtyard before you. They are all rippling muscle, heaving with a lifetime of effort with passing step. They carve through the interior of the battlements, towards the barracks and high walls. Its spiked foundations, high ramparts, and rivulets of water are all streaked with more red.

The same hue hits the smoke on the horizon even deeper than before. Someone has called upon Flesh.

The screams are intensifying. There is little fear in any of your hearts. You are men of the Gods.

Not even the stairs ahead can distract you from your thoughts, but it's all you can do to not trip up to the door that dwarfs even your respectable height. The evidence of a battle recently fought— and scarcely won— is all around you. It is written in the priests strain beside you, their silence, and the active repression of emotion; anything that may excite the very thing that has taken their countrymen.

The distraction— your focus— is not on your imminent meeting with Father Friedrich. Not having conquered the ruins. Not for all you have learned. Not even for everything you have endured. Your singular thought goes out to a nightmare that you cannot escape. It is your obsession. A weakness. It lies not only in the clergy and citizenry that are weeping in isolation, crying out for aid. Not in the way that they have surely been dragged and carted away from the rest of the city, held in bondage for fear of what they may do if they turn. It cannot be quarantined. The weakness is something that lurks in all of humanity, and such efforts are futile with so much obvious emotion on display.

The thought sits in your mind, which is meaningless. Your study lies in the soul. In the Catalyst.

The wounded here no longer fear triggering it. Their restraint has been broken. What— how much have I missed? I was in the ruins for no more than two months at the most. How many survivors am I actually hearing?

Why will no one explain anything?

You are no stranger to suffering. Though you know the agony and destruction here more intimately than any woman, you do not know what precisely is expected of you in the Church of Flesh. Not of Father Friedrich, and no longer of your station as the Father of the Church of Mercy.

Nothing has prepared you for such a meeting. The country has likely mistaken you for dead. Father Friedrich guides the bulk of Corcaea's defense. He will want to know everything he can of your travels, your mission, your companions, and your absence. The fact that you have received absolutely no acknowledgement of your identity, no proper greeting, and are being escorted away from the sick and injured into the halls of the church without so much as a word of explanation...

You are an honest man. A healer. You may have been labeled time and time again as far worse, but you are determined to be better. To uphold the tenets of your Goddess, and to lead a life away from the darkness.

As five of the priests of Flesh set to getting the doors to the church, the screams of the dying come closer. They rise from the exterior defenses. They are inescapable. A sick feeling is in your gut, and not just because of how hard you've been pushing yourself as of late.

The cries are intensifying by the second. Something is horrifically wrong. Several of the priests beside you seem disturbed, though they don't say a word.

Their lack of motion to aid their fellow man has your heart in your throat.

Those are human screams. Not all of them have turned.

They know who I am.

They're placing my life over those of the injured, aren't they?

The agony in the distance cannot outweigh your conviction. Though it may seem prudent to go join the fight, every part of you knows how important this meeting is. To uphold your position. To do the right thing. To not blatantly and immediately disrespect the will of the Father of the Church of Flesh.

It is impossible to take too much precaution in a land of Gods and demons. Men shouting on the other side of the colossal, wooden, metal banded door almost carries over the screams. The five priests ahead, and the clergy on the opposite side of the door work in tandem to wrest open the entrance.

Without protest, you step inside the halls of the Church of Flesh.

​

It reminds you of home. The Church of Flesh is significantly smaller than your own place of worship, but there are ample signs of devotion. The stone castle's winding halls are adorned with so much red. Flame is mounted in countless lanterns and torches on every stone wall. Braziers roar over the bustle of clergy seeing to the dead and dying. Tapestries of bandages adorn hundreds of men's wounds. Father Friedrich's symbol is hung upon banners from the ceiling, on the backs of armored men running off towards the courtyard, and to desperate hands returning from the fight.

More come back bleeding. Swords, shields, spears, halberds, and bare fists replace them, or go running for the city.

The door closes. Despite how many men and women are in the throes of death, they remain silent on the floor. Row after row of bodies bleeds out beside your worn leather shoes.

You interject the silence to command Ray to your side. No one argues, though a few heads do turn. You dismiss them by ushering that a clergyman attend to your pack horse, and take a single further step into the building.

There is a priest on every side of you. You stand nearly a head taller than the shortest one, and glance to Father Wilhelm as he's also flanked.

The Father of the Church of Dream seems terribly proud of you.

Whatever rumors there are about me are unfounded. I know my duty.

You had nearly forgotten that you paint an imposing, substantial figure when necessary. The blonde priest keeps right ahead of you. He would be at your height, but the slouch in his shoulders ensures he maintains a shorter stature.

For all the months you've endured teasing and belittling, you don't mind the blonde's presence. He keeps his hands and any comments to himself. In fact, no one pays any heed to your rapid pace, broad steps, or your obvious eagerness to cut across the floor.

Winding halls and corridors take you back to weeks of wandering in similarly claustrophobic chambers. You pass beyond no windows. There is nothing more than the smallest slits in the defense for spears and molten rock.

You glance out of one. The steps to the front of the church were steep, but it pales in comparison to the sheer cliff. The plummet to the river below. That awful feeling again, in the pit of your stomach. Screams. The crawl. An itch in the back of your mind that beckons to reach out, and to do worse.

You are pulled back to the present moment. There is a dog at your side whining politely, and trying to command your attention.

You want to gesture to Ray to insist that you're alright, but a hand is on the side of your cloak. It's the priest of Flesh. Though his exposed arms seem relatively unscathed, his knuckles are grotesquely ravaged from battle. He looks to you kindly, and nods his head towards the end of the hall.

The man's speech is less refined than what you would expect for a member of clergy, but it's not a surprise given his poor posture. Scrutinizing his blonde hair and poor breeding isn't exactly a priority. "Father Friedrich has been—" A sharp scream from one of the corridors you just passed through slices through the man's speech. He doesn't even blink. "—expecting you. Don't want to keep him waiting, right?"

The hand comes off of your shoulder. Everyone looks to you earnestly.

Father Wilhelm is visibly sweating. "Can you excuse us? For just a moment."

Mercy, no. He didn't.

Every clergyman seems irritated.

He must have. He was keeping secrets from more than just me, wasn't he?

An older gentleman— with a neck easily as broad as your thigh— turns down his mustache at the priest of Dream and crosses his arms. His muscle could put your father's strength to shame. So does the sternness of his voice.

"No."

Father Wilhelm has done more for you than anything you could possibly hope for. Turning as politely as you can manage from the priests, you murmur to your guide, "thank you, Father Wilhelm, but we can speak another time. I would hate to keep Father Friedrich waiting. Is it alright if I enter unaccompanied...?"

The cracks of blue in Father Wilhelm's skin stand even starker than usual as he pales. Wearily, he manages to puff away at his cigar, offers no further protest, and simply nods back.

You call Ray to your side and press on. It's just a few steps to the unlocked door at the end of the hall. The innermost defenses of the Church of Flesh have metal-banded doors just like the drawbridge and main gate. The heavy entrance has been mercifully left open.

Dozens of maps litter an otherwise luxuriously decorated room. There are boxes, packages, and many stacks of gifts neatly placed in piles. They are focused around a colossal table in the center of the chamber. It is utterly devoid of the counsel and company you would expect, for a man of such a lofty position.

One that rivals your own.

Music

"Thank you, Cyril. That will be all." The gruff, ragged, and surreally familiar voice must be directed towards the blonde.

The veteran priest rolls his shoulders back. "...Father."

The door remains awkwardly open. The rest of the clergymen remain. Father Wilhelm offers you a disconcerted look, as the blonde— Cyril— and the rest of the priests back away in deference.

Only a moment passes in silence before the entire group leads your companion back out of the corridor. Ruby-red smoke pools at the top of the room, sinks into the cracks of the wood, and flows back out into the hallway beyond. You turn your attention towards the source.

There are no chairs in the entirety of the chamber. Father Friedrich seems more comfortable standing in his office, though not a single hair on his well-groomed beard is currently content. More muscle than anyone should rightfully command paces behind a colossal table littered with maps. He's shorter than you expected, and his gaze is redder, but there's no trace of tears. No anger adorns his tilted smile, and neither does anything else that would typically cause blood to flow into the orbs.

The color is in his irises. You've only seen the look one other time: when Flesh has worked through you.

​

"Father Anscham. I should act surprised, shouldn't I? Our people are dying on the other side of these walls. Maybe your head went soft, down in the ruins? Will you close the damn door—"

Before you can so much as interject, he strides across the room. The intensity of every step has your hair on end. He's fitted in black, skin-tight, and unbroken fabric from the top of his thick neck to the soles of his feet. Only a single band of red cloth is tied around the man's tapered waist. It billows behind him, for how much speed he takes in closing the door.

"Father Friedrich. It— it is an honor, to meet you in person—"

His smile is entirely gone now that the door is shut. If your instincts aren't mistaken, you'd say he'd like to punch you.

He's definitely about to.

It's a good thing your nerves are so fried from the last several months of fighting for your life. He's barely telegraphing the swing, but you know what's coming.

You have been training through old responsibility, your position as the leader of the Church of Mercy, and its many obligations. For all of your suffering and turmoil, you have learned to do one thing exceedingly well.

With the reactions of a man who has fought nothing but demons for weeks, and who has pushed his body to its absolute limit for so much longer, you dodge.

In a desperate fit at showing some modicum of restraint, you only move your head as slightly to the side as you need to. There's a kick of wind past the side of your defined jawline as a fist completely misses it. You get a good look at the missed opportunity before the priest's weapon draws back.

Not a single scar adorns his immaculate Flesh, save for an old cut across one red eye.

Ray is immediately on edge, and growls viciously. The wisdom to know that your life is not in any immediate danger stays an attack. You firmly command him to stay for good measure, to back up, and to get to relative safety.

Father Friedrich snorts at the gesture, as if it's comedic for you to even bother.

You try launching something better than an attack in return. (The question comes out as a stammer, for how unused you are to behaving sanely.) "F-Father Friedrich, please— if you could please let me know what's transpired here? We have only just arrived in Beorward. I know your Time is precious, but—"

He's still grinning, and tries to punch you again.

You can't remember the last time you sincerely asked someone else for quality information. It's all you can do to cut yourself off, and to step cleanly backwards away from the blow.

So much strength is behind the movement. You practically feel the wind knocked out of you without any contact.

The phantom of the strike has you fidget with the chain barely hidden about your neck the moment you are certain of your balance. It's a nervous habit, and you try to immediately repress it, but that's useless as well. It's obvious that Father Friedrich is testing you. There is not a single feint or attempt at anything more than a ham-fisted attempt at keeping you distracted.

You stay determined to avoid every blow you're able.

The priest moves to sweep your feet out entirely from beneath you, with a broad swing of one leg. He's smiling ear to ear, and practically glowing with religious fervor.

You jump back. It feels utterly ridiculous, and is harder than it should be given how much finery you're wearing. You're much more accustomed to simple robes and trousers.

The urge to at least take off the fur cloak is overwhelming, so you do so the very moment you land. As you toss the excessive garment aside, you see that Father Friedrich has stepped back as well.

The room feels like it's ablaze for how much heat is in your face, and all of the red that's in the man's eyes before you. He's still grinning wildly. "What's wrong? Sick of fighting?"

"Certainly not so soon. It would..." You glance down to your scarred hands. A weapon of all of the Gods. The skin is laced with old burns, lacerations, and evidence of every fight you have survived. "I am attempting to be Merciful, Father Friedrich."

The man standing before you (showing no sign of exertion) simply places his hands behind his back. The priest is surely being polite to not comment on your speech, and to grant you the time to speak at length.

You make a few more gestures to your boy to reassure him, and to keep his own nerves down. It's abundantly clear that Ray is not going to attack. "What has happened?"

His grin fades, if only slightly. "Since when, Father Anscham? Today? This week? Last I heard, you abandoned your station five months ago? Shouldn't I be the one asking you a few damned questions?"

The door is closed. To the best of your knowledge, this is as safe of a room to speak candidly in as you can hope for.

The urge to bet, to barter, and to take in as much information as you're able is irresistible. There's an odd tilt to your voice. "Yes."

"Yes? Yes what? Speak clearly." The jab isn't malicious. Father Friedrich's grin is persisting, for all of the church leader's obvious impatience.

It may be impossible, but you somehow manage to stand even straighter. "You should be the one asking questions— but I have a few of my own, Father Friedrich."

"Get on with it, then."

"You don't—"

"I really don't have Time for games right now, Father Anscham."

The walls of the room seem to have muffled any exterior noise, but you're confident that the screams outside couldn't have died down so quickly.

"Then, please, can you tell me as much as you're able? Of what— of what has transpired in my absence?"

The man's patience seems to already be at his limit. He doesn't groan, or lose his composure, but you see a small twitch in his mustache. "I don't want to have to interrogate you to have a proper conversation, Father Anscham. Pretend like we're having a damn sermon if that's what it takes, but speak clearly. No one has heard hide or hair of you in months, save for your..." He searches for a long minute, for an appropriate word. "...expedition into the ruins."

"Please." You're grimacing hard. "All I have heard is of the men and women I rescued."

The smirk is gone entirely. "They kicked up a Storm— don't give me that face, not literally— in the capital."

You're acutely aware that you must look as if someone's personally murdered your children.

They left? Of course they left. How could I have expected them to wait for me?

Father Friedrich's hands remain behind his back. He nods with his head for you to walk with him.

The two of you pace across the broad room just for the sake of moving. Every fried nerve and aching muscle in your devastated body jumps at the chance for more exertion, and to move faster, but you're kept in check by the man beside you. It's clear that he recognizes and shares your desire to burn off some agitation.

"I had always suspected, Father Anscham, that your deference was simply for lack of knowledge. That you would aim to usurp my authority the moment you realized how severe things really have been. Here. In our home." He comes to a halt. "That's never been the case, has it?"

"I would be lying— if I were to say that I have been in anything but the dark, Father Friedrich." Your face hurts from frowning so hard. "But I have always respected your decisions. Even— even while Father Wilhelm and I traveled here, I have been upholding your word to the letter, as best as I have been able." The utter lack of information has you fidgeting again. "I simply— I need to know—"

The priest resumes walking at the first sign of your physical discomfort. You oblige him, while he finally gives you the answers you're seeking. "Your congregation made it out of the ruins, alright. I haven't been able to get word from Father Sullivan or any of the gentlemen holed up in your Church—" There's a swell of pride and so much mutual respect at the remark, you might actually let up on your grimace. "—but I strongly suspect they've been up to the same business as the King."

The weight in your gut drops completely. You almost stop walking, for how light your head becomes.

I was sent to the ruins for His mission, initially. Wasn't I? Wasn't that the whole farce? The only way I could get out—

"None of them seem terribly pleased, Father Anscham. A few lost souls have dropped word to me of the King's men— of a few vagrants— that have slipped into Beorward. Looking for you. They know you're alive. Everyone that cares to listen does, by now, thanks to your happy little congregation. They've been hard at work in Calunoth, preaching—"

Don't say it. They wouldn't.

"—about you."

"Blasphemy." You say it simply, as if it will excuse the behavior.

A frown is directed back at you. "The truth. You saved their lives, didn't you?"

"Yes, but—"

"There is nothing wrong with looking after your children, Father. Absolutely nothing. I would have done the same thing, if I could."

Every ring of sage must be visible in your own irises, as you stare wide-eyed at the priest before you. "They— they can't be. This is— I can't. There must be something that can be done."

"Of course there is. You have to get home safely, and set things right. The trouble is the whole fucking country is in disarray, and I need your help. I need you to be honest with me, Father Anscham." The smirk is incessant. "Not that you can help it."

"There— there must be more. I need to understand, Father Friedrich. Though I do wish to speak with you about all of this—"

"Over a dozen men and women escaping from the ruins? Preaching the return of the Father of the Church of Mercy? All that's not enough to sate you? Isn't restraint a tenet of Mercy? You a—"

Don't call me a glutton.

"Yes, Father Friedrich, but—"

"Look. Father Anscham." His smirk doesn't threaten to return. The lines in the man's face are indicative of decades of stress, a lifetime of servitude, rightfully earned wisdom, and so much more than you know of handling a country's defenses. "It would be a privilege to fill you in on our strategy in Baranfen, King Magnus' diplomacy and efforts to the east, all of the issues you left in the Church of Agriculture and Mercy, or even Father Wilhelm's obvious absence. We could likely talk all day about any number of petty economic issues I'm scrambling to remedy, our crumbling cities, or the approach of Worship— or for that matter, even the damn weather. Everything, everything has been cause for concern. But I have demons in my Church, and I need your help. I am doing everything I can to uphold your tenets, Father. If I'm to be perfectly honest, your arrival was very ill-timed."

"I— I see." This is about as terrible as you left the state of affairs. Without any details, it's difficult to say how much your own absence has exacerbated matters.

The priest comes to an awkward halt before the door. Ray is sitting angrily in front of it, growling.

"Easy, Ray."

"Is he always like this?"

"No. There was no need for you to attempt to strike me, Father Friedrich. Don't—"

The priest fearlessly moves towards the exit. The urgency and command in your tone halts his procession, and any possible attack from Ray.

You timidly say, "please don't get any closer. Back, boy. Stay."

The priest hangs back only until Ray is safely to the side. "Father Anscham, I have no idea what you've been through, and I won't put you in harm's way if I can help it. It would be prudent for you to stay in hiding until we can sort this mess out. I can offer you my protection for a time, but I do have my children to attend to. I won't stop you. Probably couldn't, if everything I've heard has any truth to it. Would be some skin off my back—" There's a wink as Father Friedrich opens the door. "—even if something happened to you."

The distance between you two grows rapidly. You move to follow him, but you're given a gesture to stay put. "Either way, my clergy will come back in no more than ten minutes."

Father Friedrich brings his palms to the needle threaded around his neck. A symbol of the Flesh he'll soon need to mend. The rooms in the corridor must be empty. He calls to you while striding down the hall, just before fading completely from view.

"Don't disappoint me."