Chapter 12: Chrysanthemums

"Mourning. Passion. Love."​

The ladder and all the exterior stone are slick with the last light rainfall, while you leave the gorgeous view and your question behind. You descend back into the keep's exterior hold uneventfully, for almost every door of the Church of Flesh seems to have opened. There's a change of guard inside and out. They are utterly uninterested in your passing, attending to their duties as the rest of the city begins to rise. You keep your head down, your hood up, and make it outside without event. The complaints of countless men and women starting their day lingers in only a few of the hallways you leave behind— but for the most part, it seems eerily silent.

Outside of the interior walls— passing by the courtyard— the cold air doesn't hit you as hard as the garden of your creation. A few guards lift their gaze to you. They're infinitely more alert than their partners, but not a soul dares to interfere as you approach the field beyond.

You put your hood back, lifting the gold and green in your eyes to the sunrise. Mercy's rays peek through the high walls of the blood and gore streaked battlements, casting a glow over all the morning's mist. It reflects the gilt in your hair, the metal on the field, and all of the gemstone speckled over the ground ahead.

It's hard to not get a closer look. Kneeling down beside evidence of the Gods, you place a hand beneath one of the delicate stems. The intensity of each flower's color reminds you so much of the magma you fought over that you nearly draw back in surprise. Bright yellow petals are dusted with eye-searing sapphires, rubies, and gold plating. The metallic stems are shockingly fragile, coarse to the touch, and easily snaps off in your hand.

You're probably frowning. The flower's properties (you are not so fragile, nor so coarse to the touch) has you wanting to make a self-deprecating comment, but you restrain yourself.

I need to show myself compassion, too.

You awkwardly stand with the flower in hand only for a moment, before realizing you have no better place to put it. Fidgeting with it does nothing to ease your nerves. For all your interest in things that grow, you self-soothe by identifying the item's meaning as best as you're able.

"Faith, honesty, loyalty— neglected affection. Mourning. Passion. Love. Chrysanthemums. They are appropriate, aren't they?"

​

The flower remains in your palm. The abstract gold leaf and smattering of gems is a welcome distraction from the likely muttering of the guards at their posts.

You've been standing around for several minutes alone, and resolve to go straight to Father Friedrich.

He's been more than an ally. This is his home, his church, and I need his mentorship now, more than ever.

The front door to the church is wide open as the sunrise climbs. The main hall is airing out to compensate for how much cleaning transpired over the night.

The aroma of some grain being stewed in enormous quantities hits you before you even step properly inside. There's a little old blood in a current underneath. You must look visibly sick, for the looks directed at you when you enter the building. A few women actually have the audacity to gawk. Two stop their scrubbing completely to murmur with one another. They're largely gathered before a rearranged dining hall, to the rear of the keep. Many more are going about fitting men with armor— servants— not designated members of clergy.

There are countless more figures running about, masking the sounds of rising gossip. The noise is largely from the priests overflowing from rooms beyond, with several dozen of them already seated. They're bristling with eagerness and devotion to serve, to fight, to live another day under the sun.

A few brush past you without realizing your identity. You're perplexed. Only moments ago, everyone was just waking up. You safely assume that the exterior wall of the church is used to harbor the sick, dying, and injured. A further quarantine— while the interior services daily life. The priests of Flesh must also be early risers, for how much enthusiasm they're going about their activities with.

"Father." A slight nod, from a gentleman with a graying mustache and biceps thicker than your waist. He almost knock you aside as he passes, sprinting to the courtyard beyond for some training exercise.

Another man follows, casually righting you, and paying no heed to what sacrilege it may normally be to lay his hands on someone of your position. He's polite enough, though it sounds like he's still waking up. "...Father Anscham. My mistake."

You start inching past a flood of men that are obviously heading out for a morning run.

"'scuse me, Father."

"Father Anscham, good morning."

"Up and at 'em, eh, Father? Heard you didn't get a lick of sleep, haha!" Cyril's thin ponytail disappears beyond a far wall. You can't be bothered to chase after the increasingly familiar blonde, for the speed in which he curls away from the building.

The distaste on your face can't possibly be clearer. Doing your best to ignore a few chuckles and good-natured pats on your back, you're almost tempted for a moment to stay.

Despite your burgeoning hatred of grains and the nauseating aroma of oatmeal carrying hot across the main hall, your conviction remains unwavering. Every firm pat on your scarred and wasted back furthers your resolve. Seeing to Father Friedrich's training remains your top priority.

You resolve to uphold his training regimen before even paying the man a visit. There's no doubt in your mind that he'll appreciate your devotion to Flesh, and to his counsel.

Moving ahead as best as you're able has to wait only a few moments. The ability to take a few good-natured blows, and to tolerate the banter from Cyril without losing your cool seems to have garnered a little more respect from the rest of the men heading outside. Their pats and reassurance fades into a quick departure from holy men in every direction, giving you enough space to weave past the remaining figures.

Across the main hall— which is damp from the last of the night watch's cleaning— you peer ahead to no pomp or ceremony. A relieved sigh escapes you. There's no obligation to lead a massive prayer, or to receive so much as a glance of recognition for entering another room. In fact, the few dozen men and women about you seem much more concerned with their own affairs.

As you sweep up an empty bowl from a stack near the entryway, it's simply impossible to not pick up on a little conversation.

"Barely made it out in time."

"Think you'll be alright this morning...?"

"What the fuck kind of question is that? I'll throw you across the table before I take a rest day—!"

"Heathen!"

"Kiss-ass."

"...had shoulders the size of a demon! I heard he was throwing them around like it was nothing!"

"My back's still achin' from the last time I saw the bastard. How does he keep it up, at his age—?"

"Don't let Father Fred hear you talking like that."

No complaints are directed towards you (not to your face, at least) while you approach a mousy looking young woman. Her hunched shoulders are over one of the pots at the center of the room. Smoke rises in great plumes from the fire beneath, and filters out through a number of holes in the ceiling above. The brunette is immune to it, or couldn't care less.

The scent of oats, vegetables and a few herbs is intense— but nowhere near as much as the conversation taking place at adjacent tables. You can't remember the last time you heard raised voices, let alone open displays of emotion.

"Gold! It was everywhere!"

"Impossible. I don't believe it."

"You've seen weirder shit, haven't you?"

"Yeah, but—"

"You calling me a liar?"

"Well, he's only human."

"..."

"...isn't he?"

You're grimacing. The brunette lifts her head to fill your dish. Bits of grain and specks of greenery litter her aprons and linen skirts. She can't be older than sixteen, for the pockmarks and blemishes littering her face.

A trembling hand— substantially smaller than yours— is extended to take your bowl. There's no hue in her dark eyes, which go incredibly wide upon recognizing you. "F-Father Anscham, g-good morning—" She draws back instantly for fear of being too brazen. It's ridiculous, and unfounded, but the girl is clearly terrified of offending you. "Here, sir. I m-mean—! Father, if you p-please—"

The majority of the lesions are turned away from you. Deference drenches her. She's likely an entire foot shorter than you, and doesn't dare to look up fully to meet your gaze.

Her eyes fix at waist-level.

A long, uncomfortable moment passes.

"Missing the run this morning?"

"If I have to pull one more shift in the sick ward..."

"I'm changing seats. Hey! It was a joke, give that back—!"

Your frown intensifies, but you try soften your words as the woman fishes out several more dishes. "It's quite alright. Allow me—"

She isn't taking no for an answer. You realize her gaze is fixed at your loose robes, (doing no favors to conceal how emaciated you are,) rather than meeting the hollows on your pale and sleep-deprived face.

"G-go have a seat, I'll bring everything over to you." There's no use arguing with her. The bowl is snatched cleanly and quickly out of your hands, filled in seconds, and shoved promptly back at you. "G-go on. I'll be right over!"

Looking for a place away from prying eyes or reminders of past reprimand doesn't take long.

"Think there's anything left out there?"

"Not a chance. You've got the eyes of an elf—"

"Look, I just haven't been back outside."

There are plenty of empty seats. You try to pick one closest to the back, away from the gossip and bustle.

"Come on, the festival might still be running!"

"Are you dense? We'll be lucky if half the city hasn't closed down."

You're fidgeting with the chain at the edge of your neck, already longing for a little more space.

"You didn't hear? Look, over there—"

"...healed nearly a hundred? You've got to be fuckin' shitting me—"

It's impossible to avoid all of the goings on, or the words of two men that seem to intentionally pass directly behind you. They're headed towards a side door, near the back of the building.

"...not on your fucking life."

"You won't believe it. Come on."

"You're crazy."

"Not as much as they are."

"Point."

"We can slip out for a few minutes. Hear Freddy has his hands full. Two other big headed—"

The smaller of the two men walking behind you stumbles over his words and his own two legs. "Shit—!"

Despite carrying an abundance of empty glasses, he recovers quickly from nearly falling directly onto you, tenses upright, and assumes something resembling formality. He's trying to make himself presentable, or so you'd think. A pair of crimson robes, with long sleeves fastened at the wrist by a number of linen threads, scarcely moves while he sets the dishes aside. The priest even makes an informal bow.

You meet his clear brown eyes only for a moment. Not a single scar litters the man's bald head or shaved visage.

The man's back quickly turns to you while he fishes the remains of his breakfast back up, and obviously struggles not to laugh.

You remain seated. This is petty. You are not.

It's a lot quieter in the mess hall. The clown's hulking accomplice seems utterly dismayed by his brother's remarks and behavior.

At least to your face.

He elbows his companion firmly enough that you almost feel it (you are not going to get flustered or distracted this early in the day) while he nods, bows his head to you, and drags the other man away as rapidly as he's able. You don't pay any heed to whether or not they're snickering or looking your way as they exit.

It's difficult to not recognize how much space you're being given by every other figure in the room.

The mousy looking young woman returns after a few minutes, struggling to balance no fewer than six dishes along her arms and hands. You move quickly to aid her, and receive a disproportionate amount of thanks in turn.

"You really didn't have t-to. Thank you." With a curtsy, a small shower of grain and bits of vegetation dust out onto the floor. The girl turns back as quickly as she's able, and leaves you to your own devices.

You murmur a prayer to Agriculture, thankful beyond belief for something resembling normalcy. It's not perfect, but this is infinitely closer to what you're used to. You try to position your back to the rest of the dining hall, and suffer through the meal.

Everything smells divine. The fare is simplistic, exactly to your liking, and nowhere near satisfying. It's a shame that the effort is wasted. You haven't felt hunger in the last three years, and certainly don't experience it now. Nevertheless, you diligently commit to the pain. You are simply delighted to realize that having given your restraint to a demon is not a permanent affair. The sheer volume of food you've had set aside is there for your own desire to make up for lost time. To serve a God of muscle and sinew.

I will not be a disappointment.

Your mind wanders far away from the petty gossip and the humble gathering behind you. You're acutely aware of what a higher position you hold from the men and women here, and that it may take them some time to approach you— if they have the courage to do so at all.

You've been through a lot. They likely all know it.