Chapter 13: Our Tea

"It does not ease the poison in your mind."

The following contains material that may be distressing to some readers.

Trigger Warnings: Self-harm, binging, eating disorders, suicide.

Reader discretion is advised. ​

Father Friedrich's mentorship has already meant the world to you. He may not know how much he's guided your training, but you're determined to make the most of your work under the Church of Flesh.

A quick gesture towards the mousy little kitchen maid is all the indication she needs to understand your intent. Enough food to sustain three men is unceremoniously brought to you, and in short order. It's fast enough that you try to commend the girl's work.

She's wide-eyed, clearly impressed, and still too intimidated to give you so much as a name. "Call for m-me if you need anything else, F-Father."

For all of your discomfort, the disparaging remarks you've been given about being a glutton, and the unbearable weight already in you, you can't help but be comforted.

You're reminded distinctly of another church leader you studied under. One who's tutelage came just on the cusp of you becoming the Father of the Church of Mercy.

It's been a little over three years now, hasn't it?

Music

​

"Richard! It's a gooood thing you're taller than these beanstalks, or I'd never have found you—"

A sing-song voice, creeping over your work, was nothing like the sterile reprimand you were so used to in the halls of the Church of Mercy.

The beanstalks and every other trellis before you were bare, but Mother Bethaea tried to keep a good sense of humor. You could see her running nearly a mile before she reached you, though she closed the distance rapidly.

Her short and stick-like limbs were as twiggy as the strands of gray peeking out from the braids in her hair. The strawberry hue— hidden deeply underneath a wide straw hat— did not meet the sun's rays. It made little difference, for her green robes were hiked up to the elbow. The dark freckles littering her arms and face were nearly as tan as the rest of her, thanks to a lifetime spent in the field.

The hue of her position was no indication of what she saw. Long stretches of barren farmland miles around Wearmoor meant that she was the only sage in sight.

"I don't suppose you're trying to give the crop a little extra sun?"

You almost want to groan.

Her smile was as pained as ever. "Don't give me that face. Just look at how pale you are!"

​

You reflexively move to throw your robes back on, longing to cover your bare back. Dirt is deep under your nails, for how hard you've been working the field.

A sincere laugh is pointed at your grimace and stiff movements. "Don't bother! Keep reflecting the Goddess right back onto the world! Come on, mister. There's nothing we can do for these little blessings, but there's a few rows just ahead that I just know you'll want to see."

The deep lines around her eyes squinted at you through the sun and a smile.

Your training began at the start of Devotion, at the behest of your brothers in the Church of Mercy. It only lasted through the end of the Last Reaping.

The same month you decided three years later to take a leave of absence from your own church.

She earned the respect.

Mother Bethaea insisted that you run alongside her, for all her eagerness to attend to her Goddess.

"Life! Death! It's an endless cycle, Father Anscham. In all of the fields of the world, between every man, woman and child. More than in the fields, or the green! You know full well that Agriculture must take away Her bounty, but She has so much to give, too! Here we are—"

A humid, hot and completely dark building stood before you.

The urge to back away, to balk, and to refuse entry must have been written clean across your face. "What could possibly grow in here...?"

"I know it looks a little strange now. It's alright. You're going to love this. Come on inside! I have a few candles. Mind the floor, I left a few pots out."

Soft candlelight flared forth, casting a golden glow over a very small room. Your mentor's white smile shone through the darkness. It was more than enough reassurance to stay your urge to turn and run.

"The land may be foul, but the people, Richard! People like me and you are more than just the soil or the sky. We're going to make a little light, even in all of this darkness. Come on. I have a few cuttings over here..."

A small box— damp to the touch— was promptly shown to you.

"What is this?"

"They're terribly delicate, do be careful. Came straight from a ruin."

"You couldn't have—"

"Oh, of course I could have. It's not cursed. Don't worry that scruffy mop on your head."

Inside was a luminescent moss. It cast just enough light to be seen when Mother Bethaea covered the candlelight in hand.

"Sorcery?"

"A blessing. It thrives where no life rightfully should. We're going to make something incredible with it."

"Light."

"That's the Spirit!"

You get a little bolder, trying hard to not smile. Your own Goddess has always been in your thoughts. "No, Mother Bethaea— Mercy. We can do more, can't we? Something that—" You've always been bold, when you speak of the things you love. "—that could heal."

A small knife was produced from the woman beside you. She gathered a piece of the precious growth, and led you across the small room to a huge assortment of terribly pale and dying plants.

You've always been honest. "These look terrible."

She was always quick to laugh. "Best We could do. This is where you come in, Father Anscham!"

You helped her in every way you could. The next few weeks seemed to fly by.

Your first true attempts at Agriculture were an abysmal failure. Countless hours were spent in the dark. Countless more were in the field. The most was spent among the clergy, in the humble halls of the Church. It was always quiet. There was a famine, and meals were short affairs.

​

Working the field and helping your mentor always came first. It was not only more pleasant.

You knew how badly they needed your help. "I can tend to the vines, please— there is no need for you to—"

The small and spindly woman was eagerly extracting a weed with nothing but her gloved hands and a predictably low amount of strength. "For the last time, Richard— I appreciate all of the help, but I need to do this myself—!"

"I— I won't argue, Mother Bethaea, but please, do be careful—"

"Phyllis!"

"Bless you—"

"No, you goofball. My name. You're wound up more tightly than these vines, dammit ALL—!"

A triumphant shout, and a complete extraction of the weed followed. Straight down to the root, the entire menace surfaced. Phyllis staggered backwards, but you made a point to step back, permitting the woman to stay on her own feet without your interference.

"HA-ha! Take that! Feisty little demons, aren't they?"

"You fought them valiantly, Mother Beth— Mercy. Are you sure it's alright? It doesn't feel right."

"It's alright, Richard! You're nothing like any of these pests. Call me whatever you please, alright?"

"...yes, ma'am."

"We're going to get you to relax if it kills me. You know, I've been working on a new kind of brew, and I think this batch of barley is perfectly palatable..."

You found out time and time again that it wasn't.

"Richard. Are you alright?"

"N-not necessarily. Mercy, do we have any water...?"

"Plenty, just a moment. I am so sorry— here you are—!"

Nothing could possibly get rid of the taste.

"You look like you're dying. Take a minute."

You do. It might as well have killed you, for how spoiled the crops clearly were.

"It's... Mercy, thank you—"

"You've always been straight with me, Richard. What could be better? Go on! I can take it!"

"It's buttery. Rancid. S-sorry. Something in the yeast was off, Mother Bethaea." You're coughing, longing for something to get the taste of out your mouth. There's nothing else to spare, so you endure.

Your palate isn't refined, for how little food and drink you'd had in your twenty years. You had been something of a guinea pig for Phyllis's experiments nonetheless.

"I see. You know I appreciate your honesty, truly, but... oh, bother. This won't do at all. Come help me with the keg when your cough calms down."

Rolling the item to the back of the church was a short affair. Everything went into a patch of unbearably dry soil.

"At least She might appreciate it!"

"I might be sick—"

"Don't you dare. You're skinny enough as it is."

"Look who's talking—"

"I would know better than anyone, then, wouldn't I!"

Her melancholy smile seemed to grow with the passing weeks, for all of your hard work.

The first of the new moss came about around High Reaping. They grew with an uncanny speed under your guidance.

​

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Phyllis was more than happy to let you cover the candlelight yourself, to better see the small leaves cast a light of their own.

"They're— it looks like gold, doesn't it?" You're beaming. "Even without the light?"

"It's a good thing they're so delicate. I imagine anyone finding these in the field might want to try to barter with them! Ha-ha!"

"I can't fathom this ever sprouting in Corcaea on its own—"

"Maybe in a ruin? It's certainly damp enough down there."

Your mutual looks are equally unhinged. Mother Bethaea tries to ground you both, as she always does. "You think this would go better in a tea, or...?"

"Mercy, no, Mother Bethaea. It would be a waste."

"Smells like honey. You sure?"

"It is— I mean, it is pleasant enough—"

"I'm starving. I know you are too. Come on. We'll try a little. There's plenty to spare, for once!"

A part of you doesn't want to leave the memory, as bittersweet as it was.

Back in the Church of Flesh, overlooking a few empty bowls, you are struggling. It's three years later, in a land of plenty and flowers.

Growing melancholy rivals even the swell in your gut. Though you're certain Father Friedrich isn't actually trying to kill you, it feels like he might as well be. You're struggling to force down even a single more dish of cereals and vegetables, but through the pain, you're thinking ahead.

This is nothing. I will endure. I will uphold more than my vows. I owe it to myself to heal. To all of my mentors, to make something of myself. To exercise everything that they have taught me.

A gift from a demon of Agriculture— a dear friend— is on your person. You take out your flask, choke down the last of the food before you, and think to the past. Fighting back the mist that wants to gather in your eyes, you manage to murmur two words.

"Our tea."

Warmth floods the interior of the flask. You can feel the heat through its unassuming exterior. Twisting off the gold cap, steam rises from the endless liquid within.

You're greeted by a familiar aroma. It smells lightly of honey and lemon, of medicine, and of an utterly unique plant. You sip it— already stuffed beyond capacity— and try not to cry. The drink helps.

Its medicinal properties are literally a work of the Gods. It's a healing regent so potent that the Church of Agriculture has sent supplies of your creation to the Church of Mercy to this very day. It can ease a man's body, provide light in the darkest of conditions, and is capable of curing almost any poison.

It does not ease the poison in your mind.

I've asked so few questions. I may be soft-spoken, but there was so much time to talk. To learn. I never even asked how Mother Bethaea earned her position. Why? How could she have served her Goddess? How could she have let things become so dire?

How could I have possibly known what she was going through? She was such a kind woman. She never wanted for help from anyone.

I thought I was doing the right thing.

I did, didn't I?

The Gods are meant to be Merciful. Aren't they?

​

The fields were barren. You were the last man working late into the sunset, trying to make the most of Mercy's blessing. No matter how intensely it beat on you, the light of day felt as if it was never enough. The harvest would not come. Not as it should. Another season of toil. Ever dwindling yields. A single crop for every hundred seeds planted.

Men and women would starve in their homes and in the streets. Your home— the country of Corcaea— seemed to shrink by the day. For how much water, sun, toil and devotion was given, it felt as though the Goddess of Bounty gave so little in return. Hunger gnawed at the edges of your mind for as long as you could remember. Your parents and the farm had all suffered through your earliest years, and the same desperation you felt as a little boy had persisted long after you left home.

In the Church of Agriculture— serving alongside a Mother who could not bear any fruit— you clutched hard onto the scythe in hand. Callouses coated the palms of your hands, and chafed against the rough wood and linen wrapped around its base. The symbol of the Goddess was so simplistic that even a peasant could recognize it.

You were no longer a peasant. You are of low birth, but had been taken into the Church of Mercy— and in just a few years, you were elevated to priesthood.

It was only a few months since you had become a Father.

You looked to the dirt. To the barren fields.

Your wrists are thin as could be.

Every muscle along your forearms were carved as if they were made of the earth themselves, thanks to back-breaking labor over your homeland.

Your devotion to the land was without compare.

You knew She would listen.

Music

Desperation dropped you to your knees. Naivete wrapped your trembling hands around the scythe before you. Your youth came out with every word. Each syllable of devotion was seeded with knowledge, with wisdom, and with understanding of exactly what you were asking for.

You invoked Her name.

"Goddess of Bounty: of death, of life, and everything that comes between! I beg of you. Hear my plea. Hear our cries. Hear the land, and all of its people. We are dying. Our bodies fall— we return to Your bosom— but nothing takes us in turn. We do not feel Your embrace. No flowers climb from our graves. Our prayers have gone unanswered."

There is a tear— not in your eyes, or your hands— but somewhere deep in your throat. It feels like you're suffocating. As if a mound of dirt has been packed into your very lungs. You're full. Painfully full.

You know you're still starving, bent over the scythe before you in crippling discomfort. Nothing can sway your devotion. You know exactly what you've asked for.

"Goddess of Harvest! Let your gifts overflow. Work through me. Your vessel is eager, empty, willing—!"

The blood in your mouth cuts you off. There's something in the dirt, worming its way into the walls of your throat, from the back of your tongue, and into the pit of your stomach. It's too much. You never want to eat again.

You keel over, and vomit. An out-pour of blood— tinted with green, and littered with seeds— comes in its wake. It's so revolting that you immediately retch again, looking on in abject horror. The sensation is only getting worse each and every time you expel the work of the Goddess.

The blessing sinks into cursed ground.

Your scythe drops onto dry soil, while you clutch onto your sides and throat. It's impossible to say where the pain is more intense, but you fear you'll never be able to swallow anything again.

Through the agony, you know you have been heard.

You choke down the torment, bury the last of your pride, and tend to the prayer. "Take me. Take this vessel. Grant me everything You have. Save us. Save our people, our land, and bestow upon Your children everything that you have to offer! Goddess of Generosity. Goddess of Plenty."

You are no longer vomiting. There's simply so much in you— to give, to share— that it can't be contained. A scream threatens to rip itself out of your throat.

"Agriculture!"

Blood flows freely from your lips and muffles your cries. The liquid has no temperature, as if it was removed from the earth itself.

It's eager to return to it.

You bite down against a knuckle on your hand, wanting for something to restrain yourself with. It's not blood that's pooling away from your flesh, away from the rising scream, and away from all that you hold dear.

Green is in your eyes, and in the vines of your own making. Leaves feel as if they were blooming in the deepest recesses of your gut. Growth spills over your lips.

"MERCY—!"

No hunger plagued you.

No thirst took you.

There was a Goddess. Angered. Neglected. Cast away. You couldn't understand the full extent of Her wrath and fury, but through your prayer and incessant pleas, you dug your hands into the soil before you.

You begged. The out-pour was ceaseless. Mercy was always in your thoughts, but Agriculture is in your very soul, giving you everything you have ever asked for.

You felt it in the ground. Divinity. Bounty. Life.

It felt as if you might as well have died.

"GODDESS, You have been scorned. You have been cursed! You have shown us Your works in turn! We recognize Your wrath— Your righteous fury— and we beg of you, please—!" Your eyes lift, littered with sage. The field ahead began to bloom. "Do not forsake us. Sow your gifts across Our land. Our home. Permit my worship."

Your breath came in ragged, stifled gasps. Your plot of hunger and despair filled to the brim.

Something is buried in you, as the Goddess of Generosity did not want you to have to ask again for Her blessing.

She gave you an answer, and spread it across miles of fields. You felt it in the deepest part of you, and across an entire country.

Your home. Her church.

"You have heard our prayer."

She gave you more than you asked for.

"The Gods are Merciful."

You collapsed, slaked with leaves and verdant blood. The pain in your throat, your gut, and within your very soul would grow in time.

The land healed. No one could believe it was you. No one, except for your mentor.

Mother Bethaea respected you. She trusted you. She thanked you with everything she had, and ensured that you were brought back to health. She couldn't comprehend why her Goddess would hurt you in such a way. She understood that you made a sacrifice she never could.

She made another. Mother Bethaea killed herself one month later.

It's been a little over three years since then. You're sitting alone at a table in the halls of the Church of Flesh. Most of the dining area has cleared out, as you've been there for some time. The sun is shining through a few thin slits in the far stone wall.

A young woman with straw-like hair has come over to your table. Her eyes remain downcast, and only flit to you every so often while she cleans. She's eager to tidy up the exorbitant number of plates and bowls you've emptied, through all the pain, and your devotion to the Goddess.

Humble skirts and a filthy apron bustles about, while the maid remains respectful, and unquestioning about how much you've clearly forced yourself to eat.

There's a prayer at the back of your throat, along with the sensation of broken glass. It's choked down with more tea, and the hope that the woman beside you has yet to notice how hard you're still struggling.

She doesn't say a word, leaving your side while you fight with yourself.

You keep your back turned to her, and faced towards your flask. The tea is not helping. The steam and moisture isn't doing much for the mist you have to keep wiping away from your eyes, or the way that the room feels like it gave out from under you for the better part of an hour.

Not even the strongest medicine in Corcaea could fix this. I've spent most of my life quietly reflecting, and keeping to myself. It hasn't changed.

The only thing that's ever helped is looking to others for support, and for guidance. Mother Bethaea never found it in her to ask for anything.

She's still teaching me, isn't she? I know I need help.

You stand from the table abruptly, putting aside your flask, and heading straight back out the hall. A few courteous nods are given to you by the remaining men seated near the door.

You are the Father of the Church of Mercy, and have business to attend to. No one would dare to criticize your appearance (your robes are ill-fitting after eating so much in one sitting), your behavior (you keep your eyes downcast, but it's alright to not acknowledge anyone at the moment), or the way you've been constantly fidgeting with the chain around your neck. Not for the loftiness of your position, and certainly not for the office you're heading straight towards.

Father Friedrich and I will be able to work this out. I'll write to Father Sullivan as soon as I'm able. I'll see to my health. Not only my body, but my mind's as well. They will know what to do.

They have to.