Chapter 14: Struggling

"I'm still wounded."​

You knock abruptly on the door to Father Friedrich's office. There's only one voice that responds from the other side. It's gruff, and seems a little off-kilter.

"I'm busy."

"It's Father Anscha—"

You're cut off. The voice's urgency picks up. "Close the door behind you this time."

The extreme weight in your stomach feels like it's going to bottom out. You open the door to see a small collection of items. The packages and gifts that were littering the hall of strategy has been set aside, save for a box of cigars. There is practically no furniture, save for the very large and old wooden table at the center of the room. The maps have been cleared off of the table before Father Friedrich. Your bloodied mace and shield, a very old holy symbol, and your journal are all set in the center of it all. Your old bag— caked with old soot, blood, remnants of battle and terror— is open, and beside the rest.

There's no indication of anything being tampered with. Not even the myriad writing supplies, or humble possessions you've been entrusted with by Father Wilhelm.

There is exactly one chair in your field of view. It's placed opposite of Father Friedrich, who is standing. He's drinking whiskey, although it can't be more than an hour past sunrise. The box of cigars from Father Wilhelm is open on the table, and seems to have been forgotten.

"Sit." He gestures to the chair, raising his glass, lips tight. The glass tilts, while pointing to the gold about your neck, to the journal, the shield, the mace, and then back to himself. "I don't want to make a single assumption. I know you're an honest man. You have yet to disappoint me. We all know you were gone. Father Wilhelm won't say a word. I need to know what's happened. Explain."

Between the scrutiny directed at you, the lightness of your head, and the huge meal weighing you down, you at least accept the chair. "Thank you."

Nothing is said in reply.

This is a man of the material, of Flesh. I have to be more prudent. Father Wilhelm was cautioned by the very God of visions and nightmares about my absence, and even he was disturbed by what he learned.

Abstaining from the truth for even a few moments laces your speech with awkwardness. "I will explain, Father Friedrich. It would be— I would sincerely appreciate it if you could tell me what you have assumed. What you intend to do, with everything you have learned."

The frown directed back at you is through the bottom of a glass of whiskey. Father Friedrich doesn't respond at first, taking a long moment to decide how to best articulate himself. You recognize the look in his eyes, though. "Did I not just say I don't want to make any assumptions?"

"Yes, but—"

"My information is only valuable if it's accurate. This information is valuable only so long as it's accurate. I know you penned it. I know you're no liar. It's incomplete, and I need the rest of the picture, Father Anscham. I need to know how much shit is going to rain on our borders. How many more enemies we have to face. How much damage you've done." Father Friedrich sets down his glass and looks straight at you. "Explain."

He doesn't have to say what he intends to do. The look is of a man who's staying his hand. His shoulders are tense, as if he's going to jump up and pin you to the floor himself the moment you turn to run.

You're still hesitating, fidgeting, and avoiding the stare being directed at you at all costs. Responsibility has always been a tough subject for you.

The priest comes alongside you, squatting down effortlessly. A hand— devoid of any scars— is placed very slowly on the armrest you're not using.

Your hands are wrapped around gold, wanting for mercy.

She makes Herself known through the man at your side, for only a moment. Father Friedrich says, "don't misunderstand me. I need to know how much damage they did to you, too."

The whites of your eyes are probably fully exposed. You look in disbelief as the leader of the Church of Flesh sits down on the floor beside you, obviously uncomfortable as he nurses the whiskey in hand.

"We're stronger together. Can't fight anyone if we rot from the inside out— don't you dare fucking laugh, I meant more than usual."

You're not laughing at all. Your lips are tight, your grimace all-encompassing.

"Don't make me pull a confession out of you." There's some grumbling into the glass that you don't catch. Something about "cleared out his whole day," and "Atticus and his stupid fucking hat." You aren't entirely certain.

You haven't been certain for a very long time. "I was lost, Father Friedrich. Terribly lost. For most of the time I was in the ruins, but— but long before then—"

"I need you to be clear, Father Anscham. Don't go all fucking flowery on me."

"I was suicidal."

Another, larger drink from the glass.

"I fully intended to find my death in those ruins. I found the demons you saw, there," you point, to the journal on the table. You aren't trying to be condescending, only as clear as possible. "I kept my word to the King and clergy. I recorded my findings. I tracked every single one of them that I faced, and as much as I could in between. There were very few survivors. It was abundantly clear why. I was literally lost, for most of my time in the ruins, and I only made it out alive because of the alliances I made. The men and women who I trusted. Not— not literally."

You aren't being interrupted, but you feel like there's need for more clarification. "The only other humans in the ruins were the ones I saved. Yes, I may have terrified an orc chieftain. I did attack him on sight, but only to defend myself. He was— well, suspiciously kind, but we left on the best terms I could hope for. Yes, I agreed to travel with an elf and a halfling, but I told them nothing of our affairs. Nothing of our defense. Nothing of my ability, saved for what I used to save their lives. They helped me, as I helped them in turn. We parted ways as soon as we could. It was..."

You grimace. Pain must be written all over you, of unasked questions, and answers you might never get. "...it was nothing more than a business partnership, at best."

"There's more in here on demons than of the people you traveled with, Father Anscham."

The glare you fire back could kill. Even though Father Friedrich is trying to be tactful, you've been too hurt to not be brutally honest in return. "I was treated with more respect by a demon than by any living man. They earned my time and study, Father Friedrich. They earned my respect. An archdemon. Her children. Her successor—" The man beside you moves to stand, but you stay his motion by gripping onto an armrest, ready to move yourself. "Fighting for my life for weeks on end— without the wind, the sun, food, or water— without hope of ever seeing home again— beset by enemies on all sides— to come back home knowing I would face nothing but scrutiny! I don't regret anything, Father Friedrich, but do you think I sincerely understood where my actions would take me?"

You slump back. "That I wasn't ill?" The wind is knocked out of your sails. "That I still don't..."

You take a deep breath, and try to ignore the ache in your belly. "I'm still wounded. Badly. I came to you for help. I traveled halfway across Corcaea, mostly under the dead of night. I crossed our rivers, I forsake what little time I could have spent healing in privacy. Father Wilhelm made so many sacrifices for me. I never wanted to bring more trouble to your doorstep, Father. I hid the blessing of Mercy— my Relic— for weeks, to make it here without further grief. I need help, Father Friedrich."

A slow movement beside you is made, by a man clearly attempting to not set your nerves any further aflame. The priest gets back to his feet, and looks down at you for the first time. "None of this is any excuse."

"...what?"

"We're already fighting a war we can't win. There's going to be turmoil you can't possibly comprehend, because of your actions—"

"You don't have the faintest idea of what my actions have been."

"I've read enough."

"You have no concept of what I've been through."

"You've abused the Gods, and confronted demons alone that would kill half my forces. If this is any indication—"

"It's not. The torture alone would cover the same number of pages—"

"I said I didn't need a confession, Father Anscham. You said it yourself, you aren't well."

"How does that discount the validity of what I'm saying?" You move to stand, and a hand firmly goes to your shoulder, to keep you seated. Every hair on you stands on end. Bristling, you look up to a man easily twice as wide as you.

His grip on your shoulder is almost as crushing as what you felt from Remigius. "Stay down. We're going to get you all the help you need. I have enough problems at hand, without—"

You make no motion to shrug him off. "Have I not aided you from the moment I arrived at your church? Have I not listened to your guidance, before we even met? We stopped the outbreak, Father Friedrich. We saved your church. We put an end to the insanity."

Your voice drops, laced with compassion and pity.

"I spared your son."

A punch swings so hard and fast across your jaw that you couldn't possibly have seen it coming. You feel the brush of wind and the force of a grieving Father an instant before the impact.

It's like being slammed with a block of stone. Specks of gold flash across your vision for a moment in the black. You don't feel the punch at first, though within seconds of regaining your sight, there's a build-up across the side of your jaw.

From what will likely be a blemish for days is a throb of fire and instant gratification. Your groan is restrained, as you fight with every fiber of your being to remain decent. "Mercy—"

If it wasn't immediately clear that you overstepped yourself, the immediate drop of your title makes it clear beyond all reason. "I shouldn't have done that. You're ill, Richard. Not even the Gods—"

You can usually take criticism about your mental state when it's directed towards your race as a whole. A personal attack from a demon is another thing. Nightmares— no matter how realistic— are another. But this is a human man. A Church leader. He's as real as the throb in your skin and bone. One who seems incapable of tolerating your presence for more than a few minutes without physically assaulting you.

I need to put up with this. He's older, wiser, and simply trying to help me.

"Give it to me straight, Father Friedrich."

Despite asking for the man's honesty, he hesitates to speak his mind. "The blessings you've been given are—"

"Father." Speaking decently is rapidly becoming impossible, for the mounting pain in your face. You make the effort to keep your voice level, but it perverts your meaning. "Please."

The answers you're looking for come rapidly and angrily. "I know you're fighting it, even now. It's obscene. You're a damn glutton, Richard, and I know you can't help yourself. Not even the Gods could save you from blaspheming. They've blessed you? You've asked for more than any man ever should, and you keep on taking." Red eyes are bearing down on the growing bruise along your jaw, and the way you're struggling to keep your breath steady. "Mercy may have stayed Flesh's blessing from breaking you completely, but I see His works in you."

His glare softens almost imperceptibly. "Nothing will break you. You wanted to die, and were given the will to live, weren't you?"

"Yes, Father."

"You've saved all of our lives. Not only yesterday. If your records are any indication of the army you staved off, you curtailed an even greater threat without a single word of thanks." His free hand gestures to your journal. "This is nothing to be ashamed of. I want to help you— more than anything— but there is only so much I can do. You work with all of the Gods, Father Anscham, and you seem broken beyond repair." There's a twinge of disgust. "Not by Them. Not by Their blessing. By your abuse."

More anger rises into the man's speech. "It's clear to anyone looking at you. How much you enjoy it. I won't tolerate a perversion of Flesh in these halls. I said I shouldn't have struck you, and you will not train with my clergy. Flesh and Mercy have seen fit to help you with your pain—" He makes another fist out of sheer frustration. "I am determined to help you with your vessel, because of how you've abused it. I told you we would get you the help you need. I meant every word. I will not tolerate the head of the Church of Mercy to be so ill-suited to his station. We will not have a—" He cuts himself off.

Men like you have no use for pride. "Go on. Say it."

"No. No. I'm not giving you the abuse you want. You—" A deep sigh. "Fuck it. You're a masochist, through and through, Richard, and it's disgusting. You need to learn to show yourself some fucking respect. I'm going to beat it into you, if I have to." He smirks, unable to help himself from laughing lightly as he walks to the opposite side of the table. "You'd probably enjoy that, too. Fuck it. I need your help too badly to care."

A second glass is produced, and Father Friedrich fills both to the brim with an incredibly rich looking whiskey. He smoothly walks back over to you, and extends the glass. "You've quieted down since I started berating you."

"There was very little to argue with." You take the glass, raising it to Father Friedrich. "You are terribly wrong about at least one thing."

"What might that be?"

"I've received plenty of thanks. Idonea gave me her Relic. Yech saved my life countless times. Ofelia and Celegwen stayed by my side for weeks without complaint. Even Orgoth swore to stay his hand against Ray and I."

Father Friedrich nearly spills his drink. "He what?"

"On his first wife, every one of his sons, and every one of their tribes. I was skewered with a javelin at the time, and may have faded after the eighth or ninth—"

"Richard— Father Anscham." The glass of whiskey is still raised to you. "I have a proposition."

"I am listening."

"I'll aid you. We'll see to it that you get the help you need. I can offer you as much refuge here in the Church of Flesh as you need. I promise you, I'll look after you— alongside Flesh— as best as I'm able. Regardless of what you say, we're getting your body back together."

"Thank you."

"You saved us all. I owe you my honesty— to uphold your tenets. In return, you need to uphold Ours."

"It is terribly difficult to get out of even the Church of Mercy most days, Father Friedrich—"

"They didn't teach you shit, did they?"

You know it's a rhetorical question. You've learned a lot in the time you spent outside of your gilded halls, and don't reply.

"Of course they didn't. It's alright, but I don't need to know the details."

"No."

The priest launches into his proposal. "Promise me that you will not pervert Flesh under my roof, especially not while under my protection. You will not train with my men. You will travel in Beorward under supervision if you choose to leave our halls. You will train under my supervision. We will give you respect for the material. Your weakness is not His strength. Your devotion is. You require diligence."

His smirk was short-lived. "You already know what it is to persevere. You need to show your body the respect it deserves. Under NO circumstances am I to see you intentionally taking injury, or pleasure in any sort of pain." You're cringing at how candid the priest is being, but Father Friedrich is all fire and devotion. You recognize the fervor in his voice, and his desire to share his God with another. "We'll teach each other. Promise me. Either way, I'll see to it that your possessions are returned. The only thing I'm keeping is what I've learned between the two of us. We'll find a more secure means of protecting this information. I'd prefer to burn your journal entirely, but I assume the King will want to know of your experiences."

The glass is still raised. A toast— an offer— extended and waiting.

"What do you say?"

You raise your glass, devoid of any and all arrogance. "You're not wrong."

Both glasses of whiskey go back, reflected against equal grimaces.

"You're full of surprises, Father Anscham."

The burn is hot, smooth, and finer than almost anything you've ever drank. It easily rivals the quality of Yech's best work, yet your grimace doesn't lift.

The whiskey is not sitting well with what a huge breakfast you had. It feels like you're full of way too much.

There's still a frown across from you, as well. "You can say no. Shit, you can hit me back, if you really want to."

"No, Father Friedrich— I— you are absolutely right. I am sick."

"Didn't I say I was going to beat that self-harm out of you? That's no way to talk about yourself."

"You said it yourself."

"I shouldn't be putting thoughts like that in your head, either."

"Your honesty means everything to me, Father. I know this can't be easy for you—"

"No, but I've had worse students. You're no demon, Richard. No matter what anyone says."

"Mercy, if I hear this one more Time..."

"Sorry."

"No. It— it is—" You're exasperated, fidgeting awkwardly with the glass in your hands. There's very little desire to finish it, for the hour of day and all of your discomfort. The ability to show any restraint is so reassuring, it gives you the strength to address the most obvious concern on both of your minds. "The concern is well founded. I suspect a lot has been said about me. In the capital. In the Church of Mercy. This—" You gesture to the journal, the myriad gifts spread over a table of strategy from an arch demon. Imbued with sorcerery. Unquestionable evidence of your alliance. "This all must look terrible. You could have me put to a stockade, to a chopping block. It's a miracle that I've gone even this long with so little as a beating—"

"Richard. Please."

"Anything you wish to teach me, Father, I will be more than happy to learn. Your tenets. Your subjects. Your wisdom. Flesh. There— Mercy, there is so much I still don't understand."

You look to the glass before you, longing to set it down.

The man beside you seems to respect your restraint to an extreme, taking the glass from your hands after only a moment. "Don't let anything I've said get you down." His grimace lifts, enough to show the start of a smirk. "You still haven't disappointed me."

The taste of peat and smoke is in your throat, with no pain to speak of. "I don't want to make any assumptions—"

"No, go ahead. You don't have to watch yourself so damn closely around me, alright?"

"I don't suppose there is anything worse you could think of me, is there—?"

"Don't make me kick your ass, Richard." The smirk is a lot broader. "What were you going on about?"

"I sincerely know nothing of the Church of Flesh. I received your letter from Father Wilhelm, regarding a training regimen. I have some other business to attend to but this— this is the full extent of it. I feel so ignorant of everything. I want to learn. I want to do more than simply feel— and I'm curious what this training might entail. How much of it will pertain to my vessel. My body."

The Father of the Church of Flesh gives you an entirely unhinged grin.

"All of it."