Chapter 15: Know Your Limits

"Let's see you enjoy this!"

Music

In short order, you were shown back to the stables. Cleared out of the congregation you saved the lives of, removed of any and all demons, you penned a letter to Father Barthalomew and Father Sullivan. In the light of day— filtering over the old straw, stamped with Father Friedrich's seal— you asked for more guidance, aid, and wisdom.

More than anything, you want to make more alliances.

The sealed envelopes were sent via horse-back by two messengers sworn to service Father Friedrich. They were paid exorbitantly, and left with the sun still high on the horizon. They left with the protection of Mercy, and the Father of Her Church. It couldn't have hurt that you personally promised both messengers a handsome amount of gold for their safe return.

It would allegedly take less than a day for the first letter to reach Murgate, where it would be received by Father Sullivan. With the man pushing his horse to its absolute limit, you could expect a reply within three days at the very latest.

The second man was a sailor, born and raised along the riverbanks. He claimed to be able to travel without rest, due to the safety along the north passages of Morinburn and Eventide. Though the trip would take nearly two weeks by land, the messenger swore to your very Goddess that he would reach Rimilde before four days passed. The return journey would take substantially longer. It would likely be within ten days total for you to get a response, only if Storm was fair, and assuming that Father Barthalomew replied instantly.

You prayed for their safe travel, and left the business of Spirit and Storm to the Gods.

With the morning sun climbing high, you were brought to a sparse training room within the outer halls of the Church of Flesh. Its stone floors are littered with straw mats. A number of wooden barricades are scattered throughout the large hall, for lunging and jumping. Its walls are high, and a number of holes in the ceiling led you to question just how much privacy you were truly being afforded. You had folded and set aside your robes to move unhindered. The wooden rafters had no birds to speak of, and the entire chamber was large enough to lead to a slight echo of every word uttered between you and Father Friedrich.

He is trying to explain why you have no weapons.

"We ARE a weapon. We're going to do this the old-fashioned way. This is your first lesson! A proper study in Flesh, with and without God of the Material! To live is to serve, Father Anscham! You had a decent breakfast? Get enough sleep?"

"Too much and too little." You feel sluggish, and horrifically under-prepared. Spending the early hours of the morning tending to Dream, and the bulk of the day buried in Agriculture seems a little ill-timed, but you don't regret anything.

"Lesson number one! Everything in moderation. You are a man of excess, Father Anscham, and it's been your undoing. We're going to correct that."

"I thought—"

"Think on your feet, boy!"

Before you can properly reply, a wall of solid muscle laughs and runs straight towards you. He's readying to leap, and no doubt is about to throw a kick straight at your torso.

His laughter is cut short. By your best estimates, you weigh no more than half as much as Father Friedrich, even after a huge meal. It's no surprise that you can move with ridiculously more speed.

It's hard to not smile. You call over your shoulder while running to the far end of the room, "I do still need to show restraint, Father Friedrich!"

"You're living up to your name, Richard! Get back here—!"

That's not funny.

Leaping onto one of the wooden platforms at the far end of the room, you look down to see the priest barreling towards you, still laughing.

"Think you can outpace me? You've got another thing coming—"

Your reply waits while you smirk and leap down behind the barricades. For all of your height, you have to crouch to weave behind the numerous planks and stakes of wood littering the area.

It has you feeling bold enough to shout out, and to give away your position. "I thought that I need to serve every God with the same diligence and respect!"

"You think you know anything of Flesh, boy? Easing up on your own Goddess, no less? What, is the lord of restraint going soft?!"

Sliding between another gap in the defenses around you, you're intensely reminded of an old battle you fought. You know he's teasing, but it's hard to not boast. "I am anything but, Father Friedrich! You know—"

A roar drops down from the pillars looming above.

Your thoughts are cut short.

You sprint as hard as you can forward. The back of your shirt and trousers are nearly pinned, for how little space is between you and Father Friedrich when he lands.

He laughs triumphantly.

It affords you a blessed moment to skid to a halt, to spin back around, and to fire a grin. "You know exactly how it feels to serve a single God, don't you?"

The man's eyes are ablaze with devotion as he moves to swing again. He doesn't need to answer you verbally, as every blow is laced with ardor for Flesh.

Your pulse is up.

You weave behind a strike to your torso.

There's a shout, as you narrowly step back from the opposite hand.

The punch doesn't even graze your face, but doesn't give you an inch to spare.

You have to duck beneath a kick swung above your head.

The wind is in your hair from the speed in which you crouch back, and sprint away once again.

Your unwillingness to fight directly has Father Friedrich's blood boiling, but he's being good-natured about it. "Get BACK here—!"

He's right behind you. The significantly larger man isn't having any trouble keeping up with you. Not yet.

"I can't play favorites, Father Friedrich! Can you blame me?" You close the distance between the far wall again, near a number of fake horses. The wooden objects provide just enough cover to weave between and behind.

"You think you're terribly special, don't you?! Second lesson—!"

There's another roar, as Father Friedrich picks up one of the obstacles entirely.

You breathe, "Mercy."

The item sails through the air with more than enough strength to make you question if the man is already channeling a God.

Dodging the colossal projectile makes you question the man's sanity. You have to leap away, rolling as you land to not take injury.

It hits the stone faster and harder than you'd expect, nearly clipping the back of your leg. The impact is deafening. Splinters sail into the air. As you bring up a sleeve to protect your eyes, you gasp again. There's another one soaring towards you, faster than the first.

"Know your STRENGTHS, Father Anscham!"

Your reminder, response, and plea all wrap into one. "Mercy, Father Friedrich—!"

The second horse collides with the stone. In the back of your mind, you're aware that there's no conceivable way everyone in the church hasn't heard the commotion. You try to focus or reign in your thoughts, as Father Friedrich runs forward to grab yet another weight.

"Bullshit, you know I'm not letting up!" He's sweating, grinning wildly, and utterly unrelenting in the attack.

You sprint away again, trying not to laugh.

Another groan of frustration is at your back. "Will you stop that?!"

"Restraint, Father Friedrich! It's as I said! I know my strengths! My devotion! Mercy's blessing is why I'm still here, is it not?"

A third weight shatters to the ground behind you. Splinters kick up only at your heels, for how quickly you've sprinted to the back wall.

Exertion and devotion has heat in your face and your body on fire, spinning back around, looking for an opening. Empty wooden rafters litter the ceiling. At the far end of the room— between narrow slits— a great number of shadows give away those watching the fight (with as much restraint as they can muster).

Calls can be heard in the hallway, just on the other side of the walls behind you.

"Did you hear?!"

"Come around the back, I think you can see from the far wall—"

"The bastards would try to keep it to themselves!"

There's simply no way that Father Friedrich can toss the colossal training equipment from such a distance. He charges towards you, sleeves rolled back, fists tight.

"That corpse couldn't lift a halfling!"

"Yeah? I hear he's a demon in a fight."

"My bet's on Father Friedrich—"

"It's thanks to more than just Her!" Your mentor closes the distance between you two with inhuman speed, leaping forward with his hand drawn back. "You are more than the Gods!"

The voices in the hallway fade.

You and Father Friedrich let loose a shout simultaneously.

You duck not a second too late.

The wooden beam at your back splinters under a hulking fist. The impact rains fragments of wood along the back of your sweat-soaked shirt.

You stand back upright as fast as you can, weaving in between another barrage of blows.

Your endurance is also inhuman, for everything you've suffered.

Music

It shows in the self-deprecation lacing your voice. "Am I not worse than a demon? I— I'm nothing without them—"

"That's a load of shit, and you know it! Third lesson: Know your weaknesses!"

You see an opening. You're more than an expert at recognizing strikes to your face. Father Friedrich didn't telegraph it easily, but appears to have left the upper half of his right side just open enough to get in a blow. Maybe a few, if you're lucky.

With all the speed and force you can muster, you swing. From the base of your turned heel, through every tightened muscle in your wiry frame, you pivot and strike straight into Father Friedrich's side. It's as if you punched solid stone. Where there should be a little give and a tender organ, you're greeted with a current of intense pain through your knuckles, up your wrist, deep into your arm and shoulder.

You draw back as quickly as you're able, stunned beyond all belief. You want to swear, or thank all of the Gods.

It's perfect.

Father Friedrich whip his head towards you, his beard bristling, and fire in his eyes. It looks like he didn't feel a thing.

You remember yourself, turn again, and run.

"What's the matter, Father Anscham?!"

"M-Mercy, there is no way I am facing you down like this, Father Friedrich—!"

You sprint, pushing yourself as hard as you can. Curving away from the splinters adorning the floor of the room, you glance back with abject horror. There's no relief in sight, for all that you're feeling. Father Friedrich is not trying to catch up. He's grabbing large, wooden pieces of shrapnel off of the floor.

"Let's see you enjoy this!"

"You're insane!"

He's laughing, as he starts to hurl the objects through the air as if they were javelins. "You're learning!"

You have to duck. A huge, sharpened piece of timber soars just overhead, couple with a jeer from the priests spectating. The wood shatters against the stone, though none cut through the narrow windows.

Two more makeshift javelins head your way. There's no time for distractions. Your very life seems to be in danger. Breaking into a full sprint, you slide into a roll.

Making a disheveled collapse under the platforms at the far end of the room, you call out from the dark. Your breath is ragged, your lungs on fire. "What?" Gods, your sides are killing you. "No more lessons?"

"One more for today, Father Anscham!"

There's a crash directly overhead, as Father Friedrich punches straight through the platform you're under. Your hands go straight over your head instinctively at the explosive sound. Your heart might as well stop. Fragments of the structure give way to a roar.

"KNOW YOUR LIMITS!"

Another punch breaks through, granting the priest enough room to grip onto the planks of wood. There's an absurd commotion from the spectators, in cries and laughter, as the Father of Flesh tears up a huge plank. It's unceremoniously tossed aside, sending your shot nerves skyrocketing all the higher.

The light of day filters in above you. You move to sprint again, to buy yourself another opening, but the way out is blocked. Father Friedrich drops down into the makeshift arena he's created within the underside of the platform.

You both have to crouch, and it's not doing you any favors. Your height is counting for nothing in such a small space, and your light weight has absolutely no hold over such a broader frame opposite of you.

The exit may be covered, but there's the opening overhead— dangerously splintered.

"You can't keep this up forever! FIGHT ME! Haven't you ran from enough?!"

"I may have run, Father Friedrich— but my absence took me to where I was needed most!"

The statement actually seems to catch the man across from you off-guard. He pauses. You see clearly that he is far from out of breath, and that his physical endurance greatly out-classes your own.

It pales in comparison to the feats you've recently accomplished. "I ran to your home, while it was on the brink of destruction! Leaving the Church of Mercy took me to your doorstep, and how many lives have I saved in the process— in less than a day—?!"

Cutting yourself off, you lunge in the small space, using as much momentum as you possibly can to go for the man's lower body. Praying that hitting a joint and sweeping his knees will help, you use all of your forward momentum to compromise his poor posture. The two of you seem suspended in the air for a singular moment, for all of the force you collide into the Father of Flesh with.

"What in the name of—?!" His cry persists above you both, as you twist, using your lithe frame and better mobility to gain traction.

With a devastating crash, you both fall to the floor. Father Friedrich is unbelievably capable of controlling himself, rolls smoothly on an outstretched arm to absorb the brunt of the impact, and stays pinned for only a second.

You dig an elbow down deep into the softest purchase you can find on his outstretched arm.

The priest grits his teeth. "You won't quit, will you?!"

"You're made of something worse than iron, Father." Your skin, bone and wasted muscle is resting poorly against a man that feels like he's carved out of marble. "I know this is a fight I can't win—"

With a hard twist of his own, Father Friedrich moves to wrest his arms out from under you. He's actually having to use some leverage. You know you need to press your advantage. Planting your feet as carefully as you can, you make every effort to telegraph a pin. You tense your arms, indicating that you're moving to get better purchase on the hold.

Father Friedrich takes the bait, and wrenches his arms as hard away from your grasp as humanly possible. "You have got to be kidding me—!"

In the same instant— kicking off from the stone and splinters— you break away from the priest. He lets out a shout, but you're already off of him, and running at top speed.

You lunge, and jump just a few feet from the opening with every ounce of strength left in your weary legs. The edge of the platform is fractured, with extremely rough edges protruding in every which way. You don't waste a second pulling yourself out. The grin plastering your face must be unmistakable. You pay no heed to a huge splinter of wood that shreds the side of your linen shirt. Only a slight cut is made into your skin, and a hiss barely escapes you.

Father Friedrich is moving with a freakish amount of speed back onto his feet. "I SWEAR, ON ALL OF THE GODS— IF YOU RUN ONE MORE FUCKING TIME—"

Your wasted upper body sears with the exertion as you triumphantly reemerge into the light. You run— laughing like a madman— and leap off of the platform ahead.

Landing effortlessly on your feet, and putting a great deal of distance between yourself and the pursuit, you don't dare to even glance over your shoulder. There's a disaster strewn across the room of destroyed training material, absolutely no blood, and a few priests shamelessly leering in from the singular door. Plenty more are watching from the slits in the walls. They're making no effort to conceal themselves now.

A few cheers erupt when they realize you've emerged from the death trap unscathed. The rest of the crowd manages to groan, to jeer, or to complain.

"I told you he fights like a demon—!"

"Barely even looks out of breath!"

"Just you wait until Father Friedrich gets out—"

"Sure, if he can catch him!"

A fist punches clean through the shrapnel littering the platform at your back. You whip your sweat-slick hair around to the noise, and stare in horror as the priest literally bursts out from under the arena.

The man's hulking back and shoulders rises, claws up onto the platform, and looks down to you. There's the faintest traces of exhaustion written across his face. He's breathing a little harder than usual.

A massive gasp rises from a number of the clergy of Flesh on the outskirts of the training hall.

Before they can say a word, their Father beams, and bellows to every single figure present. "Father Anscham seems to have taught us all a valuable lesson!"

There's a massive groan from every single priest around you all. Several deflate so thoroughly that you suspect something is wrong.

As their Father walks briskly towards you, your nerves are aflame, ready to run at a second's notice.

Father Friedrich sweeps up a particularly large plank of wood off of the floor. You flinch, but he hurls it towards the door of the arena. There's a shriek from a priestess, who has to dodge out of the way without a second to spare. Three other priests behind her shout in tandem, dodging the attack as well.

A crazed grin fires at the audience. "Not every fight can be won through brute force alone, can they?!"

There's a chorus of, "no sir," and "that's a load of shit if I've ever heard it," alongside many chimes of "yes, Father Friedrich."

In the choir, you catch something spectacular. "Yes, Father Anscham," gets muttered by a handful of the onlookers as well.

In a much lower voice, Father Friedrich murmurs to you alone. "I don't particularly care to beat you half to death in front of my clergy." He raises his voice, calling out to every man and woman staring at you both. "IT SEEMS THEY ALL HAVE FORGOTTEN TO ATTEND TO THEIR OTHER DUTIES!"

They scatter, in a cacophony of footsteps and complaints.

The preacher's yell drops back down to a whisper. "Mind doing me a favor?"

"P-please elaborate." You're out of breath, your hand is on fire, and you're still struggling to stay decent. On only a few hours of sleep, you at least feel like you've burned off most of breakfast, but it's increasingly difficult to stay on your feet.

"Go get yourself cleaned up, and take it easy for the rest of the afternoon. We'll resume our lessons this evening. There's more to worshiping Flesh than brute force. I appreciate you giving me the opportunity to demonstrate it, but we still have a lot of work to do. Don't we?"