Chapter 17: Burgundy Bedsheets

"Everything in moderation, including moderation."​

You're a man of very few needs. It's ironic how little you care for material things. You can literally produce gold, but it feels as if even a few humble requests are overstepping your boundaries. "If it is not— I don't want to ask for too much—"

"Don't be ridiculous. Go on."

"A room in the exterior ward would be preferable."

"Are you sure? You won't get nearly as much rest."

"I have my own tenets to uphold, Father Friedrich. I cannot turn a blind eye or a deaf ear to those that need Our aid."

The hand on your shoulder squeezes a lot more firmly. "Good. Glad to hear it. I've got something good in mind, with a nice big window. Anything else?"

"A change of clothes. Anything that fits well would be fine. I know my size is a bit difficult—"

"The robes were fine?"

"Yes."

"More robes, then. I'll get you a new shirt or two while we're at it."

"One last thing, Father."

"Sure."

"It is— I know you would prefer for me to keep my journal under watch, or even have it destroyed, but I— it already has a guardian."

"What the fuck are you talking about, Richard?"

"Do you think there might be a way for us to make a harness, or a carrier, for Ray?"

"...the dog?"

"He has a name."

"Ray."

"Yes."

"You want a harness, for your journal, for your dog."

"Yes."

"You're insane."

"If it is too much to ask for—"

"No, it— I just can't fathom a seamstress working with the beast, is all. It's more than a little unusual. Would it even be safe?"

"The journal? Of course it would be—"

"The dog."

"Do not insult him. I trained him myself. He would never harm anyone unless he was explicitly commanded to, or my life was in danger." You murmur, genuinely hurt, "he is a very good dog."

"Richard. I never meant any offense. I'll see what I can do."

You're gradually being led away from the main halls, out of the interior wards, and back towards the unbelievably quiet exterior passages of the Church of Flesh. It smells vaguely of herbs and blood. The smell is so familiar, you almost feel back at home.

Brought before a spacious set of double doors, Father Friedrich finally takes his hand off of your shoulder. He has to use both palms— even with his immense strength— to open the chamber. "Won't have anyone disturbing you back here."

Your jaw nearly drops. The room is resting above the edge of the keep, with a view over the Morinburn river. A series of retaining walls likely have been repaired hundreds of times to afford such an exquisite position. A spacious mattress and bed frame are set off to the side. Crimson curtains, a thick fur rug, and a number of wooden chests adorn the rest of the space. There is a small hearth and a wash basin, both devoid of flame or flood. A stack of firewood and a number of empty buckets promise further hospitality, but for the most part, the room has no unusual commodities.

Something catches your eye, that makes all of the green and gold reflect the light of morning. A small chest atop one of the tables is beside stacks of clean bandages. You know there must be ample stores of medicine— your tools of worship— inside.

"There's plenty of room to move around. Get some exercise. Pray. I'll bring your things back, and have Cyril take care of the rest. Keep your journal on you until we get Ray situated."

"Yes, sir. Thank you. This, this over here," you can't help but gesture towards the herbs and linens, "would it be alright if I...?"

"Are you kidding me? Take anything you need. Call for more, if you like. Our stores won't rival the Church of Mercy's, but we do what we can. You do what you can, if you like. I know you still have business to attend to." There's a nod as Father Friedrich rapidly excuses himself, and leaves you to the room.

The luxury of your suite does not rival the privilege you feel to have another moment of reprieve. You go straight to the bandages and the box of medicine.

To your dismay, most of the herbs have turned, wilted, or are dried beyond use. You wonder if the Church of Agriculture or Mercy have been to these halls in months. Fortunately, the bandages are clean, and there is an ample supply of water. A few of the more potent tonics bottled on the counter are even unspoiled.

You make a mental inventory of everything at your disposal, and look to the rest of the room. It's been recently swept clean. The largest rug on the stone floor is the pelt of a bear, with rich black fur. It contrasts pleasantly with the crimson curtains you open fully, and the deep burgundy bed sheets you turn over.

​

You find a note placed underneath one of the pillows. It's written in blue ink, obviously from Father Wilhelm.

This is over the line. Did he Dream of me? Of my coming here? Just how much has he envisioned?

Your stomach sinks for want of more information. It seems the parchment was intentionally kept vague, no doubt for fear of being read by the wrong hands.

'Close out your business for the day. Look for me in the night.'

He's probably still holed up in the guard tower with Ray. At least my boy is being kept safe.

An abrupt knock is already at your door. It sounds a little strange, like someone is using their shoulder rather than their hands.

You call out, "yes?"

Father Friedrich's gruff voice replies, "got your shit. Arms are full. Not going to beat down the door with the sick trying to sleep. Open up."

You run to the heavy wooden doors, pulling them open with difficulty. Your arms and legs are searing from the morning's training exercise, but the burn is healthy, and you manage.

You're delighted by what you see. Your shield, mace, satchel, a pile of clothes, bolts of cloth, a gigantic stack of bandages, and several unlabeled cartons greet you before Father Friedrich does. They're all precariously balanced in his massive arms.

"Do you— do you need a hand—?"

"Just a table. Close the damn door."

You comply while all of your things are laid out. Your mace and shield have been cleaned. Your satchel is fastened back together. All of your own medicine, your candles, your calligraphy supplies, Mercy's holy symbol, the gold ring, and even your journal were secured safely inside.

Curious, you look over the bolts of fabric. They're all in black, obviously quite valuable, and have a fine layer of dust clinging to them. It's no doubt for Ray.

The cloth matches nicely with the multiple robes in a similar hue laid out next to them. The holy vestments are long enough that you should be able to wear them comfortably. Some undershirts and trousers are beside them, but you're bothered.

They all seem a little too large.

An explanation produces itself immediately, as Father Friedrich has busied himself with opening all of the crates. Each one is a few feet across, and just as deep. You would marvel at how the man brought everything to you in one trip, if you weren't so distracted by the contents of what he's unpacking.

"What is that?" A loaf of cream-colored, decadent paste is unwrapped and set on the table. You can't help but gawk.

"A few gifts. They've been collecting dust, but nothing seems to be spoiled. Cheese—"

"THAT is cheese?"

"No, this is sugar. Marzipan."

"What?"

"Honey, nuts— you'll see." He's covering the entire table, and the one adjacent. "That is cheese, and this as well. That carton over there is only beer— good beer, mind you—"

"I am supposed to be exercising restraint, Father Friedrich."

"I've got you here for a few days, maybe a few weeks at the most. I'm not spoiling my men with this shit and it's not going to the sick. I'm working on something else for the long-term. Let me do you a few favors. Let me thank you for helping us out. You do want my help, don't you?"

"Yes, but—"

"Do you want my help?"

"Well, I— I suppose it would be fine." The items before you— the ones you can recognize— look absolutely sublime. You pull up a chair alongside Father Friedrich, and can't help but smirk. "Everything in moderation, including moderation. Right?"

He lets loose a hearty laugh, and a firm pat on your back. "Couldn't have said it better myself! I can't stay all day, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious. Let's see..."

A small knife is produced, cutting off and serving you a few wedges of oddly colored cheese. Father Friedrich looks alarmed by how tough it is. The cheese itself is white, but looks to be speckled with pieces of fruit in various jeweled shades of orange.

You're both looking to each other apprehensively. It's difficult to not worry for your mutual health. Especially given the current circumstances.

Your anxiety wins out first. "Where did this all come from?"

The military commander beside you shrugs, "mostly? King Magnus. He's killing himself, for all his work to the east. Look—" On the end of his knife, the particularly hard cheese gets waved around. "Allegedly a gift from Aelham, and this—" Another box is slid over to you, filled to the brim with glistening candy. Everything looks to be covered in honey. "Straight from Spira." Beside the wedges of cheese, a number of dried fruits are set aside. One is pitch black, cracked much like the magma you fought over yesterday afternoon. "A commodity from Barastir."

You're more baffled by what you're hearing than what's in front of you. "How have I never heard of any of this?"

A number of small cakes are being set out, each one topped with a green fruit, and covered in spikes. "There's a lot most of us simply don't need to know about, Richard. These were from Father Barthalomew. Came from the north. Never even been myself."

You're dissatisfied with the explanation, and try poking at the fruit. The edges aren't sharp in the slightest.

A smirk is directed at you. He can't resist.

You frown. "Don't."

"You would."

Just to spite Father Friedrich, you leave the strange spiked cake, and try one of the wedges of hard cheese instead.

You're trying to not show how much you're enjoying yourself, for how much heat is in the item. It reminds you of cracked pepper, without any of the gritty texture. Wanting for a drink, you grin upon seeing that a flagon of a malt brown beer has already been poured in front of you.

You raise your glass to Father Friedrich. A little melancholy laces your voice. "Thank you."

"You sure you're feeling better?"

"Substantially. I just— I was thinking of an old mentor."

"To them, then."

"To her. To Mother Bethaea— and to Agriculture."

There's a pause between the two of you.

The furrow in the priest's brow deepens, his lips tight. "May they both be praised."

Your respective glasses are knocked back. Thick foam laces through caramels and threads of honey. Despite how rich the brew is, it's terribly easy to drink. Not a single note of bitterness or astringency hits you, even though you're certain it was brewed with some sort of whiskey. You finish the entire beer without coming up for air.

Something occurs to you as your glass is being refilled with an entirely different, light yellow beverage.

Wide-eyed, you try one of the boxes of honey cakes. The pastries are crispy, and sweeter than anything you've ever had in Corcaea. They're adorned with little swirls of sugar in the shape of bees— something you rarely see at home.

The thought persists.

The little spiked cakes with their strange fruit are decidedly perfect. The tart topping compliments the spongy texture, and the jellied filling is so sour you go straight for another beer.

You're greeted with another phenomenal blend. Something new. It's like freshly picked apples, light, and bubbly. It's downed as quickly as the first.

You absolutely can't believe it. "Father Friedrich."

"Eh?"

"You said none of these items were from Corcaea?"

"Not that I'm aware of. Nothing tastes off, does it? I had everything checked—"

"No. No, it's phenomenal." You pick at one of the samples of dried fruit from Barastir.

The black exterior shatters. Both you and the veteran at your side jump. There's a soft, bright yellow center to the fruit. It's smoking.

Father Friedrich skewers his knife through it without hesitation. Nothing happens, and the smoking stops within seconds. He chuckles, lifting the colorful wedge clean out of the black fragments on the table, and takes a bite. It looks incredibly chewy, but he seems to be enjoying himself well enough.

The knife is handed to you. You're too curious to refuse, even after trying it. The texture is unbelievably strange, while the chewy, soft flesh of the fruit is both sweet and sour. You're reminded of strawberries and lemon, but it's much more tart.

Handing the knife back, you're certain of it.

None of this food or drink is causing me any pain.

Desperation cuts through your voice as you look to Father Friedrich. "There is no pain."

"What?"

"None of this is causing me any pain. It is— this is unbelievable."

An incredibly worried look turns down Father Friedrich's beard. "You're not alright. I'll go fetch for someone—"

You put a hand to his shoulder. "No. That is precisely it, Father Friedrich. I am alright. This is— listen. Mother Bethaea did not end the famine. I did. I have been living with the consequences. It— how do I put this...?"

An incredibly disturbed look is directed towards you. "I know you're no liar, Richard."

"I know it's difficult to believe."

"What the fuck are you getting at?"

"Prayer— invocation is— it is difficult for me, Father. The Gods see fit to bless me. All of them."

"I know." There's a current of something ugly (jealousy?) in his clipped reply.

"It is— I would never wish to sound ungrateful—"

"I seriously don't have all day, Richard. Spit it out."

"It hurts me, Father Friedrich. To invoke them. Every time. Some worse than others. She— Agriculture..."

Deep breath. This is actually, finally going to be alright.

"Eating is like swallowing broken glass."

"What?"

"Drinking is a lot more tolerable— but it hurts, Father Friedrich. It has for a very long time. The invocation. For saving the land. For lifting a curse. For my prayer—"

"You're shitting me."

"I am not a liar."

"I can't imagine anyone going through this. I..."

The priest has to take a full minute, and plenty more beer to sort his thoughts out.

"Let's take this one thing at a time. How long has it been?"

"Three years, Father Friedrich."

"For fuck's sake."

"You said it yourself, didn't you? Three years." For once, you aren't frowning. "This is a miracle. Truly. Some relief. Is there any conceivable way you could help me with this—?"

Your host is already moving to stand, running a hand through his beard, thinking hard. "Absolutely. Of course. This explains a lot. Shit. All you had to do was ask, Richard."

As quickly as he got to his feet, the Father of Action kneels back down beside you. He's obviously distressed. His brow is knitted with concern. "Why haven't you come here sooner? Or to anyone, for that matter?"

"I— I had no idea. I thought— this seemed like something I would have to live with. I have had many other concerns, Father Friedrich. A lot has happened." The urgency that's wired through the church leader beside you is unmistakable. You're fidgeting, too. "I am certain that you understand— better than anyone— how it feels. We have more to deal with than anyone. It— it is terribly easy to forget to— to forget to take care of myself. You understand, don't you?"

A hand goes to your shoulder, squeezing gently. "I'll remind you as often as you need to hear it. It's going to be alright." He stands, and lets you go. "Don't bother at all with anything in the mess hall. I don't want you suffering under my fucking watch, you got me?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

"We'll find something you can handle. This is a start! Don't make yourself sick, but have as much as you can stand, alright? We're getting you back in shape if it kills me." He's already nearly out the door, and drops his voice as soon as it's open. "I'll tell Cyril not to touch any of your shit. He'll be by soon, alright?"

You're too relieved to really care. "Of course. Yes. Thank you, Father Friedrich, again."

"You're welcome. I'll see you."

The door closes firmly behind the Father of the Church of Flesh.

There's easily enough food beside you to last a week. The sun is still low on the horizon, as the last of morning whiles away.

It feels like Agriculture and Time Themselves have blessed you, without asking for anything in return.

In one of the cartons, you find an exotic meat dried and carefully packaged. After tearing off a piece of the paper it's nestled in, you decide to work through the entire piece. It's tender, smoky, and nowhere near as rich as the rest of the food you've had with Father Friedrich. You're delighted, and more than happy to use it to offset the large volume of sweets and other desserts you're determined to consume before any other work gets done today.

What good is my ability if I can't even heal myself?

Your pens are right beside you. Though the tremor in your hand is usually visible, you've practiced for years to produce steady lines. Each one clearly spells out, "Please do not disturb."

Tacking the note to the front of the door, you slip back inside, flip open your journal, and start taking inventory of your things once again. Frowning slightly at the pages adjacent— of prayer and of pain— you try to not think for too long on anything other than the items at hand.

There's a little bee on the side of the candy next to you.

​

You try to not frown too hard at it, eating the entire piece. It's full of jellied raspberries and lemon, and is absolutely delicious.

The work is simple enough. Confirming beyond all doubt that no one tampered with your inventory, you're certain that the healing supplies now at your disposal are fit for use as well. There isn't nearly enough room on your current sheet of parchment for the full list, so you set to penning a new one. Working down the lines of herbs, tonics, tools and bandages is a little tedious, and you don't mind in the slightest. Writing with your ornate script is almost as cathartic as being able to stuff yourself without any pain.

Picking at more of the dried meat seems almost like a waste, so you turn to the rest of the assorted goods that have been gifted to you.

Rather than open anything new, you set to the box of the honeyed candies and pastries from Spira.

The marzipan cake has a number of nuts blended into the mixture, but it's sweet enough to almost hurt your teeth.

There's an odd, dark, and bitter substance coating a package of honeycomb that contrasts well with it.

You've finished your ornate script, the rest of the medical inventory, and a small bag of candied nougat by the time you hear a knock at the door.

The journal is quickly and immediately closed, shoved in your satchel, and put back on your person. "Yes?"

"Father Anscham?"

"...Cyril?"

"Yeah."

You get up (immediately regretting how much you've eaten), and call out, "just a minute."

There isn't enough fidgeting with your clothes in the world to compensate for your efforts this morning. The sternest grimace you can muster will hopefully keep the blonde's gaze at eye-level. You cross the room, and manage to wrest open one of the double doors.

A long, thin ponytail faces you. Cyril has his back to the door, looking around the hallway as if he's about to be in trouble. He spins around to see you, and gives you an unbelievably smug smile. "Father Anscham. Kept the hair?"

"That is not how this works, Brother...?"

"Trebbeck. Just Cyril is fine."

"Brother Trebbeck—" Mercy, that is awful. "Cyril. Cyril, please get out of the hallway."

"What's wrong with—?"

"Keep your voice down. There are patients attempting to rest. I will not keep you for long." You nod only with your head into the room, starting to struggle with the weight of the damn door. "If you could give me a hand—"

The priest of Flesh sticks a hand out, effortlessly pushes the door aside, and comes into the room without further prompting.

As soon as the door is shut, you whip your gold-laced hair around to glare at the priest who is whistling and leering at your things. You walk briskly over to him. "Cyril."

"Yeah?"

"Father Friedrich has told me very little about you."

"Good!"

"I am— I am concerned about our arrangement."

"Should I be?"

You're so taken aback you can't reply for a solid moment.

"Is this beer...?" He's eyeballing the cider you had earlier.

Your frown stops the blonde's hands in his tracks. "Yes." You pick up the glass, and make a point of pouring yourself some. "Cyril. I am curious what your thoughts are regarding this situation." The beverage was good enough to warrant drinking another glass right in front of him. "Regarding you accompanying me to the city. Could you please share your thoughts with me?"

"I mean, it's fine. I don't mind roughing up anyone that might give you a hard time, but from what I saw yesterday you don't need me for shit, do ya'?"

You're stunned again, and really not sure how to respond. Burying your nose in the glass is fine. The beer really is excellent.

"Don't look so fucking shocked, I'm just trying to, you know. The whole Mercy thing. Figure I should try to be respectful, right?"

"I— thank you, Cyril, but—"

In a horrifically sing-song voice, he chirps, "my word is my bond," followed by a very normal, "but fuck if I won't say whatever you need me to, to get us out of here for the day. Right?"

For everything else you have to do today, you need to stay sharp. You have outpaced a demon of generosity before, and know you can handle your liquor. Four glasses of beer is a hard mental cut-off.

You sip at the mug, insisting, "we have more business to attend to here, first."

"Fuck—"

"In this ward—"

"Dammit—"

"Cyril."

"Yeah?"

You can't help but smile, setting your empty glass down. "Come with me."