Chapter 20: Ill-timed Interruption

"I would appreciate a little privacy—"

Music

Soft gold envelops the edges of your mind. The light and impossible heat of the Goddess of Mercy is unmistakable. You know Her better than anyone.

She has embraced you. You have Her blessing. She has you.

There is a very ill-timed interruption. A voice, beyond the light.

You're back in the dark.

"He's going to kill me, but two days is long enough. Father. Father Anscham! Sir? Richard? ...Dick? COME ON! Will you—"

With a groan— hand to your holy symbol— you seize the closest nearby object with your free hand. It's soft, nonlethal, and launched at the offender.

The verbal counter attack is increasingly familiar, and entirely unbefitting of a fellow priest. "Shit!"

A crimson and blonde movement is swifter than anything than your sleep-addled mind can process, though you start to piece together holy vestments and a thin strand of overgrown hair.

Brother Cyril Trebbeck smacks down the pillow you've launched. The satin and feathers fall harmlessly to the side of your bed.

The priest of Flesh stands several feet away from the edge of the mattress, smirking like an idiot. Reflexively wanting for privacy, you pull up on the disheveled sheets. Your eyes are still barely adjusting from a deep slumber.

The rapid beat of your heart, the flush in your face, and a looming sense of infringed privacy is not just from the cheeky tone directed at you. You immediately want to ask where you even are, disoriented beyond all reason by the visit from a Goddess and very poor lighting.

In the twilight of your spacious room, you realize you are not at the bottom of the world. You are not surrounded by enemies. You are not back at home, even no matter how familiar the dark may be.

The only demons you face are the ones in your mind. You are still in your excellent accommodations, littered with gifts from your host, within the exterior ward of the Church of Flesh.

Scrambling to remember how you got back to your quarters, or why it seems to now be the dead of night, you recall collapsing to the floor. There was an invocation. Mending, regenerating, and the full replacement of a man's amputated leg. Faith rewarded. The will of a Goddess. Her hands. More heat was on you and in you than a mortal man should be capable of withstanding. More than what's burning in you, even now, given how flushed your face still is.

There was an embrace. Looking to your own hands, you confirm that it wasn't a dream. There is still a solid band of yellow-gold nestled at the base of your ring finger.

There is still a promise. More of the metal is littered in specks along your skin. Though they brush off with the slightest effort, you know that there is a permanent cast of the metal in your eyes, and all throughout your hair. Not even the Goddess of healing and compassion could mend every scar along your skin, but you've felt Her.

She wants to be with me. To serve my vessel.

Despite your prolonged silence and obvious discomfort, it seems Cyril still wants an answer. The sheets come up higher around you. Luckily, dodging questions comes even more naturally to you than dodging responsibility. "I would appreciate a little privacy, Cyril. What was I— why are you— how long have you been in here for?"

"Since yesterday. I was starting to get worried, sir."

"Mercy—"

"Heard a lot of that."

It's a blessing that you regained your ability to exercise restraint. The temptation to swear has never been greater.

He has the audacity to chuckle, but at least looks to the window. "Father Wilhelm was pretty big on not disturbing you, but I figured, well—!"

A bare, muscular arm waves towards crimson curtains. They're pulled back to let in the moonlight. A cast of cold blue filters across a bear skin rug. Sleep is fading fast as you become aware of the cold air, and the scent of the frigid river below the sheer cliffs. The end of Harvest is unrelenting, against the stone floors and broad wooden rafters. You can almost hear water rushing by.

Despite the lateness of the hour and the perpetual slouch in his shoulders, Cyril seems to be wide awake. The hearth within your room has a low fire, unattended to by the mischievous priest across from your bed. His hair is tied neatly back, his robes are free of blood, and his scar-laced knuckles are cracked in one fluid motion. You cringe a little at the noise, and more at his proposal.

"Thought you'd appreciate making something of the night. Get you back to, well, something a little more normal. I mean, it's none of my business—"

"It is not." Grimacing is always appropriate.

"I didn't mean to interr—"

"You did." Your face is starting to hurt, between the flush and how hard you're frowning.

His infuriatingly cheeky smirk is growing by the second. "Still! It's been nearly two days."

"You waited outside for a day? Two...?"

A shrug. More dodging. "I bet we could sneak you out before Fred even knows what hit him."

Asking anything of others usually escapes you, but this is too much. "Why are you watching me?"

"Orders."

"What orders?"

"Father Friedrich's."

A long moment passes between you both. You asked what, not who, but nothing more needs to be said.

You keep every inch of your frame out of view, despite your rigid posture. Trying to not think too long on what worship was uttered in your sleep is proving impossible. There is only one thing— one divine focus— in your thoughts.

She's in more than your mind. For all the rest you should have had, you can feel the remnants of a Goddess throughout your body. She lingers in abuse, scar tissue, and emaciation. You're exhausted. But beyond your weariness— or perhaps because of it— there is a deeper impression. It's one of mutual love, devotion, and adoration. An embrace that only you should be capable of sharing.

She's in your very soul.

She loves you.

The blankets come up as high as your broken nose and stark cheekbones. The heat is not dying down.

An old, rustic, and persistent accent plagues you almost as much as your prolonged desire for decency. Soft-spoken at the best of times, your murmur and accent becomes almost inaudible through the want for modesty and respect. "How much did you hear?"

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Don't worry about it."

Worry might as well be my middle name.

"I'm not one to judge." He definitely is. "Okay, maybe a little. Praying in your sleep is a bit much—" Your face definitely hurts. In fact, almost everything hurts. You could do with another two days in bed. Cyril needs to get away from your bed, but he just keeps rambling. "You can't tell me you don't want a break from all this craziness. A few good drinks couldn't hurt. A few good women couldn't, either—"

"Brother Trebbeck—"

"Don't lie to me! You'd probably kill for a night out."

You have done far worse things, and have no intention of elaborating on why you're grimacing even harder.

"No offense or anything, Father, but it wouldn't kill you to loosen up a little bit. It wouldn't hurt anything to take a few hours out, right? I could even show you a little around Beorward. Won't have a whole lot of bastards running around the streets at this hour. Not that I wouldn't beat down anyone who'd give you any trouble, but, well, it's like I said before, isn't it?"

He knows I am more than capable of protecting myself, so why is he acting as if I'm hurt?

Another sickening pop of his knuckles. The movement might be compulsive. "I don't know. Maybe roughing someone up might be good for you, too. What do you say?"

The brisk air is waking you up rapidly. It's easier to remember yourself, your tenets, and that you are the Father of Compassion with each passing moment. "I appreciate the offer, Cyril. Sincerely." The blankets are tossed aside. You straighten your collar, realize that you must have slept in the same robes for the last two days, and breathe a sigh of relief. Your journal, and the note containing the interpretation of Dream is still on your person. Right alongside the flask of a demon, and a locket from Mercy Herself. It grants you enough reassurance to get up and to start grabbing the rest of your things.

"Please try to understand." Wolfing down a handful of dried meat seems prudent after not attending to your body in days. You are still attempting to uphold the teachings of the Church of Flesh, after all.

One of their priests seems adamant about tempting you. "You sure? I don't think they'd mind."

"There is no rest for the wicked, Cyril— and even less for the devout. Father Wilhelm explicitly asked to see me in the evening, and I intend to honor our arrangement." The meat is so salty, you can barely finish speaking. Your flask is fished out, and you mutter the names of several herbs directly to the item. "Self-heal. Boneset. Tansy. Something to offset the flavor."

You are a healer of renown, and chronically full. An herbal tea manifests (piping hot, smelling half as delicious as it tastes), and comes with you as you head for the door. The drink not only helps with your exhaustion. The endless blend lifts your grimace into a smile, staves off your murmuring, and gets you to meet the eyes of a disgruntled blonde. "I know you meant no ill-will."

"Father of the Church of Dream, huh?" He's following you.

"Close the door, please. Gently, to not wake—"

It's closed roughly, echoing down the hall. "Sorry."

Your steps are broad, given your height. It's easy to miss because of his slouch, but the priest of Flesh seems to match your pace while you head down the blessedly silent corridor. "Whatcha' goin' to talk about?"

"Business, Cyril. You can leave me be."

"Orders, Father Anscham! Can't say I'm not curious, either."

Turning the corner, exiting the exterior ward, you cut straight to the inner halls. It's significantly busier, even in the dead of night. You're taken aback by how many men are up and about. "What has happened—"

"Call to arms."

"Where?" Awake for less than ten minutes and there is already another issue—

"It's alright. Not in Beorward. Defenses in Murgate aren't holding. Needed to get out a few more men."

"Mercy."

Another smirk. "You said it. They'll be alright. Try to not worry so much."

Outside of the interior ward— back to the courtyard— you're greeted by a substantially smaller field of flowers than before. Remnants of gold, blossoms of sapphire, and light casting off of ruby now covers only the borders of the courtyard.

"That face. You need to stop that."

Looking over the top of your flask, you seem to be grimacing hard enough to be seen even in the dark of night. "It is difficult to not take these things personally, Cyril—"

"Don't take it so hard, then! Most of them went to the families. We lost a lot of men— more than men. You gave 'em something to remember 'em by. Right?"

There's no need to reply. Your grimace lifts, slightly. There's still a flower of your own on your person. A memento of the lives you saved.

To the southwest, another familiar sight greets you. One of the gentlemen you fought with is standing guard, energetic despite the late hour. The last time you saw him, you healed him from the brink of death. He trusted you with his life long before, and followed you without question.

His face lifts the moment you turn towards him. The brunette is smiling broadly, stretching his stubble and a few scratches across his face once you are within speaking distance.

You match his enthusiasm. It's been bothering you that you never even got his name. "Brother...?"

"Duval. Father Anscham, it's good to see you."

Cyril has his arms crossed, looking up to the top of the post. You follow his gaze, and catch a faint blue light emanating from the highest reach of the guard tower. You gesture to the light. "I have some business to attend to, with Father Wilhelm."

"Sure, sure, not a problem." Brother Duval's grip tightens on the handle of his spear. "I wanted to thank you. You saved my life, Father. I don't— you must be busy. I don't want to keep you—"

"There is no need to apologize. To live is to serve— and it looks as if healing you was the greatest Mercy We could have provided. Thank you, for all of your aid."

The priest looks like he wants to say something more, but he merely nods and waves his spear. "He's up the stair. Door should be unlocked. Holler if you need anything."

"Of course."

Cyril trails directly behind you, acting as if he's going to be accosted for merely existing in your presence. You try to not pay the childish behavior any mind, and reenter the stone and wooden defenses of the Church's outer wall.

​

Trailing up an incredibly narrow and winding stair, you reach an even slimmer door. A small, hand-written note is on the iron-banded wood. Gorgeous calligraphy is written in blue ink, and says, 'Please knock softly. Dog (Ray) is asleep.'

You move to knock, but the door opens before your knuckles can rap on the surface.

Half a foot below you stands a slender, middle-aged, and exhausted looking man. Clenched between his teeth is an incredibly fine cigar. Between the cracks in his skin and the shades of cerulean in his eyes, he seems to reflect the little light behind him. The most intense of the blue— the paint in his eyes— flashes up to you with a weary smile. "Richard."

Father Friedrich's reprimand is fresh in your mind. "A-Atticus?"

"Relax. Father Wilhelm is fine. Atticus is fine. You brought company? Who's this?"

"Cyril— Brother Trebbeck. He insisted."

"Maybe he'll learn something. Come in, both of you. Pay a little mind to Ray, he's taking up the whole damn floor."

The room is terribly small. There are no windows, but several slits in the stone for projectiles or launching more sadistic offense. You can see small grooves from stones and hot tar pushed through the gaps. Like all of Corcaea's buildings, it appears to be constructed on top of and into a ruin. The remnant of a forgotten age is mostly covered by blue sheets, smoke, and a stockpile of bones and other toys. Ray is sleeping soundly right on top of a rug in the center of the room, and sure enough, your colossal mastiff takes up nearly the entire floor space.

You can't help but smile. He's been cleaned up from the battle, is clearly well rested, and has been outfitted with a jet-black harness.

It is absolutely perfect.

A few gold fasteners are around the edges of what distinctly looks to be a pouch designed for holding a book.

Cyril blanches. "Is that a fucking pooch pouch?"

"Yes, it is, and it is phenomenal." You kneel down beside your best friend, and gently murmur, "hello, Ray. Want to wake up and say hi?"

At the first sound of his name, Ray's eyes drift open. The instant they fix on you, he's all verve. Panting, ears perked up, tail wagging. Without hesitation, your dog launches himself towards you.

Cyril and Father Wilhelm take a broad step out of the room as you're knocked flat on your back. You're simply delighted to see your boy again, and accept that there is no way for you to get up of your own accord. "Easy! Easy, Ray— I missed you too. Down, boy! Easy!"

A quick gesture commands him to get his paws back to the ground.

Dusting yourself off, you kneel beside your hulking best friend. His old scars are barely visible, concealed largely by well-groomed fur. He looks healthy, and practically shakes with energy. You take him into a hug, and scratch behind his ears while inspecting the harness he's been outfitted with.

It's the precise same shade as your own robes. The singular pouch you laid eyes on is but one of many pockets. You don't want to bog down your boy— especially after everything you've been through— but it is tempting to consider how many bandages and herbs he might be able to aid you in carrying. More importantly, his broad frame seems more than fit to handle a simple leather-bound journal.

Cyril can't resist making another comment. "You're matching."

You grin back. "I know." Fishing your most prized possession out of your own satchel, you present it in front of Ray. "Look. Ray. You are guarding this."

Several minutes are spent with a few strips of meat, instructing and rewarding your boy for recognizing and defending the item. You place it in a pouch in the center of the harness, to not have him struggle with his balance or have any issues resting. He could not be more delighted for all of the attention. You give him a brief kiss on his forehead, and glance back up.

Cyril has a cigar. He's grinning and puffing at it as if it's second nature. Him and Father Wilhelm are talking in low voices, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle.

You don't care in the slightest, and give Ray a pat on the head before standing back up. "Thank you for looking after him, Father Wilhelm."

"Least I could do! He slept nearly as much as you do."

"You're such a good boy, Ray." Your dog is beaming, living up to his namesake. The priest beside you looks almost as pleased as you murmur, "I received your note."

A glint of turquoise and divinity catches on his grin. "I will see to the Dream, with due respect paid to our Time. Through city streets we will roam. Smoke and cinder, brew and tinder. He will look for me in the night." Puffing on his cigar, Father Wilhelm's smile broadens. "It was a little too flowery for a full note."

"Thank you for sharing the Dream with me, Father."

"We envisioned much during my stay." A cloud nearly obscures more mania. He's reverent, despite his exhaustion. "I fear I'll have to take my leave by the morning. It would be a privilege to make something of the evening, Father Anscham. You've seen to your Dream, and served Him dutifully! It would be a shame to pass up the opportunity to interpret another, wouldn't it?"

Spending several weeks with the Father of the Church of Dream has given you a penchant for interpretation. You want to give the priest an answer to his prayers. To thank him for his weeks of devotion and sacrifice.

To make something of the night? To live is to serve, is it not?