Chapter 22: Gone Fishing

"I wish I had known you sooner."​

Nothing on earth will stop you from stripping off some nearby bark. It goes from strips into the thinnest strands that your trembling hands can manage. It's extremely ineffective, given the tremor and occasional spasm, but your determination is without equal. Ray is right by your side for support, unquestioning as always. You're endlessly relieved for the company, and eventually band together enough twine and sticks to make three remarkably competent poles.

Tossing Cyril's to him, he catches it effortlessly. "Hey—!" You're given a glance of legitimate surprise. "This is pretty good. You're not so stuffy, are ya', Father?"

You hand off the matching pole with a smirk to Father Wilhelm. "Eahdric iiiis alongside the Morinburn, Schchyril." A hand goes over your heart. "I grew up fishin'."

You all settle alongside the banks of the river, sleeves pulled back. Your skill, upbringing, hobby and (obvious) divinity gives you a colossal advantage over even Father Wilhelm's competency as a fisherman.

Cyril is still not catching anything. "This is horse shit. You're not lying to me, are you—"

"Don't inshult me. I've 'ad an incred'ble teacher."

You're elbowed roughly in your side by the ice fisherman to your right. Ray shoots a warning glance at Father Wilhelm's nudge, though your dog is laying comfortably beside you, and makes no effort to move.

Your frown fades as the river steadily flows.

Three smiles reflect against the water.

It's so clear, and the moon is so bright, you can practically see schools of fish in the streams of sapphire. You're adept enough to nab bite after bite.

Ray has been well-behaved enough to warrant a little spoiling. You've given him three fish so far, while Father Wilhelm holds back — not only to leave any further reward of your dog to your discretion, but to try and give Cyril some encouragement.

"Brute force isn't always the answer, is it, Brother Trebbeck?"

"Yeah, yeah. Hold thhis." You shove your fishing pole at Cyril, who is making no use of his own.

"Hey! What're you—?" His smirk persists as you stagger alongside Ray to another nearby branch.

The outskirts of Beorward— like most of the country— are overgrown to the point where you could never want for a tree. Fashioning a spear takes hardly any time, thanks to all of your experience. The small knife you generally keep only for calligraphy is applied to the slender sticks with the same devotion as everything else in your life.

In a matter of minutes, you've fashioned a weapon that even a priest of Flesh shouldn't object to wielding. Tossing the item to him, you're pleased to see that he's more than satisfied.

"Well, shit, Father, you really didn't have to." The priest hops to his feet, giving you back both fishing rods.

You're humble, and murmur only to yourself, "least I could do."

"I didn't want to complain, but this is a lot more my speed. Thanks—" What was surely intended as soft jab to your shoulder nearly knocks you off your feet. "Shit!"

You're righted, but the world spins from under you. Ray is more than happy to growl at the offender, who guides you to sitting back down, and returns his hands to a spear.

Beside Father Wilhelm, you both watch a moment as your drinking companion fearlessly wades out into the river. The priest fights against the current to skewer multiple fish in a row, and makes it look effortless.

The gentleman beside you is all smiles. "Mercy, eh, Father Anscham?"

"Oh?" You've got your flask back out, trying to sober up as best as you're able. There's a heat in you that will simply not die down. Even an endless amount of water seems incapable of compensating for how much liquor you've had, but you're trying.

Father Wilhelm mutters, "there is a lot of talk." Your frown is back in full. "But I don't believe anyone who meets you could doubt it for a second! Your connection to Her is— well!"

If you weren't mistaken, you'd think the Father of Dream looks a little insecure. For all of the cracks in his skin, the evidence of his devotion, and the way he's looking up to the night sky, you want to reassure him.

Your face is still beet red. There's nothing short of a full embrace around you. It's definitely not from the dog at your side, looking quietly to the water. It's not of any mortal woman, either. You cough for a moment, trying to level yourself. "You have dedicated your entire life— your entire sself— to Dream, too."

It's not a question. Sobering rapidly, you produce the hand-written note from your pocket. The blue ink catches on the moonlight the moment it's presented. "This is your work, Father Wilhelm. Your devotion. I cannot possibly hope to understand Him as well as you."

Father Wilhelm takes the letter back, his smile softening as he lovingly pours over the page. His brow does furrow a few times with concern and scrutiny, but ultimately the page is shown back to you with a familiar look. The priest keeps the entry in hand, not wanting to let go so soon.

Affection is all throughout his tone. "This is still phenomenal work, Father Anscham. Phenomenal."

"Thank you."

"Dream has seen fit to bless you, has he not?"

"Yes."

"With His form?"

"In a way, Father Wilhelm."

A very unhinged look is geared straight at you. "Do you know what it feels like? For Mercy to visit another?"

Your brow knits. You're an honest man. "No."

"I assumed as much." The letter is handed back to you with a smile. "You are gifted, Father Anscham. This is spectacular work. There was only one thing—"

"Please."

"Your suspicions regarding the King and his court. It's incredibly concerning. This letter is tantamount to treason!" A very light laugh and a concerned glance goes out Cyril. The lord of visions confirms that your bodyguard is out of earshot. "Though I suppose you have written worse things. Keep it close. I don't believe your concern is founded."

With a frown, you fold the letter up, and place it once again in your pocket. "What of the rest?"

"To interpret is to serve. But even if ours may differ, it—"

"Father Wilhelm. I— I do not believe we will see each other again for some time. This may be our last opportunity to share— to Dream— until we meet again."

"Well. I strongly suspect that your assessment of the white thread is misplaced."

You blanch. "I am certain it is not."

He smirks, crossing his arms. "See? What did I just tell you?"

"I know that I have seen much." There are hundreds of years of collective memories buried somewhere behind the back of your mind, for its own protection. For your own protection. A fraction of the insanity leaks out into the stare you bore into the man across from you, but he doesn't seem to mind.

"For everything that the Church of Mercy has tried to keep from you, you at least know that the Church of Spirit's symbol is white thread?"

"Yes."

"Did you not also recently write to Father Sullivan?"

"Yes."

"Are you not responsible for sending for his aid again the very same day?"

There's a cold sweat on you. Ray whines, dropping his head on your leg for reassurance. You scratch behind his ear, murmuring, "yes."

"He is going to be very interested in your work, Father Anscham— if he is not already."

"What...?"

The charge of of Cyril kicking up water downstream, the rush of Morinburn, a few crickets in the distance, and Ray's steady panting are the only sounds in the air for a few long moments.

Adoration for religious work fades for the briefest of moments into sympathy. Father Wilhelm looks to you with deep concern. "You want to investigate into the Church of Agriculture. Into Mother Bethaea's death."

You nod with absolute conviction. "It is only right."

"Please don't get yourself hurt. The Church of Agriculture has enough turmoil without someone else stirring the pot."

"I do not—"

"It's going to become increasingly difficult for us to communicate. I'll take care of the messengers, alright? Don't waste your time with horseback." He smiles. "Not with the work you intend to do! I'll use blue birds."

You're frowning. "Do you think something a little less obvious—"

His smile grows with embarrassment. "You're right, of course. They're all I keep at the Church. I'll acquire something else."

"Father Wilhelm."

"Richard, you have that look—"

"It is nothing." You force yourself to close your eyes, to take a deep breath, and to try and resemble something normal. "I am not crazy, Father."

The lack of a direct reply borders on insult, but it comes from a good place. "You worry me. You know that."

"It is perfectly innocent."

"Of course it is."

"I thought it might be prudent to place a phrase in our correspondence, that is all—"

The man beside you can't help but laugh. He's obviously terribly embarrassed. "Is that really all?"

"Yes!"

He wipes a tear from the side of his stark blue eyes. "Well?"

"'Going fishing'. If either of our writing has been compromised, we can change it to 'Going ice fishing'." You've seen the look pointed at you before on your own father's face, and it's making you terribly uncomfortable. Your brow furrows tighter. "Is something wrong?"

"No, Richard. No. This is a spectacular idea."

"Something is wrong. You— you have a look, Father Wilhelm—"

"I'm just worried."

"Please try not to be. I am fine—"

"You slept for two solid days."

You're still blushing, and completely honest. "It was a blessing."

"It isn't healthy, Richard."

"Pardon me?"

Since when is it appropriate to criticize another church leader's relationship with their patron?

"Dream has seen fit to help you— to guide you— but it is abundantly clear to me why."

When it has to do with their own. This makes sense. But it wasn't a Dream, was it? Was I even asleep? It certainly doesn't feel like it.

"I wish I had known you sooner. Been able to help you sooner. Been able to stay longer."

A soft breeze wafts over the shore. You both stare at the river for a few long minutes.

Every time you feel you've had one question answered, it feels like a hundred takes their place.

He has the courage to ask first. "Were you abusing Mercy?"

It's an accusation. You have a possession, righteous conviction, and no small amount of anger. "No."

Father Wilhelm draw back slightly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

Your expression softens imperceptibly. "I know. I— I am not offended, Father Wilhelm. I simply want to understand. Why would you think for a moment...?"

"The work you've done here in the Church of Flesh is utterly unprecedented. There has been a lot of talk. Most people who have heard of your ability scarcely can believe you're human— please don't give me that look, Richard, it's not like that! Not the work of a demon, or anything so sinister."

A hand goes to your shoulder. "They think you're something of a God, Richard."