Chapter 23: Desperate

"I hate being like this."

Music

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The campfire crackles. Its heat can't possibly rival the intensity of everything building in you.

Dismayed, you draw back, trying to sort out your swell of emotion. "Blasphemy. Of the highest order."

Horror. "This is— this is a nightmare. Anyone— it does not matter who— anyone who would profess devotion to me before Mercy is a heathen."

Deference. "A traitor. To the King, to the court, to His children, and to His throne."

Fear. "If I am to see Him— while at fault for the sacrilege of His people..."

Curiosity. "...if I am to know how to best combat this menace, Father Wilhelm, I need to know what the people are saying of me. What their thoughts are in regard to my— to Mercy's works. This needs to be rooted out and dealt with as soon as possible. I— I will oppose any of these accusations with everything I have."

"Richard."

At some point you stood up. You've been fidgeting. You probably look distressed.

"Sit back down. It's alright."

You do so, still agitated. "It is not."

"You have every right to be upset. It's difficult enough for you to attend to matters already, without any of this messiness. That is precisely why I am concerned. I didn't mean to offend you."

"It— I— I simply wish to understand, Father Wilhelm."

A hand goes back to your shoulder, squeezing slightly. "You know just as well as I do what the Church of Mercy is capable of."

There's no need to respond, but you grimace anyways.

"The work you've accomplished in a matter of days dwarfs the skill of any priest of Mercy that's preceded you. It's enough to challenge the King's authority. There is talk, among men far too stupid to restrain themselves."

You both glance to Cyril. He's preoccupied with lining the entirety of his spear with fish, in an attempt to fully demonstrate his prowess. Father Wilhelm waves, checking to make sure he isn't listening. The man shows no indication of eavesdropping.

Father Wilhelm continues, "talk of your work. Of your skill. They've been saying you're better evidence of the Gods than the King Himself."

"Nonsense."

"I know, I know, but you wanted to hear it, didn't you?"

"I cannot fathom—"

"You survived the ruins, Father, and rescued over a dozen men and women. They've been doing nothing but singing your praises— sometimes literally, I hear— for weeks now. They've been spreading your word. Now there's an entire church— not your own, mind— but the Church of Flesh. They owe their lives to you. And what's more, even after the outbreak: Men who's lives were saved in a matter of moments, thanks to your—"

"No. Thanks to Mercy." The sunrise might be coming up, for all of the light in your eyes.

Father Wilhelm smiles to you, looking terribly proud. "Yes, well. Try telling that to the priestess of Flesh who's back on the field of battle, advocating for Mercy. To the men who can once again serve their own God, thanks to yours. To the man who's leg you fully restored."

There is enough of Mercy in you without invoking Her to feel the heat of day. The fire is not just in your face, in a caress or an embrace. It's in your soul.

You stand again, eager to move, to work, and to make something of the coming day. "I will."

"Will you have time?"

"Excuse me?" You are still a man of all of the Gods, and look down to the figure at your side.

He's back to smoking, and through his teeth and the cigar is yet another smile. "Will you have Time? It's our curse, isn't it? There's only so much a man can do. Your devotion to Her is without compare, but do you honestly think you can sort out all of these affairs?"

"You know I revere—"

You're cut off. "It's not just about you and the Gods, Father Anscham."

The accusation is maddening. You've dedicated your life to everyone but yourself. "Of course not."

"The world revolves around more than your congregation, as well. You cannot heal everyone with your own two hands, even with your skill."

Dread snakes its way into every last droplet of cold sweat and river water on you. You know what he's getting at, but he doesn't stop.

"I have to get back to Somerilde. I've been gone for only a couple of weeks." A cloud of smoke starts to obscure his eyes. They're melancholy. Homesick.

Your deep dread is growing by the second. Ray's more than happy to look up to you, but you stay your hands from reassuring him. They're on a chain of gold, trying to ease your nerves.

"I've done almost everything I can for you, for all of my connection to Dream. It's nowhere near enough. I've been forgetting something horrifically important, all of this time."

Running seems wise. It's what every inch of your body is telling you to do, for the question that's inescapable.

"Father, do you intend to return to the Church of Mercy?"

Music

There are at least ten immediately pressing concerns on your mind, all of which deserve months of dedicated effort, and none of which you're prepared for.

You might be having a panic attack. Your breath is short, your head is on fire, and you really don't know for several long moments what to do with yourself. Thinking about everything you need to do and leaving it all to go back to the halls of your home is beyond your capacity. There's not enough air. It's stifling outdoors, and still altogether too dark.

Ray pulls at the side of your robes, nudging you to sit back down. You comply, wrapping an arm back around your boy.

It's too hot. Your head is killing you. It's terribly hard to breathe.

There might as well be a belt around your neck.

"You have no idea what it's been like."

An incredibly worried glance accompanies the cigar that's snuffed out. "Richard? It's alright. You don't need to—"

"It— I—" It's very hard to breathe. There's a start of a headache. You haven't had one in quite some time for how much rest you've had. The alcohol is dulling the worst of it, you're sure.

It hurts.

Deep breath.

"Richard. It's okay. We can talk about this another time."

"No—" You can't swallow, and choke out, "there is never enough time."

The damn smoke from the campfire is getting in your eyes. This is stupid. You must have had too much to drink. "Never. Not for talking, not for my duty, and not for any of the people in my life—"

The hand that isn't clutching at your throat and heart goes to Ray. You try to hold him as gently as you can. "He is the only one who knows a fraction of what I have been through. My dog, Father Wilhelm—" Your voice cracks. "—HE understands me better than any man or woman I have ever known."

A sob threatens to come to your throat. You've definitely had too much to drink. You're desperate to justify your hesitation, the absence from your position, and everything you've done.

You fish for your journal, wincing from the motion. Your chest is killing you.

"Richard. Really. It's alright—"

"No, Father Wilhelm, it is not fine. None of this is fine."

You press forward a page you know was read without your consent. It's filthy, wrinkled, smeared with blood, waterlogged, and burnt from months at the bottom of the world. The smeared charcoal and sloppy calligraphy is the best recreation you could make of a demon comprised of slurry and paint.

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"This was the first demon I had shown Mercy to. This demon robbed Celegwen of hundreds of years of memory. She saved my life. She saved Ofelia's life. She lost everything, Father Wilhelm, and it was everything— everything I could do just to keep him at bay." The back of your hand wipes at the side of your eyes. Desperation spills over your lips. "A demon of Dream, Father Wilhelm? Is this what He's capable of?"

Father Wilhelm looks like he's going to be sick. "A demon of ice and paint?"

"He looked like a man, Father. It was anything but. He wanted to take our memory. Everything we held dear. I held onto the precious few positive ones I had at the time."

The pressure at the front and sides of your head is terrible. From a headache blossoming, you look from the spots in your vision to the stream at your side. To trickling water. To the priest of Flesh that's blissfully unaware of what lies in the ruins surrounding the country. He no doubt has fought other demons to protect the lives of who he holds dear.

The gold and green in your eyes darts back to Father Wilhelm— a dreamer— who is remaining suspiciously quiet. "Why are you not saying anything?"

He looks extremely upset. "I wish I could take these memories from you as well, Richard."

"I need them." You might cry, and pour the urge to break down into every last syllable. "I need to remember. I have to learn, Father Wilhelm. Only a demon would take so much. Only a demon—"

Father Wilhelm's hands are shaking as he lights another cigar. "This demon was likely a priest in life. He may have been one of my own, for how close this ruin is to our borders."

You're the Father of Compassion. There's no holding back the dam that's been keeping your tears at bay. "I am so sorry."

"No— no, it's alright. Really." A blue handkerchief that vaguely resembles a nightcap is presented to you. The stream running down your face is nearly as soothing as the river ahead, but you take it, not interrupting. "This demon was obviously of Dream. There's a little hope for your friend, though."

You can't breathe. "What?"

"Dream's primary gift is of the night, Richard. Of Dream itself. Your friend— did she start to remember anything? Anything at all, in your time together?"

Does this apply to any demon?! What is this— why have I never been told anything like this?

There's a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach. Swollen tears drip onto your lap. "Yes— everything—" Your face goes to the handkerchief, trying to cover your eyes as you choke out a sob. A cold sweat is on you. "Right before—"

Right before she left. Like everyone else.

Taking a deep breath, you fight through the handkerchief to muffle how hard you're crying. Smearing away tears as best as you can, you nearly forget the band of gold on your ring finger. It just barely catches against the cloth, but the metal is warm and terribly reassuring.

A few more deep breaths gets you through the worst of it. Your headache does feel a little better. The spikes of pain are replaced with too much constant and unrelenting heat, but you take heart.

I am never truly alone, am I?

"Father, I— I'm sorry to hear all of this. This demon you faced, it says here that your friend killed it? This 'Ofelia?'"

You sniff, straightening back up. "Yes."

"It won't be threatening anyone else. If I'm not mistaken, you stopped an enormous amount of suffering, for all of your work in the ruins. Isn't that right?"

"Yes." You straighten up a little more, drying your eyes. The sunrise is coming. "I still have so much work to do, Father. I will go back to the Church of Mercy. There are a few matters here I need to see to, first, but attending to my own home remains my top priority."

A hand pats your shoulder very briefly. It's still trembling. "Good."

You lightly pat the arm that's extended towards you. It's awkward, but you're trying. "I am terribly sorry. I wish— I wish there was some way I could share any of this, to help you better understand without— without things being so miserable." Glancing away makes it a lot easier to deal with talking. "I never— I hate being like this. My Spirit is— I feel so weak, Father Wilhelm. There must be something more I can do."

You grit your teeth, quelling your dread, and try swallowing again. Keeping any more sobs from escaping is manageable. "I intend to see Father Sullivan before going back home, at the very least."

Father Wilhelm's grimace matches yours. "Are you sure?"

His doubt is another knife in your chest. You wince, trying to not let on that your dread redoubles. "I know he is still— that it won't be easy. I still have to try." Your murmur sinks to a whisper. "He knows me better than anyone."

You realize you've been holding awkwardly onto Father Wilhelm's arm, and let go.

He offers a weary smile, and replaces it. You're pulled into a loose hug from the side.

His other arm is something to lean against while you start crying all over again.

"Write to me, okay?" You can barely hear his smile broaden over how hard you're weeping. "Let me know if you catch anything interesting. The ice won't stick to Morinburn, will it?"

"No." Everything hurts. "Not even in Worship. I'll write. I hope I haven't kept you from the Church of Dream for too long." Ray is right at your side as always, nuzzling under your arms as you're held from the opposite side. "I know that I need to see to my work with Father Sullivan, and I wrote to Father Barthalomew as well—"

"Regarding the Dream?"

Your tears stop. "Regarding Storm."

In a flash of realization, Father Wilhelm drops his cigar.

You don't need to say it. He's too shocked to reply, so you confirm the obvious. "He's visited me twice, now."

The cigar is picked up off of the grass, dusted off, and not replaced. "That is impossible."

"I know. It— it was terrible. He nearly killed me, both times. I— it took me months to even write to him about it, Father Wilhelm. I'm still struggling to make sense of it all. I don't know what I'm doing. Is there— you've— I've told you as much as I could. What do you make of all of this?" You're desperate, but trying your hardest to be respectful. "I— I need counsel. Badly. Is there—"

You're both equally flustered. Father Wilhelm takes a long moment to fix the cigar, cut the end, and light it again properly.

"I think you have your affairs in order, Father Anscham, save for the Church of Mercy. The sheer amount of work you wish to accomplish is commendable. Mother Aimar would be very proud of you."

"Th-thank you. What do you mean—"

"I don't believe I have enough information for proper counsel. I don't wish to upset you any further, but I want to help you uphold your tenets, as well."

He doesn't want to lie to me.

"I have no idea what you've been through, Richard. If you want to tell me, I'm here to listen. It's quite alright if you'd rather we head back to the church on a lighter note." He nods to you, ends the hug, and gestures to the river. "Cyril seems happy enough, either way."

The priest of Flesh has filled the entire length of his spear with fish, and is now purely hunting for the sport of it. Your attempt at Mercy seems to have made the man's evening.

Do I really want to start my day with this?

Taking a very deep breath, you try to look to the sunrise. To the amber and pink. To the present day. To light, and the wilderness beyond Beorward's borders. Across from a fast-running current, away from an amused priest of Flesh. Far from the fishing excursion, detached from the aftertaste of liquor, and beside the church leader adjacent to you.

"Richard?"

"Restraint, Father Wilhelm. They had me restrained for eight years. They took me from my home— from Pontos— after I broke every bone in another boy's body. It did not matter that we spent our youth together. It did not matter that I only did to him what he had done to me first. The Church of Vengeance never came for me. The Church of Mercy did. Restraint, and a cell without a window. Eight years in a famine." It hurts to try and swallow. "Do you know how much food and water is allocated for prisoners during a famine, Father?"

"Not enough."

"Not enough." The sensation of broken glass just won't get out of your throat. "I only saw two other clergymen in eight years, Father. Brothers Adrian Morris and Theobald Stace. Not literal brothers, mind. I believe they are cousins— and they are certainly unrelated to Father Edmund. Were unrelated. I don't believe he ever knew the full extent of the abuse."

"Was there anyone else?"

"I am not entirely sure. It was always dark, Father."

"Father Sullivan?"

"He— I believe he knew. He had to have. I begged for him to help. He may have not believed me."

"He must have known. You were a child—"

"I was a prisoner. Tortured like one. Restrained like one."

The scars on your face and hands are probably being intensely scrutinized. You keep your eyes downcast. Memories fall from you like dust from a corpse.

"Restrain your speech. Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't speak at all if you can't temper your accent. Restrain your posture. Don't bother standing if you can't be presentable. Don't bother walking if you aren't doing so with purpose. To live is to serve. Restrain yourself. Your questions. No one wants to speak to you. No one wants to hear you. Monster. Heathen. Demon."

It must be freezing outside, but there's enough heat in you to redouble the pain in your chest. "It was beaten into me, Father. Eight years of it. Scalding oil, and stakes, and burns— instruments I don't even know how to describe— so much pain that I could never fathom that there would be an end to it. Stone and darkness, Father, and—"

Deep breath.

You are going to keep breathing.

The sunrise is beautiful.

Ray is nestled deeply beside you, laying his head on your leg, looking up to you lovingly.

You scratch behind his ears. Your voice levels as you continue. "And invocation. Brother Stace realized that my Catalyst was faith from a very young age. I called upon Vengeance twenty-eight more times, under the pretense of training. Over and over again. Each one was a Catalyst. Each one was..."

You stop talking.

The sun is up.

There's a hand on your shoulder.

"It's over, Richard."

"It's not. I have invoked Him thirty-two times, Father Wilhelm—" You stand up, shaking and still wavering slightly. "—and I still have a home to go back to." The light of day is stunning. "I have always been fit to lead the Church of Mercy. She was there for me. She has never hurt me. Not in the way that the rest of the Gods have. I will learn to serve Them all with as much devotion. But—"

Looking to the priest of Flesh across the river, waving to you excitedly, you try to wave back. It's stiff, and you're grimacing, but you still make the effort.

You always have.

"I have a lot of work to do, first."