Chapter 24: Live for Yourself

"You shouldn't forgive me, and you never have to."​

Father Wilhelm gets to his feet, takes off his nightcap, and pulls a slip of paper out from inside. It's a letter addressed to you. It simply says 'Richard' on the exterior, but you recognize the handwriting instantly.

"How long have you been holding onto this for—?"

The curled script is stamped with gold. It's unmistakably Father Edmund's.

"Three years. I don't normally keep it in my hat, but I figured it was safe keeping for tonight. I have seen some of this before. Open it when we get back to the Church, alright? We've got a long walk back, and I've never seen its contents. Don't want you out here if it's something miserable."

The envelope is incredibly wrinkled, still bearing a few flecks of dust around the untouched wax seal on the opposite side.

There's finally so many questions on your mind that you can't keep them all to yourself. "Why now? Why—" The emotion that you've been shoving down through the sunrise is threatening to resurface, hard. "—why have you kept this from me for so long? When were you intended to have given this to me? Why not— why not Father Edmund—"

The priest beside you keeps a respectful distance, replacing his hat. "It came from Mother Aimar."

"What—"

"If it were up to me, I would have done so the very moment it came into my possession. I received it from her on the night I set out to rescue you from the ruins. She was extremely clear about what time to give this to you."

You both are pale. Time's will is to be respected above all other things.

"I understand. That still does not—"

"I know. It isn't right. He shouldn't have waited. She shouldn't have, either. I can't say I understand it at all."

A few long moments pass as you clench onto the edges of the faded paper. "Will you do me one more— would you please accompany me back to the Church of Flesh? I know I have asked you for so much already, but—" The tension in your hands and wrists barely alleviates the strain in your chest and voice. "But I—"

Father Wilhelm holds up a hand. "You don't even have to ask, Richard. I would be happy to." His hand goes down, replaced by a weary smile. It's directed towards the sunrise. "The light's wasting, and we both have a long day ahead of us. Let's get going."

You stash the envelope on your person, and gently get Ray back to his feet. Father Wilhelm waves over Cyril.

The blonde— soaked up to his knees— is more than delighted to cross back over to you both with a basket brimming with fish. "Not going to get any shit for staying out overnight, coming back with all of this, eh?"

You can't help but appreciate the attempt at normalcy. "Your devotion is commendable, Cyril."

He smirks, putting a hand to his obviously aching arms. "Nothing to it. Your dog want any, before we head back?"

Frowning briefly, you look down to your boy. "His name is Ray—" He's begging like a puppy. "—and yes, I am sure he would appreciate it."

Keeping a wide berth from the colossal mastiff, Cyril tosses a prize catch straight into the air. "Hey, Ray! Catch!"

Your boy gallantly leaps several feet above the ground, and inhales the fish mid-air. He looks to you immediately upon landing for more. You kneel beside him, patting his side and fighting to not frown.

Your voice is all affection, despite how hard you're fighting to not remain upset. "You are never going to learn to chew your food, are you—"

Cyril and Father Wilhelm are both grinning at you. Your mentor replaces his cigar in full, going to put out the last of the campfire. "Are we all fine to walk back? I may have had a bit too much over the night."

"Please." Cyril rolls his shoulders back, stretching, trying not to yawn. "I'll see to the check points. You both pipe down, and we'll be through the city before anyone knows what hit 'em."

Crossing back into Beorward under the light of morning, it feels as if every single face on the street recognizes the three of you. They make no attempt to conceal their appreciation.

You're beginning to suspect that Cyril knows exactly what he's talking about, and has merely been trying to spare you from the reality of your situation.

Passing by the external farmland, men and women at the fields are delighted to pause their in work to wave at you. A few call out. Several more make it a point to bring over a basket or two of produce, even though Worship is fast approaching.

"Please, this is the least we can do."

"You boys put up a damn good fight, if what I heard was any indication! We haven't been able to do nearly enough for the church—"

"Think you could show some of this a little Mercy? Ahaha! Kidding, only kidding. Solid gold, can you believe it?"

Getting past the first few gates and walls is uneventful, but you catch a few murmurs from the priests and armored civilians at their posts.

"Hear what he managed in the Church of Flesh?"

"Fought like somethin' scarier than a demon, from what I hear."

"You should have seen it. Saved the whole damn city, they did!"

"Father Friedrich himself was there. Didn't hold a candle to what that lunatic is capable of..."

Getting back into the city proper over an hour of brisk walking later, you're greeted by streets bustling with activity. Cyril rapidly moves right to your side, using the full width of his shoulders and arms to put you out of sight.

"Cyril, what—?"

"Trust me, alright? Put up your hood while we're at it."

You're muttering. "I do not have the time for this." The long, black hood on the back of your robes goes up. "Not for any fuss this morning." Your distinctively broken and poorly healed nose is concealed from sight, along with the gold in your hair and the hollows of your cheeks. "The last thing I need right now is another concern outside of Church walls..."

Masking your appearance is probably sufficient, but you stay well behind Cyril. Keeping to his back through the remainder of Beorward's first few gates is remarkably uneventful. The basket of fish is handed off to Father Wilhelm after a matter of minutes, so that he might better attend to his work. The visible strength of your companion, alongside Ray and an obvious church leader guarantees an utter lack of further delay.

Cyril is obviously trained as a body guard, given his efficiency at shielding you from any and all scrutiny. The briefest of efforts from any traders, beggars or cut-purses are thwarted instantaneously. It's a smoother venture back to the Church of Flesh than what even Father Wilhelm accomplished while you were under disguise just a few days prior.

Just before the drawbridge, you're gestured to drop your hood. Cyril steps aside, mock-bowing.

"Thank you, Brother Trebbeck," you murmur, moving to wave down a number of guards.

The spear fisherman sweeps his catch back from Father Wilhelm's arms, and waves to the walls of the Church of Flesh as well.

A particularly ill-mannered guard shouts, "'bout fuckin' time!"

Cyril makes a rude gesture, laughing, "up yours!"

Several unbecoming motions are exchanged between the Brothers while the drawbridge is slowly lowered. Father Wilhelm leans in next to you, whispering, "straight to your quarters, then?"

You mutter back, "if it is not too much to ask."

Cyril flashes a smile to you.

You're too stressed to offer a genuine one back. "Thank you again, Cyril."

"I take it you'll be alright while I go take care of this?" He shakes the basket enough for the dace and loaches to wiggle at you. "Wouldn't want anything spoiling."

You sigh in relief, "of course."

"Right, then!" He turns to leave, pauses, and looks back to Father Wilhelm. "I don't suppose you'll be sticking around?"

"Can't wait for Worship. The road back to Somerilde is a demon itself without a proper guide!" A sarcastic wink is fired your way. "I'll be taking my leave soon. No need to send for anyone to my quarters just yet, but will you please speak with Father Friedrich, on my behalf?"

"It'd be an honor, sir." He's not being sarcastic. "What do you need?"

"Please see to it that he is thanked for all of his hospitality. I'll leave a few things for him in the tower. I trust you'll ensure it gets to the proper hands?" Puffing away, there's another wink for the priest of Flesh.

Did Father Wilhelm honestly have me carry trade goods halfway across the country just to thank Father Friedrich and his clergy?

Cyril grins ear to ear. "Of course. Thanks, Father. Safe travels." He's already turning to leave. "See you around, Father Anscham!" He's walking away, muttering loudly enough for you to still be able to hear, "I'll get you to take a proper night out in the city if it kills me..."

No one has the gall once you're back to the keep to further disturb you. The courtyard, interior and exterior wards are all blessedly devoid of interruption, thanks to the impeccable grooming of standard church goers.

You close the door to your room once Father Wilhelm is safely back inside, and lean against it for a moment. A brief prayer to Mercy is made under your breath, given how exhausted you already are.

Father Wilhelm has made himself comfortable in a nearby chair, and waves a box of dried fruit at you. Ray eagerly inspects the entirety of the room before dropping down on the large bearskin rug. Obliging the priest's offering, you pull up a chair next to him while chewing on something particularly sour.

At some point you picked at more of the sweets on the table, which is still covered in exotic gifts. Your face reflects your disdain for the situation at hand more than what's in your mouth. Producing the letter from Father Edmund, you pry open the wax seal the second you're situated.

The letter within is folded over, though there is writing only on one side. It's not stamped in gold. You swallow hard, glad that you're sitting down. "First Sowing, 602. This— he wrote this just before he died—"

A lot of care went into this letter. Prior drafts are impressed from sheets of parchment that were once placed on top. A great deal is scratched out and crossed over. You squint, desperately trying to tease out its meaning. There's bits about trying to make amends, making the most of at least the last few years. It's infuriating, but the pen has been pressed so deeply into the parchment, it's even torn in places.

You try to work out the full, intended text as best as you're able. The writing is frenetic, wavering, and obviously was written by a man at the end of his rope.

It's a suicide note.

​ Father Richard Anscham,​ ​ People will try and tell you that you don't deserve the title. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.​ ​ I know I am placing an enormous burden on you. I know that you might not feel ready for so much responsibility. It will likely be years before you even begin to understand everything that this means for you. I had a lifetime to prepare myself for it, and I squandered all but the last few years.​ ​ This has never been about me. This has never been about the title. This is about YOU, Richard, and one thing that I NEED you to KNOW.​ ​ You've earned it. You have done so much good for this world, for the little time you've had in it.​ ​ I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I wasn't there for you. I'm sorry for everything.​ ​ Everything but this. I know it won't make things right, but there needs to be no question in any man, woman or child's mind in this whole damn country that YOU earned it.​ ​ Keep proving them wrong. You've earned your place in our world, even though you never needed to prove a thing.​ ​ You've earned all of our devotion. I trust you. I know you are more than fit to wield more than power, or wealth, or titles.​ ​ You've earned all of our love.​ ​ You've earned a life of your own.​ ​ You never have to say "yes," but I know you will.​ ​ I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, for all of the years of ignorance and neglect. I can't make it up to you.​ ​ This is not about making amends.​ ​ You shouldn't forgive me, and you never have to. I want you to live the best life you can. Not for me, not for anyone. Not even for Mercy.​ ​ I know She loves you. I do, too.​ ​ Live for yourself.​ ​ Good bye, Richard.​

It's not signed. Elias Edmund, the former Father of Mercy, seems to have trusted you to recognize his devotion one last time.

You lean back in your chair. Putting a hand through your hair to your temples, you drag your palm down the side of your face, and try to compose yourself. The letter is extended out to Father Wilhelm wordlessly. You're too overwhelmed to speak.

He takes it and reads it while you nervously try to eat a little more. The dried fruit and beer does help. You have as much as you can tolerate, resigning to the fact that your training in the Church of Flesh has been utterly derailed.

Father Wilhelm is taking more time than he should. You've finished the fruit, and are picking at more marzipan. He must be re-reading the letter.

You sit back upright after a few more minutes. Though your posture is impeccable, it feels like the weight of the world is on your shoulders. "What do you think?"

"I..."

"I need your honesty, Father Wilhelm. Now, more than ever. Please."

The priest of Dream looks so exhausted, you fear for a moment that he'll pass out. He pulls a few times at his cigar.

You drag an empty wrapper underneath the ash while he gathers his thoughts.

"I wish this was given to you sooner."

It feels like a knife lances your heart. You clutch at the fabric over your chest, and choke out, "so do I. How could— you said that Mother Aimar had this in her possession?"

"She sent it to me, with no explanation other than when to give it to you."

At this rate, I'll be writing to every Church leader before the week is out.

"What do you— how could she have— why—?"

"Richard." You're cut off, and pulled into a full hug. Both arms. There's probably some ash getting on your shoulder, but you don't mind. "I don't know. I wish I did. I am terribly sorry for your loss."

Your arms are being pinned, and you don't try to raise them to return the gesture. "It is— I mean, th-thank you. It is fine. I—"

Father Wilhelm pulls back, brushing off your shoulder. "If you say so. Sorry about that."

"I— I really don't care."

"He was right, you know." The sincerity of his smile is tragic. "Still is! About everything. You absolutely have earned your title. I've never met a more merciful man in all my life."

You almost wish he'd go back to fussing over your appearance. Trying to take the compliment in stride is beyond your capacity. You would redirect the subject again, but this is too much.

Your hand goes back to your temple, trying to sort yourself out mentally.

Every time I get my affairs in order, something new crops up.

This is why I left to begin with.

Everything has only gotten worse in my absence.

Nothing has been resolved.

No one waited for me.

The world has moved on, and up, and I can't be left behind.

I am still trudging through the past, and can't sort out the present or future—

A hand goes to your shoulder, gripping it firmly. You're almost shaken. "Richard. Richard."

It's like a bolt of lightning went through your spine. "Y-yes?"

"Do you need a minute?"

"I— I am not entirely certain— I don't— it feels as if I don't know anything. I— I still need help. I have, for such a—"

"Hey. Listen. Look at me, alright?"

You hadn't realized how unfocused your eyes must have been. They're perpetually downcast, avoiding eye-contact at all costs.

The cracks in his skin are taking in the light of morning, from the expansive window at the end of your room. The curtains were left open all night, and a little dew from the dawn is littering the edges of the sill. Ray is stretched out, laying on the bearskin rug, looking to the fresh air and birds flying in the distance.

Trying to concentrate has you feeling dizzy, but you lift the gold and green to an incredibly worried and sympathetic priest. There's fine lines in the edges of Father Wilhelm's eyes. He's likely had more rest than most church leaders, but his age and weariness are still written on him.

The lines deepen, as he gives you the weary smile you've come to be quite familiar with. "Good. That's a lot better. You should keep your chin up, alright?" It's knocked very lightly against his fist. "He was right. You can't let anyone get you down. You've earned all of this, and a whole lot more. Give yourself some rest. Cut yourself some slack! You've been through more than—"

You frown. "You don't need to say it."

"I do. Probably more than anyone. It's alright if you need some time to heal, but you need to get back home." His smile becomes more pained by the second. "I can't imagine how hard it is for you. How hard it will be. But they need you, Father Anscham, even if none of those bastards will admit to it."

Both of Father Wilhelm's hands go back to the table. He moves to stand. "We both have families to get back to."

He's already stayed longer than he should have.

You look up to him as he lingers beside you. His nightcap flops over stupidly as he looks down. He doesn't even bother moving it for a moment, obviously enjoying your response.

"Richard."

"Yes, Father Wilhelm?"

He adjusts his hat, and sincerely smiles. "I know you'll be alright. Please, take care of yourself. I trust you, too! You'll do the right thing. I know you're more than capable of looking after all of us. You've never let me down. I appreciate you, and you never have to ask me twice to say it." He pauses. "Even if you do, I'll be just a letter away, alright?"

"Thank you. Again. For everything. You know I'll write."

He's heading towards the door. "Come visit Somerilde some time. The Church of Dream's door are always open to you. Or, well, even drop back by the retreat!" The cigar between his teeth almost bends, for how hard he grins. "Just give me fair warning!"

Nodding, you already are moving to get a spare piece of parchment. Father Wilhelm shakes his head, laughing, and waves to you as he leaves. "Take care, Father Anscham."

Through a mouthful of salted candy, you lift your head for a moment from your work. Murmuring, "you, too," the door to your room is shut.

You're left to attend to your own affairs. There are at least half a dozen concerns on your mind, and you are determined to attend to as many as possible.

While scarfing down a generous amount of the supplies Father Friedrich's left in your care, you pace, using the back of your journal to pen a letter to Mother Aimar in the most respectful fashion you're capable of.

It takes quite awhile. Enough to have a proper breakfast. The liquor in your flask is replaced with some tea ("something green and energizing"). You rewrite the note a few times, practicing the structure on the back of spare sheets before committing everything to a singular page.

​ Mother Aimar,​ ​ It has come to my attention that you were in close contact with my mentor, the prior Father of the Church of Mercy. Elias Edmund's final letter was given to me just this morning, despite having been penned over three years ago.​ ​ I am in need of immediate clarification. The following questions require your full attention, and a swift reply. They are pertinent not only to my ability to best serve our country, but to the continued integrity of our respective churches:​ ​ - Why was Father Edmund's letter withheld from me? There is no conceivable reason that the validity of my title should be withheld for any period of time.​ - If you were aware that I was to be appointed his successor after his death, why have you abstained from delivering this to me personally? Father Wilhelm had this item in his possession for several weeks, at your behest. Why was he instructed to wait?​ - Regardless of the 'need to know' basis the Church of Time operates on, Father Edmund perished during a catastrophic outbreak of demons. He died on the field of battle, in an attempt to save the lives of hundreds. If you possessed knowledge of how to reach him, or of where to obtain this letter, it must be made clear to me with all due haste. This is to say nothing of the events of his death, or any preventative measures that could have been taken.​ ​ I trust that you will not withhold any details regarding his sacrifice from me. I will be made aware of any matters regarding my Church's affairs, especially if they pertain to my leadership, our security, and our collective safety.​ ​ My deference to your wisdom, your experience, and all of the time we have diligently served Corcaea together is eternal. In all ways, I aim to uphold the Church of Time's tenets.​ ​ Her will is unchangeable.​ ​ Let us both make the most of the time that is given to us. My prayers go out to you for your service, and for a swift correspondence.​ ​ -Father Anscham