Chapter 26: Fourteen Minutes

"Make it fast."​

The bindings of the book are sturdy hardened leather, bound with an exotic glue. The Church of Spirit possesses one of the only two libraries in Corcaea, to the best of your knowledge. It comes as no surprise for so much parchment to be readily available to one of their clergy women. The tome must have a hundred pages.

Unlike your journal, the pages are clean, devoid of any blood or marks of battle. No stains or soot from flame and war adorn the edges of the crisp, unscented animal skins. Sister Cardew's handwriting is immaculate, clearly penned in devotion to her Goddess. The margins are broad, and she has provided full illustrations for a number of the patients in the ward. Depictions of various disease— before and after your treatments— are described in excruciating detail. There are also dozens of patients listed that you did not have the time to visit, who were in far less acute stages of illness.

It seems that the Sister of Spirit attended to every single patient in Beorward over the course of the last two days, and chronicled their mental capacities in full. While paying due diligence to the state of their Flesh— with the assistance of more mundane healers— her primary concern appears to have been of their mind.

Their Spirit.

Flipping through the pages, skimming, trying to take in as much as you can before a proper read, several entries catch your eye. You know that 14—

"Thirteen minutes."

Thirteen minutes is not enough to cover every word in full. The entry on the gentleman who was covered in lesions spans no fewer than six pages, given Sister Cardew's extremely ornate penmanship.

Flipping ahead, you see that the demon you spared has also been attended to. His record spans at least 10 pages. There is mention of the work Father Wilhelm attempted on the monstrosity, and you cannot discern the full scope of the issue with a single glance. One thing is certain, though.

He is still alive.

The heretical man who was restrained has an even longer entry. Twenty pages are dedicated to his mental condition, treatment, and recommendations for transfer to the Church of Spirit.

They are both still being held here.

The intensity of your grimace is hurting your face.

There is a short entry on the man who's leg you completely restored. It is incredibly concise. Less than a single page is dedicated to his humble and well-adjusted soul.

Over five are devoted to your work on him.

He has been sent home. May all the Gods be praised.

Based on reports from the patients and Sister Cardew's assumptions, there are over thirty pages on an assessment regarding your own mental state. She has left over a third of the book in the back open and labeled: 'Acute assessment incomplete. Further report will be provided pending approval of Father Richard Anscham.'

I have spent my entire service as the Father of the Church of Mercy with due respect paid towards every other church leader. No matter how much my patience is tried here, I will uphold my tenets.

You're all restraint and diligence, and silently flip to the entries on the demon of fear.

[25th of the Thundering Moon, 605. Jonathan Friedrich. Attended by Brother Griffin and Sister Durville. Supervision by...]

You gloss over no less than two dozen names, chronicling every single guard and post that may have come in contact with the demon.

Sister Cardew is extraordinarily thorough. She wanted accountability in case there was any mistreatment, didn't she?

[Catalyst of Fear recorded and witnessed by 49 civilians, 7 priests, Father Galterius Friedrich and Father Richard Anscham on the eve of the 23rd of the Thundering Moon. Full list of names can be found on page opposite.

Testimony consistently reported Father Richard Anscham, leader of the Church of Mercy, to be capable of controlling a demon's faculties in full.]

This is your life's work.

Music

You lean in.

[The demon possesses extraordinary capacity to control its own Flesh, but exercises no desire for domination or control over any other form. The influence of Father Anscham's "Relic" may be responsible for its shift in personality. Further analysis will be required.]

The locket about your neck feels as if it's on fire. You lean a little closer, as the item practically hangs over the page.

You place a hand over it, letting its heat spread through your palm while you read.

[Testing confirms that the demon cannot demonstrate fear in any capacity. With its sole emotion restricted, its threat has been neutralized. Form can be changed from material to immaterial on command, with possible applications for weaponized...]

Flipping the next few pages, your hands are shaking once again. The tremor is severe enough to threaten to tear the precious parchment.

Steadying your wrist with one hand, and releasing your hold on the Relic, you turn over the pages with the other. There are a number of stunning illustrations depicting the man in life, his transformation, and every other form he surely has taken.

The final portrayal is of a small mound of Flesh. Dozens of eyes protrude from it. Staring.

[26th of the Thundering Moon, 605. Intense observation is unsuitable for continued health of the patient.]

Despite the cautionary statement, there are still several more pages.

[Jonathan has yet to act on professed desire to maim or butcher his guard. Further questioning yielded similar fear of assault, without action taken.

Burgeoning control of its Catalyst is tempered in full with any demonstration of compassion.

The demon's restraint has been unwavering, pending change in observation.

Condition appears to be stable enough for interrogation.]

The next several pages are blank.

You flip them over, wide-eyed. Trying the edges of the pages, it seems that nothing is stuck together.

Father Friedrich is scowling, reading over your shoulder. "She informed me that all research regarding the Catalyst was strictly within the domain of the Church of Spirit, and refused to defer to any further orders. I will be taking her insolence up with Father Sullivan, personally. I told you, Richard, this is a waste of our time. We have the situation here under control."

I may have to see to her.

Frustrated beyond reason, you flip back to a patient you know you have saved.

[24th of the Thundering Moon, 605. Dumphrey Hayward. Attended by Sister Enart. Patient is reported to be 36 years old. Laborer. Examination indicates no injury or complaint. All sign of decay in his amputated limb has abated, as attested to by Sister Enart. Father Anscham's full administrations will be reported in a separate entry of this document. Mr. Hayward is mobile, capable for duty, and fit for immediate release.

His mental fortitude is matched only by his restored physical prowess. Strongly recommended for inclusion into the Church of Flesh's forces.]

There is a signature beneath the recommendation. It's Father Friedrich's.

"Father Anscham." Said military commander is tapping his foot. Loudly.

You turn to him, snapping, "I am not finished. Do you have such little regard for the welfare of your children?"

"You know I don't want to hit you again, Richard—"

"If their spirit broke, would it even matter? What other plans—" You gesture to the door, to the men that are likely eavesdropping. "—even your best laid plans will go to waste if your church catches fire again."

His fists have not loosened since you entered the room. "So help me—"

"Do you understand me, Father Friedrich?" You don't know whether to shout or drop from exhaustion. "I simply want to help you. To ensure that your home is safe."

The fist closest to you moves, and you flinch instinctively.

It goes to the book between you both, flipping to the entry regarding the man within the exterior ward. The one who's spirit was broken.

Footsteps are coming back down the hallway. You look to Father Friedrich, baffled.

"I had a feeling. Put your damn nose in the book and read, will you? We don't have all day."

Scowling, you comply, and turn to the page.

[24th of the Thundering Moon, 605. Victor Bonamy. Unattended. Allegedly under direct supervision of Father Friedrich. Last seen by Sister Enart, Brother Trebbeck and Father Anscham. All neglected patient care. Questioning revealed transfer from a stable to quarters within the exterior ward of the Church of Flesh. Endangerment of the lives of the patients within said ward is to not be understated.]

Father Friedrich is seething. "Words. With Father Sullivan. About the girl. You're welcome to join me, if you like."

[Textbook cesspool. Symptoms align with reference report 965, shelf 62, chain 3.]

What?

[Disassociation from Spirit has led to a severe buildup of...]

The door to the room is knocked on, hard. An incredibly refined, accented voice picks up over the banded planks of wood. "Galterius. I will take my leave the very moment I suspect my time is being wasted—"

The priest barks back, "I'll throw you to the battlements from here if you call my devotion into QUESTION, Sir. Hold the door and your insults, and I will be right with you."

A little laughter at the nobleman's expense comes from further beyond the wood. There's absolutely no question in your mind that every word you're uttering can be heard by a number of strangers.

Father Friedrich looks to you sympathetically. "Thank you, for everything you've done here. You know you're welcome to stay for as long as you like." He smirks. "Though that isn't going to be for very long, now, is it?"

"I intend to stay so long as I am awaiting correspondence from Father Sullivan and Father Barthalomew."

"The girl."

"Pardon?"

"The— Sister Cardew. She said she had word for you, from Father Sullivan. I haven't heard hide nor hair from Bart yet. I'll pass on any word from either of them the moment I receive it."

"Father Sullivan— you don't mean to say—"

"No letter. No direct correspondence. The man's a psychopath, for all the FUCKING mind-games—" A deep breath. He pulls a little on his beard, looking as if he could desperately use a drink and a vacation. "Excuse me, Richard."

"It— I understand completely, Father."

His voice is lowered. "No. Honestly. I'm sorry you've had to see things in such a sorry state. To see me in such a sorry state."

The man is easily twice as broad as you, and so imposing it's difficult to not make some kind of comment.

Parting your fingers from demons and sin, you run a hand through strands of gold. The hand in your hair moves to your temples, matching Father Friedrich's exasperation. You look to him with a very pained smile. "Believe me, I understand. More than I could possibly say."

This is the primary reason I left for the ruins to begin with.

"This is about more than any responsibility. Our respective leadership, I— I may be the Father of the Church of Mercy, but it would set my mind at ease to know that you are— that you are being looked after, too."

He matches your smile as earnestly as you could hope for. "I've got the most qualified man in the country right here, don't I?"

"Yes, well—" The discomfort across your face melts into genuine flattery. "At least— if you could try to not be so hard on yourself."

He ruffles the side of your hair, calling attention to you still fussing with it. "I know. You don't need to hear any of this shit."

Both of your hands part from your hair, to return to respective nervous habits. He's pacing again, but puts more distance from the door to afford you both an extra moment of privacy. You're fidgeting, and murmur to the floor, "it would still— I will attend to Sister Cardew."

Thirty of those pages cannot be all praise. If she has the faintest idea of what I have done...

"I insist." Your frown is back as quickly as it came.

The voices opposite Father Friedrich's door are getting louder by the second.

"Father Friedrich!"

"We do NOT have all day!"

You turn on a heel, asking as quickly as you're able, "if you can forgive me—"

"Just name it. Make it fast."

"An envelope, and insurance for the fastest messenger you can afford. To Eanlac." The knocking is increasing in volume. You try to ignore it. "To Mother Aimar."

Father Friedrich pales, "ah. I— well." He seems to be reconsidering, and struggling under the strain of even more pressure on his doorstep.

"If it is too much to—"

"No, no. It's fine, Richard. You know it might be a few weeks before you get a reply?"

"She will know where to find me."

There's a very nervous silence between the two of you.

The knocking is incessant.

"Right. Here, just a moment..."

A stream of crimson cloth around the man's waist kicks into the air for the speed at which he moves back across the room. From beneath a floorboard underneath the colossal table, he kicks up a panel. Beneath is a number of incredibly lethal weapons, closed satchels, and a few strange items you do not recognize on sight. Suspecting sorcery, you lean in, but the board is replaced in an instant.

One of the bags has been produced. From it, a coin purse and ten envelopes are promptly handed to you. You're provided with a generic seal, several deep red sticks of wax, and several more pens. "You need this far more than I do right now."

You accept the items as graciously as you're able. "The Church of Mercy will reimb—"

A wave of his hand. "It's been collecting dust. Don't bother. You'd better get going."

The knocking and complaints are increasingly more irritated. The colossal report goes back to both of your hands, which has been entirely necessary for you to handle its full weight. You head for an opposite door, wanting for quiet, wanting for strength, and wanting to best serve the God of the Material. This is an unparalleled opportunity to learn of Flesh, and you are not passing it up— no matter how strained your mentor is.

Lingering just a moment longer, backing up as you speak, you stash the items you were entrusted with. "Father Friedrich, it has been nothing but a pleasure to study under your tutelage. It would be an honor to receive further instruction, if you would have me."

"Sure thing, Richard." Everyone around here smirks way too often. "You sneaking out again tonight?"

"You—" You're flushing. "There— I—" Your stammer becomes a murmur, and a quiet admission to the excursion last night. "I am available this evening—"

His laughter trails after you as you scramble to call Ray to your side, and slip away from more potential accusations. "Go on! Run!"

You're backing up rapidly. "Possibly, we— we could have a more sophisticated lesson when next we meet—?"

"Sure, sure. I'll draft something this afternoon. Don't bother me until tonight, you hear?"

"Of course."

"Don't forget to eat!"

You wave as reassuringly as you can. Ushering Ray with the opposite hand out of the office, you emerge back into the halls of the Church of Flesh.

The door closes firmly behind you. A fair amount of griping, complaining, and various other forms of insubordination can be heard from the door opposite.

It's impossible to resist lingering for a few more seconds. Glancing behind you— ensuring that the hallway is clear— you confirm that absolutely no one cares when someone is waiting outside of Father Friedrich's office.

You inch towards the door, easily able to overhear the start of an argument. Everyone manages to talk over each other.

"This is an embarrassment and an outrage, to say nothing of—"

"...did not ride from Calunoth through barricade and—"

"Wasting my time, Galterius? I thought you were more—"

"It would be wise, to be more mindful of the company that you keep—"

"A demon seems to be of more concern to you than our—"

The sound of a fist impacting an open hand is so deafening it interjects and silences every complaint. "If a single man here takes issue with the company that I keep, or anyone's conduct in my own fucking home, I am all ears. Go on. Say so. One at a time. Now."

A long silence follows. You can hear the footsteps down the hall, of the dozens of men and women within the interior ward.

The bustle of a church that is meant to defer to a singular leader.

There's some throat clearing.

"Oh? Lord Talbot, sir?" Knuckles pop.

A few papers are shuffled. "Our acquisition of the Crepuscule was intended to be made known on merrier terms, Father Friedrich. A festival is to be set in Calunoth, and further forces are to be allocated at once. Resupply—"

Several priests immediately interject.

"We've been in the fucking 'fen for—"

"Father—!"

"Murgate has needed reinforcements for months and we've—"

You pull back from the door just as three priestesses turn their heads to you. Assuming a neutral stance, you keep your eyes averted while they walk by. They pass without issue.

You listen for a few more moments.

"You, too, Lord Quincy? Well? Out with it."

He sounds apologetic. "The civil unrest in Calunoth—"

"We've been over this. You have your own men. Acquire more zealots if you need to, I'm not—"

"If you could speak with him, perhaps? An appearance could quell the dissent—"

The slam of a fist onto something wooden, papers rattling, and a complete silence takes over the room.

It's eventually punctuated by Father Friedrich's voice. "Waste my time as much as you like, but you're not speaking to Father Anscham under my roof. Don't make me repeat myself again."

The silence persists.

You decide to pull back. For all of your curiosity, this seems to be worse than pulling teeth, and you don't have the time to spare.

Taking several deep breaths, you steel yourself against the book in hand. A quick gesture is made towards Ray, who blissfully follows your broad steps. More business lingers in the hall behind you.

"...funeral services..."

"...of Spirit requested for further aid..."

"...for reallocation..."

This is too much. I need some peace. Quiet. Prayer.

You're heading straight back towards your room. Not a soul dares to do more than give you a friendly wave or "good afternoon, Father Anscham."

Closing the door firmly behind you and Ray, you slump against the door. Resting your head against the weighted defense, you close your eyes, and try to keep breathing.

"Mercy."