Chapter 30: Oversharing is Caring

"Every day was another catastrophe."

​

You take a deep breath.

There has not been a day I have spent in the halls of a church without being reminded of why I wanted to kill myself.

Another breath. Ray sits upright, dropping his head down beside your leg, nudging you. You put a hand to his back, trying to reassure him that you're alright.

I am not a liar.

You pull your hand back.

I am many things, apparently, and not a single one of them is alright.

The entirety of your glass of wine goes down. You practically choke on it, and your immediate horror has you set the empty glass back down much more firmly than you should.

It is a miracle that I can even tolerate this.

You shift uncomfortably.

After everything a real demon of Flesh put me through.

The glass is staring back at you.

There is no use telling this woman about my blatant abuse of Spirit. There is no need to tell her of demons, or heathens, or calling upon her Goddess in the name of something she surely could never hope to understand.

It takes a minute before you part your hands from the empty glass, and run a hand through your hair. The strands of gold are enormously reassuring.

You hear a throat clear. There's the sound of your wine glass being filled. You're probably too distressed to focus on anything, but Sister Cardew's words are transparent. "It's alright. I know you're overwhelmed. Start from the beginning, if you can. Let me know if you need to stop."

"I can handle my—"

"Not the wine, Father."

There's a rising pain in your skull that has nothing to do with the liquor, either.

"Go on. I'll be writing." Her pen is already scratching. "We can go over this together. Later. It's okay."

"I would not want to— Sister Cardew, I mean no offense, and I would never wish to make your work more difficult than it already must be—"

"Father Anscham, I assure you: there is nothing you could tell me that Father Sullivan hasn't prepared me for."

You snap your gaze back to the woman across from you. She's straight-faced, pauses her work for a moment, and meets your stare. "I take my assignments quite seriously. I assure you. I would like nothing more than to treat you with the same respect and diligence that you show to all of your work, Father."

This woman is truly serving the Church of Mercy.

You try to remain as detached and clinical as possible. It's your story, but you have told it in only in pieces so many times before. Tearfully to strangers and loved ones. Wholesale to demons and blasphemers. It's impossible to discern how much personal investment Sister Cardew could possibly have in your tale, but you want to give her the same respect she's showing you.

As calmly as you're able, you launch into the story. From the beginning.

All the way back to little, rural Pontos. The fishing village nestled between famine, breaks, and beatings. Your loving and devout parents were not to blame. Mortal affairs were.

A world that they could never have possibly protected you from.

Pain. Desperation. Retribution. Your first invocation to Vengeance. A life destroyed at your hands, though no one could understand that you had suffered just as much in turn.

Hiding in fear. A constant threat to your collective safety.

Sanctuary.

The Church of Mercy.

Restraint. Starvation. Thirst. Eight years of suffering, and torture in the dark. Detachment from all of the Gods, save for those you were commanded to serve.

Vengeance. Again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and

Mercy. A savior. Your first mentor. The Father.

You wanted relief from your pain more than anything.

Trial by fire. Your first sermon, held in the same town you were exiled from. No one could have possibly understood how much it meant to you. It was a second chance.

You saved the lives of hundreds. It would have been easier to strike them all down where they stood, but you have always done more than just deserve to wield divinity.

It still wasn't enough.

Attempts at escape. Attempts at normalcy. Attempts at a life away from the halls of the church. Brawling, drinking, flirtation. Any and every distraction you could fathom.

Recognition. Discipline. Agony. Beaten within an inch of your life, time and time again.

It became routine. As routine as your prayers to all of the Gods. Through recovery, weakness, and strength They answered, with ever increasing frequency. Each and every time you returned, it felt as if you had more to prove. More to learn. The world was vast, and you could never escape for long enough.

You had to go back. There was nowhere else for you. It has been an obsession. To every outbreak you answered, to every mission you've embarked on. You garnered a reputation for more than your devotion, your unwavering conviction, or your righteousness.

The power you wield has always been without equal.

The Church of Mercy was never family, but you were still made their Father. It was on the heels of a death. It would be the first loss of many, but you did not know it at the time.

You saw to it that the abuse had to stop, so they found other ways. Casting you out into a world you barely knew, into the halls of hunger.

You found kindness. Sacrifice. Through the Goddess of Bounty you were granted plenty, through horror you could not yet have conceived.

Sister Cardew seems to have slipped in her composure. She stops writing only to move to refill her own glass of wine. The candles about your table have dropped significantly lower. You try to not pay any heed to her motions while she reassures you once again. "I'm grateful, Father Anscham— and my hand needed the break." She flexes her fingers a few times, wrings her wrist, and re-positions her quill back over the vellum. Several dozen pages have already been filled. "Please, continue."

You wind up emptying your entire glass once again. Sister Cardew moves to refill it.

Your hands go to maneuvering nervously along the chain around your neck.

Losing Father Edmund and Mother Bethaea began to make more and more sense. The thought came to you only a few months after her passing.

A few months after the start of constant pain.

Responsibility was delegated. There were no possessions to give away, save for the unrelenting burden. Every day was another catastrophe. Countless outbreaks in and around Eadric fell to you, to your hands, to your healing. Blood and viscera came in volumes your fractured and grieving mind could not possibly withstand. Beggars at your door, the weary, and what felt like every lost soul in Corcaea was to be sent to the Church of Mercy.

No personal task could be attended to. No respite could be given. Getting out and away became nearly impossible.

Days turned to weeks, and weeks into another year.

You were, and still feel like a husk of a man. Sleep came infrequently, and too heavy when it did. Losing weight was a daily occurrence. Tremor and pain were bedfellows to you, but your partner remained a Goddess.

She had been your only Mercy.

The obvious solution was blasphemy. It was the only relief you could conceive of, at the time.

Everyone who looked at you knew it was suicide.

Music

No one took your remarks with any sincerity, but as the year wore on, they were taken with ever increasing fear. There was protest. There was outrage. And for all of the complaints regarding your position in the Church, there were appearances to keep.

You drafted formal requests to the capital. They were months in the making. Presentations regarding your proficiency and skill. Testimonies from the countless men and women who's lives you had saved. The careful allocation of your duty to veteran members of the clergy. Contingencies and plans to be executed in the event you failed to return.

No one complained about more power.

No one protested the delegation of your wealth.

No one was outraged when it became abundantly clear that the young farm boy from Pontos was abandoning his position.

You were happily waved out the door, escorted only to the border of the wood.

"It was four months ago— yesterday— that I left." You want to break down sobbing. "I keep thinking that I should have stayed. I miss them, Sister Cardew."

No detail is spared. Your suicidal plunge back into the darkness. Wandering, seeking the first death that might take you. Relief from your pain.

Battle. War. Strange men and women from other lands. Hundreds of thousands of steps taken down to the bottom of the world.

Liars. Blasphemers. Heathens. Women who you thought were your friends.

The loss of memory, and the gain of more trauma than your fractured mind could stand, over and over again.

Gods.

"There was never any time. Not for Them. Not for anything else but to simply fight. I never knew what I was doing. I never knew what I needed. Not until it was shown to me. Not until She..."

Mercy. The promise of relief. The guarantee that you were blessed. You were taken into the embrace of the Mother, and shown Her light. Her gift.

Demons. Ones who challenged everything you thought you knew. Demons who were able to teach you more about the Gods than any member of the clergy.

Friends. Lovers. Mentors.

Allies.

Some of the happiest moments of your life took place at the bottom of the world. The blessing of your very Goddess was not given to you out of pity, or as a mere gift.

You earned it.

An escape back to the surface.

Weeks of rest, and recovery.

Rediscovering the will to live. To fight another day under the sun.

By the time you're caught up to the present day, you can't imagine launching straight into more questions. Sister Cardew likely has hundreds of her own, so you ask, "I imagine you— is it alright, if I—?"

"Father Anscham?" Her voice is wavering slightly.

"Yes?"

"May I hug you? Briefly. We can discuss whatever you wish. The company at the other table seems to have left."

You look around the bar, wide-eyed.

It seems that Sir Rainecourt cordoned off the entire second floor for you both, with an elegant 'Reserved' sign placed at the top of the stair. You strongly suspect there is another at the bottom. The other tables are completely empty, as is the bar.

The woman sitting across from you has magnified eyes, and they're swimming. She also looks like she's struggling to maintain her composure.

The book on the table is closed.

It's already full.

Nodding your head, fighting hard to not break down on the spot, you move your chair back. Gesturing for Ray to stay put elicits a whine (he knows how distressed you are), but he complies.

The slender woman sitting next to you scoots right over, and takes you into a firm hug. Her shoulders are shaking despite how tight the embrace is. She's clearly struggling to keep her composure, but her voice remains level. "It's alright. I won't bite, I promise."

Harriet has expertly left your arms free. Without hesitation, you wrap your arms around her, bury your face in her robes, and cry. Hard.

A delicate hand lightly goes to your back. "It's okay."

Through the heave in your chest and the sobs wracking your frame, you manage to stutter, "y-you're not g-going to call me— aah—"

Your face goes back to her shawls, smothered against the fabric for a moment. It's difficult to breathe, but for how hard you're crying, you don't want to be heard.

The hand at your back moves gently, trying to be reassuring. "Go on. It's alright."

"A he-heathen—?"

She begins rattling off point after inarguable point. "You have been visited by three of the Gods Themselves."

"Y-yes—"

"I believe Father Sullivan himself would be interested to hear of your work regarding Spirit."

"P-possibly—"

"You've invoked multiple deities at once, and Mercy seems to have blessed you with an ability I have never even read of, in all of my study."

"Sh-She i-is Merciful—"

"Anyone who calls you a heathen is an imbecile."

Your sobbing redoubles. It must take at least five minutes of desperately clutching onto her, to regain enough composure to say anything further. "R-Remi— Flesh— M-Mercy— everyone— they think that I— that I'm some kind of pervert—!"

"You are not a liar."

"N-no—"

"Every word I've put down is nothing but the truth, is it?"

"I w-would hope so—"

"Do you think Father Sullivan would have sent a woman to help you, if he sincerely believed you would place my safety in jeopardy?"

"O-of course n-not—"

"Do you think I would let you touch me, if I were concerned for my safety—"

"It's n-not l-like that—"

"What you're dealing with is nothing to be ashamed of. You're no pervert. You're a righteous man, aren't you?"

"Y-yes."

"A holy man."

"Yes—" You sniff, trying to compose yourself.

"We'll understand it. I'll do everything in my power to help you through it."

It sets you off all over again, sobbing even harder, "please, I— I can't s-stand this— I can't stand being like th-this..."

You trail off, into another heave of your chest.

"You are going to be alright. Being like what?"

They have all had something disparaging to say.

"A demon. I— I cannot believe that you w-wouldn't call me one, too." It's only working you up harder, as you cry, "how can you take all of this— to listen—" You want to pull away, for how miserable you feel. "H-how can you stand to even touch me—"

You're held a little closer. "You are nothing like any demon I've ever seen. Not even like the ones you've told me about today. Not even Yech could have so much humanity."

"Th-that's a lie—" You want to smile, and are so conflicted that you fall even deeper into your own abyss. It feels like you've never cried so hard.

"You're the Father of the Church of Mercy. Not a monster. Not a demon." She pulls back very slightly, looking at you. "You are not a demon."

Your heart breaks into a thousand pieces. You redouble your sobs. The priestess doesn't complain, fully taking you back into her arms while you work out the grief.

"What did they do to me?"

"They?"

"Tsilorm, and the demon of ice and paint— M-Menniath. It— it's hard to even remember that they h-had names, Sister. They were s-sadists, m-monsters—!"

A very gentle pat on your back. "I must confess, Father..."

"Th-that's n-not funny—"

She grins slightly. The expression falls into a more somber expression with each passing word. "I'm not joking. I don't have every answer at this precise moment. I'm going to give all of this a great deal of thought. Your research into the ruins of Ostedholm is remarkable. It's a tragedy, that you had to endure so much to gain the knowledge you did."

You're looked straight at, despite your tears. You instinctively want to look away, but Sister Cardew's eyes are dry, and full of so much religious fervor you have to admire them. "Your work will not go to waste. We are going to make something, of all of this." Her hands go to your shoulders, which are still heaving. "You have already come out of this with more than anything else your companions did. You are going to live with more than any of us could ever hope for, but not to your detriment. Not forever. Not for much longer, if I have anything to do with it. Mark my words."

"Th-thank you—"

"No," she smiles, the glint in her eyes not abating, "thank you."

Both hands slip to your back, returning the hug. "Cry for as long as you need to. You don't need to hold anything back. It's okay."

The sheer relief of being treated by another person with respect and compassion has you crying for so long, you completely lose track of the time. It hurts, given how tight your lungs are, fighting for air. Nestling your face against Sister Cardew's robes is entirely too comforting, and you can't help yourself. The last woman to hold you so sincerely was your own mother. The last time you held someone for so long was deep within the ruins, and you'd rather not compare the priestess in your arms to either event.

She's softer than you'd expect, and the scent of lavender is all over the gauze you hold onto desperately.

Sister Cardew doesn't bother— not even once— to interrupt. You're only offered a handkerchief at one point, which is stark white and embroidered with the initials 'H.C.' You feel miserable taking it (given how much you've likely gotten on the floaty fabric adorning her), but again, the priestess doesn't seem to mind in the least.

After what is likely an entire hour, your are eyes raw, your throat is hoarse, you manage to wind down, and finally see to the handkerchief. Sister Cardew tactfully and silently unwinds the shawl around her shoulder and sleeve. She still has enough fabric to drape across her shoulders— to remain decent— and looks to you with a very straight face.

"You haven't said a word about my glasses."

"Your— (sniff—) what?"

A finger points to the lenses and leather about her face. Her hair is neatly arranged so you can't tell how the harness is resting, but it looks terribly uncomfortable. "These."

You murmur, "I— just— this is—"

Very deep breath.

Another.

One more for good measure.

I can do this.

"There is so much work we have to do, Sister, that I— that I cannot imagine covering it all in a single sitting." You manage to find yourself, clearing your throat a bit more. "Speaking— socializing, in any capacity— communicating with anyone is still quite difficult."

Sister Cardew takes the time to sip at her drink, and to finish off the bunch of grapes. "I've been interrupting you almost constantly. I hadn't even realized. I'm sorry, Father."

"It— it is quite alright."

"It's not. I'll be more mindful of it. May I ask you a few more questions?"

"Y-Yes. Of course."

"I understand the concerns you've voiced, in full. We will absolutely see to them. Is there anything else you wish to discuss?"

There's a sigh, and a wrench of grief. "The pain, Sister Cardew. It's unsustainable. Most men would have been unable to withstand three months of it, let alone three years."

She gestures to the empty grape vine. "Agriculture."

"Yes." Another cringe. "I— I am horrified by the way that I respond to it otherwise."

Another, vaguer gesture. It's not obscene, she merely motions to the scars along your face. Your Relic.

"It is not indicative of my character. I am not a deviant. My use of the Gods has— I cannot hope to possibly fathom everything that They have enabled me to understand. I want to feel healthy. Hale. Normal. Even now I—" You're choking up again. "—it's a struggle to even speak at such length."

Despite the struggle, you are still a masochist, and continue. "My— I feel terrible. About myself. About how I must come across. For everything that is said about me. To me. Not all of it is a lie, Sister. I know that I have neglected myself— that I am difficult to speak to. It— it is telling that you could fill an entire book on me."

It feels like you might be rambling, but Sister Cardew is diligently penning every single word you've written. You know this for a fact, as she immediately slides the parchment across the table to you, to show you every word in verbatim. "I promised you, didn't I? I don't believe it would be wise to go over the rest today, but you are welcome to look at my notes at any time."

"Thank you."

She takes the parchment back, folding it and placing it back within the white-backed book. "We will fill as many as it takes to get you the help that you need."

The two of you sit in relative silence for several very long minutes.

You find the courage to break it. "It is particularly difficult for me to speak at length, regarding anything—" You grasp at a kind way to phrase it, and fail. "—anything that isn't regarding myself, my work, or the Gods, Sister Cardew. Asking questions, in particular. I— I would like to improve on a lot of things."

A weary smile is directed at you. "It makes sense."

You're almost relieved. "It— it does?"

"Your communication. It's a skill, like any other, Father. I didn't ask you about my glasses, did I?"

"Not necessarily."

"I've been interrupting you, haven't I?"

You pause a moment. "You seem to have corrected yourself quickly enough."

"You're sharp, too. You'll learn quickly. This is as good a place to start as any."