Chapter 34: I Want In

"It's personal."​

With a ragged sigh, you get back to your feet, and look to Ray.

"Come on, boy."

Leaving his harness out to dry, you stash your journal, and leave everything but a handful of parchment and a few pens on your person. You leave your room behind and head out the door. Almost every hallway is empty, save for a few patrols. It's not too late in the evening, but rain is pelting down so hard on the Church of Flesh you think it might be hail. Sticking to the interior of the keep, you and Ray cut a path to Father Friedrich's office.

The door is closed, as usual. Rapping a few times on the iron-banded wood, you announce yourself. "Father Friedrich. It's Father An—"

The door swiftly opens. Father Friedrich is alone. He's wearing a red smoking jacket over his typical tight-fitting attire, and has a cigar between his teeth. His neatly trimmed beard bristles upon seeing you.

While you're firmly pat on the shoulder, you catch a glance inside his office. There are two chairs set up, both next to the large table in the center of the room. A number of plain, lead-filled objects are scattered about the floor, but all of the items from earlier in the day have been cleared. There are no suits of armor. No reminders of grief.

"You brought the dog. Forget it, come on inside. Mind the door."

Hurrying inside the office, you call for Ray to follow you and make himself comfortable far from the seats in the center of the room. Your boy nestles himself adjacent to the hearth, looking to Father Friedrich with a warning glance or two.

"He really can't stand me, can he?" Father Friedrich gestures for you to take a seat in one of the over-sized armchairs, closing the door behind him.

You sink into one, trying not to smirk. "He does serve the Church of Mercy, but I doubt he would forgive you for hitting me."

Your host crosses the room, a box of open cigars in hand.

"Atticus left me a few. Smoke? Heard you had an interesting night." The older man's brow is furrowed. He's trying to be polite, but he seems bothered.

With a wave, you decline the offering. "I am sure I have already had too much this evening, Father."

"If you're sure." The box is closed and set on the table. The priest sweeps a piece of vellum into his hands, alongside a needle, and looks to you expectantly.

You elaborate, "Cyril— Brother Trebbeck— has been a Godsend."

He almost sounds surprised. "You don't say."

"He has been nothing but helpful and attentive. He deserves the recognition. His aid—" You search for a tactful way to phrase it. "—regarding my care with Sister Cardew was phenomenal. I believe I owe the quality of my evening to his help."

Father Friedrich leans back, puffing on the cigar. He's torn between sneering and smiling. "Well, well. This is news to me. Appreciated."

"She is not as severe as you would think, Father—"

A sneer wins out. "Feminine wiles, Father Anscham. Two wives taught me something!"

You frown back, "nothing of the sort. The Mother of Compassion has shown me more than enough to recognize sincerity when I see it. Harriet means well."

More puffing. There's a cloud growing above the man's head, likely mirroring the one that he alludes to now. "They're nothing but trouble."

"I know Father Sullivan has been harassing you."

Puff.

"Sister Cardew alluded to— well, to nothing short of slander. I believe he is something of a problem for both of us."

"Well? Do you want to do something about it?"

You have to blink a few times. "Excuse me?"

"I don't take kindly to men sticking their noses in my business. Planting their people in my home where they aren't wanted. Spreading rumors. He's been— well, shit, Richard, I really don't know how to put this."

Your grimace could not be any more intense. "Go on."

"He's been a strong advocate for your replacement. Brother Morris, last I heard. There's been others."

That was fast.

"Old 'Merciful Magnus seems to have withheld his judgement on it in your... absence."

"He is Merciful."

"Well. Henry—"

You give a questioning stare.

"For fuck's sake, Richard. Father Sullivan. Henry Sullivan."

"Ah— I—"

A wave of his hand. "Don't worry about it. Listen— my point being, he's got no fucking right meddling in any of our business. Not my home, not my church, not my family, and not with you. Not under my watch. Do you want to do something about it?"

Confusion, hesitation and no small amount of fear is intermingled with the rise of old abuse and memories of neglect. This is a man who's sent one of his family to help you. Who left you to rot when you needed help most. Who is tearing down your reputation, when you're struggling to build yourself back up.

More puffing. He's pissed. "Atticus and I have been more than happy to extend ourselves to get you back on your feet. We appreciate you, Richard. All the good work you've done. Saving my home. Your research. Staying out of our business. You've always been respectful. I know you're a righteous man, no matter what anyone says—"

Exasperated, you mutter, "I am sick of hearing this—"

"Hey. You hear the other words coming out of my mouth?"

"Yes."

"We appreciate you. I appreciate you."

"I understand."

"I'm going to kill him if you get all this help and go home to a church on fire."

The anxiety written across your face must be plain as day.

"Not literally. I'm not going to stand for all the slander. I can take care of myself, but do you want me to do something about Sullivan? For you. It's the least I can do. We'll get to the lesson—" He waves the vellum. "—but this is as important, if not more so. You'll have to get back to the world at some point, and I don't want it to get back at you."

"Are your complaints purely political, Father—" You're so tense you are practically spitting out each word. "—or is this a personal concern for you as well?"

"I think I speak for all of us when I say that this is about more than the work. It's about family, Richard." He grimaces. "It's personal. Even if I was only sending the sons and daughters of other men to their deaths—" He clenches a fist so tightly that several knuckles crack. "Having my judgement called into question is unacceptable." Puff. Sneer. "He's been doing worse for your name, for too long for my—"

This is the breaking point.

I am sick of hearing my name dragged through the mud. My good name.

"I want in."

You extend an open hand: the symbol of the Church of Mercy.

The priest of Flesh joins the gesture without hesitation, clasping your hand in his own.

"I trust your judgement, Father Friedrich."

"Damn straight." He's back to smirking.

"I have a few ideas of my own." You release the grasp. The priest goes back to his cigar, dropping some ash along a box on the table, scrutinizing you intently. He seems worried, but doesn't interrupt. "The absence of the Church of Mercy in your home is inexcusable. Likewise, the Church of Spirit could have prevented this last outbreak from ever occurring."

Any and all amusement has been replaced with an inscrutable frown, mostly hidden behind Galterius' beard.

"You do not need apologies." You look apologetic, regardless. "You need support. Recovery. Mercy. The entire country does, Father, and there is— and there is good reason I have remained in the King's good graces." Your teeth are grit. Your frustration is inescapable. "I cannot help anyone if I lose His trust."

Father Friedrich's shoulder are stiff. The puffing intensifies.

Your own grimace is only exacerbated in the building cloud of smoke. "I am certain that I do not need to hear just how severe things have become in the capital. Not at this moment. I need— I want to focus on my own recovery." You give a quick glance to the vellum in Father Friedrich's hand. It's got a red tint to it. "I will defend myself, our name— our family."

Another glance goes down to your horrifically thin wrists, clasped nervously beside your Relic. "I will do so with my own two hands. Father Sullivan ultimately defers to the hands of the King." Something darker that hasn't had the chance to flourish in months comes back to your eyes. "They will put him in his place."

Enough frustration and conviction works itself into your voice to part your hands, and to clench them in fists along your lap. "I will undermine these efforts at destroying our good names, Father Friedrich. This jealousy, spite, and utter failure— of recognition— of my work— will not go unpunished. The Church of Spirit is to operate at maximum efficiency, and the many—? They will never be punished for the actions of one."

You tense a little further. "The one, however? The wild dog? He is to be neutered. Immediately."

"I shouldn't be surprised."

You glance up from your fists to a smiling priest. A war general.

"You run like a demon. I'm remembering that you know how to fight like one, too."

Another ragged sigh escapes from you.

How can Father Sullivan claim to want to help me, while this has been going on for... months? Years? Defending my vessel from demons— through the Gods— is one thing. But facing other men— sane men— who wish to do worse to my reputation is another issue entirely.

I'm not ready for this. Not alone.

"I will need your help. There is very little that I can do— at the moment— so separated from the Church of Mercy. My power lies with Our children. I cannot expect to seize control of the Church of Mercy in my current condition. I cannot hope to mend my months of absence and supplant the authority of another Father without your aid."

"You're right." He's still grinning madly.

"Is there anything you and Father Wilhelm—"

"Thought you'd never ask—!"

Cutting into his own interjection, you put your foot down hard. "Within reason. In respect to the Church of Mercy."

His cigar is removed and set down, along with the lesson. A holy symbol— the lone, red needle— is placed on top of the paper. With his hands free, Father Friedrich leans across his chair, and places both hands on your shoulders. Though he's all control, his grip is unbelievably strong. It's almost enough to make you wince.

"What do you think all of those noblemen and traders were here for?"

"Business."

"Yes. In the capital. I've had a few esteemed guests pay Beorward a visit. We've been in talks from the moment you wrote."

"I— you know I trust you, Father, but—"

"I'm not knocking him off, if that's what you mean." He leans back, sweeping the cigar back up to puff again. "Seems like every fuckin' one of us has a death wish, doesn't it? I'm not doing him the favor."

Downplaying your immediate concern is impossible. "Father, if you—"

He laughs, uproariously. "Don't be ridiculous! I'm right as rain. Even your little bookworm—"

"Sister Cardew."

"Our nosy little guest— couldn't complain. Leader of the Church of Flesh? Hmmph." He's puffing again. "I've paid my respect to Spirit well enough. Even used to get along with Sullivan." The cloud of smoke is growing. "He'll see this coming." His voice drops to an infinitely more threatening growl. "It's not going to matter."

It's reassuring, but you still have your concerns. "Father Wilhelm...?"

"On the road. Probably got caught in the fuss around the festival. Shit timing. I'll get some legs on the ground to find him. We'll mobilize a few men to Somerilde, just to be safe. He'll know." A smirk. "He's been taking after you a good bit lately. A little too close to Dream for comfort, if you ask me."

"I did not ask." You're frowning.

This is more than improper. It's disrespectful by any definition.

The slip of vellum is pressed to you. "Take a look over it. Let me gather my thoughts. This shit has me all worked up. It's fine, though. No better place to learn than a few real lessons, right?"

It's obvious that the subject is being dropped in lieu of something more devout.

There's no resisting the temptation of something divine, something to read, and something to learn with about the Gods themselves. For all of your obsession, piety, and healthy curiosity, you set aside your own stacks of parchment and pens with your journal.

Hands trembling, you prop up the single slip of paper. It's concise, and written in flourishes even more ornate than your own (though the lines are haphazard and a little difficult to read).

​

"Tenets of Flesh, courtesy of Father Friedrich." You glance up to see him pulling on his beard, finishing off his cigar, and moving across the room while you look it over. "Combat uncertainty. Conditioning. Temperance. Prudence. Even piety must be taken in moderation."

Your mentor shouts from the opposite side of the room. He's messing around with a number of small, leaden objects, testing the weight of each one. "See? What did I tell you? We'll get to it, though. Keep reading."

You turn your gaze back to the page. "Strengthen your vessel. Stamina. Endurance. Vitality. Devotion to the body is devotion to the soul." You pause. This is very familiar. "Our earlier lessons...?"

"Only the start, Richard." He's enjoying himself, spending an extra moment with the weight before deciding which one to choose.

"Strike down your weaknesses. Rest. Healing. Growth. Respect the Church of Flesh in all its forms." Your frown deepens. "Tenets of Dream, Mercy and Agriculture?"

Father Friedrich has placed nine different, progressively larger weights in his arms, and is making his way quickly back over to you. He's not even responding.

You glance at the page again, reading the remainder silently to yourself. Conquer your failures. Monitor. Perform. Improve. To achieve is to serve.

"Alright. There's a method to my madness, Richard. Ready?"

"I—"

The weights are all dropped to the stone floor. You're surprised that the rock doesn't shatter, for the sound it makes. Ray barks a few times, but you turn quickly to quiet and reassure him.

Turning back, the priest of Flesh is right at your side with two of the smallest weights in hand. "We're working your quirk out of you, even if it kills me."

Dread creeps into you.

This is going to hurt, isn't it?