Chapter 36: Delirium

"Drip. Throb. Drip."

The following contains material that may be distressing to some readers.

Trigger Warnings: Self-harm, implicit sexual content (masochism), physical abuse/serious injury, verbal abuse, PTSD

Reader discretion is advised. ​

Slick with sweat, breathing hard, you try to move your hair aside. There's heat and gold lacing through the slightest motion, and the fight for decency is more than your fractured mind can take. A little insanity comes out of every last unhinged syllable as you ask, "can we go harder?"

Your training partner's face could not be any more unamused. It seems you might have already killed him. "We're stopping here."

Arms resting against your knees, you make every attempt to steady your breath, to maintain some sort of control over yourself. There's enough working through your limbs to rob every rational thought from you. It beats out the tea, the liquor, and rivals the invocation of two Gods.

A gift of Flesh and Mercy.

Leaning into the pain, the pleasure, eyes closed, you murmur, "you do not understand."

"I understand plenty." Father Friedrich drops down onto the floor beside you. "You don't want to go anywhere. You're not ready for this. Atticus wouldn't even tell me plainly what you needed. I hadn't realized it, either—"

"This is exactly what I need—"

"Richard."

You're worshiping at an altar of pleasure, hardly able to move, let alone to control the hitch in your breath. "Want— have— to have. To feel."

The gold and green in your eyes lifts up, silently imploring your mentor.

His lack of amusement turns to a sneer. "I want to help you, Richard, but I know someone sick when I see it."

"You do not even know the half—"

Relaxing your arms enough to move them from your legs is a mistake. It redoubles everything.

You gasp, pulling closer into yourself, and tensing all over again.

A few long minutes likely pass as you fight to keep it together. Quelling any sounds that want to rise. Burying your face in your arms.

Ray disobeys your previous orders, coming over to you after you're sure several minutes have passed. Your boy has no idea how to respond. You gesture for him to stay back with only a wave of your hand, and he's trained well enough to obey the movement.

I am not hurt. This is a blessing.

Dragging your head off of your arms— stilling another gasp— you stare straight at Father Friedrich. The priest's patience is befitting of a Father's. His lips are as tight as his fists, which are clearly fighting to not put you in your place.

He's too bothered to speak, so you break the silence. It seems fitting to show him Mercy. "You know half of the picture— what it is— ahnnn— to serve Him—!"

"Stop." He gets to his feet with one hand held palm-out. The other is clenched into a fist. "I know enough of Mercy to stay my hand. I don't need to sit here and listen to this."

Music

Eyes on a clenched fist, your breath is erratic, and unable to keep up with your enthusiasm.

Pulse racing a mile a minute— trying hard not to smile— you murmur, "then stand."

"I swear on all of the Gods Richard—"

"You have never felt Her, but you understand a fra-aahh-actionN— nnnnhh—"

"Spoiled little shit." He takes a step forward. "You've never had someone stop you from running—"

"—of Their blessing—!"

"—your fucking mouth."

"It was more than any mortal man could hope to comprehend, Father."

"Did I fucking stutter?"

"I could scarcely tell what was happening at the time."

"You can't tell what the fuck is happening now—"

"Daggers."

"You're making a fucking—"

"Blades."

"—fool of yourself—"

"Imps, in the halls of Her Church—!"

You're being lifted to your feet by the front of your sweat-soaked shirt. Father Friedrich could not look more disgusted. "I don't want to hear it. I can't do anything for you if you won't even listen. You need my help. Our help. You're sick."

Something in the back of your mind tells you to slip away. To run. To go back to your quarters, to get some sleep, and pretend that this never happened. To save face. To show some restraint.

Every other inch of you is soaked in relief, aching with agony, and begging to share.

With a smile, you're more than happy to say, "I know."

The fist around the cloth on the front of your shirt tightens. The Father of Flesh is keeping you on your feet effortlessly. The edges of his lips twitch as you continue.

"I do not regret anything. This outbreak was child's play—"

"You shut your fucking mouth—"

"I saved every life in my care— staved off a dozen imps without— nnn— suffering— more than a few more scars, Father—!"

The hold on your shirt persists as your mentor gingerly sets you back to the floor. His shoulders are shaking in frustration and anger. Every inch of him reads that he's going to hit you at any moment, but something is staying his hand.

The motion is more than enough to elicit another wave of delirium. Memory. Ecstasy.

"Glass. More than you've ever seen, stained in Her light. It was like rain. Daggers. I can run, Father, but I didn't need to. They healed all of them. It should have killed me. It was a gift. Do you understand?"

Father Friedrich grabs you firmly by your shoulder with a single hand. The other persists on your sweat-soaked, ill-fitting shirt. He might be trying to look you in the eye. "It's sick. You don't know what you're saying. Shut the fuck up, Richard—!"

"I loved every second of it—"

He strikes you.

Clean across the face.

In the same spot on your jaw as before.

The impact is deafening.

Flecks of blood and gold dance in your vision.

Something might have cracked.

It's hard to hear.

It's impossible to see.

The reflexive motion to save yourself from a fall sends so much pleasure through your limbs, you don't want to stop more from coming.

The second impact hits you hard.

You aim for the same spot on your jaw.

Blood is dripping from your mouth. Hot, copper, crimson.

Dragging yourself upright from the floor on instinct, there is a moment of respite.

Your pulse is in your ears so hard and fast that nothing else exists. The throb, and a steady drip.

Drip.

Throb.

Drip.

It doesn't last for long. A flood of heat is in the site of injury, and it's growing by the second.

Flesh.

Your sole focus comes at you hot and fast.

Pain.

The fire and throbbing agony eclipses any sane or rational thought.

The trickle and drip amplifies every motion.

You lick at the blood pooling.

Liquid metal.

Gratification.

Bliss.

Mercy.

The tremor in your hand intensifies in anticipation of pressing a digit down into the wound. You move to draw out more.

Father Friedrich moves forward faster than you can lift your arm. "Don't you dare!"

Bone, skin, wasted muscle and scar tissue is taken in a second into restraint. The priest standing beside you rushes forward to pin you back to the ground. He kneels, legs at your sides. Both wrists are grasped by his hands tightly enough that escape seems impossible.

Would a dislocation or a tear be sufficient?

The very thought threatens to destroy the last of your composure.

You want to bite down on something to still the sound.

Tensing your mouth in the slightest sends another explosion of pain through your jaw.

A blossom of ecstasy.

"Aahhhhhnn—"

"Richard."

Moaning is only making it better worse.

"Mercy—!"

"Father Anscham!"

"Flesh—!"

"I am going to find a way to shut you the fuck up if you don't stop yourself, right now."

There is a moment of lucidity. An absence of your unconscious struggle against the hands on your wrists.

Swallowing a mouthful of blood, you replace it with a plea.

"Can't stop. Please help."

No hesitation meets you in reply. One of Father Friedrich's hands part from your wrist, but it's pinned again in an instant by one of his knees. The weight is crushing, but the moan that threatens to escape you is muffled. Fabric tears somewhere. "Sorry about this, Richard—"

"Nnhhnn—" A strip of cloth is firmly shoved into your mouth, forcing your jaw open. "Mmrryyyy—"

Any and all attempts at self-control are pushed to their absolute limit. You remain on the floor for several moments minutes, fighting with yourself until the worst of the noise is stilled.

Staying as motionless as possible, you ride out the heat. The agony.

It's perfect.

Father Friedrich's full weight was removed from your wrist, to be replaced once again with restraint.

The sear along your limbs, the constant throb in your chest, and the pleasure coursing through the rest of your body will not abate. There's enough heat to make you sick, but you lean into it. Against the pressure on your wrists. To relish your pulse. To feel your Flesh.

Anguish should be filling your mouth, given how packed the cloth is. It's stifling, heady, hot, and carries the scent of copper. It's trickling down your chin, right over the site of the injury. Drawing attention to the white-hot pain.

It's thrumming, matching the beat of your heart. It's laced with yellow-gold. An interwoven blessing. Something pure. Something beautiful, that needs relief.

It hurts.

Suffocating the sensation, you exercise as much discipline as you can muster.

You silence yourself, with as much devotion to yourself and your mentor as you've shown to the Gods.

Crimson and gold has not been in your vision. You realize your eyes have been closed for some time. There's growling.

You try to open your eyes, half-afraid that wincing will set off sensation all over again.

Vision hazy, you realize that Father Friedrich is still pinning you down, and Ray's teeth are firmly clasped around his left leg. The Father of Flesh seems utterly unfazed by the warning.

I have trained Ray to never harm or kill unless he is directly commanded to. He is trying to protect me. Father Friedrich will be fine.

The priest is leaning over you, and must have been speaking for some time.

This is far from fine.

"...chard. Richard. Father Anscham. Nod to me when you've gotten a hold of yourself. We're going to get you help. I shouldn't have fucking— are you in there? Can you hear me? Richard. Come on. Cut it out. Richard."

Mercy. I don't want it to stop.

You nod as gently as you can to Father Friedrich, then down towards your wrists.

His brow furrows. "Alright. Don't do anything I wouldn't."

With absolutely no regard towards your dog, the priest slowly takes his hands off of your wrists. They go firmly to your shoulders, still keeping you down. "Don't get up. I mean it."

It only takes a few motions to command your boy to back off, and to release his target. Ray instantly removes his bite. There's no blood, no viscera. Only a little slobber. He rushes straight to your side— to Father Friedrich's chagrin— but you appreciate the effort.

The stone against the back of your skull, the trickle of punishment down the side of your jaw, the packed fabric in your mouth, the stiffness of your back, and every other inch of you is uncomfortable to an extreme.

It's hard to not love it.

Restraint.

"Richard."

The haze in your vision parts as you glance up, wide-eyed. The red in your gaze falls to a very worried frown. It's hard to make out any details.

"I'm not going anywhere. You're going to be alright." The beard and slicked-back gray atop your mentor's head might be going grayer by the minute. His frown twitches again. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have struck you. I won't let this happen again. We're going to get you help." He's upset, but has a pained smile. "Would you look at that?"

There's no hold on your hands or wrists.

"You're going to be alright."

Ray is attentively laying beside you, nose towards your attacker. He's stopped growling at your command, but his silent presence is enormously reassuring.

"You've got a lot of friends here, Richard. It's going to be okay."