Chapter 39: Aid My Mind

"The bed is streaked with blood."​

The thrum of your heart picks up under your steady hands. Your eyes remain closed, though there is another rhythm. A pulse, in the back of your mind.

The gift of slumber without interruption.

Devoid of pain or pleasure, you sink a little deeper into the sheets. The movement of your arms is relaxed, clothed in thin linen and soft wool. Pulling on your robes slightly— wrapping your arms about you— you're blanketed in comfort. Devoted and grateful beyond measure, a few more words of prayer escape you before you drift back to sleep.

"Blessed be the night."

Faint whistling picks up on the edges of your mind. It's quiet enough to have escaped your notice in sleep.

The sage and gold in your vision drifts open. Rather than in a panic, you're rested, hale, and alert for all the right reasons.

The hearth has gone out. You've surely been asleep for several hours.

Ray is happily nestled at the foot of the bed, taking up altogether too much room. He looks up to you sheepishly for permission to stay.

You sit upright, properly pulling him into a hug. Scratching his sides (both of you yawn), you want for a proper greeting.

Tucked behind the edges of your curtains, the amber and gold of afternoon light faintly casts a beam across the floor of your room.

Hoping you were only asleep for a few hours, you murmur, "good afternoon, boy. Thank you for the company. Go on, now. It is— I am just fine."

A pat on the head, and your mastiff lumbers off, back to the bearskin rug.

There is no chill on you. Rather, there is an absence of agony. No trace of weariness, no webs of nightmares or lingering fatigue to speak of.

A slight smile creeps across your face. Your eyes are open, and a current is running up your spine, for how much better you feel. Staying seated for another moment— purely out of respect— you cast down your eyes. The least you can do is to conclude your prayer. Your voice drops to a whisper. "Your works eclipse the nightmares of this world. I have walked in the darkness. Long have I been obscured from Your vision." Shifting from your seated position back onto your knees, you clasp your hands, and rest them along the edge of the bed's frame. "Permit me to worship You. I have witnessed Your gifts. Neither terror nor madness can stay Your might. A gift greater than prophecy."

Fervor takes hold of your voice, given how much relief you have. You bow your head further still. "Permit me to fall before You, in abject devotion." You lift your head. "Thank you for Your rest. Your respite. Your reprieve. Blessed be the Dream."

Holding your arms around you— relishing sane and healthy relief— something picks back up across your rested mind.

The whistling is not abating, soft as it is, and you recognize the tune. It's tilting, melancholy, and likely coming from the other outsider to the Church of Flesh: your guard, who was strictly instructed to not disturb you under any condition.

You call out, "good afternoon, Cyril."

His crass reply makes you wince. "Good? It's been three fucking days! I'm not hearing it! C'mon, Father—!"

Striding across the room, you open the heavy, banded, wooden and iron door abruptly. Frowning. Repeating yourself. "Good afternoon, Brother Trebbeck."

This is not circular. I am not obsessive. This man has no respect for the Church.

Clad in the exact same attire you last saw him in (ratty red robes, shorn sleeves, an overgrown ponytail, and enough strength to easily push open the door behind you), Cyril props the door open effortlessly. Your frown is punctuated by a muffled gasp.

You're nearly knocked back, but possess enough restraint to stay expertly on your feet. The priest's perpetual smirk becomes a smile. You're punched very lightly on your shoulder, while he drawls, "Faaather Anschaaam."

Ignoring the tap— already backing up— you murmur, "I am in prayer, Cyril. Please wait. I will only be a few more minutes."

It seems prudent to slip further back, all the way behind the door.

Cyril leans his head into your room, grinning ear to ear. "Need anything?"

"A few more minutes—" He is making me repeat myself. "—and please, keep your voice down." You're attempting to close the door, and not necessarily fighting arms that are easily twice as large as your own. Supporting the token effort comes only with a quick murmur. "I will be right out."

Loosely tied bangs and bright blue eyes disobediently leer into the room. Glinting. Mischievous.

You put a foot behind the wood, straighten your shoulders further, and properly lean into the door.

Priests of Flesh are notorious for listening better to body language. Right?

"Brother Trebbeck."

"Alright— alright! Fine." He releases his grip on the planks and metal. You nearly fall forward from the sudden absence of tension, stay upright, and stagger back. The door is firmly shut with a thud.

Straightening your robes, you whip your head around. Ray is back on the bed, looking to you quizzically. With a frown, you mutter, "do not give me that look."

He relaxes, stretching himself out and yawning while you get back to the flame.

Wanting for a holy symbol, you cross back over the floor, drop down beside the heat, the hearth, and turn away from prying eyes. Away from scrutiny. Away from anyone of this world. Waving a hand to Ray, to command your boy to stay where he is.

Ignoring the presence of a guardian at your door, closing your own eyes, you take to a knee. With a deep breath, you almost immediately relax. White dances on the interior of your vision. The immaterial, in threads all along your eyes.

Music

There's no pain. No agony. No break. No scratch in the back of your mind, or a want for anything more than to understand. Your prayer is kept low. Words to be known only between you, and a Goddess of Wisdom.

"Spirit, I beg you for your guidance. My mind has unraveled, yet—" You pause, and replace your hesitation with conviction. "I know where to begin searching for answers. For knowledge. For the strands of Your insight. The immaterial must be known. Goddess of Experience." You whisper, "I have known You. Hundreds of years shared in sight and in devotion. I seek a path, now, through the valley of my own life. A road through the most perilous landscape I could ever hope to face. Your domain lies not in the land, nor in this body."

The whisper is a breath, to an unseen figure beside you. Close enough to know She is listening. "I ask You to aid my mind. Help me. Please."

Knitting your brow, clutching your hands together as tightly as you're able, there's a faint pressure. A pull, and the slightest embrace around the band upon your ring finger. The yellow-gold is immaculate, and you bring it to your chest, holding the gift as near to your heart as you can.

Beside your Relic, kept apart from your skin by a few mere layers of cloth, you can still feel all of Her heat. There is no need for words. Not between you and your patron, partner, and Goddess.

Purely for the love of Her name, "Mercy," leaves your lips.

Though you're certain of the days you've spent together, the hours in Her care, and the lifetime of service and devotion that rivals your own, She takes you aback. An embrace is on your very soul, tightly enough to take the air from your lungs, and to bring your hands to your lips.

You don't need to even breathe to implore your Goddess. "Please."

Several long minutes pass, wrapped in a caress. Every scar littering your frame is pressed and adored.

"You are my grace. You are my kindness. Mercy, I wish only to share in You. Your day, Your light, Your compassion—"

There is no question in your mind that you are loved unconditionally.

Many minutes likely pass, before you stop reeling.

At some point, you unclasped your hands. They're still and steady. Held together by a force greater than any affliction of your vessel. Through your own restraint, and desire to share Her love, you keep yourself together.

It seems like a good a Time as any, to serve the Gods in every way you can. To work towards your own betterment. To address your flaws, and implore a deity who you allegedly have yet to disappoint.

One you are certain has forsaken you.

Taking to a single knee, you clasp your hands back together. Resting your wrists on the side of the hearth— looking to the flame— you permit the crimson and smoke to catch in your vision. The light plays off of your sacrilege: wasted skin and bone.

Your prayer starts as desperately as one would suspect. "Help me. Help me to be better. Flesh of my Flesh, I—"

You're colder than you should be.

Embraced by the Goddess of Light, you lean closer to the flame. Conviction picks up your murmur.

Deeper. "I wish to conquer my failures."

Emboldened. "To battle my weakness."

Determined. "You above all others feel this form. I will sculpt this vessel. Not through suffering, abuse, or despair. Through devotion. Through prudence. Through faith. I will ask for Your strength only when it is rightfully earned."

Taking a deep breath— letting the flame soak into you— it comes as no surprise that fire persists in your figure.

As you get back to your feet, it lingers even after you've snuffed out the last of the tinder, grabbed your things, and moved to open the door.

It's equally unsurprising that Cyril is standing in precisely the same spot you left him in.

Ray smoothly exits behind you.

Closing the door (wanting for a key), you hope it doesn't hurt to linger for an extra moment. Looking to Cyril. Fidgeting.

Why is there never enough time? Could he have not waited another day? Another week?

"Hey. Richard."

"Yes—?"

You're rapped on the shoulder again. "I know you're busy and all, but I'll be around."

The links of gold that your Relic hangs from would likely be tarnished for how much you toy with it. It's a constant reminder of everything worth suffering for. A reminder to show yourself compassion.

There is still so much work to do.

You murmur, "thank you for letting me know," before setting to walk back down the hall.

Cyril skips up next to you. "By around, I meant right here."

"I understood you—"

"Not going anywhere."

"Yes, thank you, Cyril—"

"Rub and Grub Pub." The enunciation is ridiculous and far more dramatic than a pub should command. Another, lighter tap is made.

He is oblivious.

"I have not forgotten. You know I will keep my word."

"Good. You okay with me cleaning up?" A wave is made towards the closed doors down the hall, and not nearly far away enough.

"That— yes, that is fine." You're walking a little faster. Ray is completely content to place himself between you and the blonde.

Giving you a wider berth, Cyril stops the knocks on your shoulder. His slouch is severe enough that you constantly forget he's almost your height. Regardless of the ease he should have in matching your pace, he hangs back.

Seizing the opportunity, you put more distance between you both. He doesn't holler again in an odd display of respect, and mock-salutes as you turn the corner.

Bless him, he is trying.

The halls of the Church of Flesh's exterior ward, as usual, are devoid of any revelry. To your pleasant surprise, a few priests and priestesses seem to be attending to the corridors. It's infinitely more than what you've previously encountered, and they all appear to be busy. You keep your head down. A few polite clergymen acknowledge you with a, "good afternoon," or "hello, Father Anscham," but have the decency to not pay you any heed.

Turning a few more halls, you stride up to Sister Cardew's door while deftly avoiding any further scrutiny. There are several more notes tacked onto her front door. The writing seems to have been impressed more deeply into the page with each subsequent note, and you have to wonder for the woman's own sanity as you glance over them.

'Do not enter for cleaning.'

'Not a patient, attending priestess.'

'Door is to remain locked.'

'Inquiries regarding the Church of Spirit are to be directed through proper channels.'

'Inquiries regarding any other affairs are to be made in writing. Correspondence will be made in the order in which they are received.'

'Inquiries regarding liquor are to be directed to the Church of Agriculture. (It was not funny the first time.)'

In the center is an old note, slightly wrinkled, and evidently having been torn down and replaced at least twice.

'Keep out. Don't knock. I don't care if the building is literally on fire (again).'

She appreciated a note well enough the last time I came to her room, but she is ultimately here for my care.