Chapter 41: A Crimson Needle

"Muscle and sinew."

​

After another grateful nod, you gesture for Ray to follow you out. Down the corridor of the exterior ward, you are not greeted again by the bustling healers attending to the myriad rooms. Their attention is fixed on their work.

It sounds as if sleet is still pelting on the roof. You wind through a number of hallways, arches, and unlocked doors, and emerge into the interior ward within minutes. The center of the keep is bustling. Many priests are engaged in sparring in one of the larger hallways, in an impromptu fight. More are cleaning, scrubbing down old blood and the last remnants of the recent outbreak. More still are running, heading off to other engagements.

Very few heads turn towards you and Ray while you proceed towards Father Friedrich's office, but the ones that do seem surprised. Most take a moment to stop and to offer a little respect before carrying on with their duty.

A priestess, running past with easily as much speed as you've demonstrated in recent days hollers, "Father Anscham—!"

"Good to see you." A priest (his attention completely focused on prayer), manages to glance up for a moment as you walk by. "Father."

"'afternoon, sir—!" Bustling skirts on a slender maid threatens to upset the buckets she's carrying, full of bubbling soap and water.

Carving a path through the commotion, you silently try to keep your head down, and simply nod to whoever addresses you.

Things gets significantly quieter as you approach the door at the center of the keep.

"Father Friedrich! It's Father Anscham—" You get one knock in before the door is pulled open.

The office is nearly empty. Multiple maps are spread out over the table just past your host. Father Friedrich's wide frame is blocking most of the entrance as he props open the door. The gray streaking his white beard bristles as he smirks. "You're up!"

"Yes. May I—?"

"Come in, come in— you brought Ray." A frown, a wave for you to come inside. "Of course."

You oblige the invitation, calling your boy inside the office. Commanding him to "sit" and "stay," takes only a moment.

There are no chairs, and no evidence of any recent meetings. Alongside the maps are stacks of ledgers, and a great many letters. You marvel for a moment at all of the paper, while Father Friedrich closes the door to his office once again. He strides over to you, firmly patting on your shoulder, and smirking all the while.

"You look anxious. More than usual. What's going on? Didn't you get any sleep?"

Murmuring. "Prayer appears to be the only thing that will aid my health, Father." Fishing for the letter from your King. "Thank you again for the advice. I was able to rest, but was rudely awoken—"

The moment that the gilded parchment comes into view, the priest is all fire. "I heard."

"Pardon?" You hold out the letter in full, permitting the man to inspect the document.

"Messenger came asking for you specifically." His frown is intensifying by the second as he briefly flips through the message "Summons. Demands. Horse-shit!"

"You did not— did you even read—"

The paper is handed back to you. "Seen enough of this shit to know better. Waste of my time. When do you need to leave?"

Standing still has you wanting to pace. Fortunately, the man at your side pats your back again, leading you to walk along the edges of the expansive room. Trying to elaborate has you back to murmuring. "I cannot possibly deal with this. Not— not right now."

The frown at your side intensifies further. "He'll sack you."

"He will not." You stop, looking down to your mentor. "You know I trust your judgement, Father. I would never wish to disrespect you, or your guidance—"

The corners of his lips and the edges of his beard twitch. "Get on with it."

"You have said yourself that— that I am unwell."

"Am I wrong?"

"No—" Running a hand along the back of your neck, trailing along the metal, you try to keep a hold of yourself. "You are— you could not be any more correct. I have— I was—" Brow furrowed, you try to keep your eyes averted. "I only wish to recover. Here, under yours and Sister Cardew's care. Without any further interruptions or distractions. To heal."

Silence weighs between you both.

Father Friedrich asks, "well?"

"I was tortured in the ruins, at the hands of demons." Glancing up from the stone beneath your feet, trying to gauge a response, you see that his hulking arms are crossed. He's looking intently to you. Scrutinizing you in turn. Desperately, you try to elaborate— to indulge the need to share— before there's another interjection. "It— it was— numerous breaks—"

"Breaks?"

"—and ordeals that I know you do not wish to hear— but, ultimately, I— I need your aid. Here, and now, in any manner you see fit. I..." You have to stop, to keep your voice from cracking.

A hand goes to your shoulder. "Richard."

"Y-yes?"

"Sit down."

It's awkward, but you drop down to the stone, and sit alongside Father Friedrich on the floor. He keeps his hand on your shoulder all the while. "Listen."

You try to glance over, to hold his piercing red stare.

The veteran's eyes seem heavy with exhaustion. The white in his hair is stark against the afternoon rays of light. He does something a little strange, and leans all the way back to lay down on the floor. The crimson in the priest's eyes flicks over to you. "I can tell Him to piss off. That's not an issue."

A deep and ragged sigh escapes you. "Thank you—"

Holding up a finger, he continues, "don't thank me just yet."

"What—"

The finger goes down. Father Friedrich sits back upright, quickly and with perfect form. Turning to face you, he frowns. "We'll make a case for you, alright?"

"Sister Cardew and I are also attending to a report."

"Good. Good. Listen— Richard."

"Yes?"

"Really."

"I am listening."

"Look at me."

He's frowning. The lines around his eyes almost seem deeper than when you last saw him. "What the fuck did they do to you? Breaks? How much was—" He gestures to his holy symbol and to your Relic. "—Them, and how much was from those bastards?"

The straightest face you can muster is so stern, Father Friedrich lets out a laugh. "Mercy, Richard, forgive me— but you don't need to look so..." He gestures vaguely to his own face, with a wave of his hands.

A little tension drops from your shoulders, thanks to how sincerely apologetic he looks. A few moments pass, while you both get a full handle on your composure.

It falls to you to break the silence.

Music

"I did little else but kill."

Your fellow priest doesn't judge. "I see."

Exasperated, you mutter, "I sincerely have no idea how to answer your question. I would rather hear your thoughts on the matter. Your own experiences. My accounts—"

A hand goes up, stopping you. Father Friedrich scoots over, and wraps an arm around your shoulder. Although he's nearly half a foot shorter than you, he manages to make the movement appear effortless.

The man's free hand goes to the strand of red thread around his neck. He lifts up his holy symbol— a crimson needle— and manipulates the object between his hands. "I know my patron." It dances for a moment around his fingers, before he takes it in hand, and points the object towards you. "You don't."

"Excuse me?"

"Not Mercy. I'm not that much of an ass. Flesh, Richard. You don't know Him. Plain and simple. Flesh would never permit someone so devout to die. Not you. Not in battle. No one— never— in self-defense. But you put yourself in those ruins, didn't you?"

"Yes."

The arm around your shoulder is hot enough to feel through the thin fabric clinging to muscle and sinew. Father Friedrich tenses as you're pulled in closer. It's not quite a hug, but the man is obviously trying. "You got yourself out, too. I know it couldn't have been all thanks to Them."

Somehow, you manage to sit further upright. "Absolutely."

"Flesh is not fickle. He would want what's best for you. So do I." The embrace around your shoulders loosens, just enough for the man at your side to put his holy symbol back about his neck. "Now, you know just as well as I do—"

"Everyone has their own interpretations, yes."

Pulling at his beard for a moment, Father Friedrich seems to need to take a rare moment to think before he speaks.

"I've been through some shit." The priest points to the only scar you know he possesses. You clear your throat. The deep gash that cuts across his left eye wrinkles, as he smiles broadly enough to make his eyes squint. "First day I invoked Him. Lost my first wife. She lost a lot more. Catalyst of regret. Unbelievable, right?"

Though he's smiling, the juxtaposition between his face and his tone is deeply uncomfortable. He's nervous.

You keep a straight face as the man continues.

Each word drops his expression significantly. "She gave me three of our boys. Seemed dead-set on taking them away. I put myself in the line of fire—" A wince, of only the left eye. "—and asked for more strength than I had in me. I couldn't do it."

The smile is back, but melancholy, and sincere. "Flesh gave me more than I could have asked for. He was there for me, Richard. And this—" He points again to the dark and reddened scar. "—has never let me forget."

"I am terribly sorry."

He seems unwilling to acknowledge the sentiment for a few long minutes, but eventually sighs.

"Don't be." Father Friedrich shifts a little, sitting further upright. "I've never called upon Him without good fucking reason. Never— not even once, has He ever hurt me in the way you've described." He looks deeply disturbed, more so at the use of his God than the question that follows. "You said you were tortured?"

"It— if I am to be honest, Father—"

Another hand goes up, with a grimace. "I figured as much."

"I did not ask for—" You're blushing, frustrated, trying to articulate weeks of the nightmare and failing utterly. "—it is more complicated than— not all of it was welcome—"

"Really. Don't. I get it."

Frowning, you try to listen, and pray for compassion.

"I can't imagine any God taking kindly to you throwing yourself in harm's way."

Exasperated, you want to interject, but you're disarmed.

"But Flesh? I mean— just look at you—"

Casting your eyes aside again, sneering, you shift your back to Father Friedrich as discreetly as you can. The sensation of your protruding spine against linen and wool is no harsher a reminder than the pull of old, mottled scars, or the way your robes hang loosely from your ribs. It's not so much self-deprecation as legitimate honesty, as you murmur, "I would rather not."

"Don't give me that shit. You've had years as the Father of your Church. More than enough time to fix yourself up."

"I have been— you do not understand."

"I understand perfectly. You've been hurt—" A hand goes to your shoulder again with a squeeze. "—and have been hurting yourself worse still."

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch a wave to your Relic. "I think it's nothing that can't be undone. Mercy sure as shit believes in you. You bet your bony ass I do, too. You been doing any of the exercises I showed to you?"

A deep red litters your face, while you mutter, "I have been attending to exercise."

"Right." His smirk is audible, and gone as soon as it came. "I suspect you didn't eat anything, either?"

"I did." Clarification is needed. "Today..."

"It's been three and a half since I last saw you. You get any sleep?"

"...yesterday, or the day before. It is difficult to say—"

"You've been busy. I get it." The hand on your shoulder squeezes a lot more tightly. "I know She would never want to hurt you."

There's a strong desire to open your mouth, to clarify, but you're not given the chance. The priest trips over himself to correct, "nothing that you both wouldn't both want, right?"

"R-right."

"Mercy's will. Her needs— they might not align with Flesh's. I am not calling your devotion into question, or anything between you two. She wants what's best for you! She is Merciful, but They all are, Richard. Do you understand me?"

"I believe so."

"Really. Don't even get me started yet on your Relic. Do you get me?"

I am a man of all of the Gods.

"I can only hope to serve Them all— if— if I am capable of serving myself."

"That's fucking refreshing." A broad smile, and another squeeze. "It's a better start than what you're working with now, right?"

It takes a lifetime of devotion for anyone to call upon a God. Some will never be capable of withstanding it. Many have perished over less.

This seems impossible.

"We're all here to help you, Richard. It's going to be alright. If you make me pin you down again, I'm going to fucking lose it, though."

"I cannot begin to tell you— I am as horrified as you are, Father—"

"Save it. I know you didn't mean anything by it. I'm not having that shit again, though, you get me?"

"Yes."

"You're serious about pissing off old Merciful Magnus?"

The look you give to Father Friedrich could not be any more severe.

He runs a hand down his beard, sighing. "I'll take care of it. We need to take care of you, though. I'm pissed enough as it is that you've been through so much under my watch."

Music

You say, "it has been nowhere near enough, Father."

A disbelieving glance is given to you, beneath raised eyebrows. "Right."

You frown in return, leaning forward just enough to back his doubt down. "Sister Cardew's report was penned under my instruction. You know I am no liar. I intend to keep every promise I have made. Not just to our King—" A sterner stare is necessary. "—but to you, as well."

Arms crossed, he asks, "well?"

"I intend to resume my training. My devotion and dedication to Dream, Agriculture, Flesh and Mercy. To make up for lost time. I'll rest. I'll get back to our regimen. More than the exercise, or diet, but something sustainable. Healthy."

"No more late-night benders?"

"Cyril needs to be spoken to."

"I'll handle it, but you know he's no excuse."

"I know. Please— be kind to him. He means well. I only have myself to blame—" You glance aside. "—the overwork, and all of my correspondence— I can place it on hold. This work, here— this is my focus. I need to rely on my own Flesh. I have been walking blindly, Father, and I am tired of the dark." Raising your voice from its murmur, as firmly as you can muster, you continue, "I am tired of just enduring. I want to fight. Properly. In combat, with more than mace and shield."

Looking down to your hands, you unclasp them from the gold. Clenching your outstretched palms into fists, you look up, eyes wide. Convicted, and hopeful. "I know I can do so much more. The first thing you sought to teach me was that we are weapons. I want to learn. I need to know. Will you still teach me?"

A proud smirk is cast back at you. "You're going to be the death of me." He can't help himself. The smirk breaks out into a broad smile, a laugh, and a pat on your back.

He seems to have forgotten his strength for a moment, enough that you nearly fall forward. "Sorry about that." You're pulled back, as he continues to chuckle.

"Th-thank you."

"Alright! Alright. We'll get back to it."

"Thank you." Getting the wind back in your lungs, fists clenched, you make another promise. "I will not let you down."

"You never have. You're going to be just fine. Get this report of yours by my office tonight. I'll sort out this whole mess for you, but you need to sort your head out, alright?"

"I intended to take the day off."

Complete disbelief hits the priest across from you, enough to drop his jaw.

You glance down to him, straight-faced. "Do you think I would joke...?"

He's laughing all over again, patting you on the back with a more reasonable measure of strength. "No. Good. Gives me a little time to think. You must be worn right out."

"I—" You choke out between pats, "I have honestly— I haven't felt so rested in ages—"

"Good! Good. Keep it up, then." He backs off, scooting a little ways away, and sitting further upright.

If you weren't mistaken, you'd say he's trying to match your height, but it could be your imagination.

With a broad grin, he declares, "we'll get back to it tomorrow. Keep your damn word, and I'll see what I can manage. You got any preferences?"

This is all terribly familiar. You can't help but ask, "preferences?"

"Weapons. Combat." He leans forward, grinning with religious fervor. "A mace is a poor choice for you— no offense—"

"None taken."

"I know everyone likes what they like. I'd pin you more for a spear, what with all the shields—" A shrug. "—but we can cover whatever you prefer." A slight knock, on your shoulder. Even though he's holding back, there's so little between your skin and bone that it stings in all the right ways. "It might take some time for you to put any weight behind it, is all."

Avoiding the urge to rub your shoulder, you murmur, "you have put more thought into this than you let on."

"Father Wilhelm wouldn't shut up about you. I've put in the work." He moves to stand, but seems to think twice of it. "It's up to you to follow through with it."

Musing, you wonder aloud, "some time?"

"By Our standards? Two years. Maybe three, with all the work I know you're getting tied up in."

"Mercy."

"I know, it's not much—"

You're frowning so firmly, he's back to laughing.

"I'm fucking with you. Really. I think a few months is all you need. A few years to do Flesh proud, sure, but not so long to make use of a decent weapon."

"I have a church of my own to get back to."

"This won't have to wait. You bet I'm making sure you take anything you learn with you."

"I— I understand."

"You still haven't answered my question, Richard. Our armory would put your demon friend to fucking shame."

"I seriously doubt it."

Both hands wave, shushing you, feigning insult. "Don't you dare!" He's grinning, leaning forward a bit. "Really. Name it. We'll make this work."

Clutching your fists tighter, you set to making your greatest ally proud. "I have every weapon I need. Yech's gifts— my mace and shield. I want to learn how to better wield them. I know I can make better use of them."

"If you're sure. My offer stands."

"I would like to take full advantage of it."

"Oh?"

"More than anything—" You may be hurting yourself, for how tightly you're clenching your fingers. "I would like to make use of my own flesh. For every projectile I have deflected, it feels as if a hundred more have rained on me, Father."

A frown. "Daggers, huh?"

"For imps and rogues."

The laugh fired back at you is harsh, earnest and understanding. "I meant in you—" You cringe, trying to keep the heat in your face down as he continues. "—not fit for you. We'll do you much better."

"Thank you." There's an edge in your voice. The band about your ring finger is slick, biting into your skin from the continuous tension. Grasping even harder at the cut— relishing what is likely only a drop or two of blood— you mutter, "I want to get my hands dirty."

A hand goes to your shoulder, shaking you very slightly. "I'll work it out of you. Hey."

Lifting your eyes to a concerned priest, you loosen your fists. You try to relax, if only enough to stop drawing out any further pain.

"It's going to take more than a night or two to loosen you up, but—" A quick nod of his head, towards the door. "I can go run to the armory. If you want. Doesn't have to replace anything tomorrow."

"No," you say, and rise to your feet.

The priest beside you is up in an instant.

Shaking your head, you try and offer the most reassuring glance you can muster back to him. "I appreciate the offer, but no, thank you. I will be just fine." The blood slaking the side and interior of your ring feels more than fine. "I have an engagement to attend to, with Sister Cardew. Here, Ray—"

"I suppose you consider her to be good hands." Shrugging, Father Friedrich walks with you and your dog back towards the door. "Suit yourself."

Patting Ray's side, offering him a few words of encouragement for being so well behaved, you only look up once you're at the exit. "Tomorrow morning, then?"

"You remember how to get to the storage room?"

"It is more of a training hall—"

"We'll get to it." A smirk seems to be creeping rapidly back onto the man's face. "You know the fucking place."

"I remember. Yes."

"I'll see you there." As you head out to the hallway, your host lingers a few moments. He calls out to you, "Cyril will get you up if you can't manage it yourself—!"

"Thank you, Father—"

The smirk is getting broader, audible even as you turn your back and head down the hallway. "Don't forget to eat!"

"Yes, thank you—"

He's trying not to laugh, making a spectacle as there is no one else down the corridor ahead. "That fourth exercise I showed you needs to be warmed up to beforehand!"

"I have not forgotten—!"

"Get some damn rest!"

"I will, thank you—!"