Chapter 45: Avowed

"You keep your promise."​

An explosion of movement answers, with no recognition of your voice or authority. In a poor attempt to salvage the situation, you continue to call out. "It's Father Anscham! Do not move from your stations—!"

At least twenty priests of the Church of Flesh rush around the corner, weapons drawn. The corridor you're in is broad enough to permit five to surround you, shields and spears out. Those with swords have stayed to the back, and you hear more figures tearing out of the hallway, wordlessly obeying what must be a set protocol for intrusion.

I am certain they're getting Father Friedrich, or reinforcements. Probably both.

One thing at a time.

The men directly in front of you take a moment to look you up and down. To you leaning against the wall. To the streaks of blue across the floor, the stone, and smeared haphazardly along your robes. A few draw back, visibly repulsed. Two have the composure to press forward with their weapons. No one speaks for a long moment. Two spears are pointed only inches from your chest.

There likely isn't a precedent for this.

One of the elderly guards narrows his wrinkled eyes, behind a series of crimson cloths tied about every other inch of his face. He pulls down his mask, shoves aside the two guards with their spears pointed to you, all while keeping his own weapon out. His sword is clean and lethally maintained. He doesn't point it at your chest, but rather gestures to your face, hands, robes, and the floor. "Father Anscham. What's the meaning of this?"

"I wish I had a better explanation." Your legs nearly crumple, but you fight it, back straight, leaning as little as you're able. "I realize that this must look insane. I— I need help—"

What little weight is in your upper body forces your legs to completely give out.

Both of the guards that were so eager to point their spears at you moments before now move forward. One manages to give you a shoulder to lean into, and they both effortlessly save you from falling.

The elderly man before you kneels down as you're set down against the wall. He lowers his voice, for the sake of not speaking to every other man in the room on your behalf. "Father Friedrich should be on his way. I apologize for the embarrassment, Father, but a great deal of reinforcements will be arriving momentarily. I don't possess the authority to call them off—" His voice lowers further, irritated beyond belief. "—and to be perfectly frank, I would prefer not to."

The exhaustion coursing through you might be coming from more than a botched invocation. You mutter, "I understand completely."

It must only be a few more minutes of awkwardly sitting, waiting, and struggling to not pass out before Father Friedrich can be heard in the distance.

A clamor of guards, weapons, and the church leader's expletives announce his presence beyond your sight, down a corridor in the distance. You try to block out the details of doors being slammed open, a cacophony of questions, and multiple men declaring that you can be found just down the hall.

Before long, the leader of the Church of Flesh marches up, and shoves his way past every guard by your side. They defer entirely to his presence, but keep a close distance. It doesn't escape you that every sword and spear present could still reach you.

You've never heard your mentor sound so upset. Father Friedrich barks, "get on your feet."

You can't. Not without his support. Trying to not break down on the spot, you shake your head and tense, expecting a blow to your face at any second.

He shoulders you over one arm, then throws your hood over your head. In a low voice, he growls to the man beside him, "we'll discuss your negligence if I see fit to keep you." The wrinkles in your mentor's worn face are stark as he mutters only to you, "keep your hood up. We'll talk somewhere more discreetly."

Several guards are shifting uncomfortably. Their Father is more than eager to shout to every last one of them, "you all will be relieved of your posts for the night!" Silent tension runs in a current through every man around you. The church leader continues, "use your time wisely. Reflect on your duty. I expect an explanation from each and every last one of you as to why OUR HOME was left UNDEFENDED."

The hand around the front of your shirt hasn't loosened. You can't help but feel as if you're still under threat of being hit at any moment as the preacher shouts, "WELL?! GO ON! Tell your friends! Run your mouths, and share with your loved ones how you betrayed the trust and sanctity of our church! Let on how you've failed to address gaping holes in our security, embarrassed our family, and permitted someone to blaspheme under our roof! GO ON! RUN your mouths! I'll be waiting in my office for a full report from the first idiot BRAVE enough to divulge the full extent of your brothers' STUPIDITY!"

The dismissal of every guard is an ordeal. You're spoken to only after Father Friedrich releases every last man who was stationed during your episode. "Are you alright?"

"No."

"Are you in any pain?"

The look you fire back says more than words ever could. He stops his questioning, and you're discreetly led out of the prison.

Not a single demon on the fifth floor has made a sound since you called upon Dream. Only muttering and whispers follow you out, as you're half-dragged, half-carried through the lowest levels of the Church of Flesh. It's a labyrinth of cells, moss, stone and candlelight. You ask Father Friedrich a few things as you pull away from the group of priests. He diverts from the crowd of his men completely after a time, going down a discreet passage.

You're something he wants to hide.

You mutter, "I don't know how to say this. I have asked for help so many times before."

"Go on and just fucking say it."

"I need you to intervene on my behalf. Please. It doesn't matter how. I don't trust myself to not go back on my word."

"You're serious about this, aren't you?"

"I won't lose myself again. I am a scholar. A researcher. A man of the Gods. I have yet to demonstrate any value worth respecting, Father—"

He makes a sharp turn near a flight of stairs, realizes what needs to be done, then grumbles as you're thrown over his shoulder. "Take the damn help, Richard."

You try to not think too much about the rest of your transit back to the interior of the church.

Eventually, you're permitted to get back on your feet. You're in a small chamber, which opens back out into the interior ward. The door across the hallway is immediately recognizable as the door to Father Friedrich's office. He quickly glances to the right and to the left, then finds a maid.

"Fetch Sister Harriet Cardew from the exterior ward. Fifteenth door in the east wing. Do not knock, and stress to her that this is a matter of immediate importance regarding her service to Spirit. Do you understand?"

Recognizing the girl from the mess hall earlier in the week, you do everything in your power to keep your paint-streaked face behind your hood.

The mousy cook stutters, "y-yessir. Would that be all—?"

"Brother Cyril Trebbeck. His home is outside of the keep—"

"Please p-pardon the interruption, b-but I am aware. Who would you like me to look for first, sir?"

"Brother Trebbeck. Your service is greatly appreciated."

The girl is gone in an instant.

You're taken into an increasingly familiar office, who's colossal table seems to have been thrown over in a fit of rage. The door behind you slams shut. The impact is deafening. Father Friedrich takes a moment to gently lead you to the side of the room, leans down, and assists you with sitting against a far wall.

Just a few feet above your head, the priest of Flesh punches the stone with enough force to crush the rock beneath. His bandage-wrapped knuckles become soaked. A little blood trickles onto the floor as the man breathes hard and utterly fails to compose himself.

Without looking at you, he growls, "what were you doing?"

"I was desperate."

Another punch, with the same fist. The sound is wet and softer than before. He's too furious to speak.

A few long moments pass. You continue to mutter, "I meant what I said. I know I'm not well. I have asked you for your help. I can't possibly stress enough to you how severely I need it—"

Faster than you can blink, your mentor kneels down, then punches the wall directly next to your head. The noise is so intense, your ear rings for a few miserable seconds.

The priest of Flesh leans in inches from your face. "No fucking shit."

Your pulse is up a mile a minute. You want to hate how thrilled you are to be so near to more violence.

Your voice cracks. "Don't give me a choice."

Through gritted teeth, Father Friedrich promises, "I won't."

Without complaint, rambling or speeches, you restrain every urge to live up to your title as preacher. Looking wide-eyed to the mentor before you— his shoulders heaving with fury— you merely sit, and wait.

He can't seem to believe it.

Your elder slumps down next to you. It's more of a collapse than a slump, before he suddenly shifts to his knees. You flinch. His movement isn't truly rapid, though he's so tense, you thought he may be testing you, or aiming to hit you once again.

The strike never comes. The leader of the Church of Flesh chokes back his anger, and gives you a hug.

Choking for air, you can't move your arms, and can hardly see over the ridge of Father Friedrich's massive shoulders. They're shaking, holding you tight as he seethes. "I swore I wouldn't let you come under any harm. Not under my watch."

The priest pulls back. His eyes are red, and it's not from invoking his God.

"You don't know how hard we've all been working—!" The wall behind you is punched again, harder than before. "I thought I was doing you a fucking favor by keeping you in the dark—!"

He stands up and resumes pacing, too furious to stay kneeling. As he moves, he huffs, incapable of articulating everything he wants to address at once.

"You couldn't have fucking asked me to see him?"

You don't nod, or make so much as a single excuse.

"You jeopardized the security of my home, my church, and my men—"

"I did not intend to bring harm to anyone—"

He takes a deep, ragged, furious breath. "—and can't seem to GET how to STOP harming yourself—!"

There is no knock at the door to Father Friedrich's office. A young maid's voice stutters and utterly fails to announce who's coming. "A-APOLOGIES, SIRS, B-BUT—"

Brother Cyril Trebbeck kicks open the door, fuming. There is a small girl at his side, hanging back, straight-faced and utterly unaffected her guardian's violent behavior. Cyril is dressed in plain clothes. Sleeves bare, arms slick with sleet, wearing a plain tunic and leggings, he clearly has been dragged from a residence outside of the church. Every muscle in his built legs tenses as he strides straight over to you. The cerulean in his eyes is like ice. "Why the fuck—?!"

Father Friedrich has turned on a heel, and goes to meet Cyril. They stand off, gesturing to you, the blue paint streaking your robes, your face. Every last fractured fleck of paint wrapped around the divinity left in your mind tells you to forget everything that is about to be said.

They must shout at each other for twenty solid minutes. You'd rather not think too much about it.

Sister Cardew is summoned, and appears at some point. She's equally furious, though her anger seems directed entirely at Father Friedrich. At not having closer supervision on you. At permitting you to access the tower without an escort. At his lax guard. At the complete inanity of housing multiple demons below the church, when you're clearly struggling with trauma related to dealing with demons housed underground, demons that are far too sympathetic, and on it goes.

Eventually, the three of them calm down. The maid fetches some chairs, and introduces herself as Marjorie, before Cyril tells her promptly to fuck off.

Harriet is entirely unamused, as the maid seems to be acquainted with "Elena," also apparently "Cyril's little dew drop," also known as "we were having a wonderful fucking time until I was called away for this BULLSHIT and you have the NERVE TO SPOIL MY FUCKING EVENING WITH—!" Along with many more expletives that you are sincerely trying to forget.

You're pulled back down to earth eventually, by an incredibly concerned group of individuals.

Elena has been given some parchment and pens to draw with on the opposite side of the room. You strongly suspect Harriet doesn't want to have to explain to a young girl why you're unable to stand, or are covered in remnants of an invocation, though Cyril was happy to elaborate.

He's very unhappy that he's had to explain to a child why he's associating with you in any capacity, let alone has been tasked with guarding you night and day.

Father Friedrich has been extremely clear about outlining that you are to be under Cyril's supervision, night and day.

Cyril is leering at you. "Richard."

"Father Anscham," you start, and immediately stop.

Cyril dives across from his chair just to slam a fist into the wall next to you. The exact same, blood-stained smear on the stone above your head is punched again. "No," he drags, "Richard. You need to cut the shit. I've been trying to help you and you aren't listening to a fucking—"

Father Friedrich begins talking over the entirely out of line priest. He's got a hand between his temples, trying to not scream again at his misbehaved child. "He's right."

Harriet leans over her knees, letting her shawls drape over the floor, bags deep under her eyes. "We've sent off word to King Magnus. You won't be expected to answer to anyone. Not for a long time, Richard."

The absolute absence of your title has your blood running cold. More so than the nerves running through you, the instinct that you've escaped being beaten within an inch of your life, the excitement, and anticipation—

"We're going to make sure you get the help you need." Sister Cardew is frowning. "It's alright—" She can obviously tell it's not. "—and I don't expect you to like it, or to go along—"

"No," you reply, all sternness, until you register that Cyril tenses the moment you speak, and flinch. Hard. He absolutely is going to strike you if you speak out of turn.

He's been this upset all this time, hasn't he?

They all have been, haven't they?

Fidgeting further, you realize you're so exhausted, the small physical effort is more than you can manage. Dropping your hands to your sides, you sigh. "No. I— I need— I need to do this." You can practically feel the bags deepening under your eyes as you force yourself to look up, to meet the gazes cast at you. "Not just for myself."

The stares being directed at you are some of the worst you've ever seen. The pain of Father Wilhelm accompanying you for weeks of invocation to take you here, and all of his exhaustion, cannot possibly hope to rival what you've inflicted on Father Friedrich. You can't even imagine what he'll have to do to clean up this mess, let alone what Sister Cardew's earnest gaze is concealing. She surely has struggled to help you salvage your reputation and mind. Will struggle to.

There's also Cyril. Cyril seriously looks like he's going to punch you as you cringe and mutter. "I would hope—"

The blonde is actually staying his hand. You find the courage and energy to say just a few more words.

"I would sincerely hope that I can heal. For the sake of everyone who—" There's probably paint in your throat or eyes, as you struggle to speak. "—who cares for me, too."

Sister Cardew gets down on the floor beside you, as you can't help but wipe the back of your sleeve by your eyes again. You don't manage to keep your composure.

You manage to do one thing.

You keep your promise.