Chapter 46: Cyril

"Terror visits you, as it does every night."

You are Brother Cyril Trebbeck, and you are pissed.

You were given the night off, but you had the night off already.

Your unnecessary summons to the Church of Flesh would even normally be a giant pain in the ass, but this is another beast entirely.

Walking back out of the keep with your little dew drop in tow, you ruffle Elena’s raven-black hair. She’s been incredibly well behaved (like usual) and doesn’t complain. It might not hurt that you’ve promised to get her a set of pens in compensation for dragging her out at this hour, as her old set has nearly gone dry.

Looking up to skies of dark blue, rolling storm clouds and the seemingly endless sleet, a smirk crosses your face. It seems that Elena’s doing the Gods work, drying out anything at all.

Holding her hand just a little tighter, you glance behind you. The looming shadow of the Church of Flesh eclipses you, even in the darkness. Candlelight from the guards ahead does nothing to spare you from its oppressive shade.

“Oi! Cyril! Nice night out, huh?” It’s been eight years since you first met Brother Duval, but he’s as chipper as the first day you met.

You’re brought out of your anger as quickly as it came. “Absolutely. I fuckin’ love freezing rain and being called out this late at night! What could be better, really?“

Soaked through from the sleet, the priest runs over to greet you and Elena. He kneels down, smirking to you, then smiling at your black haired companion. “Nice night to you, too, little lady!”

She’s as stern as ever, straight-lipped, and curtly shakes her head before hiding behind you. The girl is so skinny, she might as well have disappeared. The majority of her light brown blouse, modest skirts, and small frame barely comes up to your waist, but she pokes and prods you to stay in front of her anyways.

Brother Duval cheerfully stands back upright. “Oh, I see how it is! At least one of us can get some shelter!” He offers you a wider smirk, still, as he leans in towards you. “He cut you loose, too?”

It’s difficult to fathom how many priests are going to be spending the rest of their evening under fire from Father Friedrich. It’s a blessing, to not have to deal with the pomp and bullshit.

“You could say that. We were havin’ dinner and everything, then fuckin’ Marjorie walks in and upends that whole idea.“ You spit on the ground, glaring back at the Church. “But that’s settled for now. How’d things fare for you?”

Glancing behind him a few times for good measure, Geoffrey (who prefers Jeff) puts his hands up, pretending to beg for Mercy. You both nervously laugh as he stutters, “d-don’t look at me, I didn’t do a thing!”

“Sure about that, Jeff? You know I’m not about to jump down your fuckin’ throat. I’ve had plenty of arguing tonight.” Your hoarse voice is an unpleasant reminder of that fact.

A firm pat on your back replaces the mockery of (M-)mercy, reminding you of the man’s ridiculous strength. He’s happy to reassure you. “I’m just fine. Nothing to worry about. Fred seems to have gotten the worst of it out on you, seems like!”

“Can’t imagine how you didn’t hear it— felt like my ears were gonna fuckin’ burst. Forgot the set of pipes he has when he’s pissed.”

Glancing with some concern to Elena, Jeff pats you hard on the back one more time. “I heard.” He pulls back, wincing, and scratches the back of his neatly-trimmed hair. “Don’t suppose you’d want to blow off some steam tonight? Hear the Scale and Ale’s got something cooking.”

“Not tonight. Gotta make sure Elena gets to bed before anything, and I’d probably end up beating the shit out of someone before the night’s over.” The promise of time with your daughter is the only thing keeping your anger capped. The night may have been ruined by that man, but it’s not over yet.

“Some real shit. Maybe tomorrow, then? I don’t want to keep ya’.”

“Sounds great to me, Jeff. You take care, alright?” Your smirk shifts to a harsh scowl, directed at the rain-soaked ground. “If that bastard even steps out of the fuckin’ Church, you better drag him back kicking and screaming.”

Brother Duval musters the will to choke down his own anger, spitting, “I’ll clothesline the bastard if I see him running again.”

A small tug on your shirt brings your attention to the girl huddled behind you. While Elena’s face is as stony as ever, she politely pats your back three times. You spin around, sweep the girl into your damp arms, and place her on your shoulders. She almost smiles, so you offer her a broad grin in exchange.

Your fellow priest was sneering, but he catches himself, and forces a smile to Elena. “We don’t have anything to worry about. Isn’t that right?”

She’s inscrutable, hiding her button nose underneath a shawl that Harriet gave her to keep out the rain. It’s not doing much, given how severe Storm’s works are tonight, so you get moving to go home before long.

Brother Duval happily calls to you as you leave, promising a little more security and camaraderie later in the week.

Past the Church of Flesh, outside the keep, over the drawbridge, through the nicer districts, beyond the humble external housing, past the markets, and eventually at the humble shack you call home, you and Elena kick open the door, then practically collapse on a small couch by the hearth.

The room is still lit by a few candles you hadn’t extinguished in your rush to leave. It casts enough light to see Elena’s drawings, dozens of them posted on the otherwise scarce wooden walls. Your absence of finery, the few pieces of furniture that were handed down from other clergy, and the (admittedly tacky) rug beneath your sodden feet is a sight for sore eyes.

“It’s good to be home.”

With a perfect sit-up, a polite clap from Elena, and a hop to your feet, you move to ready dinner.

Kindling the hearth once more, you disarm the expectations of the young lady beside you and ask, "wanna learn how to make somethin’ simple?"

She shakes her head, pointing a smirk your way.

You can't help but love that she's started to take after your attitude. Dropping the tinder, you set aside the pots and pans, then sweep the little demon into your arms. "Alright, then! Let’s salvage this evening. If we make too much, then we’ll have something ready for us in the morning."

She's tying up one of her skirts like an apron, mimicking your motions the moment you get her back to the floor. Still, her smirk becomes more of a pout, and it's not because you've set your dew drop down.

"You'll be gone by morning," Elena says.

She’s such a smart girl.

There's no use sugar-coating it. "Unfortunately.” She deserves the truth, and knows full well that this is more than what's expected of you. “Yeah."

"It's how it's always been," she chirps at you, in a sing-song voice.

You hand over a mixing spoon, worn with use, and coated in scorch marks. “Alright, little bird.”

The little lady beside you makes quick work of helping you stir together a number of grains. Even though her enthusiasm spills more of the cereal than what she keeps to the bowl, you keep your critique to a minimum. You also move her a little further from the flame, with a few reminders about kitchen safety. She listens to every word raptly. Her big, gray eyes follow every motion you make intently.

Her father's eyes.

No further mishaps occur, thanks to your impeccable tutelage. A number of vegetables join the grains you both salvaged, alongside the remainder of the evening.

"Heh, y’know what, Elena?”

She looks at you quizzically, her eyes betraying her curiosity.

“How about we make a break in our lil’ routine? I think I might sleep in, for once.”

A frown more mature than what the nine year old should possess turns down at you. "You'll get in trouble."

Her wide eyes continue to betray all attempts at a stern countenance.

Only a few seconds pass by.

The ruse collapses before it starts, having been built on a foundation of a solid week without hardly seeing you. "But— do you really think you could?"

“Well, of course I could, and of course I will. I’m not afraid of anything—” You make a gesture much like a gorilla, to her dismay. “—much less grumpy old men. You know that perfectly well! I’ve been there, dutifully, every single day. If they have issues with me takin’ time for my kid, then they can fu— they can bite me.”

No acknowledgement is made of your expletive, but a very tight hug answers the rest of your utter disregard for authority. Elena even waited patiently to correct you. “I’m not a kid.”

Your combined efforts (throughout the next hour of cooking), produces a bland, over-mixed and "could be better, but we'll work at it," sort of meal.

"I worked plenty hard at it," Elena murmurs, through a mouthful of porridge. It takes quite a while to chew, but she's offering a rare smile, and is clearly proud of herself. "Thanks, Papa."

The rest of the evening is blissfully uneventful, save for demands for a bedtime story. Elena is asleep before you reach its conclusion, but you softly murmur the last few lines anyways. They’re her favorite.

"...the princess came all the way back home. Weary from battle, she said ‘good night’ to her magical flying horse…" Adjusting her blanket so she's warm through the night, you bring your whisper down, just barely mouthing the rest of the words. "...then she took off her crown, rested on her fluffy feather bed..." You get up, expertly avoiding waking her. "...closed her eyes, and drifted off fast asleep.”

Standing in the doorway, confident that she’s at rest, your smile falls.

“The end. Good night, dear."

You close the door to your girl's room, and drudge back to your own.

You sleep alone, for only a few hours at most.

Terror visits you, as it does every night. Memories, nightmares— it doesn't matter what you call them. Waking time and time again cannot be absolved through any amount of prayer or discipline.

You have prayed. You are disciplined. You are no stranger to terror, to battle, to Gods or to demons.

It's unusual for a priest of Flesh to sleep outside the halls of his family's home, but for you, it's a necessity.

Elena, your family, your little dew drop, happily makes pancakes with you in the morning. You're all smiles, critiquing her misshapen attempts and coaching her as best as you're able.

Though you said you'd sleep in, she was eager to wake you to make the most of your time together. You pay your dues with a few words of thanks to the Goddess of Agriculture (and a few other deities for good measure), before sitting down with your girl.

The morning wiles away. Before long, you're sweeping Elena into a hug, planting a peck of a kiss on her forehead, and trying to pry the determined little demon out from your arms.

"You said you weren't scared of anything!" She’s somehow supporting her own weight, scrawny as she is, while you unwillingly carry her towards the front door.

"I’m not— but I still do have stuff to do, dew drop!”

She snickers. You laugh triumphantly as her hold loosens, but ease her down to the ground. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll be back as soon as I can. It was nice to finally have a morning to ourselves, huh?"

She sniffs, putting up the biggest, widest eyes she can muster. "We could have the day too, right?"

“You know I’ll be fighting tooth and nail— even if it kills me.”

She goes in for a quick hug. You try to ignore the way her arms tighten desperately around you.

"I know." She lets go, looking up fearlessly. Balling her hands into little fists, her wide eyes harden. She shows you just how well she can fend for herself. Her skirts bustle as she moves to the front door, now rushing to let you go.

"Look at how strong you're getting!" You muster up the broadest grin that you can.

Elena keeps her head down, propping open the heavy defense. Through gritted teeth and a resolute frown, she says, "bye, Papa."

Lifting her chin up with one hand and holding open the door with the other, you engage your girl in her least favorite game.

You smile.

She frowns.

You smile harder.

She grimaces.

Your face is hurting, but you tease, "who's a beast?"

She cracks. "You are, to say the least."

Her smile easily surpasses yours, twisting as she groans in defeat.

You ruffle her hair, frowning insincerely. "Now stay out of trouble."

"Yes, Papa."

You're out the door. She lingers (propping the entrance open with some difficulty) while you call after her, "don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

She hollers back, still smiling. "That's not a lot, Papa!"

"I'll be back home before you know it!"

She waves until you're completely out of sight.

It's a long walk back to the Church of Flesh. To the damn markets, the shitty housing districts, the fucking drawbridge ("ay, Brother Duval—!"), the blasted keep, the cursed courtyard, the packed interior ward, past Father Friedrich's office, and finally into the exterior ward.

You make sure to bang on Harriet's door a few times for good measure, after a few hours of absolute silence from Father "Dick" Anscham's room.

Banging on Father Friedrich's office door seems appropriate by the fifth hour.

He is happy to tell you to piss back off to your post.

You unhappily do so, for four more days.

Banging on Father Friedrich’s office door is beyond reasonable, by the fifth day.

"Father Friedrich! FRED! WILL YOU OPEN THE FUCKING—?!"

The door to the office slams open. A furious, red-faced priest glares up at you, spitting, "did I stutter, boy? Does 'piss off' sound Elvish to you?"

"Sounds pretty foreign to me!"

Your sarcasm is met with enough threat and gritted teeth to satisfy you. Fred hisses, "if he gets out, so fucking help me—"

“No offense, Father, but he’s as dead as a fucking door nail. We need to talk.”

The door is about to slam shut. “To your post, Cyril!”

You battle to keep the door open, fighting against Fred's outrageous upper body strength for a blessed moment. The door— even though it's banded with metal— groans in complaint between your respective might.

"Drop it, Cyril!"

You can see every new gray hair in Fred's already stark-white beard and slicked back hair. You push against the planks of wood and iron as hard as you can, not caring if you give him another.

"No—!"

Maintaining his hold on the door with one hand and a foot, the Father of Flesh is more than happy to take advantage of your compromised defense. He goes for your abdomen, since it's propped against the door, but even when his brick of a fist slams into your stomach, no wind leaves your chest.

You tense hard enough to make a lesser man break his fingers.

Father Friedrich draws back, flexing his fingers while he sneers at you.

A healthy burn is through your abs. You smile.

Fred outright glares at you. "Dead as a door nail? What kind of stupid expression—” His reddened fingers go to his temples. “—I don't have all day. Get your ass in here."

It takes no more than five minutes to wear down Father Friedrich's non-existent patience, and five more to get him to give you a call only when sleeping beauty is up.

Your paid vacation takes you back home before the end of the afternoon.

You get to spend another day and night giving Elena quality cooking lessons. You take walks through the beautiful markets, have escapades teasing a few of your neighbors, and have ample opportunities to admire their respectable houses. You even get to enjoy hanging far and away from the drawbridge and the keep, though a good deal of your Brothers are more than happy to pay you a visit.

Another day passes. You check out the deer that's been prepared at the Scale and Ale. The women at The Rub and Grub Pub are finer than ever. The weather doesn't clear up, but you don't mind in the slightest. Elena is delighted beyond all belief by her new pens, and is sure to wear them out by the end of the week.

You are greeted by an incessant knocking at your door at the end of the week. It's so loud and obnoxious you have to wonder if you're about to come under fire. Elena keeps to her room, while your fears are confirmed.

You’re greeted by something worse than a demon.

White shawls, peculiar lenses, scruffy hair, and the tightest lips you've ever seen are all waiting on your front porch. Sister Cardew looks up at you. "Returning the favor, Brother Trebbeck."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." You grin.

"He's awake." Harriet smiles like a snake. "Get your things."

You offer a cheeky smile back.

It’s all you have.