Chapter 47: Four More Months

"You know he needs Time."​

You are Sister Harriet Cardew, and you cannot decide who will wear down your last nerve.

Father Sullivan has been keen to write to you every single day of your absence. Every day, he does not ask for a report. He does not exert his authority. He does not command you to come home. He does not respond to your complaints, your research, or to any of your sincere questions regarding the validity of your mission.

He writes you riddles. There are now eleven of them sitting on your desk.

It's not even your desk. Father Friedrich was more than happy to give you furniture that is too heavy for you to move on your own. It's his desk. You hate it. You hate the finery. The pomp. The pretense. Everything in this Gods-forsaken church is decorated in crimson, filled with lead, and sitting atop demons.

The leader of the Church of Flesh been nothing but a nuisance. He's done more than obstruct your ability to rearrange the furniture. From belittling you, complaining, moaning, whining, losing his temper, to blatantly keeping you from performing your own service to the Gods— he's even given you the furthest room in the keep from your charge. Most importantly, Father Friedrich has blatantly jeopardized the safety, sanity, and care of your primary concern.

Your primary headache.

"Father Anscham."

He's always been humble. A soft-spoken gentleman. "Yes?"

"We are going to try something new today."

He is avoiding looking at you at all costs. He isn't responding, and is likely still trapped in his head. Avoidant. Impulsive. Self-deprecating, anxious, traumatized, and utterly insane.

The week of rest has done him more good than you could have hoped for, but it's been a week without food, water, socialization, work, or addressing the headaches. Yes, he has them literally, but your headaches are growing by the day.

A long silence passes between you both while you draw up your worksheets. They're your primary work, aside from the Catalyst. Coping strategies. Emotional identification. Empathy, communication, facial recognition.

He doesn't need to know.

He doesn't need to serve Spirit.

He doesn't have to be made aware just yet of his dismissal as the leader of the Church of Mercy.

"It's not a test. I promise, we won't do anything to hurt you."

"I— I see."

There's no reason to tell him that Father Friedrich has been paying off spies for weeks, long before Father Wilhelm ever arrived.

"During your stay," you say. "To track your progress. Something to have, in lieu of your journal."

The journal was confiscated and put safely in Father Friedrich's possession, along with all other evidence of any demonic association. There's no reason at all to worry the man (who's actually at his wit's end) with concern about the active civil war in Calunoth. There is no reason at all to tell him that his (former) clergy, who now have no leg to stand on, are potentially being paid off by Father Sullivan to stand down. That he wants them to stop elevating someone who can barely stand on his own.

Richard literally couldn't stand. He's still having difficulty doing so, and was using a cane from a demon until a stop was put to it.

His frown is miserable. "There is still no reason—"

You hate interrupting him, but it's for his own good. "You trust me, don't you?"

"...yes."

Sipping shakily at your tea hours after he's left, you try to compose yourself. To reassure yourself that Brother Trebbeck is keeping a close eye on a man who possesses the ability to kill every last man, woman and child in the building. The same man who is trusting you with his mental state.

You compose a few answers to Father Sullivan's riddles.

You compose a few letters to your brothers and sisters.

You don't have a husband, and you don't want for one. Not when you need to compose another essay on the strangest exception to the Catalyst you've ever seen.

You've seen a lot.

You don't care to see the streets of Beorward. They're filthy, compared to Murgate's lily-lined roads. Here there is nothing but rabble, noise, blood, stone and decay. To say nothing of the incessant clamoring at your door, from imbeciles demanding your attention.

"Do you know how to read?" You sneer at Brother Trebbeck, though he can't possibly hear you from the hall.

You don't want for a lover. Cyril probably doesn't want for you, given the precarious position he has looking after his girl. You can only imagine how they lost the mother.

It seems everyone you know has lost something.

Wants something.

Would die for something.

You have a passion greater than anything preached about in the Church of Flesh.

You crave knowledge.

You crave research and answers.

You agreed to help, for the sake of answers. You agreed to leave the defense. You accepted that you might come home to fewer brothers and sisters.

They haven't written back. Not yet.

You agreed to help him, for all his insanity. Father Sullivan is convinced that Richard is beyond redemption. He knows how long he has suffered.

You think he needs more than Mercy.

You know he needs Time.

You look to the stack of Sullivan's letters on Father Friedrich's hideous table.

Sullivan hasn't been wasting my time. He's been testing me. He wants to challenge me. To keep me sharp.

Everything I need is right here.

I don't need answers.

I already have them.

He's known this entire Time.

You march down the exterior ward, then bang on the door to Richard's insultingly nicer room. It's understandable, as it's essentially a prison, and he is not to be disturbed under any circumstances.

Fuck the circumstances.

"Father Anscham! Father Anscham, will you please open the—!"

The door opens only a crack. Wide, unhinged eyes peer out, sitting above deep bags, surrounded by a terrible pallor, and just barely distracting from a grimace that could cut glass.

His eyes, at least, are a startling shade of green. They swim with metallic hues of gold in lieu of black irises. Richard narrows them at your unexpected appearance. "Yes?"

It's always disturbed you, but you're a brave woman, and continue to meet his gaze fully. "This can't wait."

You're let inside, and sit down in a horrifically neat room. The bed has been made with fresh sheets, the hearth is at full, the curtains are drawn. Food and water is neatly set aside for his dog, who is nestled by the fire, sleeping soundly. Every object and piece of furniture looks as though it was straightened several times over, by a man who is fidgeting and obviously unable to calm his own nerves.

"What, might I ask, could be so important—? Excuse me—" He holds out your chair, before fussing with his sleeves and the side of the table, sitting down across from you while scooting his chair in excessively, tapping his foot repeatedly, and fidgeting with a ring on his left hand.

His fidgeting is incessant, but you concentrate through it, swallow a swell of pity, and try to not stare.

Not all of his scars came from abuse.

You harden your voice, and finally say what you assume Richard has needed to hear his entire life.

"I'm tired of insulting your intelligence. You deserve the truth. All of it. Even if you can't handle it."

Relief looks like it's going to drown him. Those wide eyes disarmingly look up from an abyss to focus for a rare moment. His soft voice comes out clearly and as strong as you could hope for. "Thank you, Sister."

You struggle to maintain your patience, to continue to be polite, and to not interrupt.

Richard softly says, "go on, then."

You tell him everything. Everything he deserves to be let out of the dark about.

You start by formally telling the Father of the Church of Mercy that King Magnus has discreetly, tastefully, and respectfully dismissed him.

"'From all obstruction to your recovery, with sincere gratitude for your sacrifices made. With formal recognition of your respect to all of the Gods, to your devotion, and to your health. All as an esteemed citizen of Our great nation, as a pious man, a righteous man, and a man who is to still serve under the banner of the Church of Mercy— you are released from your title, your lands, your clergy and—' well, I'll show you the letter. It's as excessive as you'd expect..."

You run back to your room, and return to show him the fifty-two page letter. It's more of a book, so you spend two hours going over every single exhaustive word together.

Richard is a sharp man. Sharper than the disturbingly deep recesses beneath and around his cheekbones that are taking in the low candlelight ("please, eat something while we talk—"), and he's frowning so hard you think he might be attempting to hurt himself again.

Pointing to a page buried deeply in the document, he spits, "no one has ever told me about this. Not even a fraction of it."

He's underlining and poking at mention one duty expected of the Father of the Church of Mercy. It's one of ten pages or so on the care and execution of clergy who are suspected of the Catalyst. The majority of the document seems to be utterly foreign to him, but this is disturbing news, especially given how much research he has reportedly done on his own.

You swallow the urge to spare him more suffering, and say, "they never wanted you to know." Softening your voice, you murmur, "our King does."

He's so distraught, you might as well have killed Ray.

You glance over to the hulking dog for some relief. He's still cozied up by the hearth, eyeing you. You want to dismiss the urge to think that the mastiff is looking at you suspiciously, but the scar over his right eye and near his brow makes it look perpetually furrowed, just like his owner's.

You try to not think too hard on it. Shaking your head, you adjust your veil, thinking it's a sweet gesture to move the fabric aside and to not have anything further blocking your face.

"You did the right thing, asking him to let you heal— but I think it was for all of the wrong reasons, Richard."

That frown is probably not letting up any time soon. You don't let it intimidate you, nor his imposing height, nor the increasing desire to avoid making Richard snap.

He looks like he could snap at any moment, physically speaking. A week of sleep did his pallor and erratic behavior a world of good, but you slide over what looks to be an untouched package of dried fruit towards the man, hoping he'll catch on. He doesn't register the motion.

"I don't want you to think that the few people who sincerely want the best for you— myself included— " You shove the damn box again, which Richard finally notices and complies with. "—have forgotten about you. But you have rapidly alienated everyone who meets those criteria."

The priest— he is still a priest, merely one with the authority of an outsider, shy of six years in the clergy— swallows, hard. "You are only tolerating..." He pauses, searching for a more forgiving way to phrase his accusation. "...this, because of our research."

You lean forward. "I am here because I have faith in you. I would be lying if I said that I didn't have my own motives—"

He snaps, "then say them."

You snap back, "you're going to be a shitty research partner. You're a terrible priest, and a more miserable leader still. You lost your title, you likely won't be going home anytime soon—"

The nervous energy opposite of you is disarming enough to make you want to stop your complaints, but you swallow the looming dread, the urge to soften your speech, and press on. Tight-lipped, and as transparent as you promised the priest of Mercy over a week ago to actually be. "I am sick of seeing you being so useless. So self-centered. So self-absorbed. Even if an answer was dropped in our lap this very instant, you'd have no idea what to do with it."

Every indication of the man flying off the handle and knocking his chair aside, striking you across the face, or killing you (or himself, more likely) is written all over him.

Richard somehow, someway, restrains every compulsion. He simply looks at you, frowning intensely.

A very long moment passes by. There's some internal battle before he humbly mutters, "go on."

"You know full well that there is civil unrest in Calunoth?"

Those wide green eyes glance away. Both hands try teasing a careworn hem on one sleeve.

He looks guilty. Did he have to spy on someone to even hear anything significant?

"I have heard a few rumors," Richard says, "but I have little to no idea of what their situation is, Sister."

By all the Gods, he did.

"Harvey J. Algrith—" The look he gives you is starved for information, so you shove the fucking box at him again, which he actually remembers. "—no, I do not know what the J. stands for— he and twelve of your congregation—"

Horror stops your ward in his tracks. "There were fourteen."

You put a hand to his knee. It's only skin and bone, but he's warm enough to make you not fear for his (seemingly always) impending death. Hoping that the rest of the conversation doesn't kill him first, you try to offer your condolences.

"I am so sorry."

In the plainest terms you can muster, you try to relay that not everyone can tell the King of Corcaea to fuck off and live to tell the tale. You praise Mr. Algrith's efforts at evading capture, as well as the efforts of the other men and women who escaped from the ruins. They have all dedicated their lives to defending their savior's tenets, and have tirelessly worked to form an organization under their own banner, to raise awareness for the extreme hardship that's faced by those who come under fire from the theocracy.

They're to be killed on sight.

They have only helped to light a fire under Father Sullivan, who was already determined beyond all measure to get Father Anscham out of his lofty position within the Church of Mercy. Now that it's happened, and you've been cut off from the Church of Spirit for weeks, you have no idea what Sullivan is up to.

"Last I heard— you're waning on me, Richard." His eyes are unfocused, and he's really not equipped for all of this. "Are you alright?"

"I need a minute— several— if you do not mind."

He takes a minute.

You still need to tell him about the conflict in Murgate that he could have prevented, were he not barred from any and every piece of information a leader should have rightfully had to lead his own church.

You have to tell him about the work that the Church of Mercy has been doing in his absence. That things have been running smoothly, but that the Church has been increasingly distant from communicating with those who seem to need their aid most. That the power vacuum left in Richard's wake has compromised their ability to act in a timely fashion.

You need to inform the man that he received a letter from Father Barthalomew this morning, but that Father Friedrich has been holding onto all of his mail for fear of any further issues or conflict setting him off.

You have to inform him about the execution of Jonathan Friedrich. You need to try and reassure Richard that it was completely unsustainable to keep a demon under the sway of the Gods, let alone indefinitely. That Father Wilhelm could hardly attend to the pressing, immediate, human need sitting right before you.

You need to tell him that Father Wilhelm did in fact get through the barricades around Calunoth, and sent a messenger with more mail that was received just last night. Where he got a blue envelope, you don't know, but you will find out. It's beautiful, and the man's calligraphy is the stuff of legend. You will probably ask to see the letter...

There's so much to address.

Richard needs to know about the slander. That his reputation— which was already almost irreparable— must be tarnished beyond salvation.

That his congregation in Calunoth is alive, is not well, and needs his help.

That you want to get him back on his feet. That his health is so nightmarishly bad, you don't know how he's alive. That Father Friedrich is ready and waiting to give him his undivided attention, to help him in every conceivable way, but that he's respectfully asked you to get his head in order, first.

Even the Father of the Church of Flesh is willing to let a man go soft under his roof, if it means saving his life.

You both sit silently together, for about four more minutes.

He doesn't push you. Not for another four hours, when you wrap up your conversation, and eventually have to try to get some space.

You're going to need it.

It looks like you're here to push back.