Chapter 48: The Safest Hands

"You're ragged."

Music

You are Father Galterius Friedrich, leader of the Church of Flesh.

The title is almost as ridiculous as your name. They’re both relics of a bygone age.

You feel like a relic.

The last man who connected to you through a Relic shares an equally ridiculous name. You don’t understand it, and hope it will be an age before you have to deal with the menace. Atticus is more than happy to humor you, though, and all your disdain for your responsibility, pomp, and titles.

But Atticus is not here. It’s been eleven days since he left for Somerilde. It’s been fifteen days since you joined forces for good. For your family. For your home.

The sun is rising on the Church of Flesh as you eagerly run from the keep. Dew clings to the crumbling stone. Mist forms before your breath, as ice gathers in sheets around ancient irrigation.

It feels as though every face you run by is lined with care and strain. There are never enough hands to spare. Not for maintenance, and not for care.

Not in any one of the nine miles you run outside of the furthest fortifications.

Not at the Morinburn River.

Not along the banks, and never in the series of shallow graves you’ve dug.

Priests of Flesh are normally burned, but these were not priests. You kneel, catching your breath, while remembering names infinitely more befitting of your family and your children.

Jonathan was a strong name.

You spend a few moments beside the last physical evidence that he ever lived at all.

The dawn leaves the Church of Flesh, and as the morning sun rises, you try to cool off.

Sleet has come down incessantly for nearly two weeks now. It pelts on the markets, drenches their colorful canopies, and tries to slow the unstoppable bustle of one of the last human cities.

They're all under your care. Breakfast comes from a different farmer or merchant— a new connection— each and every day. You know their faces, their names, their homes, and their plight.

The morning comes to a close, along with the front door to your office. The world comes knocking. Lords, leaders, strategists, priests, family, foes, and everything in between. They’re all beggars, demanding your attention for the conflict in Baranfen; the allocation of your children, who have spent their lives wishing only to serve a greater cause; the memorials; the festivals; the pomp; and the bullshit.

You hate it. It’s an insult, and waved off as it crosses your desk faster than you dismiss Father Sullivan’s incessant manipulation and games.

The bastard is insatiable, having taken hundreds of civilians in his incompetence. You don’t spare a single additional soul towards Sullivan's ramblings, even though you were certain the bitch under your roof will protest.

Yet, Sister Cardew does not. She is far too preoccupied with the care of a man who you have failed in every capacity.

The afternoon is carved out for lifting and devotion. To help burn off the heat; your righteous anger.

You always make the time.

The evening comes, along with the last of the beggars and heathens. There are also those who are patient enough, respectful enough, and deserving of your full attention.

Cyril has a horrific temper, but he deserves your attention. You promise him it will get better.

The truth has become increasingly important to you. It’s only appropriate. It’s been twenty days now, since you were last shown true devotion to Mercy.

It seems that everyone else in your company agrees. No one shies away from informing you of the civil war in Calunoth or begging for your aid. King Magnus is delighted to remind you of the power vacuum in the Church of Mercy, and of all the additional aid you’re required to provide thanks to their delayed action.

The situation in Murgate does not improve. Nothing seems to. Especially not Cyril’s well-being.

It’s been over three weeks since Father Anscham begged you to help him. You have done everything you could, given the catastrophic state of affairs. You tried to warn him— from the moment he arrived— that you needed help.

So, you delegated.

Cyril’s skin is nearly as pale as the ice in his eyes. Previously lifted in a near perpetual smirk, his gaze is now dragging, rimmed with bags. The rest of him is equally ragged. Drenched in exhaustion rather than sleet, he looks every bit the three weeks he’s spent indoors, away from his girl, and entrusted with possibly the most important job in the entire city.

“I’m sorry, Cyril, but my answer is still no.”

“Father, please.” His anger is gone, replaced with muted exhaustion. “I haven’t been able to see her. I haven’t heard anything— I’ve been doing this for three weeks, and he hardly even fuckin’ talks.” The ice in his eyes hardens. “Just sits there, and stares, and murmurs.”

Taking your priest firmly by both shoulders, you don’t literally shake any sense into him, but you certainly try. “Cut the shit. You’re stronger than any bastard under this roof.” Another shake, harder. He’s been cooped up infinitely longer than you’d ever wish for on a sane man, but you know this is nowhere near his limit. “Cyril. Are you listening to me?”

“I ain’t used to takin’ care of people, Father.” A disturbing mockery of a chuckle works through his immobilization. Without any attempt at moving you, striking you, or fighting back, he wheezes, “but the vote of confidence is nice. Think how I got here makes it any more special?”

It feels like he’s going to give out under one more shake. Wrapping an arm around the fighter— the father, the invoker— you offer a smirk. “You’re full of shit.” A knock on his opposite shoulder, before you brush his frayed sleeves off. “You take fine care of your girl, and you know how to take care of yourself.”

Your smirk drops, looking to the bags under Cyril’s eyes a little more closely. He hasn’t been looking after himself, despite all of his strength. “I know you can take down any demon I put in front of you.” Glancing down to the nightmarish, deep scars lacing his knuckles, you say, “I know these are the safest hands in the church. You telling me you’ve forgotten how to look after them?”

A moment passes.

“No, sir.”

Narrowing your eyes, pulling back, you force the priest of Flesh to stand on his own two feet. “You’re telling me you’ve forgotten how to take care of her?”

Life comes back to his voice for the first time in weeks. “No, sir.”

It’s a spark. You seize the opportunity. Grinning broadly, shoulders back, you project enough physical energy to demand equal verve from the competitive bastard. “Elena? She’ll be elated. We’re going to get her the best care in the country, Cyril. I meant what I said. You name it. We’re making this worth your while. You hear me?”

He chuckles, moving out of his slouch and standing as tall as he can. It’s just shy of Richard’s freakish height, and you’re delighted to see the blonde making himself infinitely more presentable.

“I think we’re happy where we’re at, Father. I just want her to be safe. She’s seen far too much for her age.” The boy pauses. “Probably could use a good teacher, though. I may be able to knock down, and take a hit— but I’m not the most well-learned guy in Corcaea.”

You make a point to look up to Cyril as your smirk returns. “You’re self-aware, at least.”

He takes the bait with a bitter, sincere, and heartfelt laugh.

You rap the man on the shoulder again, hard enough that he has to fight against the motion to stay standing. “You’re also right. She could use a good teacher. I’ll find a few, let you measure them up.” Melancholy worms its way into your best efforts at a smile. “Your girl deserves only the best.”

“Yeah. I’ll keep at it, sir. Is there any way you’d be able to at least send someone out to the house, just to make sure she’s keepin’ healthy? She’s...” He searches for a delicate way to phrase his neglect, and fails. “...she’s not good on her own for too long.”

You can’t help but frown. “Who do you think you’re working for?” It takes less than five minutes to show him the routes, patrols, and familiar guards that you have already situated around the girl’s home.

“Shoulda known better, sir.” A grateful smile crosses his face. He’s pointedly looking at Brother Duval’s route, and mutters, “Jeff isn’t gonna’ give me any slack. Still workin’ on getting her to talk outside the house.”

You knock a little more sense back into him with a hard slam on the back. Cyril has been spending too much time in his head, and you aren’t letting any lunatic rub off on such a decent man.

“I haven’t let a damn word about your little dew drop get out from under me. She’s doing well. She’ll do much better when you’re back home—” You give him a warning glance. “—the moment your work here is finished.” You mean it sincerely, and soften your disturbingly red eyes. “And it will be finished. I’m sorry, again, Cyril. I know it’s been rough. You know you can talk to me— but you’re made of tougher shit than this.”

Cyril meets your gaze without faltering. “I ain’t about to quit now. Not after all the shit you’ve done for me, Father.”

The emphasis on your title gets a sincere smile in return. Brother Trebbeck is not from the Church of Flesh, but he has never failed to show you respect where it’s due.

“And as much as I’d like to knock that motherfucker’s teeth in...” Cyril's scarred knuckles tighten, hands clenched as he grits out, “I know it ain’t his fault. I’ll see to it that he gets better, even if it kills me.”

“It won’t.”

“Not just for our safety. He’s better than this. I know that fuckin’ well.” He’s being too hard on himself, but you don’t interject. “I know it well enough to make sure he won’t fuck up that long road further. You know I’ll persevere.”

You grew out the beard to hide your lower lip trembling. It’s a bad habit, thanks to how often your sons make you proud.

Brother Trebbeck has never been your son, but he might as well be.

He says. “to achieve is to serve, after all.”

It’s been one week since Cyril committed to Father—

Richard’s recovery.

It’s easy to forget that the man lost his position as a church leader. He’s fire and devotion, incessantly demanding that you let him work, train, and heal.

He’s essentially been kept to a single room for the last month. He’s certainly been force-fed by Cyril. He’s absolutely been held to a consistent sleep schedule. He’s been made to see progress, and he is not getting out of that room under your watch.

This causes complications.

You trust the most qualified man in the country to keep the lunatic down, while you attend to other matters of more pressing concern. Not dog training, or aiding a violent homewrecker with further instruments of destruction.

Richard will help you when he’s at a healthy weight, and can make use of his body. When his muscles have recovered from years of evident torture, and his mind has been given the rest it deserves.

Bless Sister Cardew, and her psychotic devotion.

You don’t have the patience she does. You never have, and you like never will, when the country might as well be on fire.

Two months pass from the time your Church was torn apart from the inside, without any improvement in current events. Demons of Flesh seem to be cropping up with ever greater frequency near Baranfen, due to the dire straits your men and women have been struggling through. Every inch of you wants to ride for the border to fight alongside them, but you are bound by duty. You wouldn’t trust anyone else in the country to deny the King more reinforcements to Calunoth.

The slander against you is worsening by the day. Housing the prior leader of the Church of Mercy is one thing, but consistently spurning King Magnus is another. Fewer visits are being made to your office, and more letters are coming in. Demands from Father Sullivan, for more reinforcements. Demands from Father Barthalomew, for explanations regarding obstruction of his work. Demands from Father Wilhelm for a proper summer retreat, and some actual feedback on his cigars.

There’s something flowery in the last letters, about actually letting him write to Richard, but you try to misinterpret it.

It seems, at least, that things are improving at home. Shouts are coming from down the exterior ward. Healthy, pent up, harmless bickering between two brothers.

“Cyril, I have had enough of your—!”

“Whatcha’ gonna’ do about it?”

“If you interru—”

“Gonna’ smite me, Richard?”

There’s exactly enough silence for Cyril to have been harmlessly hit.

“Holy shit,” Brother Trebbeck says.

“Is that what you would like to call me, Cyril?"

"That's actually pretty good."

"It is a vast improvement over the rest of the things you have called m—”

“Hold on, I can do a lot better! Maaasoochi...”

“Go on, then. Try me.”

“You fuckin’ freak, drop the SMILE—!”

“Make me.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

"You would know more than anyone—"

Sister Cardew nearly collides with you, having walked down the corridor with her nose in a book. You’re fast enough to keep her from slamming into you, while catching a glance at a lengthy entry written in the book. Her excessive script details fostering healthy emotional displays, with a focus on reducing avoidant behavior.

Harriet glances up to smile at you. “It seems he’s caught on to the one thing Brother Trebbeck doesn’t want to touch.”

Making a face like you’d prefer to retch, you glance away, feigning innocence on behalf of your priest. “Present company included, of course.”

Harriet huffs, tossing her veil in a mockery of insult, but she fires a grin over her shoulder at you as she walks back down the hall. “Progress!”

“Don’t take it easy on him,” you tease.

She stops in her tracks, turns on a heel, and spits, “I’m the only one who won’t.”

Three months pass by, from the time you first agreed to shelter Richard Anscham.

Three months passed by before you trust him to hold a weapon again.

He does need to learn how to properly hold a weapon. There’s a war raging in Baranfen, Calunoth, Murgate, and now one is threatening to rise on the eastern border. There are whispers, and increasingly more letters of caution from Father Wilhelm.

Stay alert. Trust in your allies.

Your allies are strong. Not so strong as to not be bent...

They cannot be broken.

Cyril is more than happy to bark at Richard throughout his training. The absent father has been permitted to leave the Church of Flesh for days at a time, while you redouble your efforts to get the broken priest of Mercy out of his life.

It takes two solid weeks of work with Sister Cardew before Richard can (reasonably) take a hit again, but by all the Gods, do you manage.

Three weeks before he’s able to properly spar. You pull every punch— as you always have— but there’s something vicious behind his intent.

He’s not running.

Neither is Sister Cardew, who’s fixation has contorted into grief. She feels like she ran from Murgate. A letter came for her, at long last. It was an exhaustive list of friends and family, who’s funeral services transpired several weeks ago.

It was signed, “To know is to serve.”

She refuses to go. You can’t blame her. She’s furious at a man who she sees as an abuser, a hypocrite, a manipulator, and a heathen. Father Sullivan has destroyed the woman’s trust in the Church of Spirit, but she’s found salvation in another cause.

Her work.

Four months have passed since Father Anscham lost his title, as leader of the Church of Mercy.

Cyril was placed on extended holiday, to recover on his own terms with Elena. The girl has been placed under the tutelage of the most veteran instructor at your disposal, with a penchant for cooking and Dream. It’s all at Cyril’s request. They have been doing well outside of the church, but you’ve needed to call on your priest one more time.

There are multiple wars raging on your doorstep. You’re ragged, having shouldered the responsibility of two churches, and cleaning up after Brother Anscham’s mess will take longer than a third of a year.

You’ve promised Sister Cardew that he won’t be kept in the dark.

As the Father of the Church of Flesh, you can’t help but agree with her methods. After all, it’s not your job to work with sparks.

Your life has been devoted to kindling flame.