Chapter 45: A Change of Heart

"Do you trust me?" ​

The elf makes her usual long and elegant strides ahead— her voice light— and all of her colored with amusement. "What an astute observation, Father."

Is this normal? Is it elves on the whole that look so immaculate— or did she make an extra effort to clean herself up in my absence?

Clean, unpainted, silver hair bobs in a gentle and artificial breeze. Celegwen seems to be practically glowing in the sunlight. It's been very difficult to tell (due to the darkness of the ruins) until now, but there seems to be a light purple tint to the roots and ends of her hair. Her skin is fairer than you expected as well.

You quickly catch up to her. "They'll come around. It should be a few hours, even with such a straight path— and I— and I can't imagine Ofelia declining any drinks for longer than a few minutes."

Celegwen smirks, pointing back over your shoulder. To your amazement, the halfling has stopped shouldering the last of the camp equipment to try and do something with Yech's over-sized flask. Far from abusing him, she looks relatively impressed.

The elf's smirk widens. "She is practically a demon herself. They will certainly be fine."

"A few days ago, I would have been terribly offended at that statement, Celegwen— though, now that you mention it—"

A light laugh falls from her lips.

Have they always been such a nice shade of pink?

Lighter mist collects throughout the forest, clinging to the golden flowers around you both. It's difficult to miss on her unblemished skin. You don't catch a single scar, freckle or pockmark on bare shoulders that catch a little sunlight. She's taller than most human women, but that suits you just fine.

You can't help but trace the skin with your gaze down to her hands. A daring thought occurs to you. It's a demon far more intimidating than any you could face outside of your own thoughts.

What if I took her hand in mine?

"I had suspected that your change of heart was a curse, Father. The work of a spell, or some sort of power this demon was exerting over you. I believe that I may have been mistaken. You have not changed at all. You simply required the opportunity to trust them, did you not?"

"Celegwen." The seriousness on your face is utterly resolute. You are no coward.

You are also a gentleman, and the year is 605. "May I hold your hand—?"

Before the last word leaves your lips, the elf has intertwined your fingers together. They're soft, and warm— like the sunlight, and the slight dew on her skin, and every other inch of your body— which straightens up instantly from the sudden and immediate, 'yes, Richard, you may, this is something I've badly wanted for weeks and am entirely too patient to ask for myself' that her utter lack of hesitation tells you.

Celegwen beams at you with a broad smile. Those straight teeth. Her pink lips. Long eyelashes.

"I strongly suspected we were both going to die before you asked, Father."

It's very hard to speak.

As the minutes pass

Is it half an hour?

An hour, before the heat in your face dulls even slightly.

It becomes a lot easier to think. To think, that when Ofelia was holding a knife to your throat from the first moment you met that this woman exerted every last breath of her ability to heal you from the brink of death. That despite her thinking you dangerous— scarcely knowing what you were or what you could do— that she saw to it that your dog was returned to you safely. That you were sheltered, and permitted to heal.

Was she afraid of telling me about the library because she was worried for my safety?

To think, that she has been constantly imploring her friend to treat you with tact and with respect since the first time you all could speak together.

She's never imposed anything on me. Ofelia and Yech may be concerned for my health, but she's always put my desires first. My real needs. Celegwen didn't judge me for leaving Orgoth. She didn't stop me from leaving her before, either.

She came back for you without a moment's hesitation.

Did she risk her life to save mine and Ray's?

A horrific realization occurs to you.

Was she unable to fight against Menniath because of how spent she was from the effort? Has she stayed by my side after losing so much—

But this doesn't sound like it's your choice at all. It's not right.

Do humans not care for one other?

What you intend and what we see can be entirely different things.

How dangerous is what you're attempting to do?

There is more to him than that.

I was thinking of you.

I hope that— one day— you can find a way to live with someone of this world, too.

It's a promise.

Mercy. Has she? This entire time...?

The hand around yours tightens as if the sorceress is afraid of you pulling away. It completely snaps you out of your train of thought while she asks, "Father, how many times did you lose your wager today?"

The flush on your face (has it been there this entire time?) deepens considerably. The pride you want to express from winning the gamble is colored with embarrassment. "It's hard to believe— but I won immediately."

"Then... how much alcohol have you consumed?"

"Yech's wager for our bet was substantial. I'm— I am not entirely certain how strong it was, but it was a fair amount of beer. There were... several glasses of wine, while we spoke regarding the demons we've encountered. It was fairly difficult to keep track. Yech is— he is generous." The fingers around yours tightens further. You're silently grateful that the promise ring is on your opposite hand. "It— it's not that obvious, is it—?"

Celegwen's laugh almost sounds relieved. "You deserve the reprieve. Please do be mindful of yourself, though. I am, well..." The elf glances over to you with a faint blush on her cheeks. She doesn't seem to want to say what's on her mind.

You look away on instinct. "I'll be careful, Celegwen. One or two nights of sin will not undo the lifetime of work I've dedicated to the Gods. This is good for me. Please don't worry yourself."

The elf's blush deepens further. She glances away. "It is not that, Father."

Am I actually far more obsessive than I give myself credit for?

"I am merely worried for your figure."

Mercy, not this again.

"Please permit me to examine the supplies that Yech has given you, when we get the opportunity." You can't help but frown. The urge to take your hand back touches on your thoughts for the briefest of moments, but Celegwen continues, "he is talented. I will give him that. I may have to ask the sorcerer for some guidance, if we have the time."

Is this a plot to offset Agriculture's blessing?

Her fingers haven't budged, and her smile disarms your growing neuroticism. What she says removes it entirely. "But I am far more concerned with spending this time together, with you."

Your hands have hardly swayed, as evenly as you both are walking together under the forest canopy. The sounds of Yech and Ofelia yelling and laughing at each other are extremely reassuring. You suspect they haven't heard your exchange at all.

Celegwen looks to you again with a fair measure of concern. She still keeps your hand in hers, but the hold is tenuous. "Father, what are your vows, exactly?"

The mild buzz in your head, the heat in your face, and the pleasant relief from the worst of your anxiety is all is replaced with crushing, immediate dread. You remember yourself. "As the leader of the Church of Mercy— as any Father or Mother of the church is— I am sworn to reserve my body for the Goddess."

"This is a very gray area."

"It is a very old practice, but no. Strictly speaking, I am to express nothing r-romantic, or—"

"I would greatly prefer if I did not have to concern myself with so much as holding your hand, Father. Humans truly are insane." She smiles at you. It was a poor joke, but she's clearly trying to make the best of the situation.

You don't hold it against her. "It's— it's not typically— most— I mean—"

I can deliver a sermon for hours, and I can't manage a single word about this?

"Most Mothers and Fathers of the church come into their title later in life, once they—" You take another deep breath. "—once they've had a family of their own. It is normally not very prohibitive."

"You are not a typical clergyman."

"Fortunately."

"This is quite the conundrum, Father. Am I to understand that I am jeopardizing your position and your Goddess' favor merely by showing you affection?"

Mercy, I need to be clear with her. She can't get the wrong idea. I've taken a vow of chastity. Not celibacy. Not that nonsense that had been written regarding King Frederick. Not some half measure or vague tenet from an age long past. I am a priest— the Father of the Church of Mercy— and my body is sworn to Her alone.

This is easily one of the hardest decisions of your life.

A few golden petals drift past. A part of you strongly suspects Yech is kicking up the flowers for romantic effect. You make a note to thank him later, and look down to Celegwen's hand. Despite your callouses and scars— despite how worn and tired your skin looks against Celegwen's— you can't help but appreciate the sight of your skin together. Those slender, gentle and entirely beautiful digits are nestled loosely against yours.

It's obvious that she doesn't want you to let go.

This is actually good for me.

Celegwen has always been there for me. She's always been able to keep me grounded— no matter how dire things have seemed— unlike almost everything else in my life.

I love Mercy.

I want nothing more than to serve Her will. To see Her mission through to the very end. But...

You tighten your hand around Celegwen's. She looks to you with a fair measure of concern (likely due to how long it's taking you to reply).

The Goddess has been in my mind, body, and soul for so much longer than any other.

It's terrifying.

I don't want to lose myself again.

Mercy has granted me relief from my suffering.

She has given me respite from my pain.

She has granted me purpose— a mission— and a divine calling unlike any other.

She has blessed me not only with Her form. She has yet to leave my side.

No matter how She works through me— my life, body, and soul— it all belongs to Her.

I can't throw away everything that I know and love.

I can't jeopardize our safety now.

Not now.

She'll have to understand.

The tightness that immediately spreads through your chest is hardly from your clothes being ill-fitting. You're more grateful for wine and overindulging than ever as you pull your hand away from Celegwen's. You instinctively put a hand to your heart— fingers laying over your cold holy symbol— and try to not break stride with your friend as you continue to walk alongside each other. The look you give Celegwen is so pained that she draws back, if only slightly.

"Father, are you alright?"

"Celegwen, you know how much I appreciate your company. Your friendship." Your voice drops to a murmur, with hurt that's impossible to conceal. "Your affection."

Your fingers tighten over gold. The metal is is nowhere near as reassuring, and its weight gives no reprieve from how entirely patient and understanding Celegwen's response is. "Of course."

She's being respectful, as always. You try to not hate yourself for your next words, but it's proving impossible. The liquor is stronger than your usual accent, and your words are far more informal than they should be. "You know that I'm drunk."

"It is quite evident." She crosses her hands in front of her as you both walk together. The sorceress seems to immediately understand what you're getting at, and you're grateful, but you need to clear the air.

It might be your intoxication, or it might be that you want the Gods to hear. You don't know. You don't want to care— but it's hard not to. "I need you to understand, Celegwen. I..." Your free hand— the one that isn't fastened to your holy symbol— is shaking severely. It's likely the alcohol making the tremor worse, and you're bothered enough by it to stop walking entirely.

The gold of the forest canopy catches on the green in your eyes. You know she likes them, and can't help but look to Celegwen as you say, "This— I'm risking destroying everything— everything that I've worked for my entire life, just by—"

You can't look at her, and glance away. Ray's right next to you— nudging himself against your legs— clearly wanting to resume the walk. He knows what's better for you than you do most of the time, so you oblige, picking your steps back up again and trying to keep your eyes forward. Your voice is even softer than usual. "This can't go any further, but—" She's looking at you so intently, you want to cringe away— but you force yourself to look back at her.

She's giving you that same pained smile that you've grown to hate.

"Maybe, just— just maybe. If there comes a day when—" The gold in your hands is a good deal more reassuring than the look you're getting. You tighten your fist. "When I'm not fighting for our survival, we can see where this takes us both. A day when Mercy does not need my vessel, and I—" You might be hurting yourself, with how tightly you're clutching onto Her symbol. "I want to reciprocate your affection, Celegwen. But it can't— I can't do so right now. I— I need some time alone. I..."

I need to pray for forgiveness.

Celegwen places a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it slightly. Her smile looks terrible, but you endure it, to try and offer one back. You can't imagine how anguished it looks.

Her voice is level, methodical, and entirely devoid of the pain that's written all over her. "I understand completely. Pray if you must, Father. Perhaps it would be best to do so once we are out of the demon lord's domain? If what you told me still holds true, he may not take kindly to our departure were you to reach out to your Goddess."

Pain pierces any possible enjoyment you could still derive from your prolonged inebriation. It comes out almost as a whisper, but you know that the elf's keen hearing can pick up on your words without issue. "Celegwen, you are— you've always been just as important to me."

"I know, Father." Her expression finally softens. "I did not promise myself to you lightly."

Mercy.

She pulls away, and strides ahead with only a few peeks over her shoulder back to you. Your friends all seem to be respecting your need for space.

Mercy is always with me— so why do I feel so alone?