Chapter 4: Enough of the Dark

"The promise of calm."​

Your green eyes drift open of their own accord. There are no windows in your small room, but even in the darkness you're aware that the warmth at your side is coming from your faithful mastiff. Ray eagerly drops his head on your chest, demanding your attention before you even come to.

Your voice is groggy and hoarse from likely having not been used in several days. "'Morning, boy. C'mere."

Scratching sleepily behind his ears, you give him a little deserved attention, sit upright, and look properly around. No one else seems to be in the room. There's just the over-sized armchair shoved adjacent to the bed that's obviously been used by Father Wilhelm while you slept. A little ash is near the right armrest, alongside a stack of parchment and a few quills with ink. The rug beneath the bed extends out nearly to the edges of the small room, and seems to be the only other thing in the way of decor.

Your eyes adjust to the darkness as sleep leaves you. Ray is more than happy to continuously scoot more of himself onto you while you sit upright. He's acting more like a puppy than a fully grown dog, but you endure the discomfort of his weight (it's easily more than your own) to give him some love for a few more moments. You genuinely feel well-rested. For the obscenely large meal you ate prior to sleeping, your stomach is back to feeling concave, and your limbs are as skeletal as ever.

Despite your condition, you almost want to smile. You try holding a hand out. The pallor is visible even in the darkness, but there's hardly any tremor.

Ray licks at your palm, pressing his nose against the extended digits. It's hard not to comply. You wrap your hand back under his chin, and pet him with so much relief.

"We've had enough of the dark, haven't we, boy?"

There's no lean or nudge from your dog. No indication of you needing his comfort. It's almost like he can sense what you're about to say next as you raise his face to yours.

You're smiling, even if it feels unnatural. It's been so long since you've been able to act normally around him. "You want to go for a walk?"

Your dog practically leaps off of the bed, but his enormous frame struggles to deal with how cramped your room is. You beam at him, also stumbling slightly as you get out of bed. Your legs feel like they haven't been used in days at least, so you reach out to the nearby wall for support. Your head is swimming, despite how well-rested you feel. There's no sensation of hunger or thirst, but you're aware that you need to do something about it.

Ray nudges himself against your shins and knees, helping to prop you up as you gain your bearings. Some part of you registers that you're in a new robe, and not the one you've traveled in. It's clean and far nicer— likely a spare of Father Wilhelm's. You can't really tell if it's a deep blue or black in the darkness, but it's easy enough to tell that it's short enough to not quite reach your ankles. The whole thing is altogether too baggy. You feel a little ridiculous, and pull up on the neck to ensure your shoulders don't peek through.

Father Wilhelm had helped you to your room when you first entered, but you hadn't really considered if you still needed help to stand at the time or not. To your mixed relief, there's no one in the hall outside. Getting through the heavy, wooden door of your room is a small embarrassment. Candles line the hall, providing enough illumination for you to quickly pen a note to Father Wilhelm.

You can't help but to keep it formal, taking enormous pleasure in having the time to use a proper script and a pen that hasn't been covered in blood or crushed at the bottom of a backpack for weeks on end. It's kept brief. Merely an acknowledgement that you've stepped outside and will keep your eyes out for him.

It's as if Ray can read your thoughts while you quickly make your bed and drop the letter atop the neatly folded sheets. Your boy threatens to undo your work— moving to place his paws atop the mattress— but you firmly command him to stay down and to follow you outside.

The genuine smile across your face is impossible to conceal as you both head out towards the main hall. A small prayer to Flesh and to Mercy emerges as you resume a normal stride within moments. The worst of the sleep falls, and your gait levels out. It's so enjoyable to be able to stand again without assistance— without a cane or someone to lean on— that you detour from your path simply to stretch your legs and explore your surroundings.

Four rooms are attached to the wing your room was situated in. The doors to each one are cracked open. The lack of locks or secrecy is unbelievably reassuring.

You merely peek your head into each one. The door closest to yours— to the left— is merely another guest room. Another colossal bed is its only occupant. It's far more spacious, and likely intended for Father Wilhelm to share with a guest. You had heard rumors he was without a wife for several years prior to becoming the Father of Dream, and try not to make too many assumptions as you peek into the other side of the hall.

A pantry— stocked to the ceiling with barrels and casks— glares back at you. Your host may have been being modest regarding his preparedness for your stay. He may also be overtly cautious, having spent most of his life in a famine. It's hard to say, but you pull back quickly from the abundance of goods.

The room adjacent is suspiciously devoid of any standard furnishings, though there are piles of art supplies. Many of them are mere silhouettes hidden under blue sheets, but it's easy enough to tell at a glance. You don't quite understand why Father Wilhelm's put away most of his work from your sight, but you don't question it.

Starting towards the room at the end of the hall, the door is wedged shut. There seems to be a crack in the door, causing it to appear open from a distance. You try knocking, but don't get any response in reply.

I have far too much respect for this man to go snooping around in his things.

"Come on, Ray. Let's see what's outside."

Light returns to your heart as you reenter the main hall, and see the sun peeking through the few windows in the building. There's still no sign of Father Wilhelm, but there are stacks of letters atop several couches, a painting easel standing in the corner, and several half-eaten plates of dried fruit and cheese littered about the place. You get the impression that your host has no idea how to clean after himself, and try your best to ignore the mess as you head towards the front door.

The enormous, wooden defense takes more effort to force open than you're almost capable of. Your head swims as you manage the effort, and practically stumble out into the light of day. Ray helpfully bounds right behind you, panting. Within moments he's sprinting ahead and doubling back again.

You raise a hand above your eyes, blocking out most of the rays as they catch on the snow. It's bitterly cold. So much more than you're used to that you're immediately shivering again. You can't help but to wrap your arms around yourself— loving the sun, the blessing of your Goddess— as you look skyward. "Th-the Gods are M-Merciful." ​ Not a soul is in sight. Snow lays untouched before you. A clear sky— devoid of any incoming Storm— brings the promise of a calm afternoon and fair evening. Sparse trees and the edge of the woods are coated with snow, and the peaks of the Folorast mountains are just off on the horizon.

The scattered leaves and full bloom of Harvest could not be more reassuring.

I couldn't have slept for much longer than a few more days. A week, at the most.

​

As the snow cuts through the thin soles of your worn shoes, precaution wins out over the desire to push on. You manage to get back inside, sweep up several blankets scattered around the main hall, and form yourself some makeshift protection from the elements before setting back off.

You frown to Ray (jokingly) once you're back outside. "Don't give me that look."

He's looking up at your blanket cocoon with mild alarm, unable to understand that your arms are still there.

Drawing the bundled heat and warmth closer into you, it's a challenge to maintain your scowl. It's entirely gone by the time you make your way around the easternmost side of Father Wilhelm's retreat. You try to keep an ear out and as close to the perimeter of the building as you're able. It looks significantly more spacious from outside than it does within its thick stone walls. There are countless remnants of perennial bushes and trees, though the snow has curtailed the best of their efforts.

You suspect that the Father of the Church of Dream tends to something akin to a garden in warmer months, or his clergy, at the bare minimum. The fog gathering upon your breath and the source of such devotion to Agriculture is made all the more evident as you come around the back of the home.

The edges of a frozen pond are visible just off in the distance. Your eyes are fair enough in the broad daylight to see the remnants of some fishing equipment, and a distinct hole cut into the ice. It's a bit difficult to make out— the light of day keeps catching on the snow— but you assume it belongs to Father Wilhelm. The man himself is nowhere in sight. There's a little evidence of his presence or the work of his sons directly behind his vacation home.

Your makeshift protection is getting the job done against the cold, but it's hardly a fitted fur. A colossal pile of firewood covered from the elements reassures you that heat will not be in short supply, but you already start to pull away back towards the entrance.

Out of curiosity, you peek your head around the leftmost side of the home before returning inside. A wide expanse free of trees, snow covering a flat ground, and a small building builds on your grin. A small boat is sheltered inside. You head towards it at once, but catch a glimpse of Father Wilhelm emerging from the treeline. He looks and sounds even more amused and exhausted than when you last heard him.

"You're awake! Richard, you're going to catch your death out here, get back inside!"

The faint embers of a lit cigar catch your eye about as quickly as the furs and snow shoes Father Wilhelm is outfitted with. You sheepishly walk up alongside him, doing your best to reassure Ray that it's still the same man. Your dog has never seen the lashed together wood adorning his feet, but puts on a brave face.

The priest easily make his way over a few banks. Father Wilhelm is scowling at you in a way that looks altogether unnatural. He's obviously still joking, but you can tell his concern and weariness is legitimate. "I'm beginning to wonder what can keep you down!"

It's impossible to not return his sincerity. "Do you— do you really want the answer to that question—?"

There's a slight laugh at how loaded the question was. He might feel a little guilty for asking, as his scowl is replaced with a slight smile. "How long have you been up and about for?"

"An hour, at the most. I couldn't— the dark— I wanted to get some sun. Stretch my legs."

"Well, mission accomplished. Come on. We've got some catching up to do. You slept for about a week."

You're aware that it's childish to protest, but you really can't care. After everything you've been through, you can't pass up another opportunity. "But— the lake— your boat. Surely, there's some way we could fish while— while we're still out here?"

"Absolutely not." There's no disguising your disappointment. His mustache turns down with a frown. "You're going to get sick. The boat is stored for the season, and we'd have to go on the ice. You're wearing blankets, this is ridiculous."

It's obvious how exhausted Father Wilhelm is, but you gave your restraint to a demon. "But— Father Wilhelm, the ice— I've never— Eadric and Pontos are so much closer to the sea, we never—"

"We can make the time later. You need something to eat and a proper fire. Come on."

You hold your ground. Ray leans a little against you, immediately trying to reassure you. You're a lot more upset by this than you should be. "Please."

"No, Richard."

"Please!"

There's a look directed at you that makes your skin crawl. It's not confusion or fear. You glance away immediately, intensely ashamed of yourself.

Father Wilhelm is still terribly concerned about you. You only caught an instant of it, but he was looking at you like you were ill.

You hear the crunch of snow as he closes the distance properly between you two, inviting you to lower your voice. You comply, keeping your gaze fixed firmly on the ice that's hardened significantly from the sun beating down on you both. Though you can feel the cold seeping into your ill-suited shoes and the frost nipping at your nose, you continue to murmur, "please. I don't care. I would still like to talk— to hear what you have to say. I— I simply— I need something normal." You lower your voice further, completely aware that you're behaving irrationally. "As close to it as I'm able. Please."

There's bristling and a huff. Father Wilhelm sets back off towards his summer home.

You nearly call after him, but he interjects, "I'm getting you some furs and something hot to drink! You're not saying no!"

You start to head after him, and are met again with a holler. "I'll meet you out there! Take a look, just don't get out on the ice until I'm back!"

You don't need to be told twice, and set off for the lake without further protest.