Chapter 6: Set a Course

"For Wearmoor, for Beorward, and for the Church of Flesh!"​

Cozying up next to the flame, you're quickly joined by your dog. Ray is so well behaved that you only have to tell him once to mind the fish you've caught before he sidles up next to you.

It feels like more time passes than it really should to obtain a change of clothes.

Surely enough, Father Wilhelm reemerges in not only a distinctive smoking jacket and trousers, but he almost looks like a new man. With a freshly lit cigar between his teeth, his hair combed back, and his old nightcap back atop his head, within one arm is a bundle of far nicer looking clothes for you and a cart full of cooking supplies is being pushed with the other.

An enormous cooking pot, a number of utensils and more vegetables than two men could eat in a week glare at you.

Father Wilhelm winks as he approaches. The silks are thankfully held out first. "Should be warm enough to warrant it! A little more becoming of you than my old things. A good bit nicer than those robes you had to travel in, too. Sorry about that, by the way. You know how it is."

You get up with a groan. Every inch of you screams to sit back down, but you fight through it to walk over and accept the clean pajamas and robe. There's also a ludicrously stupid nightcap. You're clearly expected to stay at least for another night.

"Thank you for the hospitality, again, Father Wilhelm."

"Not a problem. I was going to ask about the fish, until I remembered I hardly know how to cook! What a waste. Stew should be fine, right? It can cook while we discuss a few matters."

"Don't—" You almost trip over yourself trying to stop your host from doing any harm to the fresh fish. He looks to you with a fair amount of amusement, a little impatience, and enough respect to not interrupt. You gather up the clothes he's trusted you with, but gesture to a few of the chairs littered about the main hall. "Please, allow me. With all due respect, Father, you look exhausted. You should rest."

He absolutely can't protest, and throws himself onto a nearby chair with a smile. The top of his hat droops comically over its back as he slumps face-first onto a long recliner.

You pause, marvel that he's still somehow smoking his cigar, and blink a few times before continuing. "It would be a waste to not make something decent of our catch. My mother taught me quite a few fishing recipes. They— how should I put this— it may be too rustic for your tastes—"

"Go put on something clean and dry! I'm sure your mother's recipes are lovely. Can't wait." A hand is waved at you dismissively. Dream's partner falls immediately into a nap.

You frown a fair bit, and steal back to your room for more privacy. The note you left for Father Wilhelm is still atop your bed. You move as quickly as your sore limbs will allow you to out of your ill-fitting robes and into the cleaner, far nicer silks. The only thing that would make you feel more spoiled would be a proper bath, but you're already uncomfortable with the extremely fine garments. They still hang very loosely off of you, but they're a good deal longer, are terribly soft, and high enough quality to rival a demon's tastes.

Folding the letter from the bed up neatly, you stash it in one of your pockets alongside Yech's flask, fasten your robe, and head back out to the main hall. Father Wilhelm is awake and alert, despite only having slept for a few minutes.

You try not to stare while he casually tidies up a stack of letters across one of the armchairs. Taking an apron off of the cart he'd wheeled out, you kneel down beside the hearth to get better control over the flame. It should be quick work to adjust it. Much quicker than getting the colossal, obviously rarely used pot back over in its usual position. You still can't help but groan at your host, "why move it here to begin with—?"

A pair of blue eyes darts up from the stack of letters, and drops them immediately to rush over and give you a hand. You both make quick work of setting up the pot and filling it with water to boil. To your relief, Father Wilhelm makes no comment on your appearance or difficulty in moving about, merely patting you on the back before going back to the piles of letters.

You don't press the issue, keeping a close eye on the water, and salting it as heavily as you're comfortable with. Having so much supply at your disposal feels unnatural. It's only been three years since your first invocation of Agriculture, and it's harder still to shake the habit of using as little as possible.

As you settle next to the hearth— picking stems off of a stockpile of suspiciously fresh herbs— you can't help but glance back again to Father Wilhelm. He's staring at you rather intently, and still smoking.

You try to say something normal. "Care to help...?"

A few blinks meet you in reply. "I'd probably mess it up! You seem to have things under control. Don't mind me. Lost in thought. I think we've got everything sorted out. I don't mean to distract you—"

You frown, while setting to deftly chopping a pile of parsley and ginger. "My mother isn't a talkative woman, but she was fond of reminding me: everything tastes better with good conversation. Go on. This will take some time."

Father Wilhelm's mustache curls up into a smile. "This might be the best meal we've ever had, then! I've been busy, Father Anscham. Very busy. I don't want to get carried away, though. There's something very important I need to know, before I say another word!"

Your frown deepens in immediate skepticism, but you don't ask anything further. Mincing the herbs as finely as you're able is followed by chopping up a loaf of coarse bread.

The smile directed at you is audible enough to carry over the steady, practiced rhythm of your work. "First and foremost, I set out to find you with the intent of granting you rest. A reprieve. Asylum is such a dramatic word, but you do need the break, Richard. More than anything. Before I dig into all of this, is there anything you have wanted to do? Anywhere you'd like to visit? This is a rare opportunity for you, I imagine— to be able to travel unfettered, without being accountable to anyone!"

Grinding out a green sauce into a blend of vinegar and cider is done with far more force than is necessary. You don't look up from the pestle and mortar. "You can speak candidly, Father Wilhelm. I am fully aware that the Church of Mercy will have mistaken me for dead by now."

There's a few puffs on the cigar across from you. Smoke and frustration trails over the stone grinding underhand.

"Well, yes. Not to be so bold, but yes. Most of the country will have, in fact." There's still a decided smile being directed towards you, despite how morose the subject matter is. "This may be another blessing in disguise, though— an unparalleled chance, even!" Father Wilhelm's voice softens considerably. "Richard. I can't imagine what it's been like for you, but I know you need a break. More than anything. I want to help you. We don't even have to talk about this. Not right now. I didn't want to make any assumptions, and I don't mean to spoil the evening— but for how much you've slept, I'd hoped you'd want to get back out into the world sooner rather than later. A lot has happened."

A lot has happened. There was so much I was looking forward to doing in the lowest depths of the ruins. Did I ever sincerely think I would get the chance to live out any of it? Is this really a blessing?

Soft bubbling emerges in the water at your back. You postpone a direct answer to Father Wilhelm's question for a few minutes, ensuring that the behemoth you caught is properly cared for before sliding it whole into the water. Your arms are practically screaming for relief by the time it's safely set at the bottom of the pot, but you're so proud of the catch that you can't really care.

I know Mother would at least be delighted to know one of her recipes was being served to a church leader. She's always been such a pious woman.

You keep a steady eye on the fish, between making a few minor adjustments to the sauce, and trying to decide how to handle the vast quantity of vegetables still staring you down.

Father would be livid if he knew how much better our crops looked than this, even in the worst of times. He'd have broken his back over a second harvest before anything sub-par came to the table.

Mercy, I miss them.

"If nothing else, I would like to see my parents again. It's— it's been thirteen years since I saw them last."

The cigar across from you puffs away without judgement, but the question directed at you is loaded. "How old did you say you were?"

"I never did. I've weathered twenty-four seasons of Worship, by now. Come the Setting Moon— it will be twenty-five, this year."

There's no judgement. None of the obvious questions. Only a nod and a cursory glance back down to all of the letters before him. "I see."

You're relieved beyond measure to not have to get into any of it, and try to continue. "I know they were moved outside of Pontos— closer to Eventide— to better soil."

There's such a long moment that passes, you realize Father Wilhelm doesn't even recognize the name of such a small farming town.

He dodges the subject entirely. "Outside or inside the defenses?"

"Outside, closest to Wearmoor. They were gifted a very generous plot of land."

"They survived on the outskirts for how long now?" How he manages to keep his lips parted without losing the cigar escapes you. "With how many other children?"

"None. No other children. That is— they did more than survive, Father Wilhelm. My own father is a hard working man. My mother is wiser than many clergy I've met. Present— present company excluded, of course—"

"Family is so important, Richard." You can tell that Father Wilhelm is struggling to comprehend the situation, but he dismisses his questions. Clasping his hands together, he looks to you with legitimate enthusiasm. "I'll do everything in my power to get you to see them again, safely and soundly. Is there really nothing else?"

"Anything— anything else could be done in time."

You're patiently tending the the flame below the fish, keeping it as low as you're able. The water tosses and turns against your catch.

"This really will take some time, Father Wilhelm." A very slight smile crosses over your musings aloud. The expression falls in an instant, but you're still delighted. "Our fish must be ten times more substantial than anything I've ever cooked. What was it you really wanted to discuss?"

"That is precisely what I wanted to discuss! How to get you home, and keep you safe and sound. You don't need the details, but I've been asking around, and, well— it might be easier to just show you."

You steal a good look at the pot beside you— double-checking that the flame is stable— before pulling up a chair alongside Father Wilhelm. He's covered the vast majority of the letters on the table, turned the envelopes upside down, and blatantly scratched out or torn up a huge quantity of names and information.

The only legible thing that catches your eye are three letters from Father Friedrich.

"Go on, take a look. This is all for you." Father Wilhelm beams at you with such a cheeky grin you almost give one back.

"Father Friedrich? I— he's been occupied in Baranfen, he couldn't have possibly made the Time—"

It's abundantly clear the Father Wilhelm wrote to the Father of Flesh asking for advice. Not on warfare, defense, or military strategy— but purely on how to get you back into shape. The Father of Dream had to have been vague enough to omit all mention of you directly. You turn over and balk at the first two letters, which furiously demand more clarity. Father Friedrich's neat writing nearly cuts through the page. How many stones you're capable of lifting, how far you can run, why Father Wilhelm is so irritating, if Father Wilhelm has taken his prior advice to stop sleeping so excessively, and why the priest didn't send any cigars with his correspondence are all top priorities for the leader of the Church of Flesh.

A handsome and formal acknowledgement accompanies the last letter, regarding how fine the recent shipment of cigars were. The majority of the smooth, legible writing is a meal and fitness plan. The war strategist has been brimming with excitement at the prospect of training a man with ample time and resources to spare. There's a number of demands that you be sent back for service as soon as you're able to meet his standards, but you strongly suspect that may not be possible. The regime looks like it would probably kill you. Running, jumping, weapons practice, stone tossing, lifting, and throwing are described in extreme detail. Two additional pages contain thorough recommendations for diet.

You realize after only a moment that it isn't recommendations for a pantry, but an outline of what to have each day. Nervous laughter threatens to escape you.

Father Wilhelm beams at you as you look back to the first two letters, which are significantly tamer. The oldest seems to assume that you were (or are) actually invalid. Heavy emphasis is placed on recovery, rest, and no mention of intensive strength training. It's by far the most vague, but seems much more in line with your current limits. There's a note at the bottom that you suspect are Father Friedrich's honest feelings on the matter:

'Get him off death's door and just feed the poor bastard. Get your charity case over here if he's in such a bad way. If he can't make the trip, he's not worth the effort.'

The last letter makes a few more compromises in recognizing that you have ample time, resources, and assumes that you're a man of the cloth. There's recommendations for weapons and endurance training, and at least double the dietary recommendations of the more conservative note. It's all very simplistic, and was likely made under the assumption that you were a refugee taken in by the church, as someone still in recovery.

Your gaze trails back to the letter likely made with the complete awareness of your identity. Either that, or Father Friedrich is just as unhinged as the rest of the church leaders. The intensity of the regimen would no doubt sculpt you into a form befitting of Flesh, but your limbs are currently struggling to cope with a casual fishing trip. You doubt you could enact the plan in full anytime soon.

A hand moves past you. Father Wilhelm drops a little cigar ash into a tray across from both of your seats. He's kept his work spread out over the table. The correspondence before you has been in the works for several weeks at least, with no small measure of bribery, secrecy and coercion. There are stacks on the table before you of much more, plenty more piles like it throughout the room, and you really don't know what to say.

The first thing that crosses your mind escapes your lips. "You said I had allies?"

"They all might not necessarily know it's you! Father Friedrich, however, is devastatingly intelligent. I wouldn't trust anyone more with our defense or your care. I suspect he realized it was you when I sent him the best cigars in my supply— it's a miracle that they weren't intercepted— but I don't want to make any assumptions. Not yet! It's far more important to me to know what you think of all of this."

Father Friedrich hasn't seen me in at least a few years. I saw his name often enough— for how often he asks to requisition supplies and forces— but he has no idea how bad things really are. Can I even trust any of this advice?

You take another long, hard look at the letters splayed out before you.

I'm not committing to any more time away from home than I need to, but I would be a fool to ignore so many attempts to help me. If nothing else, I don't want my parents to see me like this. I need to do something.

Every inch of you is screaming for rest and recovery, and you've never wanted to push yourself harder. There's a part of you that's also screaming to do something reasonable to moderate yourself, but you can't listen to it. The utter lack of any substance to your limbs, the hollows of your cheekbones, and the way that your bone is practically poking through the silks hanging loosely on your frame is more than you can stand.

You pick up the most recent letter, causing your skeletal arm to burn from the movement after the scarcest exertion earlier in the day. All four pages in your hand depict a regimen that is truly befitting of a man of the Gods. Outlined in excruciating detail are Father Friedrich's recommendations for endurance, strength, combative prowess, and a diet that could sustain three men with ease. There is no expense spared. No considerations are taken for anything other than complete devotion to sculpting the human form. It's clear that he assumed the subject would have unlimited access to resources, rest, and time to the craft.

You set down the letter with so much conviction you can't help but smile.

My devotion will be His strength.

"Father Wilhelm. You— you swore to aid me, as best as you're able."

"I did! I've spared no expense in caring for you, have I not?"

"You have. Thank you, again. I'd like to follow this regimen to the letter— and to go to the Church of Flesh as soon as I'm able. Father Friedrich never had to write, but it's clear that I need his aid. I've lost so much." You bring one of your scarred hands to the side of your arm. Holding onto it, you're able to completely wrap your digits around the absence of muscle. The sensation borders on the surreal.

You try to not pay too much attention to your body, but you want to change. You want to grow.

You tighten your grasp, holding onto yourself as a reminder of what you never want to feel again. "I need to gain. I know it will take time—"

Father Wilhelm sighs with so much relief that he has to set down his cigar, takes the letters from your grasp, and places his opposite hand firmly on your shoulder.

You dare to glance up to him, and see that he's wearing the same sad smile you're becoming so familiar with. To your relief, it's at least laced with pride.

"You have Time. Everything will be fine. We have more than enough supplies here to maintain this sort of routine, even on the road. I'll set a course! For Wearmoor, for Beorward, and for the Church of Flesh!" Looking down at the letters in his hand, Father Wilhelm laughs with extreme nervousness. "You do understand that Father Friedrich is crazier than both of us, don't you?"

You fire back an extremely unhinged laugh, legitimately enjoying the prospect of what's to come. "He's a genius, not a madman. This is exactly what I need. I'm sincerely looking forward to seeing him again—" You tighten your grip on your arm further. "I'll have to do more than pray. I'll work. I'll run. I'll fight— I'll eat as much as I need to. I want to be fit enough to be deserving of his aid, Father."

"You're right, of course. We'll start tomorrow. I'll do everything in my power to ensure we can requisition enough supplies for the journey along the way."

A smile shines back at you. You can't help but grin, too.

"We don't need to stop for anything, Father Wilhelm."

The absurd nightcap before you shakes slightly, as the priest takes his hand off your shoulder and replaces his cigar. "I don't doubt your conviction for an instant, Father Anscham. We can start tonight, can't we?"

He gestures to the entirely forgotten cooking utensils and poached fish you've been tending to. You get back to it, frantically dropping the flame you'd left forgotten. Father Wilhelm seems a little bothered, and you can't help but look over to him.

He's still looking through the piles of letters. His smile wanes.

The light in those uncannily blue eyes perks back up the moment he realizes you're looking at him. "Richard, you're a very honest man. I would never forgive myself if I did anything to change that." He sighs deeply, and looks to you with absolute seriousness. "If we're going to cross the country while you train, we are bound to attract attention. It's inevitable that someone will recognize us if we aren't unbelievably careful. I'd like to enjoy your cooking, and not discuss anything so unpleasant after all of your hard work, so— will you come over here, just for a moment? Before we start. I can't afford for you to be distracted when it comes to this."

With a frown, you set aside another dish of sauce and greens (everything is nearly ready to be plated), and sit back next to Father Wilhelm. Ray sleepily peeks his head up from the side of the hearth. He's still attentive enough to your needs to notice when you're bothered, and keeps an eye on you.

Father Wilhelm is using a tone you're entirely unfamiliar with from him, but have heard many times before from other clergy members. He's not just demanding your full attention. He's practically begging for you to defer to his judgement. "I apologize— once again— for placing you under a Dream while we traveled before. I simply could not fathom any other way to escort you safely and discreetly, but this is another matter entirely. I want you to enjoy the sun, our rivers, the countryside. There's so much to see, so much to do— but we need to be careful, Richard. You need to promise me that you'll do everything you can to keep yourself safe."

A few puffs are made on the cigar. Spice fills the air. "I would never ask for you to abandon your tenets. We could avoid the cities almost entirely! We can go by foot, and circumvent any need for you to lie or to disguise yourself. It may be harder to get adequate supplies for our venture, but it would be substantially safer than to take the rivers. I don't know how long you wish to remain away from the Church of Mercy, but I strongly suspect that you wish to return on your own terms. It would be a terrible shame to have you discovered without any ability to defend yourself."

"I can defend myself." You've traveled in disguise before, and are entirely capable of fighting if need be.

"I mean to say that it will reflect very poorly on you to be found traveling for leisure, rather than immediately returning to your station, reporting the discovery of your Relic to the King, or any number of other responsibilities that we politely agreed to not discuss."

With a nod and a frown, you acknowledge your own request, and let him continue.

"So! A proper recovery, as only the Father of Mercy could only accomplish: with absolutely no rest! This is going to be phenomenal, Richard. I'm certain you'll feel better in no time at all. It's simply a matter of how we're getting there, isn't it?"

Better safe than sorry.

"I promise. It would be a terrible waste of all of your efforts to act so carelessly now. I can keep myself and Ray out of sight, if you would accompany me—"

"Of course!"

"Surely, if we stick to the wild or the very outskirts of civilization, it would— it would raise very little alarm for you to obtain any supplies we may need. There are still farmsteads, and a few smaller villages even this far to the south."

"It would be a trifle, Father Anscham."

There's a deep urge to flex or makes any indication of what an absolute monster you are on the field of battle, but you merely hold more tightly onto your withering arms. "At worst— keeping so far from the cities— I could get a little practice in."

I could really use a healthy fight.

A chuckle is directed at you. It's one of endearment and absolutely no judgement. "We can only pray for safe travel, but I'll do everything in my power to ensure we have a smooth journey." Father Wilhelm's voice lowers, still full of respect and pride for your decision. "If it comes to it, you know I would want you to protect yourself."

You both smile slightly at each other as you move to tend to the fire again. It's taking an absurdly long amount of time to correctly poach the fish, but you'd rather give your catch the attention it deserves than to make any half-measures. A few long moments pass in silence as you coax the flame before realizing that Father Wilhelm doesn't seem to have anything more to say. He's tidying up the papers scattered about, and making room on the table for you in a small gesture of appreciation for all of your work.

His voice does eventually clear the air— as heavy as it is with the scent of your cooking, ample cigar smoke, and the roaring fire. "Smells great! I bet your mother would be proud."

You're entirely out of your depth, try your best to not make any careless mistakes, and seem to have actually done Mrs. Anscham proud. The sheer volume of supplies reminds you more of a feast for a lord than a simple meal between two priests and a dog, but you diligently finish the work with a smile.

There's no use trying to hide your enthusiasm, so you beam to the priest by your side. "Thank you, Father Wilhelm. Was there anything more—"

"Nope. No more business. You asked me to keep my lips sealed, and I won't say another word unless you absolutely need to hear it. Let me get you some plates..."