Chapter 13: Family Reunion

"My little beanstalk. You haven't changed a bit."​

Your eyes light up through the increasing darkness. You're soaked to the bone by the time that Father Wilhelm slows his pace. It's all you can do to wipe a fair amount of water off your brow, to make sure you're seeing properly.

Nestled atop a small hill, recessed into the walls of what was surely once a church, is a humble farmstead. The wooden rafters are structured neatly around the old eaves and dilapidated stone walls. The golden windows— glowing with the promise of a strong fire— look out on a gorgeous plot of land. It's already been completely worked over for the season, and tended to in full.

It's practically as if the residents knew Storm was coming. Beds of flowers in varying shades of white, and a few bird feeders litter the otherwise tidy yard. Even the stacks of firewood (all covered beside the home) are devoid of any axes or other tools that might have been forgotten by more careless inhabitants. Your father is such a hard working man. Your mother is so intelligent.

You try to calm your pulse as you make your way to the front door.

Before you can wring out your robes or even knock, you hear a great number of locks and a wooden barrier being unfastened. You quickly command Ray to stay down as best as he's able.

Father Wilhelm pats you firmly on the back. His grin is weary, but impossibly broad. As the door opens, the priest tries launching into a formal introduction. "Thank you again, for your hospitality, Mr. and Mrs. Anscham. I hope you'll pardon the intrusion, but the road from Somerilde is terribly long. I've heard from reliable sources that your company is truly a blessing—"

You get a glimpse of a head of light brown hair as scruffy as your own, despite being fastened into a neatly braided bun. Eyes of green and a terribly thin frame darts out from the front door and into the rain.

Modestly covered arms cling onto you for dear life. A puff of flour catches in the air, the air is completely taken out of you, and you nearly stagger backwards. Not for how much shorter she seems than when you last saw her, her light weight, or all of the skirts that knock against you— but for what she says.

"Richard, my boy, my baby boy. Did you think I wouldn't know it was you coming up the hill?"

You look down helplessly, unable to see her face as she's buried her tears into your robe. You can feel it in the trembling of her shoulders, even through the rain beating down on you both.

She's always been a quiet woman. She still prefers holding someone to talking to them properly, doesn't she?

Arms pinned to your sides, all you can do is look up to a man who's blocking the entire frame of the door before you. He matches your height, though is easily twice as broad. A full mustache— grayer than you remember it— is cast down in a familiar frown. It conceals the worst of his scorn, but it's written all over his sun-worn face, the crossed arms that could break a tree in half with relative ease, the axe he's still carrying in hand, and every word that leaves his lips.

"Richard. Get your mother inside, before you both catch a cold."

"Y-yessir."

With precision, you worm your way out of your mother's grasp, and offer her as much support as you're able.

The moment you wrap an arm around her, she sobs into your shoulder, and clings back onto you. "Thirteen years. My little beanstalk. It's so good to see you. Look at how tall you are— let's get you by the fire—"

Your father steps aside to unblock the front door, and quickly fishes a an apron off a nearby hook to toss it over her shoulders. Despite her sniffling, your mother makes no motion to help him dry her off.

You take a step back, dripping all over the interior of the home, and letting him fuss over her while you try to calm your heart.

Everything is so familiar that your breath catches. There's so many flowers, and little homemade boxes for their soil decorating nearly every surface. What isn't blooming is adorned with hand-sewn blankets, old furniture, and sewing supplies.

You look behind you for a moment, past the humble kitchen, and beyond the rows of used farm equipment piled up haphazardly.

Father Wilhelm is standing rather awkwardly outside the door. His back is getting rained on while he waits with Ray. The man's smile is so heartbroken, you can tell he would accommodate literally anything you ask of him.

You look from the priest outside your parents doorstep, back to the couple that's taken you into their home without question. It's been over a decade since you last saw them, and you hardly know how to even address them.

​

"R-Robert— Helen—"

Your father's frown deepens.

The small woman at his side looks up to him, to you, and wipes the tears from her eyes. "It's alright, dear. Richard, you can call us whatever you want. I know it's been such a long time."

So much pain crosses your own grimace that your mother comes right back over to you, hugging you all the more tightly.

The patter of rain falling from your robes and her skirts onto the stone floor fades into the background. The crackle and warmth of the fire behind you is all that exists for a few blessed moments, while you hold her as close as you can. She feels a little more frail than you're comfortable with, and your long arms have room to spare as you keep her against your own wiry frame.

"Mama— Papa, I needed to see you both. More than anything. Father Wilhelm, Ray and I—"

Your father's expression doesn't soften, even as you look to the priest waiting patiently outside their doorstep. He knows you well enough to not need any further prompting, and spares you from having to ask for his hospitality.

"Atticus, you'd have better not put my boy through any shit worse than this weather. Come inside, before you catch your death out there. I'll get you a drink."

With a broad grin, Father Wilhelm gives a slight bow in thanks, and steps inside wordlessly. You didn't realize how much taller you must be than the priest who's traveled with you for the last few weeks, but compared to your own father, he seems small in comparison.

Both mustaches bristle at each other for a moment. Your father's grimace comically reflects Father Wilhelm's smile.

"Beer alright? I sure as shit don't have anything fancier."

"If you would accept my hospitality in exchange. Cigar?"

"You're a fuckin' Dream alright. Assumin' you want a bed—"

"I couldn't possibly—"

"I insist. We'll get the hearth in the spare room going. Just need to move a few tools."

The two men already head towards the rear of the farmstead. The frown is directed straight at you, as your father pauses in the door frame beyond. "Richard, did you name the dog Ray, of all things?"

"Y-yes—"

"You're still hopeless. Get him inside. At least it looks like he's well trained. Seen some shit, has he?"

Your frown almost matches the intensity of the one directed at you. "Yes, sir."

"Get your mother some towels, if you can even carry them— they're under the cabinet there. I'll see if I can find you something drier to wear."

"Thank you, papa. Here, boy. Stay."

There's a few murmurs between the two fathers across from you. The priest happily helps you unshoulder all of your things, only to steal a number of cigars that were protected from the rain. He's evidently far more excited to get some proper rest than to engage in any further pleasantries, but formally murmurs his gratitude to your mother before departing.

She offers you a very slight smile. "Ray is a clever name. He's a big old beam of sunlight, is that right?"

"Yes, mama."

"I thought so. You look like you could use some, too. Let's get ourselves dried off."

You're left with your mother for only a few minutes, after you're both properly settled by the fire.

A hulking pair of shoulders emerges not long after you're both settled down, readying himself with a number of pitchers in the kitchen. Though your own shoulders are wrapped with a number of towels, ample protection, and weeks of hard labor, the bone threatens to crack as a calloused hand grips onto one of them. The other palm, with fingers as long as your own, thrusts a huge mug of beer into your chest.

You catch it, looking up to your father wide-eyed. He frowns back at you, looking straight into your hood and past the shadow. Your cringe is probably visible.

"Normally, I'd want to know what you think— spent half the season working on the brew— but you look like you need the whole fuckin' keg. Look after your mother while I get our guest settled. This had better be empty when I get back."

A very apologetic look is given to you, as your mother looks up from the dog at her feet. Ray is happily nestled at the base of the fire, rolling on his back as he dries himself off. She seems hesitant to try making any motion near your dog, but she's at least tolerating such a large animal in her home. It's more than you could ask for.

The green of her eyes trails after your father's frame. The moment he's gone, her soft voice picks up. Sliding next to you, wrapping an arm around you, she leans her head beside your arm. She's smiling at you with so much sadness that your heart breaks. "You'd better hurry. He works quickly."

The sound of uproarious laughter and the smell of cigar smoke in the room beyond is reassuring enough to know you can let your defenses down. Rain is pounding hard against the Storm shutters you helped to fasten on the sides of the little farmstead.

It looks as if you may be stuck inside for some time.

Music

You offer the most genuine smile you can muster to your mother, almost glad to have something to keep your hands occupied with. It's too difficult to offer her any physical reassurance in return. She doesn't comment on the way you're trembling, or how you immediately quaff the entire drink that was handed to you without coming up for breath.

To your surprise, it's horrible. You were positive that the taste of barley alone had been ruined for you by the sheer volume you've consumed in the last few weeks, but these oats are significantly worse. Your father's brewing has either degraded, or the bitter, astringent quality of the oatmeal stout is more than your spoiled palate can handle. It's so much stronger than the watered down wine and beer typical of the Church of Mercy, and so much worse than anything even a demon has given you.

You set the empty mug down, already sickeningly full. A silent vow is made to redouble your efforts and training the moment the rain lets up, but you really can't be bothered to deliberate over it further. Not at at the moment.

The woman at your side is laughing softly. The fine lines around her eyes and mouth weren't there when you last saw her, and they're laced now with worry. "It's a sin to lie, Richard, but I don't think your father will blame you— Mercy— if you try to make a better face when he gets back—"

"He does— he does know how to keep its strength up, at least—"

"I'll tell him to take it easy on you. My little beanstalk. You haven't changed a bit."

You can't even begin to tell her how much you appreciate the lack of prying, and take her firmly into a hug. "I'm so glad to be home."

She clings back onto you as if you'll disappear at any moment. "It's so good to have you home. To see you. I've missed you so much."

The crackle of the fire, the gentle snoring from your dog as he falls almost immediately asleep beside the embers, and the pounding rain outside fills the inevitable silence between you both.

Your father eventually reappears, smoking an unbelievably fine cigar. He's still frowning intensely, but you can tell he's delighted just by the way he's carrying himself. The man swaggers over to the kitchen— and to your dismay, he occupies himself with what looks to literally be the entire barrel full of beer.

Your mother is laughing again, pulling herself away from you to call out properly. "Robert. You'll kill him before we even get through dinner." A sly wink is given in your general direction, as she straightens her skirts. "You'll spoil his appetite. Let me take care of the kitchen. Go on, now— all this talk is wearing me out."

It baffles you that she can rise so delicately, lie through her teeth, and still do everything in her power to aid you all at the same time. The small woman manages to instantly pull your father away from the barrel, but not before he balances four more mugs between the bulk of his arms.

Your father has no such grace as Father Wilhelm— with the cigar clenched between his teeth— but infinitely more bravado. The wooden bench you're sitting on creaks as he sits firmly down beside you. His eyes linger on the skirts that are busily working behind you both, but another mug is slid over your way. "You're lucky your mother is such a sweetheart. What the fuck have they been feeding you, anyways?"

You really can't reply. Immediately sweeping up the beer, you finish it as quickly as the first. Fighting for a few seconds for air is almost more than you can handle. Your father sincerely looks impressed, as you breathlessly set the wood back down with a clatter.

"That's more like it!" He raises his own glass to you, a little higher.

You realize he was going to make a toast of some sort, but instead he keeps both mugs firmly to his side, and finishes them nearly as quickly as you put away your own. There might be an undercurrent of competition or challenge, but you strongly suspect he's trying to show you as much respect as you're giving him.

Wiping foam off of his upper lip, your father lifts his eyebrows just slightly enough to demand an answer to his question.

You struggle for a moment to find an appropriate response. "Not— not enough. I have a lot to make up for."

A shout to your mother has you wincing immediately. "You hear that, Helen?!"

"No, dear."

"P-please. Papa. There is no need—"

"Of course there is. He said those bastards—"

Helen clicks her tongue. "Language, dear."

"Those priests aren't doing enough for him—"

You say, "I've been well—"

"See, dear? He's fine." Another wink.

"The fuck he is!"

"Robert!"

They're both smiling at each other.

You offer a few silent gestures to Ray, who's woken up from their fussing. Your boy calms down almost immediately, seeing no indication of you actually being upset or in any sort of danger.

They continue their good-natured bickering, avoiding addressing any actual concerns or asking you a single direct question, while your mother busies herself. The familiar and rustic scent of her cooking is so reassuring that you really don't mind the ridiculous volume of food she prepares for just the three of you.

You're reassured several times that Father Wilhelm insisted he didn't want to be woken or disturbed for anything, and you trust both fathers in the house completely.

Both of your parents marvel multiple times at how well-behaved Ray is, who eventually falls back asleep beside the fire. He stays put, snoring mildly, even as a meal is being served. You're stunned as well, but he's likely just as exhausted as Father Wilhelm. Your boy has been working himself nearly as hard as you have, so you let him rest, and move to join your parents for the first time since you were a boy at a proper table together.

The humble spread is more about quantity than quality. You don't mind in the slightest, but still find yourself hesitating. Your parents have no idea what you've been through. You aren't certain if they even know you were responsible for putting an end to the famine. They absolutely wouldn't know how painful it is for you to eat or drink. While you've made leaps and bounds in being able to handle food and drink without issue, there's still a lot of work to be done. Father Wilhelm has practically been babysitting every meal you've had for the last three weeks, and you've both taken extreme measures to control any portions you've had.

This is only going to get harder to manage if I'm headed straight to the Church of Flesh from here. If I can't even look after myself at my parents' home, how am I supposed to handle the rest of the clergy? The country? The King?

Two very worried glances are given to you, as both of your parents are waiting to sit down until you join them. Your father's frown is extreme, but your mother give you a slight smile. Her brow is knitted with concern, but she's trying her best to be understanding. "Richard? Is everything alright?"

The bristle of your father's mustache is audible from across the dinner table.

You remain standing.

He has to look up to you for a change, despite how stern his tone is. "He's obviously eaten so little, he's forgotten how to pray! Don't worry your pretty little head, dear. I'll lead it."

You really aren't sure if there's a healthy way to approach the situation, but you're determined to make the best of this.

"Papa, I know— Mercy. I worked under the Church of Agriculture—"

"Could have fooled me."

Your mother is more than happy to throw an entire chunk of bread at your father's head. "Robert."

He catches it expertly between his teeth. As he takes the wedge out to wave it around (for the sole purpose of scolding you), the frown continues to intensify. "Richard, you're letting your mother's cooking get cold. It's a disgrace. What's wrong with you?"

"It— it's the prayer—"

"Spit it out, we haven't got all night."

An unbecoming streak of anger cuts into your reply. "I am trying."

Your frown is mirrored perfectly by the man sitting across from you. He quietly folds his arms, tosses the bread aside, and permits you to finish without interruption.

"It is no surprise that the— that the Church of Agriculture did not credit me—"

The two very confused looks on the farmers across from you confirm your suspicions.

"I suspected that very few people would know. I am certain that it was for the best— but I want you both to know. I ended Corcaea's famine. I invoked Agriculture to mend the land. Mother Bethaea passed away shortly after the fact, but I am the one who has had to live with the consequences."

Both of your parents stare at you. It's abundantly clear that they don't believe your words for several long minutes, as they both try to contemplate just what this has meant for you.

You don't explain any further, but you don't have to. Your father kicks back his chair, and wordlessly gets up to pull you into the tightest hug you've ever had.

He smells like soil. Like a man who's been working a field his entire life. You can't really breathe or see, but you don't need to. The complete acceptance of your sacrifice, devotion and suffering on his behalf is so immediate and sincere that it's all you can do to hug him back with as much force.

Your mother is likely worried you both are going to hurt each other, with the sheer enthusiasm you've begun patting each other on the back with, the redness of your face for going so long without a breath, and the severity of his frown.

After a few breathless moments, there's a slighter pressure of your mother gently pulling the farmer away. Her face is wrought with concern, but she's far too proud of you to not say anything. "No one could ever thank you enough, Richard. What can we do to help?"

It's a simple matter to communicate your needs to your parents. They don't give you a single word of complaint, and your father is more than happy to have you lead the prayer to Agriculture before you all sit down together.

Your mother's cooking is phenomenal. The assortment of dark breads and fresh vegetables easily rival your efforts at duplicating her best recipes. The simple stew she's prepared seems to have a higher quality of fish than even your finest catch. Neither her nor your father make a single remark about the obvious pain you're in, or your lack of self-control, but they do everything they can to help accommodate your limits. There's no pressure from either of them to push yourself, aside from your father insisting on giving you his share of the meal. He seems completely content to quietly work at a few mugs of beer, bristling with so much pride that he seems incapable of speech.

Before long, the entire table has been cleared, and your mother quietly busies herself once again with her own work. You would offer to help with the dishes, but moving with what feels like an entire harvest's worth of bounty in you is beyond your capacity.

The familiar lack of any questions from your parents is so reassuring, you really don't know what to say.

I've probably said more in the last three months than I have in all the years I lived at home.

They haven't changed, either.

Storm has busied Himself, filling the silence between you all with the steady pounding of rain. The roll of thunder has you instinctively look to Ray. Despite his usual fear, the mastiff is in such a deep sleep that he doesn't rise from the sound. You almost want to go to his side— just in case he wakes— but there's another member of your family that seems in greater need of your attention.

Your father peers into the shadow of your hood with such a deep frown that you immediately can tell what's on his mind. His eyes are swimming with pride, but there's a great deal of concern in the look as well.

He's wondering who else has scarred me.