Chapter 35: Tender Anguish

"Don't forget to breathe."

​ "No fancy lessons here. You're getting some discipline while we talk. I'll chase you around the damn room if that's what it takes. I'd run you out the hall, but the weather isn't exactly—"

"I— just to be clear—?" There's already a hundred questions on your mind.

A simple answer follows. "Hands out."

Begrudgingly, you nestle the vellum in your journal along with the holy symbol, and put away the page. Hands outstretched, both of the seemingly small weights are dropped onto your palms. "This is not so—"

"Overhead. Keep your elbows slightly bent." He is not bending himself, or budging from his position only a foot away from your chair.

Complying seems harmless enough for a minute. The burn sets in rapidly. It gets more intense by the second. "I see."

You drop your arms, rolling your shoulders back slightly. Father Friedrich takes both of the items back from you, grinning. "Got any questions before we really start?"

"Did you think—" You take both weights back in hand, smirking. "—that I was here for a woman's routine, Father?"

The lord of strength gives a hearty laugh. "That's what I'm talking about! Alright. Stand up. Make sure your pockets are empty. Set your robes aside."

Your journal, parchments, pens and flask are taken out. Doffing your robes, they get folded, and everything is set neatly atop them on your chair. Fidgeting slightly with your belt— it's a notch or two wider than what you're used to, and you're not about to let it out further in front of Father Friedrich— you at least mentally try to prepare yourself.

Two slightly larger weights are held back out to you. Father Friedrich shows no indication of strain, as he holds the items at arms length out to you. "Take this." You do. "Lunge." It's uncomfortable. "Hold it." Increasingly uncomfortable. "Arms out." Fully? "Keep your damn elbows bent. Not that much." He smiles finally. "Alright!"

The position is horrific, and within seconds you're feeling the strain, but you look to Father Friedrich earnestly. "Go on."

One of the most sincere grins you've ever seen is fired back at you. Father Friedrich happily matches your position, keeping his hands free to show you the correct form. You still made several mistakes, but recognize and correct them instantly.

"You don't want to slack. We're not going to kill you, either. I've been as polite as I can—"

It's hard to not give the priest a frown.

He laughs. "Moderation should be taken in moderation, but up to a point, Richard. You were drinking right up until you showed up at my door, weren't you?"

"Not necessarily."

"Cyril seemed to think otherwise. Or worse. Now— don't give me that look. Bend your back knee a little more! I'm not one to judge. There's nothing wrong with it, now and then. Just don't go making it a habit." He's looking at your belt. You hate it. "We'll work all that shit off of you, but there's only so much you can do in a day, you got me?"

The impact of three huge meals, snacking throughout the day, nearly an entire bottle of wine, however much whiskey, and three mysterious teas is hitting you hard enough to make the briefest of exercise immediately taxing. The sear in your calves and thighs is easy enough to dismiss for how used you are to walking and running, but your arms and gut are burning more with each passing moment.

You're not certain if it's more for your sake, or the priest's beside you, but you grit your teeth through a little reassurance. "I know enough of restraint, Father Friedrich. There may be more overlap between our tenets than even a cursory glance warranted."

"We'll see about that. Unlike Mercy—" He sighs, standing upright. "—my patron is combative, Richard!"

I have melted demons into puddles of pure gold. This is child's play. She is more than capable.

"Don't you argue with me."

"I didn't say anything."

"You looked like you could kill me." He smirks, "maybe that's for the best! Flesh asks us to tackle temptation! Look, give me that."

You aren't permitted to drop your arms. Father Friedrich insists on taking the weights back while you maintain your form. "Self-control. Go on and stand up, but take your time. Feeling it?"

The sear persists in your limbs as you manage to stand upright. There's a near-constant twitch along your right arm. The wasted and abused muscle is complaining, but you stay on the level. "Yes."

"Good. Pace around a little. Burn off some of that shit."

You comply, glancing over to Ray. He seems eager to join you, but you command him to stay, not wanting your boy near so many heavy objects and mistaking them for play.

Thee moment you get to walking, Father Friedrich leaves the weights to stride beside you. "Not only Agriculture, Mercy, Time, or any other God's gifts should be taken in moderation, Richard. The Gods Themselves do, too."

You're frowning, but try to not interject.

"You don't believe me."

"Invocation is perfectly justifiable when lives are on the line."

"How's that worked out for you?"

You whip your head around, and stop walking. The urge to strike the man beside you must be written all over your face. He almost flinches as you snap, "I beg your pardon—"

His momentary hesitation might have been smugness, given that only a smirk is directed back at you. "Let's see. Go on and get down. Copy me."

In an instant, he drops to the floor, and stretches out both legs behind him. Balancing the majority of his weight along only his feet and one hand, he waves you down with a free arm. It looks easy enough. You put your concern into mimicking the motion.

"Oh, no. Weight on your right arm."

The twitch is back in full, and growing more irritating by the second. You try not to wince with each pulse.

"Stay there." He jumps to his feet, and runs across the room.

Your elder is back in seconds. "Left hand."

A heavier weight than before is placed in your left palm. It's larger and far more difficult to manipulate than the first. You manage to keep your elbow from buckling instantly by tensing the entire limb. It might as well be on fire.

"Go on! Make your talk count for something. Strengthen your vessel."

Fighting through the burn, you keep the absurd position, and get the weight back overhead. It's difficult enough to have you sweating within the minute.

Father Friedrich takes only a step back, watching you closely as he resumes speaking. "Stamina. Endurance. Vitality. Your abuse of Flesh has completely robbed you of it. I've heard a few rumors. You can hardly stand half the time after They've worked through you, isn't that right?"

"Yes," you spit out. The vocalization practically makes you drop the weight, as your arms scream in complaint.

"Don't forget to breathe."

At the reminder, you take a deep breath in. Righting the weight fully, the burn is intense, but you've pushed yourself infinitely harder before.

Another minute must pass by.

Father Friedrich's eyebrows raise as you continue to hold the position without complaint. "You have a lot of strengths, Richard. I'm giving you a hard time, but don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise."

The tremor in your arm is easy enough to still, thanks to a lifetime of discipline and repression. Within a few more seconds— sweat sticking to you— you've equalized the worst of the struggle.

"I don't need to tell you how important it is to foster them. Know your strengths. Serving yourself is one of the best ways to serve Him."

Something between a growing burn and an all-encompassing obsession has you grit your teeth. You suffer through twitching, your wasted muscle, and keep breathing.

"More importantly, Flesh can't, and won't make use of an abuser. That's enough. Slowly set it down. Don't drop it."

Moving to do so is a mistake. Your arms threaten to give out completely. Swiftly and smoothly, the priest beside you takes a step forward and catches the weight before it can begin to fall.

He doesn't move to help you after you nearly collapse to the floor. Your arms are already searing with enough fire to rival the invocation of the God (even wiping the sweat off your brow is an experience), but your legs seem hale enough.

You don't move to pace, and simply stand with your eyes downcast.

"I'm sending you back to your quarters with a few exercises to do in your own time. Keep up." He's walking again.

In a couple broad steps, you're back beside him. Holding your right arm— trying to still the damn tremor— you attempt to shake the limb out for a few seconds. It's really not doing anything. "That— this can't be all—"

"Don't insult me. We're just getting started! But you need to learn when to give yourself a rest. You're the fucking Father of the Church of Mercy, and don't seem to understand how proper healing takes place."

Swallowing the nausea that's building, you spit out, "of course I do."

"Sure you do. That's why you can barely lift your own fucking weapons, is that right?" Father Friedrich is smirking. He's being terribly rude (you want to punch him), but he seems to mean well enough. "A demon of growth gave them to you? This—" A sneer. "—Yech?"

"Yes." The spasm is not subsiding, and the limb is screaming for you to make more use of it.

You're grimacing, and absolutely will punch him if he insults one of your best friends.

"He sure as shit wasn't—"

"Is not."

"For fuck's sake, Richard— isn't a demon of Flesh. Some lightweight shit might get you through a few fights now, but you need to know your weakness." He spins on a heel, stopping near a few mats laid out on the floor. "Striking down an enemy without understanding it is luck at best! Get back down. This time put your hands behind you. Like this."

Moving to a seated position, Father Friedrich places his hands behind his back. With his elbows bent, he raises his core, and balances his weight between his hands and his feet. It looks a little ridiculous, especially while he's still wearing a smoking jacket.

You try to not meet his insults with any banter. Getting to the floor is fine.

I can handle this.

Mimicking the motion only lasts until you put any weight on your right arm. It nearly gives out. "Mercy—"

Struggling back into the pose, gritting your teeth, you tense. The worst of the stress from duplicating his form seems to be in your upper body, but it somehow taxes your core and legs as well. The sear in both of your arms in particular is becoming outright painful, but you fight through it as best as you can.

"That's more like it. We'll build you back up!"

It feels like every muscle in your body is being broken down.

"Go ahead and drop it. We've got a few more. Try this. You'll want to do these along another schedule. I've got it set aside..."

There's no fewer than ten other exercises of the sort. You're glad to have set your robes aside, for how badly you're sweating by the end of it.

"No weights. Not for now. Don't run the same day you do them, if you can help it. You got me?"

"Yes." The start of your nausea is getting worse by the second. It's hard to say if it's from the tea having worn off in full, or the sheer amount of food you've had, but as the priest goes back to the pile of weights, the feeling is unmistakable.

"Don't you dare complain now." He's got two of the smallest weights. They look even lighter than the first.

Swallowing a wave of sickness, you take them both without complaint. "The Church of Mercy did not raise a coward."

"Back down. Legs together. Raise 'em. Knees bent. A little more. Keep your back straight. Weight in the center. All of it. Not letting you get soft on my fucking watch."

With a frown, you comply. The position takes a huge amount of strain off of your arms, but goes straight to your gut.

"Copy my movement." Father Friedrich drops back down, nudging your legs a little higher with light kicks, before demonstrating a series of bends, twists, leg raises, and other odd gestures.

It's agonizing after less than a minute.

You endure through all of it.

He's laughing. "Keep it up!" The man gets back to his feet, pacing around you as he resumes the lesson. "To achieve is to serve, Richard. We are not defined by our failures! We're defined by our successes. The Gods are Merciful, aren't they?"

"Y-yes." There's a lot of heat in your limbs, but it's not rivaling what's in your face. Agony is wrapping back around into something a lot better, and you really don't want to complain.

"Our devotion doesn't need to be a constant effort. There's no need to go so fucking hard, you hear me?"

You disagree, but permit him to continue. The physical aspect of the lesson is rapidly proving better than any other part of it.

"It's alright to rest. You need to, if you want to actually get some results. You've pushed yourself further than— shit, Richard, if I'm going to be honest, it's nothing short of a miracle that you came out of those ruins alive. You did, though. You're crazier than any of us, but you're going to be alright. Keep your feet up."

You comply. The heat in your face redoubles with the effort. It's no mere burn. A significant amount of pain that's worked through your arms, torso, and legs is amplified by a recollection of so much old abuse.

It's perfect.

"So, you may have nearly starved to death. You might've pushed yourself past your breaking point before. That's fine! You've got His fire in you. Don't you?"

"Yes." There's more than a fire in you. It's pain and relief, mixed into something divine.

"You can stop."

The motion, a pause, and the sudden absence of exertion is almost too much.

Your breath hitches as you drop the weight to your side.

Curling in on yourself in an agonizing movement comes with a rush and a thrill.

"Richard?"