Chapter 37: Unsupervised

"You don't trust yourself to not make matters worse."​

A lot of the heat is subsiding. It's not saying much, since your jaw is still on fire and you strongly suspect something was damaged, but it's difficult to say. And though the pain in your jaw is not abating, there's a current of devotion, and dedication to your tenets. To your Goddess. Respect for yourself, and the man that's trying so hard to help you.

I have been struck far harder before. Father Friedrich has been pulling his punches.

The heat is mostly in your face. Wanting. Desperate. Conflicted.

"I can't imagine what it's been like. You're right. Don't you worry."

Even Yech would balk at how much he is trying to give me.

"Listen. Richard. Can you hear me?"

Another nod seems harmless enough.

"Good. Try to stay with me."

You try your best to indicate that you're at least capable of listening, eyes wide. It's hard to stare, for how disturbed your mentor appears. Flitting your vision back to Ray— to the side of the room— is all far easier.

"Richard. Listen to me. Look at me for a minute." You do. He's trying to smile. It's awful. "You okay?"

Nodding does not seem appropriate.

"I thought so. You want to stay put for the night? I don't think anyone needs to see you like this, but I can call for Cyril. If you want. We can get any extra hands you need." The hands on your shoulders tighten slightly. "You're going to be alright. No one is going to hurt you. You just let me know. No rush."

With a nod— as delicately as possible— you move your hands, approaching towards your face. He doesn't interfere, and even moves his grasp off of your shoulders.

Your jaw may feel like it's literally on fire, but nothing seems to be damaged. Suspecting that Father Friedrich had enough self-control to have not seriously injured you, you ply the cloth out from your mouth. It's soaked so thoroughly in blood that it sticks to your teeth. Taking in a deep breath, stilling any sounds that want to arise, you completely extract the suffocating fabric. The absence of any stifling material is a massive relief, but your breath is ragged and still hitching.

A few moments pass before you try to speak coherently.

"I would— hhh—" It's agony. Something is badly hurt, and speaking is just making it worse.

You're too eloquent, masochistic, and well-bred to not speak at length. "—like to go back to my quarters, Father. If you could escort me. I— I do not want to impose on you any further—"

He leans back, sitting on the floor beside you. "I really don't mind."

Taking in a deep breath, steadying yourself, you get back upright. Back straight. Trying to be presentable. Wiping the blood off of your chin and away from your lips, there's now a smear along the back of your hand. You were down for long enough that the deep red started to clot.

The taste of copper is on every word, but the flow seems to have at least slowed down within your mouth. "As much as I would— if I could stay, Father, I would— but I would like to get some rest. Unsupervised. Some privacy—"

"I can't do that, Richard."

"I insist."

"You're not well."

"I would appreciate your assistance in any other capacity—"

"We'll make sure that you're not disturbed. Come on."

"I—" You're taken by an arm, and hoisted to your feet. Ray immediately begins growling again. "Easy, Ray. Easy— Father Friedrich, this is entirely unnecessary."

The hand comes off of your arm. Your legs are unsteady, as worn out as you are, and you have to tense to keep on your feet. It must be fairly late, given the exhaustion that's weighing on you, but it pales in comparison to the continued pulse in your face. The nagging perfection. It's during and after every sentence— spurring you on— begging that you bring out more.

"I am fine—" Standing further upright, you dust off your shirt and pants. It's entirely unnecessary. "Enough to be left well alone—" You move towards the chair with your possessions. "—and I can walk myself—" You sweep up your robes, shrug them on, and start putting your things back into your pockets.

A hideous realization dawns on you.

Their works are perfect. Immaculate. Divine.

...but I have had Mercy's relief with me all this time. None of this was necessary, was it?

What's wrong with me?

"You—" Fidgeting and straightening your robes, you try to adjust the links of gold holding your Relic without touching the locket outright. "—you do have a point."

I can prove my devotion to Flesh. There is a point. He has a point.

"It's fine. I don't mean any offense." The priest crosses the room back over to you, hands behind his back, looking to you with legitimate concern. "I want you to be safe. Nothing excessive. Come on. Put your hood up. That bruise isn't doing you any favors."

"Mercy, is it really that bad—?"

"Try not to worry about it." He's trying to be kind. "You'll heal in no time at all." A hand goes to your back very delicately as you're led towards a side door.

Ray stays right at your side without prompting. He's looking up to you, worried, as you put up your hood and try to keep your composure.

"I appreciate the effort, Father, but I can rely on my own flesh." With your possessions and dog in tow, you shake off Father Friedrich's aid. You stride over to the door, pulling ahead just enough to let yourself out of the office. The rain pelting on the walls of the keep can be heard even through the stone and wooden rafters.

Even without being seen, the sincerity of the priest's smile can be heard. "Good to hear. I'll try to keep up."

The pace you keep is much slower than usual, in an active effort to not aggravate your injury. Eyes downcast, you only glance up occasionally to ensure that you're heading through the nearly empty corridors in the right direction. The halls are quiet and devoid of revelry, business, or more than a few guards. The steady pounding of sleet against the roof, walls and storm shutters of the Church of Flesh have ensured an early retirement for its residents.

The few men and women at their posts hail you all out of courtesy. No one dares to comment or question your escort. The affairs of two church leaders are to be respected, regardless of their appearance.

Ray trots ahead of you as you make your way back to the exterior ward. He stops just shy of the door to your room, anticipating you opening the chamber.

Father Friedrich strides ahead, getting the heavy, iron-banded, wooden defense open for you. He's still smiling (quite sincerely). You swallow your pride, and don't complain as he follows you back inside.

For how long you had spent in training, exercise, agony and ecstasy, the embers of the hearth have gone cold. A graying beard goes out of sight, while you stand and look around your quarters. Horror sinks into you.

Your escort closes the door to your room, and takes a deep breath. He turns back around straight-faced. Every inch of you wants for privacy.

There are still yellow rose petals on the bed.

He is obviously trying to be respectful by not commenting, but there is a look of abject horror on his face as well.

As calmly and smoothly as you can muster, you cross over to a chair and sit down. Ray ignores everything else in the room, goes right to your side, and sits down as well. You don't complain in the slightest as he drops his head on your leg, looking up to you with worry. You scratch his ears, and look straight to Father Friedrich. "Cyril is a trouble-maker."

Crossing the room as well, your mentor pulls up a chair, kicks his feet up, and leans back fully. "Yep."

"A rascal." You're trying to remain level, fighting with every fiber of your being to keep yourself steady— your voice, your breath, your pulse. Restraint. "A reprobate. This was his doing—" You glance to the mussed sheets. "—and I was in prayer, Father."

You glance back to him. He's smirking.

"I am chaste," you remind him, trying to keep a grimace from surfacing.

His smirk isn't abating.

"The bed was disturbed because of righteous devotion, and I have done nothing wrong—" You get up slowly enough to not bother Ray, and swiftly cross over to the bed. It's impossible to convey the full extent of your frustration as you sweep off the flowers, and straighten the sheets. "How do you manage it?"

"Are you serious?"

It's a bad idea to whip your head around, for how bothered you are by merely speaking. You keep your eyes fixed on the bed, finish tidying it, and clutch the petals in hand. They're fresh, delicate, soft, smooth, and you're trying not to groan as you mutter, "do I sound as if I am joking—?"

There's no reply for at least a minute. You cross back over to the wooden table and two modest armchairs. Ray is right there as you sink into one, looking to you earnestly. For how bothered you are, you can't comfort him, and mutter again, "I am completely serious."

His smirk turns to a worried glance. "Elias didn't do you any favors, did he?"

You glance back up, and try to not be too horrified. "Leave him out of this."

"Sit still for a second." Your fellow church leader stops leaning back to put his elbows down on the table, to look at you earnestly.

There's something mad dancing in his eyes. Red irises, full of divinity.

You've felt it before, when you've called upon a God of the Material. Smoke, and flame, and more strength than you could stand.

The stare persists. He's clearly scrutinizing the metal in your hair, around your ring finger, and all through your own eyes as well. "You love Her, don't you?"

How is this even a question?

"Yes."

Yes.

"Let Her love you back."

Without another word, your mentor kicks back his chair, and moves to stand.

"What— I thought— what were you intending to do—?"

"What did I tell you?"

"About—?"

"Flesh, and Mercy."

"Your— your patron is combative?"

"Unlike yours."

Despite the surge of pain it elicits, you can't help but frown. "Yes— I— I would— I wish to return to my prayer, but—"

"I would never want to tell you how to handle yourself, Father, but I think you need the advice." Your frown intensifies. It feels wonderful, and you really don't want to interrupt. "It wouldn't hurt to call on Her. Just Her."

The first few moments you saw the Father of Flesh sparks into your mind. The heat and fire in his eye, kindled several times in the same day. It has been easy to forget. It's hard now to not think back to Father Wilhelm's treatment of Dream. Night after night, for weeks on end. A love and devotion to his patron that could easily eclipse the night. The cracks in his skin— plain as day— littered with the God's gift.

Father Edmund couldn't even pen a letter without impressing it with gold.

I am not crazy, am I?

This is insanity.

Are they all mad, too?

"Thank you, Father Friedrich— but— "

"Yes?"

"I am already in Mercy's care—"

"Oh, really? Are you now?" He leans back again, smirking.

You're standing. Livid. "You talk of abuse? How is this any different from that? There is nothing— nothing trying to— to kill me. No one to save. How is this not selfish? How is this more warranted than— than what happened in Ostedholm— more than anything—"

"Richard."

"What?"

"There is someone worth saving right here."

The pain in your jaw has not faded. You're aching. Every muscle in your body is worn, stressed, frustrated, tense.

"Your vows aren't only for Her. They're for you, too."

"I— I know." You try to relax your fists.

"There is nothing selfish about your partnership. Nothing abusive about sharing yourself with who you love."

The wind is taken right out of your sails. "You have a point."

Father Friedrich stands.

"What— where do you think you are going—?"

"Get some rest." He's moving towards the door, still smirking. "Not too much."

You call after him, "thank you. For the advice."

The smirk is a smile, which you barely catch as he departs from your room.

"I— I completely understand. Thank you."

A wave, over his shoulder. "Good night, Father Anscham. I'll see to it that you aren't disturbed."

The doors are closed.

"...good night."

You're still up. Pacing. Stoking the hearth. Making sure Ray is alright. Setting aside enough clean water. Commanding your boy to stay, to rest.

Drawing your curtains shut, tying them.

Moving to the newly made bed, you try to take a few deep breaths.

You need Her. Not for healing or battle. Not for a matter of mere moments. This is something that should occupy the rest of your evening, for the sake of your vows.

Sitting down amidst the silk and pillows, you steady yourself. As a man of all the Gods, you know how to invoke Them at any time. Your conviction is without equal. Your devotion is without compare. No injury or insult can come between you.

You are the Father of the Church of Mercy. You want Her, the Mother.

There is light, invocation, and something more than a Goddess.

She wants you.