Chapter 38: The Will of the King

"I am not broken."

​

Sage and gilt flickers across your luxurious room within the Church of Flesh, casts from your irises, and reflects off of a letter. The interruption is significant. Even from a distance, no expense appears to have been spared on the thickly packed envelope.

"What now...?"

The seal is stamped yellow-gold, and bears the royal crest.

Sticky, exhausted, and more relaxed than you've felt in your twenty-four years, you stretch for a moment. The mussed sheets beneath you, closed curtains, and a significant portion of your emaciated body are all in crimson. The bed— littered with your blood and streaks of gold— is otherwise empty as you stagger upright and leave its warmth behind.

You cross the cold stone floor, past your sleeping dog, over a bearskin rug, and across from stacks of exotic gifts to stop just shy of the banded iron door. Scarred, pale, and trembling, your hands sweep up the weighty message from under the cracks in the wood. Catching your name on the exterior of the envelope, you break the seal and flip through dozens of pages of formality to see His invitation.

Within the minute, your sharp, fractured mind comes to three revelations.

Though you know with certainty that there is a festival in the capital, the first revelation is a reminder. More than celebration, war or devotion, you have neglected a duty. Your loftiest obligations.

Your work and struggles have labeled you as a killer, a scholar, and a man of all the Gods.

No slander, recognition or triumph is of any concern. Not at the moment.

You have not feared death, demons or despair. They are your bedfellows, right alongside a Goddess.

Your concern, realization, and dread is of crushing, incessant, overwhelming responsibility. You hold in your hand a demand for reports regarding your excursion into the ruins, an explanation required for your extended absence from the Church of Mercy, and a reminder of His grace. These— and some thirty-something pages of further accountability— are all personally addressed to you. Every golden word is penned by the only man in the country that you truly answer to: your King.

The second revelation is a surprise, as you usually have an impeccable memory. The shock is not directed towards the invitation to the capital alone, or even for the recognition and celebration of your return. It's a reminder of your 25th birthday. The 2nd day of the Setting Moon. Simply the date, without any trappings of pomp, pride or prejudice. No mention of the nights you have spent with the Goddess of Mercy. No criticism of your absence. No threat of retribution, punishment or pain.

Without question, it has been at least four months since you left the Church of Mercy.

By your best estimates, you've been worshiping at an altar of ecstasy and agony for the last two days.

At the most, you have four days at your disposal. Be it for travel to Calunoth, a proper written reply, or the avoidance of yet another obligation.

There is never enough Time.

A cold sweat is on you. The crimson across the room — the sheets, the curtains, the blood slaking your pallid skin — catches on the last embers of the hearth. A colder reality than of all your neglect is hitting hard. Harder than the presence of your sunken abdomen, the utter lack of bulk on your frame, or even the frigid stone beneath your feet.

Have I not been attending to Father Friedrich's tutelage?

Has all of my devotion amounted to this?

Should I even try?

In how many ways have I been compared to a demon?

Could anyone fault me for taking so much cruelty to heart? Am I so sick?

You have struggled night and day to heal yourself. Prisoner, priest, masochist; beaten bloody, flayed, bruised and broken, you have not climbed back from the depths of the world for nothing. You have followed the teachings of your host, your allies, and the tenets of your own patron. There is nothing you would not give— no oath you have refused— in the name of catharsis. Healing. Compassion.

Mercy.

She has given you so much. Not in return for your devotion, and not in respect to your piety, but as a display of mutual love.

The blood streaked across your frame does not lie on fresh wounds. Though you’re covered with scars, the skin is hale. Taut over wasted muscle and bone, but littered with signs of Her worship.

There is a band of metal at the base of your ring finger. A constant, immaculate reminder of a promise. A vow.

You are a healer, a protector, and a preacher. Holding onto yourself in the darkness, and in desperation.

Have I ever felt better?

Bearing down on your thin wrists and trembling fingers is a weight far greater than the material objects in hand. It is not a glistening seal of royalty, or a vessel for the Gods. It is the weight of leadership. As the head of a church— the absent Father of Compassion— you are a decidedly unhinged and unwaveringly pious young man.

It might have taken more than a minute of silent reflection, to reach your third revelation. This is a monumental decision.

The will of your King is worth a pause.

Music

The trembling in your hands eases, as the weight of the letter is left on a table beside you.

Kindling the hearth, you stiffly stretch, looking about to ensure that there is actually no one else in the room.

The bed is mussed, cold, and vacant.

Moving to a washbasin with a quick "good morning," to Ray, your spine straightens further. The frigid water is far from ideal, but removing the blood and blessings off of your Flesh is critical. The very sight of it— the reminder of bruises, cuts, flays, and burns— is enough to set you on fire. It only takes a few moments of ice and herbs to scrub off the last of two days worth of devotion. No evidence remains of a single wound. Only vague recollections. Disjointed blessings.

Have I not accumulated more reasons to discard a summons than cause to recognize them?

The prospect of running is fantastic. Enough so that you don't quite mind your reflection. Wide eyes, the deep bags nestled beneath them, the visible tremor running through your frame, and the countless scars marring your chronically emaciated body are not a concern. They are a gift.

He will have to understand. They all will.

It's a short matter to dry off, toss on your robes, and to try to eat something substantial. There is no pain. No need to avoid compensating. Not only for days of exertion without rest, but years of neglect and invocation.

It feels as if you haven't slept in two days.

Hunger has not plagued you for over three years.

It is only four days until your birthday.

The letter is swept back along with your belongings, while you pick at some dried fruit with the opposite digits. Your journal remains out as you call over to Ray. Your dog is utterly revolted by the prospect of the fruit, but nestles himself happily beside you. It takes just a moment to fit a thoroughly cleaned harness around him. A few licks on your hand is the only interruption in placing your journal safely within a pouch on his gear, scratching his ears, and finishing attending to your own needs.

The flask of a demon, the tools of a healer, a scholar and a priest are all slipped into a satchel gifted to you by an unholy ally. It's lined with gold, dark as night, light as a feather, and terribly easy to forget about.

Your memory is impeccable, but there are so many causes for denying your King.

Looking back to your reflection— the hollows of your cheeks, and the absence of a bruise along your jaw— you confirm that there is no evidence of your last meeting with your host.

It feels as if I am compared to a demon more with each passing day.

Sister Cardew knows what I have endured, without omission or exaggeration. A priestess of Spirit would never balk at a fractured mind— yet there is no question she could scarcely keep her composure when we last spoke.

What of Father Friedrich?

How much would he even be willing to listen to?

There are more concerns on your mind than you can track.

A Church of Agriculture, indebted to you, and in shambles. Suicide after suicide.

A Church of Spirit, led by a man intent on healing you. Hurting you. Spreading rumors and slander. Pitted against you, home to a woman sworn to aid you.

A Church of Storm, on the other side of the country. Visits from a God that has threatened to kill you. Gifted with visions of a deity you have never served. Awaiting messages that are months overdue.

A Church of Time, poised on a mountaintop, led by a woman who withheld word of your mentor's passing. Silent, respectfully absent from your life. Implored to answer.

A Church of Dream, pulled from its Father thanks to your need.

A Church of Mercy, the duty you've postponed once again.

Lies. Blasphemy. Rumor.

Dismissal of your lofty position on one hand, and those who would call you a God on the other.

A congregation in the capital, waiting.

Your King, demanding.

The court, neglected.

War.

A country beset by demons from within.

My demons.

My body.

You sit down, trying to calm yourself. You take off the satchel. The weight eases off of your shoulders, if ever so slightly.

My mind.

Breathe.

You have been told many times that you are unbreakable.

Deep breaths.

I am not broken.

The room is frigid. Kindling the hearth has yet to do a thing for the furthest reaches of your bedroom. The myriad boxes of herbs and remedies rest on the edges of the walls. Piles of supplies and bandages are neatly stacked, arranged to your liking, and neglected.

Your bed remains unkempt, unmade, and forgotten. You move from the furthest reaches of the room, across the bearskin rug. Your shoes sink slightly into the jet-black fur. Sitting down next to the flame, you permit a little more tinder to catch on the light. The scent of scorched wood, smoke, and reprieve wafts up. A current— cold and unforgiving— opens out into the ceiling above. Closed curtains billow gently, promising the start of a new season.

Worship.

Hovering your hands over the fire for just a few moments, palms splayed outwards, you try to keep breathing.

Am I to blame for the state I am in? How avoidable was all of the abuse? Could I have ran from everything?

The start of a panic attack has you pause, to try to relax. Ray picks himself up from the opposite end of the room, trotting over to sit right alongside you. He drops his head beside where you sit, inviting you to scratch him. The contact is enormously reassuring and grounding. You try to comfort yourself, too.

I can ask Father Friedrich to speak on my behalf. I can request that Sister Cardew send her reports.

It feels like your heart is in your throat.

To what end, though?

What do I really want?

The bed is streaked with blood. Though its crimson is hardly visible against the sheets, you stride over, lean beneath the opulent canopy, strip off the fabric, and neatly fold everything aside. Quick work is made of finding a fresh change of cloth, then draping it over the mattress. They're clean, inviting, and as praiseworthy as you could hope for.

You try to calm down. The simple motions help.

Still fully dressed, you lay back down. It takes several minutes to unwind your anxiety, to roll back your shoulders, and to sink into the bed.

The heat of the hearth has spread significantly. It licks at the edges of your robes, creeping up the mattress. The only sound to be heard is the steady crackle of wood under flame, and a light breeze against the curtains.

You gently command Ray to get some rest. He obliges with impeccable manners, staying off the bed and laying down beside the frame.

Closing your eyes willingly is so foreign to you that it takes several minutes to stop fidgeting.

A few more minutes pass. The fire is still crackling.

Your hands clasp together, laying them steadily against your chest. The beat of your heart. A blessing.

"Dream." Wanting not for desire of vision, memory, or invocation— letting your exhaustion sink into the feather and cloth beneath you— you drift off to sleep.

No one visits you in the darkness.