ARC 8: LIGHT SENTENCE - INTERLUDE II: A Moment's Respite - Chapter 1: Priorities
Alaric
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INTERLUDE II: A Moment's Respite
Chapter 1: Priorities
Chapter 1: Priorities
"If I can't help you, how can I help them?" You keep your eyes locked with Father Pevrel's, and make no effort to hide just how hurt you are. The lantern is set back on the floor. "What will I tell them?"
"Don't try to be cute about this, Anscham." His arms are crossed, but the priest makes no motion to move.
You fight back the urge to cry, grit your teeth, and choke out each word with more determination than the last. "What am I supposed to say to a child who feels the way that you do? That I moved on from you because you were too much of a burden? That you were any less deserving of help—" Your voice cracks with emotion, but you are not letting up for anything. "—that you did not deserve to be HELPED over others?"
The priest shifts slightly, frowning at you so hard that it hurts your face. It's infuriating.
"How dare you." The back of your hand wipes at the side of your eye reflexively. "I know how I look. You said it yourself. I can understand. We are not so fortunate—" He opens his mouth to speak. You talk right over it. "Which is exactly why I care. I know how this sounds. I know you think me a fool, and a madman, and all the rest. I don't care about any of it. What I care about is EVERY single man and woman on this earth. All of us. From the lowliest of demons, to the grandest of Kings."
Your head is killing you. Furrowing your brow so intensely conjures a cauldron of pain in your temples.
The man standing across from you mirrors the severity of your expression.
There's no use giving him the chance to protest. As tightly as you can, you pull the lord of wrath into a fourth hug of the day.
He needs it.
I need it.
There's no fuss. Father Pevrel keeps his arms by his sides as always.
You redouble your effort to hold him against your heart just as soon as you feel him take in a ragged breath. There's no weakness to be heard in your voice. Kindness is your strength, and this man needs your support. You'll be damned if you won't give it. "I especially care for the suffering of my fellow clergymen. I know that I'm a glutton of the worst sort." You can feel him fight to not smirk against you. "One with the best intentions— and let me finish before you protest—" The smile falls as soon as it came, but he remains silent. "—thank you. And one with the worst self-control. Do you understand that this is exactly why I will never hesitate to take on the torment of mankind?"
He nods against your chest, and leans a little harder against you. You're soft enough that he can sink in an inch or two. The priest is scowling, and likely will never admit how comfortable you are to be held by, and that's fine. You continue with the warm contact, an open heart, and all the resolution you possess. "I have shouldered our anguish before. I will again. The whole world is hurting, Father, but we can ease their pain. We can strike down this evil. And we can only start by working with the people closest to us."
Pulling gently away, you take the man by his shoulders, and nearly draw back. Father Pevrel is deep in thought, and looks to you with a fair amount of respect.
Battling to not cry on the spot, you practically shake the priest standing before you. "People will lean on you. I am here for you to lean on."
A sharp, painful sounding sniff rises from your peer. He nods once, and still makes no motion to move. It's obvious how much he appreciates the sentiment.
You're not done. Your face hurts from scowling. The headache is terrible. The hug was a preferable distraction, so you settle for keeping your hands on the his shoulders. "Two things, before we go."
Shrugging your hands off from his shoulders, Father Pevrel remembers himself. His only reply snakes out from a scowl as pained as your own. "Fine."
Sighing doesn't cut it. You cast a glance for only a moment to your own body. The weight of the world. The scars you would never want to conceal. It has you lift all the green in your eyes. Devotion, love, and countless memories of agonized visits in the dark puts desperation all throughout your speech in the hopes that this man will understand. "The Gods can only be what They are, Father. They CANNOT help Themselves. But we as humans can. I couldn't understand just how important the observation was at the time, but you should know by now. We temper the very Gods."
A sick, miserable laugh trails out from your friend's lips. "Just listen to you."
"I know I sound like a hypocrite."
"You think?"
"We both sound like hypocrites for preaching this." You scowl. He shuts up. "Keeping ourselves in check should be a deliberate gesture. This is not weakness, nor hesitation. Temperance is the GREATEST sacrifice one can make for their patron."
Both of you couldn't look more miserable.
"This is a struggle that we both need to go through," you mutter.
The Father of Wrath looks every bit a small, terrified, addicted, and aging man. "You don't know the first thing about what you're preaching."
"Helping OTHER people has always been a way to help OURSELVES, Pevrel." There's no apology coming for the outburst. You continue raising your voice, and watch as the priest standing before you looks more ashamed of himself by the second. "You are the OTHER SIDE OF OUR COIN. Your success is my success— and you KNOW that my victories are YOURS to share, too."
Dropping your tone, you try to relax the tension through your brow and back. It's not going anywhere, so you simply put a hand to your temple. "My priorities are straight. Nothing is more important than this. Nothing. You can never convince me otherwise."
The two of you stare down one another for a long minute before you drop your hand, and remind your fellow priest of what you live for.
"To save is to serve."
He opens his lips to protest, with anger all over him.
You bark, "if you're too blind, old, and drunk to keep up with saving the country, watch me haul your ass over my shoulder just like I did this morning."
Father Pevrel's jaw drops.
A miserable half-laugh, half-sigh leaves you. "Are you doubting the Father of Honesty?"
"No," he stammers.
Running a hand through your (now dry) hair doesn't help anything, even though teasing at your headache is a welcome relief. "I have another friend— don't give me that face. I'll hug you again."
"Fuck you."
You hug him again, and yell over his protests and squirming. "She can ALSO see heathens and demons!"
The fuss stops at once. The man actually puts serious effort into escaping your clutches, and does so in a split second. "What?"
Putting a finger below one eye, you repeat, "she can see heathens and demons. Ofelia."
He makes a face. You've seen it on Father Friedrich when he talks about bordering nations. "The halfling."
You shove down the desire to put the priest in his place. "I told you about what Mercy and I did to her during Our first truly violent invocation. When Ofelia's vision was restored, We did not heal her. Not truly. Mercy and I left a mark on her, Father Pevrel. She was given divine sight. The eyes of a Goddess."
The sheer degree of distress on the man standing before you defies description. His voice cracks. "Why?"
"I intend to ask Mercy about it tonight," you murmur. "I wish I had more answers. More than anything. I know She can provide me with some of them, and you know I want to help you. I'll let you know."
It looks like he's going to break down. Turning his back to you, the priest takes a long moment to stare down the corridor. Away from the flame. Away from the gold. Away from you.
You give him all the time he needs.
After several minutes, the man stoically picks up the lantern off from the ground, and starts walking right beside you. The corridor is nowhere near wide enough to comfortably accommodate it, but neither of you care enough to not walk shoulder-to-shoulder.
A sound falls from Father Pevrel as if he's been holding his breath for the last few minutes. He breathes, "thank you for letting me know."
Nothing else needs to be said. Letting the man think while you both finish the trek to the keep is the least you can do. He gets priority on your flask. Sure, his drinking is obviously a coping mechanism, but you can address it after the reasons behind the drinking are addressed.
He will get a handle on it eventually.
You both have likely put back a gallon of tea since leaving the gardens. You're comfortably (borderline painfully) full. Father Pevrel is staggering, and leans on you occasionally for support while you try and remember what being satisfied feels like.
Occasionally putting a hand to your belly and arms confirms that the injuries you ripped open earlier this afternoon will take longer to heal due to the exertion, and that you really should be taking it easier. There's simply no way that your body is going to keep up with the pace you've been going at, but a small part of you finds the idea thrilling.
Getting a handle on my own issues should come before I try to start fixing others.
First things first.
One more pass at your flask couldn't hurt, before reemerging into the waning light of day.
No one bothers with the names of every last wing of the Church of Mercy, and most people don't even know how to pronounce the surrounding citadel's many chambers. You know the location and pertinent details of Apotheosis Keep, even if everyone just refers to it as "the keep". You dearly treasure its brethren structures, situated throughout Eadric Castle. The arrangement is made out like beams jetting from the sun. Even the layout of the citadel is in dedication to Mercy's image. But you are not here today to fawn over The Solstice Keep's premiere roof-top view of the stars, nor the Equinox Keep's stunning interior murals, nor Perihelion Keep's storied history thanks to its proximity to the Church of Mercy itself.
You emerge into the second floor of Daybreak Citadel's tallest tower (save for the one your solar resides in), snuff out the lantern, stow it in your satchel, and stash your flask on your person. Father Pevrel gives you a look, to which you quietly invite him to make himself look more presentable.
Most of your anxiety melts away as you stride down the naturally lit, stony corridor. Candles are nested along the walls, and they all are well-attended to. This building has been the only populated area in your castle since your arrival, and the residents seem to be taking good care of the place. There are no more death traps in the hall. Multiple rooms have been repurposed into an open (nearly empty) library, courtesy of the scholars in your employ.
The two of you stride past all of the vacant chambers, beyond the overstuffed armchairs, and straight up to a convoluted sign posted to the door at the end of the hall.
The door is lovely. It's made of solid oak, has been banded with iron, could not look sturdier, and has not been been defaced by vandals. There's even a lock! Your heart sings. It's covered from top-to-bottom in instructions regarding how to gain entry without triggering a series of lethal traps on the other side.
You know for a fact that Sister Harriet Cardew and Walter Middleton alternate changing the trapped devices within their bedroom on a near-daily basis, that the slip of paper is not an empty threat, and that Father Pevrel is actually respecting the instructions.
"What are you doing," you whisper.
He's solving an elaborate puzzle to discern how to start knocking on the wall to the right of the door, while steadily whistling a hymn to Spirit. The glare he shoots you tells you to not interfere.
Halfway through rapping a complex rhythm onto the wall, there's the sound of glasses being shoved aside on the opposite side of the door. A flurry of papers can be heard shuffling, and a shocked scholar calls out. Walter's tell-tale nasally voice is a dead giveaway of his identity. "Don't bother with the rest!"
A dog begins barking. The door slowly begins to open. Getting on one knee and bracing yourself is the best you can do.
A hulking beast of a mastiff soars out from the chambers beyond. All 200lbs of him flies past Father Pevrel, and practically crashes into you.
Your boy lands hard on the floor, skids to a stop, and softly "whoofs" just as he bumps into your outstretched arms. Ray has been trained to recognize when you're hurt, and gently slobbers all over your face while nuzzling the rest of his body into a hug. You both are delighted beyond measure that you can practically hold him like a puppy. He's absurdly heavy, but so are you, and no one intervenes while you both give each other a warm welcome.
"Who's a good boy! Good boy, Ray. It's been a few days, hasn't it, big guy? I missed you, too."
The look on Father Pevrel's face could curdle milk. He's facing a scrawny, long-legged, and pompously dressed nobleman. Walter "Professor Echo" Middleton is actually taller than the lord of retribution, and can stare down his angular nose while gently closing the door behind him. His hair is nowhere near as greasy as you've seen it before, but he seems haggard. His high cheekbones are tighter than usual. The dandelion-yellow traveling coat he's so fond of (after stealing it from the royal palace) has a tear on one sleeve. There's a little dirt on his shoes, his tunic and leggings probably haven't been changed in two days, and he couldn't look more disgusted to see either of you.
Still, the most brilliant ruins-hopping deviant you've ever had the pleasure of knowing loves to make a good first impression. Unfortunately, his whiny voice doesn't help matters, and you can't remember ever hearing him sound so exhausted.
"Father Nicholas Pevrel, leader of the Church of Vengeance. I should have known there would only be one man in this city honorable enough to heed a warning when he sees one." No bows. No flourishes. He's not posing, and continues to sneer down at you before glancing back to your fellow church leader. A formal gesture of Mercy is made. He wants to seriously stress his true alliances. "Walter Middleton. Leading associate of historical developments for the Church of Mercy, and research coordinator on behalf of Father Richard Anscham."
Slipping a small item from his person into the hinge on the door, he speaks clearly. "Your men's efforts in Father Anscham's city have secured the safety of mine and my child's home. The contents of this room are being closely monitored, and I am sworn to uphold the safety of this castle and all who reside in it. I would like to repay your efforts, but must ask that we speak outside."
He fires a horrifically dirty look at you. It dawns on you that you were fifteen pounds lighter when you last saw Walter (three days ago), and he's seen you put on nearly one hundred since coming back home. With how tired he looks, he might be incapable of registering just how poor his decorum is at a time like this.
Father Pevrel looks like he's smelled something foul. "Then you would do well to observe the blade of the King, the Fathers of your churches, the returning Lord of his castle, and two men who have had a historically powerful alliance as of this week." He leans in. "Or did you not get the message?"
Walter's nose somehow goes higher, and speaks only to you. "Harriet has been recovering well, but I would prefer to not disturb her. More importantly, you and I have MUCH to discuss."
"You can trust him, Walter," you sigh.
The scholar deflates almost immediately. An apologetic look is cast towards Father Pevrel. "You honestly bothered with the puzzle."
Dead men have more life in their tone. "This city was in flames. My children are dying in the streets. I will not jeopardize their efforts on unhappy chance, even if it comes at my expense alone."
Ray whines at both men, who snap their glares towards your dog. He "boohfs" helpfully.
"I wanted to see if she was alright, Walter." You give your boy a few scratches behind his ear. He's delighted. "We have had a great deal of business to attend to, and I— and I would rather get to see her than to trouble either of you with anything further." Straightening upright, you simply frown. "It is ultimately her choice to make though. Was this her request?"
He crosses his arms. "Her condition has been delicate since you last spoke."
The year is 606. Father Pevrel is widely known as a chauvinistic, boorish, and imposing type of man when he's around the fairer sex. It occurs to you that Walter might actually be trying to spare Sister Cardew the issue of dealing with your ally when she was recovering from an invocation of unprecedented scale.
"Is she alright," you murmur.
"She's asleep." Walter pinches the bridge of his nose, and sighs. "I've insisted. She's been working out of the bed—" Your heart stops. "—don't panic. She's just needed the rest. No physical injuries. No one has broken in since the Night of Embers."
You have only used to phrase with a handful of people, and blink in surprise.
"I've been doing more than you can fathom." Walter has yet to move his hands from his nose. Ray saunters over to the man and demands attention (which the noble reluctantly complies with). "We need to talk. Harriet has shared her findings with me, and I've done a tremendous amount of work on my own to piece together our communications."
Standing upright, Walter continues to stare down Father Pevrel while talking only to you. "I cannot tolerate one more incident."
It shuts up the priest beside you in an instant.
Looking to you, your research partner sneers yet again. "This counts as one of them. Let's go to one of the studies. I can get you up to date on what's happened. Maybe we can wake up Harriet when we're done, if you don't want to go running out of the—" He winces. That expression he's making is horrible. His eyes might as well be crawling along every curve of your skin. "Can we just go discuss this away from the door? Please. This is wasting all of our Time."
>A and B are mutually exclusive.
>C is optional. If no options from C are selected, you will simply not address that line of conversation with Walter.
>Majority vote may apply. In the event of a directly conflicting course of action, discussions and vocal opposition are taken into full consideration.
>A] Agree to go into a nearby and discreet room. You probably look like you're about to keel over, and sincerely want to hear what Walter has to say about all of this.
>1] Insist that Walter and Father Pevrel make an effort to get along. You don't care how forced it is. You need cooperation from your allies now more than ever.
>2] Let everyone act as they please. You have no place to order around your friends, especially when they're under this much strain. You'll intervene if they get at each other's throats, but not a moment sooner.
>B] Demand that you see Sister Cardew.
>1] Walter and Father Pevrel can wait outside with Ray. She is your counselor first and foremost. You've had a LOT going on lately, and seriously need her support. Walter typically isn't one to appeal to emotion with, so lay out the logical reasons for seeing her right now. Father Pevrel already gets why you're here, after all.
>2] Sister Cardew has been your friend for longer than almost anyone you know. You just want to see if she's alright, and respect her enough to leave if she doesn't want to talk about any other matters. Implore Walter to wait with Father Pevrel. You'll try to not keep them for too long.
>3] Walter will hate you for it, but appeal to his ego. He takes enormous pride in working with you, and shouldn't shut down the opportunity to learn about another church leader. You'll all speak together about any and all business that needs to be addressed. Harriet can decide if she's not up to the task.
>C] You've been hearing about your weight for months now, and it got old FAST.
>1] Call Walter out for being so judgmental. Don't rant, but you both have been over the issue of your weight. Harriet not being here is no excuse for this kind of behavior.
>2] You both are friends, and Walter might not realize how he's coming across. Flat-out tell him how uncomfortable you feel, and ask him to be kind enough to not bully you about your appearance. Leave it at that.
>3] You are seriously sick and tired of this being a distraction from every single interaction you have. You are NOT going to waste more time on it. (Prompts in this vein will not be given again, barring extreme circumstances. You'll dodge the subject in conversation. This does NOT have any bearing on your active efforts to exercise with the Nye Brothers.)
>D] Write-in.
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