Beginning
8-10-2022
Contains graphic violence and injury, child death and body issues
When he hears Hesters ragged breathing still besides him, he is certain this will be the end for both of them.
The priests had come for them this afternoon, and he had followed them obediently, trying not to let his fear show to his pupil. Surely the exorcism was for him, he had thought, and she was only being taken to witness and be scared into following their orders from now on. Julius was not afraid of pain, not the divine, cleansing kind he knew he was about to undergo when he kneeled at the altar and allowed the priests to chain down his arms.
Even when he saw four needles on the little silver tray, instead of just two, he did not struggle. If the demon was in him, after all, then maybe it would be better if she was cleansed as well, just to be sure. She was a sturdy kid, and the priests would surely adjust the procedure to spare her smaller body.
Hester held her head up high when they made her kneel besides him, and did not wince when they inserted the needles in the hollow of her elbows. When the blood started to flow, the look on her eyes was almost curious.
Julius straightened his back, and forced himself to breathe slowly and audibly, so she could have the comfort of knowing he was not afraid.
It was almost a relief to see his own blood start to run down his arms, over his hands and into the silver bassins on either side of him. There had been struggle and conflict within him, unrest and impurity in his mind. But now, with the steady trickle of blood, it would all be over. He only had to endure this one simple penance. He just wished Hester would not have to join in it.
All through the ritual she kept a proud silence among the singing and praying of the priests around her. The heady smell of blood was now prominent in the room, and Hesters skin visibly paled by the minute.
‘’It’s been enough for her’’, Julius said sternly, daring to make eye contact with the high priest despite his compromised state.
The high priest simply nodded, and one of his acolytes approached the girl, roughly grabbing her face and lifting her eyelid with his thumb to peer into her eyes from up close. Hester struggled in his grip, and Julius prayed to every god he knew to make her understand that she had to cooperate now.
Then the priest wrenched open her mouth to inspect her teeth, and she surged forward to bite down on his fingers.
He recoiled in horror, clutching his injured hand to his chest.
‘’Demon!’’, he hissed, while another priest rushed in to pour holy water over the wound. The bitten priest was guided out of the room quickly, and the high priest stepped forward.
‘’The demon is still in her’’, he proclaimed. ‘’We must continue. Gag her.’’
‘’Father, you must understand, she…’’, Julius tried, but was cut off when the high priest spoke again.
‘’And gag him too.’’
After that everything was a blur.
The priests ceased their singing and crowded up on Hester, her growling and thrashing subsiding quickly when she was gagged. Julius could see the flow of blood quickened when she clenched her fists. She was deathly pale by now, and her struggle was startlingly weak and short-lived.
Julius wanted to raise his voice in protest, beg the high priest to spare her, but soon a pristine white ball of cloth was forced between his jaws and strapped in place with a velvet ribbon. He struggled against his restraints, and for a moment, he and Hester were like one, she with her animalish ferocity and he with his desperate rage. His mind was spinning, trying to grasp how this situation had gotten so out of control, how he had let it get this far. He glared at the high priest, begging him with his eyes to put an end to this. He would plead anything, take guilt for any possible accusation as long as it meant them punishing him, and not her.
But the Father would not meet his eye.
The smell of blood was everywhere now, the warm stream over his cold hands nauseating instead of divine. Hester had stopped struggling, and there was nothing left of her proud posture. She was just a slumped figure in the corner of his eye, her racing breath in his ear.
In her last moments he had finally resisted, fighting against his bonds to no avail, jaw straining in his attempts to spit out the gag, the sickening stream of blood over his arms increasing with his struggle.
And then Hesters breathing stills beside him.
A priest approaches Hesters motionless form, inspects her eyes and her throat again, and proclaims:
‘’The body is pure.’’
The singing of the priests swells as they untie her, take out the hollow needles, bandage the already stilled wounds and carry her lifeless body away.
It all happens in an instant, nothing more than flashes in his peripheral vision.
Julius stops struggling, hanging in his chains. He tastes blood and wonders if he’s bit his tongue or if it’s just in the air he breathes. There is a dull ache in his elbows, where the needles have bruised him during his thrashing, and he feels his heart pound in it when the high priest walks towards him. His vision narrows. There is nothing but this man in his gold-embroidered robes, the candle glow around him, the air buzzing with many mouthed mumble-prayers. Light shines in stretched flares on his gold rings when he reaches for Julius’ eyelids to check for demonic presence, and in that moment he is sure they are right; there must be a demon in him. What else could this horrible spinning anger be? Why else does he look at his holy Father with an unbridled desire to bite out his throat? He is possessed, he is unholy, he was negligent and now has to face the amalgamation of his sins in blood.
His own, and Hesters.
When the high priest takes the gag away, he spits and screams, surging forward and baring his teeth. He barely understands himself, but what he growls vaguely sounds like ‘’You killed her! You killed her!’’
Cold eyes are on him as the Father steps back.
‘’Foul demon’’, he whispers, and then turns aside. ‘’This is taking too long. We must drive it out now.’’
One of the priests brings him a flat wooden chest and opens it to reveal a simple leather whip. The Father unwinds it and runs his hands over the leather, hands that have blessed and bandaged and prayed with Julius so many times, hands that he has kissed in reverence when he was taken into the order, hands that now point at the other priests to gag him again.
He resists, but he cannot muster the strength to make it more than pathetic wriggling. He feels lightheaded as he clenches his fists and feels the warm blood squelch between his fingers. He cannot stop them from gagging him again. He can’t stop them when they wrestle his coat off his back and tear off his shirt, the thin fabric smudging the bloody patterns on his arms, a sickening sticky drag over his skin. His eyes keep finding hesters blood-filled bassins, over and over, and he knows she’s gone but he cannot make any sense of it in this state. His thoughts are going fuzzy in this haze of pain and blood, churning in frustrating fragments.
But when the first strike of the whip lands on his back everything becomes very simple.
Julius believed himself to be familiar with pain. But now, with the leather raining down on his skin, bleeding and trembling, restrained and surrounded, he understands he has never known the real meaning of pain. The hissing of the whip through the air, the sweltering burn when it licks his back, the distant realization that he’s going to die here – and that it will go slowly – it overrides everything else.
There are no more thoughts. Just this pain, the taste of blood and leather, over and over again. Just his body and its ability to suffer.
By now, the blood loss is making him fade in and out of consciousness, but he does not wonder if this is what Hester felt like before she died. He does not wonder anything at all. Instead, he surrenders. He hangs in his chains, and takes, takes, takes.
When the edge of his vision goes dark, he knows the end is coming, and he does not fight. The last thing he sees is the faint glow of the candles on the altar, slowly flickering, and please, god, take me away, let it be over.
He closes his eyes in one blissful moment of peace.
But then it feels like he is hit by lightning.
His eyes fly open, his heart suddenly rattling in his chest to the point of tearing through his ribs, and his vision goes painfully sharp, every face around him like a needle stabbed into his retina. He feels his body tilt when the chains he was hanging into disappear in a golden light. His divine peace and quiet is ripped away in that moment, and the real world collides with him again.
Behind him, he hears the hissing of the whip, and with an incomprehensible display of strength and dexterity, he turns around and grabs the braided length in mid-air. Now, finally, the Father meets his eye, and Julius sees him freeze in horror as he tugs the weapon from his hands. Both of them are equally bewildered.
At that point, an animal panic overtakes him. He scrabbles to his feet, knocking over one of the basins with his blood in it. The liquid spills over the floor, and it’s so much. He should not even be standing right now, let alone being able to escape the hands of the stunned priests as he rushes out of the church. But he is.
His god had seen him suffer. His god had seen him pray and beg and had not interfered. He had made him taste salvation and had taken it away, and told him it is not your time yet
His right hand clutches the whip. His left hand is still stuck in the sleeve of his coat. He drags both of them along when he runs into the dark of night, the love of his god in his legs but nowhere else.
He keeps going even when the energy that was granted to him ebbs away, walks as long as his body allows him to and then crawls.
Not because he wants to, but because his god commands it.
And who was he, a miserable sinner, to disobey the word of god?
He had been certain Hester would not die today. Then she died and he was certain that he himself would die as well.
Both of those certainties had proven to be false, despite his faith in them.
But now, with painful clarity and unwavering conviction, he knew he was not done here, that he was given a purpose in this world.
And, as would be proven later, he was only partially wrong.
After his initial escape into the forest, he must have passed out in a bush at some point, because that’s where he awoke the next morning, shivering cold and with the whip clutched to his chest. Whatever power it was that Moradin had granted him yesterday, all of it was gone by now.
With great exertion, he had managed to sit up and summon what little magic he knew to treat the gashes on his back. He did not get any further than making them scab over, like a day old cut. It did not matter. He would survive. Next, he pulled out the hollow needles that were still stuck in his arms, crusted with dried blood. He winced when he pulled them out. Not from the pain, but from seeing the weak trickle of blood well up from the wound. The bright red was a sharp contrast with the dark bruises and sickly pale shade of his skin.
By now he was panting, already getting lightheaded again, just from these small tasks. He would have to bandage himself to prevent infection, look for food and shelter, get further away from here. But his entire body was trembling, and he could barely keep himself upright. With unsteady hands he pulled his coat around his shoulders, not willing to push his wounded arms through the sleeves again. The scabs on his back and the dried blood on his arms pulled on his skin uncomfortably when he curled in on himself. Even now, mostly covered, he felt naked, as if he had not just been whipped but skinned. And he was still so, so cold.
A prayer found its way to his lips, more habit than anything, but he only got halfway through before passing out again.
He is awoken with a cold touch to his arm.
Disoriënted for a moment, Julius sits up, eyes surging open, but the quick movement makes his head spin so badly he almost hits the ground again. But a steady hand keeps him upright.
‘’Calm down, it’s okay’’
When his eyes finally focus again, Julius sees a young man in priest robes kneeling besides him. He has brown curls and a beardless face, and he’s holding a wet cloth in his gloved hand. He wears a holy symbol on a chain around his neck, and Julius recognizes it as belonging to the order of Helm.
‘’Who…’’, he starts, but his tongue lays heavy in his mouth, and his own voice is unfamiliar to him. The priest continues dabbing the wet cloth on his arm, carefully yet efficiently washing off the dried blood.
‘’Don’t exert yourself. You must have lost a lot of blood. I found you on the side of the road when I was gathering herbs. What happened to you?’’
The man has a very quiet voice, that contrasts with his strong hands and bulky frame. Julius thinks about his question for a moment. Yes, what exactly was it that happened to him?
‘’Demons…’’, he starts, hesitantly. The man meets his eye and gives him a knowing smile.
‘’You don’t have to tell me. My name is Morn. I’m a healer in training at the temple of Helm. Where are you from?’’
Julius notes the pattern of ring mail under his robes and wonders if he is really just a healer, but it is not the time to be asking questions now.
Morn takes a roll of bandages from his bag and gets to wrapping up his left arm. The bandages are simple, often-washed linen, unlike the bleached white cloth that he had been gagged with. He doesn’t recall freeing himself from the gag, but he must have gotten rid of it somewhere along the line. Last night is a blur in his mind.
‘’I’m from Kirchhall.’’
‘’Anyone there that I could get over here to take care of you?’’
‘’No.’’
Julius is quick to answer, maybe too quick. It is only just now that the realization dawns on him that he really cannot go back. To everyone there, he is nothing more than an escaped demon.
His way is forward, not back.
He expects to see a look of suspicion on Morns face, but he just nods.
‘’Let me get to your other arm’’, he says, and pushes his coat off his right shoulder. It falls away, revealing half of his back, so that the angry red gashes show. For some reason Julius finds himself go red, a deep shame bubbling to the surface. He wants to retreat deep inside himself, leave the surface of this sin-marked body behind. If he was able to, he would have pulled his coat back up, averted his body, covered it up. But right now he can do nothing but surrender to Morns hands, not unlike he had done under the whip.
Change what you cannot accept, and accept what you cannot change.
‘’That will need some bandages too’’, Morn says, in a casual tone that seems more fit for discussing the weather. He cleans and bandages his arm quickly, and then rests his hand on the lapel of his coat.
‘’Can I?’’
No. No. No
‘’Yes’’
Morn eases the coat off his back, and takes a moment to inspect the gashes. Julius hears him hum in thought, but still he asks no questions. When he’s done, he rummages through his bag to take out another roll of bandages and a jar of ointment. He opens the jar, and then takes off his gloves before dipping his fingers in and spreading the substance over Julius’ back.
‘’Do the followers of Helm also don gloves these days?’’, he asks, and feels Morns hands freeze on his back.
‘’No, they do not. It is just my personal custom. Why?’’
‘’Followers of Moradin in Kirchhall cover the hands to protect from demonic transmission through touch.’’
‘’I don’t see you wearing any’’
Julius nods at the pocket of his coat, where the fingers of his worn leather gloves peek out.
Morn quickly finishes applying the salve, and his hands enter Julius’ line of sight when he reaches for the bandages. There are blood stains on his skin, concentrated on the fingertips and flecking all over the palms. They look fresh, but Julius knows they cannot be; they are not smudged by the glove, nor do they mix with the residual ointment.
‘’A blessing?’’, he asks. ‘’Or is it a curse?’’
Morn jerks his hand away when he notices Julius looking.
‘’They are just a reminder from my god’’, he says, and quickly slips his gloves on again. ‘’That I am to always have blood on my hands. That is why I became a healer.’’
He says it like it is a most logical conclusion, even though Julius associates the phrase of having blood on ones hands with combat first and foremost, and not necessarily with healing. He knows, however, not to pry any further when Morn starts bandaging his back. They are quiet for a while, but then Morn leans over his shoulder to look at something. Julius follows his gaze, and sees that he has noticed the whip lying next to his leg.
‘’I see I’m not the only one between us carrying a reminder around.’’, he says, catching Julius’ eyes for a moment before resuming his task.
A reminder, Julius wonders. Did he hold on to the whip as a reminder? Of what, exactly?
The humming insect buzz of prayer, the cracking of the whip in his Fathers hands.
Panicked breathing besides him.
Hester. Hester. Hester.
You killed her.
A reminder of sin. A reminder of guilt.
In that moment, everything from yesterday crashes into him again. The thought of Hester presents itself so instantly and overwhelmingly that it stills his breath in his throat. It swells at an alarming rate, too many emotions happening at the same time, and a subconscious survival instinct kicks in. He cannot think about this now, he cannot let it overwhelm him if he wants to go on. The thought of her, even the sound of her name, it’s too big, too much.
So he shuts down.
With all the mental strength he can muster he pushes her memory under the surface of his mind. Not because he wants to, but because he has to, otherwise he will shatter.
One day, he will face this guilt.
But not now.
In the meantime, blissfully unaware of the turmoil occurring within his patient, Morn continues bandaging his back, moving up to his shoulders. Julius feels the graze of his gloved fingertips when he swipes his ponytail over his shoulder, so that his hair does not get stuck under the bandages. It is a simple gesture, a pragmatic one.
But to Julius it feels like he has been hit by a brick.
Why is this man taking care of him like this? Surely any cleric could smell his sins from miles away. But despite that, despite the markings on his body, despite his inability to explain why he is in this state, Morn doesn’t ask difficult questions, and takes care of him with a simple genuinity.
It makes his skin crawl, as if accepting this care after his sins simply makes them greater.
As soon as the bandages are secured, Julius rushes to get his coat back on.
‘’I – sorry, thank you, but I need to go, I…”
He tries to get up, swaying on his knees, but Morns hand on his shoulder guides him down again.
‘’You were unconscious just minutes ago’’, he says. ‘’I’d be surprised if you could stand.’’
Just from this little movement, the world is already spinning before his eyes, and Julius has to admit that he’s right.
‘’Let me take you to our temple’’, Morn continues. ‘’I could walk back and arrange a horse, and you can stay to recover as long as you –‘’
‘’I can’t’’
‘’Then at least share a meal with me’’
He cannot argue against that.
Julius watches the priest as he builds a fire and prepares a stew with some mushrooms and dried meats from his bag. He hums in himself as he works.
When a lovely smell starts rising from the pot, Morn fills a bowl and hands it to Julius, before filling a second one and sitting down next to him.
They eat in silence for a while. Morn hands him a waterskin, and he takes a sip. The refreshing water makes him notice how thirsty he is, and he gulps it down in just a few seconds.
Morn just gives him an approving smile and adds a second scoop of stew to his bowl.
‘’If you don’t want to go to the temple, where do you want to go?’’
Julius needs a while to consider that question. He needs to get far away from Kirchhall, that he knows. But the drive to move he feels is not just a desire to flee. He is not sure where Moradin wants him to go, but he will find out on the way.
‘’I will go to the nearest village to get supplies. And then I will travel.’’
‘’You are in no condition to travel.’’
‘’I have to.’’
Julius sees Morn hesitate, as if he wants to say something. But he apparently decides against it, because he closes his mouth and starts cleaning the used bowls and pot.
He is humming again, and the soothing noise combined with the filling meal and the warmth of the fire makes Julius feel pleasantly drowsy. He will only close his eyes for a moment, he thinks, and then he will make plans.
But he drifts away into sleep before a minute has passed.
When he wakes up, it’s dark and Morn is gone.
The fire is not burning anymore, but the embers still glow. He must have slept for hours. Disoriented, Julius looks around to find the cleric, regretting he didn’t get the chance to properly thank him when he realizes he’s really not there anymore.
But there is a bag in the spot where he had been sitting at the fire.
It’s not the same that Morn had carried with him, Julius notes when he grabs it to take a closer look. Confused, he opens it.
Inside are travel rations, a waterskin, a mess kit and tinderbox, a bedroll, and a simple brown shirt, all neatly ordered and looking unused. On the bottom of the bag is a folded piece of paper.
Julius unfolds it, and a small object falls out.
‘’This is for you. Take care. May Helms blessings be upon you. – Morn’’, he reads to himself.
He feels around on the ground where the object fell, and his hands find a little cube wrapped in cloth. He is unsure what it is, before the familiar scent reaches his nosdrils.
Leather soap.
He ignores the trembling of his lip and the hitch in his breath, does not take a moment to consider what these gifts make him feel.
Instead, he pockets the soap and coils the whip, before attaching it to his belt. He puts on the gifted shirt and whispers a prayer to Moradin, and then one to Helm for good measure, and gets up.
He will have to walk short distances. Rest often, to allow hismelf to recover.
But this wrecked body can still carry him. He is standing. He’s walking. And he’s on his way