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I can't quite pinpoint when I first started dreaming of Chernobog. All I know is that when I was young, I woke up one night tangled in my bedsheets—the scent of salt on my skin and a brackish taste in my mouth.
The first time, it was disgusting to me; I rinsed my mouth more times than I could count. But the taste never went away.
How many years ago was this? How old was I? It's impossible to say. All I know is that when I replay that memory, the taste of salt is sweet to me now.
There is no "before."
There can't have been.
From that night onward, I was destined to live according to His will.
There is a knock at the door of my study.
"Hello, Vicar," I say.
Vicar Efferson steps into the room, looking bewildered. "Your Excellency. How did you know it was me?"
"Chernobog's blessing," I lie. The truth is that I recognized the knock. The Vicar always knocks three times in succession—rap tap tap, like he's following an old superstition. "What do you need?"
The Vicar lowers his head when I mention Chernobog. I watch his lips move in silent prayer, and smile.
Unlike the Vicar's, my lips are dry and chapped from salt. Now that I think about it, was there ever a time that they weren't? There must have been. (I know because I had a half-dream, once, of something warm against my lips. A kiss, although from whom, I do not know. They were not chapped then.)
And yet.
"What do you need?" I repeat.
The Vicar picks his head up. He looks me in the eye, and says, "I am here to confess."
"Mm?" I school my expression into something neutral, and steeple my fingers. "Speak."
"Earlier, I whipped someone to death," the Vicar tells me. "He was not confessing, so I thought he…" The Vicar trails off, then swallows. "It's those new whips, sir. The ones modified with glass."
"Hm," I say. "Well, so long as it was in Chernobog's name."
"Lord Chernobog's name…" The Vicar shakes his head. "No. After his death, I found that the reason he did not confess was because he had no crime to confess to."
I raise both eyebrows. "Then, how did he end up in your hands?"
"Apparently, he had been framed." The Vicar tugs at one of his sleeves, and looks away.
I lean forward. "Do you know which house?"
The Vicar opens his mouth. For a moment, I see it: a lie forming on his tongue. But then he swallows it, and says, "Mine," and I realize now why he came to me to confess.
"What is the sinner's name?" I ask him.
He gives me her name.
"Thank you, Vicar," I say. "You may go."
The Vicar doesn't go.
I get up from my desk, and place a hand on his shoulder. Then I lean in, and whisper: "Worry not, Vicar. I will make it painless for her."
The Vicar nods once. Then he nods again, more quickly this time. He reaches up, and places a hand over my hand—as if trying to keep it on his shoulder.
As if I am securing him, somehow.
Deciding he's held my hand for long enough, I try to pull away. But the Vicar takes my wrist, and asks if he can stay for just a little while longer.
I shake my head and tell him no. I have to meet with the Inquisitor soon—and he has an appointment.
Vicar Efferson's face darkens as he removes his hand. The air around him when he leaves is heavier after his confession than it was before—and I realize, suddenly, that I'd neglected to tell him that he was absolved; that all would be well.
And then he's gone, and I feel something wet on my hand where he touched it. I look down at my fingers, and find them stained red.
I am a fool. I had been watching his mouth so intently, I hadn't seen the blood on his hands at all. How long has it been since the whipping, for the blood to still be wet? I wonder.
Perhaps this is an act of self-flagellation…
Or perhaps it is simply a miracle.
I wipe my hands with a washcloth, and set the matter aside. The Vicar will return, just like he always has.
That night, I dream of the sea.
In my dream, I am standing in the shallows. I am not alone: someone else is standing with me. An ally; a friend; or perhaps something more than that. Perhaps.
The person places their hand on my shoulder, and whispers, "I have something to confess." But when I ask them for details, they fall conspicuously silent.
And then the ground beneath me collapses, and I sink into the depths. I twist my body around to see through the murk—look up, up, up—and see a silhouette standing in the shallows, looking down at me. It is Vicar Efferson, younger by many years. I am younger in this dream, too, aren't I? I touch my lips to confirm. Yes.
It did not happen exactly like this, though—did it? I wonder. I knew most of them when I was younger; that much is true. And a vicar works with a priest, so perhaps we were once close.
But I do not recall drowning in front of the Vicar. (Now that I think about it, I do not recall most things that happened before I was recognized as High Priest.)
.
.
.
Gradually, everything grows dark. The dream is swept away—and His voice replaces it.
I relax.
Encourage Penitence, Chernobog tells me. The Teller of Lies…
"Yes," I whisper, as my lips desiccate. "As you wish, my Lord."
I wake with a smile on my face, and seawater on my pillow.
Three months pass. I kill the sinner from House Efferson as cleanly as possible.
Although my back is turned to him, I know that the Vicar looks away at the last moment, as the blood spatters the altar.
I will speak to him later, when he comes to confess. He always does.
I glance at the bandages on Vicar Efferson's fingers, and nod approvingly. Penitence for yet another unnecessary death. It is good to see the head of House Efferson taking responsibility…
And yet, something about the Vicar's behavior disturbs me.
"This seems to be happening an awful lot, these days," I say dryly.
"Yes," says the Vicar.
"I did not realize you took such personal interest in these matters," I say, my chin propped up on one hand. With the other, I idly stir a cup of tea with a little spoon. "You don't have to whip every sinner personally. Surely, as the head of house, you have other duties?"
"Mm." The Vicar nods, and falls silent.
I wait.
Finally, he says: "Do you remember how it used to be?"
"Of course," I say. "You are referring to the old whips." But to change them back risks encouraging the impenitent, Vicar. You know this all too well.
"I was not— I am not referring to the whips," he says, and lifts his own cup. His hand trembles. He must be in immense pain—but he still manages to smile.
How admirable.
.
.
.
I stop stirring. I let go; the spoon makes a gentle click sound against the inside of my cup. I have been dreaming more lately: dreams unconnected from Chernobog. Dreams of past sins.
Surely, Chernobog is testing me. The Vicar and I could never have had that kind of relationship.
"If it isn't the whips"—I pick up my spoon again, feigning ignorance—"then what could you possibly be referring to?"
The Vicar opens his mouth. For a moment, I see it: a lie forming on his tongue. But then he swallows it, and says, "It doesn't matter."
I smile indulgently, and point my spoon at him. "Worry not," I tell him. "All is forgiven."
"But, Your Excellency, I never said anything."
"No need," I tell him. "I know which sin you speak of. In Chernobog's eyes, such things are of little consequence—and you have repented, haven't you?"
The Vicar's face falls. Then he smiles, and says: "Thank you."
…
As he leaves, I try to remember when I last referred to the Vicar by his given name.
After a moment, I let it go. It is an unimportant detail.