43 Appalling Misfortune

(A/N: Back to Ioann.)

I awoke with bleary eyes and disheveled, oily hair. My skin felt rubbed raw, greasy and itchy, and my muscles were tender, seeming swollen and inflamed. My neck, armpits, and knees - all of my joints - were alike in one way: they were chafed to the utmost. Even my cubital fossa felt more abraded and prickling than the rest of my body, somehow.

The bed and cloth I'd been placed in were of most impeccable craftsmanship and quality. Yet still, my back made them feel made of rusty, bent nails and coarse farmer's hay.

And the crowning sensation? The phantom pains of my amputated left arm.

It would be impossibly absurd to forget about it, or to only notice my condition after an attempt to utilize the extremity. Unabated agony had become a forgotten sensation to me, courtesy of the dulling effects of Holy Energy augmentations, and now, pervading pulses of misery coursed throughout the former appendage. There was nothing to be done about it - how could I enhance and dull or heal something that was not there?

Every one of these loathsome impressions compounded together to form a notion of being a stranger within my own body, that my own flesh and bone were rejecting my presence. I detested the sensation.

My remaining hand clenched into a weak fist, and my muscles tensed, but I kept my features schooled.

My future was not looking overly fortunate. Cripples have no use in combat organizations. But I would rise, if God wills it.

Hope imbued with a tinge of faith was all I had left, after all.

My body mocked me through these conflicting thoughts, however. I still felt as if I could still employ my left arm. In my mind, I could feel the ghostly curling of fingers, the tightening of biceps, the tautness of forearm musculature, the discomfort of rough hairs rubbing against my white blanket. It was abhorrent and viciously phantasmal, with no remedy.

I even tried to bring the apparition up to rub at the raw space beneath my eyes - and also to sweep back the oily hair hanging across my forehead. I failed, of course, and had to use the appendage that actually existed to do so.

On that note, there was usually only one curl of hair falling from my scalp. Now, all of my bangs were matted onto my skull from grease and sweat. I would need a haircut.

However, the sensations of my body fell to the wayside, relative to the sheer weight my psyche now boasted. Through the pain of my arm, through the discomfort of my flesh, through the perception of my surroundings, what stuck out to me most was the feeling of my amplified mind. It felt like a limb, in the same lucidity as my remaining arm, commanding more presence to me and somehow drowning out my aches. I suspect it was the only reason I was able to ignore yet still feel the nonstop searing pains of my left arm, as if it were still alight from that damned spell of Arthur's.

Such a strange thing to think, that one's psyche has more direct presence than one's own bone and sinew. I used my newfound intellect - the source of which I already suspected but would have to wait to be examined - to take in my surroundings.

It was nothing special. By now, the garish embellishments of the church had lost their luster, to me. Resisting impassivity was difficult when bombarded with so much luxuriousness, and so I embraced it.

As always, the ceiling above me was of exquisite marble, with gold highlights curving through alabaster to form an elegant tapestry. The walls were plain white. I ignored it all. Sitting up, I saw they were adorned with paintings of myriad styles and themes, though all Christian in nature, in frames of even more opulent materials.

I had become beyond benumbed to it all, at this point. Even beyond that, actually, the seeds of a revulsion to such gaudiness were beginning to sprout in my heart. It was much too ostentatious, offending me in its very practice.

Didn't Christ similarly live in squalor, raised to a princely position against his will? Day by day, I notice how there seem to be many similarities between the two of us.

I thought back to my humble living and my ramshackle farmshed of a church and home, then to my contentment at rising above my station to live in glory, begetting such importance to reside in a castle of the house of God.

My lip curled. That reaction was disagreeable and short-sighted. Such flamboyant pageantry is suffocating and blinding. There was only a distasteful arrogance in it all, a disregard for the things of import in life. And the exact nature of those things?

I would not know. I am only beginning to grasp the barest inklings of their presence.

Looking at the painting across my bed with my superior eyesight, I could clearly see the art, along with its plaque.

''Fallen Angel' by Alexandre Cabanel. It depicts a formerly blessed creature plummeting in a downward flurry, descending from a Heavenly place to land in a desolate outcropping. He is banished, outcast, abandoned, and simmering with a reticent wrath that tenses his every muscle and ignites a seething madness in the monster's heart. This is a famous rendition of the forsaken Lucifer.' [1]

Uncaring of the art itself, I contemplated the description on the plaque, eyes flickering back to my nonexistent arm.

The Lord will give his signs, I suppose.

I wrenched my gaze away to gaze at the curtain to my right, presumably separating me from another bed. I ignored it. The space itself was not large, nor was it small, but the curtain did encroach on the available space in my perception.

A man's voice echoed from beyond it, speaking to me in what I felt to be a despondent tone.

Such a strange sensation, to feel the tone of his voice and know the meaning of his words yet not hear anything. My eyes minutely widened when I noticed that the noises outside were muffled and distorted, as if I were underwater.

I ignored it, for I could have no distractions. My brain was unshackled, but for the fine details of words, it was as if they were bogged down in the morass of my mind. Their general sentiments and truths were captured, but the specific diction and such? Lost to me.

I presumed my psyche hadn't yet fully recovered from the addition of another Sacred Gear. He spoke again, expressing confusion at the lack of a response.

"Quiet yourself, kindly," I responded, scratching at my left arm's stump with a furrowed brow. I could hear my own voice, at least.

He quieted himself. I sat there, contemplating my current state, reviewing what had occurred, scheming what my vision of the future would hold, reflecting on my mistakes and triumphs, praying.

It was not a comfortable affair. For thirty minutes, dread hovered just outside my sphere of awareness, enveloping, like a parasite, one particular fact that was relevant to every one of my thought trains:

I was an amputee, something not easily fixed. Any methods I could conceive of were unlikely to work.

A boost in one's healing processes via consuming healing potions was unable to fully regrow a major appendage, and trying to force that method has a significant risk of cancer.

Experienced, skilled Light Magicians are capable of reattaching intact limbs, but I did not have that pathway available, did I?

Finally, Magic could potentially work, but it requires intensive anatomical knowledge, large Mana reserves, and affinity with the Dark Element, the only Element capable of nonconsensually affecting other beings without the requirement of monstrous willpower - and I doubt anyone with meets all of those requirements, especially the one relating to effectively dominating my being with their sheer willpower.

For Basic Magic, to magically affect a living being, one needs to win a battle of wills against the target. It applies for every spell - one must enforce one's will on the area the spell will take effect in - but it becomes much more complicated when done on something with a mind to fight back. Without this limitation, Magicians would simply cast brain explosion spells to win their battles. There is a separate, though similar in end consequence, restraint for Advanced Magic that I do not know the specifics of.

It is all irrelevant, though, and entirely useless to think of. True Magicians are scorned heretics, forbidden in the Church and mostly incapable of regrowing limbs regardless, and Basic Magicians are insufficient for such major injuries, no matter how it is theoretically possible.

In summary, no method would bring my arm back, and so I needed to proceed with the assumption that I would remain a cripple. Thus, my perturbation.

What was my current state? Debilitatingly maimed. What had occurred? My foolishness had cost me an arm. What did my future hold? Trying to push past a horrific disability. What did I pray for?...

Providence, I suppose.

I sat. I waited. I schemed. I lightly experimented with my improved mind. I hoped for the existence of an advanced prosthetic. I didn't dare to summon my Sacred Gear, lest I find that its capabilities had been similarly crippled by the loss of a hand to wield a glove. I halted my prayers.

I recognized that this would be my endeavor to overcome, in a way akin to Job's tribulations, for why else would God curse me so? [2]

I jumped when the door flew open, lost in my thoughts as I was, revealing Priska and Cristaldi. The former began marching over to me, the latter over to the other side of the curtain.

The girl stopped at the side of my bed, sweeping her hair back and appraising me with blue eyes that had become less icy, thin brows furrowed. She shifted to put her hand on her hip and sighed before speaking.

Her mouth moved, but there was a metaphorical cotton stuck in my ears. The exact details of her words escaped me, in the same manner as with the man before. While nothing in my state of mind was conducive to holding a fully functional conversation on my end, detached and troubled as I was, I should have been able to hear her exact words, their inflections, and everything in between.

Rather, I heard nothing, and it slightly distressed me. The lingering fuzziness of my mind did not affect my personal thoughts, but everything external was processed in the same way as with the man's words from before. I only understood her statements' general sentiments and truths, through my fugue: expressing uncharacteristic, apprehensive worry over my condition, questioning me about what occurred during my mission, and regaling me with the details of her own on the Vampire front.

I responded to the first with silence, the second with tepid, vague stories of my battles and former comrades - all the better, as ambiguousness now means I can freely manipulate the story later, in a more balanced state of mind.

I took interest in the final matter for obvious reasons, ending up asking questions and engaging and such - it was relevant, substantial information, and so I focused as best I could on ascertaining any truths. Out of all of them, it lasted the longest as a conversation topic. Stories of vanquishing crowds of Ghouls in a city, of planning a definitive offensive, of storming an iconic monument of vampirism, of great battles and of a mass of shadows shattering a mountain - all of them were embedded into my mind.

And not in a positive way, more so in a manner akin to thin yet piercingly sharp knives.

To her, it was wondrous and exhilarating, a significant moment in her career and life which had catapulted her to Priest-rank. That was reflected in her atypical exuberance when speaking, with a rare smile on her face.

"It was quite incredible, don't you think?" she rhetorically asked, brushing her blonde hair away from her face with black-gloved hands.

My brow remained furrowed, but otherwise, I kept my features schooled. Only my fist, hidden beneath my blanket, revealed anything. My fingers curled up into my palm, and I squeezed so hard my knuckles turned white. The same feeling, cruelly, was felt from my nonexistent left hand.

Oh, her story was gripping and arrestive for me, but not in such a vivacious manner. It only left me with a weight in my stomach, accompanied by a cold flame smoldering in my breast, of envy and rage.

I missed my chance, unacceptably so.

All of these charades, all of this training, all of my effort and plans - ruined, all for nothing, now. The entire purpose of this all was to rise to glory, and where am I?

Sunken to the sewers, having misstepped and fallen, completely floundering just days before what would have been a pivotal step on my path. The amount of Holy Men involved in the operation could literally be counted on one hand. I could have been one of them - I would have been one of them, if her words are to be believed, if I'd have kept myself in a salvageable condition after my battles. And yet, I wasn't. While I was crippled in a hospital bed, others had taken part in a historic event, reclaiming the Holy Nail of Christ from a demon's hoard.

Who is to blame? Arthur, or I? And how can this be God's plan?

The rest of the conversation - actually, come to think, all of it - was dull. There was no purpose in engaging; only the information of the Vampire Eradication, as it was being colloquially called, was useful, but I'd have learned such particulars regardless. Further, any halfhearted enjoyment I would have gained from heckling my partner had been lost with her apparent personal growth in the time we'd not seen each other, and my current state was not wont to interaction in the first place. Sealing the deal was the fact that I had no true emotional bonds with her.

If what one speaks of is uninteresting, and if one is, oneself, uninteresting, what am I intended to think?

The silver lining of my circumstances was that I'd likely be free of Priska in the near future, if my vaguely remembered instances of her complaints were correct. She said this was her last break before a long deployment, as the Church was now focusing all of their effort in battling the Devils in Germany. The consummation of a front had freed up many resources.

"However, Ioann, I must ask," Priska glanced at my arm, "will you be able to fulfill your duties in the future?"

I frowned and sent her out at that, citing back pains. Cristaldi had already left, by then, and I was left in blissful silence and with poisonous thoughts.

I suppose the devil truly does sink his claws into an idle mind.

…

An hour or two later, after my plans had been consolidated and my state of mind had settled, the door to our ward opened again. This time it did so in a far more sedate fashion, relative to how Priska slammed it into the wall. Two men in white pulpit robes, embroidered with two golden columns and two golden crosses, entered, one with olive skin, crow's feet around his eyes, and a grizzled black beard. The other contrasted his partner's appearance with distinctly Nordic features and high cheekbones, though he was clean-shaven. The former ventured to the other side of the curtain, and the latter calmly walked over to the side of my bed, where he stood, arms clasped behind his back, and met eyes with me.

"Greetings, Exorcist Ioann. I am Bishop Axel, and I'm afraid our meeting today will take a bit of a while. Would you like to come to my office to discuss recent matters that concern you?" he asked, fully neutral. The bishop was not easygoing and casual, and nor was he stony and stern. "It is fine if you are not feeling up to it. We may either remain here to do it, out of consideration for your recently healed injuries, or postpone this to tomorrow, but no further."

It seemed that my mental disturbance had mostly worn off with rest.

I nodded and drew my blankets off myself, revealing nondescript deacon robes, albeit ones lacking a left sleeve. They had tailored the outfit to account for my condition, seemingly. "I am willing."

Sweeping my legs to the side and standing up for the first time in, seemingly, days, a few places across my body flared in slight pain, still very sore. I ignored it, just as I continued to pay no heed to the unrelenting burning of my left arm, strapping on the thick franciscan sandals that had been placed beneath my bed. I took a breath to steady myself, turned to the friendly bishop, nodded again, and motioned for him to lead the way.

While leaving, I glanced back out of curiosity, seeing 'Abraham Van Helsing' placed as a patient card at the head of the bed on the other side of the room's curtain. A man lacking legs was shuffling himself into a wheelchair, refusing assistance from the other bishop.

It seems that he had been taken in as a guest of sorts by the Church after his Hellsing Organization was obliterated. I reflected on how I told the Lightbearer and Godfather of Vampire Slayers to quiet himself.

Well, if he lost so severely, I have no reason to respect him.

I turned and walked out.

…

The man's office was nearby. It only took a few minutes to reach it, and now I sat in a room modeled after an oversized confessional. It was not deserving of description, other than that it somehow made lacquered wood seem distasteful.

"So, Exorcist Ioann," the bishop began, shuffling his chair forward and placing his arms on his desk, "we have a few things to discuss. It would be best to begin with documenting your report on your mission."

He pulled out a few papers and a pen.

"Out of consideration for your current state, I will do it for you. Simply inform me of any relevant matters that occurred."

"I'll begin with an overview," I said, leaning into my chair and scratching at my chin, going on to regale him with a heavily censored version of events.

I had planned for this. It was a simple matter, to review everything that had happened and excise anything that could potentially cause doubts in my story. Include what is prudent, and purge what is not.

It wasn't as if there were anyone to contest my statements.

"I see. So, to clarify, when General Ruskovsky and a few of his close confidants were discovered outside of the encampment by a group of Russian troops in transfer, it was because Exorcist Dubravka, may she rest in peace," the bishop made the sign of the cross, "had protected and brought them to safety?"

"It is as you say. Her unique constitution allowed her to proceed through our group training session with no exhaustion, and so she volunteered for the task of guarding the man, happening to do so the day of the attack. She linked up with us afterward."

The bishop made the sign of the cross another time, looking slightly more disturbed than prior. I had included all of the grisly details so as to inflate the report with meaningless drivel, somewhat obscuring the core particularities of the events.

It was likely pointless and overly paranoid, but espousing the details felt somewhat therapeutic. I allowed myself to indulge in the pastime.

"Such a terrible event," he shook his head. "I grieve for your comrades. They, along with you, will be in my prayers tonight, though I must also congratulate your efforts."

I nodded, not finding his platitudes to be of particular import to me.

"Ahem," he cleared his throat. "To move on from that unfortunate affair, we have three additional things to tackle. None of them are… pleasant. I will begin with a piece of news that is a week or so old."

"And that is?"

He returned himself to neutrality, stating loudly and clearly, "Your mentor has passed on from a brain aneurysm."

I'm sure my face was filled with surprise. I hadn't expected Wojchiech to die, as last I saw him he was simply unconscious, but I suppose it made sense.

When we were in the mountains and faced a Devil army led by Rudiger Rozenkreutz, the enemy assault was preceded by attacks from our Sixth Seal artillery gun. Wojchiech used divination magic to direct our shots from the long distance and was mentally attacked by a Magician Devil who'd noticed his attempts, using the connection against him.

I suppose he went into a coma and then suffered from a fatal injury.

Leaning forward and placing my chin on top of my fist, I contemplated what this meant for me.

Wojchiech and I never had a particularly strong emotional connection. To me, he was a valuable source of munitions, training and information. To him, I was likely a disciple that he saw no issue in mentoring, given our mostly shared priorities. To each other, we were comrades and brothers of the faith who were similar in a few ways.

Nothing more, nothing less.

I even held disdain for him in a few ways. His proclivity for self-flagellation showcased his faith, I suppose, but it was demeaning and contrary to biblical sensibilities. Our bodies are temples, and it is heretical to sully the house of the Holy Spirit. Leviticus, chapter nineteen, verse twenty eight explicitly forbids lacerating oneself, even.

He was radical in areas that were unnecessary and lacking in areas of import. Similarly, his flames of righteous anger never flared quite so bright as mine.

And finally, I hold no respect for Polish people. Therefore, unless his warehouse is to be cleaned out rather than be relinquished to me… I suppose his demise is irrelevant. He has already taught me everything he knows, and from now, I must only further my already existing skills.

"I hope I receive his former possessions, notably his warehouse?" I asked the bishop, having worked through my thoughts in a few seconds.

"Making such a request is trivial; you needn't worry," he reassured me. "I will do it myself, and I am glad you are keeping yourself in check. More prayers to you."

I nodded. "What else is there?"

"Well," he hesitated a second before steadying himself, "with your impairment," he pointedly glanced at my left arm, or the lack thereof, "I'm afraid you cannot continue on the path of an Exorcist, and we will have to discuss your future occupation. However, there is no reason to despair, as we have alternative - "

"No," I denied, shaking my head. "I will remain an Exorcist. It is my duty."

"This is God's plan for you," he insisted, sighing. "You must understand why we cannot, in good conscience, allow disabled combatants into the field. It is why the Clerical Koinonia [3] is instituted for retired and incapacitated Exorcists in the Church."

"That is not my fate, and only yellow-bellied nobodies would consign themselves to it. I will not be joining an organization of lamed cowards," I asserted, heat beginning to enter my tone. It would only increase if he maintained this stance.

When Exorcists are rendered unable to continue their duties, the Church still has alternative careers for them to continue serving the Lord, albeit in different ways. The Order of the Clerical Koinonia are the ones to staff manors, trim hedges, transport items, clean hallways, wash and distribute the robes of us clergy, et cetera. They are the minor gears that allow for the smooth function of the Church as a well-oiled machine.

They are useless grunts.

"If you would allow me to be frank…" he twirled a pen in his fingers, "your prospects as an Exorcist are nonexistent. Please, you must consider other occupations, and luckily, there has been a recommended one for you. It has been strongly stated that I should refer you to become an alchemist or enchanter, of sorts. Your ability to manipulate and imbue things with Holy Energy is invaluable and would allow for our forces to be much better equipped than with their Light Swords. Think about it; you would mass produce Holy Swords."

I scoffed. The only reason I could restrain my temper in the face of this foolishness was because I had predicted this sort of discussion, desensitizing myself with hours spent mulling over my predicament. My rage over this topic had abated.

"Weak, bastardized ones with no special ability. It is better, but no. I will not entertain becoming a lowly scullion, alchemist or scribe. How can I return to my duties?"

He hummed, thinking for a second. "Assuming it is allowed, our top alchemists could likely commission you a good prosthetic, if it is made out of Mythril. It would also allow for use of your Sacred Gear, considering the metal's properties… but it is a supernatural element only mined from the Underworld, and we are at war with the Devils, just as we have always been. We are currently unable to acquire more, and our stock has been used in preparation for the war effort. We would only be able to do so after the war is over."

The bishop looked through a few papers on the side, seemingly trying to determine something he wasn't sure of. He turned back to me.

"If you act as an alchemist for the duration of the war, we will front the cost of a Mythril prosthetic arm afterwards."

I shook my head. "You can't smelt down what you have already used?"

He shrugged, helpless. "Mythril is rare and severely costly, even in the Underworld, where it is mined. They do not trade for it, especially not to us, unless in strange circumstances, thus making it even more scarce on Earth. What we have gained of it throughout the centuries has largely been pilfered from slain Devils, and treating it to remove the taint of Demonic Energy has a not insignificant chance of corroding the metal, in a way similar to thermal shock. All of this is to say, there are not many tools of Mythril in the hands of Exorcists, and they all belong to old families as heirlooms or as weapons for the most powerful, neither of which can we confiscate in good conscience."

"And what of the lance of Mythril I had with me? I remember mentioning it in my report. I vanquished a Devil with a large amount."

"I would not know, but I will make a request for the information. But we have touched upon the last two topics: discussing your future and scheduling a meeting with the Clerical Koinonia, though the latter will not be needed, should you agree to my proposal. As said, if you act as an alchemist for the duration of the war, we will front the cost of a Mythril prosthetic arm afterwards. This is an extremely fortuitous deal for you," he insisted. "What are your thoughts?"

I inwardly sneered at the man. What sort of Chosen One toils away as a filthy blacksmith, blessing weapons with Holy Energy? Every prophet has brought forth great change and wisdom, all having major feats to their names.

I will fight in this war. That is my destiny. If even that impious girl, Priska, outdoes me, for what purpose is my faith?

"I request a week to come to terms with all of this," I stated. "The death of my mentor, the fact that I failed to participate in the Vampire Eradication, my debilitation - it is hard to come to a final decision so quickly."

But my scheme requires slight misdirection on my part.

"Of course," the bishop nodded. "In the meantime, I will refer a member of the Clerical Koinonia to meet with you and judge your mental state. Cardinal Calliope [4] usually prefers to do it himself, but he has been preoccupied as of late. It is a typical procedure, you see. I can escort you back to your bed, if you wish," he said, making a move to stand up.

"I will not be going there, so you may sit down. I will be going through my mentor's old possessions."

"Ah. I see." He sat back down. "You do not have to sign out or anything such; the room is only temporary, anyway. Please be on your way."

I nodded and left, not looking back.

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[1] This is a real painting. You've probably even seen it somewhere - just look it up. 'Fallen Angel by Alexandre Cabanel'.

[2] The Book of Job concerns Job, a prosperous man of outstanding piety. Satan acts as an agent provocateur to test whether or not Job's piety is rooted only in his prosperity, but when faced with the appalling loss of his possessions, his children, and finally his own health, Job still refuses to curse God. In reward for his stalwart faith through his tribulations, God blesses him with evermore than he previously had.

[3] 'Koinonia' is a transliterated form of the Greek word κοινωνία, which refers to concepts such as fellowship, joint participation, partnership, the share which one has in anything, a gift jointly contributed, a collection, a contribution, etc. It also relates to the word 'communion', but I didn't want to use 'Holy Communion' as a name for the organization, since that's an entirely separate thing (the Christian rite called the Eucharist). I originally called it the 'Assistive Koinonia', but that sounds too basic and not of direct relation to Christianity, so I switched it for 'clerical'.

[4] If you have the memory of a genius, you'll remember that when Jacques (somewhat impatient/rude doctor guy with a suit from early on) saw Alessandro's state (he lost his arm when MC's Sacred Gear went crazy in the beginning chapters), he referred him to visit 'old man Calliope'. I'm following up on that now, as you can see… only took way too long.

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The MC would have more of an impact on the war effort (presumably) by making weapons superior to Light Swords in a fraction of the time. Take that as you will with the Church's motivations.

Anyway, sorry. Almost three weeks for this nothingburger of a chapter is downright insulting, but I started working on it way later than I should've. My update speed will probably slow down soon in these next few weeks, anyway, so just be prepared for that. Although, I'll still try as hard as I can not to reach three weeks for chapters that aren't even that long or worth the wait (seriously, this was atrocious).

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