Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There have been rumors about hidden rooms full of treasure in the ruins, and of course the heir can’t pass up on such an opportunity, not when the town renovations are depleting all their money, which means that they’ll send a group to search for it.

Said party will be made of Dismas and Aubrey, the obvious choices, then Paracelsus and Bigby, in case they might end up battling.

At least, Bigby can’t help but to think, he’s lucky to be in a party that doesn’t outright hate his guts, which isn’t always the case – though maybe he’s being unfair to the others, as the relationship between them has been improving.

As the ragtag group sets out for the ruins, he hopes that everything goes smoothly – he’s been feeling quite weird lately, and he fears that having to turn into the thing will only worsen it.

What a fool he is.

He should’ve known hoping is useless.

Everything was going quite well – they’ve found gems and enough supplies to last at least for a couple of weeks – when they get ambushed by some cultists as they’re making their way out of the ruins.

At first, Bigby’s tried his help to help without transforming, which is something he’s gotten pretty good at; the less he transforms, he’s found out, the friendlier the others are to him, and the better their expedition goes.

He swings his chains at the cultists, trying to give Dismas and Aubrey a chance to finish them off by stunning them; it’s a tactic that they’ve used already, but that day something’s off… something…

It’s the madman.

It’s his words.

He… knows them.

It’s… It’s what he’s been hearing these past few days!

It’s what has kept him up at night!

He can’t--! He won’t--!

A howl erupts from his mouth, uncontrolled, shaking him – and the others – to his very core.

Despite his willpower, he can’t hold back the beast within.

As rage takes over his entire being, everything becomes black.

Until…

In the midst of all the darkness and fury, he feels something.

Two hands, cupping his snout.

A voice, calling his name…

“Bigby…”

He recognizes him.

By the time he arrived to the Hamlet, Bigby had gotten used to isolation, whether it was self-imposed or not. He expected things to remain pretty much the same, but no, he was surprised: by sheer luck – because that’s the only explanation he can give, still now – he’s found companions willing to be in his presence, and even… friends. Yes, the notion seems absurd, but it’s true: the people here accept him for what he is – more or less, but it’s still more than he could’ve imagined.

That’s not all, however, because in the Hamlet, Bigby has also found… well, it’s hard to describe.

He’s not really sure what to make of his and Dismas’ relationship: sure, they know each other pretty well by now – intimately, one would say – but they haven’t really talked about it.

Maybe it’s because they don’t want to add something else to the pile of all the things they already have to deal with, maybe it’s because… if they give a name to it, it’ll only hurt more when they lose it.

Being this pessimist isn’t a great idea in the Hamlet: without at least a bit of hope, you don’t get far. Unfortunately, both Bigby and Dismas are quite the pragmatists, who don’t like to lose themselves to useless idealism, so cross that idea.

They keep each other company at night, they help each other stay sane, they warm each other’s bed.

It’s a good arrangement, something that neither of them ever thought they were going to experience, not with the turn their lives have taken.

It’s unexpected, but also nice, maybe nicer than both of them deserve, but who are they to complain?

Dismas

He can hear Dismas speaking to him.

His voice sounds so soft, so sweet.

He doesn’t think he’s ever heard him like this.

“That’s it… That’s a good boy,” his voice echoes in Bigby’s mind, and finally, he can see him. They’re so close, with Bigby hunched over the thief, towering over him in what must be a frightening spectacle, but Dismas doesn’t look afraid.

He’s holding his snarling snout between his hands, touch softer than it should be, just like his gaze.

With such a sight in front of him, Bigby’s rage begins to melt, and he manages to gain more and more control over himself, as demonstrated by the way his body gradually changes shape, until he looks more like a man again, than the beast.

The first thing he does, after coming to his senses, is to anxiously look around, taking in the damage he must’ve caused… except everyone seems more or less fine, definitely shaken, but unharmed.

Well, Dismas sports a cut on his arm that he likely got while approaching him, which makes Bigby feel incredible guilty; hurting his companions is the last thing he wants to do, Dismas least of them all: after all the love he’s given him, this is how he repays him? By hurting him?

He truly is a monster…

“Dismas,” he starts, then, voice rough and broken, “I’m so…”

Dismas must’ve noticed his distress, because he quickly – but also gently – shushes him.

“Ssssh, relax, Bigby. If you hadn’t transformed, we would all be dead.”

“R-Really?”

Dismas nods, smiling with a warmth that Bigby feels he doesn’t deserve. He knows he’s trying to reassure him, but all he can think about is that he’s lost control once again.

… Though he’s also so relieved that everybody’s fine, he can’t deny that.

“You arm…” he mutters, then, a trembling hand slowly creeping to Dismas’ shoulder. “… Did I do that?”

The coat’s sleeve is ripped, and blood has flown plenty from the wound. Even just looking at it makes Bigby sick to his stomach.

“It’s worse than it looks. Nothing the good doctor can’t fix, right?” Dismas reassures him, turning then to Paracelsus, who simply nods, motioning for him to come closer so she can dress the wound with some bandages.

It isn’t much, but it’s the best they can afford in these circumstances. Once they get back to the Hamlet, he’ll get some proper care.

Speaking of which…

Dismas signals for them to move on.

“C’mon, the faster we leave this place, the better.”

They fall in sequence, making their way out of the ruins in complete silence, not wanting to get caught in an ambush again.

Bigby wants to speak to Dismas so bad, but he knows that now it’s not the right time to do so. He’ll have to wait until they’re safe.

In the meantime, he keeps telling himself that what matters is that they’re all safe, and that he didn’t gravely injure anybody that wasn’t their enemy, but that doesn’t make him feel less guilty.

At least they’re almost at the Hamlet… Huh?

He almost screams – he’s way too tense now – when somebody grabs his hand, relaxing only when he notices that it’s Dismas.

“You scared me…” Bigby mutters, averting his gaze, though he can’t stop a small smile from creeping up on his face.

Dismas chuckles, gently squeezing Bigby’s hand. “Sorry, sorry…”

If he was in pain, he would be showing it, but with the way he acts, he seems fine, so maybe when he said that it wasn’t that bad, he wasn’t lying. Even with all the guilt he carries, he can’t argue with this logic.

Bigby gives him a squeeze back, finally able to glance at him again.

There’s a lot he wants to say, but what he settles on is:

“I’m glad you’re safe.”

“I have you to thank for that, you know that, right?” Dismas replies. “You did well.”

Bigby sighs. It’s a hard reality to accept, both of them know it: you don’t arrive to the Hamlet if you’re not familiar with failure, vice, guilty, or all three of them. This is not to say that things aren’t slowly getting better, and although Bigby still hasn’t recovered entirely from this episode – both physically and mentally – he still smirks.

“Buy me something at the tavern and we’ll be square,” he says. Usually, that’s Dismas’ line, but today he felt like stealing it, which comes as a surprise, but Dismas laughs nonetheless.

“You’re learning!” he exclaims. “Alright, I’ll get you something nice as thanks.”

They will mess up again, Bigby will mess up again. It’s part of humans’ nature, after all, something they can’t run from, something they can’t change.

In that moment, however, he realizes something: as banal as it may sound, it’s not so bad, making mistakes, not when there’s somebody that will catch him if he falls – and don’t think not even for a moment that he wouldn’t do the same if their positions were switched.

Dismas’ gaze is set to the road in front of them, but Bigby can still feel the warmth he radiates towards him.

During moments like this, he can’t help but to feel extremely lucky.

Chapter Text

“Must you really leave?”

Josephine sighs. She knew this was coming, sooner or later, but she still hoped they could’ve avoided having this conversation, perhaps foolishly so.

It’s been a week since Dismas and Reynauld have made it back from the old manor, bloody and battered but alive, unlike… Josephine doesn’t even want to think about it – she’s just glad she hadn’t been chosen for that expedition.

It’s been a week since normality has started coming back to their lives. Not that they’ve been lazing about, as there’s still much to do, but it’s more like finding some runaway group of cultists, slay a few pigs here and there, check the cove, nothing more.

Peace has come back to the Hamlet, but Josephine feels… restless. She’s aware of the fact that any sane person wouldn’t feel such a way after being through what she’s experienced, but it’s also true that none of them, in the Hamlet, are entirely sane.

There are still so many secrets for her to discover, so many artifacts hidden in the world for her to find; these are the thoughts keeping her up at night. She always knew that this moment of stillness, for her, was going to be short lived…

She knows that it hasn’t been fair of her to wait until the last moment to make her intentions known, but she was afraid that, if she had said anything before, they might’ve convinced her to stay.

Still, when that morning she had announced that, the next day she’d leave, they took it better than she thought: they made sure that she had a safe way to leave the Hamlet – the forest might be safer now, but one can never know – arranging for a stagecoach, and they improvised a farewell party at the tavern. She can’t lie, she felt something much akin to warmth – or even happiness – because of this, so much that she even admitted that she will miss her rowdy companions, but even that couldn’t be enough for her to stay: the call for adventure is too strong, a siren song she can’t resist.

They partied until late, but even as the last friend said their goodbye, Josephine knew she wasn’t done yet: in fact, as soon as she got out, she was met by the sight of a very familiar roguish face. It was Dismas.

During their stay at the Hamlet, they’ve gotten quite close, closer than they were expecting, so close that it was probably unfair of Josephine not having told him anything about her plans to leave.

It was with an uneasiness that she didn’t know she’d feel – was she hesitating? – that she apologized. Dismas, however, took it better than she thought he would.

“It’s fine. I wasn’t expecting you to stay here forever,” he said, in fact. He grabbed her by the waist, then, pulling her closer, with a smirk on his face. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t have a last night of fun together, doesn’t it?”

Josephine, of course, wasn’t going to let him say that twice, which brings her to her current predicament, her limbs entangled with Dismas’, both unmoving, still too tired, and the smell of sex still permeating the air.

“Must you really leave?”

Oh, so it looks like Dismas does have something to say about the fact that she’s living after all, though he seems resigned, like he already knows the answer.

“Yes, I do,” is what she says, matter-of-factly. She won’t be convinced to stay, though now that she thinks about it…

She takes Dismas’ face between her hands, a soft touch.

“Why don’t you come with me?” she asks, “I could use a handsome bodyguard…”

Dismas chuckles at her choice of words, but otherwise remains silent, deep in thought. He raises a hand to caress her hair, then her cheek, in such a tender way that Josephine doesn’t think she’s ever experienced – not that they were ever harsh with each other, but they never let their respective walls completely down either. She leans into the touch, reveling in the softness.

“I would love to come with you, but… I can’t,” he eventually says. It should be a surprise, but no, it isn’t at all: she already knew he’d say that. “I need to see this through.”

Josephine mocks a dreamy sigh.

“Dismas the hero of the town…” she mutters, only a tiny bit sarcastic.

She long since accepted it, but she still doesn’t understand why Dismas cares so much about the Hamlet; he wasn’t even born there!

It’s like he has a mission or something, like it’s imperative that he does good, for whatever reason that Josephine can’t guess. They never talked about it, but maybe they should’ve had; she’s curious, she can’t deny that, but it feels like it’s too late to ask, so she holds her tongue, not wanting to ruin what is shaping up to be her last moment spent in his company.

He must’ve sensed that something’s up with her, though, because his expression softens.

“I could always find you once I’m done here,” he suggests, then.

Of course, it can’t be that easy – who knows where Josephine will be when Dismas decides the Hamlet can survive without him – though the idea sounds very appealing to her. They can still find a way to keep in touch, after all. It will take effort, but some things are just worth it, you know?

Josephine smiles.

“Sounds good to me.”

She leaves before dawn, just as she had arranged. She already said goodbye yesterday, she didn’t want to do a repeat; to tell the truth, she’s afraid she might change her mind if she sees her companions again, so she’d rather avoid that.

Dismas is still fast asleep by the time she’s finished getting dressed, or maybe he’s faking it, who knows. Oh well, whatever the reason is, it’s better for both of them like this…

She’s about to open the door when she stops in her tracks, turning towards Dismas.

How could she be hesitating? Hasn’t she made up her mind already? Has she really gotten so attached that she’s forgotten about her true call?

These are the questions plaguing her mind as she leans down to leave a kiss on the top of Dismas’ head. He doesn’t even react; great, it means that he has no chance to stop her then.

Now, finally, she’s able to leave her room. Her steps are heavy, but then she remembers about Dismas’ promise to find her, once he can leave the Hamlet, and that’s enough to put her at ease; she has faith in him. Yes, they will find each other again and go on adventures together.

She finds herself looking forward to it, so much that she might be spending her time on the stagecoach fantasizing about it. It may be a little childish – she certainly feels so – but it also fills her with hope about her future, so why should she stop?

Unfortunately, neither she nor Dismas could’ve predicted the state of folly the entire world was going to fall into, the chaos that was going to break out.

The next time they meet, it’ll be under very different circumstances, and only one of them will be able to come out of it alive…

Chapter Text

They’ve found a quiet spot where to camp, which works well in their favor, considering how exhausted – both physically and mentally – everyone is.

It’s still eerie setting camp while hearing the pigs squealing in the distance, but at least they’re all around a warm fire, now, and can take a moment to just breathe.

At least the beasts – those cowards – won’t attack them while they’re bathed in light, which means that, for a while, they’ll be safe, but it also means that…

One by one, each member of their ragtag group falls asleep, save for one, Missandei, who busies herself with her crossbow. Maintenance is important, after all: she wouldn’t want her crossbow to malfunction during battle, leaving her group with less firepower.

It’s just an excuse, she knows that, especially considering how carefully she prepares before each expedition, but as long as it manages to keep her awake, she doesn’t care.

She can’t afford to fall asleep, not when she’s the only one who can keep watch. Something bad will happen if she even just closes her eyes.

… She is tired, however. She can’t deny that.

Despite this, she pushes through the fatigue, bullheaded as always.

She won’t let anyone down. She won’t let anything bad happen, not if she can help it.

She won’t let history repeat.

It says something about her ability to focus, that she startles when something, or better, someone, plops on the ground beside her. She hadn’t even heard him move…

“Dismas…”

“Hey, what are you doing?” comes the reply, as the man in question gets more comfortable, and closer – funny, she would’ve pushed him away if he had done that before they… well…

“Maintenance,” Missandei replies, without adding anything. Even if she were in the mood for some conversation, she certainly doesn’t have the mental capability to do it now. She just has to remain awake…

“Maintenance, huh,” Dismas begins, “Of your already perfectly maintained equipment…”

Oh, he noticed…

She feels his gaze on her – it feels like he’s staring into her very soul – and while usually she would meet it – she’s not afraid of a little staring contest – this time she keeps hers low, focusing instead on her hands. Huh, was her vision always this blurry?

“Missandei… You’re exhausted.”

She knows it already, she doesn’t need him to spell it out for her. Still, she has to hold on.

“I’m fine,” she protests, shaking her head… only to feel dizzy once she does that.

“You clearly are not,” Dismas insists – right now, he should really shut up. “I’ve had my fair share of rest, I can keep wat—”

“No!”

She doesn’t exactly shout – she wouldn’t want to wake the others – but her voice is still louder than before.

He has to understand that he just has to let it go, that he can’t convince her to let herself be vulnerable like that.

She was asleep, the day those people attacked her house.

Not even the ruckus they were doing as they got closer – those shouts, sometimes she thinks she can still hear them – had been enough to wake her up. Her father had to run all the way to her room for that.

What if she had been already awake? All that time lost could’ve been used to escape, before it was too late! Instead, his father had to stay behind to grant her a chance to save herself.

She’ll never forgive herself for it, even less if she lets something similar happen again.

She cannot fall asleep.

“Missandei…”

She shakes her head – she was losing herself in her memories – before looking at Dismas. She expected to see pity in his eyes, but she finds something different instead: understanding. He knows how she feels.

“When you’re alone on the road, you can only count on yourself, that’s true…” he begins. “And when things change, it takes a while to get used to them. But you’re not alone, now.”

Yes, she’s aware of that, but…

“You have people backing you up, now, and you’ve got to have faith in them. If you don’t, the entire group is at risk,” Dismas continues, and suddenly his gaze feels miles and miles away from there. Missandei has heard stories, about fallen warriors prior to her arrival, killed by monsters only when they were lucky: some slowly lost themselves to the darkness, some had even turned to the party in a fit of madness, and had to be dealt with. She’s lucky she’s never had to deal with any of this.

Eventually, Dismas finds the words again.

“If something happens while you’re asleep, you’ll be woken up and we’ll deal with it together, but you need to get some rest. Let’s admit something happens now, while you’re still awake, what do you think would happen? Would you be able to fight?”

She wants to say “yes”, but… Would she really be able to fight in her condition? She can barely see straight – imagine her having to point her crossbow to a target and then fire it…

In the end, she can only shake her head, defeated.

Before he says anything, Dismas goes to hold her hand, squeezing it as a reassuring gesture.

“If not in them, at least have faith in me.”

… He’s right, isn’t he?

As much as she would want to, Missandei can’t survive on her own, especially not in these circumstances. They’re all in this together, meaning that if one piece falls, all the others will too. She can’t allow that to happen.

And Dismas, well, she can trust him, can she? He’s been good to her so far; he deserves a chance.

“I… Fine,” she finally relents.

She leans to the side, resting her head on Dismas’ shoulder. She’d move to a more comfortable position, but she doesn’t have the energy to do it; besides, it’s not too bad: actually, it’s reassuring being this close to him.

“Thank you…”

“Heh, it’s nothing,” Dismas replies, before taking off his coat and resting it upon Missandei’s frame. “Now, for the love of the Light, sleep.”

And sleep she does, kept warm by the fire and, especially, Dismas’ presence.

Chapter Text

Dismas knows that giving the person who wants to kill you even more reason to hate him is an idiotic move, but when Tardif pins him to the wall, his bounty tightly held in his fist, he can’t help but to crack a joke at him.

“What? Wanna make out?”

The only reason why Tardif doesn’t paint the wall with his guts is because Reynauld – bless him – manages to drag him away, as Junia frantically explains that Dismas is under the Heir’s protecting, therefore is untouchable.

Tardif doesn’t say anything, just tuts, shaking Reynauld’s hand off of him, and stomping towards the exit, definitely plotting against him.

When Reynauld and Junia turn towards him, however, he can tell they’re not happy about how this “exchange” went. Well, what can Dismas do about it?! It’s not like he was the one who decided to attack someone out of the blue – or not, after all he did have it coming.

At least he’s the one who got the last word in. That counts as a victory, for him.

After that “incident” things go back to normal, as normal as they can get in the Hamlet.

Scratch that, they’re not normal at all: Tardif is acting weird. Not that Dismas has enough of a base to be able to actually tell, but he has a hunch that something must be wrong.

Sometimes, Tardif won’t leave his side, and without saying anything too, which makes it extremely creepy – and also makes him suspicious that he’s plotting something against him, despite his supposed immunity – and then, other times, he avoids him completely, which makes things harder than they need to be when they’re sent out in the same group, with one teammate pretending the other doesn’t exist.

The worst thing is that there’s no way to understand what the fuck is going on inside his head, because the asshole not only doesn’t talk for shit, but he always keeps his face hidden, so he can’t even read his facial expressions, like he would usually do.

Talking to a brick wall might wield better results.

It’s gotten to the point that even the others have noticed that something’s going on, but when they come to Dismas for an explanation, he never knows what to tell them.

This goes on for a while, until Dismas decides that enough is enough: he’ll get to the bottom of this, no matter what, even if that means finding Tardif himself alone – he’d never fess up to anything personal with other people present – and even if that means that, when he goes to poke his arm, his survival instinct takes over, and he slams Dismas against the wall. Huh, he’s having a déjà vu.

“You again?!” Tardif roars, as if Dismas had gone his way to torment him since the accident – whatever happened, it was all in his head.

Seriously, what’s his problem?! Has Dismas really started to inhabit every corner of his mind, is that what this is all about? Does he really care so much that he can’t cash in a bounty… or is there something more?

Now that Dismas thinks about it, he remembers that there was a certain something he said that got to Tardif and maybe, just maybe, that’s the reason why he’s being acting this weird.

Oh, there are so many things Dismas could do with this information – assuming that his supposition is true, of course – with most of them ending in death, but damn if he doesn’t want to try it. After all, what’s life without a little bit of danger?

And well, if Tardif really wants to… Dismas wouldn’t be opposed. He’s big and strong, after all, exactly his type; you could argue that he’s tried to kill him, but eh, all the people he’s made out with in his life have done the same, sooner or later, so it’s not that big of a deal, not for him.

He flashes a grin at Tardif, as if he couldn’t just smother his face with his fist if he says the wrong thing, and shoots his shot.

“All this just because I offered to make out with you?”

There, he said it. If Tardis kills him now, it’ll be worth it.

Tardif doesn’t kill him, at least not outright.

What he does, instead, is… nothing. He just freezes in place.

“Oi, big guy, you there?” Dismas asks, because he thought he was going to be the one dying, that day, not the one doing the killing.

He awkwardly pats his arm, just to make sure that Tardif is still alive, when he growls something that he doesn’t understand – something about him being impossible, maybe – before raising the piece of cloth covering the lower half of his face, just enough to press his lips against Dismas’, much to the other’s surprise.

What isn’t surprising, however, is the way he kisses: just like when he fights, he’s brutal, without giving his enemies – or Dismas, in this case – not even a quarter. It’s overwhelming, that’s for sure, but Dismas doesn’t mind, he doesn’t mind at all; it actually feels good, losing himself completely like this. It hasn’t happened in a long while – since he’s made his way to the Hamlet, actually.

Tardif makes it hard for him to breathe, but the following lightheadedness only makes it better – yeah, yeah, laugh about good old Dismas being a freak, as if he doesn’t know already. He grasps at his shoulders, holding onto them while Tardif keeps kissing him like he wants to devour him – for how long did he hold this back?

His lips feel rough, against his own, and Dismas knows he’ll feel the burn of his stubble against his skin. He could really use some more self-care, but oh well, so does Dismas, if we have to be honest about it, so they’re even.

It’s… It’s great, everything he could’ve asked for.

As good as it is, however, Dismas is in desperate need of air, but right when he was about to push Tardif off, he pulls away on his own, probably for the same reason. Here they are, now, intensely staring at each other – at least Dismas thinks Tardif’s staring at him – as they catch their breath.

Even with his face half-visible, he can barely see anything, and although Dismas is mighty curious about what that helmet hides, he doesn’t try to sneak a peek. He’s pushed it enough, for now. Besides, if the man wants to stay hidden, he must have a reason for it, and who’s Dismas to go against his wish?

“Better, now?” he asks, because he might be able to respect the man’s privacy, but he sure as hell cannot keep his mouth shut to save his life.

To his surprise, Tardif’s answer doesn’t involve any kind of violence; he simply lowers the cloth to cover his face again – Dismas bets he’s blushing, under there – and grunts affirmatively.

That’s all he does, though, as he’s stuck in place like he doesn’t know what to do next.

Dismas would’ve never expected such a scary bounty hunter to act like this, but… it’s nice, to see that there is indeed a person hiding in there.

Eh, he wonders if it’s the same can apply on reverse, if Tardif can now see what’s beyond the crimes he’s committed, or not. Well, for him to have gotten this close and still be able to breathe, he must, right?

Ugh, this is getting too deep for Dismas’ tastes. He needs a drink, and he needs it now.

He should go to the tavern and relax a bit, but not before teasing Tardif one last time – now that he knows he can get away with it, he’d be an idiot not to take advantage of it.

He makes a big show of walking away, before stopping after a couple of steps to turn towards Tardif – who still hasn’t moved, though his head is turned towards him – and he smirks.

“And next time, don’t hover around me like a complete dumbass, alright? Just ask,” he says, before walking away.

Tardif doesn’t reply, or if he does, Dismas doesn’t hear it. And just like last time, he’s managed to get the last word in; not only that, but he’s managed to turn the tide of a potentially lethal situation, so good job, old boy, you still got it.

He can’t help but to wonder if Tardif will actually come back to him, if further down the road he’ll need to vent all the pent-up frustration he unleashed on Dismas just a few moments ago.

Well, whether he does it or not, it’s fine – it’s not like he lacks companionship, down here – but, somehow, he has the feeling that he’ll come back…

He’ll just have to see, he supposes.

Chapter Text

Reynauld is slowly losing his mind.

Some days ago, a few of theirs have been sent out to the Weald with one objective: to kill the Hag that lives there once and for all.

Dismas had been chosen for this expedition, while Reynauld was told to remain in the Hamlet and wait for further instruction, which would be fine and all, if it wasn’t for the fact that… he’s terribly worried.

There is no use hiding it: he’s deathly afraid of what could happen to his friend.

He knows he shouldn’t underestimate him, that he’s strong and smart, and especially, he’s not alone, but… This is the first big, important expedition where they’re not sent out together, and he’s not good at waiting, not when his mind keeps concocting new ways in which Dismas could be killed without him even knowing about it, and finding out only when it’s too late.

He feels impotent, spending his days at the Hamlet, venting his frustration against the training dummies, even though that resolves very little – it’s all he can do.

It’s come to the point where, in his prayers, he’s started to include Dismas, praying to the Light for his safe return.

Why does he even care so much, though?

Of course, Dismas is his friend – despite their rocky start, he’s become someone dear to him – but as much as Reynauld worries about all his companions, he’s realized that Dismas has found a special place in his heart.

It’s strange, this feeling; it brings Reynauld back, to a time when he was younger and happier, when he had just met her. It hadn’t been love at first, but rather something built with time and… and it feels really similar to what is going on between him and Dismas, now.

Is it truly love? Is Reynauld even capable of loving anymore?

He thought not – he’s seen, he’s done, so many bad things… – but how could he explain the way Dismas makes him feel, then? The way he makes him smile and laugh, the way his mere presence is enough to put his mind at ease, the way he feels his chest tighten and his heart stop when he spots his face uncovered by the scarf he always wears; it all points to that.

But even if it is indeed love, what is Reynauld supposed to do with it? He cannot possibly reveal the depths of his feelings to Dismas who, surely, mustn’t feel the same.

How can he even think about sullying their friendship in such a way? He should be ashamed… But despite that, he keeps praying.

Anything, to get Dismas to come back safely.

The Light answer him on the third day: the news of party returning spreads fast throughout the Hamlet. As soon as he catches ear of this, Reynauld rushes at the gate, without even bothering to put his armor on – it would’ve taken too much time – wanting to see with his own if it’s true and, especially, to see if Dismas is among the survivors.

To say that he feels anxious would be an understatement. No matter how much he tries to keep calm, he just can’t; not even praying seems to help, this time.

He just needs to see him. He will be the only cure to this condition of his.

Where are they, where are they… Ah! He sees something!

Could it be? Is it them?

As the people – or creatures? – get closer, it becomes easier to see that, yes, it is them!

But is he… He’s here. He’s alive.

“Dismas!” Reynauld shouts, making way towards him. He didn’t necessarily want to appear this undignified, but as soon as he spotted him, his body acted on its own, without any way to stop it.

It’s then that the weight of all the anxiety and worry felt until that moment begins to make itself known; Reynauld feels weak – his legs tremble slightly, as if he had been the one facing off against the Hag – but he also feels extremely relieved.

As soon as he hears him, Dismas’ expression visibly changes, going from gloomy to excited. He calls for Reynauld as well, walking – he’ll need at least a whole year of resting before he can go back to running – towards him as well.

They meet in the middle, grasping at each other in a warm hug.

“Blessed be the Light, you’re alive!” Reynauld can’t help but to exclaim, burying his face against Dismas’ shoulder. He can smell the stench of battle – blood, sweat and who knows what else – but it doesn’t matter. It’s all proof that the Dismas in front of him is real, and not a result of him going actually crazy.

He hears a chuckle coming in response.

“Of course I am alive. What, were you worried?”

How can he sound so cocky even now? Well, he supposes that, after what he did, it’s in his rights, but still!

He’s truly impossible to deal with, and he knows it too! It drives Reynauld so crazy that…

He doesn’t even think about it, when he lowers Dismas’ scarf and presses their lips together.

Only when he feels Dismas’ hands hold onto his tunic, and him kissing back, he realizes what he’s done, but it’s too late to stop now, not when he can see how into it they both are – he can’t believe Dismas is kissing him back, he can’t believe this is all real.

He holds him like one would hold something precious – by now he has to admit that, well, he is precious to him – and can’t help but to smile in the kiss. It’s strange, how strong he feels at the moment, a complete turnaround from his initial weakened state.

He feels like he could take an army all on his own!

He hears the others passing near them – someone, he thinks it’s William, comments that it’s about time they got their shit together, whatever that means – and he should really pull away to greet them, but no matter how much he tries, kissing Dismas is just so addictive that he can’t stop.

There will be time for a proper greeting later, admitting that he’ll be able to look at them in the eyes after such a display; maybe he ought to learn from Dismas and act without shame.

When they pull away, all the thoughts inside Reynauld’s head come to halt, as he admires the man in front of him. It’s still hard to believe that he could ever look at someone and feel the same way he used to feel when looking at her, back when their marriage was still a happy one, but here they are.

He cups Dismas’ face between his hands, caressing his cheekbones with his thumbs.

“I missed you,” he finds the strength to say. Dismas chuckles.

“I can tell,” he replies, this cocky little thing, before his gaze softens. “I… I missed you too, you big oaf.”

Reynauld’s smile only grows larger, despite the insult – he knows he doesn’t really mean it – and he would very much love to lean down and kiss him again, and then again, and again, and again, but he’s aware of the fact that Dismas has just gotten back from a very challenging expedition; he’ll surely want to rest.

“Oh, I shouldn’t keep you here,” he says, then, disentangling himself – reluctantly – from Dismas. “I’m sure you’d love to get some rest.”

“That I do,” the other replies, starting to walk towards the rest of the group, though he waits for Reynauld to get the clue and catch up to him. It’s then that he brushes his arm, turning towards him. “I can look for you later, and… We’ll see.”

Oh, the implications are not lost on Reynauld, but even if they were, he would still be happy to spend time together, especially if his feelings are truly returned – they should talk about it, eventually, shouldn’t they?

Oh well, maybe it’ll happen after Dismas comes back to him, or maybe it’ll happen another time, but one thing is for sure.

“Yes, I’d love it.”

This is shaping up to be something special, and he can’t wait to see where it goes.

Chapter Text

Dismas is aware of the fact that he’s not a good person – he wouldn’t be here otherwise – but… he truly brings the absolute worst out of him, and he hates himself for it, but it’s so easy to give in that he cannot truly resist, no matter how hard he tries.

Damian is… Honestly, he doesn’t even know where to begin – he should probably start with the fact that he’s a complete nutcase, but by now that’s a given.

His mind works in mysterious – and weird – ways, but damn if the most morbid part of Dismas isn’t attracted to it, like a moth to a flame. Sometimes he feels like Paracelsus with her little test subjects, but there’s more to it; he doesn’t remember where, but he’s heard a saying that goes more or less like “we accept the kind of love we think we deserve”, and this might be proof of it, because there are many things Dismas likes, but himself is not one of it, no matter how much he can pretend otherwise.

Damian, somehow, has seen through the façade, and he “gives him what he deserves” – his words, Dismas isn’t making anything up – maybe that’s why he appreciates him: he doesn’t mince words and tells it how he sees it – although the way he sees things is rarely correct.

That’s not all, and this is where the problem lies.

Damian likes to inflict pain, that’s a given, but he likes receiving it just as much, and, well, he’s begged Dismas many times to make him hurt, and he’s never been strong enough to say no.

If he were a better person, he’d step away from this, but it’s just so… addicting: everyone has bad days, and the bad days at the Hamlet are worse than anything anyone who doesn’t live there will ever – hopefully – go through, which makes having a way to unwind all the frustrations, all the fears – the anxieties, the desperation… – feel very good, too good even, but that’s not enough to stop.

When they lose someone to the creatures, he goes to Damian.

When he begins to feel that what they’re doing is pointless, he goes to Damian.

When he’s enraged with a decision the Heir made, he goes to Damian.

Hell, every kind of annoyance – even the mildest one – has become an excuse for him to go to Damian.

Sometimes, things get particularly bloody.

Damian loves it, when it happens, while Dismas leaves feeling nauseous, and adding another thing to already very long list of acts he’ll eventually have to beg forgiveness for, but who can forgive him? The Light? Pah, what a joke.

If the Light recognizes someone like Damian as its servant, then it’s not something worth turning yourself to.

He’s… crying?

Yes, he’s crying.

What’s going on?

He barely remembers going to Damien, this time, and he doesn’t remember the reason why either – was he sick? Did something happen to his head? Or was it always like this when he went to him and he’s just realizing it now?

All he knows is that he’s kneeling, and that the tears won’t stop flowing from his eyes. How long has it been since he’s last cried? He thought he had exhausted all the tears he could shed when he was a kid – not even when he killed… them, he cried – but apparently that wasn’t the case. The worst thing is that he’s not even able to tell what caused this; this incurable anguish must’ve come from somewhere, right?

The strangest thing of all, is the tender way Damian’s hugging him; yes, there’s no mistaking what he’s doing: that’s a hug.

“Dismas,” he says, voice as sweet as sugar, too sweet, in fact.

“Dismas,” he repeats. He feels all-encompassing, but Dismas isn’t able to tell if this is some sort of magic he’s pulling from his ass, or if his mind’s playing tricks on him.

“Dismas,” he continues. Dismas doesn’t have the courage to raise his eyes and look at him, but he can still hear the smile on his lips. He doesn’t know how to feel about it.

“Dismas,” and this time, he starts to lightly scratch the back of his head, a far cry from the usual way he touches him. It feels too foreign, but also… not? He doesn’t have memory of it ever happening before, though.

“Dismas,” he keeps beckoning. And what is Dismas supposed to do? Can he really let himself go? Should he really let himself go?

“Dismas,” he whispers, and it’s then that Dismas decides that, fuck it, if there’s anyone who would be willing to catch him when he falls, that would be the person who’s already seen the worst of him.

“Dismas,” he says, one last time, and Dismas gives in.

Chapter Text

Audrey is a bit of a flirt, she’s aware of that, but come on, why shouldn’t she have a bit of fun? After having to deal with that piss stain of a husband – oh, it’s delightful to think about how he would’ve recoiled at her vulgar choice of words – she deserves to have some fun.

Besides, everyone is so interesting and fun that she can’t help herself! Is she in the wrong for wanting to get “acquainted” with everyone? She doesn’t think so.

Besides, it’s not like anyone can tell her anything: they all have their vices here.

There’s one person she likes to flirt with in particular, one that always responds well to her advances; it’s the same person she’s making out with against the wall, in a corner out of prying eyes – there are times when she wouldn’t mind an audience, but not today.

She can’t help but to smile, against Dismas’ lips, which makes kissing harder, but they make it work, as her hands roam freely along his body, mirrored by him, who wouldn’t stop touching her – not that she wants him to.

There is an ulterior motive to all this touching, of course: she doesn’t remember who started it, or how, but they’ve developed a small game between them in order to combat the boredom between expeditions, which consists of stealing from each other, or at least trying to, without getting caught.

One could argue that they’re supposed to be above such petty pastimes, but it’s fun and harmless – mostly harmless – so who cares. They have to get their fun where they can, given the circumstances.

She chuckles, as she grabs Dismas’ hands and pins them to her hips. Did he think she wouldn’t notice him snooping around?

Of course, she’s doing the same, but she’s doing a much better job at pretending that she’s touching him just for the sake of it – and well, if she gets to cop a feel while she’s at it, is she really to blame?

Dismas doesn’t react to her gesture, probably in an attempt to dissimulate the fact that no, he was totally just touching her and not looking for anything on her person that would be worth stealing – as if she’d believe him, not when she’s been in the same exact position more than once.

In a bold move, she brings her hands down, to Dismas’ buttocks, and pulls him further against her; she doesn’t miss the sound that comes out of his lips when she does that. Perfect, it means she’s taken him off guard, which gives her an opportunity to look for something she can steal – she’s going to win this time, she can feel it.

O-Oh, Dismas has just begun to grind his hips against hers, and that surely would be enough to distract her… but no! She must win! She won’t give up her chances just because…

Eh, what the hell, she can have some fun and win their little game.

She can multitask.

When, later, she’ll walk away from Dismas, a bit unsteady on her legs, she will smile, spinning a coin between her fingers with the grin of a person who knows she’s won: that isn’t just a regular coin, in fact, but it’s Dismas’ lucky coin, a trinket that always has a different background – depends on which story he’s in the mood to tell – but that is assured to bring good fortune.

Well, he wasn’t wrong: it indeed brought good fortune… to her. Oh, she can’t wait to wave this in front of him next time they see each other, it’ll be so fun!

Ah, this begs for a sip of… wait, where is…

Where is her absinthe bottle?

She’s sure she had it but until a moment ago – she never leaves without it, so it can’t be that it’s still in the barracks – so where did it go… Oh.

As the realization hits her, she can’t help but to laugh: oh, Dismas must’ve stolen it from her, that’s the only logical explanation!

That rascal, he really played her, huh…

Oh well, she supposes she can take a draw, this time.

Chapter Text

The first thing Dismas becomes aware of, once consciousness comes back to him, is that his head fucking hurts; it’s like someone took an axe and split it open with it, fucking hell.

The worst thing of it all, is that given what they do and where they are, there are a few chances that might’ve really been what happened.

He doesn’t remember fighting, however, quite the contrary, in fact: they were celebrating a big victory, having freed the Weald of that terrible, terrible hag. A huge victory, for them, which was deserving of a huge celebration, and they made the best of it; he doesn’t think he’s ever consumed so much alcohol all in one go – and he has gotten extremely wasted many times in his life, so that says a lot.

Taken off guard, he almost jumps out of the bed when he feels something – or better, someone – against him move, accompanied by a loud yawn, as the body beside him stirs awake. Huh, he wasn’t expecting to have company, not of this kind at least.

The person lying beside him turns and, would you look at that, another surprise: it’s Boudica, of all people.

They stare at each other for a moment, one definitely more at ease than the other – it’s not Dismas – before she bursts into laughter, loud and unrestrained, just as she always is. At least one of them is finding this funny, though the noise does nothing for Dismas’ headache; if anything, it worsens it.

“Morning to you too…” he grumbles, massaging his temples with slow circular movements of his hands. This is going to be a loooong day, he can already tell; maybe he should visit Paracelsus, see if she has something that could help him—

He’s caught in what he can be only described as a whirlwind – he’s way off his game, today – as Boudica pushes his down, a triumphant expression on her face. Had it been any other day, he would’ve been very into it – a big violent woman who could snap him in half if she so wishes? That’s his type – but, in this particular predicament, he can’t help but to feel corned, though he has to say, being able to stare at her bare form definitely helps.

“You’re thinking too much,” she says, as if he’s in the wrong for that – he just wants to understand if he should regret what they’ve obviously done last night or not, though considering that she hasn’t tried to strangle him yet, he probably doesn’t need to.

“Just… What did we do, exactly?” he asks – how far this they go? – but she ignores the question.

“You’re thinking too much,” she repeats, but this time she doesn’t give Dismas any chance to say anything, as she captures his lips in a heated kiss, giving him no other choice but to follow her lead.

Maybe she’s right: he is thinking too much, and when has he ever done that, in all his life? He’s always been a guy who’s more content following the current of events without putting much thought behind it – to his advantage and detriment too.

It doesn’t take him long before he loses himself in Boudica’s lips, and starts focusing on other “activities”.

Who cares about what happened last night: it was obviously something they both enjoyed, which means that it would be a waste of time worrying about it.

He has to admit, though, that being able to experience it while being in possess of all his faculties is much, much better.

Chapter Text

One of the many things Dismas worried about, when it was pretty obvious that there was something going on him and William that didn’t involve fighting, but rather, the opposite, was the dog.

That wasn’t his first thought, of course – that would’ve been the implications of shagging a man of the law, or rather former man of the law, while being a wanted criminal – but it was certainly the more pressing: he’d seen that dog kill beasts double her size; he didn’t want to necessarily fight her, if she thought that he was a threat to her master, not only because he seriously risked his life, but also because he didn’t want to hurt William by doing something to her.

Luckily for him, that doesn’t seem to be the case: Laika was wary at first, but with his immense charm – and the extra food rations he’d sneak to her – he’s managed to win her over pretty soon. William told him that, even though he’s never been the kind of person to actively find a partner, he’s had a few, and she never had problems with them either, but Dismas likes to think he’s a special case anyway – he’s pretty sure William didn’t fight eldritch horrors with his former partners, that has to count for something.

She lets herself be pet, she wags her tail whenever she sees Dismas, she’s even taken to accompany him in his errands – always with the blessing of William, of course – so he likes to think they’ve become pretty good friends.

Dismas too, has grown fond of her. Not that he ever bore ill will towards her – she’s a dog, why would he do that? – but, well, what was he supposed to do if his partner’s dog didn’t like him? Things would’ve been awkward at least. Thankfully, it’s all in the past, now.

It is good that they get along, but sometimes Laika could really start to mind her own business...

Things are getting pretty heated, inside the barracks: William has taken Dismas to his room, and has lost no time shoving him on the bed, settling between his legs and stealing kisses from his lips.

It is pretty obvious where things are going, which works extremely well for Dismas: it’s been a while since he’s been sent out, and he has a lot of restless energy that he would love to... unload.

They’ve barely started to get their clothes off – only Dismas’ coat lays down on the floor – when they start hearing the familiar sound of the door’s being scratched.

At first, they both try to ignore it, but the sound gets louder, accompanied by a series of sad wails, to the point that William has to pull away – reluctantly so – and head to the door. He only needs to open it just a tiny bit, that Laika manages to push herself through, making it immediately for the bed and jumping on it, accompanied by an exasperated “Laika, how many times do I have to tell you not to get up there?” by William.

The dog, of course, doesn’t listen to him, and instead starts to lick Dismas’ hand, while the thief can’t help but to chuckle and give her a few pets.

Sure, she’s ruined their moment, but come on, who can be mad at her? Definitely not Dismas!

William sighs, shaking his head, but there’s a smile on his face – and how can he not smile, with such a view in front of his eyes?

With slow steps, he joins them on the bed.

“You’re a bad girl,” he tells the dog, but there’s no real heat in his voice, which sounds, instead, most sweet, like it always does when he’s talking to her. By the way Laika barks and wags her tail, she must’ve understood that. It makes William chuckle, as he starts petting her fur as well.

This wasn’t how either of them has envisioned their night to go, but to tell the truth, they don’t really mind.

Chapter Text

If there’s one thing Dismas can say, with absolute certainty, about Sarmenti, it’s that he’s loud ; apart from the obvious lute, which he keeps strumming in a way that really makes you want to grab it and smash it over his head, and the jingles of those stupid bells he keeps attached to his hat, he constantly laughs.

It’s not even a nice, warm laugh; it’s creepy, it’s weird, it’s… He’s not even able to describe it. Disturbed, maybe? Like you can tell something’s wrong with him, something big.

Dismas thought that, given the gloominess of his companions, that this was going to be a breath of fresh air, but that wasn’t the case at all.

Ugh, he wants him to shut his trap so bad, eternally too – that would be excellent.

With time, thankfully, he becomes more bearable, though whether that’s because he’s learned to tone down his voice, or if it’s because Dismas is slowly losing his sanity, this is hard to tell.

He’s learned to tune it out, to the point that, now, his incessant talking has become background noise, way less annoying than it used to be.

It would still be better if he found a different hobby than yapping his mouth on the worst occasions, but he supposes he can’t begrudge the guy for it: everyone copes in different ways, his is simply louder than usual.

In a way, he kind of reminds him of himself, when he was younger: loud, brash, never taking anything seriously, way too loud and way too sarcastic.

Not that he’s actually gotten wiser over the years, though: he simply learned to keep that shit for himself not to cross anyone who shouldn’t be crossed .

Maybe he’ll learn too, or maybe not. Frankly, he shouldn’t care about it and yet… He can’t help but to have a bit of a soft spot for the guy, even if he’s incredibly annoying.

He won’t try to get him under his wing because he’s no teacher, and because frankly it feels insulting to Sarmenti; he can look after himself without him nagging, though if he’s in trouble when Dismas happens to be nearby, well, why shouldn’t he give him a hand?

He’s always tried to be casual about it, not wanting to make a big deal out of it – that would be the absolute worst – but unfortunately for him, Sarmenti is more perceptive than what he’s given him credit for.

“Oh, my hero!” he sighs, in an obviously fake dreamy tone, after Dismas saves him from the umpteenth potential fight with the tavern owner – why does he like provoking him so much?

“Just shut up,” Dismas replies, looking away. “How about you stop getting into stupid fights, instead?”

Really, he should’ve learned his lesson at some point.

“Why should I? I can always count on my white knight to save me, after all.”

Oh, so that’s how it is? This guy, he swears…

“Y’know, you shouldn’t count on me saving your ass all the time. Next time I might not be there to help you.”

“You think? Curious, then, that you constantly tail me…”

Shit, he’s onto him.

Damn it, Dismas, you’re getting soft.

“I’ve had people pursue me, but never in such a roundabout way. You know you can just ask, right?”

At those words, Dismas almost chokes, but he manages not to, for his dignity’s sake – not that there is much of it to save anyway.

“The hell?!”

Sarmenti laughs, that laugh which Dismas has grow n accustomed too. At least one of them is finding this funny.

“You don’t have to be shy, now,” the idiot bard insists, leaning closer and closer to Dismas. Just because he’s taller, doesn’t mean he should use it to his advantage; besides, he’s not really intimidating, not when Dismas knows he could easily take him – in a fight, of course!

… To tell the truth, he had thought about that a couple of times – every single resident of the Hamlet has thought about it, actually – but this has nothing to do with that is happening right now!

He doesn’t know what to say – he knows that any word that leaves his mouth will be used against him – which gives Sarmenti the occasion to keep babbling and babbling and babbling. Ugh, Dismas hates when he does that.

What to do? He has to find a way to stop him, or else it’ll get harder and harder to control the urge to stab him. Ideas, he needs so me ideas… O r maybe he could…

Well, since he was the one who brought it up in the first place, maybe there is an effective way to shut him up; he moves quickly, without giving Sarmenti the chance to react or else he would’ve been the one getting stabbed that day – probably – because what he’s doing might not be something he likes at all, but it’s too late to stop now, not when Dismas has already gotten to his mask, raising it just enough to uncover up to his nose, then he presses their lips together. Ah, finally, silence.

This time, Sarmenti’s the one who struggles, when they pull away. The asshole teased, teased and teased, and yet he obviously didn’t believe him capable of something like that; serves him right.

“You!”

It’s Dismas turn to laugh, now, and he does without holding anything back, uncaring that he must be hurting Sarmenti’s ears with how loudly he’s being.

He’s not surprised when, moved by frustration, Sarmenti pulls him forward by his scarf and kisses him again; he could easily pull away, but he goes along with it – it doesn’t feel bad, after all.

At least, now, they’ve found a way to shut each other up.

Chapter Text

Dismas has never been one for silence, less so after spending what felt like centuries in prison; during those times the only way not to go mad was to find ways to subtly fill the silence, or else the guards would’ve beaten you if you were too loud, which meant that he only had his thoughts to keep him company – they were pretty shit at that, to tell the truth.

He had come to appreciate even the squeak of mice, and not only because they indicated that he might’ve gotten to eat something more that the meager food rations they sometimes remembered to distribute between prisoners: it was a break from the oppressing silence.

When he had finally managed to escape, it was even worse, especially after… well, the incident.

There’s a reason why he’s taken the habit to mutter things to himself, even when he’s alone – especially if he’s alone, actually – without caring if it makes him look like a madman, or that it doesn’t really help him when he’s trying to be stealthy: it helps him stay sane.

After having met Baldwin, he’s starting to appreciate silence again.

They often find themselves submerged in it when they go find a corner where they can enjoy each other’s presence – most of the times they don’t really do anything beside sitting on the ground, one beside the other, with Dismas almost completely leaning against him.

At first, Dismas didn’t understand the appeal of it, but after many expeditions where he almost didn’t make it back, he’s starting to appreciate the calm and quiet.

There are still times where he tries to fill the silence in any way he can, even if it’s just by saying something stupid. Baldwin never holds it against him, and always humors him; it feels nice, being heard like that, and by someone of Baldwin’s station – they’ve never talked about their past, but Dismas isn’t stupid, someone like that has to be at least of noble birth.

It’s with time that he begins talking less and less, not feeling the need to do that anymore, at least not as urgently as he once did. It’s… strange.

Usually, during moments like this, moments of absolute silence, his guilt would immediately make itself known, screaming in his head how terrible of a person he is, how he deserves only to die and rot, but with Baldwin present, that doesn’t happen. It’s like even just being close to him is enough to repel any kind of negative thought.

That doesn’t mean that his mind remains completely quiet all the time, but whenever things are getting bad again, Baldwin simply takes one of Dismas’ hand in his, squeezing it lightly, and just like that, his mind goes pleasantly blank again.

He has no idea how he manages to notice it every time – does he make it that evident? He used not to think so, but maybe he’s been wrong all this time – nor he has any idea how he can calm him down so easily, but as he looks down, focusing on the way his hand pretty much disappears with Baldwin’s closed around it, he comes to the conclusion that, all things considered, it doesn’t really matter.

Chapter Text

It is truly incredible how quickly the tides of battle can turn: even the most sure victory can become a grueling defeat, if one’s careless.

Dismas has always considered himself quick on his feet: he advances, ready to strike his enemy with his knife, only to fall back in the ranks to finish them off with a gunshot, forward and back, forward and back, never faltering; it’s a strategy he’s always considered infallible.

In hindsight, he brought this upon himself with his overconfidence…

He swears he’s better than this, but he isn’t exactly in the most ideal situation: he’s been unexpectedly dragged ahead by one of those cultist witches, who summoned a whole tentacle from nothing that he hasn’t been able to dodge. Usually this wouldn’t be a problem: he’d shoot whatever is in front of him, point-blank, and then he’d make a retreat, simple and clean as always, but something goes horribly wrong because he stumbles, and before he can catch his balance, another cultist – one with long metal claws attached to his hands – lounges at him.

They say your life flashes before your eyes the moments before you die, but that isn’t what happens to Dismas: a sense of both terror and relief washes over him as he watches, helplessly, the claws getting closer and closer. “This is it,” he thinks, much more calmly than one would expect; a fitting end, for someone like him. At least they’ll say that he died fighting terrors and monsters, instead of being executed for his crimes…

He closes his eyes, expecting the final blow to come soon, but it doesn’t. He gathers enough courage to open his eyes, but he soon wishes he hadn’t: there’s a reason why he hasn’t be en slain yet, that reason being that Barristan has managed to push his way forward and has taken the hit for him, despite him not faring much better than Dismas. His armor, already damaged from the previous fight, can’t stand the brute force the cultist is applying behind his attack, and breaks, as the thing slashes him right on the chest, blood spilling everywhere.

Dismas is still frozen in place when he falls to the ground, unable to hold his own weight. He should do something – help him! Help him! - but he keeps standing like an idiot as the cultist raises his claw once again, only to be hit in the eye by an arrow, which sends him stumbling a few steps back. That’s what snaps Dismas out of his useless state; he turns around just a moment to see his companions, Missandei and Tardif, ready for the counte r offensive.

They have to end this battle, and they have to do it quickly.

Their shared resolve, which ha s only g rown stronger at the direness of their situation, manages to grant them victory, but there’s no time to celebrate: Barristan needs their immediate help.

Missandei and Dismas rush to him, while Tardif keeps watch, looking out for any possible ambush – they won’t be caught by surprise again.

It takes both of them to be able to turn the man around, moving him to lay him down against a wall. He’s still breathing, but barely; they absolutely need to stop the bleeding, or else the chances he’s going to make it out alive are less than none.

“Press it down,” Missandei orders him, motioning to his wounds with her head. Dismas doesn’t make her repeat it twice – he’s not one to be bossed around so easily, but he’ll make an exception this time.

“No need…” Barristan interjects – so he is still awake! – but of course Dismas ignores him.

“You idiot, you absolute fool!” he can’t help but to shout, now that he knows that the other can hear him, all his worry warping into rage. “What in the bloody hells were you thinking?!”

“Better me than you,” Barristan forces himself to reply. “I’m old, you’re young…”

Dismas can’t help but to scoff at those words; first of all, he’s only young comparatively to him – he’s obviously not in his prime anymore – and second of all, that doesn’t mean anything! They’re already spread thin, there’s no need to lower their ranks even further, no matter how heroic of a death this can be; even then, there’s nothing heroic about dying like an idiot, or at least this is what Dismas thinks.

Of course, he has a far more selfish reason why he doesn’t want Barristan to die: over the course of the months they’ve spent fighting side by side, he’s come to care for him, even… No, he’s too old to use the word “love” – should’ve given it more thought when he was younger – but that’s how he feels.

In Barristan, he’s found a kin spirit, someone that understands how it feels to live the better part of one’s life with shame and guilt; he too, just like Dismas, seeks redemption, but th is isn’t the way to obtain it!

Dismas curses, desperately tapping on the wound while Missandei gets the gauze ready.

“Don’t you dare leave me, you hear me?!”

Light almighty, he feels so dumb acting like this, but no matter how much he tries to keep his composure , he can’t help it.

From the way she’s looking at him, Missandei must be judging him – and not well – but he couldn’t care less.

If Barristan dies here, he won’t be able to forgive himself. Damned idiot, he shouldn’t have taken the hit for him!

This time, the old man doesn’t respond with words, he just chuckles, whatever that means. Is he losing his mind? He must be, because there’s nothing funny about this situation, nothing at all.

Dismas tries not to let it get to him and keep a calm demeanor – as calm as he can manage anyway – knowing that it won’t do anyone good if he starts losing his mind as well. He follows Missandei’s instructions on how to remove what remains of Barristan’s armor – he wouldn’t even know where to begin with those things – and helps her roll the bandages around his wound, keeping it tight enough to stop the blood, but not too much to cut his breath off .

If they manage to save Barristan from death, he swears he’s going to go to church every day to thank the Light for this miracle – he won’t, he obviously won’t, but i t’ s the thought that counts, right?

After what feels like hours – and after much more blood is spilled – they have finally finished.

In the process, Barristan has lost consciousness, but they can see him breathing deeply, which means that the y must’ve stabilized him well enough. What a relief.

There’s still the question of getting out of there alive, but if they do, Dismas could try to do something about these feelings of his – Barristan deserves to know, no matter if they’re requited or not.

After this scare, he feels bolder; he always thought it was too late for him, that love wasn’t something that was ever going to have a place in his life, but maybe he’s wrong, maybe it’s not too late, but he has to act, or else he’ll lose this chance too.

Chapter Text

When Margaret arrived to the Hamlet, she was appalled to see its state, and ever more appalled upon meeting its inhabitants, as well as the people who would soon become her companions: none of the m seemed to be on her level. Not even those of noble birth impressed her, as they seemed to have foregone their status, but she could still figure who they really were – they couldn’t hide from her.

“As long as they are capable in battle,” she figured, having no intentions of being slowed down on her quest to regain her honor by some incompetent idiots.

As it turned out, however, they were more than ready to face the horror that she – as much as it pained her to admit it – was unprepared for. It was another hit to her pride, but the only person who cared about it was her: her companions were more understanding than her – apparently, this was a rite of passage of sort – and although she was grateful for it, she made a point to quickly learn how pull her weight against those newfound horrors as well.

With time, she’s come to appreciate her companion s , despite their uncouth nature. It’s different from what she was used to, but she’s found herself even enjoying this new atmosphere.

To tell the truth, there is one person, in particular, that has caught her eye, though she has no intentions of making her feelings known to him: at first she thought him mere criminal scum, but there is something about the thief Dismas that has mesmerized her.

He’s rude, loud, and he drinks too much, but he’s also surprisingly kind and, dares she say, even heroic, in battle at least: being one of those with more experience – according to the tales, he’s been the first to set foot into the Hamlet, along with the heir and crusader – he constantly encourages the new recruits, puts himself between them and the enemy, making quick work of them with his knife and pistol – nothing compared to her musket, but still a notable weapon – teaches them all he knows to give them an edge in the fights.

What truly attracts her, however, is the way he fights: unlike what she would’ve expected from a brute like him – he may possess positive qualities, but he’s still rude most of the time – he’s fast and, most importantly, he’s very precise; when he flaunts about never missing he’s telling the truth, much to her delight.

That is precisely the reason why she often challenges him. These sparring matches have little to do with the prestigious tournaments she used to attend to, but they fill her with pure adrenaline all the same, in a way not even the expeditions she takes part to do: she loves competing .

There is, however, one very important difference between these two events, and that’s how much she’s able to concentrate before her trial actually begins; to tell the truth, as much as she enjoys winning, that isn’t the reason why she oh so often challenges Dismas: she simply wants to have a close spot to observe him – in the midst of battle hardly feels like the right time to do so. This way she can truly enjoy the way he moves, the look on his face as he takes aim – that’s how she found out that he tends to bite his lower lip as he does so, something that is usually covered by his scarf – the furrow in his brow, and that victorious smirk of his when he hits bullseye.

It’s during these moments that she’s tempted to take the first step, to declare her feelings once and for all, but she hasn’t made it this far by being unable to resist her urges; this, at least, she wants to do properly: once everything is over, then she will court him as custom demands. For now she’s content enough being able to steal these moments away to be close to him and engage in some fun competition.

Her aim suffers tremendously because of this distraction, but she’s already gotten her prize, what more can she ask for?

Chapter Text

What was once born out of necessity, has become something of a habit, a ritual they concede to themselves after a long expedition, admitting that either of them were in the condition to do it – it isn’t always the case, unfortunately.

Alhazred has to admit that he’s come to treasure these moments of peace, which are getting rarer and rarer as they progress through their quest, as they get closer to the heart of the problem. A slight shiver runs down his spine at the thought of what is behind all this; they’re so close to the truth, so much that if he were to reach for it, he could already be grasping at it with his fingers.

“You’ve been awfully quiet today.”

Dismas’ voice shakes him from the thoughts in which he had found refuge, brings him back to the present. His tone doesn’t sound accusatory: it’s just a statement, though there is a hint of worry that Alhazred is able to catch – Dismas has never been a subtle man, but nonetheless with time he’s become better at reading him. It is true: usually, he’d be running his mouth about a new discovery, a hunch, anything in particular at all, as long as he spoke, as Dismas likes to hear the sound of his voice, even though he doesn’t always understand what he’s talking about.

Even after voicing his concern, he doesn’t stop tending to Alhazred’ s hair, brushing his long locks with a softness that, at first, had been surprising; to tell the truth, he hadn’t been expecting it, the first time this event took place: he wouldn’t consider himself a vain person, but – unlike some people who would do well to follow his example – he does take care of his body; after all, what is a brilliant mind without a functional body to serve it?

Fate had it that after a particularly grueling expedition, he wasn’t in condition to take care of his needs himself, not with his useless arm kept together by only a stick and a piece of cloth, the best treatment he could get before he could be taken to the sanitarium. He had tried summoning an infernal help for his wounds, but all it did had been making the bleeding worse, so he had sagely refrained from trying again, knowing how easy it was to upset such powers.

After getting a better medication for his arm, he managed to wash all the grime and blood from his body one-armed, but he soon realized that he would’ve had to ask for help for what came after. He turned to his temporary companion – they were to share the room at least for the night, before being considered healthy enough to leave the place – and frowned: Dismas didn’t exactly feel like the best candidate for this, but Alhazred had no other choice; it was either him or the nurses, which weren’t known for being that careful in the first place, so Dismas it was.

He grumbled, when he called to him – he obviously didn’t want to be disturbed, and he would’ve left him alone if he had the possibility – but when Alhazred explained his situation, he was less reluctant to help than he had anticipated; it was surprising, how someone this gruff was able to be so delicate, though Alhazred supposed it made sense: his tools for combat couldn’t be handled roughly, and required constant maintenance, so he must’ve been used to it. It was a pleasant surprise how good it felt when Dismas passed the brush through his hair, carefully untangling it from the mess it had become, though that might have had something to do with the crescent feelings Alhazred had been finding himself harboring for the man, feelings that, he suspected, were returned, but he still hadn’t found the right time to act on that hunch of his – their circumstances weren’t the best when it came to pursuing a romance.

Still, it was a nice experience, one that Alhazred was certain would be unique, so of course he was surprised when Dismas came to him, after a much easier expedition, and asked him if he needed any help again. It seemed that he was joking, but Alhazred would’ve been a fool to let such an opportunity leave his grasp, so he took it seriously, and well, Dismas hadn’t needed much convincing to begin with, thus a new tradition was born.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Ah, apologies. It seems I am distracted, today,” Alhazred manages to say, this time. He’s been lost in his thoughts once again.

Thankfully, Dismas seems more amused than upset at this point, which is good: Alhazred would’ve felt bad for making him worry over nothing. “And what’s distracting you? It must be something important, if you can’t think of anything else,” he asks, still intent on brushing his hair – he’s fallen in love with those long dark locks, and can’t believe he’s one of the few people Alhazred would grant the privilege to see him in such a way.

Alhazred’s lips curve into an amused smile. “Would it be too much of a cliché to say that I was thinking about you?”

He can’t help a small laugh, hearing a now embarrassed Dismas grumble something incomprehensible in reply.

“That’s low,” he complains, once he’s recovered; this time Alhazred manages to hold himself back, figuring that he wouldn’t enjoy being laughed at – though it would’ve been done with affection.

“But true,” he responds. “Or shall I lie, next time?”

More grumbling on Dismas’ part. “… No.”

Alhazred smiles, content enough of his victory that he doesn’t feel the need to push it further. Meanwhile, Dismas returns to his previous task, brush in hand, and silence fills the room once again, though the atmosphere is more relaxed, now that Dismas knows that the reason behind Alhazred’s silence is nothing he should worry about.

He enjoys listening to him ramble about any topic of his choosing, but he has to admit that he doesn’t mind this either, as long as they’re close, as long as they get even a small moment of respite, before the horrors commence once again.

Chapter Text

This research is juvenile, Paracelsus is more than aware of that; it’s the reason why she’s kept what she calls a “very small and inconsequential side-project” a secret from everyone.

Love is a foreign concept to her, and not necessarily something she would care about investigating; she doesn’t believe in the “sanctity” or “magic” of love, but she has found something, reading a book she had previously acquired from the merchant, that has piqued her interest: there exist s a scientific current, which she hadn’t known anything about until this very moment, that sustains that love doesn’t stem from the heart, but from the brain. To keep things short, love is but a chemical reaction produced inside one person’s body.

Of course, nothing has been confirmed, but what if there’s truth behind those words? Imagine the possibilities if one would become able to understand – and even control! – something considered so fickle and obscure as love.

Something that normally she would’ve dismissed without hesitation has now become a worthy subject of study, even if she was keeping it secret. If she were to make any significant discovery, she wouldn’t have hesitated to reveal everything she’s been working on, but if it goes nowhere she can at least console herself with the fact that she tried.

She usually waits the arrival of the night before sneaking into her lab, not wanting to be disturbed during the day; she’s hardly the only one around – she often catches sight of the hound master and his mutt on patrol, or the grave robber Audrey, or Bibgy – but nobody questions her: they all have their reasons to be up and about, there’s no need to investigate further.

For now, what she wants to test is the ability to use alchemy to cause the right reactions inside a body that would cause a person to fall in love. Her progress has been swift – truly, what a brilliant mind she is – but as she gets closer and closer to the end of her research, she realizes that there’s a final obstacle for her to surpass: testing.

She couldn’t claim to have made a discovery before having tested it properly, which means that she’ll have to find a human subject; it doesn’t matter if they’re willing or unwilling – she can always slip her potion in their drink – but she needs to be able to observe the results which, depending on who she finds, might be difficult. What to do?

Well, as they say “nothing ventured, nothing gained”, so she quickly figures a solution to her problem: she shall be her own subject. This way, she will be able to experience on her own the effects of her potion, and make notes on them in a way that she can later come back to in order to reflect on the experiment and come to her conclusions.

It wouldn’t be the first time she experiments on herself, after all, and she cannot deny how curious she has become about this topic: can she really make herself fall in love with just some alchemy? How thrilling!

The potion will have a slow effect, meaning that she could drink it now, in the dead of night, go back to the barracks, where a restful sleep awaits her, and wake up the next day a changed scientist, ready to begin the experiment.

She glances at the vial of viscous liquid – she could’ve tried for a better texture, but there was little she could’ve done with the ingredients she had at her disposal – and she hesitates just for a moment, before downing it in one go. Too bad nobody was there to witness this impressive event – they always say she can’t hold her liquor, but she’d like to disagree. It burns in her throat, causing a potent coughing fit – maybe they are right after all – but she manages to keep the potion down, not wanting to waste her research by vomiting it out before it can take effect.

Once she manages to gather her bearings, she makes note that she doesn’t feel much different than before drinking the potion. She will have to wait until the morning to gather more conclusive data.

The walk to the barracks is an uneventful one: she meets nobody, and her body seems to still be in the same condition as before. She isn’t immune to doubt – did she make a mistake in the preparation? Is it not working? – but she tries her best to be optimis ic t: the potion has a long-term efficacy, which means that it’s more than normal that it hasn’t had any effect yet. She has to remain calm.

Once she’s inside, she heads straight to her room and prepares for the night. She lets herself fall on the bed, but she’s too giddy to fall asleep immediately, spending her time fantasizing about the results of her research and the effects they will have on the world at large: finally, the scientific community will have to acknowledge her contribution; nobody will ever laugh behind her back ever again.

It’s with a big smile on her face that she falls asleep, certain of the great impact of her new discovery. They will write about her in the history books.

She wakes up with a jolt, but she’s soon pushed down b y one– not one, but two nurses. Is she at the sanitarium? But why?

Before she can understand what is going on, they manage to sedate her, and soon her vision turns black again.

When she wakes up again, she’s been tied to the cot – how long h as she been acting out, if they ha ve needed to restrain her? – but there are no nurses this time around.

“Darling, you’re awake~”

Well, there are no nurses, but there’s an equally if not more annoying presence that makes Paracelsus dread the conversation they’re about to have; still, she wants to know what’s going on, so she has no choice but to rely on her.

“I assume you know why I’m in this position,” she states, trying to maintain a neutral tone – when it comes to that witch, anything can be used against you.

If Audrey’s offended by her coldness, she doesn’t show it. “Oh, my darling doctor, I was thinking about asking you the same question. You haven’t been yourself at all these last few days…”

She instinctively swallows, hearing her words. She knows at least that some times has passed already since the beginning of the experiment – she hopes her past self has written everything down about this experience, because she has no memory of it – and that she must’ve caused a scene; from the way Audrey can barely keep a straight face it isn’t hard to guess that she must’ve humiliated herself in many ways, and although she doesn’t necessarily want to find out how, she must ask for further clarification – she must do it for science!

“I don’t actually recall what has happened. Care to refresh my memory?”

That must’ve been exactly what Audrey wanted to hear, because a devious smile appears on her face. “Well, darling, how can I ever say no to you? Just remember: you wanted this.”

According to the testimonies – she doesn’t make any names, but it’s obvious who they come from – the morning after the experiment Dismas h as gone to her to wake her up, because the Heir wanted to consult her over nobody knows for sure what, but as soon as she opened her eyes a nd saw him, she imprinted on him.

“You looked like a duckling, following him around everywhere he went. Utterly adorable.”

It’s a good thing that Paracelsus has been tied down, because she would’ve leapt at Audrey and silenced her, possibly for eternity – they didn’t really need her, didn’t they?

“He went to the blacksmith to get a better knife and you were there, he went to the guild to train and you were there ogling at him like a starved woman. You even yelled at the guild master for daring to hit your precious Dismas!”

Death, death would be a mercy for poor Paracelsus; how many people have seen acting in such an irrational way? Is her reputation forever tarnished?

“That night, you even tried to sneak in his room! His screams must’ve been heard throughout the entire Hamlet. Got us all scared that something bad had happened.”

If she closes her eyes, maybe the next time she opens them she will discover that this is just a nightmare, nothing that is real and that can hurt her.

“And then, this morning, you even tried to attack the Heir because they wanted to send our poor little thief to the Warrens. You were screaming about endangering your man and tried to cut them open with your scalpel. At that point we knew for certain that there was something foul going on, and here we are now.”

Paracelsus absorbs all this information in silence, pondering how bad it would be if she decided to run away and never be seen again. Her potion was much more potent than she had anticipated, that is certain.

“… And Dismas? How is he?”

Audrey bursts into laughter. “Oh, he’s fine, I assure you! Just… I would try to avoid him for a while, if I were you.”

“Yes, well, I will try,” she mutters, despite the fact that, for her experiment, it would be best to track him down as soon as she’s out of there so that she can get fresher data – he might’ve noticed something too, but he might also forget it as time passes – though she has the feeling that he might try to avoid her even if she tried.

In spite of her scientific integrity, however, she finds herself reluctant at the idea of speaking to him, so maybe Audrey is right and she should wait until they have both forgotten about this matter entirely – if they will ever be able to forget.

If it were for her, she would’ve dropped the conversation entirely, and would’ve dismissed Audrey because she had a desperate need to be alone, but apparently she wasn’t off the hook yet.

“Darling, I must ask: you must have done something to yourself, mustn’t you? What happened?”

She’s about to respond sincerely, but thankfully she remembers who she’s talking to and manages to catch herself before she can spill any embarrassing details. “Just forget about it…” she groans, shaking her head.

Perhaps some hypothesis are best not verified…

Chapter Text

Amani had hoped that she could’ve escaped her nightmares once she set foot inside the Hamlet, but her hopes were soon shattered: no matter where she went, no matter what she did, her sleep was never as restful as it was supposed to be, because by some magic that she wouldn’t want anything to do with, her tormented memories would come to life, never leaving her alone.

Sleep for her was a perilous affair, even more so when she discovered that her companions could be dragged into her nightmares as well, having to fight their way out just like she had to.

Night after night, her own health was at risk for the lack of rest, until this very day, having decided that enough is enough: she is going to find a cure to her condition, she is going to be free of her burden.

The first step – the most sensible one – is to seek counsel from the occultist Alhazred: he is a knowledgeable fellow and he is familiar with the occult, exactly what Amani needs.

He had already taken interest in her condition, being one of the first to experience its effects, but she hadn’t been ready to open up at the time – she hadn’t arrived that long ago, so she was still figuring out whether she could trust those people or not. She is ready now, and Alhazred welcomes her with open arms.

Unfortunately for her, the occult is unpredictable so, even after his careful study, he can only bring forward conjectures and hypothesis. Amani can’t help but feel disappointed by such a result, but Alhazred is quick to reassure her: the key to understand what one doesn’t is not only to study it, but to experiment with it as well, which is what the next step of the plan involves. They are going to find a solution to her nightmares, but they will have to try a few things out first, and see what works and what doesn’t.

It may be a taxing affair, but Amani is ready, determined to get rid of this once and for all even if it’s going to take forever to actually do it.

There have been many attempts, but nothing has worked, shattering what little hope Amani held still in herself, but not all is lost, not yet at least: if an external protection is useless – no incantation nor amulet could keep the nightmares at bay – then the answer to their dilemma must come within herself. Maybe, instead of following her and tormenting her wherever she goes, these nightmares are conjured, involuntarily of course, by Amani herself when she goes to sleep, which is coincidentally the time of day during which one’s mental defenses are weakest.

The idea of being the bringer of her own torment unnerves Amani, but if that is true she has to take matters into her own hands, instead of relying on an external solution, which to her is much more preferable: the more self-sufficient she is, the calmer her nerves are.

She’s taught a few meditation techniques, Alhazred being a patient and helpful teacher. He tooh as to rely on these techniques to keep his own afflictions at bay – if he were to ever lose control of his powers, he fears what might happen to the Hamlet at large – so he was more than happy to help Amani again.

Even this isn’t enough to put a definitive end to the nightmares, but it lessens their frequency, a confirmation that her state of mind before she falls asleep plays a fundamental part on how the night will turn out.

This is a step in the right direction, though the road to success isn’t an easy one: even with meditation it’s still hard for her not to sink in her fears, when the memories of what happened torment her nights, so clear that they become real.

What to do?

She finds a solution in the most unexpected way, but also the simplest.

It happens by chance, during an expedition to the ruins: in dire need of some rest, they have set up camp in an empty room. Out of all of them, only she and the thief Dismas are still awake; she suspects he’s afraid of being caught by surprise by her nightmares, that’s why he still hasn’t joined the others, though he doesn’t look on edge. Being the one who had suggested they continued exploring at least another couple of rooms, he might simply not feel tired yet.

She tries to pay him no mind – people like him unnerve her, but he’s been behaving well, so she’s trying to give him the benefit of the doubt – but the fire has almost died out – they should look for something to revive it soon – and the cold is getting to her, so she can’t help but to scoot closer and closer, inch by inch, in search of warmth.

At first, he doesn’t seem to notice, which prompts her to continue in her endeavor, but eventually he comments on it. “Need something? You’re getting awfully close…” Then a smirk appears on his face. “Afraid of ghosts?”

She doesn’t laugh at his joke. To tell the truth, she is even considering not speaking to him altogether, but if it’s imperative for her to keep a state of mind as calm as possible before falling asleep, she supposes she shouldn’t keep everything inside.

“Not afraid, just…” she hesitates just for a moment, “I’m cold.”

At those words, Dismas’ demeanor shifts immediately: he doesn’t say anything as he takes off his coat, handing it to her. “Here.”

Her first instinct is to grab it – she wouldn’t mind something to cover herself with – but she chooses to just close her fist around it, grabbing it but not taking it yet, suspecting the existence of an ulterior motive behind this sudden kindness.

“Why?” is all she asks.

“Doesn’t seem wise to let you freeze to death,” he replies, shrugging. “I can take it back if you don’t want it…”

The way he keeps looking at her as he tugs the coat towards himself makes it apparent that he’s teasing her. She hates falling for it, but she won’t renounce her source of warmth, so she snatches it out of his hands. “It is fine, actually. Thank you,” she immediately says, wasting no time putting it on so that he won’t be able to take it back without having to touch her, and everybody knows how dangerous of an action that is.

Dismas takes it in stride, however. “Fine, fine. Have it your way,” he chuckles, turning his gaze away from her to focus on what he was previously doing – which Amani doesn’t know, and frankly doesn’t care about.

Now, she feels, she can withstand the night. She makes herself small, keeping the coat tight around herself. It smells of blood and battle, but it isn’t as disgusting she would have initially feared; the fur around the neck isn’t as soft as it surely was when it was first manufactured, but feeling it against her skin is still a pleasant sensation.

With warmth, however, comes also drowsiness, and before she can even realize it, she falls asleep.

She isn’t met by the reassuring emptiness that signifies that her sleep is going to be a dreamless on e , but at least she isn’t in the desert, which is reassuring.

The place she’s in doesn’t seem to be a place at all, actually, more like a feeling, or a memory. Inexplicably, all she can see is Dismas, Dismas, Dismas.

Dismas lounging forward with his dirk pointed at the enemy. Dismas taking aim, tongue slightly out to wet his lower lip; she must have noticed this habit of his at some point, but not enough to consciously remember it apparently – why would she have done that, after all?

Dismas at the tavern, laughing at a joke someone said while sipping his beer. Dismas at the armory, studying with keen eye his recently upgraded weapons.

Dismas cursing after missing a shot, brows knitted and teeth gritted. Dismas smirking as he outmaneuvers an enemy, dogging their attack to slash their throat – or which part can be closer to a throat.

Dismas reaching out for her, helping her up after a false step made her fall. Dismas calling her name.

Dismas, Dismas, Dismas…

She wakes up with a start, feeling a hand touching her shoulder, a hand that would’ve soon been cut off if she hadn’t realized who it belongs to.

“Apologies,” Dismas mutters. “I would’ve let you sleep more, but we have to move out…”

Amani shakes off the last vestiges of haziness and looks around; indeed, everyone’s intent in gathering their things. They all look well-rested – as well rested as one can be sleeping in a small dark room cursed with humidity while outside creatures of all sorts roam around anyway – and especially they show no sign of having endured a recent battle. Does that mean…

“The night went well, then? No… accidents?” she can’t help but to ask, needing to make sure. Considering the contents of her dream, it’s a wonder what might’ve happened – what if she had summoned a second Dismas for all to see?

Judging by the calm way everyone’s acting, however, she doubts that must’ve been the case, much to her relief. “Nothing at all,” Dismas confirms, in fact, which brings her immense relief. “You slept like a puppy,” he adds, then, flashing a smile towards her that makes her skin flush – she must still be under the influence of her dream, or else she wouldn’t be able to explain such a reaction.

She clears her throat, hoping that even if he has noticed her behavior, he won’t point it out. “I’m glad to hear that,” she says, before getting up so that she too can get prepared for a new day in the ruins, but not before giving Dismas back what is his. “Here,” and she hands him back his coat, despite already missing its warmth, “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” is all he says, before he turns his attention elsewhere, failing to notice the way she keeps staring at him, and staring, and staring, until she shakes her head, cursing herself for her indecent behavior.

Despite the strangeness of her dream, however, she has to admit that something must’ve worked well, because nobody was attacked. She simply had a dream like any other person.

It is hard to tell, however, if such a result has been directly because of Dismas or if it was just a coincidence, as either option seems plausible.

Knowing this, one thing is sure: she will have to try again which, she supposes, will imply getting closer to Dismas than she would normally be. Just a night ago, she would’ve dismissed this idea with nothing more than scorn, but maybe she was wrong about him.

There is only one way to find out, and she’s eager to begin.

Chapter Text

That Junia, Dismas doesn’t understand her at all: one moment she’ll accuse him of being the devil trying to make her give in temptation, then the other she’ll flirt with him, getting awfully close in a way that makes her seem possessed despite the fact that she isn’t – he knows it for a fact, since he asked Alhazred to check for any demonic entities that she might be carrying within, but found nothing.
He’s trying to be understanding, but the situation is getting out of hand. It’s like there are two personalities inhabiting the same body, which leaves him confused and always on edge, having to overthink every gesture he directs her way, even the most innocuous one.
At first, he found this behavior amusing: she has obviously led a sheltered life with no lack of comforts, unlike him, who is well acquainted with the worst life can offer. Witnessing her having to come face to face with reality, now that she is on her own, is bringing him a wicked sense of vindication, like she’s been the true reason of everything that has ever gone wrong for him, but enough is enough: they’re in this together, fighting against things that none of them fully understand; there shouldn’t be place for doubt or friction between them, if they want to survive.
The only problem is that it’s hard to catch her alone, a bit because she’s often in company of her other fellow religious fools – the crusader, in particular, seems to go along with her splendidly – but also because she’s very adept at finding excuses to run away from him the moment they are alone, always muttering something about how she won’t fall for his tricks, or something akin to that. He doesn’t want to corner her – it would make him feel like an animal – but he supposes he has no choice, if he wants to clear this up once and for all. His sanity is at play, after all.

It feels like centuries have passed since the last time he set foot inside a church. He’s never been a great believer, but this is an emergency, so he only slightly hesitates before stepping inside.
He’ll never understand how people can feel safe in such a dark and creepy place, but he quickly discards this thought in favor on focusing on the task at hand – there’s no point pondering about things he has no actual interest in.
From what he’s gathered, Junia spends most of her time in the church at the confessional, offering her services in order to compensate for the lack of staff – who would even want to bear the weight of having to run a church in a place like this – which means that at least he’ll be able to talk to her in relative privacy.
Where is she? After all, this church might be small, but is plenty furnished – while outside, people die on the streets – though giving their pitiful state of disrepair, and the fact that not so many people attend church nowadays, it’s easy to assume that she has to be inside the one that looks less likely to fall apart at any given moment. He steps towards it then kneels to its side, just like a regular penitent would, knees screaming in protest for his decision – another sign of the fact that he’s getting old that he will ignore, in favor of considering himself still young enough to be able to kneel somewhere without having to feel it for the rest of the day.
His intuition is correct, as he soon hears a familiar voice. “Child of the Light, welcome. What afflicts you today?”
“We need to talk,” is all Dismas says. He hears a gasp and some shuffling, thus he prepares himself to run after her in case she tries to escape, but no attempt is made.
“You… devil!” she whispers however, making no effort to hide the disdain in her voice despite the low tone – she mustn’t want anyone one else hearing her. “You ambush me, in this sacred place!”
“Only because you kept running away when I tried to approach you,” he retorts. He already has a reputation for being a thief and an overall scoundrel – which isn’t entirely untrue – but even he has standards. “And now I can finally ask: what is wrong with you?” He adopts her same hushed tone, not wanting to cause a scene. There aren’t many people around, but with how fast rumors spread in this kind of town, he’d rather be prudent.
“What is wrong with… What is wrong with you?” She sounds so offended it would almost be funny, if Dismas hadn’t been directly involved. She immediately starts with her usual rants about him tempting her, being a devil, and other unflattering things that Dismas has heard over and over again. It’s time to put an end to this.
“I’m telling you, this is all in your head,” he says, finally. “I’m not even that interested in you!”

His words manage to shut Junia up, but her silence grows longer and longer, which begins to worry Dismas – he didn’t think it would hurt her that badly, in his defense.
He nervously looks around, but nothing has changed since he first stepped inside. He doubts the old decrepit lady praying all alone might help him in this situation; maybe he should call for someone else, a nurse more likely, but he wants to make sure that there’s an actual need for that. “Priestess, are you alright?” he whispers, receiving however no response, which certainly doesn’t help him feel more calm about the situation.
He doubts what he’s about to do is allowed, but he has no other choice; he gets up, knees protesting once again just as predicted, and walks around the confessional, until he’s face to face with the door, then he lightly knocks on it. “Junia, are you still in there?”
Still no response. Not knowing what else to do, Dismas opens the door, only to be dragged inside, before Junia slams the door shut once again.
“You are mad!” he shouts, uncaring of who might hear them this time, but he’s soon silenced by Junia pressing her lips against his own with an insistence that he would’ve never guessed her capable of. As ashamed as he’d be, admitting it to anyone, any kind of reluctance he might’ve felt about this quickly vanishes – he’ll blame the long years spent in solitude for it – and he lets himself go.
When she pulls away, he almost follows her, trying to chase her lips once more, but manages to come to a stop before making a fool of himself – not that standing there, too stunned for words, makes him look any better, but at least he isn’t saying anything that would make the situation worse.
For a moment, she mimics him, a determined shine in her eyes. “I’ll show you not interested,” she grumbles, then, before dragging him close once again.

When they get out of the confessional, it’s so late that nobody’s around anymore, which works in their favor because they can – on unsteady legs – make their way back to the barracks without anyone suspecting anything.
That has been a surprising turn of events, Dismas won’t deny it, but he can’t say he’s displeased about the results. Both he and Junia were in desperate need of a partner, a companion, though at least he doesn’t need to make up stories to justify it; he still doesn’t like that, but Junia has certainly made up for it with her enthusiasm, to the point that he might be able to bear having to play the part of the tempting devil if it means they get to repeat what has happened inside the confessional, and there will be at least a second time, given the way her eyes linger on his figure as he makes his way to his room. Even as he turns towards her, before stepping inside, she keeps her gaze on him; she even takes a step to reach him, but thinks better of it and she goes the other way, to her room, but until she disappears from his view, she keeps turning around to look at him, over and over again.
She will be back, he’s sure of it.