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“This is the tale of an inquisitive cleric and a brave knight, who together embarked on a quest for truth in the face of shadows and doubt. For there was a wickedness threatening the very heart of the Order of the Sacred Flame, and they were the only two who could bring it to light.”
The stage is set—a background of autumn leaves as vivid as flames, a familiar little village sheltered in a mountain valley between towering peaks, the scene awash with sunlight but, should one look closely, the lurking shadows apparent, inked dark and heavy at the edges. The audience watches raptly.
He rehearsed this play well into the night, until his candles were spent and guttering and his eyes ached with exhaustion, determined to get it just right. There will be no embarrassing blunders, this story is too important. Some things cannot be forgotten. Some things must endure.
“The two met in a small, peaceful village blessed by the light of Aelfric. On that day, however, it was beset by a band of heretics threatening violence upon followers of the church. They were thwarted by the timely arrival of the knight of our tale, the brave Crick, traveling through on his way to report for his first post as a Sanctum Knight. Crick, though a knight only newly anointed, was valiant and wielded great strength. The mere sight of his blade drove the ruffians to flee.”
His first glimpse of Crick, that unfamiliar knight racing to the protection of the villagers without a trace of self-preservation, gave him pause, and he watched curiously from the steps rather than intervene. Sunlight gleamed on Crick’s armor and his drawn sword—held as a warning, but not to strike, not yet. He faced the heretics without fear or rage, but instead with a genuine plea for them to stand down, to repent, his patience most uncharacteristic of the crows Temenos had met before.
“All but one, who in his desperation took captive an unfortunate cleric of the nearby church. Yet, before he could do our cleric any harm, the knight Crick dispatched the villain with a mighty swing of his sword. And so the village was saved, and the villagers rejoiced their hero.”
The way Crick had blinked in the aftermath of the dazzling light, his mouth softly agape, gazing at Temenos with awe, as though he’d just witnessed a true miracle…
“The cleric thanked his saviour. Upon learning that the knight was due to report to the cathedral up the mountain, the cleric asked that he might be escorted. The pontiff had requested his audience that eve, and the path was rife with bandits and beasts. The knight agreed, and the two set off on their short journey.”
The mountain path is always quiet in the hour before dusk, no travellers willing to risk being caught there at night lest they fall victim to the beasts roaming in the darkness. The two of them met no other souls as they climbed that winding road together, above rooftops and pastures glowing softly golden. Whenever he walks that path now, with the sun sinking low over the fields, he’s taken back to that day, feeling much like a shepherd without a flock.
“Darkness fell as they walked, but there was nothing to fear. For our Crick was no ordinary knight, but a true Godsblade, sworn to extend a hand to the weak and cleave the wickedness from the world, and thus no beast was a match for his sword.”
Temenos regrets laughing at him after he had said that, the sound gentle in the howling gales and swirling snow of a Stormhail night, but seeming to cut through Crick more deeply than the bitter wind nonetheless. Crick had bared his soul in confession, so unflinchingly and recklessly honest, while Temenos kept his own carefully hidden, clutched close to his chest, unable to even speak the truth of his feelings for Roi in anything but the vaguest terms.
He wonders sometimes if he’d taken Crick more seriously, if perhaps he wouldn’t have felt the need to go off and investigate on his own… but he’ll never know exactly what Crick was thinking in those final moments.
“They arrived at the cathedral to find its windows dark and its doors locked tight. Both of their suspicions were raised, as they knew they were to be expected. In search of answers, they questioned the nearby townspeople.”
“Forgive us our sins, O gods...” Crick had begged the heavens, as Temenos watched him with an amused smile. The shine of his inquisitor title had finally worn off. Something about Crick made Temenos want to get under his skin, shake him of his naive admiration, let him see the truth—a glimpse of it—instead of simply playing the part.
Yet, despite his objections to Temenos’s methods, his complaints and his prayers for forgiveness, Crick still followed him faithfully, and without hesitation, into the darkness beneath the cathedral.
“From an architect who had recently worked on the cathedral, the pair learned of a secret tunnel leading through the cellar, and followed it inside. Within, they discovered a horrific scene.”
Time itself seemed to freeze as he laid eyes on the pontiff’s body. There was no air to fill his lungs, no release for the screaming grief caught in his throat. He could do nothing but strangle it, shove it back down to twist itself with that tight knot he’d carried in his chest all these years.
A vicious, unforgivably blasphemous thought crossed Temenos’s mind in that moment—that if the Gods would not even deign to protect him, their most devout and holiest servant, then none were safe. He didn’t know how right he was at the time. If only he’d been more careful.
“The pontiff had been killed—” The audience gasps. “—and as they approached the pulpit, the cause became clear. Out of the shadows slunk a gruesome beast, a felvarg with fur as dark as night and eyes that glowed red with rage. On four legs it stood taller than a man. But the knight and the cleric were not afraid, as they were protected by the light of the Sacred Flame. They battled fiercely, attacking with sword and staff and holy light, as the varg snarled and snapped at them with its deadly jaws. The knight Crick landed the final blow, his sword striking true and piercing through its very heart. The beast was slain.”
As long and hard as they fought, the creature refused to die, lashing out again and again, fuelled by wrath and sheer hatred. They were both so weary, bantering to spur each other on even as they knew they could not last much longer. And despite Temenos’s previous admonishments, despite being unsteady on his feet from a profusely bleeding wound to his leg, stubborn Crick leapt in front of Temenos as the beast lunged towards him.
Temenos stamped his staff against the floor, looked sternly to the heavens and did not beg but demanded the scorching pillar of holy light that struck down the beast before its claws descended on Crick, rendering it to ashes and smoke.
“Following the battle, the two examined the scene within the cathedral and came to a grim conclusion—this was no mere accident. The great stained glass window had been broken from within, and the bloodthirsty varg had been lured inside with an incense of fool’s poppy. Someone was responsible for the death of the pontiff.”
He thought he’d been following the clues before him so cleverly, from the cathedral to Canalbrine to the fortress of the Sacred Guard, but his deductions fell short. He was too foolish to realize that the path went full circle. The truth he was seeking had been with him for years, smiling right in front of his face.
“Like the knight, our cleric was no ordinary priest. He had been tasked with investigating nefarious plots against the church, like his predecessor, who had years ago departed on a journey for truth and never returned. The mystery at hand reminded the cleric of his parting words—a warning of danger that lurked within the church itself.”
He will never forget the fear on Roi’s face that night he knocked on Temenos’s door. The way his hands trembled with revulsion as he gripped that darkly glimmering bow. His voice breathless and frantic as he spoke those words that have never left Temenos, haunting his dreams night after night. He will never forgive himself for letting Roi go alone.
“Though the investigation was only beginning, their budding partnership was at an end. The knight had been assigned a new post by the Sacred Guard, and was set to leave immediately. So the two bid farewell, and the cleric decided to set off on a journey of his own, in search of clues that could shed light on the culprit behind the pontiff’s death.”
He pauses now for a moment as he changes the background for the next scene, swapping one board for another. As he does, he glances over the heads of the audience to smile at a familiar figure standing at the back of the room. He’s skipping a fair number of events, a certain detour to New Delsta for one, but this tale is long enough as it is.
They gathered new companions from towns they visited, one by one, until Temenos had his own little flock to tend. Though when he looked upon the ragtag group sitting around the campfire, or at a table inside a lively tavern, he often felt as though he was missing one lamb in particular.
“The cleric traveled across the ocean to a bustling port with a magnificent lighthouse. In this town resided a scholar who had traveled to meet with the pontiff on the day of his murder. A possible lead, or so our cleric hoped. No sooner than he had arrived, he found himself witness to the aftermath of yet another murder. Mere steps from the church laid the town’s apothecary, killed in cold blood. The cleric’s inquisitive manner led to an unfortunate misunderstanding with the local guards, suspicious of his intentions, ‘til a familiar face intervened on his behalf. Once again, the cleric and the knight were brought together by fate.”
“Do not dare say “fate”, Temenos.” Crick scowled sternly as the sea breeze playfully tousled his hair. And Temenos was tempted, but he did not.
“Together, the pair resumed their investigation. The shadow of death seemed to be one step ahead of them—upon visiting the home of the scholar, they discovered him killed as well. The scholar was not the perpetrator, but another victim. Though they were not able to question him on what he knew, they examined the notes scattered about his study and learned he was following the same trail. The clues he left pointed to one theory: the crimes were following scripture, signifying the Gods themselves in a particular pattern. First a cleric, then an apothecary, and a scholar… thus the next victim would represent Sealticge, the Lady of Grace—a dancer.”
Crick was alarmed the first time he’d seen Temenos concentrate so deeply, calling out his name in concern and confusion as they stood outside the locked doors of the cathedral. But he quickly grew accustomed to this odd habit, and when Temenos emerged from his thoughts there in the scholar’s dusty, ransacked study among toppled stacks of books and papers, he opened his eyes to see Crick waiting patiently, welcoming him back with a greeting and a warm smile. He felt safe to let his mind wander, knowing Crick was there next to him.
“The knight and the cleric recalled that the arrival of a famous dancer had been advertised throughout town, and that she was set to perform at the local tavern that very evening. The two hurried to the performance, but the tavern was crowded, and they feared they might not find their suspect in time.”
Perhaps there was some truth to the moniker Cubaryi so enjoyed taunting him with, as Temenos was much like a bloodhound on the scent as he weaved through the crowd, closing in on the perpetrator and the truth he sought with a thrill of anticipation. Crick was at his back, following as diligently as the lamb Temenos likened him to, but no lamb ever stayed quite so close…
“Then they saw it—a familiar face in the audience, one they recognized from the cathedral grounds the night of the pontiff’s death. The very architect who, when questioned, had revealed the secret passage into the cellar. This could not be coincidence. And indeed it wasn’t, for when the architect locked eyes with them he lashed out, dagger in hand, and jumped onto the stage. The brave Crick swiftly leapt to protect the dancer and, in the face of such a formidable shield, the would-be murderer faltered, his victim saved from a terrible fate.”
Crick’s arms were so wonderfully sturdy when Temenos fell into them, knocked back by the table Vados had tipped and flung in their direction, but his touch was gentle as he righted Temenos again, and his expression full of worry as he ensured Temenos was steady on his feet. Temenos merely shook his head at the concern, turning to the stage where the dancer quivered in fear as Vados advanced upon her with dagger in hand.
“Foiled, the suspect fled from the tavern. They chased him through the streets and towards the docks, where they witnessed him boarding a ship—the vessel of the Sacred Guard itself—in a desperate attempt to hide. He would not repent when they confronted him on the deck, and attacked with violent magic—not that of the Sacred Flame, but a darker, forbidden magic, imbued with evil. This architect of the church was a worshipper of the wicked god Vide. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, hiding among their flock.”
The ominous words Vados spat at them, those words from the Book of Night, are the same ones written on that scrap of parchment Temenos now keeps tucked safely within a book and carries with him always, close to his heart within a pocket of his cloak, so he will never forget.
Surrender yourself not unto silent dusk, for the light shall fade… and it did. If not for Crick, night may have fallen even sooner. Had Temenos and his companions not stopped Kaldena when they did, they could have been too overwhelmed by shadow to succeed in returning the dawn. Thoughts of this sort should bring him comfort, but they rarely do.
“Given no other choice, the knight and cleric stood ready to fight. This villain held the truth they were seeking, and they could not allow him to escape. Though the magic he drew from Vide was powerful, they had Gods looking upon them as well. The cleric summoned holy light that burned with the fury of the Flamebringer. The knight Crick swung his sword with the might of the Thunderblade himself. Their enemy fell to the ground, defeated, and was taken into custody by the captain of the Sacred Guard herself for his crimes.”
Even as Kaldena acknowledged Crick for his efforts, there was a coldness in her gaze. Temenos wonders, now, if he had already doomed Crick at that point, tainted him by association. Crick did not seem to notice, his posture lifting proudly at the praise. He was first and foremost a sworn knight of the Sacred Guard, and so he followed Kaldena obediently when ordered, leaving without even a backwards glance. Not that Temenos expected such a thing.
“The knight was given new orders. He was to guard this criminal on the journey to the headquarters of the Sacred Guard. He bid the cleric to meet him there, at their fortress high in the mountains, so they might question the heretic together once he was secured. The two said farewell once again, though only for a time.”
They stood together by the water, underneath the moonlight and the glowing strings of lanterns illuminating the streets. Crick expressed surprise, even a hint of disappointment, when he learned that Temenos would not be heading directly to Stormhail.
“Take care of yourself, Temenos,” he said before he departed, and there was a softness in his voice, something curiously tender in his expression, but Temenos was much too preoccupied with the facts of the case and the potential clues that yet awaited him to allow his thoughts to linger upon that. Or so he pretended.
“The ever-inquisitive cleric traveled across the continents, his curiosity leading him on a long and winding path. He explored ruins of fallen orders as he sought to learn more about the cult of Vide. He provided aid to villagers and fellow adventurers he met on his journey. And, finally, after much wandering, he arrived at the fortress of the Sacred Guard, where his knight awaited him.”
“As I live and breathe! Temenos!” Crick was breathless, his face flushed from sprinting in the cold air. The way Crick smiled then, sincerely happy to see him… For once Temenos wished Crick did not wear his emotions so plainly, because it was almost more than his heart could bear.
“The murderer they captured was jailed in the dungeon, having been delivered there by the knight himself. And yet, when they requested to question him, they discovered that no record of him existed at all. It could not be a mere mistake. This was the sinister act of someone who meant to conceal the truth.”
“Who are you?” Crick blurted out angrily, his narrowed eyes raw and conflicted. Temenos knew he was pushing Crick too far, too fast, but he could not deny his own doubts to spare his feelings. He could not help the fact that the Sacred Guard had pulled the wool over his lamb’s eyes, he could only offer him the opportunity to learn the truth, if he wished to face it.
“The cleric, heeding his inquisitive nature, looked about the Sacred Guard headquarters. Finding a trail of blood in the courtyard, he followed it to a body, half-buried in the snow—that of their missing prisoner. This heretic may have been a murderer, but it was clear that he was not the only one. This plot went far deeper than they imagined. As the cleric pondered this, he was attacked by a mysterious hooded figure, an assassin, who would have killed him as well if not for the arrival of his knight. Crick valiantly fended off the assassin, who then fled.”
Temenos tries not to dwell upon their time in Stormhail if he can help it, preferring to remember Crick under the clear blue skies of Canalbrine, Crick in the hills of Flamechurch with golden light in his hair. Stormhail, with its dark swirling skies and the relentless grasp of its cold, is a deep mire he struggles to escape from, should he linger too long. He’s learned this the hard way.
But the memories come back faster now, all in a rush, beyond his control. Crick, his dear, gallant, reckless, shining Godsblade, sprinting to his protection with his blade drawn. A violent collision of swords, the flash of alarm on Crick’s face as he struggled against his foe’s strength—and did he already suspect, then, the name of the evil he faced? The bloody wound on Crick’s arm that he hid beneath his cloak, his only concern for Temenos—
“Night fell, and the two reflected upon the events of the day. The knight wished to continue their investigation, but the cleric suggested they rest, and resume in the morning with refreshed bodies and minds. They could not afford to be caught unprepared. The task ahead of them was fraught with danger.”
“Temenos, is there anything in which I can place my faith?” Crick looked to him helplessly, begging for an answer, for comfort that Temenos simply wasn’t able to give, as much as he wished he could—
“The cleric bid his companion good night and retired to his room at the inn. The knight returned to his own quarters but was too restless to sleep. His mind raced with all they’d learned that day. Determined to finally uncover the truth, he left to continue their investigation, alone.”
The sight of his cloak fluttering in the wind as he walked away into darkness and drifting snow. Temenos should have called him back, should have gone with him, but instead he turned away—
“With eyes newly opened to the treachery surrounding him, he discovered a secret passage in the headquarters of the Sacred Guard, hidden in plain sight, that led deep beneath the building, to an archive of forbidden tomes. An altar of Vide, and the lair of the true perpetrator.”
At one point that night he had awoken suddenly, his heart racing from a dream he couldn’t remember in detail. The howling storm outside had cleared, the snow had stopped. Moonlight slanted through the window. He closed his eyes and returned to sleep, awaiting morning and the chance to see his knight again—
“As the knight turned to leave, he was confronted by the same hooded assassin from before, who revealed themself to be none other than the captain of the Sacred Guard. It was she who masterminded these crimes, and she did not intend to let him live with that knowledge.”
Stepping between the onlookers crowded near the front gates, a horrible icy dread sinking claws into his chest, his heart. Crick’s body, too pale, too cold, with closed eyes that would never again open to meet his gaze, frozen lips that would never again smile upon him. The scrap of parchment held in a tight fist, stained with blood—
“They duelled, sword clashing against sword, but our knight was finally outmatched. Grievously wounded, he fled, grasping a single clue—a page torn from a forbidden tome—that he knew he must deliver to the cleric. But, outside in the snow, he stumbled and fell. He did not have the strength to continue.”
“He was my friend,” he’d all but pleaded, as the unyielding Sanctum Knights stood between him and Crick’s body, blocking it from his sight—
“As dawn broke, the cleric found him there in the snow. The wounds were too grave to heal with his own power. He prayed to the Gods for mercy upon the brave knight’s soul…
A knight of flames, born from a dying prayer, silent, untouchable. Leading him through empty hallways and atop creaking rafters. Just as he had caught up, and reached out a hand towards it, it disappeared—
Temenos blinks. The church is filled with a restless silence as the audience awaits the next part.
He’s not sure how long he’s been paused, only that he must continue. He knows what comes next. This story cannot end here. But the words are locked tightly in his throat, his voice threatening to crack.
“Inquisitor Temenos…” The nearest sister steps forward in concern. He looks up at her with a reassuring smile.
“Pray forgive me. I remember the line now.” He clears his throat, begging his voice not to waver as he resumes. “The Gods heard the faithful cleric’s prayers. From the heavens, Aelfric the Flamebringer spoke, calling upon the cleric as his chosen messenger, and blessing him with a spark of his own power—holy light of a brilliance never before wielded by a mortal, able to heal even those upon the very brink of death.”
He remembers the words whispered in his ear as he stood before the shrine. The feeling of the sacred power he had been granted surging through his veins, aching to blaze forth.
What good it did him, when he’d found Crick’s body far too late to be saved, bloodless and frozen with no spark of life remaining to stoke with his holy light. What was the point of such a divine gift if it couldn’t be used on someone so faithful to the Gods, so deserving of their mercy?
“And by the grace of the Gods, the knight Crick was healed of his mortal wounds and stood once more.” He takes a steadying breath. “The truth had shown its face—that of the leader of the Sacred Guard itself—and they were the only two who could put an end to her wickedness and bring her to the justice of the Gods.”
He showed Cubaryi no mercy. And after she gasped her final, traitorous breath, he left her body where it had fallen on the cold stone floor of the dungeon, just as she and her ilk had left Crick in the snow. Had he chosen to, he could have healed her, detained her, given her the opportunity to repent for her sins and be judged by the Gods, but he didn’t. She faced his judgement, and his alone.
He did not beg forgiveness from the Gods afterwards. If he was truly their messenger, if he was Aelfric’s chosen, then surely they could allow him this.
“The clues left behind in the captain’s lair suggested that she had departed to find an ancient shrine of darkness, deep in the jungle of a southern isle, where she would attempt a wicked ritual to release Vide’s shadow onto the world. The knight’s brush with death after the last battle weighed heavily on them. Even with their combined power, they were not certain they would be able to stop her.”
Temenos did not speak much on the voyage to Toto’haha, adrift in the vast ocean of his own thoughts. His uncharacteristic silence worried his comrades. They did their best to allow him space to grieve, but there was only so much room on their little ship, and this grief he carried felt so large that it was a wonder they hadn’t capsized.
A hand on his shoulder in passing, a silent companion watching the horizon alongside him, a piece of jerky nudged into his hands, the notes of an unfinished song drifting across the deck—would they ever know just how much those small comforts meant to him? Would he ever be able to truly thank them?
“But they were not alone—they had the help of powerful allies gathered in their travels. The chosen hero of Brand, an exiled prince of great valour. A dancer with the grace and beauty of Sealticge. A merchant as clever and resourceful as Bifelgan himself. The embodiment of Dohter, a gentle apothecary who tirelessly healed wounds and soothed troubled souls. Alephan’s scholar, a tenacious wielder of powerful and unique magics. A curious young hunter with respect for all creatures, her arrows guided by the will of Draefendi. And a thief—blessed with the swiftness of Aeber, as well as a kind heart.”
This is the trickiest part, with so many little figures to arrange just so. One by one, he holds up each character as he introduces it before placing it on the stage, and the members of the audience lean forward in their seats and crane their necks trying to get a closer look. The effect is impressive, he must admit. His hard work was well worth it.
The last time they were all together was the anniversary of King Hikari’s coronation. He spent most of that trip to Ku hunched over these little wooden characters, carving and painting details, intent on perfectly capturing the twirl of Agnea’s skirt, Partitio’s boundless confidence, Castti’s warm smile…
“They made the perilous journey to the shrine in the heart of the jungle, where they confronted the captain. She refused to repent for her sins. With our heroes as her witness, she renounced the Gods, whom she had blamed for the death of her clan since she was a child and sought to destroy in vengeance. She called forth the shadow, offering herself as its vessel.”
The fallen Sanctum Knights within the shrine looked so much like Crick, lifeless bodies clad in broken armor, shrouded by snow-white cloaks drenched in blood. He knew how devastated his lamb would have been to see his comrades so brutally cut down, cruelly sacrificed in an unholy ritual, and his grip on his staff tightened. Kaldena would pay dearly for this.
“But she had been arrogant—the power of the shadow was beyond her control. It corrupted her, transforming her into a creature of darkness, an unholy harbinger of death and despair. They could not allow this evil to afflict the world, and so our heroes took up their weapons and drove it back, fighting in the names of the Gods. Until at last, with the mighty slash of a holy sword and a brilliant burst of sacred light, it was no more.”
Cubaryi, Kaldena, Arcanette… they all used Crick like a blade against him, taunting him for his failure. They thought it was his weakness. They thought they could crack the wall to his emotions as if it was armor, leaving his soft heart open to a killing blow. But they couldn’t have been more wrong.
His memories of Crick, of all those he had lost, were made of light. It burned inward with the force of the sun, held within for so long. Nothing felt sweeter than to unleash it all, bringing his foe to ruin with a devastating storm of holy light and righteous flame. A fury not of the Gods, but his own. It burned through Kaldena and the shadows that possessed her until neither remained.
“The captain had been defeated, the truth brought to light. But her dark deeds had left a stain on the very soul of the Sacred Guard, one that would take much time and atonement to cleanse. The knight and cleric vowed to work together to ensure that no such corruption could ever take root in the church again. So our tale ends, with our heroes evermore guided by the benevolent light of the Sacred Flame. May the Flame guide us all.”
The grave could offer him no reassurances. He spoke and yet it met him only with silence. He could wait before it for eternity and still its response would remain the same. Even so, he knelt there for a long time, until snow dusted his hair and his hands were stiff and mottled red with cold and he could bear the silence no longer. His knees ached as he stood—
His knees ache as he stands to scattered applause. It’s about what he expected. The children look at him with confusion and concern on their young faces. This isn’t one of the stories they’re used to, those tales of the Gods they’ve heard so many times that they can recite the lines even better than him by now.
A hand shoots into the air. “I don’t understand, why did the captain knight kill all those people?”
Temenos sighs. “Well, you see—“
Another child pipes up. “Shouldn’t Knight Crick be Brand’s chosen hero? Why isn’t he?”
“Actually—“
A girl with her hand raised interrupts him, too impatient to wait to be called upon. “Why did the cleric go back to the inn when he should’ve been investigating with the knight?” she demands. “If he was there he could have helped him sooner!”
The clamouring children fall silent after her question. Temenos takes a moment to realize it’s due to the expression on his own face. He arranges it back into a patient smile. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. But do not fret too much. You would do well to remember these are merely characters in a story. They cannot heed our lectures or our warnings. We can only learn from their mistakes.”
They frown and murmur amongst themselves. Another hand is raised.
Temenos gestures at the child. “Yes, you there.”
“I liked the part about the arcane beast. Can you tell it again tomorrow? But just that part.”
After a moment’s consideration, Temenos nods. “Very well. Return tomorrow, and I will tell you the tale of how the knight Crick valiantly defeated the arcane beast. Again.”
The children in the audience giggle and chatter excitedly as they jump from their chairs and run outside to play. Temenos begins packing up his props—all but the little carved figure of his knight which, instead of being gently placed in the felt-lined box with the others, is slipped into his own pocket.
Temenos is grateful that Throné makes no comment when he pours himself another generous glass of wine after drinking the first one so quickly. It makes talk of the past so much easier to bear.
The tavern in Flamechurch is quieter than most they’ve visited in their travels. The patrons converse quietly, imbibe sparingly, feeling the pressure to behave in a holy town as this. A sweet, nostalgic little tune drifts from the gramophone in the corner. Temenos would welcome a crowd of drunken ruffians shouting over blaring music to drown out the thoughts in his head tonight. He absently plays with the Crick figure upon the table, rocking it back and forth between his fingers.
“It was a fine show, Temenos,” Throné says, tilting her glass to him.
“Just fine, that’s all? Ort was so moved when I rehearsed it for him that he wept.”
His pettiness gets no reaction from her, other than a small smile hidden against the rim of her wine glass. “I think you lost some of the younger ones during the investigation scenes, but they really seemed to enjoy the battles. After the show I saw a few of the boys get scolded by a nun outside for chasing a poor rabbit. They were pretending to be Crick battling the arcane beast.”
“Children are such a blessing,” Temenos remarks sagely. He hopes he’ll have time to further embellish that part of the tale for them tomorrow. He’ll draw out the action, truly impress them with Crick’s heroics. He slowly spins the little knight where it stands on the table, around and around, as he plans out the battle.
“I’ve considered writing more plays of our adventures, us being the chosen heroes of the Gods and all,” Temenos mentions later, after finishing another glass of wine and making a show of picking at the plate of bread and cheese that Throné had insisted on ordering for them. “I already have the figures, I may as well put them to use. However, some of our tales seem ill-suited for retelling in the church. Perhaps I need a new audience.”
Throné narrows her eyes. “Don’t you dare, Temenos. I will steal your props as you sleep.”
“Dear Throné, I thought your days of thievery were behind you,” he says, feigning surprise, his hand pressed lightly to his chest. “Though I do agree. Yours is far too... messy, shall we say.” He gazes into the dark wine in his hand, lost in thought for some time, before he speaks again. “I know what the next story should be, but… I’m not ready. I’ve tried, and yet no matter how I craft the tale, it simply doesn’t work.”
Their quest for the dawn… He’s already committed it to paper for the church to add to their histories, but he cannot imagine telling it aloud just yet. Not while the children—and indeed, many of the adults—still confess to having nightmares of that eve the Sacred Flame was extinguished. Not while they keep asking when Sister Mindt will return.
Perhaps in a few years, when they have grown, and new children have replaced them… By then, surely, he’ll have figured out how to tell this story.
“Mm. Yes, I noticed parts of your story were quite crafted, as you put it,” Throné remarks. “You certainly painted him in a heroic light. And the ending…”
“The truth was not befitting of a hero. It didn’t make for a good story,” Temenos says evenly. Heroes aren’t supposed to die alone in the snow, betrayed and slowly bleeding until not even the blessings of the Gods can save them. Heroes deserve more than that. Temenos smiles, a wry twist of his mouth. “And, well… we must leave room for doubt, after all.”
The harsh truth is still there for those who wish to seek it, written plainly in records, whispered about in the pews, carved into tombstones waiting patiently in the snow.
Temenos flicks his hand airily, swapping his tight smile for one more pleasant. “But enough of that. I want to hear of your travels, Throné. It’s been too long.”
Throné isn’t fooled—it’s annoying, at times, to have people who know him this well. “Don’t change the subject,” she says. The little knight appears in her hand—she’d swiped it when he wasn’t looking—and she contemplates it with a frown. “You don’t have to keep torturing yourself like this, Temenos. I saw how difficult it was for you. You barely made it through that story. If he was here, I’m sure he would tell you that your debt is more than repaid. You owe him nothing.”
And that’s the problem, isn’t it… Temenos will never know what he would say, not really. Not in truth. He can only try to piece it together, from memories of those precious few days they spent together, his conversations with Ort over wine at this very tavern, meditations during prayer, and his own guilt-ridden dreams. But, as ever, doubt is with him, haunting him as stubbornly as any ghost, whispering that no amends will ever be enough.
“That’s not the only reason,” Temenos admits in a low voice. Throné leans in, her arms crossed atop the table. “The truths of the world can be harsh—necessary, yes, but harsh nonetheless. As one burdened with the weight of so much truth, I cannot recall what it is like to believe as easily and wholeheartedly as the children do.” —and as Crick did, had still wanted to, his eyes shining with a dream of being a knight for the people, even as his world had been turned upside down— “I thought I could spare them this one truth, so that hopefully they might still believe in brave knights, and the Gods, and a fair world. I want them to believe there can be a happier ending. I think… I think Crick might want that, too.”
“The inquisitor is getting sentimental in his old age,” Throné remarks, with a fondness that feels like a sharp nudge to the ribs. And he doesn’t deny it. She places the figure carefully into his palm and folds his hand around it. “It’s late. You should retire for the night, Temenos. You look exhausted.”
He shakes his head and pours each of them another glass. “Oh, we’re far from finished here. I’ve decided we’re staying up until sunrise, you and I. It’s quite beautiful, the way the dawn breaks between the mountains at this time of year, you don’t want to miss it. So you must help keep me awake. Regale me with your adventures. I need the inspiration, since I’m forbidden from retelling your family history.”
Throné looks like she might argue, but then she meets Temenos’s gaze, and something within it stops her. She sighs quietly. “If you insist.”
They overstay their welcome at the tavern, ignoring several last calls and sloppily spilling wine as they reminisce about friends and old times until the early hours of the morning. Until even the tavern keeper has gone to bed and left them to their own devices, the poor man far too nervous to confront the Inquisitor and his intimidating companion with so many knives strapped to her limbs.
As the first rays of sun lighten the sky, the two of them stumble outside, leaning on each other to stay upright as they climb the cobblestone steps to the chapel courtyard for the best view. They stand in the same spot where Arcanette once taunted them and tried to deny them this very dawn, as sunlight spills between the mountains like molten flame.
The day unfurls before them in a triumphant blaze, gracing their valley with a fleeting blessing in shades of burning red and brilliant gold. It’s a sight Temenos can no longer take for granted.
“Oh.” Throné squeezes his arm. She shivers, and not just from the damp morning chill. “You were right, this was worth seeing.”
Temenos smiles and says nothing. He bows his head, clasps his little knight against his heart, and gives thanks for this day. But not to the Gods.