Chapter Text
Crick is well aware that his choices tend to be quite baffling to others. His parents thought he had gone mad when he announced he was leaving home to join the Church. Ort laughed heartily over his flagon of ale when he heard the tale of how Crick set foot in Flamechurch and immediately ran to confront an entire band of insurgents on his own. Temenos sat at his bedside and chided him for investigating the Sacred Guard headquarters alone and nearly getting himself killed. And he knows that many of his fellow knights, most now resigned, muttered disbelievingly amongst themselves about the newly-anointed fool who had the gall to join up with the hound to bring down their Captain.
But while some may believe he is rash or foolish in his actions, he still stubbornly stands by them. For he is only ever following the light of the Sacred Flame, eagerly heeding the spark within him that calls to something greater, trying to make up for all those years he had spent stifling it, second-guessing himself and turning his back on all that was right and good. He swore to the Gods and the memory of Inquisitor Roi to never again be so cowardly.
And his faith was rewarded, the hardships he endured worth the struggle, because it all led him right here, to Temenos’s side. To a beacon of light that rivals the Flame itself—at times dazzling and confounding him, yes, and even threatening to lead him astray, or so he had once worried. No longer does he have any doubts, however. He knows that Temenos is his guiding light, and he would follow him to the ends of the earth, with a devotion that no mere lamb could hope to match.
Crick wakes early that morning and slips out of camp at the first hint of sunrise, while the others still slumber, with the notion of picking berries for breakfast. It’s the height of blackberry season in the Leaflands, when they should be at their most sweet and ripe and bountiful, just as they were in those treasured memories from the summers of his youth, and Crick lets himself get rather carried away with a vision of sharing a basket with Temenos… and the others, of course.
But he doesn’t seem to be having any luck finding any—unless, perhaps, they simply don’t grow in abundance on this side of the lake, and he’s sent himself on a fool’s errand. Undaunted, he ventures farther and farther in the woods, determined to find a berry patch no matter how far his search takes him. He will circle the entire lake if he must.
Just when he finally discovers it—a hidden little forest grove laden with more berries than he can possibly carry—he hears a commotion beyond the trees, a cry for help upon the nearby road. Crick does not hesitate to spring into action. He sees no other course but to burst from the bushes to intervene. The Flame, flaring to life within him, bids it.
A trio of bandits is harassing a traveling merchant, one holding tight to the reins of her horse as another rummages through the goods in her cart, the third holding her at bay with a threateningly pointed sword. It’s not the first robbery Crick and his companions have encountered on this road—they foiled two just yesterday. Many merchants and wealthy travelers are flocking to Timberrain ahead of the coronation, making easy targets for opportunistic thieves.
“Halt, thieves!” Crick commands, shaking leaves from his hair and clothes. “I demand you cease this at once!”
“And who are you?” a bandit sneers.
Habit seizes him, his head lifted proudly, but those ready words falter as he opens his mouth. “I am a…” —Sanctum Knight, newly anointed— “I…” He glances down at himself, at his few mismatched pieces of armor and the dull garb of a common traveler, then raises his chin again. “I’m Crick.”
They laugh uproariously at him. Face flushed with embarrassment, he draws his blade. “I will not allow you to engage in this thievery. Release the horse and be on your way.”
Still chuckling, and far from intimidated, two of the bandits advance on him, their smirks as sharp as their drawn swords. Crick firms up his stance in determination. So be it.
Battling two petty thieves at once is a challenge Crick would hardly have balked at before, back when he was a Sanctum Knight. But his cherished sword—the symbol of his rank, bestowed upon his anointment—is lost, knocked from his hands and kicked along the ground to plummet into the darkest depths of that unholy cavern beneath headquarters, replaced with a longsword that, while sturdy and made of fairly good steel, still feels strange and unwieldy in his hands. His armor is gone as well. It crumpled like parchment under Kaldena’s sword, its shining steel scorched with dark magic during their duel, the mangled remains cut from his bloody body and left behind at the inn when his companions fled Stormhail and carted him along, barely conscious at the time.
Crick knows that knighthood is not merely about the sword one wields or the gleam of their armor. It lives in one’s spirit, the light burning within. But even that seems to have dimmed lately—Crick is still weaker than he once was, and despite not being burdened with the heavy metal plate he was once accustomed to wearing, he gets winded quickly.
He fights past the burning in his chest as if it’s another foe, ignoring the pain that constricts his lungs and steals away his breath as he dodges a swinging sword, stubbornly pushing against the heaviness of his limbs as he parries another strike. He’s doing it, he’s driving them back—or so he thinks, until all at once his strength drains from him, his grip on his sword faltering, and with the next blow he’s driven down onto his knees in the mud, a blade to his throat.
“I’ll take that sword, to start.” the bandit says. Crick’s hand tightens on the hilt, though his chest is heaving and he knows he has no strength left to fight.
“My, my, what do we have here?” A darkly lilting voice drifts towards them, making them all turn to look at the newcomer standing on the path. “I’ll ask you only once to step away from my little lamb.”
“Your what?” asks the bandit with his blade to Crick’s throat, at the same time that Crick groans, “Temenos…”
The other smug, sword-wielding thief takes a step towards Temenos, only to stop abruptly, his eyes widening and recognition dawning on his face as he looks from Temenos to the staff in his hand. “Wait… You’re the…”
Temenos stamps his staff against the ground. The air around them fills with crackling power, tingling against Crick’s skin, as light accumulates in the heavens. The horse whinnies nervously, bucking its head wildly. Temenos’s eyes glow a vivid blue, burning with the light of the Sacred Flame, his robes fluttering as if caught in the winds of a brewing storm. “I would run, if I were you. Unless you’d like to feel the fury of Aelfric firsthand. It isn’t pleasant, I assure you.”
The bandits heed his warning and flee, their bravado replaced with sheer terror. The merchant does as well, jumping onto her horse and galloping away at a frantic pace. The light above dims, the power receding and the air settling once more. Crick is still kneeling in the mud. A slender hand is extended to him and, after a moment’s hesitation in which he wipes his own muddy palm as clean as he can manage on his trousers, he grasps it.
Crick grips Temenos’s hand only lightly, burdening him with no weight as he stands. Temenos smiles at him—a mischievous spark alight in green eyes, an ankle twining around his—and Crick stumbles forward against Temenos, causing the front of his robes to be smeared with mud as well.
“Oh dear, what a fine mess,” Temenos remarks, but he doesn’t seem upset at all. Quite the opposite. “I suppose we’d best clean off. I saw a lovely little stream on the way here that should do nicely. Follow me, lamb.”
Later, they lay in the grass on the gently sloping riverbank as they wait for their clothes to dry. Temenos’s robes are spread next to Crick’s shirt and vest on a flat rock in the sun, both of their cloaks hanging from a tree branch. Despite Temenos’s suggestions to the contrary, his insistence that it’s perfectly safe, surely none will come across them here, Crick remains in an uncomfortably soggy pair of pants.
Temenos is fortunate enough to still have his dry, unsullied shirt and trousers to wear. Even now, after all the times he’s witnessed it, Crick finds himself awed at the transformation when Temenos sheds his fine robes. It’s as though they’re an armor of his own, the regalia of the unwavering, untouchable Inquisitor, and underneath he is merely Temenos, smaller and vulnerable and content to be held like this, safe in the circle of Crick’s arms.
Temenos traces the freckles on Crick’s arm like he’s trying to memorize them, just as he has already spent many nights mapping his scars. The sun above them is warm, the grass beneath is soft, the view of the lake from here is breathtaking—its waters a deep, sparkling blue, surrounded by stately pines, with a shimmering rainbow arcing across a nearby waterfall—and the gentle breeze is like a cool kiss upon their skin, bringing with it the scent of sweet clover and clearest water. It’s exactly the kind of perfect summer day that Crick reminisced about so often during those bitterly cold nights in Stormhail… and made even better than he imagined, because of the man beside him.
Crick should feel at peace. And yet…
“Something on your mind, Crick?”
“What?” He startles slightly as he’s snapped out of his thoughts, cringing in dismay when he accidentally jostles Temenos. “Why do you ask?”
Temenos’s eyes are crinkled in amusement. “That was about the fifth time you’ve sighed, and the longest so far.”
“My apologies.” He frowns as he lapses into silence once again, unsure how to even begin to voice the inner turmoil that has crept upon him as of late. Temenos waits patiently, lightly circling an old scar on the back of Crick’s hand with his finger, until finally Crick says, “Those bandits… one of them had the sword of a Sanctum Knight, and he wielded it like one, as well.”
“Hm. Yes, with the amount of knights that have resigned, it’s not surprising that some would resort to unsavory occupations. Few take their oaths as faithfully as you, my Godsblade.”
Crick sighs as he gazes upon the greenery around them. “The last time I traveled this road I was leaving home to train as a knight. I carried no doubts with me, and not once did I think of turning back. I felt it was my calling. And now…”
“Now?” Temenos prompts him, and Crick does not miss the flicker of worry upon his brow.
Intertwining their fingers, Crick presses a soft kiss to Temenos’s knuckles. “I do not regret my choices, or where my path has led. I enjoy traveling with you and your companions. I know in my heart that I belong here, with you. Even so, at times I cannot help but wonder… if I am no longer a knight, then what am I?” he confesses, his eyes downcast. “I admit, I find myself envious of our fellow travelers. They all seem so confident in their roles, and in the skills they possess—I truly understand why the Gods chose you as their champions.”
“Pray do not feel left out, Crick.” Temenos urges him, winding their fingers more tightly and pressing their clasped hands dramatically over his own heart. “You may not be Brand’s chosen, or Aelfric’s, but you are certainly mine, my dear.”
“Well, I should hope so,” Crick retorts, attempting to match Temenos’s levity, even as his heart does a flip. He shakes his head. “That does not bother me. It isn’t about the favour they hold with the Gods, but rather their passion for their jobs. I felt that way myself, not long ago, and I do miss it.”
“So it’s a new job you’re looking for, is it?” Temenos ponders. “Something different, that challenges you enough to keep your interest… Something you can take pride in. Would that rekindle your passion?”
“That might be it, I suppose.”
Temenos considers it for a moment. “You could become a cleric—a meek adherent, clad in the blue of the Sacred Flame, your days spent kneeling in worship of the Gods… I would be happy to let you apprentice under me, my lamb,” Temenos suggests, a devious twinkle in his eyes. He trails his fingers along Crick’s chest, then pauses, frowning. “Though it will be difficult finding robes that fit you, I imagine.”
“As honoured as I would be to serve the Gods, I am afraid they did not grant me the patience for such work. And surely you would have little need of me as a cleric, when you are already Aelfric’s chosen.”
Temenos raises an eyebrow. “I did not realize this was about my needs.”
“I… I want to support you, however I can.” Crick feels a twinge in his chest, a lingering phantom of the pain and shame he felt kneeling at sword-point, muddy and defeated. “I want to be useful to you.”
“Oh, Crick,” Temenos says, in that sighing tone of such tenderness and amusement that never fails to make Crick blush bright red. “If you only knew…” Leaning in, he brushes a light, teasing kiss against Crick’s lips that Crick cannot help but melt into.
Even though it pains him greatly, and there is nothing Crick wants more than to surrender to temptation on this perfect day, in this perfect place, he forces himself to pull away, halting Temenos with a hand to his chest. He’s not finished with this conversation yet. They only have so long before they must rejoin the others at camp and resume their journey. “What of you, Temenos?”
Temenos pouts in fleeting disappointment. “Hm? What, indeed?”
“I mean, do you intend to continue on as the Inquisitor? I should know what you plan for the future, if I will be sharing it with you.”
“I believe I am content to wander as I am, for the time being.” Temenos leans back, lounging on his side with his elbow propped against the grass and his head resting in his hand. “We have finally brought to light the truth I sought for so many years. The corruption within the Church is being excised, and perhaps there is more I could do on that front, but after our ordeal I’m perfectly happy to step back and let others shoulder that heavy burden. There are still answers I seek, somewhere out in the world. Our companions, to whom I will be indebted forevermore for saving your life, still have need of our help. And I have a nagging feeling that our Gods have something in store for us yet. Surely that is more than enough for now.”
“Yes, but, what of afterwards?” Crick asks. “When the others all return to their lives, when Prince Hikari regains his kingdom, and Partitio is ready to commit himself to his new company, and Ochette rejoins the Beastlings, and the rest go their separate ways as well… What do you imagine you’ll do then?”
“Oh my, so pushy,” Temenos says lightly. But he cannot hide the brief, faraway thoughtfulness in his eyes. “Let me think on it, my dear. I promise I’ll give you an answer some other time. We’re focused on you at the moment, after all.” He reaches out and brushes Crick’s hair from his forehead, hand caressing the side of his face as it travels down to fondly cup his cheek. He looks at Crick with his keen gaze that can pierce through a culprit’s lies, but to Crick only ever feels like it sees him exactly as he is. “You ask, what are you if not a knight? It seems quite obvious to me, but the only answer that matters is the one that you must discover for yourself. How did that bit go again…” Temenos muses over it for a moment, pretending to have difficulty recalling the scripture even though Crick knows he remembers it all perfectly well. “‘As the eight gods exist together in harmony, so must all people of our realm, for no one discipline can be raised higher than any other…'"
“'The worthiest vocation must be that which calls to one’s soul, compelling them to serve their fellow men, and thus, the Gods themselves. The light of the Flame shines upon those who seek their passion with courage and humility, whilst ever remaining true to their heart,'” Crick finishes reverently, the words of scripture steadying, as they always are, like solid ground underfoot.
“That sounds about right.” Temenos smiles—not the serene little smile he shows the rest of the world but softer, genuine. Crick never tires of seeing it. “How fortunate you have seven other companions, all masters of their trades, who would be willing to take you under their wings and offer you a glimpse of life from their perspectives, were you so interested.”
Crick nods thoughtfully. “Yes, perhaps you’re…” He’s interrupted by his own hitching breath as Temenos leans in again and kisses his neck, that smile turning wicked against his skin, grazing a sensitive spot that makes Crick shudder.
Crick does not pull away this time. He can stifle the hungering flame no longer, instead abruptly seizing Temenos’s waist and dragging him into a tight embrace, his delighted laughter the most beautiful sound Crick has ever heard. Their clothing could use a bit longer to dry, anyway. The others will just have to wait.