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By nature, Temenos was not a man to gamble. Everything had a set start and finish; the middle may vary and lose its way, but Fate was not so fickle as to stray from its chosen course, no matter how tragic or disheartening it may be. His path winded enough to span Solistia in its entirety, and yet he knew how it would end: a truth pursued, a lie exposed, a life destroyed.
(An old friend gone into the night, a pontiff slain in a holy sanctum, an unperturbed community, a faith built on secrecy. These too were but milestones in Fate’s grand design. Not even the gods had the power to sway them, if they ever had such drive to intervene.)
Yet in Stormhail, on the coldest of nights fraught with frigid winds and blinding snow, Temenos throws that notion away for a fleeting chance of defiance.
When his fellow travelers had asked what he was planning - and more importantly, if he was out of his gods-damned mind - he could not explain it. This was not the first time he had a prophetic dream; many foreshadowed his ordained path thus far, and he was a bystander to their passing. Once seen, these visions would come to pass, and it was impossible to deny the inevitable. Tonight proved to be no different: images of the Sacred Guard’s headquarters, a library bathed in swirling dust, archaic writings on crinkled pages, water leaking through the cobbles with an abyssal echo, a voice choking out its final words.
“Temenos.”
And suppose it was par for the course: a lamb who has strayed from the path of religious righteousness, upholding his morals in a world that provides little but disappointment. If Temenos had waited to pursue his path until dawn, he would find evidence of a crime leading to an inevitable confrontation, and if it were any other person, he would let it pass. But this particular lamb was… while not different from most, there was an earnesty in all he did that was amusing, if not utterly captivating (and whether that was Fate’s design, he could not say). Their conversation just hours before, their vulnerabilities exposed and carried off by the wind, painted him in a blinding light that Temenos could no longer ignore, even if he tried. Someone who, for a moment, could make him believe in the infinite possibilities the world had to offer. Someone who could set him free.
Yet this was impossible to explain to seven weary souls seeking warmth and solace before another inevitable conflict tears them into conflict’s fray, and Temenos was not one to preach his emotions openly. All he could describe it as was an opportunity to preserve the truth. While it was not enough to sway most (reasonably so), it was enough to convince two of them to follow him.
Osvald leads the way, a blazing flame in the night, footsteps carving a path to the Sacred Guard headquarters. Temenos follows in his wake, two steps for every stride the scholar makes and often treading the same path as the scholar to keep up. Castti walks at his side, clutching her satchel with one hand, the other already buried in its contents, ready for whatever they will face. The snow shows no signs of slowing, covering their tracks soon after they trace them, and visibility is poor. Regardless of outcome, the return journey to the inn would be arduous.
Lost in his thoughts, he almost slams into where Osvald has suddenly stopped, a few feet short of the Sacred Guard headquarters. “There.” He points a finger, stoic voice booming enough to part the snowflakes in front of him. “A body.”
Against the cobblestone walls lining the headquarters, the armor of a Sacred Guard reflects the flames Osvald keeps in hand. The smell hits him instantly: blood, lots of it, and fresh. He bolts forward, stumbling over his robes onto his knees, hands raised yet hesitating to touch, eyes locked on a face devoid of color. He dares not look far downward, dares not view the impossible to swirl his fear. It is almost enough to be overwhelming: a person so earnest surrounded in his own carnage, a fate decided despite his best intentions. But something catches his eye: a cloud of frost, softly exhaled.
“He still lives…” His voice cracks, for the first time in ages, though thankfully neither of his companions comment on it.
“Then we must make haste,” Castti replies. She is on her knees across from him, several vials already scattered around her, her outer coat shed and draped across the body’s shoulders. They are her strongest herbs, meant to bring back their friends from the brink. “His wounds are severe, but I fear the cold will kill him faster. We can patch the wounds temporarily here, but we must work quickly.” She levels her gaze on Temenos, determination intertwined with sympathy. “Temenos, can you use your magic? It will help decrease the size of these cuts, and provide warmth besides. Osvald, keep a flame close by, and stay on guard. Whoever did this, I doubt they will have finished their hunting tonight.”
Temenos lifts his staff toward the heavens, eyes closing, a prayer on the tip of his tongue. But he stays his normal incantations; a simple rhyme or two cures most ailments, but elementary words will not bring back the dead, and it will not appease those he has made promises to. Instead he delves into the ancient language, words steeped in the gods’ own tongue that comes at the price of the caster. And, regardless of what magic he performs, the spell will likely attract unwanted attention. But it matters not to him; if he continues to play the fool in this ill-fated gamble, then he will see it through to the end.
Light shines from the center of the scepter, drawing in aetherial wisps from their surroundings into one blinding core. With a shaky flick of the wrist, the core expands briefly before flooding into the body, seeping into open cuts that Castti had not yet covered with gauze. They glow, like guides for adrift souls homeward bound, before fading, and in their wake are several pink lines, adorned with dried blood. Temenos blinks, something unraveling within him, and his arms collapse, the staff banging against the ground. Castti steadies him with a firm hand to his shoulder, her expression soft as his vision begins to fade. Distantly, he hears shouting.
“Thank you, Temenos. I’ll take it from here.” She glances around, before turning back to Osvald. “Can you carry our friend here? I’ve got Temenos.”
“...You are sure?” Osvald asks, expression unreadable.
“With the amount of light Temenos generated with that spell, I can’t imagine him having enough energy to walk in this weather. And I’ll not risk us getting into more trouble if we can help it.”
“...And if we are found?”
“Then we do what we must. And pray that our friends find us in time.”
Temenos sees a blur of brown confiscate the body, a cool presence dragged away in the midst of a growing, uncomfortable heat. He lets out a soft cry, though unaware that it is his own. A deep voice mumbles reassurances; that the body is in safe hands, that it will survive this night. The world spins, then, and his head lands against a clothed shoulder smelling faintly of snowdrops. He hears a hush, almost drowned out by a gust of wind, and a voice long thought to be a figment of the past rings in his ears.
“It’s alright, Temenos. You’ll both be okay. Rest now. You’ve done well.”
Before he can think to respond, or form a deduction, the world fades into blissful nothingness.
The world flashes by in scenes, warped in a way that prevents him from recognizing anything or anyone. A hushed set of cries from a hunter and a dancer; a merchant offering assistance to a scholar; a warrior taking his body from an apothecary. A thief stealing into the night, light reflecting off a knife, a promise made in the dark. Cool, crisp sheets, a heavy comforter, a lullaby hummed, a hand intertwined with his.
When he finally has enough wherewithal to process his surroundings, he finds himself back in his quarters in the inn, his head throbbing in the aftermath of magic exhaustion as he stares blankly at the ceiling. He blinks, taking in a sharp breath, his mind flooding with flashes of the nights before, as if it was all a dream; another vision bathed in blood and tragedy impending. Another breath, this time refusing to push down his throat, the walls slowly closing in as he struggles to get it to go, the pain in his head reduced to a dull ache, the covers over him suffocating, was it all for nothing?
“Easy, Temenos, easy. You’re alright. You’re okay.”
A face appears in his line of sight, one familiar and reassuring. “...Castti?” She nods, and it is enough to get that breath into his lungs, followed by a long exhale. “Where is…is he…?”
“He’s right next to you, Temenos. He’s okay.” It is only then that he notices his hand is curled in another, intertwined between bodies. Slowly, so slowly, he turns his body sideways, and comes face to face with the same visage from that frigid night. Color has not completely returned to his face, but there are splotches of pink on his cheeks that are not the same as dried blood, and eyelashes that flutter every few seconds, the telltale signs of dreaming. Temenos reaches his free hand over, hesitating only momentarily before caressing the other’s cheek. Still slightly cool to the touch, like a brief shiver, but within moments warmth floods underneath his palm.
It was all real.
“ Crick… oh, my wayward lamb…”
“While he is not out of the woods just yet, I believe the worst has passed. The magic you conjured sealed most of his minor injuries, and helped knit the outer edges of his main wound together again. My salves covered the rest, though nothing but time will tell if they work as intended.” She sighs, walking back into his field of vision, though it has grown blurry. “Then again, if he’s anything as tenacious as you are, I imagine he will make a full recovery. As will you, given a few day’s rest.”
Another part of him unravels, his hand slipping to cup the back of Crick’s head, stroking the hairs there gently. He almost has the sense of self to be embarrassed in this moment of weakness. The last time he was unguarded like this was many summers ago, a ratty child stoic and silent in the face of the Pontiff taking interest in his keen mind. It is an unseemly trait he has never quite let go of. But Castti has seen him through worse affairs, and understands his plight better than the others. She is one to tease mercilessly, especially when it comes to Partitio’s buffoonery or Agnea’s earnesty, but in their healing camaraderie, they steadfastly support each other.
Still, one persistent thought prevents him from letting go completely. “The Guard?”
“Paralyzed, for the time being. Throne works to track down their commander, though it seems she has vanished without a trace. She gained no answers from her second-in-command, or none worth sparing her life for, at least. Her and Osvald are still interrogating most of the men stationed here, while Partitio and Hikari are headed for Flamechurch to ask there.”
It is not nearly enough to pay for the agony they have wrought upon thousands of people - on Crick - but it will do for now. Justice will be done; it is the path he walks and nothing will lead him astray of that. Especially after this tryst, this hopeless gamble seen to fruition by his hand. And, an internal part of him chimes, with the support of the friends he has made along this journey. Those he has come to cherish, the first in many summers.
“Temenos? Would you like me to give you some space?”
He blinks. Castti is closer to him now, eyes filled with unshed tears. She holds a cloth out, and rather belatedly, he realizes it is for him. He shakes his head, ducking his head into the pillow, letting his first few tears fall there. Temenos inhales shakily. “...If you would, for a time. Enough to collect myself with.”
“Of course. I will let the others know you are awake, but have them keep away until you are ready.” She turns, her footsteps soft against the wood as she approaches the door. “But should you need anything, Temenos, you need not hesitate to call out to us.”
“...I know. Thank you, Castti. Really. I--” He wants to say more, because she risked life and limb to save someone she barely knew in frigid temperatures, only following his half-baked instinct. She could have denied him, like so many others before their group banded together. But his throat tightens again, and a few more tears fall. The footfalls stop briefly.
“Of course, Temenos. Rest well.” The door creaks open, a few hushed voices sneaking through the gap before they are silenced with it closing.
Like his magic, his emotions expand rapidly until they finally overflow, a ragged noise tearing out of his throat as streams of tears pool against the pillow. He holds Crick’s hand to his chest, squeezing tightly, making himself as small as possible against one who has sworn in earnest to protect him from danger. Temenos cries for the lives lost in his lifetime; for the relief washing over him; for Crick’s heart beating in time with his; for the pain, trauma, and agony he has endured all his life leading to this singular moment of radiance and clarity.
And as he cries, heedless of time passing, a hand slowly reaches forward, grazing against his cheek, jaw, and eventually cupping the back of his head, pulling him closer. Temenos lets himself fall, and finally unravel completely and utterly in his lamb’s arms.