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The dining hall of the cathedral is a sight to behold, every visible surface filled with glittering candles or draped with fragrant garlands for tonight’s Yule feast. But none of the decorations dazzle so brightly or draw as much attention as the towering cake that was revealed to much excitement and fanfare, and now sits upon its place of honour waiting to be served.
Even a certain sanctum knight, a proven Godsblade who has stood unwavering before beasts and shadow, cannot help but stare awestruck at the lavish confection, marveling at tier after tier heaped with sugared fruits and colourful ribbons of icing and delicately sculpted marzipan, all painstakingly crafted to depict the glory of the gods. And as Temenos observes he cannot say for certain whose eyes are most alight and sparkling with wonder—Crick’s, or the gaggle of village children standing before him.
“Quite impressive, isn’t it?” Temenos asks, as he sidles up behind him. Crick doesn’t even flinch, to Temenos’s slight disappointment—he’s long since grown used to Temenos’s antics. “Our bakers truly outdo themselves each year.”
Crick smiles and takes the cup of wine Temenos hands him. Dishes are being cleared away from the tables as the clergy and townspeople finish dinner and leave their seats to mingle, gathering merrily together tonight in the spirit of the holiday. “Indeed, it’s magnificent. The gods must be pleased.” He looks to the cake again, thoughtful now. “I wonder if this could be the year I get a slice with a god’s token. I was never so lucky when I partook in the tradition in Stormhail. It would be a great honour, to spend the next year blessed by a god.”
“And knowing you, I’m sure you would tackle their requirements with unequalled enthusiasm. It would certainly make for some welcome entertainment tonight to see you run out into the snow and dazzle us with feats of strength on behalf of Brand, or howl like a wild creature for Draefendi.” Temenos smiles deviously behind the rim of his cup as he pictures it. “I think I shall offer a prayer that you are so chosen.”
Crick’s face is flushed with warmth from the mulled wine. “That would be very kind of you, Temenos. I would, of course, do my very best to prove myself worthy of their favour.”
“Perhaps if the gods are feeling generous, they might even grant you two tokens. It happened to Roi, years ago, when we were still children. It created quite the conundrum, since Alephan’s token, as you know, required him to tell an unspoken truth, while Draefendi’s compelled him to only speak like the wild creatures of the forest until the break of dawn.” He chuckles, wistful for a moment as he remembers. “He was terribly distraught that he would fail the gods and be turned to snow, as the legend goes.”
The children are creating a commotion, playing a raucous game between the tables as they wait impatiently for the cake to be served. Crick leads Temenos away from the clamor, to a quieter spot near the corner of the room, the touch on his arm lingering a good moment longer than necessary. “So what did he do? Pray tell, in case I find myself in such a predicament.”
“Oh, Pontiff Jörg eventually had the idea that Roi could write down the truth and have me speak it aloud in his stead. I suppose the gods were appeased well enough, as nobody turned to snow the next day.”
Crick listens so attentively, as he always does when Temenos speaks of Roi. Patient and careful not to pry, even as he clearly yearns to know more about the man who meant so much to both of them. He makes Temenos surprise himself—sharing things he hasn’t told anyone before, memories he has rarely even allowed himself to dwell on in recent years. Oddly enough, it does not bring him sorrow, to tell it to Crick.
“And what of you, Temenos?” Crick asks. “Have you ever found a token?”
Temenos shakes his head. “I have not. And I am more than happy to keep it that way. I’ve been through enough trouble with this chosen cleric business, hopefully they would not ask more of me after all that.”
“Perhaps they would not mean it as a burden, but merely as a way to express their gratitude for all you’ve done,” Crick muses. “Surely there is no one more deserving to receive their blessings. We would not even be here to have this celebration if not for you. The Flame that warms and guides us only still burns because of your bravery and strength of will.”
Crick says it with such sincerity, his gaze steady with a faith that is simple but absolute, and Temenos finds himself frozen, at a rare loss for words. His heart flutters as he glances away in panic—to his relief, he sees that he doesn’t need to search far for a distraction.
“Ah, looks like they’re serving the cake now,” he says, nodding towards it. “We should find our seats. Best of luck, Crick. I will offer a quick prayer on your behalf, that you might get your wish tonight.”
Crick nods. “Thank you, Temenos. May you find blessings this Yule, as well.”
Temenos should have known better than to tempt the gods as he did—and sure enough, he can hardly even be surprised when his fork hits upon something solid baked within his slice of cake.
He unearths a token bearing Sealticge’s sigil and meets Crick’s gaze from across the room, where he sits with the other knights of the cathedral. With a rueful smile, Tememos holds up the token, crumbs still clinging to it, and sees Crick’s eyes widen.
Temenos tries to slip away after dessert, deciding he’d rather deal with this matter after the Yule service—it’s always a big show, and his part is larger than ever this year—but Crick, determined lamb he is, finds him in the hallway, his armor clanging as he jogs to catch up.
“Which token did you get? Let me see.” Crick squints at the symbol carved into the small disc Temenos holds out towards him, and his face tinges pink. “Oh. That means…”
“Yes, Sealticge bids me to win her favour tonight by claiming a kiss under the mistletoe, lest she revoke her blessing and turn me to cold snow as the warmth of her grace turns to icy disdain, or so it goes. How very frightening,” Temenos remarks dryly, turning briskly on his heel to continue walking. Crick falls in step alongside him, his presence just behind Temenos’s shoulder always a familiar comfort.
“At least you’re still able to speak,” Crick points out. And true, that would have posed quite an issue for him tonight. “Sealticge’s task is simple enough to complete…”
“Is it now, Crick?” Temenos asks with teasing lilt in his voice and a raised eyebrow. He sighs airily. “I’d much rather have gotten Aeber, if I’m being honest. I’ve learned a few tricks from Throné, I’m certainly up to the challenge of stealing something in plain sight. I believe I would make my prize the star atop the Yule tree by the front door, I think he would be quite impressed—“
“Temenos, look,” Crick interrupts, taking him by the arm to force him to a halt. He pulls Temenos into a small alcove off the main hallway, and points to the mistletoe hanging above them. “We can fulfill Sealticge’s command right now.”
Temenos blinks in surprise. “We—?”
But Crick is already taking Temenos’s hand in his own, lifting it to his lips to press a chaste kiss to his knuckles, soft and fleeting as a snowflake landing on his skin. He lowers Temenos’s hand and lets out a breath of relief. “There. Now you’re safe.”
Temenos laughs heartily, he cannot help it. “Oh, Crick. How very thoughtful of you. I’m not a child, however—surely a kiss like that won’t be enough to satisfy our Lady of Grace.”
Crick frowns in concern. Temenos can see the thoughts flickering like candlelight in his soft lamb eyes. The offer he’s willing to make. And Temenos wants so sorely to take him up on it, to seize that long-awaited moment here under the mistletoe, hidden from prying eyes in this cramped little nook.
But no, not like this. Not as a mere duty to be completed. Their first kiss cannot be for the satisfaction of the gods. Temenos is too selfish to let them lay claim to something so precious.
And so, before Crick can open his mouth to speak, Temenos is already sweeping away. They’ve been dancing around this for so long, what’s another few steps? “But Sealticge will have to wait, I’m afraid—I really must prepare for the service. Pray excuse me, dear Crick.”
Temenos has sat through this same service year after year, dreading these long hours bored out of his wits by the same stories and hymns—enduring it alongside Roi, and then on his own—and attempting not to fall asleep in the hard wooden pews as he bowed his head for another droning prayer.
What he wouldn’t give to be bored once again, to quietly suffer through the same old monotony. But, sadly, this year it cannot be the same, as Pontiff Jörg is not here to lead it. Temenos and the leaders within the cathedral have done their best to scrape together something acceptable in his absence, and although the other priests perform their parts quite well, it is strange to hear such familiar stories told through voices other than his.
Temenos was asked to speak, of course, and he agreed, reluctantly. Only on the condition that he could prepare remarks of his own, not merely rehash scripture they’ve all heard before. His fellow priests still look a bit nervous about it as he steps up to the pulpit. He stands there, in the dappled rainbow light of the luminous window, steps from where the pontiff had been slain, and draws in a long breath of air warmed with incense.
He speaks not of the gods at all, but the people before him, the darkness they have faced and banished from their own doorstep on that long night only short months ago, and will continue to keep at bay for the sake of brighter days ahead.
He speaks of the late pontiff as well, though that is more difficult. The weight of so many gazes upon him is heavier than he expected, and he pauses in his words, holding his breath as he searches the pews and beyond until he finds Crick standing there in the corner of the room, his presence steadfast as an anchor.
Then, further back, something else catches his eye—a girl from the village, sneaking back into the service while attempting to hide under her coat, rather poorly, the gilded star from the top of the grand Yule tree. The very same one that Temenos had been eyeing earlier. She looks his way nervously, and he glances aside quickly enough to pretend that he didn’t see a thing.
Aeber, at least, will be quite pleased this Yule.
Temenos has to lift his sleeve to hide his smile and stifle the laugh that threatens to escape. A worried hush falls over the worshippers—he must look to them as though he is struggling with emotion about the late pontiff, and perhaps that’s not entirely wrong, because the thought of how Jörg’s eyes would twinkle with amusement were he here to see this, only makes it harder to choke back the laughter. It’s a close thing.
It’s the early hours of the morning when Temenos finally departs the cathedral grounds, yet the sky is still stubbornly dark. This may be the longest night of the year, but Temenos has seen longer. The sun will rise when it is ready, ushering out the midwinter darkness, and all they can do is trust that it will.
Crick was kind enough to wait for him while he paid a visit to the pontiff’s grave, his ever-dutiful knight insistent on accompanying him down the mountain. The other villagers have all returned to town, safe and sound in their warm homes by now, leaving them the only two souls upon this winding path.
Crick takes the lead, hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword with a calm vigilance. He’s no longer the lost, flustered, newly-anointed knight he was that first time they made this trek together, the route now familiar to them both. Temenos sometimes finds himself wondering who is the lamb and who the shepherd, these days.
The lanterns they carry are quite useless, outshined as they are by the moon above, its cold silver glow illuminating the snow brightly enough to light their way. The world around them is quiet and still, not even a whisper of wind to disturb them.
As peaceful as it is, Crick can find none. He keeps glancing to the sky, as if searching anxiously for the first tinge of daylight.
Temenos smiles, tapping his staff jauntily against the ground as he walks. “Worry not, Crick. Dawn won’t be for a while yet.”
Crick scowls at him in return. “I will worry, until you have fulfilled your duty to Sealticge and removed yourself from danger. I don’t understand how you can be so careless about this.” He pauses then, hesitant and unable to look at Temenos. “Unless you’ve already dealt with it…”
His concern is most endearing. Temenos holds back laughter as he shakes his head. “I’m considering not bothering at all,” he says lightly. “I’m rather interested to see what will happen. Or won’t, more likely.”
“Temenos, you mustn’t!”
“It’s just a silly superstition, Crick. Do you actually believe I’ll be turned to snow and melt away in the light of the sun?”
“I— I am not sure,” Crick says stiffly, and most unconvincingly. They walk for a short while in silence. Crick’s face is turned forward, away from Temenos, but even so he can clearly picture that dear little crinkle in his forehead as he puts thought into the question. Finally, he says, “There must be some truth to it, for the tale to have endured this long. So, if not that, then perhaps some other terrible misfortune will plague you into the new year. Either way, you must not risk it.” He looks to Temenos, his expression solemn and his armor shining in the moonlight like some divine hero from the histories. “As a knight of the church, I cannot allow you to come to harm.”
Temenos simply pats him on the shoulder. “I’ve told you before, dear Crick. I don’t require such protection. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” he says. And then, more softly, on the verge of a sigh, “Though, I must admit, I do feel very safe when you’re around.”
They reach the cobblestone streets of their little town, the houses alongside dark except for the slender candles set in the windows in offering of the gods on this long night, the townspeople slumbering in their beds after a busy day of festivities.
And then, too soon as always, they arrive at Temenos’s door, where they will part ways. They’ve gone through this same little routine so many times already. A part of Temenos, weak and impatient and cowardly, wishes that this night could end differently than all the others. But it’s not meant to be, not while Crick is feeling pressured by this superstition. Another time, perhaps.
He smiles at his knight, strictly ignoring the sinking sense of disappointment. “Thank you for escorting me, Crick. I will see you tomorrow, unless of course I have succumbed to Sealticge’s wrath and turned to snow. If it happens, feel free to say ‘I told you so’ without guilt.”
“Temenos, wait.” Temenos turns back to see the sprig of mistletoe Crick holds out towards him in offering. He must have carried it all the way from the cathedral, tucked within his armor. Sneaky lamb. “It’s not too late. I will not allow you to tempt fate, not when I can do something to prevent it.”
Temenos sighs. “Crick, it’s very kind of you to offer, but I couldn’t ask such a thing of you. This is certainly outside the realm of your duties.”
“It’s not only because of my duty. I want to. I— I’ve wanted to,” Crick admits. His cheeks blaze red, and while his voice wavers, his gaze does not. He is ever honest—incapable of being anything but—and so is the desire writ boldly upon his face. “I cannot let you turn to snow and disappear, or else I will never be able to do this…”
He leans in, his fingers cupping Temenos’s chin with utmost gentleness, tilting his lips up to meet his own. Temenos closes his eyes, aching with relief—finally—and melts into the kiss like snow, helpless against such heat.
And when Crick takes a breath as if about to reluctantly pull away like a proper gentleman should, restraining himself to keep their first kiss from becoming something more, Temenos wraps his arms around his neck and drags him back in. They must make sure Sealticge is satisfied, after all.
The gods must be pleased. For when dawn does arrive, rosy light drifting through the window to settle upon their bed, it finds Temenos still very much human, and warmed by Crick beside him.