Chapter Text
Mike Wheeler had sworn his life to a god long before he had learned what it meant to want something, and the difference between the two had never seemed important enough to question until much later, when the boundary began to feel less certain than he was comfortable admitting.
The chapel was cold in the way stone remembered winter, a deep, persistent chill that lingered regardless of season or weather. Candles burned low along the walls, their flames wavering gently, smoke curling upwards to stain the vaulted ceiling with incense and the residue of countless prayers. The space smelled faintly of oil and ash and old promises, layered so thickly over time that devotion and habit had become impossible to separate.
Mike knelt where he had knelt a hundred times before, his position exact and familiar, his presence contained neatly within the narrow expectations of ritual.
His armour rested heavily across his shoulders, the plates carefully fitted and maintained to exacting standards, each piece a quiet reminder of where his body ended and duty began. His sword lay bare before the altar, placed with deliberate care, its edge catching the candlelight in a muted line. He kept his gaze fixed ahead, breathing slow and even, posture immaculate in a way that no longer required conscious thought.
The ritual unfolded as it always did, precise and unchanging, each word spoken exactly as it had been spoken for generations, worn smooth by repetition into something unquestioned. It was familiar enough that he could have recited it in his sleep, though he never allowed himself that lapse. Habit without attention was the first step towards error.
Oaths demanded attention, particularly those sworn before a god.
“Do you swear,” the High Priest intoned, his voice resonating through the nave, amplified by stone and silence alike, “to defend the faithful, to uphold the law of the church, and to stand unyielding against corruption, in whatever form it may take?”
“I do,” Mike said.
His voice did not shake, as it never did, and if there was any hesitation, it remained buried well below the surface.
The High Priest studied him for a moment longer than necessary, sharp eyes scanning as though expecting to find fault beneath steel and discipline. Mike met the gaze evenly, unmoving. He had been trained for this kind of scrutiny. Faith, he had been taught, was not something you felt so much as something you practised, something you maintained through repetition, restraint, and quiet obedience.
Faith was discipline, and discipline was strength.
“Then rise, Paladin Wheeler,” the priest said at last. “You are assigned to guard the cleric Will Byers during his pilgrimage.”
The name settled with unexpected weight, lodging somewhere low in Mike’s chest before he had time to prepare for it. He dismissed the sensation even as it lingered, uncomfortable and unfamiliar.
Will Byers.
His lips moved almost imperceptibly, the name shaped once under his breath before he caught himself.
He stood without hesitation, armour shifting softly as he rose, his gaze lifting automatically towards the courtyard beyond the chapel doors.
Will Byers did not look like someone who needed guarding. The thought crossed Mike’s mind as he saw him waiting there, only to be dismissed almost as quickly. Appearances were meaningless, and the most dangerous threats rarely announced themselves so plainly.
Still, his attention lingered longer than protocol strictly required.
Will stood near the fountain at the centre of the courtyard, water murmuring softly as it spilled over stone worn smooth by centuries of hands. His own were folded neatly within the long sleeves of his pale robes. Chestnut hair curled softly at his temples, slightly unruly in a way that suggested he paid it little attention. His posture was composed without being rigid, shoulders relaxed rather than braced, as though sacred spaces did not require him to steel himself against the world.
The robes of his order were simple and unadorned, the ivory fabric catching the light without reflecting it. If not for the faint shimmer of consecration that clung to him like a barely perceptible presence, he might have passed for ordinary. There was no overt authority in him, no attempt to command attention or assert importance, which struck Mike as both disarming and faintly imprudent.
He told himself that was why he looked twice, reducing the impulse to something practical and easily dismissed: threat assessment, vigilance, nothing more.
Will looked up as Mike crossed the courtyard, his eyes widening slightly before he smiled. It was not the assured expression of a priest accustomed to obedience, nor the careful warmth of someone trained to reassure others. It was tentative and earnest, touched with something that looked uncomfortably like relief, as though Mike’s presence had already changed the shape of the day.
“You must be Sir Wheeler,” Will said. His voice was gentle but steady, carrying easily despite its softness. “Thank you for coming.”
Mike inclined his head. “Paladin Wheeler. I am sworn to your protection.”
“I see,” Will replied, the smile lingering as though he were considering something beyond the exchange itself. Then, after a brief pause that felt deliberate rather than uncertain, he added, “I am grateful.”
Mike nodded, his gaze lingering for a fraction longer than necessary before he forced it away. Gratitude was expected. It meant nothing, or so he told himself, though the words stayed with him in a way he found difficult to shake.
The pilgrimage itself was meant to be uneventful, a circuit of shrines along the northern roads where prayers were offered, blessings renewed, and relics inspected according to custom. Mike had escorted clerics before, enough times that the pattern had long since blurred together. Morning prayers at dawn, measured travel through the day, evening rites at whatever shrine or village they reached by dusk, and silence filling the spaces in between.
What unsettled him was not the journey, but how quickly Will adapted to his presence.
There was no hesitation, no guarded distance. Will spoke to him easily as they walked, as though Mike were not a wall of steel and vow-bound restraint but simply another person sharing the same stretch of road. He asked about Mike’s training, about the maintenance of his armour, about the sigils etched into his sword and the histories behind them. When Mike corrected him, his tone blunt and economical, Will did not bristle. When Mike offered only clipped answers, Will did not press for more, accepting the limits without resentment.
“You don’t have to humour me,” Will said once, after Mike responded to a question with a nod instead of words.
“I do,” Mike replied. “It is my duty.”
Will smiled faintly at that, something thoughtful passing across his expression, like someone who understood duty well enough to recognise where it asked too much and gave too little.
The road stretched long and pale beneath their feet as time passed in small, almost unremarkable increments. The sun climbed and dipped, shadows lengthening and receding with the hours. Mike found himself adjusting his pace without conscious thought, shortening his stride when Will lagged, slowing when he stopped to offer quiet prayers at roadside shrines. Each time he noticed the change, he corrected himself, only for it to happen again soon after, until the repetition began to feel deliberate despite his attempts to deny it.
The first village they reached lay tucked between low hills and sparse woodland, its people weary beneath a sickness that lingered longer than it should have. There was nothing dramatic about it, no obvious sign of corruption or divine imbalance, just a fever that refused to break as it moved quietly from house to house, the kind of affliction clerics were meant to tend. Still, Mike noted the length of its hold with faint unease.
He stood watch at the edge of the small shrine while Will worked inside, posture rigid, eyes trained outward on the road and treeline. He observed when Will knelt beside the sick child, though the sounds reached him all the same: the low murmur of prayer, the sharp intake of breath as power answered, and the gradual easing of the child’s breathing as the fever finally broke.
He turned before he could stop himself, drawn by something he refused to name.
Will’s hands glowed faintly, light bleeding through his fingers without flourish or spectacle. His face was drawn with concentration, brows furrowed, lips moving soundlessly as he focused on the work before him. There was effort in it, and cost, evident in the way his shoulders tensed and his breathing shallowed, a reminder that healing was never without consequence.
Something in Mike’s chest tightened, brief and unwelcome, and he told himself it was concern for the success of the rite, even as the explanation failed to settle properly.
When Will finished, he sagged slightly, bracing himself against the edge of the cot. Sweat darkened his hairline, and his breathing was just unsteady enough to notice. Mike found himself at his side before he had consciously decided to move, his presence closer than was strictly necessary.
“You should rest,” he said, his voice sharper than intended, as though urgency could be mistaken for authority.
Will looked up at him, surprised, as though he were unused to concern being directed at his own state rather than the outcome of his work. “I will,” he replied, offering a small, sincere smile. “Thank you.”
Mike stepped back, suddenly aware of how close he stood, and returned to his post, jaw tightening as he shook his head slightly, as though trying to dislodge the thought altogether.
That night, he prayed longer than usual, though the words no longer settled as neatly as they once had.
They were attacked on the third night, when the road had narrowed and the forest pressed closer on either side, the canopy above them thick enough to block out most of the moonlight. They had made camp in a shallow clearing just off the road, the remains of an old fire pit suggesting it had been used before, though not recently. The air was still, heavy with the scent of damp earth and pine, and the quiet felt settled rather than watchful, the sort that encouraged rest rather than caution.
The first sound was the snap of a branch underfoot.
Mike was on his feet before the noise had fully registered, his hand already closing around the hilt of his sword as he stepped away from the fire. The movement was instinctive, honed by years of repetition, his body responding faster than conscious thought allowed. He scanned the treeline, attention narrowing to the subtle shifts of shadow and sound that betrayed movement where there should have been none.
The bandits emerged hesitantly, poorly armed and poorly organised, their desperation evident in the way they held their weapons too tightly and clustered closer together than was wise. There was no cry, no coordinated charge, only the brittle courage of hunger and fear pushing them forward.
Mike did not hesitate.
Steel rang sharply in the dark as he met them head-on, his sword moving with controlled precision rather than aggression. Armour and weapons clattered to the ground as he disarmed them one by one, his cape twisting around his legs as he turned and advanced with steady efficiency. The fight was brief and unremarkable, ending almost as soon as it had begun, the bandits scattering into the trees once it became clear they stood no chance.
When the last of them fled, the clearing fell quiet again, the sudden absence of noise ringing louder than the clash of steel had.
Mike turned back towards the fire.
Will stood several paces away, frozen where he had risen from his bedroll, the firelight casting sharp shadows across his face. His eyes were wide, breath shallow, his hands clenched tightly in the fabric of his sleeves as though anchoring himself in place.
“Are you hurt?” Mike asked, already moving towards him, his voice firm with urgency he did not attempt to soften.
Will shook his head, the motion small but decisive. “No,” he said. After a moment, he added quietly, “You were very fast.”
Mike nodded, sheathing his blade once more, his movements measured now that the danger had passed. “That is my purpose.”
Will watched him for a moment longer than necessary, something unreadable lingering in his expression, before he spoke again, his voice lowered. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Mike looked away, focusing instead on the treeline as he listened for any sign of pursuit, though he knew the threat had passed.
They said little as they settled back into the remnants of their camp, the fire coaxed back to life with careful movements. Will’s hands trembled faintly as he reached for the kettle, though he did not spill the water, and Mike pretended not to notice. He sat opposite him, armour still on, posture straight, his presence a deliberate barrier between Will and the darkness beyond the firelight.
It was Will who spoke first.
“Do you ever doubt?” he asked quietly, his gaze fixed on the flames as though the answer might be written there.
Mike stiffened, the question catching him off guard. “Doubt is a failing,” he said, the words automatic, drawn from doctrine rather than thought.
Will winced slightly, his shoulders tensing before he relaxed again. “Then I fail often.”
Mike turned to look at him, surprised despite himself. “Why?”
Will shrugged, one shoulder lifting beneath the pale fabric of his robe. “Because faith feels heavier some days,” he said after a moment. “Like something you are meant to carry easily, only to realise it takes more effort than you expected, and you are never quite sure whether that effort is meant to be visible.”
Mike searched for an answer he had been taught and found none that fit. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, aware for the first time that not every question required correction or reassurance.
“Hands are not meant to hold everything,” he said at last.
Will turned to him, his expression searching rather than doubtful. “That’s not from scripture.”
“No,” Mike replied.
Silence settled between them, not uncomfortable but weighted with things left unsaid. The forest resumed its quiet movements around them, leaves stirring softly as a night breeze passed through, an owl calling somewhere in the distance. Mike became acutely aware of Will’s proximity, the warmth of his body in the cool night air, the unguarded trust in the way he leaned just slightly closer without seeming to realise he had done so.
Mike stood, breaking the moment. “You should sleep.”
Will did not argue. He nodded, wrapping his cloak more tightly around himself as he lay back down. As sleep took him, his voice drifted up once more, barely audible. “Thank you for staying.”
Mike remained where he was long after the fire burned low again, his gaze fixed outward, though his thoughts refused to follow.
The night deepened around them, darkness settling into the clearing in layers as the fire collapsed inward, embers glowing dully beneath a thin skin of ash. Mike stood watch with his back to the trees, senses attuned to every shift of sound and shadow, yet his awareness kept drifting, unbidden, to the quiet rise and fall of Will’s breathing.
Sleep had taken him quickly, perhaps too quickly. Exhaustion always followed the use of divine power, though Will never spoke of it unless asked directly. Mike wondered, not for the first time, how often Will bore that cost alone, how frequently he was expected to give of himself without pause or acknowledgement.
He adjusted his stance, resting one gauntleted hand against the pommel of his sword. The metal was cool beneath his fingers, familiar and reliable, anchoring him in the certainty of weight and balance. This was what he understood, what he had been shaped for, and yet his gaze returned, against his better judgement, to where Will lay curled beneath his cloak, his features softened by sleep.
In rest, the lines of concentration and strain faded, leaving something younger and more fragile than Mike had expected. The sight drew an unwelcome tightness through his chest, subtle but persistent, and he looked away almost immediately.
Attachment bred weakness, or so he had been taught. Protection required clarity and distance, the ability to act without hesitation or compromise. Still, without conscious thought, his body angled slightly, placing himself between Will and the dark, the movement instinctive rather than deliberate.
He told himself it was habit.
Later, when the forest settled into its deepest quiet and even the insects seemed to pause, Mike finally allowed himself to kneel.
He pressed two fingers to his brow and then to his chest, the motion automatic, ingrained through repetition. Prayer came easily, the words worn smooth by years of use. He asked for strength and steadiness, for the will to serve without hesitation or doubt.
The presence of his god settled over him as it always did, vast and impersonal, a pressure rather than a voice, familiar enough to be comforting. It steadied him, eased the tension he had not realised he was carrying.
And yet his thoughts strayed despite his efforts to keep them ordered, drawn not to the altar or the sigils carved into stone, but to Will’s hands glowing faintly in the shrine, to the way his breath had caught as the power answered, to the quiet sincerity in his voice when he had spoken his gratitude.
Mike tightened his jaw and forced his focus back to the prayer, repeating the final words with deliberate care, as though sealing the intrusion away behind a closed door. When he rose, the presence of his god receded, leaving behind the simple, human weight of responsibility settling heavily in his chest.
Dawn crept in pale and grey, mist clinging low to the ground as birds began to stir in the branches above. Will shifted as the light reached him, blinking awake, momentarily disoriented before his gaze found Mike still standing watch.
“You didn’t sleep,” Will said, squinting slightly.
“I did,” Mike replied, though the statement was only partially true.
Will studied him for a moment, as though weighing the answer, before nodding and accepting it without challenge. That trust, freely given, unsettled Mike more than suspicion would have.
They packed their things in companionable silence, Will moving a little stiffly as he folded his cloak, Mike offering assistance he did not name by holding items steady or passing them when needed. When they set off again, Will fell into step beside him without comment, as though it were the most natural arrangement in the world.
Mike adjusted his pace instinctively, matching it to Will’s, and became aware of the brief brush of his arm against the pale fabric of Will’s robe. He shifted away a fraction too late to pretend it had not happened.
The road stretched out before them, winding north through the trees, and Mike fixed his gaze ahead, tightening his grip on his sword. Whatever lay in wait along this pilgrimage, he would face it as he had faced everything else that had been asked of him, with discipline and resolve.
For the church that had shaped him, for the god to whom he had sworn his life, and, he told himself firmly, for the cleric walking just within arm’s reach.
Nothing more.