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When Temenos was younger, he adored the little Aelfric’s Day traditions he created with Roi and the Pontiff. Being a sort of stitched together family had its merits, as every tradition they created was uniquely their own, born completely in the moment without the influence of anyone else.
They didn’t need to be anything grand. In fact, they normally weren’t.
He remembers one of the first traditions they made with particular fondness.
The memory begins with Roi, pulling him along through town despite still being unsteady on his feet, barely more than a toddler. It was so vivid, so alive despite how young Temenos was at the time, in a way only childhood memories could be.
They were heading towards the town bakery, a small bundle of leaves in hand as the two boys dreamed of deliciously sugary treats, still warm from the oven. (That thought led to another memory entirely: Roi cutting tiny pieces of a honeyed pastry and feeding them to him while the Pontiff scolded him gently—only to discover that both of his boys possessed an insatiable sweet tooth).
When Temenos had presented the leaves to his older brother that morning, Roi had been elated. Father, he’d said, was so generous to allow them a sweet treat so early in the day, all in celebration of Aelfric’s Day. Roi happily skipped along the street, green scarf billowing in the wind, cheeks flushed pink in the cold. He looked impossibly cheerful, eyes twinkling.
Which is why… Temenos couldn’t possibly tell Roi that Father hadn’t given him the leaves at all. That perhaps, inspired by the spirit of Aeber, he had swiped the leaves from Father’s coin purse and scurried away, unseen.
When they arrived home, pleasantly full and warm from the pastries they consumed, their excitement grew knowing they could finally open their presents.
Instead, they were met with their Father, his arms crossed as he stood in front of the fireplace. He had a stern, yet knowing look on his face, immediately questioning the young boys over where they went and what happened to some of the leaves in his pouch.
He could still remember the look on Roi’s face, horrified upon realizing what Temenos had done. And of course, seeing his brother’s face, Temenos immediately began to cry. Being the tiny angel he was, how could he possibly be accused of theft? (Never mind the fact that Temenos had indeed committed the crime).
As soon as Temenos began to cry, Roi began to wail in turn, begging forgiveness for an offense he didn’t even commit. Now barraged by two wailing boys, the Pontiff wiped their flowing tears and pulled them both into his arms, hushing them and reassuring them that all was well.
When their sobs were reduced to hiccups and sniffles, Temenos faced the punishment of hearing his Father read excerpts from the book of Aeber, since he had yet to learn to read. He wasn’t allowed to open his presents until he was finished.
A thief should not steal for himself, but for the benefit of others.
That line was burned into his memory, particularly because… he was slightly bitter by the fact that Roi had ultimately benefitted from their excursion that morning. Did he not merely do what the scriptures bade him to?
Of course, that bitterness had faded away as soon as Roi elected not to open his presents until Temenos was finished with his punishment, deciding instead to take over the reading himself. He happily plopped Temenos into his lap and traced his fingers along each page so his little brother could follow along.
A younger, more immature Temenos assumed back then that Roi only did it because he loved reading the scriptures, offering divine guidance in any wrongs they committed.
But now, being older and wiser, Temenos knew… it was simply because Roi loved him.
Eventually, Roi would come to enjoy a tad of mischief every now and again, especially since Temenos was oh so clever with his schemes. They agreed every year thereafter to slip a few leaves from their Father, all in good fun, so they could sneak out and purchase those tempting confections before returning home for presents.
Looking back, Temenos suspected—no, knew—that the Pontiff had started to make it easier for them to steal from him. Bundles of leaves placed close enough to the edge of the table every Aelfric’s Day morning. Close enough to be taken. He had become a part of tradition, even if it deprived him of a few leaves.
That was the thing about traditions: they were never announced. They simply happened, taking shape in small, unremarkable moments. And once they did, they lingered, becoming theirs forever.
Maybe that’s why Temenos had been maybe a little over eager to share his past traditions with Crick. And make new ones, as well.
The thought made Temenos a little teary-eyed, though he would never admit it. It had just... been a long time since he wanted to share anything this personal with anyone. Not that he didn’t share many of his strangest eccentricities with the travelers, but traditions were an entirely different beast. They were more so reserved for... family.
Which is why he had failed to bring any of them up the year before. Last year's Aelfric’s Day had been... exciting, to say the least. The travelers had reunited to spend their first Aelfric’s Day after Vide’s defeat and Roi’s sudden return together. There had been laughter and food and far too much alcohol, and stories were traded between all of them as though no time had passed. Temenos had enjoyed it, truly, but it had felt chaotic in a way that left little room for quiet, sweet traditions to take root.
Temenos’s relationship with Crick had also been rather new at that point, both of them tiptoeing around the house with lingering touches and sweet whispers. It was a kind of fragile happiness that Temenos was all too familiar with. He worried that paying it too much mind would only hasten its slipping away.
So, he’d kept his past traditions to himself. Let the day remain loud and collective; let it belong to everyone rather than risk carving out something meant just for them.
This year was different, though. The others had settled into their own routines back in their respective homes, sending letters and gifts in place of their presence. Not even Roi was staying that year, much to his surprise. He had deliberately gone up to Stormhail to have a quiet Aelfric’s Day with Ort, citing—rather dramatically—the fact that he wanted to be nowhere alone with Crick and Temenos. (Which was an entirely unreasonable sentiment. Roi had only walked in on them kissing once).
And so, there was only the two of them. Their first Aelfric’s Day alone together as a couple.
Temenos was determined to make the most of it.
He woke well before dawn, the world outside still hushed under a thick blanket of snow. Within that quiet, Temenos found himself utterly trapped in the warm, steady embrace of Crick’s arms—tucked close, cradled against a solid chest that radiated heat like the campfires he used to sleep next to. It was so warm, in fact, that it almost lulled him back to sleep. Almost.
He blinked slowly, lashes heavy, letting his consciousness return. Crick’s breathing was deep and even, a soft rhythm beneath Temenos’s ear. For a moment, he simply listened, savoring it—the gentle rise and fall, the faint sigh at the end of each exhale. He smiled to himself. This was dangerous; if he lingered too long, he’d lose the battle entirely.
Not today.
Summoning what little resolve he had while wrapped up like this, Temenos shifted just enough to free his hands. He smoothed them up Crick’s chest, palms warm, fingers tracing the familiar lines of muscle beneath sleep-wrinkled fabric, until they came to rest right beneath Crick’s eyes.
“Crick,” he murmured softly, fondness thick in his voice, “sleepy lamb. It’s time to wake up.”
He tried—valiantly—to keep the eagerness out of his tone. He failed, but Crick was still asleep enough not to catch it.
Crick stirred almost immediately at the sound of Temenos calling him (he was such a dutiful knight to his charge, even in his dreams), but instead of rising he pulled Temenos stubbornly back into his chest.
Temenos laughed, the sound bright and unguarded, muffled against Crick’s collarbone. He pressed a hand to Crick’s chest and gently pushed himself free, though he made no real effort to hurry. “Not today, dear,” he said, amused by his little lamb’s childishness. “Though tomorrow, I’ll happily let you hold me for as long as you’d like.”
Crick groaned, long and dramatic, but opened his eyes anyway, bleary and unfocused. He reached out, fingers curling into the hem of Temenos’s sleeve, reluctant to let him go entirely. How cute.
Temenos’s heart did a little, traitorous flip. He leaned down, unable to resist, and brushed a soft kiss to the tip of Crick’s nose.
“Happy Aelfric’s Day, Crick,” he said quietly, happily.
Any attempt at restraint vanished entirely then. But Crick’s responding smile—slow, warm, still half-asleep—left no room for regret.
“Happy Aelfric’s Day, Temenos,” Crick replied, voice rough with sleep. He blinked once, then again, brow furrowing as he glanced toward the window. “It’s… very dark.”
“Yes,” Temenos said lightly, utterly pleased with himself. “That would be the dawn not having happened yet.”
Crick hummed, confused, and tugged Temenos’s sleeve once more in a silent, hopeful plea. Temenos allowed himself to linger a few moments longer, leaning in, soaking up Crick’s warmth like it could save him from the cold outside.
Then—before he could talk himself out of it—Temenos slipped free of Crick’s grasp and rose from the bed.
The air was immediately colder, nipping at his skin, but it was worth it. Behind him, Crick made the saddest sound imaginable, complete with wide, mournful eyes that followed Temenos like a child watching its favorite toy walk away.
Temenos paused, one hand on the bed frame, dangerously close to surrender.
No. He straightened, resolute.
“Come along lamb,” he said, smiling over his shoulder. “We have plans.”
Crick’s expression softened into quiet curiosity, touched with fondness—and that alone was enough to fuel Temenos’s determination.
The perfect Aelfric’s Day wouldn’t start itself, after all.
By the time both of them were properly dressed and walking out into the cold morning air, the sun had barely begun to rise, the streets quiet, save for the soft crunch of snow beneath their boots.
Temenos found himself tugging at Crick’s sleeve in much the same way Roi had done to him back then. They didn’t steal their leaves from anyone, of course. Temenos had actually prepared this time. But they did run through the snow together, breath puffing white, laughter slipping free and echoing as they hurried toward the bakery at the center of town. The thrill of it was just the same as it had been when he was little.
They left with honey cakes, sticky and warm, wrapped hastily in a paper soaked through with sugar and butter. The sweetness clung to Temenos’s fingers, tacky and fragrant, and he didn’t bother to wipe them clean before pressing one into Crick’s hands.
“Careful,” he said, eyes bright with unhidden joy. “They’re still hot.”
The walk home was slower than the mad dash to the bakery had been, the early-morning hush settling comfortably around them now that their first tradition was complete. Snow still fell in lazy flakes, catching in Crick’s hair and on the shoulders of his cloak. Temenos watched them melt there, idly brushing one away with a fond little huff before Crick could notice.
They shared the honey cakes as they walked—Crick breaking his carefully in half despite Temenos’s protests, insisting it was only right. Sugar smeared at the corner of Crick’s mouth, and Temenos, after pointedly staring at it for far too long, wiped it away with his thumb and popped it into his own mouth.
Crick flushed crimson.
Temenos shivered when the cold followed them back into the house, stamping snow from their boots. He was a breath away from declaring that he would simply keep his cloak on all day when Crick moved past him to light the hearth, humming softly as he worked. The sound was low and absentminded, comfortable in a way that made Temenos’s shoulders loosen despite the chill. He watched for a moment longer than necessary, lips quirking into a fond smile.
With Crick occupied, Temenos slipped quietly down the hall.
He retrieved his secrets from their hiding places—satisfied that Crick hadn’t found them. Then, he waited, listening, until the scrape of a pot and the soft clatter of dishes told him Crick had moved into the kitchen to begin preparations for their later meal.
Only then did Temenos begin.
He tied paper stars to the windows first, fingers careful as he knotted the thread just tight enough to hold. The stars were cut by hand, some with crooked points or faint pencil marks still visible—he’d been in a hurry, finishing them in the scant moments when Crick wasn’t with him—but when the pale morning light caught them, they glowed softly, just as he’d hoped.
Red and green ribbons came next, braided from scraps of dyed cloth and twine, draped along every shelf and doorframe. Beeswax candles—a gift from Castti—followed, their faint cinnamon scent pervading his senses as he set them along the sill. Ivy and holly were woven together and laid across the mantel with paper flowers carefully pressed and tucked into the gaps wherever Temenos saw fit.
By the time he finished, the house felt different. Warmer.
When Crick finally emerged from the kitchen, sleeves rolled and hair faintly mussed from the stove’s heat, he stopped short in the doorway. His eyes moved slowly over the room, taking everything in.
“…Temenos,” he said, awe softening his voice. “You did all this?”
Temenos waved a hand, deliberately casual. “Idle hands, lamb.”
Crick crossed the room in a few long strides and pressed a kiss to Temenos’s temple, lingering. “It’s beautiful,” he whispered. “It feels like a home.”
He grinned up at Crick, pleased with himself for evoking the reaction he wanted from his little lamb. “Come,” he said briskly. “It’s not done until we have our gifts out as well.”
Temenos led the way before Crick could ask another question, already halfway down the hall with an energy that bordered on giddy. He stopped in front of the small storage room just off the study—the one Crick rarely had reason to enter—and glanced back over his shoulder, eyes bright with poorly concealed anticipation.
From there, he watched as Crick entered their bedroom and opened the bottom drawer of his dresser. (Temenos knew, of course, exactly where Crick had hidden his presents. He was the Inquisitor, after all).
Temenos snorted softly to himself and pushed the closet door open. Inside, tucked neatly beneath an old wool blanket, were Crick’s presents—wrapped in plain brown paper that Temenos had cheerfully defaced with his own silly doodles.
Temenos crouched down to retrieve them, cradling them to his chest as though they might disappear.
They returned together to the hearth, where the fire burned properly now, casting a warm glow throughout the room. Temenos knelt and set the gifts carefully on the floor before it, arranging them alongside Crick’s with deliberate care.
For a moment, he simply looked at them—and smiled.
Crick’s were wrapped in proper colored paper and ribbon, bright and festive, perfectly suited to the holiday. It was just like his little lamb to go all out for him...
Temenos turned back toward Crick, ready with some quip already forming on his tongue—
—and stopped.
Crick had gone very still. His gaze had drifted past the fireplace, past the carefully arranged gifts, and settled on the open stretch of floor near the window.
Temenos followed his line of sight, then frowned faintly.
Ah.
Crick didn’t look disappointed, exactly—just unsure. Like he had something to say but wasn’t certain he had the right to say it. His brow was furrowed, mouth set in a soft, uncertain line.
He tilted his head, studying Crick for a beat longer than necessary, then hummed lightly. “You’re thinking very loudly, lamb.”
His gaze flicked back to Temenos at once.
“Decorating with trees isn’t very common here,” Temenos continued easily. “The nearest place to get them is the Winterlands, and dragging one all the way up the mountain is a dreadful affair. Normally, the only tree we have is the large one outside the cathedral—and even that requires half the knights to haul into place at the start of the season.”
Crick hesitated, then glanced back toward the empty space by the window before returning his gaze to Temenos.
“Oh,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t expecting anything. I just…” He trailed off, fingers curling together at his side.
Temenos opened his mouth with some easy reassurance already prepared—something teasing, something meant to smooth the moment over. But then, he really looked at Crick.
The lightness had drained from his expression. His shoulders were taut, his gaze distant in a way Temenos recognized all too well—the look Crick wore whenever he was thinking about his childhood.
Temenos fell silent.
Crick swallowed, jaw tightening just slightly, before he spoke again—softer this time.
“It was…” He hesitated, then lifted his eyes to Temenos. “My first tradition.”
----⋆｡°✩ 🎄 ✩°｡⋆----
The winter season in Wellgrove was a merry time, full of laughter, cheer, friends, and family. Upon the first flake of snow, children prepared for building snowmen, ice skating, and drinking warm cocoa after a long day of fun. The buzz of excitement for Aelfric’s Day was positively electric, each child whispering of the presents they hoped to receive.
Meanwhile, a young Crick watched all of this from his window, frosted over from the cold. It served as a barrier, a reminder that the world outside would always remain separate, out of reach.
He asked his parents once and only once if they could participate in the Aelfric’s Day festivities. He always wanted to attend the yearly festival, celebrating all that Aelfric had given them by sharing wonderous treats and homemade wares from all across Solistia. Vanilla shortbread cookies, minty candy canes, magical snow globes, and red stockings… he wanted to experience it all!
His parents scolded him harshly, chastising him for wishing to fraternize with commoners and buy their cheap, kitschy goods. After all, they didn’t have time for such frivolities—his parents preferred the lavish Aelfric’s Day party held by one of their wealthy neighbors, dressing in their stuffy clothes and covering themselves in sparkling jewels to show off their wealth.
Crick was left at home when he was young, deemed “too immature.” (Even when he came of age, he found he wasn’t missing anything other than stuck-up aristocrats pretending they were happier never giving to the poor. It was no wonder the more generous among the rich never attended).
However, there was one Aelfric’s Day activity his parents allowed him to indulge in: getting a tree. When he asked if they could get one, his Father slapped a proud hand on his shoulder for finally suggesting something that made him a “real man.” Crick also suspected that his mother’s agreeing stemmed less from tradition and more from envy of the grand trees the other women boasted about.
And so, one morning, the Wellsley family bundled up in their woolly coats and leather snow boots and traveled to the nearby tree farm to pick out a tree. It was the first time Crick could remember that his family did something together, let alone an Aelfric’s Day activity. Needless to say, he was elated.
When they arrived at the small tree farm, he was in awe of the verdant greenery, each tree a majesty of its own. In his heart, he wanted desperately to dart between the trees, getting lost in the freedom as the scent of pine and citrus flooded his senses; however, his rational side won out. He didn’t want to appear foolish in front of his parents.
After surveying the available trees, his Mother selected a strong, beautiful fir tree, standing tall among the others. He could already imagine it standing in their drawing room, lovingly decorated with ornaments, paper, and ribbons. And of course, beneath it would be a modest stack of presents, each carefully wrapped in reds and greens.
As they prepared to chop the tree, his Father carefully got down on one knee in the snow, explaining how to hold the axe and where to strike on its trunk. Though Crick ultimately couldn’t help much (the axe was much too big for him), he felt important directing his Father on where to swing and watching where the tree would fall.
As they dragged the tree home through the snow, Crick began sweating under his layers, hair sticking to his forehead. The cold made it more bearable, but his cheeks began to sting from the chilled breeze. He was simultaneously hot and cold at the same time, unused to the intense manual labor.
Even so… his heart was strangely full. Especially when they finally made it home, placing the tree where it stood proudly by the fireplace.
Finally, finally he felt like a normal family with a wonderful family tradition.
…In the end, they never decorated the tree. It sat in their drawing room, branches bare of any ornaments, paper, or ribbons to remind them why they even got it in the first place. It was just a tree, slowly browning and wilting in a forgotten corner of their home.
Unloved. Except by one.
As Aelfric’s Day approached, Crick hoped that though their tree was barren, Aelfric would sense his devotion and bring him some presents to replace the toys his parents had thrown away or sold. Even if it was just a horse on a stick, it would mean the world to him.
Because the real reason Crick had asked for a tree that year was… well, he assumed Aelfric didn’t leave any presents because his family didn’t have a tree to put them under. Now that he did, it would guide Aelfric to his home. The tree became a symbol of that hope; he couldn’t help but love it.
…And yet, the space beneath the tree was empty come Aelfric’s Day morning.
He thought perhaps he didn’t pray hard enough for Aelfric to notice he had a tree. So, he spent the next year fervently praying whenever he could in the spaces between his numerous lessons. And then, he begged his parents for another tree.
Aelfric had to notice his devotion!
When the morning of Aelfric’s Day arrived again, the stars in his eyes quietly faded as the space beneath the tree was empty yet again. After that…
…He accepted that Aelfric skipped over children who were unworthy of his love.
Even if realizing that made his heart ache, a painful emptiness that couldn’t be filled, he knew that had to be the reason.
The next year, Crick asked to get another tree. And he would every year thereafter until he was old enough to get the tree on his own.
He adopted a new tradition instead, one that went beyond getting the tree.
Each year, Crick would take a few of his Father’s daily newspapers from the garbage and fashion it into wrapping paper. With a little bit of leftover twine, he made simple bows. And then, he would wrap a myriad of items from around his room, placing them beneath the tree so he had something to unwrap on Aelfric’s Day morning.
Because he couldn’t bear another year staring at that desolate space beneath the tree that had come to mean everything to him. A false sense of normalcy, pretending someone cared enough to give him a gift.
He struggled to accept it was a tradition made for one, even as his glistening tears were illuminated by the fire as they rolled down his cheeks.
By the time Crick finished recounting his memory to Temenos, they had moved to sit on the sofa. Crick released a sheepish chuckle, trying not to move his shoulder too much lest he jostle Temenos’s head leaning there.
“Of course, now that I’m older, I realize Aelfric didn’t forget about me, since he was never the one to leave the presents in the first place. It was just that my parents never—”
Crick was suddenly cut short by a strange dampness on his shoulder. When Temenos lifted his head to look him in the eyes, he could see why—tears, streaming down Temenos’s face in fat droplets. Immediately, he panicked; Temenos rarely cried, especially not in front of him.
“T-Temenos?! I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry!” Crick rushed out, reaching to gently brush the tears from his face.
Temenos stopped him with a tender hand.
“No, Crick. This is something I should be upset about,” Temenos breathed, taking Crick’s hand in his own. “I am so, so sorry you felt so unloved.” He squeezed Crick’s hand, rubbing circles into his palm.
“Really, there’s no need to apologize. After all, I… I grew up with so much, especially compared to Throné and Partitio. My grievances are just… trivial at best,” Crick said with a slight shrug.
At that, Temenos’s grip tightened, his other hand rising to Crick’s cheek.
“Oh, little lamb. Be gentle with yourself. Your sorrow doesn’t lose its meaning just because others have suffered different pain. It matters because it shaped you, molded you into who you are. That’s why it matters. Especially to me.”
Temenos leaned in, pressing a sweet, chaste kiss to Crick’s lips.
When he sat back, his eyes were so gentle, so loving. “So don’t tell me I need not cry for your pain. Especially when I know this still hurts you.”
For a moment, there was silence between them. Temenos stroked Crick’s cheek quietly, gazing into his eyes with such tender fondness and care it was almost overwhelming.
Perhaps it was. Crick squeezed his eyes shut as tears threatened to spill from his eyes. He didn’t want to cry— not today, when everything was supposed to be perfect for their first Aelfric’s Day alone as a couple.
But Temenos’s warmth always enveloped him, familiar and unwavering. He made him feel seen, like every sorrow, every pain in his past could be held between them until it didn’t matter so much anymore.
But right now, it weighed on him… the many mornings of Aelfric’s Day spent staring at the painful reminder that no one cared for him. An empty space, waiting to be filled.
As Temenos pulled him into his arms, Crick allowed himself to unravel for a while. It didn’t matter whether they laughed or cried; their Aelfric’s Day was perfect because they were together. Temenos was there to fill the empty space.
When Crick finally calmed down, scrubbing his face with his hands and fighting against little sniffles, Temenos turned towards the space by the fireplace with a contemplative expression.
“You know, I think a tree would look lovely in here. Certainly worth the trouble. Don’t you agree, dear?” He questioned, looking pointedly at Crick.
Oh gods. Crick was going to cry again.
Squashing the urge, Crick nodded enthusiastically. “Y-yes! I would… I would really like that, Temenos.”
Temenos laughed, pleased. “Then I supposed we should be off then, little lamb.”
And so, the two hastily put back on their thick layers and boots, preparing to face the cold yet again. Crick clutched a coil of rope in one hand and an axe in the other, ready for the task ahead.
Crick’s heart was practically beating out of his chest as they began their trek to the edge of the Winterlands. It was terribly last minute, and entirely unlike him to give into such impulsive thoughts (his parents would have thought it impulsive, at least), but Temenos was indulging him, and for that, he was grateful.
Thankfully it was still early in the day, so their impromptu adventure wouldn’t interfere too much with his dinner preparations. (Yes, the bread would need to go into the oven at the right time... he needed to finish everything on schedule, or Temenos would complain).
He brushed the thought aside with a small, eager smile. For now, there was snow underfoot, and he needed to focus lest he or Temenos fall on a hidden branch or slip on a patch of ice. The air was crisp and biting, making his cheeks burn and his nose tingle; in his opinion, it only added to the thrill.
Temenos, however, had other opinions. “By Aelfric, it’s freezing!” he exclaimed, his breath puffing in the cold air. “I can already feel it seeping into my very bones.” He stomped his feet in mock indignation, eyes flicking to the gray sky as he muttered what sounded suspiciously like curses. Crick couldn’t help but think it wasn’t quite in the spirit of the day.
For a moment, he even considered turning back. After all, this trek was entirely for his own whims, and Temenos was already cold and complaining.
Then Temenos huddled closer, took the rope from his hand, and slid his arm through Crick’s. Immediately, Crick realized that it was what Temenos was aiming for all along. “Well, it’ll be your duty to keep me warm from the cold, since this was your idea, no?” he murmured, a hint of amusement in his voice.
Crick felt the warmth of more than just Temenos against him as he responded. “Yes, of course, Temenos,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips.
Temenos leaned just slightly into him as they walked, muttering occasional grumbles that were more theatrical than sincere. “I say, little lamb. If the snow reaches my knees, I shall never forgive you,” he warned, though it was easy to tell he wasn’t serious.
Crick chuckled softly, letting his arm tighten around Temenos’ for warmth. “You’ll forgive me, I think,” he replied, “once I feed you dinner.”
Temenos shot him a sidelong glance. “I’m expecting nothing less than perfection then, Crick.”
Crick hid a laugh in Temenos’s shoulder. Temenos wasn’t hard to please when it came to meals, and he already knew he liked his food.
They pressed on through the snow, the wind carrying a familiar smell of pine and frost. The Winterlands stretched before them now, trees standing proudly in the morning light, dusted with snow that glittered faintly.
Temenos sighed, this time a little less dramatically, a little warmer. “I suppose… I rather like it, after all,” he admitted, slipping even closer, his arm brushing against Crick’s. “Even if it is terribly cold.”
Crick’s smile softened, watching the way Temenos’ cheeks glowed a pretty pink in the cold air. Soon, they would find the perfect tree—the one that would mark the start of their own little tradition. A newer, happier version of the one he started so long ago, when he was just a lonely noble boy.
It took a little searching, but finally they came upon it—a small, proud evergreen tucked between two larger trees, as if waiting for them to find it. It wasn’t grand or towering like the trees Crick had dragged home in his youth, but it had a quiet charm, a softness that felt right for the life they were building together. Perfectly sized for their living room, Crick wondered if Aelfric had purposefully placed it there for them. (He was sure Temenos didn’t think so).
As Crick set to chopping, Temenos settled on a log nearby, idly playing with the rope in his hands. He tried—poorly—to look occupied, but his eyes kept drifting back to Crick. Crick could feel it, the way they followed the flex of his shoulders every time he prepared to swing the axe. Temenos’s expression was subtle, but not subtle enough; there was a certain appreciative glint there, one Crick had learned to recognize.
Crick huffed, embarrassed. Gods, it was just like before—back when he’d chop firewood for Temenos and the other travelers, pretending he didn’t notice the cleric blatantly staring at him over the rim of a Scripture book. Back then, he’d told himself it was normal. He was new to their little merry band, and Temenos was simply... observing him. He figured Temenos had done it to everyone.
He certainly knew better now.
And judging by the way Temenos shot him a smug, utterly unrepentant smile, he wasn’t exactly trying to hide it anymore. There was a glimmer in his eyes—mischief, fondness, and the quiet satisfaction of a man who knew exactly what effect he was having.
Finally, after enduring what felt like hours of Temenos’s leering and the occasional, entirely unnecessary whistle, the tree gave a soft crack and toppled neatly into the snow. Crick exhaled, planting the axe in the ground for a moment, while Temenos applauded like he’d just witnessed a heroic feat rather than a simple bit of labor.
“Well done, little lamb. I may have to start calling you a ram for that one.” Temenos sashayed to Crick’s side with theatrical ease, the rope swinging from his hand like he’d been waiting to use it. He knelt beside the fallen tree, fingers deft as he began looping and tying the knots.
Crick cleared his throat, trying to look everywhere but at Temenos’s face as he joined him.
With a satisfied grin, Crick stood up. “Now, for the fun part.”
Temenos’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “Fun part?” he echoed, incredulously. “You mean the part where we drag this frozen log up a mountain like penitents seeking absolution?”
Crick hefted the trunk with ease, snow crunching beneath him. “Exactly that part.”
Temenos let out a long, theatrical sigh as he rose to his feet. “Aelfric, preserve me. I knew I should’ve feigned a cold before we left.” He brushed snow from his clothes with exaggerated delicacy, then grabbed the rope, glaring at it as though it had personally offended him. “If I perish on the road, do be sure to tell my flock I died doing something utterly ridiculous.”
Crick bit back a smile, now knowing better than to put any stock in Temenos’s complaints. “I’ll make it sound heroic.”
Temenos flashed him a cheeky smile in return. “Oh, my little lamb. Always seeking to protect my reputation.”
Crick shook his head, adjusting his grip on the tree. “Someone has to,” he grumbled.
Temenos gasped dramatically, letting go of the tree entirely. Crick grunted at the sudden extra weight. “Well now, Crick. If you’re going to keep making comments like that, I’ll have you carry me and our tree!”
Crick flushed despite himself. Our tree, he said. The words warmed him more than the walk or the exertion ever could. When he was younger, getting the tree had become a lonely ritual—one done purely to fill an empty house with the illusion of a warm, family tradition.
But this was... different.
Now, he had someone beside him. Someone who complained loudly, teased shamelessly, and threatened to drop the tree at every slight provocation—but who said our without hesitation.
Yes. This was definitely better than when he was younger.
----⋆｡°✩ 🎄 ✩°｡⋆----
Temenos had been looking forward to this part of the day, when the fire was lit, illuminating their home in a cozy, orange glow. He placed his supplies on the rug in front of the fireplace, seeking as much warmth as possible. Normally, he would have buried himself in Crick’s warm chest—something Temenos very much wanted to do today, after dragging a tree all the way back to Flamechurch—but Crick was busy preparing their dinner.
So, the fire it had to be. And he was content with that; after all, he had an important job to complete.
Crick said he was happy just to have a tree, but Temenos wanted it to truly feel special. It was more than just a tree—it was their Aelfric’s Day tree. It needed to look the part.
Now Temenos’s artistic skills were nothing to boast about (even if Crick said otherwise); nevertheless, he was fairly confident he could whip something together, even with the limited time. He spread out his paper, a pair of scissors, and colored pastels before getting to work.
To start… perhaps paper snowflakes? He gently folded the paper in half, cutting intricate patterns to reflect the uniqueness of real snowflakes. When finished, he placed each around the tree until it was covered to his satisfaction.
He took a step back to survey his work. The tree looked acceptable but… it was missing a touch of color, wasn’t it?
Thinking of the tree in front of the cathedral, an idea popped into his head. The sisters had given him a box of leftover ribbons; separate from the ones he had hung around the house. They were such lovely colors… it was exactly what their tree needed.
As he stood up to retrieve the box from his desk, his eyes were drawn to Crick through the kitchen doorway. He wore an adorable light‑blue apron patterned with tiny lambs—the one Temenos had given him for his birthday. His sleeves were rolled up as well, a small smile on his face as he carefully prepared their meal.
It wasn’t an unfamiliar sight—Crick cooked for them every day, after all—but it still made him happy. After Stormhail, Temenos learned to be grateful, even for the small things. For Crick, just being here with him.
Crick looked up from his work, noticing Temenos staring at him. He was caught, though he didn’t particularly mind.
Crick’s smile widened in that adorable, boyish way of his. “Are you alright, Temenos?” he asked.
Temenos huffed a laugh. “Yes, dear. Just getting the finishing touches for the tree. Goodness, ever the worrywart, aren’t you?”
Crick fondly rolled his eyes, returning to his work.
Temenos returned with the box full of ribbons, sorting them into piles of different colors. Once satisfied, he began by tying the silver ribbons to the branches, then the red, and finally, the green.
The tree looked rather charming with a pop of color. Temenos was proud of his work but… still, something was missing. Something that would denote the tree as uniquely theirs…
Turning his attention back to his supplies, he knew just the thing. He quickly got to work, cutting the perfect paper shapes and adding the tiny features with his pastels. Every so often, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure Crick was still distracted in the kitchen, then returned to his task with renewed focus. The sight of the two miniature figures in his grasp made his chest warm, already imagining the look on Crick’s face when he revealed them.
“Crick, can you help me for a moment?” Temenos called, ready to add the perfect, finishing touch to their tree.
“Coming!” Crick replied, wiping off his hands on his apron and stepping into the living room. Looking at the tree, Crick smiled brightly, clearly overjoyed with Temenos’s work.
“It looks wonderful, Temenos. I… thank you, truly. For doing this.”
Temenos chuckled, clutching his final creations close to his heart. “Don’t thank me yet. After all, every Aelfric’s Day tree needs a tree topper.” Temenos gestured to the top with one hand. “But as you can see, I am unable to reach. As are you.”
Crick narrowed his eyes, hands on his hips as he pondered the problem. “Well, I suppose I can stand on a chair and put it up for you,” he said, reaching for the papers in his hand.
But Temenos stepped back, purposefully hiding them from Crick’s sight.
“And have you fall off and get hurt? Heavens no!” Temenos said, scandalized. His expression turned into a mischievous smirk, for he already knew what he wanted Crick to do. “I think it would be much easier if you… yes, if you picked me up instead.”
At his words, Crick turned crimson. Yet, he still indulged him, hoisting Temenos up by his waist so he could place the final decoration atop the tree. Well, not quite at the top, but nestled in the branches as close as he could get.
When Crick placed him back on the floor, still blushing red, Temenos scrutinized his work for the final time.
“Yes, I do believe I’m happy with it now,” he said with a proud smile.
When Crick finally got over his embarrassment (goodness, they slept in the same bed every night and yet Crick blushes whenever he touches his waist—) he looked up to see what Temenos had done.
There, placed side by side within the branches, were two paper dolls. One was Crick. The other, Temenos.
Crick gasped, small tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “Oh, Temenos! It’s perfect!” He said, suddenly grasping Temenos’s waist again and holding him close. He kissed Temenos’s shoulder, moving up towards his neck, his jaw, his cheek, until finally reaching his lips.
“Mmph! I’m—I’m glad you… that you like it—goodness, Crick, I can’t speak if you keep—” Temenos was silenced yet again by another kiss. He couldn’t help but laugh, hopelessly trapped in Crick’s loving embrace. Not that he minded, of course.
When Crick was finally done, he released Temenos, allowing him to take his arm so they could admire their tree together. Temenos stepped in close, fingers curling lightly around Crick’s sleeve, the warmth of the moment settling between them.
“Now, it’s ours,” Temenos whispered, leaning his head on Crick’s shoulder.
They stood gazing at the tree for a while longer, lost in the pleasant warmth of each other.
Crick suddenly laughed, turning to Temenos. “Now, are you done stalling? I need help cutting vegetables.”
Temenos put a hand on his chest, mocking offense. “Stalling? Why, little lamb, I’ve done nothing of the sort!” Temenos turned to the stack of presents, sitting in front of the fire. “And anyway, I still need to move these beneath the tree… and light the Aelfric’s Day candles. You couldn’t possibly expect me to help cook yet!”
Crick kissed his cheek before returning to the kitchen. “Right, right. Of course not,” he said, a fond smile on his face.
Temenos quickly moved the presents beneath the tree. It looked awfully domestic, having a tree of their own accompanied by presents. He hoped to see it year after year, a sign that they were still happily in love.
Then, with a whisper of magic, Temenos lit the eight candles atop their fireplace. Each represented one of the eight gods, a reminder of what they had given them. Though the day was named for Aelfric, it was important to ultimately honor them all. Temenos bowed his head and muttered a quiet prayer of thanks before joining Crick in the kitchen.
As much as he despised cooking, Temenos found a certain comfort in helping with the small tasks—chopping vegetables, fetching ingredients, keeping Crick company. Crick handled the complicated parts of the meal with practiced ease, seasoning and stirring with a confidence Temenos admired more than he’d ever admit. Standing beside him, contributing in his own modest way, made the whole process feel less like a chore and more like a shared ritual.
They had decided on Ancient Birdian, sent from the Wildlands and highly recommended by Partitio. He even sent a recipe along with it, stamped with the official “Partitio & Roque” seal of approval.
As Crick removed the Birdian and bread from the oven, Temenos got to work chopping lettuce and shaving a block of parmesan cheese into a large bowl. Once finished, he retrieved their creamy homemade dressing, enjoying the scents of garlic and pepper as he mixed it into the bowl. He brought the finished salad to the table, purposefully bumping Crick with his hip as his Godsblade placed the bread rolls into a basket on the table. His face lit up red, causing him to scurry back into the kitchen like a scared mouse. (Or a scandalized mouse).
Goodness, Crick was so shy sometimes, to his utter delight.
With a small smile on his face, he brought a bottle of his favorite red wine to the table and delicately poured it in his glass. For Crick, he procured a simple glass of water, since he rarely ever drank alcohol. Once everything was set, Temenos took a seat at the table, exchanging idle chatter with Crick as he finished basting the Birdian for the last time.
When the roast was ready, Crick carved the meat from the bone, leaving a sizeable portion for them both. It smelled positively divine, rich and savory—a testament to Crick’s incredible cooking ability. He set a plate before Temenos, placed another at his own spot, then slipped off his apron and draped it over the back of his chair to finally join him at the table.
Temenos lifted his fork, ready to take the first bite, only to be halted by Crick’s pointed cough and the sight of his hands folded expectantly. In truth, Temenos always remembered to offer a prayer before meals… but pretending he didn’t, just to earn that familiar exasperated look from Crick, was far too tempting to resist.
Dramatically placing his fork back on the napkin, Temenos folded his hands and bowed his head.
“Oh Flamebringer, on this day we celebrate you and your godly companions for all you have given us, from the vast expanse of the sky and its stars down to the smallest blade of grass beneath our feet. We thank you for allowing us to make new memories to cherish always, creating something our own. We hope to continue to serve you as we prepare for the new year.”
Temenos looked up from his prayer, meeting Crick’s eyes. “And allow us to serve each other as well, shining a radiant light where there is darkness. May the Sacred Flame guide us.”
For as much as he blasphemed the gods, Temenos was unendingly grateful that they allowed Crick into his life. That he had the power to save him from an icy grave in Stormhail on that terrible night so long ago. He had someone to laugh with, make new memories with, and to love unceasingly.
“May the Sacred Flame guide us,” repeated Crick. He smiled, warm and loving, as if he were echoing the same thoughts as Temenos, before unfolding his hands and picking up his silverware.
They both dove into their delicious meal, its decadent flavor spreading across their tongues. They exchanged Aelfric’s Day stories during their feast, ankles hooked together beneath the table.
Temenos spoke fondly of his Father carrying him and Roi to sleep as they stayed up late into the night playing with their new toys, so gentle and kind even when they were naughty. Crick laughed about happier times during training in Stormhail, exchanging Aelfric’s Day letters with Ort rather than gifts since the two barely had a leaf to their names as knights in training. Crick was embarrassed recounting how hard he cried when he read Ort’s letter, but Temenos couldn’t help but smile at the image (such a sentimental lamb…).
As the evening drew on, the two finished their meal, pleasantly warm and full. They cleared the table, then stood hip to hip washing dishes in their basin until they sparkled. The tablecloth was folded as well, set aside to be washed another day. Finally, they wrapped their leftovers and stored them safely in the cellar to keep them fresh.
It was a simple thing, being together even in these mundane moments.
“So… was dinner perfect enough to earn your forgiveness, Temenos?”
Temenos found he wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.
“Yes, dear. Though truthfully… I forgave you long before dinner.”
----⋆｡°✩ 🎄 ✩°｡⋆----
Afterwards, they returned to the front of the hearth once more, ready to end their night with perhaps the most important tradition of all—the gifts.
Crick marveled at the sight of them beneath the tree: two neat little stacks for the both of them. He wasn’t accustomed to having many gifts of his own. They had exchanged gifts the year before, of course, but those had been small, practical things. Simple gifts to make up for the chaotic year.
The sight made his chest feel full and warm, as though Temenos had somehow gathered up the broken pieces of his heart and mended them in the span of a single Aelfric’s day.
Temenos lowered himself to the floor gracefully, patting the rug beside him, “Come, little lamb. The moment you’ve been waiting for all evening.”
Crick joined him, settling cross-legged at his side, close enough that their shoulders brushed—close enough to feel real.
“You first?” Temenos asked, gesturing toward Crick’s stack of presents.
“Oh—no, Temenos, you should—” Crick began, already reaching as if to pass one to him, instinctively trying to defer.
Temenos caught his wrist lightly, not stopping him so much as grounding him there. His touch was warm, deliberate. “Hush,” he said fondly. “Indulge me. I would like to put you first today.”
Crick laughed, embarrassed, cheeks warming. “…If you insist.”
He gently picked up the first present on his stack, turning it over in his hands. It was small and rectangular, and it felt sturdy in his grasp. A book, perhaps? He unwrapped it carefully, wondering what kind of book Temenos would pick for him.
It was, in fact, a book—a Scripture book, with well-loved leather, edges gilded but cracked with age. When he opened it, his breath caught.
Notes filled the margins. Temenos’s handwriting—sharp in places, playful in others—curled alongside the text. Questions, underlines, circles, the occasional emphatic “No.” A few passages even had tiny sketches.
Crick looked up, stunned.
“I’ve annotated it,” Temenos said, far too pleased with himself. “So we can argue about our interpretations.”
Crick laughed, a sound caught somewhere between disbelief and joy. He turned pages, eyes darting from line to margin, finding little asides—“Ask me why I think Aelfric is wrong here. Yes, lamb, I know you’ll disagree.”
“…You wrote questions for me,” Crick said quietly.
“Of course I did,” Temenos replied. “A text should invite conversation. Otherwise, it’s just ink.”
Crick swallowed, nodded once, and set the book carefully aside, as though it might bruise if handled too roughly. He took a breath and reached for the next package.
This one was lighter. Awkwardly shaped. He peeled back the paper—and then stopped. He couldn’t quite smother the excited squeak that left his mouth.
It was unmistakably a toy horse.
Not an ornament or a keepsake meant for a shelf, but the kind meant to be pulled along the floor: a finely carved wooden horse with an elegantly curved neck, its body mounted on four small wheels. The paint was slightly worn at the edges, the sort of touch that showed it was handmade.
Crick sniffled before he could stop himself. “I had this exact kind when I was little,” he said, his voice watery. “Well—not this one. But… pretty similar.” Crick remembered pulling it around when he was a toddler, the wheels clattering loudly behind him. It was his favorite.
(Or, it had been his favorite, until his parents had sold it for a little extra gambling money).
Temenos smiled, gentle. “That was the idea, dear. I had Agnea purchase it and bring it to me when I met with her in New Delsta last month.”
“Last month? From Agnea?” he exclaimed, incredulously. “You went through all the trouble, just to get me a toy?”
“Of course, Crick.”
Crick swallowed. His hands tightened around the little horse protectively, though no one was going to take it from him this time. “You... didn’t have to do that,” he murmured, though the protest rang hollow even to his own ears.
Temenos hummed, folding his hands together. “Perhaps not. But I wanted to.” His gaze lingered, perceptive as ever. “And I know how much you love horses. You deserve something that makes you happy—unconventional though it may be.”
Crick let out a soft, breathless laugh. “Unconventional,” he echoed, glancing down at the toy. The corners of his mouth trembled. “That’s one word for it.”
He ran his thumb along the horse’s mane, careful, reverent. No one had ever paid this much attention before—not to his likes, not to the small, childish joys he’d learned to tuck away and forget after being scolded for them. It made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t quite name.
“Thank you, Temenos.” The words were simple, but Crick hoped he could hear the thousand I love yous he couldn’t quite say.
Temenos smiled, warm and quiet. “You’re welcome, my little knight.”
All of Temenos’s attention was starting to make him feel a little too overwhelmed. And... he really wanted to make Temenos feel as happy as he was with his own gifts. “N-Now it’s your turn!” he rushed out.
“Alright,” Temenos hummed easily through a laugh, reaching for the first present on his stack.
Temenos approached presents the same way he approached food—slowly and meticulously—almost like he was trying to guess what was in it before it was even open. He tilted it this way and that, testing the weight of it in his hands.
Once he had scrutinized it enough, Temenos began unwrapping the colorful paper, placing it in a neat pile beside him. He smiled when he saw what was inside: a small box of oil paints complete with brushes and a few small canvases to start.
“…So you heard my conversation with one of the sisters the other day, then,” Temenos said with a knowing smirk.
Crick blushed, shoulders scrunching sheepishly. He hoped Temenos wouldn’t remember that. “Well, I was coming to see you at the chapel, and I just happened to overhear you talking. I thought… you sounded interested when she suggested you try oil paints since your paper plays are so beautiful…”
Temenos laughed, kissing Crick’s cheek. “No worries, dear. I don’t mind a bit of eavesdropping to gather information, after all. Thank you—I’m looking forward to painting something for you.”
Crick was certainly looking forward to it as well. Though Temenos wouldn’t admit it, he was becoming quite the artist. And anyway, it was nice for Temenos to have a hobby that kept him from hunching at his desk all day, pouring over case files and tracking down heretics. (This was a hobby he could do at home, right next to Crick).
Temenos placed the paints aside and reached for his second present. It seemed rather lumpy looking beneath the paper, and Crick could tell by the faint pause in Temenos’s hands that he knew exactly what it was the moment he lifted it.
Beneath the paper was a red quilted blanket, big enough to fit them both beneath it. Crick had picked it up the last time he’d gone up to Stormhail because of how often Temenos complained of the cold. Ort had teased him mercilessly for it, despite also having bought a gift for Inquisitor Roi that same morning.
While lost in his thought, he suddenly felt Temenos wrap the blanket around both their shoulders, pulling them together.
“Now I’m even warmer,” Temenos murmured. “But I still prefer your warmth above all else, lamb.”
Crick almost wanted to fall asleep there, holding Temenos close as they basked in the warmth of each other and their fireplace. It cast an almost ethereal glow on Temenos’s face, illuminating the softness of his lips against his sharper features. It was very tempting.
…But he couldn’t get comfortable yet. He still had a final present to give.
“Temenos, I need to get up for a moment,” he said, apologetically shrugging off the blanket. Temenos pouted at the loss of warmth, making Crick almost regret moving in the first place. Hopefully Temenos would forgive him when he opened his gift.
Crick quickly retrieved the secret gift from beneath their bed (though he was sure Temenos already knew about that hiding spot as well), returning to Temenos’s side.
“A secret present? Goodness, you know how to keep me entertained,” Temenos said with a chuckle, accepting the box from Crick’s hands.
“Yes, well… I hope you like it,” Crick muttered, fidgeting with the edge of the blanket.
Crick watched nervously as he unwrapped it, unsure of how Temenos would receive something like this. He was just starting to think it may have been a bad idea when Temenos pulled them from the box—two pairs of matching blue silk pajamas.
“Oh, these are lovely. But why are there—?” Their eyes locked, understanding immediately brightening those clever eyes. Temenos broke out into a grin.
“Matching pajamas,” he said. “How adorably domestic of you.”
Crick’s ears turned pink. “You like them?”
“I adore them,” Temenos corrected, already tugging his shirt off. “Come. Change. It’s tradition now.”
They returned a few minutes later, both in soft silk and socked feet.
Temenos swiftly picked up the red quilt from the floor before getting comfortable on the sofa, gesturing impatiently for Crick to join him beneath the warm fabric. Crick snuffed out the eight candles dedicated to the gods on the fireplace, in case they became too comfortable and forgot about them.
Finally, Crick allowed himself to completely relax, joining Temenos on the sofa and wrapping an arm around him. It reminded him how small the cleric was, yet he knew a quiet strength lay beneath. Still, it was no wonder Temenos was cold without him there to keep him warm.
“…This is nice,” Temenos whispered after a while. “Not that I mind everyone else being around, but… I quite like being able to spend time alone together.”
He kissed Temenos’s cheek, a smile pulling at his lips. “…I agree. Though the chaos of everyone being here can also be fun.”
Suddenly, Temenos shifted in his arms. Crick realized a little too late what Temenos was doing, as Temenos proceeded to straddle him. His face flushed hot, and he was sure he looked like a tomato.
“Relax, Crick!” Temenos said through a laugh, “I’m just getting more comfortable and… enjoying the perks of us being alone, I suppose.” Temenos pulled the blanket to his shoulders before wrapping his arms around Crick’s neck and settling against him.
He knew the real truth: Temenos loved flustering him, as he had been doing all day. It was no secret he enjoyed seeing Crick come undone because of him, and being alone only gave him more opportunities to do so.
Emboldened, Crick wrapped his arms around Temenos’s waist, pulling him closer. He felt Temenos’s skin heat up against him, even through the silky layers of their pajamas. He realized with a grin that he had managed to shock Temenos (Score for Crick!).
“W-well, that certainly warmed me up,” Temenos quipped. “Bravo, little lamb.”
Once Temenos recovered, he leaned forward until their foreheads touched. Crick was content like this—gazing at Temenos, his world, given to him by the grace of the gods. He couldn’t help but pepper his face with kisses, Temenos giggling all the while.
Eventually, Crick was drawn to his lips, exchanging slow, tender kisses. Every time they emerged for air, they found themselves impossibly drawn to each other again, like moths to a flame. Kissing Temenos felt like coming home to something comforting and complete, unlike anything he ever experienced before in his life. Temenos would lightly scold him for being so melodramatic about it if he voiced the thought aloud, but it didn’t make it any less true.
He wondered hazily if perhaps Ort found himself in a similar situation in Stormhail, his relationship with Inquisitor Roi already catching sparks every time they saw each other. His thoughts didn’t wander long, drawn back to Temenos as they often were.
Though the fire was almost out, Crick found that he was still pleasantly warm, lost in Temenos’s touch. He suddenly was very grateful not to have the other travelers around, as much as he adored them, so they could share this romantic evening.
He hoped Temenos felt the same.
Before long, Temenos drifted off, nestled in the hollow between Crick’s neck and shoulder. Crick was surprised he hadn’t fallen asleep sooner, after their tiring adventures that morning. He pressed a soft kiss just behind Temenos’s ear, lingering there as he admired the pretty pale lashes fluttering against his cheeks. He was happy to see him rest.
As much as Crick wanted to stay on the sofa, he knew the position they were in would leave them both sore by morning. As gently as he could, Crick eased the blanket away and lifted Temenos off his chest. Then, he swept him into a bridal carry—one that surely would have had Temenos teasing him—and carried him down the hall.
He set Temenos gently onto the bed and slid in beside him, drawing the blankets up around them. Once more, he wrapped his arms around Temenos, resolute in his mission to keep him warm through the night.
“...Was it a good Aelfric’s Day?” Temenos breathed sleepily against his chest. Crick blinked, surprised; he hadn’t realized Temenos was still half-awake.
He smiled warmly, though Temenos couldn’t see it, but he was sure that Temenos could feel how his heart beat in response.
“It was perfect, Temenos,” he said softly. “Thank you for sharing your traditions with me.”
Temenos’s answering grin pressed against him. “Good. Thank you for sharing yours as well. Though if you want another tree next year,” he added faintly, “I’d suggest asking for it a bit earlier.”
Crick chuckled, kissing the top of Temenos’s head through a cloud of white hair. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Temenos burrowed further into his chest, muttering one last “Cozy lamb,” before his breathing evened out once more.
Warm and content at last, Crick drifted off to sleep with a quiet prayer in his heart for many more perfect Aelfric’s Days just like this one—days shaped by the traditions they had made together. Traditions built gently and deliberately with the person he loved most, whose warmth and care had slowly filled the hollow spaces of his heart, just as their hands had filled the empty floor beneath the tree with ribbons, paper, and love.