Archive of Our Own ^beta

Whenever Temenos had business in a town, he always requested a separate inn room to collect his thoughts. He thought this sensible, a way to prevent himself from irrational thought. It also gave him space to think without interruption, a few hours alone at night to sort through plans, anticipate problems, and make decisions clearly without his companions intervening.

Apparently, the sentiment was not shared; he was the only one of his companions that preferred this. Even Osvald sought company at times when his mind wandered to its darkest places.

Now, he wished more than ever that someone else was with him on this horrible, frigid night in Stormhail.

He could tell a snowstorm was brewing from the howling of the wind outside. It was akin to wailing, as if something was bereft with a great sorrow unmoored by rational thought. Perhaps the ancient beast Ochette was searching for was awake, mourning for something lost.

Not unlike himself—Roi and the Pontiff were constantly on his mind as of late. Though, if he were to be honest with himself, they were always on his mind with every breath he took. Sorrow was woven into his skin, into his very soul.

With a sigh, Temenos snuffed out the lamps and pulled up his blankets. Rolling over and squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to clear his mind and sleep, to peacefully drift off and hopefully wake up well rested. It is a useless endeavor—yet he tries, nevertheless.

It was not unusual for Temenos to struggle with falling asleep; years of twisted visages imagining what befell Roi and now the Pontiff’s (his Father’s) mangled corpse plagued him nightly. He knew he shouldn’t think of such things, but he had a nasty habit of getting into his head when he was alone. The quiet of a separate room only amplified the memories, giving them space to intrude, and Temenos had long accepted that solitude often came with this price: a restless mind, turning over shadows that would not let him rest.

Tonight was… different, however. His thoughts were plagued by something else.

Those who visited Stormhail first observed the ethereal beauty of the sparkling snow, gently falling upon those in its presence like tiny beads of light. It appears heavenly, like a blessing from the gods with each snowflake that fell upon chilled skin.

Through the twinkles of snow laid the Sacred Guard Headquarters, a large, imposing building that commanded power. It was the heart of the Sanctum Knights, a clear promise of protection to those in its sight.

It should be safe here.

But these observations are to untrained eyes, those without years of experience rending apart feeble lies built to guard and shade the wicked from the light of truth. Being the Inquisitor, Temenos knew better—he abhorred this cursed town, blanketing its secrets beneath layers of white. A pretty illusion, hiding its true sinfulness beneath.

If anything would be keeping him awake, it should be that—knowing such corruption was woven deep into the heart of an organization sworn to protect and shield the innocent, exploiting its holy image to hide the very evil he seeks to purge. Worse still, that same institution was monitoring his every move while he remained here.

But somehow… even this was wrong, too. There was something else. Someone else.

“Temenos…is there anything in which I can place my faith…?”

Ah, the truth of the matter.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t expel his exchange with Crick from his mind. Crick’s voice rang in his ears like the toll of a church bell, echoing even long after its chiming ceased. It was agonizing, as if to chastise him for holding his tongue. From saying what he could have said.

You can place your faith in me, little lamb. I will hold it and cherish it, nurture it for as long as I draw breath. I swear I will never take it for granted.

He felt… naïve. He wasn’t supposed to be sentimental and emotional, cracking at the seams over a simple conversation (it wasn’t simple in the slightest; Crick was so incredibly burdened and he knew what he could say and yet he sealed his lips—).

He had chosen the sensible answer instead: Crick must choose for himself where to place his faith. And of course, he meant it when he said few things were worthy of his faith—even more reason he should never place it in Temenos.

…Selfishly, despite knowing Crick’s faith should lie elsewhere… Temenos wanted to remain with him. He wanted to continue their investigation, to keep guiding Crick toward the truth until he was weightless in its light. That even if the organization he swore an oath to was wicked, that didn’t mean Crick couldn’t have faith in the precepts he sought to uphold. And if Crick found that Temenos was just as worthy of this faith, who was he to deny him?

But after everything, he was exhausted. The trip to Stormhail was arduous—he was forced to maintain a constant light spell, the top of his staff glowing as a beacon for his companions to see as they fought through the thick haze of snow and harsh, frigid winds.

What really exhausted him the most, however, was maintaining his unbothered façade. He had wasted no time after depositing his travel bag in the inn with his companions, immediately heading to the Sacred Guard Headquarters to interrogate Vados. He had no time to rest, the truth so close within his reach. His haste only made him sloppy, prone to those same irrational thoughts he so often had when in Crick’s presence.

It was always harder around Crick, to hold his thoughts within himself.

He had already wrestled with this before, confiding in Throné in a small corner of the Canalbrine tavern. He felt silly, like a small child whispering secrets. Throné must have agreed by the amused smile on her face.

Her amusement only seemed to grow when he presented his query.

“Seriously? That’s what you’re worried about?” she had said with a laugh. “You should just talk to Crick like a normal person. He’s honestly the last person you’d need to be guarded around, save maybe those three,” she remarked, gesturing towards a clearly inebriated Partitio who was stumbling through steps with Agnea while Ochette loudly whooped to cheer them on.

He remembers a short laugh escaped him at the sight (Partitio had been very drunk, and Agnea and Ochette looked like they had nary a care in the world). But he was still troubled. He assumed with her upbringing she would agree how much of a… liability it was to wear one’s heart on their sleeve. When necessary, he was even able to wear his mask of indifference around their companions.

What was it about Crick that made him come undone? To tug at one thread and slowly unravel everything down to Temenos’s very soul?

“In all seriousness Temenos, I think you should be honest with him,” she continued. “Maybe in the past I would have agreed with you, but now that we’re all together on this journey, I’ve been much happier when I’m honest with everyone. I never would’ve gotten this far without the rest of you, and you all deserve to know who I am. Even the… less than pretty parts. Maybe you just want Crick to see all of you, too.”

He can clearly recall the expression on her face in that moment, looking toward their companions with eyes gleaming and a content smile. She was being vulnerable with him.

When he first met her in New Delsta with Osvald in tow, she had been guarded, clearly wary of where she placed her trust. It was no wonder, after being fettered for so long. She had no reason to trust such strange men, quite the pair as they were.

Now, that same woman was baring her soul.

…A shame, really. Her words struck him, but perhaps not in the way she had intended. He could only think of how ridiculous it was to pursue that line of thought, as if Crick would still follow Temenos if he saw him at his worst. The notion was laughable, not when Crick saw him as the daunting, unshakeable Inquisitor. He couldn’t bear the thought of his Godsblade seeing who he was beneath the mask.

But instead of voicing this to her, Temenos quietly thanked her and muttered that he would consider her words.

She didn’t look like she believed him (he was prone to losing himself around her too), but she just shrugged and stood up from the wall next to him with a lazy stretch of her arms. She turned to look at him one more time with a smirk before confidently sashaying across the room toward Castti and promptly sitting down next to her. For added effect, she slung an arm around her, to which Castti happily leaned into her and offered her a sip of ale from her mug.

She was mocking him for his hesitance.

He turned over yet again to face the window, huffing at the memory. What a woman.

But the more he pondered it, she was right—he could not think of anyone more deserving of his honesty than Crick. His Godsblade, who looked valiant and strong and so striking against the glittering snow as he protected Temenos only hours ago. A man so wonderful and incredible that Temenos, even as Aelfric’s chosen, could never match in brilliance.

And maybe that was why he was so hesitant. To shield Crick from the darkness within himself.

In Stormhail, Crick chose a path for himself not once, but twice:

Chivalry over thievery. Doubt over blind faith.

He was a bright, burning flame, never to be extinguished. Who was Temenos to hold him back from everything he could be?

And yet, he could still feel the phantom sensation of Crick’s hand in his own, his awed expression as Temenos tenderly healed his cut. What a silly little lamb, to be amazed by a simple spell any cleric worth their salt could cast since they were small.

Temenos had wanted so badly to never let go, to stay with him even beyond that moment. But he couldn’t bring him to chain Crick so, and the moment passed.

Thinking back on it, Crick’s expression had… morphed into something strangely determined as he gazed at Temenos and gripped his hand tighter. Perhaps Crick had wanted him to stay, too.

What a mindless thought.

But Temenos let his mind continue to wander anyway, thinking of how handsome Crick looked in his armor and sword, glowing with pride. How he swore to protect him despite Temenos’s blatant irreverence and incessant teasing.

He hoped his little lamb was already tucked in his warm bed, thinking of him.

Another silly thought, but he smiled all the same.

Temenos finally fell asleep to the sound of the gusts outside growing in strength, yet he felt strangely warm in this land of unending snow.

“Good night, Temenos.”

·-〰☀〰-·

Even after parting with Temenos, Crick’s mind was still reeling from all he had learned.

Betrayal. Corruption. Doubt.

He needed something to hold fast to, something to keep him grounded and sane because gods, has his whole life been a lie?

Even after everything they learned, Temenos had remained a calm, steady anchor, unbothered by these revelations. Perhaps it was because he already knew of the corruption within the Church due to his mantle as the Inquisitor. Or maybe it was because…

“The Church has secrets. Extraordinary, terrible secrets.”

Those were the words Temenos said guided his life, pushing him to doggedly pursue the truth and distrust the Church. Inquisitor Roi’s final words before disappearing.

Before today, Crick would have vehemently rebuked that way of thinking. It was a horrible way to live, doubt and distrust woven into every breath. But Temenos had been right. Now, Crick’s world was shattered.

He thought back to when he had first stepped foot in Stormhail, only a few winters ago. He was determined to erase his jaded past and embrace the teachings of the Sacred Guard, ready to finally become the man he always wanted to be.

Though training was arduous and mentally taxing, Crick threw himself into it. It was all he could do, but he was eternally grateful to be set on the right path for the first time. He threw away everything for this.

He had hoped Inquisitor Roi would be proud of him the next time they crossed paths.

“A noble flame burns within you.”

Just like Temenos, his life was guided by the words of Inquisitor Roi.

But now, he was gone.

What did Inquisitor Roi really mean by his words? Was Crick even walking the right path?

…He honestly didn’t know anymore.

He said goodnight to Temenos what felt like moments ago, but now he wished more than ever he was with him. Despite his provocations and sometimes insufferable nature, being around him was a strange comfort. It made him forget how terrible the world could be, so enthralled by his presence as he was.

Instead, he stood frozen in the square alone. Only the sparkling snow falling gently around him served as his companion, as late as it had become. Lost among the expanse of white. But at least… thinking of Temenos warmed his heart. He had become his guiding light, something to hold fast to.

Gods, what was making him think like this? As if he would follow Temenos no matter how far he roamed. But Crick couldn’t deny that it was unequivocally the truth.

Even all the way back in Flamechurch, Crick had been grappling with these thoughts of the Inquisitor. He wanted to be something to Temenos.

His knight?

His protector?

His confidant?

Or perhaps… he wanted to be someone to him.

He wanted to be someone who could right all of the wrongs in his life, reminding him that each day need not be in pursuit of something beyond himself. That he could just take each day as it was, enjoying the hearty company of his companions rather than stewing in his roiling thoughts.

Because though Temenos would not admit it, Crick could see it—the pain and sorrow behind those deep green eyes as he resolved to illuminate every part of the truth until nothing was cast in shadow.

It was a heavy burden. Crick wanted to share the weight with this stubborn man who would never admit how difficult it was to continue his journey.

But how could he show Temenos his devotion? That he didn’t need to be guided always—he could guide Temenos in turn.

He stopped on his journey back to the barracks, frozen before he completely passed the Sacred Guard Headquarters. Because… if the Sacred Guard was hiding something, wouldn’t there be evidence somewhere inside? Some unseen place hidden behind the noble and holy illusion…

It was worth looking into. Crick could tell with how quickly his mind was racing that he would never fall asleep anyway. Resolved, he changed course and approached the doors he walked through almost every day.

He would step into the shadow so Temenos wouldn’t have to.

This was for himself, too—he needed to prove he could walk unguided, that he could carve a path on his own.

As night approached, darkness eclipsed the light. In its absence, the snow no longer glittered; it became a whisper of death as the cold creeped in and the winds howled.

A storm was brewing.

With a deep breath, Crick straightened his shoulders and placed a hand on the hilt of his sword at the ready. He entered the maw of the abyss, unsure of what he would find in the place that now seemed terrifyingly unfamiliar.

“You must take care of yourself, Crick. We charge headlong into danger.”

·-〰☀〰-·

Temenos awoke with a sharp gasp, wrenched awake by a sharp pain lancing through his upper back and stomach. He sat up quickly, gripping his blankets until his fingers turned white. The searing pain was leaving him breathless, choking for air.

His fingers scrabbled along his skin, searching for a wound, for any trace of blood. He found none. Still, he cast a small healing spell in his panic. The magic wrapped around him, warm—a fleeting comfort. When it found nothing to mend, it faded just as quickly as it had come.

As he fought to get his breathing under control, the pain finally ceased. He should have been relieved, but a heavy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. He had been awakened by nightmares before, but never like this. Never with such force or pain. And never… with such a sickening sense of dread.

Something was wrong.

Aelfric—for once, be clear with me or so help me—

In response, he felt an odd sensation from somewhere within him. Like a pull at his very being, tugging his soul.

Get up, it demanded. And so, he did.

His knees almost buckled beneath him as he staggered out of bed. Though the pain had vanished, his breaths remained ragged, his body still betraying him with a reaction he didn’t understand.

Something was wrong, slipping through his fingers. He was running out of time, but for what? The strange feeling was growing insistent, urging him forward, to move. But he needed to focus, to not rush into things even though the panic was almost paralyzing. He took a deep, shuddering breath, tightly closing his eyes to assess his situation.

What he heard was clear: the wind, whipping against the side of the inn. It was even worse than earlier, the storm raging on into the night. When he opened his eyes, a familiar flash of blue illuminated his robes on the bedside table. He understood—he would surely freeze if he did not change into something warmer.

With his first goal in mind, Temenos approached his bedside table with shaky, yet hurried steps.

His Inquisitor robes lay folded in a perfect square—a ritual honoring the man who had once adorned those same colors. Putting them on and taking them off was done with a special reverence not even his companions were allowed to see.

He cast aside his nightclothes and, for the first time, ripped through the neat fold of robes, dragging them on in a frantic rush.

After fastening the clasp of his cape, he made for the door. He was in such a hurry stumbling along that he almost left behind the Staff of Judgement. It felt like an afterthought, for once, to grab it in his haste.

A flash of blue appeared before him again, guiding his way. The path was clear.

When he practically slammed open the door of his room, he swore he heard Partitio yelp in the room next door. Shocking, since this was the same man who had once slept soundly through Ochette’s training with Tera. Temenos had remarked then that Partitio’s snoring must have been louder than the two of them combined. Now it was proof of his panic—his steps must have been thunderous to wake him.

He wanted to laugh to calm himself down, but his thoughts were in such disarray that he couldn’t manage it. The last time he panicked like this… was after Roi left. Days bled into weeks, then months, until the truth struck him with horrifying clarity—his brother was never coming back, no matter how desperately he prayed or pleaded with the gods.

It nearly broke him. That wound never healed; it would be a pain he carried forever. Something told him that if he didn’t act fast, this would be the night that finally pushed him over the edge.

The world suddenly and violently tilted, forcing him to lean against the door frame to steady himself. He couldn’t let his mind wander there, couldn’t imagine something terrible happening to someone he loved again. He just… couldn’t.

“Something wrong, Detective?”

Temenos flinched; he hadn’t even heard her come up the stairs. That teasing lilt he had become oh so familiar with—Throné. When he looked up at her though, the smile vanished, her expression suddenly twisting with worry.

“Everything… everything is fine, I hope,” he croaked, cringing at the sound of his own voice.

One of her eyebrows quirked at that. “Clearly, it’s not fine, Temenos. Let me help you back in your room and I’ll get Cas—”

Vision blurring around the edges, he tightly gripped her arm before she could lead him back inside. She stopped short, looking even more concerned than before.  

“I… have to check something. I cannot rest until I do,” he rasped, releasing her arm as he staggered toward the stairs. He would apologize later; he needed desperately to follow this strange pull. It demanded action. Whatever he needed to do, it certainly wasn’t here.

Irritatingly, she grabbed him before he could make it to the first step. “Temenos, I can’t just let you go out there by yourself. You’re clearly not well.”

He turned to glare at her for stopping him but immediately softened. Throné always had that effect—he could never stay angry with her, not when kindness radiated so effortlessly from her. Still, he hoped his expression carried enough weight to show he had to go, that he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

She seemed to understand. “Tell me what you need me to do,” she said, blessedly releasing his arm.

Though he told her only to warn Castti, should something truly be amiss, he still found himself leaning on Throné as they moved toward the inn’s door, Osvald and Ochette following close behind.

Apparently, once Throné explained that Temenos needed to check on something, everyone sprang from their beds, ready to come to his aid. He hadn’t expected such swift concern, but the sight filled him with gratitude. And though he longed to pretend he could stand on his own, the truth was undeniable—he still felt extremely ill. He needed them all, in equal measure.

Throné pushed open the inn door with some difficulty—the wind was strong against their faces, and it probably didn’t help that he was clutching her arm so tight. He felt like a hindrance trembling from panic and the cold, having to press closer to Throné’s side. His focus splintered between the violent shiver in his body and the faint glow of the flame guiding him. She turned to him with a pinched frown but continued their trek through the storm.

“What is it, dear Throné? Are you perhaps not used to someone being so close to you without emptying your pockets?” He had meant it as a joke, to bring some semblance of normalcy, but Throné looked unimpressed.

“Your voice is shaking and you’re extremely pale, Temenos. I’ve never seen you like this, so forgive me for being worried,” she huffed in annoyance. Nevertheless, she pulled Temenos closer to her side, her other hand hovering near the dagger on her thigh protectively.

Ochette shivered, huddling closer to Osvald despite the abundant furs she wore to keep warm. Temenos felt awful that she could not even bring Mahina with her due to the strong winds, but she remained steadfast anyway.

“Gosh, maybe I should’ve gone to see Glacis yesterday… I don’t know about this kind of stuff, but she seems pretty upset with how bad the wind’s blowing. Maybe that’s how you got sick, Temmy!”

Dear girl. She’s always thinking of others despite her own discomfort in this climate completely unlike her own.

Osvald turned to her with a contemplative expression. “Can you not sense how Glacis is feeling through the winds?”

“Yeah, it’s kinda hard to smell when it’s windy!” she said with a nod. She still stuck her nose into the air to sniff anyway, suddenly perking up. “Oh, well I can sorta smell something metallic-y! It keeps getting lost in the wind though, so I can’t really tell where it’s coming from.”

Something… metallic? He hoped it wasn’t what he thought. He couldn’t stop to ponder that though—the pull continued, unceasing.

They pushed on through the heavy snowfall and harsh winds, taking care not to lose each other with the glow of Temenos’s staff. He was struggling to maintain it, but he could not lose any of them.

As they approached the Sacred Guard Headquarters, Throné stopped so abruptly Temenos almost fell over. Her eyes, sharp in the night, cut through the dark and snow to see what they could not. Her eyes widened in a way they rarely did, causing everyone to freeze. They all looked to her with bated breath.

“I—I think I see someone collapsed outside of the Sacred Guard Headquarters. They’re hurt. It’s… it’s one of the knights, Temenos.” She looked him straight in the eyes when she spoke, as if trying to convey her fears without speaking them aloud.

And for a moment, time stood still. Frozen, as if this was his last chance to pretend this feeling was simply delusion and they could all return to the inn without consequence.

How he wished that were true.

As they approached the Sacred Guard, the veil was lifted from his eyes, as the flame revealed the truth he could no longer deny. A faint metallic smell lingered in the air—the unmistakable scent of blood. And just as Throné had said, he could see a figure, a knight, slumped against the wall.

It was a new nightmare, worse than the last.

Something in him snapped.

Temenos barely processed Throné call out for him as he tore himself away from her because—

Because it couldn’t possibly be him, the man who was becoming everything to Temenos but now—

Now it was happening again until Temenos had no one left—

Left behind, he was going to be alone forever—

He needed to calm down, but there was so much blood and gods, what had he done to deserve this?

Temenos threw himself to the ground next to the body. Blood and snow soaked into his robes, simultaneously warm and cold. It felt vile and unnatural, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. There was… something more important he needed to do. Though he didn’t want to, he knew he must look at the man. He couldn’t deny it any longer.

Aelfric was never merciful to Temenos. This moment served to remind him of that.

His Godsblade, Crick, lay slumped against the wall of the Sacred Guard in a pool of his own blood, stark against the snow. His skin was deathly pale, so unlike the sun-kissed tan he had grown to adore in Canalbrine.

He clearly had many injuries, but worst of all was the gash ripping through his stomach, partially hidden under the bent metal of his armor. The armor that should have protected him.

Temenos tore off his cape and pushed it against the wound as best he could, as if he could hold Crick together himself.

This couldn’t be happening. He had grown so fond of Crick in a way he didn’t understand—but he wanted desperately to. To capture that feeling and hold it in his heart forever.

He needed him.

And so, he prayed with everything he had. Begging and pleading to the gods, just as he did for Roi (please just let it work, for once in his abysmal life—), to keep Crick tethered to the land of the living.

His companions quickly joined him. Osvald shrugged off his own coat to shield Crick from the bitter cold, though his thin inmate garb left him exposed to the biting winds. Ochette stood poised with her bow drawn, ready in case anyone drew near. Throné kept her hand on Temenos’s shoulder, steadying him.

Though it was likely only adrenaline keeping him going, he put everything into his healing, recasting Prayer for Plenty until his arms trembled from the strain. Gold streaked up his arms like a web—he was stretching his magic thin, arms becoming numb. He could feel fatigue setting in as well, but he could not stop until he knew Crick would make it.

“Temenos, you must be careful. You’re going to hurt yourself draining all your spirit,” Osvald remarked from the other side of Crick. He had taken to holding a flame as close as he could to Crick’s body for warmth, though it would only slow hypothermia from setting in (if it hadn’t already, he thought feverishly).

“I… I know, Osvald, but I must do this for him. I cannot let him die when I should have been—I should have been with him.” He choked out the end of his words, trying to keep himself from sobbing in front of his companions.

Osvald nodded in silent understanding and wordlessly allowed more flames to bloom in his hands. The light danced across Crick’s face, and for a moment, Temenos could almost pretend they were back in Canalbrine, standing on the dock beneath the sun. Crick’s face cast in golden hues.

A small comfort, but an illusion all the same.

Throné’s grip on his shoulder tightened, bringing him back to reality. “Temenos, we need to move Crick inside. Osvald can’t keep casting his magic, and neither can you. You’re clearly still ill, and you look like you might pass out. Just rest—Castti will take care of him.”

But he couldn’t listen, not when Crick was lying so still. He cursed himself—he hadn’t even checked for a pulse in his panic. He reached a hesitant hand to Crick’s neck, searching for the tiniest thrum of his heartbeat.

For a horrifying moment, Temenos believed he was dead. He was so cold, so lifeless. But as his touch lingered on Crick’s neck, he felt it—a steady hum of life. And then Crick’s head lolled ever so slightly. He opened his eyes, gazing at Temenos blearily through snow-covered lashes.

“Tem…enos?”

It was merely a whisper, but it was all he needed. He grabbed his staff from where it had fallen in the snow (when had he let go of it?) and poured everything he had into one final prayer, the Prayer for Profusion—a plea for Crick’s life.

He would’ve fallen over onto Crick from the strain if not for Throné, who caught him and his staff with a sigh as if she expected it. He slumped back into her arms, completely and utterly spent.

“Professor, can you handle Crick? Ochette and I can handle Temenos.”

Temenos heard a gruff hum of acknowledgment and watched Osvald ease Crick into his arms. Temenos’s cape remained pressed against the wound, already soaked through with blood. Even Osvald’s coat, wrapped around Crick for warmth, was beginning to stain red.

Crick groaned as his injuries shifted. From this angle, Temenos saw why—Osvald had been mindful of the gash across his stomach, but another wound marred his upper back, just as severe. Osvald adjusted his hold with care, trying to lessen the pain, though there was little he could do. (He blearily remembered Castti’s warning to him as well: never move an injured patient unless you absolutely must. This was definitely one of those times).

Though Osvald appeared calm, he carried Crick off to the inn with purpose—he knew it was a race against time with such wounds. Crick’s breathing was labored, but Temenos was grateful for any shred of proof that his little lamb was fighting for his life even as he was taken from him.

And then, a whimper. A truly awful sound, made by a girl who should’ve never seen such a tragedy. It was Ochette, trying to hold back her tears. Even Throné seemed shaken, despite death pervading her life ever since she was young.

Still, Throné hauled him upright, one hand bracing his arm over her shoulder, the other gripping his staff. Ochette took his other arm, strong despite her heaving breaths. One step at a time, they began their slow trek back to the inn, Throné and Ochette supporting him all the way.

Oh, the irony. Earlier, he had been struggling to fall asleep; now, he was fighting to remain conscious. If he were to wake and find that Crick had died while he slept he—

He didn’t know what he would do.

But there was so much blood, and Temenos couldn’t even assess his numerous other injuries. His nose had been bleeding, there were cuts to his face and arms, and if the hypothermia hadn’t gotten to him already—

Suddenly, a voice cut through his thoughts.

“Temmy… I can smell how tired and scared you are,” Ochette whispered through a sniffle, “Néné and I are gonna get you back safe… so you can take a nap now! You don’t wanna be sleepy when Cricket wakes up!”

When Crick wakes up. So hopeful, despite what she had seen. No wonder Osvald often chose to hover near Ochette after the hardest parts of his journey. He wished desperately that she was right.

“I think Temenos needs more than a nap, Ochette,” Throné chuckled. “But the sentiment is the same—you should rest, Detective. Castti will make sure your pretty boy is there when you wake up.”

Under normal circumstances, he would have scolded her for saying such a thing (His pretty boy? What is that even supposed to mean—), but he couldn’t think up a witty response. His normally sharp tongue was completely dulled by his fatigue. Instead, he gave her a weak, disapproving glare.

Throné smiled in response. “Heh, there’s the Temenos I know. But seriously, get some sleep. We’ll take care of things from here.”

And so, despite his unwillingness, Temenos surrendered to the pull of darkness.

He could only hope that for once, Aelfric would take pity on his wretched soul and save the man who meant the world to him.

·-〰☀〰-·

Everything happened so fast—there was no going back from the very moment Crick had stepped beyond the reach of the light.

The initial pride at finding the mysterious library beneath the Sacred Guard was replaced by fear. It had started with an ambush by Deputy Cubaryi; they traded blows endlessly, and Crick struggled desperately to get away from her.

She clearly expected him to be an easy kill, striking hard and fast. He felt like she was toying with him, dragging out the fight like he was prey and she the predator.

Crick’s breath caught as Cubaryi’s blade whistled past his ear, close enough to shear a strand of hair.

Too fast—she’s too fast!

He stumbled back, boots scraping stone, raising his sword just in time to catch her next strike. The impact rattled his arms, pain shooting up to his shoulders.

“Pathetic,” Cubaryi spat, her voice sharp as steel. “You think you can run from me?”

Don’t answer. Don’t waste breath. Focus.

Crick forced his trembling arms to steady, readying to deflect her next strike while recalling Hikari’s words: Study your opponent, predict their movement, and defend.

Cubaryi lunged again, reckless and confident. This time, Crick twisted his blade at the last second—her strike glanced off, sparks flying. She faltered, eyes widening.

“You—!”

She didn’t expect that. Move. Now.

Crick took the opportunity to bolt further into the cavern, frantically searching for a place to hide before she recovered. He hurriedly scrambled behind a pillar, hoping the shadows would shelter him. His armor pressed back against the cold stone, chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. His hand clutched the hilt of his sword so tightly his knuckles ached.

Crick was suddenly very grateful that he had learned much from Temenos and his companions, especially Hikari. The two had only ever sparred once, back in Canalbrine, as they awaited the day Crick had to leave. The prince taught him a very important lesson that day.

“You are extremely skilled with your sword, Crick,” Hikari had said with a bright smile, wiping sweat from his brow. He was shocked to hear Hikari’s praise; he had already been knocked to the ground numerous times.

His skeptical look must have caught Hikari’s attention as he reached out a hand to help Crick up. “I know you may not feel that way, my friend, but I can tell by your stance and strikes you have trained immensely. I can also tell by your spirit and drive that you do indeed wish to protect others. It’s just…” Hikari’s face suddenly shifted into something more serious, looking at Crick with an intense gaze.

“…Were you perhaps never trained how to protect yourself? Temenos said back in Flamechurch you shielded him with your body, but you seem to struggle when it comes to protecting yourself. I am surprised the Sacred Guard didn’t teach you.”

Crick had initially brushed it off, saying he just preferred to focus on protecting others. But the more he thought about it, it was strange. He was told to focus on protection above all else, even at the price of his life. He didn’t remember ever being trained to protect himself as well.

Maybe this was why—to easily silence knights who tread too far.

 If he could just hang on a bit longer—

Cubaryi’s boots scraped across the chamber floor. She prowled like a predator, blade dragging against the stone with an awful shriek. “Just give up, Wellsley!” she snarled. “You’re going to die here no matter what!”  

She had called Temenos a hound before. It certainly seemed like that moniker fit her as well.

As she passed by him, he held his breath with a hand over his heart as if he could quiet its rapid beating, his other hand gripping the hilt of his sword even tighter. When she couldn’t find him, she growled in frustration and headed deeper into the hidden library.

Crick breathed a brief sigh of relief… but his troubles weren’t over yet. After all, he had a decision to make; one that would decide his fate.

Should I stay here? Should I try to leave?

He was tired, wishing desperately he could just curl in on himself and rest behind the pillar. His whole body ached, too—she hadn’t struck him anywhere deadly, thank Brand, but it certainly hurt. He didn’t want to move, afraid of the unknown that awaited him. He didn’t know if he could take another fight in his exhaustion.

But he had to get back to Temenos no matter what. The page in the pouch on his side could break the whole case wide open, and he knew Temenos had been waiting so long to get to this point.

There was only one choice.

Cubaryi’s footsteps receded, echoing farther and farther away. Silence followed.

Steeling himself, Crick dared a glance around the pillar; it was empty. This was his chance.

As quietly as he could manage, he crept back towards the entrance with the hope that he could escape unnoticed. Or that he could at least find a better place to hide until… until something happened. Hopefully it would be one of the other knights finding him, or maybe even Temenos coming after him—chastising him for being so foolish and impatient.

It wasn’t long until something did happen.

Before he could proceed any further, a figure appeared in front of him, cloaked in black. They stood looking down at him from the stairs in front of him, as if he were merely a speck of dust in their gaze. He quickly righted himself and straightened his shoulders despite his fear. He had to look intimidating, lest they think him an easy target.

But… he had an inkling this person already knew him, even waiting for him to come this way. Perhaps they were, and Crick’s fate was inevitable from the start. No wonder Cubaryi had let him go so easily.

His fear turned into sheer terror when the figure revealed herself to be Captain Kaldena. She shook her head slowly as she looked down at him. It felt almost regretful, like she was disappointed in a student who had failed his final lesson.

“Wellsley. I had hoped I wouldn’t find you down here.”

Crick clenched his jaw. She said his name with the same steady authority she always had, and suddenly he felt like a frightened new recruit again.

“That you would’ve realized what the Inquisitor was tampering with,” Kaldena continued, her voice firming, “and turned back while you still could.”

He wanted to argue. To tell her that Temenos had taught him to face the truth, not flee from it. That now that he had something, someone, to believe in, he would never stop fighting for it. But the words caught in his throat, smothered by fear and the weight of her presence.

Her gaze swept over him, cold and assessing, lingering on the injuries Cubaryi had caused and the tremor in his stance. Injured and exhausted, he would have to fight for his life against the very woman who swore him into the Sacred Guard. He admired her, barely able to land a strike against her during training. It was comforting, knowing such a powerful woman was his Captain.

Now, it was a death sentence.

His mind was racing, weighing his options: fight or flee. Even if he wanted to run, he was frozen with terror. Knowing the woman’s abilities, he would be caught instantly if he tried anyway. He had no choice but to fight.

Kaldena’s expression twisted suddenly into a sneer. “Nothing to say?” she asked. “Not even to call upon the so-called benevolent gods you adore so much?”

Crick wasn’t sure what Kaldena had against the gods, but the dark look in her eyes spoke of someone who had long since given up on them. There was no time to speculate.

“No matter,” she said with a sigh. “They won’t hear you anyway.”

She assumed her fighting stance, and an almost otherworldly power pulsed through her sword. Darkness swirled around it in wisps, almost as if it was alive. She smirked at him, a wicked glint in her eye. Whatever faith she had once possessed, she had traded it for something far more dangerous.

And now, she meant to use it on him. She clearly expected this to be quick.

Crick tightened his grip on his sword, body aching as he forced himself upright. Even if he were to fall here, he couldn’t make it easy—he was going to give it everything he had.

When she advanced on him, it was even more crushing than the Deputy. He almost missed her first strike trying to raise his sword.  She came at him with quick and fierce strikes, causing his arms to tremble whenever he could block a blow. Her raw strength was even worse than Cubaryi’s. Again and again, she came at him with reckless abandon.

He couldn’t help but feel a hint of pride, holding his own with the new skills Hikari taught him. It was getting harder to keep up with her, but his resolve would not waver.

He would have had a better chance if it weren’t for the inky black tendrils emerging from her sword, piercing the air beside him as he quickly dodged. He had landed a few hits, but not enough to stop her. In fact, it almost seemed like the longer they fought, the more powerful the darkness became. As if it were feeding on his fear.

Kaldena laughed, a deranged smile crossing her face like she was enjoying herself. The darkness moved as though it were a part of her, starving to consume until there was nothing left. She welcomed it like a loving embrace.

He threw himself out of the way as yet another tendril whipped past his head. He righted himself, grip tightening on the hilt of his sword as he prepared for her next attack.

Before she could advance again, Kaldena suddenly doubled over in pain. Crick could easily see why. The tendrils enclosed her in their darkness, no longer part of her but threatening to destroy her. She flailed, desperately trying to break free of its control.

Crick was horrified, completely paralyzed with fear he watched her fight against the unholy power.

“Ngh…  no, I…you’re supposed to obey me! I… I can control it!” she gritted out, clawing at her chest.

Normally, Crick may have felt pity for his struggling Captain. Now, he realized Aelfric had gifted him an opportunity—he’d be a fool to take it for granted.

He quickly sheathed his sword before running past her with everything he had. Adrenaline rushed through him, pushing him forward.

He practically threw himself up the many staircases, heart pounding as his boots thudded against the stone as he ran. The wounds he suffered didn’t hurt so much anymore, dulled to a sting.

He was going to do it. He was going to make it back to Temenos. With a harrowing tale, but with the breath to actually tell it.

He could see Temenos’s green eyes so clearly in his mind, alight with relief and exasperation as he was patched up, blessedly safe in his company. Hopefully he wouldn’t be too mad. He’d tap him on the nose like a child to chastise him, calling him a reckless little lamb. Before, he would’ve been upset by the patronizing action—now, he yearned for it.

He was so close, if he could just keep running—

A sharp, burning pain shot through his leg. He cried out as his leg gave out from under him, the ground quickly rushing to meet him. He slammed down painfully on his hip before he could fully catch himself. Something clattered a bit away from him, and he realized in a panic that his sword had come free of his sheathe when he fell.

He had to get up and grab it or else Kaldena would surely—

Before he could, darkness overtook his vision. He was completely and utterly defenseless.

Frantic, he struggled to his knees despite the pain. He grasped around in the darkness to find his weapon, holding on to hope that he could still find it even without sight. He wasn’t done fighting yet, if he could just…

He still had a chance. He could still get back to—

...to—

Huh…?

His thoughts stuttered, like a skipped heartbeat.

Something was wrong.

Crick looked down.

At first, he didn’t understand what he was seeing. A blade—no, Kaldena’s blade—jutted from his stomach, dark metal glistening wetly in the dim light.

For a moment, it didn’t hurt.

And then the pain enveloped him.

Her sword had torn through his upper back and downwards through his stomach. Straight through his armor—rendered useless from the sheer force of the strike. A burning sensation radiated out from his wounds, intensifying the pain.

He heard Kaldena’s cruel laughter from behind him as he felt her heel against his back.  Without warning, the sword twisted before she mercilessly ripped it free. He screamed then, unable to stop himself. She only removed her heel once he was pinned to the ground, completely helpless against her.

His whole body shook violently from the pain, tears escaping the corners of his eyes. It hurt so much, but her forced himself up on his forearms so he wouldn’t be against the cold, unforgiving stone.

Two pairs of armored boots entered his vision, slowly as if they were taking their time. When Crick looked up, Kaldena and Cubaryi were standing above him. Kaldena regarded him with a pitying gaze, her sword soaked in his blood. It still glinted with that wicked power, now fully under her control to aid her in finishing him off.

“It’s a shame, Wellsley. You were a good man. You gave me more trouble than I thought you would. I’d have taken you under my wing if only you had chosen the right side,” Kaldena said, a hint of pride in her tone. She turned away suddenly, as if bored. “Unfortunately, you had to die here. A shame. I’ll say goodbye to the Inquisitor for you.”

With those final, cruel words, she nodded to Cubaryi. He could see Cubaryi’s smirk even as she retreated back into the bowels of the headquarters.

They had left him to die on the cold ground, alone. The women who trained him with blood and sweat, who taught him how to serve the people. They didn’t even look back… and they didn’t need to.

He was going to die—his wound guaranteed that. He didn’t need to be an apothecary of a cleric to know that much.

He had been so close. But ultimately… he failed. And now he was going to pay the price.

Crick whimpered, the pain worsening as the adrenaline fully wore off. His eyes flooded with tears, blurring his vision. He had nowhere to go; he was going to lie in a pool of his own blood until his heart gave everything it could.

It would be simpler to remain there, keeping his wounds from pulling from movement. But he was never one to just give up, even if his body begged him to. To just die quietly without fighting. He still had a shred of hope, after all—the torn scrap in his pouch, the clue for Temenos. He couldn’t risk Kaldena or Cubaryi disposing of his body before Temenos could see it.

It would be his last act of defiance.

His whole body tensed as he began crawling toward the exit. The blood beneath him smeared against the stone, leaving behind a horrific trail of red. His arms and legs slipped in it, strangely warm against the cold stone.

His strength was slowly leaving him as he went, draining from him as steadily as his blood. Everything still burned fiercely, like a parasite eating away at his skin. But he kept on, desperate to reach his charge.

Once he reached the bottom of the stairs, he pulled himself up against the wall. A cry tore from his throat as his injuries pulled again. Putting weight on his leg only worsened the pain—he must have broken his hip when he fell. Gritting his teeth, he limped forward, the wall acting as a support as he slowly made his way up the stairs.

By the time he reached the door, his vision swam with dark spots. He shoved it open and stumbled into the lobby of the Sacred Guard Headquarters. He wanted to call out for help—for anyone—but fear tightened his chest. If Kaldena or Cubaryi realized he yet lived, they would come to finish the job. He couldn’t risk it.

The pain compounded with every step, but stopping was not an option. The exit loomed ahead, impossibly distant, almost mocking him as he dragged himself toward it. One hand pressed against his stomach, as if sheer will might hold him together. His knees buckled more than once, but he forced himself onward until he reached the door. Bracing his shoulder against it, he pushed with all the strength he had left.

He thought the crisp air of Stormhail would be a comfort from the fiery hell he just endured—

He was wrong.

The wind whipped around him, relentlessly buffeting him with snow. His tears froze against his cheeks, even as more threatened to fall. It was so cold, more unforgiving than he remembered it being.

He trudged down the steps, his mind becoming foggier by the minute. The pain began to dull, and he couldn’t tell whether that was a blessing or a warning. He had to stay focused. If he could just reach the inn, then Temenos—

Temenos—

It wasn’t meant to be.

As he leaned against the headquarter’s surrounding wall for support, his legs finally gave out, and he collapsed like a newborn lamb with a broken cry. He tried to pull himself up again, clawing weakly at the ground, but he just couldn’t. His body had finally given up on him.

He slumped against the wall, breath shallow and uneven. The cold surrounded him, almost strangely gentle now, spreading through his limbs like a heavy blanket. He understood immediately—this was where he was to die.

A sob escaped him as he weakly pressed trembling hands against the wound in his stomach. It was useless, but he always was stubborn.

Had he made it far enough? Would someone find him here and carry his final scrap of hope to the Inquisitor? Or had all of this—every agonizing step, every breath marked by pain—been for nothing? Had he damned his last moments to suffering for a reunion that would never come?

He had wanted… wanted so desperately to see Temenos again. To go on another journey with him, this time swearing himself fully to the man who changed his life. He wanted to take his hands in his own again, reassuring him that he could trust Crick with all his pain and worries and doubt.

Now, he would never see him again.

Crick was going to die here, alone.

The thought shattered what little strength remained. Tears spilled freely, mingling with the blood pooling beneath him. Together they stained the snow, violent red against pristine white.

As he lay there, growing colder and weaker by the moment, his thoughts began to drift. Before they slipped away entirely, he offered one final prayer to the gods.

I’m sorry I couldn’t… protect Temenos for longer… If I am never to see him again in this life, please… protect him and his companions in my stead.

And may he be happy… always.

Crick allowed himself to surrender to the darkness, tiny snowflakes falling quietly on his cheeks.

·-〰☀〰-·

Stepping into the frigid winds of Stormhail was a breath of fresh air, the shock of the cold enough to rouse everyone from their exhaustion for the time being. As he haggardly staggered down the steps of the Sacred Guard Headquarters, Ochette, Osvald, and Throné following close behind. His mind was still racing, losing himself in thought.

They were running on little sleep, but Temenos was faring the worst after spending all of his spirit on healing. Osvald mentioned he was surprised Temenos had woken up so quickly after his magic exhaustion in the first place.

He knew the reason—there was no way he could sleep peacefully while Crick was in such a state. He wanted to remain by his side but… he had only taken one glance at the sight of Castti’s deft and practiced hands tending to Crick’s wounds (those horrid wounds) before he couldn’t bear it any longer, needing to do something lest he allow himself to spiral at the sight.

After shoving a plum down his throat, he headed back into the storm, back to the wretched nest of the crows, to search for the one who dared lay a hand on Crick.

Within, they discovered the secret library of forbidden tomes, protected by Deputy Cubaryi herself. She had sneered at him, bragging about her role in Crick’s demise. When he couldn’t take her senseless drivel longer, he drew his staff and prepared to strike her down.

She didn’t make the fight easy. It was agonizing, requiring his constant vigilance lest his allies be poisoned or cut by her sharpened blade. There was hatred in her strikes, especially towards him, quick and deadly as her sword pierced the air.

But he trusted his companions to pull through.

And finally, she fell.

Temenos felt an almost sadistic pleasure as he stood over her, fully intending to cave in her skull for what she did to Crick. To silence her revolting crowing to satiate the burning fire within his breast that screamed for vengeance.

Before he could, Throné put a steady hand on his shoulder. Her eyes held such a deep intensity that it stopped him before he could even lift his staff. Almost as if she were giving him a warning of a line he should not cross.

When she finally lifted her hand, seemingly satisfied with his decision, he turned back to Cubaryi. She spat out her final words, then succumbed to her wounds—a worthless corpse at his feet. They had done enough.

He didn’t know what came over him in that moment. As the adrenaline wore off, the fire in his veins began to fade. Now he just felt… empty. He desperately wanted to return to a warm bed, sleeping for hours until he finally felt whole again. But another part of him never wanted to return to the inn, pretending that Crick was alive and well out of sight.

Returning would either give him hope or confirm his worst fears. Knowing the gods, it was likely to be the latter.

“In your head again, Detective?” drawled Throné, clearly tired but still attempting to adopt her usual teasing tone. To give him a sense of normalcy, he supposed.

“…Yes, Throné. You always seem to be the one pulling me out of my thoughts,” he responded, offering a tired smile that even he knew didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Though Ochette was leaning on Osvald with a tired frame, she still seemed rather chipper. “I’m so excited to get to know Cricket better!” she exclaimed. “I bet Ma will already have him fixed up!”

Osvald gave a short nod of confirmation, as if he believed her words wholeheartedly.

Needing to be ‘fixed up’ wasn’t even the half of it—Crick was mercilessly shredded through, blood pooling beneath him until he had none left. Even with his healing magic, he suspected Castti would have to perform a miracle to put him back together.

His fears frayed at his mind, slowly unraveling him. He wasn’t used to the feeling anymore, having trained himself as the unshakeable Inquisitor. It was the worst he had felt in years, and he could feel a headache forming behind his eyes along with a soreness in his throat.

When they finally arrived back at the inn, Partitio and Agnea were whispering back and forth in the lobby, worry written plain on their faces. Surprisingly, Hikari was seated on a chair close by, struggling to remain awake but present all the same. Even after his exhausting trials with Rai Mei, he still insisted on supporting his companions; he truly had a kind heart.

When Partitio and Agnea noticed their return, both tried to put on a happy face. But they were never good at hiding their emotions in all the time he had known them.

“How is Crick?” Temenos said, wasting no time with pleasantries.

Agnea’s hands immediately went to her skirts, fidgeting with the many ruffles as she was wont to do when she was nervous. “Well, Castti said she stabilized Crick for now. But she said she’d like you to heal him up some more if you’re able, Temenos.”

That was all he needed to hear. Despite his exhaustion, he pushed his way past his friends and up the stairs. He could feel their anxious gazes on his back, but he said nothing else. There was work to be done.

Yet, he hesitated outside the door to his room (which had effectively become Crick’s at this point). He could hear the quiet sounds of Castti at work, mortar and pestle grinding simple herbs into life-saving salves. Her movements were deliberate, resolute, the motions of someone who had already accepted she would not sleep tonight.

If she wanted him to heal Crick again… then it must be as terrible as he thought. Castti would never risk stretching his magic so thin—risking another collapse—unless there was no other choice. Agnea had said Crick was stable, but what if that had been a kindness rather than the truth?

What gnawed at Temenos most was the thought that if Crick did not open his eyes, he would pass on thinking that he had died alone. Yet another one of Temenos’s failures, just like Roi, just like the Pontiff—

The nausea hit him all at once, sharp and overwhelming, as though purging himself might rid him of the thought. He swallowed hard instead. He would not burden the others with this, too. Drawing in a steadying breath, he forced the bile down and shakily knocked on the door before he could change his mind.

Hurried footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. Castti stood there, visibly disheveled, strands of hair escaping her bun and exhaustion etched deep into her eyes.

“Temenos. I’m glad you’ve returned,” she said, opening the door and leading him inside. “I assume one of the others already told you what needs to be done?”

He nodded, quickly approaching the bed. “They did. Now tell me, how is—?”

He didn’t even need to finish the question. The sight before him was answer enough.

Crick lay heavily bandaged, his skin deathly pale. Each breath was ragged, eyes scrunched shut in pain even in his unconsciousness.

Temenos struggled to stop the sob that wrenched from his throat.

Castti put a gentle hand on his shoulder, encouraging him forward. “I’ve stabilized him, Temenos. Your healing already mended the worst of it. I only had to finish what you started and close up his wounds.”

The tension didn’t completely disappear from his shoulders, but her words were a comfort he desperately needed. He was sure Castti had severely undermined her hand in Crick’s current condition (the man was at death’s door only hours ago after all), but she was at least likely being partially honest—Crick was stable.

“I think a small amount—and I mean a small amount of healing, Temenos, will soothe his pain and ensure he makes it through the night. He lost a lot of blood… if you found him a moment later, then…”

She let the thought trail off. It didn’t need an ending.

With a deep breath, he extended his hands over Crick and cast a small healing spell. Normally, he would have gone against Castti’s words and used Prayer for Plenty at its fullest potential. But Castti, when provoked, was formidable—and tonight, he trusted her judgment more than his own.

Besides, he wanted to be conscious when Crick woke up.

Blessedly, the crease in Crick’s brow eased as the magic spread across his skin. He hummed sweetly in his sleep, further pressing into the pillows behind him, and some color had even begun to return to his cheeks. Castti smiled at the sight and pulled a chair up beside the bed, offering it to Temenos so he could rest.

“So,” he asked, nearly collapsing into it, exhaustion finally catching up with him, “how bad was it, Castti? And please—do not spare me the truth.”

She regarded him with clear hesitation, weighing whether the full truth would do more harm than good. In the end, she relented—no doubt realizing he would only lie awake stewing over it if she didn’t.

“The first wound was likely inflicted from behind,” Castti said gently, her expression shadowed with sorrow. “Judging by the angle, it tore through his back and continued downward into his abdomen. He was also on the brink of hypothermia.”

She paused, meeting Temenos’s eyes. “As I’ve told you—he is extraordinarily fortunate to be alive. What you did was nothing short of a miracle. Without it, he would not have survived.”

A chill raced through Temenos, sharp enough to make his stomach turn again. The image of Crick, lying alone amidst the snow and blood, life draining slowly, was forming in his head. If he hadn’t woken up, if he hadn’t felt that strange pull, if he hadn’t been blessed, then Crick Wellsley would be—

Suddenly, his mouth flooded with saliva as a wave of nausea flooded his senses. Castti, ever the attentive apothecary, recognized the signs immediately and hurried for the bucket they kept for doing laundry. She returned just in time.

When she pressed it into his hands, Temenos barely managed to lean forward before his stomach heaved. He retched painfully, bringing up little more than saliva—he’d only managed a small bowl of soup hours earlier—but that did nothing to lessen the misery. His throat burned, his eyes stung, and his whole body shook with the effort.

When he was finally spent, Castti gently eased the bucket from his trembling grip and set it aside in the corner, well out of the way. She returned at once, resting a steady, almost motherly hand against his back, rubbing small, reassuring circles.

“There you go, Temenos,” she murmured. “Hopefully you feel a little better now.”

And she was right. He still wasn’t fine by any means, but his body felt slightly lighter. As though he’d expelled some of the horror along with the nausea, until there was nothing left to claw its way up his throat.

“Thank you, Castti. Truly,” he breathed, meaning every word. She was such a kind woman, deserving of the high praise wherever she went. So incredible, compared to the disgraceful Inquisitor sitting next to the Godsblade he failed.

Castti withdrew her hand and immediately turned her attention back to Crick, fussing over him with practiced care. She wiped the sweat from his brow, laid another blanket over him, and adjusted the pillows until their angle was just right. Only when she was satisfied did she glance toward the door.

“Will you be all right if I step out for a while?” she asked gently, picking up the bucket he expelled the meager contents of his stomach into. “I need to clean this, and you need a light meal and some water. Besides…” Her gaze flicked back to Crick. “It may do you some good to have a little time alone.”

He nodded. “Yes, of course… And please, get some rest, Castti. No need to fret like a mother hen all the time. Aelfric knows you’ve done it enough.”

She looked at him with a chastising look (as if to say, really, you of all people are telling me this?) before releasing an exasperated sigh and leaving the room. He could hear the hushed whispers of his companions and footsteps retreating down the inn’s stairs.

He waited until he was sure none of his companions remained nearby before forcing himself to look at Crick yet again. His Godsblade’s broken form, covered in numerous bandages across his abdomen, his arms, his back. It was punishment, for the grave mistake of leaving Crick behind when he needed him.

That was all it took before the dam broke.

Scrabbling for Crick’s hand, Temenos held on for dear life, as though he would disappear if he did not. His breath hitched, then shattered, and he sobbed—raw and unrestrained. He begged the gods to hear him now, to see what had been done to Crick, what they had allowed.

His grief spilled free at last: for his brother, for his father. He cursed the gods who took the innocent and left him behind, again and again. They must be blind, always punishing the pure. If his whole life was just some divine game, some kind of cruel lesson. He wanted no part of it.

But mostly, he cursed himself for being a fool, for allowing Crick to leave his protection when he knew the danger of their investigation. He was paying the price for his hesitation.

Another sob escaped him, tears spilling down his cheeks and wetting the blankets beside Crick. They poured unceasingly until there was nothing left he could give.

His eyes stung painfully as he hiccupped the last remaining sobs. His breaths were short, fighting for air against the force of his sorrow. Finally, it ceased into quiet sniffles.

With trembling fingers, Temenos moved to feel Crick’s pulse on his wrist. It beat weak, but steady, thrumming with life beneath his hand. What a delicate thing it was. Like glass, so beautiful yet easily broken. He would hold it close to him from now on, if he were permitted—even though he was painfully aware he scarcely deserved such a gift.

He had failed Crick, in every conceivable way. But he would right that wrong, by giving everything he had to safeguard him instead.

·-〰☀〰-·

Crick woke up feeling surprisingly light, though his mind was hazy. He couldn’t remember where he was or what he had been doing—but for some reason, he wanted to savor the strange stillness that surrounded him.

Eventually, he sat up.

And froze.

A green field of grass extended beyond the horizon, so unnaturally vast it was almost frightening. A light breeze gently swayed the blades of grass, brushing them against his skin like a sweet caress. And the sky; it was so blue, dotted with wispy clouds drifting lazily along. What startled him the most was the sun, enveloping him in a familiar warmth exactly like a crisp summer day in the Leaflands.

But now that he thought about it… all of these sensations and sights were undoubtedly familiar. A fleeting memory surfaced: lying in the grass as a child, staring up at the clouds. Home. A place he had left long ago, never to return.

But… he couldn’t possibly be in the Leaflands, could he?

Crick lingered a moment longer, savoring the feeling before forcing himself to stand. His body felt young, unburdened—like the boy he once was, racing across his family’s land with a stick horse in hand, dreaming of knighthood. A soft, almost shy laugh escaped him.

He wished he could share that memory with Temenos. Surely, the Inquisitor would tease him mercilessly for pretending to be a fledgling knight. He could almost hear the dry amusement in his voice: “You’ve wanted to join those preening crows for that long?”

For some reason, all he wanted was to hear Temenos’s voice, teasing or not.

…Where was Temenos, anyway?

He was sure he had seen him earlier that day. There had been an argument—something about the Sacred Guard. His hand. Then warmth. Healing. And after that…

Nothing.

A strange pull suddenly tugged at his chest, subtle but insistent, stirring an unease he hadn’t felt moments ago. His heart stuttered with a flicker of panic. Why couldn’t he remember? He could see Temenos so clearly in his mind—hair like starlight, deep green eyes, a sharp tongue… but nothing else. Like his memories after leaving him had been completely erased.

Taking a deep breath, Crick forced himself to remain calm. The only thing he had to go off of was… this strange, almost warm sensation in his chest. Perhaps… it was leading him somewhere, somewhere important.

Or maybe it was another lie—another path laid out for him to follow without question, just like the Sacred Guard. The thought made his stomach twist. He never wanted to feel that way again. But… he didn’t really have a choice, did he? So, he trusted his instincts.

With steady steps, Crick followed the pull, a silent hope he was being guided along the right path.

As he walked, the world continued to tempt him. It felt so much like home, like he could allow his worries to melt away and relish in the almost childlike wonder that grasped him before. He could even faintly hear his own laughter echoing as he splashed in the creek behind his family’s estate, diving for small tadpoles and bugs even as the sun dipped below the horizon.

And oh, how he would run and run—

…Run?

He realized with terrifying clarity that the sensation in his chest had dulled, forcing him to stop in his tracks. He suddenly couldn’t remember what he was doing anymore.

Wasn’t he… going somewhere? He was, but… Now he couldn’t… What was he forgetting again?

Even though he was unsure as to why, he understood one thing—this was a test. A test he was failing, losing himself to this dreamy paradise and forgetting what he was looking for.

Gods, what was it?

Frantically, Crick clasped his hands together and spoke a hurried prayer to Aelfric for guidance. He knew he desperately needed help, and he hoped Aelfric would have mercy on his pitiful soul.

Blessedly, his prayer was answered with a name whispered quietly in the wind:

Temenos.

Of course!

He had to get to Temenos. He didn’t know how he knew, but he could feel it from the depths of his soul that this feeling was guiding him to his charge. He needed to move before he lost sight of himself, before he lost sight of Temenos.

Despite his renewed urgency, the dreamy field around him did not change. The tall grass swayed in lazy waves, and the sunlight fell in soft, golden patches that should have made him feel relaxed. A gentle breeze stirred the air, carrying the faint scent of wildflowers and something nostalgic he couldn’t name from his childhood. The world seemed utterly calm, utterly perfect.

And yet... Crick felt none of it.

He tried to breathe, to let the peace grant him some semblance of calm so he could think.

He had to keep moving. He had to keep searching. Whatever was guiding him was pulling him ahead, and he would force himself to follow.

He started forward again, then broke into a run.

The ground felt light beneath his feet, almost like it wasn’t truly there. His breathing sounded distant, muffled, like he was underwater. The grass brushed against his skin as he ran, and the sunlight was warm on his cheeks—but Crick couldn’t tell if any of it was real.

Maybe none of it was.

And yet… if he could believe in one thing, one thing he knew was real, it would be Temenos.

So he kept moving, letting that certainty pull him forward through the field.

After wandering through the swaying grass for what felt like hours, he finally came upon a magnificent tree atop a hill in the distance. It was as if it suddenly materialized, a reward for his steadfast perseverance.

Finally.

Relief surged through him—until the pull in his chest eased. Panic flared, only to vanish when he saw a figure standing beneath the tree. A sense of calm washed over him as he slowed his pace, confident this was where he was supposed to be.

The figure stood silently, overlooking the grassy field beyond. Oh, how he wished he would turn around. For he knew exactly who it was, white hair catching the light and adorned in teal robes lined with intricate golden embroidery along the edges. His light, his guide—Temenos.

“Temenos!” Crick called, finally allowing his name to spill from his lips. Breathing his name was like a weight lifted from his shoulders, realizing that the feeling of home was truly right here all along.

But his elation was short lived. For when Temenos turned around, his heart stuttered in his chest. Temenos’s eyes were glassy, quickly filling with tears.

…W-what?

“Crick… I am so sorry for abandoning you,” Temenos sobbed, arms curling around himself as if he were struggling to hold himself together. His cries racked his body, his slight frame trembling terribly as tears flowed down his cheeks. The grief in his voice shook Crick’s own body, and for a moment, he froze, unsure whether to reach out and hold him, to comfort him until the tears ceased, or to keep a respectful distance.

It… wasn’t supposed to be like this. Temenos was going to save him from this illusion, help him escape, so why—?

His thoughts were silenced by Temenos placing a gentle hand on his cheek. “If only I’d kept you safe. Then you’d still be here with me,” he whispered, his thumb tracing a soft line across Crick’s skin. Strangely, his eyes seemed to be looking through him, like he was a piece of glass.

“H-How… how do I help you?” Crick’s voice trembled, breaking under the weight of his panic. “I’m right here! I don’t… I don’t know what else I can do…”

He was utterly at a loss. He needed to help Temenos, but he was useless if Temenos couldn’t truly see him. Every instinct desperately screamed at him to do something, but the harder he tried to think, the more his thoughts slipped through his fingers like water.

Why couldn’t Temenos see him? What was he missing? What was he failing to understand?

The memories suddenly came rushing back. Of leaving Temenos. Investigating alone. Fighting Cubaryi and Kaldena. And… his torturous journey to make it to Temenos.

Understanding struck with cruel clarity.

This was a punishment. Even though he had passed the trial, he had still failed Temenos in Stormhail. By believing so steadfastly in the nonexistent justice of the Sacred Guard, he realized the truth too late. It was only natural then that he was punished for being such a fool.

Was this the lesson he needed to learn? Perhaps all Aelfric had been trying to tell him was that Temenos was better off without him. That every step he took, every ignorant, impulsive decision he made himself, had only caused harm.

He would let Temenos go, he decided. To forge his own path, strong and resolute as he was. Crick would no longer weigh him down, no longer burden him with a foolish Godsblade who questioned too late and understood too slowly.

But… Temenos was still trembling, shoulders quivering as his breaths came short and ragged. His chest rose and fell unevenly, as if he were trying to pull in enough air to steady himself but failing.

“I’ve been an awful guide to you Crick, yet I…” Temenos’s grip on his cheek tightened, almost imperceptibly. But Crick noticed, so hyper-focused on Temenos as he was. He felt every breath, every sob as the emotion poured from Temenos, as if their souls were linked in this moment.

“Temenos, please don’t say that,” Crick murmured, stopping him before he could finish. He had never seen Temenos like this, so broken from emotion. He always hoped Temenos would open up to him but… not like this.

Temenos squeezed his eyes shut, as though he couldn’t bear to keep them open any longer. “But I have been terrible to you Crick, and I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t understand. Temenos hadn’t done anything wrong. In fact, Crick thanked the gods every day for allowing him to meet Temenos, the man who finally set him on the right path. Who made him feel like there truly was good amongst the wickedness, light amidst the darkness.

He had nothing to apologize for. So why did he feel this way?

“And yet… I need you more than words can express,” Temenos whispered, voice breaking. “Please, Crick. Please don’t leave me.”

His thoughts suddenly evaporated, hearing Temenos’s words.

He sounded so… so lonely. Crick’s heart ached, a sharp, relentless pull that made him want to erase every fear, every shadow of doubt from Temenos’s eyes.

How could he possibly walk away now?

Everything he had told himself—about letting Temenos go, about this being some sort of punishment—fell apart all at once. He was wrong. He may be a failure, but Temenos was asking for him, pleading for him to stay despite everything.

Temenos said he needed him—that was enough for Crick.

Slowly, almost reverently, Crick gently removed Temenos’s hand from his face and pulled him into his arms. Crick pressed him close, one arm wrapped tightly around Temenos’s waist, while the other cradled the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair.

“Shh… I’m not going anywhere,” Crick murmured softly, trying to ease Temenos’s pain. His arm tightened slightly around Temenos’s waist, reminding him that he was there.

“Temenos, I promise I will never leave you,” he continued, more sure of himself than ever before. “You are my guiding light amidst the darkness. It is I who needs you.”

At that, Temenos’s arms rose almost instinctively, wrapping around Crick’s torso. His touch was gentle but insistent, grounding him in the moment, in the safety of the here and now. The warmth of his embrace was a tether, pulling both of them back from the edges of fear and despair. Crick could feel the tension in Temenos’s body slowly easing, the sharp edges of panic dulling under the comfort of closeness.

Then, with a quiet but unwavering strength, Temenos tilted his head back slightly, meeting Crick’s gaze. His eyes sharpened as if truly seeing him for the first time. “Then wake up,” he commanded, voice clear and strong, laced with a determination that left no room for doubt. And Crick always listened to him.

Before, he had wanted to slip peacefully into eternal sleep, pleading with the gods to safeguard his cleric. But Temenos didn’t need them right now; he needed Crick.

A surge of determination coursed through him. He had already resolved to follow Temenos anywhere. He wasn’t ready to let him go. He needed to see him again. He would go home.

So, he answered his light’s command.

Like a fractured stain glass window becoming whole again, Crick’s world burst into color.

·-〰☀〰-·

It had been days since the incident in Stormhail. The Sacred Guard was becoming restless; clearly, those scheming with Kaldena were worried about Crick’s disappearance.

At least, that’s what his companions told him. Temenos had not left Crick’s side for a moment.

He knew time was running out. Sooner or later, the Sacred Guard would abandon their pretense of subtlety and storm the inn, no doubt proclaiming Temenos or Crick an unholy heretic—or whatever convenient lie suited them. He would have no choice but to strike them down, even in his weakened state. He refused to let anything happen to Crick.

Obviously, the best option was to leave, at least fleeing to Montwise. But Crick still hadn’t opened his eyes, despite Castti’s insistence his condition was improving.

His poor little lamb… He was covered in bandages, spanning across his torso and wrapping around to his back. He helped keep Crick clean and his bandages fresh, but seeing such ghastly wounds only made his guilt more damning. He forced himself to see it even though he didn’t want to. It was part of his self-inflicted punishment.

Besides his wounds… Crick’s other major injury was his hip. Castti had made a splint out of the materials she had, but it was entirely possible that Crick would always have a slight limp, especially if it didn’t heal correctly. There was only so much a cleric’s magic could do. The thought only worsened the ache in his heart, but solidified his resolve that it was not time to leave yet. Moving Crick would only hurt him further in his fragile state.

Temenos could admit he wasn’t in good condition either, though for an entirely different reason. He had been refusing to bathe or sleep, only eating enough to stifle his hunger. Throné said he looked like a corpse, which was honestly in bad taste given the situation. (She quickly apologized for the comment after seeing the look on his face).

All of his companions had visited at one time or another to insist that he take care of himself. Even Hikari had come to check on him, finally well enough to stand at his side. He brushed them off with his usual façade. The bags under his eyes told a different story, but his companions relented under the force of his stubbornness.

His gaze drifted to Crick once again, grasping his hand in his own. He cast another bout of healing to hopefully ease Crick’s pain and felt the fatigue of overspent magic wash over him. Nonetheless, the light spread gently across Crick’s body, like a sweet caress, settling in the places he was hurt the most.

He had cast his magic on Crick before, yet today, for the first time, there was a change. It was slight at first, just a flutter of his eyelids. Then a scrunch of his brow. And then a yawn, arms outstretched.

Temenos watched with a racing heart as Crick Wellsley finally opened his bleary eyes.

They stared at each other in complete silence for a moment. He wasn’t sure Crick even understood what was going on, delirious as he was in his sleep-addled state. He wasn’t sure if he himself was seeing correctly either.

What caused Crick to finally recover from his stupor was Temenos’s hand in his own. His brow furrowed, seemingly confused by the contact. He gave his hand a squeeze as if he were testing if it was really there.

“…T-Temenos?” He questioned, voice raspy with disuse. In response, Temenos lightly squeezed Crick’s hand in return, unsure how to express his relief.

Before Temenos could react (he wanted to pull Crick into his arms and never let go, his image be damned), Crick’s entire face turned bright red. The sight made Temenos so elated, so relieved, he couldn’t help but tease his little lamb.

“Oh? Holding hands with the Inquisitor, are we? How scandalous, Crick! Aelfric sees everything, I’m sure you’re aware…”

“T-T-Temenos! You’re the one holding my hand!”

Temenos burst out laughing, harder than he ever had in his life. Joyful tears spilled from his eyes, happy he had the chance to tease Crick once more. His shoulders shook from the intensity of his laughter.

Crick’s eyes went wide in shock, staring with what seemed like great fascination. He stroked Temenos’s fingers absentmindedly with his thumb. Temenos didn’t understand why, until he remembered that Crick had probably never seem him this undone. Not just from laughing but… he really looked awful, didn’t he?

Suddenly embarrassed, Temenos let go of Crick’s hand and stood up. He quickly headed towards the door to escape Crick’s strange gaze.

“I… suppose I should rouse Castti so she can evaluate you. I will return,” he said, hand on the doorknob.

“R-right, of course. …Thank you, Temenos.”

If Temenos still trusted his eyesight, it almost looked as though Crick was pouting at being left behind. Oh, his sweet little lamb. He’d certainly have brought him with if he wasn’t skewered straight through the abdomen.

...Even in his indignation, though, the sight did pull on his heartstrings a little. He gave a small nod of acknowledgement before running off to find Castti for an evaluation.

While she was busy with Crick, he hoped to bathe and freshen up. But of course, it was as if his companions wanted him to look like an utter mess in front of Crick. Every bath was already occupied. Every single one. All, that is, except the washroom adjacent to Crick’s. He was reluctant to use it, though. Crick would likely want to bathe himself once Castti was finished, and the thought of depriving him of that small comfort sat poorly with Temenos.

So instead, he remained unwashed and reeking.

“You snooze you lose, Detective,” laughed Throné, already bathed and changed. She smelled lovely, like a field of fresh lavender, gentle and pretty. Temenos wanted to smell like that for Crick, but he supposed he had little ground to complain. Not after his companions had so insistently—and repeatedly—urged him to bathe.

With a quiet huff of annoyance, more at himself than anyone else, he turned and made his way back to Crick’s room. He knocked once, softly. Instead of Castti’s steady, professional voice, he was answered by a muffled, familiar, “Come in!”

Relief washed over him at once. He was eternally grateful to hear his little lamb’s voice again—a little weary, perhaps, but present. Alive.

Inside, the room was much as he’d left it. Temenos crossed the space and settled once more into the chair at Crick’s bedside while Castti resumed her careful questioning, checking symptoms with practiced ease. Temenos listened at first, then gradually began to drift, the words blurring together. Only now did he fully realize how tired he was. Unfortunately, the pockets of sleep he was able to get between nightmares were not restful; it was finally catching up to him.

Before he could completely nod off, he was startled awake by Crick’s worried tone.

“Um, actually Miss Castti, there is something I’ve been worried about…” Crick said, wrapping his arms around himself self-consciously.

“Just Castti is fine, Crick, as I’ve said. But please, tell me what ails you.”

Oddly enough, Crick looked embarrassed as a faint pink dusted his cheeks. Perhaps he was going to ask for a shirt to put on over his bandages. He seemed like he would be a rather modest person, but he didn’t think Crick would care if it meant easy access to changing his dressings. Practicality, after all, tended to win out over embarrassment when survival was on the line.

“It’s just…” Crick finally began, his voice lowering. He swallowed, clearly mortified. “There’s a strange smell that keeps fading and coming back.” He shifted slightly, fingers worrying at the edge of his blanket. “Like I haven’t bathed in some time. I—I’d like to, if that’s at all possible.”

What? As far as Temenos was concerned, Crick didn’t smell at all. And anyway, he and Castti had been washing Crick with wet and soapy rags in whatever places were appropriate. They hadn’t wanted Crick to smell horrible when he woke up, and he thought they had achieved that. If anyone smelled, it was—

Oh.

Oh Aelfric, please no.

Castti glanced at Temenos with an unmerciful gaze, before turning to Crick.

“While I agree that you should bathe on your own, I would like to request that you let Temenos bathe first since the other baths are in use. That smell is… coming from him. We did urge him to bathe, you see, but he was too worried about you.”

If the floor could have opened and swallowed him whole, Temenos would have welcomed it. He prayed to Aelfric, fervently, that he might simply cease to exist in that moment. His face burned hot with mortification.

Crick, though entirely innocent of the offense, appeared just as mortified.

“Oh my gods, forgive me Temenos! I didn’t mean to insinuate that you smell—”

He cut him off with a raised hand, desperate to escape before the mortification swallowed him whole. “It’s… quite alright, Crick,” he said, forcing the words out with what dignity he could muster. “Perhaps I do need to bathe, finally. So, if you’ll excuse me…”

Temenos stood up, gathered his clothes and personal soaps, and promptly retreated into the adjacent washroom. He would like to think he did not slam the door behind him, but a small laugh from Castti made it more than likely he did.

Before preparing for his bath, Temenos paused and studied his reflection in the small mirror hanging on the wall. He could admit that it was an awful sight.

Gone was the proud and intelligent Inquisitor, replaced by a broken husk—eyes rimmed dark with exhaustion; posture slumped. How was he supposed to protect Crick in this state? It was laughable, really.

With a heavy sigh, Temenos stripped off his clothes, looking forward to a long, warm bath filled with soap. If he weren’t so stuck in his head, he would’ve listened closer to whatever Crick was squeaking about in the main room.

But he needed to stay focused. He needed to remember what he had sworn himself to do.

(Had he listened, he would have heard Crick Wellsley’s mortified shriek as Castti calmly explained that Temenos had, in fact, assisted in bathing him while he slept.)

·-〰☀〰-·

Crick sat up slowly in bed, attempting not to jostle his wounds in doing so. He was still sore, but it was nothing compared to the first days of his injury. He was eternally grateful to be alive, and he made sure to thank the gods properly for it every day.

Presently, he was in his room at the Montwise inn. When he could finally walk (with a lot of assistance), Crick insisted they leave right away lest the Sacred Guard finally mobilize against them. The group was hesitant due to Crick’s wounds and injured hip, but they recognized that they had little choice.

It had been a difficult trip, but Crick knew it was necessary. He had simply gritted his teeth and pressed on, refusing to let his discomfort slow their pace.

The travelers had been kind enough to allow him his own room; an arrangement made at Castti’s insistence. She had said that he needed all the rest he could get, a claim he could hardly argue with—even if part of him quietly wished he could have stayed closer to Temenos. That, of course, was a thought he would never voice aloud.

But, as the sunlight shone through the window, Crick couldn’t help but wish he could share it with someone. It cast such a gentle glow on his skin—a peaceful way to rise.

Though he normally knelt next to his bed for his prayers, Castti had lectured him about “absolutely no strenuous movements,” especially after he likely caused irreparable damage to his body from the trip between Stormhail and Montwise. So, for now, he chose to sit and pray on the edge of his bed, lest he draw her ire.

Aelfric, bringer of life, thank you for this wonderful new day. That I may spend it with such an incredible group of men and women is a blessing. I hope to prove myself worthy to stay in their company... especially Temenos’s.

May the Sacred Flame guide us.

He shouldn’t have added that last part, but it was undeniably true. Now that his faculties were all functioning, it seemed his feelings for Temenos had only increased through this ordeal.

…Which is why it was so painful that Temenos had returned to his normal, composed self. Crick would have been happy about that before getting to know Temenos better; now he understood Temenos was hiding something beneath his façade.

After all, he caught a small glimpse of it when he finally woke up in Stormhail. Temenos had been undone, raw, stripped of all pretenses. Tear tracks ran down his pale cheeks, dark eye bags accompanying them. His hair was even mussed; robes wrinkled as if he hadn’t changed them in days (which apparently, he hadn’t—he wished he found that out in a more eloquent way than implying that the holy Inquisitor of the Church smelled).

Even though he genuinely looked awful, Crick couldn’t help it—he wanted to stay in that moment forever. Temenos holding his hand was like a reflection of that moment before they parted ways for the night. His small wound had been enveloped by gentle light as Temenos healed him. It was so warm.

The idea that Temenos had worried about him so much was touching (as well as slightly surprising). He hoped something had changed between them, allowing him to cross that impenetrable barrier between them. Yet after he recovered, Temenos closed himself off yet again.

Crick had completely and utterly failed him, only adding to his troubles. He had to speak with him. He couldn’t allow Temenos to suffer while he watched from the side, even though he suspected Temenos must be upset because of him.

So, Crick gingerly pushed himself out of bed and changed into his day clothes. His armor was rendered useless back in Stormhail, bent from the force of Kaldena’s blow and covered in blood. It had been a symbol of how hard he worked; now, he was glad to be rid of it.

Still, he felt rather naked walking along the streets of Montwise in his search for Temenos. He felt like people were staring, as if they somehow knew he was a disgraced Sanctum Knight. Judging him for being so foolish in his blind trust.

But really, it was likely because he looked rather silly limping along. It had been a few weeks since the incident already, but his hip was still healing (especially after the added strain of trekking to Montwise). Castti explained that healing bones was easier done with splints rather than direct healing magic, as one never knew if it would set correctly. Crick trusted her judgement, even if he was growing frustrated with how long it was taking (patience was never his strong suit).

He shouldn’t even be walking on it—Castti would absolutely have his head if she saw him. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that he desperately needed to see Temenos. (Was it the gods telling him that, or his own feelings?)

Finally, he found him on the bottom floor of the grand library in a small alcove, after meticulously scanning every aisle for that familiar flash of white hair. The moment carried a strange sense of déjà vu—an echo of the day he and Temenos had gone to the Flamechurch library together, investigating side by side.

By that point, Crick was winded, struggling to catch his breath as he leaned against one of the many shelves. Under normal circumstances it would’ve been absurd, after all his training, to be drained by something so trivial. But after what he’d endured in Stormhail, he was learning to offer himself a little grace.

When Crick finally caught his breath, he realized Temenos wasn’t actually scanning the shelves. The man’s gaze was unfocused, fixed on nothing at all. Even a hand waved in front of his face failed to stir him; Temenos was miles away in his thoughts.

So, Crick simply watched him instead. The dark crescents beneath Temenos’s eyes looked heavier than ever, weighing down an already weary posture. His complexion was paler than usual, almost washed out. He insisted he was fine whenever Crick asked, but the truth was written plainly across him. The sight sent a sharp, unwelcome ache through Crick’s chest.

Worst of all, Temenos’s left arm hung in a makeshift sling Castti had made. On the road to Montwise, he had taken a brutal hit meant for Crick—throwing himself between Crick and a monster and paying for it with a broken arm. He’d done it again and again throughout the fight, stepping in front of every threat as if his own safety were an afterthought. It was reckless in a way Temenos had never been, not in Flamechurch or Canalbrine. Even his companions were confused by his sudden change from support to defense.

He couldn’t help but wonder if this sudden change in fighting style had something to do with Temenos’s current state.

Speaking of Temenos, his eyes finally sharpened, slowly blinking back to the present. When he finally returned, he startled at the sight of Crick. If he’d been anywhere close to well, he would have sensed Crick’s presence long before now.

“Little lamb! Sneaking up on unsuspecting clerics is rather rude, you know,” Temenos quipped, a smirk pulling at his features.

And there it was again. That teasing smile Temenos chose to hide behind, keeping his true thoughts within himself. Perhaps before everything that happened, Crick would have continued to allow Temenos to hide. But not anymore, not when he had caught a glimpse of what he was like beneath those many layers.

Temenos attempted to cross his arms, surely to chastise Crick for overexerting himself, only to remember his left arm was in a sling. He adopted a stern expression instead, lips parting to launch a tirade of provocations. Before he could further distract, Crick took the opportunity to speak instead.

“I apologize, Temenos. For scaring you, I mean. I just… wanted to speak with you is all.”

Temenos’s mouth snapped shut, expression melting from stern to confused. “Oh? And what is this about, little lamb?”

Once again ignoring the nickname, Crick shifted his weight against the bookshelf, easing the pressure on his aching hip. The last thing he needed was Temenos noticing—any hint of discomfort and the man would chase him off without hesitation. He needed to be frank with Temenos, lest he continue to lead him away from the heart of the matter.

“You were reckless on our journey from Stormhail,” he said, gesturing to Temenos’s arm. It was the only remnant left of Temenos’s carelessness, due to his healing. But it was a reminder all the same. “You have never fought that way before; your companions even confirmed that when I asked.”

Temenos’s eyes widened slightly, taken aback by Crick’s sudden bluntness.

“You haven’t been sleeping well either,” Crick went on. “I’m worried about you, Temenos. You have plenty of companions you can talk to… even me, if you’d like.”

When he finished, Temenos fixed him with a level, unyielding stare. “…You’re certainly one to talk given how you injured yourself,” Temenos said, gesturing to Crick’s hip.

Crick huffed. He wouldn’t fall for Temenos’s misdirection. Not when they needed to talk about this. “We can talk about that all you want later. I’ll even let you drag me straight to Castti, if you’re that worried. But right now, I’m concerned about you.”

Temenos fell uncharacteristically silent. Crick wasn’t used to seeing him at a loss for words; he almost never managed to gain the upper hand like this.

“…I’m fine, Crick,” Temenos finally settled on, though it came out rather meek and tired.

This time, Crick crossed his arms with a disbelieving expression. “I think we both know that’s not true, Temenos.”

Temenos sighed, a sheepish smile pulling at his lips. “I suppose I’ve taught you to be too observant, haven’t I?” Temenos moved to lean on the bookshelf next to Crick, closing the distance between them. Still, he refused to look Crick in the eyes.

When Temenos didn’t offer any further response, Crick decided to take a risk based on what he knew.

“Does… does it have something to do with me?” Crick forced out. Crick knew he had been foolish, too impatient to wait until the morning to investigate as a team. Perhaps… perhaps Temenos was disappointed in him, or even felt betrayed.

Whatever the reason, the question struck a nerve. Temenos’s shoulders tightened, his expression drawing into something taut and carefully controlled. He didn’t answer. He didn’t even look up. His gaze stayed fixed on the floor, and the silence that followed felt strangely fragile.

He was nervous—Crick could see that much. What he couldn’t understand was why.

Suddenly frustrated by Temenos’s lack of response, Crick pushed away from the bookshelf to stand in front of him. “Temenos, can you please be honest with me for once?” he said, voice raising in his aggravation. “I cannot help you if you don’t tell me what’s—”

At the sight of Temenos flinching, Crick immediately regretted the change in tone. He hadn’t meant to upset Temenos—he came here to offer help and right whatever was wrong between them. He shouldn’t be getting heated when he already knew it was difficult for Temenos to openly express his thoughts.

He should have thought about this more before confronting Temenos. If Stormhail had taught him anything, it was that he needed to be careful before making decisions. To think before he acted.

With a deep breath, he calmed his racing thoughts. Yes, it hurt that Temenos wouldn’t confide in him, but he couldn’t demand trust. All he could do was be available whenever he was ready.

“…I’m sorry, Temenos,” he said, bowing his head in shame. “I shouldn’t be prying into your business if you’re not ready to talk. I can leave you alone if you’d like.”

Crick had every intention of leaving at that very moment, even if it wouldn’t help the guilt he felt pooling in his stomach for practically yelling at Temenos in such a state. He even turned away, feet already moving to leave. But before he could, a hand quickly grabbed his own tightly.

“Please, don’t go, Crick.”

Crick whipped around, stupefied at the tone of Temenos’s voice. It was barely more than a whisper, yet he sounded so defeated, voice breaking. The moment struck him with eerie familiarity—an echo of the dream he’d had before waking in Stormhail. Temenos, reaching for him. Temenos, begging him not to leave.

To be with him.

“I… of course, Temenos. I’ll stay.” Only then did Temenos release his hand, fingers slipping away with a quiet, almost reluctant gentleness.

For a moment, Temenos stood silently; his uninjured arm wrapped around himself as if it protected him. He looked so tired and worn down, just like he had back when Crick woke up. Crick wasn’t even sure if Temenos would decide to speak in this state, but he wouldn’t leave anyway. They could stand in silence for hours, and he wouldn’t move a muscle if it would bring him a shred of comfort.

But then, Temenos spoke. “As you already know, Inquisitor Roi and I were… very close. What I haven’t told you is that we grew up together. As brothers, taken in by the Pontiff.”

“Temenos, you don’t have to—” Temenos silenced him with a raised hand.

“Yes, I do need to speak, Crick. I forgive you for your words, as they ring true. It is as you said: you cannot help me if I do not tell you what is wrong. Throné also told me I should endeavor to be more honest. And so, I shall.”

Crick stood up straighter. He had wanted this, for Temenos to be open with him. If Temenos was willing to speak, then he would listen.

“Roi and I were extremely close. The day he left, I…” Temenos’s eyes became stormy, like a cacophony of emotions were competing inside him. He inhaled shakily before continuing. “It was never the same. We couldn’t find his body to give him a proper burial. And now, my own Father lays in a coffin beside Roi’s empty grave. So, you’ll have to forgive me if I seem rather torn up after thinking I would have yet another ghost to haunt me.”

Another ghost to—

A chill ran through Crick’s spine, realizing the implication. He should have realized it. This was about him. But not in the way he had thought.

Temenos’s expression turned bitter. “I should have been there when you needed me, Crick. It has been eating away at me. So, from now on, I will give everything I have to ensure you’re safe. You have my word.”

Even throwing yourself in front of me at the cost of your own well-being? Though Temenos didn’t voice that part aloud, Crick knew. The thought caused a stabbing pain in his chest. There were deeper, more important consequences to his hasty decision back in Stormhail. Why is this the way he needed to learn that?

Temenos thought he was somehow to blame. Gods, this must have been eating at him this whole time—

Crick wouldn’t accept that.

Crick looked at Temenos with a steely expression. “Temenos, allow me to be clear: the decision I made in Stormhail was mine and mine alone. I chose not to wait for you to investigate, and I paid the price for it.”

He laid a hand over his stomach—over the exit wound. He had accepted this already, contemplating during his long hours of rest while healing. He was learning time and time again that he needed to exercise patience, to be more deliberate. The scars he now bore served as a permanent reminder of the consequences of his haste.

Temenos met his gaze, eyes turning glassy. “You… you didn’t deserve to suffer like that. There was… so much blood, I… I was afraid you wouldn’t make it.”

“I know enough to realize I should not have lived,” Crick said, thinking back to the moment Kaldena’s darkened blade tore through him. How he had dragged himself into the street, his body urging him to give up. Until it made him, forcing him to the ground where he had accepted his fate under the falling snow.

It was so cold.

“Castti even told me herself that it should not have been possible if it weren’t for you,” Crick continued, reminding himself that it was only a memory. He wasn’t alone—Temenos was with him, here and now. And he was warm. “Though she wouldn’t explain how, …you saved me, Temenos. And for that, I am eternally grateful.”

Temenos’s eyes scrunched shut, huffing a laugh. “Oh, yes. Because allowing you to be hurt only to swoop in and save you at the very last moment is something you should be grateful for,” he muttered, sarcasm lacing his tone.

“Temenos—” Crick caught himself before he could continue.

After everything they had been through together, he knew better; Temenos doesn’t easily change his mind when he’s set on something. No matter how frustrating it is, arguing back with him won’t help. He needed a different approach.

“…Listen, Temenos. No matter how you feel about it, I am still grateful to you. You were there when I was alone. When I needed you most.”

What he was about to do was perhaps overdramatic, even embarrassing… but he needed Temenos to recognize his resolve.

He had already made his decision.

Crick reached out quietly, fingers closing around Temenos’s uninjured arm before sliding down to take his hand. With deliberate care, he lowered himself to one knee (favoring his good hip, though it still ached as he went down), his free hand settling over his heart. Temenos stared at him, eyes wide with shock, but Crick didn’t waver.

He knew exactly what he wanted to do—and he would not hesitate.

“Just as you pledged to protect me, I will make my own vow to you. I want to protect you always, Temenos. Though I am an injured man, no longer even a knight, I beg that you accept me as I am.”

Since Stormhail, Crick could admit… he felt lost. The Sacred Guard had been everything he had ever dreamed of, reaching higher beyond what he ever thought he was capable of to become something brighter. Someone he could be proud of.

Instead, his faith lay shattered at his feet, betrayed by the very organization he swore his life to. He had nothing to show for it, not even the armor he worked so hard to earn. It made him feel vulnerable, no longer the knight in shining armor he once strived to be.

Except when he thought about it, he did have something to show for it; supporting Temenos had become his new purpose along the way. He was brilliant, a supernova amid darkness. He would do everything to make sure that his light never went out, that Temenos realized he guided him on this righteous path.

He would prove to Temenos that he would follow him anywhere, no matter what.

Temenos froze, expression blank as he processed Crick’s words.

Oh no. Did I screw this up?

…Does Temenos not want me to stay with him on his journey?

Maybe—

And then suddenly, Temenos laughed.

It was quiet at first, merely a chuckle he was trying to hold back. It grew louder and more intense, until Temenos was almost howling with laughter as his shoulders shook up and down.

Crick was worried he would disrupt his injured arm if he didn’t stop (and perhaps a little embarrassed at how loud Temenos was being in a library), but the sight of Temenos being so expressive was captivating in a way he didn’t understand. Still, the urge to stop Temenos from hurting himself won over. Crick hastily stood up, releasing Temenos’s hand and trying to gently stabilize his injured arm so Temenos wouldn’t jostle it.

But really, Crick was more confused than anything. After all… what was so funny about what he said? He couldn’t help but wonder if Temenos had found a reason to tease him, even though they were having a serious conversation.

“T-Temenos? Are you alright? I’m sorry did I say something—”

Temenos braced his good arm on Crick’s shoulder, effectively silencing him. Temenos fought to catch his breath, practically leaning on Crick in the process.

Though it took him a moment, he finally swallowed the remainder of his laughter, releasing Crick from his hold and brushing stray tears from his eyes. He seemed a bit embarrassed (Crick thought it was a lovely expression on him, cheeks dusted pink, but he wouldn’t voice that thought aloud lest it further embarrass him).

“Ahem. My apologies, little lamb. I was merely… laughing at how dramatic you are. And how silly this is,” he said, gesturing between himself and Crick. “I mean, look at us! Two injured men, swearing our lives to protect one another in the middle of a library. It’s laughable, really.”

Crick shrunk in on himself a bit because… well, even though he was injured, surely with some rest and training he would be in fine shape to protect him—

Noticing Crick’s change in posture, Temenos quickly amended his words. “No, it’s not that, Crick. I’m sure with Castti’s guidance you’ll be just fine in a few weeks.”

Temenos turned away for a moment, expression dimming. “It’s just… we’re so broken after all of this, aren’t we? I can’t even imagine how lost you feel learning about the wicked side of the Sacred Guard. And me… well, I… can’t help but feel lost as well.”

“I want you to come with us because I… enjoy your company. My companions already adore you as well,” Temenos continued. “But I fear that I am not strong enough to protect you, to keep you from becoming yet another spirit to haunt me, another person to long for. I could not bear it if something happened to you.”

Oh. Oh.

To receive such honest words from Temenos was… incredibly refreshing. This is what Crick wanted: for Temenos to confide in him, to ask him to silently listen to his woes so that he could share the weight.

But it also hurt, knowing how much Temenos kept buried inside all this time, trusting no one with his deepest worries and fears. If Temenos was choosing Crick, then Crick would do anything to safeguard that trust. To take his burdens upon himself even if just for a moment.

“I wish you told me this sooner, you know,” Crick began, an earnest expression on his face. “But if this is how you feel, then I think we can come to an agreement.”

Temenos’s brow raised in question, silence urging Crick to continue.

“You are the strongest person I know, even if you don’t agree. You rescued me from the brink of death; I know that by your side, that will never happen again. Allow me to be your shield, your safety, as you were for me. My vow is the same, even if you consider it to be… dramatic. I promise to protect you with all that I am.”

Temenos considered his words carefully. Then, a small smile spread across his lips, eyes crinkling in the corners as they always did when Temenos was genuinely pleased. “Alright then, Crick. If you are so insistent upon it,” he said, lifting his pinky and holding it out to Crick.

For a moment, Crick just stared.

“Oh, come now, Crick! Have you never made a pinky promise before? I have made plenty in my time as Inquisitor—the children are quite fond of them, you see,” Temenos said, shoulders shaking as he began to laugh. At him. Again.

“I—of course I have!” Crick sputtered, indignant. “I just… didn’t expect the Inquisitor of all people to offer something as childish as a pinky promise in the middle of our serious conversation!”

Temenos snickered, insistently wiggling his finger. “Well, I just think it is less dramatic than your knightly vow to me. Unless you would prefer I kneel in my injured state and swear my promise unto you as you did?”

Before Temenos made a move to kneel (because he certainly was going to, wasn’t he? Just to prove a point! This fiendish man—), Crick quickly hooked his own pinky around Temenos’s.

“I… I promise, Temenos.”

Gods, if anyone were watching them, they would find the scene rather silly. A giggling Inquisitor, linking pinkies with a red-faced, utterly bewildered knight between two bookshelves.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

When Temenos finally released his finger, he gazed at Crick with such a fond expression he could practically feel his heart melting. “Oh, Crick. There is so much I wish to say to you when this is all over,” he whispered, voice slightly wobbly.

Crick smiled in turn. “And I will be there to listen. For whenever you need me. I swear it.”

Because he would. No matter how undone Temenos seemed, Crick would guide him just as Temenos always did for him. He would protect him, keeping him safe from any harm. And he would listen, for whenever the darkness became too much for Temenos to bear alone.

Temenos had described both of them as ‘broken.’ Crick couldn’t help but agree, after everything that happened. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t be fixed. With Temenos, he could never be hopeless, never irreparably broken.

They would piece each other back together, until they were both whole again.

·-〰☀〰-·

As Temenos shrugged into his cleric’s robes and pulled on his shoes, he paused to savor the quiet fact that he was alive and in one piece. Waking to another day felt like a blessing in itself, a quiet testament to their hard‑won victory over the wicked god, Vide. He never thought the histories would come to life, yet Aelfric continued to find ways to surprise him, even now.

He was grateful he hadn’t indulged too much in last night’s carousing (after all, he was rather weak when it came to wine). And on Roque Island, there certainly was no shortage of food or drink to be shared. Temenos swore he saw even Roque Brilliante himself partaking in the festivities after clinking glasses with an already drunk Partitio.

Because he’d shown some restraint, his head felt pleasantly clear—something that couldn’t be said for the rest of his companions. As he descended the stairs into the inn’s lobby, one quick sweep of the room made it immediately obvious who had imbibed too much.

Throné nursed a glass of water, pressing it to her temple with a pained grimace. Beside her, Castti leaned heavily against the table, trying—through her own fog of misery—to mix some sort of hangover remedy. The two of them looked equally worse for wear.

Hikari and Osvald spoke in hushed tones in the corner, both always in an oddly somber mood after a night of strong spirits. Across the room, Partitio was trying not to fall asleep, thankfully fully clothed (unlike last time).

None of them should have been awake at such an early hour, yet he understood why. After everything they had endured, witnessing another sunrise—another dawn—was a gift none of them took lightly. The world outside was still wrapped in darkness, but the first hints of morning waited just beyond the horizon.

Meanwhile, Agnea and Ochette were happily preening Mahina’s wings for her, oblivious to everyone else’s plight. Temenos was happy for once not to be hungover.

It was a calculated decision. Temenos normally drank to forget, numbing his normally sharp mind so he wouldn’t drown in his sorrows when the shadows threatened to consume him. But last night… he wanted to remember every second.

Temenos drank enough to celebrate and not a drop more. There was a lovely sweetness to the wine that spread across his tongue, tempting him toward another glass, but he had refused to indulge further. Partitio always chose well, having paid much attention to what his companions liked as a true merchant would. It was almost a shame not to finish the bottle.

There was another reason, too… and that was Crick. He was curious of where Crick would go now that their journey was over, what great adventure he would embark on in service to the Flame and its adherents. Surely his heart was set on something grand, something truly worthy of a knight who felled a mighty god.

But even knowing this… Temenos held a sliver of hope that maybe Crick would remain with him in Flamechurch.

It was rather selfish, he knew that. He also knew it was already going to be difficult losing his other traveling companions—they had made so many memories, been together through the best and the worst. If Crick were by his side, it would certainly lessen the blow.

And honestly… Temenos didn’t want to be alone. Before his journey, Temenos at least had his Father to keep him company from time to time; however, there was an unspoken grief settled between them, marring their time together with sorrow. There were memories of another on the tips of their tongues left unsaid, after all.

Now, an empty space remained where two of the most important people in his life once were. No one left to even share those memories.

He was terrified of how empty he would feel alone. He didn’t want to hold any of his companions back, but he was desperate for any shred of warmth in his life.

Maybe he shouldn’t talk to Crick after all. Maybe he should—

Suddenly, a small finger began squishing his cheek. When he came to, he was greeted by the bright eyes of Ochette as she happily poked his face. “Wow, Temmy! You really get soooo distracted when you’re like this! Whatcha thinking about?” Ochette asked, eyes glinting with honest curiosity.

He huffed a laugh. “It is nothing to concern yourself with, Ochette. I was merely wondering about… the future.”

She crossed her arms, a pout spreading across her face. “Are you sure? Cause’ you smelled a little sad to me! If you’re thinking about doing something, I think you should just do it the Beastling way: if it smells good, just eat it!”

Temenos privately noted that such an approach required an encyclopedic knowledge of edible flora and fauna—something he most certainly did not possess.

Agnea’s light, musical giggle drifted over as she joined the cleric and the hunter. “I think what she means,” she said warmly, “is that you should stop doubting yourself so much and just go for it.”

Though Temenos’s instinct was to doubt, Agnea’s radiant smile and hopeful eyes were… admittedly a touch inspiring—especially when paired with Ochette’s wide, toothy grin. Still, rushing headlong into anything wasn’t in his nature. Doubt had kept him alive, guided him, protected him. Without it, he wouldn’t be the man he was today.

But gods, did he want to tell Crick all of his hopes for the future. A dream to walk side by side, to be comfortable, happy, and warm in the arms of someone who cared for him.

With how broken he was, was he truly even worthy of the light that was Crick Wellsley?

“I can practically hear the gears turning in your head, Detective. They’re right—don’t think for once and just do,” Throné remarked, taking a sip from her water. “Crick’s at the western wall—said he was going to clear his head or something. I’m sure he could use some company.”

Of course, Throné would be the one to hit the nail on the head. She had already expressed to him how ‘annoying’ it was for him to ‘pine’ over Crick whenever he was alone with her. She had absolutely no discretion when it came to his relationship with Crick, it seemed.

He chose to ignore her words, instead tutting and giving her the stern look he reserved for when children were particularly naughty. “Oh, yes. Because ‘not thinking and just doing’ when you were drinking all that wine last night is doing so well for you this morning.”

Throné smirked, eyes crinkling in the corners. “You’re one to talk. Normally you’d be next to me moaning about how you will never touch another bottle. And then you’d do it again the next day… In fact, maybe you should just get drunk right now—at least then you’d just go talk to Crick without thinking about it.”

Temenos turned away, attempting to hide his coloring cheeks.

“Throné, please don’t encourage Temenos to drink right now. I already have enough hungover patients to treat, including myself—I don’t need a drunk one as well,” Castti chastised, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose.

Throné laughed, pressing a kiss to Castti’s cheek to placate her.

A gruff voice suddenly cut through the air. “You’re wasting the time you could have with him, Temenos.”

Temenos turned toward the obvious source—Osvald. Odd, considering the scholar rarely involved himself in matters of the heart. Perhaps it was a byproduct of his morose state, regretting the years he wished he’d spent with his wife and daughter. Or perhaps Osvald had already known about his feelings for Crick, growing tired of his forlorn looks and wistful sighs.

In any case, it certainly caught Temenos’s attention. …Especially since he knew Osvald was right—he was wasting time. If he wanted a future with Crick, what better time than now to take it?

Temenos sighed fondly, a smile rising to his face though he tried to stop it. “Honestly, all of you. It’s like you’ve been waiting for this moment.”

Hikari’s shoulders scrunched, a sheepish expression spreading across his features. “Well, that’s because we have. You and Crick would be lovely together—we all observed that.”

…Oh. So they have been waiting for this.

His companions were awfully nosey.

“We’ll be rootin’ for ya, Temenos! We fought for the dawn—why not enjoy it?” declared Partitio, a sudden burst of energy in his voice despite appearing as though he may keel over at any moment.

With a roll of his eyes, Temenos headed for the door. “Well, if you all insist upon it, then I suppose I will speak with Crick. But I make no promises about any romantic ventures; I only wish to hear of where he intends to go next.”

Agnea smiled, practically buzzing with excitement. “That’s fine! Just do your best!” she said, ushering him toward the door. But the look in her eyes said otherwise; she was hoping for something to change between him and Crick, even if she wouldn’t admit it.

Really, they all were acting as though he was going to outright confess to the man, when his real plan was just to ask Crick if he would consider staying with him in Flamechurch. (Though… a secret part of Temenos also wished that a spark would light between them, catching fire until it consumed them both).

After exiting the inn, he leaned back against the door, shoulders tense. He didn’t often feel nervous—when he did, he would clutch his staff as tightly as he could until his fingers turned white just to focus on something else. But he left that in his room, feeling it was inappropriate to take it with him.

Or, he would hide behind his unbothered smile and cold façade. But this situation required him to be unabashedly honest.

He was going to be uncomfortable no matter what, then.

Temenos forced his legs to move, carrying him across the cobblestones and up the stairs to the western wall of Roque Island. The town was quiet, likely due to how late the celebrations went into the night. It would have been comforting if he wasn’t desperately looking for a distraction before reaching his destination. Some excuse to change course and later apologize to his companions for a lack of news on his relationship with Crick. Maybe there was a new case that needed solving...?

But alas, there was nothing. He hoped that at least Sealticge would grant her blessing, if he was really going to do this.

He slowly ascended the steps, careful to keep his footsteps light so he wouldn’t scare his knight.

Just as Throné said, he was there.

Crick stood tall, broad shoulders tight as he looked out over the waves with a pensive expression. His golden curls were still gorgeous, despite being slightly mussed from the breeze running through it. The angular lines of his face were strong, complimenting his sun-kissed skin. He wasn’t wearing his armor yet—a sight Temenos rarely was allowed to indulge in, especially without Crick noticing.

He really was handsome. Crick could make any maiden swoon, and apparently himself as well. What an utterly cliché scene, like from those terribly trite romance novels Agnea babbled about from time to time.

Gods, he couldn’t believe something so simple was affecting him so much. His heart was beating out of his chest. It had been years since he felt this way, back when he was young and a bit naïve to the world.

But this was more important, more significant—the words they exchanged could change his life forever, having the power to keep him in unending warmth or abandon him to drown in his sorrow.

Don’t think, just do. That’s what his dear assistant had said, but it was much easier said than done. All he does is think, as per his job. He could never just… clear his mind and rush in. But he was desperate to know.

With a deep breath, he simply took his place at Crick’s side, just as his Godsblade did back in Montwise. Crick did not startle, turning to Temenos as his expression melted into a gentle smile.

“Good morning, Temenos,” he said, blue eyes bright, even in the dark.

Temenos offered a small smile in return. “Yes—good morning, Crick.”

The silence was natural between them after exchanging pleasantries. To just enjoy each other’s company was commonplace, a way to unwind after the difficulties they shared during the day. It would have continued if Temenos hadn’t noticed Crick favoring one leg, trying to keep weight off of his hip.

Crick’s injuries had healed well after Stormhail, but his hip could be quite troublesome at times. There was an almost imperceptible limp when he walked, a slight pain that Castti said may never go away. It was especially noticeable after long, strenuous fights where Crick pushed himself beyond what he should have. Temenos had no doubt Crick had done exactly that during the fight with Vide. He was ever so stubborn, much to his chagrin.

The image of Crick limping back to the ship, battered after the fight with the dark god was seared into Temenos’s mind. Hurt, but blessedly alive. Still, seeing him like that sent a spike of guilt up Temenos’s spine, remembering Crick’s recounting his fight with Kaldena. How she had left him for dead, forcing him limp, to crawl until his body gave up on him.

How Temenos wasn’t there to heal him until it was almost too late. He wouldn’t have that limp if he had stayed with him that night.

Guilt always set deep in his bones, urging him to blame himself whenever anything horrible happened to somebody he loved. Crick reminded him every day that it didn’t have to be that way.

Speaking of, his knight noticed his staring, immediately rushing to assuage Temenos’s worries. “I-I’m fine! I barely notice it at times, thanks to your healing. It’s just a little sore today is all.”

Temenos rolled his eyes and murmured a small healing spell to ease Crick’s pain. It must have been worse than Crick had let on—because of course it was—judging by the way he immediately closed his eyes and released a long, relieved sigh.

A look of awe crossed his features as he tested putting the full weight on his leg; it was a sight Temenos had grown used to every time he healed Crick. The spell was as easy as breathing, yet Crick insisted on giving it some kind of reverence every time.

Still, that adorable look would not allow him to escape his ire. “And you said I needed to be honest,” Temenos huffed.

Though Crick’s cheeks slightly colored, he chose not the respond, knowing Temenos would tease him endlessly if he did. A wise decision. Temenos chose to let the matter rest, even if he was slightly cross over it. Perhaps he would allow him to escape his ire after all.

Temenos turned his attention to the ocean as Crick had done earlier. Orange and pink hues stretched across the sky as the sun began to peak over the horizon, colors dancing across the waves. It was a beautiful majesty—a reward for their peril.

They had won. Finally, there would be peace.

“I’m glad we can even stand here in the light of the dawn, given how hard we fought to have another morning,” whispered Temenos.

Though Temenos hadn’t admitted it at the time, he was terrified during their final battle. On Vidania, there was no light—only an oppressive darkness, threatening to consume them all with one false step.

He couldn’t bear to lose any of his companions. But he feared he would.

Yet, there was still hope. He was surrounded by all of his friends, giving everything they had to bring back the dawn. Each of them was radiant, truly deserving of their godly blessings.

Perhaps the most wonderful and striking of all was Crick. Despite not being blessed by a god, he fought with the strength and skill of a true knight. As he vowed, he protected Temenos when he was vulnerable. In turn, Temenos protected him.

When they had returned to the ship, Temenos surveyed his companions for any injuries before pushing away Castti’s own worrying hands and shutting himself in his room. He fell to his knees by his bedside, thanking Aelfric profusely for allowing them to make it through as tears poured down his cheeks like an endless fount.

But especially… for allowing someone like Crick into his life, someone who followed the chosen eight into battle against a malevolent god. Temenos had pleaded with Crick to stay behind, that he need not bear the weight of responsibility with them. But he refused, taking on the burden alongside them anyway.

Temenos didn’t deserve him. Yet Crick looked at him like he was the world.

“I’m happy, too. To be able to continue standing by your side after everything,” Crick replied, turning towards Temenos once more.

Looking into Crick’s eyes, Temenos saw something hopeful. Expectant, even. As if he were waiting for Temenos to say something. The thought of Crick being steps ahead of him was both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time, even if Temenos wasn’t sure what he was waiting for.

All he could think about was having to face the fact that Crick was likely going to leave him. Better to get it over with, he supposed, while the view was still pretty.

With a deep breath, Temenos finally spoke. “…Yes. Though I wonder how long you will continue to stay by my side, little lamb. You are free to as long as you like, but I… understand if you would choose greener pastures.”

He couldn’t help his slight tease at Crick, but the sentiment was the same.

He expected Crick to pause for a moment and at least consider his options. To weigh the pros and cons of staying with someone as blasphemous as Temenos, in a sleepy village tucked away from any real danger. Choosing Flamechurch (choosing him) seemed rather boring compared to the glories he could achieve elsewhere. There was an obvious choice here.

Instead, Crick’s eyes became even brighter, crinkling at the corners as a wide smile spread across his face. Like sunlight, spreading across the water. “So, you’re giving me permission to stay with you in Flamechurch? You can be honest with me and say it plainly, you know.”

Temenos’s wide-eyed expression must have been rather funny to Crick, as the knight laughed at his expense. Temenos didn’t even mind, instead dwelling in his shock. When did Crick become so skilled at reading him? Even back in Montwise, Crick knew something was wrong and immediately sought him out so he could help.

This man was to be the death of him. He broke down all of Temenos’s walls as effortlessly as breathing. A long time ago, that would have scared him. Now, he wanted it more than anything.

When Crick finally composed himself, Temenos crossed his arms. “Laughing at me, are you? Well, fine then. I suppose I won’t invite you into my warm home and instead make you go back to the frigid winds of Stormhail. That ought to teach you better manners.”

Temenos bore into Crick with a displeased expression, but his words had no bite. He tried to keep a straight face, but his lips traitorously curved at the corners. He couldn’t help it when it came to Crick—he had the propensity to smile around him.

With a sigh, Temenos inched closer to Crick’s side until their shoulders touched.

“But since I enjoy having you around, I will forgive you just this once.” Temenos looked away shyly for a moment before resolving to say the words Crick deserved to hear. “And I will be very happy to have you in Flamechurch by my side, my dear.”

Crick silently took one of Temenos’s hands in his own, gentle and tender. The action made heat creep onto Temenos’s cheeks; he hoped Crick would assume the chill of the ocean breeze was to blame. But perhaps he wouldn’t be so lucky—Crick was ever so observant now, after all.

Crick studied Temenos’s fingers as if they were holy, thumb brushing along his knuckles. He seemed entranced, forgetting he was there. Temenos should be chastising him for being so bold (holding hands in public; my, what a sin!). Instead, he allowed him to carry on in his reverence, even if he didn’t understand it.

“…and I will be happy to stay by your side, Temenos. That was my vow after all,” Crick murmured at last.

Something in Temenos’s chest stirred.

“And is it only your vow that keeps us tethered? Or is there… something else?” As soon as the words left his lips, he regretted them. He was too lost in the moment, allowing himself to be hopeful over a dream that may never be real.

He might have just ruined everything.

Again, Crick surprised him, cheeks turning a light pink. He looked away panicked, though his hand in Temenos’s betrayed him—he gripped it tighter, and Temenos could feel the warmth of his blush spreading there. Temenos had an inkling of what that meant, but his mind still doubted. Crick hadn’t confirmed his feelings yet. He couldn’t assume until the man clearly voiced his thoughts.

…Poor Crick seemed to be at a loss, eyes intense as his emotions warred in his head. But then something changed. He took a shuddering breath, a look of resolution crossing his features as he threaded their fingers together.

“There is something else,” he said, turning to meet Temenos’s eyes. He sounded so confident, so assured. He didn’t see this side of Crick often; it was strangely captivating. “I understand if you do not reciprocate my feelings, Temenos, but you deserve to at least know how I feel about you.”

The grip on his hand loosened, just enough to allow Temenos to pull his hand away, if he so chose. It was an escape, he realized. Crick was giving him a chance to pull back, to keep things as they were between them. He was always considerate like that.

Before this whole journey, Temenos would have hastily pulled away, teasing Crick for his audaciousness and dancing around his words. He would have hidden behind his façade, keeping the balance of everything he has ever known in place.

But he was different now. He wanted something different in his life, something warm and loving. He was so lonely—he didn’t want to feel that way anymore, not after the elation of finally being surrounded by people he cared for and trusted again.

A stitched together family, but a family, nonetheless.

If Crick was going to take this leap, then Temenos would too. Tightening his grip on Crick’s hand, he nodded at him to continue. Crick grinned in that adorable way of his in response, and Temenos’s heart melted.

“I want to stay with you in Flamechurch, as more than your knight,” Crick began, blue eyes catching the light of the sun. “I want to experience everything with you. To hold you in my arms when you’re sad or hurt. To laugh and smile with you when you’re happy.”

A watery smile crossed Temenos’s lips. “…And why do you feel this way, my Godsblade?” Temenos asked eagerly, already knowing the answer.

Crick’s other hand rose to Temenos’s cheek, cradling it fondly as he brushed away a stray tear from Temenos’s face.

“Because… I love you, Temenos.”

Temenos’s breath caught in his throat. For once, his thoughts came to a startling halt, focusing only on the magnificence of the man before him. To proclaim his love for someone like him, someone who was so completely and utterly broken—

No. He wouldn’t think like that anymore.

Because… this silly little lamb who had stolen his heart reminded him each and every day that he didn’t have to be broken. That he could still be strong amid adversity and fight to protect and care for those he loves.

And of course, no matter how Temenos felt about himself, Crick would protect him from any harm and shelter him from his fears and doubts. If even after everything Temenos shared with him, Crick still wanted him…

Then there was nothing for it, was there?

Emboldened, Temenos pulled his hand from Crick’s, instead wrapping his arms around Crick’s neck. Crick’s hair was slightly longer; he had no time to cut it during their travels. Temenos was grateful for it, using the opportunity to card his hands through the soft curls there.

Crick placed his other hand on Temenos’s waist, seemingly content to hold him and nothing more. He gave no expectation for Temenos to respond. Accepting a silent answer.

It seemed he learned a bit of patience on their journey after all.

But Temenos wasn’t the same person he was at the beginning of his journey, either.

As Osvald said, he was wasting time. He wished every day he could spend more time with Roi and the Pontiff, wished he could express how much he loved them. It was a painful reminder, but a reminder nonetheless: to always enjoy the time he had.

So, voice steady and strong, Temenos accepted Crick’s words and said his own in return:

“I love you too, Crick.”

Crick seemed startled for only a moment. But when Temenos’s words registered, a tender, shy smile returned to his face. He gently traced his finger across Temenos’s cheek as if memorizing the surface with every touch. Maybe he was. Crick would do something so sentimental.

His eyes flitted downwards towards Temenos’s lips before quickly returning to meet Temenos’s. It was obvious what Crick wanted, but he was afraid to voice the thought. Such a considerate little lamb.

He would spare him (because he was feeling merciful today, apparently). “Crick… you’re allowed to kiss me if you’d like,” Temenos teased through a laugh.

Crick let out an embarrassed chuckle in return, tightening his hold on Temenos’s hip. “I, um… yes please,” he stuttered out, suddenly refusing to meet Temenos’s gaze. Temenos rolled his eyes fondly, trying to quell his own nerves in the process (though he would never admit to Crick he was nervous, even if he tried to interrogate him on the matter).

But he already overcame so much to reach this moment. He wouldn’t let it go, not when he finally had the opportunity to show Crick how much he meant to him. Temenos closed his eyes and leaned in, allowing Crick to fully close the distance.

His lips tasted like salt, likely from the ocean breeze. Though Temenos was partial to sweets, he found he didn’t particularly mind. In fact, he would argue that kissing Crick was sweeter than any pastry despite the salty taste (as cliché as that sounded, it was undeniably true).

Crick was adorably shy, pressing gently against Temenos’s lips as if he was unsure of himself. He was likely inexperienced, worrying about doing something wrong. It made it all the more wonderful, nostalgic even, like he was guiding Crick in Flamechurch all that time ago.

They parted for a moment for air before diving back in, this time Temenos taking the lead. He kept it chaste still (they were in public, after all), but it certainly had a bit more force behind it than Crick’s hesitant press. Delightedly, Crick’s hands only moved to hold him tighter, more steadfast.

They continued trading kisses for a while, venturing to cheeks, foreheads, jawlines, and even each other’s necks briefly (though Crick quickly became too embarrassed to do that one where someone could see—it only made Temenos more excited to corner him in the inn later).

But, as good things always did, it came to an end with the steady trickle of life in the plaza. It seemed the townspeople were finally rising for the day, the sounds of hurried footsteps rushing across the cobblestones to shop or see the sights (thankfully Roque had at least given the workers the day off to recover from their hearty celebration the night before).

Honestly, Temenos would have kept kissing Crick regardless. But of course, Crick had the sense to pull away… though not entirely. He instead moved his hand from Temenos’s cheek to join the other on his waist, pulling him close to his chest.

“Are you trying to stop me from kissing you?” Temenos questioned, chuckling against Crick’s chest. He couldn’t complain—he was sure nowhere would feel safer than in Crick’s arms.

A sheepish smile crossed Crick’s face. “Well, I thought it would be inappropriate if the townspeople saw us. Harmful to your image as the unshakeable, cold Inquisitor, as you so often remind me.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Temenos said with a sigh. “…But I’m perfectly content to remain in your arms, at least for the time being.”

In response, Crick pulled Temenos closer, angling their bodies so they could look out at the ocean together.  In the sky, orange and pink gave way to vibrant yellows and blues. The sun, now shining proudly high above the horizon, reflected off the roiling waves below. The surface appeared to be glittering, shining in the light of the dawn.

A magnificent sight, shared with someone who shined just as brilliantly.

“I hope to share moments like this with you always, Temenos. I’ll never let you go, if you’ll allow it.”

Temenos smiled, leaning in for another kiss.  “Of course, my dear lamb,” he whispered against Crick’s lips.

The ocean shimmered beneath the soft rays of morning light. Beneath the sun’s rays, Crick and Temenos held each other close, resolving to greet each new dawn together.