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A mother and son, juvenile he was, rode in a shrill wet dank night. Maybe the darkest of nights. Poets from the world old wrote about these nights. Nights when seemingly other worldly eldritch evils lurked, their teeth pale bone white, gnawed and clashed and bore, seeking rape red blood of any which their treacherous selves could clasp onto. Nights where cannibalistic barbarians raped and devoured their own flesh and blood. Where brute sadists and their henchmen followed behind their master's shadow,too their desires ugly and malicious. Nights where men hung pendulous from taught ropes on gallows, regardless of whether he were true of heart or the accusations against he rang true, or if both were true, and he sought redemption. Dismas was one of these men.
Come 5 seasons now, he once stood trial for the murder of the previous child and mother. It was an accident. Or partially. He was something of a scoundrel, (maybe he still was) the kind that robbed the rich and poor alike. (That's not to say he didn't feel the choir bells of guilt ring in his chest.) ( He did. That is something you, the readers, and I, the narrator, will discuss later. It'll be something of a reward later if read far enough). This mother and son rode by carriage thru twisting wild roads enveloped by fir and pine and oak, (Mirkwood is real) raindrops pattering against its intricate and gothic architecture like grapeshot bullets, pulled by a blacknight ebony stallion. Their purpose on this road has been lost and forgotten, but not Dismas'. He couldn't forget, no matter how many clammy-palmed hail Mary's and God-forgive-me's he whispered or howled.
Dismas had heard word of a carriage, mistaken to carry several rich pompous noblemen, very vulnerable, and carrying their oh-so precious jewels and golds and pearls and treasures alike.
He had tampered with the carriage wheels before its departure from some old hamlet at some old inn, stalking in the previous black night, (adorn with cloak and dagger in hand) and followed suit their departure. Upon a too late realisation by the coachmen, the carriage had gone wild and flipped on its side. Dismas acted fast, slitting the coachman's throat quick and cold and cut the traces, sending the beast riding wild and shrill screaming into the night like some pagan eldritch horror. Then, he blindly fired his flintlock pistol towards the riders without hesitation. That's when he too made late realisation.
Later, in the future, five years from now and wanted in several provinces (manslaughter, murder, trespassing, robbery, obscene indecent and profane broadcasts and a plethora of others) he worked for a young nobleman (ironic, isn't it?) in a hamlet far away, delving dungeons deep and slaying highwaymen (another irony) and eldritch beast alike (yes, even he couldn't believe the concept) until they were snuffed from near existence. He sought coin truthfully, but also redemption. The endeavour left him changed in a way that he wont truly ever he forget, but in a way he was grateful for it.
He was grateful for the people he met, (his lover, although unlikely, a man of great endeavours, a crusader if you would believe it.) (friends, too.) the people he saw, the places he went, and the things he did, all in great contrasts as joyously goddy and grim and shell shocking. He was offered a great introspection (things get ugly and bloody before they can get better) and thru that he sought admittance for his crimes and sin. (He will sin again, it is only human.
He stood kneeled, clammy and back wet with sweat, brow creased and eyes shut tight and knuckles white clasping a rosary like his life depended upon the item. He felt sick with bile rising in his throat, partially from the guilt of past sin and heavy burdens upon his slender and lean shoulders (deep scars laid puckered and raised flesh like parasites burrowed beneath dermis from lacerations and gunshots and stabbings alike)(these being both literal and figuratively) his ears rung and the bloodstreamrun of vermillion blood was deafening, only interrupted by a calloused hand lying gently on his shoulder. He knew this hand from anywhere, Reynauld.
"What have we got here?" His voice broke the silence, rough with age but it sounded like a thousand angels to Dismas. The pathetic sick man let out a wet cough and leaned against his lovers thigh, leaning into his big scarred and experienced hand as it trailed up his neck and into his damp with sweat black hair.
"Sick. Y'shouldn't be near." Dismas had no intentions of moving away, he leaned deeper. "Bit delirious."
Reynauld let out an amused laugh. "That why you're here? Should be resting up, dove." He moved to hoist Dismas up to his feet and the sick man didn't resist. "Let's talk on the way, aye?" He winked and Dismas nodded, fighting a weak smile, and failing.
They walked in silence as they made their way out of the empty cathedral and into the hot summer night, Dismas roughly heaving in struggle to suck air into his weak lungs. The air was hot and it made his pits wet with sweat. Into the bloody night they went towards the barracks.
The only sound was their boots crunching the gritty path beneath them until Reynauld broke the silence.
"You needn't punish yourself anymore, love. You've faced enough punishment as is." Dismas paused and stopped to look at Reynauld, and so too did the crusader. Dismas didn't deserve the soft look of mercy on the other mans aged face, he thought, as he looked at the mans scruffy salt and pepper beard.
"Nay, no. I haven't." He shook his head frantically and immediately regretted the movement. He swallowed away bile, vertigo striking with a wave of nausea. His knees buckled but Reynauld was able to catch him. They continued walking.
"I've sinned, I know this. You know this."
"Aye. Good men sin, too, and you are of such men"
Dismas laughed bitterly. "How's that?"
Reynauld sighed patiently, swallowing carefully as they walked. "Everyone sins. It's human. We know this alike. What sets us apart is what we do with this. Bad men know they do bad, they are bad because they know it and care not. Good men can do bad, what makes them and(you) is your remorse and want for redemption. It's been like this since the beginning of life itself."
It was a while before either spoke again. Carefully, Reynauld continued. "The light made us with great purpose, even purpose for the bad. Without it, good wouldn't be so great as it is. Life is impossible without contrasts. It's a bit hard to explain, but you see what I mean, aye? Such is too great for the eye of man to fully understand. Not even the greatest of men do. Theres a beauty in that."
Dismas grunted and turned away to hide his smile. He never knew he could be so in love.
"..you're a dear." He didn't say much more, he was avoidant in his way of showing love. Reynauld knew this by now, he loved him for it.
"Don't you know it?" He laughed heartily. They were at the barracks now. "Careful now." They made their way to their bedroom, speaking in hushed whispers as to not wake anyone up.
Dismas smiled gratefully as Reynauld slipped in bed beside him, and he put his cold feet against Reynaulds warm and hairy legs. And they did eat a tasty breakfast in the morning, and they did spoke. Dismas thinks he can learn to be okay with not being okay.