Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He didn't need this undo stress. He really didn't.

He had enough of it to begin with. Between a new “home” in constant risk of crumbling to the damnable dirt from whence it came, his own demons ever at the back of his mind, and the horrors lurking just outside the boundary lines, watching and waiting for any sign of weakness.

It was enough to be worried about just existing up here. More than enough to cause Dismas to drink himself to sleep more nights than not.

So when he said, confidently, that he did not need anything else in his already fraught life to be worried about, he meant it.

Yet here he was.

His leg bounced anxiously as he sat at his normal stool at the tavern, nursing the same tankard he had been slid hours ago when he arrived.

It was a week on from the last expedition leaving for the Ruins.

Dismas did not usually fret this much for expeditions, normally to have several of their companions away from the Hamlet was typical. And Dismas was more than confident in… most of his newfound coworkers’ abilities. He had been working alongside them for almost a year now, after all. But this mission in particular irked him… mostly because he had not been permitted to join it.

His hand gripped his tankard tighter, the leather of his gloves creaking slightly against the wood. Remembering the Heir’s words as he had dictated who would be undertaking the journey:
Junia, for her healing verses. Sarmenti for his quick dagger and comforting jests. Reynauld for his bolstering commands and his stunning blows…

And Baldwin.

Baldwin. For his stalwart bulk and devastating strikes.

It was not that Dismas was disappointed to be given a week off, or that he doubted Baldwin’s abilities with the greatsword that was nearly bigger than he was, but…

It was just… he had never not accompanied Reynauld on forrays. They had begun this work together and the Heir Darkest had not yet seen fit to separate them…

until now.

They worked well together. As much as Dismas had hated to admit it when he and the Crusader had been forced together by the Heir in order to reclaim his long abandoned property. Dismas’ speed complimented and balanced out Reynauld’s heavy, slow bulk. Likewise, Reynauld made up for and could shield the far more vulnerable highwayman.

More than that, the two were incredibly used to working together. Sure Reynauld still barked orders like a general, a habit he found impossible to break when in the thick of heady battle. But when push came to shove, Reynauld and Dismas were in sync enough to understand how the other worked and how to support each other. Even without words. They were an unstoppable team, if Dismas said so himself.

And he did.

And yet…

“Baldwin’s blows will serve better for this mission, Dismas. More than one heavy hitter is required for this foray, you understand.” The Heir had said, apparently sensing some of Dismas’ dismay (perhaps it had shown on his face.)

Dismas had just nodded at the time. Said nothing of his internal thoughts of how often he had seen the skeletons and lingering cultists of the ruins dodge out from under the Leper’s blows, no matter how focused his mind was. He’d kept his mouth shut because as much as Dismas had a sharp tongue he also knew better than to talk back to the Lord of the Estate. But still it itched at him, like a particularly aggressive tick.

“You ever going to drink that?” A drawling voice from behind him crowed. In years passed this sudden intrusion into his internal monologue might have startled him enough to cause him to reach for his dirk. But now he could recognize Audrey anywhere and couldn't be surprised by the woman anymore.

He grumbled into his tankard, “Can’t you leave well enough alone, woman?”

Audrey chuckles, part humor, part annoying jab at his innermost thoughts— because she knew him better than most, and knew perfectly well when he was sulking. She slipped herself up into the seat beside him. Her hands playing with a few of the gaudy rings on her fingers.

“I’ll take it off your hands if you aren’t gonna drink it.~” She wheedled, placing a hand on his shoulder which Dismas promptly shrugged off.

“I’ll drink it when I drink it.”

“You wooont. You’re going to nurse it till your big hunk of tin man comes back and then you’re going to leave a perfectly good pint here wasted.”

Dismas frowned deeper into the untouched swirling liquid, saying nothing in response because he knew she was right. He’d been waiting on the bells all afternoon after all. The bells that would toll to tell him when the expedition had returned. The bells which would toll to tell him Reynauld was safe. That the Crusader had not perished because Dismas wasn’t there to watch his back…

But of course he’d never tell the woman she was right, over his dead body. So he just slouched a little lower and huffed an irritated noise into his un-drank liquor.

Jubert passed by and gave Dismas a look which lingered between sympathy and annoyance, which was at least fair enough in Dismas’ mind. Normally he would have given up half his last paycheck by now. Instead all he was doing was taking up a seat. But still, the man hadn’t kicked him out yet and Dismas was grateful. He nodded at the bartender, trying to convey some of the gratitude, and decided that once Reynauld was back and his spirits were improved, he would buy a round for the whole tavern.

Maybe he could even get the Crusader to join them…

“You know he’s gonna come back, right?”

Audrey was still at his elbow, but it seems she had softened minutely, staring at Dismas. He however continued to frown.
“I don't know shit sweetheart. Not unless I’m there to see it.” He said.

“Look, whatever else happens Junia’s not going to let the big lump get offed. Who else is gonna sit with her in mass and pretend not to listen to her gossip?”

Dismas gave a small snort, but he had to admit she had a point, he had been on the receiving end of Junia’s healing warmth many a time. He’d watched her heal worse wounds than he’d ever seen, he had no doubt she could heal Reynauld from most anything.

“And Baldwin’s not that bad.”

“He misses more than he hits!” Dismas bit back. His mind returned to Baldwin, the bitter taste reappearing in the back of his throat.

The leper was fine. A bit of a stoic sod at times, but a good man nonetheless. Dismas didn't enjoy the sudden distaste he had grown for the man. But when he had been picked over Dismas himself to watch his now-oldest friend’s back… well suddenly ‘fine’ didn’t seem good enough.

“You’re only saying that because you’re worried about your boyfriend. Besides, even if he can’t hit for shite, he can still be a meat shield.” Audrey had obtained her own flagon of ale now that it was clear Dismas wouldn't share his. But as opposed to him, she seemed to have no qualms about drinking hers down.

“He’s not my boyfriend.” Dismas groused, his ears slightly warm. But Audrey ignored him.

“Tin man’s not known for breaking rank, which means he’ll have a nice, squishy wall of Leper between him and all them nasty bone men down in those halls.” The former-heiress beside him continued. Her tone was ambivalent, but the simple fact that she was taking the time showed just how concerned she was. Dismas felt a touch of warmth in the pit of his stomach… he must have been doing a lot of moping around if she was trying this hard to cheer him up.

He sighed and scrubbed his face roughly with his gloved hand. It did help to imagine Reynauld, clad in his plate armor, shouting rallying cries from behind the bulk of the leper.

When he pulled his hands away from his face he managed a slight smirk in Aubrey’s direction.
“…thanks sweetheart.” He said finally, to which Audrey just tutted, tossing her hair.

“If you really want to thank me, you can pay my tab for the evening. Some of us require pay for our services.” She said,

Dismas snorted “Didn’t realize you’d taken up work in the cathouse.” He teased, but he was still reaching for his coin purse.

“If I had, you couldn't afford m-“ Audrey started to bite back but paused.

Her and half of the whole tavern went silent, as distantly, bells from the survivalist’s waystation began to ring. Dismas’ hand had stopped midway to his purse, eyes wide as he listened.

One toll.

Two tolls.

Three…

Four.

Dismas nearly breathed a sigh of relief— four tolls; one for each person spotted returning. That meant they were all safe, but then—

A fifth bell toll rang out in the hamlet, and with it a wave of murmurs in the tavern. Dismas didn't even hear them. The second the fifth toll had sounded he was off his stool and running. Through the door into the town square with its bustle of constant repair, its old hanging tree and the statue of the Heir’s ancient ancestor standing tall and proud.

Dismas saw none of this as his feet pounded him down the road in the direction of the gate that separated the hamlet from the wild lands beyond. His blood ran cold in his veins.

Five tolls.

One for each hero returning to the hamlet, and a final one to signal that aid was needed. That there was something wrong.

What had happened?

He was not the only one responding to the fifth chime. The bustle of the town was increasing, as Doctors and Clerics spilled from the Sanitorium and Abbey respectively. Voices thronging through the little hamlet as all pondered what could have gone wrong. Lingering anxiously, most unwilling to leave the safety of the hamlet.

Dismas kept running, his heart going a mile a minute in his chest as he approached the gates, his mind racing with possibilities, all of them bad. Thinking maybe if he just ran fast enough he could spare Reynauld whatever fate might have befallen him.

It was after he passed the gate and crested a hill that led down the Old Road that he spotted them; Four figures silhouetted against the slowly setting sun. Immediately Dismas knew something was wrong. All of them were standing, but two of the figures were seemingly having to hold onto the third. Who was writhing and wheeling in their grip. Dismas swallowed hard, throwing a rare prayer up to the Light as he hurried the hill down to meet them.

As they came into better view Dismas’ stomach dropped out.

They looked horrible, all of them. Their eyes wide and filled with horror. Bloody, and bandaged and beaten. Sarmenti had an arm in a makeshift sling. Junia had blood slowly dripping down her face into an eye nearly swollen shut. Baldwin’s armor was in bad shape and his hands shook, his bandages were soiled with more than just the normal shows of his leprosy.

And Reynauld…

Reynauld was writhing like a cat being forced into a bath. Twisting and contorting as Baldwin did everything in his substantial power to keep a hold on him and continue him forward. At some point in the fray the Crusader had lost his helmet and— Dismas realized with a hollow pang, his greatsword. Reynauld’s armor was bloody and the man underneath seemed still to be bleeding heavily from several wounds to his side and chest where his heavy armor had been pierced and torn. With every squirm of his bulk came another pooling of crimson blood on the ground.

Junia was trying to speak.

“Reynauld please! Calm yourself! We’re nearly there, but you’re bleeding, I need to heal you.”

But the Crusader was having none of it, roughly smacking away the Vestal’s hand which had been raised in a gesture of supplication to the Holy Light. And when he spoke, his voice was pitched with panic.

“None of your fowl curses, witch! Get thee away from me, all of you! I’ll not let you drag me to the dark!”

Dismas’s eyes were wide and a cold sweat had broken out on his brow and palms despite his harried run. He had never heard Reynauld rave like this.

Others, yes. It was not rare for an adventurer to be dragged to a cell in the Sanitorium, ranting and howling about the horrors they had witnessed in the depths of the wilds.

But never Reynauld.

Somehow in Dismas’ mind the man was too sure. Too steadfast in his faith to be swayed to such ravings by the dark things of this estate.

Dismas was never so devastated in being wrong.

“Oh thank the Gods, it’s the Highwayman.”

Dismas was roused from his shock by Sarmenti’s voice. Left without the use of one of his arms it seems the jester had been left to handle the group’s loot and remaining provisions and had been able to spot him first.

“Come give us a hand with your boy toy won’t you??”

Dismas ignored the clown’s comment in favor of speeding up and finally meeting the four. They looked even worse up close. Every scuff, cut, and injury stands out in stiff contrast.

“What in the seventh hell happened?” Dismas started to say but his voice was cut off by—

“Dismas-!”

He barely had time to brace himself before the Crusader had managed to squirm his way out of Baldwin’s firm grasp and nearly tackle him. Even still the wind was knocked half out of him as Reynauld, a much larger man than he, was suddenly clinging to him as if his life depended on it.

“Rey, wha-?” He tried to say but the knight was already speaking.

“You live, thank the Light. Come! We must away from these foul loathsome servants of the beyond!” He said, his mistrustful eyes on the rest of his companions as he did a strange dance of trying to defend Dismas from their friends, while also trying to keep himself as far from them as possible. It would have been funny if this situation were not the furthest thing from funny Dismas had ever experienced.

“Reynauld calm down ya bucket head, ya aren’t makin’ any sense!” Dismas interjected. Putting his arms around the knight’s middle just to try and keep him still, staunch some of the blood which was still flowing. Dismas was very quickly becoming worried that if they didn't hurry, Reynauld would bleed out under the delusion that his friends’ healing magic was heresy.

He exchanged a worried glance with Junia who gave a desperate shrug. Tears pricking the corner of her good eye.

“We were ambushed by something… we’ve never seen anything like it…” she murmured. “Tall and gaunt and… robbed in yellow…” she shuddered. Reynauld continued to pull at Dismas’ coat as if trying to pull him away.

“It had a chattering skull for a head, gazed out from a glowing blue iron cage.” Sarmenti said with something between a mad giggle and a sob, Baldwin nodded gravely and when he spoke his voice was distant and shaken.

“It fought with the conjured aspects of friends, fallen and… Otherwise...”

Reynauld whimpered like a frightened dog.

“Reynauld tried to charge it,” Junia whispered, “but… it opened its cloak and… and..”

“We must retreat-! Dismas please!” Reynauld’s voice was getting weaker and hoarse.

“What we need is to get you all to Para.” Dismas said firmly. “C’mon tin man. You lot.”

And so Dismas walked. Holding Reynauld who clung to him. Mumbling words about heretics and skinned faces in the dark. His sweat smeared and bloody face pressed so close to Dismas’ that he could feel the tenner of his panicked breathing. It caused his stomach to do odd little flips as they walked— or more aptly, as Dismas dragged the Crusader on.

The holy knight’s footprints left bloody track marks with every step and Dismas’ panic grew ever more gnawing.

It seemed the whole town had come out to meet them.

As they crossed through the Hamlet’s high, wrought iron gate, others began to approach and join them. Boudicca on the outskirts of town holding her wild greataxe took one look at the situation and quickly moved to help the ailing jester, who was flagging under his injuries and the weight of the packs. The hellion decided it was just easier to pick up the spindly man as well as all of the goods he carried.

William, flanked by his great shaggy wolfhound, loped down from the survivalist’s lookout, slotting easily under Baldwin’s bulk as the leper began to stumble. The hound moved to Junia’s side and pressed against her for comfort. The nun nearly bawled as she pressed her trembling hands into wiery-soft dog fur.

Reynauld on the other hand, seemed to grow twice as anxious with every person he saw. Pressing back against Dismas as if he was trying to force the other man back towards the gate all the while muttering frantically to himself.

“It’s not safe. Heretics, witches, black hearted brigans, they will gut us like pigs.”

“Rey, c’mon. They’re our friends.” Dismas tried to say, continuing to barely manage to pull the knight along. He had sometimes imagined wrestling with the crusader, in one way or another. But never like this.

“Dismas I- I can't protect you here, my sword, it took my sword, we cannot face this foe- '' The desperation in Reynauld’s voice nearly made Dismas ill. Though perhaps that was just him suddenly realizing that his right pant leg and boot were sticky with Reynauld’s blood.

“I don't need you to protect me, let me take care a’you Rey, c’mon now. We’re safe. We’re gonna get this figured out.” Dismas tried to keep his voice steady and calm like the Vestals did when others came back afflicted, begging at their skirts for penantance. He ignored the voice screaming panic in the back of his own head, if he could keep Reynauld calm, he could be calm himself.

“Reynauld, listen to me, you’re safe, I’m safe. Just trust me!”

The soldier in his arms had begun to tremble like the last of the autumn leaves facing an oncoming stormfront and Dismas wasn’t sure if it was from the blood loss or the anxiety still seeded deep in Reynauld’s soul. But either way Dismas’ words seem to reach him somehow because he stopped squirming as much and simply clung to the thief, his face buried in the man’s hair, eyes squeezed closed like a child trying to hide from a monster under their covers.

Light above how Dismas had secretly longed for this kind of closeness with Reynauld.

In the middle of the night as he lay awake in his bunk in the barracks, or else round a campfire in the wilder lands with sleep not forthcoming he had sometimes thought about what it would be like to be completely enveloped by the Crusader. Held close and safe in his arms. To perhaps wind his clever fingers into the man’s well kept brown hair and beard, or else sneak under the heavy layers of plate and gambeson to the man underneath. To make the stoic holy knights breath quicken and stutter under the work of his fingers and mouth.

But all of that felt hollow now. Reynauld was so close and Dismas was getting a taste of what he had secretly longed for, but at a terrible price. To see the holy man brought so low with terror made Dismas’ once stone cold heart ache.

The scattered, odd group of seven turned a final corner and Dismas allowed himself the slightest breath of relief. The town square was crowded with people. Townsfolk, adventurers, and what seemed to be the entire host of both Sanitorium and Abbey.

Dismas silently thanked the Light.

“Para-! We need you-!” He called loudly, some of his desperation peaking through in a slight crack in his voice. It was harder and harder to stay level headed when Reynauld was muttering frantic prayers in his ear, as if the man was giving himself last rites.

The townsfolk whispered nervously, Adventurers had come back injured and stark raving mad before but it was never easy… and to see those so resolute in their faith in the Light and so steadfast in their defenses fall so far and so fast… it was naturally frightening. Dismas saw Audrey near the front of the crowd, a rare look of concern passing across her face. But Dismas couldn't think about that now.

Boudica did not wait for anyone, simply striding forward in the direction of the flock of doctors and their Sanitorium halls. Passing off the collected loot to the Caretaker who could just barely be seen lurking in the crowd.

A collection of Vestals hurried forward murmuring prayers and comforts to the Leper and to Junia who fell into the embrace of her sisters gratefully, the gentle hound still dutifully at her side.

Another senior Vestal of the church made to approach Reynauld and Dismas, her hands already outstretched as if to help, but before Dismas could warn her, she got too close and Reynauld was howling again.

“I’LL NOT LET YOU TAKE US DAMNABLE HELLSPAWN-!” He bellowed, strength somehow returning, despite the blood loss to the point that Dismas had to dig his heels into the dirt and nearly dead weight himself to keep the Crusader in place. The unfortunate Vestal froze in place, eyes wide as a frightened doe. “THIS IS A TEST OF MY FAITH! I SENSE IT! YOU VILE CURRS SHALL NOT SUNDER ME FROM THE LIGHT! I SHALL SEE YOU ALL HANG-!”

“Reynauld stop! Stop!” Dismas shouted. Pulling himself up to put his hands on either side of the man’s face and bring his darting eyes away from the crowd surrounding them, down to Dismas’, trying to force their eyes to meet. Because for some Light-forsaken reason the man had decided that Dismas was the only trustworthy person here and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to take advantage of that. “Rey, c’mon, it’s me, you’re back, snap out of it- PARACELSUS!”

The name was shouted over his shoulder desperately as he tried to hold Reynauld’s panicked gaze. Surely if anyone could sort this out, it was the bird masked maniac.

“D-Dismas…” Reynauld’s voice dropped. Barely a murmur between them.
“Yeah, you big lumbering idiot. I'm right here. You’re home.”

There was the briefest moment in which Dismas looked into Reynauld’s icy blue eyes and thought he saw a moment of clarity behind the panic. A moment of recognition.

But in a flurry of movement out of the crowd that clarity vanished back into the haze of animalistic fight or flight reflexes brought on by the paranoia of the abominations which they fought.

Paracelsus had finally arrived, a team of similarly suited doctors and apprentices hurrying along behind. Paracelsus herself was holding a, frankly terrifyingly large syringe of amber liquid.

The moment they were within a few feet Reynauld roared again. Dismas had to wrap his arms tight around the struggling man’s upper body, pinning his arms in a desperate attempt to stop the man flailing and hitting anyone nearby. Even still the man fought like a caged bear. All the while screaming oaths and desperately calling to the Light to deliver him.

“Reynauld afflicted eh?“ Paracelsus’ voice hissed close by Dismas’ shoulder, checking her syringe idly while leaning in to look at Reynauld’s wild eyes. “Well… can't say I won’t enjoy this a little.”

“Is this the time, Para??” Dismas growled as his feet nearly left the ground from a particularly heavy twist from Reynauld.

There was a low chuckling. “Always, Dismas. Now hold him still.”

It was all he could do really. He was not about to let Reynauld go any time soon. He figured it was better for him to handle the brunt of Reynauld’s struggling. Better him than the other doctors who had descended in a close ring around the two of them, most of whom seemed like it would only take a light tap to send them flying. Some were trying to aid Dismas in holding the injured man still, others were trying to assess the numerous wounds along the Crusader’s body. It wasn’t currently much help, and in Dismas’ mind seemed more likely to set Reynauld off more, but what else could they do?

“Reynauld look at me!” Dismas’ voice cut above the howl of the other man’s lunacy. Causing him to falter. His wild, animal eyes found Dismas’ own and they stared at each other. Dismas tried with all his might to radiate calm, to instill some peace between them. Find that moment of clarity he had seen before once more.

“Dis-?” Reynauld’s voice cut off in another howl and even Dismas jumped as Paracelsus beside him suddenly struck, plunging her needle into the Crusader’s exposed side, where something unspeakable had torn apart his armor. Dismas looked away for just a moment to watch the plague doctor inject whatever drug she deemed necessary deep into Reynauld’s side, his grip slackening just slightly as he hoped beyond hope whatever the Plague Doctor had thrown together would work.
And in that moment Reynauld pulled his arms finally free from Dismas’ hold. Dismas cried out whirling back and suddenly worried the man would finally start swinging at him. But instead of a frontal assault, Reynauld was instead clinging to him again. Whole body radiating desperation and terror.

“Dismas do not forsake me-! Help, do not let them take me-!”

His throat was dry, the hands of the doctors were descending again. Out of the corner of Dismas’ eye he saw one of them was preparing a straight jacket.

The highwayman tried to open his mouth, to say some comfort to him, but no sound came from him.

“Dismas please-!”

It was horrible to hear Reynauld beg, like he thought these were his last moments on earth. He had started crying slightly, more out of animalistic terror than anything else and unconsciously Dismas’ hands had come up to hold Reynauld’s face, wipe away the offending tears cutting tracks in the blood but the Doctors were trying to push him off, to be able to access their patient.

“Rey-“

“Dismas, I love you. I love you, don't let them take me-! PLEASE! Don't let them take me!”

Dismas’ whole body went rigid as he stared wide eyed and open mouthed at the crusader. Whose voice was growing weaker and weaker, pitching up until it reminded Dismas of the rabbits he had watched the other brigands trap and kill for meat and pelt when he was a much younger man.

It felt like he’d been gutted. Like one of those rabbits.

“Reynauld..” it was all he could say, and it was soft. Barely more than a whisper.

Paracelsus’ physic had done its work. Reynauld’s eyelids were drooping and his movements were slowing. Or maybe, Dismas thought in a sudden panic, he really was just dying, teetering on death’s door right in front of him.

“Don’t leave me-!” Reynauld made one final reach for the highwayman before his eyes rolled and he went fully limp. Collapsing into a waiting gaggle of doctors, who Paracelsus began to shepherd towards the Sanitorium.

All Dismas could do for a long while was stare in the direction they’d gone. His gaze stricken and hollow.

He stared for so long that a majority of the town square cleared out. Worried residents resigned back to their daily tasks. Adventurers returning to the tavern or the guild hall to talk in lowered voices about the afternoon’s events. Occasionally someone would pass close enough by him to pat him on the back or shoulder, or else murmur some word of sympathy to him. But Dismas was unaware of anything around him. All he could do was continue to stare in the direction of the Sanitorium. As if Reyanuld was going to return any minute, whole of body and mind again.

Dismas just stood there, body going cold and numb as the sun began to set in earnest and the shadows grew long. Until a gentle hand was laid on his shoulder.

“Dismas..?” Audrey asked, slowly, tentatively.

He did not respond. He did the first thing that he could think to do.

He ran.

Chapter Text

The cemetery.

Light above why had he chosen the cemetery.

Though, truth be told he hadn’t really chosen the destination. He had simply let his feet carry him away.

Away from the Town Square and Audrey with her prickly comfort. Away from the trail of blood Reynauld had left in his wake. Apparently in trying to move as far as possible from the harrowing images still embedded in his mind he had paced his way to the churchyard.

It was fitting, he thought, in a way.

If Reynauld died he would end up here.

The thought made him shudder, made bile rise up in the back of his throat. It was as if his whole being was rejecting the thought. Because how would an earth that could by the barest of metrics be called good allow a man like Reynauld to die? Dismas had only just recently allowed himself to quietly believe all the nonsense Rey liked spouting about hope and courage and the good in the world… it would be entirely unfair to rip those hopes away from him so soon.

Unfair, but entirely typical for the trend of Dismas’ life so far.

Someone had recently oiled the hinges of the cemetery gates, meaning they did not scream quite so loudly when they opened. A fact that Dismas was grateful for. Unsure if his already shot nerves could handle that now, when Reynauld’s petrified screams were still echoing around his ears.

Closing the gate behind him Dismas reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a flint and steel and a worn snuff box. It was lucky for him he had rolled some cigarettes this morning because his hands were trembling so badly he doubted he could have rolled anything half decent at the moment. He had a hard enough time getting it lit with the flint.

Taking long, slow drags from his cigarette Dismas wandered along the well maintained path of the cemetery, passed the old weather beaten and worn down stone slabs which had once marked the Heir’s long deceased family tree and into the newer part of the cemetery.

Now that Barristan had passed, the Vestals led by Junia had taken up the job of maintaining the little plots of land, and their attentiveness showed. The grass was neatly cut, flowers and candles standing fast along the new graves the Hamlets residents had had to erect. Some were simple wood, crosses cobbled together to emulate the sigil of the Holy Light. It had been all they’d been able to manage in the beginning. But the few more recent graves were themselves proper headstones of limestone and granite.

Dismas exhaled smoke, relishing the burn in his lungs. Some sort of sensation keeping him tethered to his physical body. A sign that he was still alive, at least for now.

His gaze drifted over Jingles’ headstone, made of wood but well loved. Someone had brought a bundle of wildflowers and set it on the grown over mound of earth under which the original Jester lay. Dismas guessed it had been the Leper.

Traveling further his eyes saw the names of other adventures who had come to this place eager, only to fall. Lingering on the names of Bidgy and Barristan.

He sighed.

Would he be erecting Reynauld’s tombstone here soon?

Did he even have the strength for such a task? Even the thought of it turned his legs to jelly.

He sat down on the stone slab that covered the place where Barristan lay and bitterly thought that the Man-at-Arms had it easy. At least the dead needn’t worry about the living.

With another bitter sigh Dismas shoved his flint and snuff box back into his pocket. As he did his hand brushed along something else in the pocket. Curiously he closed his fingers around it. It was a small, but heavy object. Apparently sculpted or cast in a metal of some kind; a charm of sorts hanging from a chain.

Pulling it out Dismas squinted, realizing what it was with a sharp pang in his chest.

A small symbol of the Light, cast in bronze, dangling from a dirty silver chain. Reynauld had given this to him, so long ago now that Dismas had almost forgotten, after a particularly harrowing venture into the Weald in which Dismas had nearly lost his mind to the futility of it all.

‘For you, rogue. Whether you believe or not.’ Reynauld had said, pressing the well worn worry charm into his hands.
Dismas had probably bit back with something sarcastic at the time… but he couldn't remember it now. And he had kept the charm nonetheless.

Running his thumb over it now his stomach churned and he cursed himself.

What if Reynauld was really dead? What then would he do?

He had no idea. And his mind continued to extrapolate.

….What if he lived, what then?

Either option was fraught as far as Dismas could see.

The idea of Reynauld dead stung deep. Deeper than Dismas knew what to do with. He had had many a companion die on him before. But where once he had been a steely highwayman who cared naught but for himself… now he found himself softened with age and prolonged exposure to odd companions who, in their own strange ways seemed attached to him.

Hell he had even begun to call them friends, call this place home. Both foreign concepts to him until now. To lose Reynauld would be to lose a part of his home.

But… if Reynauld was still alive… where did they go from here?

‘I love you.’ ‘Dismas, I love you.’ ‘Don’t leave me.’

The Crusader had said it himself, stark raving or not.

Dismas had never been shy about his sexual preferences in the past (men, big ones.) But with Reynauld it had always been different. Dimas knew by now that out there somewhere was a wife and child that carried the holy warrior’s sir name . Part of him (a very small secret part of him) had always been jealous of them for that.

But barring the mysterious family left behind, you would have never known Reynauld for a man of any sort of desire, he blushed like a virgin and often shrugged off remarks of that sort directed his way. Well known was his distaste for the brothel, and the Hellion, Grave Robber, and Jester’s proclivities for speaking openly about their sexual experiences. Dismas had once called him a ‘prude of the highest order’ and had taken it upon himself to tease him as much as possible for it.

And yet…

He had said it.

Dismas could still hear the declaration in his head, making his heart beat fast and loud in his ears.

Perhaps it had not been true. A desperate ploy by the half mad Crusader to get the Highwayman to keep him out of the clutches of the doctors who were descending upon him. Perhaps it had simply been meant to pull at Dismas’ heartstrings, to force him to act… it could be a lie.

He hoped it wasn’t though.

Dismas worried the bronze cross in his hands absently. Unaware of the stretching of the shadows around him and the oncoming darkness. Attempting to ignore how Reynauld’s blood was drying on his pantleg and boot, cooling the flesh beneath as it did. His gaze was pointedly absent. He didn't even notice when his cigarette burned out…

When he finally did look up it was hard to tell how much time had passed. His head was still buzzing but night seemed to have properly set in. Stars hung overhead, seemingly over bright, and distantly, Dismas could see torches lit outside the Abbey and in the square. He could not, however, hear anything. No later night revelers in Jubert’s, no quiet evening mass from the Abbey, no owls or bat swooping low or crickets making their presence known in the underbrush.

It produced a strange effect on the surrounding area. Making him suddenly feel as if he were in a bubble, alone except for his restless thoughts and the silent dead.

“Think ‘ve been here too long…” he said to himself, nervously standing. He doubted sleep would come easy but suddenly the crowded bunk house seemed more appealing than this corpse yard.

“There you are~!”

Keen senses or not, Dismas actually jumped. Because with hardly a sound of warning, breaking the muted silence was a voice, speaking directly in front of him. His eyes widened and he stumbled back before he could even properly take in who had spoken in the dark.

This was a very bad choice.

As he moved back one of his feet left solid earth and he began to fall. Where once there had been a stonework monument, there was now just a deep back pit in the ground. Dismas wheeled his arms, yelping in alarm as he tried to catch his balance. Unsure how or why this was happening and worried quite suddenly that some eldritch thing had taken hold of his mind while he sat deep in thought and defenseless.

A hand grabbed his wrist, steadying him just so but not pulling him forward. Simply letting him dangle slightly, leaning further back than he was comfortable with over the open grave behind him.

“Oooooh dear. Well this is a predicament.” The voice from before said as Dismas finally took her in.

He had to do a double take as he stared at her. For a moment he thought it was Audrey, come to find him in his sulking. But no… as he looked closer he realized it was not. Where Audrey’s hair was limp and icy blonde, this woman’s hair was full and black. Although she had styled her clothes much like the ex-heiress and seemed to have some of her wit and charm.

Bele…

He recalled her name in a flash but remembering did not improve his mood any.

Bele had come on the stagecoach. A pretty thing eager for money and a chance to prove herself. She and Audrey had gotten close, like sisters they liked to say.

And then Bele had been killed. Her pretty head chopped off her pretty neck by the Swine Prince down in the Warrens.

Dismas’ throat was dry as he tried to speak. But Bele just smiled at him. Grinning cheekily before giving a wink.

“Do try to learn something down there.” She said.

Then she let go.

And Dismas fell. Down into the cold and dark.

He might have screamed, but if he did he could not hear it over the roaring of wind in his ears or the pounding of his own heart.
He wasn’t even certain how far he fell or for how long. It seemed both infinitely long and no time at all, with the kind of dream logic that one might expect from such an outlandish situation. Because he couldn’t possibly be falling down into an actual grave could he? Not Barristan’s surely. He had watched Barristan’s filled not three months ago.

When he finally landed, it confirmed for him that something was indeed off because he landed gently on solid ground that smelled like overturned soil and rot. If this had truly been something of the estate it would not have been so gentle with him. Things here did not make a habit of being kind, or gentle.

“Hullo!” He called after a moment in which he fought to get his breath back and force his heart back down into his chest where it belonged. His voice had no echo, it was muffled as if it didn’t travel very far at all.

Damn. Maybe he had fallen in a pit.

“Hullo-!!” He shouted again. Looking up he couldn’t see the sky so perhaps it was some kind of crypt system he’d stumbled upon. Either way he didn’t want to stick around too long. So he stuck out his hands in front of him in the blinding dark and started tentatively walking. Dismas figured with the lack of an echo he’d hit a wall sooner rather than later. A wall meant he could gather his bearings, reassess the situation.

His feet edged carefully along, the ground seemed slightly pliant, adding more to his ‘underground’ theory, but even as he continued to inch forward in the pitch black he was still met with empty space in front of his hands.

Cursing, he continued.

It felt like he walked for several hours in that abyss, his ears straining for any sign of life or movement. Scared half out of his wits over the prospect of what he’d actually find if he heard anything. Trying to forget the old wives tales Sarmenti liked to tell about Rats the size of hounds, and longing desperately for a torch.

“Where’s Reynauld with his bleeding verses when you need him.” He mumbled. Imaging the man with his sword and banner raised, emanating the Holy Light itself. The first time he’d seen the man do it he had scoffed a little, but since then he had grown to appreciate the ability, especially in cases such as this.

As if on cue, as if just imagining the light had summoned it, Dismas heard some distant sound, and, turning his head slightly, caught a glimpse of light. It made him catch his breath, relief flooding him, his feet hurrying towards the light with all the desperation of a drowning man with a floating piece of timber. More than the light he thought he heard… familiar voices. Friendly chatter. It sounded like Jubert’s on a festival night when everyone was in a good mood thanks to some combination of good food, hard booze, and holiday spirit.

Dismas scrambled, stumbled, and then nearly fell out into the lit area. Squinting against the sudden hard light…

And realized he had somehow dug himself out into a grand hall.

He blinked.
“What in the-?”

Marble columns and walls lined with expensive paintings and tapestries, all around him men and women dancing, hoop skirts swirling in the presence of a sudden orchestral swelling of music. The small 10 piece orchestra in the corner headed up by…

Jingles??

Dismas rubbed his eyes, but there he was in the flesh, the Hamlet’s first Jester. Clad head to toe in his red, black, and gold Jester’s costume, bells shining on the dangling hat, and mask concealing the man underneath.

But Jingles was dead, how could this..?

Was HE dead?

Jingles, with a final flourish of his baton, set the orchestra off and finally turned to face him.

“Hey Dizzy, long time no see!” He parroted in his sing-song voice as he jingled and jangled his way over to meet the Highwayman. He seemed pleased, but his speech was somehow muffled. He sounded almost like he was speaking half underwater.

Dismas just blinked at him, mouth gaping like a fish.
“But, but you’re..?” He finally rasped.
“Oh no need to worry about a silly little thing like that.” The clown replied with an ease Dismas thought this situation did not merit whatsoever. He nearly said as much before the Jester sprang forward, nimble as ever to put an arm around his shoulders turning the highwayman back around to gaze across the expansive hall of swirling silk skirts.

“So! Pretty great party eh?” Jingles asked, sounding proud, despite the strange quality of his voice.
“Erm- yeah… yeah s’alright Jingles.” Dismas said, awkwardly. This room reminded him of a place he might have robbed once, in a past life. His mind was reeling as it attempted to summon up a logical explanation for what was happening.

He had to be dreaming… had to be. Or was this some kind of enchantment like the dark sorcery that Alhazred or the Siren of the Cove could summon up?

That idea was only cemented when he began to see familiar figures waltzing amoungst the crowd. Bele again in a dress of blue and gold on the arm of an aristocratic gentleman who lifted and spun her with ease, Barristan looking well groomed in a kilt and tailored shirt and vest dancing with a woman whose face was hidden behind an elegant fan, Bigby had no dance partner, but swayed to himself in time off to one side, his feet tapping slightly off beat.

“This can't be happening…” Dismas breathed.
“No?” The thief could literally hear the raised eyebrow in Jingles’ tone.
“No!” Dismas snapped back, entirely too tense and more than a little on edge. “You’re all dead Jingles!”

There was a pause. The current song seeming to die at Dismas’ proclamation, but a new tune started up just as quickly, so perhaps it was just his imagination. The dance seemed to change from a free waltz to something with choreographed steps and changing partners.

“Well… you’re right Dismas.” Jingles finally said, in that strange waterlogged tone. But this time his voice was less jovial, deeper, and full of a harder to place emotion. “We’re all dead… so what does that make you?”

With an unexpectedly rough shove the highwayman was sent sprawling forward into the flow of the dance. Dismas got one last good look at the clown. Watching with rising horror as sudden gouts of red liquid— not unlike the red wine Jingles had been drowned with, bubbled up and poured out from around the area of his mouth and nose.

Dismas was whisked away by faceless merrymakers who pulled him through the hall and passed him along like he’d always been part of the dance, uncaring and unaware of the man’s sudden fear.

It was disorienting. All around him were pressing bodies, swaying and cavorting in time to the raucous jig. He was spun and passed again and again by unknown people while his feet dragged and his head swam. He had to get out— had to get out.

Dismas was on the brink of pulling out his dirk and starting to stab when he was finally pushed into a pair of arms he recognized.

“Barrisan?” He asked, breathlessly. Grateful at least to be spared some of the buffeting crowd behind the Man-at-Arm’s bulk.

Though he wasn’t allowed to be grateful for long.

“I wanted to find them one day, you know.” He said, his voice was mournful and the fletching of an arrow shaft quivered in the man’s remaining uncovered eye. Dismas could only stare at him.

“Wh-who?” He asked. Watching with a slight sickening fascination as a bead of blood pooled in his eye and then ran down his cheek into his beard.

“The families of the men who died under my command… they’ll never know how hard i tried to save them… that I remembered all of their names until my last.”

Dismas had nothing to say, and Barristan seemed not to expect him too. He simply stared as he continued to dance. Dragging Dismas along with him. Their posture and body language portrayed nothing but gay livelihood, all the while Barristan’s face was a death mask of sadness.

“I-“

But before he could say anything for certain the man at arms passed him off again. Again and again to strangers and all of them were whispering, speaking words he couldn’t understand. And some of them were vaguely familiar; a plague doctor who had only lasted a month before her heart had stopped under the shocking blows of the deep stingers of the cove. A Flagellant who’s arm had been torn off and who had died laughing. A poor Vestal whose brains were nearly falling out of her smashed skull. And others— who he did not know but who he thought he recognized from the faded and shabby portraits which lined the Lord Darkest’s walls.

Bigby caught him just as Dismas thought he might be sick. His body littered with the evidence of a death by impromptu firing squad.

“I never got to tell you all…” he said, slightly mournful.
“Tell us wha-?” Dismas’ eyes were squeezed shut even as the Abomination continued to swing him around lightly

“How grateful I was for you all accepting me, as much as you could… I had so many opportunities to say it… but I never did… why didn’t I?”

Is this all this was? Whether enchantment, or dream— or more likely; nightmare, was Dismas here to be doomed to learn the deepest regrets of every dead former companion, every soul who had died on this estate.

He wanted to say that they had all known. Understood the Abomination’s situation and had never blamed him for being quiet and withdrawn. But Dismas’ heart was still in his throat and he was spun away again all too soon for him to offer any comfort whatsoever. Not that he felt in a very comforting mood anyway.

It was as if something in his mind had clicked because as he once again entered the merry dance the whispers around him had sharped, he could hear them all now, quiet but buzzing like flies and overlapping one another— the collected regrets of a whole ancient graveyards worth of people and Dismas felt at if his brain would melt and run out of his ears as the collected whispering voices grew louder than any shout. And if it did, at this point Dismas didn’t think he’d mind. Then at least the voices would stop.

He needed to get out of here but he could not think how. If he truly was dreaming shouldn't he have woken by now? Wasn’t that how it was supposed to work; realize you’re in a dream and you wake up? And if this was some ghastly spell how long would it last, until he perished? Or until someone found his comatose body slumped over Barristan’s tombstone in the graveyard with distant eyes and palid skin?

Finally, blessedly, the song ended, with an eruption of cheers from the merrymakers which sounded to Dismas more like wailing sobs. The Highwayman was able to stumble away from the still collected crowd. Hoping against hope he could get away as the next waltz began to swell. He wanted to curl up in a corner as far away from everyone as possible. Retreat inward and find respite from whatever torment this was.

This altered reality however was not done with him yet.

Barely watching where he was going, more concerned with glancing back over her shoulder to make sure he was not being followed, the highwayman ran straight into an unusually solid figure. His head collided with armor of some kind with a low ringing noise. He swore loudly, half certain now if this was a dream that should have woken him, thankful suddenly to his notoriously thick skull.

“Watch where you’re going ya soddin moron,” he groused, regaining his balance and dusting himself off, to glare up at his roadblock. “You’re lucky I don’t— wh- Rey-??”

His voice faltered and cut off. He could only stare. There before him. Armour polished and gleaming, standing proud in his full plate mail… was Reynauld.

“B-but you aint dead! You can't be here!” Dismas said, his blood going slightly cold.

Reynauld said nothing, just looked down at him through the small slit in his helmet. When they’d first met Dismas had once pondered whether he could fit a dagger blade in that miniscule gap, but now being quietly stared at through it just made him shudder slightly.

After a long pause the knight, without a word, extended his hand.

Dismas blinked. “…what..?”

Reynauld seemed to sigh, glance out at the dance floor where partners danced gracefully to the slow waltz, then looked back to Dismas, his hand still extended to him.

Dismas couldn't stop his ears from going red as he realized.

“I… uh— ain't much of a dancer…” he said, but he was already reaching out to take Reynauld’s hand, unconsciously. The Crusader seemed to not care about Dismas’ hesitation because the moment their hands were clasped Reynauld was pulling him in close, putting a large gauntleted hand on Dismas’s waist and leading him easily out onto the dancefloor.

Dismas had never waltzed like this before, but Reynauld seemed to know perfectly well what he was doing, leading a slightly wrong footed and blushing Dismas along with a quiet dexterity and grace that the highwayman rarely got to see from him.

“D-didn’t know you could dance, Rey.” Dismas said finally after a few slow revolutions around the dancefloor. He knew he had to say something before he melted into a puddle on the polished marble floor as he relished the feeling of his chest pressed to Reynauld’s.

Still the other man said nothing, just— in a quick fluid motion lifted their linked hands and guided Dismas under their arms. Spinning easily before pulling him back in and bringing his other hand back to a blushing Dismas’ waist.

“Uh-huh-huh, alright Rey.” He half said, half somewhat laughed somewhat dopily. “But… y’really aint gonna talk t’me?”

It irked him slightly. A twinge in the back of his mind as Reynauld remained silent. Normally the man had a multitude of things to say, especially to him. Mostly reprimanding him for his filthy mouth and general lightlessness, but Dismas always liked to imagine there was a hint of fondness behind it.

But now there was nothing.

It felt wrong… and Dismas had to remind himself that no matter how lovely this was, that he had seen far worse in this dream… nightmare… enchantment, whatever this was. As good as this felt, he couldn’t let it lure him into a false sense of security.

“Reynauld c’mon man. You gotta talk to me.” He said in the direction of the expressionless iron mask.

Nothing.

“Rey, please-!”

But the Crusader cut him off with another spin, one that nearly left Dismas dizzy before his arm tightened around the smaller man’s waist and with a sudden disorienting of gravity he dipped the thief low. Their bodies were pressed close and Dismas couldn’t help himself as he closed his eyes briefly to savor this.

When he opened his eyes he was not exactly surprised, he had known it was too good to be true… but that didn’t stop his blood from running cold.

In an instant Reynauld’s helmet had vanished, the knight’s face exposed. But instead of Reynauld normal pale skin and piercing blue eyes, there was a death mask. Sunken sightless eye-sockets like voids in a skeletal face where the skin had shriveled and dried, clinging to the white bones underneath. His lips pulled back around chipped, bloody teeth.

“Dis… mas…” It rasped, so close that the highwayman could smell death on its breath. And the thief was paralyzed, eyes so wide it hurt. Unable to move as he stared up into that horrible perversion of a man he really, desperately loved.

“So… alone…”

There was nothing he could do, nothing he could say. They were all dead and full of so much regret and Dismas could do nothing.

“Help… me…”

Reynauld… or whatever this macabre vision had turned Reynauld into pressed forward, as if to press his face against Dismas. But he couldn’t bear the thought. Couldn’t handle being even more enveloped in the copper smell of blood and the putrid smell of rot.

He pushed away, trying desperately to get out of the firm grip that the corpse-knight had on him. But still he was held. Dismas squeezed his eyes shut to the horrifying visage before him, all the while preparing to feel that cold clammy dead skin against his. To feel the blood pool in his mouth and nose and drown him.

He waited…and waited… until he heard a familiar giggle above him and he peaked open an eye to look again.

Bele’s face in place of Reynauld’s… the body of the crusader, the face still a mask of death but… a jovial one at least. The Woman’s smile almost curled with how wide it stretched across her face.

Dismas barely had a moment to register her face before she raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow at him.

“So..? Learn something?” She asked coyly, he had no idea how to respond. His mind racing with the regrets of the dead of many generations. His head spinning with the lingering warmth of Reynauld holding him close only to have it taken from him, mixing with his own regrets gnawing at the back of his mind along with the looming insanity.

“I-”

But Bele apparently did not want to hear it, because just as he opened his mouth to speak, she dropped him.

Not to the polished marble floor beneath them however. Once again he was dropped into a blackness so complete it convinced him he was no longer living. The whispers of the dead still echoing in his ears.

Perhaps that was for the best, if this vision were correct and Reynauld was truly no longer living… perhaps he could join him…

Chapter Text

He woke with a start and a sudden cracking of several of the bones in his back bringing with it an ache of improper sleep.

Groaning Dismas looked around…

He was in the cemetery again. Half slumped off of Barriston’s tombstone, half still sitting upright. From the slightest of glows on the horizon and the deep blue-black of the sky, he reasoned it was nearly dawn.

So it had been a dream… he hadn’t been ensorcelled by some rogue cultist mage into a world of his worst nightmares… instead it really just had been his mind concocting the worst for him. He was still clutching the worn bronze sigil in his hands, holding it so tight it was akin to rigor mortis.

He needed to be out of here as soon as possible, he couldn’t handle another minute in the ominous shadows cast by the numerous graves around him. The names of Barristan, Bigby, Jingles, and Bele stood out to him as starkly as they might have in full morning light. It was like they were staring at him. Daring him to read deeply into the dream and its meaning.

Standing on wobbly, tingly legs he hurried away, out of the cemetery, not even bothering to close the gate behind him.

Walking quickly the whole way, shoulders hunched, hands shoved under his coat to keep a hold on the handles of his dirk and pistol (more to steady him than anything else) Dismas made his way back to the barracks.
The highwayman knew he was far too rattled to sleep any more, but still, it wasn’t dawn yet, nothing was open, and now that he was awake again he was hyper aware of the dried blood on his pant leg. So he crept as silently as he could through the sleeping chambers to his bunk. It caused him a low, hollow pang as he saw Reynauld’s empty cot on one side of his own. The Blankets still neatly folded and tucked in, waiting for its normal occupant to return… if he ever did.

Cursing himself softly, Dismas shook his head and turned away, to retrieve another pair of trousers from his trunk. Kicking off his boots and changing out of the bloodstained clothes allowed him the slightest of respites from the all-encompassing stress of his situation… but not much. Sticking the soiled trousers in his dirty clothes bin he flopped himself down onto his bed. Staring resolutely anywhere but his left towards the empty bed, but up to the ceiling above him shrouded as it was in darkness.

Surely he shouldn’t read too much into the nightmare… should he?

People like Sarmenti and Alhazred put great stock into things like dreams. Even Junia and Baldwin spoke of the prophetic dreams of the saints of the Light… although it often seemed as if the dream-weaving of the clown and the occultist was anachronistic to the beliefs of those soldiers and clerics of the Holy Light.

What would either party say if he told them about this dream he had had?

He knew at least what Audrey would say… and he resolutely decided at that moment that he did not want her opinion on the matter. She would only laugh and tell him that dreams were figments of the mind, and that his clearly had it down bad for the Crusader.

Which he honestly didn’t need her to tell him, thank you very much.

And he was pointedly choosing to believe that it was NOT prophetic in any way. Absolutely not a God, or Eldritch being, or any power in the Universe trying to give him forewarning about Reynauld’s passing… because to believe so would zap Dismas of any strength or will he had left. He simply wouldn’t believe it.

That simply left what he would do if- WHEN the man was revealed to be alive and well… What would he do then?

Unconsciously it seemed, he had drawn out the charm from Reynauld again. He held it close to his chest and felt his beating heart through his breast bone as his eyes watched the shadows on the ceiling, and his head buzzed with errant thoughts. Of regret and loss and, as much as he hated to admit it, of love.

He lingered there, not really awake, but not entirely asleep either until the first signs of proper morning began to peak through the dull, dusty windows of the barracks.

Dismas knew he still wouldn't find the door to the Sanitorium open to him yet, but he didn't think he could handle any more laying in bed with his idle and troubling thoughts, so he did as he always did when such things troubled him: he got himself moving again.

Taking a pull from his hip flask and savoring the burn of cheap whiskey as he spirited himself quietly from the still barely stirring bunkhouse.
Most people roused early due to habit, but as the Hamlet had begun to settle into its own natural rhythms, some people had begun to allow themselves a bit more rest. Dismas certainly wasn't eager to wake up the musketeer, who was liable to threaten to shoot him with her (very intimidating) rifle, or Tardif, who might actually send a hatchet in the direction of his head.

From the bunkhouse he wandered down to the blacksmiths shop, which kept the forge running even through the night and which reliably opened early.

The blacksmith was a man rough around the edges, but dedicated to his work, and generally well meaning. He did raise an eyebrow at Dismas being there at the crack of dawn with shadows under his eyes as deep and dark as open graves but he was kind enough not to inquire about that and simply ask what he needed.

“Need a new helmet and greatsword commissioned for the Crusader.” Dismas said, kicking his feet absently. He would have lit up a cigarette, but as a rule, only the blacksmith was allowed to smoke in his establishment. So he just endured the slight warmth that came to his ears as the blacksmith eyed him.

After what felt like far too long he finally spoke.
“...aye, Heir told me Sir Reynauld had lost some of his effects.”

“Yeah… he’ll be wantin those handy when he’s out of the Sanitorium, I figure.” Dismas said, finding interest in a charred stain on the counter, anything to avoid looking into the blacksmith’s eyes. Keeping his eyes down as he just pulled out a pouch of coin and tossed it onto the counter.

“He’ll probably try to pay you for the service too, but I’ll at least start you on it. ‘F you wanna take tin man’s coin too I wouldn’t blame ya.”

Another long pause. It was truly lucky that Dismas knew the blacksmith to be a slow and steady man, careful and considerate, it was for that reason and that reason only that Dismas did not simply believe the man was judging him harshly in his mind.

Instead when he looked up, finally away from the worn wooden counter he found the Blacksmith giving as close a thing to a smile the Highwayman thought he’d ever seen on his face. His old tired eyes sparkling with some kind of recognition.

With a grunt and a nod the blacksmith took the coin purse.
“I remember how he likes his effects well enough, I’ll get started on them for when the Crusader’s well again.”

Dismas appreciated that there seemed to not even be a passing thought in the old man’s mind that the Crusader might not even be alive to need them. To see him so sure set Dismas’ mind at ease slightly.

He excused himself from the forge with a ‘much obliged’ which was utterly ignored by the blacksmith already setting to work. Ambling his way back to the town square.

As it was, it was still too early for the tavern to be open—even for serving the slop the Hamlet’s residence called “breakfast”. They usually at least waited until their roosters started calling the morning to unlock the door. Most people, barring certain businesses, the Heir, and those restless souls (like Dismas) did not rise until then.

It left the highwayman with little to do but haunt the square for a while. Scowling at the statue of the ancestor and watching the light begin to push back the lingering shadows.

Dismas was first in the door when the young woman who handled mornings at the tavern opened it. She was a relative newcomer, but Jubert had happily taken her under his wing when she’d proved a bit too flighty for combat. Her presence meant the tavern owner could sleep in after long nights of work for the Hamlet's wretched drunks.

He had something of a rapport with the woman— who was named Lovet. But this morning he had none of his normal winning smiles for her. She didn't seem surprised, simply raised an eyebrow as he entered and followed him back to the bar.

A double shot of whiskey, a plate of toast, and a bottle of the orange juice that the heir had begun importing from the south.

“And two glasses, if you please dear.” He said “ones you won't mind me returnin’ at a later date.”

Lovet had to raise the other eyebrow at that. But all the while dutifully pulling out some of the more easily accessible requested items.

“Mind you the cups find their way back here if you please.” She said finally, pushing the bottle juice towards him, along with the two small glasses, beginning to pour the whiskey. “We’ve got enough broke as it is between all you louts in the evening.”

Dismas tried to give a winning smile, but he didn’t think it exactly reached his eyes.
“On my honor, love.” He said.

“We both know you don't have any of that.” She said with a laugh that made her face light up and her eyes crease slightly at the corners.

She was pretty. Had Dismas been a younger man in different circumstances, he might have pursued her, for fun and for pleasure. But he was not a young man anymore, and the circumstances lay as they were. So he simply gave a crooked grin and shot back more than half the whiskey she’d pushed him.

“Got me there.” He said, hands raised in defeat. “I’ll swear it on the Crusader’s honor then, that means somethin’ at least. And put all this on my tab, if ya please.”

Lovet hummed, still chuckling slightly at her own joke and Dismas’ rebuttal.
“Y’know Jubie’s gonna be collecting on that soon.” She quipped, even as she scribbled the expenses down. “He says he’s too lenient with ya.”

Dismas snorted but said nothing. Jubert had been threatening to cash out his tab for months now and showed no sign of actually doing it.

“But that’s his problem.” Lovet said with an airy hand wave. “Food’ll be a moment.”

The highwayman nodded as the woman exited from behind the bar and ducked into the rudimentary kitchen. Leaving Dismas to ponder the remainder of the whiskey in his glass, considering downing the rest of it now. He opted to wait, to pour the remainder into his slightly depleted hip flask and save it. He’d need it later more than likely.

He saw William the Houndmaster enter, his faithful hound at his side. The men exchanged nods before Bill took a seat at a corner table.

It was truly odd to be up and here so early. To hear only the fair sounds of a Hamlet slowly awakening to the new day. Truly, Dismas still had no idea what he was even doing. The faintest hint of an idea had formed in the back of his head as he’d lay in his cot unsleeping, pondering the night’s visions. Now it was just a question of having the courage to do it.

“And there’s your toast.”

Lovet set the plate with the toasted and buttered bread in front of him, interrupting his musings.
“Thanks, Love.” He said easily.

He was not hungry, his stomach churning slightly in apprehension. But he could hear certain chiding voices in the back of his head; scolding him for even thinking of drinking as much as he wanted to on an empty stomach. He had already started the day with a shot. So he simply stuffed a piece into his mouth. Pocketed the bottle and glasses he’d requested in his coat and left the tavern with the last few warm pieces of bread in his hand for later.

Feet pounding the hard packed earth, he knew where he was headed. He had nothing else with which to waste time. So he allowed himself to finally make his way north, passed the guild house, passed the Abbey, up the hill to the Sanitorium.

It was not yet open to the public. But Dismas had not expected it to be. He would not risk his hide to the strict matron of the Sanitorium, nor to Paracelsus. So he simply sat himself down on the steps.

He could have perhaps knocked, politely inquired. But he found himself averse to the idea. Desire to know Reynauld’s condition needled at him, but more than that the terror of knowing held him back.

The idea of Reynauld being dead was one he would not— could not entertain. But still the dreadful anticipation loomed large over him. Enough to at least hold him back from stomping up to the door and demanding to see the Crusader.

Dismas started in on his second piece of toast just to have something to do.

As he worked through it he watched the Hamlet down the hill begin to come to life properly. Watching small blurry figures beginning to trace familiar paths back and forth, from barracks to Tavern to blacksmith to general store to guild hall. The guild hall would be quieter today with Reynauld out of commission. But it would at least be looked after in his absence.

By the time the highwayman had finished his toast he thought he could hear the properly active morning bustle of the Hamlet. He thought he could maybe see Audrey (by her distinctive style of hat and bright blue jacket) wandering her way slowly to the tavern.

There must have been a new expedition being prepped. Certain people were lingering in a group near the center. Dismas wondered who it might be, but not too hard. Whoever it was he did not envy them first expedition after one who’s results had been so dramatic. The townsfolk would be craving some good news. Perhaps Bill was going, the older man had been up early…

“Dismas… Dismas!”

For the second time in less than 12 hours Dismas woke with a start to an unpleasant ache in his back. He had not even realized that he’d fallen into a doze on the uncomfortable steps of the Sanitorium. He squinted up at the sun, judged it around midday, and cursed.

“Perhaps keep that language to yourself if you intend on actually visiting.”

Ah. So it had been Paracelsus who had woken him. The Highwayman could recognize that weedy voice anywhere.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Para.” He said, with some strain as he stretched, feeling his back pop in several spots.

“Especially given that Reynauld can see you now.”

Dismas stopped, mid-stretch, to whip around to stare at the doctor quickly and violently enough to nearly put a crick in his neck.

“Y’serious?”

“I am never NOT serious, Dismas.” the plague doctor said with a click of her tongue. “He is awake, injured still-- obviously. But sane. He could use the company, I have been told such things are good for the mind.”

Dismas didn’t need to be told twice as he scrambled to his feet, them feeling a bit like jelly beneath him as he nearly lost his footing in haste.
“I-- uh-- alright-!” He said, voice cracking a bit like a school-boy.

“He’s in room 3c,” Paracelsus said, before beginning to continue her way down towards town. “Go on then.”

And Dismas went. Will all haste he scrambled his way up the stairs and through the large open doors of the Sanitorium. Around him the doctors and nurses in their basic black wandered from room to room and conversed in low voices. They paid him no mind as his eyes spied the numbered patient rooms. His feet carried him through the halls and up flights of stairs until he found the relative peace of the single patient wards labeled with the number three. He had no idea where Baldwin or Jingles might be in this maze, but he wasn’t concerned with that at the moment. His only real concern was the open door labeled “3c” in faded white lettering.

His pace slowed slightly as he approached it. Trying to get his breath back as his mind raced. Dismas had no idea what he would do or say when he saw the Crusader. All that mattered was that he got the chance to see him.

Peeking his head around the doorframe he caught sight of the open widows— clean and letting in the afternoon light, the white washed walls and floor giving the room a feeling of sterility, and the only bed in the room with its rudimentary metal frame and its crisp white sheets.

And there. Laying in the bed was the man himself.

Reynauld looked almost as white as the sheets he was partially under. Pale with blood-loss and fright. But his expression was relaxed in rest at least, no longer pinched with anxiety and paranoia. The doctors had dressed him lightly in a tunic and trousers, although Dismas could still see the hint of bandages at the shoulder and on the arms. A straight jacket was folded neatly on the bedside table, thankfully no longer needed.

Dismas breathed a sigh of relief just to see the man breathing.

Quiet as a shadow he slipped into the room, not wanting to wake the man who seemed to so desperately need rest. Unfortunately for him the chair at the bedside squeaked something awful as he sat down, and no sooner had he settled than Reynauld was blinking his eyes open.

It seemed to take him a moment to recognize the thief, but when he did he seemed to try and make a motion as if to sit up.

“Dismas-!”

“Woah there tin man.” Dismas said quickly, putting a hand to the man’s uninjured shoulder and gently pressing him back into the pillows. “Dont go sittin’ up on my account. Y’need your rest.”

Reynauld shook his head lightly, with a sigh, not resisting the hand.
“Alas, I fear you are right.” He said, with no small amount of mournfulness. “They think I will be confined to the sanatorium for at least two week.” He sounded so regretful that Dismas didn’t know whether to feel bad for him, or laugh. Trust Reynauld to be upset over the concept of bedrest.

“Well hey, I brought ya a little something to make your stay a little more enjoyable.” Dismas settled for just pulling out the bottle from his jacket. Placing them on the bedside table before pulling out the glasses to go with them. “I thought you mentioned liking them fancy southern fruit juices that Darkest’s been bringing in.”

The crusader’s eyes lit up at the gift, expression softening in a way that made Dismas’ heart jump into his mouth.

“Ah-! I did, yes… Thank you, Dismas.” The Crusader said.
Dismas was only able to manage a nod at first before he got control of his racing heart again and gave a crooked grin.
“What say we break into it then, eh? We do have celebrating to do, dont we?” He said, leaning forward to pull the bottle of orange juice back towards him to uncork.

Reynauld cocked an eyebrow. “Celebrating?” He inquired.
“Of course!” Dismas said, perhaps a bit too airily, but the Crusader seemed not to notice. “To your continued good health.”

There was a beat, before both of them burst into laughter. Dismas’ higher pitched and rough, Reynauld’s a low, deep chuckle— interrupted intermittently by a slight wheeze in his voice which Dismas took note of.

He calmed himself enough to get Reynauld’s drink poured out and into the other man’s hand before he poured for himself- Half orange juice, half whiskey from his flask.
Reynauld’s light laughter finally settled when Dismas raised his glass up in his direction, which the crusader took as an open invitation, the two clinked their glasses together before taking sips.

Reynauld made an appreciative sound in the back of his throat at the taste, while Dismas savored the burn at the back of his throat. This time it felt properly celebratory, as opposed to the commiserating he’d been doing before.

“Happy to have you still among the living, tin man.” Dismas said, voice a bit softer and more… emotional than he meant it to be.

Reynauld smiled at him, steadfast as ever.
“The Light, it seems, still has use for me,” He said.

Dismas scoffed. “Probably, but don't go thinking the Light’s the only one grateful.”

Reynauld’s smile was suddenly a bit too knowing for Dismas’ comfort.

“The blacksmith said it’d be a right shame to lose out on all the gold he makes on ya and your tin suit.” Dismas added quickly. Which made Reynauld laugh heartily again. Or as heartily as he could in his condition.

“Yes, he will get quite the work order from me, I have no doubt.” Reynauld said, glancing into a corner where Dismas noted someone had carelessly piled his still bloody armor. Dismas winced. He knew how much the plate took to maintain, and the care Reynauld took with it.

Dismas swirled the whiskey-juice in his cup. Taking another sip before speaking.
“Well don’t worry about your sword or your bassinet. I put in an order for you this mornin’. Paid and all that too. So ya owe me a proper meal when ya get out.”

Reynauld blinked at him, expression shocked.
“You… You did that, Dismas..?” He asked.

“Of course.” The highwayman said easily. “Can’t ‘ave our tinman without his tin head t’go with him. And I doubt you can work half as well with a pointed stick as you do with that hunk of iron you call a sword.”

“Thank you, Dismas.” Reynauld’s reply was soft. In a way that sent shivers up Dismas’ spine, but he ignored that.

“Don’t worry about it, Rey.” He said with a sly wink. “Like I said; you owe me, and I won't be forgettin’ that the high and mighty crusader owes me a favor any time soon. I’ll be collectin’ that, mark my words.”

Did he imagine the faintest blush that spread across Reynauld’s cheeks at Dismas’ wink? The highwayman couldn't be sure. But he thought perhaps it was confirmed by the bed ridden man giving a cough, and glancing away. Taking another sip of his juice and falling silent.

The both of them fell silent, left to their drink and each other silent company. Dismas had things he wanted— needed to ask… it was just a matter of having the wherewithal to do it. He settled on one of the easier ones to ask.

“So is mine the first ugly mug t’visit you or did someone else beat me to it?” He asked, trying to keep his tone casual.

Reynauld looked up from where he’d been staring pensively into his juice, before shaking his head.
“No, no, you are the first to visit.” He said. “Though Paracelsus has been in and out… and I do suppose I will need to report to the heir eventually.”

Dismas waved his hand “eh let Junia, Baldwin, or Sarmenti do it.” He dismissed, “they were all there.”

But Reynauld shook his head, damn noble, rules-to-the-letter crusader. Dismas quietly cursed his tendency to overwork himself, and just hoped he could trust Paracelsus to not let the man leave any time soon, even if it was to go report to the Lord of the Estate.

“D’you even remember enough to report..?” Dismas asked, quietly. His mind was thinking of one thing in particular which he was intently curious to know if the knight remembered, but it was honestly a fair question in general. Who knew how long Reynauld had been as he had on his return.

The question seemed to take Reynauld by surprise, he glanced at Dismas, eyebrows furrowed. The thief just shrugged.

“Y’just seemed pretty… foggy when ya came back.” He said.

Reynauld considered that for a long few moments in which he stared at his hands grasping his drink and Dismas stared at the Crusader, hoping beyond hope that he wasn’t on a conversation path that would upset Reynauld again.

“We were ambushed, on our return journey.” Reynauld said finally.

“You don’t have-“ Dismas tried to say but the knight continued.

“A creature. Tall, gaunt, robed in yellow. It appeared in our path with no warning.”

“The others told me.” Dismas said. “Face a skull, caged up, glowing blue.”

“Aye” Reynauld nodded expression far away. “We took up our positions as best we could in the surprise, but I ended up out of sequence, behind Sarmenti.”

Dismas winced, Reynauld was always so careful with their party’s position, and the man was so slow in his armor to be shunted behind the clown was detrimental.

“The creature it… it opened its cloak. I could not properly see the first time, but as it did… things came out of it… horrible things… heads.”

Dismas was leaning forward slightly now. His whiskey set aside as he stared with furrowed brow at Reynauld who was still looking at his white knuckled hands.

“Heads… 3 of them… I didn’t understand at first, even when Baldwin shouted. He was still at the front. I could not do much from my position. But me and the Jester called inspiration for our battle before I tried to press myself forward. Put myself between Junia and Sarmenti and our foe…”

Reynauld’s form suddenly trembled and Dismas worried for a moment that he might be sick. But instead the knight just ran a slightly shaking hand along his paled face and set his drink aside.

“I saw why Baldwin had shouted when I got closer…” he said, voice shaking just slightly. “The heads bore resemblances to… friends…”

“What?” Dismas interjected, aghast.

“Barristan… one looked like Barristan, eyepatch and all… another looked like Junia… she stood behind me and yet… there was her head… and the last…”

It was here that Reynauld looked up, away from his lap and met Dismas’ eyes, and the highwayman saw the lingering horror there, the fear and the insanity tugging at the edges of his mind.

“It was you, Dismas.”

The thief’s mouth went dry. He forgot to breathe for a moment. Reynauld continued.

“Your head… just a mangled skull torn from body, without even a proper jaw. Floating with only its spinal cord and vertebrae. But I knew it to be you… the same hair, the same olive skin… the same eyes just… tinged with that otherworldly blue…”

Reynauld’s eyes seemed to trace the features he noted on Dismas as he spoke about the creature and The Highwayman couldn't help but blush. It felt almost intimate the way the other man was looking at him.

“I… I could not still my mind. Could not ease the thought of this creature… this creature having somehow gotten to the Hamlet— to you. Harmed you while I was away in the ruins and unable to do anything. I should have known it’s falsehood.. but my mind was clouded… I broke rank, charged it… I… I remember very little after that…”

A long silence fell between the two. Reynauld’s eyes filled with muted horror and regret meeting Dismas’; shy and concerned.

After a while the thief finally broke the silence. Giving an attempt at a rueful grin he reached out and took the Crusader’s hand, bringing it up and placing it against his face.

It was odd… certainly not in character for Dismas who normally did not do a lot of touching of other people. Especially not the crusader, who— even if Dismas liked him more than he perhaps should, had still always seemed like a person he shouldn't push in that regard. Still, what else could he do? He pressed Reynauld’s broad hand to his face.

“Well… think I can safely say with some certainty that it’s still properly attached.” He said, voice slightly muffled behind Reynauld’s broad, calloused palm.

It took a moment. A long moment in which Dismas wondered again if this was pushing it. Before he felt more than saw Reynauld laugh. His arm shook as his shoulders did in quiet mirth. Dismas smiled as Reynauld’s slightly wheezing laugh echoed in the room around them.

“Don't bust a lung laughing as my piss poor jokes old man.” He said easily, comforted considerably by the fact that Reynauld could laugh at all.

“Do not worry too much about me, thief.” The crusader quipped back.

It had, at one time, offended him when the holier-than-thou crusader had called him ‘thief’. But now it simply felt like something of an inside joke. As much a tease as it was when Dismas called him ‘tin man’. They were personal things. Little moments of levity between them.. moments of levity Dismas had never thought to examine… until now.

He let Reynauld’s hand drop from his face back to the clean sheets of the bed. Considering the man for a moment. For his part Reynauld seemed to notice the consideration, quirking a thick eyebrow.

“…Is something wrong, Dismas?” He asked, voice softer with slight concern. “Truthfully, please, do not worry for me, I think the Light has much yet left for me.”

Trust Reynauld to have been the one to nearly die and still be the one trying to comfort everyone around him. Dismas might have called him out on it if his mind had not been consumed with other thoughts… thoughts that made his fingers twitch slightly.

“Nah nah, ain’t that.” He said, trying to sound breezy. “Is… is that all you remember till wakin’ up here? I mean… you don't remember anything about getting back to the Hamlet?”

Reynauld’s eyebrows furrowed. Deepening the lines on his face— handsome lines, Dismas had always thought. It was a long few moments of consideration before Dismas got an answer.

“It is quite foggy… bits and pieces. I was clearly not in my proper mind.” Reynauld said.

Dismas nodded, slightly grim. “Aye, well I can confirm that much.” He said.

The crusader sighed, “Paracelsus informed me I caused quite a stir but she did not elaborate…”

“I can tell you what happened… if ya like”

Dismas said it without really thinking about it. His mouth automatically spoke the words before he could properly think better of it.

It was a kindness, he reasoned. It was never enjoyable to have missing time like that hanging over you… but still would Reynauld really want to know all he had said?

Dismas’ fate was sealed the second the crusader perked up, looking at him with all the gratitude in the world— which Dismas did not think he had done anything to earn.

“Yes… if you could Dismas, please.”

Damn. He’d even said ‘please’.

Dismas heaved an internal sigh.

“Well… from what I can gather Baldwin and Junia did most of the haulin’ you back… you kept refusing healing so you were bleedin’ the whole way.”

Reynauld’s brows remained furrowed as he stared at Dismas intently. As if possessed by the idea that if he paid enough mind, he might remember for himself.

“You were really out of it, convinced everyone around you was heretics and betrayers and all that. You called poor Junia a witch, so you best apologize to her for that when you get out of here.” Dismas said, his fingers twitched for something to fiddle with. But he resisted the urge to pull one of his butterfly knives from a pocket and made do with simply clasping and unclasping his fingers.

“‘Cept… you seemed to recognize me. I heard the bells and came runnin out to help and the second you saw me you sorta… came to a bit.” Dismas did not think it necessary to describe the way the man had whimpered and clung to him like a frightened child.

Reynauld for his part nodded, expression slightly distant and considering.

“Yes… yes I do think I remember that part… very dreamlike, you know.” The knight said, stroking his breaded chin. “But it was a relief to see you, after I thought you dead.”

Dismas shrugged. “Well, it was a bit of a blessing at least, made it easier for me to haul your heavy ass back into the hamlet. You seemed scared of everyone, frightened of your own shadow, kept trying to convince me to turn tail and head with you straight back down the old road…”

He paused. Teetering between his previous sentence and then next few thoughts. Should he tell him? He could always lie, save the Crusader the shame. Dismas did not think anyone would necessarily call Reynauld out on the things he’d said half-mad. But the looks would always be there. Reynauld had made his proclamations before nearly the whole of the hamlet. If Dismas didn't tell him… he might find out just from the fleeting rumors and black tongued gossip no doubt already inflaming the hamlet.

Audrey would no doubt let the crusader know in some way… the woman was always anxious for ways to rib the holy-man.

Dismas sighed. Passed a gloved hand through his short hair, and occupied himself toying at a loose thread in the weave of the bedspread.

“I called for Paracelsus, but when she came with all her doctors you started fighting like a rabid dog. Shouting all the while. You did a lot of shouting…”

“More bellowed oaths?” Reynauld asked, Dismas wished he hadn’t. It was never fun to inform a person how much of their guts they’d spilled when they thought they were about to die, or else were overwhelmed by the madness that always surrounded them.

Early on in their time working for the Heir Darkest, back when Dismas and Reynauld had been some of the only well trained bruisers who could be sent out into the wilds Dismas had been afflicted, while on a scouting trip in the Weald.

Driven over the edge by the loss of both of their companions and his own near death Dismas, masochistic and desperate (apparently) for the holy-knights fiery retribution had spilled the whole sad tale of his misbegotten life as a brigand. Babbling madly of all he’d stolen, and of all he’d killed; including the two that mattered most, that stuck in his brain and haunted his nightmares.

Reynauld had been… surprisingly gentle in the week afterward. He had told Dismas what he’d said and had been somewhat rough around the edges about it… but in turn he’d shared bits of his own past, some of his own regrets.

It had been hard to talk about… but that talk had been the first steps down the long road that led them here… to what they had now… whatever that was.

“Mostly oaths…” Dismas said, still somewhat deep in thought. “Prayers to the light, threatening to hang the traitors you thought you saw all around you… When the doctors came you started begging me to not let them take you…”

Reynauld sighed, he seemed to deflate a little, his eyes troubled.
“I'm sorry to have burdened you with that Dismas. Even in that state…” He said.

“That wasn’t all Rey…”

“Oh?”

Reynauld was looking at him again, eyebrows furrowed once more. Reynauld who had been kind enough back then to not hold back, to tell everything that Dismas had said in his stupor despite the venom it might bring. Reynauld who knew the most about him and his past and had never damned him for it. Reynauld, who had said he loved him… and who Dismas desperately loved back, even if that scared him more than anything.

He met Reynauld’s deep blue eyes, petrified by the confused gaze for a moment before he wet his lips and spoke, in a croaky sort of confession.

“You… you said you loved me…”

Silence.

They stared at each other. And to Dismas it truly felt like he was staring into the sun gone cold. Reynauld’s wide, ice-chip gaze held him in place, even as he desperately wanted to avert his eyes. He felt as if the ground were splitting open, as if the distance between them had grown exponentially vast.

This admission would change everything.

Dismas should have lied, should have omitted this one important detail. For the sake of their friendship and Reynauld’s pride, but he had not. It would be his foolish mistake.

The seconds seem to stretch. The silence taught like a string. Dismas was hot at the collar and his palms were sweating. He hadn't felt like this since his old chandler master had caught him stealing coin from customers.

He couldn't handle it.

His face was red and his eyes were scared. And he couldn’t handle it. Not when Reynauld continued to look at him and say nothing

Dismas stood, the chair squeaking its protest.

Perhaps he mumbled something, perhaps he didn’t. Dismas couldn't tell beyond the rushing of blood in his ears. Either way he was turning to flee. Flee the room, the admission, the feelings bubbling up inside, and Reynauld’s eyes on him.

But then-

“Wait-!”

A hand was at his wrist. Strong grip holding him fast, keeping him there and still.

Dismas turned back to look and saw that the crusader looked about as scared as he felt. The man looked nervous and suddenly… young, like a scholded schoolboy. But still he cast Dismas a glance, and when he spoke his voice was low and earnest.

“Please… Stay, Dismas.”

And the Highwayman could not refuse him when the knight said please.

Sitting again, the silence was less awkward. Even as it stretched. Neither man seemed to know what to say. Dismas knew what he wanted to ask… but it seemed suddenly rude, too much of an imposition. Dismas had never worried about being rude before, certainly not to the crusader.

“Dismas, I…”

It was Reynauld who broke the silence first although he seemed to not have the thought formed because he sputtered out fairly quickly, his eyes meeting Dismas’ and then flicking away again like a flighty bird.

“Rey, we don't have to talk about it.” Dismas said. Nervous fingers back playing with the fraying bedsheet.

Reynauld’s hands similarly clutched the bedspread, but he shook his head.
“N-no. If anyone deserves an answer, it’s you.” He said, “You are my closest friend in this place, I should be able to speak plainly...”

Dismas glances up, expectantly. Watching the holy man seem to waiver slightly. A fear of another kind taking root behind his eyes.

How Dismas wanted to chase that fear away, but he held his tongue and let the man continue at his own pace.

“I… I apologize.”

Of course Reynauld started with an apology. Dismas almost rolled his eyes. The man seemed incapable of anything else. Since their meeting, the man had softened enough to not think everything he did a sin, but he still had his moments.

Dismas just stared at him. Hands finally stilling. Waiting for him to go on.

“For some time now… I have found myself overly comfortable in your presence, Dismas. A matter which I have given up to the Light in confession as of late. I… this is unusual for me and… troubling to the mind and spirit…”

Dismas was mildly stunned. This was more a revelation than anything he thought he would get out of a sane Rey. Sure to someone else this just sounded like an admission of friendship, maybe the hint of something more, but from Reynauld it was like he was waxing one of the Jester’s most besotted love ballads. Dismas was just annoyed that apparently a few of the wretched priests at the Abbey had gotten to learn of this before he had himself.

He was so shocked in fact that he didn’t even interrupt Reynauld. Instead letting the man go on in his ramblings.

“I… I understand if you no longer wish to be near me. This is most untoward for a crusader of the Holy Light. I understand your own proclivities and have oft judged you harshly for them, and yet here I am harboring illicit-“

“So it’s true then??” Dismas had finally found his tongue and was putting it to good use. Stopping the meandering train of Reynauld’s with his own barked question.

There was enough of the normal crusader under all the injuries and supplication to look annoyed at the interruption, before the question seemed to sink in and he properly flushed.

“I… Dismas…”

“No. No getting out of this one tin man. Answer me square; was it true.”

They stared at each other. Long and hard, the dark eyes meeting the blue ones.

Finally, Reynauld broke the gaze, eyes dropping to his lap.

“Yes.”

It was a simple answer. But it flooded Dismas with more emotions than he knew what to do with.

“…oh thank the light.”

Reynauld spluttered slightly, but Dismas was lighter than air, lighter than clouds, lighter and filled with an almost… school boy giddiness. An emotion which did not suit a man in his middle age. He had no idea how to handle the warmth at his core, or the rapid fluttering beat of his stupid heart.

So he laughed. A nervous, embarrassed kind of thing, almost more of a giggle. He passed a hand over his face and through his hair as the laugh became a sigh, a release of tension.

He looked up at Reynauld, and saw that the man seemed a mix of utterly baffled, and hurt. Clearly he could interpret Dismas wildly oscillating emotions with even less accuracy than Dismas.

The thief smiled at him. Rueful and fond.

Honesty.

It was rare for the Highwayman… but it had got him this far.

“…I love you too, you soddin’ moron.” His voice was soft. Hushed in a reverence, like prayer.

They stared at each other, a silent beat in which both seemed to size up the other.

“Really..?” Reynauld said finally, as if he could hardly believe it.

Dismas, feeling a little more bold than he might normally, took the crusader’s hand. Held it snuggly in his gloved ones.
“Really.” He said, easy as breathing.

The Exhale from Reynauld was long, deep and seemed to leech more tension and anxiety from him than his body could hold. The man who sank into the pillows seemed younger than the man who Dismas had met at the beginning of the old road a year or so ago. The faintest hint of guilt lingered in the eyes, but Dismas didn’t know if that would truly ever fade. Even if he wished more than anything he could spirit that guilt away.

Dismas leaned forward to gently rest his chin on the other man’s chest, their hands still linked, still gazing at each other easily. The action caused a handsome blush to spread across the crusader’s face, but he didn’t protest.

They would have more to talk about. More they had to discuss. How this would work between them. But right now that didn’t seem to matter. Reynauld’s free hand gently skimmed the graying hair at his temples and the uneven tufts of black on the top of his head. Their expressions were warm.

Reynauld was safe. Reynauld was alive, and sane, and loved him.

And Dismas loved him right back.

And for now, that was enough.