Actions

Work Header

Rating:
Archive Warning:
Category:
Fandom:
Relationship:
Characters:
Additional Tags:
Language:
English
Collections:
Yuletide 2025
Stats:
Published:
2025-12-24
Words:
1,097
Chapters:
1/1
Comments:
16
Kudos:
59
Bookmarks:
4
Hits:
145

A Double-Edged Gift

Summary:

“The Saint is dead,” Stephen said numbly.

Pain washed over Istvhan’s face. “Yes,” he said, “but we are both alive. And the temple needs socks.”

Or: Stephen, in the wake of the Saint's death.

Notes:

Work Text:

Stephen jolted out of his stupor, where he had been staring at the blank temple wall, as a clunk sounded beside him. His eyes slipped into focus on his bedside table, where a pair of long metal needles now sat, a familiar hand hovering over them.

“The temple needs socks,” the voice belonging to that hand said, and Stephen let his eyes drift to focus on Istvhan’s face.

“The Saint is dead,” Stephen said numbly.

Pain washed over Istvhan’s face. “Yes,” he said, “but we are both alive. And the temple needs socks.”

“The temple needs socks,” Stephen repeated, trying to process this. 

“I told the archbishop that socks made by me would be worse than no socks at all,” Istvhan said, and it was clear that he tried to force a smile, though it came only as a grimace. “I volunteered you.”

The order finally caught up to Stephen, and he stared back at the needles. He hadn’t touched them since the Saint had died. “I don’t know if I can make socks anymore,” he said eventually.

“Brother,” Istvhan said, a hint of exasperation in his voice, “I have seen you knit socks while starving, half-dead with exhaustion, and with a torn shoulder. While the current conditions are not ideal, I have absolute faith in your ability to still knit.”

“That was when the Saint was alive,” Stephen said. 

“The Saint did not teach you to knit.”

“No,” Stephen admitted. His mother had taught him. His mother, who was dead now. Like nearly all of his siblings-in-arms. Like all of the people he and his siblings had killed. Like the Saint.

Istvhan put a hand on his shoulder. “The temple has done much for us,” he said quietly. “We are in their debt.”

Stephen nodded. Debts had to be paid. If he did not pay at least the part he had incurred, it would fall to his siblings to pay it. He would pay his fair share. He reached for the needles.

They felt odd in his hands, even as his fingers automatically took up the correct positions. He stared at them for a moment, knowing that something was missing but not quite placing what. Eventually it hit him, and he looked back to Istvhan.

Istvhan gestured to a sack on the floor, and nudged it closer to Stephen with his foot. “They asked me what kind you wanted, and I said I didn’t know,” he said, “so they sent you a mix, I think. It still all looks the same to me. I can take instructions back, if you need something else.”

Stephen set the needles down slowly and reached for the bag. It was indeed a mix of yarns. He pulled out the flimsier skeins, the stuff that was good for intricate detail work, the kind high-end nobles with soft shoes and carpeted floors liked to parade in their clothing, but that wasn’t practical for a temple that primarily served the poor and those who liked to be useful. “The rest of this will do,” he said, thrusting the bundle of rejected yarn at Istvhan, who awkwardly cradled it. “The temple shall have socks.”

“Thank you, brother,” Istvhan said. “Send word if you need anything further.”

Stephen nodded without looking at him, already casting the first skein onto the needles. Istvhan clasped his shoulder again and left.

“I need the Saint,” Stephen said quietly to his needles, but their only reply was to begin knitting, his hands moving in the familiar patterns without his conscious direction. He sighed. “But the temple needs socks.”

Stephen still did not leave his room for several days. The temple staff brought him meals, as they had been doing for all the fallen paladins, and Istvhan stopped by sometimes to check on whether he needed more supplies. Finished socks went into a pile on the floor and the next one started without preamble. Perhaps a fortnight later, Istvhan lingered during one of his usual checks, and Stephen finally looked up from his knitting to find him staring at the mound of socks. 

“We should take these to the storerooms,” Istvhan said. 

Stephen eyed the mound, a little taken aback himself as he registered its size. “We?” he asked after a moment.

“I don’t think I can carry them all by myself,” Istvhan said. “Not with any sort of grace, anyway. I’d be dropping them all over the place, and then dropping more when I tried to pick them up.”

“Brother,” Stephen said, “you are a veritable giant and a berserker. Nothing you do is with grace.”

A harsh sound came out of Istvhan’s mouth, and they both stared at each other, startled. A moment later Stephen registered that it had been a laugh, and he felt his own lips twitch upward, but then he sobered. No, there could be no laughter. The Saint was dead.

Istvhan’s expression sobered too, and he turned back to the mound of socks. “To the storerooms,” he said bracingly.

Stephen nodded and set his current project down to gather up as many of the socks as he could. It wasn’t too bad, between the two of them, and though Stephen had no idea where to even begin to look for the storerooms, Istvhan seemed to know the way, and so Stephen simply trailed after him. He averted his eyes from the people they passed in the corridors -- the curiosity, the fear, the hope, he glimpsed there, or in some cases the simply not seeing at all as they hurried on in their own purposes. Instead he kept his eyes towards the floor, on Istvhan’s boots in front of him, but taking in the feet of those they passed, too. Something nagged at his mind as they walked, but he could not quite place it until they came to a halt before another pair of shoes, inside of which were a pair of very well-made socks.

“The temple has socks,” Stephen blurted out, looking up to narrow his eyes at Istvhan. “Everyone we have passed has been wearing very good socks.”

“People always need socks,” the voice belonging to the new pair of shoes said, and Stephen finally looked at their face, finding both strangeness and comfort in the familiar words spoken by an unfamiliar voice. They were holding out their arms, accepting as much as they could of Istvhan’s load as they funneled the socks efficiently into boxes on the storeroom’s shelves. They smiled kindly at Stephen as they began to offload the second paladin’s armful. “And not just the people who'll wear them.”