"Good morning."
"Uh." Dismas grunts, vigorously rubbing his palm over his eyes as if Reynauld was just some trick of the Light. He's still there though when the spots stop dancing in front Dismas' eyes, so he's got to be real enough. However, if there ever was the ghost of a smile playing around the crusader's lips, it had to be a filament of the highwayman's imagination.
Reynauld's hand squeezes Dismas' knee one last time, then he stands up in a jerky motion. "We should get you back to the sanatorium," he decides, and only the former gesture belies his brusqueness.
Dismas yaws, wide enough for his jaw to pop. He stands up, feeling the ache of having fallen asleep on a hardwood pew in his joints. The first couple of steps come out as more of a hobble, before the stiffness in his knees and hips relents enough for him to walk almost free of pain. Dismas doesn't look at Reynauld, but allows the other man to take the lead. It's easier to talk to Reynauld's back than his face, somehow.
"Yeah, actually," Dismas confesses, gathering the shreds of his courage, more tattered than the curtain in at the entrance to the church. He scratches the back of his neck, "I got kicked out."
The crusader whirls around. "What? Why didn't you say?"
He didn't tell Reynauld because… why would he? To him, they are but strangers even if half the Hamlet insists on knowing better. Dismas shrugs. He doesn't have many reasons to like Reynauld, but he actually has none to dislike the other man and there is no need to be cruel to him. Life in the Hamlet has done that aplenty. To both of them, it seems.
"I forgot," Dismas says, and it's even true – party true, but that still counts. "Guess I'm gonna hafta look fer a place to stay, huh?" he adds with more cheer than he feels. Perhaps he can ask Jubert if he'd be willing to rent one of his rooms to him. Where he will get the coin, Dismas doesn't even dare to think about, but he shudders at the thought of asking Morphew for help. He'd sooner quarter in the stables.
A look of surprise flashes over Reynauld's face, before his features harden into an expression that bodes no argument.
"Nonsense," the crusader says harshly. "You have a home."
For a moment, Dismas struggles to reconcile the other man's tone and the meaning of his words. He has expected outrage at the news of him getting tossed out of the sanatorium, not to have a solution to his problem presented to him on a silver platter. And if anything, Reynauld doesn't seem to be mad at him, but rather on his behalf. It is a strangely touching thing.
"I – I do?" Dismas stammers, trying to at least sound less pathetic than he feels.
Reynauld nods. "Of course. I will take you there."
"Of course," Dismas repeats tartly. And of course everybody except him knew. He sighs, which makes the lines between Reynauld's brows more prominent. The crusader has truly perfected frowning. Dismas' shoulders slump. "Anyway, what're ya doin' up?" he asks to distract from his slip of tongue.
"Suffering from insomnia," the knight answers, and doesn't elaborate.
"Huh." Dismas makes a noise, born of resignation, and, in the contradictory fashion, of annoyance. He trudges behind Reynauld like a naughty kid who's been caught out and about past bedtime, but for every step he takes, curiosity is like the prick of a needle. Finally, he can no longer resist asking, "So, uh, what kept you?"
Reynauld's steps slow, but he does not offer an answer. For a couple of heartbeats, Dismas thinks that the other man does not know what he is speaking of, or worse, that he will ignore him altogether.
"I went to fetch a coat," Reynauld finally says in the curt manner Dismas has by now come to associate with the crusader. "And I ran into the Heir."
"The Heir," Dismas repeats. The way Reynauld calls the young lord by his title rather than his name gives him the impression that the knight isn't very fond of his benefactor.
Reynauld nods.
Dismas waits for him to keep going, but when no explanation is forthcoming, he pushes on. "What did he want?"
Reynauld's eyes remain firmly on the horizon, his voice even. "To discuss means of extending our supply of provisions so we could expand our scouting missions further into the blighted lands."
"Huh," Dismas grunts again. Something bitter stirs in his chest at the memory of waiting by the bonfire until it was so late that had to admit that no one would come for him anymore. "At this hour? Couldn't that wait 'till mornin'?"
"Apparently not," Reynauld bites out, and now Dismas can tell that there is little love lost between the crusader and the heir. Which is odd, since he remembers that Audrey told him that Morphew often seeks out Reynauld's advice. The hairs on the back of Dismas' neck rise at the thought of having to spend hours upon hours in the clammy embrace of that old mansion. It's times like these that make him feel better about not having anything meaningful he can contribute to the community – at least not enough to get him another audience with the pale Lord and his mad, ever-giggling manservant.
They continue to walk, side by side until the gloom of the night reveals the squat stone building they are heading towards.
"This is the barracks," Dismas points out in surprise, turning his head to look at Reynauld. This is a place for heroes and adventurers, not housing for one destitute ex-highwayman suffering from amnesia and a bad case of a crick in the neck.
The crusader only nods.
They pass through the familiar corridor and not even at this hour are the barracks fully quiet. Dismas can hear voices coming from a small group of men and woman sitting next to the dying fire of the hearth, drinking and playing dice. A wild looking woman as tall as Reynauld and dressed in animal furs lifts her mug in their direction and Reynauld nods at her.
Dismas wavers between returning the greeting and hiding behind the knight, and in the end does neither. He follows the other man further into the barracks, where he has never dared to go before. Reynauld stops at a solid-looking hardwood door at the left end of the corridor.
"Here we are." In the near total darkness of the hallway it is hard to tell, but Dismas thinks the crusader's eyes are closed. He can hear the other man take a deep breath, and then to Dismas' surprise, he doesn't leave the highwayman, but shoulders open the door, holding it so Dismas can step inside the room.
Dismas approaches with caution. The dark room brings to mind the gloomy lair of a beast, but instead of fangs and claws he fears the onslaught of memory. Ignorance is bliss, they say, but who can truly comprehend the full extent of that wisdom better than him?
Dismas crosses the threshold with a determined step, then pauses to take in his surroundings. It is darker than the star-lit outdoors, but his eyes are quickly adjusting to the low light. He can already make out the square shapes of various objects, though no details yet. The highwayman can feel rather than see Reynauld pass by him. There is a rustle of cloth and then Dismas hears the crusader mutter a few lines in a language he does not understand.
A dry crackle is followed by the smell of woodsmoke and a moment later a reddish glow bathes the room in dancing shadows and warm lights. Reynauld has knelt down in front of a large stone fireplace and he places a few logs inside to build up the little fire that he has started seemingly out of nowhere.
Dismas is less intrigued by the crusader's actions than he is by the room, now that he can see every detail. The chimney is flanked by two beds, each with a chest at the foot end. The wooden floor is marred by a brighter scuff line between them, roughly at the height of the bedposts. A desk has been placed in the narrow niche beneath a small window that is currently shuttered to keep in the warmth. A large wardrobe has a lance leaning against it, and next to it there is a mannequin that holds Reynauld's armour. It is… neat.
Dismas looks at the beds. Both are made, but only one has pristine white linen sheets, while the other is covered by a blanket that has been sewn together out of a couple dozen smaller squares, each of a different colour.
"This… this is mine?" Dismas guesses and Reynauld nods. Dismas doesn't know why, but the gaudy arrangement of colours is comforting somehow. He rests a hand on the fabric. The pillow has been shaken up and someone took great care to tuck in the corners of the blanket.
Six months. He'd been dead for six months and no one had moved in here, or so much as disturbed his things, even though space and good gear both have to be invaluable in the Hamlet.
Dismas has feared that when he would finally be forced to confront his past, it would be as if standing in a mausoleum that was dedicated to preserving the memory of a dead man. But this… it is different. The room is clean and orderly, as if prepared for… a homecoming.
As much as he would like to find out more about the man who lived here, a stranger wearing his name and face, any exploring will have to wait until the morn. The hour is late and Dismas finds that he cannot resist the allure of the mattress, not after the discomfort of the hard wooden pew.
To his surprise, Reynauld leaves the door open as they bed down for the night.
"You don't like closed doors," the crusader explains, having caught Dismas' questioning gaze.
"That's silly," Dismas remarks, his eyes briefly flickering open.
Reynauld doesn't react to the barb. His tone is even when he says, "I think they remind you of prison."
"I don't remember prison," Dismas responds coolly, sits up and closes the door.
He falls back onto the bed, but while his limbs feel heavy, his mind is not awake so much as restless. Trapped. Dismas tosses and turns and grows increasingly irritated.
Reynauld opens the door, just enough for them to be able to see a little light at the end of the corridor and to allow voices and laughter to drift in.
Dismas relaxes, anger and tension leaking out of him like water out of a drain with the stopper pulled. Reynauld doesn't rub it in, and for that, Dismas is grateful.
"What was he like?" The highwayman doesn't quite dare to ask 'what was I like?' "The Old Dismas."
He can make out Reynauld's form, lying on his side, his cheek pillowed on one hand. Reynauld's face conveys about as much emotion as his bascinet does. "Complicated."
Out of all the possible answers, this is one that Dismas hasn't expected. He doesn't think that sounds like him at all. His eyes close on their own. He feels rather than hears Reynauld shift and sigh. Then, he knows no more.
When Dismas wakes, it takes him a moment to remember where he is. The softness of the bed and the stone walls bring to mind the sanatorium, but the room is different. Dismas lifts himself up on his elbows and looks around. He is alone. Reynauld's bed is made – he had either not slept here at all, or woken much earlier than Dismas.
The highwayman is slow to get up. The barracks is quiet, the door to their room still slightly ajar. He casts a nervous look towards it before he finally dares to explore the confines of these four walls. 'Snoop,' a part of Dismas' mind whispers and the feeling of guilt makes him pause. The highwayman decides then and there that he is not a good judge of moral value and since half of the things in here are probably his own, it is his right to look through them.
He begins with the desk, the surface of which is scratched yet has shiny blotches where wax has once been spilled. A pot of ink and a quill lie next to a piece of parchment that has partly been written on. It takes Dismas an embarrassingly long time to realize that he cannot read it. Still, he traces the lines of Reynauld's letters, fine and fragile-looking like nothing else about the man.
Inside the drawer he finds maps of the Hamlet and the surrounding lands. He studies them for a long time, until he is brought back to the here and now by a bout of laughter coming from outside. Dismas quickly closes the drawers and waits with baited breath, but the only thing that reaches his ears is an argument that involves a great amount of jovial cursing. Finally, he turns away from the desk. It holds noting else that is of interest to him.
Reynauld's armour is another matter. Vaguely, Dismas can make out his reflection in the polished metal, though up close he can see countless little blemishes – darker spots where the iron has tarnished, nicks and dents that pieced together would tell a tale of the countless blows the crusader has warded off.
He lifts Reynauld's helmet off the rack and finds himself surprised by the weight. The thing is bloody heavy. Just the thought of having to stick his head into the metal cage is enough for Dismas to break out in a cold sweat. He cannot imagine actually wearing it.
Dismas carefully puts the helmet back and uses his sleeve to polish out any finger prints.
The wardrobe holds both their clothes. The left side belongs to Reynauld, the right must be his. Dismas has no difficulty distinguishing between the two; the crusader's garments are tailored to his taller frame and while Dismas might pray to the Light, he would never actually wear any article of clothing with the holy symbol embroidered upon it. Dismas finds old shirts and pants, and a number of socks, carefully rolled up into tubes.
He does not dare to open the chest at the foot of his bed just yet.
Dismas spends a long time sitting on his bed without any words to describe the feeling in the pit of his stomach. It's not the hunger that makes him queasy, but as minutes pass it becomes more and more prominent, driving off the other, more complicated emotion.
Dismas decides to see about getting some breakfast and tries and mostly succeeds about not thinking how it feels like an excuse to flee the room. The feeling overcomes him without warning, the urge to leave, to breathe the fresh air and to feel the sun and wind on his skin. Before he has consciously made the decision, Dismas finds himself walking the Hamlet's alleys.
He stops at a street corner and inhales deeply. The smell from inside the bakery makes Dismas' stomach growl and his mouth water. He has always eaten at Jubert's before, but today he steps into the little shop that he remembers Audrey telling him is run by a man named Tardif – and promptly blinks his eyes to make sure that what he's seeing is actually there.
The walls are covered in wanted posters, dozens of faces staring back at him. Some have been crossed out in red paint. He does his best not to look too closely at those.
The man behind the counter is wearing an apron and an open expression of murderlust. Dismas suffers a paralyzing moment of panic, before he gathers enough courage to approach the baker. "I'll have the beetroot bread," he drawls, producing a coin seemingly out of nowhere and spinning it between his fingers.
"Hmph." The other man grunts, observing Dismas' every move through narrowed eyes. Instead of serving Dismas his choice, he lifts a tray that stood beside him. "Try the blueberry bunny scones."
"Thanks, I- ," Dismas breaks off to look at the puffy yet vaguely creature-shaped things that more or less exactly fail to resemble a bunny.
"Try them!" the man rasps in a voice like a file on iron.
"Alright," Dismas relents. The bunny scone tastes a lot better than it looks; fluffy and buttery and with a hint of fruit. He nods his approval. "It's good."
The baker scoffs, as if Dismas had somehow insulted him.
Under Tardif's withering glare, Dismas buys the loaf of bread and three more bunny scones, and casts nervous glances at his own face which is staring back at him from over the baker's shoulder with an expression that rivals the thundercloud that Tardif calls his visage. The poster says dead or alive, and names a ridiculous amount of gold as a reward.
"You wanna cash in on that?" Dismas asks with morbid fascination as he can feel his heart sink. He has a terrible vision of the baker murdering him and stuffing his remains inside one of the meat pies.
"Not worth it," Tardif grunts after too long a time, and he seems to greatly regret that circumstance.
Dismas realizes that Tardif would kill him, if he could. All the way back to the barracks he nibbles on his bunny scone and wonders what is stopping the former bounty hunter.
In the common room he runs into Audrey and promptly decides to share some of the baked goods with her since he has acquired more than he can eat before they will go stale.
"Oh! Tardif's gotten better with the forms!" Audrey exclaims with delight and tears a stubby ear off her bunny and pops it in her mouth, humming in appreciation. "Mmm, blueberries."
They sit and eat in silence, watching people enter to look at the duty roster and leave again.
"Copper for your thoughts," Audrey prompts, when she finds Dismas to be more quiet and withdrawn than usual.
The highwayman huffs. "Stingy."
"Pfft. As if your thoughts are worth that much," Audrey retorts, and they both laugh. "Hey," the blonde prompts again when no reply is forthcoming.
Dismas relents with a sigh and shares what has been bothering him since he has had time to think about it. "I asked Reynauld what I was like. Before. All he said was 'complicated'."
Audrey shrugs in answer. "That's because Reynauld thinks everything is complicated," she says.
"So… what was I like?" Dismas wants to know and suffers a pang of self-loathing upon hearing his own voice. Is he truly that desperate for some validation?
"You were… different," Audrey says, her eyes narrowing, as if she was trying to look through Dismas – or maybe into him. "You were harsher. Jaded. We had fun times, but in between, you could be a mean bastard." She chews, then swallows, a thoughtful expression on her face. "You drank more. A lot more. And it didn't always make you better company."
"So I was a drunk bastard who killed things?" Dismas sums up, a bitter knot forming in his throat. "And then what?"
Audrey shrugs. "You got a ticket to the Hamlet, like the rest of us forsaken few."
"Ticket?" Dismas repeats and huffs, the vice around his throat loosening enough for him to breathe again. "Lord no, I'm a stowaway."
"See?" Audrey's smile is mirrored in her eyes when she lays a hand on his cheek. "You may lack the memories and the shit bits, but the personality's all there."
The encouragement from his friend gives Dismas the fortitude he needs to return to his room, to face his own past and Reynauld's silent grief.
It turns out that the crusader has not returned yet, so Dismas is gifted with privacy as he goes through the contents of the chest at the foot end of his bed. He lifts the heavy lid and inside he finds a fine collection of knives, dirks and pistols and, curiously enough, painted cards as well as small pretty stones and coins. If it's pointy or shiny, then Dismas hoarded it like some murderous magpie.
As he rummages through the things, Dismas wonders if any of these hold a meaning beyond being interesting to look at when, at the very bottom of the chest, he finds a beautifully carved casket so small it fits in the palm of his hand. Curious, Dismas flicks open the tiny hooked silver lock.
There is only one item that takes up the entre interior. A necklace – nay, a locket. Dismas opens it. The inside is engraved with the picture of a woman and child.
Puzzled, Dismas stares at their faces. Did he have a wife and child, somewhere? Was that why he had turned to banditry? To support them? Were they now somewhere, waiting for him to return? That is how Reynauld finds him, sitting frozen in place with the trinket clasped in trembling hands.
Dismas can tell that the crusader has dreaded this moment the instance Reynauld's eyes come to rest on the locket.
"Did I – ?"
"They're not your family." Reynauld replies before Dismas has finished giving voice to his question.
"Oh." Does he feel relief? Why would he keep the trinket then? Surely it is more than a keepsake he found somewhere. Before Dismas can figure out the feeling, Reynauld speaks on.
"They're dead. By your hand." There is no judgment in Reynauld's mien, but there is no pity either.
"No." Dismas is shaking his head like he could undo the knight's words, undo the very past itself if he renounced it firmly enough. But Reynauld has no reason to lie to him.
"How?" Dismas demands to know, as if that will make the horror of the revelation easier to grasp, somehow.
"A robbery gone bad. You were set upon the wrong coach. Fired at sight and, well. Hit. That's what you told me, anyway." From his tone alone Dismas can tell that Reynauld has good reason to believe that it might not be the truth.
"Did you know them?" Dismas asks, dreading the answer.
There is no hesitation this time. "No," Reynauld says. "They just remind me of my wife and son."
Dismas' head snaps up. "You have a family?"
"I had one," Reynauld answers and for the first time Dismas can make out the pain in his voice.
"I'm sorry," the highwayman croaks.
Reynauld turns away and puts away his sword next to his lance. Then, "Do not be," the knight says. "They live."
"Oh. Then, why did you - ?"
"Why did I leave?" Reynauld finishes for him, turning his head to look at Dismas over his shoulder. "To do my duty to the Light," he explains, doffing his tabard. "And fight in the holy wars in the East. And for so much time I have wished – tried to – forget what I have left behind," he sighs before his gaze sharpens as he beholds Dismas' slumped form. "If this is what it's like, I would rather remember them, and remain a sinner."
"It ain't that bad," Dismas contradicts him. He doesn't know why he feels the sudden urge to argue with the crusader, but this is his life – his only life as far as he is concerned – and he feels strangely protective of it. "At least you have a family to return to. Why are you here?" he wants to know, the accusation clear in his voice. Why are you not with them?
"The things I did in the crusades." The words hang between them, suspended as if by an occultist's spell, until Reynauld takes a seat on his bed opposite the highwayman, forearms resting on his knees.
"I do not know whether I killed more men by my sword or by leading them into battle," the knight says. "We conquered cities of mosaic tiles and alabaster and slew the monarchs that ruled them. I saw places of worship cleansed in blood and I killed children younger than my son after condemning their parents to the stake or the holy fires. I led our armies to a great many victories and I did it in the belief that my every step would sanctify the unholy earth." He looks away now, but only briefly.
"Until my faith had been ground down to the bone and the bones of our enemies to dust, and I saw true; my life a wound upon the world. One I would not inflict upon those I love."
Dismas' mouth has gone dry and he doesn't trust his voice. He nods. Looks down at the locket. It seems, they are all murderers here.
Reynauld waits patiently, his gaze never wavering.
"How long have I been here?" Dismas asks.
"We arrived almost three years ago."
That means they've known each other for two and a half years. Audrey had said Reynauld and him had been the first to arrive in the Hamlet. For a moment Dismas believes that he can hear the thunder of hooves and the crack of the whip. Their carriage lurches, pulled by a pair of horses frothing at the mouth, their eyes turned back into their skulls with terror.
There is a crash, and the feeling of vertigo – it is right there within his grasp, like when one can taste the shape of the word one had forgotten on one's tongue.
Reynauld must have seen something change in Dismas' expression.
"What is the matter?"
"I almost remembered – " Dismas says breathlessly, trying to cling to the memory like a drowning man might to a floating piece of wood.
"Remembered what?"
"I don't know!" Dismas shouts. The memory slips away again and the emptiness it leaves behind fills with fury, then overflows. Dismas pivots and punches the door and regrets it the moment his knuckles connect with the wood. Blinding pain shoots through his hand, from the joints and through his fingers, right into the bones of his hand. The highwayman howls with pain. "Fuck!"
It was a bad idea. He could hear as well as feel something in his hand crack, and through the burning agony he knows that he has broken his hand out of sheer stupidity. "Fuckarse shite!" Dismas presses out between clenched teeth and with tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.
He can feel Reynauld close, but doesn't pay the other man any heed until the crusader gently but insistently uncurls his good hand from where it has clamped over the injured one.
Reynauld's hands are rough with callous. His eyes are warm. Dismas shivers.
The pain becomes less.
"Don't do that again," Reynauld admonishes gently several minutes later as he lets go of Dismas' hand with some difficulty.
Dismas moans weakly, swallows, and then nods. "Were you there when I died?" he blurts out, suddenly afraid to know the truth. If he and Reynauld had been friends, how painful must it have been for the other man?
"I was," Reynauld admits softly. "I – I tried – " His voice breaks and he looks away.
Dismas is shocked to see that Reynauld is crying. Stunned, he takes a step closer to the other man and manages to surprise himself by hugging the knight. Up close, Reynauld smells like weapon oil, incense and a faint trace of horse.
The gesture seems to be too much for the other man and suddenly Dismas is holding him up as much as holding him.
"I'm sorry." Reynauld's fingers curl into his back painfully.
"Eh… I think… the hand's fine, now," Dismas stutters and in his chest, his heart does the same.
"I'm sorry I failed you," Reynauld says much more quietly, and that is something Dismas cannot brush off with a quip.
"Oh, that. S'fine as far as I'm concerned. I mean, I don't know what old Dismas'd have ta say 'bout it." There is a moment where Dismas can feel Reynauld's breath catch, and then it escapes him with the next shuddering exhale.
"He would curse me a fool."
"I can do that too," Dismas offers helpfully, and he only has to fake the cheer a little bit. "D'ya want me too?"
Reynauld chuckles at that and shakes his head and this time, doesn't let go of Dismas.
A thought is nagging at the back of the highwayman's mind, two parallel scratch marks on the wooden floor.
Friends, Audrey had called them.
Here he is.
But not the man Reynauld had been waiting for.
In the weeks that pass, Dismas frequently visits the training grounds. He finds bodily exhaustion to be a good remedy for a restless mind. Especially when prayer is not enough to give him a clear head. The highwayman is still a good shot and thanks to Margaret's teaching he has re-learned to handle his pistols, enough so to feel confident in his skill. Unfortunately, he has a lot more trouble in close combat.
Dismas' dirk is woefully inadequate a weapon when compared to the swords, spears, maces and other deadly objects that his friends wield. Perhaps the knife would serve him well in skirmish in a narrow alleyway or in the tight quarters of a tavern brawl, but out in the training field Dismas is hopelessly outmatched.
Especially when his opponent is more than a decade younger than him and comes in the form of Darell, the former lumberjack. The other man wields a woodcutter's axe and although Dismas can tell that he doesn't possess an ounce of finesse, what Darell lacks in form, he more than makes up for in abandon and stamina.
Dismas dodges a wild swing and tries to step around the warrior, but Darell follows up with another series of blows that force the highwayman to back up or risk being hit. However, he moves too fast and slips on the grass. Dismas' teeth click together as his ass meets the ground in a rather undignified manner.
Behind him, somebody laughs.
Dismas curses and shoots a filthy glare over his shoulder at a man who is casually leaning on the fence surrounding the training ground. He is one of four people cutting through the fields and headed towards the Hamlet. None of the other three adventurers pays them much heed. First walks a middle-aged man who throws a stick for his dog to fetch and seems oblivious of anything around him, followed by two women who are talking to each other.
No, it's the one in scale mail and with an axe at his hip who grins at Dismas like the highwayman was the punchline of a joke.
"Somethin' funny?" Dismas growls in his direction.
"You," the man answers. "To think they're still telling tales of Dismas, the fearsome highwayman. Or that anyone would believe them."
"Oy!" Darell, shouts back and holds out a hand to help Dismas back to his feet. The highwayman accepts and receives a comradely clap on his shoulder that makes him feel marginally better about falling on his ass in front of an audience. "Best shut yer trap before Reynauld hears!"
"Before I hear what?" Even when he doesn't raise it, Reynauld's voice carries.
Dismas flinches, and he isn't the only one. Had the crusader been watching them fight all the time?
"Just that idiot," Darell mutters, waving his hand in the direction of the offender who has jumped over the fence in a fluid motion.
The warrior makes to move past them, but Reynauld takes a step to the side, effectively blocking his direct path. The gesture draws the attention of the few other people present. The other adventurers stop, and in the adjacent field even Barristan gives up on instructing the recruits who by now have stopped paying attention to their lesson.
"Look mate, t'was just an argument," the man says with a casual shrug.
Reynauld's face might as well be that of a statue, carved from marble, but the fury in his eyes burns like the fires of the holy flame itself. By comparison, his tone is almost conversional when he notes, "I see that the spoils were rich."
"Sure." The adventurer strokes a fat gold pouch that hangs at his hip.
"Good." The crusader nods, once, like he has made up his mind up about something. "This is more than enough to pay for a return ticket." The words hang in the air between the two men until,
"You fuckin' serious?" the warrior's features twist in an ugly sneer. Dismas notes how his hand twitches towards his axe.
Reynauld has his longsword resting casually on his right shoulder, but Dismas has seen enough of weapon practice by now to understand that this is practically a combat stance. It would take the knight but a fraction of a heartbeat to bring the sword down in a powerful blow. Reynauld must be expecting some form of opposition from the man.
"I suggest you hurry and pack," the crusader says. "We don't have need of your stock."
The adventurer sneers, first at the knight, then at the others who all take a step back, as if to distance themselves not only from the man, but also from his words. "And what if I don't leave, eh?"
A shadow passes over the crusader's face. "We have a fresh grave, recently emptied, and waiting to be filled. Whether you are still alive when I put you in it or not, I do not care."
For a heartbeat everything hangs in the balance. Then, the fighter turns away and spits at crusader's feet and with him leaving, life slowly returns to everybody else.
"That's enough lollygagging," Barristan huffs, and the recruits sort themselves back into neat rows for sparring.
Reynauld turns on his heel and follows the adventurer, as if to personally assure himself that he will mount the first carriage out of the Hamlet.
Dismas is still reeling from what has just happened, when he spots a familiar figure approaching him from the direction of the barracks. He might be inclined to say he spots a familiar face, but the truth is that Audrey's face is entirely hidden by that ridiculous hat of hers.
"What's this all about?" she wants to know the moment she is in hearing range. Audrey casts a curious look backwards.
Darell excuses himself and leaves Dismas to tell her, from him falling on his arse to what's-his-name calling him out for being a terrible fighter.
"Oh, that - ," Audrey proceeds to call the adventurer a series of names that no lady should ever befoul her mouth with and each and every single one of which would have Junia in a fit. Dismas' mood lifts considerably as he supplies her with a few choice curses of his own, whenever the blonde falters.
"Anyway, it's not true," Audrey adds at the end of her fit. "Just because you're not as good as you used to be, doesn't mean you're a bad fighter."
She has to see the skeptic look that Dismas levels at her. He appreciates the effort, but it really is wasted considering the circumstances.
"Oh, don't give me the stinkeye," Audrey huffs. "It's different when you're fighting alongside the others rather than against them," she lectures. "You wouldn't think a pickaxe actually makes for a decent weapon, would you? Because let me tell you: it doesn't. But in a team it's got its uses, and so does your potato-peeler."
Dismas isn't sure if she is being sincere or just trying to make him feel better.
"Anyway, what happened then?" Audrey asks, waving off Dismas' concerns.
For a second, the highwayman doesn't know what she is referring to, but then tells her all about the bit with the carriage as well as Reynauld's threat. "He… wouldn't kill him?" Dismas says and it comes as more of a question than he intended.
Audrey sucks in air through her teeth, shrugs, and doesn't start an argument.
That evening, Dismas waits until Reynauld returns from one of his meetings with Morphew up at the mansion. He doesn't give the crusader any forewarning.
"Next job ya got," Dismas says without so much as a 'hello'. "I'm coming with ya."
"No."
It is the answer that Dismas expected. He could list two dozen reasons to back up his decision, but what he says instead is, "Reynauld, I don't wanna fuckin' argue with ya."
But he would, and he would use every dirty trick this ragtag rabble that are his friends have taught him.
Reynauld closes his eyes and then his shoulders slump. "Is there anything I can say or do to make you change your mind?" he asks quietly.
Dismas works his jaw, his black eyes hard as obsidian. "No."
For the longest time, a heavy sigh is his only answer.
Then, so softly it is barely audible, Reynauld relents. "Of course."
If it is a victory, Dismas wonders why it feels so hollow.