To his astonishment, Dismas finds that he actually enjoys his newfound work. He was nervous as a youngster when he asked Cely the candlemaker, an aging woman half a head shorter than him, yet twice his girth, to take him in as an apprentice. Thankfully, her surprise and initial reservation was surpassed by her willingness to take one of the Hamlet's heroes under her wing. The pouch of coin and the free workforce he provided her with may have contributed to that.
From now on, Dismas rolls out of bed with the first light of morning to collect rushes before he heads over to the little workshop. He dips them in wax and watches Cely work on the more advanced candles, learning the names of the tools and their use. Every night he returns to his and Reynauld's shared room where he finds his pillow shaken up, his bed made and the corners of his sheets tucked in.
He asks Reynauld about it, one evening.
"Your mess vexes me," the crusader claims without looking up from his holy book.
The warmth in his eyes and voice says otherwise.
When she deems him ready, Cely teaches Dismas the different materials to make candles from; tallow from beef or mutton and fat of whale and later how to harvest and process them. Wicks he rolls of flax and hemp, both which the candlemaker grows in the field behind her home. He tends to the plants and later she entrusts him with the knowledge to process the rare bayberry and beeswax.
Dismas is more surprised than his teacher to find out that he is a swift learner, even if he botches the wax formula a number of times. When it happens again, he curses up a blue streak and is promptly sent off to the abbey so that he will not befoul the workshop with his vile language.
Junia grants him absolution with a roll of her eyes, but not before making him promise to better keep his tongue in check and to apologize to the poor old woman who had to bear witness to his outburst.
He does so upon his return, a little sheepish and then, without feeling so much as an ounce of regret, lies about having done penance. Surely there is no harm in it – quite to the contrary, 'tis for the good woman's peace of mind. Dismas is forgiven and he and the candlemaker eye the mess of wax and fat that has begun to split up as it cooled.
"Practice," Cely says, and fixes his mistakes so that he may learn from them.
Once he is practiced in the making of the wax, Dismas is entrusted with the production of plain and unadorned tallow candles. He dips the wicks and hangs them to cool, over and over again, soon despairing of how slow the process is.
"Patience," Cely laughs, and proceeds to teach him the use of molds, of which she has a few that she treasures.
Being a chandler is not a particularly demanding job, nor would anyone consider it exciting. Simple work it may be, repetitive and soothing sometimes, and dull on occasion, yet it gives Dismas purpose and something he can be proud of. It is a new feeling to him, strange and thrilling. When he walks the Hamlet's streets after dusk, Dismas can see his creations illuminate the windows and he knows that it was him who brought a glimmer of the Light into the resident's homes and hearts. It is a reward unto itself.
The pleasure does not fade with time, but nonetheless a restlessness takes hold of him and Dismas begins to experiment with the ingredients and materials. Watching Jubert make baked herb potatoes in a large skillet one evening gives him inspiration and Dismas' chin slips out of his hand, and his head shoots up, a half-formed idea nagging at him.
The result of many a sleepless night that follows is a flat bed, with a metal bottom and a low wooden frame that can be taken off. First, a thin layer of wax is poured and left to cool slightly. Then, the whole cast is placed over a bed of coal to keep the wax soft and pliant. It takes many attempts before Dismas figures out the perfect timing and distance that will keep the wax workable, but not melt it. The sides of the mold come off, and he cuts the wax sheet into stripes, places the wick at one end and rolls them up.
Cely watches with rapt attention, the master now standing aside to learn from the apprentice. "My, my," she tutters, "That's mighty clever, that is."
"Dunno 'bout clever," Dismas mutters. "But 's a mighty lot less work, that a' ways."
For fun and for profit he learns how to dye the wax and even scent it, mixing in flower petals or berries or even peels of fruit. The day he puts those candles in the shop's show case, the Madam of the brothel buys the entire stock and orders more.
Cely helps him create more pretty patterns and shapes then, and Dismas turns his attention to experimenting on making his candles burn longer, brighter. He attempts to improve the torches as well, although not every day ends in success.
Dismas is tempted to call it research, only it's really trial and error and more often than not, the results end up being flawed and unusable. Every so often, they send up dark plumes of foul smelling smoke that hang in the air, oily and so thick that breathing becomes almost impossible. He has to open wide the windows and door to air out the workshop whilst he sits on the front steps, enjoying a smoke and pondering his mistakes.
When a sprinkling of blackpowder ends up blowing up his work table, he has to reimburse the candlemaker for the loss, although it does draw the attention of Paracelsus. Sometimes, the plague doctor visits him in the workshop that, more and more often, he thinks of as his own. Occasionally, Alhazred accompanies her.
"Try magnesium," Para suggests during one such a visit. She bends close to inspect one of the candles through her thick glasses. Even without her mask, her hunched posture resembles that of a scraggly bird. "It's what I use in my stun grenades."
"In moderation, I believe, brimstone could considerably improve the flammable qualities," Alhazred throws in.
"Mixed with lime, yes, yes!" Para shouts, looking up suddenly.
Alhazred casts her a surprised glance, and strokes his beard, and within minutes the discussion evolves into something Dismas cannot follow. He still follows their instructions as accurately as he can. It is no easy feat, since he finds the scholars oft in disagreement and shouting contradictory directives at him. Dismas can feel the prickle of sweat under his arms and at the back of his neck as he weights and mixes various flammable substances, and almost ends up burning down the workshop when he finds out that the torch thus created will not be put out by water.
Neither Alhazred nor Para seem to be put off the fiery mishap.
"We shall have to fear the Cove no more," Al says almost vengefully, and they break open one of Jubert's finest bottles of juniper spirit to celebrate the occasion.
It is Reynauld who hauls Dismas' half-unconscious carcass back to their room that night. Alhazred is nowhere to be seen, and Para is fast asleep and snoring with her head pillowed on the new yet already wax-stained work table. Dismas mumbles a weak protest when Reynauld manhandles him back to his feet and then acquiesces, leaning against the knight on legs as shaky as those of a newborn lamb.
Reynauld is right there and he is warm. The crusader makes sure Dismas does not stumble or fall and he helps Dismas out of his boots, putting the highwayman to bed without a word of reproach. On the morrow Dismas suffers the consequences of his overindulgence, but the memory of Reynauld is ever at the forefront of his thoughts.
To thank him for putting up with his drunk arse, Dismas gifts Reynauld with the first candle that he deems good enough for the purpose. He savours the look on Reynauld's face, but then his smile turns into an alarmed gasp when, without so much as a flame to the wick, the candle ignites and a flame several inches tall shoots up.
Reynauld awkwardly sets the candle on a porcelain dish. He sits down to watch it burn and as he does, an aura of peace envelops him.
From now on, Dismas avows to leave a candle on Reynauld's nightstand every day.
He has made good on that resolution for nary a fortnight when the crusader returns to their room one evening, later than is his wont. Dismas almost doesn't recognize him and he gawks at the unfamiliar face long enough for it to be considered rude even by the least prudish man.
"Is there something at fault with my countenance?" Reynauld asks, an amused quirk at the corner of his mouth.
He had been to the barber. His hair is short and kempt and his beard has been neatly trimmed to two finger's breadth of length.
Dismas opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water. It is embarrassing how long it takes him to regain his wits. "Yea. Where's the furry thing that was eatin' yer chin?" he asks. Weak as his comeback is, it makes Reynauld burst into laughter.
The highwayman stares at him, transfixed. Reynauld's smiles are few and far in between, and it may well be the first time Dismas has ever heard him laugh out loud, free of care.
It's also the first time he thinks of Reynauld as good-looking. That one traitorous thought sparks something in him, a fire that he cannot quench in work or drink. Nor does he want though, even though it leaves him flushed and burning hot, as with a sickness that no medic can cure.
To make matters worse, whenever she sees them together, Audrey keeps casting Dismas knowing winks and smiles, as if she were privy to some matter that he is not. It drives him insane, although that is a word not lightly taken in the Hamlet, and so he doesn't.
"Say, now that you're back, why's Reynauld still wearing your scarf?" the blonde asks one evening, mischief glittering in her eyes.
"He's what!?" Dismas asks, and Audrey bursts out in a cackle like some evil hag from the woods, and not the highborn lady she claims to have been once.
Dismas addresses the matter the next time he sees Reynauld.
Whether the crusader is in full battle attire or the simple hose and tunic that he dons whenever there is work to be done that does not involve the sword; the one constant is the red kerchief around his neck. It has a somewhat faded look to it, tattering at the edges, but Dismas has yet to see him without it.
"That was mine?" Dismas says, pointing at the object in question. It comes out as more of an enquiry than a statement.
"Yes?" Reynauld replies with a downwards look, and there is a question in his voice.
"Why are you wearing my scarf?" Dismas insists to know.
"Because you gave it to me."
"Oh." May the shits visit Audrey in her sleep. She had to know, and now he looks and feels the idiot.
Reynauld chuckles, unruffled, and holds out his hand. "Give me your coat."
Dismas hesitates, but then does as Reynauld says, wearily at first, then with a growing grin as Reynauld shrugs into the coat. It fits him, just, but only because he is not wearing any armour underneath. "Your gloves."
Dismas hands over his gloves next and Reynauld shoves them behind the coat's belt in a way that Dismas knows he must have worn them.
"Now, it's your turn."
Dismas holds up both arms in protest, palms outwards. "Whoah, there. I ain't getting' into all that armour o' yours."
"There is no need," Reynauld assures him with a laugh and Dismas needs no further convincing to give in.
Reynauld may have spared him the plate, but not the chainmail. It is heavy, although it seems less so when it settles on his shoulders compared to the weight it had posed in his arms. It still feels burdensome and confining at first, but becomes bearable when the crusader secures it with a wide leather belt that helps spread out the weight. The tabard is too long for Dismas, and it takes Reynauld a moment of fussing until he manages to tuck it in at the shoulders so that Dismas can walk without stepping on it.
Dismas slips the rosary over his neck and lastly, Reynauld hands him his longsword, helping fasten it so that it hangs off the side of the highwayman's hip, strange but not uncomfortably so. Reynauld steps back to survey his handiwork.
"Well?" To mask his nervousness, Dismas spreads his arms and turns this way and that, as if he were at the tailor's and not dressing up as a knight crusader.
"It will do," Reynauld states drily. As long as he doesn't open his mouth, the crusader makes a much better picture of a highwayman than Dismas does a knight.
They spend the day pretending to be the other.
Reynauld sells sad little stumps of wax that sporadically burst into flame whenever he gets too close to them and Dismas gets to yell at a bunch of recruits that are too terrified of the actual Reynauld to ask any questions. It's the most fun Dismas has had since being granted this second chance at life.
When Junia, en route to the abbey, spots him, she almost stumbles over the hem of her habit. The nun does a double take, then stops. " – Dismas!" she exclaims and forgets to continue as she regards his getup. "So, are you a knight now?" the nun asks once she has caught herself, now torn between amusement and outrage.
"Aye, sister!" Dismas calls out. "Praised be the Light fer its brightness!"
Junia laughs, a sound that warms the heart. She lifts a menacing finger, as if to school a naughty boy, but then only shakes her head, a smile on her lips. "Does this mean I will find Reynauld in the gambling den?" she asks.
Dismas' eyes light up.
"Oh," Junia sighs. "Oh sweet, merciful Light, what have I done!"
That evening, Dismas takes Reynauld to the gambling hall. More accurately, he uses the crusader's broad form to hide behind to slip unnoticed past Jubert. They make their way downstairs and Dismas rubs his hands in anticipation as he casts his gaze about. The hall is well visited, and the air is warm and thick with the smells of smoke, spilled bear and sweat. He sighs in relish.
Reynauld is much more reserved, skeptically eyeing the crowd and their chosen pastime.
"Cards or dice?" Dismas begins to pace between the tables, getting excited. He should have thought about putting some dice over the coal bed that he uses to melt wax. A few minutes, and lady luck would be smiling down on them. He curses his lack of foresight, and then settles for cards.
Left on his own, Reynauld would probably refuse to move in a futile attempt to melt into the background. The crusader is many things, but easy to overlook he is not. Dismas grabs him by the arm.
"C'mon!" he says in an attempt to hurry the Reynauld along. When it doesn't work, he pulls the other man behind him, marching them both to his chosen table.
Reynauld is dragging his feet, but finally relents and they take their places. The knight is content to watch the game unfurl and Dismas does his best to explain the rules although his play suffers for it. The knight is a distraction. It's not anything Reynauld does. His mere presence is all it takes for Dismas' thoughts to scatter like startled mice, but there is nowhere the highwayman would rather be.
He is a seasoned enough gambler to win a modest amount of gold, but not so much as to draw the rancor of his fellow players.
"I'll get us somethin' to drink," Dismas announces at the end of the second round, roughly half an hour into the game. Before Reynauld can voice his protest, he stands up and leaves. When he comes back, it is with two tankards of apple cider. Tis' the season, and though not his usual fare, he wishes to keep his head when gambling.
Reynauld takes a sip and nods his approval of Dismas' choice of beverage. He is content to watch the highwayman play, but Dismas has none of it.
"Deal us in!" he calls out as soon as he has taken his seat again, deaf to the knight's objections. Grief. It was all they had. For so long, it had bound them. Dismas would much rather it be happiness and he laughs like a maniac when, with a long-suffering sigh, Reynauld humours him and picks up his hand of cards.
Dismas is not ashamed to admit that he quite loses track of the game, then. He is far too busy watching Reynauld play to pay much attention to his opponents. The crusader really has the right expression for gambling. He frowns at his cards, and he does so regardless of the hand he has been dealt. That damnable frown will be the end of Dismas.
He begins to lose – not by much, but Dismas knows there is no point of him staying in the game. He feeds Reynauld's pot and then withdraws with winnings moderate enough to ensure that he will be welcome to return another time. He sighs, and stretches and then picks up their empty tankards. I'll get us some more," Dismas says.
Reynauld nods, and doesn't look his way.
With a grin, Dismas makes his way upstairs, where he is all but ambushed by Margaret and Josephine. Within minutes Dismas has signed up for a shooting tournament that the musketeer is planning for the Yuletide celebrations and refused no less than three offers from the antiquarian to become his gambling pimp. He is saved when Al arrives to whisk the petite Easterner away – or so he thinks until Margaret begins to enquire after Reynauld and Dismas begins to wonder whether a bar brawl would serve as a suitable distraction for him to make his escape.
Thankfully, he doesn't have to resort to such drastic measures. At some point, Margaret's eyes slide past Dismas', then grow wide.
"Uh-non," she whispers and, leaving him on his own, vanishes into the crowd.
Dismas turns his head. Reynauld is stomping up the stairs and one look at the crusader's face is enough to tell Dismas that the other man is furious. A moment later he learns the reason. Reynauld, having tried his hand at gambling, won six consecutive rounds with nary a grasp of the card game's rules, and promptly gotten himself thrown out of the hall for cheating.
Before Reynauld has finished speaking, Dismas is wheezing with laughter. He bends at the middle and almost slips off the stool, having to hang onto the bar so as not to hit the ground. Reynauld shakes his head, but the livid expression is replaced by a smile.
To cheer him up, Dismas buys their next round of drinks; more cider for Reynauld and some whiskey for himself. When Reynauld's arm comes to rest across his shoulders, Dismas isn't even aware of leaning in until he can feel fingers run through the finer hairs at the back of his neck.
The touch stops as suddenly as it had begun.
Reynauld pulls back with a mumbled apology, and hides his face in his tankard. Dismas eyes the dregs of his own drink, then finishes his whiskey in one go. It tastes vapid.
It is twenty weeks to the day since Dismas' foray into the Warrens when he signs up for another venture, this time into the ruinous underground passages below the mansion. A pocket of cultists has been reported and the villains have been pouring forth, attacking the outermost farms and homes of the hamlet, and sowing dread and discord. A nest of them is like a festering wound filling up with pus. It needs cleansing.
Dismas has nothing to prove – not this time. He is but one of the many volunteers willing to pick up arms and risk his life to defend his home and friends. When he his chosen for the expedition, he steels his will, and then sharpens his dirk and cleans his pistols. Nonetheless, a weight lifts off his heart when he learns that Reynauld will accompany him. No one dares to contest the knight for his spot.
With them goes Tardif, who has exchanged his baker's apron for a suit of scale mail and as many weapons as he could attach to his body. To Dismas' surprise, the last member of their group is to be Junia. She is in charge of the torch, and while still clad in her green habit, she now wears a sturdy leather cuirass on top. At her side hangs a mace that Dismas never wants to see the business end of.
"Worry not friends," Junia says as they descend into the long dark of underground. "We are protected from above." And she hoists high the torch, one of Dismas' make. It burns with a bright and steady flame, illuminating their way.
The things Dismas sees there, in the shifting corridors and sloped vaults of the great ruins are sure to haunt him for the rest of his days. He had witnessed the bones of man walk, reanimated by foul magic and evil intent and he beheld the very fabric of reality tear and peel away as he gazed into the Void; timeless, endless, and empty save of a million malicious eyes that looked back at him.
Such horrors are burned behind his eyelids even upon his return and he stares into the fire of the hearth, shivering, until the dancing flames are all he can see as long as he doesn't close his eyes.
They had persevered and finally overcome their enemies, slaying the eldritch creature that had sent them forth. Another one will take its place and Dismas once more feels reduced to a wreck of a man, crushed under the weight of their task and the insignificance of his own existence.
Reynauld, as always, shows greater fortitude.
"I know what it feels like."
Madness. His mind is a ball of yarn, tossed out there for the eldritch creatures to play with and to unravel. He holds his head in his hands, presses his thumbs into his skull as hard as he can.
Reynauld hovers nearby, not encroaching, but not leaving him either. "If you wish for a room to yourself, I would not begrudge you."
"What?" Dismas asks, his head snapping up. He has only listened to half and understood less through his feverish attempts to drown out the whispers of despair. "No."
He collapses more than sits down in front of the fireplace, legs folding under him. In the glow of the fire, the warmth of it is almost scorching and there are no shadows for his nightmares to hide in. Reynauld hesitates, then sits down next to him and without thinking about what it, Dismas rests his head on his shoulder. Reynauld wraps his arm around Dismas' shoulders and draws him close.
The little creatures of the dark cease their nibbling at his sanity and Dismas knows something like peace again. I could do worse, flashes through his mind, and inwardly he chuckles at the intrusive thought. He could do a lot worse, indeed, and not much better.
"Tis' yours, I believe." Dismas asks, holding out the rosary. After what they had been through, he isn't sure if he believes, still.
Reynauld makes no move to take it. "Nay," he replies. "Not anymore. It is yours now."
He closes Dismas' hand on the necklace and doesn't move from the highwayman's side until dawn bathes their room in golden sunlight and the Light dominates over the Dark for yet one more precious, fleeting day.
Not all strife is brought to the Hamlet from outside, however. One morn, a commotion starts just outside of Dismas' workshop, startling him out of the monotony of work. 'Tis not out of the ordinary to hear shouting or the clash of arms in the Hamlet, but this is neither Barristan issuing orders, nor the usual bout of sparring.
The din of voices swells, confused and angry, and in the midst of it all, Dismas can hear Reynauld bellow,
"Enough!"
In an instant, Dismas is out of the door. A throng of people has formed in the main alley and he has to push his way through the crowd, earning himself some disgruntled mutters that he pays no heed to. Dismas doesn't know what started the argument –after a few quick enquiries he learns that apparently neither does anyone else – but he doesn't have to guess as to who it has sprung up between.
In the middle of the crowd Reynauld and Morphew are facing each other. The heir is red-faced and breathing hard whilst Reynauld's arms are crossed and his mien holds all the contempt one man can spare for another. Dismas would hate to be in the Heir's shoes, but the man apparently is oblivious to his peril.
The Highwayman is about to enquire what this all is about, when Reynauld grabs Morphew by arm and drags him in the direction of the town's perimeter. The crowd parts reluctantly for them to pass, but ultimately none is brave and foolish enough to hinder the crusader.
The Heir cries out in outrage and plants his feet, trying to twist this way and that. He might as well be a kitten attempting to escape the jaws of a boarhound.
Dismas follows the procession, confused and forgotten until they find themselves in a place he knows well, halting before the doors of the sanatorium. Only then does Reynauld let go of Morphew with one hand to knock on the door. The heir attempts to break free once more then and, failing that, punches the crusader to a collective gasp of everybody who witnesses the strike.
Morphew blanches and with a whimper, curls upon himself in pain. Dismas, having fairly recently broken his hand against a hard and immobile surface would have felt a spark of pity for him if he hadn't been hoping for Reynauld to trounce the aristocrat hard enough to knock some sense into him. The same fear must have struck Morphew, because he remains hunched over with his shoulders drawn up, shivering in anticipation of a blow that never comes.
Reynauld shows greater self-control than Dismas is capable of, however, and he merely treats the offence with stoic indifference. In a way, that may be a worse than any punishment.
Thankfully, the sanatorium doors open.
Reynauld unceremoniously pushes the no longer resisting Morphew inside and into the nurse's arms.
"See to it that he sobers up."
They see nothing of the Heir for several weeks. Autumn passes and winter is upon them and eventually so is the day of midwinter. Dismas has never been quite so busy as he is in the days before the festivities. The demand for candles is higher than ever and he is glad he thought to make more than usual several days ahead of the date. Even with all the additional supplies he runs out of stock fast until at last he has sold every last candle and closes shop.
It is as if the people wish to drive away the dreary, early dark of winter by lighting as many candles as possible. On the holy day the Hamlet is brightly lit and the people are milling in the streets, chatting and exchanging well-wishes. Earlier there had been pies cooling on the windowsills, but now those are shared as everybody knocks together tankards of a mulled wine Jubert has brewed specially for the occasion.
The tavern is overflowing with folks, adventurers and peasants alike, and the merrymakers spill into the streets, crowding hastily erected booths that sell roasted chestnuts and potato patties. Mallilie the wolfhound is making her rounds, begging for pats and scraps. She receives both in abundance, panting happily and licking hands and gobbling up the scraps tossed to her.
All of Dismas friends are there, dressed in their finest garb. Reynauld cuts a striking figure in a splendid tabard of white and gold, but Dismas is no less happy to see Audrey, Josephine and Al, and the cathouse girls. They mix freely with the heroes, although tonight none of them plies their trade.
Pierre is making the best of the town square's acoustics, playing a flute as well as a drum and jingling various bells attacked to his limbs. He is a one-man, troupe; fascinating to look at, but also a bit grotesque.
When Dismas runs into Morphew, it is too much of a surprise for him to regain his wits in time for an evasive maneuver. The Heir looks put together for once and Dismas has to acknowledge that he seems healthier.
"Dismas." Morphew looks flustered, but regains his composure quickly. "A word, if you please."
"Uh." Dismas casts about, but as no convenient excuse presents itself, he does not make his escape in time.
"Excellent." Morphew at least appears pleased. He leads them away from the crowd, enough for them to be able to talk undisturbed. "I wish to apologize for my conduct towards you."
"Uh."
"I - ," the Heir swallows heavily faltering. There is a glass in his hand, but the liquid is clear and so are the man's eyes. Dismas cannot smell any alcohol on him either. "I am happy for you. Both of you. And – I hope you think no worse of me."
Dismas blinks – this is the last thing he expected to hear. "Mate, if I didn't know better, I'd say yer drunk."
Morphew pauses for a moment, taken aback. Then, he chuckles. "Oh. Oh, no. I should never endeavor something as foolish as testing the nurse's patience. But I hope you will accept a small gift."
Said gift turns out to be a basked, filled with Southern fruit. There are ripe and round oranges and sweet-sticky dates and some fruit that Dismas doesn't even know the name of.
"Morphew?" he says. "Thanks. For everythin'."
Morphew bows, all proper and gentleman-like and Dismas snorts at the ridiculousness of the gesture even as he is forced to reevaluate his opinion of the young heir. He might be a decent fella, provided he manages to stay away from the booze.
Dismas rejoins the others then, and commits to memory the look on Reynauld's face when he presents him with the basket. They share some of the goods later in the night and Dismas, although not possessed of a sweet tooth, is forever spoiled for the taste of fruit.
By that time more musicians have joined Pierre and he now is in command of a little band that plays a merry tune that animates folks to dance. Dismas takes Audrey and Jenny and even Boudica for a spin, although with the hellion it is rather the other way 'round. She's got a fancy for Tardif, anyhow, and Dismas suffers a near heart-attack when he finds the former bounty hunter watching them.
Tardif is a man whose toes Dismas would rather not step on and he quickly disentangles himself from his dance partner. Tardif may not be as tall as Reynauld, but he comes close in breadth and he has already made it clear that there is no love lost between them.
"You." Tardif's finger points at Dismas' chest.
The highwayman swallows, breaking out in a cold sweat. "Yes?"
"You've changed, highwayman," Tardif says.
Dismas fingers his new kerchief and with a bravado he doesn't feel, retorts, "What can I say, red suited me better but I'm starting to like the blue." Reynauld had never returned Dismas' scarf, but he did gift him a new one.
Tardif's does not appreciate the sass apparently, because his eyes narrow. "I crossed you off my list."
Before Dismas can stammer out his thanks, the bounty hunter thrusts a fat, puffy pony made of yeast dough into his hands. It has raisins for eyes and it is actually quite tasty, as he will find out later.
But for now, he returns to the safety of his friends and finding that Audrey and Margaret are now swaying in each other's arms, he elbows Reynauld. The crusader is, Dismas isn't really surprised to find out, quite a decent dancer. A relic from another lifetime, as he tells the highwayman.
Reynauld takes the lead and Dismas is happy to follow as his world narrows to the way they move and fit together, and the warmth of the man holding him. At the end of a rather slow dance, Dismas lets himself fall back as he pretends to swoon in Reynauld's arms. Reynauld's eyes crinkle at the corner, and Dismas closes his own just before the knight unceremoniously drops the highwayman to the floor.
Dismas clutches his chests. "A coup de grace for this poor sod!" he cries out to the amusement of the tavern.
Laughing, Reynauld lifts Dismas back to his feet and brushes down Dismas' clothes. His hands linger long after the last traces of dust are gone, and he makes it up to the highwayman with many another dance until at last, the celebrations wind down.
They have no words to define their bond. Reynauld is sometimes quiet and withdrawn, but at all times he is close. Confused, and more than a little scared of the intensity of the unspoken, Dismas seeks out Audrey's advice.
The blonde listens to the incoherent jumble of words that is him trying and failing to explain the problem, and seems to understand.
"Oh, sweetheart," Audrey sighs, something like pity in her gaze.
"How did ya an' Margaret… know?" Dismas finally dares to ask.
"She makes me happy," Audrey answers with a dreamy smile, and Dismas could have slapped himself. It's as simple as that.
That evening, Dismas waits for Reynauld to return to their room and then, before he can be overtaken by doubt and fling away his resolve, he pushes his bed until it slides over next to Reynauld's on grooves well-worn in the wooden floor.
Reynauld looks at him in question. Then, his eyes widen in understanding.
Dismas shrugs.
Reynauld beds down closer to the fireplace and after suffering one last bout of uncertainty, Dismas slips in behind him. For the longest time they lie beside one another, Reynauld with his back to him and Dismas looking up at the ceiling, counting the seconds in which the silence stretches between them.
Finally, Dismas can stand it no more and turns around, throwing an arm around the larger man's chest. He can hear Reynauld breathe, heavy but controlled. He doesn't push Dismas away, though, and that is perhaps more than the highwayman should have dared to hope for.
"Like this?" The tip of Dismas' nose touches the fine hairs at the nape of Reynauld's neck.
Reynauld nods and his hand closes around Dismas' and all the tension melts out of the highwayman.
They sleep through the night and this time it is Dismas who wakes come morning, then grows stiff and sore and doesn't dare to move lest he also awakens the crusader.
"Did ya sleep well?" he asks the knight when he finally shows signs of waking, stifling a yawn in Dismas' shoulder. The rings under his eyes have become less in the past weeks, Dismas is pleased to notice. In the morning light, there is a healthy glow to his skin, even if his hair looks like a bird has nested in it. Dismas' hands twitch with the urge to run his fingers through it.
"Best sleep I had in – "
"A year?" Dismas dares to guess.
Reynauld huffs, then drags his forearm across his face and looks around the room as if he were seeing it for the first time.
There is no spoken accord between them, but they keep this sleeping arrangement from now on, neither wanting to be parted from the other, and least in the long hours of the night. Reynauld likes the warmth of the fireplace, and Dismas the coolness of the stone walls.
Every now and then, Reynauld will insist that Dismas will catch the cold like that, and the highwayman grumbles and twists away, foiling all of Reynauld's attempts to smother him with more blankets. He sighs happily when he manages to rest his bare feet against the cool stone, and Reynauld gives up.
They put no name to their companionship, enjoying above all the simplicity of it. It is the healing warmth of proximity, shared meals and the comfort of always having somebody to speak to, and bidding each other a good night and a good morning each day.
"Move." Dismas prods at the crusader's prone form one evening until he scoots so that Dismas can sit down. He has his own bed, but Reynauld's is much better in all regards. Especially when the knight is in it.
"What is the matter?" Reynauld sounds sleepy, rudely roused from his rest.
"I wanted to speak to you." Dismas says and draws up his legs so he can sit cross-legged.
Reynauld makes a weak noise of protest but cracks open one eye. "What about?"
Dismas bites the skin around his nail, then shrugs. "I forgot."
A hand rests between his shoulder blades, warm and rough and comforting.
"It will return to you." Reynauld sounds so sure that Dismas envies him the easy confidence.
"What if it don't?" he counters.
His loss of memory is still tormenting him on occasion, despite his best attempts to come to terms with it. Every now and then images surface, as if from a long-forgotten dream. People and places, imagined or real, he cannot tell and it troubles him deeply.
"What if I don't ever remember?" He is fourty now, or thereabouts. If the coming years are kind to him, he may have twenty more in him. Dismas doesn't know what's worse: knowing that he will never recover the memories of most of his life, or remembering all. He knows the reason why he slunk away from the rest of the world like a sick dog in search of a spot where it could die before the vultures began to pick at its body. He knows there must be more, so much more.
Reynauld speaks of redemption; but he has little hope of receiving this much benevolence from any godly being and the Light, despite having his servitude, is not known for its kindness.
"Then it doesn't," Reynauld says simply. "'Tis beyond the influence of you or I. The Light alone may grant you remembrance, and I believe that it did not for a reason. That you may start over, without the burden of your past. Sometimes, I envy you."
Despite Reynauld's words and Junia's quiet confidence that he really is back at the Light's behest, Dismas still fears the Dark, never having forgotten the day he stood at his empty grave, feeling its pull. He still visits the abbey regularly, although he now spends less time there than he used to. Work keeps him busy, although he regularly delivers candles to the church and says his prayers when he partakes of the mass on holy days.
Reynauld breaks that trail of thought by hooking an arm around Dismas' neck and pulling him down, next to him. Dismas sighs, then playfully kisses the knight's cheek.
Reynauld freezes for a heartbeat, then huffs and doesn't move again. Dismas lies still for so long that Reynauld believes him asleep when he feels the crusader press a kiss to his temple. The highwayman hides his smile in the pillow and allows sleep to take him.
The seasons change once more and with the bountiful warmth of late spring the monsters return also. Recruits pour in and the heroes have their work cut out for them, but rest and peace can be found where they take some effort to carve it into their lives.
Dismas closes his workshop he has finally bought from Cely and finds Reynauld on a secluded alcove of the beach, watching the sun set. Apparently the crusader has been coming here regularly, something that the highwayman has only learned recently. Now, it has become their spot, a place for them to escape the hubbub of the Hamlet and the everyday demands of its denizens.
Reynauld loves the sea, despite the monsters that may dwell within. But he also has memories and stories of white-sanded beaches and azure waters clear as a mountain spring and warm like a summer's night. He tells Dismas about mighty ships bobbing on the gentle waves of a far-away harbor and how they carry the ordained warriors over the sea. That it is how he had crossed into the Holy Land, years ago.
One day, Reynauld is fond of saying, they might visit some of those places together. The ones that are as far away from the war as one can ever be.
The time is not yet, though.
They both feel beholden to the Hamlet yet, and for as long as there is strength in them to fight back the Dark, they shall do so.
Dismas presses his closed lips to the corner of Reynauld's mouth in greeting. The kiss is brief and chaste and the crusader has been more accepting of those lately. Dismas can hear Reynauld's soft exhale and pulls back before the other man can. He knows that Reynauld still eaten up by the guilt of Dismas' death, and the highwayman doesn't want the ghost of his old self between them. Perhaps it is ridiculous, but he wants Reynauld all to himself.
They watch the sun slip behind the darkening seas together, but when it is time to return home, Dismas finds himself unwilling to leave. He reaches up to lay one palm on Reynauld's cheek. The other man leans into the touch and closes his eyes. He is smiling.
Dismas has all the time to study his features. His hair already has as much grey as it has brown. He will keep the thick hair, but go completely white, eventually. Dismas realizes that Reynauld will be a very handsome man as he ages.
He feels the fool for noticing only now.
"I've made up me mind 'bout somethin'," Dismas announces.
"Hm?"
Reynauld takes Dismas' hands in his, a small gesture that Dismas has allowed himself to become accustomed to. He leans against the crusader's larger form and watches the first stars spring up in the inky blackness of the sky; miniscule lights that dare to challenge the darkness of night.
"I've decided I'll stay after all."
Well, here it is. Let's hear it for the one playthrough in which Dismas became God-Fearing and Reynauld turned into a Known Cheat. There had to be a story behind that development, no?
Hope you enjoyed the ride as much as I did.
Next I guess I'll see about finishing Smoke and Mirrors. If you're not familiar with the story but crave more Dismas/Reynauld, it's a modern AU in which Reynauld is a SWAT officer who has to team up with Dismas to bring down the notorious crime boss, El Abuelo.
Finally, the typo of the chapter is: a thong of people.
