Reynauld basically fell on the cot, trying to straighten his legs without his damaged knee making that simple task excruciating. The room was dark, as it had been for the last month, and despite the nagging pain in every fibre of his tired grimy body, that thought made him scramble up and lean to the bedside crate to light up one of the previously abandoned rushlights. Blessed with the occasion, he even called Light to aid him, and grinned stupidly when a small flame flickered into existence.

He didn’t learn that incantation for nought, after all.

Dismas started hating darkness after one of the expeditions – he never answered why, just shuddered and took another sip from his flask, mumbling something about a slithering void, so eventually the crusader stopped asking. However, Rey cared enough to remember and do his best to address it.

“There, the Light’s child should help you calm down a notch after such a day,” he informed his dearest friend and turned to the second cot in the room. “You really scared us all, you know.”

There was a pause where the knight battled his innate dogmatism, and looked down, finally admitting:

“Scared me,” before looking up at Dismas.

The cot was bare, as it had been for the past month, ever since the fateful venture to the land of shimmering madness, with stains of dried blood scrubbed off weeks ago. There was a sole sack laying in the middle of it. Bloodied, of course, - the rust-coloured liquid staining the dried-out boards once again. Reynauld sighed in exasperation. Just what he needed after fighting for his life against some Light-forsaken eldritch horrors the Estate had never encountered before – more cleaning. But he could do it.

He could do anything for the highwayman now, really.

“Oh, come on now, don’t be grumpy,” Reynauld tried to make it sound like their usual banter, but his voice cracked on the last syllable. “I… know I wronged you. Us, whatever we are. Please. Light be my witness, you scared me. You scared me so much back there, Dis.”

The bag remained motionless and indifferent, as any bag should have. Any, but not this one. Reynauld knew his dearest friend too well to not recognize the blunt cold shoulder when he saw one. Thus, the knight swallowed and tried again:

“But you’re back, now. We can try again.”

Light be good, but oh, how much he hated his trembling voice. It was his Light-given role to be a stalwart leader! He wasn’t supposed to quiver and waver, it was his mission to inspire and steer others.

“We will try again, Dis.”

The sack remained motionless. Rey bit his lip and changed his seat, reaching for the worn, bloodflaking cloth. Touches always calmed Dismas down, and he was guilty of abusing that. Still, the crusader silently pleaded for Light to shine on him and his hypocrisy because he wasn’t above abusing it yet again.

“It will be better, I promise,” Reynauld even added a tiny smile, thumbing the thick cord that tied up the bag. The same one he was strictly told not to fumble with. “Look, I’ll even untie this. If you would like to go on a night bender again, just wake me up so I won’t worry where you went, alright? I’ll even carry you back from that den of sin. As usual. You’ve always liked this, haven’t you?”

When he looked in the sack, he could glimpse matted hair and bleached whiteness of bone. That was probably the oddest part in it all – Dismas had always been tan, and seeing anything pale regarding him was alarming. It brought the thought of spitter’s venom and that one fever that nearly took his dearest friend’s life back when spitters in the Ruins seemed their biggest concern. The silence was becoming oppressive, so Rey decided to not push his luck. The highwayman was known for holding grudges, he simply needed to give him time. Time would fix this, as would touches and care. He merely had to be patient, as the rogue had been with him before.

Right?

Reynauld dreamt of pale cyan in the dark that night, and the night that followed. Of a gravely cold blade pressed to his throat. Of murderous intent swirling around in the room like a thick cerulean fog. Must’ve been his guilt, the crusader thought, scratching yet another scraping on his neck, considering how those were the colours of madness they faced in that failed expedition.

Huh. He was too reliant on Dis with his shaving, wasn’t he? Now that he did it himself, there were always cuts on him somewhere.

Habitually, as the knight got ready to go on a morning’s sermon, he tucked the still-sleeping rogue in: curled the ripped-out spine in gentle coils, followed by the tender ribbons of flailed flesh, and petted his short hair. It felt so much better to the touch after he gave his rogue a proper bath.

Unsurprisingly, Dismas was against being washed instead of being grateful, even after the crusader spent what felt like an eternity trying to arrange it all, because heathens in the Sanatorium wouldn’t let the two of them in together.

Reynauld vividly remembered how he was getting hot water, gathering scented tallow and lye water, finding linen to dry them. Somehow, Rey’s arms and hands ended up pinched and cut and scratched all over, as if he wasn’t bathing a man but a very feisty feline, even if the head seemingly didn’t move.

Leave it to Dis and his sleight of hand, he supposed, stepping out of their room and into morning Hamlet. He greeted one of the seekers, but the man merely mumbled something dubiously-polite and hurried to run off. The knight looked at his back, shrugged and turned to the Abbey, striding through the muck with confident steps and head held high.

He was getting used to it, after all.

On the first week, he received pitiful glances and mumbled condolences.

During the second, people offered him to console his grief for whatever reason and were baffled when he was surprised to hear that, or when he was cheery and energetic. Those dimwits even had the gall to accuse him of being heartless! Each time he had to explain that they were wrong.

That Dismas was back. He came back to him! They looked at him oddly, but there was nothing new in that. Other heathens were just as confused when he blessed their food during expedition camping, some people were just a tad slow to see the reason.

Once week four rolled in, other adventurers were giving him a wide berth. Which was fine by Rey, he could finally carry the bag with him during the daily errands, when the rogue was finally ready to wake up and meet the new noon, and not be paranoid that someone would try to steal it or worse, demand Dis to be killed again – while he was helpless to defend himself, no less! Baldwin was the worst offender in this, confronting the crusader before the Abbey and insisting in his seemingly-soft voice that “the head” needs to be purged. Heh, it was fun to finally see the true colours of the supposedly gentle giant! The armed clash that ensued was just as fun, if a bit too bloody, for Reynauld’s tastes. Maybe he had left the Order long ago, but he still adored the idea of chivalry. However, being the bigger man was starting to get onto his nerves since after the clash with the leper, even other followers of the Light preferred to sit further away from the crusader during sermons.

Which was ridiculous, he vented to his beloved companion. He had spared man’s life, lost as it was! His only request – a tad too loud and maybe a tiny bit zealous, Reynauld had to admit, fuelled by the righteous fire of that moment… he could acknowledge that he may have gone overboard there for just a smidge… Well, in any case, his only and quite rightful request was to leave the rogue well alone, since he was defenceless with his current physique, and that those disagreeing with it could take a quarrel with the crusader himself.

Unsurprisingly, no one wanted to take him up on that particular offer.

Maybe he made a little mistake - sharing the thrill of his triumph with Dismas right after it, since to do so, he needed to see him eye to eye socket. Funny how the sight of it made Audrey gag: frivolous former lady used to chase the ex-brigand when he was out on his drinking nights, yet now, when he was cleanly bathed and taken care of for once, she suddenly found him repulsive. Women were simply a whole different level of irrational breed, Rey insisted, hiding his dearest friend from all the dirty looks. He just bathed the head and managed to get that blackened blood off the deeper recesses of the bone at last, and the highwayman didn’t deserve to be soiled by someone else’s shallowness.

To properly celebrate the victory – and maybe to get the rogue’s attention off that incident with the obviously envious grave robber – Reynauld decided to get Dismas something nice. The problem was, the rogue was much pickier about gifts than he used to be – after all, presenting him a pair of new sturdy leather boots or nice, soft gloves could’ve been considered tactless, given the highwayman’s current… body shape, so to speak. He couldn’t fall back on getting him some nice food, either: Dismas became an incredibly finicky eater, and whatever Reynauld tried, he had never even nibbled on the meals that were left for him. The crusader had to finish the food by himself before it spoiled completely.

At least the whiskey Rey kept leaving on the bedside crate continued to disappear from the mugs at a steady rate, but that was a given – Dis had always been cranky if he couldn’t get his fix. The knight thought he even woke up in the middle of the night to catch a glimpse of a shimmering teal visage of his dearest friend, sitting on the other cot and drinking, but by the time he lit up the rushlight to see in the blinding darkness, the head was on the cot, resting as he left it, so that one must’ve been merely a wishful dream.

Rey had to spend a whole week, pondering and plotting, before the inspiration hit him from an unexpected angle when he was nonchalantly tying the bloodied bag to his belt. So he had to apologize, leave Dis in their room and scurry off so he wouldn’t spoil the surprise. Not even an hour later, Reynauld was beaming as he offered the highwayman the present he got him – a sack of the finest linen he could find on such short notice, pristinely clean and finally not stinking of rot even after countless washings. It had fine leather straps with decorated wooden beads and felt so much better to the touch than the ugly bag they had to use beforehand.

“It’ll keep you clean for longer, too,” the crusader informed his companion, helping him to change into his new attire after the combed his hair thoroughly. Rey remembered how Dismas wanted it before, and he was eager to give his dearest companion attention now. “Sorry, it took me so long to even think about it, but you always told me I was a tad slow… Do you like it?”

He got his finger pinched by the seemingly-limp spine right after that and Reynauld smiled broadly, taking it as a good sign.

It became sort of a routine. Reynauld would carry Dismas around, constantly worrying the bag’s rope in a habitual motion, and go about their day. Once the dusk would hit and the tiredness slumped his shoulders, he’d retreat back into the dubious seclusion of their room, let Dismas laze on his lap in a vulgar manner he would have never deemed possible before, complain a little about the way his social standing had toppled over – somewhat! Only somewhat! Obviously, he was still well respected in the community, that much was as indisputable as the Light’s Holy Grace - and they would talk about the day.

Or rather… well, Rey had to begrudgingly admit that their chatting roles were rather one-sided lately, where the crusader had to talk for the both of them, while his fingers were wordlessly nipped between the spine coils as he affectionately combed the short hair—

“Dogged fella, aintcha?”

The knight’s hand halted, and Reynauld blinked, not sure where the faint, cracking whisper was coming from.

“My, I must be more tired than I thought,” he laughed, just to overlay the shimmering silence with his own voice. He got so used to hearing it uninterrupted that—

“Yeah, no shite. Methinks by now, between us two I look betta’.”

This was painful. A figment of his imagination, a memory of what he denied them both, now taking form in a witty murmur. It was lower than he remembered. More distorted. Did he start forgetting Dismas voice? Already…? Light have mercy on his soul…

“You always looked better between us two,” the knight chuckled, feeling bittersweet. He could admit it now, right? Whether it was his imagination or something else, he’d take it over the suffocating silence or fake cheerfulness of his lonely voice. “I knew it when I saw you for the first time and confirmed my fears once I saw you in the bathhouse…”

“Wow. What a way of givin’ me a backhanded compliment. But eh, betta’ late than ne’er, aye?”

Well, this was now getting ridiculous. Did he fall asleep, petting his dear companion? Was his memory better than he thought, if even in his mind’s wishful eye, Dismas continued to snark him instead of being sweet?

He definitely didn’t coil the spine this way, either.

“Dis…?”

“No, yer late noble ma. Of course tis’ me,” and it was. Dear sweet Light above, it was the voice Reynauld could only hear in his memories as of late! The slight rippling, the distant cerulean echo in it was easily ignored, given the jubilant occasion. “Werentcha so mulish ‘bout talking t’ me, for once? Why them goggly eyes now?”

“N-no, no, I’m…” he had to swallow hard to prevent his voice from betraying him with an unmanly squawk. Instead, he gently turned the head so Dismas would face him and smiled a tiny, trembling smile. “You’re… you’re back.”

His bubbling glee was met by the attentive teal sparkles, appearance of which the crusader suspected previously in the empty sockets but always chalked to wishful thinking or a trick of the light.

“What can I say, yer mo’ stubborn than the grave.”

It felt like a gut punch.

“Don’t joke about it,” the knight begged, pressing their foreheads together in a distant soothing gesture from a previous, easier time. So familiar. So peaceful. “Please…”

He didn’t even jolt when his hand was brushed with a bone which was quickly replaced with something not quite solid and gravely cold. Despite the biting chill, he recognized the touch – the callouses on the trigger finger, the smoothness of scar on the thumb, the stiffened touch of a badly healed little finger – and had to bite his lips to not break into ugly, unbecoming sobbing.

“There’s li’l I can do ‘bout it but jest, tin man,” came a chuckle, scintillating like a shattering crystal.

“Ya should know I’m not the one for cryin’.”

“I know,” Reynauld choked on words, leaning back to see him – just as he remembered him, give or take unnatural cerulean tint and the fact that the knight could see his own knees through the rogue’s body. It was still leagues better than bloodied protrusions of glimmering crystals, growing out of the wound—

Reynauld forbade himself to bring the memory up.

Instead, he smiled and finally relaxed into the gravely-cold embrace, allowing himself to feel what he had denied them both for years.

“You were always a man of action, and you have proven it once again, finding your way back to me,” the crusader admitted easily. “This is what I always adored in you.”

The teal eyelights glistened with a smirk the ripped off lower jaw couldn’t provide.

“Adored, eh?”

“Yes,” Rey admitted, feeling the knot in his chest finally undone. “You should know that for the longest time, I—"

There was a sudden slam into the door and deafening knocking.

“Knight! Fuck it, Reynauld! Are you there, you useless lump of tin?” a muffled voice demanded. Ah yes, that Light-damned seeker, the pitiful excuse of an adventurer, hired to replace the gaping void that Dismas left – before returning. Why was he there…? Wasn’t the knight blunt enough in his words of how he didn’t want to be reminded of his existence else he cut it short? “I know you are, you half-baked hermit! Where else would ya be? Open up! It’s urgent!”

Reynauld wouldn’t even glance away from his dearest friend who finally opened up to him again after the hurt he had brought upon them, and thumbed Dismas’ cheek instead, leaning in.

“It’s Dismas!” the shout made the crusader freeze, his heart but a lump of lead, that fell down through the hollow of his chest, down still onto the floor and rolled away under the cot. Teal eye lights in front of him were shimmering, filled with confusion as of why the sudden, unnatural pause happened between them. “He came back!”

Dismas was back.

He came back to him.