Chapter Text
He might wish to finish the job.
The words stuck with Reynauld, as the two made their eager leave towards the tavern. As Junia hurried to find a meal to spare for the patient. As he turned to the door that led to the doctor’s little sanctuary.
He still stands before it, mind racing.
Wandering the Old Road? No, that’s suicide.
It is not that he had never come across such intentions. Many young recruits were unable to handle the truth of what the crusades truly demanded of them. Gone they were too soon, by their own hand or the brandished enemy weapons they ran eagerly into. The older commanders spoke of weakness, a straying from the Light, and Reynauld had taken those words to heart.
Judged them accordingly then – as they would have wished him so, he convinced himself – when some were found in their tents, throat slit or arrow pierced through the skull. Murder weapon still in hand.
What drives a man to take such measures? He eventually concluded it must be faith, or lack thereof. A lapse in belief that drives them to rush towards the Light, in a vain hope that such a sacrifice will cleanse whatever evil they deem to have committed.
Reynauld knew to wait. Even with the blood of hundreds on his hands, with the guilt of those slain and abandoned, he would not hurry towards absolution. The Light would render judgement upon him, when the time came. And it would see his devotion and conclude that he acted for its good.
Unless he managed to invoke its ire first. Which seemed more likely with every day that passed in The Hamlet.
Sure, he valiantly fought beasts of hell and cleansed sacrilegious artifacts and worked hard to bring the township from its ruin. But when the work was done and he had carried out his daily visits to the abbey, what awaited him was the company of the other recruits. A few fellows of the clergy, yes, but also mad scientists, hunters of both animals and men, abominations and killers and thieves.
Sweet Lord above, the thieves.
And Reynauld, the paragon of devotion and discipline, could only pray for forgiveness, for he was not strong enough to decline an invitation to a drink after a long expedition, or to late night games of dice and cards in the barracks (after certain someone got himself banned from the gambling hall). For he had grown to enjoy their company, and cared for his fellow recruits more than he had ever expected.
Even so, with doubt of his own salvation gnawing at the edges of his belief, he pushes into the corridor that leads to Paracelsus’ study with the same question on his mind.
What leads a man to such a decision-
There’s a clatter of metal from the study and Reynauld slams the door open then, cursing himself for stalling.
At first he does not notice anything strange. The same overfilled tabletops and shelves, the same heavy smell of the herbs. There’s a jar of leeches and a bowl with leftover poultice, the operating table empty and slightly speckled with blood-the table should not be empty.
Then he sees him. A man, breathing heavily and clutching his stomach, is keeled over by one of the cabinets. A figure of bare flesh, which seems somehow not to have noticed Reynauld’s arrival.
He is assured of that when he sees the lantern’s light bounce off of the blade which the man clutches in a shaking hand. Inches from his exposed neck.
In a moment he is upon the stranger. With one hand he pushes, slamming him back-first into the cabinets, while the other roughly grips the wrist of the scalpel-wielding hand.
The man gasps – in shock and in pain, and he struggles against the Crusader’s grip with all his strength. Which is not much. His free hand pushes against Reynauld’s chest, slender fingers digging into the fabric of his tunic. Legs try to move and buck underneath him, but Reynauld is immovable.
“Let me!” the man wheezes, and his eyes are wide green pools as tears spring up, “I have to do this, you can’t stop me, you mustn’t-”
“No can do, good man,” Reynauld exhales, “I promised the doctor to look after you.”
He eyes the scalpel, still gripped tightly. It clatters out of the man’s hand when he adds just a bit more pressure onto his thin wrist.
The moment it does, the man goes limp underneath him, free hand slipping down as a sob wrenches its way from the man’s chest.
“You have no idea, if only you hadn’t-I had it, I could’ve finally finished it…” he whimpers, and Reynauld at last manages to get a good look at him.
Junia did not lie – the man looks to be on death’s door with how pale and thin he is. His face is gaunt and drenched in sweat, locks of dark brown hair fall and stick upon it in messy strands.
The scars that litter his body take Reynauld aback a bit. None of them is free of such marks, of course. Especially not after the expeditions.
Still, Reynauld harbours mainly old scars of flagellation and sword strikes. Dismas makes a show of documenting the numerous bullet holes he had survived. Paracelsus’ hands are covered with tiny nicks and burns.
What leaves him breathless is the variety of the man’s past injuries. Long and short lines left by blades, indentation from projectiles, burns that left both wide scars and cleanly defined circular marks.
And then his eyes catch onto something else. Onto the dots of injected ink which form lines and curves and he sees numerous symbols, drawing, words, permanently cast into the man’s skin. Reynauld looks up and is met with two more marks, on either side of his neck. He seems too exhausted to even protest when Reynauld takes a hold of his chin and turns his head to one side, then the other.
On one there are simple four lines, coming together in a facsimile of an hourglass. It morphs with every ragged breath the man takes, undulating with the movement of his jugular.
The left side gives Reynauld a longer pause. For he sees a letter D, set in a thick line just below the edge of the man’s jaw.
Deserter.
Their eyes meet and the stranger gives him an apologetic look, “See something you don’t like?”
And Reynauld’s first instinct is to say yes. Of course. To run away from your duty as a soldier is already a disgraceful act. But to get caught, to get branded? And clearly still not seek forgiveness for such insolence?
He frowns and lets go of the man, quickly grabbing the scalpel from the floor before the stranger thinks to do the same. He sits down opposite him, watching the man bring his knees up, grimacing in pain as he leans forwards to wrap his arms around them.
“Do you regret stopping me yet?” he whispers into the quiet that settles between them.
“Desertion is to be ashamed of,” Reynauld nods, “But it is a sin that can be forgiven, with repentance. It is no reason to take such drastic measures.”
The man laughs. Or rather barks out something like a laugh before he immediately clutches his stomach, letting painful wheezes mix with careful chuckles.
“The desertion. You think that’s my reason? One of the better choices I have made in my life?”
A better choice?
“You consider that to be a good path to take? By the Light, I can think of but a few things worse-”
“Then think of those,” the depth of sadness in the man’s eyes is infinite as he lays his head on his knees, “And judge me accordingly, holy man.”
Reynauld wishes to object, to ask, but then the outside door creaks and when he looks back, there stands Junia, a tray with rations cradled in her hands.
She stares at Reynauld, at the scalpel, at the man when he curses quietly.
“Why would you leave him to freeze like so?”
Reynauld blinks at the accusatory tone of her voice – then howls at himself internally when he looks back at the man. Dearest Light, he had completely forgotten the fact that he was basically naked, save for his undergarments and the bandages that hugged his stomach. That he was sitting on the cold stone floor. That he was visibly shaking.
Before he attempts to explain his slight, Junia walks past him, crouching by the man. In her hands she holds a piece of dark fabric. A coat, quite a light one by the way it creases beneath her fingers, but good enough for a cover.
“Please, allow us,” she smiles, “It would be a shame if you got sick right after the doctor saved you from death’s door.”
He won’t accept, Reynauld feels the urge to say. It is what he fully expects to happen. How do you help a man who seems so determined to end his own life?
But the man nods. He does not protest when Junia throws the coat over his shoulders, and his fingers hold it close and tight. He does not return her smiles or her liveliness. That fog of guilt still clouds his eyes, and Reynauld understands when they glance at each other.
He cannot bring himself to refuse, in the face of her immense kindness.
“I brought something to eat, it’s not much, but I’m sure it’s a good start. Oh, Sir Reynauld, could you help him to the chair? We can’t have him eat on the floor.”
Behind the door, they can hear mainly Paracelsus’ voice, as she gives instructions. Well, mostly warnings, Reynauld concludes. Almost every piece of advice on wound care, nutrition and pain management is followed by a “And don’t you dare come crawling back to me if you tear those stitches. The Sanitarium is two doors up, I’ve done my part.”
The man’s voice – Berend’s, they had lured the name out of him when Junia was appalled introductions have not been done yet – is heard only in short answers.
“I’m sure it will get better with time,” Junia whispers next to him, as they wait in the short hall. Paracelsus wished to check on her soon-to-be-former patient on her own, when she finally came back from what was clearly a fulfilling breakfast.
Dismas had stayed out. Maybe to mourn over the coin lost. Probably because he wanted to minimise the chance of having to see the leeches again.
“He gets settled, the Heiress might employ him, or someone else in the town does,” the Vestal continues, with unapologetic optimism, “Of course a man on such a brink might feel…hopeless. But that can pass.”
Reynauld does not have the heart to disagree with her, stuck under the same spell as Berend before. He might not understand such a drive, but he certainly knows that it is something one does not simply get over.
The man looks to have the weight of the whole world dragging him towards a rushed end, and he does not seem willing to fight it at all.
“If the Heiress allows him to stay,” Reynauld sighs instead, running a hand through his beard in thought, “It is her town he’s come to uninvited, after all.”
“I don’t see why she would turn him away. He needs help.”
Her brightness is contagious. Sweet Sister Junia, dragged through terrors unspoken, so often close to her body failing and mind shattering yet still here she stands, convinced of the good that must be buried somewhere in their Contractor’s heart. And in the hearts of others by approximation.
The door swings open then, and the man standing before them looks slightly less like a freshly risen corpse.
And slightly too much like someone Dismas might have run with in the past.
It’s not just the coat. Berend’s clothes are all dark fabrics and leather. There is a slight shine of bronze, buckles on his belt and a strap that runs across his chest. Everything is connected by accents of purple – the edges of the coat, the soft embroidery on his shirt collar, the fabric of his fingerless gloves.
A man dressed to blend into the night, never to be seen if he doesn’t wish so.
He clearly notices both Reynauld and Junia studying him with interest, and he quickly looks away, hands crossing his chest as if in defense.
“Nothing more from me,” Paracelsus calls from the study, already inspecting the state of her wriggling assistants, “I’ve warned you enough, I hope.”
“Definitely,” Berend nods, and wavers slightly under the look Junia gives him. Reynauld can’t read it at first, until the man turns back to face the doctor.
“I…” he swallows, inhales, “Thank you. For-“
“Thank me when you actually mean it,” Paracelsus looks back one last time, and Reynauld can’t tell if she’s angry or disappointed. Maybe both. Probably both.
It leaves Berend to nod again and say his goodbyes before closing the door. Now there are three of them in this small hall, lit only by a dying candle in a wall sconce. The silence seems to stretch on for hours, although it is really just a second or two before Junia speaks up, “You should see the Hamlet. I can show you around, if you wish.”
“I-you’ve already done much for me, Sister. I do not wish to be a burden.”
“Nonsense! I have naught better to do, and it cannot hurt to know the town better if you should stay longer.”
Even in the dim light, Reynauld can read Berend’s expression all too well. I won’t be staying long if I can help it.
Still, he relents, and Junia is eager to head to the main door, to open up the town to this man.
A man branded.
And if he does stay, how long before he deserts once again?
───·𝖣·⧖·ꓷ·───
Dismas wearily eyes the coins in his pouch. He knows they too are crying for their comrades, lost to the barkeep’s hand at Paracelsus’ command. That damned woman just had to get the most expensive option, and then had the gall to also try to steal off of his plate. All the while she went on about the night, not caring to actually swallow her bites before talking. By the Light, she was truly a piece of work, their little doctor.
Two things had stayed in his mind, standing out from the rest of the tirade he halfway gave up on trying to look interested in. First was the name – Berend. Not a name he was familiar with, which he counted as a blessing in some way. Almost half a year into his stay in the Hamlet, he had grown somewhat fond of the place, no matter how much he cursed it on a daily basis. The last thing he needed was his past catching up to him. He already had enough of that in his regular night terrors.
The second thing was the tattoos. Paracelsus had mused of the amount and variety, from words writ over his chest to illustrations lining his limbs and even going up to his neck.
“Must’ve run in some wild circles, that man.” Dismas mumbled over a sip of coffee, which felt like a blessed lightning running through his veins to wake him up properly.
ˇYou did too, maybe you can identify them. Oh, maybe you have some that match?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he smirked. Then paled at her raised eyebrow.
“Well I certainly haven’t seen any on you whenever you have been in my care. Do you have any especially well hidden, Dismas?”
That was a good moment to start hurrying Paracelsus to finish her food – they didn’t want to keep Reynauld and Junia occupied for too long, now did they?
Dismas was too sober to discuss something like that. And also too sober to follow the doctor to her study, when they had arrived back on its steps. Especially after she had waxed poetic about just how hardworking her leeches had been under the influence of whatever she had smoked that night.
So he sat perched on one of the stone walls by the stairs, leaning back on a column and letting one leg hang from the side and lazily swing back and forth.
That was most of the money he had saved for the evening. He planned to get a bit buzzed in the tavern and then use the rest to coax someone in the barracks to a game. There had to be an entrance fee, no matter how small. The winnings were meager and sometimes coin was substituted by rations, a personal artifact, or a promise to pay the person’s tithe for the washroom.
It wasn’t about the value gained anyway, really. There was something almost magical about huddling by the barracks’ fireplace with the few not ready to sleep yet, squinting at their cards in the dim light and arguing over the game in hushed tones as to not wake those who wished to get some rest.
The low stakes lured more people in as well, and thus Dismas got an exclusive look at how some of his fellow recruits fared in such games. It was a painting of their overall character as well, after all.
And so he got to witness consistent losses of some and surprising victories of others. Whose tells were clear as day and who was stone faced at every moment. Personal trinkets were lost, then won back, then lost again to someone else. Quiet fights broke out, but were forgotten by morning. Dismas had tried cheating the first few times, but soon he left that behind – there was not much of a thrill in it, and he did want the others to actually be willing to join him again.
His own personal victory was seized whenever Reynauld accepted to play. The man only joined when had something to spare aside from coin – Light forbid he actually gamble, like those above the tavern. No one told him that was not how it worked.
Good. For it allowed Dismas to see him, paragon of virtue that he was, fall into a deep state of focus during every game. A knot in his brow made his expression unreadable, no matter what cards he had been dealt.
He was not a great player. But by god was he a sight to behold. Especially in the rare moments he also had something to drink and his reactions to losing or winning a hand slipped more easily.
It was comforting to see that the Crusader was still human, just like the rest of them.
What was not comforting was how light the coin pouch was in his hand. Like this, he’ll only be able to get one, two drinks at most. He could chip in into the rest of his savings – his first instinct, actually. But it was not clear when he’d be sent out again. The Heiress seemed to focus on shorter scouting missions recently, and clearly favoured sending the newer recruits so they would gain experience. On one hand, he was not to complain about not having to face the horrors of the Estate.
On the other, it was the only thing that paid in the Hamlet. And Dismas figured it would be better to secure a long term pleasure than to blow it all on one evening and then suffer.
He chuckles at that conclusion. Look at him, being financially responsible. He’s been hanging around the holy folk too much.
He pockets the coin pouch and sits more comfortably, enjoying the sun until finally he hears the door open. He doesn’t look up, just listens. There’s the heavy thud of Reynauld’s plated boots. A slightly quieter clatter of Junia’s step, accompanied by her voice. This here is the town centre, it’s not as bustling with life now, but just you wait for the market…
Dismas has to strain his ears over her words to register the third set of footsteps. Frankly he’d probably have to focus on it even if she were silent. Not a fall of a heavy boot, not a clank of a reinforced heel, just the gentlest thud against the stone steps.
A light foot, huh?
Dismas sees them then, as they walk into his field of view. They stop nearby, Junia still enthusiastically presenting the Hamlet, so engrossed she does not think to introduce the newcomer.
Reynauld at least comes to lean next to him, as Dismas sits up at the frown that has settled on the Crusader’s face.
“Something the matter?”
“Just a bad feeling,” he mutters, eyes trained on the man. It forces Dismas to finally also focus on who he figures must be Berend.
At first, the man looks as miserable as he had expected. A tired smile crosses his face, clearly just for show, to entertain Junia’s care. Dismas eyes his attire with a scoff, clearly some poor sod trying to fit into circles familiar to him, and all too unprepared for-
“You.”
Both Junia and the man turn, eyebrows raised in confusion.
“Oh, I haven’t introduced you two, dreadfully sorry. This is-”
“Can it, Sister.”
Dismas is off the wall then, feet steady on the ground as he walks up. Ignoring Junia’s appalled expression. Ignoring Reynauld’s careful words of inquiry. His eyes are locked in on the man.
On the mark which crosses the right side of his neck.
Nameless bodies, those were the first he saw as a child. Collapsed in alleyways or thrown into the light of day. The only connection were four lines, carved deep across their faces.
Everyone knew better than to seek answers for the killings.
And then he met the culprit, years after laying eyes upon the first hourglass mark.
Then the marked bodies were known to him. Wretches, murderers, rotten scum that lined the roads. People he had lived and fought beside for years.
Dismas stood in stunned horror, hands deep in his pockets to hide how they shook. How they longed to clasp around the neck of that smirking bastard.
But what was he to do, when even Vvulf dared not to draw his weapons? When he was actually accepting defeat, despite the way his teeth ground upon every word?
Wild wolves against leashed hounds.
The Northern roads were off limits afterwards.
No one crossed The Herzog and came out victorious.
Metal presses across the mark and there are screams in Dismas’ ears and he does. Not. Care.
It’s just him and the man. And he is still, eyes wide and his breath hitched at the sharpness of the blade.
“You’re very far from your master, Hound.” Dismas growls, knuckles white around the hilt of the dirk. Berend stares, and there is a spark of realisation in his eyes then.
“Who-”
“No one you know,” he assumes, “But I know your kind. Did he send you? Got an appetite for yet another stretch of the road? For another town?”
“Dismas,” Reynauld’s voice cuts through. The Highwayman does not look back, but gives him space to speak.
“What is this about?”
“You can ask the newcomer,” his free hand grabs a handful of Berend’s coat when he thinks the man is attempting to step back, “What do you say, pal? Eager to share?”
Berend stands in silence, hands limp by his sides. His breathing slows as he looks Dismas up and down.
And he smiles.
“Do it then.”
Dismas tries his best to hide his confusion. Fails miserably.
“We both know I deserve it. So do it.”
“It’s not your place to provoke when you have a blade to your throat-”
“Do you need further incentive? Fine.” and his hand moves. Much faster than Dismas would anticipate. Berend’s coat rises, and then his arm is outstretched. A hitch of breath – Reynauld’s.
Dismas looks up to see a crossbow, barely larger than his forearm. But still the readied bolt glints in the sunlight. The sharp point aimed directly at the Crusader. He stands frozen, arms half raised in useless surrender.
“I’ll pull the trigger,” Berend exhales, wide eyes stabbing through Dismas now, "And I’ve been told I’m a very good shot.”
“You were just brought back, you fool. Do you really have such a death wish?”
“I’ll do it, Dismas.”
His eyes do not move, and it feels like he’s actively pressing himself against the blade.
He might wish to finish the job.
Dismas looks at the crossbow, steady in the man’s hand. There’s a circle of townsfolk and recruits surveying them now. He hears Junia’s pleas for them to stop. The mutter of onlookers.
He locks eyes with the Hound again. There is no malice in them. They’re two deep wells of regret, rippling with every ragged breath taken. Begging him to act accordingly.
His hatred withers away at the sight.
“No,” Dismas swallows the lasting worry, “You won’t.”
And he leans back, severing the connection between the blade and Berend’s neck. The tension is thick in the air as the man stands, armed, unopposed. He inhales sharply, but Dismas knows.
His hand has already started to shake.
“Sir Berend, please,” Junia finally manages to get a word in, carefully stepping closer, “Lower the weapon. There is no need for this.”
“You had every right to do it,” Berend’s voice is barely a whisper as he stares at Dismas, deep pain lacing his every word.
But finally his arm falls back down, and the crossbow with it. Only when it is holstered does Dismas dare to look back, and his heart calms. Reynauld stands there, unharmed, relief clearly washing over his face.
The temporary silence that settles over the clearing is interrupted then. A slow, rhythmic clapping. Accompanied by a jingle of bells with every move.
Just what this day needed.
Dismas groans to himself as he sees the crowd part, and the face drawn upon the white mask betrays no true motive.
“Impeccable! Truly, I was on the edge of my seat!” The Jester bellows, applauding with enough vigor that some of the townsfolk seem almost eager to join him.
“This is none of your business, clown,” he hears Reynauld hiss.
“Oh, on the contrary, dear Crusader,” he turns and his stretched finger jabs in Berend’s direction, freezing the man in place.
“Good sir, I have been appointed by the Heiress to invite you to a meeting. As soon as possible, in her office.”
She’s fond of the clown now then, Dismas scoffs and watches Berend try to parse the influx of information.
“I…No, sorry, I don’t wish to-”
“I am afraid I must insist, per the lady’s command.” the Jester bows a little, as if ashamed.
Dismas knows too well he is close to bursting out laughing underneath that mask.
He catches Berend’s eyes, searching for answers. Daring to believe he would be the one to give them.
“You should go,” Reynauld speaks up, and the man seems to wilt under his commanding tone, “It is not advisable to keep the Heiress waiting.”
“Listen to the good man of the Light, oh weary traveler,” the clown giggles.
Eventually Berend seems to understand his lack of option, and nods. On cue the Jester hops up, grabbing a hold of his arm and begins leading him through the crowd, singing glory of the woman he’s about to meet.
The woman, holed up on the highest floor of the derelict mansion which she had claimed hers. Or more likely the Ancestor had assigned it to her, in that letter she had discussed with them many times. As the Hamlet began to rise from the rubble, the mansion had stayed in its half-collapsed state. The Heiress had other things to focus on.
Dismas stares at the mansion long after the main door closes behind them. Until he feels a heavy hand on his shoulder, and hopes he does not look as grateful for it as he feels.
“I see you too have your reservations about the man.”
“Too? Whatever could you have against him?”
“He’s a deserter,” there is loathing in Reynauld’s voice, “Not even one to regret such an act.”
“A deserter,” Dismas has to bite his lip to not laugh. And to stop the bile rising up his throat.
“Old boy, that is the least of his sins.”