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The first time they spoke to each other, they were on the Old Road.
"Hey sweetheart, how about you point that thing away from me?" Despite the pet name, there was no warmth in the Highwayman's voice, and it gave Reynauld pause.
The Heir, a sickly looking man with black hair and light brown eyes, looked between them nervously as the Crusader stopped polishing his sword but didn't put it back into the scabbard. Reynauld almost felt bad for the man, but then again, it was his fault they were in this situation to begin with. Who the heck thought it was a good idea to hire a holy man and a glorified thief? And have them work together?
(Not like the word thief didn't apply to him as well, but the others didn't need to know that, now did they?)
It was a fight waiting to happen.
"Uneasy near the sword of a man of the Light, are you, bandit? I guess a sinner would have reason to be."
He couldn't see the Highwayman's mouth under his scarf, but the scowl he sent him was obvious all the same from the furrowing in his brow. Case in point.
"I'm just not fond of having pointy stuff shoved in my face, especially inside a cart that is running on what must be the bumpiest road in the country, and especially when the one holding the pointy stuff is a shit for brains, self righteous zealot who without a doubt has killed people for no real reason other than the fact that a soddin' priest told him to."
The Heir yelped as Reynauld let out a menacing growl, and raised his hands in a placating gesture.
"Please- don't argue, not here. The Old Road is a dangerous place, if you start fighting even before we arrive to the Hamlet, none of us is going to make it out alive."
The two men settled down, still glaring at each other like angry cats, and the Heir bit out an airy, wheezy chuckle. "There we go, that's better. Now, shall we introduce each other?"
Absolutely not thought Reynauld. The Highwayman seemed to share his dislike for the idea, and the Heir's unsure smile faded awkwardly as silence stretched out.
He whispered his own name, a mockery of an introduction ("Darkest", what an unfortunate surname), curling up on himself when no one answered.
Reynauld looked out of the carriage's window, biting back a sigh.
His redemption sure was going to take all his patience.
He sheated his sword, noting with some bitter amusement that the Highwayman actually relaxed slightly at that, not enough to be taken by surprise if a fight were to break out, but enough to keep the muscles less tense, in that limbo of optimal receptiveness that a seasoned fighter eventually learned to find with ease. At least he hadn't lied about his experience, thought Light knew if anything else was true.
If Reynauld had to be completely honest, the rogue wasn't exactly wrong. Polishing a very sharp and very pointy sword in a precarious situation such as the carriage (seriously, was the Caretaker drunk?) probably wasn't the best idea he'd ever had. But, for starters, he would've wildly preferred a session in the flagellation halls than admitting that that scoundrel had a point, and secondarily, it was relaxing, and it just so happened that he really needed some relaxation.
Especially after he'd glimpsed a glowing... something in the darkness, arm raised to point at the carriage. Or something behind it.
He resisted the impulse to shake his head to clear his thoughts, not wanting to show weakness in front of people he didn't know. The Light was with him.
He would be okay.
He almost cursed Its name out loud when the carriage, with no warning whatsoever, turned on itself.
The Highwayman didn't hold himself back, letting out a colourful string of curses Reynauld was relatively sure he'd never heard before, while the Heir yelped like a wounded dog as he hit his head on the wall.
Groaning, the three crawled out from under the carriage's wreck. The Caretaker was nowhere to be seen, and neither were the horses, atonishingly. Lord Darkest stood (he'd never noticed how tall he was. He was at least a whole head taller than Reynauld, who was by no means a short man. It was kind of eerie, especially since all that height made him look even thinner than he really was) and brushed his clothes, seemingly not surprised in the least by this turn of events. Reynauld felt a shiver run down his spine as the man's eyes ran over the road, then over him and the rogue.
"This is unfortunate, but we should have enough torches to last us until we reach the Hamlet."
He took one, lighting it up with practiced ease. The fire casted eerie shadows on his face. "Shall we go? You really don't want to walk here in the dark, believe me."
Reynauld exchanged a glance with the Highwayman, a single question floating between them, unsaid but heard all the same.
What did we get ourselves into?
They didn't manage to get very far before a bunch of bandits emerged from the trees.
Surprisingly, they ignored the Heir completely, throwing themselves at Reynauld and the other instead. Not that the crusader was complaining, his job was to protect the man after all, and having him not be the target of the attacks made it easier, but-
"Oi, tin can, pay attention!" snarled the Highwayman, the one on their side, that is (maybe he should've accepted that invite to introduce himself, a name would've been beneficial in that moment), as he shot the cutthroat who was about to stab him, bits and pieces of gray matter spraying everywhere.
"You're not useful to anyone if you're dead!"
He grit his teeth, annoyed he'd been taken by surprise, but nodded in thanks before cleanly beheading another bandit that was charging him. Soon, there was only one remaining, and he was quickly defeated with a dirk to the throat.
It was reassuring to see that at least the rogue was indeed a good fighter, though his pride still stung a bit from being saved.
"Something's wrong."
"Hm?" Reynauld looked up at the Highwayman, pausing from his attempts to clean his armour from the blood.
"I've dealt with my share of bandits in my life, and that kinda behaviour isn't normal." The man knelt next to the corpse of the beheaded bandit, brow furrowed in thought. "Most highwaymen and brigands are desperate, and only in it to survive, not for glory or someshit. It's one thing when you're outnumbered, in that case the best defense is offense, but they had numbers and weapons over us. Common sense would have you try to intimidate your victim before attempting an actual assault, but they didn't even speak a word. And, most importantly-" he turned to the last brigand, the one who still had his dirk in his neck "- common sense would dictate that once you're alone against the people who decimated your men, you run." He looked up at Reynauld, then at Lord Darkest, brown eyes completely serious. "There's something off about all this."
Reynauld's blood ran cold as the Heir sighed shakily, nodding.
"I feared this would be the case. Didn't you wonder why the pay was so high for a mere escort mission?" The man looked down, appearing contrite, before seemingly steeling himself. "But for now, that doesn't matter. We need to get to the Hamlet, before we finish the torches. Then, you'll be free to decide whether to stay or leave with your pay."
He started walking at a brisk pace and, after a moment of hesitation, they followed.
"I'm Dismas, by the way."
"... Reynauld."
☆
It was almost funny, how easily things had changed between them. Or, to use one of Lord Darkest's cryptic quotes, how quickly the tide changed.
(Although, when he said it, it usually was in a far more fatalistic way.)
Now, when looking at the Highwayman, he could hardly believe how antagonistic their first meeting had been.
How needlessly childish had they been, unaware that they would eventually find in each other the best friend they ever had!
Or, at least, that's how Reynauld felt, but he was sure the other agreed. He wasn't the type to lie about whether he liked you or not, after all.
"Babe, pass me the booze."
Under his helmet, Reynauld smiled slightly as he passed the bottle of low quality whiskey to Dismas, ignoring the weird look Amani shot them.
The nickname, mushy as it was, was nothing more than an inner joke between the two of them, a somewhat bittersweet memory as it was tied to the first time they'd seen each other's uncovered faces, the moment they'd made that step from comrades to friends, but also to the first time the Hamlet had lost one of its heroes.
They'd been in the Weald (curse the Wealds, in time they would claim many a soul before their time had come), together with Sarmenti the Jester and a lass who carried a crossbow as big as her that went by the name of Bigod.
Agonizingly, Bigod had been the first casualty, broken by the stress. Her heart simply hadn't managed to resist everything the accursed forest had thrown at her, and they hadn't managed to wake her after she keeled over with a choked groan, a hand grasping at her chest.
Prevedibly, things had spiralled from there.
Soon, Sarmenti was nearly unable to fight as well, too hopeless to do much except babble incoherently, and both him and Dismas found themselves on the brink of madness as well, their laudanum stocks sadly empty. The camp had been set up in silence, save for the Jester's mutters, with shaky fingers.
"Let me see your shoulder" had asked Dismas, and while they didn't know each other that well at that point, having done their best to avoid each other while in the Hamlet, Reynauld had obeyed, feeling too tired to complain. He took off his helmet and part of his armour, baring the half mangled shoulder.
Dismas shot him a curious glance, and Reynauld realized that the other man had never seen his face uncovered. It made him slightly nervous. He wasn't opposed to showing his face, but it was easier when people couldn't easily tell what he was thinking, and he knew he tended to be an open book.
Instead of the snarky comment he was expecting, however, Dismas just looked down at the wound, clicking his tongue in disapproval.
"The blight we can easily take care of, but we didn't pack any bandages for the bleeding. Teaches us to be stingy on supplies, I guess, but now I'm not sure how..." he trailed off, thoughtful, before going to untie the knot at his throat and taking his scarf off.
The irony wasn't lost on him, but Reynauld couldn't help his stare as he saw Dismas' face uncovered for the first time.
The most striking features were without a doubt the scars on his lips, numerous and large, like whatever had caused them had wanted to focus on that point specifically for whatever reason. As Dismas bit his lower lip in concentration, probably figuring out the best way to tie the scarf around his shoulder, a pointy canine poked out.
Had there still been bad blood between them, Reynauld would've probably likened him to a mangy dog, but truthfully the other man looked more like an old, battle scarred wolf. Not traditionally beautiful maybe, but handsome in his own way. Not really what he'd been expecting, though he wasn't sure what exactly he'd been expecting.
He hissed in pain as Dismas finally went to wrap the scarf around the wound, and the other huffed.
"Oh, you've been through way worse you big baby."
The light (yet slightly worried) tone kept him from being offended. As Sarmenti giggled wheezily from his spot on the ground, he shot Dismas a mischievous look.
"Oh, I'm a baby now, am I? Who was it who threw a fit when that bone courtier poured wine on him?"
The Highwayman seemed to understand his intentions, and smirked back. "Expressing annoyance over a ruined coat doesn't make me a baby. Being a baby makes you a baby, baby."
They'd kept playfully needling at each other for the entire time it took Dismas to make sure no one else was going to die on him, and by the end of it, the Jester looked a bit more like his normal self, tension abandoning him a little bit.
The nickname had just... stuck after that, with all the potential variations such as "babe", and while it gathered a lot of raised eyebrows from everyone except Sarmenti himself, Reynauld liked it. In a way, it represented hope, the light at the end of the tunnel, the last fragment of sanity.
And if it made others believe there was something more than friendship between him and Dismas, that was fine by him. After all, between thievery, betrayal, murder, madness, and the rather unmentionable sins committed by Lord Darkest's ancestor, love was hardly frowned upon in the Estate, even by the Abbot.
There were worse things to be mistaken as, than a man in love.
☆
"You know, I don't care about the Light's forgiveness."
At that, Reynauld blinked.
After they'd come back from the Weald (for the last time, hopefully), the Hag finally dead once and for all, they'd marched (well, limped) directly to the Sanatorium, all more or less messed up by the wicked witch's attacks.
Dismas had helped him get out of his armour, gingerly taking off every piece taking care not to upset Reynauld's already hurting, half boiled skin, and helped him lie down in a cot before lying down in the one next to him as Reynauld had insisted he did.
The ex brigand had held Reynauld's hand, shivering slightly, and then had started talking.
"I thought you wanted to atone for your sins?"
Dismas nodded. "But not the way you do. I don't believe in the code of the church, I can't confess my sins and smite some undead and feel redeemed. To me," he drew in a raspy breath, and Reynauld squeezed his hand gently "to me a man has worth as long as he keeps his word. You know? Even if someone has done horrible stuff, if you can trust them to keep their word they can't be all rotten, there has to be a core that is still somewhat good. That's what makes you a decent person when you're among bandits."
Reynauld looked at him sadly. He knew were this was going.
"I'd given my word that I'd never kill a child."
The Crusader had heard the story before, told during one of Dismas' delirious ramblings in the middle of a raid, and it broke his heart every time it came up. For the mother and the child (what if- but no, it couldn't be his family. The timeframes didn't add up), but for Dismas as well. He now knew why the Highwayman's sleep was so fitful, who he apologized to when he woke up in the middle of the night and muttered to himself thinking Reynauld was asleep.
One tragic mistake, and he kept paying for it every day of his life, to the point where he'd accepted the Heir's offer to work at the Hamlet.
The Hamlet that only the desperate came to, people who truly had nothing left to lose, and more often than not thought they didn't deserve the pity of the civilized world.
"You didn't do it on purpose, though. That has to count for something."
Dismas gave an aborted half shrug, careful not to upset his wounds and not to let go of Reynauld's hand. "On purpose or not, nothing changes the fact that I've done it."
"And nothing changes the fact that you're penitent, and that you've saved more lives than I can count since coming here." His gaze moved to an ugly scar right above Dismas' heart. It'd been a miracle he survived that blow, and the reason he'd gotten hurt in the first place was that he'd taken it in Reynauld's stead.
Thinking back, he was sure that (begging for a retreat, please, I know it's wasting resources but we can't lose him, not Dismas, running to the Sanatorium carrying him in his arms, Barristan and Baldwin having to tear him away from him as Junia did her magic) had been the moment where his feelings for the man had changed. The moment Dismas had stopped being the good friend with a sharp tongue and a good aim and started being the main reason behind his continued existence, his personal guiding light. They were lost in that Hell, but they were lost together.
If Dismas died, he would lose it. For good this time.
And at that point, he was reasonably sure that Dismas felt the same, if only because of the gazes, touches and whispers they'd exchanged, two grown men holding each other like lifelines in the advancing darkness.
Hit by a sudden impulse, he carefully leaned out of his cot, bringing their interlocked fingers to his lips as he pressed a kiss to them.
Dismas chuckled as he almost lost balance, but his ears were bright red, and his scarred grin was warm.
"Dude" and it was just a simple, friendly term, but hearing the thief's tone it may as well have been a far sweeter and more romantic pet name "be careful."
Reynauld squeezed his hand again. "For what it's worth, to me you're a hero. If you don't care for the Light's judgement, maybe you'll care for mine?"
Dismas' longing gaze made his chest ache.
"Why must you say beautiful shit like this when I can't even kiss you?"
He grinned brilliantly, heart beating faster at the implications. "Next time I'll try not to get targeted by a man-eating witch with a magic cauldron."
"You better."
From another cot, Sarmenti coughed awkwardly.