Chapter Text
Chapter 1
“Temenos…?”
Crick’s voice is even but uncertain in its cadence, and Temenos knows why.
“Apologies for my excessive harshness, little lamb,” he says with a bitter laugh. Crick reminds him far too much of Roi – how bright and burning he shines. How naïve yet brilliant his goal is. To protect the weak and to uphold this honor that had gotten Roi killed is a goal he can never understand, but perhaps one he is more than willing to admire. “You simply reminded me too much of Roi, that is all.”
“…I’m sorry,” Crick murmurs, ducking his head low. Temenos’s eyes catch the blood seeping through the gap in Crick’s armor. My fault, Temenos thinks.
As much as Temenos boasts about not needing protection, it has been twice now that Crick has protected him from what could possibly have been fatal injuries. And something, some deep part in him tells him that he cannot let this be the end of their conversation.
Something terrible will come to pass if he lets Crick go. If he doesn’t—
Temenos swallows, and reaches for Crick’s arm.
“Temenos, it’s fine!” Crick quickly assures him, but doesn’t resist when Temenos takes Crick’s injured arm into his hands, fingers tracing the edge of what he can now see is a gash. At least there seems to be no trace of poison. No discoloration. No blotted spots of darkness. “It’s just a graze. It’ll go away after some time—”
“I am a cleric, Crick,” Temenos speaks sternly, presses his fingers on the wound, uncaring of the blood on the pads of his fingers. He does not look up. “Be healed.”
Warm light spills from his fingers, and he feels Crick tense for a moment before he relaxes, a sigh escaping him. And despite the snow falling on them, despite the coldness that sinks into his bones, Temenos is more than content to stay like this, long after Crick’s wound is healed; he knows not what Crick may think of him. But Crick is such a radiant sun burning in this nest of crows, with the same flame Roi held in his chest, the same flame the Pontiff possessed, before he was slain by the fangs and claws of the Felvarg set upon him.
Temenos frowns; he has always trusted his instinct. Solid evidence and conclusions must come hand-in-hand; but sometimes, his instinct rings the loudest, speaks the clearest. He never hesitates to listen to the silent voice within his heart – even if there is no proof of anything amiss telling him that his worst nightmares would happen, if there is an incessant pull of anxiety tugging at his spine, then Temenos refuses to turn a deaf ear to it like when he did with Roi.
“Crick,” Temenos says the knight’s name, hands dropped from Crick’s now healed wound as if he is burned. And perhaps, he is – scorched to ashes in the face of light most radiant. Temenos sighs, then looks up at those bright blue eyes. Round and wide and shining with light, like the stars in the middle of the night sky. “You must promise me one thing.”
Crick blinks, surprised. Tilts his head. “…Yes, of course. What is it?”
“Do not—” Temenos swallows. Needles prick at the back of his throat. If he lets go, he fears he may never see Crick again, and that simple thought terrifies him more than facing a thousand beasts ever could. After another pause – as he tries to gather himself together – Temenos closes his eyes and turns his face away. “…Wait for me tomorrow. Do not investigate on your own, no matter what.”
When Temenos opens his eyes again, Crick flinches. That is more than enough to tell him that Crick, indeed, is planning on venturing into the maw of the beast on his own.
Temenos watches as Crick shuffles on his feet, his gaze drifting from one place to another, anywhere but at Temenos. So his hunch was right, after all; that Crick is planning on challenging his own faith by looking for evidence of Vados’s end on his own. As if the danger that lies beneath the cobblestones of the Sacred Guard’s headquarter is something trivial.
“As much as I have challenged your beliefs, I do not need you to prove yourself to me,” Temenos finds himself saying, but he feels no need to retract his statement. He— Crick is far more important to him than just the lost little lamb he happily guides; he is a beacon. A hopeful little knight who is a living testament that the world yet holds some goodness in it. “If you truly value yourself as my Godsblade, then listen. Wait for me tomorrow. You are too bright a star to endanger yourself in the abyss of the unknown, Crick.”
Crick blinks at him, mouth hanging slightly agape.
“Temenos—”
“Swear the oath,” Temenos whispers, almost in a hurry, almost too softly to be heard through this accursed howling wind. An oath and a promise may be nothing more than words, spoken in an attempt to placate the yawning uncertainty in Temenos’s chest. But it is better than nothing.
And if he knows Crick as well as he thinks he does, a promise spoken by Crick is as certain a guarantee as a binding vow of sword and flame.
Crick gulps, hesitates. But he eventually nods, eyes hard with regret, yet filled to the brim with promise and determination.
“I swear I will wait for you before I continue the investigation,” Crick relents. Hesitant as he may be, it seems he will uphold his lofty promise, at the very least. “…May I ask you why?”
Why are you making me swear an oath to you?
Temenos smiles, shrugging almost helplessly as he wipes Crick’s blood on his cassock. Crick makes a noise of protest, but this is Crick’s blood, and not anyone else’s. It is as consecrated as holy water, so Temenos does not care if his robe is used as a towel.
“It was a simple hunch, little lamb,” Temenos allows, glancing at Crick, and sees the telltale sign of a man, caught red-handed. The vapors of Crick’s breath do little to hide the shame, and Temenos uses this chance to state what Crick would most certainly do, had he been left to his own devices. “I fear you may, in your haste to prove yourself and your knightly honor, try to look where you are not supposed to. Did you not know? That where secrets are the most vile, the resistance is bound to be most vicious?”
Crick looks away. “…I know. I just…”
“I apologize if I questioned your qualifications as a Godsblade, Crick,” Temenos murmurs, and he is sincere. He had spoken too harshly, in his own bubbling anger at how much Crick reminds him of Roi – dear old Roi, lost to the wolves for walking too close to the truth. He would never be able to live with himself if he lost another, here. “It was not my intention. I merely wish to implore you to trust less, and doubt more.”
“After all, doubt is what I do… or so you’ve said,” Crick repeats with a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. A nervous tic. “I do not think I can, Temenos. Doubt in everything, that is.”
Temenos expects it, of course. No one doubts as much as he does. And yet, he finds that it is better, like this – doubt may be key to survival, but it is no guiding light, no beacon. It is a tool used to protect only oneself, not a shield to prevent another from harm.
And here, he thinks; Crick is better suited to trust than Temenos ever will be.
“You do no need to doubt all that is and ever will be,” Temenos hums, smiles. He wishes Crick can see that Temenos is sincere in this, at the very least. Crick, while innocent and exploitable, is a good man in nature. Pious and unrelenting, warm and gentle. If he has no capacity to doubt, then Temenos will offer to do what he did with Roi, years ago. “If you trust too strongly, you simply need another who will doubt in your place.”
And here, I offer to doubt for you, little lamb.
Crick looks at him, eyes wide.
But then, the tension finally breaks, like the roiling waves parting ways for the calmness of the sea to finally settle in.
“…Thank you,” Crick murmurs.
Temenos only smiles at him, but this time, he suspects that his smile is more genuine than what he has ever shown.
“You’d think that coming into the Sacred Guards’ headquarters to look for evidence would be dangerous and counterproductive, Temenos,” Throné comments as she sets to leave him be in the library for the day. “Would you even find anything useful here? I doubt they’ll leave their evidence out in the open.”
“Even if they do not, they are bound to have made mistakes,” Temenos muses, putting one book back into the shelf, then pulling out another. “I must go through every possibility to hasten my investigation, my dear. We cannot afford to waste more time in this snowy tomb.”
Throné shuffles, her footsteps echoing further away from Temenos. He does not turn to look at her, eyes focused on the pages of scriptures he’s most familiar with. Yet, a sense of something amiss only grows as time passes, and he knows not why.
“I’m going back to the inn first, then,” Throné says. “Cas is still patching Hikari up. He really did take quite a fall.”
“So I’ve been told,” Temenos hums. Hikari and Rai Mei – one of his friends has already finished what they are here for. Temenos supposes he should not dally any further, so that Ochette may have his aid confronting the snow guardian Glacis when the opportunity arises. “Tell them that I will assist them as soon as I am done here. I suspect I may find nothing of note in this place, so I should be able to return before midnight.”
A click of the tongue. “It’s still seven in the evening, Temenos. That’s five hours away.”
“And a hundred books to cover,” Temenos replies with a smile catching the corner of his lips. His dear assistant can be so adorable, at times. “I will be alright. Looking at these scriptures will bore you to tears otherwise. I would know.”
“Sure you do,” Throné snorts. “Well then, knock yourself out, Detective. Come get us if you find anything of note, or I’m going to kick your ass for it.”
“I shall hold you onto that promise, then,” Temenos says, and means nothing by it.
His mind has already shut out Throné’s voice out– as well as the muted cacophony of clergymen and guards native to Stormhail– by the time he said those words, so he does not waste time looking up from another useless tome on the table. He simply puts it back where it belongs, glances at the spines of countless books before him, and picks up the next one he had yet to examine, repeating this process until he loses track of the progression of time.
Vados is dead, and in the midst of the crows, no less. There is a high chance that some evidence may still exist about the order to dispose of Vados – doubtful it will be something concrete like a letter or a written order, but perhaps there is something someone would want to hide in haste.
This prayer in reverse, this surrender yourself not unto silent dusk; perhaps looking into a public library of all places is foolish of him. Who would leave such blasphemous scripture out in the open for just anyone to discover?
But it is not a farfetched assumption to make that secrets may yet reside between these pages. So, Temenos keeps looking, eyes scanning each line with both speed and care; if his investigation is to bear fruit, he must be quick in his approach yet meticulous in his work. These people who plot against the Church, who seek to bring about this so-called night – they must be stopped. This, Temenos knows.
And yet, this sinking, horrible feeling of something amiss boils greater in his chest the longer he stays reading through the endless stacks of books and papers provided by the Sacred Guard.
Perhaps he should call it a day, should go to bed and continue this together with Crick, just as he had made the little lamb promise—
Then his eyes catch something.
It is not obvious, at first, for the letters inscribed onto the books’ spines are all arranged for the books to be kept horizontally instead of neatly stacked into shelves, but he notices upon closer inspection that this book in particular, The Creation of Heaven and Earth, is placed onto the shelf upside-down.
It may simply be a book put back in haste, but Temenos doubts it would be so, considering that he had not seen a single soul stepping foot into his current section for the past few hours. So Temenos takes it out, and examines the contents; no hidden compartments in the leather covers, no torn pages, no secret messages to be found.
Temenos then looks at the shelf at large, and notices something scrawled into the back of the shelf;
Break the earth’s shackles, and look to the heavens.
Temenos never did believe in coincidence. And to put this text behind a book directly related to it is the same as announcing to the world that there is something to be found in this heaven.
The earth is below them, so the heaven is the sky.
The second floor? But he is on the second floor already. So perhaps somewhere higher, somewhere the images on the stained glass window in the middle of this building points towards. Where Aelfric’s finger guides them to.
The rafters, then? Perhaps there is something hidden there.
Temenos puts the book back onto the shelf, careful to leave it as it was found; upside down, half an inch shallower than the rest of the books’ spines. Then he glances towards the clock at the entrance of the library, the needles striking around eleven in the evening; he must have been quite absorbed, as he always tends to be when mulling over mysteries.
So Temenos steps out from rows of shelves, insincere apology poised on his tongue as he prepares to investigate the headquarters whether the Sacred Guard likes it or not—
Only for him to find the halls deadly silent.
Like walking through the murky gloom of the fractured, vile-born night they found themselves in once or twice during their travels, these halls, the center of the crows’ nest, are quiet. Temenos pauses, holds his breath, and finds that he hears nothing but the sound of the wind battering against the stone walls of the headquarters. Not a single footstep. Not even a hushed whisper, or a breath.
An artificial silence. Someone dismissed all the night shift guards and clergymen in his presence.
They might not be doing so to use dirty tricks upon him; if they were, he would have heard at least the sound of someone approaching him by now, as he continues to flip through random pages found on the table to simulate the sound of him being immersed in his readings. And yet, the longer he waits, the heavier the silence becomes.
A thousand silent alarm bells ring in his ears, his instinct in this moment turning primal, warning him of the dangers somewhere deeper, deeper into the abyssal maw of the unknown beast prowling at the edge of his consciousness. Something dangerous is hiding beneath his feet, he knows. The Sacred Guard is not hiding the monster; it is the monster itself, with malicious intent locked deep under the earth and waiting for a chance to break free.
Temenos finally steps out into the hallway, his lantern abandoned on the table inside the library, with only the light at the end of his staff to illuminate his path. Each muscle is pulled taut and ready, a silent, reflexive warning burning into the back of his skull.
Perhaps whoever instigated this did not realize that Temenos is still present, having hidden himself in the library, sequestered away from the rest of the world under mounds of books. It could explain why there is no threat to his life yet. If they were, he would have been dead by now, killed without mercy; and who would be here, to witness the truth, when there is no one left stalking these halls?
This is a perfect place for murder, and yet not a single blade has been pressed to his throat.
But, if they know he is still here, then this… this is an invitation. An invitation to the silence, to the secret.
To the darkness hiding within the light.
Temenos clenches his jaws.
As he walks the silent halls, he notices nothing; Aelfric’s likeness on the stained glasses only looks at him with disinterest, the howling wind from outside barely registering in this absolute silence that has settled, with only his own breathing, his heartbeat, his footsteps to break it. If he ventures back to the inn to fetch someone else, the mastermind inviting him into the jaws of the abyss might disappear, or they might destroy whatever scrap of evidence he might have found.
Dangerous as it may be, he still is the Inquisitor and does not need protection. He may not be able to come out of a scuffle unscathed, but he does not underestimate himself; he knows what he is capable of. He knows that he can hold his own against Sanctum Knights if need be.
So, with eyes glancing towards the rafters where the light of Aelfric’s painting shines the brightest, Temenos continues to march forward, headlong into danger with only the light as his guide.
A secret library, hiding underneath the cobblestone floor.
Who would have thought?
Perhaps the corruption of the Sacred Guard runs deeper than what Temenos originally thought; while he doesn’t have the best impression of them, he never expected them to have fallen so low as to hide a structure this large beneath their holy ground. While it is true that the cathedral in Flamechurch also sports hidden chambers here and there, those are never larger than an adjutant’s room.
But this – this place must have spanned the entirety of the headquarters, if not beyond. And here, after staircases and dark hallways lit by dim flame, decorated with nothing but shadows, he finds a large, stone table with stands for blackened tomes, surrounded by several bookshelves, all which reeks with something more than poorly cured leather.
It smells of magic, and not the same dark magic Throné employs; it is vile, like the rotten innards of some misbegotten beasts burnt by fire and left to fester in the desert of Hinouema. Temenos walks up the steps to the table and the pedestals carefully, eyes glancing back and forth and taking in all the details that he can, trying to discern any sign of humans hiding in these shades.
If they know he still remains inside the building when everyone else was ushered out, this would be the best place to strike him down. Who else would come down here? Who could smell the scent of his rotting corpse, if he were to be disposed of where he stands now, in the belly of the beast?
He tightens the grip on his staff until his nails dig deep into his palm, until pain blooms from how tight his fingers grip the handle of his weapon. But he does not relent; he is in the enemy’s territory, and for all that he knows, they could spring forth from any shadow at any moment. If he is to find the evidence he needs and live to use it as a weapon to cut down this deep-seated corruption, he must survive to spread its contents, whatever this evidence may be.
Temenos stops at the front of the large table. Three books, each upon marbled stands, nine shelves surrounding the table. And upon a glance, Temenos recognizes some of these tomes as being on the list of blasphemous books already ordered destroyed by the Church, long ago. So he takes one of them out, takes another look about his surroundings, before opening the pages.
His eyes quickly scan the contents, blasphemous to the last. He may not be a pious man, but nor does he stoop so low as to try to invoke the night to replace the Sacred Flame either; for as much as he spouts his sarcasm and irreverence at the gods, he still respects the Sacred Flame as it is. To try to quench the Flame for some ill-gotten gain is not something a member of the Sacred Guard should do.
And to house tomes that preach of darkness and eternal night in this ground, sanctified for centuries by the Sacred Flame, is the highest order of blasphemy anyone could have done.
But who could—
Temenos’s thought is cut short when he hears heavy, measured footsteps from behind him. He quickly turns, the book dropped onto the table as he raises his staff, whispering his prayer to intensify the light at the end of his weapon further.
His lips curl into a snarl when he sees Deputy Cubaryi approach him, sword drawn.
“You’ve sniffed out what you shouldn’t have, hound,” Cubaryi sneers, stance hostile, venom in her voice and glee in her words. “And a bad, rabid dog that endangers everyone must be put down. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Says she who worships darkness while donning the clothing of a paladin,” Temenos shoots back, hand loosening the grip on the staff, to allow him to brandish his weapon as he pleases. He expected that he might have to fight Sanctum Knights, but to fight the Deputy, the Vice Captain of the Sacred Guard, would demand more from him than just a few bruises and scratches. He must be ready. “Why are you here?”
“We sent the invitation, and it is my duty to prepare the finest reception for our esteemed guest,” she mocks, her grin nigh crazed under the darkness of this tomb. Temenos notes the usage of we, but isn’t given much time to ponder. “I was afraid you might not be here to receive the invitation, seeing that no one has seen hair nor hide of you since night falls. But perhaps I was worried over nothing.”
“How nice of you, to personally prepare a celebration for me,” Temenos growls and immediately tenses when she enters a fighting stance, with her blade raised horizontally, the tip pointed at his heart. So he does the same, his staff close to his chest to guard from whatever manner of first strike she might fancy using on him. “But what if I do not wish to receive this welcome of yours?”
“You are not given the choice, hound,” Cubaryi cackles, crouching low. “A rabid dog must be put down. And you should be honored that it will be me who will cut you down!”
She lunges forward without hesitation.
The first strike is simple, the same downward swing each and every Sanctum Knight seems to be most proficient in, and he raises his staff in turn to block the blow. The impact shatters the meagre shield he manages to hastily conjure, and the force of the blade crashing into the staff reverberates throughout the rod, shaking him to his bones, pushes at his shoulders, his knees.
Feet on the ground. Stance wide as the shoulders.
Hikari’s lesson comes to mind, and with a proper stance, he manages to mitigate the next strike, somewhat. And with her blade losing its momentum, he twists his staff and stabs the end against her chest, pushing her off, and casts a quick Holy Light to blind her.
Cubaryi curses, but instead of backing off like Temenos hopes she would, she rushes forward instead.
Her blade cuts his left temple, the pain from her sword searing and burning like an iron brand. But he lacks the time to question the nature of her attack when he must summon all his strength to repel her strike. Blood gushes from the wound, blinding his left eye, but Temenos does not allow his focus to waver as he chants another spell.
Holy Light burns through her defense this time, and Temenos manages to put some distance between them, enough for him to catch his breath and examine his wound with his fingers; a large, deep gash rests at his temple, bleeding heavily. He mutters a quick prayer to heal the wound, to stop the bleeding so that he can fight with both eyes open—
And his thoughts stutter to a halt when he feels nothing mending.
“Haha…” Cubaryi’s laughter brings his attention back to her, and she’s rising to her feet, her sword covered in sparks of magenta – just like Crick’s blade when he fought the Felvarg, Temenos thinks absently – and something else. Something fetid. Rotten. “Are you surprised? There are many ways to stop a hound such as you from healing, Inquisitor.”
Temenos says nothing, too focused on the dark sparks on her saber. He notices runes etched into the body of the blade, glowing a sickening purplish hue like those creatures they’ve sometimes found on the road. Creatures infected by darkness, by demonic vitality and virulent scourge that Temenos does not understand.
This magic… Cubaryi and her entourage – whoever they may be – are far more connected to this eternal night than he first thought. And they are dangerous.
“Who is your master? Kaldena?” Temenos demands, expecting no real reply. Cubaryi only scoffs at him, which could be translated as either. “Does she think she would be left untouched, if this secret is brought to the light?”
“Only if you can get out of here alive, hound!” Cubaryi snaps at him, and charges with her sword raised.
Temenos grits his teeth, and prepares himself. As much as he loathes to admit, she is right; he must first survive this encounter. And he will hold nothing back to achieve that.
It hurts.
Every breath is searing flame throughout his chest. His hand, clutching at broken ribs on the left side of his body, does little to alleviate the pain. Even though he manages to emerge victorious over Cubaryi, the injuries he’s sustained are far too severe for him to consider entering combat for the next few weeks at least. There are gashes on his temple as well as his flank; cuts and bruises scatter all across his body, and his ribs cackle under his skin at each and every inhale.
On a rather dull note, he thinks he might have sprained his ankle and shattered some small, unimportant bones all over his body as well. But at least— at least, he’s alive.
He suspects Kaldena to be the mastermind. Cubaryi is her right-hand woman, after all, always at her command, answering to Kaldena’s every demand. And here, with Cubaryi lying dead at his feet, their blood intermingled and flowing down the steps like a wicked replica of a waterfall, Temenos can think of no one else this woman would die for.
But he has no time to waste. He is safe, but only for the moment. And the sooner he leaves this place, the better it is for him and the investigation both.
Temenos uncurls his fingers from the wound at his side, places his bloodied hand on the table to keep his balance as he inches his way around to the books on the shelves, the pedestal. And quickly, he flips over the pages of each, tossing the ones useless to him without care and reaching for the next in succession. He must quickly find some evidence to bring back upstairs. Then gain himself the authority through evidence-based suspicions to come back down for a more thorough investigation.
Whether or not someone destroys these books later does not matter. If they are all burned, it will only serve to strengthen the conjecture against the Sacred Guard, and that would be all that Temenos needs to drag this vile, sacrilegious truth into the eternal scrutiny of the Sacred Flame.
He then finally finds the passage; surrender yourself not unto silent dusk. For soon, the light shall fade.
This book. He must get this book to—
A gasp escapes him before Temenos registers what happens. And for a moment, a single fraction of a second that seems to span into eternity, he feels nothing.
And then, the dark pain blooms at his torso, burning shadowed pyre bursting to life where he feels something pulsating in him. Temenos looks down, then, past his stuttering breath, and sees the blade – Cubaryi’s blade – appearing from his cassock, stained red with his own blood.
A hand grabs his shoulder, and the blade is driven through him further until he feels its hilt press against his back. A choked moan leaves him, something warm and wet escaping from his mouth and searing the taste of iron onto his tongue. He drops his staff, the book, leaving them clattering into his growing pool of blood, hands flying in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding, to pull the blade out, to do— something—
The gloved fingers drum along his collarbone almost amusedly. Then, a voice, cold and clear.
“You’ve let your guard down, hound.”
The blade is then abruptly yanked out of him, and the hand on his shoulder pushes him to the ground. With pain burning his insides like wildfire, Temenos can do nothing but collapse onto the piles of discarded books, stained with his own blood, gasping for breath with his hands pressed tighter on the now gushing stab wound in his abdomen.
He cannot move, but he tries, he tries. He presses his forehead against the cold ground, feels more blood dripping through his fingers like a broken fount, and speaks through gritted teeth to the owner of the voice, the mastermind behind all this;
“Kal… dena…”
“And so, the hound is brought to heel,” she sneers at him, her foot resting on his back. With just a little pressure, he’s mercilessly pinned into the ground, wheezing, bleeding, dying. “But I must say, you exceeded my expectations. I never thought you’d be able to kill my favorite dog on your own.”
Each breath takes more effort than the last, and he cannot— he cannot push her off. He cannot get himself to even struggle, much less stand, through but a single foot placed at his back, at his entry wound, coercing more of his life out of him. His hands shake with effort as he tries to not let himself completely collapse into his own puddle of blood, red, red, red—
“You will die here,” she declares, and pushes him down. A cry escapes him as he desperately presses his hand against the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding, to do anything. He cannot— he cannot just perish in the bowel of the beast. He must— he must— “And no one will miss you.”
Then slowly, oh so slowly, Kaldena stabs Cubaryi’s blighted sword into the back of his thigh, just above the fold of his knee. Inch by searing inch the blade sinks deeper, the burn from whatever manner of vile magic casted upon it overpowering, and Temenos cannot completely bite back the muted scream that leaves him when she continues to push, piercing in—
The blade suddenly breaks through the other side of his leg. Temenos distantly feels the heat of his blood soaking up and down his trousers, the fabric sticking to his thigh as the new puddle continues to expand.
Kaldena yanks the blade out before tossing it into the abyssal plane that exists all around them. He twists his body, desperately tries to catch what she is doing, only to see Kaldena smile down upon him, her hand reaching out to grasp his jaw and forcing him to look at her.
“This will be goodbye, hound. Now, excuse me for not being able to watch you bleed to death here; I must get rid of my dog’s corpse, after all.”
And with that, she releases him, and he collapses back to the ground.
A blink feels like a second, a breath like forever. The passage of time becomes impossible to track. With each exhale, his heartbeat slows, time stills to a stop; and with each inhale, pain flares, and the beat of his dying life quickens, yanking him forward. But in the growing fog that seems intent on engulfing his senses, he can hear disappearing footsteps. The sound of something being dragged away. The thudding of his pulse, ringing in his ears.
Temenos grunts, clutching the gaping wound in his stomach as though his shaking hand could do anything to slow the bleeding. He mutters some healing magic, but it does not work, just like how the wound at his temple refused to heal. So he grips his hand against the wound harder. Because he— he needs time. Just enough to get himself out of this hell, this abyss. Enough time to drag just a piece of the evidence into the light.
But he knows. He has seen many wounded on the battlefield. Seen people die bleeding on the ground.
He won’t—
He won’t survive this.
Temenos lets out a wet laugh, followed by glops of blood spilling from his lips before he uses his free hand to find the— the book with that passage. The clue, fallen from his hands when Kaldena impaled him from the back. His mind scrambles to find the solution to his situation, but in every scenario, he has no hope of survival.
The blade had sliced through his midriff, and Castti had taught him enough about the human physique for Temenos to know that there are so many organs held in his abdomen— so many important pieces of him the blade must have already sundered. And as the pool of blood grows beneath him, as the cold numbness starts to climb up his fingertips, he knows.
But he refuses to die here, in this abyss. He came here for evidence – evidence that will kill him. But he will not— he cannot simply lay down and give up and die like this.
He manages to find the accursed tome, at last. And hastily, shakily, he finds the page again. Surrender yourself not unto silent dusk, one of the passages reads. With a grunt, he rips the page from the spine. Clutching it in his hand, ignoring how his own blood smears the passage like spilled ink, Temenos reaches for the edge of the table, the pain of his wounds being pulled taut almost forcing him back to the ground.
But he pushes on. Resists the nigh irresistible temptation to collapse and rest. It takes him a few tries to be able to get to his feet, unsteady. The wetness across his torso is jarring. Temenos looks down, at his cassock, stained red. His arm and hand, bloodied. The books, his staff, covered in nothing but blood. His blood.
The staff—
It is his most cherished possession, a reminder of Roi, of the Pontiff’s trust in him. But here, in the depths where he is left to die, he does not—
His magic does not work. Not on these wounds, inflicted by a blighted blade connected to the eternal night. Carrying the staff with him would do nothing but slow him down in his state, when one of his hands is occupied safeguarding the evidence, the other trying to staunch the bleeding as much as possible.
He is at death’s door, knocking on it but still refusing to cross the threshold. On this last stretch, his road to oblivion, it seems he will have to venture forth alone.
Heavily, clumsily, he inches forward, using the table to steady himself until he reaches the stairs. A slowly drying pool of blood – Cubaryi’s blood – trails off into the darkness. Her body had been dragged away by Kaldena, most certainly. Temenos refuses to acknowledge the pity he could have felt, and tries to descend the stairs.
Only for his knees to buckle, and for him to tumble gracelessly with them.
He gasps, the pain of his broken bones, his wounds, burning, freezing. His entire body shakes as he struggles to get to his feet. But there is nothing he could have used as an anchor, the nearest and closest thing he could use is the wall a few strides away.
A stride feels like forever. He does not have forever.
But he refuses to give in. Instead, he grits his teeth, and pushes through the growing pain, crawling forward, stumbling, falling, getting back up again, leaving an undeniable trail of blood behind, he is certain.
His fingertips sting as he manages to crawl his way upright again, leaning heavily against the old, moldy walls of the secret library. He barely registers any feeling besides pain from his stabbed leg, his mind slows and dizziness has made its home in his senses as he tries to breathe. Each breath takes longer but is shorter, each blink smudging the edge of his vision further.
He must hurry. If he can get to the inn, or let someone not from the Sacred Guard find his body—
He stifles a whimper from rising up his throat, clutches the piece of paper tighter, and makes his way forward. Out from this abyss, and hopefully, into the light.
When he manages to make his way past the hidden door, he’s already so, so cold.
But Temenos— he persists. He stumbles into the nearest pillar, leaving behind bloodied handprints as the torn page is now secured in the hand stopping the bleeding at his abdomen, freeing his other hand just enough to hold onto something, anything. He stumbles, crawls, grapples at what he could reach to drag himself across the unforgiving cold floor of the headquarters.
The tables. Chairs. Candlestands. Walls. Pillars. Using all that he can, Temenos claws himself forward, inch after inch after inch, even as he starts to lose the sensation in his arms, legs. Feels the cold creeping into his heart as it desperately beats to keep him alive.
And in these final moments of his life, as he heaves his battered and broken body forward, he thinks of his friends. Of Crick.
He is sorry. For having to leave this indelible sin for them to clean up, for pushing this burden upon their shoulders. It was his foolishness and haste to find the truth that brought this fate upon him. And yet it is they who must continue his work, so that the truth may not be left to rot in this frozen hell. He just— He hopes they will find him in time. Trace his steps back to this place. Follow the trail of blood to the secret library and find something they could use.
He gasps and tumbles forward when the chair he leans on tips over, sending him careening to the floor with such force that the remaining air in his lungs is knocked out of him. He labors to breathe, and each breath hurts. Blood continues to gush out of him, his fingers growing numb even as he pulls against the torn and bloodied page.
Just a little more. Just—
With a grunt, gritted teeth, and flaring pain, he endures to the best of his ability. Temenos drags himself the final short distance leading to the grand stone door separating him from the battering blizzard of Stormhail. If I can get out of this place, Temenos thinks through the howling haze in his mind. Through the numbness that threatens to consume his senses. Someone can find me.
The last few steps to the stone door consumes so much time that by the time he reaches the door, he can barely hear anything, save for his own heartbeat pounding weakly in his ears. He’s cold, much colder than what he felt walking through the eternal snow outside when he investigated Vados’s corpse together earlier that afternoon with Crick. Each breath snaps every rib in him; each step, each inch crawled, like peeling his skin off and leaving him raw and exposed.
But he— he manages. He reaches the door, leaning against its stone with his shoulder pushing weakly to try to open it.
His leg burns as he puts whatever remains of his strength into it, but he continues, perseveres. After a few tries, after the puddle of blood grows large enough for his foot to slip in as he pushes, he finally nudges the gate open and tumbles out into the cold, into the storm that never lets up in this city. In this frigid tomb.
Temenos staggers to his feet once more, using the gate as his anchor, and for a moment, a single moment, he manages to stand on two feet. If he squints, if he tries to focus through the numbing fog that has settled deep and unmoving into the back of his skull, he can see the undying light of the inn’s lanterns from here.
If he can— if he can get there—
But his body, already defeated and having gone through too much, gives out first. He only manages two steps before he falls down the stairs, feeling every bone groan as his body rolls down the stony steps, feeling nothing when he finds himself lying face-down in the snow. The feeling of warmth leaving his body alarmingly quickly is the clearest thing his mind can register.
It gets impossibly harder to open his eyes after each blink, but he— he tries. Tries to twitch a finger, to pull himself forward. He cannot just lie here. Someone has to find him.
But he cannot move, his body already beyond saving. He is already beyond saving.
His breath coalesces into clouds of white before his eyes. And with each flutter of his eyelids, the world grows stale, the edges of each object and color smeared together like teardrops on a painting. He cannot feel his fingers, his arms, his legs. His heartbeat pounds loud in his ears, drowning out even the howling wind above him.
He wonders what Crick is doing, during all this. Is he resting, honoring the oath Temenos forced him to swear like the good little lamb that he is? Is he eager, anxious for a tomorrow with him that will never come? Does he look forward to seeing Temenos again, to continue their investigation, despite his faith being so thoroughly questioned and half-broken?
Ah. How fitting, for him to think of Crick in his last gasp, as he feels the cold creep deep into his spine and make its home where warmth used to reside. His little wayward lamb, the noblest of flame…
If only he could stay. If only he could guide him somewhere brighter.
He is sorry. So sorry for all of this. For not keeping his own promise even when he forced Crick to take an oath, binding him to inaction. He promised he would meet up with Crick again, and yet—
…—menos…!
He blinks, and feels warmth at his back. Something moves him, and he is gazing up at the sky, though no light manages to pierce through the endless storm.
He feels something burning around his shoulders, and he sees a silhouette of something – someone? – hovering over him. Muted strings of words spoken through the wailing snowstorm.
His head lolls into something soft, yet firm— and impossibly warm like a bonfire. He blinks again, and flecks of soft snow catch on his eyelashes.
Ah.
He’s been found, at last. He’s been found.
I can rest for a little while like this, he thinks, as each blink extends a second into an eternity. As he feels something being pressed into the gaping void in his midsection where something else is supposed to be, he feels a warm softness on his cheek, down his neck—
Just for a little while…
The last thought he has is of Crick, of his bright smile and the bluest of eyes. Of the burning flame in his chest and the warmth on his soft features as he gazed at Temenos, moons ago.
And then, he feels himself fall into a sea of clouds.