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The exterior of the abbey was laced with holly garlands. It gave the appearance that the eaves were weeping, with the dim evening light obscuring the holly’s color from hardy green to deep slate.In the belly of the grey chapel, a well bundled-crusader sat with his hands clasped in the first pew, muttering Verses and prayers. The abbey was absent of any witnesses to this routine. A slight deviation laid in the satchel at his feet, empty of alms and spiced candies that he’d given out to Hamlet residents during the snowlit daylight hours.Yuletide was a busy season, made more and less complicated by the tenuous situation in the Hamlet. The Heir had given the band of fighters a week to breathe easily, though it was made more constricting by their next plan of an attack on the warrens. Reynauld added what morale he could by participating in the cheer— candied almonds and fruits were accessible enough through trading, and already many residents of the Hamlet shared thanks and kind words. The gold coins he handed out also helped in that regard.With the day of solstice drawing to a hastened end, Reynauld sunk into the quiet of the empty abbey. The midnight crowd for the service would not be there for another six hours.The clinging scent of holly and cheer in the Hamlet was redolent of the path leading to his old home, fenced by stout, aromatic pines. The details came up plentifully in his memory, like sweeping dust off a shelf. His fingers were especially grey with it at this time of year.“Let my family know thy comfort and will.” The Light knew all, so it surely knew how he couldn't bear to think their names when delivering such distant hopes. His voice whistled low in his chest like a cupped flame. He got through this part quickly. “Warm their hearts. Give them grace, and in thou, a steady figure to look upon.”His mind wandered to the surroundings of the Hamlet. The sounds of merrymaking ghosted through the glass panes. It was a bone chilling night, even in the swathes of candlelight and festivity, yet a few individuals strided or stumbled down the streets. Their faces were warm smudges beyond the thin windows. Shadows wavered as if stirred mirages rather than frozen to their feet.“Bring the inhabitants of this hamlet closer to thou through thy splendor and gifts, that they may receive thy grace…”He paused. There was no one to witness it, nor the subsequent plea he offered:“And strengthen me still to ignore temptation. I confess to faltering from my own misdoings.”He brought his satchel closer to lean against his boots as if to make his presence needle-thin in the holy solitude of the chapel. It was a confession too fresh for Reynauld to have been comfortable laying so openly, yet the Light knew all, so it was hardly a burdensome echo.His plight: there was one individual who sought to crumple his righteous path. Or, rather, who compelled Reynauld to flee it himself on a regular basis, so that the thief might grant him an amused or tender smile. Dismas’s company thrilled him without rhyme or reason. Though he did not see the man throughout the day of solstice, he attributed that to an occupation with revelry. Reynauld would seek him, once his personal matter was set aside.He was most in tune with himself around the highwayman. So, with his highs brought so close by his affections, his low moments were sharpened further. There were parts of himself he couldn't let others be cut by.“Forgive me, Holy Light, for I confess to have taken—”
Creak.
He froze.Floorboards clicked and squeaked behind him. Reynauld’s surprise came as a flush of pink as he recognized the exaggerated snaps of leather soles.“Here ya are.” Dismas slipped around the edge of the pew until he was some yards away, to the side of Reynauld. He hovered there, one hand pocketed and the other clutching a bottle of dark wine. “I wondered where you’d been.”Reynauld patted the spot beside him. “Merry Yuletide, my friend.”“Mmh. Merry Yuletide.” With the invitation, Dismas sank on the pew beside him, angled to face him. With his shoulders hunched forward in his overcoat, he looked like a great bird of prey. He might have been tipsy. He sighed and slung an arm over the back of the pew.Reynauld bent to check his satchel, finding tucked beside the stem of a silver goblet one last spiced candy wrapped in a cloth. He plucked that and a coin from his purse. “This is a small gift.”Dismas tilted his head, making a huffed laugh. He accepted the items into the palm of his glove. “I wondered who had been handing these out, and somehow, I knew it was you. You, Sir Reynauld, have brought more cheer to the Hamlet than any of us merry men.”“They're tokens of my appreciation to us all, for keeping this system breathing.” He took in Dismas’s waiting look and then added, as he had to the others he’d given to, “And to remind us that the Light will guide us during this cold season.”“I liked the appreciation better.” Dismas smiled— easy to tell under his neckerchief— and shuffled his position to reach in his pockets. Their knees bumped as Dismas held the wine bottle in one hand and produced a thin silver goblet in the other, apparently kept hidden in his coat pocket. “Since you wouldn't let us appreciate you at the tavern… I thought I’d swing by with some cheer.”“Hmm.”He swirled the silver cup in his hand. “These were from our last expedition, if you’ll recall. I say ‘these’ because I originally had two.” His voice was rough from the cold and teasing. “Someone must've nabbed it from our room this morning. I’m only sorry to not have another to share.” Dismas set the goblet down perilously on the seat of the pew. Then, he looked up at Reynauld with a growing smile. The crusader backed down with a turbulent flush at his neck. He reached into his satchel.“See, but, by fate they were reunited.” With care, Reynauld pulled out the missing goblet. It clunked beside Dismas’s own. The crusader stared down at his hands as he refastened the satchel, then toyed with the strap when it became clear Dismas would not let him return eye contact without facing his smirk. It would be practically glowing behind his neckerchief.“You kleptomaniac. Did the trader give you a price for it?”“No,” he blustered. It’d been safe in his keeping. An honest need rose in him. “I didn't dare ask her. How could I sell it?”“It’s a fine goblet,” Dismas supplied, still amused.“Justly, it is yours.”“Now, that sounds closer to the reason you stole it rather than why you didn't sell it.” Dismas’s fingers danced on the rim of the goblet— the one he’d brought. The hollyberry pads of his gloves made the slightest sounds against the silver. “With the mystery solved, what am I to do with the rest of my night?”“Accept my humblest apologies.”“For being caught,” Dismas slipped in, still with a smile in his eyes, which flew like embers to the simmer in Reynauld’s heart.“For being caught,” he repeated. “To be fair— which I admittedly have not been— I thought you were soon to sell the goblets. I was saddened.”“Aye?” Dismas propped his chin on his hand, goblet forgotten.“Verily! We found them together in those terrible ruins. When I saw them this morning laid amidst your other loot, I was… taken by sentiment. Terrible of me, but I felt it necessary.”Dismas got quiet. Reynauld saw his roving pupils and thought curiously that the highwayman was studying his face. “Taken by a different sentiment from what usually compels you.”“Yes.”That morning, Reynauld had gathered together gifts and alms alone in the barracks. He spotted, in the corner of their shared space, a pile of gold, jewels, trinkets, and the two goblets. All treasures which they’d sacked from the weald and Dismas had taken claim to. Reynauld had prepared his coats to leave but paused, feeling a twinge towards those silver cups.They were fine. Polished well, despite their condition. He saw the reflection of himself in the dented surface of one goblet: a chill-reddened face peeked over a stiff grey scarf, young and weary without his armet. Yet, the matching goblet stood beside it, marred by scratches and proud and just as weary. As a pair, invaluable.Dismas was handing him back that very same, slightly dented goblet. “Happy Yule, Reynauld.”Upon understanding, he made a noise of dissent. “That’s fine silver. I’ve shamed myself for it once already.”Dismas brightened like he got an idea. “No, no. Y’see, this is a gift. Hold it.” Dismas nudged it forward, so that Reynauld had to take it in his own hand. Dismas didn't let go. “Now you should feel that you’re owing me for it. Yes?”“Yes,” he repeated, anticipation fluttering. On the stem of the goblet, his fingers slotted in with Dismas's. His gloves were warm.“Then come with us to the tavern, once you finish your prayers. That’ll pay for it.” Dismas released his touch. He conceded, “‘Course, just sitting here with you for a change is already a good enough bargain. Can stand to hear myself think.” He leaned back slightly, as if to survey the chapel. The sparse candles inside were a hardy and austere friend to the plentiful wicks that glowed around the Hamlet. Shadows stretched comfortably from wall to floor to pew.Reynauld considered it. Dismas looked at him patiently with intent in his eyes, though it slipped away when Reynauld took note. The darkness captured the sharp contours of his cheeks with the deft hand of a calligrapher.Reynauld said, “I shall find a proper payment for this later. But, for now, I will accompany you wherever you wish.”“Good man. Alright. How long d’you need?”“A few minutes.” Upon seeing Dismas shuffle, he added, “You can remain if you’d like. It’s not an intrusion.”With the invitation in place, Dismas nodded, repocketing the goblet and wine. He crossed his arms and settled with eyes closed; his form of respect, or silent prayer, bared to the empty seats in the abbey. Reynauld left the silver cup on the pew between them. The metal held a warmth that was alien to the stones and winds outside. He clasped his hands and said the rest of his prayers.The time went quickly. Boughs of holly tapped the windows; lamplight haloes streaked the night like smudged dandelions. Soon, there wasn't a soul left in the abbey, and the two walked alongside each other with faces bright in the sea of nipping wind.