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2023-03-28
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take my anger up

Summary:

No such thing as fear existed in Temenos Mistral, or so Throné Anguis had learned.

Notes:

i'm only updated to chapter 1 on both of these characters, but even then i couldn't resist writing at an interpretation of their relationship and just the silly little thoughts that go on in my head! so i hope you enjoy, and i personally can't wait until i learn more about the ot2 travelers myself! :D!

Work Text:

Temenos Mistral claims many things. Of them, a preference towards pacifism despite everything, and that violence is a wonderful tool though seldom is needed. If a conflict does escalate to violence, however, Temenos relies not only on the Sacred Flame, but his abilities as both a clergyman and Inquisitor. He relies on himself to end a confrontation quickly and carefully, but he won't sting with regret if things happen to unfold in a messier fashion than he'd like.

Yet of all things to claim, Temenos never marked himself as particularly forgiving. Especially if his allies come into harm's way.

"Temenos," Throné mutters. Her whole body shakes, cold and beaten. "Don't—"

"My dear little Throné." For the word lamb did not befit her, so he does not ever call her that; a thief of her ilk is more akin to a snake, after all, but he is not cruel enough to address her by that either, so instead he says her name as simply as she would say his, theirs a push-and-pull of equal force. "Please do not worry yourself further. Let the Sacred Flame heal us, as it were."

Yet as the white magic courses through them both—the warmth of a flame kindling in their chests, Aelfric and the other gods' benevolence shining through the symbolic fires—Throné knows that only damnation follows Temenos' gentle ministrations. She knows that despite his kindness, despite his every effort to keep them both alive, what comes next is something that even the Gods would turn their eyes away from witnessing.

All because of some bandits. All because of some bitter blades that caught them both unawares, in a rare moment of vulnerability and blood. They are both careful and methodical people—neither of them would be caught dead without a weapon in their hand, even if that means a staff in Temenos' case—and simple ambushes are typically below their concern. Yet perhaps they can blame the sudden ambush on the harshness of the Winterlands, and how the snowstorm blanketed any trace of ne'er-do-wells lying in wait for their next target.

Of course, the ambush did not come without consequence. The white snows are stained red, and Throné grits her teeth at the thought for more needless death—but unavoidable as she is not meant to fall here, and neither is Temenos. No, the bodies littering the snow-covered grounds are not their own, even if some of the blood splatter is theirs. Throné is quick and Temenos is exacting, so together their strengths turn death into a painful affair. Quick all the same, but painful.

Temenos hopes Aelfric can forgive these curs in his place.

"Ah, that's much better," he says as the magic heals him all the way. "Now I can finish what we started."

Throné picks herself up from the ground. She gives him a strange look—some mixture of gratitude and pity—before he turns his back on her. "...Very well."

"As I said, you've done quite enough already. Leave the rest of it to me."

She doesn't answer him, not because she doesn't respect him, but because she feels like no matter the answer, Temenos will do as he pleases. She merely nods, and closes her eyes against the sight of him in the snow, ignoring the way his white robes and green vestments are stained red, or how the darkness of his pupils stretch to fill out his eyes, smile lengthening with slow sweetness as the satisfaction of judgment fuels him—makes him whole again.

He seethes as he moves his staff in front of him, the head of it shining with holy light. "Now, die."

The surviving bandits brandish their knives, but to no avail. Even the sneakiest blades cannot escape the all-encompassing light of justice, and the latter exists in Temenos in spades. He clasps his hands over the middle of his staff, eyes closed in prayer. With every word and each hopeful wish, the magic manifests in beams of golden light, striking down the enemy as though they were spears, instead. The sound of it rings out like a haunting bell, and even Throné has to marvel at the brutality of it all.

The bloodied faces, the twisted ears, the gaping mouths pleading for forgiveness—all of it compounds into a chorus of misery, resonating and bright even over the roaring blizzard. Throné stands still as she witnesses everything: bodies blown backward from the force of magic, Temenos' countenance lit up by golden light, until the light finally fades and more blood scatters across him, this time on his face and in his hair, tainting the paleness of his person with unholy crimson. The snow melts and warps under the force of his magic, but more so by the weight of newly-made corpses that twist and turn lifelessly in the snowbank—dark and bloody against the white monotony.

When the only breaths left clouding are their own, Throné finally speaks. "Temenos…thank you. I had been careless."

"Oh, dear Throné, you must understand how instrumental you are to our overall survival. Were it not for you, after all, then those bandits would've made quick work of me, and I'd be little more than worm food myself." He smiles and laughs at the thought, with more ease of death than Throné would ever expect a cleric to have. Of course, she knew from the moment they met that he was no ordinary traveler, because she was the exact same way. He had been so different from others around her who were also familiar with the concept of death, yet unlike those people (unlike Pirro and Scaracci, she dismally thinks) he wasn't afraid. Far from it, in fact.

No such thing as fear exists in Temenos Mistral, or so Throné Anguis had learned. No, the closest thing to fear he felt—the furthest he'd fall from his usual calmness, the chaos that truly stirred within him, cause him to lash out, and bare the holy power as holy fangs to which he'd use for protection when forced—is anger.

And she feels her pulse synchronize with his own, as their hearts are set aflame by adrenaline, but moreso the realization that comes with it.

"It was simple enough," she insists, always quick to deflect compliments but even quicker to accept the reality of things. "We're in this together. I wouldn't let you fall so easily—not now, not ever." Even when you reek of blood, she thinks but doesn't say.

"Then I shall endeavor to do the same. Or continue our wonderful arrangement of keeping each other alive, I should say." He wipes the blood from his hands with a handkerchief, then offers her the same. As she accepts the dirtied cloth from him, Temenos hums quietly and says, "Shall we be on our way? I'd suggest burying these poor souls, but we may very well join them on the other side if we don't move out of this blizzard soon."

Throné feels the cold to her very core—she knows he's right. But part of her wonders if he'd ever really bury people like those bandits just now, the very people who'd stabbed and sliced at them, opening up the seams that always intended to stay closed. Perhaps if Temenos was on his lonesome, he'd have the grace to bury them after the fact, because it was the right thing to do and they were, in their own twisted way, just trying to survive.

But because Throné had been here—because she, too, had gotten injured and danced with death on the edge of life—things changed. Whether or not they changed for the better, she couldn't yet tell.

All she could do is go along with it for now, but there's no denying their teamwork is impeccable at the end of the day. "Right," she eventually concedes to him. "Let's get out of here."

Despite the cold and despite the way he carried himself just earlier, Temenos' fingers had been warm when Throné reached out to him, their hands brushing against each other in a clumsy exchange of cloth and kinship.

Still, to see the cold and the warm, both, had always been her dream. To see anything at all beyond the suffocating streets of New Delsta had been her goal. Throné is chasing freedom, and this had been but the slightest sample of it, no matter how strange and bitter Temenos made it taste.

She couldn't wait for more.