Chapter Text
Anger running hot through her veins like a fever, Castti neglects to stop by her room to change and instead heads straight downstairs to the lounge. The mother hen would almost say she’s relieved to spy Osvald and Throné taking a well deserved rest near the hearth (and she is, they’re just as exhausted as Ochette), but deep down she can’t help but feel further frustrated. Out of all of them she would have thought the father seeking revenge for the murders of his wife and only child could have easily convinced the cleric to forgo his research to be at Crick’s side. And even if Temenos brushed him off claiming that he needed to think like Ochette said, then surely his close friend and assistant would have told him to cut the crap and come back with them.
Apparently not.
Logs crackling away in the fireplace punctuate the silence crafted by the party’s quieter members. The scholar turns a page in his book from his seat at the fire; the Blacksnake leaning her back against the wall while she meticulously cleans one of her daggers. The sharp edges of the blade are coated in crimson, a familiar sight, yet the cloth Throné sets aside to replace with another is tainted with some sort of foul substance. Poison, if the apothecary had to guess, which for a moment has her swallow down a sudden bout of guilt that she wasn’t there to concoct a cure. The herbs kept on hand in the event of her absence must have spared them the worst of it, as well as the cleric’s prayers for their health.
At least the Inquisitor had done something right.
“I’m off to go find Temenos.” Castti announces to the room without any preamble while going to fetch one of their many cloaks drying over the fire. It would be hypocritical for the mother hen to venture out into the morning chill with little in the way of protection after the fuss she raised for them to be properly equipped for the cold.
“Something wrong?” Throné straightens up with a surprising amount of concern. Osvald as well. Belatedly she supposes she could have phrased that better, all things considered.
“Crick’s condition is stable.” The apothecary supplies, her voice sharp and clipped like her haphazard attempt to throw the cloak on. “I just thought Temenos would like to be made aware since his acquaintance nearly died.”
“He did.” Osvald agrees, ever a man of few words in times such as these. He rarely speaks of his imprisonment at Frigit Isle, but Castti suspects their time in Stormhail has served as a haunting reminder of the inhumane suffering he endured for five long years. She certainly wouldn’t hold it against him if he too, would prefer the party set out as soon as their ailing companions are cleared for travel -- Crick among their numbers, of course.
“There was a lot of blood.” Throné adds as she returns her dagger to the garter belt around her thigh. If anyone would be an expert on such matters, it would be the thief raised as an assassin since birth. For her to be saying something only proves how dire the situation had been (not that Castti wasn’t well aware).
She then crosses her arms to regard the apothecary closely, her sharp gaze surprisingly unguarded. Softer, she admits:
“Best you talk to Temenos, anyway.”
It isn’t unusual for Throné to make the occasional offhand comment, yet the advice veiled within speaks volumes much like Ochette’s plea for the mother hen not to be mad. It’s enough to make Castti pause from adjusting the hood over her disheveled bun to reevaluate her stance. She is most certainly cross with Temenos, there’s no doubt of that, but nothing registering as true anger. Castti’s far too tired for that, and besides.
Their tight knit group has had more than enough close calls for one day.
(Enough regrets.)
The amnesiac apothecary exhales and makes for the door.
“He’s in for the lecture of his life.” If there’s one the mother hen can guarantee, it’s that. Yet in spite of her urgency to confront the man, Castti’s hand hovers over the handle for a moment. Looking over her shoulder, she turns to address her weary companions.
“There ought to be leftover azuki porridge in the icebox, so please help yourselves if you have not yet eaten. We shouldn’t be long, but should you turn in before I return, I pray you rest well. Do not hesitate to call for me if you cannot.”
Throné smiles, small but no less sincere.
“We will, Cas. You take care, too.”
And with that, Castti takes her leave.
Considering the excessive bleeding from her patient’s wounds, the apothecary fully expects to find a trail of Crick’s blood leading up to the inn. Instead, the path before her is as pristine as the surrounding freshly fallen snow -- the evidence of the Sanctum Knight’s presence erased by either the party’s trained assassin or quick thinking scholar to throw the attempted murderer off track.
Ochette hadn’t said where they went that night or where she might find Temenos, but Castti can presume there’s no place else he’d be than at the Sacred Guards’ Headquarters located in the center of town. It’s still far too early in the morning and downright freezing that she doesn’t see very many townsfolk aside from the occasional guardsman bearing either the banner of the Church or Clan Mei. Castti cannot say she particularly cares for either faction given recent events, nor is she in any mood to inquire for information. She does, however, pick up murmurings over a concerning sight near the aforementioned headquarters (and although it holds no relevance, a great many clansmens’ grievances over a wooden plank serving as Castle Mei’s main bridge).
Although Castti has her theories over what the former could be in reference to, her suspicions are confirmed when she spies a familiar white cloak billowing in the wind to reveal the dark jade robes beneath. Her focus on Temenos soon shifts, however, when her vision falls upon the scene before him.
As an apothecary, Castti is generally unbothered by the sight of blood. It’s an essential requirement one must have in her line of work, and yet there’s something about the crimson arcs splattered against the frozen steps leading from the headquarters that makes even her own stomach twist. In her mind’s eye she can picture a grievously wounded Crick helplessly stumbling down the stairs with that crumpled piece of paper held tight in his grasp, determined in his pursuit to warn Temenos before ultimately collapsing. There, against the stained cobblestone wall, in a pool of his own blood and at the mercy of the wicked winter winds draining his dwindling body temperature.
Castti doesn’t want to think how long he laid there dying alone.
(How long Malaya laid there watching the boat carry their last hope away.)
Taking a deep, frigid breath to try and clear the chilling thoughts in her head, Castti tears her gaze away from the sickening sight to pivot her attention back to the cleric. Temenos appears to be so entirely fixated on where Crick fell that he doesn’t give any sort of acknowledgment to her presence, keeping so very still it’s as though he’s frozen where he stands. It isn’t unusual given his penchant for thinking so deeply that reality often slips away from him (something she too is guilty of), yet Castti cannot help but be concerned. His complexion has always been rather pale, but the dark circles underneath his eyes that nearly overshadow the rosy pink tinge on his cheeks has her shift gears from aggravated apothecary to worried mother hen.
What else is there to think about when you’ve already caught the culprit?
“Temenos,” She calls out softly, not at all like she’d predicted upon seeing him. “How long have you been out here?”
The Inquisitor draws in a shuddering breath, the frost on his robes shifting as he surfaces from the internal depths of his mind.
“Ah, Castti,” He blinks, his eyes either rimmed red from exposure to the cold or some other irritation. A small smile slips upon his lips, the same sort he puts on to shake off suspicion. “Strayed too far from mother hen’s nest, have I?”
Castti offers no remark to the rhetorical question no doubt meant to get a rise out of her just as Temenos makes no comment over her choice to remain silent. Instead he tilts his head towards the Headquarters.
“Ironic, is it not?” The tone with which he speaks is vacant of its usual pretentious flair. “Both you and I are devoted to saving lives, and yet so often are we surrounded by death.”
The bitter resentment she’d felt at Crick’s bedside returns like bile in the back of her throat. Even if she’s lost everything, he hasn’t.
“Crick is alive, Temenos.” Castti delivers the good news without choking on the acid scorching her sharp tongue. She wonders if he already presumed as such. If he even cared at all. If a bloodied scrap of parchment mattered as little to him as the man’s life.
Temenos shakes his head, his focus once more drawn to the unsettling massacre before them.
“Not when I found him.”
The apothecary’s burning fury is extinguished in an instant, the sweeping cold stealing her breath away. Castti isn’t certain why the revelation should come to any kind of shock. Her own intuition refused to budge from the fact that her patient’s injuries should have killed him like they would have anyone else. Crick did die, Castti just didn’t know it.
But Ochette....
Ochette knew.
That’s what she was trying to tell her, wasn’t it? When she begged for Ma to save Crick because she was there when his heart ceased beating. She was there when Temenos performed an actual miracle in pleading for the gods he held no faith in to spare his Godsblade’s life. She was there when Castti was furious over the cleric’s absence thinking he didn’t care, and yet didn’t dismiss the validity of her feelings.
Instead all she asked was for her not to be mad at him, and as for Throné and Osvald...
“Best you talk to Temenos, anyway.”
That bloody piece of parchment in her pocket suddenly feels akin to an anchor sinking her deeper into guilt. Temenos exhales and sounds all the more weary for it, like there too is an impossible weight resting atop his shoulders.
“You know, throughout much of my life I have compared myself to a black sheep sticking out from amongst the flock. I see now that I was incorrect.” The cleric holds out his hands so often clasped together to call upon the Sacred Flame to observe them. His palms are the same shade of scarlet seeped into the apothecary’s apron, the same spilled across the snow where there was once a corpse bleeding out. “No, the true color of my wool is red. Stained with the blood of those I have failed to protect.”
No matter how many times Castti has washed her own hands, the dark bruises branded onto her flesh refuse to be forgotten. She swallows hard, the constricting ache in her throat no different than the pain flaring up her arms as she holds her cloak closer around herself. Glacis’ fury has been quelled, and yet still does the cold seep into her skin like a chilling downpour of rain.
“You saved his life, Temenos.” She reminds him, something that she cannot say of herself, of everyone in Healeaks. “None of us would be here were it not for you.”
Temenos hums wistfully.
“I’m afraid such platitudes ring empty, for you see I would not be where I am today were it not for the bodies behind me.” The cleric counters, his mouth a thin, flat line. She doesn’t believe she’s ever once seen sorrow reflected in those piercingly sharp eyes of his. “Although I suppose that is a claim many of us share, hm? And one that shall continue if we wish to reach our journeys’ end.”
(Trousseau.)
In spite of the warring strife in her heart over the kind young man she once knew, Castti stands tall.
“You said so yourself that we are surrounded by death. If I must take a life to save countless more, then so be it.” The apothecary declares, her resolve unwavering to extend a helping hand to all those in need. Not only to protect the people of Timberain, but to honor the memory of those before her.
“As will I,” Temenos agrees somberly. His lips curve upwards ever so slightly, the action vacant of humor. “Though I strongly suspect such a feat shall not be without a particularly stubborn Godsblade persistent that he remains at my side.”
Try as the Inquisitor might to give off an air of exasperation over Crick’s undying loyalty, Castti is able to diagnose that the fondness with which he speaks is laced with pain. It’s also evident that the toll paid to spare the young knight’s life was no small feat, either. Temenos is only a year or so older than her by their best estimate, and yet he appears to have aged a great deal overnight. Then again, perhaps she has too.
All so that Crick would live to see the dawn.
“I believe this was meant for you.”
Intrigued, Temenos watches the mother hen retrieve the ripped page from her pocket. Castti knows not the significance it holds in their investigation that the Sanctum Knight saw fit to guard it with his life. Given their luck it may not matter at all now, be it from Crick’s blood rendering the print illegible, or that the Inquisitor uncovered the truth independently. Whichever the case, Temenos gently handles it with care like it could crumble away if he doesn’t. The apothecary observes him as he looks it over, pointless as it may be to try and gauge a reaction. Temenos has always been impossible to read, purposely keeping himself out of reach like a book placed upon the top shelf.
But for a fleeting moment, Castti catches sight of the front cover as a storm of emotion flashes across his features. When he opens his mouth to speak, however, he just sounds exhausted while folding the paper to tuck inside his breast pocket.
“Have you still faith, little lamb?” He questions aloud to no response as he looks upwards towards the heavens above. The snowflakes dancing down daintily from cloudy grey skies offer no answers either, and Temenos draws in a breath before slipping his eyes shut. They should begin to head back, lest they get caught up in a flurry or garner the attention of Sacred Guard passersby.
A stray ice crystal then lands on his cheek and melts, rolling down his cheek like a teardrop. The Inquisitor wipes it away as his mask of complete composure settles into place, but its path leaves a small sliver behind.
He sighs.
“I know your intentions are to fetch me so that I might clear my head of doubt.” Temenos surmises and Castti tactfully chooses not to correct him. He isn’t entirely wrong. “I have never been afraid of truth, but I fear that if I were to go to Crick now, it will be his corpse that I see. A sight no different than the Pontiff, Lucian, Vados, or worse in that...that he will have vanished as Roi did all those years ago.”
The noticeable shift in his tone takes Castti’s focus away from the grisly scene and back onto Temenos. Throughout their time venturing across Solisitia, she had genuinely come to the conclusion that aside from physical labor, there was nothing the Inquisitor was frightened of. Realistically she knew that that couldn’t be true since human nature dictated that everyone was afraid of something, but the cleric seemed steadfast to be an exception to the rule. For Temenos to openly confess his fears to her, after she had thought the worst of him, Castti feels nothing other than sad.
Sad of the surrounding circ*mstances that have led to this, and that this is the first time she’s hearing the name Roi brought up. Castti hasn’t any idea of who this person is, or was, in Temenos’ life. All she can deduce is they left abruptly, and painfully, to a fate worse than death.
One that haunts the Inquisitor to this day.
“Roi?” The apothecary echoes, asking not out of curiosity but true sincerity. She doesn’t know how deeply Temenos has suffered in the years following this Roi’s disappearance when he’s never shown any indication as such. If there was ever a time for her to extend a helping hand, it would be now. Gods only know if she’ll have this chance again.
To her surprise, the emotionally elusive cleric actually graces her with a straight answer.
“Roi is... he was my predecessor to the position of Inquisitor. He and I were both foundlings taken in by the late Pontiff, you see. Brothers bound not by the blood of the womb, but the water of the covenant.” Temenos responds simply enough, leading her to believe there’s far more than what appears on the surface. They must have been close in some capacity, though to what extent, Castti cannot tell.
“I don’t think you’ve mentioned him before.” She inquires further, wishing to follow the thread of his shrouded past while simultaneously maintaining respect for the unspoken boundaries between them.
Temenos crosses his arms, be it from the cold or to ponder.
“Not until recently.” He admits, presumably with Crick if she had to guess. It does strike her as odd, however, that for all his hounding for answers, there’s a distinct lack of motivation in regards to Roi’s whereabouts. Surely he meant just as much to Temenos as the Sanctum Knight whose life was quite literally in his hands.
But before Castti can ask for clarification, the cleric’s brow suddenly furrows and he subtly glances over his shoulder to scrutinize their surroundings. She would be lying if she wasn’t also keeping tabs on the occasional crowd of civilians stopping to gossip before being ordered to move along by a passing patrol conducting their own investigation. Temenos seems not just focused on those members of the Church, but everyone his gaze falls upon.
He then takes a stumbling step towards her and she reflexively reaches out to grab him before he can fall. Like her, the events of the past twenty four hours are no doubt catching up to him as well.
“We should head ins--”
“No.” Temenos’ voice comes out strained as he clasps onto her wrist, fingers trembling against the leather of her gloves. The small sliver has formed cracks exposing the fear in his eyes. “Not yet. Not where the crows will overhear.”
(He’s actually afraid.)
Under normal circ*mstances, the apothecary would have put her foot down in the best interests of her patient’s health. With Temenos, however, Castti cannot help but give his desperate plea a moment’s consideration. Paranoia is a symptom the amnesiac can sympathize with, particularly when crossing paths with strangers who know her better than she knows herself. While slumbersage may be a viable treatment to calm their nerves, sometimes what her patients need most from her is no salve, but an ear with which to listen.
So Castti listens, and Temenos is all the more grateful for it.
“Before his disappearance, Roi’s final words to me was that the Church could not be trusted. Thus, nary a soul I could confide in. Not even the Gods.”
The cleric’s scorn for the Sacred Flame and those of the cloth has never been a secret, but the reason as to why sheds light on the Inquisitor’s unusual behavior. The amnesiac could say she can’t imagine how lonely and isolating that must have felt to only be able to trust one’s own self, but after waking adrift at sea with nothing but her bloodied satchel, a lone snowdrop, and scant information from those aboard who recognized her attire? She’s likely the only one who can. The only difference is that unlike Temenos, Castti chooses to trust, to open herself up and forge connections and close bonds with all those who require her helping hand. She may be all that remains of Eir’s Apothecaries, but she isn’t alone.
Not truly.
Temenos resumes and she suspects that he’s either continuing because he’s come to trust her, or that the pain he’s spent years bottling up can no longer be contained.
“I am certain our father learned of the Church’s dark, terrible secrets and sought to warn me as well. It led to his death. A murder plotted by murder.” The cleric scoffs as he observes the flocks of crows swooping down from atop the Headquarters to scavenge the carnage for scraps. His bloodstained hands form into fists that shake at his sides. “My time serving as Inquisitor has only provided further proof of what the Church is capable of, how it lurks like a wolf shrouded in wool to disguise itself within the flock. It is a danger I know of all too well, and yet still. Still did I allow for Crick to aid in my investigation. Still did I, a careless shepherd, guide my lamb straight into the wolves’ den.”
Castti hears that which he doesn’t say. In all his efforts to become impervious to those seeking to break him and his resolve, there was one weakness he hadn’t accounted for. One person he had allowed to get close to him again, be it intentional or not.
One breaking point he hadn’t known he possessed until he’d almost lost him.
“Crick would have gone in regardless.” She gently points out and he knows it.
(So does she about her own dear friends and colleagues.)
“Be that as it may, it was still I who got him killed.” He turns to face her, his eyes wet behind the facade slipping from his grasp. Castti can’t help but think if the person beneath the mask is who Temenos truly is, and if he even recognizes that original piece of himself after playing the part for so long. She wonders if he’s forgotten who he once was just as she has, and thus have no choice but to wander like ghosts of their former selves. “You say Crick continues to draw breath, but for long shall that last, pray tell, when he inevitably throws himself in harm’s way for my sake? Or falls upon his sword if he cannot? And of the others? How many times must I suffer watching those I care about, die?”
When Castti closes her eyes to formulate a response, a torrent of purple rain storms the darkness behind her eyelids. She can hear its poison seep into the earth; into the lungs of phantoms hacking up blood as they wail for her. It’s already too late for those dead silent beneath the drenched white sheets strewn upon the ground, twisted in that the only mercy shown to them was that their suffering was cut short. Most foul of all was the masked man cheering their horrendous deaths at his hands, his true identity impossible to believe.
From there, her memory is as hazy as smoke filling the air from charred corpses smothering the violet flames. As distant as the taste of snowdrops on her tongue.
As haunting as a horse whinnying with its last dying breath.
“How do you do it?” Temenos’ quiet whisper pulls Castti to safe harbor. Her eyes sting and she tells herself it’s from this godsforsaken cold. “How do you cope with such loss? Even without your memory, I cannot believe you bereft of grief.”
Castti draws a deep breath.
“You would be correct.” She admits softly, holding a hand over her heart. “The memories I’ve retained of my colleagues are few and far between, and there is this...this empty void where I once held them dear. It is because of their absence that I feel their loss more profoundly than if I could recall every minute detail of our time together. Perhaps that is why whenever I see you and Crick together that I...”
Castti trails off, looking over to Temenos who clings to her every word.
“I wonder if that is how Malaya and I were.” She says with a smile overflowing with bittersweet melancholy. “I suppose you could say my way of coping is keeping my patients alive and healthy as much as I possibly can, so that no one else experiences similar loss.”
Even if all she can do in the end is ease their suffering for them to pass in peace.
“I may not know your whole story, Temenos, but I can tell this much. It was no miracle of the Sacred Flame which brought Crick back, but the love within your own heart whose existence you refuse to acknowledge. Why else would he continue to draw breath, were it not for that? And for our allies you tend to like lambs? You may pretend otherwise, but I think you care more about others than anyone else I know.”
Temenos blinks, the Inquisitor decidedly stunned to be on the receiving end of character judgment for a change.
“And here I believed Throné the perceptive one.”
“Well, it was your partner who said it was best I talk to you.” Castti confesses, giving credit where credit is due.
“I ought to consider thanking her, then.” The Detective hums wistfully with a knowing smile. It vanishes a moment later as he swallows hard against the threat of tears. “And you, Castti. I fear there is no amount of thanks adequate enough to express my gratitude for all you have done, nor apologies for my callousness. It was never my intention to treat sensitive matters with such cruel disregard.”
“There is no need.” Castti shakes her head and doesn’t miss how puzzled he is to receive kindness rather than contempt. Perhaps he hadn’t expected it, or considers himself unworthy. “I must confess I thought poorly of you when Ochette informed me of your refusal to return. I was not aware of the wounds inflicted upon your heart, nor how deep their scars ran.”
The open vulnerability in Temenos’ visage speaks volumes against his decision to remain silent as if not trusting himself to utter a single word.
“I entrusted her and Akalā to keep an eye on Crick, but I imagine she would offer you a hug, were she here.”
Temenos contemplates her open arms.
“The little beastling wouldn’t ask,” He pretends to grouse with a well-natured sigh, the faintest of fond smiles gracing his lips over their treasured companion. “But I shall accept nonetheless.”
Despite already standing within one another’s reach, Temenos still puts forth the effort to return the gesture. His technique could certainly use some work given how stiff his frame is, but Castti bears it no mind. Instead the mother hen wonders just how long it’s been since he last embraced someone, or let himself be held in return. It’s strange to her that in spite of the Inquisitor’s grandiose front and that he’s a good head or so taller than her, Temenos seems almost...deceptively small underneath the cloak wrapped around his person. Far too scrawny for her liking, too, and the apothecary makes a mental note to make sure he takes the time to eat while Crick rests and recuperates. The Sanctum Knight has a long, long road ahead, but she’s positive he’ll pull through just fine.
As for Temenos, Castti is content to let their hug last for as long as he needs. She has a feeling that although he’d never say so aloud, he needs this more than he’d ever be willing to admit. After all, it isn’t like him to allow others into his personal space (Ochette notwithstanding), and as such Castti won’t take this rare occurrence for granted. Even if she were to lose her memory once more, she’ll keep this moment close to her heart.
The cleric shifts, but doesn’t quite let go.
“I have only ever known the Father I was raised by, as well as a great deal of Sisters.” He mutters into her shoulder. “Yet still, I wonder. How differently might my life have been, had I a mother like you?”
“Oh, you would be so much worse.” Castti deadpans matter-of-factly. Temenos’ resulting laughter sounds suspiciously close to a sob. Suddenly he hugs her in earnest, the tension in his body leaving him all at once. She makes no remark over the dampness at her shoulder, and instead holds him closer in kind, both as a comfort and to shield him from the crows’ gaze.
The mother hen can at least grant him this much, this small piece of privacy away from even the Gods’ omniscient eye.
“You’ve been out here too long, Temenos.” She gently reprimands of his fragile heart preferring the cold of isolation than risk any semblance of warmth that could burn him. “Come now, to rest.”
“Will you guide me?” The shepherd dares request as he lets go at last, too weary to find his way on the worn down path he’s walked alone. Castti hears the additional question he doesn’t ask, and willingly extends a helping hand to take his bloodstained one in hers.
“Of course. We’ll see to Crick together.” Where his lost lamb is safe and sound.
“Thank you, Castti. Truly.” His voice wavers on the wind and the mother hen gently tugs him closer to share in her warmth.
“Anytime, Temenos.”
