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People seemed to have a very poor judgement of Reynauld’s character. Or perhaps, one should say rather, they had a poor understanding of Reynauld himself.
Unlike Junia, whose entire life was spent within the tall walls of the abbey, sheltered by stone and glass, Reynauld was born in the countryside.
Although his religion had always been there for him, for better or worse, he could still walk the world and see it through his own eyes. Touch it with his hands. He grew up as many men would. He felt things as it was normal to do, and his turmoil might have made his heart heavy but it never hid reality from his eyes.
And his eyes had seen a lot.
His legs had taken him far away, and his sword had painted the way as he passed.
Reynauld was aware of the world. Even the parts of it he didn’t quite understand (and the ones he didn’t want to accept).
He didn’t blame them too much for not knowing, however. Few knew what he was before that damned Hamlet and even fewer what he was before the armor. And certainly none that lived this hell alongside him now.
It was still a bit insulting, when they threw words amongst themselves expecting them to fly over his head. Trying to get a rise out of him. But Reynauld wasn’t stupid.
He’d respond to it, sometimes, because there are limits and he’d make his clear, but mostly he’d keep quiet. Watch them grim and chat amongst themselves.
And keep him othered. It was all part of the fun.
Once you fight with people, it becomes harder, however, to keep ignorant of how they work. It was his job as a knight after all to make sure he understood them, so that he may keep them alive. And maybe socializing wasn’t his best trait, but he could see where white flags were waved and where bridges were formed.
Where trust and hope were placed. It started as a necessity in this accursed place. It grew organically.
Admittedly, Dismas was one of the longest mysteries for him to figure out. Not to give the man any credit, he wasn’t that particularly hard to understand. The man was simple. Pragmatic, selectively selfish and surprisingly resilient. Dismas seemed to treat the ones he cared for with the same amount of disrespect he did his enemies, yet there was a difference there somewhere.
Dismas was nothing like anyone he knew. His father, his captain, his soldiers. But arriving by his side on the old road, Reynauld felt like he understood Dismas better than he ever had any of those people. Because yes, he did take longer to figure the highwayman out, but he figured him out eventually.
And because of it, he felt somewhat offended Dismas did not realize just how much Reynauld understood.
And maybe it was for the best, that he did not know that Reynauld was aware of what he did. Of what sleeping soundly without any alarms being set meant. Or all the nagging and fighting. The brute way they pushed each other to keep going through the pain. The babbling just so the silence wouldn’t invite the nightmares.
How transparent he was with how he looked at him. What him sharing his food meant.
Maybe Dismas expected him to not get it, to be too far in the Light’s grace to notice it. To humour the thought of it. Maybe he wanted it to be so.
But Reynauld wasn’t blind. A fool maybe, but not blind.
He understood the ways Dismas showed adoration, but Reynauld never really knew what to do with his. Never really trust himself to make it clear. He basked in the warmth he was given, as subtle as it was and he hoped it was just wishful thinking. Hoped it’d never stop.
He was definitely the coward between the two. Because he let them all misjudge him, and he gave all the signs Dismas should keep acting that way. Just distant enough no one gets hurt. Hopefully unaware of himself. Because Reynauld would never really have to acknowledge it that way.
But it was still there. And it is clear in Dismas’ eyes, that even though he stains his hands red trying to keep Reynauld alive for any second more, he can’t bring himself to say it. Say the words that have been there for a while, have the crusader bear that last burden that Dismas had been carrying for a while.
Reynauld takes it upon himself, to say the cruelest words he could at hell’s doors. Because he has always been a terrible man.
He searches the man’s face with blurry eyes. He raises his numb hand to caress the man’s face and he says.
“I know.”