In the Bleak Midwinter (Dymphna and Sam)

[Denen Sunsinger]

Date: 85 Winter 510 Dignity is sacred. When a fellow Drykas is wounded or incapacitated beyond recovery, the clansman must be ready to assist them towards reincarnation, and a better, stronger, younger form. He had known for a long time that this day would come. He had borrowed from Rak'keli's kindness for too long, and after so many years, the time was fulfilled. That morning, Reth hadn't risen from the ground where he slept. He was too tired to sleep on his hooves, but had nestled up by the hay and spent the night thus. He had slept like that for years, and yet, there had been a certain finality to it the night before that Denen had been unable to ignore. He hadn't slept that night, and when dawn came, with her sweet face staining the sky brilliant shades of red, Denen knew. He hadn't wanted to rise from the furs then, but he hadn't had a choice. It was time. His body was agonizingly heavy as he drew it up from the bed of furs, and he groaned within himself as his mind turned to what he knew he must do. Pretty features were grim, and his lips had drawn into a tight line. His face was pale, drawn and resigned. But he was calm. There was no hysteria, no tears. Simply the acceptance of what must be done. His duty. The honor owed to one who must be helped on to the next life. His hand trembled slightly, bare now. There was no need for gloves, not when they might be stained. But beyond that, he could not think enough to fetch them. His head was spinning, and he found himself sinking into semi-coherent thoughts. He left his cloak and hood behind, wearing simply a tunic and breeches. Boots were forsaken. He wanted to feel what Reth felt. He needed to feel it. His bare feet kissed the frosted grass, and chills ran through the soles and up his legs. The frigid, early air stung his lungs and froze his nostrils. But he ignored this. He could not lose focus. His dark hair was a mess from his tossing and turning, and it hung down carelessly in his face, nearly concealing his stormy eyes. He moved to the tent first, not daring to turn his gaze to where the Striders had bedded for the night. He could not look to what he knew lay there. His heart lurched in his chest, and he strode with purpose to the tent wherein he stored his supplies. But he did not go for bandages and herbs. Not this morning. There would be no more tireless scrounging for herbs, or digging through the frozen earth to gather roots. There was a knife, one used for cutting branches and sprigs during the spring months. Denen had cleaned it the evening prior, and knew where it lay. His hands trembled as they sought it now, bile rising at the back of his throat. There were so many things to think on, and none of them were pleasant. Once the deed was done, there was the matter of burial, but how could he ask anyone to help him? How could he impose further? But then, what did he know of the Web beyond what he had been taught as a child? What did he know of anything? He had been so sheltered all of his life...There had always been someone to watch over him. Father, Jada, Sama'el, Reth... Oh, sweet goddess...Reth... His stomach twisted, and his heart groaned in his chest. Thin fingers curled about the haft of the knife, and he drew it near his chest, blade pointed towards the earth. He tasted the bitterness of vomit teasing the back of his tongue, and his frail form heaved. As if slowed by some magical force, he turned himself about. Each step felt weighted, as if by lead, and his vision swam before his eyes. He clumsily groped about for the tent flap, forcing it aside and slipping beneath it. It was then, at last, that he saw the horses. Dohaina, beautiful and quiet, and Reth. Reth, who lay on his side, his breathing labored, coupled with pained, wheezing moans. Denen's heart broke, and for a moment, he could not see for tears. His breath caught in his throat, and he hesitated. My brother, forgive me. Steps resumed, a slow, processional dirge, and he soon found himself kneeling alongside his beloved friend. Reth's eyes were cloudy, but they still sought the boy out. He tried to life his head to greet him, but Denen gently pressed down on his cheek. “N-No, Reth,” he whispered, and yet in his voice there echoed a pain that ran deep to his core. His thin fingers lingered there, stroking Reth's cheek comfortingly. Forgive me, my old friend. He did not speak it, but he knew Reth understood. The old gelding closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. His last breath. Denen breathed, too. One sharp, painful sucking of the icy air. The blade raised, flashed in the morning sun, and fell in a sleek, clean slice across the Strider's throat. Reth tensed and shuddered, and was then still. Everything was still. It was such a quick thing, ending a life. Denen had always prayed that he might never be responsible for such a thing, but things had, clearly, changed. He was marked now by the death of his bonded. It was the way things were, the proper, Drykas response, but he hardly found comfort in this realization. Denen felt the blood on his knees, first, soaking—hot and thick—through the rough fabric of his breeches and into his skin. His hands, too, felt the stain. He released the knife, let it tumble to the bloodied earth, before he doubled over, clutching his hands to his chest and releasing an agonized sob. A light, chilling breeze rose, causing his dark hair to dance, and Reth's lifeless mane to twist. The body was still warm, but his eyes and closed forever. His eyes burned with tears, and his lungs stung as he breathed again, a strangled, choking sort of breath that hardly served its purpose and was released with a broken, twisted cry. Dira, Goddess...guide my friend, as he guided me. Let him find my mother in the Web. It was she to whom he was intended. Let them at last have peace together. And there, rocking in the chill of dawn, Denen wept. For how long, he was unsure, but his lips had taken on a rather blue hue by the time he forced himself upright, and his knees stuck to his bloody trousers. His palms were extended before him, like a badge of shame, and with numb feet, he stumbled back towards the tent. He needed Sam. Dymphna. Anyone. His ears were ringing painfully, and his jaw was slackened, as if about to release another sob, though none would come. The very air seemed to be strangled off in his throat, released and accepted every now and then in tiny, shaking groans. The wind now whipped his hair into his face, causing it to stick to the tears that chilled his skin, leaving his features flushed and his nose runny. He stumbled over his own feet, and dropped to his knees, curling over tightly, and bringing up his bloodied arms to cover his head. He rocked there, in the cold, torn between weeping and heaving. Thin, numb fingers tugged at his dark hair, causing it to grow sticky with blood, before they dragged down to claw across his cheeks. Blood and tears twined together, and after a few moments, his arms dropped to wrap around his shoulders as he shivered. He had to get a hold on himself. He couldn't face the others like this. Dignity was sacred. He pushed himself to his feet, and wiped away his tears, though he still sniffed valiantly. Staggering slightly, he began to make his way toward the tent once more.

[Dymphna]

Another day had started for Dymphna in must the same manner as it always did. She got up, began the water warming and food cooking in her own pavilion. She cleaned herself up. She got dressed, carefully did her hair, and pressed chamomile compresses to her eyes to hide any puffiness that may be there. Then she slipped away to the pavilion of Sama’el and Denen to start their water and food. Some mornings they wouldn’t see here there before she sneaked away again. On those days there was too much pressure from her father to stay at home and do all of her work, only visiting them afterward. She countered, though, that she never failed to get her work done, and so far no one had complained in her schedule being different. Said with a smile, and with a hug thrown in, she won out. Still she went back home as soon as the little tasks were finished to keep her Ankal happy. Blissfully unaware of anything about her described the young woman this morning as she carried her bucket of soaked grain in water towards her destination. She was late, which was strange for her, but she’d admit to sleeping in a bit for once. It was the sight of Denen that caused her to stop dead in her tracks at the edge of the camp. Her bucket was dropped, the thickening mush leaking out onto the ground around her boots. She let out a sudden panicking shriek, “Sam! Get up!” After that was done, she started after Denen to try to find out what happened.

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

Sama'el was naive about a lot of things, but horses was not one of them. He had seen Reth's death in the ache of his movements, the way he breathed and the way he looked at Denen of late, as if memorizing something that he didn't want to leave behind. While his friend didn't sleep, neither did Sama'el. At least, little more than fitful dozes from time to time. He was somewhere on the border of waking life and Nysel's realm when Denen did the right and difficult thing of sending Reth on to his next life, though Sama'el would have been the first to volunteer to stand by Denen as he did so, had he been invited. Dohaina watched everything calmly, while Horse snorted worriedly at the smell of the blood of his own kind. Those snorts roused him out of his sleep before Dymphna's call came, though hers was more piercing and woke him outright despite the strong arms of sleep attempting to wrestle him into a proper slumber. He stumbled out of his tent, barely dressed. His windmarks twined up his left arm, livid against his fair winter skin. Barefoot and all gooseflesh, he had his scimitar scabbard in one hand and the blade bare in the other, a horrid flashback to Hasieran's death scream tearing through his brain, some fragment of a nightmare merged with the current reality. Blinking, he began to piece together what was real and what was not. "Dymphna?" he asked, his voice hoarse from lack of proper sleep. "Denen?" Then he remembered. "Oh, no."

[Denen Sunsinger]

Denen hadn't considered fully how the others might respond. He had wanted things to be different, but he had accepted, too, the reality of life's harshness. His pale hands now clutched at his bloodied tunic, and his head hung in shame. He couldn't forget the look in Reth's eyes in that last moment, nor how his heart had torn as the blade sang through the air. Through his bleared tears, he saw Sam's feet, and he sniffed miserably, before dragging his eyes up to his face. His lower lip tightened against his teeth, and he raised his hands to him wordlessly. How could he speak? How could he even gesture? He wasn't fully aware of Dymphna behind him, though he must have known, because Sam said her name. His knees buckled, and he hunched over, a sob shaking through him. "Goddess...I'm so sorry. I'm s-s-so so-sorry!" He brought his hands up to cover his mouth, realizing half a second later that doing such caused him to inhale the scent of Reth's blood, and he tore them away almost viciously. "I k-killed him. I h-had...had to...I had to..." He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut, fighting for control. "I-I'm so c-c-cold...I can't get...the blood off..." He looked to them pleadingly, hands held forth again.

[Dymphna]

Beyond the screaming for Sam and dropping the bucket, the momentary panic she had was over with by the time he got out of the tent. She stood there, calmly taking everything in. One could almost see her mind working on how to remedy the situation, weeding through her own thoughts quickly to figure out the best course of action almost mechanically. The only thing that remotely gave her away was the near heart-broken look in her eyes, the empathy running deep. A glance was given to her suitor before her dark eyes returned to Denen. Her hands lifted up then to sign as she said aloud, “Sama’el, get Denen into the tent. Quickly, his feet are bare. I’ll see to getting the water. Denen, we’ll get you cleaned up. I’ll be right back.” A reassuring smile was given along with a tiny nod. She turned then to fetch water.

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

Sama'el had had the idea to put some water on the fire, but Dymphna beat him to it. At least she offered him an alternative way to help, and now that he had an inkling of the way Denen felt about him, perhaps he was the one person who could hope to comfort him. Unmindful of the blood on Denen's hands, he helped him up, worming under his arm to support him. His own flesh was chilled by the winter morning air, and now he would probably start sleeping fully clothed in case of emergency. His own feet were bare, too, but he didn't have time to be upset that she didn't seem at all concerned for his well-being. He was, and rightly so, concerned only with Denen now. "Come on, my friend," he said, his forehead resting against the side of Denen's face for a moment, so he might feel the vibration of his voice even if he didn't hear it. It was a matter of getting one foot in front of the other and into Sama'el's tent, where he could be warmed up and ministered to by the two people who seemed to care the most about him in the world.

[Denen Sunsinger]

Through his tears, Denen looked between them, scarcely able to see for crying, but unable to truly care about what was being said. He was freezing, his body quivering, and the low cut v of his tunic revealing his thin, bony chest, and how it seemed to cave as he struggled to keep from sobbing. He became aware of Sam near him, and he drew the back of his hand across his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered, turning to burrow his face into the warmth of Sam's neck. He leaned against him for support, shivering violently. "R-Reth," he whimpered, turning slightly to motion to his lifeless friend. "Goddess...G-Goddess..." He couldn't look any more. His face found sanctuary in Sam's warm neck. Freezing, bloody hands gripped at his side, and he stumbled slightly as he walked. He tried to think only about breathing, focusing on that one thing and not what he had just done. The tent seemed so far away, and he was so tired... His friend. Denen swallowed hard and blinked blearily, watching him closely. He closed his eyes almost painfully, and rested his head against Sam's shoulder, as if he were his anchor. His feet dragged, but the tent drew nearer, and he felt the change in warmth the moment he passed through the flap. "Sam," he choked out, knees giving.

[Dymphna]

Dymphna made the choice to go to the next camp over to see if they had water heated already. It would be faster to obtain it elsewhere than wait for fire to bring up the heat of what they already had. The promise was made that as soon as her emergency was over, she’d replace what had been taken – Likely twofold if not three even if she had to pay a magic-worker to produce it for her. With bucket of warm water in hand, she stepped back into the camp. She paused for a moment, if only because something about the outpouring of emotions was troubling her. Grief perhaps made her uncomfortable, if only because it poked at old wounds she still had healing. “I’m back,” she said quietly once outside the tent, and she waited patiently to hear that it was okay for her to come in. Of course it was. She knew that. She just didn't think seeing Denen naked would really help the situation any for either him or her.

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

Sama'el was awake now, at least, but that meant the shivering settled in. His scimitar still in one hand, the other arm was looped around Denen to support him. The grieving healer smeared horse blood along his ribs, but he would wash it off later. When Denen's knees bucked under him inside the tent, Sama'el didn't bother lifting him, but eased his descent into the blankets still warm from his own body. He would sacrifice his own comfort for his friends any day of the week. "I know," he was murmuring. "I know. He's happier now. I promise." He wondered if he might have seen the old horse's soul join the Web if he had been conscious when he died, but that was something he might ask Daed rather than bring up with Denen. "Come in, Dymphna," he called. "We're just getting settled in here."

[Denen Sunsinger]

Denen fell quiet inside the tent, though his thin body heaved as he fought back his sobs. He clutched his arms close to his sides and trembled violently. He forced himself to sit, rather than caving to the urge to lie down. He knew he'd ruin the furs with the blood he was covered in. As such, he sat as he'd been let down, hiding his face in his arms. Was Reth happier? How could he have done such a thing? He inhaled shakily and dragged the backs of his bloody hands across his cheeks, hoping to clear them of tears. He plucked at his filthy tunic, trying to pull it away from his skin, though his fingers were numb, which made bending them difficult. "I w-want...D-Dymph...Dymphna," he stammered. He reached toward the tent flap, not knowing that she was just beyond it. His hand shook, and he swallowed hard, before he exhaled sharply, trying to remove his own tunic, though each attempt failed. At long last, his hands dropped into his lap, and he simply sat there, blinded by his tears, and absolutely silent. His teeth were grit so tightly that it hurt, but he didn't care. He needed to calm himself, to push himself free of hysteria so that he could communicate properly. "H-Help...me," he whispered, motioning to his clothes.