You Were Everything (Sam)

[Denen Sunsinger]

Spring 63, 511 AV. Evening. He was shaken and pale, his lips drawn into a tight line as he stumbled out into the grass. It had grown considerably over the past few weeks, despite the best intentions of the horses. Grass always had a way of bouncing back, even after the worst of things. Denen wished he could be like grass. Things tended to bend him down so that springing back up was all but impossible. He sighed softly, clutching the cups he'd taken out from the party close to his chest, his brilliant eyes darkened with thought. He didn't understand it. Any of it. Nothing was going right, and his heart broke for his friends. He could hardly consider his own sadness now. Everyone else was so miserable, that his own hurt seemed silly. Childish. He took a sip from his own cup, before he moved toward a familiar shape, and held the second cup out with one hand, his gaze lowering. "S-Sam," he murmured. "Here. Drink." He offered a faint, tired smile. "I-I-I have...m-missed...nnn...m-missed you."

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

Sama'el was standing apart, an empty mug dangling from his long, lean arm. The skies were impossibly large on the prairies, and as Syna took to her slumber, the stars were pricking through the velvet throat of evening before Lord Leth made his appearance. Tonight, though, for all the light, he felt alone and empty. He had made the arduous, dangerous journey back to Endrykas, begun building a life for himself, the life he should have had, but now he had hurt friends simply by being himself, lost a lover with whom he had intended a long life of babies and grandbabies, and now his cousin, like a brother to him, was leaving too. The little camp of his would be terribly lonely from this evening forward. It was difficult just then to remember why his goals meant anything to him, why regret tasted like ash in his mouth, how he had earned such things at the tender age of eighteen. "H'lo, Den," he said quietly, turning to see his old friend approach. His mouth instinctively moved in a more precise manner despite the boozing, used to making lip reading easier for the young and heroic healer. "Thanks..." He pulled half the cup into his gullet in one long draught, then nodded. Of course he had missed Denen too, but he didn't want to say it again.

[Denen Sunsinger]

Denen tucked his dark hair back. He'd removed his headscarf before coming outside, as it had been very warm indoors, and he'd grown warmer still upon learning that Eldon was leaving. He came to stand alongside Sam, and brushed his thumbs alongside the sides of the cup he held, remembering the last time he'd been drunk, and the fool he'd made of himself then. It wasn't exactly easy to forget. He looked down to his feet, and he was quiet for a long while. A soft, almost trembling sigh left his lips, and he gave a faint laugh. "L-L-List...Listen...C-Could I camp...Could I camp with y-you again?" His voice shook slightly, and he bit his lower lip. "I know...I petched...petched it up last time, but..." He took another sip, and felt color rising to his cheeks again. He lifted blue eyes, reflecting the ivory of Leth's pale face. "Do you w-w-want...t-to ta-talk about...it?" He asked, his voice soft. He watched Sam's lips for his response, though his eyes flicked up to study his emotional response as well.

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

Sama'el considered Denen, though he might get a sense that his question had missed its mark. It hadn't, of course, missed its mark, but Sama'el's mind was buzzing with alcohol and his emotional life was a whirlwind with no firm grip anymore. Everyone was leaving him, and this one was returning, but he wanted something Sama'el couldn't give, because he couldn't force himself to love Denen the way he loved Dymphna. Nothing Sama'el gave seemed to be enough. His frienship was not enough for Denen, his love was not enough for Dymphna and her father, and his shared blood and respect were not enough for Eldon. Everything seemed to be falling apart. Perhaps he should not have joined the Watch, though it was at the urging of the man he hoped would be his father-in-law, though it promised respect that he would need to build a pavilion from the ground up, from a name that could not be spoken since he and a ghost spat out of Syna's realm were the only ones who claimed that name. "I'm so tired, Denen," he said, his face falling. Then he hoisted it back up, remembering that communicating with Denen required an added effort, a care and an attention. "I'm so tired... I learned to Web for Dymphna's father. I learned to call fire for Eldon. I'm doing so much to make dead people proud of me... Nothing I do is enough. My love isn't enough. My work isn't enough... I'm trying so hard and the world, the gods... everyone's just fucking with me." The mug fell from his hand to the turf underneath. Ignoring it, knowing the Fouroats boys would be used to picking up litter around their establishment, he found himself suddenly embracing Denen. "Take me-- shit." He pulled back, looked Denen in the eye, spoke so his lips were visible. "Take me to your place now. I want to see where you ran away to." It was, perhaps, mean. It was, perhaps, uncalled for. But he didn't wan to go back to his empty campground. He didn't want to go back to Horse and Dohaina, who loved him so much. They were beloved too, but they weren't people.

[Denen Sunsinger]

Denen was silent for a long while. He had been pensive during the days he spent by himself, had come to attempting to accept that he would remain unmarried, that it was enough to simply be Sam's friend, and to overcome the hurt that had been largely self-inflicted. If only he hadn't been so foolish in the first place. Oh, the boy knew he would never stop loving Sam, but he would at least do his best to keep that to himself, and to be a supportive friend. That was what Sam needed from him, after all, and Sam was his friend first. He reached out now, seeing the pain etched in Sam's features, and his own, soft lips drew into a serious line as he brushed dark hair away from Sam's face. He wished to the gods that he hadn't become so lost himself. It was hard to help others find their way when he was stumbling along his own path alone. His blue eyes held all he depth of caring that his enormous heart could hold. He did not like to see his friends hurting, especially when he had so few of them. Sam was the nearest of these, though he worried he had driven him away entirely during the last night of winter. It had been a long while since they'd been this close. The deaf healer's countenance grew grim as Sam continued. But still, he said nothing. He slowly set his cup down on the nearest surface, and watched Sam's lips. He couldn't look into the rest of his face. He was certain that he had contributed to Sam's pain, and it broke his heart to think of this. There was, too, an edge of familiarity in Sam's story. Denen knew all too well how he felt. He had worked himself to exhaustion in attempting to please his family, a family from whom he was now severed. He had pulled every tidbit he had ever learned about caring for another person to keep Eldon alive, and now he was abandoning them. And then there was Sam. No matter how intensely he loved him, he knew the same could never be returned. That, though, was his fault, and he knew it. “I...am not...f-fucking with you, Sam,” he whispered, though it didn't much matter if the words reached his friend's ears. They were spoken more as a balm for his own heart than any other. In the next moment, Sam's arms were wound around him, and his blue eyes went as wide as saucers. The request brought color to his cheeks, and he nodded. The tent was tiny, and overrun with his supplies. But it was a shelter, however isolated. “Come on,” he signed. He put an arm around Sam's shoulders. It was the gesture of a friend. Not a lover. “Just...don't laugh at how messy it is. I am a poor housekeeper.” That, and he didn't much care about how things were when he was only tending to himself. There was little reason to keep things perfectly tidy. His herbs were organized, and that was enough. He led Sam to the outskirts of Endrykas, where his small tent was pitched. There was a little fire pit, though the coals had gone cold, a single bucket of water, and a rather miserable looking stump of a log that served as his chair. Denen was embarrassed by this. “Here,” he said quietly, pointing to the tent.

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

"Of course you aren't," he said quietly, unsure if Denen would even catch that. But, arms slung over each other's shoulders, they were heading for his desired destination: Denen's tent. It would be someplace alien rather than his own, which they had shared while Denen had camped with him, where Sama'el still sometimes dreamed that he was planting the seeds of a pavilion, learning to be an Ankal by fits and starts: Webbing, friendship, horse breeding, leatherworking, riding, fighting, being Drykas. They walked in companionable silence. Denen seemed to be waiting for something, and Sama'el was just looking to be somewhere. Be something. Surveying the camp, he wondered why Denen had left. His wasn't much more opulent, but at least they had been like two horses pulling in harness together, sharing their income and their wealth, such as it was. But Denen pointed to the tent and Sama'el just nodded, crouching down and climbing into the darkness that smelled familiar, the smell he had woken to countless nights mingled with his own. He still wasn't sure why it wasn't enough to be friends, brothers, but Denen wanted more. Needed more. Demanded more. He sighed wearily, slumped in Denen's bedroll, waiting for him to crawl in beside him even if it was no longer winter and they were no longer conserving warmth that way. It was dark in the tent. Too dark to talk, for Denen would never see his mouth. He waited all the same.

[Denen Sunsinger]

Denen didn't catch it. His mind was working too quickly, and his head was heavy. He needed to be a friend now. Want had to be put aside in place of need. Sam needed him as his friend now, not as his lover. It wasn't fair for him to try and convince his friend to love him when it wasn't in the cards. No. He would have to content himself with what he was given, just as he had learned to be content that he would never hear the sounds of his friends' laughter, or the first cries of the babies he delivered. He wasn't sure of what to do, or if Sam wanted anything more than to just have someone close. He had determined that he'd make no move on that part. He offered Sam a quiet, tired smile. He, too, was tired, but he would wait for whatever relief he might have. The young healer was already quite certain that he would die never knowing the embrace of a lover, and as such, he resolved to take comfort in his friend. However Sama'el would permit. He watched Sam enter his tent, and he tried to keep himself from being nervous. This was no different than those nights in the past, before Denen had messed things up. He squared his shoulders, gathering whatever resolve he could, and followed Sam into the tent. He paused for a moment to put his scarf away, moving by familiarity in the darkness. His smooth, slender hands—marked by a light, green tinge from herbs no matter how hard he scrubbed them—groping about then for his bed. The scent of herbs clung to his clothes and his skin and hair. It was part of him. His fingers brushed against Sam's side, and he muttered a soft apology, before he lay down near him. He held his breath, still and silent in the darkness. He wanted to reach out and touch Sama'el, but he feared that he would go too far, offend him with the tenderness of his touches. But Sam had come here for comfort, not a cold shoulder, and so, after a long while, he wrapped a comforting arm around him, and was silent as he hugged him.

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

Denen's tent reminded him of his own, his friend's scent on all the bedding, tinged with pungent herbs, sharp ones, and whatever else he had most recently been working on. When Denen had stayed in his tent all that time, it had been like having a brother again, a tiny, distilled version of sleeping in a pavilion with one's whole family. What need did Drykas have for privacy, after all? He missed that smell, and when the slender healer wrapped his arms around him, Sama'el's nose dipped into his dark hair, inhaling softly. It made the surfaces of his eyes tremble, calling water. Eldon was leaving, Edalene in tow. Dymphna was probably sitting on some old warrior's cock at this moment, her womb opening to his children when they should have belonged to Sama'el. He had suffered with good cheer for so long, trying to build things back up from bare nothing the way Kasb'el would have wanted, and now this. Emptiness. Denen was only here because he was a good person, or perhaps he had invited Sama'el home for ulterior reasons, hoping against hope that something would change. But he had something to say and it couldn't be said in darkness. It shouldn' be said in darkness, but there was also Denen's ears to consider. He snapped his fingers once, twice, three times. It was an effort to produce fire even after Eldon had initiated him and he had a bit of practice in lighting campfires from here to Riverfall. Finally he managed a spark, and a finger of flickering fire hovered, consuming his res slowly. "Denen," he said, trying to get him to look him in the eyes, read his lips.

[Denen Sunsinger]

It was comforting to be near Sam again. Despite being the youngest of his family, and with large distances in age between the littlest Brokensong and his siblings, Denen had never lived alone before this. There was more than sexual comfort in being near Sam. It was the Drykas way. For all of his flaws, it was part of who Denen was. They were, both of them, little specks in the mass of humanity, but they knew the bond of brothers. He was relieved when Sam returned the gesture. Sam needed held. It might have seemed like weakness to anyone but Denen Brokensong, but he knew the power—the healing power—of comforting arms. After all, Denen was not just a healer of bodies. For all of his wants and wishes, Denen had complied with Sam's wish to be brought here strictly out of friendship. He would be true to his resolution to keep his wants to the side until the day (if it ever came) when Sama'el returned them. It would be a dream, whether or not it was ever achieved. What was important now was remaining. Being true. That was the Drykas way, the way of a Pavilion. And if Sam was to ever have that, if Denen was to ever again be a part of that, absolute support was something that he would have to maintain. His eyes had been closed as he held close to Sam, taking comfort in the familiarity of his arms again. It was when the faint light flared, illuminating so that he noted the change in lighting, even with closed eyes, that he looked up. Sam was saying his name, and he offered a small smile. He did not speak, with hands or mouth, but simply looked up to his friend with all of the gentleness for which he was known. The boy's gaze flickered to his friend's hand, the clear, almost crystal blue reflecting the flame as it blazed in the darkness. When he looked back to Sam's face, the fire was burned in his sight for a moment, and he had to blink several times to get it to fade. He laid his head back down, though near enough so that he could watch Sam's mouth.

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

The witchlight hung there, limning one side of their faces with a warm glow. The added haze of the drink made everything a bit more scintillating, more surreal. Denen looked a little older, a little wiser, a bit more drawn, experienced, and wise -- wise as one could be at their tender years. But the Sea of Grass brought a child to maturity fast and wore down an adult as inexorably as anything. He loved the boy who had been his friend, and he loved the man who remained his friend. Things might have been easier if he could have loved him the way he loved Dymphna. How easy it should have been to love the quiet, loving Denen, who seemed to love him so hopelessly, so eternally, or as eternal as an eighteen year old could imagine. Perhaps he should fake it to make Denen stay. He lived just this side of terror on a daily basis, but the underpinnings of his life were giving away: Dymphna, Eldon... His hands reached out to cup Denen's face, to hold it like a precious thing. "I'm so scared," he whispered. Then again, too loud, as if he could break through Denen's deafness that his voice might ring in his head. The admission made, he pulled him in for the kiss of betrayal. The kiss was for Denen and for Dymphna, with tricks learned from Merris, and all the longing he felt in his heart. Love will tear us apart, it said, but nobody was listening.