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“Nnnnh…” If possible, every step of watching the ‘meal’ be prepared made it less appetizing, and — given how very little appetite Damis had had to begin with — this became increasingly impressive as the process went along. “I did…want to come out here,” Damis admitted, though at the moment it was difficult to see why—

But that wasn’t true, or fair. It wasn’t that bad. All would be well that ended well, and they were nearly out of the jungle. They were nearly—the gurgling POP! of some inner contents in one of the spit-roasting carcasses was enough to make Damis’ stomach turn—out. Nearly out.

Then, blessedly, Xilarn engaged in actual conversation, and Damis tipped his attention there instead, all-too-grateful for a proper distraction. As he listened, his posture relaxed, shoulders loosening though he hadn’t realized how stiff he’d been holding himself and expression warming at the edges with amusement as his mouth curved towards a more characteristic smile—if subtler than usual.

“Sixteen,” he repeated. “Younger than I, though not by much, and other than that…” His lips inched further upward, “…reasonably familiar sentiments all around, I must admit. The place does seem to have a way of making animal attack, savages, disease and starvation all very reasonable and constant fears…” He tipped his head, eyeing his company. “And that being so even though I have had help from the beginning. I can only imagine what it must have been like to be alone…as I originally thought I would be.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Damissan’s brow furrowed, reminded—yet again—in retrospect how foolish the idea seemed. He hesitated, holding long on the moment before making himself continue. “You know, I do not recall if I’ve ever said as much in so many words, but I am fortunate…and glad…” His gaze lifted to Xil, “…and grateful to have your company and aid thus far. I thought I knew more than I did, and I thought that whatever I didn’t know, I could learn, or that fortune would simply favor me or that…” After trailing off, he shook his head. “I was wrong, and I was foolish, and if not by the stones thrown at me on the first day I spoke in Sulburi, then I could have died in the sand before reaching Tivrod, and if not there, then by the hands of angry villagers in any of the towns we’ve visited thus far, and if not that, then by wadani, or by infection or poison in this jungle, or inability to find clean drinking water, or food I could stomach, or by the amazons or the shifter tribes, or simply by becoming lost and not having the means or knowledge to set my way straight again…”

He rolled his shoulders, reaching back and rubbing at one with a frown again as he lowered and redirected his gaze.

“I doubt I asked and I’m sure you never told me exactly what sort of arrangement you came to with my parents when they enlisted your aid, but I can at least guess or assume that whatever they told you, they likely did not expect my resolve to last long, once I traveled beyond the comforts of home. But without you or someone else as stubborn and capable as you willing to put up with me thus far…I can only imagine I would be dead by now. So thank you.” He tipped his head. “And thank you to the woman who helped you, those many years ago. The aid certainly paid off, more so I’m sure than she might even have expected at the time.”

When ‘food’ was held out to him, however, any gratitude and sincerity in Damissan’s expression was wiped clear by a wrinkled wince stuck somewhere between deep anxiety and outright disgust. It took only a moment of holding it on his own before he regretted having it even that near to him—and set it carefully aside with a clearing of his throat that, he could have sworn, brought up the faintest backtaste of bile.

“I…am not sure, though, that I am thankful, hungry, or desperate enough to stomach any of that. How long do you think a man of my size and build could survive on water alone without severely damaging my health?”

They didn’t expect you to last long.

It shouldn’t have had the effect it did. He had just said it himself, and he had known the whole while that it was true. They had told him as much—or his father had, in any case. You’ll be back in a day. Save yourself the effort and your mother the fretting. And yet. To hear confirmation again, aloud, in the moment felt like a small, cool stone dropping in his gut and leaving a ripple that traveled the length of him. He swallowed the knot, and contained the resulting frown. It should have been easier to brush off, too, and it shouldn’t have had any bearing on his decision making or why he was here—

But what ‘should’ and ‘shouldn’t’ be often mattered little when it came to determining what actually was, and so long as that was what he had to look forward to coming home to, perhaps it would be better to be lost or die in the jungle. Better to die lost and leave some hint of determination and purpose in his legacy than return early having changed nothing and continue to disappoint and fill the failing role they anticipated of him, making them right on all accounts.

At least then he would be, ‘Damissan Mataou, the one who went mad and died for his God with the savages,’ as opposed to…

He ventured a wary and disinterested prod at his ‘meat’—though the consistency failed to convince him meat was the appropriate identifier.

…‘That Mataou boy who died in a gutter.’

Damissan’s gaze snapped up, startled into paying attention again by the next, far more unexpected words, and a quick, equally unanticipated heat crawled for his cheeks. Invisible, thankfully, on his dark skin and in the dim light, though he could feel its slow burn there as Xilarn went on. His opening, though, remained lodged in the back of his mind—I want you to succeed. Damissan opened his mouth, a cluster of pre-written responses to the rest of it on his tongue: he was here for his God, he had been inspired, it gave him purpose, it…

But even before they’d been fully drafted they felt hollow as compared to what the other man was actually saying and perhaps, just this once, he didn’t need to argue the point. Perhaps, out in the deep of the jungle, hundreds of miles from home, and in the company of only his bodyguard and under the watchful eyes of the trees, he didn’t need to waste breath pretending he knew exactly what he was doing with his life or otherwise—so long as he was doing something.

He looked just in time to catch Xilarn’s eyes on him. For all of half an instant, he was reminded of their departure from Neued, of Xilarn’s eyes—and hands—on him at the edge of the lakebed, and before then, over him in the aftermath of their initial welcome-to-Jauhar provided courtesy of a swarm of wadani, but—

You’re annoying, Damissan.

Damis grunted, though the corner of his lip edged up in spite of himself, and he plucked again at his ‘meal’, eyeing it with all the careful, dissecting intent of someone attempting to determine the exact variety of poison they were dealing with. It probably did him no good to flatter himself.

“I do appreciate my physique the way it is,” he admitted. “It’s served me well thus far. Especially in Tivrod. Not recently, though, I suppose…” He squinted, eyeing a particularly elastic small ball of meat after pulling it free and rolling it between two fingers experimentally. It squished when pressed, but reshaped itself when let up. Like a tiny stress ball. Surely that was not natural. He proceeded to continue rolling it—back, forth, back, forth—between thumb and forefinger. “You know initially I thought I was going to resign myself from that entirely as part of my, ah…”

He let the now-perfectly-rounded ball drop and roll into the curve of his palm.

“…commitment…and dedication to higher pursuits, but…” He rolled it again, catching between middle and thumb. “I found that wasn’t especially rewarding, nor did it help with my concentration. Whatever divine power anyone believes in, they did create the earth and all the men and women in it, so surely with the intent that we all mutually enjoy one another as we see fit. Speaking of, though.” Squish. He wondered if it bounced. “I’ve never heard you talk of anyone else in your life and assuming there’s not, you more than anyone put on like you could use a bit of loosening up sometimes. When did you last lay with anyone? I’m sure if you actually kept your eyes out for it we could find you someone to unwind with in Sol…” Roll, roll. “Or Yera, if you’re not especially interested in shifters, I suppose. I think it’d do you good.”

Perhaps Damissan should have expected it.

To be perfectly fair, he knew on some level that the inherently intrusive or intimate nature of the question leant itself to upset or offense, regardless of his well-meaning intent in asking it, but just the same, he had anticipated more—what? Peeved irritation, perhaps. Eye rolling. Scoffing. Perhaps some vaguely insulting or teasing commentary, depending on how it was interpreted. But not this. Not quite so much genuine anger despite the fact he hadn’t intended any harm by it.

For a long moment, he held himself still. Perplexed. Frowning. Processing the information. And perhaps that would have been the ideal time to leave the subject where it lie. To stand up and leave as instructed and allow Xilarn the privacy he evidently wanted. Perhaps he should have let it go entirely as it was, and he did consider it.

Before the thought took action, however, his mouth was moving.

“Seven years.” He shook his head. “But why—? You aren’t—” He drew a breath, cutting himself off. “No, it isn’t my business, but I just thought—” That, though, didn’t seem to be the right avenue either, and after a moment, his breath petered out in a protracted exhale. “I apologize…? I didn’t mean so much offense. I will…get out of your way for a while.”

When Damissan initially set his food aside and stood, he intended to retreat to bed. It was too early for sleep, but the other man clearly did not want his immediate company and there was nowhere else in the near vicinity to entertain himself otherwise. Then, more base needs made themselves known. He stepped around his company, away from the tent—and out, into the jungle. He wouldn’t need to travel far, didn’t plan to, only just far enough to be out of the light of the campfire and range of hearing to relieve himself. In a jungle, nearly anywhere would do and shadows leant themselves to privacy, after all.

Yet.

After making it far enough away to feel assured of his solitude, Damissan found himself lingering instead of hurrying along his process. Standing in the hybrid of eerie light and shadow that came from the trees, there was nothing to grapple with but himself and his own thoughts, and it felt—strange. Heavy on his chest. He was so far from home. He shut his eyes, hooking a hand back at the nape of his neck to rub as though massaging away some indistinct strife.

Even in retrospect, he would never be clear on what exactly happened next other than that, when he regained consciousness, it was under distinctly different circumstances than when he had—apparently—lost it.