Welcome to Gaia! ::

‘I hadn’t actually had much of a chance to talk to them,’ occurred to Damis to say, but as his eyes ran over the wound where the firelight licked at it, the dancing light casting long shadows onto the rock and moss and jungle underbrush behind them, he decided it didn’t need voicing.

Admittedly, he had assumed the opposite. Xilarn had seemed so quick to act and sure of himself, not to mention — injuries aside — composed in the aftermath as he generally did, for the most part. He had never second-guessed Xilarn’s experience there. Even before now, Damis realized, he had assumed the man had seen and done worse. Fought in the war, perhaps, before Damissan’s time. Watched death and grown accustomed, somehow. He certainly knew his way around a weapon well enough.

Damis reached, running the towel first along the outskirts to clear up excess and anything already drying there before rinsing, wringing, and moving in to the wound itself, dabbing carefully as he could without sacrificing effectiveness. It was something else entirely to hear that it was as new in its own way for Xilarn as for him. That he had never taken a life—but had felt the need in that moment to do so without second-guessing himself. Because he had been concerned for his safety.

“I was not,” Damis admitted. “I think they were considering eating me? I wasn’t aware that was a thing they did as a people, but…” Once satisfied with his initial clean up work at the shoulder and further down Xilarn’s arm — though the latter was not so grievous — he took a second, smaller section of clean and unused cloth to apply disinfectant from the bottle before setting it aside again. “I don’t think I’d ever been happier or more terrified to see you. And silver-tongued or not, they did not seem to have much interest in what I had to say.”

A good deal more interest in other aspects of him, now that he thought on it again, but that didn’t need saying either. Instead, he unwound a section of clean binding gauze and began wrapping, careful to try to hold the wound as closely together as he could without straining or further damaging the flesh.

“If you think it’s bad enough to need stitching we’ll need to find you a healer unless you can manage it yourself come morning…I have only ever cleaned up or witnessed the clean up of the results of fights I shouldn’t have engaged in. Never anything…quite like this. But…” After finishing wrapping and fastening off the lower slice, too, Damis sat back, “I think you’ll hold together until then with that much. It’ll keep the forest’s various particles and small insects from adding infection to it in any case.”

Since my boyfriend-

As long as he’d known the man so far, Damis would have been a fool not mentally trip and hook on the word, and — all evidence to the contrary aside — he wasn’t a fool. He did, however, manage to at least try to hide or downplay the immediate surprise triggered by the admission. My boyfriend was half-Alkidike. And with it came all the other small pieces he knew of fitting and slotting themselves together and into place: was half-Alkidike, there isn’t anyone else, there hasn’t been for many years, seven years.

He wasn’t blind, either, to the man’s expression and body language or the way his tongue caught on the words, and how never yet had even toeing the subject been safe territory. Carefully, Damissan let his hands drop away and began to pack, re-roll, and reorganize what was left. He supposed, even with what he had he couldn’t know what had occurred and quite possibly never would, but it seemed evident that whatever had transpired left lingering, still-sharp aches of the variety that ointments, salves, and bandages didn’t tend to, and the hurt did not seem directed at the man himself, but more at whatever had caused them to separate. Or the world at large in general.

“I am sure he was a good man,” Damis said at length, standing with what he had and moving away from the fire again to set them away. Because the words as they were felt flat, however, or unfinished — the ‘boxed’ response available for any such situation — his tongue ended up moving again, speaking before he had taken the time to evaluate whether the additional words would actually be appreciated, true or not. “You must have loved him very much.”

Then, as though specifically second-guessing himself, he added, “I can walk. You’re the one hurt…” and moved again as he said it, taking down his tent and beginning the process of packing up everything of ‘theirs’ not a natural part of the jungle to facilitate departure.

I would’ve raised my children with him.

Whatever their intention, the words stuck with Damis, giving him brief pause in the midst of rolling and strapping up his tent material before he shook himself and toted the burden up, and onto Nazakai. Fortunately, thanks to Xilarn’s initial suggestion at the very outset of their trip, they did travel lightly, and it did not take long between the two of them to finish. Still, the statement lingered on his mind, settling into the back corners and coming to a resting spot there, not quite leaving even after his focus had long since moved to other things.

At the offer to ride double, he did step up, touching a hand to a dry patch of Gadot’s fur and eyeing the beast. As he tried to assess how best to mount, it occurred to him how drastic the shift had become since their initial encounter. Once, even being within range of the raptrix was enough to cause tension and make his pulse climb. Now — bracing himself, he hopped and pulled, managing to mount with minimal difficulty, rather pleased with himself — he quite possibly had the beast to thank for his own and Xilarn’s life for that matter. Certainly their well-being.

He shifted forward to the front edge of the blanket Xilarn had placed, leaving space behind himself and leaning in instead to reach and scruff his fingers gently through the fur at Gadot’s nape and behind his ears. Not all animals, as it turned out, were quite so intolerable as his mother’s perzi.

“Has he been with you since he was small?” he asked. After voicing it, Damis found it difficult to actually imagine Gadot small—and then suddenly not so difficult after all, presumably just as rambunctious and excitable or even moreso as a pup than he was now, bounding about wings aflutter. For a moment, Damis found himself smiling despite all.

“Oh,” Damissan said, frowning. He had of course known it was possible Xilarn hadn’t had Gadot since early pup-hood, but given the strength of their bond he had expected it. More so than that, however, a cage sounded like among the worst possible places to imagine such a rambunctious beast in his smallest and most excitable period of life. “Good he made it to you, then,” he said. “I can’t imagine putting him in a cage…”

Damissan had thought nothing of it when Xilarn’s hands initially settled at his waist. It seemed like the logical and natural place for them under the circumstances though, belatedly, he did wonder if perhaps he ought have gotten on behind due to their height difference and the fact that, in their current position—

Damis gave soft, startled noise when Gadot first moved, jerking a fraction forward himself to grip tighter to the ‘mane’ of fur at his neck and unwittingly jutting himself back and shifting against Xilarn in the process. He had known it was coming, and once underway it wasn’t especially bad, but the initial lurch of movement was more than enough — Damis thought — to justify his lack of preparedness.

“Ahh…” As he relaxed, growing accustomed to the concept of riding the beast that had only ever carried Xilarn beside or above him, Damis registered the other man’s later statement and shook his head. “I don’t ‘whine’ and ‘squirm’,” he said.

It was about that point that he became aware of Xilarn’s hands somewhere along the line having shifted from ‘on his hips’ to just beneath his shirt, his thumbs now grazing skin as they rode. Had it been anyone else, Damissan might have paid it more mind and assessed the situation as a whole. As it was, his mind immediately moved on, dismissing the fact as an innocuous accident of the circumstances.

“When I fought at home it was nothing. Spats with other boys my age at the time. It wasn’t that it wasn’t dangerous—I learned to clean a wound because after our fists grew boring, we would take up real, sharpened blades against each other though we weren’t ‘allowed,’ and we would do it specifically for the ‘risk’ and to goad one another about whether or not we were men enough to brave it. But it wasn’t…” Damissan hesitated, fishing for the word he wanted, “…real? Perhaps for the same reason I didn’t feel any fear standing in front of my own people. Even if I could be hurt it never felt as though I would be…as though initiating the confrontations and being in familiar territory made me impervious and invincible.”

After the words left his mouth, Damissan felt heat return to his cheeks, well aware of how silly the words sounded even if they were true so far as his perception was concerned.

“Here, fewer factors are in my control.” A pause. “But I was not squirming.”

Damis had been having a rational conversation.

Had been having, or so he’d thought.

While at first the entire situation was easy to ignore: ordinary, they were both tired, they were riding a dog, there was nothing especially noteworthy or special even in Xilarn’s hands on him because that had seemed a natural and necessary part of the process—this was different. Damissan’s focus jogged initially at the tug that fitted him back against his guard, but locked afterward, honing in on the single follow-up factor.

Xilarn’s lips were on his neck.

Not long. Not overtly. But undeniably present just the same for the moment that he took to mutter there against Damis’ skin, and Damissan—you’re doing it right now—Damissan was distracted. “Ah…” He blinked, focusing on nothing in particular at all in the forested dark before him. Very little beyond the space they occupied seemed to matter much. “Oh.”

Oh.

“So I have been. My…apologies?” It didn’t seem like something that needed much atonement, and Xilarn, now that Damis was paying special mind to the situation at hand, seemed to be enjoying it in some understanding of the word. But that probably didn’t need saying. “I meant…earlier.”

A brief and unhelpful mental replay of the most recent situation which fell under the category of ‘earlier’ did in fact involve him squirming in binds, straining rather uselessly against them while Xilarn took care of everything else. But that wasn’t the point Damis was trying to get at, so he handily ignored and skipped over it, moving on to the next topic instead—at least to whatever extent his mind and tongue chose to cooperate.

“I was trained,” he said. “But with practice blades dulled to be less dangerous, and typically I was only set against my trainer, very occasionally with supervised sessions against others my age. I wasn’t to…” Xilarn’s palms slid along his along his skin, low, warm, and Damis was suddenly distinctly aware of every portion of their bodies in mutual contact, every callous worn into Xilarn’s hand, and his legs pinched very subtly tighter to Gadot’s sides, “…wield them without supervision, and for the record it has not ever been my tactical intention to spend an overly large portion of combat time on the ground, but…”

He shifted himself, adjusting his hips and sparing a glance over his shoulder.

“You seem very adept at handling your weapon. Perhaps I could take lessons from you on how best to position myself.”

“I’ve never ridden before. A dog. A raptrix. I’ve never been mounted…” Quite unfairly, everything that left Damis’ mouth now felt open to alternate interpretations even when he intended them innocuously, “…on a raptrix. And I didn’t—”

Heat licked upwards into his face, pooling in his cheeks as Xilarn grinned against his back, reminding him of the unfortunate state of his circumstance directly before his guard’s arrival, and he huffed.

“They didn’t know what they were looking for. Clearly. She was just manhandling me blindly, and molesting me, and had no idea what she was doing…and it was only the one. But that’s…that’s beside the point. I didn’t go that far, you know. You told me to leave and I had to relieve myself anyway, so I went and I only went just out of sight of camp. They didn’t even attack me—it must have been something to knock me unconscious? Because I remember standing, thinking that I ought to hurry my own process up and get back and next I knew, I was waking up elsewhere, so I didn’t get any chance to test my skill, great, lacking, or otherwise.”

Perhaps if you can manage to be obedient.

Xilarn’s eyes were a soft red-brown, like rich clay and darkened by the atmosphere—or the mood, or both—and Damissan knew that despite the distinct and impossible-to-ignore undercurrent to the conversation, he was supposed to keep within the lines of propriety, maintain some veneer of a completely surface exchange. His eyes, though, tripped in spite of himself, flicking down from Xilarn’s gaze to his mouth, which had been on him a handful of moments before—before redirecting his stare, flicking his attention back forward and feeling his blush crawl up his neck and towards the rim of his ears as he grappled with the ridiculousness of it all.

“I can be obedient,” he mumbled. “When it suits me.”

“I’ve never ridden a xaraan,” Damis admitted. “Or a janarim.” Or anything which fell into the category of ‘animal’ for that matter. He was sure the opportunity must have arisen at some point, but he couldn’t think of one, and was even further pressed to believe he’d have had even the remotest interest in capitalizing on such a chance if given. Large beasts tended to strike him as a potential death sentence waiting to happen, and why risk it, when the safety of a carriage well behind the beast was readily available when travel was necessary? “I’ve never been fond of…”

‘Broader between the legs…’

Damissan squinted forward at Xilarn’s hand between his, stroking Gadot’s fur.

“…beasts. They always seemed overly prone to biting or snarling or generally being unpredictable and dangerous. Gadot is…an exception. He’s at least convinced me I’m less likely to be damaged in his presence than out of it.”

It struck Damis then that, even with or aside from the teasing elements to their conversation, there was a distinct, overarching comfortableness to the moment as a whole. Initial startelement aside, he did feel at ease atop Gadot, his panic from earlier had seeped out of him, his pulse had calmed, and Xilarn was a warm and steady weight at his back—a new experience, but not an unwelcome one, and pleasant in its own way. When Xilarn began to laugh, Damis found himself smiling instinctively at the sound before the man spoke—and after, despite being the subject of his guard’s good humor.

“She was,” Damissan insisted. “I felt accosted and exposed…” The lighter tone to his words may have been at odds with their meaning, but Damis wasn’t especially concerned. “It wasn’t the sort of attention or favor I was hoping for, I assure you. And…” When Xilarn rest his head on his shoulder, Damis spared him a brief glance, but otherwise did not move, his lips still curved up in a smile. “That isn’t true at all. I’ve been very well behaved on a number of important occasions that benefited both of us. That aside…if I have the opportunity, I do promise to scream for you at the next appropriate occasion. I wasn’t aware you’d feel deprived without. And to be clear, I didn’t plan on making trouble, it just seemed to…happen.”

Damis’ brow furrowed at the initial string of assumptions, and even after the clarification, ‘You weren’t doing drugs at ten, I hope…’ his first instinct was defensive: ‘There is more to my life than that…’ But then, in this instance that was what Xilarn was actually asking for, and since he couldn’t remember another time the man had earnestly inquired about his life—ever—prior to this point, Damissan drew a breath, and opted to simply answer.

“I was very young when the war began, and being my mother’s only child and my father’s only heir, she wanted me as far from the front line of combat as possible. My father disagreed and thought I ought to be prepared in the event of emergency. I think she had hoped that I would show a talent for magic and at the very least be behind others, but though magic interested me, I never had any skill for it, and blades fascinated me. I wanted, as I am sure most seven-year-olds do, to be the best swordsman that ever lived, and between them and my interests, my parents compromised. Father found the best tutor in swordsmanship coin could buy, and I wasn’t — and am not — sub par at it…I actually took to it rather well, I think. Of course, my ego likely clouded my judgment, but I was better than my peers at the time, and I loved it…I simply hadn’t ever fought anyone with intent to kill me.”

Damissan’s gaze flicked downward. “Beyond that, I had tutors in all the traditional subjects, and when I had time and he had occasion, my father would bring me with him to political events. His thought was always that if I wasn’t to be a soldier, I ought to master political strategy, and know battle tactics underneath it all so that I would be a useful politician and advisor regardless of whether or not another war came to our lands. And I did enjoy it to an extent. I have always been comfortable with people, speaking with them and learning about them, but after Father…”

Damis hesitated, thumb brushing over a handful of Gadot’s fur, and eventually, he redirected the sentence. “When I got older, some things changed. He was busy and Mother was busy and I…grew rather tired of politics, I suppose.”

He glanced to his company, and managed a renewed smile, quietly amused. “I do like rewards. I will keep that in mind. But are you suggesting ‘attempt to talk my way out of it’ and ‘pray if that fails’ isn’t already a solid strategy? It’s worked so far.”