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Damissan did not go immediately to sleep. Despite the multitude of reasons he could or should have, as soon as all had quieted and he was settled securely within the privacy of his own tent, he took matters into his own hands as they related to the various tensions and new prospects inspired by the evening’s events—and Xilarn, in particular. Really, most all of it was his fault. Fortunately, once that portion of his mind and body was satisfied, he did fall to sleep like a rock. He was safe. He was content. Xilarn was nearby, and come morning, every step forward they took would be taking them closer to the end of Jauhar.

Few downsides, from Damissan’s perspective.

Most mornings he rose with or before the sun. Early, and ready for the day. Even in Jauhar, he had mostly managed to keep this habit — or so he assumed — though on some days he was fairly certain he fell off kilter. Whether it be the prior day’s stresses, the solidness with which he did sleep, or simply the amount of time it had taken before they had finally gotten to, Damis couldn’t say, but for one reason or another, this was apparently a morning in the latter category.

He heard Xilarn shifting about, but for once, the siren call of bedding kept him where he lay, sprawled lethargically atop his furs — for it was far, far too hot to sleep with anything over or on him — with his face tucked down and arms making a pseudo-pillow under him. When Xilarn addressed him, however, he was forced to stir. Burying a grunt-hum against his arms, he twisted his head just enough to spy Xilarn’s face with one eye, stretched his hands out before him, yawning, and then propped his weight up on his elbows.

“Yes, I…” The second time his spared his guard a glance, now more upright at least and rapidly gaining processing power as his mind woke up, the prior night’s events returned to him in a swell of recollection—and as quickly as that, his expression morphed, slipping from groggy-but-pleasant to a full, teeth-flashing grin in the span of half a second. “Yes,” he repeated, now with energy. “And good morning, did you sleep well?”

After pushing to a full sit and reaching to sift about for his clothes — none of which he wore to sleep for entirely practical reasons, given the climate — his gaze skirted to Xilarn’s shoulder, and his expression briefly pinched.

“How is your shoulder? Sorry, if I had been up I could have—” Cleaned and fixed it again for you? Since Xilarn already had, it seemed like a moot point, so Damis dropped the offer mid sentence, pulling on pants instead and opting to leave it at that for now, at least until breakfast and the day’s plan had been decided. “Are you still up to training me, or should we wait until you’ve had some chance to heal? I don’t want to aggravate it.”

“You haven’t seen me fight anything but overgrown insects, you don’t know how well I’ll do…” Damis argued from inside his tent. “I might impress you and have to go easy myself.”

Given the great difficulty of impressing Xilarn in any respect, so far as Damis could tell, it seemed unlikely. But still worth mentioning, for the sake of his pride if nothing else.

Gaze flicking for a moment to where Xilarn’s fingers had traced the skin of his inner ankle, Damissan curled his toes, and after the man so rapidly evacuated his sleeping space, he reached, skirting his own fingers over the same place before — with a more privately amused smile — he pulled on his boots, grabbed his blades, and stepped out to join his company.

Whatever he might have said, however, was derailed when he spotted the remains of the small fire Xilarn had lit the night previous—and his stomach gave a loud, rumbling complaint. In the aftermath of all the night’s excitement, he had managed to forget that he hadn’t eaten supper. Now, his stomach refused to let him do so again, and he ventured a glance to his guard.

“Is there…any chance of a breakfast afterwards comprised of anything other than beetle innards?” If he looked stupidly hopeful and none-too-subtly desperate, that was no fault of his own.

Jauhar’s edge could not possibly come soon enough.

“You did,” Damis said. “And I had a lot more hair then, I can see why it might be confusing. But…” Thinking back on their first encounter, it hadn’t been the best of plans. Still, it had managed to instill a positive first impression of Xilarn—more for his morals and decency than his attitude at the time, but the former seemed more important in the long run regardless. “At least I was memorable?”

Though it had now been months since the event, it felt like half a lifetime ago, and disconcerting to remember Xilarn as he had been to him then: a stranger, stiff and condescending for all his good intentions. Damissan supposed some of that held true still, but to think that not so long ago, the man had been a complete non-factor in his life was odd. He shrugged the thought off, and in the next moment, his gaze flicked, following the line of Xilarn’s spear.

The borderline-theatric flourish inspired an upward tug at the corner of his lip, and his eyes warmed with renewed amusement despite his hunger pains—which could, apparently, be ignored for now. Again. Then, at Xilarn’s closing comment, his teeth flashed and he stepped, arranging himself further away from his tent and the fire. It wasn’t as though there was a great deal of open space anywhere in Jauhar to begin with, and they had already made camp on reasonably flat and dry ground. Between that and the fact that everywhere else would be nearly pitch black — and that Xilarn hadn’t moved, besides — Damissan concluded that the location for impressing would be approximately right where they stood.

“That is certainly a reason to try if I’ve ever heard one.” Damissan drew his blades, and eyed his guard — opponent — rolling his shoulders and weighing his options. The man was shorter than him, but the length of his weapon more than made up for any range advantage there, and it had been years since he’d practiced against anything but other blades. Still, combating against a spear was, in the end, little more than dancing with a danger-tipped, overly long stick. The only means of getting anywhere would be to make his way inside of the other man’s effective range. He rotated his wrists, rolled his neck, and exhaled. “In the interest of fresh meat, edible grains, and everything else sacred in this world, God be with me.”

Damissan stepped, stepped—and darted, driving forward with one blade, but keeping the other loose and half-raised in anticipation of defending against whatever counter he inspired.

Damissan enjoyed sparring. It was physical, engaging, active and — in its own way — a form of communication, if wordless. He was convinced, both in concept and from experience, that there was a great deal to be learned about one’s opponent from the practice, slivers of information that came out regardless of intention when pressed into the instinctive immediacy of actions, reactions, and interactions that were the pivotal feature when trading blows—whether that be empty handed or with weapons. He was comfortable with the routine and not afraid to be hit. He also knew on a base level beforehand, or certainly had every reason to suspect, that Xilarn outclassed him.

That did not stop it from being mildly disappointing that it took so little time and effort for Xilarn to deflect and turn the tables on him.

Or ‘kill’ him, as his guard’s word choice suggested.

One moment, he had been driving in, and the next, he felt like the standstill element in a dance, blinking as the spear caught up his blade and the other man slipped in behind him, bringing the staff of the weapon around to snap against his side. Nor were Xilarn’s blows particularly gentle. But that could wait. Far more than any sting or bruise from the physical impact, Xilarn’s words left their mark, the — What were you doing with your other arm? — inspiring a hot, frustrated blush the moment they came.

Because of course ‘waiting to block’ was exactly what he’d been doing.

Damissan shook his head and rolled his shoulders. The other man’s grin and come-hither, at least, seemed partial compensation for the blow to his pride. He breathed out. You’re faster than me. Was that what he ought to be playing up on? He certainly wanted it to be true and it probably was, but didn’t feel like it after the last attempt. Still. If that was his instructor’s tip…

Damissan stretched both arms over his head, blades still in hand as he crossed them at the wrists and took a step left, circling. Then, in a single, fluid motion he shifted from ‘at rest’ to sweeping inward anew, this time crescenting toward Xilarn’s side, but at the last moment dropping his weight and angle low, aborting the first swing, and coming in instead with the opposite blade.

Damis didn’t actually expect to hit anything.

In retrospect, that was always a poor assumption when sparring with real blades, particularly under irregular circumstances with a partly handicapped opponent. But the general unspoken rule in his experience remained that as between two fighters, the less experienced set the ‘pace’ and the other matched and countered. There was no question here that Xilarn had that skill and experience advantage, and even if Damissan was ‘faster’ in some sense of the word that hardly made up for instinct.

He also simply imagined Xilarn as some variety of indomitable. He’d never seen him lose, had defeated every opponent he matched against in the tournament Damissan had watched in part, and taken on five armed alkidike women, and walked free with only a few nicks and a shoulder wound. For all his own confidence that he was comfortable with his blades for his level of experience, he did not anticipate landing anything.

When Xilarn dipped to meet his feint, but then halted in the second block and flinched, Damissan realized his mistake—but too late.

The sweep and momentum were already there and even as Xilarn jerked to avoid it, the tip of Damis’ strike was nicking the tail of his retreat, and at some point Xilarn’s weapon had fallen. So surprised was he by the train of events that by the time there was fire involved, blooming towards his face like a signal flare, Damis skirted back, blades hooking back towards a ready stance at his sides and face flushed as he eyed his opponent who looked — he blinked, catching his breath — well, equally flustered at least, if not more so.

And very slightly peeved.

Damis raised a hand to rub the back of it at his own cheek, still warm from the flare, and then flashed a grin. “Well. That was unexpected,” he said. “I apologize. That was my fault. I didn’t expect to hit, but I should have checked myself. Are you alright?”

The immediacy with which the situation escalated from Damissan blinking in surprise at his own successes and apologizing to Xilarn for catching him off guard, to being struck across the chest, hard, and dropped to the earth, was sufficient to knock — so far as Damis could tell — every scrap of breath from his lungs, and leave his ears ringing between his temples. Horizontal and disoriented, his body rushed to drag air back into itself, too-quick and greedy from abrupt deprivation to do so with any grace, which resulted in immediately subsequent hacked coughing—and then groaning as he shifted atop the earth.

Well, that hurt.

He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them wide to pinpricks of light in his dizziness, and then shut them again. It was not so much that he hadn’t anticipated being thrown or struck, but he had only been standing there, and then what had—?

Xilarn’s voice registered at approximately the same time as his boot made contact with Damissan’s chest, eliciting another softer puff of a grunt on impact, and then a protracted groan when the older man leaned, pointedly not sparing him his weight. Damis rubbed his eyelids, managing to banish most of the prickling behind them before dropping his hand away and squinting upward.

What a fitting place for you.

Though he was smiling now, technically, Xilarn didn’t even manage to look pleased with himself for all his antics. Then his spear lodged in the ground just shy of Damissan’s throat, his posture tipped forward in an invasive lean, and Damissan’s gaze tripped downward: from Xilarn’s eyes, to his mouth, to the spear now in intimate proximity with his neck. Whatever spark of defensive surprise or anger might have reared its head initially petered out, and despite his lingering breathlessness—and the throbbing ache to his chest and the back of his head and most all of him—amusement won out over the rest, morphing his expression and warming his eyes even as his guard yanked the spear free again.

“Does this mean I impressed you?” He rubbed at his chest, watching as Xilarn hoisted his spear in preparation to leave. “Because you realize if all your aim was solely to wind me upon my back you need only have asked, no added violence necessary.” After tipping his head, he twisted his posture to watch the older man’s arse as he retreated for the treeline. “And you know you almost look tall from this angle,” he called out after him, not bothering to raise up even into a sit. “It’s attractive. If you found actual meat out there, I would happily—”

Upon second thought and a loud rumbling from his gut, however, Damissan decided against the latter most part of his sentence and opted to shut his mouth instead, lest he spoil his chances of getting whatever it was that Xilarn now so graciously appeared willing to fetch. He couldn’t imagine it being any worse than what had been put before him before, and he was famished.

He wasn’t certain he could forgive himself if he irritated his guard into refusing him substitutes altogether.

Still.

“And be careful. I’ll be very disappointed in your service if you don’t return.”

Damissan debated, very briefly, the merits of remaining where he was while Xilarn was gone. He had been instructed to. That, however, very quickly seemed of little importance because in the grand scheme of things, the only important point was that he stay near camp, and he could manage that much more productively than by laying in the dirt. Thus, after another quieter grunt to himself for good measure as he shifted upward, he dusted his fingers gingerly down his chest and over his clothes before standing.

After all that had transpired, he did want to be out of the jungles of Jauhar as soon as could be arranged, and ‘after a spar and breakfast’ seemed to be the unspoken agreed upon departure time, after everything had been packed and set away, at least. This in mind, he set himself to packing everything that could be put away without making breakfast difficult, that is, leaving the fire and one bag of cooking tools undisturbed, but readying everything else to be strapped directly onto Nazakai when the time came.

The most unfortunate portion of having time to himself, Damissan soon realized, was that he had no one and nothing to distract him from his hunger. While he had felt it certainly before, mounting as the number of hours since he’d last eaten properly rose, but between the excitement and all the general attention that Xilarn seemed to naturally garner from him, he hadn’t had much opportunity to think about it.

Now, his stomach rumbled.

It pinched and twisted. Its insides bemoaned their circumstances and its walls demanded better treatment immediately. Fortunately, he still managed to accomplish everything he hoped to, but only just barely, so that as Xilarn was arriving — apparently — Damissan’s attention was elsewhere, on the last of his packing, on where they would be going, on-

He might have hopped in initial surprise at the sudden, unanticipated foreign and colorful object jutted under his nose. Instants afterward, however, his gaze skipped to Xilarn. Fruit. There was only a fraction of a second where he considered to ask whether or not any vegetation in this climate was safe for consumption. If the man had wanted him to die, he would have by now. So:

“Overjoyed,” he said, taking up the fruit and kissing it with a grin for emphasis. It could have been a premature call, he supposed. He hadn’t even tasted it yet. But unlike many other things he’d witnessed within Jauhar, nothing about it was immediately off putting: not the color (despite its vibrancy) or the texture or the smell or consistency. He couldn’t be sure exactly how it was meant to be consumed, but in his enthusiasm for putting something in his suddenly more adamant than ever gut, he settled for breaking a section of it open with his thumb, and delving some of its contents out.

It could not have been the most glorious fruit he’d ever tasted. But that did not stop it from seeming so in that moment. Sweet but subtly, and also very slightly astringent. Soft, and filled with seeds, but pulpy in a balance that managed to be both thirst quenching and likely hunger satisfying as well.

The fact that his first, instinctive moan of satisfaction at having something in his mouth was entirely reactive and unintentional made his face all the quicker to heat. He cleared his throat. Easier, perhaps, to just eat the rest of the thing as quickly as possibly without meeting Xilarn’s gaze or, ideally, making any further unnecessary noises. He did, however, manage a very sincere, “Thank you,” before the fruit had disappeared entirely, and if he had to continue periodically, subtly attempting to lick up the lingering sweet and stick from his fingers for hours afterward, well, that much wasn’t his fault at all.

They had days of travel left within Jauhar before they saw sunlight.

Though they had spent far longer within it already than they had left to escape it, it felt destined to be the longest section of days Damissan had experienced. Fortunately, like all days, they too eventually passed. When the edges of the great jungle were set to be behind them in a matter of hours, Damissan’s anticipation for day on his skin again was, so far as he was concerned, beyond the scope of verbal description.

Still, he didn’t hesitate in at least attempting to communicate his excitement with his company.

It took very little time for Damissan to discern that Xilarn was not in the mood—for anything, apparently. Most immediately evident in his uncharacteristically stern treatment of Gadot who, of anyone, he seemed to have the most patience for, generally speaking. Grateful for the food, exhausted by the previous night’s events, and more ready than he had ever been in his life to see sunlight as soon as possible, Damis opted not to push it.

He followed after without further comment assuming, or hoping, that whatever wave of exceptional chilliness had crept into his company’s demeanor, it would pass like others before it. It didn’t. At least, over the scattered number of days that followed, little changed except to seem more closed and unreceptive than they’d been before the incident.

The hours before they reached sunlight, before Damissan knew yet quite how near they were, had to have been in his opinion the dimmest, most discouraging, and quiet hours of all the trip thus far. There was no one to speak to in the jungle, noise but none of the noise he was accustomed to, there were no voices, and Xilarn wanted nothing to do with him despite being immediately adjacent to him, it had been night for weeks, and he wanted out.

When the atmosphere only just began to thin, he barely noticed it, the transition out of the dense foliage persistently gradual—and when he saw the first pinpricks of light trickling through, the murky, blue-purple glow now notably less oppressive and brighter, he thought still perhaps it was just a brief thinner patch. Though it felt like eternity that they’d been in it, the sense of endlessness in scope given to him by Jauhar made it difficult to believe until blatantly obvious that they could possibly have reached its limit.

But they had.

As the fact did become evident, Damissan felt his pulse speed, a giddy, bearing on childish thrill of excitement for something so ‘small’ as sunshine, and for just a moment, nothing preceding this one mattered so much. He picked up his pace, gradually at first, then breaking into a jog, and as it became clear there was relative line there of trees, after which the jungle was quite literally over, he pushed into a run. By the time he reached the cross-over point, feeling full light and the warmth that came with it hitting his head and shoulders as he did, he was whooping, his heart fast in his chest but the moment too good not to draw out. When he slowed his pace, still running but at an easier rate through Tale’s grass, he tipped his head back, face up to the sun, and whistled into the morning air.