Eryshae

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Sam

The Grove

The world narrowed. Blood thundered in Sam's ears; not from pain, but from fury. It rolled through his limbs like wildfire, a heat that was not his own. The Titan's Amber pulsed inside his chest with a rhythm that mimicked rage; echoing it, magnifying it, feeding it. He didn't remember running. Only the blur of motion. The taste of ash on his tongue. The sound of roots splitting underfoot.

Then; Ruwan. Crippled, limping, fleeing through the smoke like a coward dressed in dying silk. Sam's grip closed around the shaft of the old spear; his spear. The one that had once pierced his heart. The one that had killed him. He ripped it free from Ruwan's thigh. The scream was everything he needed. It filled the space where logic might have spoken. Where reason might have begged him to pause. Blood sprayed. Ruwan collapsed. Gasping. Pathetic.

The Amber surged.

Strike. End it.

Drive it through his skull.

Finish what he started.

Sam's vision swam red.

He reversed the spear in his hand.

The tip gleamed with reflected firelight; its point a breath away from Ruwan's wild, terrified eye.

His arms trembled. Not with weakness; but with the effort it took not to do it. The Titan's Amber writhed beneath his sternum, threads of light flaring in the cracks of his bark-armor. It wanted the kill. It whispered of justice shaped by blood. Of vengeance sung in marrow.

"He murdered your kin."

"He shackled Vael."

"He hurt you."

Sam's jaw clenched. He could hear his own heartbeat. The spear shook in his grip. Ruwan made a sound; small, pitiful. Like a dying animal caught between fate and fury. Sam lowered his face until their eyes met. And then he whispered; hoarse, but clear enough for the gods to hear: "An eye for an eye… makes the world blind." The words tasted like coal and ash. And mercy. He exhaled. Slowly, slowly, he twisted the spear in his grip; not to kill, but to scar. To remind.

Then; clean and swift; he drove the point down into Ruwan's chest, just shy of his heart. Just enough for agony. Ruwan screamed, back arched, mouth gaping to the sky. The Amber's heat receded, just a little. Enough for Sam to breathe. He yanked the spear free, and blood fanned in an arc across the Grove floor. His voice came low and steady, like thunder wrapped in woodsmoke. "But scum like you… need to be shown as a lesson." The spear clattered beside him. And the rage was gone. What remained was the weight of restraint… and the shape of who he was becoming.

The spear was still warm in his grip. Sam stood over Ruwan; not in triumph, not in hatred, but in the terrible quiet that came after restraint. His knuckles were pale with tension, bark stretching across his wrists like armor grown from grief. Each breath sawed through him. His body screamed in pain. The arrow wound in his back throbbed, a burning echo of the battle's cost. But it was nothing compared to the fire in his heart.

He looked down at the man who had tried to take everything. Ruwan gasped in the dirt, clutching his chest where blood now poured in angry rivers. Not fatal. But close. Close enough that every breath was a lesson. Sam didn't speak again. He turned from the man; and from the fury still clawing at the edges of his soul; and limped back through the shattered Grove. The air was thick with ash and silence. Trees moaned low in the wind. Vines had begun to wilt from overuse. And among the fallen guards, the Grove itself pulsed like a living altar, still humming with ancient magic.

He saw her. Vael. She stood alone at the center of the clearing, swords slack in her hands, her body streaked with blood and soot. Her eyes locked on his. She didn't move. He did. His legs gave way before he reached her. His body sank into the soft moss, muscles trembling, blood slicking his ribs. He would have collapsed entirely, but Vael was already there, catching him, wrapping her arms around him.

Her heartbeat was steady. Her breath smelled like copper and pine. She held him against her chest, and Sam let himself breathe. For a moment, the pain vanished. For a moment, it was only her. He felt the shift in her shoulders. The way her hand trembled slightly as it cradled the back of his head. He knew she'd seen everything. The choice. The restraint. The fury that still boiled just beneath the bark. Sam closed his eyes. "He would've killed you," he said, voice hoarse. Vael pressed her lips to his temple. "But you didn't become him." Sam swallowed. The rage in his chest flickered; then died.

They knelt there in the quiet, the battlefield a grave of fire and roots around them. Sam felt her fingers brush against the wound in his side, gentle, reverent. He wanted to say something. Anything. But the words failed. And then she whispered it: "I'm proud of you." The Grove exhaled. Sam broke. Not into tears. Not into screams. But into stillness. Because maybe, just maybe, he hadn't lost himself to the vengeance. Maybe, in choosing not to kill the man who deserved it most, he had become the man he was meant to be.

She held him closer. Wrapped her arms around his chest as if she could anchor his soul there, in the space between her breath and the silence. Her fingers threaded through the bark at his nape, gently curling. "I'm proud of you," she whispered again, and this time it was not for him; it was for her. A confession. A vow. A quiet absolution. Sam exhaled shakily, the sound soft against her collarbone. Then the weight in her arms grew heavier. "Sam?" she murmured, drawing back to look at his face.

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But his eyes were closed. The bark across his arms began to retreat, slow and spiraling like scorched petals curling in reverse. His body slackened. His pulse thudded faintly beneath her fingers. Too faint. "Sam," she said again, firmer now. "Sam; " He didn't respond. His head slipped against her shoulder, breath shallow, limbs too still. The wound in his back had soaked through her tunic. Blood, thick and hot, painted the moss beneath them. "No, no," Vael breathed, pulling him tighter, pressing her forehead to his. "Stay with me." The Grove around them stilled; roots curled inward, the last embers of battle blinking out one by one. Only their bodies remained in motion; her arms shaking, his chest rising and falling just enough to keep hope alive. A thousand thoughts surged behind her eyes. But only one stuck: He gave everything not to become the monster they feared.

She closed her eyes. Held him tighter. And whispered into the fading dusk: "I've got you. Rest now. I'll hold the world together, if I have to." And beneath the ruins of fire, bark, and blood; Samael Faeloc slipped into unconsciousness. Carried not by fury. But by love.

The first thing was the scent. Herbs; clove, feverfew, yarrow; crushed fresh beneath mortar and stone. Beneath that, the acrid bite of alcohol and scorched poultice. It was sharp, medicinal, like waking into a wound wrapped in a garden.

The second was sound. "…and what exactly did you think would happen? Charging into a fight with no reinforcements? You're a Princess, Vael, not a ghost story with swords. You're lucky Sam isn't dead again." That voice; Commandant Toya Sidney; cut clean through the haze like a whetted blade. Vael's response was quieter. Sharp around the edges. "It saved him. That's what happened."

"You risked the line of succession. The Eryshae's stability. And your own godsdamned neck." A sigh. Then Myrtle's gentle voice, dry and insistent: "Hold still, princess, or I'll re-wrap this for the third time." There was the wet pull of cloth being tightened, the flutter of a breath drawn through pain. A soft hiss; Vael's.

The third sense returned: touch. Sam became aware of his body all at once; too heavy, too still. Bandages cocooned him from chest to thigh, some tight with dried blood, others cool with salves. His arms ached. His ribs ached. His everything ached.

The fourth sense returned. Ash. Dust. Bitter metal. The taste of mess and aftermath. He shifted. Just a little. Just enough for the cot to creak beneath him. Every muscle complained. The conversation halted. Sam's breath caught.

The fifth sense returned: sight. He opened his eyes. The light above was soft, filtered through gauze curtains strung across the private quarters. Vines curled around the rafters. A basin of steaming herbs shimmered on a nearby table, filling the air with green heat. And seated beside him;

"Magnolia," Sam rasped. The Druid didn't flinch. He sat cross-legged in a chair by the bed, staff resting across his lap, cloak pooled around him like a curtain of leaves. His eyes were closed, but they opened slowly at Sam's voice. "Good," Magnolia said softly, voice like wind across bark. "You're not dead." Sam blinked hard. His vision focused. Vael stood ten feet away, stripped of armor, her blouse half-unfastened where bandages wound across her shoulder. Myrtle was tightening the last knot, and Sidney stood beside them, arms crossed, her mouth a hard line. "…You didn't see him fall," Vael said, her voice low but strained. "You didn't see what they did to him. I had to; "

"And no one is faulting your instinct, Princess," Sidney cut in sharply. "But you let yourself get caught. You endangered the Vice-Chief, and nearly lost him in the rescue." Vael flinched slightly. Myrtle placed a hand gently on her arm. "She saved him," the healer said quietly. "And we saved her. That's what matters now."

Sam tried to sit up. Pain flared instantly across his ribs, sharp and bright. Magnolia's hand was there before he moved more than an inch. "Don't," the Druid said. "The Amber's settled, but barely. You need rest, not heroics." Sam sank back into the bed. His gaze drifted to Vael. She turned, meeting his eyes. The storm behind hers softened. "You're awake," she breathed, stepping toward him. She stopped short, as if afraid to cross some invisible line. Sam offered the barest smile. "Just in time for the lecture, huh?"

Myrtle snorted. Even Toya cracked the ghost of a grin. Magnolia leaned back in his chair. "Rest while you can, lad. The roots are watching. And justice waits for no man." Sam let his eyes close again. Vael's hand found his beneath the sheets. Warm. Steady. Alive.

Myrtle didn't miss a beat. "Well, look who's decided to rejoin the land of the living," she said, hands on her hips, eyes narrowing with a mixture of irritation and relief. "You reckless little weed, do you ever stop and think before throwing yourself into death's mouth? And with that thing still pulsing in your chest?" She pointed toward the faint glow beneath the wrappings over his sternum, her voice growing sharper. "You think the Titan's Amber is a toy, do you? Some kind of fancy firecracker for dramatics?"

Sam opened his mouth; maybe to apologize, maybe to deflect; but Myrtle was already storming on. "Your bones were half splinters, your back had an arrow buried so deep I thought I'd need a damn chisel, and don't get me started on your lungs! Bark in your throat, bark in your blood, bark; everywhere! If you weren't already a miracle, you'd be mulch!"

At the edge of his blurred vision, Sam saw Magnolia tilt his head, amused. Vael's voice cut the room like a blade through silk. "That's enough." Myrtle blinked, caught mid-breath. Vael stood tall, despite the half-bandaged cut along her shoulder. Her posture was straight, imperious; Eryshae royalty in full. Her eyes flashed like storm-lit steel. "Both of you. Out." Myrtle opened her mouth, indignant. Vael's tone sharpened. "Now."

Myrtle huffed. Loudly. Tossing a soiled bandage into the pail with far more force than needed. "Fine," she muttered, gathering her satchel. "But do not break my patient again after all the work I did to fix him. You're both lucky the local garrison was still loyal and helped me drag what was left of you into this room." She marched toward the door, pausing only once to smirk over her shoulder. "Sam; you'll be pleased to hear Ruwan is in excruciating pain from your spear. Frankly, I'm tempted to send him a Get Well Soon card."

Sam blinked, managing a faint, grateful grunt. Magnolia rose slowly from the bedside, dusting invisible dirt from his cloak. He reached out, laid a warm, bark-callused hand on Sam's shoulder. "We'll talk later, lad," he said, his voice gentler than it had any right to be. "And I hope there are no hard feelings for disappearing on you. Lord Deus' orders." He gave Sam a wry smile. "He has had his eye on you." With that, Magnolia turned toward the door. But before stepping out, he paused; then leaned back just enough to reach around the corner. He returned with the spear Sam had thrown.

It gleamed faintly, bloodstained and splintered at the haft, the wood dark and lined with veins of amber. Magnolia's eyes swept its length with a craftsman's reverence. "Fine wood," he murmured. "Clean lines. Old, but not done." He tapped the edge of the blade with one knuckle, listening to its resonance. "You made this into more than a weapon, boy. I will hold on to it for you when you are ready." Then, with a final approving nod, he slipped out of the room behind Myrtle, the spear still in his hand. The door closed with a soft click.

Silence settled again. Sam let out a long, slow breath. And Vael… remained at his side. Eyes watching, waiting. And for the first time since he'd passed out, Sam allowed himself to believe he was safe.