Samson had heard the words a thousand times in passing, though they were always whispered or hushed when he was present. It wasn’t something anyone would bring up if he was around. At least, not if the speaker wished to remain in his good graces. Among the people, there were rumors that he was a mercenary of the crown. Among pirates, it was whispered that he was a dog of the Queen. Either way, it was known that it was not wise to disparage Kremal before Samson Graves.

Elias didn’t say a word, stepping carefully behind Samson. He didn’t replace his mask– there was no point in that. If the man had seen him, there was nothing to do about it at this point. The movement was smooth and calm, as if he’d moved to shield himself with a guard thousands of times before. Had he? Was he really such a target that this had happened so many times? Was he comfortable now with the idea of danger?

He must have been. To move so reflexively behind Samson was surely not some act of trust in his skills– he must have been used to following this routine regardless of who his protector was. Samson found himself surprised, though, when he felt a hand grip the fabric of his jacket. Elias’s hand didn’t touch him directly, but he gripped the leather tightly. The feeling grounded Samson somewhat.

The man before them moved slowly, but deliberately. His stride was long and his stance oozed something akin to confidence– cockiness. His scowl had faded as he stepped closer, replaced with a sickly grin. “A traitor to the people,” he said, unsheathing the sword in his hand. Samson’s sword. Shit.

To wield a weapon in Yalana’s temple was a higher form of disrespect. It had been placed by the door, an act of honor and perhaps foolishly, an act of trust in those around him to do the same. With a sword in hand, it would have been easy enough to disarm the man and stand before Elias at the same time. It would be harder to do both if he was unarmed.

Another stride. “A traitor to the nation.”

If he could whisper to Elias to run, it would make this easier. There was a door to the side, it would lead through the temple master’s supply room, and past that there was another door which would lead outside. Samson opened his mouth, and nothing came. Signing would force him to turn around to face Elias, putting his back to the assailant. That was not an option.

“A coward.”

If there were more people outside, then it wouldn’t matter if he could communicate for Elias to run. It was impossible to tell through the frosted and foggy glass if there were others directly outside. If they were past the sunflowers, it would be even harder to determine. Sending him to run now could mean sending him into an ambush unarmed and unprotected. The man before them was the only certainty.

“And a fool.”

The slow, languid strides changed course, becoming a dead sprint. Samson swallowed, his heart pounding, and reached behind him, pushing Elias back. The man let out a small gasp, stumbling back with the force of the shove. Samson could apologize later. Still between the two, Samson stepped forward, keeping his breathing even and forcing the shaking from his hands as he lunged. All he had to do was knock the man off balance, get him on the ground, incapacitate him.

The piercing pain through his chest should have been expected. Samson had hoped to avoid it, but the angles were all wrong. As flesh gave way to muscle to organ, it burned. It was no the first time Samson’s heart had been pierced by a blade, but that did not make it any easier to bear. He shook, and the cry that rang through the air, though he could not connect it to his own voice as metal and jagged edges were all he could focus on, was surely his own.

Samson landed unceremoniously on the ground. No. Too soft. Something cushioned the fall. A body beneath him. Through the fog of his vision, which seemed detached from him somehow– all he was was piercing, the screaming of flesh and neurons, something which had no sight– the tall figure in red wearing a nauseating smile even now. To be still ached. To move was unbearable.

“Samson!”

He moved despite the impossibility, bringing his elbow down, crashing into a throat below him. The smile that filled his field of sight vanished, and Samson coughed. Each breath shook him, and the blade inside moved in turn, causing him to tremble. Out out out out out.

There were hands on his shoulder, turning him over. Elias’s face distorted in the haze. Or perhaps it was the fear. What was he supposed to do in a situation like this? Not knowing if there were others outside, the only protection he had bleeding profusely on the ground?

Samson’s hands trembled. That was alright. If the words had been there, his voice would have trembled just as much. “Out.” Was all he managed, another cough racking through his body. Elias kneeled, his hand pressing against Samson’s back, all that kept him up. “Out.”

“You’ll bleed out, absolutely not. Holy shit.” He spoke quickly. “I– how are you even alive right now? Shit. Pressure.” The cloak was gone, Samson noticed. Had it been gone the whole time, or– Elias adjusted his position, cloth pressing against Samson’s back. Ah. The cloak. He’d need to get anoth– sharp. His chest was burning. His heart still beat, and with every contraction it sent another rush of pain through him. It was beating so fast, so fast, too fast. It felt like it was in his throat, doing its best to evacuate. He was going to throw u– he raised his hands again.

“Out. Out out out out out.”

“Samson, that’s–”

“Out.”

“You’re going to bleed to death.” Elias’s voice snapped, cutting through the air.

He couldn’t breathe. It hurt to fill his lungs with air. His eyes stung– how long had his face been this wet? “Please. Out. Out. Trust me. Out.” His hands gripped the hilt, squeezing as tightly as they could. But they didn’t grasp. He couldn’t– not on his own. A sob or a dry heave crashed through him, jostling everything and pulling a scream from his throat. “Please.”

Of course Elias wouldn’t want to. He was brilliant, shining, perfect. Of course he would know that when someone was stabbed, to pull the stabbing implement from the body was going to cause more damage than keeping it inside. He was so smart, so perfect for– “Out.”

“Captain?”

Not Elias. Elias turned his head, finding someone across the room. Who was there? Why was that voice so–

“Captain, it’s alright, it’s alright. Yalana, please give him strength–” The temple’s keeper stood over him. Only for a moment. Elias moved, a hand shoving forward, keeping her from touching anything. “Your Highness–”

“Who are you?”

“I’m the master of the temple. I’m familiar with the Captain’s situation. Your Highness, I appreciate your concern, but–”

Samson raised his hands, trying to sign slowly. “Out.” His head hurt nearly as badly as his chest. When had he started sweating? Was he always so cold? His hands grasped weakly at the hilt again, and the woman before him nodded. Before Elias could force the woman away again, her hands grabbed the place where Samson’s had been– when had he dropped them? It felt as if his body wasn’t his. The only thing that was his was this burning, this sharp, this–

The scream that was wrenched from him barely registered. Sound well away, his vision fell away, and all he knew was the ripping, searing, heat which pulled from his chest. Or maybe it wasn’t his chest. He couldn’t tell. His body was nothing. His mind was nothing. All he was, every essence of his being was the pain. He should be dead. He should have died the moment that sword ran through him. This shouldn’t be something a person could feel– to have their life ended and then frozen in that moment of agony and extended, only to have everything inside them ripped apart. Maybe he was dead. This was hell. This was–

The sound of mettle clattering against marble pulled him back. It sliced through the screaming, cutting his voice off. The relief was instant. A bucket of freezing water had been poured over a fire and the blaze was snuffed. Or rather, mostly snuffed. The embers lingered, hovering, threatening to fall upon dry grass and ignite the forest anew. His body, now that he could feel it, was heavy and limp. His chest ached like a muscle that had been worn out, but the only lingering sting was only the amount that one might feel when a breeze passed over a surface-level wound. He coughed again, and it  caused him to wince, but it didn’t feel as if his soul were being torn in two. It hurt in a way he could understand.

The marble was cold beneath his back, but his shoulders and head were cradled by something warmer. Elias. When had he laid the man onto his lap? Had he been lying here the entire time? Samson took a shaky breath, looking up toward the slack-jawed face above him. Elias wasn’t looking him in the eye. Instead, his gaze focused on his chest. Samson didn’t need to look to know what the man was seeing. There would have been a devastating wound, a hole through his body, blood pouring from it. A massacre of one. And the moment the sword was pulled from him, crimson still pouring from him, it would begin to close, repairing itself before his eyes, leaving only a thin, white scar.

“How–”

His head pounded like a war drum, each beat blurring his vision. The voices of the temple’s keeper and the prince muffled. Words were difficult to follow. It was alright. If anyone was outside, the keeper would know. The scene would be more frantic than this. The man on the floor didn’t move, no rising or falling of his chest. The threat was alleviated, and the prince was safe.

Safe, and holding Samson carefully. His lap was warm, and the hands that rested carefully on his shoulders gripped just enough to offer some grounding guidance. It was comfortable, resting here, even if he couldn’t focus on the words exchanged or the way the room swayed.

Samson sat up abruptly, forcing himself to rise so harshly that it made him heave. His heart, newly fixed, felt as if it wanted to leave through his throat. He reached out a hand, catching himself, weight smashing on to the heel of his palm. It hurt, but it was alright. He couldn’t just lay there on top of the prince, expecting the man to take care of him just because… just because he had died. It wasn’t right to allow himself comfort like that when he had caused such a scene and made the man so afraid.

He would need to explain this.

How could he?

Samson stared at his hands. He had to make his thoughts stop swirling. His hands were large and rough, nails untrimmed but even. On the backs of them, veins could be seen, but they didn’t throb in time with his pounding head the way he thought they perhaps should have. He took a breath, lungs filling and then releasing without burning.

“Alright. I– You’ll help me get him back to the ship?”

“Yes, of course. This will all be better explained by the Captain, but he will need rest first.”

Samson didn’t need help to get back to the ship. It wasn’t a long walk. He had completed harder tasks immediately after dying. Walking a path he’d followed a thousand times would be simple enough. He shook his head, and rose to his feet. He was unsteady and his skull felt as though it were being crushed, but that was a small hindrance compared to a mass of metal in his chest.

He stared down at the sword on the ground. It seemed gruesome to take it in his hand, covered in his own blood, but it was his. He couldn’t very well leave it. He reached down, gripping it. The sheath remained in the hand of the assailant. He glanced to the temple keeper.

“I’ll take care of that and will be in touch if I find out anything.”

Samson grit his teeth, nodding. He turned to Elias, who had risen. His shirt was stained with blood, and at that Samson almost winced. At least, if nothing else, it was not his own. Elias was well, and that was all that mattered. The prince didn’t look at him, instead staring at the ground. Samson knelt, taking the silver mask in his hand. He turned it over, inspecting it carefully. It had remained clean. He placed it carefully over Elias’s eyes, securing it before pulling the man’s hood over his head. He could take no chances of recognition now.

Elias frowned, but didn’t speak.

Samson’s heart stuttered at the look on the man’s face, but at least it was beating.