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Samuel Beechworth was once a young sandy haired mechanic, living in what would come to be known as the Flooded District. His father, who wanted him to join the Abby of the Everyman, had been overly strict with him. His mother had disappeared on her way home, when he was barely taller than his father's knee. The result was a rebellious, broad-shouldered youth with less sense than a drunken hound. Nevertheless, his natural skill with machinery made his shop successful enough for an unmarried man with sparse needs and few aspirations beyond enough pocket change for the occasional drink at the pub.
It all changed the day Cyril entered his shop. He was a tall thin man with soft blue eyes and an even softer voice. He'd come to ask for lessons in mechanical repair. He was willing to pay well and Samuel was eager to have someone to teach his craft. As they grew close, Samuel was continually amazed at how delicate Cyril was. His long thin fingers as they adjusted the gears of a clock looked as if they might snap. They soon became almost inseparable. Cyril's father, a posh whaling mogul, was glad to see his son finally picking up more manly habits, and so avidly supported the relationship. His mother was simply happy to see him make a friend.
The first time they kissed was a complete surprise to Samuel, not that he didn't know of Cyril's attraction to him. Being the foolish romantic he was, he'd been waiting for the perfect time for a grand reveal of his emotions, assuming that Cyril would never make the first move. Samuel was proven a fool, however, when shy, stuttering Cyril suddenly grabbed him with shaking hands one night after the shop was closed and crashed their lips together; and being a fool, of course, he reciprocated. They spent the night together on Samuel 's ratty bed, where they kissed and cried out each other's names and clung to one another in the dark. They whispered words of love and made vows to never be parted. In their innocence they believed, that if they merely loved strong enough and were true enough, it'd all work out. It was a delusion that Samuel happily lived for almost two years.
It wasn't that he was angry when he saw the engagement announcement. The engagement was probably Cyril's father's doing after all. He saw no sense in being angry with Cyril about it. Nor was he sad really. When he opened the morning paper and saw Cyril's name there, beside some Tyvian baroness with no name that Samuel ever found, it felt as though, in that instant, he could see his entire life stretched out before him: Cyril would marry and have children and grandchildren, while Samuel would grow old and gray living in a rundown shake in a deteriorating district; perpetually waiting for something that would never happen. Something that was impossible.
He left a note for Cyril on his workbench, told his landlord to sell his stuff in a weeks’ time to pay the last of his rent, and went to the nearest navy recruiter. Within an hour he was on a boat out of Dunwall.
His superiors considered him the model soldier. He would go above and beyond his duty, working late whenever there was an excuse. He'd fiddle with the engine for hours past supper before finally collapsing into bed well after the others, too exhausted to dream of blue eyes and gentle hands. Eventually Cyril left his thoughts all together. So much so that, when he left the navy 15 years later, visiting Cyril never occurred to him. Or at least it didn't so long as he kept his hands so busy his mind had no time to pine.
He married a young maid that year and found in her a warm, sustaining relationship. They were never passionate with each other. She had no interest in such things, and Samuel respected that. But they supported each other, providing each other with stability and companionship. He loved her truly. She died young of a heart malady. Samuel buried her, mourned her, and then, over time, he learned to live alone again.
And alone he remained, boating up and down the Wrenhaven; delivering packages, providing cheap transport, repairing things, and doing a dozen other odd jobs to make ends meet. He watched the city move around him as the years pressed on. His hair went gray and the little aches and pains in his back became permanent. He was growing old.
The plague hit and he watched the city die around him. Food became scarce, not that he ever ate much. The river began to reek of decay. He started having to steer his boat around floating corpses in the now murky water. Samuel could hardly believe it when the Empress died. He cursed the name Corvo. The city had enough problems without adding Imperial assassination to the list. He felt most of all for young Lady Emily, wherever she might have been. He remembered losing his mother at about the same age. It had been difficult.
His old Admiral came to his lean-to one day and asked his help getting Emily on the throne. He made a speech about loyalty, honor, and sacrifice. Samuel proved himself a fool yet again and bought every damn word from the snake, joining the Loyalists in a heartbeat. He had forgotten how good it was to be a part of something. Together with Havelock, Pendleton, and eventually Martin, they discovered proof that Corvo had not been the empress's assassin, and set about breaking him out of Coldridge. Samuel was happy to play a pivotal role in freeing the poor devil.
The man who emerged from the sewer exit was lean and feral looking. Samuel felt a brief stab of fear when he turned towards him, sword gripped tightly in an unsteady hand, his body tensed and ready to fight if need be.
“I’m a friend.” He called out hurriedly. Corvo put the blade away, but remained tense. He didn’t relax the entire ride down to the Hounds Pit. He did smile at Samuel when he was helped out of the boat, though. Samuel reckoned he wasn’t all bad.
A few days later, Corvo shocked him when he took out the High Overseer and saved Callista’s Uncle without shedding a single drop of blood.
“It might not be my place to ask,” He said, when Corvo came down to the docks that evening to say goodnight. “But, why didn’t you kill Campbell?”
Corvo was quiet for a long time, staring off across the dark water of the river.
“I’m just,” he said eventually, in the rough, broken voice he avoided using as much as possible, “I’m just not a murderer, Samuel.”
Samuel found himself desperately in need of a distraction after that, and so he began construction of his own little shelter outside the Hounds Pit the very next day. It helped for a time, keeping his mind off the young Serkonan. It stopped working when Corvo began to assist him in the evenings, but Samuel was a lot older and wiser then he used to be. He had enough self-control not to make something of nothing.
When Havelock ordered him to kill Corvo, he knew it wasn’t an option; but with Havelock standing there, rifle in hand, watching him prepare Corvo’s drink, he had no choice but to give as little poison as he could get away with. When he set Corvo’s barely breathing body drifting down the river, with nothing more than a makeshift raft to keep the hagfish off him, he felt a terrible wrenching pain in his chest. He genuinely believed he was dying for a moment.
It wasn't until he saw Corvo again, alive and breathing on the dock out back of the Hounds Pit that his feelings became undeniable. The relief and affection that flooded his body when Corvo greeted him as a friend was unmatched by anything he could recall. He was almost in tears when Corvo took his hand and stepped on to the Amaranth. Corvo either didn’t notice, or pretended not to. He’d really outdone himself this time, Samuel thought bitterly. He’d managed to find someone even more unobtainable then Cyril, and it had only taken him 32 years.
He was too old to go to sea and forget this one.
Damn.
Corvo didn’t get out right away when they reached Kingsparrow Island. He looked at Samuel, apparently waiting for a goodbye before departing. Samuel looked back at him uncertain about what to say. If he were younger, handsomer - if he were anything other than an old gray man on a constantly breaking boat with barely two coins to rub together - he might have told Corvo about the feeling that filled his chest and made breathing difficult. However, he was just Samuel the Boatman and he’d long ago learned his place.
“All I can say,” he finally managed, “Is it’s been a pleasure serving with you. Maybe aft-“ Samuel was cut off when Corvo grabbed his collar in shaking hands and pulled him in for a kiss. Samuel could feel Corvo's body tense, ready to run. He was afraid, Samuel realized, that he’d be upset. Him, upset with Corvo over this. The notion was so ludicrous Samuel would have laughed if his mouth wasn’t otherwise preoccupied. Instead, he slipped his arms around Corvo and opened his mouth, determined to taste as much of the man as was possible. He didn’t let go when they broke apart for air. Instead he pulled Corvo flat against him and rested his chin in the younger man’s hair.
Corvo let Samuel hold him for a few peaceful moments before pulling away. He stepped off the Amaranth and walked towards the lighthouse.
“Corvo!” Samuel called out as soon as he recovered from the shock enough to speak. Corvo looked back at Samuel. Samuel bit his lip. He knew Corvo had to do this but he still had to say something. “Come back safe.” His voice was pathetically desperate, even to his own ears.
Corvo smiled sadly at him and nodded. He put on Piero’s mask with a resounding click, giving Samuel one last wave before blinking away.
Samuel watched yet another loved one vanish. He pulled his jacket closed tight, and found himself surprisingly calm. He trusted Corvo, after all. He had a feeling Corvo would come back to him.