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After everything that had happened in Sasan, Sinbad and Spartos had to leave overland, by foot, winding a path through rugged mountains, seeking the shelter of scrubby trees from harsh winds and the patrols that hunted down deserters like dogs. Three weeks until they saw civilization, had a chance to rendezvous with his other friends in one of Reim's border outposts. Three weeks living off of skinny rabbits, bland tubers, water from chilly streams.
It was little like any other journey Sinbad had taken. Most of that was Spartos; the man was stoic to the core, barely knew how to carry a conversation, chatting with him was like talking to a wall. And there were times, more than once, that Sinbad wondered what he was doing following him at all. Found himself spending much more time in silence than he would normally. He trusted Spartos entirely, after what they'd been through together, but soon came to realize that he understood him barely at all. And needed to, to find what would be best for the man.
He deserved a better life. Yet after a week, Sinbad was beginning to wonder whether he was getting anywhere at all. Still a cold, awkward distance between them.
But the very first night that they finally deemed it safe to sleep without a watch, he yawned and dozed as Spartos knelt for his evening prayers, bone-tired--and yelped in surprise as a warm, wiry body slid in against his back, jolting him awake
They rolled away from each other in an instant, each crouching like a startled cat, Sinbad's hand on the hilt of Baal's sword before each calmed his reflexes. And Spartos bowed his head, eyes tracing the rocky ground. "I am sorry, My Lord. Comrades of Sasan...sleep close, it is old custom. I. Assumed."
Sinbad laid his sword aside, gave him a smile. "I don't mind, you just startled me."
"I can prepare a bedroll--"
"No." Spartos finally picked his head up, blinked at him through slightly ruffled bangs. Sinbad held out his hand. "No, c'mere. It's not a custom I mind, seriously. Especially with how cold it is up here."
"It's not cold, My Lord," Spartos murmured. He had this tendency to reflexively protest his strength, Sinbad had noticed. Easy for him to say, he thought jumping naked into the coldest body of water available was a fine start to the day. Sinbad flopped back in his bedroll and mumbled at him until he finally picked his way back, settled in uncertainly, gave one small breath of surprise as Sinbad looped an arm around him.
Spartos was warm for his size, solid compact muscle, curling close with an intimacy Sinbad had never expected. Sinbad held him, slept like a log, content.
The spare bedroll was sacrificed for a rabbit trap two days later, without comment.
They camped early one night, trading an hour more of traveling for a wonderfully sheltered nook full of soft loam. Sinbad's choice; Spartos would have pressed on. Marched all night, no doubt. Comrades of Sasan were trained to fight and obey without complaint until their very bodies gave out in exhaustion; rumor had it that the elite could keep fighting on sheer reflex even when unconscious. Forced into stillness, Spartos perched on a rock overlooking their shelter like a watchful hawk, armor taking on strange, beautiful colors in the setting sun. Prayed at dusk, as always.
They had already eaten. Sinbad climbed up beside him, stood with him as darkness spread out from under the scrub and the stars came out. Spartos was still on one knee from praying, folded low and humble with his other knee tucked against his chest, armor finally peeled off and set in a perfectly arranged pile beside him.
"Spartos..."
"My Lord?" He did not move, only titled his head to look up at him.
"I remember one of the chaplains told me, when we were in the capital, that deserters were heretics. I've been wondering...why, with that, do you still pray?"
"Because that is who I am." Sinbad opened his mouth, and Spartos shifted ever so slightly. "Not everything of Sasan is destructive. Please do not think that it is hurting me, My Lord. You were the first person to ever tell me that I deserved kindness. If I did not believe in what you gave me, I would not be here, nor sworn to you. I renounced the army of Sasan, for all the reasons you know, and for that I may burn, I accept that. But I have not renounced God, nor will I. He created us with wills."
"Wills," Sinbad murmured.
Spartos inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Our ability to choose our paths is His will. I was raised without choice. You gave that to me. But that did not separate me from God. And so I pray."
"What is it that you get out of it?"
Spartos blinked. "Pardon me, My Lord, but you do not understand faith very well."
Sinbad had to laugh, soft and wry. "You got me there. I'm egotistical, and have this terrible habit of challenging anything set before me, I don't think I'd take to it at all."
"True."
Sinbad grinned, stretched, teased. "Ah, come, isn't this where you're supposed to give me some slack?"
Spartos just gave him a look, and, perfectly kindly, said simply, "No, My Lord."
At least Sinbad had already resigned himself to Spartos and Ja'far getting along a little too well.
The dark came full, and they scrambled down into their hollow and set a small fire, for the nights were not so short that they needed to sleep right at dusk, and for once Sinbad wasn't worn out to the point of collapse. Spartos seemed in deep contemplation of the flames for a long while, and Sinbad contemplated him--and the tone his hair took on in the firelight--until Spartos finally murmured, "If ever my will displeases you, My Lord..."
"You'll know. Of course you will." He needed that, Sinbad could tell that much. "But I also want you to have it. Don't ever forget that."
Spartos nodded, sat a little straighter. Sinbad stretched, sprawled, finally remembered that it was probably about time to get the rabbit blood off his sword. Baal's sword--no doubt that was an indignant djinn in there, and he absentmindedly traced the outline of Solomon's Star where it would appear, but he did have only one sword, there was only so much he could do...
"My Lord." Sinbad startled a little--he'd almost thought Spartos had gone to sleep, he'd been so still. "I have proper cloth and oil. Would you...accept the service?"
Sinbad blinked, taken aback. He could manage it himself, he wanted to protest--but then he thought of how meticulously polished Spartos kept his own armor and lance, even in the wilderness, another one of his little rituals. Wondered if this meant something deeper to him.
"I realize it is one of your vessels," Spartos murmured, not meeting his eyes, "if you don't wish to..."
"No," Sinbad said quietly. Pressed a reassuring finger to Baal's star, offered it to Spartos hilt-first. "I trust you with him."
Spartos' head came up, something almost like surprise on his face, almost like tenderness.
"Thank you, My Lord."
He took his time with it, worked it well. Cleaned, polished, oiled, edge honed, until it shone like quicksilver in the firelight. Tidied the scabbard as well, sheathed it with what seemed like satisfaction. Knelt to offer it up to Sinbad. And as Sinbad took it, he bowed his head to kiss the scabbard lightly. Just as he'd done when he'd sworn himself to him.
The next morning, Sinbad woke as Spartos slid out of his bedroll--usually he slept a little longer, but he was fresh, rested. Watched with more care, this time, as Spartos did his morning prayers. A symbolic sprinkle of water, since they had no stream, sparse to conserve their waterskins. Naked before his god, the fine network of scars on his back, left from disciplinary lashings, catching the morning light.
Every Comrade of Sasan bore such scars. Every Comrade of Sasan was given neither choice nor kindness, trained past endurance into something more automaton than man. Spartos' eyes, at least, were not broken and dead; he'd seen men in Sasan who'd made Ja'far seem whole and healthy. He'd ached to tear the whole system down when he'd realized what it was--it left him spitting with anger, tore at old Partevian wounds he'd thought were long healed.
Instead, after a godawful mess, he'd found himself fleeing the country with a Comrade of his own. Spartos had sworn his life and soul into Sinbad's hands, naming him Lord in an oath that surrendered his entire being, his very rights as a human--and had looked up at him in utter bemusement when Sinbad had sworn his counter-oath. Not that hadn't made it up on the spot. But a Sasan Lord gave no oath to his soldier.
Sinbad would have none of that, of course, and even as Spartos disapproved of the upset of his ritual, he'd seen something spark in his eyes. This was, after all, what he'd offered him, what was breaking Spartos free of years of ingrained, accustomed brutality. A different kind of Lord.
That evening, Spartos polished his sword again, after his prayers. A few cursory wipes of the cloth this time, no sharpening needed, no serious work. Working the metal overmuch would wear it faster, they both knew that well enough. But the set of his shoulders as he did it was the same, the quiet satisfaction. The same brief kiss given the sheathed blade when he was done.
"My Lord...your other weapons, if you would be willing to accept it?"
Sinbad blinked, accepted the sheathed sword from him. "We should sleep soon, shouldn't we?"
"We have...a little time. If you do not wish it--"
"No," Sinbad said gently. "No, it's all right."
Spartos' eyes dropped to his left wrist. Sinbad couldn't deny the need. Focalor's bracelet had some of Spartos' own blood still caked in the crannies, and silver wanted polish at the drop of a hat. And his other vessels weren't much better off. He'd spent the trip so accustomed to utter grubbiness that he'd put the thought out of his mind.
"I don't wish to remove it, though, that might trouble this djinn's household..." Ja'far and Masrur were safe in Sindria, but Sharrkan was afield, dealing with trouble in Heliohapt--Sinbad had meant to get back to him weeks ago, he had never expected this trouble in Sasan...
"That is all right." Spartos scooted over, supplies in hand, close to a rock thick with lichen. Sinbad sat, offered Spartos his hand, waited quietly as he worked. Spartos' hair slid over his shoulder, brushed his arm lightly. Spartos' callused fingers on the heel of his hand, steadying him as he worked meticulously by the light of the fire.
"Thank you," Sinbad murmured when he was finished.
"It is my honor," Spartos answered, and bent his head to kiss the bracelet, almost tenderly. For a moment, his breath fogged the new-shining metal.
And so it was every evening. Prayers, polishing, curling up to sleep together. Their conversations were still few and far between, but it was--comfortable. Spartos perched quietly at his feet, working contentedly, almost close enough to lean on him. The first time Sinbad let his hand settle lightly on Spartos' shoulder as he worked, he stiffened--yet relaxed, soon, without saying a word. More intimate than Sinbad would ever have expected from him.
Sinbad always thanked him. Spartos always kissed his weapons when he was done.
One day, a scraggly slope gave out beneath them, left them both tumbling head over heels for a rather uncomfortably long fall. They camped early, Sinbad groaning and Spartos bearing his bruises without a flinch. Rinsed off ungodly amounts of dirt in a stream, sat shivering naked by the fire to dry. Or at least Sinbad was shivering, and huddling rather close. Spartos, immune to the cold, ground a particular herb he said would soothe their bruises, mixed it with a little water, dotted it on the worst of Sinbad's. Offered him the stone he'd used as a mortar, sat unflinching and relaxed as Sinbad tended him. Simply breathed as Sinbad brushed his damp hair out of the way to clean out a jagged cut on his shoulder.
Sinbad had landed in a burr-bush, inevitably, and after Spartos' evening prayers, he perched behind him and painstakingly picked them out by firelight. Surprisingly gently. He'd offered, just as he had with everything else; Sinbad would never have asked. Vain though he might be, burr-picking was hardly Spartos' job. But he did it. Combed Sinbad's hair smooth when he was finally done.
"Thank you," Sinbad murmured.
And heard Spartos draw breath--nothing more than that, but it hitched, his hands stilled for a moment as he drew the comb free to set it aside.
Sinbad always thanked him. Spartos always kissed his weapons when he was done.
Sinbad half-turned, to look at him. Spartos was very still, eyes half-lidded, face blank.
"It's all right," Sinbad murmured. "I give you your will in this, as in all things."
"The Comrades of Sasan..." Spartos started slowly, after a long moment.
"I know." The rumors about it were everywhere. And it had been obvious enough that they were true. He'd been curious, but Spartos was reserved enough that it seemed wiser to ask once they'd come to understand each other better. "It's all right."
Spartos was still for another long, long moment.
Then he picked up the coiled strip of cloth and tied Sinbad's hair back for him, loosely, as he sometimes did to sleep.
"Thank you," Sinbad said again, quietly.
"It is my honor," Spartos answered, and bowed his head, and with Sinbad's hand feather-light under his chin, he pressed his kiss of adoration to his mouth.