War Camp
Oh man it is March, shoot, well de Facto Love February can’t pass withiout writing about Benat and Kemen.
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“You’re still up,” Kemen’s deep voice came from the curtain to Benat’s tent. The shorter man did not look up from the battle plans sprawled out over the bed. They were simplistic approximations of the plans in the war tent: no more than the field of battle, nothing for a spy to see (though the High Commander’s tent was nearly as securely guarded as the war tent itself). Kemen knew his husband’s memory was more than sufficient to see the forces on the field with no assistance.
“So are you.”
“So am I.”
Kemen stood there, lance still in hand—for no one walked through the camp without their weapons, lest the Bereft appear—and waited. Benat finally looked up, dirty brow crumpled into a scowl. When he saw Kemen standing still at the entrance to their tent, his face softened.
“I’m sorry,” he let his shoulders sag, “I meant to have… to have the bed ready by the time you returned from the patrol.”
“Leave the maps,” Kemen laughed, somehow, and rested his spear against the post. “We can sleep on the floor.”
“No, it’s just my own overthinking, as usual.”
“As usual.”
“…I wonder what you saw on your patrol that got you in such a jovial mood?” Benat asked, crossing his arms and eyeing his lover with suspicion.
“When will you believe me, lover,” Kemen put his hands, lightly, on Benat’s shoulders, “That I am naturally optimistic. And nothing makes me more hopeful than a victory.” He kissed Benat, and his lips tasted like his ration of mutton.
“At least we’re fighting people again,” Benat grumbled against his lips, “Aganost has many allies… but they are human, at least. After weeks engaged with the Bereft…”
“Don’t even say their name, High Commander,” Kemen was smiling, weary in the lamp light. “Think of them is not even permitted this close to sleep.”
A lie, obviously. Sleep was a precious commodity in a wawr camp where a few of the remaining company had survived the first campaign with the Bereft, who could imagine their wriggling shapes in every shadow at night. The short-swords both men wore, the scabbards that clattered together and got in the way when Kemen moved to hold Benat, were sign enough of that.
“…if He sends them here again,” Benat whispered, eyes open and bloodshot, even though Kemen had pulled him into the folds of his robe. “We’ll lose Neighim. We’ll lost these men. They’re too green.”
“You let me worry about training the new troops. You make sure my teaching doesn’t go to waste.”
Benat looked up at his husbands face, the bloody patch in his beard still scabbing over, the grime of the march on him. The deep lines at the corners of his eyes. Laugh lines.
“You are everything… I wish I could be,” he whispered after a moment.
“Shh. Just love me. This war needs you as you are, as do I.”