Bee: A Dangerous Man

He didn't want to sleep when he first came to the convent.

He was wounded, his body scarred and beaten from the treatment he'd received in the asylum, but they had kept him unconscious, barely clinging to life, and he was restless. He tossed and turned in the bed he was assigned.

Bee found him in the courtyard, after midnight, just pacing. He limped, his legs having been broken and set wrongly, and not yet healed. Much about him needed to be healed, but it would have to be done in phases so as to not tax his body any further. He wasn't supposed to be out of bed; he was supposed to be resting; yet there he was, in the middle of the night, shuffling around the courtyard with an ashwood walking stick.

"Mister Obsidia," Bee said reproachfully, and then, "Oh," when he turned to look at them, and was crying.

They went to him swiftly. Even rather crumpled, he was taller than they were, but not possessing more actual mass, and he was easy to guide to the stone edge of a fountain.

"Sit," they urged, "sit. Are you in pain?"

When they tried to release him, his hands knotted in their clothes, and he pressed against them with a whimper.

"Oh," Bee said again. They held him, carefully, in case his body ached too harshly from the trauma to be touched. "There. You're all right. You're safe. Can you tell me what's wrong?"

He shook his head fiercely, and they accepted this. They very gently stroked his back with one hand, and cradled his head with the other, and rocked him from side to side, like a ship at sea. He sniffled and gasped, clutching at them.

When it passed -- whatever had triggered it -- he straightened a little and held not quite so tight, but kept holding. His voice was strained and raw. "You're the one who found me."

"Yes," Bee said.

"Thank you." His voice cracked, there.

"You don't need to thank me," Bee said softly. "But you are welcome."

"Are you … are you, like, a paladin?"

When Bee had first seen him -- when he had first seen them -- they had been bathed in celestial light and wielding a flaming sword as they led the storming of the asylum. It wasn't a logical leap so much as a step. "Yes," they said again.

"So is … is this an abbey? A sanctuary, or whatever?"

"Of sorts," they allowed. "A convent."

He sniffled. "What god?"

"Does it matter?" they asked, openly puzzled. "Lathander."

"Lathander," he repeated, and mumbled it again. "Lathander." He pushed himself away from them -- not far, just to not be held any longer. "I don't know that one."

His face was sticky with salty tears. Bee pulled a clean handkerchief from the interior pocket of their coat, and held it up, asking, "May I?"

"What?"

"Dry your tears."

He sniffled again. "Oh. Uh. Okay."

Bee held his face with one hand, and he closed his eyes as they dabbed at his cheeks. He was warm, they noted. Feverish, most likely. "Lathander is a god of righteousness. Justice. Mercy and light. The dawn after long and dangerous nights."

"Oh."

"My name is Bee, by the way. You may hear people call me Morninglord. Please do not call me that."

"Okay." He blinked his eyes open to look at them blearily. "I'm … You know my name?"

"I do, yes." Satisfied with their work, they tucked the handkerchief away, and pulled the canteen of sweet water off their belt to offer it to him. "My legion took possession of the asylum records. You are Samwell Obsidia, correct?"

He nodded, holding the canteen without drinking. "You … so you … know why I was there."

"I don't believe that you're dangerous," they told him firmly. "Please drink. Your body needs all of the help it can get."

Still looking at them, he turned the canteen up, and drank for a long time. When he was finished, he said, "Thanks."

They gave him a slight smile. "Not the words of a dangerous man."

His lips twitched as he tried to remember how to smile back.

###

He had nightmares, as it turned out. He would wake thrashing and screaming, and upon waking he would shove his back into a corner and smoke would stream from him. His hands would leave char marks on the wall where they were braced. He wouldn't allow any of the clerics near him; he would only scream at them to stay away, to not touch him, and when he got just a bit of strength back, he would hurl crackling blue bolts of energy at them. When a particularly determined cleric tried to come closer anyway, he let out a shriek of panic that brought with it a gout of flame; then he whimpered and curled into a ball, sweating and rocking.

The scorched cleric came to Bee for aid, unsure what to do. Bee watched Sam from the doorway for a long moment, as he shivered and cried, and then eased closer until they could settle beside him on the bed. He didn't seem to take any notice, still gasping out small *no no no no nos,* and only flinched when they touched him.

"It's all right," they said quietly. "It's Bee. Do you remember me?" He didn't respond, but they carried on regardless. "I'm real, Mister Obsidia. I'm real, and that's how you can tell that this is real. You aren't in the asylum. You're here. You're with me. You're safe."

His murmurs abated. He stayed curled up, but leaned into them, and his sobs steadily became less violent.

"You're awake," Bee attempted to soothe him, but it didn't have the desired effect -- instead, his sobs just started back up harder, and Bee was alarmed and baffled. They offered him shushes and platitudes, with nothing specific that would run the risk of upsetting him.

It was very odd that he could breathe fire. His file said that he was a warlock. Bee sent a page to check the convent's libraries for warlock patrons with the gift of fire breath. They held him until the page returned, fretful and puzzled, having been unable to find anything.

This was troubling. But he had uncurled while they waited, enough to cling to Bee again, and his sobs quieted again as they rocked him. He wasn’t a dangerous man. He was merely afraid.

###

It was the clerics that he disliked. He was clearly wary of the paladins, the guards in their golden armor, but the clerics made him shift away and shake his head emphatically. He didn’t want them to touch him, physically or with magic from a distance; he wouldn’t allow them to heal him.

Bee’s partner told them this with great regret. He wasn’t allowing them to treat him, she said. She didn’t know what to do.

“It’s a dilemma,” Zelda said. “We’re sworn to help, but helping him will only hurt him, too. There’s no just course.”

He still wasn’t sleeping; he continued to struggle and wake and panic. He was clearly ill. The clerics in the ward had the kind instinct to go to him and soothe him, but they were unable to, and had begun to turn their heads and grimace, hunching their shoulders against a pain they could not mitigate, and had only to listen to. And he was distraught and exhausted, not eating well, wanting to roam when he was awake but with a body not strong enough for roaming.

Bee considered the dilemma. When his waking shout echoed through the ward, carrying an echo of the distress he’d awoken in the other patients (many of them liberated from the same cursed asylum), Bee paced down the hall to his room -- he had been put in a far corner, to minimize the disruption he caused. By the time they reached him, he was crushed into a corner, crouching awkwardly on the bed, smoking, turning his sheets black with soot. He panted and looked around the room like a caged animal.

When he saw Bee, he locked onto them and stammered, “Get me out of here. I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be here, get me out --.”

“I will. I will.” Bee came towards him slowly, hands outstretched. “Let me help you walk. We’ll go outside. Okay?”

They offered him a hand. He was terrified, but took it, skin burning against theirs. He allowed them to touch him, and they pulled him along -- quickly, but not so fast that he stumbled and hurt himself -- to the door. As soon as they were in the courtyard together, he let out a hoarse sigh and slumped, calming.

Bee supposed that the room he’d been confined to in the asylum wasn’t all together too different from the ones in the treatment ward here. This one was larger, and furnished, and the sheets were softer and there was a window, but the walls were white and the ceiling was vaulted, and there was only one door, and only one narrow bed. Hospitals and prisons could have some unfortunate similarities.

“We’ll find you a new room,” they said, holding him up. “Would that help?”

“Nnn.”

He was spent. Bee eased him down, and they sat cross-legged and pulled him to lean into them. He had cooled down, but still felt feverish. They weren’t certain he was ever truly feverish, really -- he might, they considered, just be like this, like he seemed to be able to just breathe fire. But he lapsed into unconsciousness against them, twitching and whimpering, hurt and afraid, and they gently petted his hair. He wasn’t dangerous.

###

He slept best outside. That way, when he woke, he was able to get his bearings immediately -- to know that he wasn’t trapped.

“This isn’t humane,” Zelda said, worried. “It’s winter. He’ll freeze.”

“He won’t,” Bee assured her.

But to be completely certain, they stayed with him -- bundled in two coats overnight, and a warm, furry hat that covered their ears, under the convent’s eave as snow fell. He curled up on a blanket on the ground, and steamed as he turned the snowflakes to vapor. Still, he cried out in his sleep, and inevitably jerked awake, lurching upright with another pained sound, but when he did, he only looked dazed rather than terrified. He saw Bee watching him over a book and a mug of hot cocoa, and stared at them for a long moment, and laid back down.

The third time he woke in that first night, Bee pulled off their coats and went to him, boots crunching through the fresh-fallen snow until they reached the halo of warmth and dryness that surrounded him. They sat on his blanket with him, and he moved closer. He didn’t pull away. Whether it was because he had seen them before anything else, radiant in Lathander’s light as they heaved him to safety, or simply because they were a paladin, and not a cleric, he didn’t pull away.

“Will you tell me what you’re dreaming of?” they asked softly.

He shook his head fiercely.

“It helps to talk about it, sometimes,” they told him. “You don’t have to. But it’s clearly painful, and sometimes sharing your pain so that you don’t have to carry it alone makes it less of a burden.”

He made an uncertain sound, arms wrapped around himself. He looked very young, Bee thought. His file estimated that he was twenty-seven, but the vulnerability of his poor health made him seem younger. It was a keen, helpless sadness. He had been alone in that room they had found him in for Lathander only knew how long, drugged and wounded and mistreated. Bee had to imagine he went back there, in his sleep.

“Something’s wrong,” he said, his voice broken, his eyes down. “Something’s … wrong, and I … I can’t … I don’t …”

It overwhelmed him. He buried his face in his hands with a frustrated sound. Bee touched his arm, then moved in to hold him, and he leaned into them, mumbling, *It’s wrong, something’s wrong, something’s wrong*. He became hot again, and Bee tried to murmur reassurances to calm him, tried to settle him with careful pets, but it didn’t work. He was painful to touch. They persisted, speaking more firmly to make him look.

“You’re too warm,” they told him, holding his gaze. “You need to discharge the energy. Do you understand?”

“No!” Smoke came with the word. “I don’t fucking understand! I don’t fucking understand any of --.”

Bee managed to duck and avoid the majority of the firebreath. He crumpled in place onto his side, panting and glassy-eyed. Bee checked their arm and hm’d over the burn, then checked on him. He was barely conscious, and tried to focus on them, and made a pitiful sound and grabbed for them weakly when he saw the burn.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry.”

There was no malevolence in him. He wasn’t dangerous.

###

“You need to hold still,” Bee told him sternly.

He fidgeted. “I hate this. I don’t want this.”

“I’ll stop if you feel that way.”

He groaned and kept shifting in place, lying on the couch and gripping the upholstery, then grabbing their wrist tightly as their hand hovered over his chest.

“Do you want me to stop?” they asked, kneeling on the floor beside him.

“Yes. N-no.”

They waited, watching him, and gently said, “Do you want to feel better?”

“Yes.”

“Then please let me heal you.”

Another groan. In the asylum, the vile clerics of Talona, Mistress of Disease, had hurt him, over and over again -- hobbling him, forcing him into unconsciousness, always healing him again to keep him from dying. Purposefully healing him wrong. Poisoning him to make him pliant -- to make him powerless, if not docile. Samwell Obsidia was rarely docile, but he pressed Bee’s hand against his chest and screwed his eyes closed.

“Okay. Okay, fine. Do it. Get it over with.”

Bee let the light flow into him. There were powerful curses and diseases polluting him, and Bee purged them from his body, mending him as well they could, in his exhausted and deteriorated state -- he would still need rest. He had frozen up as if he expected it to hurt, but relaxed slowly, and opened his eyes again. His grip on Bee’s wrist loosened.

“This is it?” he murmured.

“Yes. This is it.”

The last bit of disease left him, and he was warm, still, but only pleasantly so. He looked tired and confused, and oddly content. “I just …” he mumbled. “I just … was scared.”

“I know,” Bee said. They straightened to pull a blanket over him, so that he could rest more comfortably there in their study, while they worked at the desk. “It’s all right.”

Sam had begun to trust them, though it was a shaky process, and with that trust -- with the idea that there was at least one person in the world who didn’t want to hurt him, who would calmly and gently aid him -- came less fear. He would sleep inside, sometimes, as long as they were in the room when he woke. When he woke outside, he would shuffle indoors to find them, and say nothing; he merely didn’t want to be alone. His nightmares were as ferocious as they had ever been, but he was only afraid, only lonely, only lashing out in distress. He wasn’t a dangerous man.

###

Cleaning him of disease and curse helped him to sleep, and once he was able to sleep, his mood improved greatly. He passed out hard on Bee’s couch, and Zelda tiptoed around him until Bee informed her that there was truly no chance of waking him -- they’d accidentally dropped quite a large book, earlier, and he hadn’t budged.

“It’s good to see,” she whispered.

They nodded, watching him breathe steadily in his sleep.

“You’ve been home for quite a long time, with him,” she went on.

“No one else was making any progress.”

“Of course,” she said quickly. “Aren’t you restless, though? Eager for a new mission?”

They considered this. “No. Not in particular.”

Bee spent a great deal of time in their study, and as a result, Sam did as well. He began to sleep there, on the couch, more often than not, which was unfortunately something of an inconvenience, because Bee had a tendency to sleep there as well. They didn't spend enough time at the convent to have their own bed; they slept with Zelda at times, but more frequently in the study. Not wanting to disturb him, they dozed in their chair instead, but finally, at one point, went to the couch to give him a gentle shake. He had been sleeping so much since the healing that they didn't feel terribly guilty for waking him.

He blinked up at them drowsily, and they beckoned for him to sit up. Once he had, they sat down, pulling the ottoman closer to prop their feet up, and settled in. He laid back down with his head in their lap, which they hadn't anticipated, but found pleasing enough. They stroked his knotted hair, and he made a soft, contented sound.

There were no more nightmares. No more lashing out in fear in the middle of the night. He still had much recovering to do, but he was able to do it, now, and he wasn't a danger to himself or to others.

###

Bee coaxed Sam into the bathhouse, promising that he would feel better if he was clean. He protested.

"Why?" they asked gently.

"I don't -- want -- I don't need --."

He was frustrated easily. He lost his words and was simply angry about his inability to get them out, flushing and turning hot.

"Sam." Bee put a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay. Breathe, and settle. You don't have to respond straight away."

He scoffed and huffed and paced around the courtyard. Bee stood still and waited for him to come back.

When he did, they asked, "What are you afraid of?"

"I don't want you to see me," he mumbled.

"I don't understand," they said, puzzled. "Can you try to phrase that some other way?"

"In the bath. I don't want -- you to see me."

"Undressed, you mean?"

He covered half his face with a hand, blushing furiously, and nodded.

"I won't go in with you," they said simply.

"No, but -- I -- want you to," he insisted, the frustration coming back.

It seemed he had conflicting desires. Another dilemma. Bee remained puzzled. "Sam, what are you afraid of?" they asked again. "What do you think will happen if I see you in the bath?"

"I don't know! I don't know." He snapped at first, then mumbled. "You'll … want … I don't …"

His eyes were still behind his hand. He had some drive to hide, to not be seen, but Bee was firm. "Sam, please look at me."

He shook his head, but dropped his hand a little to look through his fingers.

"I do not lie to you," Bee reminded him. "And I'm telling you that nothing bad will happen. I will not want anything from you. If you want me to stay with you, I will, and nothing will change."

He watched them. He was wary and afraid, but after a moment, he nodded. "Okay."

The baths were already warm, but steamed more from contact with Sam's skin. He was covered in scars from the weeping wounds that had been inflicted upon him, from infection that had been left to fester, and from abrasions left by the restraints he'd been kept in, and cuts for Lathander knew what reason. Bee was not prone to anger, but they were deeply bothered by the treatment he had received in the asylum. Many of the patients from the raid had already left the convent, but he had been treated uniquely poorly.

Dangerous, his file said.

He sat quietly in the hot water and was still and passive as Bee scrubbed sweat and grime off him. He wore out quickly and the warmth made him sleepy, and he needed the help. After a time, Bee found the awkwardness of the situation tiring, and stripped to join him in the bath so that they could reach him more easily. Predictably, he found this embarrassing, and kept looking away from them.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

"Of course. You're welcome."

It had been some time since he had been clean, and he looked rather different even before they tackled his hair -- it reached the tops of his shoulders, but was so matted and knotted that it turned out to be slightly longer once Bee had thoroughly teased the knots away with ample conditioner to make it painless. He drifted in and out as they worked, finally relaxed. When they were done, he slipped a hand through his hair in amazement.

"It's longer than I thought."

"It's healthy, as well," they said, pleased. "Strong. Tenacious."

He seemed embarrassed by this, too. Bee sat in front of him and took his hands to start cleaning his fingernails gently with a sharp file, and he watched them in fascination, as if he'd never seen it done before.

"May I ask you some questions?" they said.

He nodded.

"The file that we recovered from the asylum." They glanced up to be sure he was all right with this line of questioning. "It says you're a warlock. May I ask what sort of creature you made a pact with?"

He did, indeed, seem uncomfortable. "The file didn't say?"

"It said a demon," they admitted. "But I see no reason to believe it outright. It's a common misconception -- I know that you might have made a pact with a fey, or even a god. There are many possibilities."

"Oh. No, it … I did make a deal with a demon."

"Hm," Bee said.

###

He allowed them to mend his scars.

"I want to forget any of it ever happened," he said miserably.

"It's important to not forget," they told him. "It's important to learn from the past."

"I guess."

But the scarring upset him, and so Bee laid hands on him and concentrated, not as skilled a healer as Zelda, but still the only one Sam would allow to touch him. They asked him for the truth in how he had found himself in the grip of the Talonans, not taking the recovered file at face value.

"It claimed you hurt innocent townspeople," they told him, calmly, "which doesn't sound like you."

"Fucking innocent!" he snapped.

Bee shushed him and reminded him to be still, and he settled somewhat.

"They weren't fucking innocent," he muttered. "I was -- I was trying to find this thing. It's, uh, it's a job for my patron. And I was asking around. And these people said it was cursed, or something, and if I wanted it I must -- must be evil, or something."

"They were afraid of you," Bee murmured.

"I hadn't done anything!"

"I know," they soothed. "I know. You wouldn't."

"I just wanted to find this thing, but they were yelling about -- about demons being evil, and … and the town guard showed up, and -- I had to defend myself," he insisted.

Bee would send out knights to investigate the town nearest the asylum. They didn't doubt Sam's intent; they merely questioned his memory, and his perspective of the events. There may have been civilian casualties, even if he only meant to fend off his attackers. It wouldn't justify his imprisonment and torture by the Talonans, of course. Bee simply liked to have all of the information, and a full and clear picture of events.

"Of course," they told him. "You did what you had to do. I know. I don't believe that you're dangerous, Sam," they repeated.

###

Bee was granted a vision in the dawn light, as they meditated in the solarium. It seized them and burned them, and illuminated their veins, and boomed through their bones.

They regained consciousness to find Zelda cradling them, healing their fried skin and offering them water. "It's been a long time since Lathander spoke to you."

She was worried. Bee was worried, too.

###

Sam told Bee about his demon in the spring. His body was well again, and he was ready to leave, but didn't yet want to. He asked them for help with completing his patron's goals -- asked softly and shyly under the apple blossoms for them to come with him, because he would miss them, and he thought that maybe he needed them. He wasn't strong enough to do it by himself. He didn't have anyone else.

Bee considered this. Demons, they were quite sure, were evil. Aiding one in crossing over to the mortal plane was almost certainly a bad idea.

But Sam sat on a stone bench with his hip against theirs, and twirled a flowering twig in his hands, and quietly told them that he was in love with his demon, and the demon was in love with him, and had been for lifetimes, and only wanted to be with him. It visited him in his sleep and held and comforted him. It soothed him when no one else could. He sniffled and told them how alone he had been, before Aziz.

Bee sent a page to the convent library to search for demons called Aziz. They explained delicately that they had spent years of their life hunting down errant demons, cleansing the curses they laid on mortals, breaking the foul deals they made. They told Sam they weren't sure.

"I need to speak with … him," they said, troubled. He nodded and hugged them tight, relieved, as if he were sure this was only a delayed yes.

Lathander's voice, like the roar of a wildfire, had commanded them: YOU MUST STOP SAM OBSIDIA.

But he was not a dangerous man.

###

The demon regarded Bee with cool golden eyes, and they felt chilled in the balmy marble dream palace. Sam unfolded himself from its side to come to them eagerly and hug them, so genuinely pleased to have them and his demon in the same place.

He was happy. So happy. Bright-eyed and excited, but relaxed, with none of the tension and frustration that bore down on him in the waking world. He only looked this way in his sleep.

Bee's chest ached for him.

They had questions, many questions, and the demon was forthcoming and lazy. Several times, they felt that it was lying to them, but catching the lies was difficult. Pinning them down, backing the demon into a corner, forcing it into admissions. It freely told them its real name, what it was and how it had slain its siblings. It described the process in detail. Sam stayed nestled against its side the entire time, unfazed. Other times, he laid stretched out on the lounge with his head in Bee's lap, dozing contentedly.

"I'm not ready," Bee told him, in the waking world. "I need to be sure." They felt apologetic, and regretful, and confused by their own dilemma.

Sam began to become frustrated.

Something changed, almost too slowly to perceive, like boiling a frog.

###

"You're wrong," Sam snapped.

"Please let me explain," Bee tried.

"You fucking spied on me!"

They were exasperated. "Sam, that's exactly what Pride did."

"He was looking out for me! You're just -- trying to find fucking reasons to not believe he's good!"

The demon told them about the orc named Sakin. Bee's researchers found Sakin to be a general who died in battle, and the lead ended there. The demon told them about Sharpness, Nissa, a tiefling back alley boxer from Skyport, and the knights and pages dispatched to the city found out about her husband Aziz, who destroyed most of a block in a fiery rage when she was killed, taking himself and dozens of innocents with her.

Pride was dangerous.

Bee's seers expended their magic tracking Sam's trajectory through life, burning themselves on Lathander's light to ask their god for aid, to catch glimpses of the past, to put the puzzle together.

"I'm looking for the truth," Bee told Sam firmly.

"He's telling you the fucking truth! You just don't want to fucking believe him!"

Pride was dangerous, and Sam loved him.

###

He wanted to leave the convent.

"Sam, please." Bee held his hand, and he glared at them. "I need more time."

"I don't fucking need you."

"Two more weeks," they blurted. "Give me two more weeks. I'll make a decision. I'm just trying to be careful. I care about you. I want the decision to be correct."

"I can just fucking tell you the correct decision!" He was frustrated, but he no longer set fires in his frustration, merely became hot. He was healthy, and in control of his abilities.

He cared about them, as well. He pulled them into an angry hug, and they were relieved, holding him back, tilting their chin up to rest it on his shoulder. He stood tall, now, and he was strong. He'd made so much progress.

"I just -- I want -- I want both of you," he muttered.

"I know. I want you to be happy," they promised. "I'm sorry for the delay."

Bee meant this. They'd developed a surprisingly strong affection for Sam, more than they had for any other patient. They were a paladin, a missionary -- they didn't stay at the convent and nap on the couch with patients. They were meant to go out into the world and rescue those in need, counsel them and treat them gently and kindly, yes, but ultimately bring them to Zelda and her clerics for further treatment, if it was needed.

Perhaps they had done this wrong, in their inexperience. Perhaps they had made a mistake in … coddling Sam, in reminding him when to eat and bathe, in going for walks with him in the convent garden, in holding his hand and combing his hair. But none of it had felt wrong. They deeply wanted to go out on a new mission -- one with him, one that would make him happy, make him light up the way that he only did in his dreams. That felt just. It felt righteous to bring him joy.

Sam was lonely, and sweet, and a little helpless. He wasn't dangerous.

But he loved a lying demon, and he would do anything for it, and Bee felt wretched to their core to sink to its level and lie to Sam, for the first time, and tell him that they would only keep him there for two more weeks.