PART I. DROUGHT.
Since his accursed rebirth, Blade has been naught but one of the swords in the Xianzhou Luofu's arsenal, bed-warmer for the Arbiter General. Both cruelty and kindness have never disturbed the bitter apathy he's steeped within. You succeed where they have failed. tags: a/b/o, AU Canon divergence (Blade was taken by the Luofu after his rebirth), non-consensual touching, animal injury, Blade is weird idk what to tell you 10.8k words thank you @pranabefall for giving this a look over!!
The sky weeps unto fields of rolling green. It’s impossible to tell what time of day it is. The clouds are thick. A film of bluish grey has been cast over this abandoned husk of a world. Blade has not seen a single soul since arriving, fleet-footed on the heels of fleeing abominations of Abundance. They scattered into the green overgrowth of the nearby forests. The downpour has washed away the scent trail of fear.
He tracks them manually, a hound on the hunt. They’ve left behind footprints and breakages in the underbrush. Drops of water roll off the lush strands of overgrown ferns and hedges. The paths here are clotted by creeping branches. Grass has grown over most of the trail, indicating a lack of use. If he were a normal man, perhaps he would wonder what’s happened to the goodly people of Seanmhair, but he isn’t. So he doesn't think of anything besides the fading scent of his prey.
The trail leads down a small slope where a fat river churns. Several smaller streams run parallel to it. Beyond the banks on the other side looms a great and vast wreckage. It is the ruins of a town, stained dark with water. Its brick structures have been gutted. The metal skeletons of several larger buildings have rusted over.
He stands at the bank of the river. This is where the scent disperses. They most likely crossed, and the water washed away the trail. It is frustrating, but it does not render his task impossible. His gaze wanders to the shallowest parts of the river, where stones and broken branches tangle together, and makes out the unmistakable shape of a person caught on the remains of a toppled tree trunk. Floating motionlessly, tattered clothes pulled by the current.
They don’t move when he approaches the bank. The water is bitterly cold. It sloshes around his calves and soaks him to the bone. The material of his pants sticks to his legs. His hair has long become soaked and flattened against his skin. Fat raindrops slap against the rushing water. The weather shows no signs of clearing. He makes his way beyond the unfortunate lost soul and reaches the deepest point. He’s up to his waist, now.
His sole goal is to reach the other end and continue the search. His prey cannot have gone far.
A soft, agonized cry splits the air. The sound zaps at a long untouched, instinctual part of him. The alpha is known for bearing its teeth and quarreling for dominance, but it also covets the safety of its inferiors. Ancient instincts, written into the biological fabric of his belong, move him.
He pivots towards the source of the sound, trudging through the silt and mud at the river’s bottom to reach you, the poor, waterlogged thing he assumed to be a corpse. You can barely lift your head up. Too weak to make another sound, even a whimper, as he reaches you. He looms over you. The water washes away your scent. It should be impossible for him to tell, but somehow, someway, he knows that you are an omega. You look up at him with big, bleary eyes. When he wraps his arms around you and heaves you into his chest, you make not a sound. Too weak and weary to do anything but stare into the distance. Your gaze is glassy. He’s not sure if you can even see him.
He wades through the current and emerges on the other side.
—
There are a few things he has to get in order. First, he finds shelter in one of the sturdier abandoned structures and manages to light a fire. He does not have any plush bedding to swaddle you in, no plumped-up pillows. The old, yet dry tarp he finds rolled up in one of the corners will have to do. He lays you on top of it and peels your clothes off, layer by layer.
Your shirt comes first. He spreads it out in front of the flames. A whimper cracks out of your chest as he reaches for you again. Your hand, cold and shaking, weakly grips his wrist.
“Let me,” he murmurs, “You will catch your death in these clothes. I won’t do anything… untoward.”
Next comes your trousers, your underwear. You are bared to him inch-by-inch. He doesn’t stop to drink in the sight. He does not have the time. You are cold, your body wracked with shivers. The sight again strikes something in his chest that he thought dead. Embers to spur old, forgotten instincts alive. He wraps you in the tarp and nudges you closer to the fire.
His own clothes come next. If he had not stumbled across you, he would have continued to trek in them. But you are freezing, and the fire alone will not be enough to warm you. The mara which strains at the underside of his skin provides constant, feverish heat. You’ve squeezed your eyes shut.
Once he is bare, he peels open the tarp. Your eyes shoot open. They go wide as dinner plates, and another whimper rattles from your chest. On weak arms, you attempt to scramble backwards, but he seizes you by the hips and pulls you to his chest. A sob cracks out of you. The knotted root that has replaced his heart seizes at the sound, but he doesn’t release you. You squirm and beat a fist against his chest.
The fight leaves you very quickly. Your breathing is loud and quick. Hyperventilating, he realizes. Panicking. The sour scent of omega distress salts the air. It makes his nose wrinkle, stings him with the urge to soothe.
“I’m keeping you warm,” he rasps. For the first time, his voice seems to reach you. You squint up at him. The fog of looming death is relinquishing its grip on your senses. Your eyes are a little clearer.
“That’s… it?” you say, voice a disbelieving croak.
“That’s it,” he confirms quietly. He nudges his arm below your head, makes a pillow out of his bicep. His other arm wraps around your side. Your skin is cool and damp to the touch. His calloused palm rubs up and down the trembling length of your back. The friction will help warm you. “Rest.”
You tuck against his chest, cheek pressed over the space where his heart would be. Every possible inch of your naked skin is pressed together. It stirs something inside of him. Animal satisfaction hums behind his closed eyelids, as if he has fulfilled some indispensable, animal need. The incessant buzzing of the mara grows quiet, drowned out by the rain, the soft wheezes which rattle from your lungs.
He does not sleep. He rests.
The rations he brought with him have remained dry, in their plastic packaging. He cracks one of them open and holds it out for you. Your hands are still shaking, but you’ve warmed significantly. Your clothes are halfway dry. After ensuring you would not catch your death of cold, he shrugged his back on. You take a bite and chew. The dead look in your eyes still lingers. You harbor a bone-deep sort of weariness. Resignation wears into your features, rendering you small and gaunt, hunched in on yourself.
“Denizens of Abundance landed on this planet not long ago,” he breaks the quiet, barely audible over the crackling of the fire.
“Is that what those monsters are called? They threw me into the river…” you mumble. It is only then that he realizes just how little you know. Are the people of Seanmhair even aware of the power that exist outside of their atmosphere? Do they know that traveling the cosmos is indeed possible? A picture of the people who once inhabited this place begins to form. A less advanced population, who had no clue about the dangers beyond the sky until it was too late.
A flare of righteous indignation suddenly bites at him. The creatures who put their hands on you will suffer, he decides, even at the cost of efficiency.
He is starting to feel too much. He’s spent years blanketed in nothingness. A tool has no need for righteous anger or gentle sympathies. How odd, that they be spurred now. Is this the power of an omega? To move him from "thing" to "beast"?
“Do you know where they are now? I’ve come to eradicate them. Every last one,” Blade informs you. Perhaps, this will serve as some form of comfort.
“They’ve been here for a while,” you shrug, “They live at Glasvain.”
A while? They’ve been using this planet as a foothold, then. A base of operations as they conduct their raids on other, nearby worlds. In attempting to flee, they’ve led him straight to their hive. This mission will bear more fruit than initially expected. Jing Yuan, and the council of fools he often grapples with will be pleased.
“Are you able to lead me to this Glasvain?” he asks. “After the rain stops.”
You look at him strangely, then. Through squinting eyes. Your mouth goes slack, eyebrows nettled in an incredulous expression.
“You… the rain won’t stop,” you tell him, “It’s been raining for the past twenty years. I can’t even remember what it was like before it started–who are you? Where did you come from?”
“I am Blade. I came from the Xianzhou Luofu,” he says, soaking in all you have said, “I’m here to hunt the monsters that attacked you. Are they also responsible for what’s happened to this place?”
“...No. People started leaving after the rain started. I’m the only one who lives here now,” you murmur. “I live on the far side. But I’ll probably have to leave soon. The river you found me in–it wasn’t there a few days ago. It’s flooding fast.”
“And will you lead me to Glasvain?” he repeats, since you hadn’t answered the first time.
“Yeah. It’s not far,” you say, staring into the fire. You curl into yourself, tug the tarp as tight as you can. Another shiver rolls through you. He’s not keeping you warm enough, he thinks, but attempting to rectify the problem would only frighten you. The acidic smell of your fear died down after it became clear that he meant no harm. He has no desire to betray this small measure of confidence you’ve placed in him.
—
Your home is a small, brick building placed on the border between town and the vast emerald field beyond it. It is almost a perfect cube with a gabled roof. You shove the door open–it’s been left unlocked. The inside is small and homey. A mugs and books and various miscellaneous items sit atop the chipped fireplace and coffee table. The embroidered curtains are shut.
He has to hunch to enter. He stands in the foyer while you bustle to a small hallway in the back. Your scent, soft and clear as earth after rain, sticks to every surface. A few picture frames rest on a dusty shelf. The worn leather spines which crowd wall-to-wall are labeled in a language he cannot read. Pillows and clothes are piled on a loveseat. He can’t blame you for the mess. He wouldn’t care to clean either, with no prospective visitors. Alone in a world in the middle of its apocalypse.
You’re in new clothes when you re-emerge. Blade parts his lips, whets his palette with your scent. The shadow of the hallway is dark behind you. It makes you look smaller, somehow. You hover uncertainly, as though you had forgotten he was here. There’s a spooked look in your eyes. Have you just now realized the potential consequences of inviting a strange alpha into your den?
For you, this afternoon has been one extended rush of adrenaline and sensation. One terrible thing happening to you after the other, all while mired in a dying world. The danger has passed. You’re exiting survival mode. Giving yourself space to think. Space to fear. You’re fortunate that he’s the one who found you, he thinks.
“We… it’s getting dark out,” you inform him, “We’ll stay here, tonight. I can dry your clothes, if you want. And I have some food. If you’re hungry.”
Blade blinks mutely at you. He doesn’t know if he should tell you that he doesn’t get “hungry”. Consuming organic matter speeds up his regeneration. He shakes his head. After an extended period of silence, you cautiously pad over to the couch. You perch there, baggy pants crinkling as you draw your legs up to your chest, taking up as little room as possible.
Quiet blankets the room yet again. He stands in front of the door. Hovers like a ghost. It takes you about five minutes to grow tired of his awkward looming. You tell him he can sit.
“What happened to this world?” he asks as he makes himself comfortable. He takes up residence on the loveseat opposite from you, ensuring you have a full view of him.
“Started to rain real hard,” you croak miserably.
“And what caused the rain?”
“I don’t know. Most of it happened before I was born,” you begin, tracing the fabric of the sofa with a finger. “It had something to do with mining. They were mining and–and they found something. It came up through the earth. The people in charge seemed to change after that. The companies in charge hired more and more people. Until there was no one left that wanted to work–so they started making people do it.”
“There was an uprising. It started raining after that. Everything fell apart. Or maybe it’d fallen apart when they first found… whatever they found. I still don’t know what exactly caused the rain. Mama and Papa didn’t like to talk about it much,” you shiver, and draw in on yourself. “I saw some pictures. I don’t blame them.”
“Mm,” Blade acknowledges, drawing in the information with half-lidded eyes. It’s a vague, secondhand summarization of events, but it still helps paint a picture. By the state of this place, and the fact that you are alone, he assumes that your parents have either abandoned you or passed away. The dead state of this town and Glasvain indicate that this world, or this part of the world, has become rapidly depopulated. It makes sense, then, that the Denizens of Abundance would find it a fitting resting ground. With no natives, they can come and go undisturbed.
His train of thought is broken as you shift in your seat. You want to say something. Your lips press together, expression stormy. Blade grows tired of the silence after a few moments. If you want something, you only need to ask.
“Speak, child,” he commands. He keeps his voice soft for you.
“I can… hang your clothes to dry,” you finally say. “If-if you want. It just… I thought you might be uncomfortable. Sitting in them.”
His clothes, damp and cold, cling to his skin in way that a mortal, flesh and blood man would certainly find uncomfortable. He’s no longer concerned with his own comfort, but he cannot help but be amused. By you. By the situation.
“You invite a strange man into your home, and then you ask him to strip naked,” Blade says, wryly amused. “You play dangerous games, girl. How have you managed to survive this long?”
And then, you surprise him. The space between your brows wrinkles, and your hands curl into fists. The corners of your lips twitch into a churlish frown. Ah. He's upset you.
“You think I don’t know? Of course I know how dangerous this is!” you snap, “If you were gonna do anything, you would have done it already,” you rapidly lose steam as you continue, pointed rage dissolving into lost, disjointed rambling. “Even if you were a bad person, I–you’re the first real person I’ve seen in months. And I can’t keep talking to myself anymore.” you continue, voice pitching into a distraught whine. “I don’t care if you hurt me. A-And you’ve already seen me naked. None of it matters, anymore. None of it.”
You’re wrapped tight into yourself by the end of it, knees pulled up to your chest. You sound like you're trying to convince yourself more than anything.
Blade finds himself effected.
—
Glasvain.
The green fields are empty, save a dilapidated hut that sits by the treeline. A few bleating animals with thick, white pelts absentmindedly roam the space. A few of them are grazing. You pause next to him.
“A shepherd lives there. I visited him… a month ago? A month or two ago,” you mutter feebly, motioning towards the hut.
Coming closer, the poor state of the dwelling becomes more apparent. The front door is splintered off its hinges, as if it’d been battered in. The windows are shattered. Shards of opaque glass litter the dirt around the pitiful hovel. You stumble forwards, heading towards it with a manic look in your eye.
“Hello!?” you call out. “Is anyone there!” The rain drowns out your voice. No one replies.
Blade spies a rust-colored, spattered stain on the white, still-standing wall. He wholeheartedly believes you are now the last, living native of this region. You take in the sight, trembling and breathing too quickly.
“Come,” he rests a hand on your quivering shoulder.
“N-No,” you shake. “He could be out there somewhere. We should go looking–what if he’s hurt!?”
He says your name. Slow. Purposeful.
“We should at least check the place out–” you take another step forward, and Blade reels you back into his chest. You stumble on the wet grass, crashing into his chest. He doesn’t move an inch. You crane your neck to look up at him, mouth balled up tight. Clearly on the verge of tears.
“I’ll look,” he says.
Inside of the home, curled up on the exposed floor, is presumably the corpse of your shepherd acquaintance. Up close, he can smell the acrid tang of blood and rot. The kill is relatively recent. Over the last few days, the decay sped up by the downpour and the humidity. You shouldn’t see this, he decides then and there. Not when you’re already so fragile.
He–he needs you to be his guide. Never mind the long buried things you’ve shaken alive. They write within him. He steps back into view and shakes his head. You look stricken, for a moment. The gauntness in your face grows deeper, shadowed and weighed by grief. For the briefest of moments, he fears that you will topple over where you stand. But you don’t.
Your face relaxes. Or, rather, it deadens. The light in your eyes snuffed out by the unfortunate news. He is deathless, but it kills him to be unable to provide the comfort you so desperately need. How does one even begin to reach out? There is nothing he could say that would alleviate the pain of the lives lost, of the isolation you’ve endured.
"Stay here," he says in a voice which brokers no argument.
He leaves you there, stood emptily underneath the branches at the treeline. The denizens of Abundance have holed themselves up in the dilapidated ruins of the town Glasvain. He combs through the jagged, ruined cobblestone streets like an oncoming flood. The fight lasts hardly an hour. The feathers of the birdmen were weighed down by the water, stealing their prized agility. He is coated in their blood by the time he staggers outside the rusted gates.
It washes off by the time he returns to you.
When he returns to you, you are clutching a small, bleating creature in your arms. You look at him with haunted eyes. He looks at you. The silence lasts for several, awkward seconds.
"Are… are you alright?" you speak first. There is fear on your face. His stomach with writhes with discontent. He's frightened you. What if you try and leave? Things will get complicated without a guide. The need to soothe you rattles his brain with sudden intensity. He is no good with words.
"I'm fine. What is that?" he nods at the hoofed animal clutched in your arms.
"A lamb," you inform him, "I was here when she was born. I went to check on her while you were…" you swallow, breathing in wetly, and bring a hand up to rub at your eyes. "Her mother is gone. I can't just leave her like this."
"Surely, it will be safer with its herd?" Blade jerks his head in the direction of the rest.
"For a little while, maybe, but sheep need to be sheared every year. If they aren't, they get matted and the water only makes it worse," this is the most you have ever said to him at once. Blade eyes the pitiful creature in your arms and imagines all the ways in which it could meet its end on your journey. It shakes in your arms and nestles close to you, seeking the warmth of your body.
What a fitting pair. He could laugh.
"Very well, but you will see to its handling," Blade concedes. His jaw relaxes as relief blooms across your face. The edge of fear in your scent dies down. He casts a glance upwards, as though the eternally grey skies will tell him what time of day it is. At his best estimation, it's late afternoon. Still enough time to make some progress on reaching the second stronghold, wherever it may be.
"The next place where the vermin hide. Where is it?" he asks. Your hands clutch the small beast's curly fur.
"A place called Cailleach's Washing. It's a fort built between two peaks, above a lake," you murmur, "If we follow the river, we should reach it within… a few days, maybe? I've never made the trip on foot."
"Very well. Then it is there we go next," Blade decides.
You don't offer any rebuttal. Before you leave Glasvain, you find tarp in a nearby, brick building. With his help, you're able to cut it to a small size, fashioning it into a makeshift coat for your small, furry friend.
"It'll be bad if her wool gets wet," you tell him, delicately tying the tarp around the lamb's neck. The animal is small enough for you to carry. You heave it into your arms. Something old and forgotten twinges in Blade's chest. Rust shaken off a rusty fence. Seeing you so caring, so nurturing warms him in ways he had no longer thought possible.
You cradle the thing to your chest, one arm beneath its back and the other over its side. The beast seems content in your embrace. It nestles its little head against the breast of your jacket, leeching your body warmth.
Blade looks away.
"There's a… building on the road. Used to be a store, before everything went real bad," you tell him. "I used to buy taffy candies from there. When… sorry, you probably don't care," you trail off with a small, yet empty laugh. Blade glances at you.
"No. Continue," he says. For your voice makes much sweeter background noise than the endless pattering of the rain.
"Oh. My grandma lived in a small town close to Cailleach's Washing, so we would take trips there, sometimes. Usually on the weekends. Her cabin was right on the water, and if you climbed high enough on the peaks, you could see the whirlpool," the look in your eyes brightens, and he knows then that you are far away. Gone into the past, to enjoy the halcyon days of your youth, when the most you had to worry about was staying dry.
"The whirlpool?"
"I didn't mention it, did I? There's a whirlpool in the middle of the lake. It's actually below the the fort. They—the people in charge, used to throw prisoners down there… back in the day," you punctuate the sentence with a small sigh. Just like that, you've returned to the present day. You live a life painted in shades of miserable grey, and likely have for quite some time.
Perpetual misery is something you have in common. How easily he could lift this burden from your shoulders. It's odd—that he would even want to. He typically doesn't concern himself with the welfare of parties unrelated to his missions.
…
Well, you are related to his mission now. And you have done an admiral job, leading him this far only a day after he fished you from the river. He'll reward you, he thinks.
But with what?
The answer is clear. The sun. For the first time in your life, when you leave this accursed planet, you will see the sun. He doesn't remember exactly when he came to the conclusion that he will take you with him when he leaves. It just seems like a natural conclusion, easy as breathing used to be.
A comfortable quiet settles between you. It carries on for what must be an hour, maybe two, only broken by the occasional braying of an off-path beast. You startle at each one, and he wonders if there are any natural predators here worth fearing. The path winds around sloping hills, straddled by the river and the treeline. Eventually, the treeline lifts as a jagged cliff rises from the earth. Eventually, a stone building looms in the distance. It's single story and square in shape. A single, rickety door with a brass knob sits at its dead-center.
"This is it" you murmur, hastening over. Blade clicks his tongue, catches up with you in a few, easy strides. You reach for the doorknob. His hand wraps around your wrist before you can get there. You jump. The suddenness of the motion jostles the lamb in your arms, causing it to bleat softly. A wobbly, pathetic sound. This close, he can smell the scent of your alarm, buried beneath the rainwater.
"Let me," is all Blade says. You take in a deep, grounding breath and retreat.
When he opens the door, he finds the abandoned store to fortunately, as you said, still be abandoned. It's a small space. Dark wooden shelves comprise the aisles. They aren't nailed to the floor. It's a simple enough task to shove them out of the way, strong-chord muscle bunching and flexing as he works to create a space open enough for the three of you to huddle. With the wood furnishings, it won't be safe to start a fire.
You don't seem to be thinking that far ahead. You deposit both lamb and backpack onto the floor with a relieved sigh.
"You should eat something," he says, watching you settle against the wall, bringing your knees tight to your chest. "You packed rations, didn't you?"
"Yeah," you reach into your pack and pull out a package of thin, dried sticks of meat. You don't look particularly enthused about the meal, but you don't complain. Instead, you look up at him. "Do you want any? I think I packed enough for both people…"
Blade shakes his head. "There's no need," he assures you softly. You cast him a doubtful look, but don't protest. Obedient. He watches you peel the package open with shaking fingers, admires the shape of your lips, the edges of your teeth as you take bite after bite. Visual proof of your nourishment. Something in him coos and shudders in satisfaction. He imagines the feeling of your canines embedded in the taut skin of his shoulder.
He stares at you until you've finished eating. Then, he slinks away. He moves up and down the aisles like a drifting specter, searching for other non-perishables. Unfortunately, he finds none. His search lasts for all of a pithy five minutes. Peering outside the doorway, he notes the change in light. Evening has settled over Seanmhair. The planet has three, separate moons but not a mote of light seeps in through the clouds. He doesn't feel the cold as keenly as used to, but you certainly do. Pressed up against the wall, curled around the body of the lamb, shivering.
He is failing you, in some way. The notion overtakes him with a sudden viciousness, provokes him into action. He settles beside you. You don't startle, this time. Have you grown more comfortable? Or are you too distracted by the dropping temperatures to notice? He undoes the latches on his overcoat and opens it.
"Come here," he says softly.
You blink up at him. "What?"
He sighs, "Come here," he repeats.
He brokers no room for argument. Without waiting, he reaches out. One hand clutches your hip, the other wraps around your waist to pull you to to the side. You squawk, and the lamb fusses. It kicks out of your arms and lands a pace away. Blade pays it no mind. He wrangles you into his lap, your back pressing up against his chest.
"Blade," you swallow nervously. The scent of your distress hits the roof of his mouth, making him frown. "What are you doing?"
"It's too cold for you," he tells you. His legs bracket yours, caging you in. You're shifted into the cradle of his hips. He's hard. You curl up like a clam, knees brought up to your chest.
"I'm fine, really," you insist with a swallow. Trembling hands find purchase on his broad thighs as you struggle to extricate yourself from his grasp. His brows set into a flat line and he pulls you back, arms like metal bars, securing you tight against his body.
For someone caught in death's ruthless clutches, he runs quite warm. Abnormally warm, even. Scorching on days when the mara runs thick and heavy through his bloodstream. It's connected to the constant regeneration of his body, in some way. The researchers hadn't seem keen to explain it to him. They preferred to conduct their examinations and tests as quickly as possible, all the while avoiding the dead empty of his gaze. He hadn't thought much of it, since. A mere curiosity related to his peculiar physical makeup.
Here, though, it lets him keep you warm. The long-neglected half of his being that is Abundance finds solace in this.
"Blade," you interrupt his train of thought, panic kicking into your voice. He hums, low in his chest, and brings you flat to his chest with minimal effort. "Blade," you're whimpering, now. Scared. Struggling and weak. He finds satisfaction here, too, knowing he can keep you anchored in place with such ease.
He exhales softly, "Hush," he murmurs, "I mean you no harm. The cold is setting in. Your clothes aren't thick or dry enough to keep you warm."
He explains it to you slowly, in a matter-of-fact kind of voice that seems to soothe your uncertainty. The sour, looming scent of your distress dissipates. He lets his weary eyes shut, head tilting forward. His forehead presses against the curve of your left shoulder. Scenting you, effectively. If you have any further objections, you refrain from voicing them. You're a ball of tension, settled but not relaxed. His thumb twitches against your hip. He could easily dip beneath your trousers and rub gentle, soothing circles onto your hip–but he doesn't think that would comfort you.
Eventually, the lamb returns. It curls its knobby little legs and presses into his side, curled tight to leech the warmth from his body. He doesn't shut his eyes. He stares up at the ceiling, across the room, scans the deep shadows for any sign of threat. An hour is spent like this. Then, your breathing evens. The tension releases its death-grip on your body. You melt into him–and an hour later, you turn onto your side. Your cheek pillows on the swell of his chest, legs curling beneath you. A facsimile of the little beast nestled next to him.
—
The path to Cailleach's Washing takes you between towering trees and thick foliage. The lack of foot traffic means that the path should be somewhat obscured by the encroaching wilderness, but Blade recognizes signs of recent traversal, including several footprints. The three-toed bird-beasts have been here within the past few days. It calls for an elevated state of caution.
You've started talking to him. Little things here and there, small comments about local wildlife, or places you used to visit frequently. Blade responds as adequately as he is able to. The handlers from the Luofu do not bother with "small talk". Or any other kind of talk, really. They give him orders, and he follows. He doesn't know if his responses suffice, but to spoken to easily, so casually… it makes him feel a certain way, which he has not felt before. Not in this life, in this new body.
When afternoon swings around, Blade shepherds you away from the path to take a rest. He doesn't cut through the bushes and shrubs, lest the enemy notice and follow the trail. There's a craggy ledge close by, jutting from the earth to create an overhang. A creek babbles in the near distance. You seem leery of the water, but Blade isn't willing to journey any further from the road, lest he lose track of it completely.
Your wariness seems soothed by your animal companion. Despite the dreariness of its surroundings, it frolics and gallops with the playfulness typical to an animal of its age. Blade is, for the first time, grateful for its presence.
"You said you were there when it was born," he says. He can tell you've forgotten his presence, because you startle. You eye him out of the corner of your eye like a wary dog. His heart twitches at the notion that you are not by now at ease with him. The pain is foreign. Never in the long years of his undeath has he felt discontent for this reason. "Did you take care of the animals often?"
"Oh, well, yeah… My family had a bunch, growing up," you lick your lips, hands fidgeting. The lamb trundles up to you and butts its little head into your knee, prompting you to bend down and pet it. "Back then, the entire field was covered with an overhang to keep the animals from getting wet. A big, metal thing. I would have to help patch it up, sometimes… and the sheep–one time, they headbutted the ladder I was using." You tell him, a bit of humor in your voice. "During the winter, we'd have to keep them indoors. I used to go into the barn and play with them, 'cause I felt bad, keeping them cooped up."
This is the most you have spoken to him all day, so he remains quiet. He can hardly imagine you, wobbly and pathetic as you are now, helping with such manual labor. Perhaps its an error of perspective on his part. It takes someone of strong character to survive in such a bleak environment, alone, for as long as you have.
"And it's weird, because I never really liked kids, but whenever the foals would cry–I just couldn't ignore them," you continue. "Sometimes, they'd have you up in the middle of the night… It was annoying at the time, but now… I just miss it." Your gaze again grows distant, as it often does when recounting fragments of your past.
His life has never been any better, or worse than it is now. He goes to far-flung planets to eviscerate enemies of the Luofu. They come to collect him. He's dutifully returned to Jing Yuan's estate, where the general handles his upkeep and makes delusional attempts to play house until the next time he is deployed. He does not have any friends. He is not allowed the privilege of free-roaming outside of the general's purview.
So these memories of yours, they are peculiar and novel to him.
"Sorry, I'm probably boring you," you apologize.
"You aren't," Blade corrects. He regrets his inability to comfort you. "I know no life beyond my own. The experiences you describe are therefore new to me."
"Oh," you go, and then go quiet. You appear to be ruminating on something, so Blade leaves you be. The lamb, realizing the game has ended, dips its head and begins to graze again. "Your life—" you cut yourself off with a laugh, "I just realize I don't really know anything about you. Is this—do you hunt those bird things? Is that your job?" you ask, and then swallow, looking sheepish.
"Sometimes," How does he explain it to you, in a way that won't make you even more wary than you already are? He can't think of one. He would rather tell you the truth then sugar-coat the brutal reality of what he does and what he is. "I do what the Xianzhou Luofu requires of me. Most of the time, my missions involve tracking our foes to other planets and disposing of them, before returning. I remain in the custody of the ship's general until I am again needed."
"Like a hit man," you nod. Fortunately, his explanation doesn't seem to unnerve you.
—
It takes another two days for you to reach Cailleach's Washing. Blade walks in front of you, more often than not. But he wishes he could also be behind you, as well. The wildlife here is so far, unremarkable. There are no large or particularly insistent predators. At least, none that seem to view humans as prey. That doesn't reassure him. Despite his undying nature, he is not infallible. While unlikely, the enemy could sneak up behind you, the sound of their footsteps drowned out when the downpour becomes a drizzle. It would take hardly a moment for the talons to sink into your back, to dig into your spine and kill you—he wishes he could surround you, cradle you in your entirety, hold you in his mouth.
Fortunately, no such incident occurs. You crest a particularly steep hill together—and the landscape beyond is truly breathtaking. The green grass rolls up to one of the dark peaks. The other sits far across from it, with a section of the lake between. From here, he can't quite see the whirlpool, but he can see the fort. It looks like a dam, made up of multiple stores. Tall windows reflect the dull cloud-light—many of which are broken. It's impossible to see inside.
Once he's content with his analysis of the landscape, he turns his gaze to you. You speak, but the language is foreign to him. It's a series of quick annunciations with soft, flowing vowels. Musical in quality. When you have finished, you glance up at him.
"It's just a prayer," you tell him, looking off to the side. Blade tilts his head. Dark strands tease at the top of his vision. It's been quite some time since he had a haircut.
"To whom, and for what?" he asks.
"To Cailleach. They say she made these mountains," you reply, "I just asked her to make the climb a little easier, and to hold off on any rock slides until we're gone."
"Do you truly believe you can bend the forces of nature through prayer alone?" Blade inquires.
"Well… not really," you look down. The lamb stirs against your chest. Your jacket has become a makeshift bundle, securing it to your chest when it grows too tired to walk. You bring a hand up to stroke its hearty, warm wool. "We can't avoid nature. Or change what it does. But maybe, if we—or someone else is strong enough, we could… direct it?" you sound more unsure with every word. Blade imagines his inexpressive disposition doesn't help you feel particularly validated, but he doesn't know any other way to be.
"I see," he nods. Your hope is halfhearted and, in the end, completely fruitless. In the vast expanse of the universe, you are but two grains of sand. The only aeon which ever looked upon him did so at another's behest. And you… well, if they haven't helped you by now, they likely never will. But that would be a vicious thing to say, especially when you seem aware of the futility already.
"We might as well try, you know?" you elaborate with a small shrug. "No harm in it."
"You needn't beg the gods for their favor. I will traverse the peaks, complete my mission, and then return to you," he tries to assure you, but it comes out more like an explanation. A iron-clad fact. And you laugh. The noise is abrupt and humorless. You stifle it immediately.
"I'm sorry. I just don't know how you can be so confident," you wrap your arms around the bundle secured tight to your chest, rocking back and forth on your heels. Ah. You're afraid that he will perish in battle, and never return to you. You're afraid that you'll again be left alone. The scent of omega anxiety carries light on the breeze. Blade's jaw twitches,
"I will not die," he says, "I cannot," without waiting for a reply, he turns and begins to descend the hill, motioning for you to follow. Your footsteps plod after him, but he glances back regardless just to be sure. "You will hide in that patch of forest by the peak. I will slay the abominations. This may take more than an hour. Do not come looking for me. I will find you." He stops at the treeline, giving you a look, "Do you understand?"
"Yes," you peep, eyes a little wide. Despite his attempts to reassure you, you are still uneasy.
Well. You are uneasy most of the time, with small lapses of reprieve here and there. But here, in this moment, you are especially uneasy. Blade wishes he could assuage your fears, but he's no good with words. He'll simply have to provide a demonstration.
He turns around, motions along the path with a jerk of his head. Unkempt strands of his hair stick to his cheek, slicked by rain. "Good. Now come."
—
Massacring the entire base isn't particularly difficult. There are no emanators present. Their strongest fighters all perished in the encounters that lead them to flee here in the first place. The culling is mostly cumbersome. They throw themselves at him in waves, wielding talon and sword and loaded gun, but none manage to fell him. Not even once. He regenerates too fast for them. While most are killed inside of the base's walls, a few get tossed out of the windows. Their screeches pierce the air as they plummet into the whirlpool below, one after the other.
Only after ensuring he has cleared each floor does he emerge. He treks back down the peak, boots scuffing the hard dirt, gravelly dirt until he's back on level ground.
You are exactly where he left you, huddled beneath the canopy of the forest, umbrella in hand. You listened to him. The taut line of his shoulders smooths out, pleased by the obedience. If nothing else, you trust him to come back. As he soon approaches, your wary gaze darts to him, eyes lighting up in recognition.
You're relieved to see him. You understand that you are safe with him. You meet him in the middle, opening your mouth to speak—before cutting yourself off with a flinch. The rain hadn't been thick enough to wash away the blood. And even if it had, it's soaked into his clothes. His jacket and pants have new tears in them, fabric sheared open by talons and beaks and blades. The flesh beneath, though, is unmarked. The scent of copper permeates the air, invasive and sour. You wrinkle your nose and gently squeeze the lamb closer to your chest, wrapping your arms tight around it.
“This area is secure, now.” Blade says.
"Yeah,” you murmur, after a moment. “Secure… Is that your blood, or theirs?"
"Both," Blade replies. Your eyes get big and round.
"What!? How?" you lurch forward, but jerk to an awkward, staggering stop before you touch him. You squint at him, a dual mix of suspicious and concerned.
Does he want to tell you? Will you believe him if he does? You don't even know what the Abundance is, let alone the being that propagates it. Will you fear him, when you realize the truth of his undying nature?
"My flesh resews itself at a rate most would consider impossible. You have no reason to fear. There is no blade or bullet within this galaxy capable of granting me death."
You blink at him slowly. "Oh… Is that so?" you ask quietly. It's almost like you hadn't even heard him, "Well… are you sure? That you're not hurt?"
Do you not believe him? He supposes he can't blame you. In a world without any long-lived species, he is an unknown, alien thing, stupefyingly opposite to your soft flesh and tender disposition. Would you be so concerned if you knew what he is? Perhaps. You've already and unflinchingly faced down the fact that he kills without remorse. It isn't unreasonable to believe that you could stomach his altered state.
He knows better than to cling to hope, but finds himself holding onto the thought, anyways. Even if you were frightened of the truth, there was nowhere else for you to go. He'd catch you before you could get very far.
—
The last of the abominations are holed up at an old lighthouse at the very edge of the island. Blade learns, a little late, that the block of land you've been leading him through is a dense peninsula. It will take another two day's trek to reach it. You seem relieved that the journey is almost at its end. Your collection of non-perishables is growing thin. You'll need to return home to restock. While you bemoan the long road back home, Blade tends a small campfire. The small cave you've settled in for the night is one, long room dug out in the side of a cliff.
"It'll be weird when you're gone," you muse aloud. Your head is leaned back against the hard rock wall, eyes shut. The line of your throat is completely exposed to his prying gaze. Even from this far away, he can hear the gentle thump-thump-thump of your heartbeat. Do you know how much trust you have shown in him by this gesture alone? "It's been scary, having those bird things around. But once they're all dead, it'll be so quiet."
For a moment, he wonders if he should tell you that you will be returning to the Xianzhou with him. There is nothing left for you on this planet. Should he leave you, you will undoubtedly wither under the weight that comes with being the last of your kind. The loneliness will eat you alive. Drive you into insanity beforehand, if you are particularly unlucky. He would spare you that fate, but he has an inkling that you will put up a fight.
This place has sentimental value to you. He did not have a childhood. He does not remember who birthed this earthen vessel which he inhabits. Therefore, it is impossible to empathize. But he knows you'll be upset, and he doesn't want to make you upset. Or risk scaring you. If he scares you now, you might run away.
And even if he catches you, you'll treat him with fear and suspicion. You might give up and go limp, let fate take you in its heavy may. But you might also cling on and search for any attempt at escape you can find. Blade has enough to focus on, and he already frets over you enough. To a nonsensical degree for someone he met hardly a week ago.
A week ago. He's been alive for centuries, yet you have managed to capture his attention in such a short amount of time.
"It's been nice, having someone to talk to. Even if you don't talk very much," you continue.
"…You'll have no one else, once I've left," Blade says. And immediately, he gets the sense that it's the wrong thing to say, because you go quiet, and look away. "But you've done well for yourself. You're strong, to have survived for so long under such drastic conditions." he continues.
"I don't know if I would go that far," you mumble, "I can't swing a sword. I can't hunt… All I can really do is scavenge and hope for the best…"
"A weaker person would have given into the despair wrought by such a hopeless situation," Blade argues quietly. "Do not discredit yourself." The look he gives you is sharp, brokering no room for argument. You blink at him with wide eyes, and break out into a small, sheepish smile.
"If you say so," you mumble.
And he does indeed say so.
—
The forest disappears as you near the shore, replaced by hills of verdant grass. The path is overgrown. Grass turns into gravel as you reach the grey wave beaches of the coastland. The lighthouse juts towards the heavens in the distance. A fittingly grandiose
You gasp, and Blade's attention darts to you. You've reflexively positioned yourself closer to him. He follows your wide-eyed gaze to the beach. Odd, de-saturated, green lumps cover the gravel. Only when squinting does he make out the sight of jutting ribs and odd, piscine tails. The corpses of finned creatures with long-horse like faces are strewn about, in various stages of decomposition. Their maws hang open to reveal two jagged rows of teeth. A few of them still have their milky pale eyes, hung open wide and unseeing.
"What are they?" Blade asks. While they all seem very much dead, he must hear the truth from you before he can successfully decide whether they pose a threat or not.
"Kelpies," you whisper after a moment, as though afraid they will hear. "I've never seen one, before. They used to live by the old lighthouse. The military drove them out, after they started taking people. But my parents still never let me go near the water. Better safe than sorry, I guess."
"They're all dead," Blade observes. He presses his palm to the small of your back and bodily urges you along. But your gaze is glued to the sight, eyes wide.
"They must have come back after the military stopped patrolling the waters. Or maybe they were so desperate for food that they took the risk…" you swallow. "But they couldn't find anything, anyways. There's no one here, anymore. Nothing for them to eat."
"Enough," Blade hushes you, and cups your jaw. You startle again, cheek jostling into the meat of his palm. The gesture serves its intended purpose. Your gaze is forced away from the grisly scene, which he would have you forget as soon as humanly possibly. This world has subjected you to more than enough brutality for a lifetime. "They're all dead. They pose no threat to you." He looms close. You stare at him with big, bulging eyes. The acrid scent of omega fear does not punctuate the air. The line of your body sways towards him, to a minuscule degree. And your pupils expand. Barely. Just enough to be noticed.
He doesn't let you linger in the moment, as much as he would like to. He fears that the moment you realize how you have yielded to him, you will scurry to once again cover your soft underbelly. So he parts from you, urging you further along the path with his palm pressed to your lower back. This time, you follow as he guides you.
Closer to the lighthouse, there is an outcropping of bushes and a few, thin trees. You're higher up, now. Far enough away from the beach to be safe, lest any kelpies still be alive and lurking.
"You will wait here," he tells you, and you do not argue. He leaves you, albeit reluctantly. If he had it his way, he would fit you in his mouth, swallow you whole, keep you safe inside of him until the job is done.
The abominations could easily be patrolling the areas surrounding the lighthouse. He hastens his approach. On the path, in front of the lighthouse sits a pale statue. A bearded man has his arm braced back, trident clenched in his fist. Flanking him are two kelpies. Their fangs are bared. The position is such that they are clearly meant to be his allies, rather than his enemies. A strange choice for a creature that supposedly predates on humans.
He isn't given much time to ruminate. A shrill shriek rings out across the open way. He's been spotted.
Again, the enemies fall upon him with talon and beak and blade and gun. This lot is frailer, hungrier than the last. The prey must run poorly here, or perhaps they too have over-hunted and been left with nothing to eat. He doesn't much care. It just makes them all the easier to cut down. He slices them through what feels like the dozen. Lives extinguished one after the other. Some balk in horror as their comrades and friends are ripped apart before their very eyes—and in their moments of hesitation, they go next. It's a messy, but timely affair.
Only after he's determined them all dead does he return to you. But in the dirt, he makes out footprints, fresh, headed away from the lighthouse. The tracks weren't there when he entered. One of them has fled straight in your direction. His gut drops. Cold dread, an emotion he has never felt before, seizes him.
He bolts down the slope. He follows the scent of blood and poultry down, down until he sees it, and you. You, cornered up against the trees and it, poised to attack. What follows plays out, for him, in slow motion. The next few moments stretch on and on, mocking him for his foolish mistake. Ensuring he knows the consequences of his folly.
Its talons pierce the material of your jacket, tearing plain through it—reaching the soft, small body underneath. The lamb bleats a terrible, shrill noise as its flank is pierced and slashed.
Blade sinks his sword into the abomination's flank, spearing it to the ground. He pierces it over and over, blade beating into its flesh with brutal, wet thwacking sounds. He sees red. Blood sprays into the grass and dirt. Feathers flutter in the air, like they're being tossed out of a punched pillow. Its screams and caws eventually die into wet, gurgling sounds and still he is not satisfied.
"Blade!" your voice is a wet, reedy thing. Blade raises his sword in an arc. The rain pounds his heaving shoulders. His hair cascades down the broad line of his neck like an oil slick. A crack of lightning sends sparks scattering across stone in the distance. None of it, not sound nor sensation, break him from his episode of fervent blood-lust.
Then you grip his sleeve with trembling hands. The spell is broken. He looks down at you—you're kneeling, now. In the dirt, in the grass. You've removed your jacket, and pressed it to the wound in the lamb's side in a desperate attempt to staunch the bleeding. Fruitless. The wound was too large and the beast too small. His blade clatters to the ground, and he is crowding you. Tears stream down your cheeks as you cradle it close.
"Please, Blade, there has to be something you can do please—" you beg.
For a cruel, quiet moment, Blade contemplates whether it would be kinder to let it bleed out here. When he takes you from this planet, you will insist on bringing it with you. He knows, already, that he will oblige you.
He will take you, and by circumstance it from this place. It will live away from its fellows in a world so unlike its own. Evolution shaped it to live on these open grasslands. There are no such places aboard the Xianzhou. None that you will have access to. Will it feel the the loneliness of that existence? Can you, cowering you—a lone human, fill the void left by its herd?
You're not cowering, anymore. You're looking up at him with big, panicked eyes and begging him to fix it for you.
He reaches a hand out and presses it to the poor creature's flank.
Rarely ever does he call forth the powers granted to him by Abundance. Doing so makes an ache flare to life in his chest, as though something is being pulled from him by the root. A bitter taste crawls up the back of his throat and the smell of autumn, of sweet rot and ginkgo leaves fogs his senses. But he maintains focus.
The lamb's frail flesh stitches back together. He shoves the bleeding life back into it, soothes its pains and wills it to survive for the sake of your sanity. You watch him, eyes blown wide in awe. What he's doing may very well appear as magic to you. Have you ever even met a path-strider, before? Or were the people of your world confined to paltry guns and turrets and tanks? He regrets not having the time to research more thoroughly before landing.
The lamb's pained bleats die down. Its flank still heaves for breath, but the wound is healed.
"It will need to eat, to replenish the energy I have used to heal it," he tells you softly. The sound of his voice shocks you from your stupor.
And then your arms are around him. You launch yourself into his chest and he brings his arms up to catch you, wrapping around your lower back. He tilts back into the dirt and grass and you rattle out a reedy little wheeze.
"Thank you," you press your face into his shoulder and mumble. "Thank you so much,"
This is the first time you've initiated bodily contact with him. The warmth of you, squirreled against his body, instills him with a sense of deep-set, instinctual fullness. It is as though he was made for this, lone purpose. As though a gnawing, endless urge he wasn't aware of has suddenly been sated. Even through the rain water, he can smell you. Exuberance and relief and gratefulness, all wrapping around him like a blanket. He presses his face into the crown of your head and breathes in.
His cock bulges against the confines of his trousers, pressed flush against your body. He wants to be inside you, now. Carnal pleasures of the flesh have never intrigued him. The cycle of his rut has always been a mere annoyance. During his season, Jing Yuan douses the blazing fire of his urges, takes him apart with gentle hands. Blade has always hated it. But you, here, so warm and soft and delicate—he wants to fuck you into the dirt. Wants to see your eyes go glossy and blank with pleasure.
His hands twitch. His tongue feels heavy and misshapen in his mouth. His teeth ache.
You look up at him, face still streaked with tears.
"I mean it," you mumble, and awkwardly clamber off of him. Blade lets you. These are the last few hours you'll have on this planet, to yourself. When the Xianzhou skiffs come to ferry him back to the mother ship, you will board with him, regardless of how you feel. He'll allow you as much leeway as he can within this precious, limited amount of time.
In the wake of the moment, you seem embarrassed. You rub your face with the sleeves of your jacket, eyes red-rimmed and raw.
"It's no trouble," Blade murmurs. You stumble back to your hoofed charge, gathering the pathetic thing into your arms. While you're occupied, he reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and withdraws the beacon. It's a complex, cube-shaped thing seated on a shiny metal platform. It's six faces gleam iridescent under the muted sunlight. He wanders a few paces away. He presses the intricate set of switches and buttons. It emits a pair of soft, chiming dings around every thirty seconds.
"What are you doing?" you ask as he sets it down.
"The beacon will let them know that my mission has been completed. They will come to retrieve me, soon," Blade informs you.
For a moment, you look like he's physically slapped you. He finds it impossible to blame you. From your perspective, the first person you've spoken to in months, perhaps years is about to leave and never return. In a mere moment, you're forced to confront the possibility of living the rest of your life in total isolation.
"So… this is goodbye, then," For the most part, you bear it. You swallow. Your expression gives the slightest twitch as you choke down another round of tears. A mournful feeling strikes Blade's chest.
He looks at you, blinks slowly.
"No," He says, after a pregnant pause. "You're coming with me."
This will be the most efficient way to break the news, he thinks. A clean break. Ripping the bandage off.
"What?" you frown, confused. "What are you talking about?"
"There's nothing left for you here," Blade tells you coolly.
"That's not true—and even if it was, I can't up and leave," you splutter. What he said is fact, but you still feel wounded by it. This will be a difficult period of adjustment, Blade can already tell.
"Is it that you can't, or that you never thought you would be able to?" he counters, "The lamb may keep you company—but for how long will it live? What do you plan to do once your supply of food runs out, and the shelves of the local stores have been picked clean?"
"I can find food," you protest, "I've gardened, before. And—and there are plenty of animals still around."
"Oh? And will you be able to catch any?" Blade pries. He narrows his eyes, looming over you like a long shadow. There is nowhere for you to run.
You lick your lips and swallow, beginning to fidget in place. "The animals at the farm. They're slow, and they know me. They won't be afraid."
Blade scoffs. Even you don't sound convinced.
"Animals you've raised, known and loved since they were born. Will you be able to look into their wide, trusting eyes and strike the killing blow?" he presses, leaning down. His hair slips from his shoulders, curtains you in, a dark waterfall. There is nowhere else to look but him, now. "Are you truly prepared to do what it takes to survive? To slaughter others that so you may live?"
When you remain silent, Blade exhales a weary sigh. "The beasts on that farm are brittle and weak. They'll soon begin to die on their own, and meat spoils quickly in such humid conditions—"
"Stop," you choke out. He looks back to you. "I-I already told you, I don't want to go! Why won't you listen to me!?"
This was what he had feared initially. The sentimental value of this place has a hold on you, no, a death-grip. It's impossible for you to see reason at this given moment. Blade is, for a moment, at a loss of what to say. He is struck, again, by how your tears strike him. They roll fat down your cheeks, parallel to the streaks of wetness left behind by the rain. Your umbrella is nowhere to be seen, likely knocked away by the coastal winds during the struggle.
A heady mixture of awe and arousal and horror hits him. It's a Molotov cocktail of emotions for someone so unused to feeling anything at all. A thousand bees buzz beneath the surface of his skin. It's a feeling not dissimilar to the mara surges.
It's sheer instinct that makes him grab you. He shepherds you into his arms and you struggle, at first.
"Blade! What're you doing!?" you cry and beat your fists against his chest. Your struggles are feeble and empty. The shock of everything that has transpired within the last hour renders you weak. He seizes your wrists with roughened hands and hauls you close.
He leans down, and presses his lips to yours in a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. You freeze. The fight drains from you, replaced by world-weary exhaustion. After years of struggling, the weight of your home's extinction finally crumples you. Right into his waiting arms. Into his maw, stretched just wide enough to hold you. A deep, primal urge is sated. The pieces slotting together just right.
"I can't leave," you whimper, once he parts from you. Your eyes are unseeing. Glazed with shock. You sway on your feet, mind and body battered. "Everything I own is here—my parents' graves are here—"
"Hush," Blade sighs, and brings you to his chest. He urges your face into his shoulder. The gesture is tender but his muscles are coiled tight, an iron hold. You cry wet, fat tears into his already soaked jacket. Already, you've begun to shiver with fear and cold, "Hush, now."
The wind roars. The tide crashes against the crags. A distance away, the beacon pings. Eventually, your cries no longer join the chorus.