A Knight’s Duty
(1.9k, angst, mod seagrass)
“No Joe on their side to rush over and give him a second wind, no soothing touch to tell him it’s okay. Just him, the blazing sky, and a grass that is starting to look too green.” [wels pushes himself too hard and it hurts.]
A gasp, a single step missed because of slippery ground, and he’s done for.
The arrow tears through him like a knife through butter, splitting his skin and burying itself deep, deep inside his side. It hurts, god, it hurts so bad. It feels like he’s going to fall apart. He’s got armor, yes, but how much does iron armor really do against the power of a fully charged fully enchanted bow that Grian’s just aimed at him? He’s a good fighter, he knows, but there’s only so much Wels can do to evade an aerial assault and Grian’s just gotten his lucky break.
He resists falling to his knees, curling over, and crying like he wants to. He’s not a fool, he knows what being down a member means, especially in a team where they’ve got less people in the first place. And…they don’t have a healer. No Joe on their side to rush over and give him a second wind, no soothing touch to tell him it’s okay. Just him, the blazing sky, and a grass that is starting to look too green.
Get up, he tells himself. Get up. Get out there. Fight.
It’d be so easy, he thinks, to just lie down and let his teammates help. Let False cover him while Impulse helps him back over, or ask Xisuma to rewind time, or just simply stagger back to base by himself (but he knows, there’s no way in hell he’ll be able to get all the way back. it’s futilefutilefutile). It’d take so little to call out, let out a pained cry like he’s biting back and have their leader command his friends to his aid.
A knight never takes the easy way out. A knight’s duty is to serve his lord, and his people, and he will not let them down. He must not fail, he thinks. Don’t let them down.
But it hurts, it hurts so bad that he don’t think he wants to be here anymore. He wants to be far, far, away where nothing can hurt him and he’s safe again just having fun with his friends and he doesn’t have to worry if the tiny winged fellow he just lent some item frames the other day could be preparing to gut him open like a fish. It hurts, doesn’t it? To see how fast everything falls apart, how fast just one mistake can lead to a world of hurt? But his job is to push past that hurt. A knight does not fall.
He thinks that it’s getting worse, he can feel the blood seeping through his fingers that he’s pressing tightly to his body like that’ll make it hurt any less. His armor and dark underclothes hide it, he hope. He prays. He grits his teeth, gingerly moves behind a hill, and prepares to remove the arrow—can’t have his team asking awkward questions.
Wels takes a deep breath, bites down on a stick, and pulls.
Blood fills his mouth, his ears ring, everything hurts hurts hurts and he wants it to stop so so bad. The arrow was barbed, the son of a bitch, and it hurts so much his skin is coming apart and soon the armor will be the only thing left. There’s a quiet scream ringing in his ears, he’s trying to see who it is before realizing he’s the one screaming and there are tears in his eyes, there are tears running down the metal, and hot, hot blood coating the entire side of his armor. He’s said that he shouldn’t show weakness, but everything hurts so much—he’s never felt this kind of pain before, never felt the kind of pain that makes you feel like you can’t move or breath or do anything for fear of it worsening and every time you move each one of your muscles screams wrong, please, don’t, not anymore, and it takes a moment for him to realize he’s the one whispering those words out loud.
He wants someone to make it better. He wants to be able to get away from it all, to be able to ask to be taken out of the field, to be able to rest at base with some water and all traces of blood gone from the shining, shining armor. Wels wants someone to tell him it’s okay, he doesn’t have to take all this responsibility.
But of course, nobody does. Why would they?
He gets up, and warm blood runs down his body and pain screams in his mind like the very action of getting up is impossible. It’s not, he tells himself, and ignores the spots flashing in his vision.
It’s over the top of the hill that he sees Xisuma, exhausted and leaning on a nearby tree, gesture to him. “You…hah…feeling alright mate?” He gets out, and gestures to his general hunched over posture.
Wels feels intense guilt rush through him for even thinking that he should ask to rewind time for something as trivial as an arrow wound. He steels himself, and shouts out, “I’m fine! Just was catching my breath for a bit.”
“Good! Actually, if you can…mind taking out Stress or Iskall over there? They’re causing us a lotta trouble…” He doesn’t know if he can even get over there. But. His teammate is depending on him, he can’t let Xisuma know his failure.
He can’t talk, or he thinks he might throw up. He gives a thumbs up, and starts to try to get anywhere near them.
Every step hurts, every step feels like his body is going to deconstruct and fling itself somewhere far into the stars and the universe. He’s not sure whether it’s his own will or the armor holding himself up at this point, but he soldiers on anyways.
He finally, finally gets near them. He doesn’t think they notice. He launches himself into the air completely ignoring the spots that flash and the burning hot-cold hole in his side and the blood drying sticky to his armor. He brings his sword down, an executioner at the table, and he doesn’t know whether he’s killing himself or the others.
It hurts, he wants to say. Please, can I have help? Can you make me feel better? But that’s so pathetic and weak and not at all helpful. He manages to get a hit on Stress before she sends him flying with ice, and that’s when he realizes that will might not be enough to keep him going.
He’s lying on the ground, ice coating his armor and the ground around him like some sort of twisted armor enchantment. It’s so cold, so so so cold and he can’t tell whether this is better or whether the burning heat of earlier is preferable. He’s just so tired.
There’s tears dropping onto the ground. He thinks it’s him. He can’t stop them anymore, can’t force them back. Doesn’t even have the energy to try to get up for a second strike.
He thinks his armor’s sprung a leak, maybe. He sees red swirl out around him, in some sick facsimile of finger paints on paper. He dips his finger in them and moves them around in the ice, forming small patterns.
He can’t move. Why can’t he move? Why did he need to move?
You can’t stop, you know, he tells himself. You’re a knight. You’re not a burden, are you? Just a pathetic weakling who can’t even fulfill his destiny? He knows. He knows he’s not quite enough, that he’s bleeding out on a bed of cracked ice and that he feels like his spirit is increasingly drifting from his body.
Joe, he croaks, but he doesn’t think he made any sound. He’s past saving, probably. Nobody around to help.
He thinks, if he can’t be of use, he could at least put Stress out of commission. He forces himself up. He can’t feel his hands.
He moves towards Stress. Jumps up with mechanical accuracy. His mind is overloading.
Brings the blade down. Twist at the last second. He’s not real, can’t feel anything at all.
Stress collapses. He starts moving, stiff-legged march, to his side of the field. He lied, he can feel the heat of the blood inside his armor.
He’s coming over the dip in the ground, marching, and he sees the sun dyed red and the grass behind him red in some weird mockery of a snow golem, and he laughs. Laughs and it hurts more so he laughs again.
His shirt is soaked, but he can’t really feel it. Just feels the weight. His armor’s a dull red.
He thinks he’s hurting, can’t tell anymore, just knows that his atoms are falling apart and his world is so bright and he’s failed his teammates.
Wels stumbles in front of Ren, still mostly unscathed, and looks at him with eyes with nothing behind them. “Please make it stop. Please. I’ll do anything, I know I fucked up, just make it stop.”
Ren takes a look at Wels, looks at the trail of blood, and freezes up. “I—man, what? Are you okay? What do you need?” His voice is pitching up in panic. “Wels, listen, we gotta get you to Joe or something. Or back to base. I’ll take you back, let me just let Doc know,--”
He’s cut off be Wels grasping his wrist with a blood-stained hand, knuckles turning white from the force. “No, they can’t know I didn’t do my job.” His voice is little more than a whisper. “I can keep going…”
Ren decides it’s not worth it. “DOC! Please, you gotta come quick man, Wels got hit or something and now he’s bleeding out here and I don’t know what to do!” He shouts across the field.
Doc looks over, distracted, and almost gets hit by Iskall. “WHAT? But Wels seemed fine when I saw him earlier—hold on! I’m heading over.”
Wels is swaying on his feet, eyes starting to go completely blank. “I’m fine.”
It’s in the next instant that Wels collapses, and Ren rushes to catch him before he hits the ground. His eyes are rolled back in his head, his skin is paper-white, and that’s before he notices the giant wound in his side. It’s—it’s bad.
He thinks he knows now why Wels was so pale and out of it.
Doc comes over, and he lets out a horrified gasp at the condition of their teammate. “...What happened? Why didn’t he let us know?”
“I think he didn’t want us to know, Doc…” Ren hesitantly says. They both sit on their heels, an awkward silence settling over the group. There’s still sounds of metal clashing behind them. “I guess, I’ll be taking him back to base?”
“God, please do. He’s so messed up, he shouldn’t have been out here fighting in the first place…” Doc says. “I’m so sorry, man,” he whispers in an aside to the completely unconscious Wels.
Ren picks up Wels in an awkward kind of side-carry, because jesus that armor was heavy, and prepares to head back to base. He thinks about what Wels was doing, and why he didn’t just tell them. He’ll talk to him after he wakes up, Ren thinks.
Until then, his top priority was going to be making sure that Wels’ wound and his stuff is taken care of until he gets better. That’s what friends do for each other.