He huffed out, tossing the phoenix-carved chopsticks in the air and catching them deftly between his fingers. One pair would do him, for now.
“Thanks, babe. Look, I am not good at travelling with people, but when you feel the world's sorrow can be heard and spirits are flocking to one location, right? Go there, okay? I think maybe, if my maths is correct, ugh. Hm! A few years down the line, yeah, I think so. I am going to have a welcoming party I think, the world will throw it and those on the other side, no doubt waiting for me, so if you're not too busy, find me, laters big tits.”
Months blurred into seasons, and seasons into years, each marked by the same rhythm: kingdoms crumbling, dragons roaring, and Reid strolling into the chaos with his sword slung lazily over one shoulder.
HE SAVED THEM ALL, OF COURSE. EFFORTLESSLY.
The world spun its tragedies like a drunken bard recounting the same tedious ballad, and he yawned through every verse. In the northern wastes, where ice dragons carved glaciers into fortresses, he shattered their crystalline teeth with the side of his palm. In the southern jungles, where serpentine beasts choked rivers with their coils, he pried their jaws apart with his bare hands and left them gasping on the riverbanks like beached fish. Every victory earned him another feast, another parade, another batch of wide-eyed admirers whispering his titles like prayers. The greatest hero. The undefeated. The Sword Saint.
And yet, the chopsticks, those damn chopsticks, never left his side.
They rested in his sleeve, tucked between folds of crimson fabric like a secret. He used them to pick at roasted meats during victory banquets, to flick scraps at nobles who praised him too loudly, and once, memorably, to stab a cultist through the eye when the fool tried poisoning his wine. The cultist had wept, clutching his ruined socket, while he calmly licked the sauce from the bloodied tip. Every time he wielded them, he thought of her, the priestess with her unyielding calm, her refusal to flatter him, the way she’d watched him take the damn things with that infuriating knowing look.
Today, in the morning, he balanced between his fingers as he lounged atop the corpse of a three-headed hydra, its necks twisted into a grisly knot. The villagers below cheered, tossing flowers that stuck to the hydra’s rancid blood. He ignored them, spinning the chopsticks idly. The lacquer had worn slightly from use, the phoenix carvings dulled by grease and time. Still perfect. Still hers. "Oi!" He called down to no one in particular. "Anyone got a bowl of noodles?" The cheering faltered. Someone coughed. He rolled his eyes and kicked a hydra tooth at them.
"Hero’s hungry, you ingrates."
As in the afternoon, he departed and found a good spot for himself as he smirked, leaning against the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak, its leaves whispering secrets to the wind. Years had slipped through his fingers like grains of sand, no, like blood, always staining, always leaving traces behind. The land stretched before him, rolling hills dotted with villages that owed their continued existence to him. But now, as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in hues of dragonfire and spilled wine, he felt the weight of endings pressing against his ribs. The chopsticks, her chopsticks, tapped idly against his knee. The lacquer was nearly gone now, worn down by countless meals eaten alone, countless battles fought without her watching. Funny, how something so small could outlast kingdoms. A village girl had offered him a new pair just last week, her cheeks flushed with admiration. He’d taken them, of course, free gifts were free gifts, but they sat unused in his pack. These were the ones that mattered. These were the ones that tasted like irony.
"Oi, world." He said to the oak, scratching at his eyepatch. "You ever get tired of standing there?" The leaves rustled, indifferent. He snorted and stretched his legs, wincing as his knees popped. Sixty-three years. Sixty-three years of dragon guts and witch curses and waking up in strange beds with stranger women. His hair was still as red as ever; some blessings never faded, but the roots were starting to show silver when the light hit just right. Not that he’d admit it aloud. He was old now, he was done now, he was tired, he was fulfilled, the battles to come were not his battles now, someone else had to do it, and the world had located the next sword saint, a give-and-take kind of deal; he had to die, for another to rise and take his place, and he was fine with that.
He heard something. The footsteps were wrong. Too light. Too familiar. Reid froze mid-bite, the roasted rabbit leg dangling from his chopsticks like a pathetic flag of surrender. He knew that rhythm, the way her sandals barely kissed the earth, the pause between steps like she was deciding whether to bother with gravity at all. She shouldn’t be here. Not now. Not when the sun was bleeding gold across the horizon, and his bones ached with the weight of years of battle. He was joking; he wanted no one here to watch him die.
He muttered to the empty clearing. The rabbit's leg dropped into the dirt from the last meal he was eating. Around him, the forest held its breath, no birdsong, no rustling leaves, just the slow, inevitable crunch of her approach.
“Oh shit, you actually came.”
