Broken Waltz through Hell [HFBLADE]
[ a continuation of A Dance with the Devil ]
Warm. Sticking. Pain. Oddly, cold.
He wondered for a moment why Murasama was shaking between his fingers. It took Sam a moment to realize that it wasn't the sword, impaled through his stomach, feasting on this blood and resting well into the earth below him, that was trembling. It was his own hand. With the wounds on his body oozing, still maddeningly fresh, reeking of split flesh and iron, the samurai became hyper aware of his position. Under the hot sun, on the toasting ground, the damp soil all around him, and how loud his heart beat in his ears.
And of course, the heavy, metal, heartless body on top of him.
There was no time for words or actions, or attempts to flee or reason. It seemed to happen in slow motion, the hand shooting out to his neck and constricting him. His head struck the ground, hard, and Sam lost his ability to breathe. He released a pained, choked noise, somewhere between a gargle and a muffled cry. He could feel the fingers digging into his neck like a many-legged monster, until the tip of a sharp fingernail pressed hard, and he could feel his own heartbeat against that steel.
Sam reacted on instinct as the hand pushed his head backwards, choking the life from him. His only working hand uselessly grabbed and pulled at the grip on his neck. His body jerked, causing him more pain as Murasama refused to budge and sliced him further with each little movement. His mouth was agape, attempting to take in any breath at all, any precious air. His head was tilting, tilting against the ground, and the samurai shuddered and writhed and trembled and, for the first time, saw the end.
Until, oddly, his gasping was rewarded. Sam inhaled sharply, his throat suddenly open once more. He coughed and gagged, pulling his head forward again. The world was blurred and his deep breaths rumbled in his chest. The wound in his abdomen bubbled, Murasama drinking the blood that flowed freely from his form. He heard a voice, and his brown eyes searched for it; that desperate call.
Raiden came into to view as his vision cleared. Raiden. Sam, trembling and pale from bloodloss, narrowed his eyes before letting a tiny grin creep onto his sweating, tense face. Each breath, deep breath he took in, was painful. Raiden's words were oddly muffled to his ears, yet he could see the panic. He could make out some of the words. He felt that very same hand that had nearly killed him curl under his bruising neck and pull his head up just slightly. It felt cold. Everything felt cold.
The samurai chuckled lightly at the panic on Raiden's face. When he opened his mouth to speak, it only came out a murmur, "Took you ... long enough ...".
Sam went to blink, but found himself unable to open his eyes once more.
Time passed like awakening from surgery. He could hear voices, feel his heart beating. He felt heat and cold, wet and dry. He could feel pain. But each time he opened his eyes it was blurred, a mix of tans and yellows and reds, with that unnatural silver. His mouth opened, taking in deep gulps of stagnant, foul air. Things were moving, he was moving.
The lapses got shorter and shorter. The blurs were lasting longer each time. Sometimes the pain was greater, and sometimes it was duller.
Sam opened his eyes for, what felt like the thousandth time. There was a messy, bushy tuft of silver-blonde hair near him. Weakly, he moved his left hand and thrust his fingers into it, giving it a good scratch, unintentionally smearing drying, flaky blood. His body was still catching up to his mind, and vice versa. He wasn't sure where he was, or what was happening; only that Raiden was here. Not the demon, not the ripper, but Raiden.
He should have immediately felt in danger. Maybe he was too tired. Had lost too much blood. He didn't feel that instinctive fear at the blurred fluff under his bloodied fingers. The samurai instead felt strangely desperate. As if the man under his hand might change back into a monster at any moment.
His hand dropped from his fellow cyborg's hair and Sam managed a small chuckle, followed by a deep, rumbling cough. His tired eyes closed once again.
"... You're an asshole.."
