#dancinglifeboat

He wasn't looking for anything—still wasn't, because, as phrasing would suggest, looking for something would mean he hadn't found it yet. And he'd found something alright. Maybe it would be better to say he wasn't looking for something, he was looking at something. And the something, as it turned out, was looking back. 

Temptation became desire, and desire became urge, and urge, urge was something Wels had tried hard for so long to keep at bay. He was good at staving off temptation and starving out desire. Bone deep ache of urge was hard. But he'd bested it once or twice. It was just. Now. Right now. His hands twitched and itched, ached to personally dismiss the curiosity that ate him. So he did. The cold relief that was plunging his hand into the cold creek water was met with equal relief of grasping the metal hilt of the sword still sitting in its sheath. The sheathed blade drips with water as he pulls it free of the river's bubbling current, setting it carefully beside him and his small camp: a cot unrolled, his armor unfastened, his own sword resting by his sleeping bag, sitting in its own scabbard. His horse, wandering somewhere to his left. 

As Wels sits back on his haunches to study the carved exterior of the metal scabbard, he catches the glint of something dark and fast, a flicker of red against black as he leans over the polished surface. Instinctively, his hand comes to the knife at his hip, whipping sideways to slice the soft inside of someone's knee, the muscle of their ankle, upward between the spaces of their ribs—and Wels hated that he knew each cut to make to incapacitate and kill. But what was his duty but to serve his justice-driven god through combat?

(And, if he's being honest, there was a certain satisfaction to it that he wouldn't ever shake.)

But there's no one over his shoulder—not even a ghost or phantom that the silvered blade strikes through. He lets go of the breath in his chest through his nose, and furrows his eyebrows. The woods are still quiet, the trees rustle ever so in the mid-fall breeze, and Welsknight sits alone, half-lunging into stance, with the bubbling creek behind him. He crumples back, sheathing his knife, chewing on the inside of his cheek. The reflection in the silvered metal of the new blade, however, is still. As he leans over again, slower this time, that flicker of black follows curiously, tracking his eyes with blurry red splotches. Wels frowns, more than just the furrow of his brows, as he turns the covered blade over in his hands. The splotches don't follow what should be his reflection, but their own wavering scrutiny of his study. For a long moment, Wels runs his thumbs over the carefully soldered outside, its twisting leaves and vines, flowers stretching over the metal like a meadow lay within. The enchantments are hard to read against the hilt, obscured by the locking mechanism he pushes down with his thumb, that comes away easily at his slight pressure beneath his bare hands. Then, carefully, Wels draws the blade. 

It rings out in the quiet. 

And then a voice says, in a gritty, flat voice:

"There's no ghost behind you, asshole, it's just me."

As with all things that scare him out of his skin, Wels yelps, and the blade clatters to the dirt and grass at his feet. The blade stares back at him, the face within as human as his own, mouth frowning, eyes he can't see but as red flecks through the slats of a dark helm. A knight. Wels breathes heavy through his teeth, the urge to vomit bubbling up his throat, mouth thick with saliva. The nausea of panic subsides as he heaves in another breath.

"What the fuck," he wheezes.

"Oh shit—" the blade (the blade?) says, sounding almost concerned. "Don't panic, alright? Take a breath. Don't be stupid."

"Stupid," Wels parrots dumbly. He's still staring at the sword, which is staring back up at him, with coal-like eyes under a dark helm. Wels can't see a mouth moving, but then again, why the fuck would he see anything? He shouldn't even be hearing anything. "Why would I be stupid?"

"'Cause you sound a lot like me and I love to do things that people call stupid."

"I'm not—” Wels blinks. His hand hovers, halfway reaching toward the blade while the rest of him turns to try and find the voice speaking to him. “Who are you?"

"Proving my point already. The sword, stupid."

"What the—listen!” Wels snaps, finally scooping up the blade. He twists the pommel in his hand, trying to catch a glimpse of the thing, the person inside of it, whatever mimic, projection, magic mirror situation he’d found himself in this time. The visor he’d seen previously glitters in the blade’s reflective surface, just past the reflection of himself peering incredulously down into it. He growls, grimacing. “This—things like this cost a fortune! You usually—you—people usually... they..." 

Wels trails off, molars pressing down into the side of his tongue as his thoughts settle. Typically, when swords are enchanted, it's something mindless, like flame, or bane, or smite—something to make the sword stronger, sharper, easier to kill with. People don’t typically look for a companion in a sword—a sword is a tool, a blade for cutting, killing, protecting. It has a purpose, but the purpose is brutal and specific. Sure, people become extensions of their weapons if they use them enough, but the whole idea of a person becoming a weapon was a metaphor knights used to make sure other knights took breaks and wrestled with their humanity a little. Wels blinks again, now watching the helmet in the blade with a curious tilt to his head. His jaw snaps shut, all of a sudden.

Fuck.

"Bingo,” says the sword, as if it had read Wels’ thoughts like a book. “Off I went."

"You're soulbound?"

The sword scoffs in that stupid, flat, gravely tone.

"Spelling it out?" it asks. Wels huffs, squeezing his eyes shut, finally sinking back on his haunches. He clicks his tongue.

"Can you—just can it for two seconds, alright?” he snaps. “I'll sheath you."

If the sword could roll its eyes, it likely would be doing it under that helmet. Maybe it was, for all Wels knew.

"Whatever."

Wels promptly ignores it. Instead he babbles:

"Okay—talking—soulbound sword. Cool!” He pinches the bridge of his nose with the hand not balancing the sword. “But—the sheath has an arcane lock. But it opened… for me. I just... drew you. Why?"

"Because I'm bored," says the sword.

Wels' face drops. He deadpans:

"Bored."

"I'm bored,” says the sword a-matter-of-factly. “And you look like a knight errant in need of a trusty sword."

Wels scoffs. He raises his eyebrows

"I have a trusty sword,” he says, gesturing back to his small camp beside him. At this moment, he starts to stand, pressing the tip of the sword into the soft ground to help himself up. His right foot has fallen asleep under him, pinned by his left leg. He shakes the feeling back into it. Stepping away, the sword still stuck in the earth, Wels picks up the sword’s sheath from the ground.

"Not as trusty as me,” the sword says, a defensive edge coming to its voice. If a sword could be defensive.

"Sure,” Wels hums. He can’t help the amusement that trickles into his voice as he paces around the sword. “Why don't I chuck you back in?"

There’s some kind of panicked noise from behind Wels as he sets the scabbard against the coals of his last fire. 

"Hey—listen, you don't gotta get sensitive, alright?” the sword starts, clearly startled. “Look I—I like a fight. You look like a capable guy. You look like you've seen fights and lived, easily. Why... why not see what taking me for a spin can do?"

Wels sets his hands on his hips. He turns back to the blade, studying it for a long moment as he frowns. There was a point to be made, here, with a blade this nice. It was clearly well crafted, and more than certainly well taken care of. Well—besides being left in a running river, which could have done anything to the strength and weight of the blade. That was something he wouldn’t know until he tried it, though, which was his second dilemma. Why would someone just leave a sword here? Dropped it? Misplaced it? Was it stolen? Had it been ditched for some perfectly logical reason, and now it had fallen in Wels’ hands, and, well, despite being a knight errant, Wels had no intention of getting himself cursed. He didn’t have the money to get something like that removed. 

But, as he watches the sword, something curious grows in his chest. He stepped forward, pulling the blade from the earth and wiping the bits of grass on his pant leg. Turning the sword over in his palm, he nods.

"We'll see if you're as good as you say you are, hm?" he asks. Something red flickers against the shadow in the blade, excited, anticipatory. Hungry. The blade seems to hum to life in Wels hand as he tests its weight, watching the blade watch him. He almost smiles, despite himself. 

"That's a little more like it,” the blade says.