#lwle

“Don’t cry.”

Executor brushes past Wanderer, sparing him little more than a glance as he forms a perfectly made spear in his hands, creation magic shining at his fingertips. His visible eye hardens in determination, his pose filled with confidence, so unlike Wanderer’s own as he stares down the demons in front of them.

“I’m--I’m sorry--!”  As he swipes furiously at the tears on his cheeks, he wishes, more than anything, that he could be like Executor, free of doubt, of anxiety, of nervousness, and made only up of a single minded determination towards the mission. Ishmael’s power radiates off of the other celestial in waves, holy energy crackling through the air, temporarily suppressing his own decaying purity.

Executor merely looks down at him, where he’s half-curled upon the floor, clutching his bandaged hand pathetically to his chest before turning away, the ends of his coat flaring with the motion and trailing after him as he dashes into the mob of monsters, decimating them with systematic precision. Shards of broken light reform and unmake themselves into infinite weapons, dissipating into nothingness once their purpose is served and the demons lay lifelessly upon the ground.

That was how Executor always did things--neatly, quickly, and without ever leaving any loose ends.

The celestial frowns down at him, the white in his hair and skin fading to human colors and his feet fully touching the ground once more. “What are you still doing on the floor, Wanderer? Is it a comfortable place to nap?”

Executor wipes his bloodied gloved hand on his coat in disgust before tentatively offering out to Wanderer, his gaze focused determinedly elsewhere. “Yes, my hand is filthy, but no more than your own, so take it.”

“Um, yes! Of course--thank you!” Wanderer had long grown used to Executor’s unusual way of pairing his help with his biting insults and puts his hand in the other’s, using it as support as he stands on shaky legs. “I mean, no, it’s not a good place to nap, but, I wasn’t exactly napping there, I just…”

Executor waves his hand, hauling Wanderer to his feet. “I understand--no need to continue on with senseless explanation. Still..you shouldn’t have run off like that Wanderer. Look where that got you. I know you only have one eye to use properly now, but you can’t possibly mean to tell me that you did not see a rather large pack of demons right in front of you. Or that you didn’t expect to run into any here, in Feita, the demon infested country.”

“N-no, but...I just...I wanted to test my strength, that’s all!” He fiddles with the bandages on his corrupted hand, avoiding Executor’s probably furious gaze. It wasn’t as if he had meant to get into so much trouble, he was just so tired of Executor always having to come save him, of being unable to control his own power well enough to fight like he used to. “I just...wanted to be useful.”

“Well, you weren’t,” Executor states bluntly, before his face softens into an expression of gentle exasperation. He runs his fingers through the bangs over his eye, a nervous tick that Wanderer didn’t think Executor even knew was there. “I mean..just...haven’t you learned that you don’t need to do everything alone? You don’t need to journey alone, you don’t need to fight alone--you aren’t alone. I’m here for a reason, aren’t I?”

“And what...what exactly is that reason, Executor?” Wanderer is almost afraid to ask, because thinks he might know the answer. But he has to know. The other celestial had found him, praying fervently, uselessly at Ishmael’s shrine, begging for her to respond, to do anything to convince him that she was still watching over him. When Executor had stepped out from the shadows, a dim glow of holy light emanating from his presence, he’d thought Ishmael had sent him as her sign. But that hadn’t been it, according to Executor--he was supposedly doing this out of his own free will rather than out of duty to the Goddess, and Wanderer couldn’t understand why.

“We’ve--we’ve been at this for months, and the Goddess still hasn’t responded to me, and the corruption just keeps spreading, and I know you still have your own mission to restore the El, so why do you keep helping me? Why do keep wasting your time on me?”

Executor turns his eyes upwards, before exhaling loudly, moving closer to Wanderer and using a too-long sleeve to wipe away the tears that Wanderer hadn’t realized were there. “And why do you keep wasting your time on this kind of talk? What, am I such an evil being to you that the idea of me helping you because I want to help you is completely inconceivable? I’m helping you because, well--I mean, because you look really pathetic, and it’s hard to ignore you with those stupidly watery eyes of yours--you know, this discussion is getting kind of weird.”

Executor removes his hand from Wanderer’s face and Wanderer finds himself missing the warmth as the other celestial folds his arms. “Look, the point is, you’re stuck with me and I’m stuck with you, and that’s that. So stop crying about it already, okay? That’s...the last thing I want to see you do. Now, come on--I’m covered in demon blood and it’s starting to stick and become disgusting. I want to wash it off.”

The other doesn’t wait for his response before walking away a bit more quickly than usual, a suspiciously pink tinge coloring the back of his neck and ears. Wanderer stands still for a long moment, blinking at the celestial’s back, a strange feeling of lightness filling the bottom of his stomach.

“W-Wait for me, Executor!”

Wanderer stares at his reflection in the lake, distorted by the ripples in the water, but clear enough for him to see just how far gone he really was. His eye is disgusting, a mess of tainted, dull green colors, the skin on and around the eyelid stained with Henir’s mark, and he’s learned from experience that no matter how hard he scrubs at it, even until his fingernails bleed, it won’t go away.

“The water isn’t that nice to look at, is it?”

Executor stands behind him, a roll of fresh bandages in his hands.

“It’s for you, yeah,” Executor hesitates before taking a seat on the grass beside him. “I mean, I can heal whatever wounds the both of us get with Ishmael’s power, so...it’s not like this is for my paper cuts. Also, if I fall into this water, I am blaming you.”

Wanderer doesn’t know exactly what to say to that, so he simply bites his lip, planning to turn his attention back to his grotesque appearance, but grabs the back of his hood, stopping him in his tracks.

“You’ve been paying a lot of attention to that eye, and...it’s distracting! For you! Not for me, of course. So, I thought...if you don’t have to look at it, you might not think about it as much, right?” Executor holds up the bandages, his expression unusually unsure. “Because, well..you already have those bandages on your hand, and it would be weird if you covered up your eye with your hair, because then you’d look like me, and then...just--do you want it, or not?”

Wanderer is surprised that Executor noticed at all his recent obsession with his corrupted eye--either the celestial paid more attention to him than he had thought, or Wanderer was just far too obvious. He smiles gratefully at Executor, his good eye shining in gratitude, and the other shifts his gaze away, tugging at the loose strands of hair that frame the side of his face.

He reaches for the bandages, but Executor pulls away.

“No--I mean--you’d just mess it up--I mean….just...let me do it, okay! It’s easier...and it’s probably hard to see yourself clearly in that water anyway, what with the way it keeps moving and all…unless you really want to do it yourself, that’s okay, too, I guess..”

Wanderer retracts his hand, moving closer to Executor, who makes some kind of strangled duck noise in his throat but doesn’t move away, busying himself with unwrapping the bandages. “I’m sure that you’ll do a better job than I will, Executor. So...if--if you really don’t mind! I’d...like you to do it.”

Executor is mostly silent as he works, only speaking to instruct Wanderer to turn his head which ever way as he  gently wraps the bandages around the left side of Wanderer’s face, and constantly checks Wanderer’s expression for any sign of pain. He arranges the bandages neatly before tying off the ends and snipping off the part attached to the rest of the roll.

“We’ll probably have to replace them every so often, so you’re going to have to look at your eye occasionally, but...it might be better, this way. At least you’re not going to be focused on your reflection every time we stop by anything that could even remotely be considered as a mirror.”

Wanderer carefully reaches up to prod gently at the bandages around his eye, the slight weight of the soft linen around his face somehow comforting. It was certainly better than walking around knowing that his corrupted eye was exposed to the entire world.

“So? How is it?” Executor looks almost nervous as he shifts before him, his hands fluttering over the grass as if looking for something to keep busy with as he waits for a reply, and if Wanderer didn’t know any better, he’d think that Executor was almost afraid of his response.

Wanderer blinks, leaning over the water again to look at himself and it’s almost strange not to feel the familiar twinge of disgust in his stomach as he sees his own reflection.

“It’s--It’s good! I mean...really--I like this...a lot better than it was before.”

Executor huffs softly, picking himself up off of the ground and dusting the bits of grass stuck to his coat away. “It’s...It’s not such a big deal! And don’t stare at it for so long, either; the whole point of me doing this was so that you wouldn’t spend all your time looking at yourself! A-Anyway, it’s just a few pieces of cloth on your face! Don’t get so happy about it…”

Wanderer smiles anyway, something within him enjoying the way it causes Executor to turn away, rubbing at the back of his neck in embarrassment. For all his qualities, the other celestial was really quite terrible at receiving praise.

“Thank you, Executor,” he says again, loudly enough for Executor to hear, but softly enough so that he could pretend like he hadn’t heard it and continue on without having to awkwardly fish for a response.

He trails after Executor as usual, leaving his tainted reflection in the lake behind him, and looks forward to the day, some time in the future, that they can both return to this spot and watch the waters still.

Wanderer is, with increasing frequency, lost in his nightmares, dreaming of the cold face of a Goddess he can barely remember and of the seemingly endless void that tore his essence apart and marked him for eternity. He wakes with his heart in his throat and ice in his veins and remains coiled in terror, until Executor’s soft hands and tired voice arrive to return him to reality once more.

At least, that is how it should be.

When he awakens this time, caught between the thin boundary of waking consciousness and sleep, he lashes out against the presence near him, against the hands binding him and the words of sickly sweet promise of pain in his ears.

“Get away from me!” he shrieks, his fingertips burning with foreign power that belongs neither to him nor to Ishmael. His hand hits something soft and warm and very much not the invisible demons he’d thought he’d been fighting, and before he can stop himself or even attempt to reign his newfound power in, he hears a soft yelp of mingled pain and surprise as the source of the noise is launched away.

Executor.

Wanderer opens his eyes slowly, blinking the world into focus, one hand pressed fervently against his corrupted, pained eye.

Executor watches him warily, his expression unreadable in the dim light of their fire, one hand pressed to the wound at his neck. The wound that Wanderer had made, he had done that, to Executor, who had never done anything but try to help him. He covers his mouth, backing away from Executor, horror rising within him and an entirely different, more real kind of fear replacing the one induced by his nightmares.

“I’m sorry--I’m so, so sorry!”

Executor visibly relaxes, his guard dropping as Wanderer’s apology--meaningless as it is, since the damage had already been done--echoes through the clearing. He shakes his head, wincing as the motion disturbs his fresh injuries.

“Don’t be. I think I was a little too rough in waking you up, this time--it’s not your fault, Wanderer, so don’t go off and wallow in your virtual swamp of self-pity like I know you’re going to.” Executor’s voice is uncertain, lacking its usual bite, and it only serves to further unsettle Wanderer.

“But it is! It is my fault--how can you say that it isn’t when I’ve literally just hurt you?”

“Well--you weren’t thinking! You were half asleep, and besides...it won’t happen again, right?” It’s unlike Executor to be so unsure about something, and Wanderer knows that the other is lying, simply to make him feel better.

He doesn’t need it.

“I already hurt you, Executor, I’m already corrupt, I’m already getting more corrupt, and we both know where this is going!” Wanderer digs his fingers underneath the bandages at his eye and tugs them downwards, showing the terrible growth of Henir’s influence on him. “I’m...I’m losing, Executor...I…”

Neither of them exactly know what happens to those who lose themselves to corruption entirely, who stray from the path of the Goddess and never return, but Wanderer feels terribly, absolutely certain that he will find out for himself.

“Wanderer, you know I won’t let you become like that in the first place! You are staying with me, and we are going to find a way to help you, and--”

“No! That’s not enough!” Wanderer shakes his head furiously, clutching his hand, still covered in Executor’s blood, tightly to his chest. “You have to promise me, Executor, because you’re the only one who I can trust to do this! You’re the only one who’s strong enough! Please...promise me that you’ll kill me, if I’m beyond saving, if I lose myself completely to Henir’s power. I can’t...I would rather die, than hurt you again.”

He doesn’t want his life to end, exactly, and he definitely doesn’t want Executor to be the one to do it, but this is how it absolutely has to be. His hands tremble at their uncertain future and his stomach tightens nervously, but, strangely enough, his tears have stopped. Knowing that he’d have someone to take care of things if it all went wrong is almost a relief.

Executor is silent, dropping his gaze for only a moment, but when he looks back up, his eyes are filled with resolve.

It burns.

His eyes sting and his throat feels constricted and he hates this feeling with a passion, but he doesn’t know how to stop it. Executor rubs at the corners of his eyes with his free hand, his other hand preoccupied with holding the blade pointed at Wanderer’s--or whatever this thing was that Wanderer had become--neck.

The being makes a faintly amused sound, his corrupted fingers coming up to push the celestial weapon away, his expression shadowed by his overgrown bangs. “No, Executor. That’s not how it works, anymore.” His middle finger taps lightly against the cold blue and the sword shatters into nothingness.

Executor forcefully swallows the lump in his throat down, forcing himself to move backwards until he’s pressed against the wall, his heart fluttering rapidly in his chest.

“I promised, you, Wanderer--you made me promise. Don’t--don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

The things tilts its head, a smile tilting the corners of its mouth upwards. “Apostasia. I am Apostasia, now, and so, you have no more promises to keep to me. And I have nothing to promise to you. Such silly obligations mean nothing in the long run, anyway. Besides--would you actually do it, Executor?”

He can’t.

His creation magic sparks and dies at his fingers, unable or unwilling to deal the killing blow, and when he looks at Apostasia, all he can see is the Wanderer that used to need his help, that used to look up to him as a blessing, that used to want nothing more than to become pure once more. This was a different being, a different power altogether, but it was still Wanderer, in essence.

Apostasia suddenly crosses the distance between them in the blink of an eye and leans in closer, until their heads are almost pressed against each other, his corrupted fingers brushing against Executor’s cheek and cupping his face, tilting his head up. Executor shuts his eyes, but makes no other move to resist, his body growing pliant in Apostasia’s arms.

“You feel like her--Ishmael. You are her celestial, after all.” Apostasia’s hand trails down from his face, coming to rest over his too-quickly beating heart. “But I would like to think that you are mine, more than hers.”

He is, he always has been, ever since he’d found Wanderer crying over Ishmael’s shrine all that time--weeks, months, years?--ago and Wanderer had looked up at him with his stupid, helpless eyes, and Executor had slowly but surely found himself in love with him, the corrupted crybaby.

Apostasia’s lips brush against his ear and he shudders at the sensation, pressing himself more tightly against the other, his fingers curling into the fabric of Apostasia’s thin clothing.

“Yes,” he barely manages to whisper in response to Apostasia’s unspoken question, all of the words that need to be said and everything else in between somehow condensed into that single agreement.

It feels oddly like drowning, somehow--his hands flutter uselessly against Apostasia’s back and his lungs burn for air that he does not need and it feels like too much of nothing and everything all at once. Apostasia is unusually gentle with him, holding him as if he’s made from glass that might shatter if handled too roughly, his lips moving from Executor’s own to the tears on Executor’s cheeks.

“Oh, Executor,” Apostasia murmurs into his neck as he claims him in a way that neither Ishmael nor Henir ever could.