#returnbymori

Subaru's hands find their way around Reinhard's shoulders, not squeezing but a gentle rest. The blues of the person before him seem new with all the information he's gathered since their first meeting in the alley. Once everything came out in the open, his outlook on life brightened considerably. What a hero to have on your side. After a few hours of waiting and a few minutes of convincing (barely that, the man is so trusting) he managed to lead them away to the only part of the manor Subaru knows no one will be for the rest of the evening. He sat on a large box in the store closet near the earth dragon stables, flushed redder than roses. "D-don't think this changes anything—I'm still gonna crush you at this hero thing!" Subaru stammers, but determined to drive the point. "But—you helped me a lot... I, not that I'm a damsel but a hero should get as good as they give..."

He followed him and smiled at him as he thanked him. “You have my thanks for being my friend.” He said softly, genuinely with a tilt of his head that made his hair catch the dim lantern light like spun gold. "Your determination is admirable, Subaru." He said, voice warm enough to thaw the lingering chill of the storeroom. "Though I must confess, I never considered us to be in competition." The words were effortless, as if he hadn’t just unraveled Subaru’s entire premise with a single sentence.

Then his fingers brushed the hilt of his sword, not with the practiced ease of a knight drawing steel, but with the quiet reverence of a man acknowledging something sacred. The blade slid free with a whisper, catching the dim lantern light in a way that made it seem alive, like liquid silver given form. He held it horizontally between them, the flat of the blade reflecting Subaru’s wide-eyed expression back at him. "This sword." He said, voice softer than Subaru had ever heard it. “Has never left its scabbard for anyone unworthy." The weight of that statement hung in the air, thicker than the dust motes swirling around them. As he would put it back, only around Subaru, could he ever use this sword.

“It means, that at some point in time, we are both going to have to make impossible choices.” He said, for his sword, would only ever allow itself to be removed, for someone worthy, someone powerful, someone dangerous, someone that could kill him in battle. As his smile remained, despite his words, how he knew, in the future, they might not be friends, but enemies, depending on the choices they make.

“I hope we both, make the right choices, for the good of the people and this world.”

It was meant to be a nice, lazy day, whatever that meant? Sailing down a river, the very same river he had created just for her to try and give her some comfort in his kingdom, as he lounged there, one leg elegantly crossed over the other, embodying a perfect image of deliberate indifference. He resembled less a man at rest and more a statue sculpted from salt and moonlight, impeccably positioned as if he believed the very atmosphere around him should feel privileged to bear his presence. He didn’t glance at Subaru; instead, his golden eyes were locked onto a far-off point on the horizon, as if he were imparting wisdom to the clouds about their lack of symmetry. To everyone else, he appeared as a splash of color in a lively world, but to Subaru, he was a constant, vibrating tension, a tempest held together by a delicate, fragile thread of patience.

"And what, exactly, is the nature of this grievance that has suddenly cast such a shadow over your expression? You want to, let me understand this, go home? But we are home, all of this is our home, I made it all for you, to make you happy? Is it not enough?"

He slowly inquired, his voice a smooth, carefully crafted melody that concealed a sudden, sharp surge of intensity. He didn’t turn his head, but his golden eyes shifted, pinning Subaru with a gaze that felt like a tangible weight. He huffed, a brief, sharp exhale that puffed out his cheeks for just a moment, a gesture that, for him, was akin to a volcanic eruption.

"I offer you the privilege of my company, the assurance of my presence, and the breathtaking view of the open water, yet you remain there, trembling with a silent, stifling discontent. Do you understand how deeply insulting it is to be seen as a burden by the very individual for whom I have carved out a realm of complete tranquility?"

“I have heard a saying. On my travels around the world, a saying from different kingdoms and it has stuck with me and it is something that I like to use for myself and those that are here, it will ease things as well. They say, that home is were the heart is .. isn’t that delightful? How warming, charming and wonderful those words are. Imagine it, home being were your heart is, and your heart is right here with me, inside of my chest, making me strong, better, faster, more perfect without flaw. So you see, there is no need for sorrow, for your heart is here, by that logic, your home is here as well.”

As he tilted his head slightly, his golden eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight like dull coins as his wife's tears traced glistening paths down her cheeks. She didn’t sob, no, that would be too undignified for someone he had chosen. But her breath hitched in tiny, suppressed gasps, the kind that betrayed a lifetime of swallowed grief. The tear droplets trembled at the edge of her jaw before falling onto the pristine white fabric of her dress, leaving dark stains that spread like ink on snow.

Truly now he wondered why she wished to go home, when he was here, in the perfect tiny kingdom. The candlelight flickered across the walls of the chamber, casting elongated shadows that seemed to bow in deference to him, as they should. He reached out, catching one of her tears on the tip of his finger before it could ruin the fabric further. "This is your home, don’t you understand?" He murmured, his voice smooth as the edge of a blade.

"Why would you weep for something lesser?"

As he smiled, tilting his wife's chin up with a single finger, his touch light as a spider's thread. Crying was pointless, hadn't he explained this before? The tear on his fingertip glistened, suspended in time like all things under his will. "Look around, see it for yourself." He murmured, gesturing to the immaculate chamber, its walls adorned with gilded filigree and velvet drapery untouched by dust or decay.

"This is a perfect little kingdom. No suffering, no lack, no... inconveniences." His lips curled, pleased with the word. Convenience was paramount. “This is better than were you have come from, this is everything that someone could dream about.”

He lay there bleeding out, and the rain made it worse. The droplets hit his wounds with cruel precision, turning shallow cuts into stinging rivers, deeper gashes into pulsing throbs of agony. His breath came in ragged bursts. Too slow, too controlled for a dying man, and yet the way his fingers twitched against the mud betrayed him. Even the Sword Saint couldn’t hide the tremors of a body pushed past its limits. He felt Subaru’s hands as they shook harder. He knew he had seen this before, far too many times, but never like this. Never with blood bubbling between his lips in thick, syrupy strands, never with his eyes half-lidded and unfocused. He felt his fingers tightening in his ruined shirt, as he heard that his voice cracked.

He was upset, he wanted to know the reason. The answer was obvious. He always had a reason. Always. And that was the worst part.

A wet, rattling cough tore through his chest, splattering crimson across Subaru’s sleeve. The knight’s breath hitched, then steadied, too steady, like he was forcing his lungs to obey through sheer will. "Subaru." He murmured, voice frayed at the edges. He reached up, fingers brushing Subaru’s wrist, feather-light.

"I... apologize for the mess, but we both know .. the truth. We both cannot die, we are fated, to do this .. forever until we get it right."

She didn’t stop him, as she felt Sabura's hands reach out around her throat and pin her down, the rough calluses scraping against her delicate skin as her breath hitched. Her pulse hammered against his grip—not from fear, but from the sheer audacity of the man who didn’t realize he’d just trapped a storm in silk. Her blue eyes narrowed, the same piercing hue that had once made armies hesitate, now gleaming with something darker. "You’re making a mistake." She whispered, her voice like velvet over steel. As she felt his grip tightened, and her lips curled.

The moment his thumb pressed into her windpipe, her body moved on instinct. Her knee slammed upward, cracking into his ribs with a wet crunch. She heard him as he wheezed, his grip faltering just enough for her to twist—her heeled boot hooking behind his ankle. They toppled together, but she landed atop him, her skirt flaring as she drove an elbow into his sternum. Bones groaned. As she didn’t glance away. "I told you!" She murmured, leaning close enough for him to see the lethal calm in her gaze.

"Mistake."

She saw his face twist. He bucked beneath her, fingers clawing for her vest. The fabric tore. Cool air licked her exposed collarbone, but her expression didn’t flicker. Instead, her hand snapped out, seizing his wrist. A twist. A pop. His scream drowned out between there heavy breathing. As she tried to subdue him, and she barely registered the shift in his weight before his knee jerked up—straight for her groin.

She twisted, but not fast enough. Pain exploded through her pelvis, electric and nauseating. She saw him move as he surged, flipping her onto her back. His hands found her throat again, thumbs digging into her windpipe with renewed desperation. Black spots danced in her vision. Her fingers scrabbled at his wrists, nails drawing blood, but his grip was iron.

“Stop.”

She’d misjudged him. He fought like a cornered beast—all teeth and no retreat. Her lungs burned. Her knee bucked again, weaker this time, and she saw him shifting his weight to pin her legs. Her vision tunneled. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t—

“I’m sorry.” She said. “That you have been alone.” As her eyes locked onto his own. “Fighting alone, saving everyone alone, dying alone …” As she let that last one hang between them.

She knew of it all, return by death.

Knew it from the moment they first crossed paths, from the moment there eyes locked, she knew of it all. That he was not from this world, that he was someone special, here to change the world. She knew of the different loops, paths, outcomes. She knew when he died, she … the sword saint … takes over and saves the world, continues on in his place, but without being able to save everyone.

He has suffered, died so many times, that she had not been there for him when it mattered—but the words dissolved into the chokehold, unspoken, unheard. She saw his face blurred above her, his grin a jagged smear of triumph. Her fingers twitched against his wrists, not in struggle now, but in something worse: recognition. As she was staring at him, was this the first time he has tried to kill her then, would it bring him peace, if he did it?

Her lungs screamed. Blackness gnawed at the edges of her vision. Yet she smiled—a thin, bloody thing—and let her body go slack. Sabura's grip faltered, confusion flickering across his face. That split second was enough. Her heel snapped up, not to his groin, but to the underside of his jaw. Bone met bone with a wet crack. His head snapped back, teeth clattering. She rolled free, gasping, her skirt tangling around her legs as she scrambled upright onto her hands and knees, and spat up the blood, breathing out for the moment, both of them, couldn’t die, but death was still painful. If he died, he reset his loop and she would be aware of what happened, if she died, she could be brought back, instantly.

“All I ever wanted to do, was be your friend and help you.”

The water was perfectly still, not a ripple disturbing its surface—because of course it was. Even the steam rising from the scalding heat of it froze midair, suspended in time like everything else in his vicinity. He lounged with his arms draped over the edges of the marble tub, golden eyes half-lidded, staring at nothing in particular. The bathhouse was opulent, as everything he owned had to be, with gilded pillars and mosaics depicting scenes of divine judgment. None of it mattered. It was merely an extension of his will, another prop in the kingdom he had built for himself.

As he sighed, pressing a damp hand to his forehead. Twenty-seven wives lost in the last campaign. Twenty-seven. Had they not understood? Their purpose was simple: to exist, unchanging, uncomplaining, like ornaments on a shelf. But no, they had to weep, or worse—question him.

"Why must we stay indoors forever?" "Why can't I see my family?"

STUPID, UNGRATEFUL CREATURES.

He had given them everything—immortality, safety, the privilege of being his. And yet, they always found some way to spoil it. His fingers twitched, nails digging into the marble. If only they hadn't forced his hand. If only they had remembered their place.

The water remained motionless around him, not even acknowledging his irritation. A small mercy. He couldn’t bear the thought of anything touching him right now—not even the air. His gaze drifted to the far wall, where a line of empty hooks waited. Each one had held a portrait once. He'd burned them all, of course. No use clinging to what was already gone. But the absence prickled. He'd have to find replacements soon. The kingdom demanded symmetry.

Twenty-seven gaps. Twenty-seven new faces to carve into perfection.

He rose from the bath, water cascading off his pale skin in frozen droplets that shattered like glass against the marble floor the moment they left his influence. He stepped onto the tiles, pristine white like everything else in this hollow palace, and snatched a towel from the air—already suspended mid-fall from some servant’s interrupted duty. The fabric wrapped around his waist with a crisp flick of his wrist, dampness vanishing instantly under his Authority. Even evaporation required his permission.

Then she was there when he turned.

One of the remaining wives—he couldn’t recall her name, nor did he care to—pressed against him before he could react. Her hands were wet from the bathwater she’d scooped in desperation, and when she shoved him backward, his heel caught the lip of the tub. For a single, impossible second, he felt the world move around him. His shoulder blades struck the marble edge, pain flaring bright and shocking in his chest. The towel slipped. The wife’s fingers dug into his arms, her breath ragged against his throat.

“What …”

He blinked. The tiles were cold against his bare back, the wife’s knees bracketing his hips—an absurd reversal of roles. Water dripped from her sleeves onto his chest, each drop violating the stillness he commanded. He could feel it. Actual sensation, crawling over his skin like insects. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The wife—Eleanora, maybe? No, that one had begged too much—tightened her grip. Her nails drew blood. His blood. Red bloomed in thin lines down his arms. He was weak, without a high number of wives, his powers had stalled, as his eyes widened, he could not, for the life of him, remember this wives name.

“What are you doing!”

He stood there and looked at  her, his golden eyes flickering with something between amusement and irritation. The way she handled his coat—like it was just another piece of fabric and not an extension of his divine existence—made his fingers twitch. But he didn’t move. Not yet. There was something perversely fascinating about watching her fuss over the stitching, her brows knitted in concentration as if she genuinely believed her efforts mattered. He never knew, in all his life, that a woman could have such talent, it was interesting to behild.

His knuckles were split, blood crusting in the crevices of his skin, but he ignored it. The pain was irrelevant—what was relevant was the way his coat draped over his shoulders now, pristine and untouched by the carnage he’d wrought hours earlier. The metallic scent of dried blood still clung to him, mingling with the faint floral perfume she must’ve used when pressing the fabric. It was disgusting. It was intriguing. He inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring, before exhaling through his mouth in a slow, deliberate sigh.

As he watched her work, those golden eyes looking right through her, as he could see her eyeing the droplets of red that had begun to seep into the wooden planks beneath his feet. He glanced down, then back at her, his expression unreadable.

"Floorboards can be replaced, don’t worry about them." He said simply, as if that settled the matter. As if anything could ever truly be settled when he was involved. His gaze lingered on her hands—small, calloused, still clutching the needle like a weapon.

How odd, he thought, that something so fragile could mend what he’d torn apart.

The water in the basin beside him had long since turned murky, swirling with diluted blood and grime. He dipped a cloth into it, wringing it out with a slow, methodical twist of his wrists. The action was almost meditative, if not for the way his knuckles cracked under the pressure, fresh crimson blooming across his skin.

He studied it, fascinated, before pressing the damp fabric to his split lip. The sting was inconsequential. Everything was inconsequential, really, except for the way she was looking at him now—like he was a puzzle she couldn’t solve, a stain she couldn’t scrub away.

“Just keep working and repair it, I need to go back out tomorrow, this empire, is annoying me greatly, so I plan to destroy some of there towns and cripple there trade before we depart.”

@returnbymori

He had never once stopped to think about the fact that he had never been alive.

He had not noticed the way his body had shrunk and twisted, or the way his limbs had shortened and thickened. He had not noticed the way his skin had grown fur, or the way his face had elongated into a snout. He had not noticed the way his voice had become a bark, or the way his thoughts had become simpler and more instinctual.

He had not noticed the way his world had shrunk to the size of a small room, or the way his wives had vanished, replaced by a single woman. He had not noticed the way his Authority had faded, or the way his immortality had been stripped away. He had not noticed the way his pride had been humbled, or the way his greed had been sated. He had not noticed the way his sins had been forgiven, or the way his soul had been cleansed. He had not noticed the way he had been saved.

But now, he noticed.

A sharp, unfamiliar scent—wet earth and crushed mint—jolted through his nostrils, dragging him upward from the depths of his delusion. His limbs twitched, but they were wrong. Too light. Too small. His chest heaved, but the breaths came too fast, too shallow, the rhythm of a panicked animal. His clothing was too big, too heavy, the bed sheets too much, the pillow too large.

His golden eyes snapped open—only to find the world towering above him, distorted as though seen through a fisheye lens. The ceiling stretched impossibly high, the furniture loomed like monoliths, and a woman’s face—sharp-chinned, narrow-eyed, utterly unfamiliar—hovered over him. Her lips moved, but the sounds that came out were garbled, nonsensical. His ears flicked. His ears. Flicked.

He tried to shout, to demand an explanation, but what erupted from his throat was a high-pitched whine. His body—no, this body—trembled, muscles coiled tight with instincts he didn’t understand. The woman reached down, her fingers brushing the fur between his ears. Fur. The touch sent a jolt through him, equal parts revulsion and involuntary pleasure. His tail—he had a tail—thumped weakly against the mattress. The motion felt foreign, automatic, as though his limbs were puppeted by some other consciousness.

“What the hell have you done to me!”