#rns ficlets

Welsknight isn't entirely sure how he gets himself into these situations. Well, he knows everything leading up to the situation of course -- he lives it -- but still, the end product is a little baffling.

First, Tango pings him to ask for a favor. He doesn't specify the favor, so Welsknight just assumes it's about Decked Out {because everything for Tango is about Decked Out right now} and flies over no questions asked. As it turns out, he should have asked, because he arrives to the tell-tale bickering of dissonant voices. Tanguish is in a pit trap in one of the lower rooms, wincing over an injured ankle, while Tango ribs him relentlessly from above.

"I knew it was a good trap!" Tango crows pridefully. "It got you, didn't it?"

"The chains move!" Tanguish protests from underneath the offending string of chains. "How are any of your friends supposed to get across that?"

"They're not!" Tango laughs with frankly evil amounts of glee. "They're all going to fall, and I'm going to keep ravagers-- oh! There's my hero."

Welsknight nearly misses a step at the phrase my hero. It's all Tangotek-patented get-me-out-of-the-mess-I-made flattery, but it still flushes the back of his neck with a creeping blush. He doesn't get called hero very often these days. Not since Tanguish, really, and everything to do with hels and helsmets.

{He's trying not to be resentful, he really is. He keeps reminding himself it's his own fault, but that only ever gets him so far.}

Welsknight offers a crooked smile regardless. "I feel like this whole hero thing is just you buttering me up."

"What? Noooo," Tango lies through several squeaks and snickers, "but uh, unrelated, you didn't happen to bring any healing items with you?"

Tanguish whines from where he's trapped in the pit, "It's hot in here Tango!"

{Given the floor is made of magma blocks, Welsknight wagers it probably is a little uncomfortable down there.}

"You didn't ask me to bring any healing items?" Welsknight says, stepping up to the side of the trap. It's been turned off, but he can see the clear line of sticky pistons in the wall, made to catch and rattle the chain line -- probably the cause of Tanguish's fall.

{Welsknight makes the mental note to never get on Tango's bad side. If this is the kind of trap he makes for a fun game, he's not sure he wants to see the kind of trap he'd make for revenge purposes.}

Without waiting to be prompted -- because he knows exactly where this request will eventually end up going -- Welsknight steps off the edge of the trap to land in a crouch beside Tanguish. The abrupt change in the air from above to below is harsh enough to make him cough. It's all smoke and heat and fumes down here, and he very nearly has to crawl to keep his head below it. Shuffling awkwardly, Welsknight makes his way to Tanguish, who tries his best not to watch him like a cornered animal.

"Need a hand?" Welsknight asks with forced brightness, because the cornered-animal look still kind of stings.

{He's starting to feel like he needs a sign: X days since the last helsmet incident, just so he can prove he is getting better at living-and-let-living, thank you very much.}

"Uh..." Tanguish hesitates, searches around briefly to see if he has any other choice, then offers his hand regardless. "Sure. Th-thank you--!"

He doesn't expect Welsknight to sweep him up in his arms, and the inglorious shriek of surprise he makes against Welsknight's ear makes them both wince.

"No face-murder-ificating going on down there I hope?" Tango asks, grinning over the side of the trap. There's a tightness to his grin that Welsknight doesn't appreciate.

"Oh it's a bloody massacre," Welsknight says dryly, standing to his full height with Tanguish in his arms. "I'm taking his head off his shoulders as we speak."

"That's not funny," Tanguish mutters nervously at about the same time Tango bursts into laughter.

Welsknight's elytra gives one flap, and with skill that surprises even him, he manages to leap back out of the trap with Tanguish in tow. When he lands, he sets Tanguish on his feet again {Tanguish froze like a scared rabbit in his arms when they darted up here, and he gets the feeling the little helsmet will feel better on his own two feet, even with a busted ankle.} Tango wraps Tanguish's arm around his shoulders, and together the three of them limp slowly towards Decked Out's distant exit, Tango twittering excitedly about various trap and pitfall ideas. Welsknight listens attentively, mostly giving input along the lines of "that's evil, Tango", which generally gleans him an evil grin and more cackling laughter.

They reach their next roadblock when they come to the large staircase leading up to the top level of Decked Out. Both Tanguish and Tango hesitate, looking at the high, cramped stairs with the same weary dread as someone facing down a mountain. Welsknight sighs and {because he knows where this will eventually go as well} steps behind Tanguish to whisk the little pest off his feet again. He earns himself another cut off, surprised yelp, but this time Tanguish actually loops his arms around Welsknight's neck for stability, which is a marked improvement from scared-rabbit-stiffness.

"Y-you don't have to--" Tanguish starts.

Welsknight cuts him off with a very smooth, and somewhat smug, "I'm sure I don't," before taking the first step up the stairs.

He'll admit readily that at this point, hubris might have had him in its teeth. Tanguish was small, thin, and relatively light -- but he was still a person, and people were heavy. People are especially heavy in a bridal carry, where all his strength is narrowed down to the muscles in his arms, shoulders and back. Add to that the steep stairs, and the fact that he could barely see over Tanguish's body to figure out his next step, and that staircase turned into a burning, breathless, harrowing journey very much like the metaphorical mountain Tanguish and Tango seemed to be staring down earlier. Welsknight fought to moderate his breaths, to look smooth and unbothered, and not like a shaky mess about to trip and spill both of them onto the floor. It was a merciful relief when he made it to the last stair, and had to stand and catch his breath while Tango fumbled with the keys to get the door unlocked.

"Wels dude, you're a machine," Tango said glowingly, clearly impressed.

Welsknight smiled pleasantly and gave him a nod, because he was still too out of breath to actually respond. They emerged into the rest of Decked Out's highest floor, where Welsknight was afforded a bit more rest when he dropped Tanguish back onto his feet again -- though this time he wrapped his arm beneath Tanguish's shoulders to help him walk, instead of passing him off to Tango. It was a little awkward. Welsknight was just tall enough that he had to stoop while he walked, which put an ache in the center of his back that he was sure would bother him for the next few days.

"Uhm, th-thank you for the help, by the way," Tanguish murmured in the general direction of the ground, as though scared to meet Welsknight's eye.

"Of course," Welsknight said as gently and warmly as humanly possible. "It's no problem."

Tanguish grimaced a little at the of course, and Welsknight briefly wondered if, against all odds and attempts to the contrary, he'd managed to be rude and intimidating. Then he registered the look of vague guilt on Tanguish's face, and had to carefully hide his own bitter expression.

{Of course was, apparently, something Helsknight would say.}

Ahead of them, Tango ushered them through nearly-finished hallways, chattering excitedly about upcoming plans for redstone lines, mobs and additional traps. He had to stop himself a few times to ask Wels if he was going to play, before chuckling and adding "no spoilers" to some of his cut off statements. They were about halfway through the level when Tanguish had to stop and rest -- his limp on his bad ankle was getting markedly worse. His wince was starting to turn into a permanent expression, and he leaned more and more weight on Wels.

"Here," Welsknight offered when Tanguish had regained some of his composure. "We're close enough to the entrance, I bet I could fly with you."

"In those hallways?" Tanguish tittered nervously, hand circled neatly around his slowly swelling ankle. {Welsknight wondered if his touch was actually cold enough to keep the swelling down. He supposed Tanguish was made of ice and sculk.} "Uhm... I'm sure you're a great flyer Welsknight, but... Uhm. I'd rather not risk breaking my neck today."

Welsknight flashed him a daring smile, "Why not? I've carried you through caves before."

"I was too unconscious to panic about it then," Tanguish pointed out.

"I can knock you unconscious," Welsknight joked, then winced when he realized what he'd said.

{Right, Tanguish was probably too sensitive for that kind of--}

Tanguish barked a laugh, sounding nearly as surprised by his own humor as Welsknight was.

"I would rather skip the brain trauma, thanks," Tanguish chuckled, flashing Tango a sideways grin. "I think Tango's traumatized me enough."

"Dude, you haven't seen traumatized yet!" Tango crowed, the flame of his hair sparking brightly. "Just wait until I get all the hazards built in!"

Tanguish's laugh, always nervous, took on an even more noticeable nervous edge. Welsknight wondered if he was imagining play-testing the hazards -- possibly imagining all the new and interesting ways he could be injured in the process.

{He briefly wondered if Tanguish knew he was allowed to refuse to help. Maybe he should bring it up at some point in the future?}

"Well I hate to break it to you, Tanguish," Welsknight said instead, "but the last bit of exit is either an unfinished death drop, or a long minecart track uphill."

Tanguish groaned.

"We could always leave you here," Tango quipped, grinning. "You can keep your knives and be one of the game hazards. The dungeon wraith of Decked Out II!"

"And get torn apart by vex when your game reaches max clank?" Tanguish snorted derisively. "No thank you!"

"You're fast and sneaky! You'll be fine!"

"I'm not that fast and sneaky!"

Welsknight rolled his eyes at the pleasant bickering, but honestly found it kind of... Nice. It was nice that Tanguish felt relaxed enough to do more than just project fear and nervousness, even in spite of the busted ankle. He was slowly learning Tanguish had a dry wit and sarcasm that was fun to listen to -- probably fueled by his honestly uncanny memory. He was perceptive and tactful, and he, generally speaking, uses those traits for good.

It was admittedly, also very nice, to hear Tango talking like himself again. No anger, no self deprecation. There was only loud laughter, and the giddy variety of his voice, the bright tumble of his whole-hearted conversation. He didn't feel the need to put himself between Welsknight and Tanguish, as though his every thought were caught up in protecting someone.

It was... Nice.

Welsknight moved because it felt like it was time to. While Tango was mid-jibe, and Tanguish was mid-laughter, he scooped up the little helsmet back into his arms again. Tanguish squawked in startlement, which turned into babbled protest when Welsknight turned to Tango and grinned, "Race you to the top?"

"You're on!"

"Guys wait-- guys wait--!!"

Tanguish would never believe him, given the frantic screaming and clutching that happened when Welsknight spread his elytra, but flying with the little helsmet in his arms wasn't all that difficult. Sure, turns got a little dicey, and he had to account for the extra weight, but Wels was a decent flyer, and he kept up with Tango as they twisted through the Decked Out caverns towards the long slope up to the entrance. The pair of Hermits burst into Decked Out's main entryway, Tango howling with joy when they left the cramped tunnels for wide open space, and ultimately, sky. The whole of Hermitcraft sprawled out before them, a carpet of patchwork colors, guided by generation and the works of their hands. In his arms, Tanguish shivered, claws digging in to Welsknight's pauldrons, eyes wide with breathless fear. Welsknight hovered, opened his mouth to apologize, or try some kind of reassurance, when Tanguish leaned over to look down, and lost his fear with a long, awestruck exhalation.

"You guys see this all the time?" He asked, in a voice gone small with wonder.

Welsknight couldn't help the surge of pride. "Any time we want to fly."

Welsknight could have resumed his race with Tango. He knew where they were going. Neither of them had any healing potions ready {Tango wouldn't have asked for help if he had them, and Welsknight hadn't realized that was the kind of help needed -- he really needed to start asking more questions when he got pinged.} The easiest way to get them was the shopping district. Far ahead, looping through the clouds, he could see the bright yellow-red flicker of Tango weaving about with his elytra. But Tanguish was starting to relax in Welsknight's arms, watching the world go by with naked wonder, and it felt rude to shorten that joy by rushing through it. Welsknight knew what the unspooled world looked like as it rushed beneath his wings. He has grown accustomed to it, expectant of it, over the years. The awesomeness of the height, color, beauty... It hadn't completely dimmed, but it had taken on the aspect of the mundane. Tanguish had never seen it before, and his joy was infectious. The way he gasped when clouds parted to reveal glittering lakes, the distant fog of the horizon, the arc of light playing through clouds.

{He wasn't all that heavy anyway, Welsknight decided.}

He set his wings and glided, coasting on the wind, following the natural ups and downs of heated and cooled air. When Tanguish asked him what some distant build was, he tried his best to answer. When they finally came to the shopping district, he circled it, letting the slow spiral of gravity draw him back to ground again. Tanguish had gone quiet in his arms, soothed, maybe, by the journey's coming end. Welsknight landed lightly, and gave a puzzled frown when Tanguish didn't immediately try to wriggle free of his grasp. He had to tilt the little helsmet in his arms to see he was asleep.

{Oh...}

Something in Welsknight's chest swelled again; fondness, and the gentle appreciation of the trusted. It was ridiculous honestly. He and Tanguish could barely call each other friends. This strange warbling in his soul, like he'd just been gifted a well-guarded secret, shouldn't be welling up inside him.

{He shouldn't look at this sleeping helsmet, and feel grateful that, for once, he was trusted not to do harm.}

Welsknight swallowed thickly, trying to rein in strange, powerful emotions he wasn't entirely used to. He didn't know what to do, where to go, how best to proceed. He certainly didn't want to wake Tanguish up. Eventually, as gingerly as humanly possible, Welsknight knelt and then sat on the ground, resting tired arms and legs as best he could while Tanguish slept in his lap.

Tango found him eventually, whistling a tune as he dangled potions from one of the nearby shops in his hand. His brow first creased with concern when he saw them, then lit with a gentle smile when he realized what happened.

"Got you with the cat rules, huh?" Tango whispered, grinning.

"Cat rules?"

"Yeah! Once a cat falls asleep on your lap, you can't move it," Tango chuckled. "It's illegal."

"What do I do?"

"I think you're stuck there," Tango beamed, dropping the pair of potions by Welsknight's side. "Don't worry, he doesn't ever sit still long."

"I can't stay here all afternoon," Welsknight whispered, frowning. His frown deepened when Tango got back to his feet and started strolling away. "Tango where--? Tango I can't stay here! Tango! Tangotek!"

Tango snickered, waved coyly over his shoulder, and kept walking, leaving Welsknight to crouch in the sun-warmed grass while Tanguish slept. It was very hard to hold onto his annoyance. Tango left him alone with Tanguish. Tango trusted him alone with Tanguish.

Tanguish trusted him at all.

{It felt... Good... To be trusted again.}

Martyn ascends the steps of the grim, innocuous little building and enters through the front door. There's a perfectly good elevator, and he'll be damned if he takes the stairs to the sanctum below just to assuage his host's superiority complex. Best to set expectations early for this sort of thing. Martyn finds the elevator † hidden, but not particularly well in his experience † and descends. He schools his face into a bored expression and keeps his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He's sure he's being watched, somehow, so he makes sure there's nothing to see.

† He's a professional. His clients don't intimidate him, nor does his work. †

† Professional. Just business. †

Well, all except for that little voice in the back of his head that keeps reminding him Helsknight got his ass kicked here. That's a little humbling. If he were very honest -- and he's not, but if he were -- he would admit there's a bit of a tremble going on in his limbs. Not enough to make his hands shake, but it's enough for him to feel it, like a half-formed shiver on his spine. He hasn't felt like this since. Hels. That rooftop maybe? When he was trying to be all brave and convince Tanguish to run? What a lark that had been! Bloody stupid, but he was allowed to be a stupid good person every once in a while.

† Not today though, probably. †

Martyn yawns just before the elevator stops, so he can prove how bored and unbothered he is when the doors open. Then he's down the hall, walking the clearly marked path, and ignoring the prickle on the back of his neck as his intuition rings warning bells. The Demon's hall is a massive trap, always poised to spring shut. He knows this. He shouldn't be bothered. He doesn't like the smell of the place though. That's new, and probably what's jangling his nerves right now. The air smells dark and familiar, like soil and heat, alongside something burning and chemical. Metallic almost. It makes him wrinkle his nose like a dog.

The Demon is at his potion brewing set, in the middle of taking hot bottles off the stand and adding ingredients. Martyn tries to get a good look at the counter as he approaches, but can't really make out anything useful. He recognizes the red flesh of dried netherwort poking out of a small canister on the table, a crate of empty glass vials, and a pair of unused blaze rods that radiate enough heat to warp the air around them. Two more cannisters are on the table, closed and unlabeled. The bottle in the Demon's hand is black, the liquid tar-like. Martyn takes another deep inhale, lips parted to taste the air so he can describe it to an apothecary later. He gets a mouthful of something familiar enough to turn his stomach, but not enough to actually give him a clue of what it is; rancid plant matter maybe. Martyn isn't a poisoner, but he's familiar with most of them, and it unnerves him to find a scent he doesn't know.

"Smells like a bad smelter down here," Martyn comments, trying to hit that perfect medium between bright and sarcastic. "Trying a new perfume?"

"You're late," the Demon says, not bothering to answer the question. His tail gives a single cat-like lash, golden spade flashing. Martyn makes sure to stop well out of its reach. "I thought you were a professional."

"Exactly I am," Martyn grins, rocking on his heels and sticking his thumbs in his jacket. "And a professional doesn't show up to see a client unless they're sure they won't get caught. You're on a lot of shit-lists you know."

"I don't know," the Demon sniffs, tilting the little black bottle in his claws so the nameless ichor inches towards the lip of the glass. "Who could I have possibly offended in the Colosseum?"

"No one important," Martyn scoffs. "Just the one who's got a pretty new face now because of you. His PR team had a riot making the new banners."

"Amusing."

"Expensive," Martyn corrects. "And EB doesn't like it when people faff around with his gladiators anyway."

"EB is a washed up ex-Champion who lost his nerve the moment he lost to Helsknight," the Demon says dismissively, flicking his tail again.

† Well... That was a bold statement. Should he dispute that? There's what's left of a loyal dog in his ribs that tries to growl, and Martyn muzzles it. Barely. †

"People like EB. His opinion matters. Even to his brother, which is saying something, I think." Martyn muses, drawing out the sentence like it's a new, delicate thought. The Demon doesn't amend his statement. Martyn doesn't let the silence sit for too long. "I'm just gonna cut to the chase, yeah? Who am I after, and why?"

Finally, the Demon diegns to pause his work and glance in Martyn's direction. "After?"

"Look, I've been around this block once or twice, yeah?" Martyn smiles easily. "I've done hits for you before. And, not to imply you're predictable, but most people don't hire me for assassin work and then turn around and ask me to steal paperwork. So..."

Martyn wiggles his eyebrows in perfectly-feigned eagerness. The Demon smirks, a derisive expression, and returns to his work. He hooks a long claw into the bottle, delicately drawing out some of the potion. It beads briefly on his claw before slowly evaporating, leaving the long talon stained black.

† Definitely poison. †

"No," the Demon hums. "I must admit I don't require any paperwork stolen."

He stoppers his mystery vial and turns to hold it out to Martyn.

"I don't work with foreign substances," Martyn says, and he's only halfway lying. "Legal reasons."

"An assassin cares about legalities?" The Demon asks, clearly amused by the idea.

"Sure. You know how easy it is to get framed for murder around here?" Martyn slips out one of the many daggers he carries from a pouch on his sleeve. He picks at a spot of blood beneath his fingernails -- the same spot he always picks. It would probably stop bleeding if he stopped the habit, but gods if he didn't need to fidget sometimes. "I've done that service a few times too, as it happens. Anyway, if I don't know what it is, I can't course correct for it, yanno?"

"Course correct?"

"Collateral damage," Martyn shrugs. "Will that shit sterilize if I wash a glass after? Does it absorb through the skin? If some thief palms it while I'm walking, do I have to worry about someone's lungs melting out their--'

"If a thief steals from me, they'll deserve what it does to them!" The Demon snarls, sudden and vicious. His tail lashes so hard the barb clatters against the table leg, ringing like a struck bell.

† Definitely a poison, and a bad one at that. Martyn promptly decides he's not touching it unless it's in an insulated box, and even then, that's stretching his trust. †

"Steady on," Martyn laughs easily, holding up his hands placatingly. "No one's going to be stealing your science fair project. Like I said, I don't work with unknown--"

The Demon moves like a snake does -- lithe, liquid movement that's more color and blur than shape. Martyn isn't expecting to be attacked, so the dodge he executes doesn't quite cut it. He feels those long claws ghost by his neck, barely grazing a stinging line across his skin. Martyn swears and puts a hand to it, grimacing at the small spot of blood on his fingertips.

"The hels is your problem?!" Martyn snaps, backpedalling, his dagger flipped in his hand so he can actually make use of it as a weapon. "I'm not doing shit for you if you're going to--"

Martyn winces.

"Going to--"

One of his knees very abruptly buckles. Then he's on his side on the floor, breathless and dizzy. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat, and a crawling pain that spiders down his vein from the cut on his neck. Every heartbeat draws it down, makes his body flinch painfully, against his will. It's a very sudden reaction, and it takes every bit of restraint in his body not to panic.

† Breath deeper. Slow your heartbeat. †

Martyn has been poisoned before, many, many times. It's a side-effect of working with it so often. He's felt every nauseous, cramping, painful, burning, itching side-effect poison can give -- sometimes controlled, sometimes not. The thought he keeps coming back to, as the Demon circles him, is that poison isn't supposed to work so quickly. Most of it takes time. Has to be metabolized somehow. Hours. Days. Multiple dosages. This stuff hits like a hoglin, and like a hoglin, persists long enough to try and gore him to death. His body feels weak. He shakes. It's hard to breathe.

And it's familiar. He's run into this before, but gods if he has no idea where. Not right now, while he tries to breathe slow and deep and wait it out.

The Demon crouches beside him, tail curled primly around his ankles like a cat, massive wings an arching shadow in the dim light. He gently places another potion bottle on the ground beside Martyn.

"That will take the effect away," the Demon informs him, eyes glittering with sadistic glee. "Though I'm afraid it's another unknown, foreign substance."

Martyn manages a very thin laugh. He bares his teeth like a dog, even while he writhes on the floor through whatever poison-pains this stuff keeps burning him with. It's still creeping down his throat like fingers, pins and needles down his collar bone, and his arm starts to go numb, like someone's cutting a line through him and breaking off pieces. He doesn't want to know what it'll do when it finds his heart. Some muscles get deadly when they go numb.

Martyn grabs the potion and struggles with the cork. His hands have gone stupid and weak, and the frustration of trying to save himself makes his heart beat faster. By the time that needling line of poison reaches his chest, he's getting close to panicking again. He has to keep reminding himself to breathe, even as numb fingers scrabble at the cork on the bottle.

† He wishes Red were here. Gods he doesn't do that often. He doesn't wish Red knew most things he did outside the Colosseum, but right now, he wants someone massive and snarling between himself and the Demon. He wants his Lord to trivialize the bottle, and then break someone's neck on his behalf, and gods damn the consequences. He wants winter and blood like he wants his next breath of air, and the Demon sits and watches him, and smiles. †

With some effort, Martyn manages to draw up his knife and knock the top of the bottle with the hilt. The glass doesn't break evenly, but at this point, he doesn't care. All he cares is that he gets a mouthful of relief. Whatever the antidote is, it's thick and near-tasteless, and coats the back of his tongue. He honestly wouldn't be surprised if it were just colored milk. Regardless, it, like most poisons, has to be metabolized, so he lays on the floor and breathes deeply and waits. He doesn't close his eyes. Not around this absolute nutcase, who has apparently decided poisoning people is a fun new hobby. He watches the ceiling, the way the light plays on the guilded blackstone and carved reliefs, and tries not to worry about the fact that he can't feel his hands, or his jaw. His mouth tastes like blood -- he must have cut his lip on the bottle. The needling pain tap-dances over his lung, and the odd feeling of numbness that crawls with it leaves him feeling like he's suffocating.

† Breath in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. He does a slow count to ten in his head. Then twenty. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in-- †

The creeping poison fizzles out of his body, leaving him lightheaded. He only realizes how shallow his breaths were getting, because suddenly he's gasping in deeply and coughing it out again. Then comes nausea, his body's most natural what the fuck was that?! reaction to the whiplash of living to dying to living again.

"Fucking," Martyn snarls between coughs, "bastard."

"You took that surprisingly well," the Demon hums. "Was it too mild?"

† Martyn decides he's going to save the poor fucker this is meant for, because honestly, what the literal hels? †

"Too mild?!" Martyn barks a derisive laugh. "Try fucking overkill. What are you trying to poison? A gods-damned Ender Dragon?"

Martyn manages to shakily stumble to his feet. He wrinkles his nose in disgust and spits onto the floor. Gods and saints he hates the taste of blood.

"You survived it just fine," the Demon says dismissively, returning to his brewing stand.

"I survived a drop," Martyn argues indignantly, smoothing out his shirt as though he is almost poisoned to death every day. He thinks he's doing a good job of it -- the whole nonchalance thing. There's emotions under his sternum that he keeps forcing down. "With an antidote on hand. If you're trying to respawn 'em quick, just use a knife. Blood's not that messy, good lord."

The Demon gives a thoughtful hum, seeming to concede the point.

"Anyway, I charge double for poisonings when I get poisoned as collateral damage," Martyn sniffs, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. "And as a special thank you for that palava, I want it up front."

The Demon has the audacity to roll his eyes, and Martyn considers trying to kill him on principle. But he doesn't know if that poison is still on his claws, and it's a nasty way to die. He doesn't fancy laying beside the man whose kidneys he just knifed, gasping like a beached fish, and leaving all his gear behind.

"Don't be so bitter," the Demon hums, offering a smile that Martyn wishes he could carve off his face. "I knew you were more than capable of saving yourself. Now."

The Demon drops an impressive bag of diamonds on the table, close to the brewing stand. He's treating Martyn like a greedy henchman, like he can lure him back in striking reach. If he could do so without looking scared, Martyn would take a large and obvious step back. As it is, he thinks he's looked weak enough around this particular employer.

† Perhaps he should play into the miserable lackey angle a bit more. Pretend that diamond purse is really enticing enough to forgive and forget, if only so the Demon thinks he has his measure. But gods damn it, he still has some pride. †

"Your task is simple," the Demon says, replacing the vial on the burner. † Martyn hates it when people say that. The task is never simple. † "I need this vial brought to the Colosseum covertly and left at the feet of a certain statue in the hall, discreetly."

Martyn narrows his eyes suspiciously. Alarm bells are starting to do their opening ring in his head.

"You want me to be your mule?"

"I want someone who comes and goes regularly, without suspicion, who knows how to be covert." The Demon uncorks another vial and pours the contents into the burner. Martyn immediately places the sharp smell as dragon's breath. Lingering. Not really a dilution, but it'll give the poisoned idiot a little more time to get help. "The pickup has been informed not to engage if you're still hanging around, so do actually leave it, instead of sneaking around."

"I can be discreet," Martyn says, crossing his arms. "What's it for."

"I feel like the objective of a powerful poison is obvious."

"Fine. Who's it for?"

The Demon flicks his tail petulantly. It's a bad tell. He needs to work on that. Martyn doesn't take the large step back that he wants to, but he recognizes the warning sign of an attack, and prepares himself for the task of dodging.

"How about I pay you triple, double your amount now, and the final amount later," the Demon hums, glancing over his shoulder at Martyn, "and you stop asking me pointless questions."

Martyn flashes another easy, doggish smile, "I would love to accept that, really I would. But see, we've got a match coming up, and I can't help but notice some... Correlations between you and your timing, if you catch my drift."

The Demon gives a tuneless hum, simple acknowledgement.

"Now, me? I don't care all that much. Playing fair is overrated," Martyn shrugs, dropping his hands back into his pockets again. He palms one of several small glass marbles tucked away in his inventory. "But Red gets pretty picky about cheating, and he's a bit scarier than I am."

"Ah I see," the Demon chuckles condescendingly. "The loyal dog isn't just a stage plot?"

"Unfortunately," Martyn sighs dramatically, and shrugs his shoulders. "My life gets a lot easier when he's happy."

The Demon pulls the new potion from the stand and corks it smoothly. He tosses it to Martyn, and Martyn catches it easily. The glass is still warm, the contents an absolute shitshow. The black ichor boils.

† Gods and saints, but it still smells familiar. That's going to bother him for awhile. †

"And, if I simply wish to make your life easier?" the Demon asks, and flashes what is supposed to be a beatific smile. But the problem with being in this business for awhile, is that Martyn knows when a smug bastard thinks he's pulling one over on him.

"Easier," Martyn tilts his head to the side. "Like rigging a match?"

The Demon chuckles, and this time it's a distinctly threatening sound. He grabs up the bag of diamonds from the table and dangles them in a claw. "Don't fool yourself into thinking you're a hero Martyn. Heroes don't hire themselves out for blood."

† Oh boy. †

"You are absolutely right," Martyn agrees. "But spiteful people do."

Martyn drops the potion bottle.

† It's an objectively bad decision for a multitude of reasons.

† Firstly, it's a lingering potion, and he doesn't know what this poison is, but he has an idea it'll be bad when it gets in his lungs. Secondly, he can't prove this is going to be used in the match, but his intuition, the little suspicious bit of Red's demon that he imagines is in his head somewhere, is pretty damn sure it can only be that. Thirdly, the Demon is one of his best clients, and he pays well. Cutting that tie is gonna sting. †

† Fourthly, when he told EB he was approached for a hit by the Demon right before a big Colosseum match, EB had expressly told him not to do anything stupid. And this? This was pretty stupid. †

Martyn turns and throws the little pearl in his hand the second the potion has rolled from his fingers. His entire world tilts and snaps, and he is slamming into the wall by the elevator before the glass can shatter. The Demon howls. There is a sound like wing beats, and Martyn presses the elevator call button in time with them. The doors open. Martyn rolls inside and presses the button for the ground floor. The doors shut just as the Demon's shadow eclipses the light in the hall.

Martyn spits. His mouth tastes like blood again. His head spins. He sinks his hands in his pockets again, finds a potion that flutters gently at his touch, and uncorks it with his teeth. Sugar and netherwort tangle on his tongue, and the swiftness makes him feel like his bones are vibrating. He's bouncing on his heels by the time the elevator doors open again. He shoulders his way through the front door and leaps over the open maw of the Demon's downward staircase. He palms another enderpearl and throws it through the nearest broken window he can see.

Claws tear through the arm of his coat. Martyn spins, faces the Demon ascending from his lair on angry wings, claws bloody. Martyn clocks it's one of the poisoned claws at the same moment he goes crashing against the interior wall of a second story building. His head is spinning, his teeth ache, and he can feel his heartbeat running up his bicep like fire.

"Oh no you don't," Martyn snarls, tearing his belt off with quickened hands. He wraps it around his arm above the spreading poison and pulls it tight with his teeth. Tighter, tighter. It hurts. A lot. He groans at the ache of a cut off limb, but the spinning in his head starts to ease almost immediately. The creeping pain doesn't ascend past the makeshift tourniquet. Martyn keeps the belt in his teeth long enough to drive a new hole into the leather and buckle it in place. Every breath is a staggering swear, profanities to every god he can think of, because they all hate him, specifically.

The glass of a nearby window shatters as the Demon barrels into the room. It's dark in here, and the hesitation as he tries to get his bearings is the only reason Martyn goes unnoticed as long as he does. Martyn throws a knife that glances off the hardened scales of the Demon's neck, but it startles him back a few steps.

† Amateur †

Martyn leaps out the window, throwing another pearl as he goes. He manages to flip the Demon off and grin just before the teleport tries to pull his soul out of his body. He lands hard and it hurts. He tries to push himself to his feet with his dead arm and screams, which is as inglorious as it is involuntary.

The Demon shouts that he's a coward. Martyn giggles.

"It's my best quality," he snarls, and runs as fast as he can down a side street. He's all adrenaline now, and the gods' worst ache. There's enough blood in his mouth to send it spraying when he breathes, and he's starting to doubt it's all from his cut lip earlier.

† Whoever made enderpearls so annoying to use owes him a drink. Preferably one with regen but he's not terribly picky. †

The thing about swiftness potions is they make him faster. They don't make life easier. His breaths come in gasps, quick and shallow. His vision is still a little strange from the teleports, jerking and tilting when he turns his head too quickly -- which he does often. His heartbeat is a tangle in his ribs, tripping over itself over and over again. His world narrows to alleys and side streets, and rare glimpses of Evil X's tower. He orients himself around it, trying to find the Colosseum.

† EB had offered to send a buzzer with him, and he'd refused like a prideful idiot. †

"Dad, come pick me up," Martyn chuckles to himself, half-mad with sensation and adrenaline. "I don't like this party anymore. The big kids are bullying me."

The Demon's shadow passes overhead, stalking him like a cat, and Martyn thinks that's stupid, because dogs are supposed to chase cats, not the other way around. He wants to bark. He's already growling. Blood always makes him think of winter.

"Pull yourself together," Martyn pants, grinning. "You're delusional."

† Gods, but hunting with a pack had always been bloody amazing hadn't it? †

Dogs weren't meant to run alone.

"Get a grip." Martyn breathes, leaning around a corner to glance into the busy street beyond. "Gotta hold it together a little longer, man."

There's a vendor up the road in a cart he recognizes as someone who owes him a favor. That's as good a place as any, Martyn decides. The Colosseum is in sight, but it's too far away. He should ask Tanguish about his workout routine -- the lizard's got stamina for leagues. It's unfair really.

Martyn darts down the street, scattering helsmets like dandelion fluff. Everyone looks at the man staggering and bloody and recognizes bad news when they see it, including the vendor he's running towards. He tries to shutter his window, and Martyn just barely slips a hand inside before he can.

"Shut up," Martyn interrupts the shaken vendor before he can so much as stammer. "I'm about to respawn, and I don't want to lose everything I own in the process, yeah?"

Martyn slips behind the counter while the vendor continues to stammer in horror. Admittedly, it's a lot of blood for a normal person to deal with. Martyn slips his coat off, hissing painfully when he has to jostle it off his bad arm. He feels worlds lighter the moment it's off. He picks off the tourniquet next, whimpering ingloriously as he does.

† Like a kicked dog. Dog. Always a dog, Hand, hound. Start barking. †

"Never make deals with demons," Martyn grins at the poor unfortunate vendor. "They'll take your head off your shoulders."

Martyn is back over the counter again, hand flickering for a spare dagger in his boot. The Demon descends on him like a wrathful god, driving him into the ground with his pounce. There are hands on his throat, and a knee against his chest makes one of his ribs creak and give. Then he's airborne, being dragged up to heaven. The air whistles by his ears, cool on feverish skin, and howling like wolves. Red wouldn't stand for this.

"I am going to make sure," the Demon snarls, "some of that poison makes it to Helsknight's blade."

Martyn's shoulder is numb. That searing line of poison is lurchung towards his sternum like it has a vendetta. He hasn't died in a while. He thinks about the best way he can go, under the circumstances.

"Good luck getting that shit past Red's demon," Martyn grins. "It sees everything."

Martyn rips his little dagger up, shearing through the thin scales of the Demon's wrist. The dagger has been poisoned with harming, and Martyn knows from experience it stings like blaze fire. The Demon drops him. The fall will kill him. Martyn knows it will. But he refuses to die on anyone else's terms but his own. Not since he first met Red, and burned to death in a siege he knew he'd lose. His quick little dagger flashes up again--

And the Universe said: Who are you?

And the Universe said: You don't know, do you?

And the Universe said: Neither do we.

-- Martyn respawns gasping and flailing, and finally falling. His mouth, predictably, tastes of blood. He hits the ground beside his bed coughing, his whole body a throbbing, tingling, shivering mess. And he's laughing. Gods, but it's been so long since he's died and respawned again. The relief at being alive again, and the horror that he died at all, are electric emotions in his stomach. He can't stop shaking.

Red barges into his room, ripping the door aside so hard it slams and shakes on its hinges. When he kneels at Martyn's side though, he's gentle. Careful. Like he knows Martyn is fragile. Martyn hates and adores it, because he doesn't want to be fragile. He just woke up and he feels alive, alive, alive, alive.

"I'm the only one who's allowed to prepare your weapons for the match," Martyn hisses at Red through half-hyperventilated breaths. "You hear me? Only me."

Tanguish rolled his eyes, and returned his gaze to Helsknight. "What kind of horse?"

"The horse-y kind," Martyn interrupted again

Helsknight sighed, and ran his whetstone in a long, shivering glide down his sword. He had trained with the thing all afternoon at the pell, and now he thanked it for its service with maintenance. The blade needed sharpened, the leather around the hilt re-wrapped. The long, lethal ring of metal had become meditative and tired as Tanguish read. Soothing.

Helsknight was in the middle of one more long, shivering ring of stone on netherite when he said, "A palfrey is a horse bred for endurance riding. Gentle temperament, good for a lady to ride."

"Huh. Not a horse breed?" Martyn asked, pausing mid-way through a stitch.

"Horse type and temperament," Helsknight hummed. "Like a destrier."

"What's a destrier?" Tanguish asked, and winced when Martyn smacked his shoulder with the leather piece he was stitching.

"The book, squire!" Martyn tutted. "Post-haste. Before my boredom devours me whole."

Tanguish rolled his eyes, but opened the book to where he'd left off. He waited just long enough for the glide of stone against netherite to ring through the air, punctuated by the soft tamping of Martyn working an awl across the leather pieces.

"Uhm. Okay." Tanguish sighed. "And when she espied that Lanceor was slain, she made sorrow out of measure, and said, O Balin, two bodies thou hast slain and one heart, and two hearts in one body, and two souls thou hast lost. And therewith she took the sword from her love that lay dead, and fell to the ground in a swoon."

Helsknight gave a derisive snort. "Dramatic."

"Haven't you read all these stories before?" Tanguish smirked.

"It's still just as dramatic on the fifth read as the first."

"Squire," Martyn grumbled warningly.

"Alright alright! Anyway. When she arose she made... great dole? Dole out of measure, the which sorrow grieved Balin passingly sore, and he went unto her for t-to have taken the sword out of her hand, but she held it so fast he might not t-take it out of her hand unless he should have hurt her, and suddenly she set the pommel to the ground, and..."

Tanguish trailed off, frowning quietly at the last few words.

"And?" Martyn prompted.

"Uh. She. Rove herself." Tanguish stammered, frown increasing. "When B-balin espied her deeds, he was passing heavy in his heart, and ashamed that so fair a damosel had d-destroyed herself for the love of his death."

Tanguish paused again, tilting his head in Helsknight's direction. "The lady kills herself?"

"Fell on her lover's sword," Helsknight sighed, and Tanguish wrinkled his nose at the boredness in his tone. "It's Arthurian prose, Tanguish. It's all very chivalrous and flowery. That kind of thing happens."

"Its... Chivalrous... To fall on a sword?"

Helsknight shrugged, "Normally the symbolism is to fall on your own. But yes."

"Knights are insane," Martyn grumbled.

"It's a story." Helsknight scowled.

"Logistically speaking, how does that even work, anyway?" Martyn continued, his voice upbeat and a bit mocking. He pointed his needle at Helsknight. "You what? Try to hold the pommel with your feet and just bend down?"

"Why are you asking me?"

"Well there's only one insufferable knight in this room."

"I've never fallen on my own sword," Helsknight flashed Martyn an unpleasant smile. "If you're so curious why don't you try it for yourself? I'll help."

"Are you threatening me, insufferable knight?"

"Just offering a solution to a problem."

"Are you calling me a problem?"

"Alright!" Tanguish interrupted, holding his hands up to physically separate the pair of gladiators, who had started leaning dangerously close to each other. "No one is falling on anyone else's sword!"

"Well not with that attitude," Martyn smirked.

Helsknight rolled his eyes and let out a disgusted scoff. Before he could pick another fight, Tanguish spoke up. "I don't understand. Aren't these stories supposed to be about chivalry?"

"They wrote the book on chivalry," Helsknight scowled. "Courtly chivalry, anyway."

"But isn't killing yourself against chivalry?" Tanguish asked, flipping through the little book. "The lady chose an unchivalrous death?"

"It isn't about her," Helsknight said, clearly annoyed by the question. "The story is about Sir Balin's pride. He takes a sword that can only be wielded by a great knight, and whoever wields it, will die by it. Knowing this, Balin takes the sword anyway, and begins his journey to his well deserved end. Knights must joust, so when Lanceor comes for the sword, he kills him. A lady must die of a broken heart for her love, and so she dies, despite all Balin's efforts to stop her. In the end, he kills his own twin brother fighting for a blade he never should have lusted for -- and his twin brother, his perfect mirror, the only knight who could ever match him, mortally wounds him in turn. He dies pursuing a perfect knighthood, ultimately doing no good, and saving no one, not even himself."

Helsknight stood and slammed his sword into his sheath. "And for the record, you fall on your sword by putting the pommel on the ground, and the blade beneath your ribs, and praying gravity is quick."

Helsknight stalked abruptly from the room, leaving Tanguish feeling vaguely sick.

Maybe that was why EX showed up that day, after so long sitting in silence, keeping a few tabs open, and generally not caring. Because he didn't care. They weren't friends. EX didn't do friends. They got too upset over stupid things like respawns and lost diamonds and habitual lying. As far as he knew, EB didn't do the whole 'friend' thing either. It was all hero worship, acolytes, and weird, meathead gladiator comraderie. But not friends. So, EX didn't show up because he cared about EB. Maybe it was because he was affronted -- insulted by just how stupid his brother's fears had turned out. He'd expected more. Expected better. Instead all he got was--

"Champion of hels Evil Beesuma!" EX declared as he wavered into being in EB's room. "Are you... Sulking? How sad."

EB, who was laying rather miserably in his bed at the bottom of the world :ꙮ: or the bottom of the cells, anyway :ꙮ: buzzed out a sound that could be a groan, and pulled blankets over his head as if to hide. EX put his hands on his sides, affronted. Galled.

"Are you having a laugh? Get up!"

EB didn't respond. Realistically, he probably couldn't hear what EX was saying, what with that whole audio-processing-strangeness he had going on. EX had offered to fix it multiple times, but for some reason EB just wouldn't let him strap him to a table and pick at the components. Which was its own insult, in all honesty. If EX wanted to kill someone, he wouldn't do it while frustrating himself over the stupid redstone components in someone's artificial voice box.

Still, EB could tell who was speaking, even if he couldn't hear the words precisely. EX, not to be ignored :ꙮ: because he was here for the stupid overgrown buzzer, and he would not be stopped with simple stubbornness -- he was made first, gods damn it, and he was made stubborner :ꙮ: turned to one of the small mechanical bees resting on the nearby wall. It watched him, a passive camera to its owner, and EX approximated a grin in its direction.

"You there! Tell that overglorified bucket of bolts that I'm not leaving 'til we've had a chat. And also that it's stupid and shameful he's hiding under blankets. We're robots aren't we? We don't even sleep! Get out of bed!"

This last bit was directed at EB, because EB would just watch back the recording, and it struck EX as a little ridiculous to pretend the stupid little drone was actually translating a message, instead of acting as a second pair of eyes. There was a long pause -- by mechanical standards anyway -- as EB processed the message. Instead of doing as he was told and climbing out of his deathbed, EB raised one lanky arm in a rude gesture, before curling up smaller beneath his blankets. Given he was one of the tallest people EX had ever had the displeasure of knowing, this still was not very small, nor an effective way to hide.

EX sighed, loud and exasperated. He tilted his head in the direction of the buzzer.

"You are coming with me," he stated, making intense and furious eye contact with the little bee-shaped camera. "I have planned a day for you, little brother. We haven't hung out in ages. I'm bored. And you're languishing. You have until I count to three to crawl out of that bed, before I make you."

It took a few seconds for the message to process, transfer, and be watched back. EB made a disgruntled buzz that was probably derisive laughter, if he ever bothered to turn around and make eye contact. EX smiled pleasantly at the buzzer on the wall. He loved it when people resisted -- even petty, token resistance. So few people did it these days. They were all mostly too scared of him.

EB wasn't scared of him.

:ꙮ: EB was frustratingly unafraid of anything, besides his petty image, which was still only a dull, tepid fear that mostly tasted stale at this point. :ꙮ:

"One," EX counted at the little camera, pausing the extra few seconds it would take for EB to react. He didn't.

"Two." He waited again. EB clenched fists in his blankets, and stubbornly refused to move.

"You're really going to make me say three?" EX chuckled, crossing his arms, honestly a little impressed by the audacity. "Really EB, this is a little pathetic."

EX made a show of putting a forefinger to his thumb and brandishing it at the buzzer camera, threatening to snap his fingers. When EB still didn't react, EX shrugged his shoulders and snapped. "Three."

The world sprawled out in front of EX in a way only he could understand, because his understanding of it was crafted in his image. The Sovereign of hels, Saint of Chaos, had stopped being a helsmet ages ago -- before his dearest brother was even a vice in that derp Xisuma's soul. He wasn't sure when, exactly, it happened. Nor did he know why. All he knew was one day he was much, much more powerful than even he had assumed he was. Powerful enough not just to change things, but to do whatever the hels he wanted. There were rules, but no limits.

:ꙮ: And Evil X said, You're wasting precious time, little bee. :ꙮ:

EB's bed snapped out of existence. His brother tumbled to the floor, buzzing bitterly, before flailing to his feet, eyes red with anger. EX laughed. He couldn't help himself. He laughed harder when EB took a wild swing at him, and the punch did a whole lot of nothing. He didn't even feel it, really -- he didn't feel most things, as he wasn't flesh and blood, but he didn't even feel the force of it. He was tangled up in the randomness of his own power, and that did amazing things. EB stomped a foot on the ground petulantly, undoubtedly buzzing a thousand profanities as he threw another useless punch. EX caught the swing, not because he needed to, but because it would make his next step easy. He grinned and snapped his fingers again.

:ꙮ: And Evil X said, You are coming with me whether you want to or not. :ꙮ:

The world twisted. Teleporting as a god was a lot kinder than teleporting using enderpearls. He didn't have quite the same amount of control :ꙮ: a Saint of chaos wouldn't :ꙮ: but the force of the teleport wouldn't break any bones, nor would he spawn any mites :ꙮ: though the idea of having an aftermath was very appealing. :ꙮ: They landed in the street, EX on his feet, EB tumbling once again to clatter to the cobblestones. EX gave a very un-Soverign-like giggle. He continued to laugh when EB got to his feet, still bristling with anger, and shouldered his way into EX's personal space. He didn't try to hit him again -- probably because he recognized the current futility -- but he glowered, and his voice was raw and snarling when he finally spoke.

"I don't want to play your stupid games, EX!"

"Games? Me?" EX said with far too much innocence, his tone undercut by hiccups of laughter. "I would never!"

"Take me home."

"You can spend the rest of your life in that stupid little cell," EX said, waving a hand dismissively. "Today you're coming with me! I even brought you to your favorite bar! Aren't I so thoughtful?"

It was thoughtful. EX was very gracious not to take offense when EB looked around with mute astonishment, watching the entry to Hels Kitchen like he expected it to vanish. EX had been known to cause hallucinations, but this certainly wasn't one of them. For one thing, he could never get little details like the individual cobblestones right. Or the different guarded looks on the dozens of people trying to live their lives. EX wiggled his fingers at one passer by who had a particularly horrified look on their face -- two people suddenly appearing in the street had that effect on people sometimes.

:ꙮ: Oh, and everyone here was afraid of him, and that was intoxicating too. It was a varied range, a sampling from 'healthy wariness of the unknown' to 'deep unshakeable knowledge of who EX was and what he'd been known to do' and it was simply amazing. He should show his face in public more often. :ꙮ:

Somewhere up the road, someone pulling a handcart cried out as their axle spontaneously splintered. EX's eyes narrowed with glee. He didn't bask in it though, choosing instead to grab one of EB's lanky arms and drag him inside Hels Kitchen. He was gratified when EB followed, and a little frustrated that he stumbled along so meekly. EB was supposed to be a fighter -- for far more than two punches worth. They used to beat the crap out of each other for the fun of it -- finally someone neither had to pull a punch for -- and EB did spend so many diamonds on Colosseum banners about how special he was. It was a little disappointing for him to just give up.

:ꙮ: A symptom of the coming end maybe. He just didn't have the energy. :ꙮ:

Something in EX's chest sparked. He knew it because of the swirl of steam that escaped at his joints as he walked. Redstone likes fired, trying to signal... Something. He felt it run to a receptor somewhere head-ward, where all the real fiddly wiring happened. It clicked at a driver he'd turned down ages ago, but never got around to uninstalling. It pinged so rarely, he tended to forget it was there.

EX shrugged off the odd little fizzle of redstone. He ushered EB to their favorite table in one of the back corners, where it was easier to people-watch. The ghast behind the counter, one of the rare few that bothered to mingle nonviolently with the various hels denizens, narrowed blazing eyes at them before quietly preparing their regular orders. EB and EX were inorganic. They didn't eat or drink. They could barely feel. But EX ran hot, even for hels. Even nether-grown woods scorched at his touch, and gravels and sands turned to glass when he stood still too long. So, much like water in a desert, he liked the sensation of cooling. Of watching liquids turn to steam on the brutal articulations of his joints, his fingers and wrists. EB had never really seen the appeal. Instead, he tended to play act as a person -- one of those stupid, learned social skills that came from living around gladiators, like emotions and hand gestures. The ghast set down a tall glass of colored water in front of EX, and a long-handled mug for EB; their respective play things. EX immediately tipped his across his palm, watching the water boil as it ran through the iron of his hand. He couldn't feel it, but he imagined he could feel the bubble and sizzle kicking against the delicate mechanics. It was fun to watch. EB pushed his cup to the center of the table and crossed his arms to sulk.

"Oh, lighten up EB," EX glowered, finally allowing himself some petty annoyance. EB looked pointedly away from him. EX was used to this kind of silent treatment when his brother was sulking. Instead of speaking again, he projected words onto the table just within EB's sightline, letters encoded in numbers, so EB would have to puzzle them out before he could read.

EB was good at puzzles.

"Stop sulking," the message read. "You love people watching."

EB tilted his head, an implicit eye-roll, his shoulders hunching against his neck defensively. It was a very useless, human sort of gesture -- body language neither of them needed. EB really was spending too much time around the rabble. Of course, EX could also use organic body language. He was quite good at it, in fact. But his was intentional, chosen to cross barriers, and generally add to his unsettling nature. None of this instinctive, reflexive accommodation of the wider world.

:ꙮ: For someone with so much pride, he really had lowered himself for that stupid Colosseum. Oh well. Whatever makes him happy. :ꙮ:

:ꙮ: Except clearly EB wasn't happy. :ꙮ:

On the other side of the bar, someone's chair creaked as a wobbly leg finally gave up the ghost and snapped. They fell with a startled curse, flailing so hard their drink splattered across another patron. Raised voices filled the little room. EX rubbed his hands together and glanced at his brother gleefully. Another projection of encoded words danced across the table.

"Bar fight?"

"I'm not getting into a bar fight," EB groused back, his projection lighting the table in ruddy gold just below EX's. It was a complex encoding that EX had to run through a few translators to read, but the sulking had stopped at least.

"Who said you had to get into a bar fight?"

"It was implied."

"You love bar fights!"

"I also love peace and quiet."

"There's no pleasing some people," EX sighed airily, speaking his words aloud this time. He had to stifle his grin when EB glared in his direction. EX made eye contact with him this time and said gleefully, "If you don't want to miss my lovely conversation, you have to stop sulking."

"Conversation with you isn't lovely," EB groused, crossing all four arms in a complex X over his chest. It was a hypnotic movement, aided by the patterns of black and gold across his arms and chest. "You're a bear trap waiting to happen."

"I make life interesting!" EX argued, insulted.

As if on cue, the pair of arguing patrons across the bar finally burst into violence. They exchanged a few blows, before one knocked the other into a third sitting patron. This one was a knight, if the cloak and armor was any indication. She towered over the pair of brawlers, cracking knuckles before joining. The ghast at the bar let out a wheezing, defeated sigh as another chair broke in the scuffle.

"You want to put diamonds on the winner?" EX asked conversationally, resting what passed for his mechanical chin on his interlocked fingers.

EB's message was blatant and unencoded, and also projected in all capital letters on the table in front of EX. "NO."

"You really are no fun today," EX sighed. "My money's on the one with a knife."

None of the now four brawlers -- they'd swept up another person in the scuffle -- had knives on their person when the fight started. However, due to a rather intriguing turn of events involving a thrown glass, a drawer of cutlery on the far side of the room, and the principles of gravity and inertia, a rather intimidating looking cleaver had gone clattering onto the floor at the brawlers' feet. Someone was bound to pick it up--

:ꙮ: Ah, the knight. That did make the most logical sense. How boring. :ꙮ:

Someone in the brawling mess realized what had just entered their little arena, and a shock of fear like ice water poured itself down EX's spine. He let out a dreamy sigh.

"You should join them," EX smiled. "You need to blow off some steam."

EB's head tilted, another exaggerated eye roll. For all his disdain though, he did manage to slip a hand forward and grab up his mug. Finally he was loosening up. EX celebrated the victory by taking his own cup and pouring a small amount of water on the back of his hand, revelling in how it beaded right before it shuttered apart. Chaos to order to chaos again.

"I'm dying, EX," EB told him plaintively, signing to accentuate his words -- another quirk for organic life forms. They couldn't project an encoded conversation onto their own face, or a nearby countertop.

"So? You're also made of netherite and steel," EX responded, not bothering to encode his messages. He had his brother's attention. "You think any of those drunk idiots can do more than break a hand on you?"

"That's not what I-- I'm not fighting right now."

"Dying means you're not allowed to have any fun anymore?" EX chuckled. "Glad I'm not dying."

"Dying means I don't want to waste what's left of my time stroking your ego, EX!"

"My ego?" EX shouted out loud, because honestly, he was baffled. "What about this is stroking my ego?"

"Like you sitting here revelling in your gods-forsaken chaos isn't just a power trip for you," EB said meanly, the lights of his eyes narrowing to thin, judgemental slits. "Like dragging me along isn't just some--!"

"Oh my sweet baby brother," EX crooned patronizingly, because really, sometimes EB was incredibly thick, "I don't get power trips from--" EX felt, with the intuition of one deeply tied to his domain, the shifting of something high above in the hels ceiling, lava making it's way through new tubes. "-- oh you know. Mundane bad luck. I get it from fear."

Again, as if the Universe were responding to his whims, he felt the cool refreshment of nearby terror. Someone in the bar fight had been cut. It wasn't fatal, but wounds didn't need to be fatal to instill a healthy fear of death in people.

"And what of my fears are you preying off of, then?" EB demanded, wings buzzing in an angry drone.

"None, that's the whole point," EX said conversationally, trying his best to mimic what he would call a concerned tone and, admittedly, not quite getting there. "You're dying, EB. You're not frightened at all! That's bad. Means you've got nothing you're scared to lose! Aren't there people you're scared to leave behind? Unfinished business? Gods and Saints EB, aren't you at least scared they won't make your statue in the hall pretty enough?"

"So that's what all this is about?" EB snarled. "I'm not scared enough to suit your selfish tastes?!"

"My tastes-- you idiot. My tastes don't matter," EX gave a baffled laugh. "I'm not going to remember this!"

EB buzzed an angry drone, but didn't project any more words forward. His fists, tangled in the cross of his arms, knotted into fists.

"So?"

"So," EX lead on, because really, when had his brother gotten this stupid, "I can't be selfish, now can I? It's not like I'm taking you to your favorite shithole and instigating your favorite past time for me, now am I? I won't even remember I was here, let alone who I was with, or why I was doing it."

It was EX's turn to cross his arms, leaning his creaking weight against the tabletop, and listening to the quiet scorch of his own immense heat against wood.

"I don't give two shits about your fear either, except that you have an unhealthy lack. You have to like living to fear dying, EB. I'm just reminding you of what you like. But, fine, spend your last few weeks alone and miserable. Maybe I'll get a flash of terror from you during your last stupid Colosseum fight. I'm sure you'll get some existential fear that the moron who runs it after you is going to cock something up."

The two brothers sat in damning silence, so much so, EX had to replay his recording of the conversation to make sure EB had actually heard-seen-read him speaking. The bar fight was breaking apart. The knight had won, surprising no one. One of the combatants was missing a finger -- via the nature of meat cleavers and dismemberment. Outside, an upturned tile in the road caused an errand boy to trip and spill a bag full of mail across the street, where a very rare hels breeze scattered it up the road.

EB said, "I didn't think you cared."

"I don't," EX answered pleasantly.

"Then why bother?"

:ꙮ: Oh, that was certainly a good question. There was probably an answer somewhere. It was nagging at him presently, like a missing tooth. He ran his metaphorical tongue across the gap for a considerable amount of time. :ꙮ:

"Because you're the only brother I've got," EX finally settled on. It was wrong. The right answer was still missing, and that was the crux of it. EB was reminding him of a hole in him somewhere. Another spark traveled up to that dampened module in the depths of his coding, trying to entice him to emotion. EX took the time to make sure the module was as off as it could get without him opening up his chassis and ripping wires out. It was.

"Didn't think you cared much about us being brothers," EB said guardedly.

"Not really," EX admitted. "But I do so hate it when people take things away from me."

"Glad I rank about the same as a stolen book to you."

"I don't read."

"Stolen diamonds then."

"Don't flatter yourself."

EB actually snorted a laugh at that. He toyed with the mug in his hands, then brought it to the screen of his face as if to mime a drink. EX couldn't stop a disgusted noise in what passed as his throat.

"I hate it when you do that."

"Do what?"

"Play people," EX scowled. "It's beneath you."

EB made intense eye contact with EX, moved his shoulders in an exaggeratedly faked breath in, and then brought his cup up to his mouth as if to drink. He even had the nerve to make slurping and swallowing noises.

"You're disgusting."

"And you're a bastard," EB said with something that could be construed as pleasantness. "Can we leave?"

"Still dead set on sulking in your room?"

"No," EB admitted begrudgingly. "But if today is really for me... I... Want to go somewhere else."

EX shrugged, dropped a diamond on the table, and stood. "Lead the way then."

EB watched him warily. EX affected an innocent expression that he was sure only made him look more untrustworthy. Outside, whatever new lava flow was snaking through the ceiling found a crack and started dripping. Some helsmet in the square was the first shrieking recipient of a glob of cooling lava to the shoulder. If EX stood here much longer, the light, scalding rain would turn into a stream that some civil servant would have to repair. EB sighed, stood, and led the way out of Hels Kitchen and into the street.

What followed was probably montage-worthy. EX would be tempted to cut up the recording of the day and put it to music to rewatch later, but he knew from implicit experience that, when EB went back to the universe, it would all just be lonely reels of himself reacting to someone mysteriously scrubbed from his memory banks. So he didn't bother, and instead forced himself to live as in the moment as possible.

:ꙮ: It was admittedly difficult, given the background noise he was constantly attuned to. Chaotic, small misfortunes happened; small waves and spikes of fear snuffed out his thoughts in the wake of cooling ecstasy. It was hard living as a person while collecting praise and worship. EB wouldn't be grateful for his efforts, but he should be. :ꙮ:

They went first to the main square, where some church had organized live music. EX and EB found a place in the crowd to stand and watch, and EX tried not to revel in the broken strings and discordant notes inspired by his presence. They wandered through one of the hels markets, their personal little shopping districts, and whenever EB found something that caught his eye, EX would annoy him by taking it :ꙮ: He didn't pay for things. The Sovereign of hels didn't pay unless he wanted to. :ꙮ: on EB's behalf. A new fur-lined cloak, honey-colored and silken, made its way into an ender chest for EB, alongside four new ornamental daggers, some tools for droid repair, a stack of redstone, and a small, blue, blown-glass spider, because EB liked that sort of thing. He didn't show EB the last gift -- opting instead to slip it into the ender chest when EB distractedly closed it. He would find it later. Probably.

The highlight of the whole day for EX was when, while walking down one of the side streets, a small gang of thugs tried to jump them. EB managed to passingly ask EX show restraint before the pair of them dealt with the thugs. EX constrained himself to fits of laughter, broken bones and proximity burns. He felt each individual moment the thugs realized they had attacked the wrong people. Every fearful misgiving, every moment of terror, every adrenaline-fueled stumble washed over EX like heady relief, and it was so very hard not to chase it. To not go flying off through hels, raining death and misfortune on everything he could see, and revel in the feeling of all that fear directed at him.

He would have done it, really. Started walking down the street, carding through his inventory, bliss and wonder a physical force in his limbs, cold water. Then EB's gentle worry, a lukewarm splash of almost-fear, ran down the back of his neck.

:ꙮ: Scared of being left alone :ꙮ:

EX restrained himself. The brothers continued through hels. They circled the squares, pointed out people and buildings to each other. They talked. They laughed. They lived. It was... Good. Good, and familiar in the way the path of a tongue across a missing tooth was familiar. He used to do this with someone else. Walk. Talk. Exist. Pretend to be human, mortal, and normal. EX might ache over it if he were capable. Another spark pulsed up to that unused module, trying to sting him with sensation. It was a small thing, easy to ignore. In the grand scheme of things, it was nothing. He wished EB would get that -- how small these stupid emotions were to the inorganic. He would get it someday, probably. Learn the perspective that came from outlasting everything. Those stupid, small, human habits he picked up from his gladiators would be nothing to him once a few generations of them had passed--

:ꙮ: EB was dying. :ꙮ:

:ꙮ: He would never learn that perspective. :ꙮ:

A flashing light made itself known in EX's vision. EB was asking him why he'd stopped walking. EX looked down at his feet, a bit surprised by his own lack of movement. He wasn't supposed to have unwanted, unwarranted emotional reactions.

:ꙮ: He'd turned that module down to the lowest setting. :ꙮ:

Two streets away, a crack formed in the cobblestones that went all the way up the lane. A lava tube beneath the road, long empty, had spontaneously decided to become structurally unsound. Someone would have to shore it up, or risk the ground opening up and swallowing people whole. The crack zig-zagged beneath someone's boot heel, and their startlement was a sip of cool water down a throat EX didn't have to swallow with.

"I think we've indulged you enough today," EX said, resuming his stride. "Follow me."

Clearly puzzled, but intrigued, EB followed behind EX. EX's mind was blissfully empty as he walked. He could turn that module off too -- the one that controlled conscious thought in solid words. It reduced his world to urges and impulses, and he was following a strong one now. Strong enough that he didn't stray from the memorized, programmed path he set his feet on, a true automaton following his own orders.

The First Church of hels loomed, bright and beautiful. EB hesitated when EX crossed the threshold, but followed when he realized he was being left behind. A tile fell from the high ceiling as the brothers passed beneath it. Only the quick reflexes of a nearby priest stopped the tile from cracking apart one of the named stones on the ground. The priest howled against the pain of a likely-broken arm, and EB flashed EX a judgmental glare. EX didn't bother feeling insulted. For one thing, he couldn't be insulted while those specific processes were still rebooting. For another, it was perhaps his fault that the random calamities happened, but it wasn't like he could control them or turn them off.

At length, the programmed path beneath EX's ran out, leaving him in an overly decorated hall, smothered in the migraine-inducing blue tones of the stained glass windows. While EX restarted his more coherent thinking processes :ꙮ: and nudged the strange little module that kept insisting on making him feel things he didn't want to :ꙮ: EB stood statue-like beside him, examining the monument EX brought them to. It was simple, small and garden-like; a single stone bench surrounded by beautifully curated potted plants, beneath a flowing ewer of ink. The little stone bench has EB's name carved artfully across the top in a gaudy cursive script, tight but legible -- and pretty, if you liked that sort of thing. It was a good memorial, or at least EX thought it was. He wasn't a builder, so he couldn't take much credit for its construction, besides the intention, and the fear of gods he put into the designer.

EB stared at the little monument with the statue-like stillness of a proper inorganic.

"This is for me," EX projected into the silence, his words dissonant and red against the dark tiled floor. "That selfishness you were so scared of."

EB didn't respond. EX didn't really expect him to. He filled the silence. He was good at that.

"I was trying to figure out how best to remember someone, given my... Whims," EX explained casually. He crossed his arms and affected a critical air, as though he hadn't approved every single chisel stroke of this little build. "It couldn't be too big. I might decide to destroy it someday. In a church was best -- people take offense to my randomness here, and gods can, on some level, protect themselves. And it looks... Restful. And different. Interesting enough to grab my attention and make me read it."

EB was still incredibly silent. He could have been a tombstone, stark and hard and brutal and honest. He could have been a stone.

"Anyway," EX waved a dismissive hand, "figured this was the best chance of my coming to visit. Not that you'll care, being dead and all. You'll have to excuse me for not asking your opinion on the whole thing. I would appreciate one of those little bee drones of yours though. Really bring the whole piece together."

Something bumped into EX's hand, a small jolt that traveled up his arm. EX looked down, watched as EB slowly, hesitantly, interlocked his fingers with EX's. It was a pathetic, organic gesture. Neither of them were flesh and blood. They couldn't feel each other's touch. EX could have been holding anything: a broom handle, a sword hilt, anything. That odd little suppressed module jolted him again, deep and insistent, like someone had taken a sword to his non-existent guts and was stirring things around. He would really need to rip that out at some point. Even dulled, the sensation was unpleasant -- the caged bird of empathetic mourning fluttering around where it didn't belong.

:ꙮ: It doesn't matter. He will forget. There was no point in feeling anything about it. :ꙮ:

A soft, flickering, plaintive light lit the stones at EX's feet. A single line of text, simple. Plain. Stark.

"You're a good brother, EX."

That module kicked so hard, a long line of steam released itself down every one of EX's metal vertebrae. He squeezed EB's hand tightly in his, and said nothing.

Outside, the ceiling of hels split in two -- a great black crack in the sky straight to bedrock. Stones tumbled, damaging roofs and splintering storefronts.

It was a stroke of brilliant luck that no one was harmed.

Perhaps this counts as working? He is doing a wellness check on one of the combatants. Surely that counts for something, even if that combatant is a close friend. Objectively, if anyone found him to ask, he has that excuse. Objectively, no one would ask. Most people generally assume he knows what he's doing, and that what he's doing is important.

If not, it's his Colosseum, isn't it?

Sometimes EB does feel very bee-like.

The Colosseum is his hive, his guests are his workers. Like a queen he sits over them all, regulating temperaments and making sure they thrive. Like a queen, his barbs are reserved for threats to the hive’s interior. With great power comes great responsibility. With great love comes dutiful service. It is very hard to be a fair queen. A queen bee will kill every other queen in the nest when she takes over, and reserves her stinger for challengers, lest her workers turn against her and rip her to pieces. Territorial little things.

:: In this quaint, flawed analogy for his life, EB wonders what Tanguish is. He is tempted to consider him a fledgeling queen, whose wings have barely dried from the cell he crawled out of. Does he know his reek? How he disturbs the Colosseum halls just with his passing? Does he know every deferenced, whispered Squire in his direction is another voice that isn't whispering The Darling. ::

Territorial little things.

EB waits with glacial patience in the little room. He doesn't keep track of time. Instead, he feels the workings of the cells like… well… the analogy goes like spiders on his skin, but he has none, and in truth wouldn't know what spider legs on skin could feel like. Perhaps it feels like the delay in confused redstone when he's wounded, the short-circuit as sure signals falter, the way it jilts through his limbs all shaky like sand. That sensation, he would describe a bit like crawling. Sometimes, when he is very still and quiet, that uncomfortable itching and crawling pricks at his awareness. It took him too long to realize it was his gladiators, his staff, the hundreds of people who kept the Colosseum running clambering through the halls. If he closes his eyes and focuses, he can pick out their footsteps. There was the Director, preparing to stay late to manage the work orders for the upcoming match and its setbuilding. Here, a pair of visiting gladiator students from the school were watching as Red practiced at the pell, awed to be so close to greatness. There one of the redstoners was fixing a misfiring circuit beneath the staging area, curled up so small to fit in their workspace that they felt like a thorn twinged up beneath skin.

Helsknight was glaringly absent, as was Tanguish.

Helsknight's steps in his halls were bright and nuclear, nearly a burning. EB was drawn to him like a moth to a flame. His soul was this bright, wide-open devotion; he was a creature who cast his form around service. He calls it knighthood, but EB finds that title restrictive. Knights knew service, faith and devotion, but they don't beg for it like he does. He is an exposed nerve, a great, open wound, and it would be so easy for EB to place a hand to the bleed and promise to staunch the flow. It is a temptation akin to finding water in the wastes after long, brutal travel, and EB wants it so bad that some days he tastes it in his mouth like blood.

:: He would never. Helsknight could not abide cruelty, and EB didn't know if he was cruel or not. He had never given himself the chance to find out. All he knew was that his brother was cruel, and he was, at times, very much like his brother. He could be petty, spiteful and vindictive. It was only his infinite patience that stayed his hand. That, and his hospitality. ::

EB doesn’t know what to make of Tanguish there, either. The rules of hospitality state that he has a place here, safe and protected, so long as he doesn't transgress. And, ever since that first day when EB caught him eavesdropping, he hasn't transgressed hospitality. He is helpful, cunning, and courteous. For a while, he was a harmless worker, following at Helsknight’s heels, taking only what he was given and giving back where he could. A productive member of the hive. Then his scent changed. His presence, no longer an itch beneath nonexistent skin, was something closer to the burn of overloaded circuitry. If Helsknight was an open wound, bleeding, Tanguish was the fire that hoped to cauterize it. If Helsknight was a broken redstone line, sparking energy, Tanguish was a new splice, twisting wires in.

:: It breaks hospitality for a guest to steal from their host. ::

:: Helsknight is not mine to steal. ::

Helsknight could have been. It would have been easy. He doesn't think Helsknight would even think to resist. Further still, EB knew Helsknight longer than Tanguish had. EB had Helsknight’s trust, his faith, his devotion, since before EB became what he is now. And Tanguish is a small, new queen in a very dangerous hive. It would be very, very easy to sink his barb in, poison the threat before it could unmoor him. Especially now, when Helsknight is scared and doesn't quite know what is going on. Now, while the bond is new and fragile, and doubt is easy to foster.

:: But it would hurt. ::

Yes, he knows what it looks like to watch divinity ripped from someone. When his brother sunk hooks into Helsknight, it wasn't EB that tore them out again, but he was the catalyst, stoking Helsknight towards that end, and he had stayed in the room to watch. It was a good reminder to himself to be very, very careful.

:: It would be cruel. ::

Especially if it is against Helsknight's will.

:: Whatever will he has left. ::

Besides, Helsknight can’t abide cruelty. Tearing his friend's soul open to get to the barbs beneath would certainly ruin their friendship, if not for Helsknight, then for EB. Something has to fill the gaps. Helsknight isn't safe living as an open wound. Too many things want to fill the gap, benign or otherwise. EB doesn't want to be one of them.

:: What would he even do with a paladin?::

Nothing good. Something stupid and impulsive and territorial. Gods but the power he would wield, if that sword was his. And with power comes faith, and fear, and love. His brother had been onto something when he tried to claim it for himself. With a champion like that devoted to him, willing to crusade in his name, a bright, dying star… gods. He really could rival his brother, couldn't he? Why not start his own city state, take his gladiators with him. Expand his cells into a great hive of protection.

No longer a hiveling queen. Let him be a god.

In the infinite stillness of a room filled with only himself and his thoughts, EB blinks.

:: Ah… pride. ::

:: His weakness. ::

:: Even now when it no longer rules his life, he finds ways to ask for its chains again. ::

Carefully, EB takes his ambitions and cuts them from his mind in the way only a creature made of robotics can. He pulls them from the stream of code and redstone signals that serve as his thoughts, tags them as dangerous and important, and files them away in a list of recorded memories.

He isn't here to steal power. He isn't here to steal Helsknight. He isn't here to protect his hive, or expand it. He is here because a member of his household may be hurt and in trouble, and as a gracious host, he must make sure those needs are fixed. So EB resumes his silent vigil. He uncrosses and recrosses his leg over his knee. He steeples one set of fingers thoughtfully, while the other set hangs limp in his lap. He idly flicks through the cameras of his many little drones, but he knows he won't find Helsknight anywhere yet. The open wound of him hasn't entered his halls.

EB doesn't keep track of time -- he doesn't need to. So he doesn't know how long he is waiting until the world around him breathes. The shadows darken and lengthen. The air grows thin and briefly cold, someone dragging bits of the void with them as they fall through it. Helsknight steps down into hels like a man who’s missed the last step on a staircase, and didn't realize the floor was rushing up to meet him. He staggers into the nearest wall, leaning against it like his legs are unsteady. He is covered in blood -- EB can only assume it's his own. He is too efficient and brutal to leave a challenger alive to stain his cloak and rust his armor.

It takes a force of will for EB not to pull up his scans and start looking for harms. Helsknight had asked him not to read him like that. EB can only rely on his eyes as he takes inventory of his friend. This, at least, can be done in nanoseconds -- the wonders of robotics. Helsknight's cloak is torn and bloody just above the lung, but Helsknight’s breathing is unlabored. His hands are clumsy, his breaths a little quick. He’s shaking, goosebumps prickling his arms despite the hels heat. Feverish, maybe? His expression is intense, but his face isn't flushed in anger. Perhaps he doesn't have the blood for it? Healing potions only do so much, and EB would bet diamonds Helsknight has had one recently. The disjointedness of magic through traumatized limbs has its teeth in him, the awkwardness of a body on the edge of shock.

Helsknight says something that EB can't hear, because his gaze is fixed on the ground. It's only when Helsknight leans back against the wall, bracing shakily against it as he starts trying to unbuckle his armor, that his gaze rises enough to meet EB’s. He doesn't freeze like a man caught in the act of something shameful, so whatever happened probably didn't break any tenets, or cause any embarrassment; nor would it be something EB finds distasteful… probably.

“How long have you been here?” Helsknight asks, his voice rough from abuse. Yelling, or screaming. His shoulders slump just a bit, tiredness or defeat. The hand pawing at the buckle on his shoulder struggles but can't get the clasp undone.

:: Yes. Bloodloss. Trauma. And something emotional as well, if Helsknight's body language is any indication. ::

:: Gods he wishes he could run a scan. ::

“Since a few minutes after you left,” EB said as neutrally as possible.

“Why?”

:: Oh, that was a good question. In truth, it had mostly been impulse -- his body making decisions while his mind replayed the events of Helsknight's leaving as though anything useful could be gleaned there. He was still analyzing that, parsing emotions from reality. ::

“I thought you might need help when you returned,” EB says cautiously, because it seems true enough, even if it wasn't a conscious thought he had. “Can I help you take your armor off?”

Helsknight blinked. His eyes were bright, patterned by waning divinity. The bleed in his soul, briefly staunched, was tearing open again. The wound might be deeper now. It was hard to tell sometimes with the divine; it had a habit of eviscerating people. One couldn't make space for a god and expect to be whole when the god left again.

Helsknight isn't whole right now. His shaking is getting worse by the moment, and he’s too pale. The hollows beneath his eyes look nearly bruised with fatigue. The clasp on his armor still isn't undone, and his gaze is losing focus.

“I… my armor,” Helsknight says. “Yes. Please.”

EB joins him by the wall, nimble hands making short work of buckles and clasps while Helsknight tries with increasing sluggishness to help. EB uses the time as an excuse to take better inventory of his friend -- a healed cut there, where his armor gaps, another here where the links were too weak. The cloak falls to the ground amongst the pile, and the hole in Helsknight's back is worrying. That had been a terrible thing, before it was healed.

“Who won?” EB asks, setting his wings into a droning rhythm to help regulate Helsknight's breathing. He feels Helsknight attempting to breathe better, counts the too-shallow breaths as his hands work on the ties and buttons on his tunic. He just needs to get it off, to make sure everything is healed properly, and to make sure Helsknight doesn't sleep covered in his own blood.

“I think I did,” Helsknight murmurs hoarsely, and EB dislikes it immensely. Helsknight sounds exhausted, defeated. He doesn't sound victorious. He looks especially pathetic when EB pulls his shirt off, dropping it to the ground and crossing to the dresser to find a new one. All Helsknight does is stand there and hug himself, shaking and pale. With the lights on, the sculk is too dim to glow, but over his chest the veins stand out too much, tealy-blue beneath his skin, almost corpse-like.

“Then let me be the first to congratulate you on your victory,” EB says, trying to find a tone that suits the occasion; something between serious and genuine. He finds a new shirt amidst the folded clothes and hands it to Helsknight, so they can at least pretend he isn't weak as a kitten and in desperate need of help.

“I don't… think it was a victory,” Helsknight says. He stares down at the shirt like it's a mountain he's too weak to climb.

“They deserved it, at least?” EB says, because Helsknight would never raise his blade against someone weak or undeserving.

Helsknight spites his faith in him by saying, “I… don't know…”

EB let's that statement hang for a moment, not entirely sure what to do with it. He chooses to help Helsknight change his shirt as he parses it, pulling it over his head and threading his arms through. It's difficult. Helsknight sways on his feet when he isn't leaning against the wall.

:: Perhaps he should notify the Colosseum doctor? The surgeon was on call this time of day, but he had his own practice on the other side of town. ::

“He said it was a mistake,” Helsknight says, and his voice is broken and small. It takes great effort for Helsknight to hold his gaze so they can speak -- so much so, he looks away twice and has to stammer through the statement.

EB takes in his charge, the nature of his Calling, and hazards a guess. “Tanguish didn't mean to Call you?”

Helsknight makes a noise that's like a sob, choking and thick. “He meant to call me. He said it was a mistake after I…”

Helsknight's gaze drops down to his hands, and the rest of the sentence is lost to buzzing static. EB understands regardless. He understands it even more, when Helsknight forces his gaze back up long enough to ask, weak and forlorn, “Am I really so much of a monster, EB?”

If EB had a heart, he is sure it would be breaking. As it is something in the sparks and wires that make him himself feel like they curdle and smoke. It is a deep, physical pain -- one he isn't used to simple emotions causing.

“You're not,” EB says gently.

Helsknight laughs. It's unkind, and sends another jolt of physical pain through EB’s redstone guts.

“I was no good for Blood and Steel,” Helsknight chokes, his voice strangled with emotion. “I'm no good for T-tanguish. Maybe you should've let your brother keep me.”

EB doesn't know what to say to that. He tries to find something, but before he can, Helsknight swoons. He falls forward into EB’s chest, and it's so easy to catch him. One of the many perks of being made of metal, and having four arms. He looks down at Helsknight, trying to bundle him up in such a way that he doesn't bruise him by holding him upright.

Helsknight is an open wound again. Whatever had staunched the bleed has fled completely, leaving Helsknight alone with a gaping wound in his soul, bleeding. EB can almost feel it, taste it in what serves as his throat like blood.

:: He could stop this. End the pain. It would be easy. ::

:: Like plugging a stab wound with his fingers. ::

:: It would hurt for a time, until he adjusted to the feel of the barb, but EB wouldn't be so cruel as to rip himself back out again. ::

:: Helsknight, such a bright star dying, deserved to have some peace. ::

EB could remember what Helsknight looked like when he first came to the Colosseum. Tall, proud, strong. His rage was a storm, his swordcraft a gift from gods. He lived and breathed the Colosseum like it was his god. His eyes had been a blazing red, bloodlust incarnate. Yet still he was devout and respectful, and charismatic in an oddly quiet way. He had turned EB’s stomach with envy, took a battle-axe to his pride. He had forced EB to admit that… perhaps some people were worth losing to. That his sacrifice on the altar of the new Champion might mean something brilliant.

EB can see, in his mind’s eye, what Helsknight will look like if he becomes his. Red or teal replaced by honey yellow. His vitality sustained by his home, here, in the Colosseum. The Darling and his Champion, his mouthpiece for good, and correct, and welcome and safety. EB would let him have his bloodlust. Every Colosseum fight, he would be free to prowl and gorge like a lion, so long as he was willing to die to a worthy opponent. And, when there are no matches, he would be free to roam hels, protecting the streets surrounding the Colosseum. And people would see his golden cloak and ask what god or saint he followed, and Evil X would feel his rising star and--

:: Nothing good would come of it. ::

:: Nothing good. ::

EB gently pulls Helsknight's arm around his shoulder, bracing him up. He takes an experimental step and Helsknight, murmuring incoherently, moves with him. Good. Better Helsknight pass through the halls looking vaguely drunk, than unconscious.

“I'm bringing you to my cell,” EB informs him. “You need to recover.”

Helsknight mutters something again, probably a protest. EB thinks he reads the word Tanguish.

“Tanguish can wait,” EB says, though he knows Helsknight likely can't hear him. He hopes the tone of his staticky buzz at least conveys his intent. It takes awhile to meander Helsknight down the stairs and halls to EB’s cell, but EB doesn't mind the wait. He has all the time in the world. Glacial, inanimate patience.

It occurs to him, with increasing, troubling frequency, that Helsknight does not.

“What am I going to do with you, my friend?” EB asks.

Helsknight doesn't answer. EB sighs.

“You know, I would fix it if I could?” EB asks him. “I can't figure out how.”

All the time in the world, and all he can use it for is to watch the hourglasses around him run out of sand. EB feels another twist of emotion, fierce and painful, and briefly wishes someone would stab him, just so there was a physical reason he could blame it on. But no daggers fall from the sky to grant his wish, and Helsknight is barely conscious enough to keep putting one foot in front of the other. EB wonders if this was how Helsknight felt when EB was too weak to walk, and he asked to see the nether roof one last time. Helsknight had carried him then, up the hundreds of Colosseum steps, until he collapsed, breathless at the top.

:: EB had sworn then, that if anyone was worth dying to, it was Helsknight. ::

:: And, though at the time he swore that respawn would be his last, he had gone to that fight willingly. Wishing Helsknight would win. ::

“I wish I could fix it,” EB murmured. “I'm sorry.”

Helsknight doesn't respond. Not as EB helps him to his bed, or leaves and returns with food and water. So EB stands with glacial patience and waits, and tells himself this was not what it will feel like when the Universe is close. It will feel worse, and decidedly different. Grim. And dark. And it will come like a wolf in the night -- or a thief.

Somewhere in the hive above, a flame enters the cells.

EB rests a hand on Helsknight's, and watches his door. But the flame leaves, desperately quick, and EB sighs with relief. He doesn't know what to do about that yet. He doesn't know what to do about anything.

:: Why did the Universe grant him the boon of divinity only for it to be useless? ::

:: Not useless. ::

Beneath his hand, Helsknight is an open wound bleeding.

EB pulls up a chair by Helsknight's bedside and checks his pulse. He finds a new scar on Helsknight's forearm and brushes his thumb across it, careful not to press too hard and bruise anything. Organics are so fragile beneath the brutality of metal. Sometimes, EB feels like he is a twitch away from breaking bones. One shorted circuit. One miscalculation.

One lapse in judgement.

:: EB's mind, his near perfect, recorded memories, bring to him the image of Helsknight standing shaking in the hall, arms bloodied up to the elbow. And EB is yelling at him, demanding if he knows what he's done, how he could think to play god with the strength he was given. And all Helsknight can muster in reply, half blinded by tears of oil, breaths still shaking with smoke, is to beg forgiveness, and swear he tried to stop himself. ::

EB folds his hands in his lap, and leaves the old wound.

Right now the only feeling he has, is that he's uncomfortable on the floor. He stretches out his hand across the crimson stem planks, splaying black fingernails against the boards and listening to the soft shff of noise. The wood grain isn't like the wood grain on trees. There are no odd concentric circles spooling and unspooling endlessly across the bark. Instead, hard, compact fibers from the long stem press against each other like sheets of cardboard, varying in color where nutrients collected.

Well. He thinks that's why the colors are like that anyway. He used to be an expert on things like that. He has hazy memories of talking excitedly to his best friend about why hels was the way it was. The abnormalities, how different it was from a standard nether. Why there were birds, where they came from, how they lived here, of all places, tenacious against the heat and smog.

He has... memories of knowing things. They're soft and bright around the edges, less clear than his dreams. He remembers talking to people, and knowing things, but he can no longer remember what those things are.

"Moment of clarity," he says out loud to himself, to no one. He used to have those. He used to have them so often, they were normal. Not moments of clarity, living in clarity. Now those moments were so rare he wasn't sure they really happened, until he lost them again.

This was not a moment of clarity. This was, at best, a waking dream.

He was still laying on the floor.

His shoulder hurt. He thinks, maybe, he fell on it when he... left. Faded. Passed out. Slept. Dreamed. There's a bruise there. Or maybe he's been laying here for that long. He's heard of that happening to people -- laying still so long their bodies bruise. Their friends have to pick them up, turn them over, move them so they don't hurt themselves while the Universe slowly drags them away. He remembers doing that for someone once. Not his best friend. Someone else. Someone who used to live up the street. He remembers washing their hair for them while they slept, and wishing they would wake up.

There is no one here to wash his hair. His best friend... might have already forgotten about him. That happens sometimes too. People so far gone, they spend their last moments alone because... because...

There is an ache in his chest. It hurts. The pain is intense, and he cannot tell if it really hurts that much, or if its just the first thing he's felt in a long, long time. The novelty takes his breath away. It isn't fear. The fear wore off... oh... a long time ago. Back when he still thought he had something worth living for. Back when he still had hope he had a chance. When fear actually gave him something -- adrenaline, fight or flight. Back when there was still enough of him left to feel things like spite, or hate. He'd torn apart his workshop once, in that fit of anger. He never cleaned it again. Couldn't bring himself to climb the ladder. Besides, if he passed out again, he didn't want to wake on a bed of broken glass.

Still on the floor. It aches. He should move.

There's a book beside him. His sketchbook. He fell asleep, faded, passed out, left, dreamed, while he was in the middle of reading it. Old drawings. Grand plans. Notes to self. He held a hope once that, maybe, if he memorized the pages well enough, he wouldn't forget who he was. Trying to grip those pages through memory now, though, they slipped through his thoughts like water. With an effort, he musters the strength to pull the book towards himself. Doodles of sheet pattern the page its open to, and he smiles.

A beautiful, soft dream. Walking through fields of grass towards someone who was so, so happy to see him. His smile was radiant as the sun, his voice embroidered with enthusiasm, like it was a part of the fabric of his being. He'd called him by name. Taken him by the hands. "Hello hello! Finally we meet again my friend! You've been hiding for so long. But now, what's gotten into you. You look tired. Wouldn't you like to rest?"

Oh. Rest. He was always tired now. No voice to speak. No thoughts to think, save the ones that rolled past like clouds on a summer day, formless and inconsequential. He was holding a book in his hands. Oh. His sketchbook. Right. For remembering himself, and not the dream.

He has, a moment of clarity. Brief, and colorful, and formed and whole. It breaks through the formless dark of his mind and says, boldly and unapologetically, the thought of yourself as you are now once terrified you.

He lays on the floor and turns that thought over like a stone in a river. Like a bright star caught in tissue paper clouds it glares at him, pins itself on the horizon line of his thoughts. Thoughts like that are so beautiful and rare now. Moments of clarity.

Yes. When he was whole and strong and... imperfect, but alive because of that imperfection, he was terrified of this. The slow fade. The loss of will. The loss of life. He was dying. He had been dying for a very long time. The Universe wanted him, because while he lived, his Hermit wasn't whole. And his Hermit, out there somewhere, was trying so hard to be whole. And... he was never meant to exist.

No helsmet was ever meant to exist.

The ache in his chest gets deeper, bottoms out into something that leaves him breathless again. Mourning. No one else would mourn him so... surely he was allowed, while he still had thoughts to think, to mourn himself. He was crying. The soft patter of his teardrops marred the straight, compact lines of the crimson floorboards with freckles. He clutched the little sketchbook to his chest and curled up on the floor, and he was wracked, briefly, with the fear and mourning and loss he rarely was able to feel. And he reveled in it. In the fact that, for just a few moments, he cared.

Stand up, please. You're thirsty. You're hungry. You want to live.

No. No. He wanted to go back to that dream. It had been so much kinder.

Someone was out there, standing in an endless field of green, beneath an endless sky of blue. He had a labcoat folded over his arms, tightly curled horns blooming from his head, and a smile that could light up the sun. And the wind blew, and set wildflowers dancing. And they stumbled towards each other, inexorable as two stars colliding. And he was a small thing dying, searching for a moment's warmth and softness, and his Hermit took him by the hands and said, "I lost you there for a minute. Are you coming back to stay yet? You'll like it here, I promise. We'll have adventures together, you and me. There's so many questions to ask, an entire Universe to explore! And you'll be here with me, won't you?"

And he could not say he had no choice.

And he could not say he wanted to live.

Because it was all just a dream, and only the few lucky, for a moment, controlled what their dreams gave them. All he could do was hold onto his Hermit's hands and pray this one didn't turn to nightmare.

"I should... leave a note," he whispered to the empty room. "He'll... remember he's missing something... eventually. He'll... want to know."

"You're right, a note would be kind! Here, I'll help you. Dear Evil Beesuma, don't worry, I've gone to meet my new friend Z--"

There was a pencil stuck between the pages at the end of the sketchbook. On that page was a drawing of someone he no longer recognized. That face hadn't looked back at him from a mirror in... well. In a very long time. He blinked at the little self portrait, watching the stranger there for... too long. Too long.

He'd been doing something. What was it?

That ache in his chest drilled itself through his ribs. He grimaced, and buried his face in his sketchbook.

"Hey, don't cry again it's alright. It's a little confusing isn't it? I said I would help you. Will you let me help you?"

He shook his head.

"I am sorry. Truly. I'm not trying to be mean. It's just. You seem so much happier here. And you feel so tired there. You don't want to be that person anymore, do you?"

"No," he whispered. "No I don't."

"Would you still like to write something? Or would you like to come here?"

"He'll remember something's missing," he insisted quietly.

"Yeah he will. But that's what the stone was for, right?"

Oh. Yes. Yes his remembrance stone. He'd carved his name. So people would remember. But he'd never taken it to a wall. He'd thought. He'd thought. Time. He was supposed to have more time. Time to place his stone. Time to visit his friend one last time. Time to tell his neighbors, the nice ones who kept bringing him dinner twice a week, because they were worried he would be so busy in his workshop he'd forget to eat. And the shopkeep he bought his spare parts from, who always told him about his life, and the man he was seeing, and how they were living together now. And they all had someone who cared, who would remember them. Who would take care of them when they lost time. Who would pick them off the floor when they fainted. Who would help them clean up broken glass when they couldn't bare to see what they were becoming. People who cared. People who cared. People who cared.

"I'm going to be forgotten," he said quietly. "I'm going to be forgotten, and no one will care."

He was still on the floor.

He was still on the floor, and he was tired. He thought he might fall asleep again. Here. On the floor. Where he'd fallen asleep the first time, and lay until his shoulder bruised, with no one to turn him over, or carry him someplace soft and warm.

He had been dreaming of someplace soft and warm.

"Dear EB," he whispered to his dark room, as the breeze rattled the shudders upstairs, and outside someone shouted on the street, and the world turned and forgot him. "I'm sorry I didn't come to visit. I didn't want you to worry. D-don't worry. I've gone to meet a friend. Signed..."

He blinked at his sketchbook, vision unfocusing. He was tired. He wanted to sleep. The ache in his chest was fading, replaced with quiet ambivalence.

"Signed..."

"Oh deary me. Do you remember your name?"

His eyes fluttered closed. He buried his face in his hands. He thought he could see, in the distant dark in the back of his eyelids, shapes of grass. Light seeping in. Hels was hot, dry, scorching. This place wasn't. It was soft and warm, and there was sun on his skin.

"It's alright," he said, and he laughed like the sun. "That's what the stone is for, isn't it?"

Yes. Yes that's what the stone was for.

He couldn't say that out loud. He wasn't one of the rare, happy few who could control their dreams.

"So how about it?" Zedaph asked, taking him by the hands. "Will we go on an adventure together?"

He had friends back home. He had a life he had enjoyed living once.

He was never meant to exist.

He couldn't talk in dreams.

"Don't be scared," Zedaph grinned, pulling him along. "We'll go together, yeah?"

He couldn't talk in his dreams.

He closed his eyes.

He stopped feeling the grass beneath his feet.

He stopped feeling the sun on his skin.

There was only Zedaph, radiant as the sun, and perfect and whole.

Helsknight instead sat quietly in the mess hall. His sword form book was open on one side, his little black book on the other. Half-coherent and quickly scribbled notes in his cramped, curling script clambered across the pages, tripping over each other and jumbling, nearly unreadable, into loops and lines. Helsknight had gotten a rare glimpse of Red training today, in a quiet moment when he thought no one was watching. He wrote down what he could observe without taking his eyes off Red. It gave him more notes to jog his memory, at the cost of coherency. Now he de-tangled the cluttered words haltingly and stubbornly, trying to replay Red's movements in his head.

"Left-handed," Helsknight muttered under his breath, painstakingly transcribing his notes onto a new page. "Heaviest swings come from the shoulder..."

The heavy, netherite axe had thundered through the armored training dummy, crushing the armor and snapping apart chainmail with the power of a lightning strike. It made Helsknight's throat tighten just thinking about it. How bad the ache, if that blade caught in his armor and shattered his collar bone. How blinding the agony as it mashed chain, and fabric and metal deep into a wounding cut. It was like weilding a war hammer that could still bleed someone.

"Favors the right leg," Helsknight muttered, licking his quill to sharpen the tip. The ink, heavy with the grit of charcoal instead of overworld squid ink, sullied the taste of mud in his mouth with carbon and smoke. "Bad knee, not as strong as the left side. Could undermine stance."

Red had almost a head of height on Helsknight, longer legs and longer arms, and an axe far longer than his broadsword. It would be speed and precision against reach and power. Speed and precision, and Martyn would be there, and Martyn was faster, and just as precise.

[He should see if he could sit in on Martyn's training next, though Martyn would know he was there, and would be smart enough to hide the full measure of his skills.]

The ache behind Helsknight's eyes bloomed intense and horrible, spotting the edges of his vision with stars. With a heavy sigh he tilted his head back and pinched the space between his eyes, nose wrinkled and eyes screwed shut in pain. The starring faded. The pain did not. He was so very, very, very tired.

The lights flickered once. Twice. Then went out. Briefly, Helsknight sat in utter darkness in the mess hall. He cracked an eye open and, seeing no difference in the darkness whether his eyes were open or closed, closed it again. The slow hiss of steam-piston joints approached from everywhere. From nowhere. Chck-chack--hisssss, like an old, heavy piston line made of wrought iron and pewter. Leaden footsteps paced, and with it came heat, blistering and dry as force fire. The backs of his eyelids lit with a red cast, and Helsknight scowled.

"Whatever you're selling," he growled, taking his hand from his face and leveling his exhausted gaze on Evil X, "I'm not buying. Save your breath."

The uncanny machine tilted his head, the bright red lights of his eyes narrowing in a grin. The lights in the mess hall came alive again, though they all seemed to fizzle and bleed, casting the room in a dull red, plasma-like glow. It made the brutal black and grey of Evil X's robotics stark, made the weight and strength of him more apparent. Evil X was the kind of creature that broke things just by playing with them, all blunt wrought-iron parts attached to a mind made uncanny by the faithful fear of every soul in hels -- including Helsknight. To be unafraid of Evil X was to be stupid, and dead, and for an unlucky few, kicked from hels altogether.

"So unkind to your Sovereign," Evil X chuckled gleefully, leaning forward over the table in a gesture that looked almost like a bow. "That's why I like you Helsknight. You really, truly, don't care."

Helsknight snorted derisively, "Do something worth caring about and I might."

Evil X laughed, tilting his head back, a hand clutched to his broad, iron chest as though there were breath that truly needed catching. He had the knack of acting, moving, organic down well -- far better than EB did. His movements were smooth and natural, so unlike a machine, that only the hiss and click of gears and servos belied his nature. One could almost be convinced he was a man in a suit, were it not for the jagged edges of his joints, and the way redstone and wires glinted and sparked where the edges of his frame met and separated.

"Oh I could," Evil X hummed, his voice bright and pleasant. It was a deep, growling voice, and it reverberated like tearing metal. "If you'd only let me, knight."

Evil X held out his hand playfully, that sly grin still narrowing his eyes. Helsknight raised an eyebrow at it. He crossed his arms and leaned on them against the table, looking up at the ruler of hels with a sardonic smirk.

"If you're looking for deference, you need a ring to kiss, my Sovereign." Helsknight said. "You only kiss the back of a hand if she's a lady, a queen, or a princess."

"So many stupid rules," Evil X sighed. "Being a knight must be an exhausting chore."

The metal monstrosity leaned forward, splaying out his hand to catch his weight on the table. The wood groaned beneath him like a wounded animal, and the heat escaping from the joints of his fingers made the wood smoke. Helsknight resisted the urge to lean away from the heat. He knew intimidation when it came knocking, loud and unsubtle, on his cell door.

"How about," Evil X hummed brightly, his voice sickly-sweet with derisive pleasantry, "you kiss my hand because I am your Sovereign, and I am owed your respect."

Helsknight's pride seethed, but this was a fight he neither wanted nor could win. Helsknight stood, wincing only a little as muscles that had grown stiff as he sat protested the movement. Evil X straightened when he did, once again offering his hand. Helsknight bowed low and, careful not to actually touch the Sovereign, for fear of burning himself, kissed the air over the back of Evil X's hand.

"I am at your service, tyrant."

"Flatterer."

"It wasn't a compliment."

"It was if I say it was."

"You can do a great many wonders, tyrant," Helsknight said, "but you have yet to change the nature of truth."

Evil X moved like lightning, a bold red smear of color that Helsknight could barely see. Evil X grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, wrought iron fist bunching in his chainmail, and yanked him forward. Suddenly he was being lifted halfway across the table, staring up into the void-dark black of the screen that made up Evil X's face, which shouldn't be possible, because Evil X wasn't that tall. The magma-hot press of his fist so close to Helsknight's neck made him wince, the radiant heat threatening to burn if it got any closer. He could smell the rings of his mail heating, and the press of his weight against the collar of his clothes squeezed his throat closed; not enough to strangle, but certainly enough to threaten. It took every ounce of sense in Helsknight's body not to snap his hands forward and grab at the scalding metal of the Sovereign's wrist.

"You know, Helsknight, I do like you." Evil X said, all pleasantness gone from his voice. "I like your sarcasm. I like your strength. I like how much you struggle."

He pulled Helsknight a little closer, and Helsknight, already on his tip-toes, his fingertips just barely catching his weight on the table, felt every part of himself currently anchoring himself the ground lift just barely off their purchase. All of his weight fell against the collar of his shirt, and the press of Evil X's fist, thinning his breaths to reedy sips of air.

"But I won't abide by your disrespect," Evil X said, his voice so deep and mechanical, Helsknight felt it in the pit of his stomach. "A healthy fear in hels is very important to me. I thrive on it. Call it a law. All must fear Evil X."

Evil X narrowed the red lights of his eyes unpleasantly, something like a grim smile playing in his mechanical features.

"And you, my brave, sarcastic, law abiding knight, don't seem very scared of me." Evil X tilted his head just slightly, and red-grey steam swirled from an articulation near his mechanical spine. It was hot enough that Helsknight flinched his eyes closed, for fear it would scald him. "Do I need to scare you, Helsknight?"

Helsknight felt his heart kick a little quicker in his chest. He grinned. He always found it was best to bare his teeth at a threat.

"I'm terrified," Helsknight said truthfully, his voice a strangled whisper in his throat. His hands hovered inches away from Evil X's wrist, the barely withheld impulse to grab the hot metal, to try and find any leverage to ease the bruise against his throat, fighting to rip free. "But I deal with fear often in the arena. Forgive me for not being very transparent with it."

Helsknight swallowed and winced. The heat radiating from Evil X's hand was starting to seep through his armor. His chainmail was heating up, and he could feel every link uncomfortably hot against his skin.

Evil X smiled, his voice brightening, "Beg for my forgiveness, and maybe I will."

"Can't," Helsknight lowered his hands and tried to reach for the table. His fingertips scuffed at empty air. "My Saint takes precedence."

"You're not a monotheist," Evil X pointed out reasonably. "You believe in the Order of Remembrance."

"But I don't beg their god for mercy," Helsknight said, his voice thinning. "It's... Getting hard to breathe."

"Terrible waste of energy, breathing." Evil X sighed, as though the act were pitiful. "You organic creatures waste so much time on it."

"It's a bad habit to break. Addictive."

"What, breathing?"

"Living, generally."

Evil X let out a derisive tsk! and rolled his eyes. "Of course. How silly of me."

"Ex..." Helsknight hissed, his hands jerking up for another aborted grab at Evil X's wrist. Small, firefly stars were starting to swim into the edges of his vision, retreating from sight when he managed another thin gasp.

Evil X, still unhurried and unbothered, twisted his wrist, tilting Helsknight's face to the side as if to get a better look at him. It pressed the heated chainmail harder against Helsknight's neck, and he wheezed in protest.

"Is there something different about you?" Evil X asked, scrutinizing him unhurriedly. "Done something to your hair, maybe?"

"The scars are new," Helsknight whispered unhelpfully, his vision starting to blur around the edges.

"No," Evil X sighed. "No it's not that. It's got something to do with the smell of you. Beg for mercy from any new gods lately?"

"Not that I know of."

"Huh. Interesting."

"Sovereign." Helsknight tried to be more insistent, but his head was starting to swim. His heart was fluttering quick in his chest, pushing too little air too quickly through his limbs.

[Don't panic.]

"You know, I could make all your problems disappear." Evil X hummed, the unbreakable vice of his grip holding Helsknight so unnaturally still, he could have been writhing in the hands of a statue. "What with the Demon rigging your match. My brother won't ask -- doesn't want me meddling in his humble little hive. But I wouldn't refuse a request from the Champion of hels."

Helsknight reached with his hands and feet, cursing silently when all he found was open air. The table should still be there... Somewhere. Salvation. A reminder that the world existed outside the infinite black of Evil X's screen, the blinding red of his eyes, and the vice of his grip.

"He would forgive you for letting me in eventually," Evil X hummed. "He likes you."

The lights in Helsknight's eyes had stopped fading when he breathed. They invaded his vision like a brilliant tide. He only realized he'd given in to the impulse to grab Evil X's wrist, because suddenly his hands were burning. If he cried out in pain, it died somewhere against the clench of the Sovereign's fist.

[Don't panic.]

"Just recant on that stupid little agreement of ours," Evil X smiled, "and let me be your sponsor again. The Demon couldn't touch you then, now could he?"

"You could," Helsknight grunted, trying to twist in the unyielding grip. He only succeeded in pressing the heated chainmail harder against his neck.

It burned.

Evil X chuckled, and Helsknight felt the vibration in every rib.

"I can do that regardless," Evil X said gently, as though he were talking to a child. "I do what I like, when I like. I am the ruler of hels."

"Prove it." The glittering lights in Helsknight's eyes was starting to give way to a surging darkness. It rose around his world like an embrace. "Let me go."

Evil X chuckled again. It shook Helsknight's whole world.

"Say please."

There was a brief moment where Helsknight managed enough spite to want to spit in Evil X's face. He didn't. But he really, really wanted to.

He only knew his world had gone black, because when Evil X dropped him, his vision came surging back again. Helsknight collapsed to the floor, gasping and coughing. His nose stung with the smell of hot metal and singed fabric, and burns along the curve of his neck and the palms of his hands throbbed with bitter sensation. Evil X crouched on the balls of his feet, watching Helsknight as though he were a particularly interesting bug on the floor, or maybe some strange species of fish suffocating on a beach.

"Your pride is going to be the death of you," Evil X said pleasantly.

"Only if you're the one trying to kill me," Helsknight managed, when his coughing finally started to subside. He pressed his forehead to the cold floor, and blinked in quiet surprise as Evil X flicked his wrist and gently placed a water bottle in front of his nose.

"The offer stands," Evil X hummed. "I'll sponsor you. Get you out of that stupid little hovel of yours and into a house in the center of town, right beside my tower. Maybe even get you some proper armor, enchanted to a god's specifications."

"Since when have you been interested in sponsoring anyone?" Helsknight growled, his voice tumbling like gravel through his wounded throat. He didn't take the water Evil X offered. It felt too much like a trap.

"I want to see what the Demon does, obviously!" Evil X said gleefully, placing a second bottle by the first. A temptation. "I want to see what he'll do when I take away one of his playthings. I bet he'll throw a tantrum. Break some things in the Colosseum. It's been awhile since anyone has pissed my brother off."

"I'm nobody's plaything."

"Of course you are," Evil X flashed him another of those pitiful smiles. "Right now you're the Demon's. And here, I'm being so kind and offering to be your champion."

Helsknight felt a hot flash of anger jilt its way down his spine. Groaning from the effort, and the sting in his palms, he slid his hands beneath himself and tried to push himself off the floor.

"I don't need a champion," he spat. "I need you assholes to leave me the fuck alone."

Evil X's heavy hand landed in the center of Helsknight's back. It was the kind of gesture a friend would make when trying to offer consolation. The moment it touched him, it burned. Helsknight gasped, and then his arms buckled as Evil X, as trivially as one might capture a spider beneath their hands, pressed him back down against the floor. Helsknight grit his teeth around an impotent scream, writhing beneath the burning touch. It felt as though the Sovereign of hels planned to shove his hand through Helsknight's spine.

"Oh you stupid, prideful little knight," Evil X smiled pleasantly, "if no one is your champion, who, exactly, is going to protect you?"

The press on his back intensified. Helsknight thought he could hear his spine and ribs creak. He reached and kicked, as though it would do any good. One of the water bottles went skittering away when he hit it with a flailing hand.

The loud shatter of glass shot Helsknight gasping into wakefulness. He blinked his eyes, startled to find himself blind. Just as soon as he noticed its absence, light poured into the room, spreading warm and dim from the shrooms lights overhead. Tanguish was standing in front of him, out of breath, a potion bottle in his hands.

"Are you alright?" Tanguish asked, whisking to his side. "I thought I heard-- from down the hall-- like you were--" his expression softened from fear to worry. "Did something happen?"

Helsknight glanced around the room, and when he saw nothing abnormal, shortened his scan to the table. His form book and his little black notebook were there, as was his quill. One of his arms had an angry red line where he laid on it while sleeping, and had pressed too hard against his notebook. There were no burns on his hands, though his throat felt dry and sore from thirst. His back ached from how far he'd slumped over the table, spine protesting the unfair treatment.

"I'm... Fine." Helsknight said hoarsely. "Nightmare, I think."

"Oh. Well. Don't. Don't scare me like that," Tanguish said, smiling faintly. He gently placed the bottle on the table -- not a potion, but water, chilled by his touch. "Here. Uhm. S-someone must have left it out. It was hot when I picked it up."

Helsknight paused halfway to bringing the bottle to his lips. He blinked down at the innocuous little bit of glass, nervousness awakening in his stomach.

"Did I hear glass shattering?" He asked cautiously.

"Oh. Hah. Um. Well..."

Tanguish looked down. Helsknight followed his gaze. A few steps from the table, a water bottle had shattered, the jagged edges of the glass outlined faintly in the red-orange light. Tanguish's foot, just to one side of it, pooled blood in a slowly blooming ring.

"Tanguish."

"I'm s-sorry! It was so dark in here," Tanguish stammered, looking around. "I've never-- I didn't even see it I just stepped-- ah!"

Helsknight got to his feet and scooped Tanguish off the floor. It sent a corkscrew of pain spiralling down his spine, but he made his way to the stairs regardless. The cool of Tanguish's skin against his armor felt like a balm, even as his nervousness turned to snakes in his stomach.

"I'm fine!" Tanguish protested, clinging to Helsknight's armor. "Just get me some tweezers and--"

"The Colosseum surgeon will be awake still," Helsknight grumbled.

"It's just glass I don't need a surgeon!"

"You'll want a surgeon when you find out you left a piece in your foot a week from now."

"It's fine-- I'm fine," Tanguish said, his voice softening. "Don't freak out over it."

"I'm not freaking out."

"Helsknight, you're shaking."

"I'm tired," Helsknight protested. [Not technically a lie.] He stormed down the stairs, taking them two at a time. "And the sooner we get this looked at, the sooner I sleep, right?"

"Right..." Tanguish agreed, and decided, tactfully, not to ask about the odd, ring-shaped burns around the neck of Helsknight's tunic.

Helsknight has seen this before. It's been awhile since he's felt it so closely, though. The fainting. The listlessness. The lost time. He's seen it all before. Dead eyed paladins wandering like sleepwalkers through their tasks. The strong made weak by the jaws of the universe as they're eaten away. The long sleep. The watch for waking. The hopeless vigil. The waiting, waiting, waiting, for inevitability. The knowledge that soon, inexorably, like the setting sun, night was falling.

The sun would never rise again, and there would be no stars.

To be swallowed whole by something that doesn't care, that doesn't notice, what it's taking.

Tanguish sleeps more than he wakes now. He looks deceptively peaceful, laying there in bed. Helsknight moved him from the couch weeks ago. He deserves comfort. He deserves peace, and warmth. He deserves... Well. He deserves better. Helsknight can't give him better. Even if he knew what to give, he couldn't bring himself to leave Tanguish's side. Not anymore.

"I would fight the Universe for you if I could," Helsknight tells him, kneeling beside the bed during one more of those long, silent, lonely vigils. He has Tanguish's hand cupped in both of his, the scarred knuckles pressed to his lips. Helsknight doesn't cry. He never cries in front of Tanguish. It feels rude. Disrespectful. This isn't about him. If anything he is just a helpless bystander. He is not to be comforted. "I would pry back the jaws of the Universe if I could reach them in a way that mattered. You know I would."

Tanguish doesn't respond. He's been asleep for a long, long time. Helsknight knows the pattern. The ebb and flow. The drowning slip. Last time it took Tanguish days to wake. He doesn't think this time there will be a waking, but he waits for it anyway. All he has left now is the hope, however fleeting, to see those eyes flutter open, the tired smile and soft voice. Tanguish saying reasonably, as though Helsknight were making a big deal about nothing, "Why are you still here? I'm alright, Helsknight. You don't have to wait for me."

They talked about it, in that rare glimmer when Tanguish was lucid. Helsknight had explained what he knew of what was happening, what he'd seen. He explained the sleep would last longer. That if Tanguish didn't get himself killed, the Universe would simply take him one day, quietly, in his sleep. Tanguish had seemed relieved. He didn't want to die painfully. This was the best possible scenerio for someone who feared hurt and wounding. To slip away, unnoticed, uncaring. It had been a soft conversation, and it had taken all of Helsknight's strength not to be angry. Not to rage in the face of fear and loss. He wanted to be kind for Tanguish. He wanted his friend to leave thinking everything would be okay. He wanted him to feel loved, and looked after, and like the world would mourn his passing but not be broken by it.

This time, there will not be a waking. Helsknight can feel it in his bones. It makes his heart sick. He feels like, if he convulsed hard enough, his soul might vomit, riot out the tangle of emotions he has long grown weary of feeling, that stick in his ribs like claws.

This time, there will not be a waking.

[Tanguish always hated being a burden.]

Helsknight was broken. He sighed a lot. There was something wrong with his stomach and chest, like if he exhaled deeply, smoke and despair would come spooling out of his lungs. He wished he could purge the empty ache buried inside him, calm the nervousness of mourning. There was a little animal inside him that wanted to run, which felt his pain and fear and said something fatal must be happening, and fight or flight should move him to self preservation.

He couldn't bring himself to leave the house. Every moment they had left felt stolen.

Besides, he could run for the rest of his life and never outrun this. He could slay every god and saint in hels and it wouldn't change a thing. Impotence was a poison in his soul.

He felt sick.

"I'm sorry I couldn't fix it," Helsknight whispered, kissing Tanguish's hand gently. "I would have tried harder. You know I would have."

Tanguish had asked him, in one of those rare, lucid moments, not to bother Tango. Just let it happen, he'd said, brushing strands of hair out of Helsknight's face. It's okay, I'm not afraid.

Helsknight didn't know what time it was. He stopped caring about things like that awhile ago.

He kissed Tanguish's knuckles again, and wished he could pour his own life through his skin. Tanguish's hand was warm in his, he'd been holding it so long. It felt stupid, but he spent a lot of time washing his hands now. His hands and his hair. He put on lotion, and honey-scented oils, because Tanguish told him once his sealing wax made him feel safe, and this was the closest smell to it that he had ready. Every time Tanguish woke, he wanted him to be held in kind, gentle hands. To card his fingers through clean, soft hair. To smell safety and comfort. Helsknight kissed Tanguish's knuckles again. It was all he could do. It was all he could do.

Time crawled by like a wounded animal. Helsknight sat very still. He kissed Tanguish's hand when it seemed necessary, the gentle brush of lips against fingers that never moved. Sometimes he would press his thumb to Tanguish's pulse just to remind himself he was still alive, only sleeping. He didn't cry. He said only kind things; whispered poetry, soft platitudes. When his helpless anger abated and left him hollow, in the ebbs and tides it lived in, he prayed. They were hopeless, stupid prayers. He didn't know what to pray for anyway. Only the repeated mantra please, please, please, begging for his Saint to listen to... Something. Please save Tanguish. Please end the waiting soon. Please don't make Helsknight suffer the waiting alone. Please, if he must suffer this, take the feelings away. Take the pain away. Make it stop. Make it stop...

Helsknight knew he fell asleep only because he woke up hours later, and when he woke, he was alone. The bed was empty, blankets barely disheveled. Still, Helsknight was filled with the half-mad thought that Tanguish had woken and crept past him, leaving him to sleep. Helsknight got to his feet, joints protesting after so long waiting in stillness.

"Tanguish?" Helsknight called into the empty room, searching every corner, as though he would be hiding. "Tanguish you shouldn't be up by yourself. Where--?"

Helsknight rubbed sore eyes and walked into the living room. He felt disoriented, not all there, like he'd woken from a bad dream. His mind dragged behind his body, thoughts tilting haphazardly through sleep and stress. He was exhausted. Had he not been sleeping lately? Gods. It was hard to remember.

Helsknight looked quietly around the living room, suddenly confused as to why he'd come in here. He was looking for something... right? Something important. His hands were shaking. He felt sick. Something very, very important. His stomach twisted in knots. His chest hurt. Was he having a panic attack? Why in hels was he having a panic attack?

"I need to lay down," Helsknight said to no one, because no one else was here. When had he gotten into the habit of talking to himself? His chest hurt. He felt sick. He wanted to cry. What the fuck was wrong with him?

[Lost something. Lost something.]

Helsknight stumbled back into his room, his mind a hazy mess. His bed was an oasis of calm in a storm. He needed to lay down. He felt raw and wounded, like someone had reached hands inside him and started pulling out entrails. It was a despair so thick he wanted to vomit. He placed his hands on the bed, steadying himself, trying to convince himself if he could just crawl in--

The bed was cold. Colder than was normal. A tear rolled down his cheek. He could cry now. He was allowed to cry now. No one was here to see.

Why would someone be here? Why would he even need to cry? Helsknight rubbed at his face, and he searched his bed, his nightstand, for anything that made sense.

A little black stone, obsidian, hard to carve and harder to break. There was a name carved there that wasn't his. Memories that had been floating away like fading dreams, fast into the jaws of the void, slammed back into him so hard he staggered. It was a blow that should have killed him. He'd felt gentler wounds from blades in the Colosseum.

Helsknight's reaction was immediate. His breath left him, half gasp, half groan. And he was sobbing, great, wracking, gasping sobs that were halfway screams. Helsknight grabbed the little stone, carved with Tanguish's name, and clasped it to his chest. He clung to it like it could somehow pull Tanguish back to him, like it could tether his soul, already gone. Then Helsknight did scream, because his chest hurt, his soul hurt, and he was powerless, powerless, powerless to do anything about it.

"I didn't mean to forget," he sobbed, his whole body bent in apology, like a sinner at an altar. "I d-didn't mean to forget. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I--"

The night was long.

The world was dark.

Somewhere, a bright, bright star dimmed and died, and no one seemed to notice.

And the Universe said, I do not love you, for I did not make you

And the Universe said, You were never meant to exist, so you do not

And the Universe said, All is right with the world.