Chapter Text
“Stop looking at me like that.” II growls, the weight of his claymore suddenly feels excruciating as it’s accompanied by the sting of his blistered knuckles and the smell of iron. Every possible inch of his body feels like it’s on fire: there’s a series of gashes and cuts that litter the inked skin of his arms and upper torso, bruises have already started to bloom in a thin line across the pane of his throat, and he’s tired-
(He hasn’t moved an inch since Ascensionism slithered into his personal space, the cold barrel of her revolver bit mercilessly into II’s abused stomach like a needy dog whereas the tips of the deity’s broken trident caressed his jaw like a desperate lover. “You’re too soft.” Ascensionism had sneered at him from above, her claws sank deeper into II’s shoulders, digging into bared flesh already sensitive from battle. “Stupid little soldier.”
He’s afraid he’ll collapse if he so much as tries to twitch his muscles a certain way.
…He’s afraid he’ll collapse in front of III.)
This wasn’t anything that II hadn’t asked for—III knows this. It was II who hunted down the elusive deity and practically begged her to aid in his own personal training; he needs to get stronger, he needs his fangs to grow sharper for his prince, he needs to win this fucking war.
He doesn’t know at what point III had made himself comfortable underneath a nearby alder tree, but II remembers making eye contact with III as Ascensionism shoved her revolver against II’s temple before practically gutting Sleep’s Second with her trident. II remembers the taste of rotten soil when Ascensionism shoved him to the ground with a laugh so beautiful and melodic it was borderline cruel. His trousers are now stained to hell and back with his own blood, and the evening air is unforgivingly frigid as it nips over Ascensionism’s garish work.
It was odd: Ascensionism’s only request for helping to decimate II at his own game was that he be honest about what might happen—that when he’d inevitably go scampering off to his little prince, II must tell the truth about who it was that obliterated his ego and relished in the sight of his splattered blood. It seemed like a simple request, but, regardless, it was risky, especially knowing that Ascensionism was not one to hold back, but II was close to desperate. Sleep’s Second thinks she just likes having her handiwork bared to the world, that she would want to see the way Vessel’s jaw would clench at the sight of his beloved dog limping home with his own blood splattered across his chest and pleasure herself over a mortal’s pain and misery.
(She’s sick. II wonders what the implications might be behind her epithet: The Forgotten Embrace. It’s easy to forget how beautiful something as cruel as living can be when you’re dying—he wonders if that sentiment is Ascensionism’s divine mission, but then he realizes how much of a fucking twat the deity is and quickly tries to forget about her existence all together.)
The way III stares him down from halfway across the clearing makes him feel sick to his stomach. He hawks up the blood that’s been pooling just behind his molars, weakly spitting at the desecrated earth below him. II’s hands shake from the weight of his own weapon, his frame quivers under the weight of his wounds, his claymore feels like a disease with the way he’s clutching onto the weapon’s hilt like it’s the only thing keeping him standing.
(It is.
III knows.)
There’s a moment where II can barely register the sight of III moving from the corner of his eye, and Sleep’s Second thinks that the little cunt might just slink off back into the shadows and leave him to bleed out.
That’s fine, II thinks maliciously; he’d rather face Vessel’s divine wrath than accept III’s help at this moment. He won’t die here, II knows this—as twisted and sick of a deity that they are, II knows that Ascensionism is too amused by his mortality to ever let him perish by her own hand; it wouldn’t be nearly as fun as watching II perish through more… creatively cruel methods.
(“Your little dream has declared war on the Kingdom of Eden,” Ascensionism drawls, her claws slowly and deliberately grasping the hilt of II’s claymore from where it has haphazardly plunged through the dirt — the deity having easily been able to wrestle II’s claymore from his well-trained hands with nothing but the broken trident her other set of arms continues to play with while the other continues to ‘tease’ at the claymore’s hilt like the cock of a lover — before dragging the weight of the blade out of the earth’s embrace with mockingly concise motions, the lithe deity able to handle the weapon’s weight as though it were a mere bag of dead leaves, “and you come crawling to me with your tail tucked between your legs begging me to help you whip your forces in shape.”)
Maybe he simply holds too much faith in the questionable antics of a deity who thrives on the misery of the battlefield, but there’s one thing for sure: II doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to being on the receiving end of a god’s divine attention.
(“You fight like a domesticated bitch,” Ascensionism seethes next to II’s ear, twisted the decorated handle of II’s treasured claymore deeper into the poor man’s ribs before finally pulling a respectable distance away from the two vessels, “and yet you love like an untamed beast. Where is your pride, soldier? When did you become so wrong?”)
“You’re bleedin’ pretty good, mate.” III suddenly mumbles from behind II’s still form, though the soldier wonders if he meant it more towards himself than for II’s prying ears because yeah, no shit. II might’ve jumped at the warmth suddenly pressing against his back if his nerves weren’t already hardened by years of warfare and weren’t already occupied by the innumerable pain signals his brain was already so exhausted from receiving.
III’s arms are quick to delicately unhinge the death grip II had on his weapon, his long fingers carefully prying open the other vessel’s grasp one bloody digit at a time. II is too fatigued — and now too lightheaded, too nauseous, too weak — to worry about fighting off III’s gentle touches; his brain briefly gives him cause to be alarmed when III succeeds in removing II’s death grip and has moved on to grasping the treasured claymore in his own hand. The little thief swiftly catches on to II’s slight change in demeanor, however, as he is quick to carefully press the full length of the weapon’s hilt against II’s upper thigh, keeping the weapon well within II’s reach. The small show of control seems to appease the smaller vessel’s brain, as II is content to allow III to continue looting his tired body—or whatever the fuck Vessel’s darling rogue seems intent on doing with him. II vaguely registers the look of disgust that flashes across III’s eyes at the loud series of cracks and pops that suddenly erupt from II’s knuckles.
How dare he — II thinks, a scowl overtaking his bloodstained features — how fucking dare he.
It’s quiet, eerily silent as III simply stands behind II. There’s a large hand encompassing one of II’s bruised hips, keeping him standing and steady as II’s stiff fingers flex and twitch over the handle of his claymore, but aside from the silent support, III makes no other move to aid II. Sleep’s Second can see the way III’s other hand hovers over his side and shoulder, the rogue’s fingers twitching much more erratically than II’s stiff, numb version of the motion; he’s antsy, impatient as he waits.
“I told you-” II heaves suddenly as his voice comes out cracked and hoarse; he clears his throat and tries again. “I told you to stop looking at me like that.”
(II doesn’t need to see clearly to know that III’s staring down at him with those stupid big doe eyes of his—wide, vulnerable, and ever-perceptive.)
“Yeah, I guess.” III mumbles through the cloth of his mask, his twitching seemingly contagious as even the hand that’s posed borderline protectively over II’s hip seems to grow restless. “But I also told you that you’re bleedin’ more than you’re breathin’ and you still haven’t done shit about that.”
II doesn’t want to admit to III that he’ll collapse if he so much as breathes wrong, so he stays silent instead. In return, III makes no effort to leave the soldier to the cold night. So, the silence persists, only broken by the sound of III’s fingers suddenly clenching tight over the tattered remains of II’s trousers. The dried blood seemingly doesn’t bother Sleep’s Third, but II stupidly wonders why it ever would.
III is a soldier, just as II is. II finds his strength in dented armor, bruised ribs and a bloody lip, in structure and order, and in Vessel’s authority over his actions—III finds his strength in loose rags and buckles, broken bones and missing teeth, in the freedom of his awful career and in the autonomy of his shitty life choices, in broken daggers, and in shady bags of gold coin.
(It is II who is the bloodhound trailing behind his owner’s heels, and it is III who is the young buck limping from a gunshot wound. Not the other way around; it is II who is stronger, it is II who is smarter, it is II who has remained by Vessel’s side-)
“There’s a river nearby,” III speaks up suddenly, his long form quickly crowding against II’s damp back while both of his hands find gentle purchase along II’s shoulders, “lemme wash you down—get that nasty fuckin’ blood off.”
“I didn’t exactly bring a change of clothes with me.” II is quick to snark back, his body subconsciously flinching away from III’s gentle touch. His voice is quieter this time, and it takes II a moment to realize he closed his eyes at some point. When did he grow so tired? When did he get so weak-?
“‘S fine.” III mumbles again. The taller vessel is quick to adjust his grip lower towards II’s armpits, having taken II’s flinch as a response to pain. The grip is even more awkward than before, and II is loath to admit that the only reason he’s not face down in the dirt is all thanks to III’s current hold on him . “Brought some extra robes with me, some medicine shit from IV too; I can patch you up.”
What-?
“Just leave the supplies then, I’m perfectly capable of washing myself; I don’t need your help.”
“What? II, mate, c’mon, you can’t be serious,” III laments, pressing his chest against II’s back more firmly. II tries not to think about how he can feel the slight definition of the man’s torso through the Third’s thin robes. “You’re barely standing upright on your own! Whaddya mean you’re gonna waltz on down to that river and take care of yourself? You’re gonna bloody drown, that’s what you’re gonna do!”
“Don’t call me that—we’re not mates.” II grumbles, though the exhaustion is clearly creeping into the edges of his voice and his body is starting to crumble into itself the longer he stands still. “And I will be fine. The river isn’t deep enough for anyone to drown, III, you’re being dramatic.”
It’s quiet again, save for the steady rhythm of III obnoxiously breathing. II wishes he’d stop, or at least exist somewhere else.
“Y’know what? Fine.” III borderline growls, and the sheer intensity of it sounding right next to II’s masked ear makes the smaller vessel completely freeze. “You wanna become best buds with the fucking dirt? Go ahead, Mister General, take a bloody step-”
Suddenly, the firm support of III’s hands disappears from underneath II’s arms, and the drastic change leaves II staggering with the consequences of his own tattered form. II’s fingers painfully squeeze around the rough texture of his claymore’s grip, and Sleep’s Second suddenly realizes that the reason why he hasn’t moved his other arm much at all is because the most he could hope to muster is small twitches and jerks of his forearm—the muscles and tendons and nerves wrapped within scream in utter agony whenever II so much as twists his wrist the wrong way, and the soldier realizes he’s going to get another stern talking to from IV if Vessel doesn’t find him first.
Regardless of the damage that litters his upper torso and abdomen, II stubbornly tries to adhere to III’s demands and take a step— one measly little step, but II’s bruised knees buckle underneath the shifting weight and his blistered feet make shallow tracks within the earth as they drag. Even with the unfaltering weight of his claymore, II wouldn’t make it very far. Not like this.
(“I have won battles and wars, ascended to godhood while drenched in the blood of my enemies; I have borne witness to the smartest tacticians perishing to the most foolish of admirals.” Ascensionism growls and the weight of the venom in her words punches the air from II’s lungs; she floats before him now, one pair of arms gripping in place tight whereas the other purposefully digs the pommel of his claymore against the bruises along his abdomen. He flinches and the deity before him purrs. “But you, my dear, are perhaps the most brain-dead, idiotic, optimistic whore that I have ever had the fortune of training, my darling, stupid little soldier.”)
Still, he continues to try, and III continues to let him. If II has learned anything in his rotten, miserable life, it’s that he’ll stubbornly cling onto anything his brain deems to be worthy of bearing his fangs for—be it Vessel’s fledgling divinity, or this.
“For Sleep’s sake, II-” III scowls at the soldier from behind his mask, though he only steps in when he sees a gash that has already scabbed itself over with dried blood suddenly spurt back to life, seeping crimson anew. “II! Fuckin’- quit it!”
III’s long fingers are quick to fully wrap around the width of II’s biceps, effectively stopping the stubborn soldier by pressing into the fresh bruises and scrapes that Ascensionism so kindly gifted him. Sleep’s Third roughly jerks the smaller vessel towards himself, erasing any miniscule progress II might’ve made with his ‘steps’. That hard chest of his is once again pressed against II’s back, and II loses his painful grip on his claymore in the process.
II is too exhausted to snap at the rogue, but he’s too irritated by the man’s mere presence in his life to simply accept this treatment without any kind of fight. There’s a weak snarl rumbling somewhere deep in II’s heaving chest, but he briefly wonders if III could even hear it over the sound of his obnoxious rambling; his hands are flighty as they run up and down II’s beaten frame, his rough fingertips brushing over crusted scrapes and scattered gashes—assessing the damage, II realizes. III has always been a very touch oriented person: always hovering closely behind IV as the alchemist excitedly rambles about his latest discoveries, close enough for the taller vessel to rest his chin overtop IV’s hood, completely unbothered by the way IV’s frantic motions cause III’s body to bob and sway in tandem; always pacing circles around Vessel whenever the young prince has finished communicating with their god, those thievish hands always so quick to physically inspect Vessel’s skin and face, delicately brushing over the man’s newest inhuman blessings with an almost childish amount of awe and a stupid amount of arousal; always existing too close to II-
“I’m takin’ you,” III decides, handling II in a rougher, more impatient manner than before, “and I’m gonna wash you and mend you, and you’re just gonna sit on the river’s bank and look pretty, okay?”
(It sounds like a question, but II knows that Sleep’s Third won’t listen to any other answer that isn’t ‘oh, yes, of course, thank you so much-’, so he doesn’t say anything at all.)