Chapter Text
Kramer was trying to enjoy a walk on the beach. Keyword, was.
He and Striäk had been strolling down the seashore when Striäk spotted something down on the beach after their mid-afternoon shift together. Striäk suddenly yelled a random, "Hey! Look over there!" before sprinting off down the coast.
By the time Kramer had caught up, he was already out of breath. After a moment, he identified the thing as a body. Kramer's exhaustion faded just as abruptly as it had come.
"The Hell?" Striäk hissed as he knelt closer to the man, as Kramer realized the body was a few moments later.
A pause. "Where did he come from?" Striäk asked, standing up again to take his place by Kramer's side.
Suddenly, as if something snapped into place in his brain, Kramer came to a realization. The cloak. The man's wet clothes, an obvious sign of him coming from . . . there. That Hellish island beyond the blue. He set his face to betray nothing of his intentions as he spoke the words.
"It's an Eldian Devil." He took a step back, unconsciously. "One of them, from Paradis." Paradis. An infernal antithesis for the infernal isle. It couldn't be paradise as it was plagued with devils.
Striäk snorted a laugh, before stepping forward to kneel again by the man.
"You think it's one of those Devils?" Striäk asks.
"I reckon. He's wearing one of those Devil cloaks, isn't he?" Kramer swallows after he finishes, taking another step away from the man on the beach. He wipes his hands together above the sand as if to rid himself of the contaminated Eldian.
"It's perfect timing too." He adds.
"What do you mean?" Kramer asks.
"The warriors returned only a few days ago." Striäk declares. "They claimed they had Marlow's son on the ship, according to the paper, but he fled off board."
"So he drowned." Kramer sums up.
"Unless this is him."
"Unless he isn't." Kramer assumes.
Striäk hums and stands up again. He puts his hands on his hips and swings a foot lightly forward, pushing the man's soaked, green cape away from his body. After a moment, Striäk drops the fabric.
And pulls his foot right back, and kicks the man right in the diaphragm, from what Kramer can see. He can't help but wince. He had been on the receiving end of Striäk's blows many, many times when Striäk was his superior, and they had left bruises on him for days. Not only that, but he had been too stiff to move for weeks after a particularly bad beating or sparring, and he could only hope the man wasn't alive.
Of course, it was just his luck when the man groaned when the blow hit. He saw a small splatter of blood hit the pearly white sand.
The streak of blood carved its way down his face. It appeared almost erroneous, for the colour to appear, his skin being so pale that it contrasted horrendously.
"Ah, look. Alive." The Striäk says. Kramer can practically hear the man's smile from behind him. Internally, Kramer is wondering if Striäk is secretly a sadist.
Kramer snaps out of his trance, speaking quietly, "Should we take him to Bauer?"
A pause. Kramer can hear his heart thundering in between his ribs.
"Nah. This one's destined for Stæker for sure."
It takes a moment for Kramer to recognize the name. "Ah, the mad scientist?"
He hopes his voice didn't falter at the man's name. Every Eldian on Marley knew that man's name, and everyone feared him. For good reason as well.
"No, his son. Erudition."
Kramer felt his face drain of colour.
Of course, that was when the not-dead man leaped to his feet and punched Striäk in the face.
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The man had been one of the soldiers on Paradis. It was easy to see. This was nothing new.
The new thing, alternatively, was that the man was an exceptional fighter, despite his size.
That was proven by the fact that he had knocked out Striäk with his surprise punch to the face and was now trying to do the same to Kramer, who was frantically dodging the man as best he could. Even though Kramer was taller than the man, he knew he was at a disadvantage the moment the man started fighting. He was more experienced, he could tell. From the way the man never let himself overextend with every blow or the way he always pulled himself back together after every strike, he knew he was a fellow soldier, and that he was already outmatched.
Kramer didn't know what kept him going, to continue fighting. He knew it sure as Hell had nothing to do with Striäk, who was still on the ground when he glanced at him for a moment before he blocked another jab at his face.
It wasn't an utmost sense of a will to live, either, though. He had joined the army so he could die, at least die a hero's death, not by some mystery man who was trying to kill him on the beach. So what? The thought came to Kramer suddenly. What was he fighting for? Was he fighting because of his will to die, not have his cause of death be by some random man on a beach, but because of a gunshot? Or a stab wound? Or what? Was he fighting because of some dead family peer pressure? Or maybe because of that girl, he had vowed to marry years ago in his small village back home. When he still had hope that he could? Still marry her? Still keep his family alive, together?
Kramer didn't know. He had no idea why in Hell he was still fighting. He didn't know. He didn't need to know, didn't need to know why. All he had to do was, simply, do it. He had to keep fighting because somewhere, deep down, he knew he refused to die here for reasons unknown to him. He refused to die here. He would live to see another day.
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Kramer had been fighting for minutes now, maybe 30 by this point and mercifully, it appeared the man was tired too. No one had come down to the beach, not even Howare, who knew where he and Striäk usually went for their walks. Striäk was still unconscious, which was concerning Kramer even more now. They had pivoted at some point during the fight, so he was standing in front of Striäk now, blocking him from the Eldian man. Eldian man, ha. As if he wasn't an Eldian. He was just fighting his blood kin now.
He dodges another shot to his face, but he's too slow this time, and the blow connects to his jaw. He's the one to spit blood onto the beach this time. The man, he remarks, is a surprisingly good fighter without weapons.
He shakes his head a bit and goes for another blow to the man's face, who dodges slowly. A spark of hope lights up in Kramer's chest. Finally! He twists his arm and aims for a punch right at the man's throat. His eyes widen a fraction, his lips part in surprise and some vicious part of him feels joy at the man's horror. But to his surprise, the man's face regains passiveness and he dodges mid-lunge under his wrist and grabs him under his shoulder, forcing his dominant arm upwards. He's on the ground in a second.
He struggles as he tries to pry the man off of him, grabbing him by any fabric he can get his hands on, but to no avail. The cloak is too wet, and the man has no reaction to his hair being tugged at. The man presses his arms tighter around his neck, blocking any air that he tries to heave in. Consciousness starts to flee him. His thoughts start to sound like buzzing in his head instead of words.
No! He can't die like this! Think?! Think! A realization comes to him, and before he can stop himself from doing anything else, he does it. The knife pulls from its sheath easily and slashes the man's arm in a clean blow, using his left hand. He knows it's sloppy, but he hopes it's enough to get the man to let go. Sure enough, it does. The man's grip loosens enough around his neck so he can shove him off with ease. The man falls limply beside him on his side onto the sand.
For a few seconds, all Kramer can do is breathe, relishing the air.
And then he remembers that the man who tried to kill him is lying on the sand, right beside him.
He swallows and heaves himself up, sparing only a glance at Striäk. He grips his knife tighter, before gently prodding the man with the tip.
Nothing. He doesn't even make a noise.
He sidesteps cautiously over the man's torso, making sure to tread nowhere near his legs or arms. He keeps the knife above the man's chest at all times.
When he turns to face the man's face, however, he's so stunned, he drops the knife to the ground. The man probably wouldn't be able to pick it up, either way.
His arm is clutched tightly to his chest, his good hand around the wrist in a death grip, evidently trying to stop the bleeding. It is also, clearly, not working.
And then, the coughing starts. It's soft at first, like a rasp, but it grows and rises until it's like he's trying to get rid of a lung. Blood and water drip down his face, and he's shaking.
The gore still spurts in between his clenched fingers in timed beats, and he can see his hands shaking slightly. Kramer feels something like guilt when he stares at the man, whose eyes, he just realized, are squeezed shut in pain. He's a soldier. Just like him. He could be a rookie, for all he knew, but he was still the one who had started the fight. And though Kramer knows he had been the one defending himself, he still felt a chill run up his spine at what he had done. He peeks over the man's hand to get a better look at the wound, to see if it's deemable to be life-threatening. He almost throws up all over the poor man. The bone is visible, and he can see clear as day, a break on both of them. He's not a doctor, but he can assume it hurts like Hell.
Kramer doesn't know what to do now. He would help him if he were anyone else except a Devil from Paradis.
Kramer swallows, before coming to a decision. He balls his hand into a fist, and wacks the man on the head, hard enough so he falls limp with only two blows. Blood coats his fist, and he goes to wash it in the ocean. He's about to drag Striäk's body down to the camp with him, but something stops him. The man. He doesn't know why, but he feels like he should stay. Just in case. And so, Kramer stays. The man doesn't move again, and Kramer doesn't realize he's been staring until Striäk is suddenly at his side, and the sun changed on the horizon. It was almost sunset.
"Ah, good lad." He cuffs him on the head. Kramer doesn't react.
He speaks again as he walks up to the man, "Now we'll have a bargaining prize for Erudition."
That's when Kramer's stomach finally gives out, he falls to his knees. Bile spurts across the sand.