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Alfonse likes to watch Lif work on the battlefield.
He dares not get close, but in truth, he could stand to learn a lot from the veteran soldier. The way of the sword is a complex one, and Hel’s former general seems to have several lifetimes worth of knowledge…
But he doesn’t ever speak to the man.
Is he afraid? Perhaps. If not now, then before- definitely. To know your own future, even if it was a future not destined to come to pass, was a horrifying thing. To see your own body decay before your eyes, to be bent and twisted into a form so grotesque… It’s not something Alfonse likes to think about. True, it was a fate thankfully avoided, but the reminder hangs heavy over his head every time Lif ghosts by him in the hallway, somber and silent.
He’s easier to watch on the battlefield. In the chaos of swinging swords, the dead man is focused on the enemy, not on any onlookers that may be standing by. Alfonse watches him tear through the legs of another horse, buckling the animal before slaughtering its rider in a spray of gore.
He’s efficient, that’s for sure.
It’s just the two of them now; Sharena has already retreated, and Eir is off on her own out of reach of the infantry soldiers. The enemy force is dwindling in numbers; most of them have been routed already by the two remaining swordsmen, and those that remain look as if they intend on fleeing. Alfonse lowers his sword as one of the soldiers stumbles backwards, running towards the woods in hopes of escape. He lets them go without complaint; a life not wasted is a positive in his books- just another person he might hope to ally with in the future-
An undead blade juts from their retreating back as Alfonse blinks, and as the body slides away into the dirt, he fixes Lif with a tired and disappointed stare.
“They were retreating. You didn’t have to kill them.”
Lif’s eyes narrow. “An enemy is an enemy. Let them live at the end of one battle, and they will simply return for the next. Such is the cycle of war.”
The taller man sheaths his sword, flicking the blood away as he goes. The enemy army is fully depleted now, the spots where retreating soldiers had been containing nothing but red smears across the grass. Lif works quickly.
“Well… I suppose we ought to head back then…” Alfonse sighs, turning his back from the scene. The castle rests on the horizon and the thought of a warm bath is tantalizing-
A splattering sound echoes through the silence behind him, and the prince turns.
One of the fallen is not quite dead. They stand before Lif now, with their back facing Alfonse; their head is bowed and their arms are outstretched into the space that Lif is so clearly occupying-
More dripping sounds fill the air, and the grass around the two is suddenly blue, not green, not red-
A slash of Lif’s sword casts the straggler aside, but not before a sickening crack is heard. Blue ooze splatters the ground, and the general stumbles, red eyes wide with surprise.
Alfonse sucks in a breath through his teeth.
The inside of Lif’s decaying body has always been a spot Alfonse’s eyes have avoided, but now he cannot bring himself to look away. Ribs float, free from their vertebral bindings, cracked and shattered as their pieces drift throughout the blue sludge. They do not bleed as bone would, but the expression on Lif’s face says it all-
“H-hey!” Alfonse squeaks as the man shoves past him, one hand held to his wounds.
“It’s nothing,” his opposite growls.
“But!” Alfonse jogs slightly to catch up, “You’re ribs! They’re all- all of them are broken!”
Lif glares down at the boy. “So?”
“So?! That must hurt! You could be in horrible medical danger!”
Lif laughs. More gunk splashes on the ground, far too clumpy to truly emulate blood. “We are much less alike than you think. Injuries like this no longer bother me.”
Despite the sureness of Lif’s voice, Alfonse can’t find it in himself to believe him.