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He comes to in a house. Not his house, no, he doesn’t have anything substantial that he could truly call his. It’s someone else’s house, rather, or perhaps it was, even though it doesn’t look abandoned, not in the slightest. A little neglected, maybe, but someone else definitely lives here, no doubt about it.
The Drifter pushes the blanket back and swings his legs over the edge of the bed he’d been resting on until now. He’s still wearing all of his clothes, has all of his equipment, so whoever had brought him here (the person in the helmet, another drifter perhaps?) seemed to be able to keep their hands to themselves. He sighs, the sound tickling at the inside of his throat, and rises to his feet, stretching his legs. Tugs the mask into place again; it hadn’t been taken off, he’d know that, but it had slid down a little.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep, doesn’t know where exactly he is – he pretty much knows nothing, and that leaves a bitter taste on his tongue, makes his knees bend ever so slightly as his chest constricts and he coughs once, twice, no blood, thankfully, even though he imagines the copper taste on his tongue, but it’s nothing more than a memory, one that will come back to haunt him later, no doubt about it.
It doesn’t really matter, he supposes, already searching the house, dragging his tired feet through the rooms and ignoring the slight limp that accompanies his every step. The house is not large by any means, but nothing to scoff at, either. There’s a bathroom behind a sliding door with a small kitchen just across the hallway. On the kitchen table is a notepad but it’s completely devoid of writing, the uppermost sheet halfway ripped off. The cupboards are all empty as well, not that he’s looking for anything in particular. Whoever is living here must not be home very often; and perhaps that is why they would allow him to stay.
Sighing again (and really, he should stop that, it only agitates his lungs further), the Drifter wanders back into the main room, inspecting the map laid out on another table, cluttered with small sticky notes that seem awfully unprofessional, and blueprints; the map depicts the areas surrounding the town, small notes scribbled on the thin paper here and there in neat handwriting, neater than his own, at least, and he traces it with his claws, letting his companion bot scan its contents and commit them to memory. Because that’s what he does after all; collecting information and then searching, searching for more because it’s never enough, the urge to know more that keeps him going, the desire to find a cure, anything, really.
And perhaps that is what’s destroying him most, in the end.
Well, it still doesn’t matter. The Drifter patiently waits until the bot has finished scanning, keeping the fidgeting to a minimum as he looks around the house, empty and too big for one person alone.
He doesn’t leave a note when he goes to exit the house. It’s not needed, doesn’t feel like whoever lives here would want it, really, so he doesn’t. That’s all. But when he goes to open the door, he’s met with the sight of a helmet in that vaguely familiar shade of pink, not unlike the source of energy around here, not unlike his blood.
The person inclines their head as both of them continue staring at each other, neither willing to move out of the way until at last the other person speaks up. “Are you leaving already?” they ask, and the Drifter nods because it should be self-explaining. He can’t stay, doesn’t have the time to stay.
He shifts from one foot to the other as the helmed person still appraises him. They have bags in their arms, seemingly filled with whatever counts as groceries here, and the Drifter almost motions for them to get out of the way, because their staring is making him somewhat uncomfortable and he really, really doesn’t have the time to be standing around here when the knight or whatever this person is speaks again. “I won’t stop you from leaving,” they say, walking past him and into the house, “but I would appreciate it if you stayed the night, if only for your own safety.”
They can’t possibly see the Drifter’s scowl what with how their back is turned to him and his mask covering half of his face, but they seem to notice it either way, some way or another. “The sun is already setting,” they continue, glancing towards the window, “and I doubt you have fully recovered already. So please, be my guest, at least for the evening.”
They’re nothing if not kind, he’ll give them that much, but still – he can’t stay. So he waits until they turn around to shake his head and point at himself and then the door.
“So be it, then,” the person that the Drifter has internally dubbed as Guardian responds. “Be safe on your way. And please remember that this door is always open if you’re in need for a place to stay at.”
He nods as a last goodbye, checking his gear one more time before the sliding doors shut behind him and the Guardian is blocked off from view. He can still feel their gaze on his back, however.
The Drifter sighs (he should really, really stop it because he can already feel the lump in his throat), leaning against the house’s wall and staying there for a moment. Guardian had been right, the sun was already setting, but traveling in the night had never bothered him before, either, so he pushes off the wall again, stumbles only a little and starts towards the northern gate.
It seems like the most logical choice, after all.
He doesn’t get very far in the end.
Somewhere in the northern mountains, between dead vultures and snow, white snow, another coughing fit overcomes him, leaving him stumbling and disoriented and dizzy and then falling, falling, his impact with the ground softened by the aforementioned snow only that it now presses against his cheek, cold and wet, soaking his mask, its cold biting through his layered cloak and into his skin as if it wants to crawl inside of him, and surely it hadn’t been this cold before. The wind has picked up and perhaps that is why it’s so cold, or at least that’s what he thinks, what his exhausted mind comes up with in between coughing and spitting out blood that paints the snow fuchsia.
And then steps, heavy, too heavy for the vultures, too heavy for the wolves, but maybe not too heavy for another monster he hasn’t seen yet. As his eyes slip shut, his only hope is that they’ll make it fast.
He comes to in a house that still isn’t his, will never be his no matter how often he wakes up in it. This time, the Guardian is sitting on a chair near the bed, fiddling with their own bot; making adjustments, probably, if the skilled way their hands move is anything to go by. They have discarded their helmet but their face is unremarkable, a little tired, maybe, but who isn’t, nowadays?
The Drifter coughs, less because the itch in his throat is back and more so to show that he is awake. Again.
Guardian looks up from their hands, examining the Drifter’s face before letting go of their companion bot and rising to their feet. Their bot hovers around them. “How are you feeling?” they ask.
He doesn’t answer for a few minutes, claws simply tugging at the mask that is still covering half of his face. It’s still wet with blood, but at least Guardian had had the foresight not to remove it. Then he pulls up his bot’s holographic keyboard and begins typing.
[How long was I out?]
“Just a few hours,” Guardian answers his question. They don’t seem surprised that he doesn’t talk, almost as if they had expected it. Neither do they comment on him evading the question. “I hope you don’t mind that I took your cloak and helmet off. They’re both over there, if you want them back.”
The Drifter’s hands fly up to his head, wildly fumbling around, searching for the familiar metal armour and how could he have missed that, how could he possibly-?
He stumbles out of the bed, almost falling again and Guardian is on their feet already, reaching out to steady him, but the Drifter holds his arm out to keep them at bay and they comply, simply watching as he slowly, ever so slowly makes his way to the small wardrobe on which his helmet had been placed upon, taking it in trembling hands before gently securing it on his head once again. It’s a familiar weight.
Breathing a sigh of relief that turns into another, short-lived coughing fit (just a few specks of fuchsia blood in the palm of his gloved hand) he turns toward Guardian, whose brows are furrowed as they watch him. “You’re afflicted,” they say, almost as if coming to a realization that had been dawning on them for quite a while, as if they’ve known him for an eternity already instead of just a few hours.
The Drifter nods.
[I can leave.]
Guardian shakes their head. “No- it’s fine. You should rest some more.” But they are uneasy, the Drifter can feel it. Can see it in the way their hands stop in the middle of reaching for their helmet before remembering that they don’t need it right now. “I’ll go prepare dinner.”
The Drifter almost wants to protest, that he doesn’t need to stay and rest, that he’s fine even without their help, but Guardian has already turned their back to him, making their way towards the small kitchen.
He sighs again.
Even though Guardian had told him to rest, he doesn’t. Can’t, in this strange environment that should feel like a home but doesn’t. It’s a house alright, on all fundamental levels but it’s not a home. It’s a threshold, perhaps, one that people pass but that no one ever truly stays in, and now he’s one of these people, the ones that just pass.
He settles into a chair at the kitchen table, watching Guardian cut up some vegetables and pieces of meat with skilled, nimble hands, resting his cheek on the palm of his upturned hand as they dump the vegetables into a pot of boiling water and season them with salt and sear the meat as if they’d done it a million times already. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t offer his help, not that he could even if he wanted to. His claws trace idle patterns on the empty notepad.
Finally, Guardian turns around from their spot at the stove, looking at him as he sits there, legs folded underneath his body. “You’re not from here,” they state, arms crossed in front of their chest.
The Drifter inclines his head. [You aren’t, either.]
They flinch slightly, as if the Drifter has accidentally touched upon a bad memory before their face is a blank slate again, as blank as the notepad. “I suppose you’re right. What should I call you, anyhow?”
No one has called him anything for a very long time at this point. There simply never was the need to. So he shrugs. [You can call me whatever you want.]
“Whatever I want,” they repeat. They speak with a slight accent, one Drifter hadn’t heard before, but it’s not unwelcome. “You don't have a name?”
He shrugs again. [Is this your house?]
Guardian sighs deeply, turning around to stir the stew, adding the pieces of meat to the pot. “Yes and no. Yes, as in no one else inhabits this house and no, as in I’m nothing more than a traveller myself, passing through.”
He thinks about it for a moment. [Why are you here?] And perhaps he’s being nosy, perhaps he’s asking questions he shouldn’t ask, but damn him if he doesn’t. His curiosity always gets the better of him, and maybe that’s why he’s a drifter in the first place, or maybe it’s the other way around, he doesn’t really know, hasn’t cared to think about the implications before.
“I was told to come here. And there’s… something else.” Guardian doesn’t seem to want to talk about it, which is fair. He can’t force them to. “Why are you here?” they spin the question around, and the Drifter fumbles for an answer before they interrupt him. “To find a cure, I presume?”
His hand stills over the holographic keyboard as he takes the words in. [Yes.]
Guardian nods. “I hope you are able to find it, then.” They finish the stew, ladling it into two bowls which they then place on the table. One for the Drifter and one for themselves. They settle down across him, watching as he plays around with the spoon in his hands, claws on metal. “We don’t have to eat together if you don’t want to.”
He shakes his head.
“That’s not it?”
He shakes his head again.
“Then what is it?” Guardian inclines their head. Their cloak rustles with the motion. They hadn’t taken it off. Perhaps they didn’t feel at home here, either.
There’s silence, but then again, there’s always silence when the Drifter is involved. He clears his throat. Tugs at his mask.
“Because of your skin colour?” Guardian concludes. They must have sharp eyes. Or maybe the Drifter really is too obvious. “I won’t judge you for it, if that’s what you’re thinking.” They lower their head, stirring around in their own soup. And the Drifter can interpret a sign like that.
While Guardian is averting their eyes, he quickly pulls his mask down and takes a spoonful of soup into his mouth. It’s hot, sure, and he hisses slightly as it burns on his tongue, but it’s not bad. As swift as he had pulled it down, he tugs the mask over his face again, just as Guardian raises their head.
“Is this alright?” they ask.
He nods. [If you don’t mind.]
“Of course not,” they say, “you are my guest, after all.”
They eat in amicable silence after that.
He doesn’t stay long with Guardian after that, simply because he doesn’t have the time and neither does he really want to. Settling down has never been the plan, even if the illness hadn’t come along. And Guardian doesn’t seem like someone that would want to settle down, either. Perhaps in an earlier lifetime, but certainly not now.
After the dismal atmosphere of the north and the snow that aggravates his lungs, he decides to traverse the east next; the Lake, as the locals call it. And a lake it is, alright.
Pale blue water as far as his eyes can see, stretched out across the lands – it doesn’t look like the area had always been flooded, but he can’t be completely sure, either.
The Drifter is not a fan of water, however. Bathing is fine, as is washing his cloak after an especially bloody battle or wading through the shallow waters along the shore, but this? This is something else – the water is too deep to even see the ground, murky at the bottommost part and so ineffably still, almost as if there is no current even though there has to be one. There can’t just not be one, after all. He hates the way the water makes his clothes stick to his skin, weighing him down and how it gets in the way of his boosters as it clogs them up with crusted salt and he can’t, can’t stand the humid air that enters his lungs and settles down and makes every breath he takes into a chore.
It’s unpleasant, that’s all. He wishes he’d stuck with the north. But it’s too late to turn back now, especially with the townspeople watching, judging, taunting.
His sword cuts through a frog as he twirls around, evading the shuriken another throws at him. They’re not hard to dodge, but the platforms so far out here are tight and slippery, and he slides a couple of feet before digging his heels into the tiles again, steadying his stance and blocking another shuriken that flies his way to send it back to his attacker.
He finishes them off with a well-timed bomb, deactivating his sword once again and shaking the water out of his boots. The ends of his cloak are wet as well, but there’s nothing he can do about that at the moment, so he pays it no mind.
Then, he looks out at the sea again.
There are a few platforms that he’ll be able to dash to, allocated like a long sunken path, and he sighs shallowly as he inspects the boosters on his heels. They’re – as expected – crusted with salt, but it’s nothing he can’t work with.
The Drifter steels himself, stepping towards the edge of the platform and readying himself. It’s nothing more than a few, simple dashes, really. Nothing he hasn’t done before.
He doesn’t think about the implications of misjudging a dash and landing in the water, the current dragging him down as he gasps for air. He doesn’t think about the way his clothes will billow in the water, how his lungs will fill with salt until there is no air left in them. He doesn’t think about his body drifting with the waves of the sea until it inevitably sinks.
It’s just him and the sea. No hard feelings.
He inhales one last time, his chest swelling up, pain in his lungs and his heart, and takes one step further towards the flood, toes curling around the edge.
Then he dashes.
It works well the first few times, zigzagging across the sporadic platforms that jut out of the water like malformed teeth in a giant’s jaw, and he doesn’t think much about it until the booster on his left foot stutters, chokes on salt water, and he slips, losing his balance and falling again and how is it that he’s always falling? He reaches out but there’s nothing he can hold on to, nothing but humid air as he plummets into the water, as his feet brush against seaweed and wet, matted fur and other stuff he doesn’t want to think about.
Waves crash against his ribcage, waves that hadn’t been there when he had observed the sea from above, but there’s always a current, isn’t there? They pull at his body, try to drag him deeper, further away from the safe platform, tug at his clothes and armour, cloak billowing out around him, the water fills everything, every little orifice in his armour, it’s in his hair, his eyes, his nose, his mouth, his lungs-
His eyes reflexively open in the murky, dark sea, and he clamps his mouth shut, but a few bubbles arise nonetheless, escape to the surface above him, beneath him, he doesn’t know, can’t tell-
It’s so dark.
He reaches out again, claws grasping for the sunlight above that is barely there, and then his eyes slip shut, softly, lashes against blue skin, blue as the water, and they’re never going to find his body in the depths, not that anyone would be looking for him either way, when suddenly, unexpectedly, something disturbs the now tranquil sea and pulls at his outstretched arm, hoists him up until his head breaks through the surface of the water and he’s already pulled his mask down, spluttering, bracing his arms on the ground as he’s coughing out his lungs, brackish water mixed with blood, fuchsia rivulets on the platform that trickle back into the sea.
Someone’s patting him on the back, strong hands, and he shudders beneath the touch, turning his head away as his bot worriedly chirps next to him, trying to get his attention. He silences it with a wave of his hand.
“Are you alright?” Guardian asks as they kneel down next to him, trying to catch a glimpse of his face even when he turns it away.
But he can’t feel his fingers well enough to type out a message so he just nods shakily and waves again, a short, choppy gesture that leaves too much room for interpretation, so Guardian asks again, “Are you sure?” They don’t sound as if they believe him. He can’t really fault them for that.
With trembling fingers, he types out a short message, mistypes, deletes the part and tries again, listening as it pings on the bot’s screen. [been better]
He can’t see Guardian’s frown from where he is still facing the ground, but he can certainly hear it in their words, the concern oozing off of them. “There’s a camp not far from here,” they start, already reaching out to help him up, “let us rest there for a short while, alright?”
The Drifter doesn’t feel like resting, not really, but when he gets up, his legs tremble so much that he nearly collapses again, soaked clothes dragging him down as well. The cough is gone, fortunately, but it seems to have taken his strength with it as well. So he nods, steadying himself and declining Guardian’s hand as they start towards the aforementioned camp.
Guardian leads the way, turning around now and then to check if he's still behind them, and when they get to a particularly wide gap between one platform and the next, they hold out their arms as if they want to catch him should he fall, but he doesn’t want it, doesn’t want their pity or whatever it is, so he dashes past them with faulty boosters and skids a little on the tiles but comes to a halt nonetheless. They stare at each other for a few seconds before Guardian lowers their arms. He almost feels guilty. Almost.
Just as Guardian had said, the camp isn’t too far off; he can smell the smoke of the fire almost a mile away, a husky scent mingled with salt, and he sighs again, rubbing his chest when it stings ever so slightly. Guardian shoots him another concerned look as they stoke the fire, reaching inside the tent for a few, dry logs before settling down next to the flames and motioning for him to do the same.
He obliges, drawing his wet cloak tighter around himself as he inches towards the fire to absorb as much of its warmth as he can.
“You can take it off to let it dry,” Guardian suggests. “I can lend you mine for the time being.” They already start unclasping the buckles at the front, sliding their cloak of their shoulders and holding it out for the Drifter to take.
He declines with a shake of his head, pulling up the holographic keyboard instead. [how did you find me?] He’s not shaking as much anymore, so typing is fine. Just a light tremor in his hands now and then, nothing he hasn’t dealt with before.
“I followed you,” Guardian says without any remorse whatsoever, “and I’m glad I did. You did seem a little unsteady on your legs, so I was not sure if letting you go was the wisest idea, so I decided to trail behind, just in case. I hope you do not mind.” They bundle up their cloak next to them, stoking the fire again. It crackles contentedly.
[thanks,] he simply types, and that seems to be enough for Guardian. They lean back, bracing the palm of their left hand on the ground.
“There’s no need to thank me.” They shift a little until they seem to have found a comfortable position. “Misfortune certainly seems to favour the brave, does it not?”
He wouldn’t really call himself brave, but Guardian does have a point; misfortune definitely favours him, after all. He shrugs.
“You don’t talk a lot, do you?”
And there it is. [guess not.]
Guardian hums, a low noise in the back of their throat. “I’m quite sorry if I offended you with that question. I assure you that I don’t mind. If you prefer not to talk, I can understand that.”
The Drifter huffs a little, tugging the mask he had forgotten about until now, still drenched in his own blood and saltwater, over his nose again. [can’t,] he simply writes. It should be answer enough.
“Alright, then,” Guardian says, and it doesn’t sound accusing in the slightest. They look out at the sea, the reddish sun already starting to sink beneath the waves. “We should stay here for the night. It would be unwise to travel back right now, especially with clothes as wet as yours. Are you sure you don’t want to take off your cloak? You might catch a cold.”
Both of them already know that the Drifter has contracted something way worse than a mere cold, but neither of them mention it. Now is not the time.
He sighs again, making a show of taking his cloak off and spreading it out near the fire, close enough to dry during the night but far enough away should any stray embers decide to leave their circle of stones. Then he settles back down, staring out at the sea. It is unbelievably calm for such a lethal foe.
Guardian hums again. “You should rest. I fear you are still not well enough, and sleep might do you well. I will keep watch while you sleep. If you decide to trust me, that is,” they add after a few seconds of silence, almost like an afterthought. As if his distrust and doubt are like a festering wound everyone can see.
But the Drifter guesses that they must trust Guardian, at least to some extent. They had saved him thrice now, after all. So he shrugs, nestling his face deeper into the face mask and lies down, curling into a ball, his back to the fire. The sun is setting beneath them, nothing more than a sliver of light left on the horizon, painting the world red.
He closes his eyes, tries or at least pretends to sleep. It’s cold without his cloak, but it would be even colder with it. He shifts around a little to find a more comfortable position that doesn’t strain his side as much. Sneezes into his mask when the wind caresses his face.
The soft crackling of the fire as Guardian feeds it another log. He calms his breathing, still pretending to sleep, eyes pressed shut. And then another sneeze, a shudder flashing through his body.
Footsteps next to his head and then a soft weight placed upon his body. A cloak, not his. Its fur tickles his nose, and he listens to the footsteps retreating, as Guardian settles down on their spot from before, probably warming their hands. He sneezes again. Draws the cloak tighter around his body, shivering ever so slightly. It’s uncomfortable on the ground, even with the cloak, so he gets up after a few minutes of silence, quiet, unheard, and shuffles over to Guardian, who seems way softer than the ground, kneels next to them and leans against their body, pressing into their side.
It’s the most body contact he’s had with anyone in a very long time, and it’s uncomfortable although in a different way. His thoughts can’t linger on what it is very long, however, because Guardian drapes their arm over his shoulder and pulls him closer so he can nestle into the nook that Guardian’s body has created. His shivers don’t seem to affect Guardian at all, so the Drifter sighs again and rests his cheek on their breastplate, slightly warm metal on his cold skin. Sneezes again and feels Guardian’s soft chuckle rumble through their body, making his teeth vibrate slightly. They don’t talk about it; there’s no need to.
It’s Guardian’s soft, even breathing that eventually lulls him into sleep, into that false sense of security that he had tried to avoid for so long. He doesn’t mind it as much, this time. It’s just for one night after all.