Chapter Text
"Cale-nim."
"Mm."
The swordmaster holds his liege's pale hand tightly in his and presses his forehead against it. In frustration, in resignation, in reverence.
The thing is, he understands. Had it been the swordmaster in his liege's place, he wouldn't have said a single word to the others either. This stubborn, red-haired man didn't dare give his people the slightest chance of having them witness the gruesome sight of plunging a dagger into his own chest. They didn't deserve that, not when they had already seen him shed too much blood too many times before. No need for them to know when he can spare them the pain.
The thing is, it doesn't matter, because they will get hurt in the end. Whether they are made aware of his resolution or not, they will get hurt. They will hurt and they will scream a thousand cries when it is done and it is too late. They will break and they will not know how long it will take for them to pick up their pieces and glue them back together. They will demand heaven, earth, hell, and beyond for answers in fits of desperation and denial.
The thing is, this liege had told his knight to come with him to the temple, without any further explanation of what was to be done. Just the liege and his knight alone.
The thing is, the swordmaster doesn't know what to make of this.
With his own eyes, he had seen his liege reach for a golden plaque, summon back the worst bastard that has ever walked the land, and swiftly pierce that monster in the heart before stumbling with a strangled groan. He had seen the White Star disperse into fragments until they slowly faded into nothing, quietly disappearing from the world.
But before that, he had seen his liege's back toward him. Standing tall and firm, befitting of the commander he was meant to be, but all the knight could see was the back of a frail man who decided to damn himself to an end that shouldn't be meant for him at all. Before the knight was a back that had seemed so small and a man who had suddenly seemed so far out of his reach; in that moment, something in his head just clicked and the only thing the knight could do was suppress the storm surging inside him and look on.
Was this a show of trust, that his liege had allowed—chosen, even—the presence of his knight? That his liege had bestowed upon him the pain firsthand, granted him the only seat to the final curtain of the beginning and end of everything?
Did his liege simply not want to spend his final moments alone?
The swordmaster carefully shifts his liege's sagging form closer in his arms. He bites his tongue until he tastes iron, because he finds himself teetering, on the verge of being washed away by a tsunami of unrelenting emotions eating away at his mind. And he doesn't want to lose himself, for it is his duty to stay by his liege's side.
I thought you said being alive is the best, but what comes out is, "Are you tired?"
"Yeah."
We could've found another way. "Cold?"
"No." A wet cough. "Plenty warm already."
Liar.
Being this close to his liege, feeling the body in his arms grow colder by the second, how can his liege say it is warm? Being this close to death, how can his liege say he is warm?
Warmth. It was something the swordmaster had never expected to feel again, especially not after being mercilessly thrown into the cold clutches of darkness and despair; his only choice had been to let it consume him and make it his. Years of struggling and striving to survive, until he grew strong enough to strike down everything in his path and leave a morbid trail of death in his wake. A fight against his descent to destruction and madness, until he made it out and his knees buckled to the scene of an ordinary day for ordinary people in an ordinary village.
After everything he went through, he thought it was finally over. No more turmoil, no more anguish, only the comforting warmth seeping through his cracked edges. Except it was fleeting, merely a short reprieve before it slipped straight through his fingers like sand and suddenly there he was, bereft of any warmth as if it had only been his imagination. And so once more, warmth was something he had never expected to feel again, especially not after having it being taken away from him so quickly when he believed it would last.
That's why, when a frowning red-haired man smelling an awful lot like alcohol stood over him with a hand outstretched, he didn't think he would be rediscovering what warmth felt like and keep it.
This man was the person who would become many things for the swordmaster. He became his anchor, able to put him at ease with just one look. His liege, whom he is proud to stand by. His warmth, his light, his salvation, his home.
(This man became many things for the swordmaster, and one of them is something he believes his liege should not be. But he was already too far gone, so he only kept his silence and did what he had always done. The swordmaster is a terrible, terrible actor, but for this... a secret he would bring with him to the grave. No need for his liege to know when he can spare him the trouble.)
If this person says he is warm, then it must be so. Just for today, the swordmaster will humor him. For all his liege had done to keep him warm, he laments that he cannot do the same for his liege.
But for now, the swordmaster only nods and wills his eyes not to waver, his voice not to tremble.
"Eat your meals."
"Yes, Cale-nim."
"...The kids, too. Make sure Raon gets his vegetables."
"Yes."
Really, this person. Even now, this fool was reminding him to take care of himself.
For once, Cale-nim, please. Won't you look after yourself first?
The swordmaster remembers the question his liege had asked when the time came for him to pay back his debt. At the time, protecting people was difficult, but not impossible.
Why now, of all times, is it impossible when it comes to you?
Protecting was the first task he had ever received from his liege. From there, it had eventually led to his duty to protect his liege. That's how it should be, but along the way he had declared himself the sword and his liege the shield, and he thinks that maybe he shouldn't have. Their roles were blurring into a mess, until he wasn't able to protect his liege anymore.
Failure has never tasted so much like defeat as it does now.
"Live, Choi Han," his liege sighs, long and bitter, but laced with relief. "I'm sure you know how."
The swordmaster almost wants to laugh, because he knows it's true. His liege is a man who refuses to heed his own advice, with a poor sense of self-preservation and a knack for blatantly feigning ignorance under the scrutinizing gazes of an assassin, a dragon, and a crown prince. His liege isn't the best person to learn from, and this is exactly why he knows how to live.
He will hurt, he will scream his thousand cries, he will break, but he will learn how to pick up his pieces and those of others. He will live.
His heart may beat for his liege, but it also beats for the strange, tight-knit family his liege had sworn to care for. Perhaps this was why his liege had looked him in the eye and asked him, barely above a whisper, to stay.
The swordmaster almost wants to laugh, because his liege is dying, and his liege is telling him to live.
How cruel.
Instead, with an innocent smile:
"Of course, Cale-nim. You don't have to worry."
His liege closes his eyes. "Good."
Soon, there is nothing but weak breathing and a serene expression on his liege's face. He's sleeping now, it seems. Only then does the swordmaster let his eyes wander to the entire frame of his liege. If he didn't know any better, if it weren't for the blood staining nearly every inch of his liege's body and the pallid complexion of his skin, he would have thought today was one of the days his liege rewarded himself with a nap from the hard work of scamming and scheming. This kind of red and this kind of white—a fleeting thought tells him both colors should never have been painted on his liege's canvas.
...This is his liege's last nap, and his liege will never wake up to see the sun again.
Gently, almost hesitantly, he brushes his liege's hair away behind the ear to observe his face, so very slowly in fear that his liege might stir and the fragile calm they've both created would crumble.
It's peaceful.
He cradles him even closer, if only to hear every slowing heartbeat and feel every passing breath from his liege, that he may breathe in tandem with him, every inhale, every exhale, in perfect synchronization. A sign his liege is still here with him. A futile plea for more time, please, not yet, just a little bit more.
(Is this how he would have held his liege in another life, if he'd taken his chances?)
The swordmaster waits for his liege's next breath.
He waits. He waits.
He waits.
When his chest burns from heartbreak, agony, and the lack of oxygen, it is with a broken gasp—a broken sob—that the swordmaster takes his first breath in a world without Cale Henituse.