Work Text:
He’s at the end of the fight of his life and Alphen can’t help but think about the fact that he can’t feel any part of it except the wind against his skin. He can tell that there’s adrenaline, sure, and he knows that his steps are lighter, thanks to Rinwell’s sharpness arte.
But what’s missing is the dread, and fear, and the pain that should gnaw at his limbs and his chest with each hit he parries.
The mystery man’s sword hits him so hard the vibration reverberates through his blade and into his bones. Alphen’s sure that his sword is another hit away from splitting at the tang. If he could feel the pain, he’s sure he’d feel the sharp, cutting ache digging deep into his palms.
He can’t though, so he keeps his sword up, ignores the way he thinks his spine might break and his legs burn to stay upright and parry again, and again, and again, until he gets slammed onto the ground in between breaths.
To not feel pain is the only curse he’s ever wished he could share with others. Alphen’s pissed that he’s not strong enough, not here in the face of this power, and that he can’t even stop others from feeling pain as a result.
By the time he looks up, the others have fallen already. They have bruised chests and nearly broken backs, bloodied eyes, and a gash to the side, and the man in black is still hardly exerting any sense of effort.
Alphen darts forward, blocks again, misses his footing, and finds himself flipped onto his back, staring up at the edge of a sword.
It all happens too quickly for him after that.
Shionne shoots the man, finally landing something meaningful. He lunges and gets thrown again. The black sword is in the air, rushing at him, and then Shionne’s there with a sword to her chest and Alphen can’t remember the rest.
By the time he comes to, Shionne’s awake and says that she’s fine and has her healing arte cast.
When they set up in the ruins for camp, he’s still not sure what to think.
You were trying to protect me too, you know!
His first thought is, how nothing hurts right. There’s numbness where there should be pain, and soreness. He’s been healed already, but that shouldn’t cure every ache in him after an intense fight. He knows that, in his head, but all Alphen feels is the hollow reminder that he’s incapable of being hurt.
The second thought is how loudly his heart screamed at the sight of the black blade piercing right through Shionne’s chest. That it was meant for him, and she ran in front of it for him.
It was his turn. He’s seen dozens of Dahnans in Calaglia fall by the sword. He tried to spare as many as he could from the punishment, to use his curse as a gift, and this time Shionne took the blade for him .
And she’s still alive .
I already applied healing artes. It didn't even leave a scar.
Alphen checked twice to make sure, stealing glances at the spot his hand has all but glanced dozens of times in their months together. The black sword stabbed her right where the Flaming Sword portal appears when called. Alphen can feel the warmth, and then what should be searing pain, and then the empty chill of the fact that she could have died there.
He balls his hands into a fist, glances at the raised callouses from the repeated healings, the burn scars. He releases them, runs the pads of his fingers against his palm to feel the tickle, and then digs a nail into his hand till the tickle turns into light pressure which turns into nothing.
But his sword went nearly straight through you.
There was nothing on Shionne’s chest. No mark, no scar, no entry wound. Nothing but her pale skin and dirt, and the light gauze of her dress. He stares away after his eyes flit to her collarbones, traces the line to her shoulders and up to her chin, and shoves the worry back to the depths they belong to.
Alphen stands up, brushes the dirt off his armor, and takes a walk to the edge of their camp, till he can hear the echoes of Zeugles in the caves below the cliffs.
I’m alright. Unless I've turned into a ghost. I’m fine, really.
He trusts her, yes. With his life, and she trusts him with hers. He trusts the others to fight, and to bleed with them. He trusts his body, and his hands, even when they fail him.
But he can’t shake the image of Shionne with a sword through her chest, pierced all the way through her shoulder blade. Alphen blinks and sees the blood spill from the back of the wound and opens his eyes so fast he forgets how dark it is in the cave and sees the image of her hurt again and again until he turns back to camp.
Shionne - the real Shionne - is sitting on some tipped over stone column, looking at him.
He must have a look on his face because she blinks a few times before making eye contact - her silent way of asking if he’s fine.
Alphen nods, and turns halfway away again.
It’s another few minutes before Shionne approaches. Alphen’s thinking about their last conversation, recalling the look in her face when he said everything short of what he meant.
But you can feel pain.
What he wished he could say, is - you can feel pain, so let me bear it for you.
There’s no easy way to explain the warmth that’s settled in his chest when he thinks of her. It’s not fear, because that hurts too much for him to feel, and it’s not just worry, because he’s worried about a lot of things, all the time.
But the thought of fighting with her, of being by her side, has created for itself an unchangeable place in how he imagines the world to be.
A world without Renan supremacy, yes. A world without suffering, of equality, of understanding and peace. And a world where they travel together, cook, eat, fight, and make friends like the ones they’ve found.
And protect each other.
Even you go down in fights sometimes.
She said it, earlier, so nonchalantly, as if it were the natural order of things. That he sometimes falls and she protects him, and the other way around too.
The sound of her footsteps break him out of the thought, and he turns, glances at a sturdy looking pile of rocks to sit on, and nods her over to join him.
Shionne says nothing.
He doesn’t need her to, he thinks. Neither of them seem to have the words they need.
Instead, Alphen lays his hand, palm up, a few inches away from where Shionne’s sitting on the other side of him.
He watches their campfire flicker against the old ruins, casting shadows through the cave walls, and illuminating their companions.
Shionne’s fingers stop just an inch from his own, short of activating her thorns.
She’s alive now , Alphen thinks. That’s what matters. We’re alive, and we can still fight for what we believe in. That’s enough for now.