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Rin’s remaining hand shakes as she tries to hold her sword. She’s never favoured her left side, hating the fact that it was naturally so much weaker than than the right. She no longer has a choice in the matter.
They cut off her hand last night, after two days of agony. Agony that both of them had felt. It had been him, finally, who had snapped yesterday, screaming at her to do something, to fix it because it was hurting him so fucking bad. She’s stared at him in horror, and next thing he knew she was lying across a dirty operating table, gritting her teeth as masked surgeons marked the spot at which they’d cut off her limb. Her heart had raced so fast he’d felt his own pick up in response. He didn't want to know what it had reminded her of. Kitay had no idea how she'd handled it; the pain must have been ten times worse for her, and Kitay had nearly blacked out. He had thought he might lose his hand too. He thought he had, when his back had arched in agony and his throat had torn itself out from screams as they brought the blade down at Rin’s elbow. Somehow, she’d stayed silent. Rin has never scared him, not really, but at times like these he understands why half of Ankhiluun cowers away when she walks past.
She stares at the sword in her left hand now, attempting a clumsy swipe at the wall. The blade thuds against it uselessly, barely leaving a dent in the half-rotted wood. Kitay has barely touched a sword since Golyn Niis, but he’s fairly sure even he could’ve managed a better strike.
He isn’t about to tell Rin that, though.
She didn’t scream when they lopped off her arm, but she shrieks now, a shriek of pure frustration. For just a moment, she looks quite unhinged. Kitay’s eyes widen involuntarily as she turns towards him, her eyes a burning, bright red.
She sets her sword down, and vows never to pick it up again.
She calls the fire more and more often, now. Its searing heat rushes through Kitay each time, the cackling voice of the Phoenix blazing through his mind, threatening to break him over and over again. This is the one agony of his that Rin will never feel, will never know he feels. He’ll do it every time she needs him to, so that Rin can have her fire, so that she’ll never have to pick up the blade again. The pain of the Phoenix somehow hurts less than the pain of watching Rin howl in frustration as her hand shakes, unable to bear the weight of her own reforged sword.
At least, that’s what Kitay tells himself.
Despite her promises, she tries once more. It’s late at night, and everyone around them is long asleep. She sits up in bed, her choppy hair framing her face.
“Help me spar, Kitay.”
He stares at her in surprise.
“Are you going to deep-fry me?” he asks. His tone is light, though his eyes are questioning. He knows Rin wouldn’t hurt him. Besides, he’s the conduit for her fire. She couldn’t deep-fry him, even if she tried.
She laughs at that. She knows it too, though Kitay’s still not sure what she means. Sparring? The only weapon she can use is her fire, and he can’t fight that. There’s no fighting the Phoenix, he’s learned. The Phoenix doesn’t dodge and block and parry, the way that humans are taught to fight. The Phoenix destroys every rulebook, a blazing inferno that wreaks pure destruction on whatever it touches. Besides, they share a soul. They can’t fight one another, and the thought of hitting her, even while training, makes him sick. He’s sure she wouldn’t ask him to fight her.
Rin’s head is tilted. For the first time in weeks, she reaches for her sword. She’s refused to touch it, hating the feeling of weakness, of her hand shaking as it closes around the hilt. Kitay wonders, sometimes, if she remembers that the sword is made from the same metal as Altan’s trident. If he were Rin, he would’ve tossed the trident in the ocean along with Altan’s ashes, let the metal lie there keeping company with his bones. Lose his ghost somewhere deep in the bowels of Omonod Bay.
He’s not her, and the sword remains propped up against her bed. A reminder, perhaps.
She’s staring at the sword now, her eyes intense. “I’m going to try one more time, Kitay. Tell me how to do it.”
She hadn't meant for him to fight her, then. He doubts the thought had even crossed her mind. Kitay considers her request for a moment, taking in the way she glares at the sword at the food of her bed. He has never needed to fight with his weak hand, but he understands the way human bodies work. It can be done, he’s sure, but not by her. Not now. She’s not strong enough. He can see the sharp lines of her shoulder blades through her shirt, the thin fragility in her left wrist. She hasn’t been sleeping lately, either - he hears her pacing every night, and when she’s asleep in his arms her cries echo in his ears. The last few months - the last few days - have taken their toll on her, and he isn’t sure he can help. She can’t wield that sword until she gets stronger.
So he reaches across to her, plucks the blade from her trembling hand.
“You don’t need that.”
She looks surprised. He can’t help but quirk a smile at her bemused expression. He doesn’t surprise her often.
“You’re strong enough without it.” He knows what he's condemning himself to if he continues, but he barrels on regardless. Because he knows she needs him to. And he'll never say it, but this is for him as much as it is for her.
“You’ve got your fire. It’s unstoppable. Why waste your strength on this?.” He gestures dismissively at the sword.
She looks mollified, though she’s still glancing at the blade in his hand. He hands it back to her, hilt first. Her thin hand wraps around it, her body tensing, trying to hide the fact that she’s struggling to hold it still. At the angle she’s holding it, the point of the sword is less than an inch from Kitay’s ribcage. The metal is surprisingly warm. Perhaps it’s because Rin is so close, and Rin’s body is always close to burning. The Speerly metal holds an edge like no other, and Kitay is suddenly acutely aware of its sharpness.
Rin looks confused for a moment, and Kitay isn’t sure why. Before he can ask, she’s lowering the blade, placing it carefully back against the side of the bed.
“Okay.”
He isn't sure whether he’d expected such easy acquiescence. She’d already vowed to set down her blade, after all, but Rin wasn’t one to go gently, to agree to anything without a fight. He’d half expected her to disagree with him just for the sake of disagreeing. This hadn’t been a disagreement, though, not really. Rin lives for her flame, loves the way she can make the blaze arc through the night, the pure destruction that resides in her hands. She loves the way the light flickers against her brown skin, is reflected by the crimson of her eyes, the way the fire dances as though it is a living thing. Kitay knows she’s never really needed a sword. The only weapon she needs is the Phoenix. And she needs him too, her anchor, her conduit, to channel the god for her.
The thought brings him an inordinate amount of comfort. In some perverse way, he is her greatest weapon now, the only weapon she needs. As long as she has him, she'll be unstoppable. She kicks Altan’s sword under her bed, and lets her hand spark up with deep crimson flame. She grins up at him, letting the fire twist around her fingers. And ignoring the sudden, searing pain in his mind, Kitay smiles at her too.