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You are not unfamiliar with pain.
It is a constant companion, both on and off the battlefield – the iron in your blood, the grain upon your bones. Pain is ever present, carved into your skin – every badge of honor, every stain of failure.
Pain, agony, despair. They are to be expected. This is war, after all. A long, cruel, merciless war that has waged on since long before you were born – and will, despite your efforts, likely wage on long after your death. A fact, simple yet heavy, with a distant weight to it that makes the burden easier to bear. Although you cannot end the war, you can make a difference; that hope is all that dulls the pain.
Hope for better days. Hope for brighter futures. Hope for the smiles of your ravens, their laughter beneath peaceful skies.
It’s a simple thing, an honest and pure hope that you carry with you. But you carry it close all the same, and the warmth of it soothes the aches that have seeped down to your bones.
You are familiar with pain, perhaps more so than other humans.
So when pain presses through the fog as your consciousness resurfaces – blunt, pin-prick aches that bleed into dull white noise – you are not surprised. What is strange, however, is the shifting of the pain that sinks into you. Sensation rolls back into focus with each gnaw of dull pain grinding against muscle and bone. Just under your left ribs, the arc of your left hip, then a harsher ache upon the delicate bones of your right wrist, and then up along your right arm.
Darkness shudders and shapes bubble into focus as you open your eyes – it takes longer than it should with pain blotching purples and blues across your vision. It hurts. Your skin is too tight against your bones and your muscles twist like a piano wire pulled too taunt. Pain blossoms against your right shoulder, sharp in a way that catches your breath in a hiss.
“You’re awake.”
A voice, familiar in its mockery brushes against your ear, the warmth of that breath almost scorching against your skin.
Immediately, you try to jerk away on pure instinct, adrenaline kicking in even when your vision is still struggling to clear and your body revolts in a cacophony of agony. Only distantly do you feel the cold cement beneath your hands as you try to scramble forward and the rough way the dirt and pebbles scrape your palms.
“Qué lástima, Commandant,” the voice is familiar, cold in a way that needles beneath the skin in a mimicry of warmth as it brushes against the nape of your neck as you scrambled away. You feel the warmth of those words against your skin the same moment something solid circles against your waist and yanks you back mercilessly. Your back collides with a solid surface, firm and unmoving, as whatever circled around your waist shifts and presses harshly against soft skin. The moment too fast, your head still throbbing with an ache you’ve barely the time to shake, your vision swims as the scenery bubbles slowly into focus.
A soft touch brushes against your temple, light and barely there. Kind, almost, compared to the bruising grip on your waist.
“You cannot leave the stage like that.”
It clicks, then – the voice.
“Roland….”
His name is a sigh upon your lips, exhaustion bleeding into the words. You feel the twist of his lips against your temple, the hum he gives in reply.
Your vision clears, the edges blurred still by black splotches of pain and disorientation. What first comes into sight is his arm curved against your waist, his fingers shifting and pressing against a bruise just beneath your left rib – you know he knows of it by the way his fingers circle the edge of the damnable bruise before harshly prodding the center then skimming away again. The black of his pants and boots are the next thing you noticed, his long legs bent as they caged yours in between. Warmth seeps from your back, sinking into the metal of his chest pressed against you and slowly warming him to your body temperature.
Roland has caged you in against his frame where he keeps the two of you on the cement floor. His free hand, the one not antagonizing the bruises along your side, drifts down your arm and taps against the bruises he finds along the way.
“W-...” Your voice cracks, throat dry. It takes you a moment, eyes pressed closed as you gather your frayed nerves. Adrenaline still thrums in your veins, heart shuddering too fast. The fact that he is touching your skin directly sends warning sirens blaring in your mind. Where is your exoskeleton? Your gun?
“Wh-...where…”
Roland’s hand has drifted to your hand and his fingers press down upon a purple bruise that spans over the inside of your wrist, the cold of his touch doing little to ease the ache. You feel the twist of his lips beside your ear when you jerk against his hold. “Let’s play a little game, shall we?”
If his skull wasn’t made of metal you would have slammed the back of your head against his damnable face to wipe off the smirk you know is stretched across his lips. The last thing you need now is a concussion from trying to break his nose, but damn if the temptation isn’t there.
His fingers skim away from tormenting the bruise on your wrist and drift down to brush against your knuckles at the same moment his other hand prods the bruises beneath your ribs again. Only barely do you suppress a flinch, but your breath still catches in a hiss.
“I’d rather not,” your reply is blunt but lacking in any malice.
You feel his gaze upon you, sharp and pointed in a way that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. There’s no danger, not yet, but there’s a feeling coiling in your gut – this must be what the insect feels when it lands upon the venus fly trap.
“Come now,” his voice is soft, that smirk ever present in his tone, “This clown is kind enough to render his aid in your performance, won’t you play along?”
His fingers pass over your knuckles and pluck your hand up from the cold ground – startling, how much his dwarfs yours in comparison. His touch is just barely above cold, and you feel the warmth of your hand seep into his, warming the both of you. Careful but firm as he cradles your hand, a lingering of something more simmers just beneath the surface – the pad of his ring finger presses too harshly against the pulse point on the inside of your wrist.
You ignore him for the moment, your silence serving as his answer and, to him, it might as well be consent. His chuckle brushes against your ear as you examine your surroundings: a dim room with a single window across the room to your left framing a starry moonless night sky, the shattered glass fragments lingering in the sill almost appeared as stardust in the dark. How many hours have passed, then, if night has already fallen? It was early mid-morning when you started out…
Tearing your gaze from the window, you continue observation. Crumbling and decaying furniture sparsely decorates the room: torn and tattered fabric lays just beyond your feet, an old curtain perhaps; a bookcase nestled into the corner, wood rotten and crumbling in on itself like a wave curls against the shore; a desk cleaved in half and splintered has been carelessly pushed to the side and in its shadow Roland has hidden the two of you. Beside you two, and tucked far enough into his shadow that you can only catch the sight of it in your periphery without blatantly turning attention to it, are three small cylinders of amber. Finally, in the dark shadows tucked behind a crate in the corner of the room, you find them – your gun and, beside it and laying quite carelessly, is your exoskeleton.
Roland remains silent, though you feel his gaze as you glance around the room. He is patient, waiting.
A quiet, waiting Roland is dangerous.
When you glance down at his arm still curved against your waist, you feel his gaze narrow upon the nape of your neck – like a blade kissing the skin. Slowly, as subtle as your aching body will allow, you shift forward to test his hold. You’re rewarded with a crushing grip on your hip as his fingers dig into the edge of the bruises on your side, his other hand still encasing yours. His grip eases up only when you settle against him in a huff, resigned.
You feel rather than hear his pleased hum of approval, much the same way you hear the wide grin upon his lips rather than see it when he speaks up, “Ready?”
“Not like I have a choice,” the complaint passes your lips before you have a chance to clutch. Not that it matters, though. There’s no true bite in your words and you know he knows, but your frustration rolls off you in a wave and it only seems to further amuse him. You close your eyes and lean your head back onto his shoulder as you sink into his hold. You don’t notice the way he stills beneath you for a heartbeat, his smile faltering before widening.
Everything still hurts, a deep white noise beneath the skin that gnaws upon your muscles and bones like a parasite. His little pokes and prods to your bruises aren’t helping by any means, but his touch is a different sort of pain so it gives you something else to focus on. You’d rather bite a bullet than admit that to him, though.
“Relax Commandant,” Roland says, “it’s merely a game of questions. Answer enough of mine, and I’ll answer one of yours.”
His hand upon yours shifts and his fingers entwine with yours gently. The touch and gesture alone startle your eyes open and you stare down at your hand in his.
“Think of it as a bonding exercise,” he teases, hand squeezing yours as his voice brushes against your ear.
He could crush the delicate bones of your hand so easily. The threat is there, present in the way his fingers rest upon the metacarpal bones of your hand and press upon them just enough to be uncomfortable.
“How do I know you’ll answer honestly?”
“You won’t.”
A faint frown pulls at your lips, “Then I don’t want to play.”
Your gaze shifts from your entwined hands and you tug, just barely, in his grip. His hold on you tightens and his fingers around your waist circle the bruises there in warning.
“A caveat, then, to make it more entertaining.” His voice drops, still laced with mirth, “I will only tell one lie, but for every lie you give so can I.”
“Fine,” the sigh tumbles from your lips and you fall still once more, too tired and weary to keep pulling from his touch if it means he’s going to needle at your wounds. You hurt enough as is, and Roland’s not above prodding you where it hurts.
His amusement is palpable, thick enough to pull a scowl upon your lips. It’s difficult with him, adjusting to his performance. Once, you used to think of it as a waltz, but you can only dance with your partner at arm’s length for so long before the steps falter and the music staggers.
Foolish thought though it is, you would dance with him upon the stage would he only allow you to pull him close.
But he steps away every time, with that ever familiar smile on his lips.
Discomfort cuts through the white noise, sharp for a heartbeat when he presses too harshly on the delicate bones of your hand. It snags your attention, just as he wanted.
“Your heart rate is still elevated,” he says, as calmly and detached as if discussing the room decor. He presses harshly once more upon the bones of your hand before relenting, his fingers detangling from yours to simply cradle your hand instead. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet, a teased whisper shared in the shadows, “Are you afraid?”
The question catches you off guard, doubly so when coupled with his touch.
What…. What game is he playing now? What scene is this, what play, what dance?
Your mind spins but there is no answer to be found.
So you allow the question to settle against your skin and feel the weight of his words sink down to bone.
Are you afraid?
Memories break through to the forefront of your mind, stubborn and simple as seedlings pushing through the soil to bloom. Memories of the prison, where your warmth sunk into his frame as he held you up and guided every bullet home, his breath warm against your ears and the loud, damning silence that followed when you recognized his voice. Memories of a small ruined building and the shadow you had tucked yourself in when his hand brushed against your forehead, the way his voice drifted so softly to you in the darkness and the melody he left in his wake. Memories of this morning, blurred though they are, of the sounds of a shotgun and chain blade rending metal as you fell upon the battlefield and the distant call of your name.
Your gaze lingers on your hand in his, the way he cradles yours like a flower petal.
Are you afraid of him?
No, the answer rises bold and simple – a sunflower beneath the sun.
If he wanted you dead, it would not be like this.
You shift just slightly, faintly you feel his fingers twitch against your waist but he otherwise remains still as you turn to glance over your shoulder. For the first time since waking, you see his face – smug as always, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, but there’s a faint trace of dust and dried blood smeared on his cheek. Idly, you wonder if it’s from when he pulled you from the rubble and corrupted horde. Roland is patient as he watches you, the way your gaze drifts over him cautious but not entirely guarded.
“I’m in pain,” you correct, your answer unspoken.
Roland blinks, mild surprise furrows his brows for a brief moment before it clears and his trademark smile returns. “Oh?” He tilts his head to the side and that is your only warning before his hand upon your waist jabs mercilessly at the bruises beneath your ribs once more, “From this?”
Pain ratchets up your spine, slicing through the deeper aches that thrum in your bones, blinding almost in its brief intensity. Your hand wrenches from his hold and you dig all ten fingers into the metal of his forearm pressed against your waist, a grimace twisting your features.
Asshole. Bastard. Smug scrap of tin – a litany of curses scramble across your mind but they are lost in the hiss of breath between your teeth. You curl over his arm as you dig your fingers into the metal of him, though it will do you little good. “No,” you hiss between measured breaths, “but that isn’t helping, damnit.”
Roland hums in thought, his fingers retreating to trace the edges of your bruises as his free hand idly plucks the dust off your sleeve. The instant relief that washes over you leaves your weary body sagging and curling back into his frame and elicits an emotion he’s not quite sure what to name.
Eyes closed as you catch your breath in the silence that settles, you don’t notice the way his gaze sweeps over you or the way he lingers over your expression and the nape of your neck.
Hurts. Your skin hurts, clammy and stretched too tight over bones and muscle that feel like raw nerves frayed at the seams. There’s a knot in your throat and you’d bet money if he jabbed at that large bruise beneath your ribs a second time you’d dry heave right in his lap. With difficulty, you swallow around the lump and take measured breaths to calm your racing heart. Focused on steadying your breathing, your hands rest idly, forgotten on his forearm circling your waist.
“You’re ill,” Roland breaks the silence, his voice devoid of mirth or jeer. A simple comment, cold but harmless – the flat of a blade pressed against your palm.
A chuckle tumbles past your pale lips before you think to stop it. He said that exact thing before, his hand over your eyes in the shadows of a ruined building. His hand had felt nice then, chilled against your feverish flesh.
“That’s not a question,” you answer, laughter woven into your words.
There’s a brief pause, no longer than the span of a heartbeat where the silence behind you presses coldly but it passes when Roland hums in amusement. The show must go on.
“A stickler for rules, are you?”
“I’m merely playing your game.”
His hand on your waist drifts away entirely from your bruise and the way tension immediately bleeds from you is evident. Exhaustion is quick to follow, though, to fill the void and you sink further into Roland’s hold with a sigh.
Faintly, you feel the air behind your shift again, and you wonder – idly – if he’s frowning again.
Roland’s voice is quiet when he speaks, “Are you always this trusting, Commandant? Or are you just a fool?”
“Neither,” you answer honestly. You open your eyes and make a point to glance down beside him, where the three cylinders hide in his shadow beside his thigh. Serums, and one is already empty. His gaze upon you is heavy, weighted with something you cannot name. “Your memory must be really poor if I have to tell you a third time like this, but I choose to trust you in this moment.”
Those words, burned across the screen of a small communicator in the prison, twist between you two unspoken. We’re leaving here together. We promised.
It’s small at first – a faint rumble you feel before you hear – his laughter is an odd thing. More splintered and confused than it is mocking or joyous. A sad sound, you think, one you only hear at the bottom of a cavern after the cave-in blocks the exits. A hopeless sound.
Concern, maybe – could you even call it that? – has you lifting your head to glance at his expression. But his free hand lightly encircles your throat to stop you, the cold metal of his pointer finger against the underside of your jaw is a quiet warning. With a sigh, you shift your attention forward once more, his expression blocked even from your periphery. When he’s content that you won’t misbehave, his hand slips from your throat, his metal fingers tapping against the delicate shape of your collar bone before drifting away.
“I truly do not understand you,” Roland’s voice is a quiet murmur, barely formed and a faint whisper not meant for your ears. He huffs, tone shifting to his familiar light jeering lilt as his free hand joins his other to encircle your waist. “A different question, then. Does the great Grey Raven Commandant often waste their time with useless relics of bygone days?”
What?
A small frown pulls at your lips as your brow furrows. What was he complaining about now? Bygone days…
The Golden Age?
“Like what?” You tilt your head back against his shoulder, gaze lifting to the bare, cracked ceiling – you know better than to glance at him again so soon. Pain still idly thrums in your veins and there’s still a lump in your throat, you don’t want his hands around your neck again if you can help it.
Roland hums, his only answer.
Figures. Asshole.
Relics of the Golden Age? You close your eyes and mull over his question. Was there something you had mentioned? Back at the prison, perhaps? The communicator that you’d kept? Or….
“The movie?” you murmur, more to yourself than him.
You feel him shift behind you, a tilt of his head perhaps.
Ah. That, then.
Memories wash over you as you close your eyes, a small smile on your lips. “My roommate back in the academy was a movie buff,” you answer. “They were particular to movies from the Golden Age and I lost count of the times they pulled me from my desk to watch something.” Late nights bleeding into early mornings, the two of you wrapped up in blankets on the floor before the monitor screen. There were times you fell asleep halfway through, worn to the bone burying yourself in books and lessons. Sometimes they would let you off the hook and recap the movie in great detail from where you left off, but other times you were pulled into round two with vows to stay awake this time.
“I don’t remember all of them, there’s no way I could.” You laugh, the memories such a warm thing in your chest. Simpler days and easier times. Before the bloodshed of war and grief stained your hands. “But there are a few that stuck with me.”
Fort/da was one, memorable for the music and the scene where the protagonists met. You remember, very clearly, in the days following the first time you saw the movie, how that melody wound around your heart and echoed in your head for days. Funny how, even now, it echoes still but what comes to mind is no longer your roommate.
There was one more that still stood out in your memories.
“I don’t remember the title anymore, or very many of the details.”
It had been too long.
“But I remember there was a young knight and a tower.”
Roland’s fingers upon your hips flinch.
“Why… has that one stuck with you?” His voice is quiet, only a trace of his usual teasing within his tone. You get the feeling that, although he isn’t exactly frowning, his signature smile is gone.
Why?
You hum and drop your gaze down to his arm around your waist in thought. Why indeed.
“He travels alone to the tower to save the world, and along the way he’s beset by monsters again and again.”
A young knight, brave and stubborn as he journeyed through the dark to find that single light to rekindle hope in the world. You cannot recall what he looked like, but you remember the passion in his eyes, the fervor with which he pushed forward.
When you continue, your voice is soft, gentle like dew upon flower petals in the moonlight, “I remember thinking how lonely he must be.”
The knight climbed the tower alone, battered and broken and bruised, chasing a hope only spoken of in legends. Not one person stood at his side, not a single companion joined him along the way. From beginning to end, he fought alone. The sight of his small frame kneeling at the top of the tower, head bent and back curved in defeat is burned into your memory.
A chuckle disguised as a huff brushes against your ear. “Do you remember how the movie ends?”
“I do,” you answer. “The god comes down and tells the knight that one day the war will end and things will get better.”
You pause, unaware that your thumb is idly rubbing the metal of his forearm in thought. But Roland knows, he feels it, and his gaze flicks down to your touch before returning to your expression.
“They didn’t show it, but with the wounds that the knight had at the top of the tower….”
Blurry though it is, you can still recall the blood between his fingers, the tears that fell and mixed with the crimson before the god descended.
“He didn’t make it back down, did he?”
“No, he didn’t,” Roland’s voice is just as quiet as yours, calm and gentle. As if he knew the tale.
A faint sense of sorrow washes over you and you close your eyes to the memories. For all intensive purposes, the movie ended on a happy note: the eternal war would end and humanity would find peace. But the knight, from beginning to end, was alone. Perhaps it is the exhaustion speaking, or the dull pain that still echoes in your bones, but the knight’s struggles and grief ring too similar to your own. You are not alone, though, not with your Ravens beside you, which makes the Knight’s journey all the more pitiful.
Softly, so light you almost miss it, a gentle pressure pulls you from your thoughts. It’s not the press of metal fingers upon bruises, no, but a harmless touch of idle patterns traced on your hip. The movements cease immediately when you shift to glance down, as if they never happened.
“Such is the end for all knights,” Roland breaks the silence, that cynical tone laced in his voice.
“That’s too sad of an end,” you murmur, gaze downcast.
His chuckle is warm upon your neck, but his words are cold, “Are you not the same? You’re ill and still your King throws you upon the battlefield.”
It’s different , the words claw up your throat impulsively but suffocate behind your clenched jaw. Your fingers dig into the metal of his forearm and you glare down at your hands. “That has nothing to do with it.”
“No?” His voice is a knife against your neck. “Then why not become a construct? Why cling to a body riddled with sickness?”
A construct?
It’s not like you haven’t entertained the notion before, your illness has rendered you helpless on more than one occasion and been a pain in your ass more than you could count. You’re almost certain that if – when – you did fall upon the battlefield, then there would be few who would pause to consider your feelings before forcing you to undergo the process. Kurono’s actions concerning your mind beacon link with Luna was evidence enough that, given the chance, you would not escape the darkness should you ever falter.
You’re not against the notion, but—
Chrome’s back appears in your mind, the white of his coat stark against the dirt and grime of the battlefield. His burdens and the weight he carries echoes loud in your ears. The implicit trust he placed in you when he agreed to use the Glory frame – the very same trust he continues to hold for you. You think of your Ravens, their smiles and hands outstretched to you -- the unconditional trust and love they hold for you.
“There are things I can only do as a human,” you answer, voice firm but quiet. “Until my duty is done, I cannot become a construct. I won’t.”
Silence coils between you for a moment, the weight of his gaze upon you heavy enough to make the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. Roland sighs, deep and more dramatic than is necessary.
“A shame, Commandant. Were you a construct, I could offer you a place among the Ascendants.”
A scoff tumbles from your lips, “What, and fall into your clutches?”
You feel Roland shift behind you, his tone a light jeer, “Oh? Isn’t that where you are at this very moment?”
“Not…” you frown, “Not intentionally.”
“Then by all means,” His chuckle is laced with mirth as he finally, finally removes his hands from around your waist. He holds them out, palms up as if gesturing to the audience. “Fly free, little raven.”
You glare at his hands stretched out on either side of you. Pain still pulses like a second heartbeat in your bones and you highly doubt you’d be able to walk without your knees buckling under you. It hasn’t been long enough for the flare to pass, judging by the aches still gnawing upon your nerves. You’re not in any condition to be moving, and you know he knows by the grin you can feel is stretched across his lips. Asshole.
With a sigh, you wrap your arms around yourself and sink into him instead, tired and more than a little aggravated. “Is that one of your lies, then?”
“Hm?”
“You’re still playing the game, aren’t you?” You shift, and this time he allows you to look over your shoulder at him. That ever familiar smile is on his lips and though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, there’s something bright in his gaze as it narrows upon you. “One lie plus another for any of mine. I haven’t answered any falsehoods so is that your lie, then?”
The grin upon his lips stretches wider, eyes closing to half crescents. “I wonder.”
Incorrigible.
You heave a sigh and close your eyes, the silence settling between you two allows the aches and pains you’ve been distracted from to crawl to the forefront of your mind again. It hurts. Not as much as when you first woke, and certainly less now that Roland wasn’t mercilessly jabbing at every bruise he found – but it still catches your attention. It still dulls your thoughts to a white noise.
Only distantly do you register Roland’s touch once more, light as his fingertips press upon sore muscles and bruises. Minutes crawl by in delicate silence and it takes a little longer for you to realize the patterns he traces into your skin aren’t idle movements. It’s only when his touch drifts away that you realize he’d been pressing into tense and knotted muscles – though he doesn’t avoid any bruises that bloom over them, so the helpful touch is instead more torturous.
“Roland?” Your voice is soft as it breaks the silence.
“Hm?” Even now, you hear the smile in his voice. His fingers press upon a light bruise on your thigh, rubbing too harshly at the muscle beneath. It’s a welcomed distraction from the deeper pain from your illness and it keeps you awake but fuck does that hurt.
"Can I ask something of you?"
"Oh?” He tilts his head, his breath brushing over your neck. “You're free to ask, dear Commandant, but I rarely take audience requests."
"Talk to me."
Roland tenses beneath you, his fingers frozen. The weight of his gaze is sharp against your skin.
You're going off script again.
The music has changed and, once more, you pull him in to properly waltz with you – you cannot dance at arm’s length forever. Not like this.
You take a breath, both to steady your nerves and to keep yourself grounded through the pain. His touch had helped more than you would have liked to admit, and you feel the loss of it with his tense posture as he waits.
"Your voice is calming, right now at least, and..."
You falter, gaze downcast and voice still quiet in the delicate space between you, “...It helps."
Silence fills the room, heavy with something you cannot name. When it stretches too long you close your eyes, a twinge of sorrow takes root in your chest. Perhaps it was foolish to hope he would step closer–
"...Are you asking for a bedtime story?"
Roland’s voice is a mixture of many things. Calm, yet laced with confusion and a hint of something delicate hidden behind the teasing remark. It is the very same tone he whispered to you in the shadows of the apartment building when he warned you to be mindful of who you covered beneath your wings. A glimpse of honesty behind the mask and performances.
A chuckle bubbles up in your throat, a soft smile upon your lips. You turn your head, tucking yourself beneath his chin as you sink closer to him.
Your voice is weak, a murmured chuckle against his collar bones. "If they're as obscure as your tastes in movies, then by all means."
You feel his lips twist into a smile that seems smaller than his usual one as his hands resume their previous movents – sometimes helpful, sometimes a little too harsh upon delicate skin.
His voice drifts down to you, gentle and soft, “I know quite a few old stories. Stay awake, Commandant, I promise you won’t want to talk to me for the rest of the night once I’m done.”