Chapter Text
1.
A harsh blow, the tangy taste of something almost metallic, a horrible burning pain blooming in his neck. Blood rushed in his ears, he could barely hear anything over the sound of the battle. Suddenly, someone screamed.
Was that him?
Loud, loud, the screaming was so loud he thought his ears would pop, he could feel pressure mounting in his neck as he spat up blood, red staining his hands, his robes, his everything, he couldn't breath, he couldn't breath-
Silence.
A blissful oblivion.
Was he even real anymore?
A dark figure loomed in his vision, its stare haunting him even in death. What was it? He felt its eyes bore into him, it drove him mad how he couldn't lock eyes with it despite the fact that it was watching him. All his life with that damned sword and he had been the stronger one, the one in charge, the one that could beat anything– so why, under the eyes of this strange being, did he feel oh so weak. Pathetic. Worthless.
The feeling of being watched did not go away. No matter how much he flailed and kicked and yelled with his almost nonexistent body, it watched him silently. It wouldn't leave. The feeling of anger at his situation melted off of him, replaced by a cold fear. He felt empty. He had no weight to his body, he could see through his hands, and oh good god, where the hell was he and how could he leave.
He itched. Everything was so overwhelming, and yet there was absolutely nothing in the void. The dark figure loomed closer. Schezo blinked. Was he capable of that anymore?
The figure was closer. Who was it?
Schezo breathed in. Did he even need to do that anymore?
Step, step, step, a man was standing right in front of him, his familiar figure haunting him. It was him, the one that turned him into who he was now. The man that took everything away from him. Schezo forgot that he even had a life before the sword until this very moment.
(He was lying; Schezo was always acutely aware of how long it had been since he left home. Since he left his family. Since he had encountered him.)
A hand brushed his face. He wasn't even sure if he had a real face anymore.
"Looks like you've failed me."
Too stunned to speak, all Schezo could do was watch. A sword rose above his head and-
He woke up.
Schezo flung upwards, immediately going to grasp at his neck. Sticky. It was so sticky. Blood coated his hands once again, the sudden movement of him sitting up reopened his battle wounds. His neck, good fucking god his neck, what the hell had happened to him.
He opened his mouth, intent to yell, to scream, to do anything, but he found that all he could do was double over and cough up blood. All he could smell was iron, the taste of blood burned his throat, and if he wasn't already vomiting up blood, then he was sure the contents of his stomach would be on the ground because of the smell. The very air he breathed was tainted with it.
His arms collapsed under him, leaving him propped up on his elbows mere inches from the ground. To be completely honest, all he wanted to do was to lay on it and sleep, even if the floor was absolutely disgusting. He was so tired, his very bones ached with the longing to go back home to sleep , but he had no home. He abandoned it. And now here he was, dying on the floor of his own prison.
Oh, the irony, that girl was supposed to die here instead, yet she had bested him and he was the lesser for it. A worthless mage who couldn't even kill correctly. Runelord chose wrong, he wasn't fit for this. He wants to go home, he wants to wake up from this nightmare and crawl into his mother's bed, where she'd tell him it was all just a bad dream and he was safe at home in her arms.
Tears unwillingly gathered in his eyes, and before he knew it, he was a sobbing bloody mess on the ground. Oh, would Lilith just have mercy on him already? Just end it. The divine hand of Lilith did not, however, end his misery. With each breath he took, he could feel himself choking in blood. He was so weak he couldn't even fucking breath properly. Someone, anyone, please, I just want to see my mom .
What felt like years passed as he rotted away on the floor of his dungeon, struggling to breath, waiting for death to take him a second time. But the clutches of death never came back for him, and for better or for worse, he was still alive.
He had to get up.
Obviously, he was going to stay alive whether he wanted to or not, so the first logical step was to stop the bleeding from his neck. Easier said than done, might he add. Why the hell did it have to be him that got decapitated? Wasn't being taken away from his home enough? Now he had to suffer even more?
Schezo forced his eyes open, and for a moment, he was completely blinded by the dim candlelight his dungeon provided.
He wanted out of here.
He struggled to put his hands under him. They shook like leaves in the wind, and Schezo had never viewed himself as weak as he was now. Struggling to get up off the floor, he wondered, why was he alive? Obviously, he had been decapitated. Decapitation leads to death, obviously. So why the hell was he still kicking? He filed that away for later.
Up. He needed to get up. Finally, he was able to force his hands to stay still beneath him, and he struggled to get onto his hands and knees. Better, but not by much. He was still groveling on the floor, more of a man than a mage. He hated it. He was better than this.
Yet another coughing fit wracked his pathetic frame, destroying his confidence. He felt like a shell of the man he used to be, but he supposed he was already lost before this. What was another reality check to him?
He pushed himself back to rest on just his knees, forcing himself to endure the wave of nausea that hit him. He was better than this. He could take it. He has to, he has to, he has to, otherwise what would he be. Some pathetic fucking mage. He gasped for air, the pain in his neck constricting his throat as if he were being strangled.
Gently, he brought a hand up to his neck. Blood. Sticky blood. It was everywhere. The ground he laid on, the walls struck with the spatter of his initial decapitation. It stained his hands, his robes, the soles of his feet, he could feel it drying and matting his hair down. He felt disgusting . Fresh, new cries ripped from his shredded throat, a symphony of agony echoing off the walls as he hacked up what felt like his entire lungs.
God, this was like torture. How was he supposed to recover from this?
His knees hurt. His arms hurt. He hurt so bad, he felt like it would never end. Slowly, he removed his hands from his neck. He had to get out of this dungeon. He had to. He knew for a fact he didn't have a single medical supply in the damned place, he was far too arrogant and didn't think of the possibility something could go as wrong as this. He needed to find a town, an inn, anything . He didn't have a penny to his name, but he certainly was not above stealing.
But first.
He had to get up.
His knees ached beneath him, creaking and cracking as he used the wall beside him to balance himself. He clawed his way up, shaking like a leaf as he choked back a scream. Please just let him go home. He just wants to be held in the arms of his mother.
Simple mercies, however, were not given to him. Whatever God was up there, they certainly didn't look kindly on him. He supposed, perhaps, that maybe this was simply the fate of being the Dark Mage. He dearly hoped not. Oh, how he missed the simple pleasures in life.
His knees shook underneath his weight, and no matter how frail and underweight he was, it still felt like a million tons were pressing down on him, the wall he held being his only support. He groaned, his bones creaking as he tried desperately to step forwards. One foot at a time, He told himself, trying his best to think of the positives.
Was there ever a positive when it came to his life, though, really?
Schezo almost sighed, only to be met with red hot blood pouring from his mouth. Right. Decapitation.
He wanted to scream, he wanted to scream so fucking loud, but he couldn't. That damned girl. He hated her. She destroyed him, she destroyed him and left him to die, left him to decompose in a dungeon. Her power, however, was something he wanted. Something he needed . She was so powerful, it felt like a blinding light against his vision.
He narrowed his eyes, face pinched in pain and fury. Sweat ran down his face, his hands, he felt utterly helpless, sick to his stomach, the desire to curl up and sleep for a hundred years was so overwhelming he almost collapsed on the spot.
But her.
That girl.
A new goal set, he forced himself to keep going. He was going to steal that girl's power, even if it meant he sacrificed everything.
One foot in front of the other.
Dying against his dungeon wall, Schezo made a promise. One he intended to keep.