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Metal clanked in the dark with the effort of something large and heavy being dragged across the cobblestone floors.
They were weakened, they were injured, they were nigh on full insanity and yet the knights raised their weapons anyway. Jeanne drew on her sword, and similarly Seymor’s claymore sparked against the stone floor with the force it took to lift it.
Clang,
Clang,
Clang,
Buckman backed himself further into the corner of the room, holding with him a rapier, raised in fear of the oncoming threat.
The light from a nearby mounted torch reached a shiny chestplate of plated armour, glistening and warping across the metal in beautiful colours. The next heavy step shed more light, a stream of luminescent orange travelling up a cracked pauldron and pooling in a dent on the side of a shiny helmet.
Jeanne gasped just as Seymor dropped his claymore, letting out a deep sigh through his nose.
“Ser Seril,” Seymor said. Relief swept over the party.
Seril stopped under the large archway. He was swaying, dual shortswords held in a white-knuckle grip. His shaking hands quickly let them slip free and fall to the ground. Jeanne couldn’t stand on her own, but she did her best to sit up straight. “We thought you were dead! I- after we were ambushed, I didn’t see you again—How did you escape that creature?”
Seril slowly turned to acknowledge Jeanne, helmet hiding whatever expression he may have been giving her. But if Seymor had to guess, it certainly wasn’t a smile. Then, shakily, he lowered his head and firmly pulled off his headpiece. They could see now he was panting, dark eyes cloudy and lost. His short black hair was muddled with sweat and stuck to his forehead. No doubt the darkness had reached him. But he didn’t have to worry about that anymore - he was reunited with his group, he could rest, he…
Seymor was still partly inhibited by his leg, but he was well enough to limp up to his comrade and offer his hand, smiling curtly. Instead of clasping their hands, instead of receiving his pat on the back and warmly greeting his friend, Seril caught Seymor by surprise when he seized him in a constricting embrace, his arms going completely over Seymor’s, entrapping him.
His head fell on the other man’s shoulder, his chest shook, and he sobbed.
Guttural, painful cries tore through his throat. He sputtered and coughed, restlessly rubbing his damp face into the blue fabric of Seymor’s tunic. The Heavy Knight stared blankly ahead.
Seymor forced his arms out of Seril’s grip just enough to cradle his back, gaining his footing.
Their embrace was rough, and forceful, and not all that nice. The way they ensnared each other in their arms wasn’t that of a loving hug, but it was raw and virile, like they were trying to overtake the other - to hold them down, and prevent escape. The men grappled and struggled until Seymor had Seril helplessly restrained, and the younger man relented.
He’d won.
And still Seril wept into him. Loud and wet, wailing in such heartbreak that all Seymor could do was squeeze him impossibly tighter.
“Captain Rudimer,” He coughed, choking momentarily.
Seymor’s blood went cold.