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They face each other on the battle field. His sword comes up in a sharp snap, held in front of his face for a moment, before he whips it out to the side. His chin comes up as the helmet shatters from around his face, the force of the blow to the armor too great to bear. His hair blows tangled in the breeze.
There's wildness in his eyes, and for the first time Sid lets himself hope that it's not born purely of Zangyack twisted madness, but that some part of it blooms from the body of a frightened boy, one who refused to go down fighting, refused to unbend from the weight of his morals, until they tore them from him with tooth and nail.
A tense moment of silence and then Joe lets out a roar, feet pounding into a run as he brings his sword to bear.
Sid closes his eyes and lets his own drop to the ground. It hits with a clatter and he his head tilts back, the sunlight warm on his cheeks and filtering through his closed lids.
If he's going to die, then he'll do it for the sake of trust.
His hair flutters in the resulting breeze, and something cool presses against his throat, feather light, each breath he takes brushing against steal.
"Pick up your sword."
He opens his eyes, looking into Joe's, so close they're nearly touching, so close he can almost feel the wind of his breath.
There's anguish in his face, pain and frustration and something old, deep and twisted, that familiar ugly hatred twining throughout.
I'm in there somewhere.
But it was never Sid he hated. Sid lets his lips relax into something small, secret, and he reaches out his hand.