Work Text:
Will stood on the Gauntlet Runner’s deck, peering out across the wide expanse that laid before him. On their journey, he had seen many such sights, all he had never seen before.
The desert was familiar. It was where everything had started, after all, when he had fallen from that cliff and started the arduous trek to Grand Trad. The Gauntlet Runner kicked up dust as it crossed the sandy dunes, and the wind whipped his hair.
There had been a time, not long ago, when he had been unable to stand upon the deck without toppling over. But now… He could stand proudly without losing his balance. Will leaned on the rail, hands gripping it tightly. The metal was hot from the arid climate, but he withstood the heat.
Over the immense noise of the Runner, he heard the door to the deck creak open and slam shut. He turned his head, not leaving the prow. It was only Strohl, who he had been expecting.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said sheepishly.
Will smiled, shaking his head. “It’s no problem.” He sat down, cross-legged, pulling his sword from its sheath. From his coat pocket he retrieved a whetstone. Strohl followed suit, placing his greatsword across his lap, and began to sharpen it.
They had done this together enough that Will was attuned to the motions it required. Carefully, he sharpened his blade on the whetstone, just the way Strohl had taught him. Beside him, Strohl was almost his mirror. His maintenance was more practiced. More precise. He had been doing it for years. Will had a long way to go if he wanted to truly hone that skill.
He was serious about it. As soon as he learned he was supposed to do this for the best results (how he had no idea was beyond even Will himself), he devoted himself to it. Strohl had laughed, shook his head, and said, “That’s just like you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Whenever you do something, you never do it halfway. You always see it to fruition. Even when it would be easier to give up on others or lose hope… You hold onto it. That hope is your strength.”
After that, Strohl had gone pink around the ears and was quiet, and the only sound between them had been the scrape of stone on metal.
He had grown to enjoy this habit. It was no longer such a chore, especially in Strohl’s company. Strohl had grown on him, the way ivy climbs a wall. The feeling had come slowly at first, but then it had truly spread and grown. It was difficult for him to describe, though he was sure he had never felt it before, so inexperienced in such matters.
The Runner continued its bound forward. Will steadily sharpened his sword. Now and again, Strohl’s shoulder would brush his in the course of his movement. But Will did not tense, nor did he move. He would not leave until he was satisfied, nor until his blade was pristine, as sharp and shiny as glass. He wanted it reflective, deadly, just the way Strohl’s eyes were, those chips of slate. To enemies, it should strike fear into their hearts. To those closely acquainted, it should be a beacon of strength in the face of adversity.
“I think I’ve done enough for today. I would rather not damage the finish.” Strohl strapped his greatsword to his back once more, standing up and brushing stray grains of sand off of his pants.
Will swallowed his disappointment, and said, “Agreed.”