Work Text:
Loppezz could do nothing but stare at the devastation that remained of her home, the one thing she really had left. She stood there staring helplessly, until she heard the faint sound of gliding behind her and the landing of boots on the platform. Turning around, she saw Wemmbu, mace in his icy, bloody hands, that cold weapon that he could only cling to and swing with all his violent might. And even then, it wasn’t enough—it wasn’t enough to save her home.
“What could I have done?” she asked him, not really expecting an answer. He glanced away, knowing that it was a question for both of them, just as the answer, really, was the same for them both: Nothing.
Wemmbu had his mace, and Fantst was right—that was all he was. His weapon, a weapon. All he could do in this world was to face every conflict, every enemy, with as much brutal force as possible, and no matter how many he killed, how gravely he injured anyone, it was never enough. It wasn’t enough to protect his empire before he got the mace, and even once he did have it, it wasn’t enough to protect any home he tried to create, or the next civilization he tried to found. It wasn’t enough to save Rejoice, and it wasn’t enough to save Loppezz’s home.
It was never enough. It could never be enough.
He knew that he would fail her again, if she even bothered to trust him once more in the future. For all the betrayal, the prior failures to protect her and her home and her friends, she still came to him for help. And he tried. He could only hope that she knew he tried. But he couldn’t have blamed her if she didn’t.
Instead, he took off his armor, and as bloodied and battered as it was, he placed it in a pile in front of her. It was all he could offer—he already offered the only thing he could, the offering of others’ blood, of blood on his own hands and the ruthlessness in his heart. And when that wasn’t enough, this was all he could really try. One last attempt to leave her with a bit of protection, knowing that he couldn’t protect her himself. Knowing that the longer he even stood near her, the greater risk there was of something happening to her. Because really, he was nothing but a harbinger of destruction and death, a terrible omen bringing devastation with him wherever he went, but it wasn’t necessarily by his own hands—no, he brought it with him as baggage. As a curse that would always follow. As long as he was around, no matter how many lives of enemies he ended himself, he would get anyone close to him killed, or kidnapped, or stripped of any possessions they had, be it their armor or their tools or their home.
So he left her with all that he could. One final attempt to keep her safe as she sought for him to do, as he failed to do. It was the only way, really, that he could show her that he did care. That he had remorse and guilt in his heart for his failure and for her loss, whether this proved it to her or not. Whether she accepted it or not.
And then, he turned back around, and without looking back, he flew off, leaving her in the cold with just the slightest hope of staying warm.