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The metallic scraping was a constant, dissonant rhythm that echoed down the hallway of Mephistopheles, some made solemn by the ominous sound. It was a sound that had become Don Quixote’s personal torment for the past three days every time she walked past the long abandoned door leading to Ishmael’s old room.
Don Quixote stood before it, her usual vibrant energy subdued as she clenched her hands into nervous fists. The door was a relic, it had barely been used even since the both of them had become a they. Its return to active duty felt like a relapse, a betrayal. Ishmael had retreated into a fortress, the relentless scraping of steel as its foreboding anthem.
Don recalled the time before they had arrived at U corp– barely even a week ago– when a memory or fear too intense had been resurrected.
Don recalled the time before they had arrived at U corp– barely even a week ago– when a memory or fear too intense had been resurrected. The Ishmael before they had arrived here had been a creature of quiet yet steadfast affection and profound love. Her love wasn’t expressed loudly but in smaller actions woven into the fabric of their shared existence. She would wordlessly slide her rations over to Don when she saw her eyeing them. Her love was in the way she’d pull Don close in their bed, or fix Don’s tie with her calloused hands. She was Don’s anchor, her sanctuary in the chaos of the city.
Don missed it, despite it only having been a couple of days the change was so sudden and abrupt Don didn’t even have the time to react. Her bed, in the room that was now only hers, felt cold without Ishmael to hold her tight and whisper things into her ear when she thought Don had fallen asleep. Don missed the woman that would listen to Don’s most outlandish plans as Don laid her head on Ishmael’s lap, her serious eyes crinkling at the edges with unvoiced love.
Those memories burned all the brighter, because that woman was gone.
The Ishmael in the room before Don was a ghost of her previous self, haunting her body. Her eyes, once so full of fondness, were now distant and clouded, set on some goal that had brought her to obsession. The hands that had once tenderly held Don were now raw and oil-stained, their only purpose now was a brutal, repetitive motion. Ishmael could be intense but this was different, any warmth had been extinguished by this cold intensity that radiated from her like a chill.
Scrape… Scrape… Scrape…
The sound was of isolation, of a single-minded, grim purpose that had no room for shared warmth. Ishmael had retreated, with only her harpoon for company.
The first sign had been the silence.
It wasn’t a peaceful quiet but a heavy, absorbing one. For two weeks, as the crew of Limbus Company toiled away at collecting scrap for the renovation of Mephistophiles, Ishmael had been receding starting with the event that was her reaction to arriving at U Corp. Her responses grew shorter, from thoughtful hums to absent-minded nods, and finally to nothing at all. Now that they had set out onto the great lake Ishmael would stare out the window, her gaze fixed on the endless landscape. The light in her eyes, the light that seemed to grow warmer when she looked at Don, had been snuffed out and replaced by a stormy grey.
The final evening, Don had been trying particularly hard. She had recounted, with grand gestures, the tale of how the Grass Maiden became a color fixer, hoping to spark some of Ishmael’s usual sighs of fond exasperation.
But Ishmael wasn’t even looking at her. Ishmael was staring at her own hands, clenched in her lap.
“...And thus, with a flourish most valiant, she did raise her gleaming blade, and the monstrous behemoth was hewn into a score of scintillant shards!” Don finished, her voice trailing off into the thick silence. “Ishmael?”
Ishmael stood up abruptly, the motion was stiff and decisive. “I need to get something,” she said, voice flat.
Before Don could ask what, Ishmael was walking toward the corner of their shared room where their closet was. She didn’t retrieve a book or a tool; instead, she lifted out her harpoon and hefted it over her shoulder.
Don was confused. “Thy harpoon? Doth a foul beast stalk these corridors, ripe for vanquishment? I shall ride forth with thee!"
“No,” she said. The word was final. Ishmael then turned to the door, reaching it yet not exiting. She stopped, her back to Don, her shoulders tense. “Don.” Ishmael began, her voice low and strained. “I’m… I’m going to my old room for a while.”
The words didn’t make sense at first. They bounced off Don’s brain, refusing to find purchase. “Or doth the bedstead prove too meager? Fear not, for we shall beseech a grander one! A knightly bed, meet for two souls!”
Ishmael shook her head, a short, tight motion. “It’s not that Don.” She finally turned back to face Don, and the look on her face made Don’s heart clench. It was a mask of forced detachment, but her eyes were full of a turmoil Don couldn’t comprehend. “This is… something I have to do. Alone.”
“Alone?” Don Quixote’s voice was small. “But.. we doth not have to be alone! Whatever trials thee do confront, I shall meet them by thy side! This I vow upon my honor!”
A flicker of something–pain, frustration–crossed Ishmael’s features. “You can’t.” She took a slow breath. “This is my sea to sail, Don. I don’t…” She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I don't want to bother you with the burden, and besides I wouldn’t want to keep you awake with the noise.”
The statement was so utterly wrong that Don could only stare, her mouth agape. “B-bother me?” Don whispered, the words feeling like ash in her mouth. “Ishmael, thou art never a bother! Thou art mine owne–”
“I have to go.” Ishmael interrupted, cutting off the declaration that hung in the air. She wouldn’t meet Don’s eyes. Wordlessly, she took her whetstone along with some other supplies, opened the door, and stepped out into the hallway.
Don stood frozen, listening to the retreating footsteps. A few moments later, the click of a door down the hall could be heard. Silence fell once the door had closed, only when Don peeked her head outside her room could the faint sound be heard.
Scrape…Scrape…Scrape…
Don didn’t know what to do, she gave Ishmael space but it had been far too long. She could not allow her lady to rot like this any longer. With a trembling fist Don rapped on the door.
“Ishmael!” Don announced, making an effort to sound bold.
The scraping did not cease. “I’m busy.”
“Thou hast been busy for three days!” Don protested, cracking the door open slightly. The air was cold, thick with the stench of oil and iron. “Mine.. our chamber is dreadfully lonely without thy presence! The blankets do lack thy warmth and the silence doth most grievously offend…”
Don pushed open the door fully, inside Ishmael was hunched over, back to the door. Her vibrant orange hair, usually so well kept and neat courtesy of Don, was wild and unbrushed, tangled and messy. She still had on the same clothes that she had those three days ago, now stained with oil and grime.Her entire world had narrowed to the whetstone in her hand and the gleaming edge of her harpoon. Piles of metal shavings had pooled around her.
“Ishmael?” Don tried again, stepping fully into the room. “Your faithful knight beseeches thee… to come out? To partake in a meal! Or a shower! A most noble and cleansing shower!”
Nothing. The scraping did not cease.
Her bravado crumbling, Don’s shoulders slumped. The theatrics drained from her leaving only a worried woman. She took a few hesitant steps forward, unsure if she should come closer.
“I miss thee, Ishmael.” Don whispered, half consumed by the scraping. “Mine dreams lack their gleam, and wake a wan grey... I miss your voice, I miss… I miss the way you would look at me.”
“Prithee,” Don pleaded, taking another careful step. “You must cease this relentless toil! A knight’s weapon must be maintained but not at the cost of your spirit! Pray, beseech me– what art thou laboring for?”
Ishmael finally paused her running of the whetstone against the edge of the harpoon. “...It’s not sharp enough.”
Ishmael’s voice was flat, raspy from disuse. It was not the warm, measured tone Don knew.
“It… It appears lethally keen to mine own eyes!” Don insisted. She could see the glint of the overhead light on the newly honed edge. “T-truly, it stands ready to smite any fell beast that doth assay to challenge us!”
“It’s not. Sharp. Enough.” Each word left her lips like a chip of ice “It needs to be sharper. It has to be.”
Don Quixote was silent, unsure of what to say. Desperation pierced her worry and a plan, foolish and brilliant, formed in her mind. If her words could not reach her, perhaps a different kind of act could.
She took one final step forward, eyes fixed on the harpoon’s tip. With a movement too quick and deliberate to be an accident she lunged forward, not at Ishmael, but at the harpoon. She didn’t grab it to take it from Ishmael, but instead she dragged the palm of her hand along the newly honed edge.
A sharp, searing pain sprouted as a line of bright red welled up instantly across her palm. Blood began to drip onto the floor, each drop a stark contrast to the grey that covered the room.
The scraping stopped.
The silence was louder than the noise had been.
Ishmael froze, her arm still mid-motion. Her head turned sharply, eyes wide and wild dropping from Don’s face to her bleeding hand. The shock on her face was absolute, though it quickly morphed into disbelief and anger.
“What did you do?!” She snarled, lunging to her feet causing the whetstone to clatter to the floor. She grabbed Don’s wrist, her grip like iron though trembling. “You idiot! Why did you–”
Her anger was a fire, but it was the first real emotion Don had seen for days. Don looked up at her, tears welling in her own eyes, not from the pain but from the relief of seeing Ishmael again.
“Is it sharp enough now?” Don asked, her voice small, “Is the weapon finally prepared, if it can easily spill the blood of one who holds thee dear?”
The anger drained from Ishmael’s face as if washed away. The wildness in her eyes receded, replaced by a dawning, horrified clarity. She looked from Don’s bleeding hand to her own cut and grimy ones, to the obsessive nest she had made out of her old room. She saw the genuine worry and love in Don’s tear-filled eyes, a love she had been shutting out in favor of a single, consuming purpose.
The rigid tension fled her body, leaving her body looking hollow and exhausted. Her shoulders slumped as the lack of sleep and sustenance caught up to her.
“Don…” she breathed, the name a ragged surrender. “I… I’m sorry. God, I'm so sorry.”
Still holding Don’s wrist, Ishmael pulled her close. It wasn’t soft; there was a rough, urgent need in it. She cupped Don’s face with her other hand, her thumb smearing a tiny spot of grime on her cheek.
“Do not apologize.” Don said. “Just… return to mine arms.”
Ishmael’s face was alight with regret. She truly looked at Don for the first time in days and pulled her into an embrace.
Don Quixote didn’t wait. She surged forward, her good hand tangling in Ishmael’s hair, and pulled her down into a kiss.
Ishmael stiffened for a second, a final act of resistance, before she yielded and kissed Don back with furious passion. Ishmael poured every ounce of her rage into the kiss, built up for what must have been years. A small, pained whimper escaped Don’s throat but she did not pull away. She yielded and let Ishmael pour the tempest out until the waves stilled.
When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathless. Their forehead rested against each other, aftershocks racking the both of them.
“It's sharp enough, Don.” Ishmael looked back at the harpoon, now faintly dripping with blood. “It has been for a while.”
“Good,.” Don spoke, smiling now. “Then the battle can wait. I implore thee, wilt thou join me for a meal? Prithee?”
Ishmael gave her a single, slow nod. “Okay.” She whispered. “Okay, Don.”