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The leftover smoke still lingered, dust and ash yet to fall to rest on ruined grounds. Chatter and whispers echoed somewhere in the background, although it'd been much quieter in comparison to the aggressive rumbling of explosions assaulting his ears earlier. Granted, those were nobody's fault but his own — it was only Wemmbu wielding the power to obliterate entire battlefields at a wave of a hand.
He'd usually find it melodic; the beautiful harmony of destruction spreading far and wide, slamming into the air one by one. Somehow, none of that applied to listening to the orbitals sent upon the Northern Council. The battle was over, clearly, yet they still rang in his ears, replaying in his mind as if trapped within its constraints.
It hadn't happened before. Not much, at least; sure, the ringing persisted from time to time, whenever he'd get too drunk on the thrill of a fight, but it usually faded alongside the adrenaline.
Now the adrenaline was long gone, exhaustion seeping in instead, while the sound kept going. Over, and over, and over again.
The blade of his sword had crossed with Flame's own as it used to before, and there still it was. Lettuce had come back to surrender, and there, still it was. Wemmbu could only blankly watch the scene as it played out without any substance. For a second his hand had tightened on the handle of his mace, before loosening up. He wouldn't let it go just yet, even if the enemy had been long gone.
He'd exchanged a couple words with Egg, he remembered. They laughed about something; whether it was about Parrot, or Lettuce, or the miserable state of the Northern Council, he couldn't recall. Maybe another of Egg's dumb riddles. Maybe it mattered, maybe it didn't; he wouldn't know anymore.
By this point his friend had gone off somewhere else. To socialize, likely. Chat with someone here, someone else there. Wemmbu couldn't mind, of course, but it did leave him alone with only the distant echo of explosions to keep him company.
Parrot announced something about taking a vote on Lettuce's fate. That was fine. Whather he got hunted down on the battlefield or executed by the vote of majority, Wemmbu didn't care. Until then, he'd just… hang around somewhere, while the others took their sweet time regrouping and all.
He stumbled — merely a product of the injuries and exertion — at one of the final steps at the ruined staircase up the pedestal. The last time he stood on it was as an exhibit for the server to rejoice at his demise; it made for a funny image now that he was free again, disregarding how it made a shiver run down his spine.
It'd been only a momentary loss of balance, which he swiftly recovered from in seconds. He'd managed half a thought that hopefully nobody saw it, before feeling something alike an edge of a wing nudge his shoulder. There went his dignity, he thought, albeit lifting his head to glance up at whoever was to be the witness of his mistake nonetheless.
His eyes must have looked really empty, because Minute stared back at him with pity. One of those expressions he really wasn't fond of.
"Hey," Minute gave a light nod towards him, slowing down to match his pace, "Got a second to spare?"
It really didn't require the consideration it took to respond; factually, he had nothing else to do.
"Yeah, I guess," Wemmbu shrugged, eyes flicking to the rest of the group for just a blink. It seemed they were scattered around a bit too far ahead to care. "Uh, why?"
"Just thought you could… be of some help," the pause in the middle had not gone unnoticed. Wemmbu squinted his eyes in suspicion, as if Minute was going to say something else before deciding on the vague statement that he gave; as if he hadn't been plenty of help already.
"Alright bro, whatever you say," he sighed, unwilling to dwell on it any longer. The exhaustion stung more and more with each passing second, and the quicker he got this over with, the sooner he'd get to go back to Egg and decide what they were going to do with themselves from this point on. "As long as it's not, like… more fighting."
"Mhm," Minute affirmed with a hum. "It's not. Come on."
He nudged Wemmbu again, encouraging him to move quicker. The demon only rolled his eyes, clenched his teeth to ignore the dull ache in one of his calves, and complied, for a lack of better option.
Had this been anyone else he'd probably argue for a clarification of their motives. But it was just Minute, so he supposed he owed him something for keeping Egg safe in the End for such a long time. They were on good terms, and all.
Following the other through the spacious, pristine hallways of the castle, he'd focused on its contrast to the outside, as that laid in ruins. The inside was much more pleasant for the eye. He'd been there once before — twice if counted the time during his imprisonment — but never got the chance to look at the ornamented walls and high ceilings more closely. It was really only as he was heading up the stairs that he did; an idea crossed his mind to fly up and skip them entirely, although that got discarded immediately after. All he was meant to do was trail after Minute without getting too ahead of himself — even if that wasn't really his style.
Wemmbu dismissed the complaint with a half-assed justification of the stairs being better for his sore wings, anyway. Besides, he didn't want to cause much trouble for once. Get this over with and be done, he repeated in his head.
Minute turned to give him a look as if he'd spoken it out loud. …Which, he hopefully hadn't. Either way, no word was said, meaning it must have mattered very little, whether he heard it or not.
The open staircase led to an even larger, open second floor. It was the same hall, still, although appearing significantly more spacious from a higher ground.
A huge window of stained glass towered over the pillars, and carvings, and walls, and everything else; Wemmbu suddenly felt small in its shade, even if it had been more of an illumination prompted by morning sunlight, rising right in front. A hand brushed his shoulder and he moved forward, though with a mind still hung up on the panel. He must have passed by it multiple times during the battle. Maybe its reflection blinded him once or twice. He still hadn't noticed it, back then.
Having allowed Minute to guide him through the hallways for a while, it finally came to a stop. They ended up in a corner close by to the main room, albeit not exactly visible. It was still an open space with a high ceiling, but it felt like more of a desolate point, typically lost in the labirynth of the building despite laying so close to its center.
And the position of the window on one of its walls made for a decent viewing spot for the sunrise; better than the stained glass, he decided after little consideration. It was a little duller, and not as saturated — overall, better for his tired eyes.
"So, uh," Wemmbu turned to face Minute, right hand leaning on hip. The wrist still hurt, from prolonged mace wielding. He hadn't even noticed when he put Gambit back into his inventory. "Looks nice and all, but, like, why are we here again? Surely not to admire the view."
So much for supposed "being of some help". It seemed as if he'd been brought there only to stare at the sun rising over the remnants of the Council's courtyard, destroyed by Wemmbu's own orbital cannons. Maybe Minute was going to make him rethink his violent ways and then rebuild the place brick by brick.
"No, not quite. Although it is quite pleasant," Minute shrugged, then gestured to a nearby stone bench. "Sit down."
"…Sure," it didn't come without an eyeroll, but Wemmbu complied again, propping his head up on his hand as the elbow leaned on his knee. It seemed he was about to get patronized, or otherwise lectured about his behavior.
He'd just need to focus on something else, like the ringing in his ears, to mute it out and not have to waste his sanity listening to the same, old complaints.
None of that came in the next few seconds, even as Minute rummaged through his inventory, eventually grabbing something and taking a seat right beside him. Wemmbu looked up, eyebrow raised.
"You're decent with stitches, aren't you?" Minute spoke up first, the regeneration potion in his hand glowing a soft red as it got put away, onto a top of a nearby shelf.
"Well, I guess," he muttered, straightening up. Throughout all the fighting experience, his medical skills left much to be desired, he was well aware; potions and golden apples usually did the trick, and in the rare cases they wouldn't, his angel friend would be the one to take care of it. "Egg's actually good at those, though, so if that's your issue, you should go to—"
"No, it's fine," he cut him off, much to Wemmbu's displeasure. It was that soft, careful tone again, slightly annoying even if he'd learned not to dislike it as much over time. "No need to bother Eggchan. I'm just… willing to give you an offer."
"Do you genuinely have to go about it in the most ominous way possible?"
"Kind of," Minute gave him an almost apologetic smile. "You wouldn't go with the others, even if they asked, so here we are. Here's the deal: you'll take your armor off and let me look at that shoulder," his finger hovered above Wemmbu's left arm, which he'd been trying to pretend was completely fine. Clearly, he hadn't done a great job at that. "As well as any… other injuries you might have. And in—"
"Oh, is that what this is all about? Cornering me here so that I'll, what, just comply?" Wemmbu bit back immediately, preparing to stand up and walk away. All this time, he could have been… regearing, sharpening his sword. Sitting around. Not bothering anyone with his presence, as opposed to what he usually did.
Because he did, he really did enjoy serving as a nuisance; that's what he was meant for. Annoying, like a persistent roach. And roaches were never caught hurting. Neither were soldiers; only victorious or dead.
"I'm like, fine," he quickly added on. "No issues here."
He wouldn't take a hand extended to him without a price, lest that turned to be twice as high as he'd expect. Minute was well aware of that, he knew.
"Sure. As fine as a long battle can get you to be. Whatever it is, you could still get at least that shoulder checked," Minute seemed unbothered by his refusal, as if he'd been expecting it. Although before Wemmbu got the chance to protest any further, he kept going. "And as I was saying, in turn I'll let you stitch up my wing. That would put us on equal terms afterwards."
Suddenly Wemmbu's mouth snapped shut, with a distinct lack of a rude remark to counter the suggestion coming up in his mind. It wasn't exactly incorrect per se, he had to admit, albeit it still felt wrong. A fair exchange, sure, but its taste still bittersweet. This wasn't his style.
He only did payback — loud and grand. Revenge for being wronged, measured only on his own scale. This was neither payback, nor revenge. It was a deal. Exchange, again. Not much to be exploited, so it seemed, which made him think all the further about what the point actually was.
He used to let Egg patch him up after each battle, back during the war with the Zam Empire. But those were much simpler times, when he hadn't an ounce of the identity he gained over the years. They didn't do that anymore. It wasn't anything about their bond fading, but rather the way such vulnerable acts of kindness have become a rarity for the both of them. For this world.
"…I'm not very good at stitches," he eventually admitted, eyes running to stare somewhere into the other side of the room.
"I'm fine with that."
And Wemmbu really wanted to oppose it again, claim it's pointless, unnecessary, and doesn't matter. He wanted to say he won't leave himself defenseless with no armor on, regardless of where and whom he'd been with; unless it was Egg. Minute wasn't Egg.
Then he thought, again; Minute wasn't Egg. It was always personal with Egg. They were friends, close and dear to each other. Exploitable. Minute wasn't like that. He was an ally; a friend… maybe, but much less so. They held mutual respect for each other, cooperated from time to time, and that was about it.
The offer he'd extended sounded out as devoid of that vulnerable tone it would have with Egg. Being stripped of armor like that would make Wemmbu more of a blank model for dissection, than a wounded animal; especially because he'd remembered Minute to be rather harsh with medical procedures, courtesy of his experience from the mafia so he'd once told.
Wemmbu could go with that.
Mostly because he was hurting, and exhausted, and the perspective of getting the most annoying injuries patched was appealing to his tired mind. Besides, he wouldn't be indebted afterwards. That was crucial. It was fine.
"Why do you even care?" He narrowed his eyes, although at this point the question was entirely rhetorical. "But I guess that can… work. Yeah."
Minute nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer.
They stared at each other for a second, neither moving nor saying a word. It took a longer moment for Wemmbu to realize he'd been supposed to be taking his armor off.
The straps of the shoulderpads came loose smoothly, netherite clanging against itself as pieces got discarded by his side one after another. The actual chestplate part came last, lowered to the floor much more carefully.
He let Minute raise a hand to poke at his now exposed shoulder, first around a rather shallow slash, then the general joint circumference. Wemmbu had to stop himself from flinching at the initial contact; the pain was nothing strange, but the feeling was unfamiliar. The touch wasn't as gentle as Egg's, but neither as rough as all the pushing around he'd known from the prison. It was swift, precise, and methodical. And that was fine, because Wemmbu was not a poor, little bleeding thing which needed to be handled with caution. Even if it hurt like hell.
Still, he tried not to think of the sensation too much. He'd zoned out sometime after the potion of regeneration was poured over his shoulder, dissolving into the irritated skin with a gentle glow.
"That's one lucky hit they got there," Minute muttered after a while of silence. Had Wemmbu not just been thrown off an entirely different train of thought, he probably would've graced it with a comment about unnecessary glaze. "When'd you get that?"
"Eh, no idea," he shrugged. "I don't really care."
Which was hardly true, as he vividly remembered slamming into a wall sometime close to the end of the battle.
"If that's what you say."
Minute must have gotten the hint that Wemmbu wasn't exactly eager to engage in conversation because he didn't ask about it any further.
In an ideal world, the rest of the process would go by in definite silence, where Wemmbu could let his thoughts wander away, detaching from it entirely. Unfortunately, at some point after the bandage was tied around his shoulder, as his wrist got taken for rough inspection instead, Minute spoke up again.
"Your fighting style is very violent," he said. Wemmbu snickered in response.
"As all "fighting styles" are."
"I mean it. You're no saint with that mace," Minute's gaze lifted to focus on his face for the first time since he started patching up his shoulder. "You could be putting less force into each strike, and the results would stay the same, but with less damage to yourself. It wouldn't hurt to go easy every once in a while."
"Right, right," he couldn't help but roll his eyes. "As if that would work against an army of thousands. Besides, you're not one to talk."
That earned him a questioning look, and a harsh turn of the wrist in the process of bandaging. This was familiar; being a nuisance.
"How come?" Still, Minute didn't sound annoyed.
"I've been watching you too," he said. "Heard you say all about not wanting to ban people, but then you fight to kill, not to wound. Sharp, quick, ruthless. Like a mafia member."
That must have meant something, because Minute's hands stilled on Wemmbu's wrist, eyes narrowing.
"Old habits die hard, eh?" Wemmbu then added, with a devious spark in his eye.
"…They do, yes," it appeared Minute wouldn't be easily discouraged, resuming his work. "But you're a fast learner, aren't you? You adapt quicker than anyone I've seen."
And he rolled his eyes again, because that meant nothing to him.
"Yeah, guess I am. Doesn't mean a change like that would benefit my efficiency."
Minute's hands then retreated back, as he looked Wemmbu up and down.
"Turn around," he said, gesturing a faint motion with his hand.
"…No," Wemmbu leaned back, wings folding closer together. It wasn't necessarily that he'd expected Minute to stab him in the back the moment he left it unguarded — even if he could, absolutely, take a sword and slit his throat, spare himself the trouble of caring for him — but moreso his unwillingness to waste any more time.
It seemed like Minute was thinking of saying something else, before ultimately deciding on acceptance.
"Alright. I get it," he nodded. "How about that leg?"
For a second Wemmbu had expected him not to notice; a futile effort, considering he'd known how keen his eyes were when it came to injuries. Limps especially, it so appeared.
"Uh, it's fine," he dismissed. "Just… strained a muscle, or something. A bunch of golden apples will fix it."
Maybe they would, maybe they wouldn't. He wasn't one to care; the other was more attentive, for whatever reason. One that was not care. Still, he sighed with disappointment at Wemmbu's refusal, even if he should have gotten used to it by now.
"Right, right."
Then, silence. Inaction. Waiting only for something to happen. Still, it strangely felt less like a waste of time than before.
Wemmbu looked down, staring at his hands in his lap, one bandaged and the other free. He traced the edges of the cloth with his nails, wondering how sharp they must be to cut through. Minute did too good of a job wrapping it, when it would likely get torn the next time he reached for a weapon; not by his own fault. Bandages tended to do that, by no fault of his own.
"So, as for your part," Minute spoke first, as he always did, handing him a potion, then a thread and a needle. "Here you go."
Wemmbu held them without much idea on what to do with himself, even as a dark wing was extended to rest on his lap. He'd already had little confidence in his skill, which lowered even more as the image from his mind became a real thing.
"Are you sure you don't want to get, like, Egg or someone to do this?" He asked again, hesitant. Wings were delicate, fragile, even if able to withstand prolonged battles alike the one they'd just been through; he wouldn't trust himself even with patching up his own.
"No, I'm good," Minute shrugged it off, looking through the window. The sun had already risen high above ground, dark shadows retreating into the night.
It was a new day; the smoke already dispelled, the Law gone, Parrot soon to announce for the vote to take place. Nothing would go back to normal, because on Unstable "normal" wasn't a thing people got to hang onto, but maybe it could be quieter for a while, at least. He'd bid farewell to anyone still left in Northern Council, then grab Egg and go somewhere far away to live his life as he always wanted; granted, he'd never known what it was. Certainly, he'd figure that out on the way. Maybe he'd build a house. Explore. Live, not as a weapon and product of his previous pursuits.
It made for a nice image. Waking up in a familiar place without betrayal breathing down his neck. Taking a walk without Gambit in his grip at all times. Pointlessly wasting time on his own terms.
Perhaps he could taste freedom; at least once he was done figuring out the damned stitches.
The regeneration potion was not an issue. The needle was the thing. It kept slipping from his fingers, and when it didn't, his hands trembled too much for precision. It shouldn't have been a task more difficult than an elaborate elytra-macing technique, yet Wemmbu found himself struggling more than he ever did with a sword. A sword only knew how to inflict pain; not soothe it. It made him feel like a fish suffocating out of water.
His work was choppy, and uneven, and honestly he was surprised that Minute hadn't said a word of complaint throughout it all. Wings were supposed to be sensitive, and there he was allowing Wemmbu to play a seamstress with neither experience nor talent using it like a rag. Or, perhaps not a rag, because for what it was worth the demon had been trying his best, and the fact the stitches came out rather poorly was only a product of his lack of skill, not will.
Fortunately, it was only a few; were it his case, he would've left a shallow wound like that to heal on its own. However it seemed as though the sentiment wasn't shared, so he wouldn't comment, for once. Trying to do a decent job took enough of his focus and attention not to think of that idea twice.
He had Minute's wing in his lap and his trust in his hand. It would've been so easy to break it.
"Have you thought about your choice yet?" The question rang through the air suddenly enough for Wemmbu not to hear it at first, much less consider a good answer.
"Uh, no," there he said, truthfully. "I mean, does it even matter? Lettuce's getting banned either way."
"You can't know that," Minute pointed out, to which he responded with a sigh. "If that were the case, wouldn't the entire concept of a vote be lost?"
"I mean, I guess, but…" he thought back to the battlefield, and the memory of hunting Lettuce down among the chaos. "There's no real coming back from this. I wouldn't bet on a majority being willing to spare him all of a sudden."
"Does that include you?"
He shrugged.
"Probably. I don't really care to be honest. It won't change anything."
"It could," there Minute was, looking at him with that softneess in his eyes as if it was going to change anything. "What if it were all up to you?"
"Well, it's not, so," Wemmbu had to resist the urge to shut the conversation off with a plain refusal to engage. "Doesn't matter. Why, do you want me to join your cause of sparing him that badly?"
"Not really, no," he offered, then went silent for a moment. "Truthfully, I don't know the correct course of action, either. Sure, I won't vouch for an execution, but I couldn't tell you what the objectively right path is even if I tried."
It was only sometimes that Wemmbu remembered Minute wasn't much older than him, with limited knowledge and subjective judgment. He usually made it easy to forget, acting with a level of maturity the demon subconsciously knew to be higher than his own; still, it made him feel guilty whenever the realization hit. Even if he'd forget again soon after.
"Or maybe there's no right choice," he added, wincing slightly as Wemmbu accidentally poked him with the needle.
"Sorry," he muttered, lowering his head to focus on finishing the job.
"No big deal."
Then the last stitch was put in place, string tied off, and wing slowly folded back, freeing Wemmbu from where he sat all that time.
He stretched, although careful with his shoulder, before standing up and taking his armor out of his inventory again. As nice as the little moment was it had already ended, and he wasn't about to wander the halls without protection. He wasn't a fool.
"Alright, that seems to be about it. I'll leave you be now," Wemmbu glanced to the side, to see Minute already standing closer to the way back towards the main hallways. "Don't get into trouble."
"Yeah, yeah. Sure won't. See you," he turned to look forward again, at the window in front as footsteps gradually quieted down in the distance. It was only him, the clear sky, and remnants of the battlefield, still unchanged.
It was a waste of time, he thought, and smiled for nobody to see.