Work Text:
The same ritual follows every fight. No matter the outcome, no matter the amount of casualties or injuries in his own body, every fight ends the same way.
Wemmbu walks with stumbling steps, searching for the first ray of sunlight that will lead him out of this cave and into the surface. He dreads the moment he reaches it anyway; all these hours underground have made his eyes so used to the dark that the brightness of the morning sun could very well blind him completely.
He knows he shouldn’t have chased Flame all the way down this cave, the one biome that limits flight and actively works against his fighting style. Deep down, he knew he should’ve backed down the moment his rival started digging. But Flame knows him too well, and he knew Wemmbu would follow him like a rabid animal, like a man starved and desperate, despite being at a clear disadvantage.
At first he was doing fine—and fine by definition means being on equal ground when it comes to fighting Flame. Bitter words were exchanged, followed by swords clashing against shields and pearls and water and fire and everything else their familiar dance involved. He can’t quite recall what happened next, if it was his mind wandering a second too long or his gaze straying away from the fight, but when Flame’s sword came in contact with his shoulder—exposed due to his broken armor, the entire world turned white.
The first miracle was how he managed to muffle the pained howl that tore through him, a reaction so visceral and violent that it scared him like no amount of death or destruction ever could. One might consider it a normal human response, they might even forgive him for it, but Wemmbu is past the point of considering these responses acceptable.
The sword, hot and unforgiving against his collarbone, was removed as quickly as it entered, and Wemmbu quickly stumbled back. Flame kept the sword strong in his grip, letting its flaming tip drag against the stone as he considered the crumpled figure in front of him. Unable to stand the scorching gaze cast upon him, Wemmbu took another step back. He placed a hand on his shoulder to stop the bleeding, only to realize that there wasn’t any blood to begin with. It seems that the heat of Flame’s weapon had cauterized the wound the moment it lost contact with his skin, and that realization felt so bitter on Wemmbu’s tongue that he couldn’t utter a single word.
When Flame raised his sword back up, it made a disgusting scraping sound that pierced Wemmbu’s ears. All kinds of thoughts started to rush through his head then, but the one overshadowing the rest was a single, ugly truth: he couldn’t fight in this state. Not with the pulsating pain in his shoulder, not with the frantic rhythm which his head was pounding, not with the buzzing in his ears that would only get louder as time went on; every part of his body was betraying him and he felt utterly helpless about it.
Flame’s sword was pointed directly at Wemmbu, and, if it hadn’t been for the safe distance between them, it would’ve been resting just between his eyes, ready to smash through his skull and leave him writhing on the stone floor.
Then, just as Wemmbu’s heart was ready to jump out of his chest, Flame scoffed and quickly put his sword away. “It doesn’t even seem fair, fighting you like this.”
Wemmbu tried to breathe through his nose, tried to ignore how his ribs ache with every inhale. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, look at you!” Flame said, with enough exasperation in his tone to ignite another fight, to make Wemmbu think You’re wrong, I can fight and I’ll prove it to you, but Wemmbu was past the point of being successfully provoked. Flame took his silence as rejection. “Whatever,” he mumbled before making his way out with heavy steps, leaving Wemmbu behind, surrounded by the cave walls in all their emptiness.
Wemmbu’s fingertips brush against the same rough walls now, slowly ascending up the makeshift stairs Flame left behind. It won’t be long until he reaches the surface, he can smell fresh grass, or maybe he just thinks he does. It wouldn’t be the first time his mind is playing tricks on him with hallucinations fueled by exhaustion and the deepest kind of desperation. All he wants is to make it to the surface, to get back before he faints—or worse.
Lately, it seems that death has been following him closely behind, maybe a little too close for comfort. He can feel the end coming any day now, he doesn’t know when but he knows it’s soon. Maybe someone will sneak up on him when he’s not wearing his armor, maybe his elytra will break in the middle of battle and he’ll be unable to escape. Maybe his mace will break at the same time, leaving him defenseless, letting his enemies swallow him whole. Maybe the rot in his shoulder is spreading up to his brain, feeding him all these crazy thoughts that seem to have no end.
A sudden warmth spreads across his face, and it takes a second for him to return to the present. He has to choke back a cry when the first bit of sunlight—real, undeniable sunlight—hits his eyes. He quickens his pace, ignoring the strain it puts on his knees, for the sake of reaching the surface faster, even by seconds.
Minutes that feel like hours pass before his feet touch the first patch of grass. For a moment, all his pain and frustration dissolve to make space for relief that can’t even fit inside his body. Suddenly, getting back doesn’t seem at all impossible.
By the time he reaches the wooden hut, the sun has already set, hidden behind the thick forest ahead. The sky has turned a muddy mix of orange and blue, making his surroundings just visible enough to not need a torch.
Two small windows frame the wooden door. With the curtains open, Wemmbu can see the soft light inside, born from the few lit lanterns scattered across the main room. The stillness unsettles him, but everything looks the same as he left it, nothing suggests a break-in or raid or any other similar disaster. He can go in without holding his breath or dreading what comes next.
His fingers fumble with the handle despite the door being unlocked, and the thought alone puts his stomach in knots—he was waiting for Wemmbu to come back, he left the door open for him. As soon as he gets it open, he falls face first on the floor with a quiet grunt. He uses his good arm to prop himself up, which proves to be harder than he initially expected.
A soft shuffle of paper, a creaking of wood, his best friend emerging from his room with rapid steps, as if making up for the short time it took him to realize that Wemmbu’s back. He isn’t wearing his jacket or tie, and the first button of his shirt is open; all part of his usual attire when reading before bed, a sacred part of his routine which Wemmbu has rudely interrupted.
“Wemmbu,” Egg says, something between a greeting and a question, and Wemmbu hates to see his normally serene face be painted with such worry.
“It looks worse than it actually is,” he tries before Egg can say anything more, not bothering to specify what it is. He hasn’t moved from his spot on the floor, but at least he’s sort of sitting up now, upper body supported by one arm while the other hangs uselessly at his side.
Egg frowns slightly, and here it is again, that pang of guilt settling in Wemmbu’s stomach until he’s sick with it. Maybe if he took his sweet time getting back, Egg would’ve been asleep by the time he returned and Wemmbu would be spared from another lecture about the dangerous paths his stubbornness leads him to. Then again, there’s nothing he wants more than to be close to his best friend right now, to know that there’s nothing separating them from each other, forbidding the coexistence they’ve come to cherish more than anything in this world.
He nudges closer at the same time that Egg crouches down. As the adrenaline starts to wear off, the pain in his body crashes into him in angry waves. First his shoulder, which now has a pulse of its own, then his knees, with a pain dull and familiar, and finally, his ribs that fail to cage his heart. He wants to cry and scream and he does neither of those things because he doesn’t want to scare Egg any more than he already has.
Then again, Egg doesn’t look like he’s scared, he doesn’t even seem angry or disappointed that Wemmbu keeps chasing after trouble and paying the price for his failure. Instead, he simply says, “I’ll bring the gauzes.” It’s a sentence so simple yet strong enough to fill Wemmbu with emotions he struggles explaining even to himself.
“No, no,” Wemmbu chokes, the words coming out of his mouth before he has the chance to filter them. “I’m not even bleeding, see?” He tries to show Egg his wounds, as much as the soft light of the lanterns allow, and he hopes Egg believes him so he doesn’t have to say Please don’t leave, please don’t ever leave me. “Let’s just stay like this for a moment, yeah?”
Egg stays silent for a second too long, and Wemmbu thinks his heart will burst as he waits for Egg to finally nod. “Yeah,” he says, softly, with an understanding no one else has graced Wemmbu with, before sitting down properly.
It takes serious effort for Wemmbu not to collapse right there. Instead, he closes his eyes and rests his head on Egg’s lap, exhaustion draping a thin veil over him. He feels himself slipping, but he doesn’t want to give in yet, not when Egg softly combs his fingers through his hair, without caring about the dried blood and leftover sweat from the fight that happened a lifetime ago.
Every fight ends the same way, no matter the outcome; with Wemmbu crawling home.