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Another pillar crumbled in the distance, fallen rubble hitting the stone ground in a gruesome manner. Specs of dust followed, rising up into the cold air of the End, only to obsvure the view of distant stars in the void; as above, so below.
A clang of a sword clashing against armor sounded out somewhere nearby. Spoke had managed to shield himself from the blade, even if the netherite piece protecting his arm had to have taken the brunt of the force. He hissed in pain as it spread, fingertips digging into his palm just to ease it, momentarily stumbling on a loose rock of the broken pavement.
The second swipe hesitated; just enough for him to duck, and the metal to dig into the brick wall instead of his chest. It hesitated, he noticed, as all the previous ones had. The sword, the mace, the clawed hand unwilling to wrap around his throat as it should have had a long time before. There'd been plenty of opportunities, all across the End dimension for one to slice the other's throat. Ultimately, neither of them could bring themselves to do it.
A pitiful thing, really. Both seemed to have deserved it, one way or another.
It took Spoke a brief second to recover, sending his opponent a somewhat terrified, yet painfully determined look, before ducking under the rocks as another batch of wither skulls crashed into explosions. Minute appeared to have expected the attack just as well, covering himself with one of his wings in a corner of pillars.
"There's no use for this," Spoke huffed, with something alike a chuckle in the back of his throat. "Don't you get it?" He lifted his gaze, towards the dragon high up in the sky. He'd gotten the crystals, he'd brought it back, and the only wall left between his freedom was the man in front of him.
Minute stayed silent, leaning on the barely standing pillar, sword in hand, yet not swinging just yet. He sighed, as if the exhaustion had started getting to him, too, eyes drilling into the ground.
"You know I'm not letting you do this," he finally pronounced, straightening his back and fixing his grip on the metal handle. Spoke immediately took a step back, closer to the edge above the void.
The void; the void was there, too. Calling, and tempting, and whispering, and all that stuff Spoke had been used to a long time ago. Yet however he might have been back then, it sounded out much less familiar now; albeit cozier, and sweeter. As if reuniting with it down in the abyss would cure him of all his problems and wash away his sins. Alas, there was no antidote for those.
But the void kept calling, as his dear homeplace. Even if it had rejected him, as the chaos amidst its silence, it still called for him, to envelop in its grasp as it swallowed whatever foreign came its way. And Spoke, at this point, was foreign to it just as any other.
"Like fuck you're not," he mumbled under his breath, barely dodging another hit that would've dug into his collarbone. But he couldn't keep running, like a coward, or a miserable shell of a soldier, as much as he might've fit into either of those definitions. He took hold of his own sword, and the next clash was of netherite against netherite.
They'd fallen back into the rhythm, again, where Minute would swing, and Spoke would block, at the cost of the next attack pushing him but another step back. And again, And again.
And each time Minute would hold back, just as he did when trying to train him. It used to be pathetic training, admittedly, just as he'd been a pathetic student who never really learned. He'd nearly memorized certain movements Minute would attempt, and still failed to counter. Always stumbled, fell to his knees, dropped his weapon.
In these moments Minute would stop, kneeling beside him and placing a hand on his shoulder. It used to be a grounding pressure that wouldn't really leave until he got it to, while he was being questioned for his wellbeing.
The blade came swinging at him again, taking his own out of his hand. It fell onto the ground, unpleasant clatter harming his ears as he ducked to grab it, quickly scrambling back to his feet.
And Minute let him. He stood there, ignoring the distant explosions and let him; as it he were a fool. As if he hadn't known who Spoke was. As if he foolishly failed to recognise he was not the same, naive child he used to be.
But there was no comforting hand on his shoulder, nor patting his back, nor offering assistance in standing back up. Another hit came soon after the last — Minute wasn't much of a fool.
"This doesn't have to continue," he said, as if he hadn't been the only one persistently trying to continue the fight regardless of how much the ground crumbled. "Come on, Spoke. Let me help you."
"Help? What help?" He whined, rolling his eyes as he shifted the balance of his posture. "There's none you could possibly offer! Except for—" he winced as the weapon grazed an exposed part of his skin, drawing a droplet of pitch black blood, "—like, leaving."
Or a hug, or a pat on the back. Or an offer for a cup of tea, with a slice of a golden apple dropped within.
"I can't let you do this, Spoke," he repeated, with more desperation than before. He'd also stumbled, unlike of a skilled soldier alike himself. "We can stop, we can talk, but you're not going to kill that dragon."
Spoke really wanted to scream, yell, throw himself into the void — with its sweet, sweet call — or jump at Minute to topple them both onto the dusty ground, so that at least they're on the same eye level, where they both belong.
"What "talking" are you even—" he argued, getting desperate to stand his ground, "There's no help to be given, there's no conversation to be had, I just want the freedom I deserve, Minute!"
"You don't—"
"I've spent weeks in that prison! And the— that one before it! And I had nothing, and no one, and you weren't there either!"
Minute didn't get it. He'd clawed his way out of the hole he'd gotten dragged into, and this was his reward — the sacred evil that must have been upkept in a cycle on this server. Violence; the only common tongue. He must have known it better than anyone, a soldier and guardian. It would've been naive to assume the cycle could've been prevented.
He still could've helped, he really could've, but he'd never do it in the way Spoke wanted to be helped. Regardless of intention, or desperation, or whatever care he might have shown — which, he shouldn't, because Spoke was not an individual to be cared about — he had nothing to give here.
"I wasn't there, but you knew where to find me!" He argued, even though it was very, very pointless. "I've always been here!"
"That's the problem, Minute!" Spoke dodged yet another misaimed attack, feeling more and more as if they weren't even directed at him. "You're always here."
And it should have been him to reach out. Spoke had really wished for him to reach out, before he'd have to come to him angry about the injustice of this world, asking to help as his last resort. It never happened, but neither did the begging; no need to repeat what happened with Parrot, or anyone else he'd ever asked.
Even if this was Minute, who used to drop everything he was occupied with just to comfort him whenever he wanted. He'd cradle him in his arms, with surprising gentleness, unlike the soldier he was known to be, and make him tea with a slice of an enchanted apple hung over the edge of the mug. Spoke wouldn't drink it right away, not too fond of the sensation burning his tongue, but he'd keep his hands holding the porcelain just for a little bit of the warmth to reach him.
He'd sit there until the mug cooled off, staring into sweet nothingness within the stone decor of the End base's walls, and Minute would sit with him. Mapicc would wander away, trying to occupy himself with anything he could find, but Mapicc was not there so it didn't really matter what used to be.
Necessary sacrifices, so he'd believed. Sacred evil, so he'd convinced himself.
SpokeIsHere was not a bad person. He'd never used to be a bad person, even if angry, and unjust, and dishonest, and malicious at times. It was not evil if it was necessary, as things necessary were not in the hands of SpokeIsHere.
He glanced down into the void below his feet, heels dangerously close to the floor's edge. Minute seemed to have noticed that, too, blade stopping in its track to point at Spoke's exposed neck, the usual scarf covering it long gone.
He wouldn't really mind reuniting with it; the cause for all necessity, his mother the Void. The source of chaos he'd been born from, as it carelessly discarded him from a part of itself. It would've discarded him again, and again, and again, but so did this world; even if Mapicc didn't, and Minute didn't, and Zam didn't, but it was always bound to eventually happen.
That was it for him; for the awful, awful person he'd always been. Though, that Spoke was different from the one who'd taken his sword into his hand to clash with Minute again. That was the other Spoke, whom they must have cared about to the point of sticking by his side for so long. That Spoke who didn't really exist, yet was so distinctingly different that his existence wasn't really deniable.
There'd always been two of them: that Spoke, and this Spoke. Both the same, both separate.
Maybe that other one had also looked like the figure in the mirror, or the silhouette in memories. But, then, perhaps without all the rotten parts — the heart, the brain, the hands, and quite honestly, everything else. He shouldn't have been identical in appearance, all things considered.
But no one had ever questioned any change that must have happened when that other Spoke switched with this Spoke. Or, they did — when Minute stopped holding him in his arms after he'd stepped back from the embrace yet another time, or when Mapicc wouldn't bump his shoulder anymore when he started tensing up at the contact. Or when Jamato left. Jamato had left for no reason.
So it must have been him to see this Spoke first; back when Spoke himself hadn't known of it yet. It'd been only the idea at that time. Jamato was more insightful, more knowledgeable, and he'd looked up to him since the moment they met. And now he stood at his mercy, with his greatest creation keeping him in chains. That was this Spoke; the one Jamato forged with his very hands, a striking copy of himself.
This one, with all the power in the world, who still felt like sobbing as his back got pressed against the nearby wall. NULL was not going to save him, and they'd never been; the salvation he sought out within was no more than a brief illusion. They followed because they had to, just like Minute fought him out of duty.
It was a little pathetic, how it had all been for nothing. This Spoke was a great, powerful person, with even less to his name than that other Spoke had used to have. Maybe a bit more blood, at least, dripping down his fingers where the handle of his sword dug into his palms, staining the ground below with tiny, red droplets.
He took a shaky breath, as if nearing defeat.
One pair of empty eyes met another as he lifted his head, traitorous tears threatening to slip out. It wasn't the first time he'd stand like that, hurting and wounded, with Minute by his side. But in his memory, Minute would've been guiding him to sit down, hands gently bandaging his back, or his side, or wherever it was he'd gotten hurt. He'd hold out an enchanted apple as if it was a worthless thing he'd had thousands of, and Spoke was someone worth wasting it on.
Maybe that other Spoke used to be just that.
He used to sit there like that, curled into himself despite the warmth being offered. He'd shrugged if Minute asked whether it hurt, despite all the pain he normally would've complained about. Mapicc did complain, stretched out right beside him and munching on some good food.
If anyone were to ask him to picture a parent, his mind would probably drift towards the image of Minute, standing in the kitchen and flipping pancakes with one hand, while Spoke and Mapicc played tic tac toe on the table. Even if he wasn't really omniscient, nor omnipotent, and happened to be too rough with bandages sometimes, and his claws painfully dug into Spoke's skin as he held his shoulder still. And really didn't have his own life all that sorted out.
Now these same hands that used to cradle him so carefully were holding the sword pressing against his chestplate, which he hadn't even realized to have been gone already, accompanied by a familiar sting of pain in his collarbone. He'd been pinned to the ground at this point, unarmed and defenseless, with heart exposed as the explosions kept going off in the background.
They kept going. And going. And going. And he could've waved a hand to stop it all, but it really wouldn't have done anything at that point.
"Spoke, please," Minute whispered, standing above with the netherite blade shaking within his grasp, "let me help you."
And Spoke took a deep breath, as if it were his first in this world, hesitant to answer. It's how defeat always tasted, sorrow and bitter.
He would die with just one move. He was going to die. He was already dying.
"Do you know how it feels to keep trading one cage for another?" At last he mustered, tired and hopeless. "I was finally free. Can't you let me be free?"
Minute looked at him with pity, or disapproval, or something else. That would've been about it, he thought. His own end, personalized to what he deserved. But the sword retreated, tumbling to the ground at his side.
"Let me help," he repeated.
And he couldn't help but sob, giving up all that power just to get held again. He'd fallen into these familiar, caring arms that pulled him up just as that other Spoke had, and it seemed they were one and the same once more. It probably wouldn't last, because it never did, but just for a second there it felt like he was something worth holding like that.
This awful, awful person that he was and had always been, because there really was no other Spoke, was gathered into a hug where his face pressed against Minute's shoulder, and small circles were rubbed into his back.
"I'm sorry that happened to you," he heard right next to his ear, spoken gently enough to muffle out all other sound from the surrounding rumble, "and that I was not there."
And, oh, that must have been about Purgatory. Or the hunt in the Farlands. Or the time he'd been desperately searching for Mapicc for weeks. Or when he'd been running from BAT, and Leowook, whom he'd singlehandedly turned against himself and Mapicc. And all that time, maybe this was all he really wanted to hear.
But it wasn't all. He wanted to know, truly, that none of it had been deserved, and his suffering was the right thing to be angry about. That all the people he'd driven away were no fault of his own, but the forever destined outcome for the fate of SpokeIsHere, hardcoded into his person. He'd been born of nothing but a disturbance within the peaceful void, seemingly with none of that future written out for him yet; but then there was Jamato, and he gave him purpose, and he gave him light, and he gave him all that had ever been wrong with an individual.
Maybe someone had to be the necessary evil, but did it really exempt them from their fault?
He was still sobbing, and Minute was still holding him close, but he felt more like a mass without a body, and a corpse without a soul, bleeding something evil from within. A shade shining both red and black, staining the fabric of Minute's suit as Spoke clung to him with no consideration for how difficult that would be to wash out.
Was he any more foolish, he'd likely allow to delude himself into believing nothing had ever happened, and this was merely a result of some stupid endeavor he'd come up in the heat of the moment. And Mapicc was there too, only having wandered away somewhere to look for entertainment, or something he'd lost a while back. And the explosions were only the occassional surges of purple light within the void.
But he knew it wasn't true anymore, and there was no point in believing it to be back anytime soon. Spoke was rotten; a rotten person, a rotten child, and there really was no cure for such an advanced stage of decay where lies have already started eating away at his flesh like maggots. Little parasitic entities, piling up as it continued.
He sniffled, pulling away from the embrace. Minute let him, even if still keeping a hand on his back, worried gaze examining his hunched over figure.
"…I'm sorry, too," Spoke mumbled, knowing it didn't really change anything. He couldn't even look Minute in the eyes anymore. "…Yeah, I'm sorry."
"It's fine," he got in respose. "You're fine," corrected.
"No, Minute, I'm—" his words got caught up in his throat, as if becoming something wrong the moment said out loud. "—I'm sorry."
And there, the lies would die with him.
He grabbed the sword, forgotten and still bloody from the fight before, from the ground where it had been laying. Chestplate gone, heart exposed. It took half a second to pierce the skin, and whatever it was underneath.
He'd barely heard the yelp and hardly noticed Minute's shocked expression as he grabbed his shoulders to keep him upright. There, with all the blood spilling and stars fading from the sky, it almost felt like another warm embrace.
This was his deserved freedom. Maybe unfair to the likes of the man panicking in front of him, but he'd never really done anything fair; just as Jamato had said, and Mapicc, and Jumper, and Ash, and everyone, really.
Minute kept saying something, inaudible in the background of all the noise that suddenly became louder. Spoke could only entertain it with a weak chuckle.
Maybe at least he'd be buried somewhere pretty.