Chapter Text
Decaying wood. Salt and rotting corpses. A never-ending damp that invites only disgust to the senses. Anyone who ventured into the Spire knew what to expect coming in, but the overwhelming filth of the flooded docks surrounding them would surely spur a change of mind.
But the Ironclad warrior of the north had no choice in scenery, as his purpose demanded unwavering diligence. Every time he ventured in, he had but one thought on his mind:
Pain is nothing. My enemies must die.
It was an odd thing, this self-issued order. His northern upbringing taught him to seek combat and the glory therein, though he could not remember why the creator at the top of the Spire was his enemy. Granted, the primordial whale reassured him at every ascent, but had the Architect truly wronged him?
Though, in brief dreams, he remembered a raging purple fire. He was in its midst, burning along with it, his flesh ablaze with power. What should have been agonizing made him feel indominable, as if he truly was the strongest-
And then, right before he remembered what happened next, he would always wake. The fire would disappear, along with that insurmountable feeling, replaced only by the haunting laughter of his one true enemy that had cursed him so long ago.
He knew that the Sacred Demon had a hand in his journey. He knew that it spurred him on, even more than the whale, driving him to kill everything that kept him from the creator.
But what was the connection? Why had he been there in the fire, and what had quenched it? How had he fallen so far from strength that he now struggled against mere weaklings? And why did the demon want the Architect dead?
Part of him wondered what answers the whale might have. He was well aware that she filtered his thoughts; his memories too. But she swore that the only thing she erased now was the pain of death…
… But what if she had distorted his other memories too?
…
… It didn’t matter.
He knew his purpose; both the order forced upon him and his own.
Kill the creator.
Then kill the whale.
And then kill the demon.
… So he trudged on into the base of the accursed tree, his heart ablaze with fury.
--------------------
It didn’t take long for him to find a formidable enemy. Large rats, living vines, and senile cultists were easy enough, but the walking amalgamation of coral and shells before him was proving to put up more of a fight.
Its attacks were ferocious, and the Ironclad’s own were proving ineffective. He was weak from battle and had clearly overextended himself, his vision blurring as the skulking colony trudged towards him with uneven, shambling steps.
But this would not be how he fell.
“… Pain… is nothing,” he mumbled between panting breaths. He could feel the demon’s influence within his mind. “My enemies… must die…”
He let out a slow, calming exhale, bracing himself. As the opposing creature grew closer, he put his own blade against his hand…
- Bloodletting + -
And cut deep.
Immediately, a surge of hurt rushed through him, filling his body with adrenaline. He sucked in a sharp breath between his gritted teeth, his eyes opening wide underneath his rusted, bloodstained helmet.
- Not Yet -
This injury was a momentary price that could be paid for later; right now, it had given his body the power it needed to defy his end. He clutched his sword with both hands, raising it high above his own head.
- Strike -
Now granted last-resort strength, the wounded warrior let out a shout as he swung his blade down, cleaving off a portion of his enemy. It staggered backwards, seemingly in pain at the loss of its only arm…
Alas, it was not enough. After regaining its footing, the mass of hardened coral stomped towards him again, clearly intent on killing.
It was then that the Ironclad embraced his end, finally falling to one knee as the blood trickled down his hand, staining the docks below him. He was out of breath, out of options, out of resources, and out of time.
The only comfort was knowing that this death would be erased from his mind, just like all the others. Surely, he would do better next time; but that didn’t ease his self-hatred for being so weak.
Except, as his consciousness began to fade and he anticipated a deadly blow, the Ironclad never felt that final strike.
Looking up from his feeble position, he thought he saw a familiar green cloak in front of him, stabbing deep into the shambling mass with a crooked dagger. It was hard to keep his eyes open long enough to verify, but he could’ve sworn that it was…
“… You…”
With that, the armored warrior’s vision went black.
--------------------
By the time that his eyes opened again, the Ironclad was somewhere else. It looked like a lone stone island, with tall wooden beams and fishnets spread out amidst the rippling waves around him.
The only other things he could see were two logs laying on their side, dimly lit by the cyan-blue warmth of a nearby fire. He had been here before – a rest site.
As he attempted to regain his bearings and understand just what had happened, the nearby snap of a twig suddenly set his senses on end. He turned to face its source as he desperately reached for his sword, only to find it sitting far outside his range.
Though once the approaching figure came into view, the Ironclad let out a small sigh of relief. It was only her.
The green-cloaked woman stepped out from the dark, holding a small bundle of dry wood. The animal skull she wore obscured most of her face, though he could still see her dark cheeks and mouth, as well as the several bandages she wrapped herself in.
As usual, she did not speak, and hardly acknowledged the man lying next to the fire. In a similar fashion, the Ironclad did not make much effort to speak with her. He merely looked away as her bound arms tossed the broken pieces of dock into the fire in front of them, sparking a loud crackle.
The two of them had met before. Many times. Without fail, the two always found each other when one needed the other most, when they were surely about to falter in their ascent.
It was ironic; fateful, even, that they only appeared when one of their lives were on the line…
Though, there was one time that was peaceful.
~
Once again, the Ironclad had become so caught up in the heat of battle that he had lost his sense of self-preservation. Although his curse supplied him a never-ceasing fire within that restored his injuries, that fire summoned heat; one that was consuming him and his mind, just like the purple blaze atop the Spire.
However, throughout his countless ascents, he once found a wellspring.
The pool was inviting, both beautiful and clear – a rarity for water anywhere these days. On top of that, the light inside the cave he found it in was dim and cool, perfect for calming the senses.
Though before the Ironclad entered, he spotted a figure already wading within, her shoulders and head resting gently above the water’s surface. Her back was turned, but he could see that her braided hair was silver, her thick skin dark and scarred, much like the green huntress.
She, like the serene waters within, was beautiful to behold…
… But beauty was nothing worth pursuing.
He prepared to march on, to forget about the enticing waters and figure. His injuries could heal themselves, and the fire could burn awhile longer. Pain was nothing, after all.
However, a nagging sensation remained on his mind, causing him to turn around. He couldn’t quite determine its source, and knew that its unanswered torment would only increase should he not snuff it out now. He had to know…
Coming out from his hiding place around a large stone, the Ironclad spoke up.
“… Is that you…?”
The figure jolted at the sound of a voice, though she did not turn around. Instead, she slowly waded towards the nearby shore, where she reached for a familiar animal skull, holding it over her face.
Only then did she turn around, and the warrior’s answer was clear. It was her.
There was a moment of quiet between the two, their gazes unwavering from the other. Then, after a lengthy silence, he spoke up again.
“… May I… join you…?”
She didn’t respond. Not with words, anyway, but that was to be expected. Throughout their many meetings, he had come to learn that her tribe believed speech to be a sign of weakness.
But as the Ironclad drew closer, she didn’t oppose him, still holding her skull over her face. The woman’s actions, or the lack thereof, did most of the talking.
Therefore, it seemed that he was cautiously welcomed in.
As he took off his outermost layers, he felt no embarrassment, nor shame, nor worry. The two of them, whether they wanted to admit it or not, felt safe around the other, which was no surprise given their multiple interferences in saving the other’s life.
They had earned the other’s trust; no small thing. However, there still seemed to be a respectful boundary between them, as they both refused to let themselves be seen without their masks.
Finally, the helmeted Ironclad waded into the wellspring, feeling the natural cold of the water against his aching skin. It cooled his burning blood, offering him some of the greatest calm he had ever found within the Spire.
The weary man took a deep breath through his nostrils, sinking in further as his mind finally received clarity. It was… pleasant.
As he rested, the woman in front of him remained silent, refusing to take her eyes off of her new company. However, her gaze felt softer now, more resembling a house cat staring at something curious than a predator eyeing their prey.
The two spent a long time within the wellspring, never sharing another word with each other. There was only the occasional drip of a stalactite, or the rippling waves of movement within the glowing water.
He would sometimes notice her gazing at him, only for her to face away when he tried to turn around. He knew not why she would stare, nor did he care to know.
Finally, after enough time, the Ironclad rose from the waters, his scarred body healed. It was time to resume his ascent; he had wasted enough time.
As he donned his gauntlets and greaves, the woman’s eyes still remained on him, though his never turned around to meet hers. Then, without a word, he left her.
~
That meeting was the only non-violent one. There were no other moments that didn’t involve some battle-conditioned salvation, and even during those instances, the other would leave shortly after. Any form of communication, or even a thanks, were few and far between. Maybe a nod of acknowledgement if one was lucky.
And so, the pair found themselves sitting together in respectful silence once more. The Ironclad remained sitting upright against the log while his silent companion crossed her legs on the opposite side of the fire.
Looking down at his left hand, the weary warrior could see that his cut from earlier had already begun to heal, leaving but a faint scar. Though when multiple scars occupy the same space, it becomes far more noticeable, the multiple instances of bloodletting standing out amongst his dark green skin.
He suddenly heard two knocks hit his log. Turning around, he saw the Silent staring at him once more through her decorative headwear.
For once, she instigated communication, tapping the side of her head before bringing her hand down into a Y-shape.
Why?
He stared back at her through his helmet. He knew that she only communicated through signing and other gestures, but he still didn’t understand what she was asking.
… Why cut? the woman clarified.
“… Power,” he answered, turning away as he flexed his hand in and out. “Scares the body. Fight or flight response.”
She knocked on his dead log again, regaining his attention.
… You hurt to summon adrenaline.
“Yes.”
Foolish.
The Ironclad offered her no response that time, briefly glancing away. Let her think what she wants to.
… Pain is bad resource to rely on, she continued.
“Why.” The man’s speech was stiff and frustrated, his tone displaying his determined mindset.
Gives adrenaline, but can grow dull. Never grow dull to pain if you want to survive.
“… Pain is nothing,” the Ironclad muttered, repeating his inner mantra. “A meager resource. Nothing else.”
You will die out there. Unending.
“As will you,” he replied, his frustration rising. “As we have for years.”
You should stop. What happens after you reach the top?
Her constant protests finally struck a nerve within the warrior. He would come to regret what he said next.
“I will do as I please. Keep to yourself, huntress, before I cut you too.”
The Silent stared on for another moment before turning away herself and fixating on the fire. If he wouldn’t listen to her, why communicate at all.
The silence that followed was unlike the one they usually found themselves sitting in. Whereas their usual quiet was respectful and comfortable, this one was hostile and tense, full of frustration.
Eventually, the green-garbed woman stood up and prepared to march on. She had her own reasons for coming to the Spire, and if he was so content to speed up his own untimely end, then she would leave him to it.
But before she could pass by her company, she felt a warm hand grab her wrist, halting her departure.
“… Forgive me. My… tongue is not my own.”
A feeble excuse. She didn’t face him.
“I do not wish to endure this pain forever. I seek liberation from myself.”
Still poor. One must remain calm and collected when on a hunt, and self-harm only-
“… Nor could I ever cut you.”
…
That last sentence gave her pause. Granted, the two of them had formed an odd sense of companionship after all of their near misses, but…
… Only then, for the first time, did the Silent wonder why they always felt compelled to save each other.
She knew that was not an empathetic person. Vulnerability leads to opportunity. Opportunity leads to weakness. Weakness leads to death.
In a similar fashion, she had witnessed him fight. Sometimes he resembled one of the monstrous Spirekin more than man. Mercy was clearly a foreign word to the Ironclad tribe of the north.
So why did she feel pity when he spoke that way about her? Better yet, what compelled him to admit such a thing?
“… Please…” the man mumbled, snapping the Silent out of her confusing thoughts, “… stay a while longer.”
She finally looked back down at the pleading soldier, signing again with her free hand.
Why?
“I would like to rest. You’re the only one I trust to protect me.”
Now he was asking favors. Why did she even bother with him? She shook her wrist away, fully planning to leave then and there.
“… Then why do you save me?” the Ironclad called out after her. “Every time we meet, one saves the other. What is your reasoning?”
Another hesitation. She wished that she could answer that question herself.
…
……
… She had said that self-preservation was important…
With a huff, she turned back towards her ally and trudged right past him, seating herself on the log opposite of the blue fire once more. She refused to look at him, instead staring off into the dark distance of the Underdocks.
The seated warrior slowly nodded in surprise. Although she hadn’t answered his question, he was secretly relieved; some part of him didn’t actually want to know why she saved him, and another part would be unable to answer should she pose the question back at him.
For now, some things might be best left unanswered.
“… Thank you.”
With that, he turned around and laid himself onto his side, facing away from the fire and his company. Sleep would do him well; and though his tribe was long gone, their belief in the importance of dreams never left him.
She truly was the only one to be grateful for within the Spire’s walls…
As the man drifted off, the Silent was faced with a disturbing amount of self-reflection. What was it that drove her that first time she saved him? That still drives her? Her hunt was supposed to be a lone one…
So why did she seem more content when she had him around…?
…
… Enough.
The woman wasn’t fond of dwelling on feelings. Feelings obscure judgement. Judgement is key. She would rather ponder his odd nature.
At times, the man was like a blood-starved beast, only for him to seem as calm and composed as she was the next time they met. It was clear that he was losing his mind, though she was unable to tell what exactly it was that drove the warrior so mad.
Perhaps it had something to do with the red brand she had noticed just below the nape of his neck when they bathed all that time ago. Or perhaps an Ancient had blessed him with some unfortunate boon that stole his mind from him; he had claimed that his tongue was not his own. Or maybe the man was just senile before he even stepped foot within the Spire.
Why, then, could she not bring herself to not care about the man? He was foolish. Rash. Too quick to sacrifice himself for a kill. There was no good in a completed hunt that ended in mutual death.
But he was also good company. He understood her. Respected her principles. In fact, he was the only one she had met that could understand her signing, much to her surprise. She had no idea where someone like him would have learned such a form of communication.
Was it a feeling of unpaid debt? Was it the damned companionship that she felt had formed between them? Or was she simply losing her mind too?
… Someday she would have her answers. But for now, she had her objective.
After ensuring that her companion was asleep, the Silent pulled up her sleeve and gently unraveled the bandages around her left wrist, gazing down.
Seeing the vile Blight still running rampant within her veins made her skin crawl. It pulsated a dark purple and left a burning sensation within, the stinging pain often spiking whenever her heart rate rose.
…
She didn’t have much time left.
Their approval was everything.
She would belong.
--------------------
The Ironclad awoke many hours later. It was hard to tell exactly how much time had passed since he fell asleep, but he felt well-rested, so it had clearly been a while.
Looking around, he saw that the fire had been put out and his company had vanished. Makes sense; she was never one to stay long, and their conversation from before had been the longest they had ever engaged in communication. She must have wanted to get on with her hunt.
… Though, once he finally sat up, he noticed something sitting on top of the log by his head.
Taking it within his rigid hands, the Ironclad examined the placed object. It appeared to be a thick roll of bandages, just like the ones she wore, with a small note written on it.
You will cut and be cut again.
Two conflicting emotions washed over him: guilt and gratitude.
She was surprisingly kind to do everything that she had for him, from saving him once more to agreeing to keep watch as he slept, and now offering him a gift. This was far too much kindness to go unpaid.
But he was also grateful. Bandages would not only speed his supernatural healing up even more, but would also serve as a reminder to keep himself alive. No one else within the Spire had been this considerate of him.
… Why did someone like her care so much for his safety? First, she told him to value his own life more, and now she was taking measures to help him even when she wasn’t there?
…
… Maybe he had to find his own answer to the question. There had to be a reason he cared for her, and she had to have a similar reason for the inverse.
The Ironclad eventually sat up and gently tore the portion of the bandage with the message written on it off, wrapping it around his left hand. As he wound it around again and again, he made a solitary vow to himself; though, secretly, it was for her.
Pain is nothing. My enemies must die.
But in spite of resurrection, my life is precious.
This binding shall only be severed by death itself.
With one final tug of the bandage, her writing was securely fastened to his palm, hidden well beneath several layers of cloth. And so, the Ironclad took his sword in hand and marched on, resuming his mission.
And deep within what little remained of his sense of self, he hoped to see her again, though not on the battlefield.
Perhaps…
… Yes, a moment of quiet by the fire…
… That sounded pleasant.