Chapter Text
"Brother Squad Leader, if anything is weighing on you, there's no shame in telling us." Audin's voice boomed from right behind him, and Enkrid's grip on his sword slipped, the blade nearly clattering to the ground.
He hadn't heard a single footstep.
"I'm fine," Enkrid sighed, swiping a hand across his sweaty forehead. The sun was brutal as of late, scorching the earth and making his skin prickle with heat, yet he'd somehow liked this burning discomfort more than the comforting coolness.
"Yeah, sure," Rem called from the shade of the rustling leaves. He'd shed his armor and boots, lying on the dewy grass, looking utterly content. "So fine you've been staring at nothing for five solid minutes."
"Am I not allowed to daydream?" The words sounded absurd even to his own ears.
"If you ever pick daydreaming over training," Ragna drawled from where he was lounging against a log, "I'll march over to that brute and kiss him square on the mouth. Swear I won't even puke." He barely flinched as an axe thudded into the tree beside him, the impact so violent the trunk shuddered, threatening to drop its heavy body on the two idiots beneath.
"But really, brother," Audin's tone was softer now, his usually gentle face turning serious. His large, calloused hand came to rest on Enkrid's shoulder, a steady, comforting weight. "Your heart is too small to carry all the worries alone. Give me at least half. Mine's big enough to hold them with ease."
Enkrid tuned out the familiar noise around him. The bickering. The clang of sword against axe. He looked down at his own hands. These hands... He'd seen them ripped to shreds, bone showing white while wolves tore him apart. He'd felt them burn to ash in a mage's fire. And now these same hands just felt... empty. They missed the sharp, clean feeling of real pain, the way his whole body focused when it was pushed to the edge. He missed the wild joy bubbling in his throat alongside blood.
But how could he ever say that? The moment he did, they'd have no choice but to report him to the higher-ups. He'd be pulled from the squad, labeled unstable, even suicidal, and watched day and night. He'd lose the only life he wants.
His lips twitched, a silent struggle to form words that didn't exist. He felt Audin's hand tighten its grip, the big man lowering his frame slightly to hear him better. Enkrid was still searching for a way to explain that his problem wasn't an abundance of troubles, but a devastating lack of them, that daily life, with all its mundane safety, was plain and flavourless next to the vivid agony of death he had experienced a hundreds times over.
"Captain is allowed to have his own secrets, Audin. Don't push him. He's stubborn enough to overcome it all." Jaxon's voice, quiet but firm, cut through the tension. The calming weight on Enkrid's shoulder disappeared as Audin straightened up, his concerned expression shifting to a soft smile.
"Of course" he rumbled, clapping Enkrid on the back, this time with a force that was more camaraderie than comfort. "A man's thoughts are his own castle. Just remember, brother, the drawbridge is always down for us if you change your mind."
Enkrid gave a slow, thoughtful nod, his gaze drifting over to where Rem and Ragna were still bickering, their argument leaving them panting in the scorching heat as they tried to slur out the words.
"How about a spar?" Enkrid proposed, his voice cutting through with calm authority.
The effect was immediate. The petty squabble was forgotten. Rem shot upright, a hunter's grin flashing across his face as he wrenched his axe free from the tree with a sharp crack of splintering wood. Across from him, Ragna stood up straight with a lazy grace that now thrummed with sudden energy. Audin merely smiled, cracking his knuckles with a series of pops like falling stones, a low, happy rumble vibrating in his chest.
First was Rem, ignoring the turn order entirely and throwing himself forward with a crazed grin. Steel met steel in a screaming chorus, sparks flying with each furious impact. Enkrid became a whirlwind of defense, dodging a wild swing, parrying a low strike, blocking an overhead chop. He fell into the steady rhythm of a fight, a dance that lasted for minutes, each clash ringing in his ears.
But it wasn't enough. Rem's frenetic energy was a storm, and Enkrid was being worn down. Gritting his teeth, he allowed his blood to pump faster, ignoring the want to push it hard enough for this crushing pain in his chest to appear again.
The world sharpened. The cacophony refined into individual sounds: the whistle of the axe, the crunch of gravel underfoot, Rem's ragged breath. His own movements became faster, sharper, each strike a calculated, refined counter. He pushed the power, feeling for its edge.
For a few glorious seconds, he was finally keeping up. Then, he pushed a fraction too far, his stance too wide, legs unsteady as he was chasing the blow. His flawless rhythm faltered for a single heartbeat. It was all the opening Rem needed. The hilt of an axe slammed into his thigh with brutal force. A numbing shockwave erupted through his leg. His balance vanished, and the world tilted. Rem swapped places with the sky and Enkrid landed hard on his back in the dirt, the air driven from his lungs.
That would surely leave a nasty bruise.
Enkrid wanted more.
"Ragna." He didn't need to say anything else. The man was already stepping forward, shooting Rem a glare that promised to beat the shit out of him for stealing his turn.
Enkrid pushed himself up slowly, his body protesting. He swayed on his feet, the leg Rem had struck feeling like a foreign, heavy weight attached to his hip. He shifted his stance, attempting to adjust to the lingering numbness.
"Brother Squad Leader, if you need a moment-" Audin began, his voice gentle.
"I'm fine," Enkrid interrupted, the words coming out sharper than he intended. He bent down, his fingers closing around the familiar leather grip of his sword.
Ragna didn't give him a chance to find his center. He came in with a quick charge, his heavy sword held ready. "Let's see how fine you are, Captain," he grunted, eyes narrowed.
The first swing was a testing blow, but even as Enkrid blocked it, the impact shuddered up his arm and jolted his injured leg. A flicker of pain flared, but it was a shallow, fleeting thing, a mere whisper when he was desperate for a scream. He gritted his teeth, pushing back. He knew Ragna's style: powerful, straightforward, meant to overwhelm. He could see the attacks coming, could trace their trajectory in his mind with perfect clarity, yet his body betrayed him. His hands, usually so sure, allowed the flat of the blade to graze his side. His legs felt sluggish and uncooperative, making it easier to get hit than to evade. He knew he should be fighting with fluidness, but the dull tenderness in his thigh wasn't the sharp, focusing pain he needed. It was just a distraction, a constant, nagging pull on his attention.
He wanted that leg gone.
One clumsy strike, then another. Enkrid's hands tightened around the hilt, a white-knuckled grip that defied all his training. As Ragna's sword descended in another powerful arc, Enkrid's locked wrists took the full force, a jarring impact that sent a sharp twinge up his arm. He remembered to loosen his grip a second too late, his fingers relaxing. His sword clattered to the dirt. In the next heartbeat, the hilt of Ragna's sword thudded into his chest, sending him stumbling back onto the ground. Once again, not the blade. Were they going easy on him?
"You're distracted," Ragna muttered, panting more from the heat, then from the fight, offering a hand to pull him up. He tried hard not to question the unnerving suspicion that Enkrid was subtly positioning himself to receive the blows rather than genuinely trying to parry them.
"Captain, whatever is bothering you, don't let it dull your senses," Jaxon chimed in from the sidelines, his voice calm. "Right now, you're nowhere near your normal level."
And that did sting, even for a man who prided himself on his thick skin. He just couldn't focus. His mind was a blurred pane of glass, and the world outside was shapeless and dull.
His leg and chest throbbed in unison, a persistent discomfort. But it wasn't the satisfying pain he craved. It didn't get through the fog in his head or send adrenaline singing in his veins. It was just a mild, irritating reminder of his own inadequacy.
"I believe we should not spar while you are like this, brother," Audin's voice boomed, calm and gentle as if speaking to a wild animal. "Maybe the heat has gotten to you?"
"No." Enkrid got up with Ragna's help, his jaw set into a hard line. "We are sparring." He met their worried gazes, his own eyes burning with a desperate, stubborn fire. "It's an order." The men looked exasperated, a silent protest written on their faces, but he didn't care. Although they weren't really bound by duty, they still wouldn't defy him.
"I'll go easy, brother," Audin said with a gentle, knowing smile as he stepped forward, rolling his massive shoulders.
Enkrid didn't try to fight against it. A bitter taste filled his mouth. It's not like he could force the man to go all out. He was their captain, but at the same time they all were just humouring him.
Audin's version of easy was simply torture designed to leave no lasting injuries. His fists were like falling stones, fast and precise, and Enkrid could barely parry them with his own forearms, the impacts sending dull shocks through his bones. He tried to use his smaller frame to his advantage, slipping around and wriggling out of grappling range, but Audin's reach was too great, his control absolute. In the end, Enkrid was forced to the ground, a heavy knee settling on his back, pinning him. One of his arms was wrenched up and back, caught in a grip so tight he could almost feel the joint groaning in its socket.
Somehow, his mind latched onto that single, crystalline thought: the slight, sickening shift of the bone, the deep, building pressure in his shoulder. This was real. This was a sensation that cut through the fog. If he just moved, twisted the wrong way... maybe it would be enough. Maybe tomorrow, a new wall would finally appear for him to find a way to work around the injury.
For him to die.
"Brother Squad Leader, you're really out of-" Audin couldn't even react fast enough.
There was a loud, wet pop.
Enkrid sighed, a soft, shuddering sound, which was born from both relief and agony.
"The hell?!" Ragna's sword and Rem's axe were instantly at Audin's throat, their faces contorted with fury.
Audin easily held them back with two massive arms, his face a canvas of pure, stricken bewilderment. "Brother...?" he breathed out, his eyes locked on the grotesque, unnatural angle of Enkrid's shoulder. He scrambled to create space, his voice soft. "Easy now, let's get you sitting up."
Enkrid moved slowly, cradling the injured arm. As he shifted, he gave a subtle, deliberate tug, a movement masked by the motion. A fresh, brilliant spike of pain lanced through the joint, and a shiver of satisfaction coursed through him.
Muffled bickering swirled from above, Rem's sharp curses, Ragna's furious demands, but the words were distant, drowned out by the roaring in his own skull. Then, Audin's large, impossibly gentle hands took hold of his arm and shoulder. With a firm, practiced motion, there was a nauseating slide and a deep, solid thunk as the joint reseated itself. The relief was instant, the sharp agony receding into a deep, throbbing ache.
But Enkrid was already adrift in a haze of contentment, the ghost of that perfect, clarifying pain still singing in his nerves. He was so consumed by the afterglow that he completely missed the heavy, dreadful glance Audin shared with Jaxon.
The world snapped back into focus with jarring clarity. The throbbing in his shoulder was now a mundane annoyance, the euphoric high already fading, leaving behind the familiar, hollow quiet.
"He needs a healer," Ragna stated, his voice gruff but laced with an uncertainty they rarely heard. He was looking at Enkrid not as a warrior who'd sustained a training injury, but as something fragile.
"No," Enkrid said, his voice rough. He pushed himself to his feet, testing the weight on the injured arm. A fresh, welcome twinge shot through it. "It's fine. It's back in place."
"It is not fine," Jaxon said, his voice low and dangerously calm. He hadn't moved, his arms crossed. His gaze was a physical weight. "A sprain is fine. A bruise is fine. A deliberately dislocated shoulder is not fine."
The word "deliberately" hung in the air, toxic and inescapable. Rem and Ragna fell utterly silent, their eyes darting to their captain. Audin stared at him, his usual gentle smile gone, replaced by a deep, troubled frown.
Enkrid met Jaxon's stare.
"You're out of line, soldier."
The coldness acted like a physical blow. The entire group stiffned, even Enkrid himself. Jaxon's own eyes widened in a flash of shock, before his expression hardened into an impenetrable mask.
"Understood," he muttered, his brows furrowing into a deep line. Without another word, he turned on his heel and left, his departure as sharp and final as a slamming door.
"What's up with you, boss?" Even Rem sounded incredulous, his usual cheek gone. As much as he disliked that sly cat, he never expected their captain to act this way.
"I'm fine." Enkrid muttered, already walking towards the barracks.
And somehow a quick understanding passed between them, that they could no longer trust those words coming from their captain's mouth.
***
Enkrid had barely spoken to his crew for weeks. It wasn't that he didn't want to, the words were just trapped behind a wall of bitter frustration. He wanted to explain, to bridge the growing chasm, but how could he form the sentence? I'm not suicidal, I just miss the feeling of dying over and over again? The pain that accompanied it all? He would sound crazy. Rem had already been suspicious back when teaching him the Heart of the Beast. Jaxon and Audin had witnessed his recent, reckless behavior firsthand. And Ragna, perceptive beneath his laziness, saw right through the cracks in his composure.
In some ways, Enkrid was more trapped now than he had ever been in battle.
The proof was in every training session. His men no longer came at him with their full, brutal force. They pulled their punches, held back their swings, treating him like a fragile recruit starting his journey from the bottom. It was a kindness that felt like a cage. He couldn't earn a single satisfying injury, a bruise that proved his endurance, a cut that reminded him he could still bleed. Their worry had disarmed him more effectively than any enemy. It pissed him off so badly that he could barely bring himself to speak, terrified that the only words that would escape the clenched cage of his teeth would be a torrent of curses he could never take back.
They were scared of hurting him, flinching from every clash where steel might kiss his skin. Because Enkrid wasn't the only one to notice the new scars that bloomed across his body like pale flowers after a storm. He wasn't the one who had to stop their Captain, time and again, from walking straight into an enemy's blade during a routine skirmish, or turning a practice bout into a near-fatal gamble.
He should have been grateful to see them watching his back so fiercely. He should have warmed at their readiness to become his shield. But their silent coordination, the way they moved to intercept, to soften every blow aimed his way, didn't make him feel protected. It left the taste of ash in his mouth.
The breaking point came during a routine drill. Ragna lunged, his heavy sword a predictable arc. Enkrid saw the opening, a clear, almost mockingly obvious shot at his ribs, and deliberately moved into its path, bracing for the impact. At the last second, Ragna twisted his wrist, turning the sharp edge away so the flat of the blade slapped harmlessly against Enkrid's armour.
Harmlessly.
The word was an insult.
Enkrid didn't step back. He stood his ground, his chest heaving, not from exertion but from sheer, bottled-up fury. The training ground fell silent.
Why couldn't they just hit?
Why did they have to act so gentle?
He wanted that sword to pierce through him.
"That's it." Enkrid's voice was dangerously low, cutting through the quiet. He threw his practice sword to the ground. It landed with a dull, final thud in the dirt.
He looked at each of them: Rem's slight frown, Audin's concern, Ragna's guarded tension, and Jaxon's knowing, solemn gaze.
"You're treating me like I'm made of glass," he stated, the words cold and sharp as shards. "I gave you an order to spar, not to playact. If the next person who faces me holds back, they can consider themselves reassigned to permanent snow-clearing duty this winter." He let the threat hang in the air, his eyes blazing with a desperate fire. "The next blow that lands on me better be one you meant to land, one which would make me feel like I'm about to die. Or you're no use to me here."
It was a brutal, ugly thing to say, and the words made his own heart ache with a hollow throb. But somehow, even that pain was welcome. It was a feeling, sharp and real, almost akin to the sensation of his heart stopping. He was starving for a real fight, and in that moment, he was willing to burn every bridge of kindness to get one.
CRACK.
A nearby sapling, cleanly severed, toppled to the ground.
Rem wrenched his axe from the trunk with a violent twist, the veins in his arms bulging. He marched over in two swift strides, shoving Ragna aside without a glance, his gaze locked on Enkrid.
"You think I haven't seen men like you before, Captain?" His tone was colder than ice, sharper than his axe. "You think death is some funny little whore for you to fuck around with whenever you're bored?"
"Rem, I-" Enkrid began, but was quickly cut off.
"Listen here, boss." He nearly spat the word, grabbing a handful of the tunic peeking from Enkrid's armor and hauling him up until their faces were inches apart. "I, no, we all respect you because of how god damn stubborn you are. But if that stubbornness dares to turn into a death wish, I'm out." With a powerful shove, he threw Enkrid back, sending him stumbling to the ground in a cloud of dust.
"Men who don't cherish their own lives don't deserve the respect of those who follow them," Rem declared, looking down at him, his gaze so frigid Enkrid felt a chill race down his spine despite the sweltering day. Yet, beneath the ice, was there a flicker of something else. Pain, maybe? "So, until you remember how to value the heart beating in your chest, you're no longer my Captain."
Rem turned on his heel and left, his axe slung over his shoulder, not looking back. A crushing silence descended, thick and palpable. Enkrid, still on the ground, was speechless. He should get up. He should continue training, spar with the others, but his body betrayed him like always lately.
"I never thought I'd say it," Ragna drawled, stepping forward from where Rem had shoved him, his usual laziness gone. "But that brute is right, boss. If you've got a problem with the very breath in your lungs, then you need to walk away. The army, and knighthood at that, damn sure isn't for corpses who haven't had the decency to lie down yet." There was no malice in his words, only a blunt, devastating truth that landed with more force than any practice blade ever could.
"They're right, brother," Audin's voice was a low rumble. "The Lord loves all of his children, and when one turns a blade on their own spirit, it weakens him. How many more will fall if a part of his strength is lost?" He looked at Enkrid, his expression full of disappointment, before turning and walking slowly back toward the barracks, his heavy steps echoing the finality of his words.
Jaxon remained. He didn't offer a hand up. He didn't speak. He was a statue of silent judgment as Enkrid slowly pushed himself to his feet, swallowing the bitter, metallic taste of shame in his throat. His chest ached with a deep, resonating pain. It felt good. It felt terrible. He couldn't understand himself anymore.
He saw Jaxon's eyes narrow, a flicker of worry crossing his features as Enkrid's hand clenched over his chest. The concern was a final string. Enkrid turned and quickly walked away, almost breaking into a run, desperate to escape before his traitorous mouth could spill more words that would only dig his grave deeper.
He should have just kept it shut from the very beginning.
***
"Is something bothering you, boss?" Krais asked from across the tent, not looking up as he stuffed rations into his pack. "I can be your therapist if you want. My rates are reasonable."
"I don't waste my krona on pointless things," Enkrid murmured, his attention fixed on the sword in his lap. He polished the blade with a slow, methodical rhythm, the cloth moving back and forth, back and forth. The glint of the clean metal was entrancing enough to make him forget about the guilt coiling in his gut.
He'd been spending more time with Krais lately. The merchant was the only one who didn't look at him with pity or suspicion. Not like there was a reason yet. With Krais, the conversation was about trade routes and the price of steel, not about his well-being. It was a relief, a small corner of his world that felt normal. He was even starting to pick up a few things about trading and urban legends, something he'd never really cared about, but it's not like there were better options.
Krais finally looked up, his sharp eyes missing nothing. "A man who polishes a sword that's already spotless is either expecting a royal inspection or trying to wear a hole through the steel." He tossed a wrapped hardtack into his pack. "You know, on a friends-and-family discount, I'll give you one advice for free."
Enkrid's hand stilled. The cloth rested on the blade. "And what would your advice be?"
"To stop lying to yourself," Krais said, his tone suddenly serious. "You're hiding. From them." He gestured vaguely towards the camp outside, where the rest of the squad was preparing. "And i don't really know why, but it's very obviously hurting everyone around." Especially Krais' beauty sleep because of all the tension in the tent everyday, but mentioning it's now wouldn't be good.
Enkrid's jaw tightened. He looked down at his hands, at the faint, shiny scars that crisscrossed his arms. New ones layered over old, a map of his growing carelessness.
"It's not that simple," Enkrid said, his voice low.
"It never is," Krais agreed. He leaned back against the tent wall. "But let me tell you. We all like you, boss. So if something happens to you, it's gonna hit us all." Krais rubbed the back of his head, feeling a flush of embarrassment. It wasn't like their dense captain would ever understand the full weight of what like meant coming from them, but he couldn't help himself.
Enkrid sighed, a short, tired sound. "I'll think about it." He went back to his sword. Krais, sensing the conversation was over, returned to his packing.
About twenty minutes prior, they'd been called to the border. Informants reported: Aspen was gathering its forces. Everyone was preparing, but Enkrid was just trying to get lost again in the familiar, hypnotic motion, because he still wasn't ready to think about fighting side to side with his men.
His shoulder, still tender despite the weeks that had passed, because he was constantly re-aggravating it, moved with each wipe, sending small, sharp prickles of pain down his arm. It felt good. A small, constant stream of sensation that flared most intensely in his palm with each press of the cloth. He could almost feel the skin there grow wet...
"Boss, what the hell?!"
His hand was suddenly wrenched away from the sword with surprising strength. The world snapped back into brutal focus. He stared, uncomprehending, at the red cloth wrapped around the blade's gleaming surface.
Wait, red?
"Have you forgotten how to clean a sword?! What is this?!" Krais was shouting now, his hands seizing Enkrid's as if it was made of glass. He frantically began searching through his medical bag. There was blood. Blood. The fog evaporated instantly as Enkrid's eyes finally registered the deep, clean gash across his palm, welling with dark red that dripped steadily onto the pristine white bedding.
Krais worked quickly, his practiced fingers applying a stinging ointment and wrapping the wound in clean bandages with an efficiency born of countless battlefield injuries.
"You didn't even feel it?" Krais's voice was low, all traces of his earlier jest gone. He tied off the bandage, his gaze fixed on Enkrid's face, searching for answers. "You were polishing the blade, and you just... kept going. Right over the edge. How does that happen?"
Enkrid looked from his bandaged hand to the bloodied sword and then to the crimson drops on the sheets. A cold knot tightened in his stomach.
Was Krais also going to treat him weird now?
"The edge was sharp," Enkrid could only say.
"The edge is always sharp!" Krais shot back, his voice rising again before he forced it back to a tense whisper. "That's not even the question! How didn't you notice, just how?!"
Before Enkrid could formulate a lie, the tent flap flew open. Jaxon stood there, his gear ready, his eyes taking in the scene in one swift, assessing glance. The bloodied cloth, the bandaged hand, the pale, shaken look on Krais's face, and Enkrid's own hollow expression.
"We move out in five," Jaxon stated. His eyes lingered on Enkrid's bandaged palm for a moment too long. His mouth opened as if to ask something more, a flicker of concern in his gaze, but he quickly shut it, the look vanishing behind a neutral mask as he turned and left.
A thick, tense silence filled the tent. Enkrid knew he'd fucked up. He didn't know what had come over him, but he couldn't stop it. There was an itch deep beneath his skin, a restless void that pain only momentarily filled, and it was driving him mad.
"Has something happened between you two?" Krais leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, ready to hear some juicy gossip if not from the main source himself, then from the crowd later on.
"No," Enkrid said, his voice flat and final. He flexed his bandaged hand, the dull throb a pathetic substitute for what he truly craved. "Everything's fine."
The lie hung in the air, as thin and fragile as the bandage on his hand. Krais didn't look convinced, but he just moved away, packing all of his supplies with a series of sharp, disapproving clicks.
"Okay," he muttered, not looking at Enkrid. "But if you start polishing your sword with your own body again, try to give me some warning."
Enkrid didn't respond. His focus had turned inward, to the phantom sensation of the blade slicing through his skin. It hadn't been an accident. He remembered now, with clarity, the moment his thumb had drifted from the flat of the blade to the honed edge. He remembered going over it with his palm as if it was a simple napkin, the sharp side of the sword engulfed by the torn muscles and skin.
Jaxon had seen. He had seen the blood, the shock, the panic. And in that fleeting moment before his mask snapped back into place, Enkrid had also seen something in Jaxon's eyes. Not just concern, but this dawning understanding.
Enkrid stood up, the world tilting for a dizzying second before righting itself. He picked up his sword, quickly wiping the blood against the sheets, and sheathed it. The weight of it at his hip was comforting. He flexed his bandaged hand again. The throb was an insult, a muffled echo of the sharp, clean pain he had been seeking, but when added to the weakness in his shoulder, it was enough to nearly render this hand useless.
Maybe, like this, a wall will finally appear?
Outside, the camp was a controlled chaos of clanking metal and shouted orders. The familiar energy should have been a tonic, snapping him back into the role of the unshakeable captain. Instead, it felt like he was watching a play from a great distance, the sounds muffled, the movements blurred.
He found his squad assembling. Rem checking his axes, Ragna half-asleep on the ground and Audin silently adjusting the straps on his massive pack. They didn't look up, averting their eyes even before Enkrid appeared in their view.
Jaxon stood apart, his posture rigid, his gaze on the distant treeline. He turned his head just enough to look at Enkrid, something pained shining in his eyes. He felt a deep, shameful heat that had nothing to do with the blazing sun, but quickly swallowed it down. They would talk later.
***
It wasn't working.
The battle had raged for hours under the merciless glare of the sun. The air was thick with the cacophony of war, the deafening clang of steel, the guttural shouts of soldiers, the screams of the wounded, and the coppery stench of blood that lay heavy over the field. All around him, men fought and died, painting the ground in shades of crimson.
Yet, Enkrid moved through the chaos as if watching it from the other side of a thick pane of glass. He parried a wild swing from a hulking Aspen soldier and drove his blade home, feeling the familiar, sickening grind of steel against bone. The man fell, his life emptying into the dirt. A clean, efficient kill. And Enkrid felt nothing. No surge of triumph, just a hollow, echoing silence.
He was fighting at a severe disadvantage. The armor was a personal oven, roasting him alive. His right hand was a useless, throbbing weight, the pain so bad he could barely curl his fingers. A deep, fatigued tremor in his legs threatened to buckle his knees with every step. By any logic, he was vulnerable, a prime target.
So why did no wall appear?
Where was the searing heat of a blade in his gut? The glorious, terrifying sensation of his body finally coming apart at the seams?
The silence in his own mind was deafening, drowning out the battle. What is wrong? He screamed internally, mechanically deflecting another clumsy blow. Is this not enough? The heat, the hand, the fatigue? Is the danger not real enough for you?
It was driving him mad. This wasn't a battle, it was a tedious, bloody chore. Every opponent he faced was slow, predictable, weak. A young soldier lunged at him with a desperate cry, Enkrid disarmed him with a flick of his wrist and knocked him unconscious with the pommel of his sword. For a fleeting second, as the boy fell, a spike of something - frustration, maybe anger - pricked at his nerves, a phantom of the adrenaline he craved. But it was shattered instantly by the mundane reality of the act. It was too easy. There was no challenge, no brink to stand upon.
He could hear his squad in the fray: Rem's fierce laughter, the low rumble of Audin's prayers, the distinctive crash of Ragna's heavy sword, shouts about an assassin cornering them. They were in the thick of it. They were alive. So why did he feel so dead? Shouldn't he be happy the repetitive days have stopped? That he was strong enough to survive? But this didn't feel good.
Enkrid began to push forward, not as a commander, but as a force of nature. He carved a path through the enemy ranks, slicing, tearing, and cutting down everyone in his way with brutal efficiency until, abruptly, there was no one left. He stood completely alone in a small pocket of sudden quiet, surrounded by the dead.
He was gasping, his skin felt like it was melting off his bones, and the thick smell of blood was perversely comforting. The only thing that truly bothered him was that none of it was his. He tried to wrestle the panic down, to find his breath, but the truth was undeniable: he could no longer live without the struggle. His wish for knighthood had long since become secondary to the addiction of dying over and over, secure in the knowledge that he would, in the end, still win.
A terrible thought bloomed in the silence. If the enemy would not provide the struggle, if the world would not give him a wall to break... then maybe he had to build his own. If only he gave himself something to fight against, if only-
He didn't even notice the movement until a massive, bandaged hand closed around his wrist with bone-crushing force, wrenching the sword from his grip. Another big hand seized his other arm. Shouting erupted around him.
"Are you out of your fucking mind, ca- Enkrid?!" Rem's voice, shrill with panic.
"I told you he was unstable." Jaxon snarled.
"Oh, Lord, why do you give your purest souls the hardest tests?" Audin's prayer was close to a sob.
"I didn't teach you how to wield a sword so you could turn it on yourself!" That was Ragna, his voice raw.
"I have a medkit, but we need a healer, now!"
Enkrid blinked, the world swimming back into focus again. He looked down. One of his fingers on his right hand was sliced almost completely off, hanging by a grotesque thread of muscle and skin, the bone cleanly crushed. He couldn't stop staring at it, mesmerized by the injury, by the fact that he had no memory of making the cut.
He barely registered the blur of movement, or the sharp, concussive impact as Jaxon's fist connected with his temple. Darkness swallowed him whole.
"I think we all understand that this needs to be reported." Jaxon's voice was quiet, but it hung in the tense air of the tent, a verdict none of them wanted to hear. They had dragged their unconscious captain back from the battlefield, and now he lay on his cot, a silent centerpiece to their meeting.
"Maybe we've just... misunderstood his actions?" Krais offered, the words weak even as he said them. No one met his eye. The lie couldn't survive the memory of Enkrid's nearly-severed finger and the sword pushing through.
"This isn't a one-time mistake," Ragna sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion. He rested his chin on his hands, which were folded over the pommel of his sword. "It's been weeks. It's a pattern."
A sudden rustle from the cot made them all freeze. Enkrid turned onto his side with a soft sigh, his bandaged hand curling protectively. He remained deep in unconsciousness. The conversation continued, hushed and strained.
"As much as I would hate to see our tiny brother's dream shattered," Audin whispered, his large hands clasped tightly together as if in prayer, "it is a lesser evil than seeing his life end. He must be kept safe, even from himself."
"Tsk." The sound came from the corner where Rem stood, his body rigid with a coiled, furious energy. "There's no way they're keeping him in the army after we tell them everything. So, who's going to be the one to do it?"
The tent fell into a thick, suffocating silence. The question hung there, unanswered. None of them could bear the thought of being the one to look into Enkrid's eyes and confess they had been the one to ruin everything. To be the one who stripped him of his rank, his command, his chance at knighthood. Their loyalty and love for him had become a cage, and every possible path out felt like a betrayal.
"...Let's just watch him for a while," Jaxon finally said, his voice rough. He reached out, his movements gentle as he brushed a few dark strands of hair from Enkrid's forehead. The Captain's face, usually a mask of stern determination, looked strangely young and peaceful in sleep. "If it gets worse…" Jaxon paused, his jaw tightening. "I'll make sure to tell."
The way he said it made it sound like he was swallowing poison. No one laughed. They all understood the taste.
***
Enkrid didn't know what to do.
Well, that wasn't entirely true, he knew exactly what he wanted to do, which was to just break through a new wall once again. What he didn't know was how to live like this.
His men had become his shadows, a single-minded being whose only purpose was his containment. It was suffocating.
It was ridiculous.
If he even looked toward the training grounds, Rem would appear. His grin was too wide as he asked to spar. Their fights were now a sad joke, a slow dance where the only danger was dying of boredom. If he sat to clean his sword, Krais would swoop in. He would take the blade and cloth right from his hands, talking fast about metal quality as he did the work for him. Audin was always nearby, a giant of false cheer, telling loud stories or pushing food on him, his big body blocking the way to anything even remotely dangerous. Ragna constantly sat nearby, sharpening his weapons. The awful screech of steel on stone grated on his nerves. And Jaxon… Jaxon was just always there. A quiet, watching shadow. His worry was a heavier burden than any armor.
He was grateful they hadn't told on him. That secret was the only thing keeping him from being thrown out. But their way of helping felt like a different kind of death. They had saved him from being cast out, only to lock him in a golden cage. He had no time alone, no private thoughts, no way to even scratch an itch without someone seeing. He was still their Captain, but he had slowly realized a terrible truth: he had lost all control. His words were ignored. His commands were treated as suggestions,
The final straw came at dinner, less than a week into this new routine. As Enkrid reached for his knife to saw through a piece of tough dried meat, the world narrowed. Five pairs of eyes snapped to his hand with the synchronized focus of a hawk sighting prey. The lively conversation around the table died an instant, strangled death.
"Allow me, brother," Audin said, his voice a little too loud, a little too cheerful. His large hand enveloped Enkrid's, gently but firmly prying the utensil from his grip.
"It's just meat," Enkrid stated, his voice dangerously flat.
"The blade is dull. You'll strain your wrist," Ragna added from the other side of the table, not looking up from cleanly slicing his own steak with a razor-sharp edge.
Fine, Enkrid thought, a bitter taste flooding his mouth. He could stomach them not trusting him with a blade. He reached for the clay water jug with his bandaged hand instead. The fingers, still stiff and uncooperative, fumbled. The jug slipped, tilting towards the ground where it would shatter into a hundred pieces.
It never hit. Jaxon’s hand shot out, snatching it from the air with effortless grace. He didn't speak. He just placed it back on the table with a soft, definitive thud, his eyes locking with Enkrid's. The message was clear: See? You can't even manage this on your own.
A cold, quiet fury settled over Enkrid, colder and sharper than any hunger for death. What did they see when they looked at him? A porcelain doll? A child to be managed? He was their Captain.
He stood up without a word. The others shifted instantly, a single organism preparing to intercept, to herd him back into the cage.
"Sit."
The word was a shard of ice, carrying the full, frozen weight of his rank. It wasn't a request. It was the crack of a whip, a command that had made even the soldiers at other tables twitch.
It had no effect.
"Ha-ah? Did someone hear something?" Rem drawled, digging a finger in his ear with theatrical slowness. He spat to the side. "Sounded like a guy trying to act like a boss." His gaze sharpened, all mockery vanishing, replaced by a flinty seriousness. "But I already said I don't obey men who don't cherish their own life."
A deep, palpable pressure crushed the air, so thick that the soldiers at neighboring tables fell silent, their own meals forgotten. Something painful and hot coiled in Enkrid's gut, a mix of fire and bile. A terrible idea bloomed in his angry mind. If he couldn't hurt himself physically under their watch, perhaps he could provoke one of them into becoming the wall he so desperately needed to break against. Maybe their hatred could deliver him the death he so wanted.
"So go find yourself another captain, Noble Hunter."
The words were loud and perfectly aimed, a dagger twisted in the one wound he knew would bleed. He heard hushed whispers and scared gasps. The look of sheer, gut-punched disbelief that flashed across Rem's face was followed by a wave of raw anger and hurt. Good. Enkrid wanted it to hurt. He wanted it to scar. Because his own heart was bleeding, too, and the pain was a secret, shameful relief. It was nice. It was horrible. He felt awful.
He turned and almost ran from the canteen, his ears ringing, ignoring the frantic scrape of chairs behind him. Quiet, determined footsteps followed at a distance, but he didn't care. He told himself he didn't care about his people, about their feelings, about the irreversible ruin he was bringing down upon every bond they'd forged. He didn't-
He didn't breathe.
No, more accurately, he couldn't.
A sob, ragged and silent, tore at his throat. It hurt. It hurt so fucking much. Because he was already failing, already dragging everyone down into this. He was a selfish, pathetic bastard whose favorite toy had been taken away, and now he was lashing out at the only people who cared enough to try and stop him from breaking completely.
He stumbled behind a supply tent, his body convulsing. A wave of acidic heat traveled up his throat, burning his esophagus, and he found himself hoping it would scorch his vocal cords completely. Then the vomit came, a bitter purge that spilled onto the dirt. He coughed, his whole body shaking, a cold sweat prickling his forehead despite the evening's warmth. This was what dying felt like. Not the clean, sharp end of a blade, but this. His vision swimming, his heart being crushed, every sensation both unbearably sharp and numbingly dull at the same time.
He felt a hand on his back, a slow, steady pat. Ragna?
"It's okay, Captain." The words sounded distant, as if he was underwater. His mouth burned with all the apologies he couldn't form. Then, a gentle, almost shy arm wrapped around his shoulders. He could hear hushed, urgent whispers in the background, Audin's deep rumble, Jaxon's sharp tone, but he couldn't bring himself to look. It was better not to know. It was safer.
Another heave wracked his frame, his stomach cramping violently. The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow. He'd really done it. He'd thrown Rem's secret in his face in front of everyone. For a moment of petty relief.
Shit.
"Move," a voice, cold and flat, cut through the noise.
Ragna's arm tightened for a second, a protective shield, before reluctantly pulling away. Rem stood there, his face a stony mask, all the earlier anger banked into something colder and more dangerous. His hand shot out, grabbing Enkrid by the upper arm, wrenching him upright with a force that made his joints scream.
A part of Enkrid, the sick, twisted one, would have loved it if he had broken it.
There was a tiny beat of silence as Rem's gaze raked over him, taking in the sweat, the tremor, the utter wreckage.
"Decided that if we won't let you hurt yourself, you'd make one of us do it for you?" Rem's voice was unnervingly calm, a razor wrapped in silk. "Or do you just get off on this? On feeling like absolute shit?" His tone began to fray, the anger seeping through. "You like it, huh?! Want to make us hate you, right?! So you can feel even more like shit?!"
"No-" Enkrid shut his mouth, the denial dying on his tongue. It would be a lie. The thought had been there, festering in the dark corners of his mind.
"Then guess what, you selfish brat, we're not leaving!" Rem snarled, yanking him closer, ignoring the stench of bile. "You think we'd put up with this from anyone else? You think we'd coddle some other soldier and hide his secrets and watch him night and day?!"
No. No, they wouldn't. They were loyal, but they weren't fools.
"I don't know what your deal is," Rem's voice cracked, the fury giving way to a raw, desperate plea. His grip shifted, becoming almost gentle. "But you have to stop it. Just... stop it all."
But who was Enkrid to ever stop? No, no, he couldn't.
"Please, Captain," Krais murmured from the side, his hand draping across Enkrid's back in a slow, soothing circle. "Just talk to us. I have the money and the wits to find a solution. They have the strength to go through with-"
"Are you saying I'm dumb?!" Rem roared, his attention minutely diverted.
"Shut it, you brute," Ragna grunted, driving an elbow into Rem's side, a brief spark of normalcy in the overwhelming tension.
Rem's hand fell from Enkrid's arm as the two squared off, their postures coiled as if for battle. And Enkrid... stood frozen, his mind a perfect, white blank.
"Brother, please," Audin rumbled, his massive, gentle hands coming to rest on Enkrid's shoulders, a warm, heavy weight. "We only wish for your healing. For you to cease this war against your own spirit, and against ours."
There was nothing in Enkrid's throat but the burn of bile and shame.
"Captain, I know how difficult it can be to place your trust in others," Jaxon said, his voice steady. He stepped closer, gently wiping the vomit from Enkrid's lips with a damp cloth. The nauseating smell faded, replaced by the clean scent of something floral. Enkrid looked up, his eyes meeting Jaxon's. There was a slight twitch of fingers and the fabric fell down to the grond. The warm hand stayed against his cheek for a moment, before quickly disappearing. "But trust in this, we will never let you down."
Enkrid tried to lose himself in the familiar screams of Ragna and Rem, to use their anger as a shield against this suffocating, devastating kindness. He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing down the screaming voice in his head that warned him of the danger, that this was a line he could never uncross.
But who was Enkrid, if not a man who dove headlong into danger?
"I have a curse on me." The words left his lips before he could stop them. He saw their faces freeze and hurried to clarify, the correction tasting like a lie. "Or... more like a blessing, I think."
The very air in the space grew cold and still. The scuffling ceased. Their heads snapped toward him, expressions something between shock and betrayal.
"A curse?" Rem's voice was dangerously low, the hurt in it sharper than any blade. "Why the fuck didn't you tell us?!"
The silence that followed was absolute. All eyes were locked on him.
"It's not that simple," Enkrid whispered, the confession already feeling like a noose around his neck.
"Try us," Ragna challenged, his earlier anger banked into intense focus.
He took a shaky breath. There was no going back now. "I can't die," he said, the words stark and simple.
Enkrid looked down.
"Every time I die," His voice gained a strange, detached rhythm, "I go back to the start of the day. It loops, over and over, until I overcome a specific obstacle." He sighed, looking across the grass. "Remember how you all thought I was a genius? How I mastered your techniques in a day? It wasn't because I'm smart. It was because I was repeating the same day for months. I've lived through more failures and deaths than I can count."
He finally let the words tumble out, the dam breaking. "And I've just grown so used to it. To the feeling of dying. To the struggle, the pain, the certainty that I would get another chance. Now that I'm not getting stronger, now that the loops have stopped... I feel empty." He bit his tongue.
"Well," Ragna hummed, breaking the tense silence as he flopped on the grass. "I always said the Captain was the craziest of us all."
It was an acceptance, in it's most bizarre form.
Rem stared for a second longer, then let out a sharp, explosive breath that was half laugh, half sob. "Months? You died for months?" He ran a hand over his face, the last of his anger evaporating into stunned disbelief. "Gods. No wonder you're so fucked up."
Audin's hands on his shoulders squeezed, not in restraint, but in a firm, grounding pressure. "Oh, my brother," he rumbled, his voice thick with a heartbreaking mix of pity and awe. "To carry such a burden alone..." Something warm and wet fell onto the crown of Enkrid's head, a single, heavy tear.
"Yea, Captain," Krais murmured, his usual sharpness replaced by something almost puppy-like in its concern. "I'm no healer, but even I know that's not a recipe for a sound mind."
"Can we do anything?" Jaxon asked, his presence a steady warmth against Enkrid's side, though he already sounded like he knew the answer.
"I don't think so." The heavy silence that fell was broken only by the indifferent rustle of leaves in the wind.
"So we should just stand aside and let you go fucking try to kill yourself?!" Rem shouted, his voice cracking, before immediately getting a hard shove from Ragna. They were still far too close to the canteen for such outbursts.
"It's not like I'm going to die," Enkrid said, the statement flat and logical in his own ears, yet utterly weird in theirs.
"Brother," Audin huffed, swallowing back his tears with a visible effort. "I do not think that makes this any better. A man need not succeed in ending his life for the attempt to break the hearts of those who love him."
"I hope you understand that we won't allow you to die, Captain," Jaxon said, his voice dropping to a low, determined hum as he stepped back, his hand falling to his side.
Not like you'll be able to stop it, Enkrid wanted to say, but held the words behind his teeth, a bitter secret.
"You don't need to worry," he sighed instead, the lie tasting like ash. "I'll manage somehow." He forced the final words out, a hollow attempt at reassurance: "I'll be fine."
Somehow, those words only made everyone flinch.