It takes more arguments before Yves convinces her to let him down, though she still remains close by his side. He has half a mind to bolt back to finish off the job, but he has a feeling he’d be caught by her before he could take a single step. Having her hover around him is still better than being carried like a sack of potatoes, so he relents. It’s a stroke of luck when they manage to find a hidden cave, and his heart lifts at the sight of shelter, before the weight on his shoulder slips off, crashing to the mud below. 

“Hey! What’s wrong with—”

Yves turns to spit at her indignantly, but his words die off at the sight before him.

He hadn’t noticed it in the heat of battle before, too preoccupied with survival, but she is littered with wounds. Her arms are scorched to hell and back, weeping burns lining the entirety of her forearms as if she had tried to deflect against an explosion. How had she managed to hold a sword, let alone swing it in a fight? Where had she gotten such injuries? They certainly weren’t there when he saw her last. 

It nags at him, this burning curiosity of his. And yet, it’s not what draws his attention the most.

No, that would be the large dark patch on her side, a massive gash that tears through the flesh. Deep and weeping profusely with blood, even the brief glimpse of the torn muscles beneath is enough to speak of the severity of it all. He doesn’t need to be a medical professional to know.

She isn’t going to make it.

The knowledge stuns him in its impossibility. She’s dying? The person who has always faced countless opponents in battle and emerged victorious each time? Whose monstrous strength could snap bones and trees with effortless ease? That person is dying?

Unconsciously, he reaches out to that terrible wound, as if it’d all be an illusion the moment he presses his hand against it. Before he could make contact, however, his hand is caught in a gentle hold, featherlight against his skin. 

“Ah, looks like it’s finally the end of the road for me.” There’s an odd note to her voice, one that almost sounds like relief. No protest, no resistance whatsoever at her end. Just tired acceptance, as if this were something that was a long time coming. He’s never seen her give up before, and the foreign expression on her face is enough to make him nauseous. 

Oh. So that’s why she ran from battle.

What happened in the few hours when she was off who knows where?

“Why,” a million questions caught in his chest and he can’t seem to push them past the lump in his throat, “Why are you still here?”

Why did she come back for him? Why risk her life so readily for him? Why die for him? He certainly hasn’t done anything to inspire such loyalty. 

She doesn’t answer him. Of course she doesn’t. Instead, she meets his question with one of her own.

“Do you believe in fate?”

Trembling hands press something into his hands, a knife, the handle well worn beneath the slick blood, leaving a red smear in its wake. It’s the first time she’s ever closed the distance that yawns between them, close enough to touch, he realizes. Besides the earlier moment where she’d carried him out of necessity, it’s the first time she’s willingly reached out to him. The first time her eyes meet his own head on instead of skittering away. 

She does not wait for a response, and he just barely notices her grip tightening painfully on his. 

“Because I do. I think mine has already long been sealed.”

The blade is still warm between their hands when she yanks him forward and slips it between her ribs. So stunned is he, Yves remains frozen at the sight. It’s only when her muscles twitch under the steel that he snaps out of it, trying to pull his hand away with desperate strength. Her grip holds firm, keeping the knife in place. Keeping him in place. 

The same terrible strength that felled her foes now used against her.

Warmth splatters onto his face when she coughs, lips stained the same red as the growing patch on her chest. 

"Ah, sorry about that." She takes a few careful breaths, closing her eyes briefly with the effort, before slowly blinking up at him. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. It doesn’t suit your pretty face. It’ll be alright.”

What?

“...You're not actually in love with me, are you?” It can’t be. Those were just nothing but idle gossip, ones he’d easily brushed off. 

A bitter laugh sends her into another round of coughs that rack through her body. "...No, I’m not. Never was. Didn’t think you’d believe those rumors."

He hadn’t, not for a single moment. Because despite her lighthearted words, not once had she ever made a move to cross the distance between them. In fact, she’d never gotten close enough to touch, always keeping that distance with a curious strictness. Not before today, of course. 

More importantly, someone in love wouldn’t look at him like that. Eyes always skittering away from him, not in the shy or fearful manner, but as if the sight was too painful for her to bear. A smile that never reached her eyes. All things he’s noticed and never minded, quietly filing it away instead. He wouldn’t be able to return those useless feelings anyways, and this was best for everyone involved. 

She does not love him, and neither does he love her. So then, why? Why stick by his side so persistently, never going too far nor too close? Why risk her life for someone she holds no attachment to?

Why make him be the one to end her life?

It doesn’t make any sense. He doesn’t understand, and the confusion must be obvious on his face, because she looks at him and smiles wryly.

“I just… can’t let myself be killed by anyone else, is all. It has to be you.” 

That’s not much of an explanation either. She really does intend to take her secrets to her grave. There’s something else she tries to mouth, but he can’t quite make out the words. Not when she is no longer able to vocalize anything, her wheezing slowing and slowing. Soon enough, her gaze grows unfocused and the rattling stops. 

Unceremoniously and quietly, his most steadfast, most incomprehensible mercenary dies.

Oh.

Now there is truly no one on his side. Just as it was at the start of this path of destruction. The thought doesn’t bring him grief, nor sorrow or anger, or anything really. In fact, he doesn’t feel much of anything at all. Simply a cold and blissful numbness that silences any pointless thoughts he may have. 

“It’d be best if you surrender now.”

Yves doesn’t remember how to be gentle, not anymore, but he lays the still warm body down as carefully as he can manage. It’s an almost angelic sight, the way her hair is splayed in a halo around her, and he brushes a few inky strands from her pale cheeks before rising to face the hero that stands outside the entrance.

He doesn’t say anything when the hero looks between the body and him with a pitying gaze. Doesn’t say anything when he draws his own blade. What expression is he carrying now, for the hero to look at him like so? Does it have anything to do with the cold wetness on his cheeks?

‘Oh, don’t look at me like that.’

Like what?

What did she mean by that? By fate? 

…There’s no point in wondering. Not when it doesn’t change a single thing.

This is how the story ends. After much hardship, good prevails and evil is slain by the hero. Despite the terror sowed by the villain, they are naturally no match for the hero. No matter how much he struggles, he will never win against the chosen one. This goes for any of his underlings as well.

Yves isn’t sure whether it is luck or karma, but when he finally stumbles to the ground, hand halfway raised to the warmth that spills from his cut throat, only one thing fills his vision. Only one thing is in focus when the background blurs and sounds quiet to just his rapid heartbeat, beating desperately to keep him alive but ultimately failing.

Dull pink eyes that peek from dark lashes, unseeing. An odd color for such an odd person. He’d laugh, if he could. If he could just draw up enough breath.

How fitting.

What was her name again?

Ah, right. It was Erica. 

What a simple name, for one who was anything but.

.

.

.

Yves’s got a headache the size of the entire continent when he wakes up.

Except, he isn’t supposed to wake up.