Once again, first half of this chapter will be familiar to those who read the OG chapter. But we're on the new tidings now, and much exciting stuff. You can also find me on Tumblr and Twitter under the same handle btw!

He had been waiting for his master to return for a long time.

He did not know how long, for there was no way to tell the turning from days into weeks into years aside from how the castle fell apart around him. But he knew it did not look anything like it used to and that meant they must have left an unbearable long time ago. The servants would not normally have allowed their master's possessions to become this undignified.

In his vaguest memories, he remembered being in awe when he was brought here, stumbling and small, the chain still attached to his collar and curled around the master's fist because he hadn't learned how to behave himself yet. He had been somewhere else way before that – somewhere filled with red stones and molten rock, fire and ash. But he had been taken and brought to the cage, taught to fight in the arena.

Humans with wide grins would praise him for how good he was at it. Deadly with a sword, quick on his feet and agile, brutal with no mercy. They would tell him to step out on the sandy circle and kill whoever faced him while others sat in the stands and screamed for blood, exchanging gold between them whenever he won. Then the master had come and looked at him, inspected him like you'd expect an exotic animal. They nodded in approval, handing over the largest pile of coins the blade had ever seen.

They had taken him and brought him to this castle.

Back then, he had been in awe because it was a building larger and more lavish than anything he'd ever seen, larger than the coliseum. Many humans worked there – most sneered at him as they passed him by. But he was told that he belonged to the master now so he should not care what they think. He was their perfect weapon, their precious blade.

And as any good blade should, he followed them into war.

Countless foes fell at his hands, perished with his sword in their throat or his claws raking down their backs. The master was happy and admired him, fed him their own scraps of delicious meals in reward whenever he had done particularly well. The chain was eventually taken away as a sign of trust, a sign of belonging, though he got to keep to collar since it was gold and the blade liked gold. He only tried to run away once, early on.

He was dragged back kicking and screaming and punished worse than he'd ever been for anything else. Worse than when he allowed to let an enemy commander slip away in battle and reconvene with their allies, turning the tide of battle to their disadvantage. Worse than when he had accidentally gotten one of the master's favorite horses hurt because of his carelessness.

Worse than when he had asked if he could have a bed, so he didn't need to sleep on the cold, hard floor anymore.

(people have beds. weapons do not. the master had told him it was that simple and he never asked again)

After that first time, he never tried to escape and learned that if he didn't want to be punished he shouldn't do that which warranted punishment. They didn't need to hurt him if he was good.

When the night became filled with fire and screams, when a crowd of people larger than the ones on some battlefields was trying to break down the castle gates, the master left. They ran around like a man possessed, collected up all their precious jewelry and fancy clothes. All that they could fit on the back of their horse without breaking it. And they had ridden off under the cover of darkness to flee the raging mob, forgetting entirely about their treasured blade. The gate was torn down not much later, the crowd ravenous with rage and vindictiveness both. Many of the servants were slain simply for the sin of being exploited by a man of greed, the castle was destroyed.

An elderly woman that worked in the kitchen and who had a soft spot for him forced him to hide. She told him to stay still and not move, to not come out until the sun had gone down and risen again at least twice. And the blade was excellent at following orders. He knelt in that hidey-hole until his knees ached and peeked through a small crack in the stones to watch the woman pushed down and slain. She always used to sneak him cookies whenever she baked some for the master.

She was killed because hiding him had robbed her of her own time to flee.

When he eventually crawled out, the castle had been emptied of any other living being, leaving nothing but corpses and blood. Like any good blade would, he stayed and waited for his master to return.

That hadn't happened yet.

Others came instead. They came to steal his master's belongings, so he did everything he could to protect them. Sometimes he killed the strangers, other times he merely scared them away. He was only allowed to eat when the master told him to, but whenever he grew too hungry he would take a small ration from the castle pantry. When those ran out and all the vegetables had gone moldy and foul, he started going just far enough into the forest to pick berries or hunt.

Once or twice, the thought struck him that he could leave. Walk into the woods and keep walking without ever looking back. Maybe he could try to find the cages again where people screamed for his victory? Or better yet, he could try and find his way back to the world of red which he barely remembered, the only place where he ever felt warm and safe. But then what would the master do when they came back… They would be angry, and disappointed, and without their blade to defend them.

They would punish him worse than they ever had before. No, the blade decided he had to wait for them.

And then three people came to the castle. He watched them approach with distrusting eyes from atop a little spot he'd found on the inner wall. The day before he had gone to the river to drink and a human had seen him. They had pulled out a bow to shoot at him, one arrow which managed to burry itself into his lower stomach before he could kill them. Back then, he had pulled the arrow out and washed the wound with the cold trickling water of the brook, yet it still smarted and he had barely slept due to the pain.

But the strangers needed to be dealt with.

He tracked them as they moved throughout the castle and bickered, determining he could leave them be if they did not take anything. There was not much left to take either way, perhaps they were just curious explorers? Travelers who had stumbled upon a ruin and let their inquisitiveness get the better of them? If the blade was lucky, they would simply leave again and he didn't need to bother with them.

He was not that lucky. They had wandered and he had tried to follow without being spotted, moving across the wooden beams set in the ceiling to remain out of sight. The wound bothered him more than he expected, and when he tried to rip off part of his sleeve to wrap the wound and cover it some, he had stupidly slipped and fallen from his perch.

Before he could get up, he heard footsteps heading in his direction and then one of the strangers came around the corner to meet him, blue eyes wide in confusion. There was a dagger in their hand, the glint of it barely noticeable in the dark. He sprung on them, pinning them to the ground with a stifled scream.

Pinching at their wrist to make them drop the dagger worked, but then a great weight knocked into him and his entire side flared hotly with fresh pain. Driven by instinct, he reeled back and curled up. The person who had barreled into him had pulled the younger back to their side quickly, out of reach. The last intruder had arrived too, but they kept their distance.

He growled at them to leave him alone but he went cruelly ignored.

The blade was prepared to fight them. Wounded and outnumbered were not the most damning odds he had ever faced. He would defend himself when needed. He would go down fighting, he would take at least two of them with him.

Instead, the oldest of the men had spoken to him warmly. They had shared their names. They had offered to help him.

As confusing as that was, the blade answered their questions in return. Mostly because one of the master's rules had been that he wasn't allowed to lie. Not to them, not to any of the other humans. They could not rely on a weapon without implicit, unwavering trust. So he spoke the truth, always.

His words had concerned them further, made them double down in their insistence that they wanted to help.

Panicked, still with the burning pain in his gut and three pairs of eyes on him, the blade had run away.

He didn't need any help. He needed to wait for his master to come back. Never had he needed to listen to anybody except the master. Certainly never had anyone spoken to him with the same kindness as these strangers did.

All of it was too confusing for him to deal with.

He could hear them try to chase him, but his suddenness had taken them off guard, costing them the few precious seconds they'd need to catch up. And he knew every nook and cranny of the castle. There were tiny little corridors hidden between walls and more doors than anyone could reasonably count. It didn't take him long to lose them in the labyrinth of his home.

When he was sure they could not find him, he pressed against the wall and heaved, catching his breath. His stomach cramped painfully, his head pounded too. Biting his tongue to not let any noise slip out, he waited for them to leave.

He watched from the same spot he had when they arrived as the three of them disappeared into the forest again, ignoring the smallest part of his heart aching to go with them. It was so easy to ignore, to squash down. The master had called him a fickle beast once, a pathetic cretin that would scamper off in a heartbeat to any other owner that showed him a shred of decency.

The blade did not want to prove them right.

(but when he went down and found that they had left a bundle of dried meat and some water for him on a pillar, he still took it. it would be better if he didn't need to go out into the woods with his injury)

He ate just enough to stop the hunger cramps. As tempting as it was to have more, to finally fill that gaping pit of emptiness that permanently seemed to capture him in its grasp, he wanted to save some food for later. Winter was a hard time, with many animals hiding beneath the earth and becoming impossible for him to hunt. The water in the river never froze over, so at least there was always fish he could catch in a pinch. But the blade preferred red, hearty meat to the slimy texture of fish.

After he was done, he went to the room that had once belonged to his master. Not much of its former luster remained, but it was where the blade always slept. It was a habit hard to break.

He curled up on the floor near the foot of the bed and fell into an uneasy sleep.

When he woke up with a start, two things became immediately clear to him.

He had slept much longer than he usually did. Where normally the morning was still dim and muted when he woke up, the sun had risen high enough to be blinding now. Beams of light fell in through the broken wall, dust particles dancing in their reach.

Eating last night had not helped much, nausea swirling in his gut uneasily. From the moment he cracked his eyes open, the pounding between his temples returned with a vengeance. His skin felt prickly, uncomfortable, much too tightly wrapped around his bones.

More importantly, what had pulled him from sleep so abruptly was somebody calling for him.

Instinct overtook reason, drowning out the little logic in his brain trying to convince him the master was not going to return. He'd never listened to that specific thought anyway, and he was glad he would get to dismiss it entirely. Somebody was beckoning him, somebody was looking for him, somebody needed him.

Who else could it be but the master?

The blade scrambled up onto his feet, feeling the blood rush into his limbs much too slow. Vaguely, he was aware of how crusted and stiff the front of his shirt was, the wound in his stomach had remained open all night. He'd bled a lot.

He hurried out, down the stairs and through the hallway. He could hear them yelling his name again. If he was quick enough, they wouldn't even be disappointed by his tardiness. Maybe he could be forgiven for his delay if the master understood how long it had been. He hadn't been called on in so long, had almost forgotten what it meant to be prepared to drop everything and heel at a word.

And if he was punished, the blade would accept that too. His master was back, he would take a million punishments if that's what it took to be back in their favor.

He was prepared to toss himself at their feet and beg if that was what they wanted from him.

The castle was crumbling, the foundation falling apart. Many steps on the staircases had withered over time, and usually the blade knew exactly which ones to avoid and which ones were safe. In his excitement, even such basic memory escaped him.

He knew immediately the moment he had misplaced his foot, trying to catch himself from tumbling down the rest of the way by throwing out both arms. It was halfway successful, but he still stumbled. Reflexively, he tucked in his head and turned the momentum into a half-roll, even if his body slammed into the ground much too hard to not be painful.

Same as the day before, footsteps immediately approached him. But this time, it was him that got pinned down.

The man who had thrown himself on him was not the master either. It was the older one who had come to the castle yesterday - Phil. He put one hand on the blade's shoulder, curling the other around both his wrists to keep him from lashing out. His strength was not too impressive, he could easily throw him off. Something made him not do so.

And for a moment, the odd disappointment that it wasn't his master who had returned for him was mixed with the relief he felt seeing that the strangers had come back.

Why? Why had they come back?

"If I let go, are you going to run away again?" Phil asked. He sounded surprised at his lack of a struggle.

The blade shook his head.

Phil sighed and let go. As soon as his weight had lifted, the blade got up and tried to run away.

"Shit!"

Something grabbed onto his ankle. He slammed into the ground, not even managing to soften the blow this time. The wound in his stomach protested the manhandling by shooting pain through his entire body and he couldn't help crying out.

"Fuck, sorry, I'm sorry." The person who had yanked his leg released him. "I panicked."

The blade rolled over, through his blurry vision he saw the guy with the glasses and weird hair was on the floor with him. It was brown, but near the front there was a streak of white that stood out. Wilbur? He was pretty sure that's what his name was. The last stranger whom he remembered as Tommy was hovering nearby, half-poised to chase after him if needed. Seeing him again, there was an identical streak of white blended in his blond hair, though it was much harder to see.

The blade pulled up his legs, a growl building in the back of his throat.

"Mate, you need to calm down." Phil stepped forward, but not as close as he had the day before. "We're not here to hurt you."

"I told you to leave me alone."

"Yeah, well, we're not going to so tough luck!" Tommy said, vehemently.

"We're really only trying to help," Phil said.

"I don't need help," the blade repeated as he had done the day before. Words he had learned by heart. "I need to wait for my master to come back."

"And what if they don't?"

Wilbur had not said it in a hurtful manner, but it still sent a stab of something unpleasant through his heart.

"They will!" he spat.

They have to.

Phil cleared his throat. "Do you know how long it has been since they left?"

"I don't-"

"It's been over a century. That's how long you've been here." Phil looked at him with pity, a smile of compassion. The blade didn't like that at all. "They're… they're not coming back. They're not even alive anymore."

He opened his mouth but no noise made it out. Why was it so hard to breathe suddenly?

Were they lying? They had to be lying.

(he knew they weren't)

His vision had tunneled, a rush filling his ears. They were still talking to him but the blade wasn't listening.

He couldn't… he couldn't be without a master.

He couldn't.

"Will you come with us?"

He blinked. For some reason, those words did sink in through the static.

If the master was dead, the blade did not need to wait for them any longer. This was a truth.

These three strangers had come to the castle to take him, much like the master had done in taking him from the arena. This was a truth.

If his old master was dead, then whoever took him would be his new master. A weapon claimed by fresh hands.

Following the thread of his own logic, this also had to be true.

He nodded. "I'll come with you."

"Oh, okay! Great!" Phil's voice sounded a little winded, as if he hadn't expected him to actually agree. "Well, uh… do you need a hand, can you get up?"

Ignoring the pain of the injury, he got to his feet immediately at the order. The blade had missed having a master. He had missed the simplicity of following commands and not having to make difficult decisions.

Already, this was better.

"Shit, that looks bad," Tommy said. He was staring at his stomach, at the blood still pouring out of him.

He felt himself answer automatically. Never inconvenience the master with your problems, another important rule. "It's fine."

"It's fine?!" Wilbur echoed rather loudly. "Doesn't it hurt?"

Never lie to the master.

"Well, yeah. But it's fine." When they didn't say anything, just kept looking at him worriedly like they did before, the blade shrunk back. Had he done something wrong? Did these masters have different rules for him to follow?

"It's okay," Phil said. Maybe he'd picked up on his distress, maybe he just didn't want to push. "We'll go back to town, then we can treat it."

Phil wasn't speaking in questions, decisiveness lining his statements. The blade was glad.

"If you want," he said. The master's wants were all that mattered to him.

They stared at him a moment longer, uneasy. Tommy broke the tension by clapping his hands together.

"Yeah, yeah! Let's go back, I'm starving."

"How, you literally just had breakfast?" Wilbur said, genuine shock showing on his face.

"So?"

"So you're fucking weird for being hungry again."

They argued loudly as they walked towards the gate, Phil following behind them and keeping an eye on the blade, who trailed them as he was taught. When they were outside, he took the risk of looking back despite not having permission to do so.

Leaving should not feel wrong. He had new masters, and his masters wanted to leave. The blade did not have any desires except those of his masters.

But as he looked back at the crumbling building he had grown up in, he thought of the walls he had raced through playfully when the master wasn't looking. He thought of the garden he had snuck out into, to pet the horses and comb their manes. He thought of the drawings he had made with sticks in the sand, pretending they were scenes from some great fantasy world.

He thought of the bones he had buried, all the people who had served the master and died to the crowd. He left flowers on their graves sometimes, thought the land had shifted and flattened over the years and he couldn't tell where the mounds were without stones to mark them.

The master had not come back; not for him, not for any of them.

And the swell of emotion in his chest then might be a little too close to sadness for him to name.