The blade had forgotten how much there was to get used to when changing masters. He'd only really done it once, when he was sold by the arena. And even then, the people that took care of him at the coliseum were not the same as his master. They did not treat him too different from any of the other fighters. If he fought well, he was mostly left alone in his cell between battles. He had a wooden sword to practice with, and a desk he could sit at even if he couldn't do much more than stare at the wall while doing so. They brought him meals twice a day and barely talked to him, not keen on ordering him around.

His master had only trained him properly after acquiring him. They had taught the blade everything he knew about following directions and being useful. They had shown him his worth. And he had lived by their rules for so long that changing was hard, like forcing a bent and rusted piece of metal out of shape.

He was deathly afraid of making a mistake.

Because it did not matter whether the blade knew if what he was doing was allowed or not. The master didn't care if he understood the reason for his punishment, or if it was an accident - a rule broken because he didn't know of its existence. They only cared that he had been bad and he needed to be disciplined.

These new masters…. The blade didn't get them yet. He didn't know their wants. And that was dangerous. He felt as if he were walking across a field of pitfalls, a disaster waiting behind every corner. At any moment, he could mess up and discover the extent of their wrath. He wouldn't be able to hide behind the excuse of being a weapon ill-forged anymore.

He had been trained, had been shapen. He should know his role by now.

But if they didn't explain the rules to him, how was he supposed to follow them?

At least there was small mercy in him already figuring out the hierarchy. The blade never had multiple masters before, so he was unsure how to go about it if their orders ever were to contradict each other. He'd already noticed that the other two seemed to look to Phil for guidance though. If not their superior, Phil was probably considered the leader. The blade would do the same and follow their individual orders as best as he could, but when in doubt he could just do whatever Phil told him to. That seemed the safest bet to avoid punishments.

(Phil was kind to him. He washed the filth out of his wound and applied an ointment that had numbed the angry stinging of reddened skin into a vague throb. He had made the blade drink some water, with a chalky white pill that would bring down his fever)

He shook the thoughts away. No, Phil was keeping him in working order. His masters would need him in a good enough condition to travel, and a good enough condition to fight should trouble arise. From how Wilbur and Tommy spoke of it, their home was not too far away. Surely, when they got there his duties would be laid out for him. Probably similar things to what he used to do with his old owner.

The blade hadn't heard of any wars recently, but if the masters' story was true - and he could not doubt them, he could not doubt anything his masters said ever, that was another big rule - then he'd been isolated for so long, he might just not be aware of them.

Wars were a constant, too. There was always one simmering beneath the surface.

Big battlefields or small skirmishes or pathetic uprisings of locals rebelling against the taxes. They owned everything to his master, and these commoners had the audacity to try and cheat them out of their earnings?

The blade was appalled by their ingratitude.

(he had been taught to thank the master for everything he was granted, including the very air he breathed)

So he had no doubt these masters had their own conflicts for him to fight in. They could use him. They could need him.

(he hoped so, he hoped so, he hoped so-)

"Here." Phil handed him a wooden bowl, the warmth a pleasant sensation against his fingers. The blade hadn't eaten soup in… very long.

He could not meet their eye, scared of seeming rude. "Thank you."

Phil smiled. He passed a bowl to Tommy as well, who had held off on the questioning for now. And then Wilbur, long legs curled in front of him. Both of them started to eat immediately.

Phil served himself last. The blade was confused since it didn't fit his mental hierarchy. If Phil was the leader, he should be served first. But then again, Tommy and Wilbur were his masters too. They weren't weapons. They weren't even servants.

Why had the blade been handed a bowl first?

Not that it was his place to question anything they did anyway. He watched as Phil also started to eat, still waiting.

The soup smelled delicious. His stomach hurt, cramping around nothing. He hadn't eaten since last night's dried meat. And before that, he'd not managed to hunt or catch anything for two days. But he did his best not to stare at the swirling of the broth, the floating pieces of rabbit meat and some type of vegetable root Phil had cut up and put in it earlier. He kept waiting.

He could be good. He could be obedient.

So he waited.

"What are you doing?" Tommy cut into his fast-dissolving thoughts.

Wilbur made a soft noise, scowling a little. "Gross, don't talk with your mouth full Tommy."

"Like you're any better," Tommy accused. Then he turned, eyes fixing on the blade again. "Aren't you hungry?"

The 'no lying' rule was one of the only ones the blade was certain still rang true. He couldn't imagine any master - new or old - that would abide by having a deceitful weapon.

"I am."

"Then why aren't you eating?"

"I…" He swallowed thickly. All three men were looking at him again. Their stares were not unfriendly, but the blade still found himself shrinking back under the scrutiny. His old owner did not look at him to address him. Why would they? You don't talk to a weapon, do you?

"I want my blade on the right flank," they would say, shuffling small wooden figurines across a painted map. The blade had played with those figurines a few times when nobody would notice. They were like giants on the makeshift tapestries of the battlefields, taller than the buildings and trees that were drawn upon the map.

Kneeling on the floor at their feet, head bowed because the master could not stand it when the blade stared at them while they were strategizing their battles, he answered. "Yes sir."

His master did not acknowledge him, continuing to talk with his commanders.

Now, his masters were looking at him. They were expecting an answer.

"I'm waiting on permission to eat," he said.

(no lying, no lying, no lying, he reminded himself firmly. Even if the scowls he got in response to his statement made him want to dig in his claws and pull out his flesh for displeasing the masters)

"You don't-" Wilbur started but then Phil moved a hand to his shoulder and Wilbur's jaw clicked shut suddenly. The blade hadn't seen what happened there, if there was the exchanging of a gesture or other nonverbal sign he was not privy to.

All he knew was that Phil smiled at him again, somehow even more patient than before. "Alright, I'm sorry for forgetting to tell you. You can eat now."

"And you should before it gets cold," Tommy added on. "The meat gets all chewy if you leave it in too long."

The blade didn't need to be told twice, mainly because his gut revolted at the very thought of being empty for another minute. He finished the bowl in ten seconds flat, not really caring for table manners.

He had never learned any, regardless. Often, he ate on the floor at his master's feet. No cutlery, just his hands and a plate. Sometimes he got food in the kitchen when one of the more sympathetic servants snuck him a few morsels.

When he was done, his stomach illogically hurt more than it had before. As if getting a small taste had managed to break the dam on an insufferable flood of hunger. He bit his tongue, not wanting it to show on his face even if he couldn't help from pressing one palm against the source of his pain.

Wilbur saw.

"Do you want more?"

The blade startled. Automatically, his shoulders hunched and he tucked his chin in a little. "I don't-"

(a weapon doesn't want anything)

"Let me rephrase." Wilbur held out his hand, prompting the blade to hand him back the bowl. "Can you eat more?"

"Yes," he answered quickly. He definitely could eat more.

"Okay then. Here you go." He tried not to seem too eager as Wilbur filled the bowl again.

The soup tasted as good as it smelled, maybe even more so. By the end of it, the blade was satisfied in a sense he couldn't remember being in a long time. He held onto the bowl a little longer, fingers tracing the edges of the wood to distract himself from a conversation he couldn't entirely follow or be swept up in. He'd become so accustomed to tuning out when people were speaking to each other, that it took him a minute or two to realize they were actually attempting to involve him in the conversation.

"I see Wilbur gave you his sweater." Phil's voice finally broke through the static. There was something about the infliction of it, age-worn and amused, which made it easier for the blade to listen to. It had a familiar, comforting quality to it.

"When we get home we can get you some proper clothes." Phil held out his hand and even though he would have liked to hold onto the bowl a little longer, the blade reluctantly gave it back. "And a proper bath too. No offense, mate, but you look like you haven't touched any water in a long fucking time."

Wilbur scrunched up his nose, leaning a bit closer into his personal space. "Yeah, you definitely smell. Like, worse than Henry."

"Henry doesn't smell!" Tommy gasped, obviously offended.

"I think you just stopped noticing because you spent so much time around her," Wilbur said. He turned towards the blade, speaking in a low tone as if this was a secret only they needed to share. "Sometimes Tommy sneaks out at night and sleeps in the barn. It's adorable."

"Shut up!"

"We can cut your hair for you too," Phil continued talking as if he couldn't hear the other two squabbling among themselves. "The ends are an absolute mess, that can't be pleasant to walk around with."

The blade didn't answer, fingers clenching and unclenching uselessly without anything to hold onto. The scars on his palms had never seemed particularly interesting to him before, but now with people scrutinizing him all the time, it had suddenly become impossible to tear his eyes away.

When Phil was still staring at him after several more seconds, he realized the other was looking for an answer.

"If you'd like," he said evenly.

He really, really hoped his new masters didn't want to chop his hair short. He liked fidgeting with the long strands, and he'd had it like this for ages. From before the arena. Even his old master hadn't told him to cut it, they had liked to run their fingers through it sometimes (or if he was bad, use it to yank him around).

But if the new masters wanted it gone then-

"We'll see when we get there." Phil shrugged, unconcerned. Then his eyes flicked down, narrowing a little. The blade knew what he was looking at and tensed. "You can take that off too, you know."

His hand shot up, the cold metal of the golden collar an accustomed weight against his fingertips. The edges of his nails could barely slip under the tight fit, dig into the skin beneath. Frozen, he felt as if his very muscles had become stones grating against his bones.

"Yeah, you don't need to keep wearing that." Tommy's head tilted to the side, expression open but somehow unreadable. "It's kinda weird man."

They wanted it off. They wanted it gone too.

Of course they did, it was a sign of him belonging to his old master. It was what proved to even the most foolish and casual observers that this blade was theirs.

(But then, it had become his too. It had become his collar, his gold, his, his, his, the only item in the world that belonged to him. They changed his clothes and they took his swords when they got dull and he never got to keep anything because he was a thing to keep, he wasn't a person so how could he own something?

The collar had stayed, always.

The collar was his.)

The blade did not want to take it off.

But…

But as a weapon, he should not have any wants except those of his masters. And they wanted the collar to go.

It should be easy.

The blade knew how easy it should be.

Somehow, it wasn't.

Somehow, he couldn't breathe and he couldn't move and he was being so bad for his masters, he was not being a good blade at all, he was being a disgraceful, ungrateful little thing. He would get punished for defying their orders - especially a task so simple. Just take it off. Just take it off - but he couldn't, he could try and it would be akin to tearing his heart out of his chest.

He should though.

For his masters, he should want to tear his heart out of his chest.

It didn't matter.

"Hey!" There was an iron grip on his wrists, pulling his hands down and away from his throat. His fingers were warm and slick an oh, he noticed then that was because there was blood on them. Because he'd been tearing at his own skin, at the collar.

Instincts compelled him to try and struggle. To want to reach up and take it off. Not because he wants to - he doesn't, he doesn't, he doesn't want to even if he has no wants - but because he's been told to.

But the person who was holding him was relentless, unmoving. "Just breathe," they told him. "Calm down, breathe for a minute."

He shook his head, still trying to slip from their hold. He needed to do what his masters wanted from him.

"Stop!"

Immediately, he stopped.

His arms would have dropped down limply if it weren't for Wilbur's hold on them, keeping them in front of his chest. His thumbs press into the blade's wrists, almost painfully so. He still couldn't breathe, chest convulsing as it worked to provide air.

"Breath," Phil said next. He used the same firm way of speaking, of delivering a command, as when telling him to stop. It worked perfectly. "I want you to breathe in slowly while counting to five. Then do the same while exhaling, count to ten."

Okay, he could do that. He hoped he could do that.

"I'll show you." And then Tommy was snatching one of his hands from Wilbur's hold to press it against his own chest instead.

Tommy breathed in deeply, really exaggerating the action so the blade could feel his chest expand. With traces of panic still desperate to crawl their way up his throat, he tried to mimic what Tommy was doing.

Wilbur kept a hold on his other wrist, not as tightly now. Just kind of lingering.

Gradually, the blade stopped choking on thin air.

He flinched back, away from their touch which felt like needles being driven into his nerves. Mercifully, they didn't question him on it.

"I'm sorry," he said. The world was still shaky, or maybe that was everything else about him. He bowed his head, waiting for his punishment.

There was no excuse. He'd been without a master for so long, he had forgotten all of his lessons and he'd been acting out like an untrained dog again. He was shameful, and failed as a weapon.

He deserved to be punished.

"It's-"

"Keep it on." Phil cut Wilbur off. "At least for now. Keep it."

What flooded through him then was an odd mixture of confusion and relief. It didn't take too long for the first to be drowned out by the second though. Because he got to keep his collar, his gold, the only thing that was his.

He didn't get why. But when did the blade ever get what the master did? What the master wanted?

He had not the right to get it. A weapon's intellect too small to comprehend the complex thoughts and emotions of people. He could only be grateful.

Once again, he couldn't meet their eyes.

"Thank you."

It wasn't the right words.

He was a selfish, wretched thing.

But he got to keep his collar. The masters had proven themselves too kind once again.

The blade knew he would have to try harder from now on, repay them for their benevolance.

He would show them he was deserving of being their blade too.