The home his new masters talked about sounded wonderful to him.

Not that it really mattered to the blade. His old master's castle had been grand, one of the most lavish places he'd ever witnessed, if poorly defensible as the end of the war had proven. During his many years of serving in foreign conflicts, he had been to other strongholds that belonged to both allies and enemies. But he'd also slept in tents, great big messes of canvas where forty soldiers were packed together back to back to stay safe from the elements on the battlefield.

More often than not, he had slept on the ground too. It truly didn't make a difference to him.

But Wilbur talked about the town they lived in fondly, saying it was not populated by many people yet everybody knew each other. The castle was pretty far away from the nearest village, and his master rarely took him into one. So the blade was a little curious to see what it was like. Tommy had already spoken in detail to him about the farm animals they had, as well as a garden that they used to grow vegetables. Phil said he had built their house himself from scratch.

Curiously, they never mentioned any other servants.

The blade figured there probably had to be some though, who else took care of the chores while the three of them were away?

They were close to reaching it now. four days of travel, during which they mainly stuck to backroads or shortcuts through the forest that Phil found while reading off a big, ancient-looking map. Sometimes they walked in silence, sometimes the others talked among themselves. Tommy still asked the blade a lot of questions, though not as many as near the start. Often, Wilbur sang songs.

At night they ate and slept and the blade tried to stay up despite not being told he was supposed to keep watch. But since his masters were sleeping, it was only logical he had to be on guard. If he fell asleep too and something bad happened, he had failed his duty as their weapon.

And he still so, so desperately wanted to prove to them his worth. Because their kindness had not stopped.

Phil still checked on his wound and used his medicines to alleviate the pain until the blade hardly felt it anymore and was sure the bandages could come off permanently soon. Wilbur gave him more food than the blade would ever have dared to dream of when under his old master. Tommy showed him how they set the traps, and how to take them down without breaking them if no animal had been caught by sundown.

(that last one was especially important because if he did it wrong and broke the traps, they'd need to punish him. They had been extremely lenient so far, but the blade wouldn't test their patience. It had to end somewhere, he wasn't looking forward to finding out)

"We'll get there by noon, give or take," Phil said, folding up the map in his lap.

"Great." Wilbur stretched his arms above his head, making the blade wince when the socket popped unpleasantly. "Can't wait to sleep in a bed again tonight."

"Where's the big man going to sleep?" Tommy asked, gesturing vaguely with the spoon he'd been using to eat porridge.

"On the couch, probably. At least for now."

Tommy scoffed. "That lumpy old thing?"

"You could forfeit your own bed," Wilbur suggested with a sly grin on his face.

"I'd rather die," Tommy said. The blade couldn't tell if he was being serious or not. Not that it mattered, it was a completely ridiculous proposal. Him, sleeping in the same bed as one of his masters usually did? Not even after being left alone in the castle had he ever done that - not even when winter frost came in cold and cracked the stone foundation, and he spent several freezing nights shivering on the floor. And when that had given him a fever, he had laid next to his master's old bed that looked as if its embrace could send him straight to heaven, wondering if he'd die there, alone, forgotten.

(abandoned...

A thought he'd pushed away because his master would come for him. They would have if they could. The new masters had come instead, but the blade thought the old master probably also would have come back if he'd been allowed to wait for them just a little longer)

"We could finally clean out the storage room?" Wilbur said. "I think most of the stuff in there should have been thrown away ages ago. And the rest could fit in the barn, probably."

"Oh yeah!" Tommy's spoon gestured at the blade next, the utensil brandished his way like a weapon. "Then we can be neighbors."

"Neighbors?" the blade echoed. He'd heard the word before, he knew. But he couldn't place the meaning.

"My room's right next to yours then. Phil and Wilbur are across the hall."

He nodded. It wasn't like he had much of a choice anyway. If that's what his masters wanted, the blade would make it happen. Getting an entire room for himself though… he hadn't been allowed that since the arena. Tiny but quiet, somewhere to rest between matches. He had liked that room.

These masters really were wonderful.

(not that his old one hadn't been. No, no, he couldn't start thinking like that. Ungrateful, disgusting thing that he'd become)

"We could ask Niki-"

Whatever the rest of Phil's sentence would have been stopped short at the sound of footsteps in the underbrush. A pair of heavy boots heralding a stranger's approach. Only one man pushed his way through the thicket towards them, but the blade could hear there were more. Five at least, maybe six. They were outnumbered.

"Hello there." The stranger spoke with a friendly disposition, a toothy white smile stretching wide. It did nothing to hide the dagger strapped to their belt, or the leather armor they wore over their clothes. A cloth bandana was tied around their neck, patchy blue fabric stained with something that might be blood.

The blade had met enough roadside bandits in his days to know where this was going.

A growl built in his throat, but it didn't seem like anybody heard him. Phil had stood up too, putting himself firmly between the stranger and where the others were still sitting. His hand casually rested on the hilt of his sword, an undisguised threat.

Yet when he spoke it was with such amiability it took the blade aback. "Good morning. You gentlemen look like you could use a warm fire and some rest. We'd be glad to offer you ours since we'll be moving on now."

The blade didn't get it. These were criminals, peasants intent on robbing them - robbing his masters. Why would Phil talk to them so casually?

Then his eyes flicked to Wilbur, frozen and pale. And to Tommy, who was standing so close to him they were almost touching.

(he vaguely remembered a boy in the arena, hands stained with blood and eyes full of memories. The boy would always cry when somebody had their head lopped off. The blade didn't get it, hadn't understood until he heard the boy curled up in his sleep, whimpering and begging for his dead parents)

The man grinned a little, inclining his head. "That so… I'm afraid we got some trouble on our hands then."

Phil's face darkened. "Do tell."

That was when their companions stepped forward, though it was clear to the blade that their presence had not been a surprise for the others either. Wilbur had his fingers clenched around the hilt of his own sword, grasp not half as natural as Phil's but firm enough, showing he has no scrupulous about using it. Even if he looked like he'd been nailed to the spot. Tommy was holding his dagger, brandishing it protectively in front of Wilbur. It was the very same one he had tried using to attack the blade when they first met.

Tommy was biting his tongue, or close to it. Amusedly, the blade had the thought that Phil probably warned Tommy about situations like these - highwaymen were an unavoidable part of the traveler's lifestyle. When their army traveled with a small enough battalion, even they had been held up by roadside robbers occasionally. Phil must have told Tommy that if this were to happen, he should leave the talking to Phil.

(strangely, foreign, the blade couldn't even place why that amused him so much. Maybe because hearing Tommy talk about every subject under the sun for three days had made him a little curious to know what he'd say now, in this situation.

Tommy always had an answer to everything, Wilbur said. Despite their short acquaintance, the blade was inclined to agree)

"If you hand over all your valuables, we don't want no more trouble." They gestured to their companions, making them spread out to the sides. A pathetic attempt at surrounding them. The blade had seen farm soldiers with more strategic insight.

"Well, I'm afraid that's going to be a problem then." Phil laughed, even as his other hand pulled his sword from its sheath. "Because we're not giving you shit."

The man stared at him a moment longer, considering. The blade could practically see the cogs turning up there in their empty head. Then - just as he had expected - they sprung forward.

Phil caught their blow easily, sloppy as it was. Pulling his attention away, the blade snarled and threw himself towards the nearest enemy to fulfill his duty. This was what he was trained to do, this was what he was born for. He didn't have a weapon so he used his hands instead. He clawed into the man's shirt, until he could push them into a tree hard enough to hear their skull crack under the pressure. They fell onto the ground limply, leaving behind a smear of red. They were probably not dead.

(his old master had told him to kill, always. Any foe who could get back up again was one who could turn around and drive a dagger between your shoulders later. Any village that was left standing could train more soldiers that harmed their war efforts down the line.

Any child not strong enough to raise a sword now could grow up to be a man that undid everything they fought for)

The blade turned away.

These new masters had enforced no such order, and it was clear they were wielding very different rules from his old master.

(maybe, just maybe, he could get away with it this once.

And if not, he would bear the punishment and learn to do better)

Phil had downed their leader and one more. Almost as if enraptured, the blade watched him move. There was something elegant about it, almost mesmerizing. Phil was light on his feet, fast but steady. Cloth trailed behind him like a banner, engulfed in smoke. He remembered battlefields from long ago-

Then Tommy yelped and instantly his attention was back to the present.

There were two more men on that side, and both of them were on Tommy because Wilbur was still standing there, frozen, shaking. Tommy managed to fend off one person, dagger now buried hilt-deep into their shoulder and being turned with a sickening squelch. But the other one was coming up behind him.

And thus, the blade got between them.

A split-second decision saw him choosing between stopping their weapon with his hands or his arm. Neither would be ideal, but the first option meant he wouldn't be thrown off-balance as easily so the blade brought his hands up and caught steel with flesh. It was only thanks to his own strength that the momentum stopped and didn't slice his fingers clean through.

Instead, blood pooled immediately, slick and hot. Gritting his teeth through the sharp blossoming of pain, he held their sword still and met confused gray eyes with his own blazing red ones.

(pathetic. They couldn't even fathom putting themselves in harm's way to protect who they belonged to.)

"Tommy-" Wilbur choked out. He was moving now, though his legs seemed much too unsteady to carry his weight, let alone pull him into motion no matter how much desperation pulled at him. Because the guy Tommy was grappling with was pushing back, fingers crooked and aiming for the boy's throat. And Phil was still dealing with the third of the group he'd been faced against.

If the blade did not intervene, they might hurt one of his masters.

He slid his hands down, along the honed edge so that it cut into his palms deep enough to hit bone. What had been a blossom before exploded violently enough to have tears pricking at the corners of his eyes at how much it hurt.

(and the blade hated himself for it. He had grown soft, had grown weak. He pushed in deeper and didn't care if he'd ruin his hands forever by doing this.

What use were they if they couldn't serve?)

Then blood-coated skin met a vanguard, which the blade could hold onto and pull. Simultaneously, he kicked the man in the stomach, loosening their grip so he could rip the weapon from their hands.

He turned it over and used it to slit their throat.

Tommy had dealt with the last man left standing by then and the silence that settled over them was disquieting, full of nothing but ragged breathing. Like some great storm has torn through them and they were all just observing the wreckage.

Ironically, Wilbur pulled himself from his stupor first.

"Fucking hell man." Finally, Wilbur managed to move. The blade was expecting him to check on Tommy, covered to his elbows in blood though one could easily see he was unharmed. Maybe Wilbur would rush over to Phil, shoulder shaking from the burst of adrenaline but also left unscathed. Perhaps he'd get rid of the men who were unconscious but alive.

Wilbur did none of those things.

Wilbur rushed over to him.

And the blade shrunk back, flinching away.

Fear filled him like a wicked beast, baying and clawing. Had he not done what they wanted? Had his performance been unsatisfactory? Were they disappointed that the blade had not been faster, stronger, better, and they had been left getting their hands dirty?

Was this the end of their kindness?

Wilbur grabbed his wrists, not unlike before when the blade couldn't breathe because he thought they would take his collar away. And training won out from instinct then, making his entire body go slack despite how much he wanted to tear loose and run. He needed to accept his punishment because not to do so would mean he thought their retribution was unfounded.

(he would never not deserve what they did, because the masters were always right)

"Shit, that's a lot of blood." Wilbur drew away, only to come back a moment later with a towel and press it to the blade's bleeding hands. "Why the fuck did you do that?"

He exhaled, confused. "I was helping."

"I appreciate it, but that was stupid."

Tommy came up next to him. "Why the fuck would you catch it with your hands though?!"

"That was quicker."

"That was dangerous," Wilbur said sharply, voice shaky. There was something beneath, something which made Tommy glance at him.

"Wilbur-"

Wilbur shook his head. "I'm fine, it's fine, it's just- don't do that again. Fuck."

The blade just stared at the towel getting tinged with his blood, confused. Were they scared he'd be permanently damaged? Was that it?

(his master's fingers were wound so tight around his upper arm it hurt, making bruises where there weren't any already. The blade was using his other hand to press against his stomach and keep what was on the inside from slipping outside. He felt like he was going to puke and dark spots danced around his vision.

When they arrived at the infirmary, they threw him onto the ground.

"Fix it," they said coldly to one of the medics rushing around tending to the other patients. "I can't have it dying on me."

Voices flowed around him like water, muddling his senses. They pulled and pushed at him, the blade thought - hoped - that maybe he would die. A small, selfish wish. But they patched him up and put him outside again as soon as he wasn't actively bleeding out anymore. So he crawled towards the bunks instead, curled up between two beds, and fell asleep.

The next day, his master needed their blade again. And he would never disobey their wishes)

"Tell me if it hurts," Phil said, hands pushed under the blade's own. Supporting them.

He nodded. But really, the antiseptic was nothing compared to the field medicine in the midst of war. Wilbur had gone off for a walk ten minutes ago and hadn't come back yet. Tommy went out to look for him. When they came back, they would move on immediately. They could still reach the home by nightfall.

From under his lashes, the blade peeked at Phil as he worked. He shouldn't - he really shouldn't. A weapon does not get to ask questions.

But it itched and he remembered the master's bruises and the cold of the tent and he had to know or it would burn within him forever.

"Sir?"

Phil frowned down at their hands but continued working. "I told you, you don't have to call me that. Just Phil is fine."

The blade ignored it. "Is Wilbur okay?"

A few seconds passed where Phil continued to simply stare at their hands. There was a soft smile on his face, closer to a wry expression than anything.

"Wilbur will be fine. This type of thing just brings up some bad memories for him."

Not wanting to say he didn't understand, the blade kept silent. But it was as if Phil could tell from his face.

"When he was younger, Wilbur lost some people. People who were very important to him." Phil spoke awkwardly. "It's not really my place to tell you this but, yeah… That's why he reacted so strongly. Give him some time to walk it off, he'll be fine."

"So he was scared?"

"I don't know about scared," Phil said, slowly. As if he had to pick each word carefully. "More like, concerned."

And that…

That didn't clear anything up at all.

"Concerned…" He was testing the word out, but it didn't feel right on his tongue. Not in reference to what another person might feel when looking at him.

"That's what happens when you care about people, mate. You start giving a shit when they're hurt." With that, Phil stood up and clapped him on the back. Before he could question that statement further - and maybe finally get some answers - Wilbur and Tommy returned.

Wilbur's eyes were kinda red like he'd been crying. The blade knew he shouldn't mention it though.

"All packed?" Tommy asked.

"Jup!" Phil hoisted his backpack onto his shoulder. "Let's go home."