Even though Steven said he could handle it himself, both Amie and Adora insisted on accompanying him.
"You didn't hear that freak talking through your mouth," Adora informed him, her gaze flicking briefly to the sheathed Animuslaver. She crossed her arms and added, "I'm not chancing leaving that thing loose in the world because it got the better of you. Again."
Steven sensed Amie's irritation towards Adora for her remarks, but he didn't entirely understand it. The remarks did sting, because -annoying as she was- Adora was right. Steven felt the sword's allure, it hung on his belt like an unbearably heavy weight the moment he decided it had to be destroyed, and he could hear that voice in his head, whispering seductively to him. The temptation to simply pretend he threw the sword away and then keep it in secret was powerful. Surely Amie could tell that, with or without a telepathic link. Adora had a point, however much Steven wished she did not.
Of course Steven didn't know the whole truth of what had happened, didn't know he'd been purposely maneuvered into this position. He could tell Amie knew something that she wasn't choosing to share through their peculiar link, but he didn't know what, and he didn't question it. Despite his new understanding of the depth of her feelings for him, she was still entitled to her own thoughts. Though many of them escaped against her will, Steven did not pry at the ones which did not.
Amie had explained that their telepathic link was the result of a spell she had cast. It was how she had managed to reach him and convince him to drink the potion she offered. She had magically strengthened their bond in order to speak with Steven directly. She said that the telepathic link was temporary. She said nothing about the new and deeper feelings of friendship Steven felt, so he wasn't sure if they were permanent or even a natural result of what she'd done for him.
Though she said nothing of it, and didn't let him in on her feelings about it, Steven sensed that potentially exposing herself directly to a demon had been a terrifying prospect. Amie had taken a risk for his sake, without expectation that he would understand or appreciate what she'd done for him.
Steven decided it didn't really matter how she'd done it, he was just glad that she had.
The more time he spent thinking, the more he realized that the sword was evil. It had fallen into his possession, and in a way that made him responsible for what happened to it. Regardless of what happened to him in the end, eventually the sword would find a new victim. It would have them wage war, commit murder and any other bloody and wicked thing it could come up with along the way, until it finally destroyed them. And then the process would begin again.
Perhaps it would not make much difference if Steven were to die or disappear today, but the Animuslaver continuing to exist surely would.
Freedonia might never be touched by it if Steven decided to sail far away with the Animuslaver and never come back. It was a tempting thought. But the reality was that someone had already done that at least once before. The sword had wound up in the forest of Kullervo, unclaimed somehow. Presumably its victim died before it could find another host. Or perhaps they resisted and it simply destroyed them, then waited for some new victim to chance to find it. Steven didn't know how all that worked. The point was, wherever the sword had started, it had come to Freedonia. Aarbyville had already suffered for it. Sooner or later, it would find its way to some other knight, or perhaps a wizard or bard (it didn't seem particular), or even another monarch as it once had. And it would destroy a kingdom just like Freedonia, along with its surrounding territories.
How could Steven consider himself a true knight if he allowed something like that to happen, when he could have done something to prevent it?
It didn't matter that it would likely happen after Steven was gone, when he would no longer be able to care. It didn't matter that it would probably be on some distant shore, and to a country he'd never heard of and whose name he likely could not even pronounce. What mattered was that a terrible evil stalked the world in the form of Animuslaver, and he had a chance to stop it. Because he had the ability to end it, it became his responsibility to do everything in his power to do so.
Yet even in this light of reason, with his right mind back in control, Steven could still feel the Animuslaver. It was calling softly, reminding him of how powerful he'd felt, reminding him of how good it had felt to kill anyone who stood against him. It reminded him of how incredible it had felt to unsheathe it, and also pointed out how miserable he felt now he'd put it away.
And he did feel miserable. He felt weak and dizzy. He felt a tremendous weight of doubt as to whether the place he'd chosen would really destroy the sword. There was a place out in the ocean where the water whirled dangerously, and swallowed everything that blundered into its grip. Steven remembered it from his very first strategy session with Greta. She'd knocked one of his pieces into it and declared it destroyed. He had chosen to take the sword there. Even if it was not destroyed, no one could go to the depths of the ocean to retrieve it. Or so he hoped. But what if he was wrong?
Adora had said she could take it, and deliver it to certain contacts of hers to have it dismantled, but Steven could not bring himself to trust her, despite all she'd done to help him in the last day, and all the annoying but true things she'd said. Besides, as Steven was the one who had picked up the sword, it was his responsibility to see that it caused harm to no one else, not Adora's. You didn't just casually hand off something so dangerous for someone else to deal with.
Now a storm had sprung up, with lightning and thunder and lashing rain and cold and fog. The captain of the ship said that if it got much worse they would have to turn back. Steven suspected the demon itself was responsible for the storm, and that turning back was what it wanted. But the storm was a persuasive argument. If the storm threw them off course and they became lost, they could wind up anywhere, still carrying the demon sword with them. The storm might run them into a shoal, or something worse, and they could go down with all hands, yet the sword survive to be picked up by some other ship's crew. Sailors always had an eye out for derelict vessels. The evil would go on.
The demon sword could sense that Steven's will was weakening by the second, his certainty of what he was doing was faltering, and he was beginning to sink once more into the blackness which had already tried to drown his spirit once. Delay in its destruction would give it time to take over once more, or to transfer to a new host.
Dimly, Steven recalled how weak the fisherman had looked. Was that a last resort? If the sword could not control the host, or if they didn't have the ability to properly unleash its power, did it slowly poison them? Or was that merely a side effect of holding the sword in the first place?
Steven certainly felt sick, and not just because the ship was pitching. Unable to do more, Steven sat, mostly inert, in the most sheltered spot he could find on the deck, clutching the sheathed sword tightly for more reasons than he cared to sort out. He was shivering, but the cold was more inside than out despite the chill of the lashing rain. It felt a little bit like he was dying, and the sword suggested he'd feel much better if he just pulled it out of the sheath. Remembering how he'd felt during the hours he'd spent admiring the sword, Steven knew that it was not lying, and that he would feel better. But would the feeling be real? Did it matter? He was starting to feel so wretched that even the illusion of feeling better whilst knowing the feeling wasn't real was beginning to sound good.
He was absurdly grateful to Amie, for she told the ship's captain in no uncertain terms that they were absolutely not turning around. She said what he could not, which was that they must go on, regardless of how bad the storm got.
It was almost surreal to hear Adora firmly backing the statement, though her tactics seemed suspect, as she accused every member of the crew of being a coward if they were willing to let a little rain spoil their sense of adventure. Cowards, she asserted, did not win fame or gold or glory, and she demanded to know what they were even doing on a ship if not to get some of those things for themselves? Steven didn't approve of her tactics, but shaming the captain and crew into continuing onwards seemed to work. In any case, the ship continued its perilous journey into the ocean swells.
Finally, Amie came and knelt beside him.
"Steven, we're here," she said gently, "It's time."
Slowly, painfully, Steven got to his feet. He stood unsteadily, trying to see through the fog, to be sure they were at the place he'd specified. But he could barely see, even aside from the storm. There was a ringing in his ears, as the demon shrieked at him.
"Help me," he wasn't sure if he said it or thought it, but Amie responded either way.
She took his left arm and put it around her shoulders, then guided him to the railing, so he could look over it into the abyss below. The ship could not stay long near the place where the ocean became an endless swirling mass, fighting against the current. But still, Steven hesitated. Amie did not rush him, but supported him silently, one hand holding his arm so it would not slip from around her shoulders, the other grasping the railing for balance.
Finally, Steven looked at the sheathed sword one last time. With a heave that seemed to take a thousand times more effort than it should have, he threw the sword into the ocean, which at once sucked it down into the depths, out of sight.
For just a split second, Steven felt a searing agony in his chest, and the overwhelming urge to fling himself over the railing after the sword. He actually made the attempt, but Amie tightened her grip on his arm and the railing, anchoring him to the ship. Had he resisted longer, Steven would have dragged them both over the side, and Amie must have known it, but she held onto him anyway.
The moment passed, and Steven felt relief suddenly flood through him. The Animuslaver was gone, and so too was its influence upon him. He felt like himself once more. Around them, the storm suddenly quieted down, the fog dissipated as if it had never been.
Realizing he was still holding onto Amie, he looked down at her. She looked up, and a strangely shy smile crept across her face.
"There you are, Captain Steven. For a moment there, I thought I'd lost you," Amie said, almost too quietly to be heard despite the sudden calm of the sea.
Finding his voice, Steven said, "Thank you, Magus Amie. I owe you my life."
"I had nothing better to do today anyway," Amie replied with a slight laugh.