"You're coming along really well," Niki said. "You might have a knack for this."

The blade didn't look at her, keeping his eyes resolutely on the pages. He didn't know what that meant. The last person who told him he had a knack for anything were his trainers at the arena. He had a talent, they whispered, for bloodshed.

He never quite understood that either.

Bloodshed was not about skill. War was, but the blade had been told often enough he was much too stupid to grasp the intricacies of strategy. His old master did very well at those already. They had won a fair share of their wealth during the wars.

Then they lost a lot of it during the rebellion. War was a fickle thing.

Thanks to Niki's teachings though, the blade had learned how to read basic texts. It was mainly a trick of memory. She showed him over and over again how certain sounds matched certain letters until he could remember by heart. Then it was as easy as putting the letters behind each other to make the words. And then out of words, a sentence was formed. The blade didn't think it was very hard and as he was taught, he sometimes found himself wondering why his master had so often dictated his letters to be written by a scribe. Or had that scribe read the letters they received out loud. Reading wasn't hard. Writing wasn't hard either once the blade got over the finicky hurdle of holding a pen.

He only had to practice to get better at it. The more he read, the quicker and easier he started to recognize the letters and words. Niki made him read from books that were not very complicated. They often had pictures to match the writing. The blade did think that kind of felt like cheating because he didn't actually need to read the word to know what it said. But he never mentioned that out loud. Phil owned a lot of books and told the blade that he could try and read out of any of them he desired. If there was a word he could read but didn't know the meaning of, he could ask about it.

The blade liked reading. It was quiet and he could do it without moving much. He could do it in the house around his new masters too so he could keep an eye on them and be ready if they did need him. And it made Phil nod his head in approval a lot.

When he wasn't reading from the book Niki helped him with, he read the farmer's manual.

While the blade had not been told yet what the point of him learning how to read was, he had to assume it was for some future task he'd be getting. Perhaps they wanted him to do the transcribing soon? Or he could copy texts like he had seen the servants do sometimes when a lot of information had to be spread across his master's domain very quickly. For the moment, he decided reading books with practical use was a good idea. If he knew how to farm better, that'd surely be good for his masters too.

Maybe they'd compliment him on his foresight. While rare, that had happened before with his old master when he'd done something very clever.

"You're going to make me feel extra bad for not paying you, huh?" Phil asked. He was sitting at his desk, doing something with maps.

When he sat like that, hunched over the parchment, muttering to himself, he reminded Techno most vividly of his old master. Always busying himself with the plans, always trying to stay several feet ahead of something.

(Out of all the comparisons he could make, the blade didn't know why that felt like an unfavorable one)

"I do love it when you feel bad," Niki mused out loud. Sarcasm, assuredly. Saying something when you didn't really mean it was such a strange habit. "You could consider it a reimbursement for all those years of free babysitting I squeezed out of you."

"I don't think that counts, considering Tommy and Tubbo were pretty much attached at the hip during that time." Phil stood up and approached the table. "I left them to run off and raise themselves half the time."

"You can tell from Tubbo's table manners," Niki said with a small smile. "Though I might call on your services again because I'm heading to the capital soon."

"Family business?" Phil asked.

"Loose ends that need to be tied up. I'm not looking forward to it."

The blade had zoned out during most of this conversation, trained by years of experience to listen for when he was spoken to without making it obvious he was also unintentionally eavesdropping on what the people around him were saying. It could be a tough balancing act at times. His old master loathed repeating themself, so the blade had to make sure he could catch anything that might become relevant down the line.

But he had been punished severely more than once for 'thinking he should meddle in things above him'. So he also knew how to not hear things.

Or how to forget things. The blade was very good at forgetting on purpose.

"So, how have you been enjoying yourself?" These last words from Phil were aimed at the blade rather than at Niki, so he knew he had to respond.

However, the blade didn't like trick questions. His enjoyment was irrelevant. "Knowing how to read is useful," he said instead. Not a lie.

"It's interesting how essential it has become throughout the years compared to before," Phil replied. Then he laughed. "I bet that makes me sound so fucking old."

"Everything you say makes you sound old," Niki said.

"Thanks," Phil was also being sarcastic. Then he put a hand on the blade's shoulder. If Phil noticed him going rigid, he didn't mention it. "Always sitting inside with these stuffy books is going to get unhealthy though. You should go out, get some sun and fresh air."

"And do what?" the blade heard himself ask. It was probably too bold a response.

But Phil only laughed. "I don't really mind, mate. You can run laps around the town for all I care. I don't want to see you back inside before nightfall."

The blade swallowed. That was… that was perhaps the most confusing set of commands he had gotten from his new masters thus far. Phil wanted him to go outside and do nothing? One time when he'd been bad, his old master made him stand outside on the training pitch in the scorching heat of a summer afternoon. With one bucket in each hand, so the weight might teach him about burdens. This didn't sound like a punishment though.

"Wilbur and Tommy are probably around somewhere if you wanna go find them to hang out," Phil added as the blade got up. He smiled to himself, looking ever so pleased. As if telling the blade to go away was some sort of accomplishment.

Had his service been so bad that Phil couldn't stand the sight of him anymore?

He heard Niki say something, her tone more urgent. The blade ignored it and went outside. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't do just a random anything. But Phil said he should do something.

Run laps around town?

The blade never much enjoyed running. But he could walk. He picked the same direction he had traveled down with Wilbur a few days ago. If he followed it, he would get to town. Maybe Wilbur was there, or Tommy? They could tell him what to do.

Before he could get that far, he came past the farm with the potato fields again.

The blade looked around but he couldn't see anybody. So he felt safe leaning on the fence and inspecting the plants up close. He'd learned a lot from the farmer's manual. Potatoes were a good beginner crop, it said. They're easy to plant, don't need a lot to grow. Most people could get them to sprout.

Not a lot of people could make them thrive.

Like most plants, a potato could grow larger or more plentiful if you paid them the right attention. Small things such as how you till the soil and add irrigation so they can absorb water more evenly. How far apart the plants were could make a difference.

This field had small canals and the person who planted them had taken care to root them properly. But they had also planted the potatoes too close together to make optimal use of the space.

The blade smiled to himself when the thought popped up in his head that he could probably do it better than this man had.

It was an indulgence he was familiar with, yet one he stomped down often. When one of the other trainees bragged about a bow shot they found impressive - a shot the blade knew he'd be able to perform faster and more cleanly than them if he tried. When he sat in the war room at his old master's feet and had thought up the army's next move long before one of the generals started to suggest it. There was that tiny little spark of satisfaction he didn't dare feel fully.

Once, during a sparring session with the most skilled of his old master's lauded recruits, the blade had dodged one of their more risky attacks and caught another blow with his wooden sword to loud gasps of the men spectating the fight. Then he had feigned his own swipe and in a moment of fear, the man had stumbled back and fallen ungracefully on their ass.

The blade remembered most vividly the laughter and applause in the crowd. The other soldiers who abhorred this specific officer took pleasure in them being bested. And the blade felt that spark akin to a forest fire in his chest.

Afterward, the officer had beaten him so badly he couldn't walk for a week. But even them spitting in his bloodied and bruised face wasn't enough to fully extinguish the flames inside him.

The blade looked around again, assuring himself that the road was deserted. Then he bent over the fence and picked one of the potatoes. The largest one he could find. This would be the standard he had to meet.

He only had to grow a potato larger than this one.

Phil's garden was small, but there was enough land around the cabin to dwarf what the other man had. The blade started by tilling the land, the way the farmer's manual described it. After less than an hour, he was already out of breath. He'd done his best to keep in shape while waiting for his master to return to the castle. Sadly, there was a large difference between walking around and practicing so his sword form didn't slack completely, and the kind of manual labor farming would be considered as. His hands started to hurt from gripping the hoe, the way they used to when the army was sent out to campaign and the blade had to help pitch all the tents for their camps.

The sun sat high in the sky, it was barely noon. Nowhere close to nightfall.

When he was done tilling, the blade replanted Phil's potatoes.

It was a slow process. Every plant needed to be carefully dug out without damaging the roots. Then the blade needed to replant them with the more ideal spacing. Afterward, he dragged the irrigation channels into the ground, drawing lines in the earth that could fill with water. He crawled on his knees to press the edges with clay from the deeper layers, to shape them properly. His shirt stuck to his back as he worked, sweat made his hair cling to his face.

When he was done, his palms were red, stinging fiercely. His master's potato field would grow bigger and better potatoes than the other man's after this, no doubt. Though not more of them, since there were fewer seedlings.

The blade could see the sun, dipping towards the horizon but not close to reaching it yet.

Carl neighed softly when he entered the stable. After checking that nobody could spy on him, the blade went over to the old warhorse to stroke him along his mane. Just for a little while. Phil hadn't forbidden it, after all. And surely the stable counted as outside.

After that, he got back to work. He'd seen that Phil kept his potato supply in the stable too. Many of them had sprouted, some of them enough that if the blade took the knife normally used for cleaning Carl's hooves, he could cut off the sprouted parts. Those could be planted too. With some care, they'd grow into more potatoes.

By the time Wilbur came home, their potato field was far, far bigger than that other man's.

The blade's hands were bleeding, the skin rubbed raw with friction because of the tool he'd been using for hours. His knees hurt from all the kneeling he'd done, though that paled in comparison to the burning ache that had settled over the rest of his muscles. The strain of work had burned through his stamina. Dusk painted the landscape in stark shadows and a cold breeze had picked up, making the blade shiver in his thin, sweat-soaked clothes.

There were still more potatoes he could plant. It wasn't nightfall yet.

"Hey, what the hell are you doing?" Wilbur sounded more confused than angry, though the sharpness of his tone was enough to have the blade straighten his back.

"I'm farming," he said. "I planted potatoes."

"Yeah, I can see that. You went a little overboard with it, don't you think?" Wilbur not-so-nimbly jumped the fence. Why he did that when there was a perfectly unlocked gate less than six feet down was anybody's guess. When he got close enough to get a proper look, he frowned. "You're bleeding."

The blade looked at his own hands as if seeing them for the first time. He had noticed the injuries before but they were nothing, or not important enough to act upon.

"How did you-" Wilbur started, then seemed to think better of it. He grabbed the blade's elbow without a second thought. "Let's go inside. I'm taking care of those."

It wasn't nightfall quite yet. "Phil said-"

"I don't care what Phil said," Wilbur interrupted him.

Once inside, Wilbur made him sit down on the couch. He shifted through a chest full of small vials and bottles before returning with a cloth and a potion. Wilbur tipped the contents onto the fabric.

"You should have stopped sooner instead of pushing yourself. You're worse than that Squid guy."

"I saw his fields again," the blade said.

"And that inspired you to farm yourself into an early grave? Fuck, man."

Wilbur turned his hand over to inspect it, careful not to touch any of the cuts or scrapes the hours of farmwork had caused. With a tenderness that still settled on the blade as if it were an ill-fitting thing, he wiped at the injuries using the potion-soaked cloth.

("You're part of our family now," Wilbur had said - plain as day, easy as the sunrise. "That's how this works. We take care of each other.")

For a word with a truer meaning the blade hadn't learned until a month ago, it seemed to carry a lot of weight. It pervaded through everything these strangers did. It reflected in Phil brushing Tommy's hair or Wilbur singing them songs at the campfire. It settled in the moments where they didn't need to speak to be heard.

He couldn't really understand.

"Why did you do it?" Wilbur asked while he worked. "I mean, I respect the commitment but… why?" There was laughter in his voice. Not his old master chiding him for being disobedient, no. Genuine amusement, as if the hours he had spent toiling over a potato field were admirable.

"His field was bigger than yours."

Wilbur faltered for only a moment before continuing. "Yeah, it was. That doesn't answer my question."

The blade inclined his head a little. "Doesn't it?"

"It doesn't, because if this was about us, you would have asked." Wilbur stopped what he was doing briefly, the cloth still in his hand but staying there forgotten. "You don't do anything without us asking first, even stuff like sleeping and eating. None of us said we cared about his field being bigger than ours so, why would you care?"

"I…"

Did he care?

(A weapon should not care for anything except proving its worth)

"I don't know."

Wilbur hummed, picking the rag back up again to resume his work. "Bet it felt nice though, when you beat him."

The blade smiled. "It did."

"We don't have use for that many potatoes, but I suppose we can rub it in his face." When he was done cleaning and treating the wounds, Wilbur bandaged his hands.

That was when the door opened and Phil walked in.

Automatically, the blade checked the window. He could still see the deep red hues of sunset casting a gentle glow on the sky. It wasn't night yet. He wasn't-

"Stay here," Wilbur said. The hard edge to the words had him freezing in place. "Phil, we need to talk."

"What's up?" Phil asked. His smile fell at the expression on Wilbur's face. "What's wrong?"

They shared a look - one that the blade was right at the center of and that made him nervous. Then Wilbur gestured to the door that led to the bedrooms. The air was thick with tension.

The blade watched them go, helplessly sitting there devoid of meaning and purpose.

When their argument got loud enough to carry through the walls (though not loud enough to be understood through them), the blade pulled his legs up and wound his arms around them.

Somehow, he must have messed up really badly if he'd made his masters argue like this.

"Oh man, are they going at it again?"

The blade hadn't noticed Tommy come in. That was also bad, he was once again slipping up and not being very attentive. He really had gotten the bright idea to do something of his own volition once and see where it got him.

"What are they shouting about now?" Tommy asked. He was covered in dirt and the blade wondered if he should ask about that. Tommy looked like he had spent the day out in the woods wrestling with a pack of wolves.

"I farmed potatoes," he said. It wasn't a proper answer. The blade offered it anyway because the punishment for silence was more severe.

"That explains all the crap outside." Tommy sat down on the couch beside him. "Doesn't really explain why they're yelling though."

Instead of saying anything, the blade stared at his hands. The ones Wilbur had bandaged up for him.

There was a question that burned inside him along with the fire. It rang like hope and the meaning of family and Phil telling him to leave and Tommy being out all day but always coming home when the sun went down.

It tasted like the anger that burned Wilbur's throat and the gentle, saccharine care of his worry when the blade got hurt.

It sounded like Wilbur's laugh when he agreed it was nice to beat somebody, echoed Tommy's victory cry when he won a game, and mimicked the pleased little hum Phil couldn't fully keep down when he figured out one of his maps.

The blade found himself wanting to ask if that spark was what it felt like to be a person.

(His old master was louder than all, brandished into the fiber of his memory so he might never forget the lessons he was taught to hold above all else. So he might know his own value. At that moment, it came back to him to drown out the rest.

'So a weapon shall never forget its place')

He kept his mouth shut and listened to Tommy talk until it was dark outside.