A new dawn begins.
The archives are quiet. Silence blankets not just the room, but Dan Heng's being, almost as pensive as the strict way he carries himself. Even here, even in the quiet. Even in his lonesome. His fingers itch and his heart burns to care for others but he tempers those feelings into something stone-cold instead, like the steel in his lap.
The lance is heavy. Physically. Metaphorically. Dan Hen drags his fingers down the length of it, his gloves catching on the pockmarks that mar its grip. Cloud-Piercer is an apt name; it would be a lance that can pierce the sky which finds itself within his hands. Freedom settled across his lap. Dramatic irony at its finest. The one gift left to him, the one thing that has stayed by his side like stubborn fungus.
It taunts him. Dan Heng finds within it an old friend he doesn't remember the name of and a new one who mocks him. His thoughts are the same as they always are, embittered things that poison the tip of his tongue. Be rid of it. Aboard the Astral Express, there are one thousand other weapons he could choose, ones that will not watch him back with wary eyes.
And yet.
Dan Heng sharpens his whetstone in preparation for a ritual. Stone smacks against stone. Sparks fly in his dimly lit quarters and though there is no true danger, Dan Heng's mouth quirks in the tiniest amount of amusement. Pom-Pom would say—
Do not think about him.
That smirk on his mouth flattens into a line as Dan Heng remembers himself. This may be his room, but it is a temporary thing. Books upon books, little to no personal effects, a pile of blankets on the ground, and an ill-kempt futon and dingy pillow. Dan Heng sits on not a bed, but a funeral pyre, something that should mark his end aboard this damnable ship.
He should have left as soon as he arrived. He should leave now, and he thinks that often; he should shed his skin and rebirth himself again, only this time it will not be Dan Heng either—he'll pick a new destination and a new name.
Instead, he sets the whetstone against the crook of his knee where it is bent. Cloud-Piercer is heavy and awkward in his lap but he manages to hold it at a perfect twenty-degree angle.
He should leave this ship and instead, he sharpens his blade—another thing that he should've left behind when given the chance.
Dan Heng, though, is a curious being, one who claims that he is a new man yet clings to the one he once was. A journey, he thinks. He is aboard this train on a journey to find himself, but the more time he spends here, the more things he learns.
The Luofu—he shouldn't have gone and yet his feet carried him there without much thought. Curiosity, then. Old habits that die hard. Nagging, sweeping curiosity for a man whose name is so similar to his own, and though someone different, Dan Heng carries the same weight of that abysmal sin.
"Dan Feng," he murmurs. Even the taste of his name holds familiarity.
Cloud-Piercer is an old friend, a fleeting memory that Dan Heng recognized from the beginning even though didn't remember. The moment his fingers curled around its pock-marked and worn length, there was a moment of calm and peace. And yes, it's heavy—it is so heavy—but its weight is different from the shackles he was born into, that he wore, that he watched fall to the ground when he finally saw the sun again.
He sharpens its blade for it is the least he can do, the excuse coming as second nature to him. Expertly crafted. Practiced. Today, it is for his predecessor, he thinks. He's just come home from the flagship, those old bitter-hearted memories still stinging fresh. Dan Heng will spin forth every tale that he can to explain away this blade aside from the obvious: he adores it.
It is easy to tell, though, from the well-sharpened steel, to the polished hardwood of the staff, to the oiled leather carefully stretched and crisscrossed to perfection.
Dan Heng feels like a stranger in his body even though this incarnation has only belonged to him. He is chased; chased by old sins, haunted by those who came before him, shackled to his past whether he wishes to be or not. And he chases a dream; he chases a future not for himself but for everyone else aboard this ship—
His whetstone skids, shearing off too much of the edge. He'd lost his concentration. He thumbs at the blade, testing it. A pinprick of red wells along his thumb, bubbling up crimson, drowning his sorrows in red vermillion that drips into the ground.
It was—is—easier to pretend to not care, but Dan Heng is not an unfeeling man despite the cold mask he dons for the sake of others. His heart bleeds in the same way his thumb does, and as he watches that thin line of blood blot away the paleness of his skin, he thinks that for that moment alone, he'll himself that tiniest slip of composure.
Then he wipes his thumb against his trousers. Shoves it into his mouth and laps at it with his tongue. He is no healer but he can at least do this, and when he pulls his hand away, his skin is knitted back together, pale and perfect, not a scar in sight.
Dan Heng wonders what it is like to scar, jagged marks across skin that settle into the marrow. And then he considers that not only does he know, he's likely the most scarred of them here on this blasted ship, it is just that the marks that he bears cannot be seen even though they cut as deep as any flesh wound.
He begins to hone his blade again. Metal sings as the stone grinds across it. One, two, three, he counts, thinking of these strokes instead of whatever else haunts him.
Silence settles. His ass hurts from sitting on the hard ground. Screech, screech, goes the whetstone that Mr. Welt gifted him some holiday months ago.
"I should leave this damn ship," he mutters to himself. He could be quieter. He shouldn't have said it at all. These walls have ears and no doubt he'll never hear the end of it. I am Nameless only in title. I am Dan Heng, whether I want to be or not.
Scrape, scrape. Dan Heng tests the sharps of the blade once more. He's corrected his error and the metal sings as he flicks it.
He knows that he is going nowhere soon.