Erich jolts awake as a loud shout echoes through their little enclosed space, accompanied by the rhythmic clanking of a ladder dropping into place.
“That’s our cue,” Io murmurs as she slowly straightens up, hands flexing and shoulders rolling as she tries to work the stiffness out of her body.
Erich grunts in agreement and forces himself upright, squinting blearily at the Red Mist just beyond their current cage as he tries to gather himself to rise; his head has become one long, dull ache, and the shifting currents of the barrier don’t make it any easier to focus. He really just wants to lay back down and go back to sleep, but… if he does that, he can’t save Oliver, or properly meet Louis, and if he doesn’t meet Louis, they won’t have a safe place to rest. He and Io probably know enough to get by on their own, but he’s seen how difficult it is for lone revenants, and the idea of having to balance survival, and trying to revive mistle and bloodsprings, and trying to save the Successors…
No, it’s better to have somewhere safe to retreat to, where they don’t have to worry about being captured or killed or extorted or… or anything of that nature.
“Come,” Io commands as she stands over him, one hand extended and her gaze unwavering. “Our journey begins here.”
“Dramatic,” Erich tells her with a tiny curl of amusement, even as he takes her hand and lets her haul him to his feet.
“But true,” she replies as she dusts off the back of her legs and makes a face down at herself, murmuring softly, “I do not recall the ground being so uncomfortable last time…”
“You didn’t have anything to compare it to, last time,” Erich says with a shrug, then grimaces slightly as he has to brace himself against the pillar. He wishes he had even a single regeneration left in order to combat the swirling ache in his head, but he doesn’t; between the fight against Silva, his… his death at Louis’ blade, and his reappearance here, he has nothing left to heal the objectively minor wound to his head.
(Minor but annoying, fuck.)
“Hey, let’s get a move on!” a voice shouts from above them, and Erich winces at the sound, rubbing at his temple in an effort to sooth the ache.
Still, he doesn’t waste any more time, stepping around the pillar and watching as two other revenants slowly climb their way up the ladder and out of the pit, before slowly hauling himself up as well.
“Well well, look who finally decided to show their face,” the revenant goon at the top says with a scoff, his gaze narrow beneath the lenses of his mask as he looks Erich over. “You better not be going into frenzy already, newbie, or I’ll toss you right back down into that pit and to hell with you and your girl.”
Erich just shoots the man a dark look and steps away from the ladder, giving Io room to finish her own climb; unfortunately, the revenant’s words have drawn the attention of the others, and many of the other gathered thralls take subtle steps away from him as he moves.
(Not that he cares, but it’s… annoying.)
(He doesn’t look that much like he’s going to frenzy, does he?)
(He certainly doesn’t feel it.)
Io settles at his side without a word, pressing close in that way that says she knows he’s tired and wants to rest, a wordless offering of support that he’s so, so grateful for even if they don’t have time—
He feels her fingers slip into his supply pouch, feels the way his pouch gets heavier, and shoots her a narrow-eyed look as she smiles up at him.
“A spare filter,” she murmurs almost soundlessly, her amber eyes sharp with concern. “Just in case.”
Erich doesn’t need to ask what ‘just in case’ she’s talking about, not with everything that’s about to happen; in fact, he’s actually a bit ashamed to realize he’d overlooked the obvious issue with the idea of just giving Oliver his current mask.
Masks use their owner’s own blood to filter the miasma out, and while it’s probably not a death sentence to briefly wear someone else’s mask… well, Erich’s blood isn’t exactly normal anymore, is it?
(He doesn’t want to test what his blood will do to others, not with what the Queen’s blood did to others, did to him…)
(He wants to save Oliver, not doom the man.)
“Come on, get moving,” one of the revenant guards orders as he shoves another thrall forward. “Time’s wasting, let’s go.”
Erich grimaces at the tone, wishing desperately that he could just attack, could just strike them all down, but bites back the urge and ducks his head. Now isn’t the time or the place, especially not with how he’s feeling; he needs to rest at a mistle first, needs to heal and recharge and regain his footing, and then…
Well, he doesn’t intend to let this gang get away with this shit for too much longer.
A few hours will be fine.
He’ll make sure of it.
The march to the ruins is a quick one, even with the pain in his head; it’s a relief, in a way, knowing that it’ll all be over soon, but it’s also… frightening, he supposes. If he messes up here, if he can’t save Oliver despite his knowledge of what’s to come, then… what can he even do?!
“Tch, dry as dust here, too,” the revenant in charge grumbles as he kicks the shriveled mistle, then scans the area. “Right then—”
“W-wait!” one of the thralls interrupts, shoving forward before falling to his knees when another of the guards kicks at his legs. “It—it’s dry here too, just like you said! S-so… so why bother sending us out?”
The revenant in charge scoffs. “You think any of us got a choice in this? You think we can ask Cerberus for any mercy if we can’t find jack out here? Hah!” The man barks a cold, empty laugh and shakes his head. “Fuck that. They’ll just take everything else instead, leave us with nothing, and then expect us to keep trying even when we ain’t got shit to our name. And when we can’t keep up a second time? Well, they’ll just take us instead.”
An uncomfortable silence settles over the group, several thralls exchanging tired glances, their shoulders slumping further.
Erich wishes he could refute the man’s words, but he really doesn’t know enough to do so; his only real interaction with Cerberus is with Davis, who’s only one of many, and he knows how difficult things are getting at this point. The mistle are drying up, the bloodsprings are drying up, and there’s never enough for anyone anymore.
(Well, for anyone but Silva, sat atop his throne, an entire lake of blood feeding his skill and letting him hold back the horrors from invading their little sanctuary, their little prison.)
(But even he’ll fall soon enough, if Erich can’t fix things—)
“Anyone else wanna complain?!” the leader shouts as he squares his shoulders and glowers at all of them. “No? Good. Now get moving, and don’t fucking die on us.”
Erich watches as the other thralls are paired off and shoved into different caverns, disappearing from sight pair by pair, until it’s just him and Io and Oliver left behind. And when he and Io step forward at a gesture from one of the gang members—
The leader’s weapon blocks Io from following him, just like before.
“Nu-uh, you’re staying here, girly,” the man growls as he fixes Erich with a narrow-eyed look. “You, newbie. Get in there and find some blood beads, and maybe we’ll let the girly go unharmed. Understand?”
Erich grits his teeth, biting back the urge to snarl in the bastard’s face; he’d known this was coming, he did, and yet—
“Come on,” Oliver murmurs quietly as he grips Erich’s arm and tugs him away. “Not the time to fight, not right now,” he adds as he guides Erich across the ruins and towards the hole that one of the gang members is gesturing them towards.
“I don’t need a minder,” Erich can’t help but growl at the man, emotions too tangled to quickly pick apart; he knows Oliver doesn’t deserve it, but at the same time…
Oliver shrugs, apparently unbothered by Erich’s words, and whispers, “Maybe not, but you’re not exactly in a state to fight right now. We can find a place to rest a bit in the tunnels—”
“Stop yakking and get your asses down there!” the gang member snarls, stepping up behind them and giving them both a quick shove over the edge. “And don’t come back until you have some blood beads!”
Erich hisses as he tumbles over the edge, head aching and sight blurring as he falls into the violet-lit darkness, ground coming up in a rush, impact jarring through his hands-arm-head as he lands, stomach roiling and eyes burning, a sob caught between his teeth—
Mistle blooms in front of them, beautiful white lights swirling outward in a rush of power that washes over the both of them.
“Woah,” Oliver murmurs as he hauls himself to his feet and steps closer. “Haven’t seen a living mistle in a while… what do you think made it come back to life like that?”
Erich chokes back a despairing laugh, even as he feels his aches fade and his mind clear—
(As his left hand heals from the impact—)
—and forces out a soft, “No idea,” while forcing himself to his feet.
(Oliver will find out soon enough, but… not here.)
(Not now.)
“Huh, weird, that wasn’t there before,” he hears the gang member above say, before the man shouts down at them, “Don’t you even think about running, newbie, or we’ll ash your girl!” And then, before Erich can do more than grunt and wave a hand in the man’s direction, something clangs down from above, followed by another shout of, “Since you ain’t got a weapon, here’s one that’ll suit you! Enjoy, newbie!”
Erich doesn’t need to look to know what sort of ‘weapon’ has been thrown down for him — a pipe, he’s been thrown another fucking pipe, because of course he has — and resolves to ignore the ‘offering’ this time. He has weapons this time, thankfully, so he doesn’t need to even pick the damn thing up.
“Here,” Oliver says as he moves around Erich and picks up the pipe, offering it to Erich. “He’s right, this place is going to be pretty dangerous. You need at least something to protect yourself with.”
“I have weapons,” Erich grumbles, though he still takes the pipe from Oliver, giving it a disgusted look as he does. “I might not remember much, but that I know.” Now that he actually feels like himself again, he can feel all his gear resting right where it belongs like Io said it was, tucked away in that odd in-between space of present-but-not-physical that he’s gotten used to over the past few months.
(That he’d once been entirely comfortable with, before… before Jack killed him, before he lost himself, before… everything.)
“You… don’t remember much?” Oliver hesitantly asks, something odd in his voice as he steps closer.
Erich grunts in agreement and takes a couple steps away from the ledge they’d been thrown down, before turning back to stare upwards, eyes squinting to make out the shadow of the bastard who had thrown them down here. “Get ready to run,” he murmurs as he hefts the pipe, getting a sense of its weight, and then draws his arm back and hurls it upwards.
The gang member squawks as the damn thing flies past and clangs off something else, before the man falls into a litany of curses that sound a touch pained to Erich’s ears.
Erich barks a vicious laugh as he turns on his heel and strides away, ignoring the infuriated shouts of the bastard above them as he goes.
“Woah, hey, wait up,” Oliver calls as he hurries to catch up. “That wasn’t exactly smart—”
“Io will be fine,” Erich cuts the man off with a small shake of his head. “And so will we,” he adds as he takes a breath and summons his modified version of Brodiaea to hand, letting the bayonet settle comfortably in his hands once more.
“If you’re certain,” Oliver says as he falls into step with Erich, rubbing at the back of his head as he does. “Uh, guess I should probably introduce myself, huh? I’m Oliver.”
“Erich.” He slants a glance at the man, then quickly brings his attention back to the front as they move beyond the last of the mistle’s range. “And to head off any questions: no, I don’t remember much of anything. Yes, I remember how to fight. No, neither Io nor I are helpless.”
Oliver makes a strangled noise, half laugh half… something, then waves away Erich’s worry when he turns to look. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he says as he calls his hammer to hand and settles it over his shoulder. “Wasn’t going to pry, I promise. Guess you’re used to fighting long range—”
“No.”
“S— no?” Oliver pauses, blinks at him, then slowly continues with, “Al…right? Uh… okay. We’ll… sort out our strategy as we go, then. Just… watch out for the Lost, okay? You can never quite tell which ones will get up as you approach and which ones won’t.”
Erich nods sharply and lengthens his stride a bit, feeling something uncomfortable prickle up his spine as Oliver just keeps glancing at him. He doesn’t know how to put it into words, but he wishes the man would just stop; he’s here to save the other, not… not make friends or whatever it is that Oliver’s thinking about right now. He just needs to get through this damn ruin, keep Oliver from getting injured, meet up with Louis, and then… and then…
(He’ll figure it out when he reaches that point.)
(He has to.)
He doesn’t think twice when he spots the first of the Lost in their way, just lunges forward in a veil-enhanced rush of wind, capelet rippling as he slams his bayonet through the Lost’s chest and then slashes with his clawed right hand, using his veil’s drain to finish the thing off. He whirls away as the beast drops and begins to dissolve, eyes already fixed on the next bit of path to clear.
“Oh, wow, you weren’t kidding, huh?” Oliver says as the man jogs to keep up with Erich’s movements. “How’d you even get caught, anyway?”
“Fell asleep in the wrong place,” Erich answers grimly as he kicks a Lost down a hole and darts away from another’s slash, only to blink when Oliver’s hammer comes slamming down, flattening the thing before it can get any closer. “Thanks.”
Oliver settles his hammer back on his shoulder and gives Erich a thumbs up. “No problem! I’m your partner, after all,” he says with a measure of cheer that Erich just can’t understand. “It’s my job to back you up, yeah?”
Erich fixes him with a look, trying desperately to remember if Oliver was like this last time, too, before giving a non-committal hum and turning away. “Just be careful,” he settles on as he stalks through the tunnel and out into the next bit of the ruin.
“Aw, you do care!” Oliver exclaims as he hurries after Erich. “Don’t worry, I know my way around a fight, trust me.”
Erich bites back the urge to turn on Oliver and shout that it’s not Oliver’s skills in a fight he’s worried about.
(He’s being irrational, he knows he is.)
(This whole obsession with saving the man is irrational: there’s no point, no reason, no better future that will come of this.)
(Oliver is just a single revenant in a sea of revenants, no different from the bastards who’ve captured him, or the revenants he helped with their minor issues later on, or anyone else he met briefly and then left behind.)
(Oliver’s not a Successor, or anyone important, or even anyone who knew him before he died.)
(And yet…)
Erich takes a careful, controlled breath and gives himself a small shake, trying to quell his circling thoughts. He doesn’t even know what he’ll do about Oliver even if he saves the man, which feels… wrong, but it’s not like he can offer Oliver a place in Louis’ home, given that he’s not even certain Louis will offer him a place without evidence that his blood code is broken, or— no, maybe the bloodspring and mistle revival is enough? He is the only one who can do that, and it’s directly related to Louis’ current goal, so… maybe that will be enough.
Movement to one side finally snaps his mind free of its spiral, and he doesn’t hesitate to strike, knocking the Lost aside before it can lay a claw on him. And then Oliver slips by his shoulder, hammer poised, and Erich… breathes. Shoves his worries aside. Focuses.
It’s… not exactly easy to settle into a rhythm with Oliver, but it’s not exactly difficult, either. It’s like… learning to fight with Yakumo all over again, except Oliver’s attacks are slower, weightier, and Erich needs to involve himself more, to distract the enemy until Oliver has the right opening to strike. There’s a certain flow to it all, to how Erich learns to slip in and out of range, to how Oliver moves around him, to how they split groups of enemies up in order to take them down.
They certainly aren’t perfect at it— he’s almost collided with Oliver a few times, too fixated on his target’s motions to really register Oliver’s, and Oliver’s swings are a bit… wide at times, forcing Erich to dart back or get hit, but they’re figuring it out. Close calls aside, they haven’t really done any damage to each other, and their awkwardness hasn’t cost them a fight yet, so… it’s fine.
“Fwew, you’re certainly quick on your feet,” Oliver says when they finally reach a locked door and get a moment to breathe.
Erich slants a sidelong look at Oliver, at the way he’s leaning heavily against the crumbling wall, and shrugs as he pretends to dig in his pouch for the key they’d found a bit ago. “I need to be,” is all he says as he tries to give the man time to catch his breath. “It’s… important.”
(He needs to be able to dodge, needs to be able to move, needs to be able to keep his mask intact—)
(No, not now, not here.)
(Focus.)
“Nothing bad about that,” Oliver says with a rough laugh. “Just remember that some of us aren’t quite so unencumbered, huh?”
“Maybe ditch the weapon that weighs more than you, then,” Erich can’t help but tell Oliver, voice flat as something almost like amusement curls through his veins. “Or get better at running with it. Either or.”
Oliver snorts at that. “Yeah, no to the first. Not giving up this hammer even if you beg me,” he says with another little laugh. “And the second sort of requires I actually eat regularly and can stay alive long enough to gather haze to get stronger, you know? And maybe have a mask I can actually breathe in, damn,” he finishes with a huff, reaching up with one hand to fiddle with his mask as he says that. “It’s hard to find decent masks out here, isn’t it? Nothing but these ancient things that don’t fit well.”
“I’ve worn better,” Erich agrees distantly as he finally pulls the key from his pouch and slots it into the lock, trying desperately to ignore the way his fingers tremble and his throat tightens, the way he catches a flash of silver in the corner of his eye, the way the rattle of the key sounds almost like the click-rattle of a loose mask being adjusted, about to fall, about to break—
(It won’t happen this time, it won’t happen, it won’t happen, it won’t happen—)
“Ready to get moving again?” he forces out as he shoves the door open and kicks a chunk of debris into the way to keep it from closing behind them.
“Hey, you alright there?” Oliver asks as he steps closer, one hand reaching out—
Erich ducks away from the man before the hand can land on him. “Let’s go,” he mutters as he stalks forward, absently shooting down the ooze-like Lost clinging to the ceiling before it can ambush them. “The sooner we’re through this mess, the better.”
He can practically feel Oliver’s gaze on his back, and it… it itches, makes him want to hide, makes him want to turn and snap at the man, to force him to stop staring…
It’s a useless impulse, though, so he shoves it aside like everything else. They’ve only got a little further to go, just a bit more and then… and then he’ll finally know if he can actually change things. If he can make things better. If he even has a chance at doing what he promised Cruz he’d do…
(Please let it all work out.)
(Please.)
(It has to.)
(Please…)