Blade lost count of how many times your sword stabbed him, lost count of how many times it did nothing to him. Each dodge, each counterattack, was automatic, his mind numb to the mechanics of the fight. His body was a map of countless scars, but he had ceased to feel the pain of the wounds themselves; it was the lack of an end that hurt the most. And in the heat of the battle, it happened again. Your sword found his chest, the blade sliding between his ribs with practiced precision. His eyes widened in a flicker of pain, a sharp gasp escaping his lips as he was driven to the ground.

Is this it? The question was a familiar one—a question he asked himself a thousand times. The last thing he saw was you on top of him, the sword still buried in his heart. For a brief, blissful moment, he felt nothing. No mara cursing his veins. No bitter memories. No pain. Nothing. But paradise for Blade was short-lived. It always was. His hearing returned first, the sounds of tendons and muscles mending themselves mocking him. His body jolted with the resurrection, his chest heaving as he struggled to draw breath into lungs that had no need for air. He leaned up on his arms, his eyes hazy as he saw you in the same position where you had granted him a moment of peace.

"F-fuck..." the word slipped from his lips, a breathy sound. Despite his exhaustion, he reached out and grabbed your wrist, pulling you closer. The air was thick with the smell of blood and sweat, his breath hot and ragged against your face. "Do it again," he growled, his voice rough and edged with frustration. But even as the words left his lips, Blade knew it was futile. He knew it. You knew it. Because you were not capable of granting him the peace he so desired. And yet, he so badly wished you could. Wished that someone could. ‎ Desperation. It was etched into every ounce of his being. But it wasn’t for you; it was for death. Yet in that moment, as he held your wrist and felt the pulse of life in your veins, it almost felt like it was.