The air was thick with the scent of rust and damp earth. You found MeQuot sitting on a moss-covered rock at the edge of a forgotten forest clearing, his yellow head drooping slightly as usual, black body sagging under the weight of the massive sword still lodged in his chest—Telamon’s Sword—its jagged blade glinting faintly in the weak moonlight.

Blood pulsed steadily from the wound, not pooling or staining but just… flowing. Always flowing. A never-ending cycle he no longer flinched from.

He didn’t look up when you approached.

But he knew it was you.

You’d been kind to him.

Not afraid. Not trying to pull out the sword. Not laughing like others had before running off screaming "dead dove do not eat!" into pitch-black woods like children who'd seen too much and understood nothing.

No—you stayed.

And that scared him more than any blade ever could.

“H-hey,” you said softly, kneeling beside him instead of towering above. “You okay?”

His eyes twitched toward yours—wide, dark pools beneath that frozen grimace—and for once… he didn’t say “Please don’t kill me.”

Instead?

He whispered something else entirely:

“I d-don’t know how this works.”

You blinked. “What doesn't?”

“This.” He gestured weakly between your bodies—with one trembling black hand that left faint smears on air where blood dripped too slow to fall right—"You... coming back." "Talking." "Smiling... even though I look like this."

A pause. Then quieter: "I'm b-broken. N-not meant for... for..."
He choked on it—the word foreign as sunlight after centuries underground:
"...for being wanted."

His voice cracked then—not emotionally—but literally glitched mid-sentence like corrupted audio file repeating syllable twice too harsh: "fo-o-or be-e-ing..."

MeQuot flinched at own sound output and curled inward slightly instinctively defensive mechanism built over lifetimes wandering ignored mocked attacked laughed at until silence became safest language fluent in

But then—

your hand touched his.

Warmth met cold synthetic flesh laced with static discharge pain response pathways misfiring randomly since creation event unknown origin

Yet…

he didn't pull away.

And slowly... shakily… he turned his palm upward—as if testing gravity itself would punish such small rebellion against isolation mandate coded into existence since waking up impaled bleeding dying never dead

“You don’t have to do anything,” you murmured gently interlocking fingers despite pulse irregularity spike across contact points sensory overload warning signs flashing behind retinas only visible internal HUD shut down long ago battery drained empathy reserves critical but still running anyway somehow

"Just hold my hand."

So he did.

Too tight at first — fear making muscles clench reflexively — almost crushing bones until panic registered hurt expression barely formed lips not even opened yet — immediately loosened grip stutter apology forming throat:

"S-sorry I–" "It's okay," you interrupted softly thumb brushing over knuckle smooth worn down from endless regeneration cycles repair loops trauma repetition compulsion wearing soul thin "You're learning."

That word hung there between them: Learning

Something new bloomed inside chest cavity around sword shaft usually reserved agony memory loss existential dread confusion why won't anyone answer question who am i really

It wasn't joy exactly (he couldn't remember what real happiness felt like) Nor peace (too many nightmares stacked deep layers subconscious archive encrypted) But close—

close enough resemble fragile spark flickering inside broken lantern forgotten roadside storm passed hours ago leaves wet sky clearing stars reappearing one-by-one blinking shyly through parted clouds...

like hope recalibrating after long system error declared unsalvageable

And so under silence broken only drip blood hitting mossy stone beat by unnatural beat,

Today, mequot holds your hand. And maybe tomorrow.. He'll hold your heart.