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Encrid sat there—no, collapsed there—against the wall like a man who had finally lost the war. Armor half-clipped, eyes bloodshot and unfocused, dirt and dried blood crusted along the side of his face. His hands trembled faintly at his sides, calloused fingers twitching as if still trying to swing a sword that wasn’t there.
His whole body buzzed with that awful, low-grade hum that came from too many hours awake—six loops. Six. He hadn't slept in any of them. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Didn’t have the luxury. There was always something: a wall to get through, a plan to rework, someone else to stop from dying.
And now?
He was so fucking tired he couldn’t tell if he was breathing or just forgetting how.
The ground thudded beneath him, once, twice—then a shadow loomed.
Rem.
The bastard stomped up like the blunt-force animal he always was, chest bare, gauntlets half-laced, and his usual scowl twisted into something halfway between what the fuck and is he dead.
Rem stared.
Didn’t say anything.
Just stared at Encrid like he wasn’t the guy who'd saved all their asses three loops ago. Like he wasn’t the one rewriting death over and over again.
Encrid tilted his head back against the wall, eyes cracking open just enough to register the disbelief on Rem’s face.
“…What?” he rasped, voice like gravel and splinters. “You never seen a knight lose a war against sleep before?”
Rem blinked.
“…You look like shit.”
“I feel like shit.”
Another beat passed.
Then Rem muttered, "You’re gonna die like that."
Encrid let his head fall sideways.
“Been doing that for a few days, Rem.”
And the worst part?
He wasn’t even sure he was kidding.
Rem squinted. “A few days? The hell are you talking about? We fought yesterday.”
“No,” Encrid muttered, dragging himself upright like it took everything he had. “You wouldn’t get it.”
He swayed.
Rem watched him, brow furrowed, as Encrid braced one trembling hand against the wall. The gauntlet scraped over stone, leaving a faint smear of dried blood—whose, even he couldn’t remember anymore. His other hand clutched his side like he was trying to hold himself in one piece.
Rem frowned. “You... sick or something?”
Encrid laughed once, low and bitter. “Something like that.”
He tried to step forward—and nearly folded. His leg gave out, knee buckling hard enough to jolt his entire body. Only the wall kept him upright.
That was when Ragna showed up.
He didn’t stomp or announce himself—just emerged like a bad omen, arms crossed, blade slung over his back. He looked at Rem, then at the barely-standing mess that was Encrid.
Then his eyes narrowed.
“…You look like hell,” Ragna said, voice as dry and sharp as cracked ice.
“Feel worse,” Encrid croaked, pushing off the wall again with all the strength of wet paper.
He tilted sideways.
Ragna caught him.
No grace. No fuss. Just a hand on the collar of Encrid’s armor, yanking him upright before gravity could finish the job. Encrid sagged in his grip, teeth clenched, breathing ragged.
“What the hell did you do to yourself?” Ragna muttered, inspecting him like a half-broken blade not worth reforging.
Encrid didn’t answer.
Rem scratched his head. “You drink anything today? Eat?”
“I’m fine,” Encrid snapped. Then he winced. “Just... shut up.”
“You’re shaking.”
“Didn’t sleep,” he admitted, voice a rasp. “For a bit.”
“A bit?” Rem raised a brow. “You look like you haven’t blinked in a week.”
“I’m still standing.”
“Barely.”
Ragna didn’t let go. His grip stayed firm, holding Encrid upright with a frown that wasn’t quite concern—but wasn’t quite not, either. The silence hung thick for a beat.
Then, under his breath, just loud enough for Encrid to hear:
“…Fucking idiot.”
And still—he didn’t let him fall.
The quiet hung again.
Encrid’s breath came shallow now, his legs visibly shaking. Ragna still held him by the collar, but even that grip had shifted—less annoyed now, more... measured. Like he was waiting for something. Watching.
Then came the sound of boots on stone. Steady. Soft.
Jaxon.
He walked toward them without a word—armor silent, expression unreadable as always. Not slow, not fast. Just inevitable. Like the weight of consequence. His eyes flicked to Audin, to Ragna, and finally landed on Encrid.
He didn’t ask. Didn’t speak.
He just reached forward and grabbed Encrid’s wrist.
Encrid made a sound—a weak, involuntary noise, something between protest and surprise. But his body didn’t fight. Couldn’t. He swayed forward like a puppet with the strings cut—
And Jaxon pulled him in.
One firm tug. Encrid’s forehead landed against his chest with a dull thud, armor cool against fevered skin. Jaxon held him there. Not tight. Not awkward. Just... solid. A hand on the back of Encrid’s shoulder. The other still wrapped around his wrist, thumb pressing against his pulse like he was measuring it.
No one said a word.
Rem’s brows went up. “Uh—”
“Shh,” Audin whispered, eyes wide now. His voice was almost reverent. “Brother Jaxon knows.”
Ragna stepped back a half pace. Not much. Just enough.
Encrid didn’t move. Couldn’t. His fingers twitched against Jaxon’s chestplate, eyes half-lidded, jaw slack with exhaustion. He wasn’t talking anymore. That was the part that hit hardest.
He always talked.
Jaxon finally spoke—low and even, like thunder in the distance.
“…He’s burning up.”
Rem blinked. “Wait, really?”
“He hasn’t been sleeping. His body’s past its limit.” Jaxon shifted his grip slightly, cradling Encrid like something breakable. “He didn’t fall because he’s clumsy. He fell because his legs gave out.”
That landed like a hammer. Even Rem shut up.
Encrid, still half-conscious, made a weak noise—something like protest, but it died fast. His hand twitched, then dropped limply against Jaxon’s arm. His breathing was shallow now, and his weight sagged fully into the hold.
Ragna’s brow twitched again. “He didn’t say a word.”
“He wouldn’t,” Jaxon said simply.
Encrid blinked slowly.
Or—tried to.
His eyelids drooped halfway, then fluttered, then fell shut entirely. His head shifted against Jaxon’s chestplate, a faint scrape of skin on cold metal. A soft, broken sound slipped past his lips—barely a whisper of breath.
“…I’m… still here…”
He said it like it was a question.
Jaxon didn’t answer. He simply adjusted his stance, lowering his arms just enough to make the hold more secure. His gloved hand rose to the back of Encrid’s head, palm cradling the tangled mess of sweat-damp hair. He could feel the heat pouring off him now—too much, fever-warm, like a forge with no bellows left.
“You need to rest,” Jaxon said quietly.
Encrid didn’t respond.
Didn’t even twitch.
His weight sagged more—shoulders drooping, knees slowly buckling. His fingers slackened against Jaxon’s arm, then slid off entirely. His breathing had gone light and uneven, shallow enough to make Ragna tense again.
“…Shit,” Rem muttered under his breath. “He’s out, isn’t he?”
“No,” Ragna said. “He’s not out. He gave up. That’s different.”
Jaxon didn’t react. His arms were full of someone too stubborn to ever ask for help, who had finally—finally—gone quiet.
Too quiet.
“He hasn’t eaten,” Audin murmured, crouching a little closer, eyes narrowed in rare, focused stillness. “His soul’s drifting. If you don’t anchor him—”
“He’ll come back,” Jaxon said flatly. “He’s not done yet.”
But even as he said it, Encrid exhaled—a long, quiet breath—and went completely limp.
His legs gave entirely. His shoulders slumped. Head tilted forward. Arms dangled uselessly at his sides. He looked, for one gut-wrenching moment, like a dead man in Jaxon’s arms.
And Jaxon—whose face never changed, not in storms, not in war—tightened his grip.
Not panicked.
But firm.
Grounded.
“…I’ve got you,” he murmured, barely audible. “Stay.”
He didn’t say it for the others.
He said it for Encrid. Who didn’t respond.
Didn’t even twitch.
The silence that followed wasn’t shocked or frantic.
It was something worse.
It was afraid.
✭ ↷ ⁺ ♩ ∿
It was strange.
Unnerving, even.
Jaxon stood in the center of the group, arms full of something no one could quite reconcile. Because it wasn’t Commander Encrid he was holding now. Not the sharp-eyed bastard who barked orders with the precision of a blade. Not the feral blur of blood and steel that once tore through twenty mercenaries with them like a man possessed.
This wasn’t that Encrid.
This was—
Soft.
Warm.
Heavy in his arms like a sleeping animal, curled slightly inward, face buried in Jaxon’s chest as though instinctively seeking warmth. His fingers had curled gently into the hem of Jaxon’s armor, not gripping—just resting there, loose and trusting. One leg had hitched slightly up as he’d slumped, like a cat gathering into itself before sleep.
His breath came out in slow, warm puffs.
And the longer they looked, the more the image took shape—
“…He looks like the panther,” Rem blurted.
Everyone turned to him.
“What?” he said, gesturing. “He does. Look at him. All curled up and twitchy.”
Audin tilted his head. “Brother Squad Leader's precious little murder panther? The one that hisses at everyone but him and ate an assassin’s hand?”
Ragna let out a single quiet snort.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Same energy. Lethal little thing all tuckered out.”
Encrid, nestled against Jaxon’s chestplate, made a small noise. A content hum. Barely audible.
Jaxon didn’t say anything. His arms stayed locked in place, steady and unmoving, like the idea of letting go wasn’t even possible right now. His hand brushed Encrid’s hair once—absently. Like you would with something fragile and warm.
“…Can’t believe this guy tames panthers,” Rem mumbled. “And now he’s the one being carried like one.”
“He is one,” Audin said, voice light but oddly reverent. “You think a beast forgets how to claw just because it’s napping? Look close, Brother Rem. Even the gentleness is dangerous.”
Encrid twitched slightly in his sleep, nuzzling in further.
His lips parted, and—
“…m'fine…”
It was a whisper. Nothing more.
They didn’t mean to start crowding him.
But they did.
Because once the silence held long enough, and no one moved, and Encrid didn’t so much as twitch—there was only so much tension a group of battle-hardened men could take before someone cracked.
That someone was Rem.
He crouched a little, one brow raised. “So… are we just gonna ignore how he’s literally sleep-snuggling Jaxon like a stray mutt who finally got a bed?”
Jaxon gave him a slow, warning look.
“I mean it in a respectful way,” Rem added, hands up. “He’s like—he’s usually all teeth and bite radius, and now he’s just… nuzzled.”
Encrid let out a faint, half-snore. His breath was warm against Jaxon’s armor. His cheek was smushed slightly, lips parted just enough to look ridiculous. A curl of hair had stuck to his forehead.
Audin beamed. “He’s precious.”
“He bit me last week,” Ragna said flatly.
Audin nodded. “Precious.”
Rem, emboldened, slowly reached out and—
Pat.
Right on the head.
Encrid twitched, nose scrunching, but didn’t even stir. He leaned a little further into Jaxon’s chest with a faint huff, like a dog shifting closer to warmth.
“…He didn’t even growl,” Rem whispered, awestruck. “Guys. He’s too tired to growl.”
Ragna folded his arms. “That’s not comforting.”
“He’s soft right now,” Audin said, nodding sagely. “Like a little wolf pup. You must cherish these moments. Before the teeth return.”
“I wanna scratch behind his ears,” Rem whispered, and immediately dodged a slap from Ragna.
“Touch his ears and he will kill you in his sleep.”
“I said I want to, not that I’m willing to have him ignore me for weeks—!”
Encrid stirred again—just a small motion. A sleepy murmur. Then, to everyone’s absolute shock and growing horror—
He yawned.
A long, open-mouthed, head-tilted yawn, complete with a little sound and an unconscious stretch of one leg. His hand moved lazily, pawing slightly at Jaxon’s arm. He looked like a half-dead puppy trying to make himself comfortable on the world’s coldest pillow.
Jaxon didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Just adjusted his arms and let Encrid settle.
Like this was something they did.
“…How the hell is this the same guy who stabbed through a berserker’s jugular while being stabbed?” Rem whispered.
“I feel like we’re babysitting Cerberus,” Ragna muttered.
Audin looked thoughtful. “Brother Squad Leader is the wrath of God given form. But even wrath needs naps.”
Encrid mumbled something again.
No one caught the words.
But they all saw the way his fingers curled into the hem of Jaxon’s cloak and stayed there.
And for the first time in what felt like forever—
The camp was quiet
Still.
Like even the war outside had agreed to give them this moment.
With their weak fuck of a man.