Zeroth Moment: My Cheat Skill Is Stupid, So I'll Just Ignore It

Topher looked down, transfixed in multiple senses, at the sword impaling his guts; it hurt, of course, but not as badly as he knew it would eventually. His brain was caught in a loop of Shit, shit, shit, and in shock and surprise, he glanced upwards to meet Zanasha's gaze. What he saw there staggered him worse than any sword blow.

Her expression was one of abject horror and despair; he saw self-directed rage, pain, and grief washing across her expression like thunderous waves. Her mouth worked, wordlessly; her lips trembled. And deep within himself, Topher felt something rebel; fuck this. I'm not letting you down ten seconds into whatever the hell this thing is. His hand moved of its own accord; it reached down, gripped her wrist tightly, and yanked the blade out through his side.

The pain that accompanied this action was titanic; his vision swam, and he nearly threw up right into her face. But it worked; the sword tumbled free of her twitching, shocked fingers, and he grabbed it in desperation and pulled it into his other hand with Attract Object. Blinking, she opened her mouth to speak, but Topher didn't hesitate; he seized her right wrist with his left hand, and as they impacted with powerful force into the dirt, he twisted and shoved with all his might. It was like trying to push on a steel pipe, but he managed it, helped along by the force of the movement and her surprise; and so when the dust cleared, he was straddling her with her right wrist pinned above her head as he hefted her stolen sword in his other hand. "You dropped this," he murmured, staring into her eyes.

He felt a shock thrill through her whole body; she tensed and bucked, but he was holding her pinned to the earth with the full force of his Attract Object power as well as his body weight. Her eyes jumped down to his wound, and his gaze followed hers out of reflex.

He was uninjured.

Her glance snapped back up to his; and something primal and fierce, a heat that he'd never expected, flooded through them both. With a shout, she twisted with purpose and force; and although his control of inertia was more than enough to counter her weight and even her boosted S-Rank strength, the nimbleness of his mind could not hope to match her innate battlesense. With a deft movement, she threw him off her and snatched Nethersbane back even as he let it go; but he twisted his own momentum, spinning around her even as she attempted to hurl him away. Intuitively, he understood that if he stayed close, she couldn't get the leverage she needed to obliterate him with sheer force; and so, like a lamprey, he clung to her, rendering her kicks and headbutts and elbow strikes merely painful instead of bone-shatteringly devastating. Bruises and small lacerations began to accumulate, but they were only distractions, not mortal wounds.

He couldn't stop her entirely, of course; and, though she was clearly striking mostly to disable rather than kill, the fact that she was using edged weapons made injury mostly impossible to avoid with the close-quarters, confused fighting he was forcing her into. One by one, the blows slipped through his defenses -- a slash to his left arm, a stab to his thigh, and a painful gouge that opened his right cheek. But each time, his flesh knit back together bloodlessly and instantaneously, leaving only a ghost of pain where the blades had passed; at one point, he deliberately impaled his hand on her sword to trap the blade, watching his body swim and seethe like ocean foam around the razor-sharp edge. I can get hurt, but I can't get injured, he marveled, watching his flesh part and reform in a frenzy as agony whipsawed along his nerves. Scuffs and nicks happen, but anything real just goes right through me. Crazy.

As they fought -- and she saw the extent to which he could repair himself -- her ferocity slowly but surely increased; carefully and steadily, she allowed herself less and less restraint, striking more and more often for vital areas as he bore wound after wound that did not kill him. Occasionally he would strike back, cautiously, but her innate Defense was so high that she was completely invulnerable to him; and though he sensed that this would allow him to vent his passions to whatever extent he wished upon her, he could not summon up any desire to harm her no matter how free of consequence it might be. So instead, he merely fought to frustrate her own force; when she lashed out, he met her head-on wherever he could, using clever Shields and other tricks to reject or turn aside her blows. At one point, she threw herself bodily into a vicious attack when he was already out of position and utilizing Attract Object for his own movement; ripping a pair of two-handed carving strikes directly through his neck and eyes, she tore him apart with incredible violence and shouted triumphantly as he smoothly reassembled himself without the tiniest hint of effort. Topher, his whole body awash in agony, savored it like a pure note of music.

Then he got serious.

Summoning his Stylus and spinning it, he snapped out "Xoff Zat!" and cringed with sympathy as she smashed with titanic power directly into the resulting Wall of Force; unyielding and immobile, it turned her own S-Rank strength against her and smashed the wind from her lungs and rejected her back the way she'd come with enough force to send her skidding deep into the carved-up dirt of the meadow. Leaving behind a thirty-foot divot, she shook herself and sprang back at him; but he stepped deftly aside and pulled her further along the path of her own momentum, rocketing her another fifty yards in the opposite direction and causing her to plow face-first into the turf a second time. He bared his teeth in emotional torment, hurt much worse by her pain than he could ever be by any of his own, but he needed the delay. As she shook herself and arrested her momentum, he banished his Stylus and began to chant. "Ish Tanok Oretu," he intoned, trying not to hurry as she rapidly closed the distance between them. "Yttr Eid Solmi Vahraj."

He fell back into his best approximation at a combat stance as she neared him, blades and boots flashing, but the spell had already begun to take effect; the wind dried up, and droplets of sweat filled the air in languid motion as time slowed for him. Haste Self didn't last long, and his MP pool was too small to cast it more than a handful of times; but he could use it effectively. He knew he could tire her out; even with her immense reserves of endurance, she'd be no match for a few dozen castings of Remove Fatigue. But he didn't want to win, not really; what he wanted was to prove to her -- or, he reflected, maybe help her prove to herself -- that she could rely on him. And that didn't mean winning.

It meant not losing.

He saw her eyes widen slowly as she perceived the change; he imagined that he must look like a blur to her. But there was nothing she could do; for all her skill and strength, she simply couldn't react fast enough to capitalize on openings when his own perception was so greatly accelerated. And so, for thirty seconds (well, much longer for him), he stepped and shifted and maneuvered carefully; he evaded blows by the tiniest of margins, was caught in and extricated himself from brilliant traps and feints, and used Attract Object to turn her own fury and power against her time after time. He resisted the urge to make her punch herself in the face, although he definitely could have done it; instead, he forced her to overextend herself, tripping and falling and slamming herself into the dirt over and over again. Eventually, she began to take longer and longer to rise; her resolve, though still ironclad, nevertheless became less frenzied, less desperate. As they fought on and on, he began to see her fear and her worry fall away from her; and slowly, out from under the grim steely weight of years of pressure and pain, he saw her joy emerge. Joy of battle. Joy of strength. Joy of being Zanasha.

She wanted him to meet that joy, he understood; not frustrate or crush it, but allow herself to measure it to its full length and weight, neither falling short nor overpowering his resistance. It was a difficult, opaque challenge; neither of them knew where their limits lay, and both were dimly conscious of other events marching on in distant places while they fought on, minute after minute. But Topher felt no hesitation. This is important to you. I'll make time. I'll always make time for you. Heedless, he spent his MP and SP without holding anything back; he alternated between meeting her with the force of his magic, the power of his mind, and mutely suffering her violence against his body. Each time, he hoped this blow would be the last; each time, he hoped this would be the final time he'd have to watch her fall.

On and on, the combat raged; the sun, now setting, cast the scene in splendorous hues of purple and gold. He didn't dare check his Status; he didn't want to know if he was close to running out of MP or SP. And so he almost missed it when it happened; a stumble, so small that at first he thought it was a feint. A shudder, so tiny that he thought it might have just been a flex.

But he saw it in her eyes.

Deep within, her fire and her force were shifting; no longer opposing him, but now meeting him. Their steps became less a contest and more a dance; her strikes less furious, more playful. She did not let up; but rather, she pressed him differently, forcing him to match her force and tempo on each strike, rather than simply evading or defending against her blows. And, to his own surprise, Topher felt an answering power welling up in him too; an echo, faint and timorous, of his almost-forgotten past fights and savageries. But this was different; it didn't come from a place of fear or hate. It was more like an athlete's ferocity; strong and striving, blending pride and respect. He felt his body loosening, warming up, as the stress and tension eased from him; he ceased to throw himself from place to place and began to try to find his rhythm.

Her blade lanced out, a precise and poised lunge; he ducked under it, caught her other blade through the palm of his hand, and stepped close, bringing his face next to hers. Her beautiful visage was lathered in sweat and dirt and grime; but her eyes -- now fiercely prideful, now delicately tender, now widening in awe and astonishment -- revealed her true feelings. And so he felt no hesitation; as she brought her own body up to meet his, he playfully wrested Nethersbane and the Kiku-no-Tsurigi from her with a flip of his will, launching them into the dirt a few yards behind him.

She was disarmed, he knew, but not defenseless; he steeled himself for a punch or a kick or a bite or a knee to the groin. But she merely beheld him, panting for breath; her hands twitched, clenched, and relaxed. "Finish it," she breathed, lowering her gaze.

And so he did.

With every ounce of his unaugmented C-Rank Strength, he pulled her close; stepping forward, he swept her off her feet and bore her backwards, bending sharply forward at the waist as his arms wrapped around her. And, exhausted, she yielded at last; bowed but unbroken, she let herself fall back helplessly in his arms as he gave himself permission and kissed her as deeply and passionately as he had always desired but never before dared. Her hands, bloodied and broken-nailed, pushed against him without force; and, though his eyes were closed, if they'd been open he would have been able to see her left heel kick up daintily beneath their dirty, sweaty bodies. But neither of them noticed any of this; for the torrent that had burned in their hearts for so long was finally, completely exposed, and both of them were drowning in its depths.

Then Topher lost his balance and fell over on top of her.

They impacted with surprising vehemence; his teeth clashed against hers, and their eyes both flew open in shock and pain. But to Topher's astonishment, the angry and hurt outburst he expected didn't come; instead, she tangibly melted against and beneath him, her hands coming up to rest above her head in the dirt. "Rougher than I expected," she murmured, but he saw the playful tease in her gaze.

Unexpectedly, lust filled him; his other arm darted out of its own volition to pin her wrists down above her head, and she gasped out in surprise even as he kissed her again. But this time it was wilder, more aggressive; not demanding or unheeding, but unrestrained, urgent and powerful. And with a violence that shocked him, he felt an answering need burst up from within her; she moaned deep in her throat and thrust her body up against his with supple, yielding force. Intoxicated, he lost himself in her for a time he couldn't count; but eventually they separated for a moment, and she gasped against his throat. "Wait," she managed, trembling. "Wait."

Reluctantly, he pulled himself off her; she sat up, panting and covering her eyes with her hands. He wanted to pounce on her again, but waited, as patiently as he could.

Eventually, she managed to swallow several times, and turned to face him; her position shifted to a kneeling pose, and her eyes were downcast, but he could see the boiling cauldron of emotion within nonetheless. "Cha'tuk, Christopher Bailey," she breathed. "You have mastered me honorably." A shiver ran through her, and she lowered her face to the dirt in the deepest of bows. "I am yours."

Topher's pulse pounded in his ears and veins like a thousand drums; but he knew he hadn't prevailed yet. He'd met her on her terms, he knew; but he still had to meet her on his. Struggling to his feet, he stood over her, gasping for breath; but he didn't accept her statement. Instead, he crouched down; impossibly gently, he took her chin and raised her gaze to meet his own. Inexorably, he guided her to her feet; he held eye contact with every ounce of his love and desire for her. Then, with a twist and a flex of his power, he pulled himself off his own feet backwards, and her with him; blinking in surprise, she stumbled forwards, reflexively tangling up with him and recovering her own balance in the process.

Topher gazed up at her with his most charming smile, held horizontally over the ground; their postures and positions perfectly reversed from a moment before. "And I'm yours," he told her, heart brimming over even as adrenaline flooded through him like liquid fire.

She jerked back, surprised; he put his weight back on his own feet and faced her, proud and yet afraid, strong and yet weak. He held his breath, hoping she'd understand.

I'm not the damsel in distress. But neither are you.

She stared. She breathed. The wind died.

And then, like the sun emerging from behind a cloud, comprehension dawned in her eyes; and the smile which erupted forth was a pure torrent of relief, of hope and excitement and happiness so powerful it felt as though Topher's bones had turned to air and light. Vaporized, he beheld her; and when a laugh sprang from her throat, the savage joy of it thrilled him like nothing he'd ever felt before. She swept towards him, and he stepped to meet her; around and around they spun, kissing and laughing and smiling as each of them lifted the other up and spun them about in turn.

"For all life," she murmured, touching her forehead to his.

"For all life," he echoed. And somehow, he knew that it was more than a promise or an engagement; this was her people's marriage ceremony, and they were committed beyond any possibility of doubt now. Topher Bailey, his heart completely free of any darkness, held his bride.

And then, with impeccable timing, the sun set, its final rays of light winking out as it slipped behind the mountains to the west. The last day of the war was over; the first day of the rest of their lives had begun.