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The world was silver. Sarkis was dreaming, he wasn't sure if he was sheathed or simply this dream was meant to be silvered.
Angharad. The Dervish. The Smith.
Silence, then the sound of the weapon withdrawn from Angharad's lifeless form. Sarkis could neither move nor make a sound.
The Dervish was fighting, shouting, struggling, loudly, and Sarkis had to watch the blade piercing his lieutenant - his friend - in the heart, hear Dervish cursing Sarkis' soul.
He knew he fucked up.
The Dervish silenced suddenly and the Smith approached Sarkis with the sword that became his existence. As usual when this took place, he woke up suddenly. The world was dim but no longer silver.
He was in bed. With Halla. In Rutger's Howe. He was as alive or dead as he had been for 500 years, and he had somehow, through no conscious choice of his own, been forgiven his trespasses by the love of his existence, who presently had a leg hooked through his, an arm flung over him and her hair tickled his nose.
He felt the thundering of his heart slow. He felt the bone deep relief of knowing that he was not in the sword. He matched her deep, even, I-don't-snore!-breathing, and knew that he didn't deserve this happiness.
"Mmf. Sarkis?" Halla raised her head and cracked her eyes open, murmuring sleepily. He'd managed to wake her, and he kicked himself for it. She deserved better.
"I'm here, Halla love."
"'S'matter?" Halla asked, tightening her arm around his neck and hugging him closer.
"It's n-" Sarkis paused. His first instinct was to say it was nothing, unimportant. But Halla knew better than that, and Sarkis knew that she knew better, and he knew that she would keep asking him until he was worn down. It would be a waste of both of their energy and time. "I had a bad dream," he said eventually.
Halla blinked at that. "The Smith again?"
Sarkis nodded. "I did Angharad and the Dervish the worst disservice. And I have no way to make it right. And..." he trailed off. He didn't know what he wanted to say.
"Would you like to visit Zale in the city? See if they have had any leads on the Dervish or Angharad?" Halla asked softly, keeping one arm wrapped around her husband and trying to wrestle her flyaway fair hair with the other. Unsuccessfully.
"Maybe in a month or so," Sarkis said quietly. "I think I just need to sit with my fuckup and my feelings about it. I don't like these feelings. I'd rather hit something."
Halla giggled slightly at this, as he'd intended her to. He saw the slight crease in her forehead just before she frowned.
"I wish I could help you more," she said, sounding fully awake, now. "I feel so helpless."
"You're doing something by letting me live like this," Sarkis pointed out. "Even the Leopard, who kept me outside of the sword put me to fighting most of the time. I've never really had the time to just... Just exist. And I certainly never had a wife before. You help me just by existing," Sarkis declared.
Halla flushed red, still appallingly unused to the type of earnest and sincere compliments Sarkis liked to offer. He watched her shake her head minutely, as she tried to understand why he would say such a thing.
"I'll write to them in the morning," she decided. "Maybe write to the temple of the Forge God, too, while I'm at it. And the Four-Faced God. And finish going through all of Bartholomew's and Silas's collections. For all we know those two old... Eccentrics," the pause as she searched for an adjective, and the tone of voice saying said adjective conveyed a lot, before she continued. "They might already have had the Dervish or Angharad in their possession and not realised it!"
Halla had theorised this before, but so far none of the weapons in either collection that they had unearthed to date had proven to have servants in them. It was disheartening. But his Halla had recently subscribed to optimism, and Sarkis was loath to try to reduce her positive outlook with facts and nightmares.
"I don't remember what weapons they were attached to," Sarkis replied for the umpteenth time. "I didn't see them after the sealing. They were sent away from me. It's been... It's been so long, Halla. What if I never see them again?" Sarkis blanched. He hadn't meant to say that last piece.
Halla stopped fighting her hair and straddled Sarkis so she could hold him and meet his reluctant gaze.
"Then you'll have to decide if you want to forgive yourself or not and move on. You'll have to decide what your future will look like without them. But you won't have to do it alone," she said, absolutely sincere. She added in a mulish undertone, "I'd like to meet the person who decided to punish them for decisions made by their captain. It wasn't fair."
Sarkis knew it had been unfair, and indeed at the time had protested vocally. But the arrangement was the leadership would take the punishment rather than the entire surviving mercenary company. And Sarkis had no guarantee that they would even honour that agreement after they got three (un)living weapons.
"I love you," was all he was able to say in return.
Halla simply kissed him, and held him as they lay together, trying to sleep. Sarkis was grateful for the appalling clockwork parrot and it's brazen screaming at dawn. He let Halla sleep.