Abrax only lasts an extra couple seconds before returning to the ship, rubbing his throat. The Wanderer sits right beside him as he lies down on the deck, catching his breath and trying to banish the feeling of his head being separated from his body.
‘He’s strong,’ Abrax murmurs as the Wanderer fans him with his hat.
‘Only because you have no experience in combat,’ says the Wanderer. Abrax knows better than to argue.
Footsteps, and he’s looking at a familiar stockinged leg. Ei joins the Wanderer on the deck, leaning on her polearm for extra support.
‘Are you familiar with weapons?’ she asks. Abrax sits up, the effort straining his chest.
‘Ugh… I’m not sure.’
Ei sets her polearm down next to him. ‘Here. In desperate times, when civilians were forced to fight on the front lines, they were armed with spears. Some warriors would call this “the coward’s weapon”, and they would be right. Even with no training, you can do significant damage with this.’
‘Thanks,’ says Abrax. He tries picking it up. It’s taller than he is, and its weight is not insignificant. The Wanderer chuckles when he stumbles, barely managing to catch himself on the railings of the deck.
Abrax takes a deep breath.
‘Let me go again.’
~~~
Tartaglia laughs when Abrax flings his weapon, lodging it in the wall behind his opponent.
‘You’re finally getting interesting.’ He curls his hands into fists, water beginning to coagulate on his fingers.
Abrax’s weapon is behind Tartaglia, and an arrow is lodged in his leg. Even so, he lashes out with flailing hands, barely missing Tartaglia as he lunges forward, water blades sinking into his chest.
~~~
Abrax is still shaking when he wakes up on the ship. This time, Ei leans over him, concern in her eyes as he takes a deep breath that shakes his shoulders.
They sit there in silence, Ei patting his back as he catches his breath, trying to shake off the exhaustion that weighs down his shoulders.
‘I thought this was a reset,’ he says, surprising himself with how raspy his voice is. ‘Why do I feel tired?’
‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ The Wanderer is there, holding a bundle of cloth in his arms. ‘A samsara is not a time loop. It is a cycle, allowing you to keep your memories and experience every time you repeat it.’
‘Uh… I don’t understand.’
‘Like I expected.’ Ignoring Abrax’s noise of protest, he sets down the bundle in his arms. ‘The funeral director wanted you to have this.’
Inside is a strange assortment of objects, consisting of a flower, feather, and goblet. Abrax recognises them. ‘I don’t see how artefacts can help.’
The Wanderer ignores him and pins the flower onto his shirt, followed by the feather.
‘You’d better win this time,’ he says, watching as Abrax fastens the goblet to his belt. ‘This is the last upgrade we have for you. You’re on your own.’
Abrax nods and climbs over the railings once more.
~~~
He fights, again and again, and he loses each time.
Tartaglia is unfairly fast, dashing around the cramped room, wielding the power of water at his fingertips. Even with his ruined lungs and staggering walk he manages to cut through Abrax each and every time. His mastery over water morphs blades into spears into claymores, painting his house with more and more blood with each victory.
Even as he dies again and again, his limbs detached, sliced to bits, his bones shattered, he learns. He learns that Tartaglia’s aim drifts to the right, his eyesight severely impaired in the darkness of the house. Tartaglia aims to finish battles within minutes, knowing that his stamina will not hold out over that of a puppet’s.
Every time Abrax returns to the ship, his exhaustion melts away to give way to raw determination. Black spots clog his eyesight, he can barely stand up straight without leaning on his polearm, but he cannot stop himself from going again and again, seeking the thrill of a victory so tantalisingly out of reach.
Then the Wanderer tells him to stop.
‘You’re hopeless,’ he snarls, shoving Abrax back onto the deck of the ship. ‘You’re just like him. Throwing yourself again and again and a brick wall, just to achieve the same result. Where I work, they call that insanity.’
‘Well, I’d like to see if you have any better ideas.’
‘It depends on whether he has his memories.’
Abrax thinks about this. ‘I’ll make sure. Please, one more time?’
The Wanderer holds out his hand. ‘Be smart about it.’
~~~
Abrax is thrown into the dining room table, and the pain in his back tells him that it is broken. Tartaglia sits down on the couch, pausing to take off his bloodstained gloves.
‘With how determined you are to fight me, I think I’ve found a kindred spirit.’ Tartaglia crosses his legs, watching Abrax struggle to extract himself from the rubble. He can barely move, and he can feel his ribs digging into his lungs, but he is determined to make his thoughts known.
His first sentence comes out as a wheeze. Tartaglia tilts his head. ‘Yes?’
‘Do you remember his name?’ Abrax’s vision is clouding over, and his lungs are beginning to fail, but he gets the last word out. ‘Zhongli.’
Tartaglia’s widening eyes are the last thing he sees before he blacks out.
~~~
‘He remembers,’ Abrax gasps out when he wakes up. The Wanderer, sitting with his arms around his knees, nods slightly. The strain of the samsara is beginning to show in the form of dark circles under his eyes.
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I brought up Zhongli.’
The Wanderer nods again. Abrax makes to stand up, only to meet the shorter man’s piercing gaze.
‘You cannot go on.’
‘Yes I can,’ he says, but his shaking legs and blurry eyesight belies him. The Wanderer shakes his head.
‘Rest. Discussion. That can make all the difference.’
‘I don’t see how—all right. All right. Put the hat down.’
They join the rest in the cabin. The room is warm, heated by an unnaturally bright lamp on the thin bed. Beidou is sitting on the bed, deep in conversation with Hu Tao, finally hatched from her cocoon of a coat. They stop as soon as they see the newcomers.
‘Hah. Just when I was beginning to get concerned about you. Come in and rest.’
Abrax sits down on the floor, taking a deep breath as he allows himself to lie down on the wooden planks. The Wanderer remains standing.
‘We’ve made a breakthrough,’ he says. Hu Tao’s eyes widen at that.
‘Ooh. Does that mean you’ll beat him next time?’
‘Most likely.’
‘You’ll need to say goodbye to this, though,’ Abrax says from the floor, holding up the glaze lily from his pocket.
‘Oh,’ she says, the disappointment in her voice evident. ‘Still, as long as he is laid to rest, I can live with that.’
Beidou watches them with mild interest, her legs crossed. ‘You look tired. Need me to wake you back from a nap?’
But Abrax is already asleep. The Wanderer crosses his arms.
‘The fact that our hopes rest on him… I haven’t seen something this interesting in years.’
~~~
Abrax returns, flower in his hand in place of his weapon. Tartaglia is waiting, though he slouches this time, the tenseness in his shoulders unmistakable.
‘Where did you get that?’
Abrax sets the flower down on the kitchen counter, too close to where Tartaglia is sitting on the table, but the man doesn’t react.
‘It… What did you do to him?’
The steel in his voice is gone, replaced by the same tiredness that sags his shoulders.
‘He chose to leave,’ says Abrax. ‘He did not suffer.’
He wishes he could confirm that. Tartaglia reaches out a bloodstained hand to grab the glaze lily.
‘He… what are you? What happened?’
‘I’m a puppet. He—Zhongli—created me. He wanted to bring you back,’ says Abrax. Tartaglia refuses to meet his eyes. ‘He preserved your consciousness. Made you a vessel.’
Tartaglia does not speak.
‘It failed. Your mind would not cooperate, and he separated us. And… you’re here now.’
‘Ah. So that explains… please continue. Feel free to sit down. This is my house, after all.’
Abrax takes a look at the pile of flesh in the fireplace and decides to keep his distance for now. Tartaglia does not seem to mind.
Abrax continues, ‘He went with his memories.’ Images of blood on white petals, now burned into his eyelids, flash before his eyes. ‘He wanted to see you, but… he was too weak.’
Tartaglia laughs, a dry, humourless sound. ‘Him, weak? I never thought I’d hear those words in the same sentence… the world truly has changed, huh?’
Abrax stays silent, allowing Tartaglia to think. The man has set down his bow, wrapping his arms around his knees, still refusing to meet Abrax’s eyes.
‘I… he did all of this for me?’
‘He called you a friend to the end.’
‘A friend…’ Tartaglia’s voice wavers. ‘Even after all I’ve done, all he’s had to do… he has the nerve to say that word. Gods. Stubborn old man.’
He clutches the flower tighter in his grip.
‘I’m tired,’ he says, every breath drawn from his lungs more shaky than the last. ‘How much of my mind has this place taken? … Hah. That’s ironic. This place has always been a reflection of my mind.’
‘You can leave,’ says Abrax. ‘End this stasis.’
‘Don’t you think I’ve tried? This world thrives on suffering.’
Abrax takes a small step forward.
‘Look. I don’t understand your relationship, and I don’t know you. But Zhongli, your family, —’ Tartaglia finches at the word, ‘ —they’ll feel better knowing that you’ve found rest.
‘Do it for them, will you?’
‘How?’ Tartaglia looks up for the first time. ‘I’ve been stuck here for so long, and—’
His words are cut off. The flower clutched in his hand is growing, extending vines over his hands and arms, buds slowly blooming over his body. Tartaglia breathes deeply, then laughs.
‘Ah, Zhongli… I should never have doubted you.’
~~~
Abrax watches. Flowers grow over the hunched figure on the table, encasing him like a cocoon. Before the vines wrap around his neck, Tartaglia smiles with his eyes closed.
‘Whatever you choose to do while wearing my face… make sure you don’t regret it.’
Abrax sits next to him until it is done.
Then, slowly, the petals fall to the ground to be slowly dyed red, leaving nothing behind. Abrax kneels at the spot where Tartaglia sat, his hand on his chest.
When the petals, soaked red, sink into the crimson depths, Abrax stands up and leaves the kitchen, through the familiar corridor, until he reaches the front door.
Taking a deep breath, he opens the door.