The swords felt so heavy in his hands these days, seeming to gain a little more weight with every passing moment. He rarely used more than two of the First Sword's blades at a time, now. In fact, he couldn't recall using the whole combined sword after the first month he'd possessed it. One by one he had abandoned the blades to their sheaths in Fenrir's belly, no longer having the strength to wield them all at once.

The Geostigma was slowly draining him of his physical energy as it fought to devour his body. He had first discovered that foul taint on his body not long after the others had gifted him with First Sword. It had taken to him more slowly than a lot of the children, but the effects were undeniable now. He hid them with cloth and shadow from his friends' eyes, though, and pretended that nothing was wrong, pushing them away for fear of losing them as he was slowly losing his swords, the embodiment of his continued existence.

Only two left now, that he could control as he should. Soon he would be down to one, one single sword to define him.

He rested his fingers on the weathered sword thrust into the ground in front of him, on the hilltop overlooking Midgar. A reminder of a promise of what he had to live for.

One fatigued sword could still be enough, if only he could summon the will to use it.