There is no liberation in death

ㅤ He didn't feel the cold of the seawater, nor the pressure of its depths. Chaltier lay silent, crushed by the stones of the collapsed cave. Leon's hand no longer clutched his hilt… Chaltier wasn't afraid of the coming centuries of solitude: it wouldn't be the first time. And he hadn't had time to comprehend what lay ahead. The image of his master slowly dying in agony still loomed before him. Not a single stone had shown mercy by easing his suffering. And he could do nothing for him. Not even give in to tears, which the idiotic metal lacked. Chaltier would have given everything to save Leon. Everything of himself, for the real him had long ago lived his human life, and the swordian were merely echoes of consciousness from a distant past. And Leon… He didn't deserve such a terrible fate. Gradually, the dust settled. Through the cracks, small fish found a home among the ruins. Leon's body became their food. Life arose from the soil of death, slowly spreading and erasing the traces of tragedy. Chaltier couldn't see in the darkness of the depths; he only felt. That was all that remained. He could neither sleep nor die. Even the rust refused to corrode him: Berselius had done a wonderful job creating them… "It seems you haven't foreseen everything," Chaltier thought to her. "We are too helpless: we can neither call for help nor help ourselves. If only we could sleep of our own free will… Why didn't you consider what would become of us after the war? Why didn't you consider that you were condemning us to torture…?" The answer was too obvious: such trifles didn't matter to Berselius. Their goal was different. And they themselves didn't realize they hadn't fully accomplished it. That's why Chaltier was now covered in silt, and the bones of his faithful friend had become a haven for nimble little fish. "But we can't exist forever, can we?" there was still hope ㅤ