SABERS: Shadows of Ravena

The medical bay was stark and sterile, its walls a pristine white broken only by the faint glow of monitoring equipment lining the room. Eilífr lay motionless on a reinforced medical bed in the center, the size of the bed custom-designed to accommodate his massive frame and the bulk of his residual armor components. The ambient hum of machinery filled the air, interspersed with the soft beeping of monitors tracking his vitals.

Doctors moved around him with a mixture of urgency and precision. A tall physician, her face partially obscured by a mask, leaned over his chest, carefully adjusting the array of sensors attached to his scarred and pale skin. His upper torso was bare, exposing countless healed-over wounds, surgical scars, and patches of faintly glowing veins where hemacrine gel had fused with his physiology.

"Blood pressure holding steady," one of the assistants reported, glancing at the holographic display hovering over the bed. "Oxygen levels are stable. Neurological scans show high but manageable activity."

"His stress markers are through the roof," another said, his voice tinged with unease. "It's almost like his body refuses to let itself rest."

The lead doctor frowned, adjusting a control pad at her wrist. "That's not surprising. His entire system has been running at peak combat efficiency for days. We'll need to force a chemical cooldown—his body won't regulate itself otherwise."

She injected a small dose into an IV line running into his arm. A faint hiss sounded as the fluid entered his bloodstream, and for the first time, Eilífr's breathing seemed to deepen slightly, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.

"He's not just exhausted," the assistant murmured. "He's… strained. Like his body's fighting against itself to stay operational."

The lead doctor didn't respond, her focus instead shifting to the display showing Eilífr's internal metrics. His augmented physiology was still a marvel of engineering, even after years of combat. A latticework of reinforced bone, enhanced muscle fibers, and internal systems designed to heal him in real-time had kept him alive through more battles than they could count. Yet here he was, worn to the brink of collapse, his systems barely holding together.

"Begin cellular regeneration therapy," she ordered, her voice calm but firm. "And keep an eye on his neural feedback—if it spikes again, alert me immediately."

In the adjacent room, a team of scientists worked diligently on his armor. The pieces had been stripped and laid out on a series of workbenches, their once-imposing surfaces battered and torn from the recent battles. The olive-green plating was riddled with gashes, scorch marks, and remnants of the ichor that had once coated Extractant bodies.

"Subsystem diagnostics complete," one scientist said, his voice breaking the silence. "The adaptive shield emitters took heavy damage, but the core matrix is still intact."

"The chainsaw blade is warped," another added, holding up the massive sword Eilífr had wielded. Its jagged teeth, now dulled and chipped, still bore the stains of its gruesome work. "We'll need to reforge the edge and recalibrate the motor system."

At the center of the room stood a holographic projection of Eilífr's armor, rotating slowly as the scientists poured over the details. Lines of data scrolled alongside the image, detailing stress points, system failures, and areas requiring immediate attention.

"We should update the energy dispersal system," one suggested, pointing to a cluster of stress fractures on the shoulder pauldrons. "It's inefficient, especially under the strain he's been putting it through."

"Noted," replied the lead technician, her tone clipped. "But let's prioritize structural integrity first. He's not going to care about efficiency if the suit can't hold up in the next fight."

As they worked, a faint hum filled the room—the sound of the suit's core processor, still active despite being disconnected from its wearer.

"Is it me, or does it feel like this thing is alive?" one of the younger scientists asked nervously.

The lead technician glanced at the suit, her expression unreadable. "It's not alive," she said firmly, though her tone held a note of uncertainty. "But it's the closest thing we've got to keeping him alive. So don't screw it up."

Back in the medical bay, Eilífr stirred slightly, his fingers twitching against the bed. The lead doctor stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm.

"Rest," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "You've done enough. Let us take care of the rest."

But even as his vitals stabilized and his breathing evened out, there was a tension in his body that refused to fade. It was as if, even in unconsciousness, he was still fighting.

The room was suffocating, the sterile walls and faint hum of medical equipment doing little to quell the storm raging in Icarus's mind. Her body ached with every movement, her muscles sore from the crash and the hours of surgery that followed, but it wasn't the pain in her body that consumed her—it was the fire in her chest.

"FUCKFUCKFUCK," she spat, slamming her fist into the wall beside her bed. The impact sent a sharp jolt of pain up her arm, and she winced, clutching it as she glared at the news playing on the small holographic projector near the foot of her bed.

The headline read in bold letters: "THE GOD OF BATTLE, SABER-1, RETURNS."

The words made her blood boil. Not because of the spectacle, not because of the awe in the reporters' voices as they dissected his recent exploits. No, it was because of him—Eilífr. The man who had once again swept into her life, saved her when she thought all hope was lost, and then disappeared without so much as a word.

Her vision blurred as she clenched her fists, ignoring the protest of her bruised knuckles. "You bastard," she whispered, her voice trembling with anger. "You absolute fucking bastard."

She slammed her fist into the bed rail this time, the loud clang reverberating through the room. Pain shot through her side, forcing a strangled cry from her lips, but she didn't care. She was too furious. Too consumed by the whirlwind of emotions that had been building since the crash. She had worried about him endlessly, annoyed every officer and high-ranking official she could get access to, pestering them for scraps of information.

Anything, she had begged them. Just tell me he's alive.

But there had been nothing. Every report, every shred of intelligence, had pointed to his death. Even the search-and-rescue operations had eventually given up. They'd told her it was hopeless, that no one could have survived the impact, the wreckage, or the Extractants swarming the area.

And now, there he was. Alive.

The screen flickered, showing footage of his hulking armored form cutting down wave after wave of Extractants with brutal efficiency. Civilians and soldiers alike stared at him in awe, their faces filled with hope and fear in equal measure. The commentators called him a legend, a savior, the God of Battle.

But to her, he was just Elfy. Her Elfy. The stubborn, silent warrior who had once again left her behind.

She pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead, groaning in frustration as tears burned in her eyes. She was furious at him for leaving, for making her think he was gone, for disappearing for months only to return as if nothing had happened. But even as her anger burned white-hot, her heart pounded in her chest, a mixture of relief, disbelief, and something else—something she couldn't quite name.

He had come for her.

The thought hit her like a thunderbolt, the realization making her breath hitch. From the whispers she'd overheard from other patients and the chatter of nurses, she pieced together the truth: SABER-1 had altered his mission, rerouted his low-orbital drop pod to her crash site.

He had prioritized her.

Her hands trembled as she gripped the blanket draped over her lap. "You idiot," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Why would you do that?"

The mission always came first for him. It was one of the few things she had come to accept about Eilífr. No matter the stakes, no matter the odds, he never deviated from his orders. And yet, he had. For her.

Her heart raced as the realization settled deeper. Her anger began to ebb, replaced by a strange warmth that made her stomach twist. It wasn't just relief or gratitude—this was different. It was the way her chest tightened whenever she thought about the sight of him towering over her, his glowing visor scanning her for injuries. It was the way her pulse quickened every time she replayed the moment he pulled her from the wreckage, his massive frame shielding her from the chaos.

This wasn't just admiration for a hero. It wasn't just loyalty to a teammate or gratitude for a savior.

She laughed softly, bitterly, wiping at her tear-streaked face. "Oh, no," she muttered to herself, shaking her head. "No, no, no. Don't you dare, Icarus."

But it was undeniable, and the more she tried to push it away, the more it settled in her chest. The truth was simple, even if it terrified her.

She loved him. And the thought of losing him again was unbearable.

She lay back against the pillows, her body aching but her mind strangely light. Her gaze drifted to the holographic news display, still looping clips of Eilífr's recent battle—the armored titan tearing through wave after wave of Extractants like a force of nature. The soft hum of the medical equipment filled the quiet room, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of emotions still swirling in Icarus's chest.

Her lips twitched into a small smile, and before she could stop herself, a soft giggle escaped her. It wasn't bitter or mocking—just a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh that bubbled up from deep within her. The realization had taken root, and no amount of denial could dislodge it now.

She reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face as her giggle turned into a full laugh. "God, I'm such an idiot," she murmured to herself, shaking her head. "All this time… all this time, I've been running circles around it."

Her laughter softened into a warm chuckle as she glanced back at the footage, her eyes lingering on the towering figure that had haunted her thoughts for so long. Her chest felt tight, but not with frustration or fear—this was something else entirely. It was warmth. It was certainty.

"I love you, you big, stubborn bastard," she whispered, the words sounding strange and wonderful in her voice.

She laughed again, a sound that carried relief, amusement, and a hint of joy. Her fingers traced the edge of the blanket absently, her heart feeling lighter than it had in months. It didn't matter that he was out there somewhere, doing what he always did. It didn't matter that he'd left her frustrated and furious.

What mattered was the truth she had finally allowed herself to accept.

She loved him, and for now, that was enough.