The weight pulled until he fell on his side. Ico’s horn clacked against the hard ground and he had to twist his head. From the corner of his eyes, he could see Martin. His claws had split his skin open in more directions than he could count. It was such an intense pain that made him nauseous and disoriented to the point that his scream sounded far off and distant. Yet through all the chaos and pain, a soft, sweet voice called to him. Not through his ears but from his very bones and blood.

Take me.

Ico understood now why the sword called for him. He could never hurt his friend, but he could not help him either. Forgive me, Ico thought but he could not say it.

He could no longer move his right hand and it trembled when he tried to lift it. Instead, he dropped the shield and reached back for his sword. The white scabbard was dull in comparison to the brilliance of the sword itself. Bolts of white light danced over the spotless metal the moment the glyphs were revealed. It filled his heart with warmth that pushed the pain and fear away. In one fluid motion, Ico unsheathed the sword and swung back, stabbing it into the ground between them but in a way that would not cut Martin.

The air exploded with a bright light, illuminating everything like the noon sun. Ico could see everything in that light and he clearly saw what had become of Martin.