Sadik Adnan

KILLING LEAVES A BITTER TASTE IN HIS MOUTH, A DISGUSTINGLY dry and acrimonious flavor that sears a toxic trail down his gullet to contribute to the pungent lump that seems bent on choking him to death. It's been hours after the battle has started, and he is too disoriented by the raging pandemonium that he can't even get enough of his bearings to try and predict which side is winning. For now, it is just him, his sword and survival.

Sadik's weapons arc through the air like they are extensions of his lean body, sawing through armor and flesh alike, swiftly and surely, with the fluidity and grace gained only through years of training and application. The silence and stealth with which he moves signifies that there is more to him than the conventional training of a mere general. All of it – the way he darts rapidly through the tiniest gaps in the mass of flesh, sinew and bone, the conservative but efficient way with which he dispatches each and every threat standing in his way, the uncanny sense has to detect even the slightest of vulnerabilities to exploit to his advantage – marks him as a shadow personified, a master assassin proficient in the art that is death, seasoned by countless successful missions.

Merciless.

Unwavering.

Unfailing.

Never has Sadik Adnan failed in any of his "operations". Until now. There is but a single exclusion, the only exception to the otherwise unbroken rule. That failure – that infinitesimal slip in judgment – is the most grievous fault, the greatest mistake he could ever commit in the entirety of his life… however short that may be.

He continues fighting through the Byzantine soldiers, feeling the adrenaline course through his veins, preventing him from wearing out. The drive to destroy, however, is tempered by a certain care and watchfulness, a minor hesitation that is costly, but nonetheless necessary. Sadik searches for a sign, any sign, any defining element of the man that is Alexios Laskaris. He struggles to get a glimpse of Alexios' russet hair – particularly the double-curl that sticks prominently out to the right side of his face, a peek through the helmets to reveal deep-set brown eyes that possess the tendency to shine like molten gold around the edges, a glance at the chapped lips that he has seen turn down in distaste more often than not.

I would look for his smile, but I know there is nothing to smile about in this accursed battlefield. Sadik grimly thinks as he swings his weapon at yet another advancing adversary.

It isn't Alexios. Sadik would know even the tips of the other's fingers. Every detail of the man is inlaid in his memory, burned into his mind, festering the way a wound would.

His most grievous fault. His greatest failure.

Dikó mou láthos. Pio tragikí ftaío̱. Sadik chants to himself in Alexios' dialect. You are my fault, Alexios, my most grievous fault. It is you; allowing myself to indulge in you, even whilst knowing full well the pain this double-edged knife would bring to us. There is no pardon for this. It is too late… too late… Üzgünüm… Forgive me…

Sadik strikes with renewed vigor, cutting through the enemy's ranks the way a livid gale slices through the still meadow air. Blood saturates his clothes and dries there, leaving his vivid garb stiff and constricting. Where there once was white, there is now just a vibrant coloration of red splotches. Where there had been a deep ruby, there is only a tart, sinister dark-brown where his enemy's lifeblood has soaked through. His turban-like headgear has long been lost in the hectic waves of pressing soldiers, thus leaving his dark brown hair to fall freely downward, the wiry strands plastering themselves to his forehead with the aid of the torrents of sweat coursing down his face.

Soon enough, the temperature of the plain noticeably cools. The blood still thickens the air and heats it, but otherwise, the cool breezes begin to blow spontaneously around the entangled armies. Sadik gazes skyward for a moment to glimpse a hint of the darkened sky. Already, the sun has been obscured by the dark, brooding clouds. Trickles of water start to descend in that bare hint of rain that precedes a storm. The wind flaps relentlessly and snarls, blowing through him, making him involuntarily shiver.

Let this battle end now. As soon as Istanbul is in our clutches, the war is as good as over. He pleads to anyone and no one at all. Alexios… by Allah, where are you?

He thrust his sword into the heart of another Byzantine, swiftly and painlessly decapitating him with another swing. The momentum throws Sadik forward and he brings his blade up, only to have it knocked from his hand as he falls to the ground, his elbow taking the worst of the assault. He rolls twice and lands flat on his back, stunned but for the most part uninjured, looking up at the descending raindrops. His mask, however, has stayed intact, clinging dutifully to his face like the second skin it is.

He jumps skillfully to his feet, chastising himself that those few seconds on his back could have been the few seconds it takes for an enemy to slay him. Sadik surveys his surroundings, surprised that he has stumbled quite a distance from the epicenter of the battle. He has cut his way through the Byzantine army and into the fading vestiges of the plain bordering the walls of Constantinople.

It is there, standing sadly behind the curtain of rain, as if determined to hide itself from the brutality that so offends it. Sadik's emerald eyes take in everything, his gaze not as predatory as it would have been weeks before.

Here is his prize, his army's goal.

And he, the noble general of the magnificent Ottoman Empire, can only stare up at the city in utter revulsion.

A/N: Wow, that's was short. I swear, I'm really sorry. Again, feedback is very much appreciated and I would love it if you guys took the time to drop a review. Criticisms are very welcome because I need to know the points where I need to improve. I'm taking writing a bit more seriously now and I need some help along the way. I hope to update by Thursday or Friday.

Notes:

Translation (Please don't hate me, I don't speak Turkish and Greek. Heck, English isn't even my first language. I had to use Google translate for the phrases.)

Dikó mou láthos. Pio tragikí ftaío̱ - Greek, "My fault, my most tragic fault"

Üzgünüm… - Turkish, "I'm sorry."

The Byzantine Empire, or the Eastern Roman Empire spoke Greek instead of Latin. It took me a long time to remember this… And the double-curl mentioned represents Constantinople in my friend's character design. Again I do not own anything but the plotline; all rights go to their respective owners.