Chapter TWs: Unreality, death, major injuries, throat trauma, war, mentions of harm to women/children.
The smell of smoke punctuates the air and swirls around him, threatening to fill his lungs with its very blackness. All around him, the heat of hell itself burns, splitting apart his head in a manner that causes his whole body to feel as if the world itself has been placed onto his shoulders, threatening to push him down into an endless abyss beneath him. When he opens his eyes, he is surprised to discover that this is not the case, but instead all around him the city burns. Quickly, he pushes himself onto his feet, scrambling out of the dirt as his eyes search the new landscape for any sign of what has transpired.
Flames roar around him, licking at his skin as they pour from shattering windows and ashen doorways. With a gasp, he presses himself safely away from them and into a stone barrier nearby. He hears women shrieking, begging for their children to be spared from the present horror. The clang of metal – the blades of swords—rings out and he swears that the very smell of death breaks through the wall of other, more preferable smells.
He should not be there, he surmises, staring at the war torn city that stretches out ahead of him. With the Vizier dead and the sands gone, Babylon should be in a time of peace, yet before him is evidence otherwise. He takes another cautious step back and hisses sharply when a shock of pain shoots through the left side of his body not unlike an arrow to the back. He reaches out, touching his hand to his arm in a vain attempt to stop whatever has caused the sudden agony, but this causes more pain as blades dig into the soft flesh, tearing it apart without effort.
He cries out, dropping to his knees and cursing wildly while looking at the source of his agony. Wrapped firmly around his arm he sees a sight that, in other circumstances, would normally bring him great joy. Instead it chews into him, causing blood to pool around him at an alarming rate. The Daggertail lies at his feet, gleaming in the firelight and trembling slightly with his every movement. If he was not its master, he might have thought the blade had managed to take on a life of its own. His flesh, still very much human, begs for relief, pounding at the edges of his mind in protest when he does not comply, howling in agony that he has yet to relieve this pain.
"Where am I?" he croaks, pushing himself off of the wall and stumbling forward on legs that threaten to buckle beneath his weight. "What is this place?"
He receives no answer within the wailing city and with labored breaths, he moves forward, grasping onto the remnants of walls and railings for support. It takes him several minutes until he finally falls forward, crashing down onto his knees as blood begins to soak the final unsoiled pieces of his attire. His head continues to pound, worse than before, as though his skull is chipping away piece by piece.
From somewhere in front of him, a woman calls out. Her voice is muddled, impossible to understand; it is as if he is drowning beneath the weight of the ocean and her voice resides on the surface, fathoms above him. He gazes towards the sound, only to find that he has been encircled by figures with faces obscured by a shimmering haze. The form in front of him sinks to its knees in a manner which mirrors his own. He falls backwards, forcing his body away from the thing as it reaches forward with an empty hand, beckoning him to take it in his own.
He stares, wide eyes with what he refuses to admit is fear, and he carefully reaches back, grasping onto the thing's hand. Around him, the sounds of screaming cease and the heat of the flames vanish, until the only thing left is the figures around him. All at once, his muscles relax and a pleasant warmth, one so different than what he was feeling moments ago, courses through him. The pain in his arm is gone, the Daggertail gradually loosening its viselike hold on him before clattering to the ground in a pile that reminds him of a dead cobra.
His heart is pounding in his chest.
Finally, he breaks his gaze from his discarded weapon, turning once more to the figure that still sits in front of him. Their hands are still intertwined and it does not move, does not breath, only continues to sit silently and watch him from somewhere under the glowing mist that surrounds its face.
"What are you?" He mutters, finally acknowledging the shaking in his voice and the fear that is tearing a hole into his chest.
The creature stands and he tightens his hold on it, trying to pull it back to his level and get the answers he so desperately wants. Despite his efforts, it pulls its hand free and turns to walk away, leaving him grasping at the empty air in front of him. Without warning, the screams resume and the heat of the burning city returns. He howls as agony returns to his broken form, cutting deep into his flesh as the Daggertail twists its way back onto his arm, once more tearing and slicing into his flesh without mercy.
When he finds the strength to glance up, to look for the figure that had briefly offered him some relief from this torture, he sees a woman standing before him, her dress flowing from her form and pooling around her like tar and muck. He searches for her face, but just as before, this figure has been clouded in a haze of gold, obscuring her identity from him.
She thrusts her hand forward, sending him flying back into a wall that he is sure had not been behind him previously. He groans, the pain pouring through his body like molten lead and shakes his head, willing away the confusion in his mind and replacing it with barely controlled ire.
As he plunges his arm ahead, the Daggertail snaps to attention, ready to obey its master in a single second. He forces himself to his feet, ignoring the cries of his body and brain to rest and instead replaces his torment with a twisted smile, baring his teeth at the woman. He finds that the scene has once more changed without his notice. The figures that had circled him before have all been brought to their knees, lining up in a row just ahead of this unknown attacker, crying out for something he cannot understand.
In her arms, one figure hangs loosely – the creature that had given him its hand and offered him relief. The woman holds it securely, an arm firmly pressed against it, holding it so close that he finds himself wondering if it might shatter from the pressure of her grasp.
"Get back!" he threatens, again snapping the Daggertail as he steps towards them. It digs itself further into his arm, but he pushes onward. "Let it go!"
He hears the muffled sound of speaking once more; this voice speaks sharply and with a purpose that causes a shiver to work its way up his spine. It is nothing like the ones earlier, and he strains to hear whatever it may speak. Suddenly, the stranger carves a blade through the air in front of her, gliding across the form as it thrashes in her arms. Time comes to a halt, silence washes over the city and the forms near her stay deathly still until finally blood – it looks like red silk, he realizes, as his stomach aches—begins to spill from the wound and onto the front of the creature.
It takes what seems to be hours for the thing to stop convulsing and succumb to the fatal blow that has been inflicted upon it. His chest aches and his heart pounds, all for reasons he cannot understand, until finally, he growls and rushes forward, the Daggertail soaring through the air towards the woman. Again, she thrusts a hand toward him, sending him back, only this time instead of a wall, there is only a black abyss to greet him.
The normal flow of time returns to him, he jolts forward, eyes wide and searching, trying to find a light to guide him within the blackness. Instead, to his confusion he finds onlylight surrounding him and the somewhat familiar setting he had first awoken in only days prior greets him. The knowledge does little to slow the beating of his heart though and he crumples down, pressing his chest against his knees in an attempt to regain control over himself.
As his senses return and he pushes the anxiety down into the depths of his psyche, he feels the tender touch of hands on his shoulder and back. He freezes – only for a moment—his body tensing as it assesses the strange touch for threats, before he decides to attack. Thrusting his weight to the side, he turns himself to face the stranger, his hand reaching out and fastening around their throat.
"Sneaking up on your patients is a good way to find yourself dead," he warns when he finds only Azar at the end of his assault. Her eyes are wide with both anger and surprise, but her hands have not moved, still reaching out for him in some silly display of compassion. He releases her, watching as she quickly moves to sooth the spots where his fingers had previously been digging into her flesh.
"I thought you might be hurt!" she snaps, shoving her hands at him and standing, putting distance between them. "Forgive me for being concerned."
She turns away from him, watching outside as the first light of the day continues to pour through the open window. They remain that way for some time, neither saying a word while they both recover from the shocks they have suffered so early in the day. Absentmindedly, he rubs a hand on his arm and notices that her own hand still has not left her throat, though she appears to be in no pain from his sudden outburst.
"You could at least apologize," she states, facing him once more.
He huffs, annoyed, sending a stray strand of white hair that has tickled onto his face flying upwards. Her eyes narrow in response, clearly not amused that he finds that no transgression has occurred between them. He watches her as another, smaller breath rushes past his lips. "You surprised me. Do you often grab people as they slumber?"
"You were dreaming. Something terrible." Her eyes have softened now, but the spark of irritation lies beneath the surface. He knows his actions have not left her mind, no matter how sympathetic her voice sounds. "I heard you screaming and I thought—"
"You were hearing things," he insists. "Oh, do not tell me you were worried?"
"Hearing things? Ha!" She rests herself against the table nearest to her, legs outstretched towards him and hands clasping the wood until her knuckles of pale against her rich, russet brown flesh. "You are stubborn as a mule, you know."
"Another of my more charming qualities." He yawns, falling back onto the mattress beneath him with a soft poofas air rushes out from the fabric. "Only a week I've been confined here and you've already nearly guessed them all. Good work."
"Yet somehow I have yet to guess your ever so elusive name." She pauses, chewing on her lip gently. "Ehsan?"
"You've already said that one. Yesterday morning."
Her feet slide back, boots scratching against the floor in an unpleasant manner, causing the hairs on his arms to stand. "Hard to keep track when I have already guessed so many, you know. This game of yours is getting tired and you cannot possibly tell me that you prefer me calling you stranger."
Lazily, he picks at his fingernails; his eyes remain open, but only just, as he continues the action, choosing silently to ignore her frustrations. Though if he was being honest, he was quite impressed that she had not chosen to give up already and admit defeat. In the course of a week she has spouted off dozens of names, maybe hundreds, and despite his resolve to remain anonymous, she still spewed off dozens more each time they spoke. Not one sat right though.
Born nameless and trapped with only his counterpart to speak to had left him with little reason to desire such a humannovelty. His existence simply was, no need to attach some frivolous label to it – unless that title was king, that is. Or at least, that is how it had been. Now, as he paraded around in this very much human form, the thing seemed required if he did not want to have any reason to stand out of place from the rest of the common folk.
How annoying.
"Try harder, I'm sure you're getting so close." He finally replies, eyes slowly shifting to watch her again. Raising a white brow, he smirks. "I find myself nearly rooting for you. Such determination. An admirable quality… in the right amounts."
He cannot help but chuckle when she rolls her eyes in response, pushing herself forward and balancing on her feet. Walking a few steps, she takes hold of a pitcher. "Fine then, continue on with your namelessness. Soon enough, whether you have one or not, it will no longer be my concern."
"So ready to be rid of me? Such a shame." He began, nose scrunching up slightly when he digs too deeply beneath his fingers. "And I thought we were just starting to become friends."
"I find bonding quite difficult when you do nothing to repay me for all I have done." She sets the pitcher of cool water on the table next to him, as if it will bring emphasis to her words. "Those herbs were not cheap. Nor does that bring into account all the food you have practically pilfered from my kitchen!"
"A smarter person would know not to offer their services to strangers before they knew if they had the coin." Hoisting himself up, he grabs onto the heavy jug and cautiously brings it to his lips, consuming some of the liquid inside. "If I recall, I never did ask for your help. I only awoke after you had already taken the selfless task upon yourself."
Her eyes narrow and he quickly, but with meticulous movement, finishes off the water before teasingly saying, "Determined and noble. You know, I think I've almost gotten you figured out too."
Azar meets his gaze for a moment, her eyes still sparking with annoyance at his behavior. Her arms cross over her body and weight shifts to one leg, another one of her mannerisms that all too much reminds him of Farah. He wonders, do all women have these aggravating tendencies, or is he just so lucky as to always run into them?
"I must go to the market for supplies. If I'm lucky Roshanak will still have what I need among her wares." Once more her eyes narrowed, resting the blame on her visitor. "What luck too, that you are well now. Tomorrow evening you will be able to leave my home and I can get back to the normal flow of business!"
"Tomorrow evening?" He sputters, shoulders tensing. "You said nothing to suggest soon would be sosoon."
"Oh?" She mocks, her lips pressed thin. "Well, consider this your notice."
Without another word, Azar steps through the door. As it slams shut behind her, he winces and bares his teeth in agitation. Of course he had known that his stay with the girl was not a permanent situation (nor an ideal one, as he should have never been under her care to begin with), but it had quickly become a source of shelter. He has no gold and while obtaining the coin would prove to be no serious problem, running about and thieving such large amounts will only attract unwanted attention to his person.
With no weapons and only tattered garments hanging – barely—onto his skin, he is already more than aware that a confrontation with his other half is suicide. This body is weak, requires more care than he would like, but it also provides him an escape from the void he has been wandering endlessly since his defeat. He shudders.
He needs a plan; he needs his Daggertail.
Reaching up, he rakes a hand through his hair, tugging it through the knots and tangles in frustration. As it stands, he decides, this place is a source of shelter, food, and (he groans) water. His body, although better, still aches when he moves and the skin at his back still peels grotesquely from the damage brought on by the sun. For now, he needs the wench; needs her home until he can be reunited with his precious weapon and face the heir of Persia without worry that he may collapse in the heat of battle.
Azar is already annoyed with him, he is sure that is the true reason behind her sudden announcement. He will need to play nicer with her then if he wants to stay in her home. An annoying trait of humans, he thinks, is how much they value their pointless manners.
With a loud sigh, he pushes himself up from the cot that has been his resting place for several days and grabs a single pair of boots that Azar had brought him only a few days prior. Slipping them onto his feet takes more effort than he would like, as the skin on his shoulders still protests as he moves, but within only a few minutes the task is finished. It is then that he moves to the door and pushing it open. Gazing out, The Dark Prince watches silently as the city moves freely and without worry before setting out onto the city streets for the first time since his arrival.
