Chapter TWs: Mentions of violence against women, panic attacks.


"Should we not be heading towards the palace?" He questions, adjusting the blade at his side with irritation. The weapon is cumbersome, getting in the way of moving and providing no use to him outside of combat. He longs for the Daggertail. "We now have an advantage – one this new enemy does not expect."

A grunt comes from behind him and he turns slightly, watching as Azar pulls herself up the mud-bricks with obvious effort. He watches for a moment longer as she struggles, clearly she is not used to climbing about the city's rooftops, before offering her his hand with an irritated glare. She ignores him and he rolls his eyes before turning back to Sargon. "We have killed an Empress before after all. This one is no different."

"She has the protection of the palace walls." Sargon replies, his pale eyes scanning the horizon of rooftops ahead of them. "And an army."

He shrugs and motions a hand towards him, "And did we not face far worse on the Island of Time? Kaileena had a fortress and armies as well, you seem to forget."

"I was a desperate man then – fearful of the Dahāka and willing to do whatever necessary to escape death." His counterpart says, turning to him and crossing his arms. The darkening of his gaze tells him this is a memory he does not wish to recall. He still truly believes he is no longer the same man who stepped foot on that island. "My desperation to defeat my enemy cost my crew their lives. We cannot let the same thing happen to Babylon."

He groans before throwing his hands to the air in a dramatic fashion, "It is as I said with the Vizier: their suffering will only end when the enemy is dead. You are wasting time by focusing on anything else!"

"So it was you!" Farah's voice breaks through the air, already fierce and condemning. Both men turn towards her, watching as her eyebrows knit together and her hands ball into tight fists. Her body shakes slightly, the anger pumping through her veins barely hidden beneath the surface. "The demon that sat upon his shoulder, whispering lies into his ear. A creature so focused on vengeance and bloodshed that you have grown to feel nothing but a cold disregard for the people you claim to be the prince of."

He frowns, clenching his teeth tightly until the skin of his jaw feels as though it might rip itself free of his skull. Her words sink into him deeper than he cares to admit and her fury - while beautiful – causes his skin to itch painfully. He does not like this foreign emotion and casts it aside with a sharp jab of his finger to her chest, "I never lie. I only sought to guide him in our best interests – even yours, princess."

Sargon grabs him then, pulling him away from Farah harshly and nearly sending him tumbling to the ground. Anger drips from him, practically coating his skin as he speaks, "Do not touch her."

He pulls himself free from Sargon, ripping his arms away violently. He almost stumbles to the ground once more, though this time it is of his own doing. When he manages to right himself and stand tall upon his own two feet, he raises his hands up in a gesture of surrender. They both continue to scowl at one another despite themselves and he continues, "It is as I said: we could have ruled this kingdom – the three of us. All you needed to do was accept my guidance. Were the lives of the many less precious to you than the lives of a few screaming citizens?"

"All you sought was to guide me down a path of hatred and selfishness." Sargon counters, now standing ever so slightly before Farah. "To cloud my mind with vengeance until I was nothing more than your puppet. To convince me that you were my savior in a time of doubt! You were nothing more than a parasite who sought to feed off me when I had everything you could not!"

The demon's frown deepens, trying to ignore any grain of truth in his counterpart's words. They truly believed him to be a monster and even now only a monster wearing a most cunning disguise, but what he had claimed was true – he only sought to guide them towards glory. That had been taken from him though and the source of the reawakened light in Sargon still stood still at his side. Her presence yet another cut to him that he wished to hide beneath his irritation.

Farah has indeed ruined his plans. The princess had reached Sargon in ways he could not – spoke words far more tempting than his own. She spoke of kindness and understanding, a promise of a better life. She was the light found within his most literal darkness. Something he could never be while hiding in the shadows.

"You know nothing about me." He says, forcing his eyes away from the princess. "You see only that my course of action is not your ideal. That makes me wrong, doesn't it?"

The royal couple moves to speak in unison, their stances already indicative that they mean to start another argument. He tenses, thinking up a dozen more of his own. Their morals have already begun to aggravate him and they have barely just begun – how is he to stand working with them?

"Wait, wait!" Azar is between them then, her breathing uneven as she attempts to catch her breath and regain her composure. She holds her arms out slightly at her sides, letting them hang low and raising one finger slightly towards the sky on each hand. She means for them to stop their bickering and he cannot help but narrow his eyes at her. She has no place in this argument. She has no place in their mission. "What are you three going on about?"

"Stay out of this." He snaps, folding his arms against his chest.

"If I am going to help you, I should know what is going on." She remarks, her own gaze locked on his before she turns to Sargon. Her dark hair twists about her body, emphasizing her movements most dramatically and giving her an air of authority in the moment. A commander over bickering children and once more he is forced to push away thoughts that seem to sting at his heart. "You say you have faced this enemy before? On an island?"

When the royal does not answer her, she continues, "And the Dahāka. Is it true? You have seen him?"

Sargon's own gaze falters and suddenly his eyes are upon the ground, seemingly locked upon a crack in the rooftop below their feet. It takes him a moment to speak and the demon can practically see the way he weighs the words in his mind, "I have killed him."

A sharp intake of breath is the first signal of her shock. The next is the way that her body tenses, her fingers straightening at her sides until it looks as though they may break from the strain she has put on the delicate muscles. They all know what he says is impossible – or nearly so. To have slain a dragon-king and son of Angra Mainyu is a feat only predicted for the end times. Had the memories not been his own, he would refuse to believe the claim himself – but he had been there, in his own way.

"He is telling you the truth." He says, his voice quiet but still tinged with more confidence than the memory probably warrants him to have. There is pride in him associated with that fateful battle and he still finds himself disheartened to know that Sargon denies himself the same feelings. "And this is not the same enemy. Not exactly."

A exhale of air rushes though Sargon's lips until his shoulders slump and the weight of experience has washed over him. He nods and looks towards his companion, the girl standing by patiently as she waits for him to fulfill her request. "There are many things you do not know, Azar. Things I did not share – things I kept hidden, even from my father."

The demon frowns at the mention of the former king. A small eruption of anger bursts from his heart and flows into his veins – hatred for the old man and delight that he is finally dead. His counterpart, meanwhile, reveres Sharaman as a beacon of good. It disgusts him and he snaps, "We do not have time for fairytales. Or have you forgotten that the city is under attack?"

"I have not forgotten." Sargon says, eyes narrowed in his direction. "The sun is setting and with it, the light is fading. We will make no progress stumbling about in the dark. And you need rest."

He snorts in reply, trying to ignore the way his body does indeed ache for rest, "I didn't know you cared."

"I do not."

"Touching."

A hand rests upon his arm then and he finds himself backing away from the contact, nearly willing himself to attack whoever has dared to be so bold. He roars and turns to find Azar's concerned gaze. She does not move, already used to his behavior from months prior – though he can still see the spark of fear within her eyes. "You are wounded. Pushing yourself forward will only do more harm than good."

He looks to her outstretched hand and snarls, "I do not need your medical insight, woman. I know my limits."

"I need none of my training to see that rest will help you, stubborn fool." She responds, her lips thin with frustration and eyes filled with misplaced compassion. "I offer you common sense. To charge forward now is not only a risk to your health, but will only aid the enemy."

He sighs, not unconvinced that her words hold some truth, but still wishing to move forward. The enemy will not defeat him – that much he knows – but this body is weak and he is tired. While he loathes admitting it, her words are correct. There is no need to make their upcoming battle any more difficult. He concedes, his shoulders slumping slightly as the tension in his spine eases. Beside him, Azar offers a small smile, her eyes washing with visible relief that there is to be no further arguments on the subject. He sneers.

A quirk of her brow accompanies her next words, "Well, at least you have seen reason. Though your attitude could stand to be improved."

"Something you were already aware of, little spark." He shoots back, eyes narrowed dangerously. "Do not get so confident in yourself that you think I do not remember your actions. After all, is my weakness at this moment not your fault, traitor?"

Azar's brow furrows and she snorts, choking back mocking laughter as the fire in her eyes once more flares in annoyance, "Traitor? To be so, I would have to hold loyalty to you in the first place! Pray tell, how is your imprisonment my fault?"

He huffs, nose wrinkling in distaste as he turns sharply from her. It puts an almost effective end to the argument and the girl says nothing to provoke him further. Still, he can feel her self-assured expression upon his back, as though she has branded his neck with hot iron. He hates it – hates the thought of not having the last word, or at least something to strip away her confidence. He can think of nothing to do so though.

"Shall we plan our attack then?" He finally says, doing his best to ignore the look of amusement present upon the royal couple's faces. After a moment of silence, one in which he suspects they are doing their best to hold back their snickering, he continues with a pointed look towards Farah, "Or does your new found sense of morality have objections?"

That wipes the looks from their faces and Farah snaps, "The only objection I have is that you are still alive, demon."

Again, her words pierce at him. Like daggers, her words drag across him, intermingling with the churning of his stomach in a feeling he cannot describe. It is unpleasant – unwelcome. Like an insect beneath his skin, or an itch he cannot scratch. The unfamiliarity of it all is impossible to understand, but underneath it all he can feel the trickles of rage. That is a feeling he does understand. He welcomes it, letting it wash over him and consume all else until he is eroded to nothing more than its very essence.

"I do not care for what you want, girl." He finally replies, much too aware of the way his voice trembles. "I am alive – standing before you even. What you want is irrelevant."

Tension hangs between them.

Silence.

Sargon is the first to break, "I am tired of these pointless arguments. As much as it displeases us to admit, he is right. We must move forward – forge a plan and attack. We will get nowhere if we continue as we are now."

"I am so delighted to hear you agree." He remarks, voice dry with sarcasm. He folds his arms across his chest as if to punctuate the statement, not unlike a child. "Now, shall we find quarters for the night, or would you prefer to relay fairy tales in the freezing cold?"

He does not wait for their answers, instead choosing to move forward and vault off the rooftop. His stomach surges upwards to his throat as he falls, a familiar feeling that eases the tension from before. The rush of air removes the block of weight that sits upon his chest and shoulders until he feels fluid. He is glad to be free of their judgment – even for just a moment.

His feet impact the ground with a soft thump and he takes a moment before standing, letting the way the dirt shifts under his knees and on the palms of his hands center him. Only when he is sure of himself once more does he glance back up at his companions. He ignores their quizzical gazes and stands, "Are you going to just stand there being useless, or would you like to join me down here?"

The biting tone of his words seems to snap them from their confusion and replace their strange apprehension with much more familiar exasperation. After exchanging glances with one another, Sargon follows, mimicking his own decent.

"We will head towards the harbor." Sargon states, lifting his arm to point in the general direction of their destination. "It is close enough to the palace that we can make headway tomorrow morning."

He frowns, the very idea of being so near the water making his skin crawl, "Why is it I feel that you have decided this only to spite me?"

A huff of air resembling something of laughter rushes through his counterpart's lips. It is short, almost enough that he barely hears it entirely, but instead it floods him until his cheeks burn bright. He scowls, hoping that his expression is more than enough to express his displeasure at being the butt of Sargon's little joke.

"My decision," Sargon says, helping Farah to her feet as she joins them on the streets, "is based solely on strategy. Should our enemy come looking for us there, they will have only one direction in which to attack."

"And we will have only one direction in which to escape." He replied, trying not to think too much on the idea of the vast, open waters at his back as he sleeps. His skin crawls and for a moment, he mistakes the feeling for insects upon his skin. It is only when the brush of his hand along his skin does nothing that he is forced to admit the unwelcome truth of his fear. It does nothing to improve his quickly souring mood.

"He has a point." Azar says, coming to stand at his side. The bandage on her hand has come loose. The wound caused by his infected hand lays exposed and she carefully brings her fingers up to nurse the still tender flesh. Her brow furrows and she hums with discomfort before continuing, "If we back ourselves against a wall, we only trap ourselves."

"He means for us to swim." Farah chimes in, once more the visage of reason. "Should it come to it, we can still escape into the water. Perhaps by ship if any remain."

Another wave of discomfort falls upon his body, weighing down his shoulders as he thinks of the black water beneath him – an endless void. He finds that the water (cold and dark as it is) remains only one concern. Rather he finds himself sickened by the idea of what being dragged down might entail: darkness and silence, escape only just out of reach. He finds his chest constricting at the thought of it and a bitterness rising to his mouth. He feels uncharacteristically vulnerable and it is only when he brings a clawed hand to his scalp, tangling his blackened fingers within the white strands, that he is once more able to gain some semblance of composure.

"Fine." He snaps, squeezing his eyes briefly closed before shaking himself free of the strange feelings entrapping him. "You are set on the idea. Should we be killed, it shall be your mistake alone."

It is only when he looks up that he realizes they have once more been watching him. Again, they stand back – eyes filled with apprehension. Though he swears he also sees a flash of pity from them. His arm burns and he steps forward, snarling, "If you have something to say, then be my guest! I have no patience for your damned silence!"

Again, they break their gaze – turning away with awkward movements as if to convince him that he had only imagined the entire scene. Despite knowing otherwise, a wave still washes over him. It is cool and he can feel the fury in his veins falter slightly.

He is tired and the thought of sleep seems more appealing now than ever before. With a heavy sigh, he looks towards the path ahead, "Let us get this over with."


A/N:

i) "IRAN iv. MYTHS AND LEGENDS." Encyclopædia Iranica, Encyclopædia Iranica, 15 Dec. 2004, articles/iran-iv-myths-and-legends.

ii) I've decided to bend some of the fiction of the game to more closely match the reality of Iranian Mythology and religion. Overall, I feel the reality of the myths only add to the fiction of the game and also serve to make their presence more grounded in the world of the game. Expect some shifts to the story in those regards!