Chapter TWs: Violence Against Women
The rising of the sun brings about a new chaos – with light on their side, the patrolling monsters renew their efforts to find them, tearing across Babylon in large groups and scarring her walls as they pass. It is a terrible sight. Buildings burn, darkening the sky above them with a thick cloud of smoke, and from across the city the occasional cries of citizens in peril echo through the narrow streets. Yet, most chilling of all, for the most part things remain silent. Almost as if they have set foot in a city lost in time – one that has crumbled as the years have passed. If one did not look too closely, it would be easy to dismiss the death wrought upon their home as nothing more than the hand of time and not an act of war.
That is what disturbs him the most.
Dreams had told him a much different story, one that had woven its threads to a tale of horror. Nights had plagued him with deafening screams, the cries of children, the blood of people smeared along the chalky stone walls like pigment. Instead, the signs of war are nearly hidden, tucked away in the cracks and behind closed doors. It is only on occasion that they pass by the body of some unfortunate soul – eyes still wide with the fear they had held as they met their demise, or the smell of death fills their noses.
Somehow it makes the whole ordeal more unsettling to find so little. As if this new Empress were a child attempting to hide her messes from her elders. Almost as if she wants to lure them into a sense of security before the true horrors are forced upon them like a tidal wave. Briefly, he wonders if the visions of his nightmares were so terrible. After all, at least then he had some idea of what to expect; he had some idea of what he was up against. Even when it overwhelmed his senses, he had some inkling that he might still have a fighting chance.
Now, as they head towards the palace, even with the patrols hunting for them, it is almost as if they have stepped into another world entirely. The state of it all becomes more jarring with each instance they are forced into battle, almost as if something finds the need to present them with the occasional reminder that the stakes have risen and the threat they face is truly real.
"Explain to me how this is any different than what I had suggested yesterday?" He mutters as Sargon pulls his blade from the throat of an unsuspecting guard. The body slumps forward, sand spilling from the wound in its neck and the glowing eyes dimming into dust. The creature's features are monstrous, like a body deprived of moisture. It reminds him of those infected in Azad so long ago.
Sargon's eyes his weapon carefully, watching as the sand that remains on the blade vanishes with the breeze. His mouth is lined with a hard frown, clearly sharing his own thoughts on their enemy's appearance. He replies, confident even through his apprehension, "Running blindly towards the palace would solve nothing. Especially when you were clearly on the verge of collapse."
He snarls, wrinkling his nose unpleasantly in his counterpart's direction, "While your concern is heart-wrenching, I am perfectly capable of handling myself."
From above, Farah peers over the ledge of a rooftop, bow still in hand and face showing the signs of her exhaustion with their bickering, "What Sargon means to say is that by waiting, we have been able to strategize. Last night, the patrols were surely securing the palace. Today they are out in numbers, hoping to find us within the city. If we can just make it to our destination, we should be able to spread out and take Eudocia by surprise."
Waving his hand dismissively towards her earns him nothing more than an irritated huff of air before she takes off ahead once more, scouting their surroundings. After a minute of pleasant silent, he hears a distorted scream and a body falls to the ground from where Farah had stood only moments before, several arrows within its crumbling torso. The three of them watch from the ground and the princess once more appears, none the worse for ware, but the irritation on her face more noticeable than before.
"Are you alright?" Sargon calls up, gathering the arrows that sit within the remaining sand.
"You worry too much." Farah nods, confirming that she has not been injured to the party, her fingers dancing along her remaining shots as she counts them. Finally, she answers, "Forty six left up here. How many survived?"
"Only two. Another broken." Sargon says.
He swears he hears the girl curse under her breath before she says, "Very well. I still have plenty. Regroup up ahead."
He mutters his own curses, annoyed at the girl for spouting orders at them, but quickly follows once she takes off on ahead. Beside him, Azar jogs slightly to keep up with his stride and ahead Sargon leads them through the twisting streets. They stop at a dead end.
"I thought you said she knew where she was going." He jeers, putting his hands on his hips and turning about to find some sort of escape not leading back the way they came. He finds nothing but a locked door and two very solid walls. "This is what you get for letting her lead the way, you know. Ordering us about like her servants. Did you learn nothing in Azad?"
As if to answer him, the door slides open, revealing Farah on the other side. The switch below her feet is depressed with her weight, securing their freedom from their temporary prison. He is sure he can see a cocky smile on her face, as though she might have heard his taunting. It makes his stomach flip unpleasantly.
"You were saying?" Sargon says, his own smile matching the princess's.
Another flip in his stomach before he replies with a defeated, "Go on."
From his side, Azar chuckles and he turns to give her a scowl, as though his displeasure might seep into her and at least wipe her already forming grin off her face. Again, his stomach flips. He grabs onto her arm and tugs forward, "Would you hurry up? It is a waste of time to be standing here."
As they step through the threshold, Azar pulls herself free of his grasp – almost with a violent force. Her eyes have narrowed and he notes that at least that annoying smile is gone from her face. She snaps at him then, the door slamming closed behind them with such force that her braid jumps forward at him and nearly drowning out the beginning of her nagging, "Keep your hands off of me, demon. Really, could you not stand to learn some patience?"
Her fingers are wrapped around her wrist, as though she is tending to a wound. He quirks a brow, ignoring her question and instead motioning forward, "I hardly held you that hard. Must you women always be like this?"
Grasp tightening around her appendage – sinking into the flesh momentarily—she frees her flesh of the pressure. Exposed, he is able to see the faint marks of his claws, a delicate red hue that has risen angry upon her skin. He frowns, an uncomfortable weight sitting on his chest as Farah and Sargon take notice of her minor distress. Already, he feels the tension in the air, the threat of another argument.
Azar steps forward then, so sudden that he flinches, almost too late to catch her hand as it flies towards his face. Again, his talons encircle her wrist, catching her off-guard and causing her eyes to widen in surprise (that does nothing to help the unease of the others and he hears Sargon draw his weapon). She hisses with anger, squirming within his hold as she attempts to pry his fingers away, "Let go!"
The medallion clatters to the ground.
He releases his hold in an instant. Like flashes of lightening, his mind sparks with what feels to be a million emotions – victory, victory, victory. Azar seems to sense it, her own eyes intense and filled with burning hatred. He can feel her heat, as if she had ignited him from the inside. He wishes to tear her apart then.
They both spring for the artifact.
His fingers wrap themselves around its cool, metal surface. Azar's do the same. Their hands interlock, fingers digging into the other's skin until one might fear they would cause lasting damage to one another. His body shakes with adrenaline – with the excitement that such power sits within the palm of his hand. The fear that he might lose it nearly overtakes him and drives him to the ground below. Azar, in turn, mutters fevered curses and tries to pry herself free with her unengaged hand. She knows so little of what power she holds and yet she fights to keep it from him with all the strength she can muster. It's almost admirable.
It is then that he feels the pull, as though a weight guides his chest until he cannot breath. Time has begun a slow crawl backwards – Sargon reaches for their hands, his words lost. Nothing moves. He can see the surprise in Azar's face. The sound floods both of them all at once, like strange whispers and desperate breaths – as though someone has broken through the surface of water, moments from their watery grave.
The Prince steps back first, his alarmed gaze falling back into anger and frustration. The medallion frees itself from their grasp, guiding them backwards through the motions until it has found itself once more within hidden on Azar's person. Things move faster and faster – he grabs onto her arm, releases as she is forced to revoke her attack. Azar moves away, guided by a power she is only beginning to understand.
They have been brought back to moments before their argument began and just as quickly as its magic had begun, it stops. Time returns to its normal flow and he can still feel the insult upon his lips, ready to attack the girl with biting words. Instead, he remains silent, watching as Azar crumples to the ground, her eyes wide and fearful. His own heart beats violently – lurching into his throat until he feels it might fall from his lips and onto the ground below him.
The royals move to the girl's side.
"What was that?" Her voice quivers as she speaks. There is no attempt to hide her distress – no mask of confidence like she had held onto so tightly before. In this moment, he sees only a panicked woman – a creature scared of what it cannot see. He finds he can relate to that fear. "What did you do?"
"Nothing."
"That was not nothing." She says, her words biting and angry. "Whatever magic you used—"
"It was the medallion, you foolish girl!"
His companions grow silent at that, Farah's feverish worry stopping just as quickly as it had come. Sargon's own gaze falls upon him, his haunting blue eyes filling with a chilling fury until he feels as though the man has somehow found a way to freeze him where he stands. It annoys him how quickly they are to turn against him – perhaps rightfully so, but still he cannot help the small flare of anger that rises in his throat.
"Do not look at me as though I have done you ill!" He intends for his tone to make them wither, to step back and cease their accusatory beliefs. Instead he finds that he feels trapped. "You are the one who permitted her to hold such an artifact. If she cannot control it, then I will gladly take it off her hands."
A heavy breath breaks free from Azar's throat, shaking her chest as though she has held in air for far too long. Her fingertips pale against the stone floor beneath her as she presses each digit into the ground with surprising force and though the actions seem to steady her, he can still see the sheen of sweat upon her forehead. "He is right. I should be more prepared for consequences of my agreement."
Her eyes screw shut momentarily and he is reminded of how the power had felt to his counterpart so long ago in Azad. The strange nausea that followed the overwhelming wave of power that had consumed him would have been too much had he not been forced to flee for his life. He is almost surprised she has managed to be so reasonable in her time of panic. It takes her little time to recover, rising to her feet and stubbornly freeing herself of the princess's grasp. He watches, somewhat amused and a brow arching inquisitively, as she reaches to take hold of the trinket.
"Merikh—"
He scoffs.
"Merikh." She repeats, her tone like that of a scolding parent. "If we must work together, than you must help me to understand the powers at our command."
"At your command." He corrects her, sneering. "So long as that rests in your hands, I have no possession of its powers. Perhaps ask Sargon for help, after all, he is less likely to stab you in the back."
She wilts, her confidence shrinking as he turns his back to her to continue forward. He says, refusing to allow them to waste anymore of his time, "Let us continue. Or would you three rather sit here and watch the city burn?"
With silent acceptance, the others join his side – no one daring to make conversation as they continue forward. He can see the judgment in their glances – can see the way Azar watches him, her golden gaze hard as she pours over her own silent thoughts. He tries his best to push his own curiosity aside as they head towards their destination once more.
So things return to some sense or normality – their weapons meeting the flesh of their enemies with deadly accuracy as they walk about the streets. The violence relieves him of the tension within his shoulders and gut, as though with each body that falls another ounce of weight falls from him. If their presence within the city were not so disastrous to his plans to conquer the throne, he might be thankful for the freedom he has finally been given to quench his bloodlust. Alas though, he thinks, as another creature falls to his blade, they only make him desire it more.
They reach the palace before sunset.
He trails behind - listening as Sargon goes over their plan of attack once again. "Farah and Azar will enter the palace from the east, while you and I shall enter from the west. From there, we can regroup within the throne room."
"And why is it you are so certain she will be there?" Azar questions, "Why wait where we would most expect her to be?"
"Because he believes she has laid a trap for us there." The demon replies coolly. "So, we are to enter ready to fight. Ready to be overwhelmed even."
The girl frowns, "And why walk into a trap at all. Surely there is a way around it?"
"Not all things have such an easy solution." Sargon says, surveying their surroundings with a deep frown. No enemies guard the gates – a sign that the Prince's suspicion is not unfounded. "We will enter, knowing that she shall attempt to overtake us."
Azar's face pales slightly and Sargon offers her a brief, if strained, smile. It does nothing to sooth the girl's worries and he can see the way her shoulders freeze as Sargon speaks, "I have gotten out of much worse situations, Azar. Trust me when I say things will be fine."
"You always say that." She mutters, nodding nonetheless. "Rahim and Omid would call you a fool. Say that you always get them into the worst situations."
The royal is silent for a moment before he offers her a brief laugh, "I suppose they would. Though I would reply that I always got them out."
They wait until nightfall to enter the gates, Farah's aim ready to bury her arrows within the throats of those who might oppose them. He can see the way her arm shakes as they enter the palace walls, the strain on her arms almost too much as they shut the doors behind them. She fires as a guard passes, forcing him to drop to his knees as he reaches blindly to tear it from his flesh. Sargon is quicker, burying the blade deeply within the creature's chest, one hand placed over the monster mouth, silencing his warning cries of death.
Farah joins his side.
He sees the true trap too late. He struggles to warn them, as their enemy enters, her golden hair flowing around her like some ethereal monster. She smiles, deceptively sweet, as though she might be some sort of peaceful entity and not the bringer of all the destruction about them. Sand curls about them, filling the air until he is coughing. The floor begins shatter, deep cracks forming in spots pristine only moments before. The walls shake violently, pieces of stone falling to the ground with ear shattering booms. Beside him, Azar shouts, her hands grabbing hold of him as she seeks purchase.
"Run!" Sargon's voice barely cuts through the chaos, his warning command coming only moments before the floor finally gives way. He vanishes, Farah tumbling into the darkness below with him. In only moments, they are left alone with the enemy.
She turns her attention to them.
"So much for divide and conquer." He mocks despite knowing the source of his annoyance has now vanished into the catacombs of the palace. He finds himself praying that the two have not met their ends. "We must run."
Azar nods, eyes narrowed and determined. He can sense her anger and terror – he takes her hand. They turn; diving forward and into an adjoining room. He can hear the disarray behind them continue and wonders briefly what good running will do them at the hands of a god.
"The lever!" He shouts, waking Azar from her shock. "Throw the lever!"
She throws herself forward, her hands grasping onto the device as she shakes. He joins her, pushing the heavy beam downwards with great effort. The sand rushes toward them, tearing at the ground with each inch forward and sending the stone into the blackness below. He shouts again, slamming his weight downward.
The door slams shut.
They run.