Chapter TWs: Mentions of Death
"Hold still." Azar says, nose scrunching unpleasantly as he pulls free of her grip. Her fingers press against his cheek unforgivingly and again he pulls back. A sound of annoyance works past her lips, posture slumping downwards and head tilting back. It is an overtly dramatic effect and he swats lightly at her hand where the razor resides. "Must you be so difficult all the time?"
He waits for her display to end, watching as she straightens up and raises a brow. When she finally seems finished, he replies, "Can you blame me? The thought of you with a razor to my throat brings about a certain uncertainty."
"Then why ask for my help at all?"
"Because one more moment with this tangle of hair upon my face and I might do something much more impulsive." He says, ignoring the snickers of his counterpart nearby. "A woman's touch and all that."
"Then why not ask the princess?"
"I am quite sure I would be more ready to cut his throat than even you." Farah says from her place beside her betrothed.
"She leaves me with little choice, as you can see." He replies.
Truly, the mass of hair that had grown upon his face was none too pleasant. His time within the darkness of his cell had left him little options in terms of hygiene – at most he had been given baths every week in the form of cold water poured from buckets while he remained chained tightly against the wall. Outside of this, his hair had grown unkempt and his nails short from their time digging at the walls for escape. His time in that prison had not been kind to him and he was sure it showed. The physical results that remained were both unpleasant and unnecessary. Better to deal with them now, rather than have them distract him later.
Azar rolls her eyes, but he sees the way they light up at his words. Amused, though not totally pleased. Again, she brings her hand to his face and the blade to his cheek. Her hands are steady, experienced.
"You have done this before." He comments and she is quick to shush him, dragging the blade carefully along his skin. A mass of hair falls, the same bright white as what rests on the top of his head. He frowns; it is all a mess really. "Am I wrong?"
Her hand slips slightly as he speaks and he can feel the sting as blood begins to flow from a small, but fresh, wound. The pain makes him hiss and Azar is quick to give him a look that borders on cockiness and frustration. "I told you to hold still. Why is it you can never listen?"
"A vice. One you have grown accustomed to, I am quite sure." He says with a smirk. She replies in turn, with an added shake of the head as she wipes away the trickle of blood that has made its way down his flesh. "Now tell me."
"Only if you stay silent." She warns, more careful now as she drags the blade across his skin. It almost feels strangely pleasant; her hands upon him like this and the steady sweep that the razor makes. "I used to help Rahim some mornings. When he was too lazy to do the task himself."
He frowns, "Rahim?"
"My husband." She says, her motions pausing and eyes growing distant. The gold in them has dulled, turning almost murky as she is filled with something unpleasant. It only lasts a moment before their eyes meet again and he can see the way his own gaze draws a chill in her. The flesh of her arms rises with goose bumps before she shakes the feelings and memories off like dust. "Surely I have mentioned him?"
"I recall asking of your husband when we first met." He replies, pausing as she continues her task. "I thought your anger made it clear there was no such person in your life. Why have I not met the man? Run off to escape your nagging, I assume?"
He intends to provoke her – perhaps even get something of a laugh from her. Instead, the blade once more falters against his cheek and he can hear Sargon say something – his name – the tone is sullen, a warning not to continue. He realizes then the murkiness of her gaze had been that of guilt and sorrow. He grimaces, a flush of shame washing over him as he realizes his mistake.
It is then that she frowns and her words confirm what he already knows, "He died."
At a complete loss for words, he decides it best not to push the subject further. Things fall silent within their shelter. The air thickens into an awkward and tense thing, making it hard for him to breath. He cannot meet her sight and Sargon's eyes practically dig daggers into the flesh of his back.
They continue in that silence. Her hand no longer falters, instead staying steady, freeing him of a weight unlike the one that now lies within his chest. He takes no unexplained comfort in the task – the motions and touches that once felt strangely comforting now seem to burn at his cheeks like red-hot heat. He hopes his shame is not as obvious as it feels in those prolonged moments.
It is when Azar finally sits back, weight resting on the heels of her feet, to admire her work that he realizes she is no longer dwelling on the matter. Instead her face is calm and the hairs upon her arms have once more settled, once more smoothing her dark flesh. It makes the burning in his throat wane and he manages to find his voice again, "Is it done?"
"You will need to wash up still, but yes – my job is done." She boasts, with a satisfied smile and stands. He takes the rag from her hands as she offers it, wiping his face free of the stray hairs and trickles of blood. "Though I was sure to leave you something. I doubt your face is suited for such nakedness."
Gathering her thick, ebony mass of hair into one hand, she quickly begins to tie it back. He watches, taking in the sight with some curiosity as he realizes it is not often that he has witnessed her hair free of the tight, long braid that normally twists its way down her back. As if sensing his thoughts, she pauses, her hands having already gathered the strands to be placed in their usual fashion. She lets them fall and returns to her knees, another smile upon her lips, "We might do something about your hair too. It has gotten longer than mine."
"Does that bother you?"
She laughs and the final weight is lifted from his shoulders. Sargon even lets out a low chuckle from behind them, though that annoys him more than it probably should. He wonders, should his anger not feel more justified? In this moment, he only feels like a petty child.
He will have to dwell on that later.
"I think you might prefer if it did not risk becoming a distraction." She replies after gathering about more supplies. "But now that you are freshly bathed—"
"Do not remind me." He sneers, scrunching up his nose and frowning as the recent memory plays out once more in his mind. "All four of you were so insistent. Though I hardly see why."
"If we must share our sleeping quarters with you, then you are not going to continue about smelling like the south end of a donkey." Sargon finally chimes in, his first real words directed at him that morning. The tone is hardly hostile, but still lacks certain pleasantness. It infuriates him – why must he always be so difficult? "Really, how can you complain?"
He sneers, as Azar makes him turn until he is face to face with the source of his growing irritation, "I do not recall asking for your input."
"And I do not seek your permission to state my thoughts." Sargon counters. "Though I thought you might be used to things not going your way by now."
Anger coming to a head, he moves to jump up from where he sits. He is not sure if he means to attack, but then again, what other course of action would he take? Azar is there to stop him though, her hands tugging roughly on the white hair in her hands until he falls back to his seat with a growl and a look of fury upon his face. After all, how dare such a pathetic excuse for a man insult him – bring up old scores so casually as though he had not been cheated of victory by the little nuisance of a girl at his side. He wants to throttle them both.
"Must you two always provoke each other?" Farah chides, eyes narrowed dangerously. He would love to say he is surprised to see her being the voice of reason, but she seems to fit into the role so well. He hates that little facet of her. "We are working together now, or have you both forgotten?"
Though they say nothing, perhaps both fearful of what their disobedience may bring, their hostility directed towards one another remains. Sargon does his best to appear above it all, straightening his back and fixing his shoulders proudly. He looks every bit like a spoiled brat in that moment. Though he cannot look much better, sulking about as he does when things do not go his way. He should strive to change that behavior before it becomes a habit, he thinks; so unbecoming for a future king after all.
"Good to see you both have some sense." She says, sounding too much like a mother for his comfort.
A weight falls from him, sliding off his back so suddenly that it startles him. He turns his head, only to see Azar proudly waving a blade within her right hand and a small mass of white hair piled upon the ground. Still smiling, she says, "I agree with the princess."
"Of course you do." He sneers, reaching back to pick between the discarded stands of hair beside him. "I thought you might take more than that."
"I have other ideas. Be patient."
She goes back to her task without another hint of what she might be planning. He chooses not to ask. He is hardly concerned with the state of his appearance. After some moments, the girl tugs lightly - a signal that she has finished. He reaches back, grabbing onto the braid (shorter than her own, but just as thick) and rolling his eyes, "Wonderful. We match."
"Awake already? I had thought the four of you might at least do an old man the favor of getting a fulfilling rest." A voice rings out from behind them making the two women in their company tense suddenly. Both princes remain unmoved, quite used to their (Sargon's?) mentor's silent movements by now. "I at least hope you have had your fill of food."
"We have and we thank you, my friend, for the shelter and meals you have given us." Sargon replies, getting to his feet to help guide the man to a comfortable spot in which to sit. "You have once more done me a great service. You must let me repay you when this is over – a place within the palace perhaps. Anything."
The man lifts his arm, the shaking appendage appearing as though it might be too weak to even lift the weight of his own wrinkled hand. He waves the idea off and smiles, the corners of his face lined tight with good humor as he speaks, "You always ask and I will always refuse. My boy, you have always been good to me and I would not offer you any help I did not think you deserved."
He reaches out, grasping for the young rulers hands. Sargon offers them wordlessly, head bowed slightly as he basks in the esteem of his mentor. With a tight smile, his expression more that of a father's than Merikh can ever remember being mustered from the old king, he gives Sargon's hands a brief pat. He laughs again, "Now, let us not dwell in the nostalgia of an ancient fool. There are more pressing matters to discuss and we have little time before we are found."
They are quick to fall into discussion of their adversary – each of them providing what little information they know and offering what skills they can to their planning. The Old Man simply listens, lets them pour out their thoughts without interruption, even when they fall into bickering (almost always against him, he notes, none to pleased to have a team of three against him). He thinks perhaps their host has fallen asleep, or perhaps even died where he sits, but the slow breathing of the red robed figure assures them all that the latter is not the case. That knowledge is much to their collective relief and he finds he is glad they can agree on something.
It is not until they are nearly an hour into their discussion (and fifteen minutes into their latest argument) that the man finally interrupts. A sudden bang stops them all midsentence and they turn to the man, each of them wearing expressions ranging from those of shock to irritation. The man's staff hovers slightly, waiting to be brought down again if they choose to continue without letting him say his piece. They remain silent.
"I think," The Old Man's voice comes slowly, the patience he has hanging heavy in the air – it makes a peculiar shame cross their faces one by one, "that there has been enough arguing here today. Now, let us begin once more, but this time mind your tongues."
He lifts his arm, waving his fingers slowly towards them in an order to continue their discussion. Farah is the first to speak, her lashes low against her cheeks as she contemplates each word carefully, "He is right. We must seek a solution. If we cannot understand each other, we will fail."
"What is there to understand that we do not already?" He comments. "You three do not trust me – for good reason. There is hardly anything we can do about that."
"Perhaps if we were given some assurance that you would not stab us in the backs, we might be more keen to accept the hand we have been dealt." Sargon says. He sounds tired, as though he has been worn down and is ready to snap. As always, he manages to keep some grip upon himself and continues, "I still do not understand why Kaileena would bring us together – expect us to work with one another after all that has happened. Or what to do about that infection in your arm."
All eyes fall upon his infection then, as though each of them is waiting for it to spread itself upon the remainder of his flesh at any moment. Most curiously, it has hardly moved at all, the blackness having only crept from his shoulder mere inches in three days. It burns at times and in those moments he knows that it is spreading within him. He has spent some hours wondering what might happen to him should it overtake him. The fear that he may lose control and become a shambling corpse, like the creatures in Azad, has filled his heart on more than one occasion. How sure he can be of that outcome is almost nonexistent, but he still does not like the odds.
"Perhaps it is another one of her gifts." He says, running the flesh of his thumb along his talons. "After all, I can not wield the Daggertail as a human. That would surely kill me – the pain would be unbearable."
"Kaileena did not infect you. If that blade was the key to our success, then why would she bother to bring you back like this?" Sargon replies, his own fingers grazing the flesh of his arm and gliding along the spiral like scar that trails upon it.
There is logic in his argument. It makes pain flair through his stomach and he has to look away to compose himself. The idea that this prison of a body is where he is meant to be in her plans disgusts him and he briefly thinks that the nothingness might have been preferred. It does not take long for him to disregard that last thought as pure spite.
"It is not important." He finally says, releasing the pressure in his hand and watching as the depressions within his skin rise up. "There are more pressing matters to discuss."
Azar shifts, falling back onto her bottom with a huff of air that settles her shoulders, "Perhaps facing her as we did is what was wrong. We charged in, ready to fight and be done with the whole ordeal, but in your tale the last fight against this power did not end so easily."
"That is right." Farah says, her brows lifting with the realization. "You said that you were forced to trap her. To take away all hope she had to run and defend herself. A feat you only accomplished because Kaileena believed you ignorant."
"You seem to both be forgetting we do not have the ability to travel between the past and present as we did then." He comments dryly. "Whatever she has planned, we will not see coming."
Something flashes in Azar's eyes, as though she has made a great discovery. From his position in front of her, Sargon seems to tense as though he is already aware of what she has planned. She pipes, proudly, "Merikh. You must go to her."
"I must what?" Skepticism fills him – the girl might as well have told him to step into a room of lions and face his death without complaint. He waits, fully expecting her to retract her statement, or for one of the others to voice their disapproval. Nothing comes, much to his complete disbelief. If anything, it is as though they have all weighed the options for him and decided that it is indeed better to throw him to the lions. "I thought we had all agreed that I was only useful to you alive."
"Do you not see? If this woman you speak of intended for you to help us, perhaps her plan was to use our disagreement for our benefit."
He snarls, "That makes no sense."
He fully expects Sargon to finally agree for once, perhaps even to tell Azar to hush and let them think of a proper plan. As with many things in his life though, things do not go as he expects. Instead Sargon nods in agreement, "She means for you to betray us."
A/N:
i) How we feeling about that Sands Of Time remake announcement? Personally, I'm so hyped and excited to see my favorite characters brought to life once more! Reminder that we do have a Discord if you want to join and discuss!