Chapter TWs: Mentions of Death, Loss of Parents, Parental Neglect

Chaos has erupted within the fabric walls of the tent. The disorder growing amongst the inhabitants as the seconds slip away and the sun once more falls across the horizon. He feels as though it is a marker of his death – the sheer foolishness of this plan his companions have agreed upon doing nothing but further his agitation. For what it is worth, all but Sargon seek to sooth some of his worry and do their best to assure him that this course of action will not fail. While it does nothing for his nerves, he finds some small part of his appreciates the sentiment. Even if that appreciation does little to stop his mood from souring.

"First you promise to kill me should I take a single step out of line," his voice is low, verging on a snarl, "and yet now you encourage the behavior! Excuse me for no understanding your sudden change of heart."

Sargon is up. Pacing about the small space just as he does, his own nerves getting the best of him as the full weight of their plan begins to sink in. He only mutters, "It is not as though we have any other choice."

"No other choice? I can think of thousands of other plans that do not require me to walk towards death like a starving man towards food!" He is shouting now and he can see Farah flinch, as though he has lashed out physically towards her. "What you are suggesting…"

"Attacking her directly is a fool's choice." Farah frowns, her lips thinning with both something akin to worry and anger. It is refreshing to see, giving him some idea that the others are at least becoming as uncomfortable as they have made him. "She expects it of us, knows that we are both outnumbered and weaker. If you have something else to offer us, please speak."

He feels a weight in his hand. It sooths him, reminds him of a face long since gone from his life. He squeezes tight only to find Azar in the place of whom his mind seeks. Her eyes calm despite the pain he must be putting her in, "Merikh. You must go to her. It is the only way we might save the city."

"I do not care about your damned city!" He says, ripping himself away from her touch. "I say let everything here burn! Let the four of you burn with it all!"

The threat is thin and weak. Hardly a threat at all when everyone knows his true desires to conquer them and find his place upon the throne. In that moment though, he is so very sure that his words are true and that he would rather the city die than face the possibility of his own mortality once again. Alive he can do so much more, even without the seat of power he covets. Still though, as strongly as he feels for those passing seconds, the flame burns out as a wave of defeat washes over him. They are right; he would never let his throne burn.

"Very well. Let us discuss this plan of your more." He sighs; his shoulders feel heavier than they did this morning. The rest he has been given suddenly wasted as a new weight is heaved upon him without a second thought. "You do realize none of you may complain about my desires to kill you after this suggestion, correct?"

A smile, small as it is, reaches Sargon's face. It causes his eyes to light up with laughter, even when the sound does not escape past his lips, "Yes, well, try not to get any ideas about crossing us whilst in the guise of her ally. It is only pretend."

"I am glad you have all finally settled yourselves." The Old Man chimes, a violent series of coughs erupting from him not long after. Farah is quick to come to his side, only to be waved off as the man settles himself once more into a calm. "And even more satisfied that you have all finally decided to work together."

"We worked together just fine." Sargon replies, "Our distrust was only aimed at him. Surely you understand our hesitation to work with this demon? People may change, but creatures so loathsome and evil never do."

Merikh says nothing to counter the insult. Only sneers in the direction of his counterpart – as though it may burn a hole in him from the sheer intensity of his irritation. Sargon only wrinkles his nose, as though he is able to brush him off with little effort. That makes his blood boil.

The tension in the room is palpable and Farah is quick to rub at her eyes, already tired of the argument that is sure to come. Her added expectance is perhaps what makes their surprise all the greater when they are cut off. Their host is quick to interrupt them – the weight of his staff upon the ground sharp and loud as he once more claims control of their discussion.

"You both see the world so black and white."

The man stands slowly, his knees shaking as he walks about the room slowly. He hates how he is so easily able to command respect from them and yet cannot find it in himself to hate the man personally. He blames it on nostalgia. After all, the man had practically raised them; perhaps this was one facet in his distaste for the old king.

"Your resistance to trust one another will be your undoing."

"And our desire to trust one another worked so well before." He mutters, almost laughing when a snort of air comes through his counterpart's nostrils. Seems they have found another thing to agree on. "It was short lived for a reason."

"And only when you were divided did the start of your undoing begin." The man is blunt, his voice sharp and quick in a way that surprises him. He does not like this observation, though he recognizes the truth in it. "You cling to your beliefs about one another like stubborn children, refusing to embrace the change you need to grow. Both of you are the sons of Sharaman and it is only when you accept that things will begin to move in your favor."

Sargon stares at the man in disbelief, almost as if his mentor has personally insulted him with his words. Meanwhile, he broods. His throat burns, feeling tight as his resentment for the old king is once more brought to his attention. He snarls, "The fool was not my father. I was born only of hatred and aggression. No union of that man's resulted in my creation."

"Have you no respect for the dead?" Sargon replies, taking a step forward and closing the distance between them almost at once. "Speak ill of my father again and I will show you no mercy."

He takes the final step towards the man, his fists clenched and eyes burning with fury and hatred. His voice shakes when he speaks, but he hardly notices, too drawn towards the fight, "I shall speak ill of him whenever I please. You idolize that man as if he played any part in what you have become! When in reality, he was too busy planning his next conquest to take true notice his sons!"

"How dare you—"

"Oh yes! How dare I point out the truth?" He is shouting. His shoulders are shaking. It is as though his vision has gone red, hardly seeing what is there. The feeling is almost as though he is out of his body, trapped somewhere and filled to the brim with ire. "Who was it that taught you the way of the sword? Our brother. And was it that bastard who gave you your lessons? No, he felt the need to pawn you off onto a wise man. And what of our mother? She offered us more than he ever did. That man played no part in what we have become. Look around, Sargon! The people who guided us are in this room, or dead!"

"Ours? Do not speak of Malik or my mother as though they were yours!" Sargon finally snaps, his anger taking full hold of him as he matches his counterpart's volume. "My mother would feel nothing but contempt for a monster like you."

The words sting him and he can feel something wet in the corners of his eyes. He lashes out, grabbing onto Sargon and shoving him to the dirt below. Farah shouts for him to stop and he can feel Azar's hand on his back. Beneath him, the man kicks and digs his nails into the flesh of his neck. He snarls and tightens his grip on Sargon's collar, lifting his head off the ground and leaving him gasping for air, "Contempt for me? I was not the one who killed her! If it were not for you, she would still be here!"

The water in his eyes escapes and he shoves the Prince to the ground before falling back. The women yelp sharply, a sound that signals their surprise and fear, yet Azar's hands do not leave him. Only when he is sure that he is safe from attack does he reach up to scrub away the odd feeling. His hand comes away moist and he has to count his breaths to calm his racing heart.

Things fall silent for a time. He sits, still wiping at his eyes on occasion when the need arises. He does not like this new feeling – the way it aches in his chest and yet feels so hollow. It is as though he has only just realized a part of him is missing; only this piece has been lost forever. It is unbearable and he wonders how humans can possibly stand to live with such things plaguing them throughout their lives. He recognizes it then – sorrow.

Along with it, sitting heavy somewhere within his stomach, the creeping feeling of embarrassment comes. It rises to his cheeks and he finds he cannot bring himself to gaze upon them, not when he can feel their eyes weighing him down.

He tears himself away from the girl's touch. Despite the way her hands sooth his hot flesh, he finds he cannot bare the thought of her being so close. As though her very contact will expose his weakness to them all in a humiliating display. She does not argue, nor attempt to bring her hands to him again. He appreciates her understanding, despite it all.

"Mehri was a good woman. Born with the talents of a great ruler and well versed in the ways of motherhood. For both reasons, she is greatly missed." The man speaks. His voice is soft, filled with his own pain as he speaks of the deceased queen. "You did not kill her, my boy. Not here – not in this world. And while I cannot speak of your actions that no longer exist, I can assure you, her death was never at your hands."

There is comfort in his words. To know she did not suffer a blow trying to find peace within a pointless war sooths his aching heart. There is still anger; it flares up as Sargon is relieved of his sins. Freed of the role he played in ending the life of their mother - his mother. Perhaps sensing the coming conflict, the man continues, "Find peace, my princes, as she has. For she loved you both, as she only ever knew you together. Her only wish now would be that you end this plague brought onto her people."

He feels so tired. The rush of emotions has deprived him of air, as though they have crashed over him like a wave in the sea. He licks his lips and mutters, "Then that is what we shall do. Let us be done with it, before I lose the rest of my patience with this man."

Sargon says something in agreement, his voice low. Really it is barely above a whisper and was he not so exhausted, he might strain to listen just a bit more.

"Perhaps it would be best if we took a short rest." Farah says, though her words sound more like a gentle command than a suggestion. "There is no point in continuing our discussion with clouded minds and judgment."

No one argues.

The sun slowly falls and he could almost swear that the hours are passing more slowly than before. He wonders if he is imagining things, but chooses not to dwell on the idea that he may not.

There is no comfort to be found within the familiar walls. They move about as if they are walking on eggshells; each of them worried that any little thing could cause yet another outburst. They should be resting – discussing a course of action – but here they are, lounging about in an awkward manner. Each waiting for someone to signal they must continue forward. Eventually, he decides it best to excuse himself and head outside. He has heard it said that fresh air does wonders to clear your mind and it is an experience he has never gotten to give much thought in the past.

The cool air is quick to surround him as he pushes back the heavy flaps of the tent and it sends a shiver down his spine. The rags upon his body do little to keep him warm, but somehow the sensation is not unwelcome despite the way his muscles tense in the breeze. He takes a long, deep breath, letting it fill him so completely it is as though his chest may split and spill forth all that lies within. It is just what he needs to calm the war raging in his skull – a welcome distraction from the dull aches within.

Behind him, the doorway once more parts. The fabric skims his bare arms, making goose pimples raise on his flesh and his breath stutter. He turns, eyeing his company with a mixture of distaste and disinterest.

"Are you feeling better?" Azar asks, her voice low as she tries to keep the conversation from those who may be listening just inside.

"Since when are you concerned with how I am feeling?" He replies, his head still turning towards her, his gaze hard upon her. "Do you not hate me? I am a demon after all."

"I do hate you." Her confirmation might sting him were he a weaker man. "But, that does not mean you are undeserving of respect. Perhaps some compassion might do you some good."

He laughs, "If you expect me to become some sort of hero simply because you were kind to me, you are mistaken."

"Then it is good that I am not asking that of you."

There is a pause between them, a silence that he cannot find the words to fill. Instead all he can will himself to do is tear his eyes from her and watch the landscape fall over the horizon ahead. Thankfully, she speaks before things become uncomfortable (though he has already begun to shift back and forth impatiently), "I am sorry."

He frowns and turns to her, confused by her words. She seems to notice and quickly adds, "About your mother. I know what it must feel like to realize you have lost her and be powerless to stop it."

"I have already told you, I have no need for pity." He says, his voice distant as he fights back the ache that seems to tear into his heart. "Whatever it is you think I feel for her, it was only driven by my hate for Sargon. Nothing more."

If she has heard him, she makes no comment. Voices no argument against his statement as she speaks, "My mother was taken from me as well. I was forced to listen as she begged for our lives; her voice was desperate. As she was dragged away, carted off towards one of the Vizier's vile generals like a piece of meat, she shouted for us to run. I only sobbed on the ground like a child, unable to will myself to heed her warning."

There is an unmistakable hollowness in her voice. The light in her eyes once more burnt out and staring ahead like a corpse – yet she does not waver as she concludes her story, "You called me a coward. In that moment, I was. I have never forgiven myself for that weakness. It rests like hot coals in my stomach every day. I can either let their fire consume me, or do my best to make her sacrifice mean something."

He finds himself unable to face her still. Each word she has spoken sinking into him slowly and he finds that he holds some sympathy for the girl. He thinks of Mehri – thinks of the fear she must have felt as she stepped onto the battlefield and the courage it must have taken to do so. He does his best not to remember the pain on her face as the arrow struck her. With great difficulty, he manages to speak, "There was nothing you could have done."

When she does not reply, he asks, "Why did you tell me all this?"

"Because Sargon also feels the same burning coals as you and me. You are angry with him, but that anger will do nothing to make him feel more blistering guilt than he already does." She finally catches his gaze and they both seem to search for something within each other momentarily. It connects him to her like a string, tangling him too her tight and painfully.

He nods.

"Fine then. I will do my best to put it aside for now." His voice is hushed, a strange croak to it that he feels he has never heard before. "That does not mean I have forgiven him."

"You do not have to."

It takes him some time to swallow back his pride. It feels so wrong to leave something unsaid, to not show her some ounce of appreciation for her words. He is not a good man by any sense of the word and his stubbornness holds him back from many things, but he at least knows when to give some credit when it is due – or at least something along those lines. Finally he mutters, "Thank you."

She smiles. It is a soft thing, but full of sincerity that he has never seen within her before. It suits her, just like her laugh and that fire in her eyes. "Thank you for listening."

With that their voices cease for a long time. They simply stand side by side, their eyes still watching the horizon and the setting sun. It is peaceful and he swears that for just one fleeting moment, all his anger and hatred vanished from his body. Like something unknown has washed over him and brought him closer to some sort of acceptance. All the feelings are quick to return, of course, for they are what fuel him – the very essence of his being. Yet, he takes the time to welcome the feeling, even when he welcomes the others back greedily.

Only when each and every drop of his ire returns does he shatter the silence, "I will leave tomorrow to find her and put our plan into motion. Before the sun rises."

"I know."

A/N:

i) You may have two chapters. As a treat.