#menolias

Menolias knew he should’ve missed. Sargon was light and quick on his feet, making him nigh impossible to hit. But, somehow, the arrow Menolias had fired from the air had found its mark. Perhaps it was the mountain that made the Rashabar slow and sluggish with exhaustion, or Menolias needed to have more faith in his archery skills. No matter the cause, the effect of his actions played out in front of the Immortal.

            Menolias watched in a disbelieving haze as the arrow head buried itself into Sargon’s torso, causing the traitor to curl in on himself in a muffled cry of pain. Menolias quickly snapped back into a combat mindset and notched another arrow as he fell back to the earth. He fired. And then he fired again. And again. And again. All of the arrows found their target, hitting Sargon in the back, shoulder, leg, and chest, causing the young man to fall to one knee. These shots would’ve killed an average man, but Sargon had athra flowing in his blood, and he still stood. However, athra was only useful if the blood was still inside the person, and not spilling out onto the ground.

Sargon, with wavering steps and harsh breath, charged with a furious yell as soon as the archer landed, clearing running off adrenaline, and in an auto-mode mindset. But the arrows slowed him down and the injuries he suffered hindered his footing. It was almost too easy for Menolias to roundhouse Sargon, his foot slamming into Sargon’s jaw and sending the Rashabar flying away from him.

Sargon hit the ground with a sharp cry, the momentum of Menolias’s kick causing him to slide across the cobblestone before coming to a jarring halt. The Rashabar didn’t get back up. But he was alive; Menolias could see (and hear) his wheezing breaths, his sides and chest heaving as he struggled to intake enough air. Menolias crept closer, but he holstered his bow. He knew Sargon was in no condition to continue fighting him. Menolias doubted Sargon would be able to get up even if he wanted to.

As Menolias loomed over Sargon, he felt a twinge in his chest. Despite everything, despite the betrayal, despite the hurt, Menolias had a fondness for Sargon. Sure, the kid was cocky and arrogant at times, but he had a certain charm he brought to the Immortals. This man (still a child when he joined their group) had changed Menolias’s life, and the older Immortal couldn’t truly imagine a life where Sargon wasn’t in it. But here they were, with Sargon bleeding out at Menolias’s feet. His breaths were beginning to whistle in his dry throat, and his wheezing had quieted down to light gasps.

Menolias planted a sturdy boot on Sargon’s shoulder, and the traitor winced from beneath him, a small pained noise slipping out from his clenched teeth. He had his eyes screwed shut, his brow furrowed in agony as the arrows bit into his flesh.

He coughed harshly, blood starting to seep from the corner of his lips. From his experience in battle, Menolias knew one of the arrows must’ve hit a lung, or at least nicked it. It was the most pathetic Menolias had ever seen Sargon. He didn’t look this pitiful even after his fight with Vahram all those years ago.

So, they stayed there in the falling twilight, Menolias keeping his foot on Sargon’s shoulder in an attempt to keep him down. But it was all for show; Sargon wasn’t getting back up. He couldn’t. Menolias actually didn’t know why he had planted his foot down; maybe out of habit with enemy soldiers? Or maybe this was the only comfort he could give as the young man slowly slipped away from the land of the living. Silence blanketed the two, besides for crickets beginning to stir and Sargon’s wheezes starting to fade.

Menolias wanted to scream in that stillness. He wanted Sargon to say something- anything! Why did he kill Ghassan? Why would he betray the Immortals after everything they’ve been through together? We loved you! Menolias cried within his mind. “We took you in! We were your brothers! And this is how you repay our kindness?”

Of course, he got no answer. But then, Sargon coughed, his entire body shaking as he dislodged blood that had clotted at the back of his throat.

Then, he whispered, in the most broken tone, “M-Menoli…”

Sargon’s voice gave out, and he left his last word unfinished. Menolias had seen enough death to know what it looked like; Sargon was dead. Menolias sighed, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt a stinging sensation. Vahram would admonish him for showing grief for an enemy. Even if that enemy was someone he had loved like a brother.

Menolias lifted his foot off the boy’s body, and he dropped to one knee. He gently stroked a dreadlock away from Sargon’s eyes; he knew it did no good, since he was going to leave Sargon’s body there for the vultures to fight over. Then, in a low tone, he whispered to the night air, “I never wanted this fight… I am sorry, little one.”