Chapter Text
Sargon was a weapon. And like a weapon, he had been forged by searing flames and unbearable heat; his hardships made him a more formidable warrior. This also meant, like a weapon, he knew he was only useful if he could fight and defend. Weapons that broke were smelted back into molten metal, or were placed on display and forgot about in some nobleman’s house, gathering dust as it had gathered kills during its prime.
Sargon was a broken weapon. Vahram had broken him.
***
It felt odd sitting outside the mountain, watching the sun as it set. He hadn’t seen the sun set in what felt like ages, but by the looks of their horses, they hadn’t been in the mountain for more than a few days. He sighed, and raised his right hand to scratch at a bug that had landed on his other arm when he froze.
Oh, that was right.
He no longer had a right arm.
Sargon’s right arm now ended just above his elbow, a frantic and desperate last measure Artaban and Neith had performed to save his life. He didn’t remember much after Vahram gave back the Simurgh’s heart, but from what Ghassan and the others had told him, he had come stumbling out of the gate to the Hall of Divination. Artaban had gotten to him first and then it was a mad dash to the nearest Wak Wak tree. Apparently, Sargon was also suffering from various shallow stab wounds; his adrenaline was so high he hadn’t felt the initial injury. But what took everyone back was his right hand and forearm. Sargon would be lying if he’d said he knew what attack caused it, but whatever had happened, it left his arm a mangled mess, barely even recognizable as human.
Ghassan had stressed how Artaban and Neith did everything they could, but the Wak Wak tree wasn’t healing it completely. There is only so much the Wak Wak tree could heal. By the time they had realized the tree wasn’t healing that particular injury, necrosis had begun to take hold, and it left them with no choice but to amputate the arm. Despite not being able to heal the initial injury, that damn tree was able to heal the worst of the amputation itself. However, like the stab wound through his shoulder, it didn’t heal fully and Sargon could feel the uncomfortable pull of stitches when he moved his arm back down.
“Sargon?”
Sargon gasped, his entire body locking in shock. Yet, he didn’t have the energy to leap to his feet. Not that he would be able to do anything; the Immortal doubted he had any strength to fight off a potential enemy.
Thankfully, it was the exact opposite of an enemy.
“I’m sorry!” Ghassan apologized, raising his hands to show Sargon he was unarmed. “It was not my intent to scare you.”
“Ghassan,” Sargon breathed. His lover gave him a soft smile, slowly lowering his arms until they hung at his sides.
“The preparations are complete,” Ghassan continued. “We are ready to go when you are.”
Sargon twisted his head to that damn Mountain once more. Why he was looking to it, he didn’t know. The apparition of the Simurgh was visible from where it broke free of the rock and snow, its feathers casting an ethereal blue glow. The stone prison it had inhabited for thirty years still maintained its form, but it was hollow and no longer carrying the burden of a god within it. The Simurgh was truly free.
Despite this, Sargon felt red-hot rage. He knew it was illogical, but, a tiny piece of him blamed that damn bird. Why did the Simurgh see fit to leave Sargon crooked and maimed, even after everything the Rashabar did to bring it back?
He glared at that heavenly light, allowing himself to feel the rage only a mortal who had wronged by the gods could feel. Then in a forced tone: “Yeah, let’s go.”
***
It took the rest of the day to make it to the grove of trees the small group had set up shelter in. By the time they had the fire roaring, the sun had set, and the cool night air had begun to nip at their noses.
However, Ghassan couldn’t feel any of it. Instead, his focus was on Sargon. The Rashabar had been silent on most of the ride to the little forest, bar the instance the two spoke about what would happen once they reached Persepolis. Even then, his voice had been flat and monotone. Ghassan had caught him before their trek glaring up at the Mountain; what he was thinking, Ghassan could only imagine. No, I cannot, he thought. I could never imagine what is going through his head. But I will be damned if I am not there for him, and at least TRY to understand.
But even now, the prince was worried. Sargon was staring blankly into the fire, hardly ever blinking. He was still as stone; the only evidence that he was alive was the minute movement of his chest when he breathed. It was frightening. The Rashabar Ghassan had met all those nights ago was fiery and full of life. He wore a crooked smile and had a cocky laugh that always made Ghassan’s stomach do flips. But now, the Immortal was reduced to a lifeless husk; barely speaking, nor even looking at anyone or anything.
Unsure as to what to do, the prince found himself turning his gaze to Artaban. To his surprise, the elder Immortal also turned to look at him. He had taken his mask off- Ghassan presumed for comfort reasons- and even the ruined half of his face seemed to wear a sad expression. What do we do? Ghassan wanted to ask aloud, but it didn’t seem right. Not with Sargon sitting right there…
Artaban then let out a deep sigh, and rose to his feet. Sargon didn’t even acknowledge him.
“That fire will not last all night,” Artaban remarked. “I will find us some more wood.” He paused and looked over to Vahram. The child had been awfully quiet as well, but Ghassan assumed it was because he didn’t want to break any “peace” the silence was giving them. “Come help me.”
It wasn’t a request, but Vahram didn’t complain. In fact, Ghassan could’ve swore he saw relief on the teen’s face as he leapt to his feet and followed Artaban out of the clearing, only casting one last glance towards the rest of the group.
It wasn’t until they left the tree line did Ghassan realize: they did not need more wood. They had plenty; Neith had been extremely successful in foraging for suitable logs to burn. He is giving Sargon time alone… Ghassan realized.
“We will need to keep our strength up to make it back to Persepolis,” Neith said suddenly, rising to her feet. “I saw some deer in a nearby field, just west of here.” She grabbed her spear and looked towards the horizon. “I will return within an hour with a fresh kill.”
Ghassan felt a wave of gratefulness wash over him as the other Immortal trudged out of camp, her footsteps crunching on the dead grass as she made her way into the adjacent field.
Now it was only Ghassan and Sargon. The Rashabar still hadn’t reacted, even when his comrades left the fire. The prince felt his heart break.
“Hey,” he murmured, scooting closer to the remaining Immortal. He slowly wrapped an arm around Sargon, careful to avoid that awful wound that nearly took his entire arm.
“They’re gone,” he whispered. “It’s just us.”
It was like that was what Sargon was waiting to hear. Like it was an order from a general that allowed him to break. He took in a wracking breath and fell bonelessly into Ghassan’s waiting embrace. The prince hugged him back, his grip tight.
Violent sobs wracked the Rashabar’s body, his hand bunching in the expensive fabric that made Ghassan’s robe. The other man said nothing, and cupped the back of Sargon’s head, guiding him to the crook of the ex-prince’s neck. The Rashabar allowed himself to be maneuvered into a more comfortable position; it was Ghassan doing all the work, Sargon too distraught to really even care.
Tears ran down his cheeks with abandon, his cries now bordering on screams. He curled in on himself, as if he were able to roll up like the little isopods he found under rocks after the rain. Ghassan had one hand in his hair and the other wrapped around Sargon’s back, his thumb rubbing circles into Sargon’s filthy skin.
Finally, he let out a scream. It was heartbreaking and terrible, and Ghassan held him through it as it tore at the Rashabar’s vocal cords. It sounded painful, but Sargon didn’t seem to notice, his body trembling violently. He was bordering on a panic attack, Ghassan realized with quiet urgency.
“Oh love,” the ex-prince murmured, barely heard over Sargon’s wails. “I am so, so sorry.”
There they stayed, Ghassan gently rocking them back and forth, trying to give all the comfort he could to his lover. Tears of his own began to stream from his eyes, and he found himself crying with Sargon- albeit not to the degree of anguish the warrior was feeling. He openly wept with the Rashabar, his tears silent and observing to Sargon’s agony.
He kept whispering to the Immortal, trying to ground him before a panic attack could take hold. Ghassan had no idea if it was working or not, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to let go of Sargon, not after everything that has happened.
He wasn’t going to let Sargon go again.
---
Artaban looked back over to where they had made camp, now at a distance away. His heart clenched when the silence of the twilight was broken by the cry of a destroyed man. Vahram had made it a point not to look back, but the older man could see the boy trying not to cry, his misty gaze and determined expression fixed on the dry ground beneath him.
Artaban sighed, and turned away. Listening to his son’s misery wasn’t going to gather the unneeded firewood any quicker, but, dammit, it made it a hell of a lot harder.
---
Neith flinched at the sound of Sargon’s first wail. She had never heard anyone- especially the Rashabar- so utterly broken. She wasn’t even annoyed at the fact that the noise most likely frightened off her quarry; she was no longer hungry, and the sorrow in Sargon’s howls made her sick to her stomach.
She doubted anyone else would be able to eat that night either.
The first few pages of this story were originally done as a comic! Check them out here to get a visual!
https://www.tumblr.com/blog/salmontooth