Figurehead

eighteen

I'm too slow to act, to open my mouth and speak, warn him as someone raises her sriu and brings it down heavily through the air- I almost stagger in relief when he manages to narrowly miss the crushing, killing blow, but I can only watch from a distance as they fight. I can be of no help there, not when they're moving at such speed with such flexibility and skill.

I can hardly look away.

But in my periphery, I can see the dead falling to the ground, left and right, here and there. Many of the wounded and living lie amongst them, difficult to recognise in the mess of blood, dirt and sweat. The stench is overpowering.

Regardless of it all, regardless of the bloodshed, the corpses littering the ground, the fear that runs through the blood of my veins with each beat of my heart, I start to move forward. If there is anything I can do, then I will do it. Whatever the cost.

He's the king, after all. But more than that, he's Dein.

I freeze when a knife slices my left cheek as it hurtles through the air, embedding itself with a loud thunk into someone else's lower back, causing them to fall forward, dragging their opponent with them.

I spin around, bringing one already-bloodied hand up to my cheek where I know blood is dripping, searching for whoever it was who had thrown the knife, but there are so few left standing now. Some of the wounded sit in slumped positions, dying as they bleed out. There are perhaps only two or three others left standing, not including Dein and Pev.

It takes a while to recognise the others; a trusted messenger I once knew but can't remember the name of now. Lus, standing over someone with his back to us. A palace guard. Another palace guard.

I turn back to face the two still sparring, wondering which of those left standing can be trusted- besides Lus, of course. I keep walking.

The fact I'm still standing, still- still alive, really, is a miracle.

I stop a short distance away, knowing that for now, there is nothing I can do. In my periphery, I can see the others standing know there is nothing they can do, either. Not really. I don't know who they support in this fight, but I suspect they're exhausted. Waiting, now, to see who will win this fight. To see who will not.

Something starts hurting- more than hurting- above the right bone of my hip and I gingerly touch the area, inhaling sharply at the blood that immediately coats my fingers.

It's fine. It's fine. It's not that bad.

And then Dein falters, and Pev swings her sriu and it plunges into his side and he's staggering, then falling, falling, falling, knives dropping to the ground and someone's screaming and screaming and screaming and they won't stop. They won't stop.

And it takes me a moment to realise it's me.

Pev yanks her sriu out and his groans, his moans of pain are deafening, even if they're only quiet. She turns and my stomach grows cold at the look on her face. No remorse, no sorrow; she's smiling. "Janf, no-" but I'm not listening, I'm not seeing, not thinking.

A knife hurtles through the air, narrowly missing Pev's head. Then another. Another. She raises her sriu to meet that of a palace guard I can't recognise through the mess. "Tend to the king," she hisses, pushing the former High Commander back.

I don't hesitate. I drop to my knees beside him, try to prop his head up while he takes ragged breaths through clenched teeth. He shakes his head at me. "Don't bother," he manages to say, and I can tell he's bleeding elsewhere as well, not just from his side.

I shake my head furiously. "Dein-"

"You lovers are so sweet," Pev says, a little breathlessly, and his eyes flick to her, widening.

"Ja-"

And I can't breathe. I can't speak. I can't see properly, vision blurring immediately with tears, with spots, dizziness.

I can hear him trying to speak, trying to shout, maybe he's even trying to get up. It's hard to see.

My fingers claw at the hands clamped around my throat, squeezing, crushing as my lungs struggle, attempting to take in air. I can hear her laughing as her hands tighten and the world flickers before her hands go limp from behind and I drop heavily to the ground, fighting for consciousness as I cough, taking deep, heaving breaths, my neck blossoming with bruises, aching with each intake of air.

The images of Dein sprawled on the ground, one of his daggers embedded in Pev's throat, are the last ones I see.