WIP Friday
Tagged by @intyaliel Ty for the opportunity to show this piece of Rahgot's trauma. In today's menu, one of the many reasons for his PTSD. !!TW: death, injuries!! Fun fact: despite being properly trained from childhood, Rahgot didn't have any real chance to kill someone. When he murdered a person for the first time, it was not an enemy, but... well, a person he respected :D
Rahgot doesn't hear what she's saying — Lars' strange, rattling breath drowns everything out. For a moment, he freezes, at a loss, then catches the man's body. It's oddly heavy, already gone stiff, and something wet and viscous meets his fingers. Not blood, though the arrowhead still juts from the back of Lars' skull. An eye. Pale blue eye, once keen enough to guide a hunt, now sliding down the cheek.
The world shrinks down to a few scattered moments. He shoves the body aside, grips his sword's hilt, ready to show everything the temple taught him. Training had made it look simple, but this is harder: he hesitates half a second too long before striking the elf who appears beside him, and regrets it instantly when a dagger, elegant as a crescent moon, sinks into Sofie's flesh. Somewhere, Floki gurgles through a torn throat. Somewhere, Arne is dying. And somewhere, someone cries out in triumph — who?
The sounds and the names blur into one long, ragged cacophony, like a groan stretched past bearing. It screws into his skull, answers somewhere deep in his bones, and vibrates through his chest until it knocks the breath out of him. It drowns out everything — even his own heartbeat — and there's a moment when Rahgot simply can't follow this terrible music anymore. But the silence after the highest note is worse. Rahgot already knows where it's leading.
"Forgive me, Einar." Hilda lies in the snow, staring blindly up at the dark-winged sky. "I should have known — this is all a misunderstanding. Explain it to them. Get the people out, however you have to, just get them out. But first, take the knife — it's at my belt. I can't do it myself; my hands don't move. Please. It hurts so much. Their battle mage really cooked me good... I'm dying in battle, aren't I?"
"Yes," Rahgot whispers. They are still in battle, technically, even if it's nearly over. Hilda can't see him do it, and for the better — she can't see how badly his whole body is shaking either. He draws a deep breath to steady himself and barely swallows a cough. The air smells of singed hair, melting snow, and, sickeningly, of roasted meat. Einar probably wouldn't feel this sick. He'd handle it better. But Einar is pinned down on the other side of the street and can't hear these orders at all.
No-pressure tagging @illumiera @elavoria @sulphuricgrin @starrythroat @lilarus
