we wield the might sword that cuts through bone [closed/complete] Characters: Horus falconhead & Patroclus longpastheroics Date/Time:Backdated to the tail-end of the rebellion in Ilium Location: A little-walked alleyway Rating: R Warnings: Violence, character death Summary: Patroclus is mopping up the pieces while Horus is on recon. It doesn't end well (for Horus).
It was sickening.
Of course, clean-up had started - Horus was pretty damn sure Helen wouldn't want her city looking like the slaughterhouse it had become - but still cadavers littered the streets. Splatters of blood were grotesque graffiti on the opulent facades of noble households.
That these bodies, this blood belonged to innocents disturbed Horus more than anything else. The exposed guts and agonized faces were little when held against the tragedy they represented. Ilium's monarchy was so far gone that it had no qualms recklessly spilling the blood of her children.
He'd known it wouldn't be pretty. But he had had to go, not only to witness the aftermath, but also to bring Eve news of her brother. Though the man's leadership had been overthrown by the outpouring of years of suppressed indignation, Tristan was a good man as Eve was a wonderful woman. Gathering information like this was risky, but Horus owed both siblings that much. Still, he could not afford to be careless, Horus thought as he drew his cloak more tightly around himself. If the wind shifted the wrong way and blew his hood down for even a moment, he might as well be a dead man.
With this in mind, Horus opted not to stray too far from his exit point. All he needed was to listen for the hushed bits of gossip exchanged between the citizens that would pass through the streets. Just one mention of Tristan, enough to ascertain the former right-hand's condition - then Horus would be on his way back to the hideout he shared with Eve.
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Patroclus was in an unenviable position. When he was employed to fight with Gawain's soldiers, it seemed like a shrewd career choice; well-paid and a way of keeping the kingdom of his birth secure.
As events unravelled, and Patroclus learned that his brother, Tristan, was on the opposing side, it became considerably less savory. He regularly checked in with Hathor and ensured that she and their sons were safe. He couldn't find Eve, though, and that troubled him greatly. He'd already lost one sibling and he didn't want to lose another, much less the one to whom he was closest. His boys couldn't lose their aunt to some madness of rebellion.
He was searching the streets for the final rebels and conspirators and his unsheathed sword was enough to make most people withdraw. Patroclus was not a peerless warrior but he more than earned his wage.
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Had Horus seen the mercenary approaching, matters might not have ended the way they had. But as it was, the former god's eyes were firmly fixed on two brightly attired matrons gossiping amongst themselves. He recognized them - women who'd pinched his cheeks as a young boy and called him 'sweetling'. Those days were long gone. Perhaps if the pair knew who was watching them from behind the shadow of his cloak, their tongues would not have been so loose.
It was to theirs and Horus's misfortune that circumstances were less than ideal.
"Did you hear about the right hand?"
"Oh, yes, terrible, terrible."
"But he deserved it, don't you think? Fool, that one."
Piqued by the direction their discussion was taking, Horus listened with attention so rapt that momentarily, his hand slackened on the cloak. The breeze bared his profile for a scant second before Horus tugged the fabric back harshly.
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Patroclus saw Horus; he, too, was skilled enough in the art of secrecy and stealth. He recognized him, dimly, fairly certain that he was, indeed, one of the rebels, though his kinship to the highest nobility cast some doubt in Patroclus' mind. He strengthened his resolve, though, because kinship and loyalty mattered little when he was in the Crown's employ (and, of course, he kept thinking of Tristan and perhaps that guided his hand, too).
He was behind Horus as soon as he saw that flick of his cloak; if Horus was armed, he couldn't let him proceed. His sword was at Horus' throat swiftly and silently and he drew him back into the shadows.
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Horus inhaled sharply. He hadn't seen any potential assailants, and was thus unprepared. Armed though he was, it would take precious time to draw back the cloak and unsheathe his blade.
Stall. He needed to stall. Balling his hand into a fist, Horus struck the crook of his attacker's elbow.
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Patroclus was not a cruel man. He did not see the need to draw out death unnecessarily and if Horus was to fight back, Patroclus would be ruthless as needs be. As his elbow was forced back by Horus' fist, his sword slid into Horus' throat. It was not clinical and it certainly wasn't painless but now Horus' blood ran, hot down Patroclus' arm.
Patroclus spun them both around so that Horus' back was pressed up against the wall. He looked him in the eyes, with a fierce expression. He could not tell if the other man could speak but the wound was deep. Shaking his head, he murmured, "I can make this quick for you or I can drag you to the palace dungeons for the Queen's Consort to make of you what he will."
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Mentally pushing back the pain, Horus tried to reach for the sword at his hip. But Patroclus's face gave him pause. Even if Horus had been capable of speech, he would have been to stunned to utter a word. This was Patroclus - Eve's brother, Hathor's husband. The father of the little boy named Luca, with the cat named... He couldn't remem--
Horus might have put his blade through the other man's stomach before the blood bubbled up to his airway, but the moment of hesitation cost him dearly. Making choked gurgling sounds, he could have been drowning. And the pain was getting overwhelming. Horus's hands fell limply at his sides; breathing alone had become difficult. Only Patroclus's push and the hard wall kept Horus standing.
There was so much that remained to fight for, so much Horus had yet to do. But one cause persisted above the others.
Eve, Horus tried to mouth as his eyelids grew heavy. There was no way Helen would let Eve off easy, but maybe Patroclus could hide her. Eve, Eve, Eve.
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Patroclus frowned. "You know my sister?" he asked, his voice low and fierce, his hand held tightly over the other man's throat, barely staunching the flow of blood. "You know my sister?"
He took a deep breath. "Answer me this. Is she with Gawain or with Tristan?" Horus would be dead soon and no two ways about it but if he had hurt Eve, Patroclus would regret not being able to kill him twenty times over.
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"Tristan. But. Safe. Hiding. Outskirts." Horus's words were wheezed whispers. Vestiges of a booming voice, traces of a fading life.
"Protect."
It was the last word Horus would ever utter, characteristically so. It had taken his last burst of strength, but perhaps his effort would not go to naught. The rebel fell limp, unconscious. Not yet dead, but it would not be long.
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Patroclus grunted, rather dismayed that anyone would think he'd have to be told to protect his sister. One thing was clear: it was time to get out of Ilium and fast.
His last act was to drive his sword, true and straight, under Horus' ribs to hasten his death. Then, he departed, with only one destination in his mind: Eve.