Bereft: Demise

36 | Of a Maddening Cry

"Move," Darius said, the word cut between his sharp teeth with cold, unfeeling clarity. He spoke in Gehen, the first language of the Sins, and the mere utterance of a single world in that fallen tongue called to their dark homeland. The things beyond their sight laughed. 

"You need to rest, brother," Peroth told him in the same tongue, leaving his hand where it lay. "You have worked through the day and the night. You must rest, Darius." 

He jerked the book out from under Peroth's hand, tearing the pages further. Amoroth saw the way Pride's arms trembled with exertion when he moved. "You promised to stay out of my way."

"I did," Sloth agreed as he discreetly shut another book and set it aside. "I'm here to help you, not get in your way."

"I do not need your help," Pride spat as he leaned upon the table again, staring at the incomprehensible mess. "I am close...so close...." 

"Close to madness, perhaps," Amoroth argued as she threw a hand toward the accumulated mess of ancient knowledge. "Just look at this absurdity."

Darius glared at her.

"She means well, brother," Peroth urged as he gave Amoroth a look of warning. Sloth went to touch Darius's arm but thought better of it. "We all mean well. We only wish to...to...."

"Make him see reason?" Amoroth snorted as she chose a shelf to lean against. Darius had gone very still, his face expressionless. "To make him see that his weapon is a myth?" 

"I am close," Darius repeated, hands splayed on the map. Amoroth couldn't tell what territory he was obsessing over nor did she care. "I only need more time—." 

"But you have none!" Peroth slapped the table to exemplify his statement and catch Darius's inconsistent attention. "You have none! We must—you must—come to accept the reality of your situation. You are starving. Your mortal is dying. You must begin to conceptualize different...options." 

Darius traced a line upon the map, intent upon the meandering motion. He knew exactly what Peroth meant by "options." 

"No."

Aggravated, Amoroth exhaled, having expected the Sin to say as much. She addressed Peroth in English, tiring of this charade. It had been a stupid idea to try to sway Pride when they already knew his reluctance on the matter. "I can kill her if he's too big of a coward to do it. I'll throw her off a building. It'll be poetic justice."

The words had barely left her mouth before Amoroth found herself several yards away on the floor, her jaw dislocated and her lip split open. Stunned, she rolled to her back—miraculously avoiding a second blow from Darius that would have crushed her chest. His fist hit the floor and pulverized the stone pavers.

"You bloody idiot, I was being sarcas—!"

Pride had his hands at her throat, squeezing. Looking up at him, Amoroth saw no recognition in his ancient face. The high plains of his cheek bones were lengthened, the steep drop of his brow exaggerated by the rapid devolution of his features into the countenance of a starving Absolian. He gave no indication of knowing who lay beneath his punishing grip. 

His eyes were so hollow and empty, Amoroth feared they may be too late. Pride may already be beyond their reach.

Peroth struck Darius, once with his fist, then again with a sweeping kick to the chest. The force of his blow tore the Sin of Pride from Amoroth and flung him into a shelf with a bang.

Lust sucked in air as her crushed windpipe reformed. Peroth grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her upright, not being gentle in the slightest.

"You've helped enough," he snarled, keeping his eyes on Darius as the other Sin threw the broken items from the shelf off his body. "Leave!"