Chapter Text
Everything is pain. Each breath more painful than the last. Shahrazad's struggles against the rope are weaker and weaker.
Thomas and the Shaman told her that they would use the mystic to travel to the altar, that those would be faster than organizing a force, and she believed them.
Her blood, they said, would open the crypt and free Elil. They would then use the amulet to control Elil and the winds. For what purpose, they did not say.
The Shaman opened a portal for Thomas before he lifted the dagger with the blue handle, and spoke the words in angry Akkadû before he plunged it down into her. The amulet, the wrong amulet, hung from his neck. The true amulet burned on her chest as she struggled. She couldn't tell what he hit, but her gagged scream drowned out his chants, until the door opened, the winds came and the Shaman didn't control his body anymore. It was now Elil, Lord of the Winds, and she carried herself out with a great gust of wind that came from nowhere.
That was an hour ago. That was a lifetime ago. Her fingers feel cold. Her toes feel cold. Her arms are heavy, too heavy to move, to struggle against the ropes. She doesn't know what organs were hit, but she knows her body moves blood from her extremities to her torso to keep her alive, and that allows more blood to escape from her body and stain the altar. The job is done, so it is a waste.
She pants. Deep breaths bring cascades of pain. The fixtures Thomas had set up fill the room with inconsistent light, the shadows hiding her increasingly tunneling vision. She reads the characters on the wall but can’t make the sentences. Were they praise? Were they warnings? Seven curses on the ancients and their warnings, choosing to bind Elil rather than destroy her.
Seven curses on the ancients for hiding their key in a dagger.
Seven curses on her father and the assembly he joined, who abandoned him when their nations disagreed, as if their disagreements were more important than the whole world.
Seven curses on the men with no eyes and Alsharu al'Awal who led them. May all their plans fail forever.
Seven curses on Donya, for failing and falling when her blessing was so close.
Seven curses also on Delhemma, for displaying her blessing so openly while she still grieves.
Finally, seven curses on herself, on her anger and foolishness and pride. She had followed the people whose minds she thought she understood, and now her blood had unleashed a mad god. She had doomed her people to untold horrors. She had made herself the sacrifice.
"Clear! One down. Medic! Medic! "
New lights flash above her eyes. She recognized the voice. "Stay with me. Help is coming. MEDIC! "
Sharazad feels her arms move from above her head to her chest. She hears rips and tugs at her jacket and blouse. The gag falls from her lips. She works up her last strength to speak. "Slayer," she says, "I