Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The heat hangs between the buildings like a stifling blanket, oppressive and low, making the abandoned town feel eerily quiet. The harsh sunlight reflects off the sandy streets, and Hamid lifts his arm to shield his eyes against the glare and dust. Scouting ahead, he searches for any sign of Curie’s contact, the supposed next step in their journey. 

“Hamid.” Although Azu’s voice is low and grim and she is far away, the crisp, clear arcane connection whispers her warning right into his ear. He looks back at her, standing with the others in a shadow the next block over, and follows her gaze to a half-closed shutter nearer to him. To the fingers curled around it. To the sickly blue underneath the fingernails.

His heart hammers in his chest as he stumbles backwards towards the group. A man emerges from a side alley, tattered clothes and blue crawling across his neck and arms. And then more follow, pushing into the streets from seemingly abandoned buildings, summoned as if by magic. They never attack unless they have overwhelming odds, Barnes had said, and by the time he’s reached his friends, they’re everywhere, emerging from empty houses, all blue veins and blank stares.

His hands are already up, moving instinctually, arcane magic sparking from his fingertips. As the crowd draws nearer, he lets fly the first of his spells, and behind him hears the others engage in battle. With a bolt of terror, he realizes this means they are surrounded. He pushes the panic away, focusing on the threat in front of him, drawing strength from his companions at his back — Azu’s axe, above him, cleaving through her foes; Cel’s crossbow sizzling with lightning; Zolf’s steady voice alternating words of hope and healing with those bringing vengeance and destruction. 

He ignores the looks on the empty faces as he sends out a blistering arc of fire, cutting a path through the crowd. But the gap created by the flames soon fills again, replacements shuffling inwards from all directions, stretching beyond his sight, and he wonders how many there are still hidden among the buildings. As he gathers the energy for another spell, several individuals behind the first rows of villagers suddenly catch his attention. It's in the way they hold their distance, hands outstretched and in motion, muttering — casters, aiming at his friends from afar, doubtlessly trying to subdue and capture them. 

He realizes the danger immediately, and as his friends grapple with the closest threats, he aims beyond the mob. Here, in the middle of battle, every last one of his senses narrows to the single-minded task of survival and his mind barely has time to process the fact that they are fighting the infected. Instead, heart racing, he pushes the horror away, calms his breathing and focuses. Desolation leaps from his fingers and rushes over the sea of empty faces. He watches with grim satisfaction as the resulting explosion hits its target perfectly, taking out two of the spellslingers. 

The corner of his lips still curled up in triumph, Hamid spots a ray of fire accelerating towards him out of the corner of his eye. Not quick enough. He spins and ducks, his knee scuffing against the ground as he steadies himself with both hands on the once dusty street, now muddy and sticky with the mixture of blood and dirt. The fire streaks past, engulfing one of the villagers lunging at his back, and the heat washes over him as he lifts an arm to protect his face. He lets out a shaky breath at the near-miss, but before he can stand, his eyes land on the legs of the two men in front of him. As his eyes flick up in panic, he sees both of them heaving up their weapons, ready to strike. He’s left himself completely open to their attacks. 

There is no time to call for help and instinct takes over as Hamid rolls without looking. Frantically tumbling past legs and limbs, his back prickles with tension, waiting for the moment a sword will bury itself between his shoulder blades — but no such moment comes, and in his desperate escape he manages to push through to an opening among the press of bodies.

The electrifying buzz of adrenaline pulses through his veins when he clambers to his feet, searching for his friends amid a wall of villagers advancing with blue, hollow eyes. He barely has a chance to scan the crowd before the throng of enemies is pressing in on him. They’re gone. They’re gone and he’s alone. He backs away until he hits the wall behind him, mind racing, instinctually reaching out again for his arcane connection with Azu — realizing that he must have dropped it in the panic. 

“Azu!” Hamid’s voice is clear, vibrating only slightly with the hint of fear as he shouts. “Zolf, I’m here, where are —” 

Before he can finish his thought, a tall human in ragged peasant’s clothing steps out of the horde and swipes at him. Hamid dodges sideways, slamming into the door of one of the abandoned buildings. His hands scrabble at the handle until he finds purchase and the door swings open from his panicked momentum. He nearly falls inside, scraping against the rough wooden floorboards, kicking up a cloud of dust which pricks his eyes. 

Suppressing a cough, he fumbles at the door for a terrifying moment before he manages to slam it closed. Turning, his eyes lock on a chair nearby and he grabs it, desperately shoving it under the handle. When he feels it firmly wedge, he clings to the edge of the seat, struggling to get his breathing under control, beating down the cold panic that is building up in his stomach. Muted through the wood, hands pound against the door, rattling the handle as infected try to force their way inside.  

He takes a moment to calm himself, backing up from the door. He needs to find another way out. The others — they need him. He needs them. His spells, they — they can clear the path. 

A hand shoots out of the shadows and grips his arm, fingernails digging sharply into the skin below his elbow. He jerks away, a scream ripping from his throat — he stumbles over his own feet and falls backwards to the floor. A woman looks down on him with an empty stare, blue veins crawling up her neck and across her cheeks, a sickly smile on her lips. 

Hamid looks down at his arm in terror, at the blood dripping from long scratch marks down to his wrist. Zolf’s warning runs through his mind; coming in contact with the blue-veined practically guarantees infection. The scratches are deep and burn up his arm, and his mind is already conjuring up images of the contaminated blood being pumped through his body. Soon, blue veins will be blossoming under his skin and the voice of the hivemind will whisper in his ear. 

He’ll become like them. 

Terrified and infuriated, he lets out a wordless cry and fire bursts from his fingertips. Flames lick up the outstretched hand of the woman in front of him, scorching her body as she drops to the floor, writhing. Hamid watches, numb, as the body falls still, blackened, an empty smile lingering on the woman’s face. 

He stares helplessly at the streaks of blood trickling down his left arm, dripping onto the floor. Is it too late? He shakes his head. He has to get up. He has to get up and help the others. His legs quiver like jelly, but something pulls him upright, and his feet begin moving. Do a grief later.

Behind Hamid, there’s a crash as part of the door breaks down and sunlight streams in through the cracks. Legs working on pure instinct, he scrambles to the next room. Afraid to look back, he flies up the stairs, tripping halfway and scrabbling up the remaining steps on all fours. By the time he’s reached the top, finding himself in a dusty bedroom, he hears another crash of the door. They’ll be in soon. 

Desperate to find the others, he runs towards an open window and leans out. His hands are slippery on the windowsill, leaving bloody prints. To his relief, he spots his friends still fighting, not too far away from the house yet surrounded by enemies on all sides. Over the sounds of battle, he can barely hear Azu’s shouts of panic between swings of her axe — she’s searching for him. Her pink breastplate is dented and her axe is covered in blood. Is she hurt? 

She needs to know he’s okay. He can’t let her be distracted because of him. He leans forward, as far out the window as his short legs will let him, and takes a deep breath. 

And then he stops himself. He looks down at his weeping arm. A floor below, he can hear the front door splinter open, and suddenly all possible futures flash across his mind like a danse macabre. 

Separated from his friends, captured by the infected, joining their ranks with blue-veins crawling across his skin. 

Turned against those he loves and used as a weapon, a mockery of his smile playing about his lips as Cel looks at him in horror. “Little buddy?” 

His hand raised against his will, broken screams trapped within his body as the hivemind overwhelms his senses and he flings death toward his friends. 

Azu crying out his name, fighting to protect whatever is left of him, unable to let go. 

Azu staring down a blaze of his fire, her tear-filled eyes unflinching as his flames reach her. 

Azu dying.

His hands tremble on the windowsill as he fights to keep his composure, icy panic running through his veins. His breath hitches. Even if the infected fail to capture him today, even if he is reunited with his friends, blue veins will still take over his body — which of his friends would be forced to kill him then? Zolf? He can see him making the hopeless choice, raising his glaive with a grim stare, choosing the mission above all else. 

And, oh gods, what if Zolf failed? What if his friends’ love for him destroys them too, turning them into hollow shells of who they used to be? He can’t let that happen. 

His eyes travel down the other side of the street where a seemingly endless throng of villagers shuffle forward to replace any bodies that his friends strike down, stretching all the way to the main square. There are so many. No possibility of escape. 

Footsteps pound up the stairs behind him and he leans further out the window, judging the distance to the street. Even as they burst into the bedroom, he braces his hands against the window frame, climbs onto the sill. He thinks of Sasha, leaping from building to building with ease, never falling but flying. Never hesitating to protect them. Hamid smiles grimly.

He leaps.

The late afternoon sun casts shadows across the desk in Hamid’s old bedroom. It’s too small for him, a little awkward now. Like most things here. 

Dear Zolf, Hamid writes, I hope you’re doing well. 

No, that’s stupid. Of course he’s not doing well. He fucking left because he wasn’t doing well. Hamid crumples up the paper and pulls out a new sheet. 

Dear Zolf, 

I hope this letter finds you in better spirits than when you left. I do not know where you went after we parted in Prague, but can only trust that you were safe from the subsequent attacks on the city. 

Is that too impersonal? Zolf would hate any formalities. Accuse him of being better than his novels, better than him. And they were friends, were they not? Yet… maybe too presumptuous to write a letter in such a familiar tone to a former employer. Hamid sighs, and presses on. 

So much has happened since you left that I barely know where to begin. You may have heard about the necromantic rituals attempted on Prague; we were responsible for stopping these, at the cost of several lives.

Hamid pauses, his heart sinking further. He crosses out the last phrase. He can do a second draft later. 

at the cost of several lives. Sir Bertrand died, as did my sister, Aziza, who was performing at the opera. Perhaps you read the news. I unfortunately was unable to We find ourselves in Cairo now, originally for the funeral, although other urgent matters have since revealed themselves.

We secured healing for Sasha, who was undead sick. I say we, as Sasha and I have employed two new mercenaries, Grizzop and Azu, paladins of Artemis and Aphrodite respectively. They do not replace you. 

I think I understand a little better now why you left. When you told us, I must shamefully confess I was angry. I did not fully understand your guilt, or the pressure you faced as a leader. I did not understand what it means to fail to protect those you love for whom you are responsible, or to think you are doing the right thing and then discover you are not. 

He stares at the page, but all he can see is Grizzop’s face twisted into righteous fury at Hamid’s mistakes, or else Azu’s quiet disappointment. Worse yet was Sasha’s drunken resentment, her claims that he was working with Barrett. He wishes he’d been there for her, wishes he could have said or done anything more to help. He let them all down.

I have been told that all I can do is try my best, and Zolf, I am trying. I know you were are too. But there have been many moments in these past few days where I could’ve used your guidance and advice.

Azu and Grizzop are different. They do not doubt their faith as you did, and have such strong conviction in whether what they are doing is right or wrong. Sometimes I am envious that I have no such gods or faith to guide me.

He bites his lower lip and redips the pen. As he places it on the page, he flounders at what to write next. He thinks back to his confession about what had happened at Cambridge, to the questions that have been spinning in his brain since then, why he’d mishandled his family the way he did.

Grizzop told him that wallowing in self pity wasn’t going to get him anywhere, and that... that was the thing, wasn’t it? His parents had made his mistakes disappear and he felt so guilty about it that he’d been ready to afford Saleh the same opportunity they’d given him. Why should he escape the consequences of his actions but refuse to allow his brother a similar chance to make things right? But guilt was really just self-pity in a more stylish jacket.

Grizzop had said the only thing that really mattered was that he genuinely tried, that he should focus on doing good instead of feeling sad for himself, to make up for his past mistakes. He just hopes he can. Hopes he’ll get the chance to do something useful with his life. 

The ink from his pen has seeped onto the page by the time he continues writing:

I’ve seen our newest friend colleague, Azu, give herself completely to our cause within minutes of meeting us, or else fight almost to death to allow Sasha’s recovery. I want so much to follow her example, to be brave enough to give anything for my friends our cause. I don’t know that I am as courageous as you or them, but I have to try. Even if it means 

Hamid sets down the pen and curses the words on the page. Saira’s voice echoes in his head — this isn’t about you. Zolf doesn’t want to read this. It’s his selfishness, the same thing Grizzop criticized.

His eyes prick with unshed tears when he crumples the page and grabs a new one.

Not good enough. 

Hamid lands lightly on the balls of his feet. The impact barely has time to reverberate through his bones before he’s tucking in one shoulder and tumbling forward in a smooth roll. Pushing himself up from his knees, shaken but unhurt, he can’t help but think that Sasha would be proud if she could see him now. He won’t be able to save the world either, but maybe he’ll be able to save a few people.

Infected villagers close in around him, cutting off all exits in coordinated, instantaneous movement. Pushing down instinctive panic, Hamid thinks back to Rome, to the unnatural peace he’d felt as he listened for the invisible monster above him. This chaos of bodies is nothing like that, and Hamid has no time to brace himself before he aims the fire right at his feet.

There’s something that feels so right about the magic that springs forth so easily from the well of power inside of him; the tingling of fire through his nerves, the thrill as flames erupt from his hands, the unasked-for satisfaction of the explosion, whether it’s on enemies or innocents or — or himself. White-hot, almost freezing pain seizes his entire body and he’s shaking, fighting to stay upright, and — laughing. As his vision clears, he sees the charred corpses of dozens of enemies around him. He stands, the glimmer of half-formed scales across the skin of his hands. The pain fades to the background as he’s drunk on the inevitability of it all. He laughs. At the destruction, at his own death, at the absurdity —

“Hamid!” Azu’s scream cuts through his thoughts. He whips around and sees her, still separated from him by scores of villagers. Tears streak across her dirtied, bloodied face, twisted in grief and panic. Her axe is frozen mid-swing as she stares at him, eyes wide with fear. She moves forward and only barely registers the attack launched at her from the side. She parries it in the last second, distracted as metal scrapes against metal, bellowing in frustration at the amount of people separating them. Behind her, Cel and Zolf glance over in shock as they continue fighting.

Hamid’s laughter dies with Azu’s scream. She’s going to come after him. He can see it in her eyes and on her face, but even if he hadn’t seen it, he would have known it as truth in the depths of his heart. And he can’t let her, no matter what they promised. As she fights off attack after attack, wading through infected, he points a shaking finger at her, arcane words whispered over cracked lips as he reforges the connection between their minds — everything he wishes he could say with a final hug they will never get to share.

“Azu?” he says, his voice small. He swallows, turns away and starts running, his voice growing more steady with each step he takes away from her. “Azu, please listen.” 

He’s vaguely aware of crowds of infected moving in on him, trying to close him off once again. He stumbles, his tattered jacket flapping in the wind as he picks up speed despite his burned legs screaming at him. “Azu, I’m so sorry, you can’t follow me. I’m — I’m already dead, I’m —” He dodges a sword, ducks underneath a grasping hand and lunges for an open patch of ground. Not yet, not yet. He needs to draw more of them close. 

“Hamid — Hamid, you can’t, you promised we’d stay —” Azu's voice shakes, but it sounds as clear in his ear as if she’s standing right behind him. He doesn’t have the time nor the strength to turn back, can’t bear to see her face. He’s not laughing now.

“I know, I’m sorry. I’m... sorry — please, Azu. I’m going to clear a path for you, you can all get out. Tell my family —” his voice hitches, thinking of his family’s faces. He never got to see Ismail or Saira or Mother again. To apologize for taking so long with Ishaq. To apologize for… everything. 

“Tell them I — I love them.”

“Fucking tell them yourself!” Azu screams. Hamid wants to answer, but he can feel the mass of bodies closing in again. It’s time already. 

It comes easier now. It hurts less, burned nerves stunned into silence by shock and adrenaline. He doesn’t have a chance to experience the agony or to see the bodies around him before he’s running again, no time to even feel surprised at his ability to run. He can hear Azu screaming now, both in his ear and from far away — gods, he hopes it’s from far away. 

He looks down at his shaking, blackened hands as he runs. How much power is still left in them? How many more until he’s gone? 

Until he’s safe? 

“You’re going to be okay, Azu,” he says over her screams. He’s not sure if it’s her or himself he’s reassuring. “Stay safe for me, please. I’ll be okay. I’m going to — Azu, I’m going to see Aziza again.” His lips twist into a smile at the thought, and he can taste the salty tears running down his face. “I’ve got to go, Azu. I… I love you.”

He runs. Hears Azu yelling at him. Cuts off the connection, feels her voice fall away. He can’t let her try to come after him, to convince him. He can’t let her hear him die. 

Rows of blank faces block his path and he finally stops running. He closes his eyes and hears them rush in towards him. They’re not supposed to be dumb, he thinks idly, and he turns his face towards the sky, feeling the last rays of sunlight on his skin. Are they descending upon him because they realize what he’s about to do? Do they want to stop him from annihilating a valuable asset this badly? 

It doesn’t matter. 

Everything slows — the sounds, the smells, the running feet of dozens of infected — but his heart still thrums a million times per minute, fitting a lifetime of heartbeats in a single moment. Despite it all, he feels exhilarated, has never truly felt this alive, has never let his magic run free and wild like this. He was born for this. 

His eyes snap open and he catches a glimpse of the stark blue sky above. He knows the gods are real, but he’s never been much of a follower. Now, though, he lets up one last prayer for Azu. For everyone. 

And then they are upon him.