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“You are a burden to me, Niccolò Machiavelli, and your interference will cause us both to die.”
The words tasted bitter as they left his mouth, but Dagon needed his employer to stay where he was. Machiavelli, for all his planning and manipulation, had severely underestimated the so-called “monster” that he had meant to kill during their trip to Italy.
He turned away from the immortal. “I will talk to him myself. You will stay here, and-”
“How... how dare you speak to me like that?” Machiavelli spluttered, surprised at his bodyguard’s impudence. “I might have been mistaken about this creature’s identity, but that doesn’t mean that I cannot help you!”
“You angered a god , Niccolò!” Dagon exclaimed, his voice bubbling with frustration. “You told me that you had researched this! That you had everything under control!”
“My sources were incorrect! There, I said it!” Throwing his hands up in the air, Machiavelli walked towards the door of the library that they had taken refuge in. “I thought that it was going to be a minor water spirit, but apparently I was wrong.”
Dagon’s aura flared. “Triton is not a minor water spirit! If you fight him, he will destroy you!”
“I will take my chances, thank you very much,” the Italian snarled. Dagon shook his head. Clearly Machiavelli didn’t appreciate being told no .
The fish-man moved to stand in front of the door. “I cannot let you leave, Niccolò. You will die if you do.”
“Get out of my way, you infuriating creature,” Machiavelli frowned, waving his hand dismissively. Dagon crossed his arms. “I will not allow you to do this. Don’t make me use force.”
Machiavelli barked out a laugh. “You? Force me ? I don’t think that-”
Before the man could finish speaking, Dagon’s aura snapped out and threw Machiavelli across the floor. “You’ll thank me later,” Dagon said, leaving the library and locking the door behind him. He ignored Machiavelli’s screams, and the musty smell of the immortal’s aura that had begun to pollute the air. If his employer hated him for this, then so be it.
He approached the water’s edge. Triton was nowhere to be seen. With a sigh, Dagon dove in, at home in his natural element. He would have to try negotiating with the god that Machiavelli had insulted. Hopefully it would work; diplomacy wasn’t really Dagon's strong suit.
It didn't take long to find the merman. He was lurking underneath the wharf, his golden trident glinting threateningly in the dim light. The god had a youthful appearance, and a tail like that of a dolphin. "You would have been wise to take your master and go," he said, his voice travelling like whalesong through the water. "Your presence here is unwelcome, and I do not take kindly to threats made against me."
Dagon eyed the god warily. "I am here on behalf of Niccolò Machiavelli, who in turn is in the service of the Elder Aten. I only wish to speak to you."
"The time for that is over. I have no patience for people like your master, no matter what his true motivation for coming here might have been." Triton's arm shot forward faster than Dagon could react, and the trident buried itself deep in the fish-man's abdomen. Pain exploded throughout his body as Triton's aura spread like wildfire from the tip of the weapon. It felt as though it was a bolt of lightning, burning until Dagon could hardly see.
With a laugh, Triton tore the trident from Dagon's flesh. “Perhaps this will teach you to reevaluate who you pledge your loyalty to,” Triton hissed. He turned and swam away from the fish-man, disappearing back into the depths of the sea. Once he was gone, Dagon allowed himself to cry out, grasping his side in pain. The merman’s trident had pierced deep.
Quickly, he swam to shore, hauling himself up onto the wharf. He stumbled away from the edge of the sea, but didn’t get far before he collapsed to the ground. “Niccolò...” he gasped out, reaching towards the door of the library. Realizing that his efforts were in vain, he pushed himself to a seated position, leaning against the wall.
Dagon held the side of his abdomen as he watched the sun set over the water. Crimson blood pooled under him, gushing from the wound that the merman had given him. Through shallow breaths, he began to whisper a prayer to gods so old that they have been forgotten by humankind.
He knew that he was dying, and there was nothing he could do about it.
*
Niccolò Machiavelli wasted no time.
Once he realized that the door was locked from the outside, he was able to use his aura to break free. His chest was tight with anger at this betrayal, but he steadied himself with the calming breaths that he had learned to utilize to control his emotions.
Surveying the area, he spotted a trail of blood staining the ground near the water’s edge. Dagon must have struck it a killing blow , Machiavelli thought with a smile. That was why he had kept the fish-man around this long. There was no better bodyguard in the world.
A feeble cough caught his attention, and he turned to see his old friend leaning against the wall, a gaping wound in his stomach. "Oh... oh, Dagon..." He rushed to his side, falling to his knees. "Dagon, can you hear me?"
"I... failed you," Dagon rasped, grasping Machiavelli's arm with a clawed hand. The immortal winced, but didn't pull away from the fish-man. "No, you could never fail me, never," Machiavelli insisted, forcing a smile. "You were just... foolish. Very foolish, to attempt what you did by yourself. But you did not fail."
Dagon nodded slowly, unable to answer. He squeezed Machiavelli's arm tightly, returning his soft smile. After a moment, his grip weakened, and his hand slid from Machiavelli's arm.
"No... no . I will not lose you!" Machiavelli said firmly, cupping Dagon's face in his hand. The fish-man was slipping away, his breaths reduced to mere gasps for air. Through his rising panic, Machiavelli frowned intensely, willing himself not to break down in front of his old friend. He was Niccolò Machiavelli, he would not allow his feelings to overtake his rationality. And he would certainly not shed a tear for this man who he had shared much of his immortal life with. That would be a display of weakness, and a Machiavelli could never be weak.
"What do I do? I can't... I can't let you die, not after everything we've been through! I won't let you die like this..." In desperation, his aura burst to life, wrapping its snake-like tendrils around Dagon's body. "I won't let you die," Machiavelli repeated through gritted teeth, allowing his own energy to feed into his friend, healing the worst of his wounds.
When he had done all he could, Machiavelli sat down, and waited. He found himself holding his breath in anticipation. His heart pounded in his chest. "Please... please ..."
After what felt like an eternity, Machiavelli noticed that Dagon's chest had begun to rise and fall in a steady rhythm once more. He took the fish-man's hand in his own, hardly able to contain his relief. "Dagon? Dagon, are you alright?"
Dagon’s eyes opened slowly. He looked around, the fading light causing his eyes to glisten like a sky filled with stars. Machiavelli’s breath caught in his throat. The other man’s strange beauty always surprised him, but now that he wasn’t afraid for Dagon’s life he was able to appreciate him more. Biting his lip, he averted his gaze. This wasn’t right. Not for him.
“Come along, Dagon. We are going home.” Machiavelli got up, and brushed off his suit. “Look at what a mess you have made of my clothes. Blood and dirt everywhere,” he sighed, walking back in the direction that they had left their carriage.
Dagon blinked quickly, his iridescent eyes fixed on Machiavelli. “It... won’t happen again, sir.”
“It had better not, or you’ll be out of a job,” Machiavelli snapped. He clenched his hands into tight fists, forcing himself not to immediately turn and apologize to the other man. After the pitiful show of emotion that he had allowed Dagon to witness, Machiavelli refused to be baited into another momentary lapse in judgement.
He got in the carriage (which was miraculously still where they had left it), and closed the door abruptly in Dagon’s face. The fish-man pursed his lips. “Where do you need to go, sir?” he asked, his watery voice curt. Machiavelli grimaced at Dagon’s tone. Clearly this would not be forgotten, or forgiven, easily.
Well, what is done is done
, he thought to himself, watching as Dagon laboriously pulled himself into the driver’s seat. The fish-man was clearly in pain, but Machiavelli shook his head, ignoring the pang of sympathy in his chest.
“Drive us back to my villa. As fast as you can,” Machiavelli responded flatly, turning his face towards the window. No time to have second thoughts now. It seemed that no matter what Machiavelli did, he couldn’t help but drive a wedge between himself and anyone that he cared about. Men like him weren’t destined for kindness. And they definitely weren’t destined to be loved.
They were destined to be alone.