God of Hell - Chapter 53 - Damned (Patreon)

Nero was dying: an insignificant, empty, trivial thought when contrasted with the true concern at hand. Selvas was dying; she was sitting against the wall, clutching her bleeding neck and trying her best to halt the hot blood that poured down her chest. A futile effort.

Nero was dying. A problem. He couldn’t save Selvas while he was; all he could do was watch her bleed, gurgle, gasp and wheeze her way to the grave. He couldn’t have that. So Nero would live. 

“I’m sorry it has to end this way,” Dario told him. Voice distant, foggy, meaningless. Still, he looked up at the man, because Selvas was dying, and Dario would try to stop him from saving her. He’d have to stop that.

“We were not meant to be masters of our own fates,” the man continued. “We had that chance, Nero. And look where it brought us—a society in ruins, a world in pain, a people who lived under our torment. This is our retribution—for everything we’ve done, for everything we will do. And I can’t let you subvert it.” He looked conflicted, face alive with several minute twitches, quirks, and tells that spilled his reasons, motivations, drive, and conviction for what he did. 

Nero didn’t care. He needed him dead. So he would die.

Somewhere, Ember begged him to get up, somewhere, he urged his body to move. Both requests were denied. He only managed to raise a hand, and it was a trembling thing—shaking with the tremors that wracked his feeble arm as it slowly and painfully brought itself up to its target. Inch by inch. Agony by agony.

“Would you look at that Dari—the human still has fight in him,” the Imp sneered, pitch tinged with a cruel note of amusement. He knew Nero was no threat, even if he tried to shoot a bolt of Light at the man, his sluggish motions would be too easily telegraphed to pose any real danger. Nero would fire. Dario would dodge. The fight would be over. And it would not be Nero standing.

Still, he raised the arm anyway.

Dario did not give the Imp a reply. He only raised an arm back, pointed it at Nero, and began congealing a flame within it.

Could he dodge the fire? No. It would strike him cleanly and directly. Could he survive the fire? Yes, but not the several bursts that would follow after the first knocked him down.

Speaking logically: there was no chance Nero’s life was going to continue on from here. But he kept on fighting. Because fighting was all he could do.

Nero’s palm was only half-way up when Dario’s flames had finished congealing in his own. The Fire Breather braced himself with an expression that Nero had felt himself make right before firing his Light into an enemy.

No Light came this time—no fire either. Dario’s flame died in his palm, snuffed out like a wetted candle. He looked confused for a moment, and then he winced—like a sudden wave of nausea had hit him.

He’s out of magic… Nero realised dully.

Dario realised as well—too late. Nero shot a bolt of light at him, Dario twisted out of the way on quick feet. He would have dodged too—had the bolt been made of solid stuff.

Instead, the ball of magic exploded into a blinding light. Nero saw his closed eyelids flash red from the blast—he had shut them a moment earlier. That was the plan after all. As much as he would have preferred to strike Dario in the face with his Light and be done with it, if he had missed, he would not have gotten a second try.

The man stumbled backwards on clumsy feet—hands rubbing into his eyes, voice screaming in agony, Imp yelling in panic. Nero had a brief window to attack. 

He used it.

First was the blade—he’d need to pull it out of him. He wrapped his hands around the hilt of his weapon, took a moment to brace himself—no, no time for that—he pulled it out and heard his voice break as he roared in torment. 

The weapon clattered to the ground from blood stained fingers, and Nero felt warm liquid pour out of his body like a gouge in a water barrel. He was bleeding: bad—bleeding men died, dead men couldn’t fight. And Nero needed to fight.

Dario was blinking his streaming eyes open with desperate motions—there was no time to waste, only time to use.

Nero placed a palm on each wound and set them alight, The heat melted his skin, sizzled in the air and sent waves of agony racking through his brain. But most importantly, it sealed the puncture shut.

He grabbed his sword, and was on his feet, but Dario had recovered.

He sprinted towards the man, blade in hand, swinging for his head, but missing to a narrow duck. His blade came again—angry, dripping, desperate, roaring. He was denied again as Dario scrambled backwards on panicked feet. The only blood that coated Nero’s blade was his own.

He tried to pull his sword up for another attack. His body hesitated in its agony—the swinging motion tortured his side.

Dario used that opportunity to strike. A fist sank into Nero’s gut—into his wound. His world exploded into pain—his blade slipped from weak fingers, and his knees threatened to give in. He didn’t let that happen however, to fall would be the death of him.

The death of Selvas.

Dario followed up with another punch to Nero’s gut, then another, and another, and another. All blocked, as Nero did well to protect such a terrible weakness. Frustrated, Dario swung for an uppercut. Nero tilted his head to the side, the fist grazed his cheek—missed. Dario’s arm was still extended—vulnerable.

Nero slammed a glowing fist into the man’s cheek and didn’t pull back his arm until the other side of his face met the brick wall to the left of him—sending cracks through the rock and chips of stone flying everywhere.

Dario moved to do something—Nero slammed his fist into his face again. A patch of red was smeared onto the white wall. Dario twitched—Nero hit him again. Again. Again. Again. Until the man’s face resembled half of two stranger’s haphazardly bashed together.

The once-thrall slumped to the ground on dead feet. His Imp was nowhere to be seen, and when his chest didn’t rise, Nero decided he was no threat as he was.

Selvas!

His thoughts whipped to her like hot iron. He turned, saw her on the floor, and raced to her on shaky feet. Nero stumbled, tripped and fell his way towards her.

She was still breathing—she was still fucking breathing.

“She’s still alive,” Ember said softly–eyes wide. Voice low. She held her breath.

One hand feebly on her pouring neck, the other weakly resting by her side, Selvas looked at Nero with pale violet eyes—drifting, barely able to focus on the image of him, though he saw her trying her best.

Her breaths were shallow gurgled things; her chest rose and fell with too-long pauses between each—the gaps getting wider and wider with every cycle.

Things were dire. But there was still a chance, Nero wouldn’t give up. He couldn’t give up.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m here,” He told her soothingly. Who he was trying to sooth—himself or her—he didn’t know. It didn’t matter. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a runed rag—they were the best Dolore had to offer, and they were all he had to work with. 

Nero wrapped the bandage around Selvas’ neck—once, twice, thrice—as tightly as he could without injuring her. The blood soaked through the white quick enough to crush any hope that they might stop the bleeding.

No…

Selvas jolted and grunted—likely from the pain of the bandage knitting what little it could of her skin. Her eyes narrowed, he saw recognition bloom in them. “Nero…” she whizzed out his name through whitening lips. “I’m dying…” she said, tone dull, as if the realization was just truly dawning on her. Then her eyes faded once more.

“Don’t talk, don’t talk, you’ll hurt yourself—don’t talk,” he warned. Nero pressed her hands against her neck to stop the bleeding, then added his own to strengthen the pressure.

She still bled. And bled plenty.

No, No, No, No!

“Nero…” Selvas called out, ignoring his warnings. “Nero, Nero, Nero.” Her words were frantic, as if they chased one another past her lips.

“Stop, talking—I told you it would-”

“Where….are you?” Selvas gurgled out.

His words hung in his throat. “I’m- i’m right here, I’m with you…” He told her, There was something in her eyes—an emotion he’d once thought her unable to suffer, a torment he’d thought her invulnerable to. Fear.

“I… I can’t hear you.” She couldn't see him either—he knew. “Where are you? Nero? I—Nero.” Nero stared at her. Selvas stared at nothing. A solitary tear ran down her eyes. “I… I don’t want to go,” she pleaded. 

And then she left.

“Selvas.” Nero swallowed. “Selvas.” He shook her. No response. “Selvas… Say something. Please” He waited for her chest to rise. It didn’t. “Selvas. Please don’t fucking leave me.” Nothing. “No. No, no, no, no—fuck!” 

His voice snapped, tears stung in his eyes—pouring, pouring, pouring—each drop landed on the woman’s cheek, none were capable of bringing her back from the dead. “Selvas, I–-” he couldn’t even get the words out, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything at all.

His hands ran frantically through his hair, grip hard—pulling strands from their roots and sending pain lancing through his scalp. He barely even noticed it, barely even noticed anything else but the twisting in his heart.

He was sobbing, snot, tears, spit and trembles were all he was made of now. He heard his own cries, loud, broken, fragmented, torn—like the sounds of a dying animal. 

Ember stared emptily at the corpse—Selvas— and was dull, so dull she was translucent. She looked like she didn’t comprehend what she was looking at, couldn’t even begin to. “Is- is she dead?” A long pause, as if the question were a spell that risked turning this nightmare into reality. “She…. She can’t be dead. Right Nero?”  Streams of orange light poured from her eyes now. “She can’t be…”

“I’m…” His throat was raw. He swallowed. “I’m sorry Ember… I… I couldn’t save her. I tried but–-.” He brought a trembling hand up to his mouth and squeezed so hard it hurt—his nails dug into skin, his jaw burned underneath the pain. But nothing, no torment, or torture that he had ever fell victim to, nor would he ever fall victim to could ever compare to this. 

“Nero, tell me she’s alive.” Ember begged.

“I’m sorry.”