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It had been two shots — two single, point blank shots to the chest, that had Marc cascading back. A look of surprise, turned to fear, turned to acceptance that had crossed his expression.
Back he fell, arms outstretched, stumbling, his back meeting the cold chill of water that lay dormant within the tomb. The water surrounds him, Harrows words echo within his head, and soon the water consumes him.
Rory had seen it all, behind a wall with Layla at his back, both frozen as they watch Marc tumble and fall into the small abyss of cold water. Just moments ago he’d been alive — Steven, with Rory by his side, ecstatically talking about the tomb they’ve stumbled upon. Steven, who uncovered the mummified corpse while Rory stepped away to peer at inscriptions on the wall. And Steven, who had greeted Layla when she met back with them.
That’s when it all fell apart.
Arguing about things Rory hadn’t even been aware of — a deceased father, Marc’s veiled past as a mercenary, trying to rationalize with Layla once he had fronted.
It was all so confusing, turmoil filling the room, anguish clear on both of his friends expressions. Layla had looked so angry, and Marc had looked so somber.
He had taken a step closer, to diffuse, and then the sound of soon arriving footsteps sounded in the hall. Everyone had stopped then, silence amongst them, broken by Marc’s voice telling them to run — to hide.
Layla had moved and Marc took those careful steps to Rory, looking to him with so much unspoken emotion behind his dark gaze. His hand had reached out, grasping Rory’s shoulder with a reassuring squeeze, and began to usher him.
Rory had tried to object — that, no, Marc, you can’t do this alone. But Marc had simply guided him to Layla with a solemn expression and a promise to hold off their attackers as best as he could. Layla had taken his hand then, had to pull Rory in stumbling, reluctant steps around the wall — towards their hopeful escape.
Rory wanted to call Marc a fool, a reckless idiot, that they could all run and hopefully make it out.
But Rory was naive, and now he wavers in his hiding spot, feet away from Marc— Steven— Jake— their body, laying in distilled water, blood pooling around them.
His body grows numb, watching the life leave the other, and a cry tries to tear its way through his throat. Laylas hand reaches out, clasping his mouth closed as he slides down the wall, falling to his knees. Layla is pressed to his back, and he can feel her body shuddering, her breathing erratic in his ear. He can hear her quiet cries as she presses her tear streaked cheek against his own, both taking momentary solace in each other’s presence.
And yet, he can’t tear his eyes away from their body, praying, willing any of the gods to please give them another chance. Please let them be alive.
Harrow speaks, asking his company to search the area. He knew they were there somewhere, hiding in the dark, never too far from the body that lays dying.
“We have to go.”
Layla whispers to him, her voice shaking, body trembling and she stands. She removes her hand from Rory’s mouth — he doesn’t make a sound, and she helps pull him to his feet. The strangers in the room are getting closer, and Layla takes Rory’s hand.
They tremor together, and whimpers sound in Rory’s throat when they begin to move away, further down the hall, hopeful for an escape.
His eyes stay on their body, the image growing bleary and far away with each passing second.