Nakba's Glee

Akash staggered through the broken remnants of the battlefield, his boots crunching against charred stones and dried blood. The air was thick with the stench of death, the silence deafening after the relentless chaos of battle. Yet, within his mind, there was no peace.

There was laughter.

It started as a low chuckle, distant and soft, like the whisper of leaves brushing together in the wind. But it grew louder, richer, more sinister, until it consumed everything. The laughter echoed in his skull, bouncing off the walls of his thoughts, leaving no room for anything else.

"Oh, Akash," came the voice, smooth as silk but dripping with venom. "Do you see it now? Do you see what you've done?"

Akash gritted his teeth, his hand tightening around the hilt of his blade as he stumbled forward. "Not now," he muttered, his voice low, almost pleading.

"Not now?" Nakba's voice coiled around the edges of his consciousness, slithering into every corner of his mind. "Oh, my dear fool, especially now. What better time is there than this?"

Akash clenched his jaw, trying to block it out. But he couldn't. Nakba wasn't something he could simply will away.

"Look around you," Nakba continued, his tone light and mocking. "Look at what remains of your victory. The dead litter the ground, their bodies broken, their blood spilled for what? For you? For your delusions of grandeur?"

Akash didn't stop walking, even as Nakba's words clawed at his mind. The image of Fallen's bloodied, standing form burned itself into his memory.

"Ah, yes," Nakba said, his tone shifting to something darker, more intimate. "Fallen. Loyal, steadfast, indestructible Fallen. Or so you thought."

"Shut up," Akash hissed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Nakba ignored him, his voice growing louder, sharper, like a blade pressed against the skin. "Do you feel it? The weight of his death? The sting of your failure? He died for you, Akash. You. And for what? A gamble that you botched?"

"I said shut up!" Akash barked, his voice echoing through the empty battlefield.

Nakba's laughter erupted again, a deep, guttural sound that seemed to vibrate through the very air. "Oh, this is delicious. Look at you, shouting into the void, trying to silence me. But you can't, can you? Because I'm always here."

A sharp pain lanced through Akash's chest, and he stumbled, falling to his knees. The blade in his hand clattered against the ground, its dull ring cutting through the silence. He pressed a hand to his head, his breathing ragged as Nakba's voice swirled around him.

"You thought you could be a hero," Nakba sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. "You thought you could stand tall as the Angel of the Red Sands, a beacon of hope, a savior. But all you've done is drag those around you into the abyss with you."

Akash's hand clenched into a fist against the dirt. "You don't know anything about me," he spat, his voice trembling with rage.

"Oh, don't I?" Nakba's tone was amused, playful, like a predator toying with its prey. "I know everything about you, Akash. Every fear, every doubt, every little crack in that fragile façade of yours."

The world around Akash began to shift. The battlefield dissolved into darkness, and suddenly, he was standing in his village, the place that the Karnen had destroyed. The streets were empty, but the air was heavy with the echoes of screams—screams of people he had failed to save.

"No," Akash muttered, shaking his head. "This isn't real."

"Isn't it?" Nakba's voice echoed from every direction, disembodied but impossibly close. "Do you hear them, Akash? Do you hear their cries? Their pleas for salvation? They trusted you. And you let them burn."

The scene changed. He saw Fallen now, standing tall and bloodied, his scythe embedded in the ground for support. But his eyes—those glowing, resolute eyes—were accusing now, piercing through Akash like daggers.

"You owe me a drink," Fallen's voice said, but it wasn't the voice Akash remembered. It was colder, hollow, filled with disappointment. "You failed me, Oathsworn."

"Stop it!" Akash shouted, his voice cracking. He reached for his blade, but it was gone.

The laughter came again, louder this time, filling the void. Nakba's form emerged from the darkness, a silhouette that seemed to shift and twist, its edges undefined. His face was almost human, but his eyes—those empty, endless voids—seemed to swallow everything they looked at.

"Why do you resist me, Akash?" Nakba asked, his voice calm now, almost soothing. "You know the truth, deep down. You are not a savior. You are not a hero. You are nothing but a scared, broken little boy, clinging to a title you don't deserve."

Akash's breathing was ragged, his chest heaving as he stared at the figure before him. "You're wrong," he said, though his voice lacked conviction.

"Am I?" Nakba asked, tilting his head. He stepped closer, his presence suffocating, oppressive. "Let me tell you what you are, Akash. You are weak. You are afraid. And worst of all… you are mine."

Nakba reached out, his hand brushing against Akash's chest. A surge of pain shot through him, and he doubled over, gasping for air.

"You fight so hard to resist me," Nakba said, his tone almost pitying. "But for what? Do you think they'll thank you for your sacrifice? That they'll remember you as a hero? They won't. You'll be forgotten, just like all the others who thought they could defy fate."

Akash forced himself to his feet, his fists clenched at his sides. "I'm not yours," he said, his voice steady now. "I'll never be yours."

Nakba's grin widened, sharp and predatory. "Oh, Akash. You already are."

The darkness began to recede, the battlefield returning to view. The bodies of the dead lay scattered across the ground, the broken remnants of the battle etched into the earth. But Nakba's voice lingered, soft and taunting.

"I'll be watching, Akash," he said, his tone laced with amusement. "Every step you take, every choice you make, I'll be there. And when you fall—and you will fall—I'll be there to pick up the pieces."

The laughter faded, but its echoes remained, haunting Akash as he stood alone in the aftermath.

For a moment, he didn't move. His hands trembled, and his chest felt hollow, as if Nakba had taken something from him. But then he picked up his blade, the weight of it grounding him, reminding him of who he was.

He wasn't a hero. Not yet.

But he would be.

Nakba's voice was a shadow in the back of his mind, a constant reminder of his failure, of the people he had lost. But it was also a reminder of why he fought.

Because he wasn't done yet.