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Oskha still grasped his sword, but barely.
All around him were corpses, incongruent to the luxurious drapings that lined the walls. In death, the bodies of the corrupt noble and his guards were no different from those of Oskha’s bedraggled followers. He would laugh at the irony if his situation wasn’t so dire.
The noble had paid for more guards than Oskha had expected, and they had slain the contingent of followers he had brought with him. Oskha still took them all on by himself and won, but…
His free hand clutched at a grievous wound in his abdomen. It was too big to cauterize but he still instinctively attempted to stem the flow of blood, as futile as his efforts were. He could already tell that the injury was fatal, after all. It was the parting gift of one of the guards before Oskha took his head off. He had then considered torturing the noble as his last act, but instead he slayed him with a single swing of his katana. Now Oskha would die alone, soon to join his allies and enemies alike in death. What a pitiful way to go, especially when he had the supposed power of his ring at his disposal. He wasn't sure if that spoke poorly of him, the ring, or both.
Oskha let out a ragged laugh. Was this really how his journey for vengeance will end? His mission to remake the world left half-finished, with no one to succeed him and his final goal never reached? Bargello would be allowed to live, to rule Valore as he saw fit. Who knew how long his pretense at charity and do-gooding would last.
His thoughts grew hazy with the lack of blood and turned from his lack of a future to instead his past. The last time he was this close to death was when Herminia had attempted to use him against the family. He was barely conscious at the time from the powder and the torture, but he remembered Pierro’s panic and Bargello holding steadfast to his beliefs, so that Tiziano’s loyalty didn’t go to waste.
“For the family.” Such fitting last words for Tiziano. Perhaps they should have been Oskha’s last words as well.
Oskha let out a sigh, nothing more than a silent exhale. In his final moments, he could be honest with himself. Maybe… maybe it would've been better if he had died back then.
He should've hated himself for the thought, after all he went through to forge a new life as the Have-not. But now that he faced a lackluster death in this morbid tomb, light-headed from blood-loss and swaying on his feet, he only found himself yearning for a kinder death. A death where he died surrounded by his friends, who would give him a proper burial and mourn his tragic passing. And… he yearned for the presence of one friend in particular.
His eyes drifted shut. Tiziano had one moment of lucidity before he fell unconscious and awoke to the mansion in flames. That meant his last memory of Bargello, kneeling beside him with a distraught look on his face, was crystal clear in his mind’s eye.
Oskha had tried to tell himself that Bargello didn't care about him, which is why he had been left behind to burn in the Witch's mansion. But deep down, he knew Bargello cared, and that Tiziano's death must have hurt as much as a sword through the chest. Oh, how he wished he could reopen that wound in Bargello's bleeding heart once more.
Love and hate for the man warred inside him, but his final wish remained the same, no matter the victor. Despite everything Oskha thought of him, or maybe because of it, he wished Bargello could witness his real death. So that, in turn, Bargello could be the last face Oskha laid his eyes upon.
There was a sudden flash of blue light originating from his ring finger, bright enough to blind him through his closed eyelids. A heartbeat later, the very air around Oskha changed, and he could tell by that alone that he wasn’t where he once was.
The plush carpet beneath his feet was replaced with wooden flooring and Oskha’s eyes flew open as he lost his balance. There were panicked shouts all around him, along with flashes of metal as multiple daggers were unsheathed. Oskha attempted to raise his katana, but so off-kilter both physically and mentally, he instead staggered and fell. His desperate grab for the nearest surface missed, yet before he hit the ground, a pair of warm hands caught him and lowered him gently onto his back.
Bargello knelt with Oskha lying on his lap, while Pierro and Fra and other faces he didn’t recognize hovered around them. Oskha's vision went in and out of focus, yet he forced himself with all his remaining energy to stare up into Bargello's wide eyes. Even after months away, Oskha could read the emotions writ plain on Bargello's handsome face: confusion, worry, a healthy dose of suspicion, but above all, hope. Enough hope that it would leave a gaping hole in Bargello's chest to have it cut out of him, and Oskha reveled in the idea that his death would once more be that sword.
“Tiziano. You’re alive,” Bargello whispered.
“Not for long,” Oskha said, and let out a single hoarse laugh. It was enough to painfully jar his injury. Whatever miracle that brought him here hadn’t fixed that. Some miracle.
“What happened? How are you here? Tiziano— stay with me!”
Oskha attempted to answer him, but only a burble of blood left his lips. His body went limp in Bargello’s arms without his permission, and his eyelids fell shut like they were weighed down by all the gold in the world. Even if he were to never open them again, even if he would leave so many things unfinished— Oskha had no regrets. He got his dying wish, after all.
A tiny smile lingered on his lips as the world faded into darkness.
.
.
.
Several days later, Tiziano opened his eyes.