04-07-2015, 06:11 PM
He lands in grains of sand on his knees. His sister is standing across from him, her casual smirk still plastered on her face from the minute they had entered the border. She stands taller—taller than she ever had before—looking down at him with not even the tiniest bit of sadness. “Well ain’t that a relief we don’t gotta rule this dump?”
Falx rises with rage—if it weren’t for evolution his face would be a hue of red. He is shaking—she can see it in his movement. He has containing a sort of rage she has never seen before. In years of being together—years of being tied by invisible chains of sibling-hood, she has yet to see his anger build to such a degree that she swears steam is truly rolling from his flared nostrils.
“You have the odacity… the fucking nerve… to say this is a relief?” His voice is dripping with disdain and frustration. There is a hole in his stomach and a pinch in his heart that makes him feel uncomfortable to even look at her. She is why he is where he is, she is why he will never be more than a brother—a sibling in an otherwise dysfunctional land. He is going nowhere—nowhere, and this is what he has to live for.
She cowers back like a kitten caught beneath the jaws of Satan. Her eyes are blinking rapidly—her heart is pounding; he has never gotten mad at her. He has gotten irritated, yes. He has gotten frustrated, sure. He may have even gotten angry for moments before suddenly melting into his casual pool of chill and ease. He is a shark aggravated by bites and jabs of people—her. She has picked, kicked, hit, and yelled like a toddler and he has bottled all of it up like a grenade.
“Falx I—”
“Stop. Just fucking stop.” He snaps, not even giving her the opportunity to vouch. She always does this, she always changes the topic or relays the blame. She is a child, but he isn’t. He doesn’t need to deal with this and why should he? They aren’t really conjoined, he is free. “Don’t follow me.”
She opens her mouth—her tongue rolling softly against her lips as if the moistening is what will give her something to say. She is dry, an empty canvas always having relied on her brother to provide colour. Her brown eyes shift, uncomfortable and anxious, looking behind her over the dunes of sand. So simplistic around them—how minimal they are in their surroundings. “But Falx… I need you.”
He has already turned, disregarding her words like he disregards the sand beneath his feet. He trudges—no, marches. He remembers the grey mare, the mare who had met him in the field. He remembers the offer she had left for him before they had parted on neutral terms. He wants her—not her, what she had to offer. He wants all of that.
He doesn’t turn. He just listens to her voice, the last of her words I need you bouncing in his mind like ping pong. She will learn, they all need to—you are nothing if not great. She will find her own footing, rise to her own occasion like we all should and some day he might be able to look at her. Maybe even enjoy her company. Not now, though.
Not for a very long time.
The Chamber doesn’t take long to reach. She is exposed in her thick pine forest—the smell of their needles clinging to his nostrils like a new car freshener. She is beautiful, with mountains of extravagance in the distance and an open meeting ground in the pit of her home. He understands why Straia made her sound so good—the mare wasn’t lying. He arrives as the sun begins to set behind trees, stopping in the center of her home and waiting to be seen. It is time.
Falx rises with rage—if it weren’t for evolution his face would be a hue of red. He is shaking—she can see it in his movement. He has containing a sort of rage she has never seen before. In years of being together—years of being tied by invisible chains of sibling-hood, she has yet to see his anger build to such a degree that she swears steam is truly rolling from his flared nostrils.
“You have the odacity… the fucking nerve… to say this is a relief?” His voice is dripping with disdain and frustration. There is a hole in his stomach and a pinch in his heart that makes him feel uncomfortable to even look at her. She is why he is where he is, she is why he will never be more than a brother—a sibling in an otherwise dysfunctional land. He is going nowhere—nowhere, and this is what he has to live for.
She cowers back like a kitten caught beneath the jaws of Satan. Her eyes are blinking rapidly—her heart is pounding; he has never gotten mad at her. He has gotten irritated, yes. He has gotten frustrated, sure. He may have even gotten angry for moments before suddenly melting into his casual pool of chill and ease. He is a shark aggravated by bites and jabs of people—her. She has picked, kicked, hit, and yelled like a toddler and he has bottled all of it up like a grenade.
“Falx I—”
“Stop. Just fucking stop.” He snaps, not even giving her the opportunity to vouch. She always does this, she always changes the topic or relays the blame. She is a child, but he isn’t. He doesn’t need to deal with this and why should he? They aren’t really conjoined, he is free. “Don’t follow me.”
She opens her mouth—her tongue rolling softly against her lips as if the moistening is what will give her something to say. She is dry, an empty canvas always having relied on her brother to provide colour. Her brown eyes shift, uncomfortable and anxious, looking behind her over the dunes of sand. So simplistic around them—how minimal they are in their surroundings. “But Falx… I need you.”
He has already turned, disregarding her words like he disregards the sand beneath his feet. He trudges—no, marches. He remembers the grey mare, the mare who had met him in the field. He remembers the offer she had left for him before they had parted on neutral terms. He wants her—not her, what she had to offer. He wants all of that.
He doesn’t turn. He just listens to her voice, the last of her words I need you bouncing in his mind like ping pong. She will learn, they all need to—you are nothing if not great. She will find her own footing, rise to her own occasion like we all should and some day he might be able to look at her. Maybe even enjoy her company. Not now, though.
Not for a very long time.
The Chamber doesn’t take long to reach. She is exposed in her thick pine forest—the smell of their needles clinging to his nostrils like a new car freshener. She is beautiful, with mountains of extravagance in the distance and an open meeting ground in the pit of her home. He understands why Straia made her sound so good—the mare wasn’t lying. He arrives as the sun begins to set behind trees, stopping in the center of her home and waiting to be seen. It is time.