Inhuman Relations #1
The sunshine is brilliant over the archery grounds, almost too bright to take in the sweeping, grassy hills, which are dotted with pockets of coniferous trees — welcome shade to weary walkers. Where you stand, however, the row of immaculate archery targets are painted in crisp, bright colours; a fair amount of care and attention is placed into their upkeep by the servants, of course. Being part of such a rich family, you are well acquainted with all things luxurious and that certainly has its perks, you admit to yourself as you nock one, long arrow to the bow. Everything was of the very, very best quality, without fail.
To an archer intent on improvement and masculine prowess, the light glinting about the edge of your eyes may be a hindrance, something that would throw off the aim of any devoted trainee, but your brother and you are not interested in becoming proficient with such deadly tools: deadly tools transformed into something for play and leisure. Who cared about killing? It was only a bit of fun, something to occupy yourselves with. You would never want for anything that you could not have, so why train and train until your bones ached and your muscles were abused beyond recognition? Therefore, the glorious day with the warm wind licking at your bare arms, like one of the stable cats, is far from a concern but something that elevates a giddy joy.
Yet, sometimes, a lack of proficiency can be just as deadly as years of experience.
Just as you release that single, quivering arrow, your brother clutches your wrist in a vice-like grip and light lances across your line of vision, blinding you for a terrible, crucial split second. Blind, you hear a muffled, pained grunt and feel the ground tremor beneath your feet as something all too solid drops heavily to it, completely unmoving. Unwilling to turn your mind to the truth, you wonder, through the dazzling, dancing glare, if your brother has dropped his quiver, although, in your heart, you know that this is not true, not true at all.
When your eyes recover from sun-blindness, you inhale sharply and collapse upon the soft, luscious grass, darkened in sickening patches by blood. Your brother gasps, blood bubbling up between his lips as if from a morbid fountain, staining them a morbid, bright crimson like the maw of a wild animal, jaws yawning for the kill. His eyes lock with yours for the last time before growing languid and still, his mind as unknowing as he is now forever unseeing. Gently, you take him in your arms, afraid of harming him further even in death, the knowledge of what has happened and what you have done slowly sinking into your shock-addled mind. There is no soul around that may account for this accident; to any outsider, you have murdered your own kin in cold blood. You have murdered him.
"Please," you cry out, tears streaming down your flushed cheeks. "Say something! Abel, this is not funny - get up! Please get up!"
You know that he will never walk again and he will never speak again, but this fact does not deter you from at least trying to raise him. All too quickly though, your voice must trail off and falls into a quiet murmur of nonsensical babble, so low that no human can catch the nuances of your speech. Though there was one non-human who is able to hear you.
Written by Amethyst Mare on 07 June 2012
