Stormbringer: King

T W E N T Y - O N E

"Unfortunately, the spy managed to escape,
and so the two brothers were forced to return
after capturing the baker and blacksmiths."

・ ・ ・

"What do you think you are doing?"

Storm's eyelids fluttered as he struggled to look up at the sudden figure towering in front of him. Who was it? Who had just spoken? It was a familiar voice, one that was deep and clear and tinged with scornful bitterness.

Dust kicked up around him, tickling his nose. He coughed, fighting to wrench his consciousness from the darkness that shrouded his mind and vision. There was the ground, and a pair of dirt-smeared shoes. A blur of red and brown and white and black.

The crushing weight on Storm's back disappeared, and he gasped, choking and wheezing. Shuffling footsteps, a grunt of disbelief. "Sir—" came Slayen's voice, trembling.

"Silence."

Someone grabbed the back of his collar, and Storm found himself being hauled to the side, tumbling right next to a still figure of white. The sudden action snapped him back to jarring reality, and with it a striking pain as he landed on his wounded shoulder. A plaintive cry escaped his lips. He pressed his palm against the injury, pursing his lips as he forced himself not to sob.

"What do you think you are doing?" The question again, and Storm tried to focus on the silhouette standing over him, pushing down the agony thrumming through his veins.

An impassive frown. Unruly black-white hair. Narrowed lime green eyes, vibrant yet dark.

It was Xenor. It was his brother.

"Brother... where...?" Storm puffed out, the tightness in his chest that he hadn't been aware of uncoiling.

"I leave for a short while," his brother growled, gaze gleaming with murderous tension, "and this is the sort of trouble you get into."

Storm winced, hanging his head as he pushed himself to a sitting position. Guilt sank in his chest, a massive stone in the pits of his guts that made him want to puke. It was his own fault for not being careful enough. He had allowed himself to be recognised by Slayen. He had allowed himself to get wounded, to lose focus, to let the fear overwhelm him. He had even accepted the idea of death. The only reason why he was still alive was because Xenor had arrived and saved him.

Useless. Worthless. He truly was nothing but a burden.

"I'm sorry, Brother..." he murmured, biting his lower lip as he struggled to push down the wet burn behind his eyes.

"Is that going to solve anything?" Xenor spat. Before Storm could speak, he continued, "Why, yes, of course it will. After all, spouting ludicrous nonsense is the only thing you are capable of doing to cover up your messes."

"Brother—"

"I really ought to award you for your stupidity." Smouldering green, a forest on fire. "It is such an overwhelming feat. This should serve as your greatest achievement, showing everyone how insufferably incapable you are."

Storm remained silent, shifting his gaze away. The words whirled in his mind, and he clenched his teeth, eyes watering despite his best efforts to suppress the feeling. A throb in his chest, a breath of anguish. And quietly, he accepted his brother's statements.

They were all true, after all.

He caught sight of Slayen. The murderer was fidgety, expression tense, skin pale. A bead of sweat dripped down his face, and when Xenor clicked his tongue, he flinched, arms raised in front of him like a shield. Wide, wary crimson eyes, pupils dilated. Legs shivering, hands trembling, barely holding on to his daggers. Like a cornered animal, ready to bolt at the slightest sign of danger.