For @Iris whenever you have a chance. Can be back or forward dated however much we need
It had been months since he'd been gone, and still his mind ventured back home, though his body never could again.
Did he think of him? Did he regret anything? ...Would he be okay without him? Hati feared he knew the answers to each of those questions.
Skoll. Brother. Not even that, any longer. To call him a puppet was easier. To forsake him was easier, and yet it brought the shadowed man no comfort.
Once, he'd been proud of his heritage, proud of the bloodline that spawned them and the namesakes they'd been given. Now, he could hardly cling onto any of it. Sacred lands were left behind and Hati was a walking husk, void of desire and void of intent. What could the prince do now but wallow? He had nothing to prove, not anymore, not to one who'd chosen his councillors over his brother. Time and time again, he'd tried to be the anti-venom, tried to be the eyes that seared through the snakes and leeches and rats that were drawn to foolish kindness. He'd tried to fill the gaps in his armour and what did he get for it? Maimed and disinherited, made ugly and scarred and cast out of lands that rightfully should've fallen to him.
Ambition, yes, that was what put him here—though it wasn't his own. Ambitions he never truly held were placed on him falsely, a peasant's misreading of a man far more contrived than that. A tyrant in the making, a jealous, seething younger brother.
A threat, because he saw what his peace-loving brother did not. Still, Hati could not forgive him for this, he held a vicious hate on his tongue and allowed it to blacken his heart.
What he would not spare the time to think of, was how this was his own fault, too. A bond could not be so shattered by rumour alone.
Did he think of him? Did he regret anything? ...Would he be okay without him? Hati feared he knew the answers to each of those questions.
Skoll. Brother. Not even that, any longer. To call him a puppet was easier. To forsake him was easier, and yet it brought the shadowed man no comfort.
Once, he'd been proud of his heritage, proud of the bloodline that spawned them and the namesakes they'd been given. Now, he could hardly cling onto any of it. Sacred lands were left behind and Hati was a walking husk, void of desire and void of intent. What could the prince do now but wallow? He had nothing to prove, not anymore, not to one who'd chosen his councillors over his brother. Time and time again, he'd tried to be the anti-venom, tried to be the eyes that seared through the snakes and leeches and rats that were drawn to foolish kindness. He'd tried to fill the gaps in his armour and what did he get for it? Maimed and disinherited, made ugly and scarred and cast out of lands that rightfully should've fallen to him.
Ambition, yes, that was what put him here—though it wasn't his own. Ambitions he never truly held were placed on him falsely, a peasant's misreading of a man far more contrived than that. A tyrant in the making, a jealous, seething younger brother.
A threat, because he saw what his peace-loving brother did not. Still, Hati could not forgive him for this, he held a vicious hate on his tongue and allowed it to blacken his heart.
What he would not spare the time to think of, was how this was his own fault, too. A bond could not be so shattered by rumour alone.
----
He trekked across this damp, dark terrain, white-tipped toes hesitant to step on the muddied parts of the ground, lest he stain himself further—the shame was enough. The shroud of trees blanketed the slender, nightsky figure in a darkness most comforting, allowing him to slip through the foliage unseen and unheard.
He'd arrive at a small pond and gaze into his reflection, eyes the hue of ichor stood out amongst the rippled mirror of his reflection. That terrible scar across his throat stood out too, the ugly thing. At least it no longer bled—no, now it just marked him with a reminder for the rest of his life. Soon, the inky fur would grow over it, so he hoped.
He'd arrive at a small pond and gaze into his reflection, eyes the hue of ichor stood out amongst the rippled mirror of his reflection. That terrible scar across his throat stood out too, the ugly thing. At least it no longer bled—no, now it just marked him with a reminder for the rest of his life. Soon, the inky fur would grow over it, so he hoped.
Hati sat back onto his haunches, and peered into the water.
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