Firefly Glen Take you like a drug;

Cole's gaze softened, the weight of past choices pressing upon him as he lifted his head. Revealing the scars that marked his throat, he let his eyes drift over them, tracing each line in his mind as if they still pulsed from the memory. The story wasn't an easy one to tell, and he chose his words with a kind of quiet reverence.

He was my blood, he murmured, almost to himself. Youngest of us both, though... always stubborn. He paused, the weight of the unspoken truth hanging between them—that he was stronger, had always been the elder, the protector. But he never spoke of that, nor did he need to.

His voice grew soft, as if the memory deserved gentleness. I never wanted that fight. But when it came, there wasn't much choice left. He nodded to himself, as if he’d settled some private turmoil long ago. Then he returned his gaze to Arnarkla, watching her reaction, wondering if she understood what it meant to stand by family, even when the path led only to broken ties and painful choices.

Cole’s gaze turned distant, drifting somewhere far beyond the quiet night around them. I didn’t kill him, he murmured, voice heavy with something close to reverence. My own damn brother. Baby brother. The words softened, yet a hard edge lingered, a rough reminder of everything that had come between them.

He exhaled sharply, almost bitterly amused. He was a joiner, see—turned by some religious nuts talkin’ about how he’d become a God for tryin’ his own blood. You know, that whole mess of delusions and dogma. His lips pulled back in a grim smile, the memory carrying a fresh sting. A fuckin’ joiner. But family, still.

He sighed, his voice dropping to a quiet murmur, tinged with an odd regret. We haven’t seen each other since. His gaze shifted back to Arnarkla, the faintest ache in his eyes. It was a finality he couldn’t shake, but he’d kept his hands from the worst. He’d let his brother live. And now they walked different roads, never crossing paths again.