"There a painless death awaits him who can no longer bear the sorrows of this life. If death is welcome let him seek it there." - Robert W. Chambers. 

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[The Palace of Naasis in Henem, Year 3477]

Their dance of swords was etched into the sand.

War was art, blood was its paint.

These were records of the swirling, graceful movements— the beauty that sought the lives of each artist involved. 

If it were anything but training, a pointless bout between brothers, the crimson would be unending in the sand. It wouldn't stagger its spilling periodically as their wounds were healed, as they apologised for failing to stop short, as they let the exuberance of youth fill their strikes. 

Artemis leaned into August's strikes as he flipped the edge of his saber around, causing the terrifying blade of light to whir past his ear, singeing the very air he breathed. It was hot on his lungs, filled with smoke and agony, but he swallowed it back out of instinct. 

That was a necessity when fighting against August Lunastre. 

The edge of his blade was smeared with a blinding white-light, hot and crackling like flames, dazzling like the dawn. 

If it weren't for the flowers that would spread out across the sand as August moved about, bursting dazzling green lights into the air, he would be fearful of making contact with this mystical blade. These green lights would bind themselves to any visible wounds on his body, wrapping over them and repairing them in an instant. 

And this allowed them to train far more brutally than anyone else normally would.

He leaned further into his strike, ignoring the blade of light that immediately retrieved its momentum and curved towards the back of his head. 

He knew it. Artemis knew he wouldn't make it in time. Light moved faster than he ever could, August was far speedier when it came to striking. But he felt like he had to commit to the blow anyway, even if it meant he would lose the bout. 

Artemis met August's eyes as they drew ever closer. They were cold, filled with determination. As a shiver ran down his spine, he grimaced.

His strike quickly wove back around, flying over his shoulder to narrowly block the incoming blade of light. 

He had backed down. He had chosen a cowardly move. Perhaps it was the smartest, but it was the most fearful, the most shameful. 

For a Lunastre, cowardess was a slight to the very name.

"Your movements are terrible! Was it Wolf who taught you to fight, or a f-cking lamb!?" A shrewd, gruff voice barked from the sidelines. A man with grey-tinged hair and thickly-fluffed robes gulped down cup after cup of terribly expensive wine as he watched the two fight. "You certainly resemble one! When August leaves on his journey, who is going to stand in his place!? It certainly can’t be you!"

A sharp breath shot out from between Artemis’s teeth.

How terrible it was to have to pose a practice session as a performance before the Witch-King.

That miserable old f-cker… He thought. He gradually back away from August, recuperating himself as he wiped the sweat off of his forehead. 

What good was it to tear him down? He didn't have the strength to pick his own pieces back up.

He knew why. It was because it wasn't just the Witch-King that was watching them fight. Dozens of attendants littered the Palace's courtyard, going about their duties while tacitly and secretly observing their bout.

The man couldn't afford to pay Artemis any kindness. Not that he would anyway. 

His bastard son, the Witch-King had said. Artemis was the product of lust, as all were to believe. But how could he be? When had it ever been, in record, stated that there was a bastard born to the Lunastre House that had such a pitiful head of stark-white hair?

Slash after slash, August continued his brutal pursuit. He leapt up into the air, twirling around like a whirlwind as he came down on Artemis. 

The man’s hair was a deep black, tinged with an illusory wine-purple, his eyes the very same, filled with a ferocity that sought to harm him.

How could they be related?

That Kingly man was certainly lying, and Artemis had no idea why he would. August wasn't really his brother, and the King wasn't really his father. He had all but been told this throughout his life, and August knew the same, but still treated him like his own brother. It was a numbing existence. 

Artemis took several more steps backwards, grimacing as a trail of crimson opened up on his chest, staining the dark-black training uniform he had been wearing. 

It was like an even further shame. He wasn't a bastard, he was just a stray pet wearing that title. When one had to merely pretend to be the lowest of the low, how far had they sunk? 

I'm only here to serve August. I know it. This is how I've been raised, but how can someone like me adequately protect him?

To that extent, he had always felt like August had protected him more, anyway…

He watched as the healing emerald lights surged forward, quickly causing the cut on his chest to dissipate. 

It was a shame that his healing flowers couldn't soothe damage to Artemis's soul. 

Artemis was a frail boy, spindly, like twine. There was no indication that he would ever abandon this build. He often wore puffy and exuberant clothing like the Witch-King did, emboldened by padding and furs, only so that he would look bigger and stronger than he really was.

Mostly because he couldn't bear the silent guffawing of the attendants. 

He was already a stain on the sanctity of the Palace. Did he have to look the part as well? 

August brought the pommel of his sword to his shoulder, its deadly edge calculated against the likeliness of Artemis's counter.

He knew that well, that August would adapt to whatever he chose to do. It didn't matter even if he himself didn't know what he would do. Even unpredictability was predictable to him.

A perfect son to his core.

The two began to circle each other once more, as if they had only just started fighting. But their fatigue was obvious, even in the man who Artemis had desperately begun to chase after. It was their first bout in a year, how had he grown so strong in that time!? 

Each hesitance in their footwork as they anticipated a strike marked itself in the sand below. It was minute, but even by measuring each other's record of movement, they could anticipate the other's thoughts. Each jagged step marked a slower approach, each smooth one signaled the beginning of a chain of movements. 

Ever since he had returned from that city— that city which he burnt to ash— he had been far more calm, far more calculated. Their father had nearly lost his voice admonishing him. But August called the whole event a necessary humour. 

The only stain attributed to that perfect Prince— defiance to the father, rebellion of the son. 

August thrust forward with his blade, spearing through Artemis's cloak, just below his arm. He grimaced, parrying it away as he moved to the side, preparing his own. 

“Why did you burn it down, in the end?” He asked as they brushed alongside each other, twirling around to meet once more.

"New things have to be tried.” August replied coyly as he swung in a half-circle, parrying Artemis’s blade and leading it towards the sand. “Otherwise, it will always be like this. When I take the throne, I don't want the legend of the Lunastre House to be a terrifying story to tell. Do you know that we're a warning told to children, not their hopes or admirations?"

"Quite dastardly."

It had been a city quite important to their father. 

Perhaps August’s reason for destroying it was simply that.

Their blades tangled again, weaving each movement into each other in a grand tapestry of blood and violence. 

But father blamed me for it, not you. Maybe he yelled at you, but I was beaten bloody for it. As the pet dog, I had to watch over you, steer you away from this course of action, and I did not. What right did I have to tell you to do otherwise?

I only shamefully and silently took the blame and punishment.

But August didn't know that. He was blissfully unaware of what had followed his mistake. He... often was.

Artemis dug his foot into the sand, ducking low as he turned the entirety of his momentum into an upwards strike, hurling his blade with his shoulder as if he were about to throw it. 

The two swords collided with an unparalleled fury, clangor of steel like the shrieking of a suffering beast ringing throughout the courtyard.

And unexpectedly, August's blade was the one that flew to the side. The right side of his abdomen was wide open. If Artemis just wove in another strike…

He grimaced, loosening his grip around the hilt. It faltered, dropping onto the ground below. 

August quickly wove his blade around, refreshing his stance and pointing it at Artemis, who had sunk low to the ground in defeat. 

Heavy breathing was the only sound heard henceforth in the courtyard. Exhaustion, the dripping of sweat from brows into the sand below.

August had extended his hand towards his younger brother, but when Artemis looked upwards, he felt his entire body freeze.

August’s gaze was furious. Not the sort of anger where he might just yell before cooling down, but the kind where the fight might not end, where he might use his blade in a manner without intention to heal him. Bloodlust, violence, a fear that creates despair.

He knew he had to say something, anything at all to cut through this tension.

"N-next time…" Artemis muttered through the haze of blood, grasping at August's extended hand. "Next time, I'll win-!"

August suddenly pulled him in close, glaring deep into his eyes. 

"You can already win, f-cking fool!" He spat through gritted teeth. "You had several opportunities to win, but you faltered! You wanted to fight me head-on! You know that's my strength! But you are a shadow, you move like a shadow! Why didn't you strike my opening!? Where do you think you can win by fighting fairly, without taking any underhanded opportunity!?"

A shadow…? Is this the one thing you can think to call me…? Of course I'm a shadow, I'm your shadow…

He felt that same heat surge through his body. 

Why was this man who was supposed to act as his brother yelling at him now? When all he ever tried to do was protect him from the wrath of their father, from the blame of their people, from losing face in front of their attendants?

"How can a dog bite its master…?"

He watched as August's expression crumbled. It was as if it were the physical manifestation of his heart shattering into many uncountable pieces. 

Artemis knew this was the one thing he should never have said. But he was too angry to consider anything but cruelty. He glanced away in an ashamed manner, slapping away August's hand.

"Good luck on your journey. Don't let the sea swallow you, and practice your sword, I'll beat you fairly once you return."

He turned his back towards his brother, and neither could bear to say anything more. 

That was how they had left things.