Otherworld

Sos Eta Hannibal [Hannibal]

Sos Eta Hannibal!

Hannibal

"You ass-kissing son of a bitch!"

Hannibal snapped his head around and ducked just in time to avoid the hammer that Menoetius had thrown at his head. Hannibal dodged to the side to avoid another attack from his older brother before Menoetius released an angry roar and whirled, breathing heavily, dark eyes wild with hatred as he inched toward him. Menoetius looked crazier than usual, Hannibal noted at Menoetius's wild curly hair sticking up everywhere, and his burgundy and black armor stained in blood.

"What now?" Hannibal asked, frowning as he avoided Menoetius throwing a book at him. Menoetius curled his lip in repugnance.

"You invaded my city! That was my city! Father ordered me to invade Osteria, you slimy little harlot!" He snarled, lunging for Hannibal again, but Hannibal spun out of the way and kicked Menoetius in the ass so he fell to the floor of the large elaborate burgundy tent. Hannibal narrowed his eyes down at Menoetius, who let loose another furious cry at being once again shoved in the dirt.

He could feel it; the power pulsing through his veins of his tainted bloodline. He noticed, the harder he fought, the more anger he poured into his blows, the faster his enemies fell. The faster they collapsed to their knees and wept, the faster they bled.

When the war against the Atlanteans had begun, his stomach had churned as he cut down man after man, creature after creature. His stomach twisted as he was forced to take the lives of people he'd never even met, innocent people, who were a victim of his father's blood thirst. He ached, knowing that the people he cut down were also his people. Both Greek and Atlantean blood flowed through his veins, and yet, if he dared step across the line to the Atlanteans, he would suffer greater torment than he did now. At least the Greeks left him alone in fear of his growing wrath. The Atlanteans would be a fresh start, a whole new nightmare trying to make them see him for what he was.

Was.

Now he wasn't so sure what he was anymore. In the beginning, he was merely a hybrid god. He wasn't even given a name. He was only called hybrid, mongrel, anything that placed him on a lower level than those around him.

But it wasn't until he slit the throat of the Atlantean man named Hannibal. A young man, about the hybrid's age, strong and powerful. And with his dying breath, he wished for the hybrid to seek peace and the hybrid felt a kick in the gut at those whispered words. Of all the things the Atlantean soldier could have spat at him with his final words, it was that he hoped his killer would seek peace. And that was when the hybrid realized... He wanted to be Hannibal.

However, that had been the beginning of the war. When Hannibal had almost wept for the soldiers he killed. Now, he took a sick angry thrill from watching the ground run red with blood, the way his boots sank into it and his power lashed out, killing those who opposed his father. A father who, no matter what Hannibal did, would loathe him for eternity. Hannibal wasn't sure why he even still bothered. There was a flame of loyalty that burned hard inside him and oh how he wished he could extinguish that pathetic flame of hope.

Hannibal zoned back into the cold hard reality, staring down at his once proud brother, who now screamed in a fit of rage and lunged to his feet, making another move for him. Hannibal narrowed his eyes, suddenly remembering all the times Menoetius had kicked him and stripped him and beat him and killed anything he had a remote connection to, including the puppy he'd rescued from the nearby village. A sudden wave of fury wracked him and he curled his lip as Menoetius went to grab him by the throat.

Hannibal whipped out of the way, got behind Menoetius and grabbed a handful of thick dark curls before bashing Menoetius's face down on the desk. Menoetius gasped and snarled in pain, his nose breaking on impact and gushing blood down a handsome, stubbled face. He wrenched out of Hannibal's grip and grabbed his brother by the shoulders, shoving him in an attempt to knock him to the ground, which was usually all it took.