Blood of my Brother

Varian and the Great Tree, pt. 2

Okay, so I am going to attempt to post regularly on Mondays. Pray for me, because I have no idea if that's going to work. Mondays are usually pretty busy, so if it gets too overwhelming, I'll switch to Wednesday afternoon or Thursday.

Trigger warnings: nightmares, flashbacks, yelling by a parental figure (seriously, if that bothers you, please do not read this chapter)

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That soft yellow-golden glow filled his vision. So soft, and yet so cruel. It should have been red. Red for blood. Red for anger. But no, it was yellow-golden, and it burned to look at. Yellow was supposed to be the color of the sun, of flowers, of coins. Not the color of a tomb.

He attempted to break it. He attempted to use acid on it. He attempted to pray that it would miraculously melt. But the yellow-gold crystal, such a warm color, was cold and unfeeling to his desperation.

He looked up into the face of the amber's prisoner, twisted in agony. He looked at the crumpled paper in his hand, unread by anyone save he who had written it. He searched the horrid room, seeking answers, searching for something to make sense of this, to explain why that cold, cold amber had claimed this victim.

In opposition to the cold amber was his burning rage. Rage for the life lost. Rage for those who had allowed it.

This was not natural. This never should have happened. He never should have fallen this way.

And those responsible would pay.

They would pay, if it was the last thing he ever did.

That was his solemn vow. And he never broke promises.

Ever.

O‴O‴O‴

A sharp gasp, almost inaudible against the noise of the waterfall, sounded as he was ripped from his fitful sleep. Sitting bolt upright, he attempted to calm the frantic racing of his heart. Several deep breaths later, he lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. He was burning up, his chest ached, and the dark rage that flowed through his veins had yet to subside.

Why? Why this? Why now?

Most of his feelings, he tried to shove into a little storage room where all his impertinent emotions resided. This, however, had to be eliminated. He could not afford to let this live. He thought he had killed it already, way back in Corona. So why was that anger sticking its nose back into his life again?

Never again. Never again. Never again.

He wasn't angry anymore. He hadn't been in months. But this most recent nightmare had dredged all of that back up to the surface, just so he would have to fight it all over again.

So he would.

He would fight as long as it took to destroy the last remnants of that bitterness and hatred.

Especially when the target of that past anger was at his mercy.

The soft patter of bare feet came from the hallway. Hector's heightened sense of hearing caught it beyond the noise of the waterfall. Instinctively, he reached for the dagger under his pillow. Then he remembered there was another person living here now and replaced the dagger. It had been a week since they reached the Tree, and he was still trying to get used to that.

The aforementioned other person suddenly burst into the room and dove into the bed beside Hector, burying his face in the warrior's chest. He hesitated only a brief second to determine if Varian would be okay with a hug—considering that he had practically tackled Hector, the answer was probably yes—before encircling him in his arms. The child was shaking like a wet bearcat and drenched in sweat.