"That's your fifth glass. Shouldn't you slow down? You still have shit to do."
Kincaid glared at Merda, maintaining eye contact as he poured himself another glass of rouj.
His lieutenant rolled her eyes in exasperation before flopping down in the chair opposite him.
Kincaid slumped into the worn-out chair, the weight of the world crushing his shoulders. The dim glow of the solitary candle on the table flickered, casting shadows that danced eerily on the walls of his chamber.
The chair Kincaid sat on was practically imprinted with his ass. He hadn't moved from that spot for several hours now, choosing to wallow in his shameless self-pity and misery. Drinking himself into a stupor seemed like the most inappropriately appropriate way of dealing with the utter fool of himself he made last night with his pair.
Why did he even care?
He didn't know. All he knew was that he did...a lot. And it pissed him the fuck off.
His behavior was shameful to say the least, rolling around like that in front of a human. Begging for comfort like a stray, it was unlike him.
All of this was unlike him. The mannerisms, the habits, the emotions. Kincaid couldn't remember the last time he had ever cared about anything enough to feel shame. If he ever had to begin with. Wallowing and pitying himself? That wasn't him at all.
It was as if the human's habits were bleeding into him. He was becoming a mockery of what he once was and there was no way to stop it.
No one warned him it would be like this. All his teachings alluded to the bond being fairly one sided. Aside from the typical territorial displays when another threatened a Naerian's property, they weren't supposed to care. It was the humans...the redrya who were supposed to care. They were the ones who were bound by the chains of fate.
If this was how they were evolving after prolonged exposure to this new planet, it would prove to be a huge issue in the future. Control of one's emotions and conduct was paramount for a Naerian. If they did not leash themselves, their baser instincts would take over, and gone would be the civilized society, replaced by displays of dominance and slaughter.
He sighed, tossing back his glass, letting the spice of the rouj burn down his throat, temporarily dulling the effects of his stupidity. But not by much.
As much as he hated to admit it, it felt nice being with the human. Feeling the soothing aura he exuded, even though it quickly soured with repulsion. But for a moment, just a moment, he could forget what happened before.
He could forget his total failure as a General as he lost yet another group of warriors. Of his people. There were so few of them left, he couldn't keep sending them off on these suicide missions. Their deaths were meaningless at this point.
His fingers trembled slightly as they closed around the neck of the near empty bottle, forgoing his glass altogether. The clear liquid within sloshed with his movements. He hesitated for a moment, the battle of the evening playing before his eyes. The blood, the screams, the young faces contorted in pain, all sent to die for a cause that felt more and more like one male's whim.
They weren't any closer to figuring out what was spreading the galactic toxins, nor slowing it down. Soon it would reach even this planet and they'd all be doomed. All of this would have been for nothing.
It was only a matter of time before Bodric would start pushing for the hatchlings...for Nayavu to start heading these expeditions.
Kincaid couldn't let that happen. He was still just a fledgling, and they had no idea if he could even shift forms. They had too much to learn from him. Risking him would be risking the future of the Naerians.
He took a heavy swig, the sting of the alcohol burning his throat but doing little to numb the pain in his chest.
He thought after seeing it so many times, it would get better. Foolish of him to assume that the first ship that ever returned would bring good news. It almost seemed normal when they arrived. Blinded by optimism, he hadn't noticed the glaring indicators.
The first signs had been mere whispers: a shift in the gaze, a twitch of the lip, or a sudden pallor. But then, it had been as though a violent tempest had descended upon them. Warriors, once comrades-in-arms, turned on each other with wild abandon, their eyes clouded with insanity. Screams and roars filled the air, as talons clashed and they grappled in a dance of death.
Kincaid's hands tightened around the bottle as the most gruesome of memories surfaced. Some warriors, having ingested more of the poison, began to convulse, their skin reddening as if set aflame. Flesh bubbled, melted, and peeled away, even as they continued their frenzied attacks on their comrades. Blood mixed with the grotesque sloughing skin, creating pools of visceral horror.
The anger in him swelled, his thoughts turning once again to his brother, King Bodric.
With a sudden, jerky motion, he downed the bottle, the fiery burn in his throat nothing compared to the inferno of emotions within him. Each gulp was an echo of the agony his warriors had endured, a reminder of the betrayal they'd suffered.
The dancing shadows, formed by the candle's wavering light, seemed to mock him, mimicking the chaos of the night. Their capricious movements were reminiscent of the unpredictable and vicious actions of his poisoned warriors.
In the depth of his anguish, Kincaid found clarity. The weight of his resolve settled heavily upon him, even as the room continued to sway with the somber ballet of the tormented shadows.
Kincaid stood, swaying a bit from the rouj and the sleepiness gripping his legs. The bottle tumbled to the ground, smashing into a bunch of dazzling pieces.
Merda stared at him cautiously.
When he made a move toward the door, she jumped up, steadying him when he swayed too far and nearly tumbled into the broken glass.
Damn things were too fragile. Redyra had the dumbest inventions.
"Where do you think you're going?" Merda demanded.
"To see my brother," Kincaid bit out.
"In your current state?"
Kincaid grunted in response before pushing past her. She didn't fight, only shook her head and let him go.
The halls were silent, save for the occasional soft rumblings that echoed through the stone corridors. The chamber door groaned open as Kincaid pushed through, the warriors posted outside pretending not to see their General in such a sorry state. His steps faltered and he reeked of rouj. His black armor, usually a beacon of pride and elegance, now seemed tarnished with the weight of the world.
Bodric, lounging in his grand seat with an air of indifferent grace, glanced up. His golden eyes narrowed with disdain. "Drunk again? Is this how our esteemed General now copes with his duties?"
Kincaid's voice slurred, either from emotion or intoxication—it was hard to tell. "Bodric, please, no more. Don't send them out. The Tarlik... it's a death sentence."
Bodric smirked, seemingly enjoying his brother's pitiable state. It was a side he had not seen before. A weakness he was eager to exploit. How far his stoic, unshakable brother had fallen.
"Crying over the inevitable? How pathetic you've become. Sending warriors to die is your duty. If our race is to survive, we have to make sacrifices. But speaking of sacrifice, tell me, Kincaid, have you and the redrya sired a clutch yet?"
Kincaid's head jerked up, a flash of anger in his gaze. "It has only been two weeks."
Bodric leaned forward, his voice dripping with mockery. "Two weeks can be an eternity, dear brother. Especially when racing against time. If you truly wish to save our people, ensure your pair is with a clutch. And soon."
Kincaid stumbled a step closer, desperation evident in every line of his body. "Our people are dying, Bodric. Dying! And all you care about is a clutch?"
A cold, cruel smile spread across Bodric's face. "What I care about is the promise you made. The future of our race is paramount. If you can't see that, maybe your current state of inebriation has become your permanent mindset. Get the redrya pregnant. Perhaps then, you'll finally be of some use."
Kincaid, swayed on his feet, looking as if he bore the weight of their entire race on his shoulders. And maybe he did. The bitter reality of Bodric's cruel game stung more than any drink ever could. But as he retreated, a fire ignited in his gaze—one that promised determination and defiance in the face of his brother's heartless taunts.
Still...now that he knew Reid was in the Rebellion, the likelihood of a clutch being sired was near zero.
Kincaid would never forgive himself if he contributed any more to the destruction of the Naerian race.
Or maybe he selfishly didn't want to feel the pain of mating again.
Bodric, taking pleasure in the upper hand he seemed to have, continued his taunts. "You come here, drowning in self-pity and rouj. Do you think I'll be swayed by your display? Your disrespect? You're mistaken if you believe tears and inebriation will change the course I've set for our people."
Kincaid, gripping the nearby pillar for support, found his voice again, "Every day, our brethren fall, suffering at the hands of this accursed Tarlik. How many more must perish, Bodric? How many more families torn apart before you see reason?"
Bodric scoffed, "Sacrifices are necessary for the greater good. Perhaps you'd see the bigger picture if you weren't soft, dear brother. And as for families," he paused, savoring the venom in his words, "what family will you provide if you continue to delay with your redrya?"
The mention of his damnable seemed to sober Kincaid momentarily, his gaze sharp as he met Bodric's. "A clutch is more than just a means to an end!"
A dark chuckle emanated from Bodric, "Everything and everyone is a means to an end. Your sentimentality weakens you. We need strength now more than ever. Your union with your pair, the expected clutch—these are not just personal matters. They are critical to our race's survival."
"I understand our responsibilities, Bodric," Kincaid snapped, voice raw. "But I won't stand by and watch our warriors march into oblivion because of your arrogance."
Bodric rose from his seat, nostrils flaring, the full weight of his presence bearing down on Kincaid. "Then ensure you meet your responsibilities with Reid, and perhaps I might be inclined to reconsider. Fail, and you'll find that my patience, unlike your drunken stupors, has limits. I'll overlook this blatant display of unsavory behavior just this once, but I will not let it slide again."
The tension in the chamber was palpable, the division between the brothers more evident than ever. As Kincaid departed, the weight of their conflict echoed in every footstep.
A/N: Now I know there are some mixed feelings about Kincaid. Where are you all at right now? Hate him? Love him? Undecided? Let me know in the comments!
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