IN HOLY PURSUIT

Xerxes reels his fist back, shaking, lacking in hesitation, clenched tight around his thumb, and suddenly it is not a matter of the war or the Empire or dignity or all things surrounding expectation, no, it is a child’s conflict; a younger brother, screaming and whining and caught in some menial fight, fists drawn back and craving to get one punch in on the insurmountable strength that is an older brother.

It breaks, his conscience. Shatters like glass around his will, and frustration grips him by his knuckles and sends his fist flying downwards into Lucian’s face. The contact is short of rewarding; Lucian flinches, snaps his face away just in time to avoid the brunt of it, though the swing manages to slam him square on the nose.

Blood oozes down his face in a way which Xerxes, whether or not he can help it, feels as if he is not supposed to see. Lucian only scoffs, tears his pinned-down arm from Xerxes' hand with a morbid strength which he could have exerted but hadn’t up until this point, and rubs the blood off thoughtlessly on his sleeve.

“Well, that’s enough of that, isn’t it,” Lucian mutters, quiet, rolls his shoulders backwards with a quiet crunch and smiles, “you’ve had your fun.” 

His hand snakes from his side and under to Xerxes’ chest. He presses his fingertips against his chest plate, still grinning with languid joy, and before Xerxes has the chance to react, to understand that which his brother had planned, an excruciating, electric magic surges through him, shoots right through his veins and sends him flying back off Lucian. 

He hits the ground with a loud thud, paralyzed by the attack, and his head slams right into the rocky path below them. Lucian sighs, unfazed, cracks his neck like it was nothing, and comes to a stand, brushing off some of the gravel that came imbedded in his armor. He casts a glance down to his brother.

He was a pathetic figure, really; blood-stained and yielding, nerves shot, unable to hold his own in a spar with family, let alone on the battlefield. 

“Here’s a word of advice.” He says, coming down to Xerxes’ side, and his smile lacks the smugness that Xerxes would expect from someone like Lucian. Instead, it’s earnest, soft— it pities him. “You want to be known, Xerxes?”

Xerxes flinches as Lucian comes to a stand, pushes his head off the bloodied rock he’d landed on with the tip of his shoe, and continues. “Then survive.” 

With his hands to his sides, Lucian turns heel and walks off, following in the shadows of the Empire forces, who, in the joy of winning a decisive battle, shed no thought on counting heads. 

It is a shame, then, Lucian thinks, watching his brother from the corner of his eye, that those that find him next are men of the Kingdom.