May. 4th, 2017 11:09 pm
twilightscribe: (lancer 05)
[personal profile] twilightscribe
Title: funeral
Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV
Prompt: 003. funeral
Pairing: Aymeric/Durae (WoL)/Estinien
Words: 414 words


The last place he wants to be is in the room with Sechen’s corpse.

His mother weeps softly into her hands, his father the steadfast, stoic presence that he always is at her side and refusing to make eye contact with any of his children. Even when he brought Durae in, with a guiding hand on his shoulder, his expression never changed from the same thin line that it always is.

Rather than look at his brother – it wasn’t supposed to happen, not like this – Durae stares at his hands, balled up into fists on his knees. His strings, faint as they are, wink in the light of the room.

One is definitely darker than the other. Even with it being as faint as it is, the red is a deeper hue than the other, which appears more like a faint pink line against the grey of his skin.

Sechen and him never found a reason for why one is darker than another. And now, Durae is on his own to find the answers – to find whoever is on the other ends of his strings.

He wonders if they will be able to fill the void that has opened up inside him.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Sechen had promised him that he would be fine. That he would come back. And while his brother did come back, it doesn’t fulfill his promise. No, instead his body was brought into their home, where his family now stands vigil before the funeral proper.

Even with the sheet pulled up over him, Durae knows that his brother’s chest has been blown clean open.

Bile burns at the back of his throat, but he swallows it back down. None of his siblings make a move to comfort him; each of them sit and stare with the same blank-eyed stare, though his sisters’ eyes are misty with unshed tears.

The silence rings loudly in his ears and he tightens his fists until his nails dig painful, bloody crescents into his palms. Even then, he doesn’t stop. Not until the blood begins to well between his fingers and the smell of iron fills his nostrils.

Chotan gives him a sharp look, nostrils flaring, and he shoots a dark look at Durae’s hands.

He trembles, but doesn’t look back. Rather, he continues to stare at his hands. With a soft glow and a little exertion, the wounds close.

But the pain remains.

He’s still alone.
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