With Honor

He tries to ignore the sound of the younger boy’s voice, although it's tinged with a sort of innocence that temps to lull him from his thoughts. His thoughts are sinful. He has killed and cannot stop thinking about it. In the name of what he is unsure, but if someone asks him he will spout out the reason as if he believes it. As if he still has a heart.

“You are somewhere else again,” Larsa says, in a voice slight with annoyance.

Gabranth does not bother looking up, choosing instead to study the interweaving pattern of tiles he has seen so many times beneath his feet. His body feels unnaturally weighted in the chair. Heavy as always, his eyes threaten to close. They mock him; sleep will not come. He expects the sort of reproach that follows next, and knows it lacks any true consequence. Their relationship is perhaps less formal than it should be. Less formal than he needs.

“You really should listen,” Larsa insists. “These are matters that concern you as well…”

In my dreams…

“I am listening,” Gabranth says, his voice harsher than he intended. Larsa gives him a look full of doubt, but says no more.

I can never tell…

It seems as if he understands where Gabranth is in the moments that always steal him away.

If I am running away from you, or toward you.

The shadows across the floor stretch toward his feet. Somewhere Gabranth knows he is under the same fading sun, and wonders if his thoughts are as troubled.

Brother…

Larsa continues talking in a shallow attempt to keep the older man in the realm of now. He feels comforted, but he does not know why. He knows like every other evening they will remain in this room later than necessary dancing around matters of state that only serve as a vain attempt to occupy their minds. He knows no matter how hard he tries to put it off, he cannot escape another dying day. The inevitability of rest that will not come for either of them.