Chapter Text
The rock was dead.
Or was it a geode? Cyrus wasn't sure, but looking down at the colorful crystals peeking out from the very broken stone, knowing what type of rock it is was the last thing on his mind.
"Shit, Bronte’s gonna kill me." He whispered to himself, fear creeping into his mind. It's not his fault that Rocky died, right? He didn't mean to, he was just playing with it, throwing it up and catching it with his hands while he ran around the garden. It's a usual thing he does after he takes it out for a walk, it's their routine.
The only difference this time is that while he was running and jumping about, he tripped over a rock protruding from the ground. He was able to catch himself before falling but he didn’t realize that in panic, he threw the rock up and it somehow ended up hitting a statue near them. At first, he was scared that he chipped it with Rocky but quickly learned when he looked down that it was very much the opposite.
It's not completely his fault, it was an accident, he can get them a new rock, one even prettier and bigger than Rocky. They could name it Rocky Jr. or something, and Bronte will forget all about the original Rocky once he gets attached to the new one. That will fix things, Cyrus knows it will. Bronte is forgiving and has a soft personality, they'll be fine.
He looked up from the pedestal he’s sitting on as he heard the rustling of metal approaching him, swiftly grabbing the remnants of the geode and haphazardly dropping them in his pockets then looking towards the person. He saw in front of him by that point is a small Bronte, or at least in air genasi standards, awkwardly waddling closer in very loose-fitting plated armor. Cyrus raised an eyebrow at him, almost completely forgetting about his previous predicament, trying not to laugh at the sight.
“Stop! Don’t you dare laugh,” Bronte said to him and Cyrus can see that even he’s trying hard not to laugh. “Father made me wear it, apparently it was his when I was his age.”
“Ah, I’m assuming he brought you in for the talk?” Cyrus asked, stepping down from the statue’s pedestal and walking towards him. He saw Bronte sigh and hang his head, sitting down on the grass as Cyrus followed suit. There is a comfortable silence between them for a moment, Cyrus watching his brother close his eyes and feel the wind on his face. He closes his own and does the same, the wind grazing over their blue skin almost in a calming manner.
“If by ‘talk,’ you meant Father taking me aside, making me put on his armor, and telling me to look at the city from the balcony’s view and imagine dying for it as a method proving loyalty to our kind, then yes,” Bronte sighed. “He did bring me in for the talk.”
Cyrus laughed, remembering the day their father brought him in for the talk himself. It was a day similar to the one now, with the winds calm and gentle, the wind whipping through his and his father’s hair as they watched the city from above. He loved it, the thought of ruling over them someday not as a dictator, but a leader that can help his people.
He looked at Bronte whose expression is a mix of frustration and trying not to smile, not wanting to encourage this type of reaction from him. Cyrus felt a punch on his arm, a light one but enough to catch his attention, looking at Bronte who is beginning to turn purple in embarrassment.
“Aw, come on Bronte, don’t give me that look,” Cyrus said, placing a hand on top of his head to ruffle his hair. “I’m not laughing at you, I promise. I just thought about my own experience with Father’s talks of patriotism.”
He saw Bronte let out a huff from his nose but his strained expression relaxed, letting a small smile settle on his lips. Cyrus looked at him proudly before tapping the top of his head with his hand and bringing his arm down to rest on his own lap. As he does, his hand managed to land on the area where his pocket is and he felt a small but sharp pain on his palm. He lifted his leg up to check what it was and Bronte turned his gaze towards it, confused.
And when Cyrus shifted his leg and shook it a bit, a piece of shiny rock fell out, making his eyes go wide and panicked.
He looked at Bronte who picked the piece up and examined it for a few seconds before his facial expression contorted into an accusing look.
“Did you,” Cyrus struggled to meet Bronte’s gaze as he spoke, his brother’s tone turning strained. “Break Rocky?”
“I’m sorry, I’ll buy you a new one, gotta go!” Cyrus scrambled to his feet, bolting immediately towards the path back indoors, Rocky’s other remnants jumbling in his pocket. He emptied out his pocket, spilling all the broken stone and crystal onto the ground as he ran to the safety of his room. Last thing he saw as he looked behind him before finding himself inside was Bronte’s struggling expression to run after him with oversized armor, slamming the door behind him.
In his head, he thought a short apology for Rocky as he ran through the hallways, promising that he’ll attend its inevitable funeral when the sound of angry screaming and metal plates clanging against each other fades away into silence.