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It is — just like with most things — Steward who brings this up. It is the kid’s job, after all, to talk, to start important conversations and coax whoever needs it out of the depths of their hearts and minds where they contemplate what they wish to never be dragged to the surface. It is the kid’s job to bring it up — just like it is Storm’s job to decline it, time after time after time.
But the voices never stop ringing out in their ears, the snarky remarks never fade away for too long. Be it in the village, somewhere in the realms, or in Daleth’s temple (the place makes them feel all weird, not unlike an adult trying to fit into child’s clothing, a shadow attempting to pretend to be someone they no longer are or, perhaps, have never been), Storm hears them, sometimes. They push the words of reproach and the sounds of laughter far, far away from themself — and yet, these just keep finding their way back into their head.
Snowflakes fall onto their hands and music fills the street, light dancing on the walls and someone happily chattering nearby, and Storm cannot shake off the sensation that something is missing. Something, something that used to be here, is absent. Not unlike a piece of a puzzle they have seen completed so many times they know what the missing element looks like, or where it should be, or what barely noticeable to all yet so familiar to them scent it has. They turn around, sometimes, unbeknownst to themself, to search for it — yet, the piece is never there.
They know it is not. They know it is not supposed to be. But the mere thought of having to stare at the incomplete picture for the rest of what seems to be a whole eternity makes those voices resound even louder in their head.
Snow melts in the garden and flowers bloom everywhere they look, and Steward brings it up again and again and again. It is the kid’s job, after all, to be persistent, to never give up — it is the kid’s job, and they are surprisingly good at this.
The sight of the Coliseum haunts Storm in their worst nightmares as often as the ruins of their once-majestic palace do, and lying awake on their sofa during the wee hours, they cannot help but think that looking from afar — a mere glance, no longer than a moment — would not hurt anyone. Besides, perhaps, their pride.
But it would be a reasonable price to pay.
***
Seeing what one longs for often disappoints one so much that one stops desiring it immediately. It might have been Samekh who said this, once — or maybe, it was not them at all. It has been a while since Storm last spoke to them, but it does sound terribly similar to the kind of thing the Elders of Valley would point out, attempting to sound smart and wise beyond their years, pretending to know what they are doing and to be in full control of everything around them. They would almost believe them when they were younger. Now, Storm hates them from the bottom of their heart — so much that they would give everything to be able to believe those lies again.
They take the boat line in Village of Dreams to sneak up and take a look — a very short one, just to know what is there and then go away — at the most majestic temple there has ever been and the most bloody ice rink there will ever be. They take a boat and find themself in the back rows, a spectator of an actorless performance, an actor in front of empty seats. The two statues, one on each side of the temple entrance, are covered in eternal snow, pieces of faces and armour missing; the bas-reliefs on the walls are but amalgamations of stone and gaudy untarnished gold — a rich-looking mess, beauty turned garbage.
The place seems pathetic, tawdry even — despite the tremendously high prices and scrupulous quality checks Storm knows about. The magnificent Coliseum is no more than a cheap replica of what it was — or of what it was supposed to be. Perhaps, it was always rotten to the core. Not that Storm — Resh — ever cared to look deeper than the surface level.
A shiver runs down their spine, a shiver that could not have less to do with the cold of the mountainous realm. No, it is a shiver that cannot be awakened from outside, but rather from within. A shiver that asks silently: if this is what the temple looks like — what about them?
Dead people do not age, Storm replies in their head, their hands turning into fists to stop trembling. Dead people do not age — who knows what happens to them instead.
(In their heart, they pray the answer is nothing.)
Their eyes dart left and right, gliding over the rough surface of the walls and the seats, the faded fabric of the canopies, the uneven ice below, and the torn flags on both sides of the entrance — the Elders of Valley are nowhere to be found. Perhaps, they are inside.
Storm sits down cross-legged and leans back, closing their eyes for a moment. They have come here with a specific purpose — to make the two half-stars leave their mind. They will wait all they need for it to happen. Samekh will end up coming out sooner or later, and when they do, Storm will throw a quick glance at them and, disappointed by what has become of the two, leave to never think of them again.
(In the back of their mind, that very same shiver wonders what the twins look like now, whether they have changed just like Storm or have remained the same people they were when Resh last spoke to them. Storm makes sure to push the question as far away as they physically can — neither of the two possible answers deserves to be thought of.)
***
The first thing Alef thought of Samekh — an eternity ago, when they were but a small child with a couple of minutes separating them from their foretold fate — was that these were arrogant fools with no manners or respect at all. Sah snorted when Alef tripped. Mekh had a frown on their face that never seemed to disappear. Both of them were excessively loud and childish and seemed to pay the young Prince no attention at all. So, the latter kept their distance, apprehensive and as cold as they could be with so many feelings burning in their chest.
The second thing Alef thought of Samekh — years later, when the abyss between them seemed to have grown smaller and what they had initially disliked had become just a couple of quirks they expected — was that the two were quite interesting. Elegant. Persuasive. Beautiful, too, in a way unique to them: they were parts of the same whole yet separate, broken beyond repair yet indestructible, so similar yet the polar opposites of one another. They were, the Prince said to themself then, a mystery better left unsolved, an embroidery so intricate it was meant to be admired from afar lest one wanted to end up tangled in the thread.
The third thing Alef thought of Samekh was that they had, despite themself, ended up tangled in it.
The fourth thing was that their most valuables allies had betrayed them.
What Storm thinks of the twins now, when they appear on the balcony from where the entirety of the Coliseum as well as the grounds nearby can be seen (Resh has been there; the view is spectacular), their bleak grey frames not unlike a reflection on murky water of the bright, expensive attires they would wear before, is that Samekh look just like they remember them with the sole exception of their faces: not once has Storm or Resh or Alef seen such an overtly pained — not bored, pained — expression on their features. This expression does not suit them at all, and Storm finds themself frozen in place, both mesmerised and in sheer terror.
Unable to tear their eyes from the sight so far from them yet so close after centuries of unbreachable distance, they stay there staring until they eventually blink — and then the two figures are gone; like an illusion fading away, like a dream dissipating come morning, the two of them disappear as if they had never been real in the first place. Storm groans in frustration — they have barely seen anything! That was not enough to draw any conclusions — they want more! They need more!
Anger boiling in their chest, they get up and start pacing, their legs jumpy and arms restless. It is not fair! It is not!
A sound of footsteps that are not theirs is soft but steady, and Storm stops in their tracks once they realise that it, unlike the voices constantly echoing in their mind, is not a fruit of their imagination. Slowly, almost physically hurt by the anticipation in their heart, the ex-Ruler turns around.
Half a dozen metres away stand the Elders of Valley, stern expressions with not a single hint at emotion visible in their eyes or on their lips. Mekh leans slightly over their sibling’s shoulder in a reversal of a picture Storm knows oh-so well while Sah’s arms are crossed on their chest. There is a glint in that pair of eyes that would bring plebs to their knees in a split second. It has been a while since Storm last felt that look on themself though, and it fills them with wild excitement and an even wilder desire to jump into the depths of an abyss.
What hides behind that practiced expression does not matter — not to Storm, not now — and Storm gazes at what is but masks — masks they know far better than they have ever known any truth — with almost tangible hunger stirring in their stomach. How long has it been since they last saw each other? How much time do they have until they inevitably part ways forever?
They must have been staring for too long, Storm realises when Samekh exchange looks. It lasts no longer than a fraction of a second, yet it happens — it may not be enough to break the façade, but it is much more than the act needs. They must have lost some of their skills, Storm cannot help but feel a smile of cruel triumph blossoming on their face. They are much older now, the ex-Ruler thinks, their knees quaking. What are they hiding? something buried deep inside them asks.
Their train of thought comes to a halt as they notice Mekh straightening up, now standing beside their sibling with the stance of a fighter and the stare of a hawk. Sah’s frown turns into a saccharine smile, and they bow and curtsy, their movements as graceful as those of a dancer.
“Good evening, Your Majesty.”
Their voice is sugary-sweet when they speak, and Storm barely manages to restrain themself from jumping forward and strangling Sah with their hands — perhaps, that would make the lies and the sarcasm leave their throat.
Storm licks their lips as they rummage in their head for a perfect response.
“The Elders of Valley,” they acknowledge in the most distant manner they can muster and with the most false note of warmth they are capable of producing, mirroring the gesture they have just received. A cold smile dances on their lips as their face meets the twins’ once again — only to catch them throw a quick glance at each other one more time.
What might they be thinking about? What might they be consulting each other about? It is not often that they do this, Storm recalls despite their vain attempts to brush off the useless questions and focus on the performance. Only in times of need and great insecurity has Resh noticed them exchange brief looks with such frequency. Are they worried, deep below the masks? Or are they simply rusty? Oh, what a strange thing to think of — the Valley Elders ever getting rusty! What would perfection be if it were to corrode?
Do they notice the changes? Storm wonders in the moment of silence that hangs in the chilly air. Does the human voice strike them as odd after the mask? Do the scars on my face remind them of their own? Do the simple clothes disgust them? Do the memories hurt?
The pinkish light of the sunset dances on the rough features of the Valley Elders, bringing fire into those eyes, emphasising their sharp jawlines and giving colour to their ghostlike skin and hair and clothes. Sah’s exaggerated flattery appears less blatant in the shadow their hair casts onto their own face; the delicate rays of sunshine soften the frown Mekh insists on wearing. There it is, that enigmatic beauty, that innate charm that Alef was so fascinated by once, that contrast and similarity intertwined and inseparable and so uniquely Samekh.
Storm still finds it curious, to a certain extent; it is enough to take one’s breath away, even if for a moment — but they know now it is simply a trick, one of the many Samekh use. Who knows what dirt lies behind those walls, behind all that excellence and brilliance and perfection.
It was a tad superficial for Alef to admire a façade so much. But then again, admiring a façade was what gave them the chance to make up their own — and this was what really mattered. Until it did not, that is. Though this is a whole different story.
Storm supposes trying to dig deeper than allowed would have never done them any good.
A smile dances on Mekh’s lips, one whose cruelty is not entirely disguised. It might be part of the mask — or, on the contrary, a slip. Regardless, Storm makes sure their own smirk remains as cold as it must be.
“What is it that brings you back here?” the Elder asks, their expression turning into that of unconcealed mockery. Their speciality. “Is it the times of need again? I have terrible news if that should be the case.”
“Oh yes?” Storm cocks their head to their side — an attempt to copy Alef rather than Resh this time, courtesy instead of coldness. “I shall be delighted to learn what misery has been brought upon you!”
That sounded nothing like Alef, and probably nothing like Resh either. But it is of no importance: it does not matter who they play as, as long as they continue playing.
It is Sah’s turn to jump in, their expression not faltering even for a moment while their intonation gains a note of gravity.
“It is not a matter of incidents, I am afraid, but rather one of conscious decisions.”
“I am intrigued,” Storm exclaims with fake enthusiasm not unlike that their interlocutor was displaying mere seconds ago. Though there is something of truth in their statement: they are utterly ravished by the turn the conversation is taking. It fills them with both dread and exhilaration; they can barely believe it is really happening this time instead of being a fantasy crawling into their head against their own will or a dream that slips through their fingers as they try to recall its details.
“Your curiosity will be satisfied,” Mekh begins with a smile and an overly polite expression that scream liar. “It happens that in light of certain events, Your Majesty is no longer a welcome visitor of our lands.”
Their words are a low blow, and for a split second, Storm forgets how to breathe. But they will not surrender. If they have found themself entangled in this game, they will play it. They will not give Samekh the pleasure of winning — no matter the cost.
Pushing away the nagging sense of déjà vu evoked by the accusation and mustering a nonchalant look, they take a step closer and speak, their voice dropping to an almost-whisper:
“It appears to me that your information is outdated. How unfortunate that Your Graces have failed to follow the recent developments — it is so unlike you! I must confess I am somewhat disappointed.”
Storm stifles a triumphant exclamation that attempts to break free from their throat upon seeing a brief tinge of rage flicker across Sah’s face as the fake smile is wiped off Mekh’s lips. The distant, no more than annoyed façades are back in a matter of moments — but they slipped for a split second, and Storm saw it happen, and the feeling of victory is honey-sweet on their tongue.
Though the battle is not over yet.
“I am afraid some news spread rather slowly,” Mekh replies, their voice a hiss, as they step forward. “It all bears upon significance, you see: there exist events which are deemed so irrelevant by the public they tend to be ignored. Your Majesty cannot be offended that matters of so little importance have not reached our ears.”
“Then you must accept my condolences for what your heralds make priority of. I must admit you seem to be missing out on political news whilst listening to gossip.”
“Enlighten us,” Sah whispers into their ear seductively from far too close — their speciality.
Storm does not falter despite their heart skipping a beat. They know the cards their opponents are holding, and they have an ace or two up their own sleeve. It has always been like this with Samekh — well, almost always: there were rare times, a long while ago, when masks would fall, even if not for long; yet, those occurrences are too far away, too insignificant to be considered now — a never-ending game of chess, a constant battle of wits, an unavoidable confrontation hiding beneath every word, every action, every look. It was a play, a real-life-scaled performance, and they were the actors with roles whose rules they had no choice but obey.
It was foolish of Storm to ever miss this. It is equally foolish of them to be relishing in it.
They put the memories away and focus on the task at hand — a retort. A pithy remark, a wry comment — they must find one that is neither suspiciously elusive nor embarrassingly sincere.
“I am unsure of whether it would be of your interest,” Storm says carelessly as they put a finger on Sah’s shoulder and push slightly. Sah does back off, even if unwillingly — they look away in feigned nonchalance in order not to see the Elder’s face. “If you have not learnt of it yet, I shall think you would rather entertain yourselves with rumours.”
“Oh, but we are oh-so excited to hear the news! We cannot imagine what delicious information you are so keen on withholding!”
“I am only trying to spare your dignity,” Storm shrugs, “You will be terribly, terribly disappointed that all your efforts were in vain.”
“Do speak; no disappointment will mar our day more than our encounter,” Mekh joins in once again, and the ex-Ruler has to pause for a moment to regain composure.
The audacity!
Storm throws a glance around the Coliseum, eyes dwelling on faded paint and a couple of cracks here in there as they try not to lose their feigned insouciance and quickly think of how to say what they have no choice but to say. They have mere moments for their pause to seem no longer than natural — but if they succeed (they must), the rest of the conversation will be easier. They only have to keep the act going, and they are no stranger to this sort of situation.
“M,” Storm hums pensively, “I believe that the political system of the Kingdom was made obsolete.”
They do not mention what made it obsolete, but a pang of guilt in their chest makes the reason known. Still, no need to say the quiet part out loud — both them and their interlocutors are aware of the implications. Samekh have always excelled in seeing deeper than just words, and Storm has always been grateful for that. Things would have been... unnecessarily hard if they had not.
Or perhaps, they would have been much easier. But there is no way of knowing it now.
“And so was the name you so generously gave me,” they add in a whisper only to immediately regret it afterwards. It is the truth, yes — but does the detail not give away a little too much? Does it not move away from the bare facts and bring some… feelings into the conversation? Feelings that are not to be disclosed under any circumstances. Feelings that it is useless to ponder on now — if it ever was.
A heavy silence falls, and the ex-Ruler looks away. They know — they realise a moment too late to prevent it — that their mask has slipped. They know Samekh’s have, too — their words would have been met with a snarky remark otherwise. You have done so much for me, is what that sentence must have sounded to those that are the masters of reading between the lines. It all bore a meaning, once. It no longer does. You gave me a new name, a new position — but it is over now. It is over.
Storm’s eyes are fixed on the floor; they do not need to show more than they already have. They do not need to see what hides behind the others’ façades. They have told them what they had to; the play is over, the actors are to bow and leave the stage. The implications of their words hang heavy in the air, but the message has been transmitted. This is what matters. They have come here to see — and now they have done so, even more: they have let themself be seen, too. Now, the only thing left to do is go.
It is almost funny that they already miss the Valley Elders again.
The silence seems far too unnatural now, and Storm feels the urge to look. They know that whatever they may end up witnessing will not brighten their mood and that it would be much better for them to turn on their heel and walk away to never show up here again.
And yet, they look.
Samekh stare at them with what cannot be anything but exhaustion, and this exhaustion makes them seem twice older than they were supposed to be when their life was taken away from them. Storm’s heart skips a beat; they do not remember ever seeing the twins so exposed, and it is inappropriate. Obscene. Terrifying. They should not be watching. They should run away. They must.
They do not.
“Does the obsolescence of our political system explain why you’re here?”
They do not expect anything other than leave immediately from the Elders — yet, what Sah says is nothing like it. Taken aback by the question — the rawness of it — Storm hesitates. What do they say to this? What does Sah want to hear?
“I—,” Storm takes a step back, stuttering. How do they reply? They are not even supposed to still be here — they are not supposed to be seeing what they are seeing. This situation is wrong, and its wrongness sets their heart racing. “I was just visiting—”
“That’s not what I meant,” Sah growls, scowling at them with that glint in their eye which is reserved to disobedient staff.
What did they mean then?
“We thought you were gone,” their sibling hisses, and Storm’s mind goes blank for a moment.
Why have they brought that up? What does it matter? What does it mean — what does it even have to so with— Wait, did they— No, they cannot be implying that— Did they— Do they— Are they— Have they been—?
A laugh escapes Storm’s lips before they know it. They suddenly find the whole situation absolutely hilarious. Ridiculous. Exhilarating. So painful the ache in their chest could break their ribs.
“Well, you’re here, too,” the ex-Ruler finally manages.
There is something in the authenticity of the expressions in front of them that makes their head feel all fuzzy.
A sound of quick footsteps, a rustling of clothes — and a fist meets their chest, a fist they do not expect and that brings them down on the stone floor. Mekh towers above them, their face a more vivid depiction of rage than the never-ending thunderstorms in Eye of Eden.
“We have always been here,” the Elder says haughtily as their sibling joins them, the voice a more accurate representation of coldness than the snow-covered mountains all around them. “You were destined to go.”
Storm breathes heavily, clutching their chest. Destined to go. We thought you were gone. Did they—? No, it cannot be—
“You wish!” they grunt despite themself, drowning out the questions in their head with their words. They are still on the floor, not trusting their ghostly — but still very much aching — body to stand up.
Mekh chuckles bitterly.
“Empty threats, I see. Stars, you’re pathetic.”
Pathetic?!
Storm grunts as they get up.
“Me? Ha, it’s you that—”
“Shut up already,” Sah utters and pushes Storm away from themself. “We couldn’t care less about whatever you want to say.”
Now, that is bullshit. “Couldn’t care less” — was it not them demonstrating just the opposite a few seconds ago, asking why they are here? Storm cannot be making this up, oh no, there was something in that question, in the way the masks had slipped, there was something there — they did not imagine this.
“If you didn’t care,” the ex-Ruler glares at both of them, eyes flickering from one face to another at equal intervals (they have learnt, a long time ago, how many seconds their gaze could linger on either of the two without becoming inappropriately much or disrespectfully little), “you would’ve left.”
A lot earlier, they do not add. I’m talking about before, they do not specify. There is no need to. Samekh know. And Storm knows they do.
"We did,” Mekh growls, far too close for Storm to feel safe — yet, it would be a sign of cowardice to back up.
“Much later than you should have.”
“Don’t speak of things you do not understand.”
Storm does not quite intend to laugh, but this conversation is ridiculous. Terribly so. It feels so surreal for them to be here, in one of the dozens of places where they are not wanted and that they are prohibited from entering, and talking to people for whom they harbour a mutual feeling of hatred. It is no less surreal that they are enjoying it in some masochistic way they barely grasp themself. And the most surreal thing of all is that they get to see Samekh lying, so blatantly and so overtly. They are supposed to be the masters of pretence — this is what made Alef admire them in the first place — why are they so bad at this now?
And, most importantly, why does Storm still like them?
“I? Not understand? Do you even hear what you’re saying?” they begin pacing, their whole body fuelled by the mess of rage and exhilaration in their heart. “I know much more than anyone — more than you — ever did!”
A hand lands on Storm’s arm — they try to shake it off, but the grip is firm. Stopping their pointless walking, they turn around to see Sah squinting at them, as if trying to read something written inside them — or to write something there themself.
“If you’re so knowledgeable,” the Elder snarls, grabbing them by the scruff now (were the ex-Ruler not taller than them, it would probably be more intimidating) and staring right into Storm’s eyes, “tell us why you did what you did.”
Their throat goes dry at the words.
They were a child. A stupid child. An even stupider — and more insecure — adult. They had people — the very same people now blaming them — by their side. People who were there by choice. Of their own volition. They were the ones to give them ideas. They were the ones to urge them to do things — and when the tables turned, Samekh should not have been surprised.
And they were not, for a long time.
“What I did?!” they push Sah and turn back to their pacing — almost running now — around the two arrogant, selfish idiots Storm wishes they had never met. “You were there by my side! You were my right and left hand! You took as many decisions as I did, and you’re pretending you had not, you— you cowards!”
“Don’t you blame us for your own stupidity! The only coward here is you!” Mekh retorts.
“Besides,” Sah adds, “you started treating us like dogs once you’d got what you wanted. Don’t look at me like that — you know it’s true. Can’t have dogs as your right and left hand, can you?”
The chuckle the Elder gives is sour, and Storm can feel an unpleasant aftertaste in their own mouth. They treated them like dogs? Rubbish! They had so many unwritten privileges — they were the ones who started to have doubts and drift away! Sure, Resh did maintain a reasonable distance from them — but how could they not? They were the King, after all, not the Prince, not anymore. They had a position — and that position mattered far more than—
Oh. Perhaps they did treat them like dogs. From a certain point on. Oh well.
It is not like they have to admit it now though: there is so much Samekh are getting wrong!
“It was you that gave me what I wanted!” Storm continues, facing Sah. “It was you that gave me everything, it was— I would’ve been nothing without you!”
“You literally would,” Mekh interrupts. “The prophecy—”
“The prophecy says nothing about the second coronation! Or darkstone! Or— Or anything, for that matter — you made me into who I am!”
Their words echo in the empty Coliseum, red rays dancing on the snow like blood and the empty seats staring with the eyes of a thousand spectators who should be here but are not. Will never be. There are three actors in this performance and just as many people watching; though no, a play is well-rehearsed and has such beautiful, elegant monologues and soliloquies — no, this cannot be a performance. It is a game. A race. A fight. Something unscripted. Unpredictable. Messy. Messy, risky, and bloody. Ugly.
It is for the third time today that the Valley Elders exchange looks. They do not speak, not needing a single word to understand each other. They are two halves of the same whole, closer to one another than any living thing could ever be to anything it encounters. They can talk with mere thoughts, the tiniest of facial expressions and gestures — they can speak while the whole world understands nothing, and it saddened Alef and it made Resh mad and it loosens Storm’s tongue, sending hot, scorching eternity-old thoughts down into their throat and out of their mouth.
“You made me who I am! You gave me the ideas! You supported me — you taught me all I know! You made me into an arrogant liar who never listens to anyone but themself because this is who you two are; you whispered tricks and proposals into my ears, and you showed me the brilliance and the corruption of your own realm for me to replicate in mine; you gave me more than I asked, more than I thought was possible, more than I would’ve ever expected anyone to give me! You gave me what nobody did, you were there when no one was, you were all I—” they trail off, eyes darting frantically between Sah and Mekh, trying to see whether the unspoken end of the sentence resounded loudly enough in their heads. The two are silent. Storm coughs and looks away. “You… You know what you were.”
They have said too much. Far too much. They should leave — should have already left. What were they even thinking, showing up here? It was a stupid whim. And this stupid whim will only make them think about Samekh more.
(They will have something new to dream of, at least. A whole new side of them — perhaps, it will be enough for the eternity they have ahead of themself.
It will probably not.)
A bitter chuckle comes from near them, but they do not turn around.
“Finish the sentence,” Mekh orders in a hoarse voice.
“You know how it ends.”
“Finish it nonetheless. Coward.”
Storm glances at them — and there is that look of pure exhaustion once again. It is uncomfortable to watch, really — though it is also nice to know they are not the only one wishing the whole ordeal were over. They let out a sigh and pinch the bridge of their nose, using the opportunity to close their eyes and try to rearrange their thoughts. There is no saving face now. They must say what they must say; they will have the chance to feel ashamed later, when shame is the only thing they have left.
Even if knowing this does not make anything easier.
“You were… far more than I ever deserved to have,” Storm mumbles barely audibly. “Well, more than I thought I deserved to have — I guess you were exactly what I deserved…”
“That’s not what you were going to say.”
“That’s what I meant.”
Their stomach feels like it is about to turn inside out. Their heart races as if it were going to jump and run away. Their eyes burn. Their hands tremble. They may have said what they wanted to — had to — but it does not make them feel any better.
Someone clears their throat.
“Will you stop looking at the wall? You’re living up to the title of coward there.”
“Shut up.”
A finger pokes their shoulder, and they jump away. The look on Sah’s face is apologetic and as unsure as Storm feels.
“If we ask you why you’re here again, will you answer this time around?”
“No.”
The Elder frowns for a moment before — the nerve of them! — rolling their eyes.
“And if we invited you for a glass of wine?” Mekh asks, arms crossed on their chest, a note of something soft in— no, nonononono.
What? Why? Why would they even— What?
This situation has reached the limits of the absurd. It is either Storm who has lost their mind or Samekh. Or, perhaps, the whole world. They were just telling each other horrible things — what the hell is even happening? And why, for the love of Megabird, is Storm’s heart fluttering?
“Come on, you can’t just leave like this if you’ve already come!”
“I can,” Storm blurts out without really knowing why.
They can swear the twins’ eyes look horribly bleak when they do.
“Then leave,” Mekh says, frowning, not a single emotion in their voice, that note the ex-Ruler can swear they heard before gone — probably forever.
Storm turns on their heel and takes a few steps away. This is how it goes. How it was supposed to go. This is what is right — but then why does it feel so horribly wrong? Why are their feet as heavy as if they were made of lead? Why is there a stinging in their eyes? Why do they stop, why do their legs freeze in place and refuse to move? They should get going, they really should — they are supposed to — but if they do, the emptiness where the missing piece of the puzzle must be will never go away. It will remain there, devouring them from the inside despite their attempts to ignore it. The two voices will haunt them for the rest of eternity.
They shoot a quick glance over their shoulder — the Valley Elders are still there.
Why would they be?
Storm throws their head back to see the darkening skies above — definitely not to make sure that whatever has been threatening to come out of their eyes stays where it is. It may be a little too early to enjoy the stars, but late enough to be able to discern the intricate patterns of the constellations.
Samekh do not ask them to stay. There is not a single scenario where they would. It is not something they do, not really — but they have remained stood in place. As if offering. Waiting. Watching as Storm walked away only to stop in their tracks themself — waiting, too, though they are not sure for what.
Oh, why must it all always be so complicated?..
“Don’t you have a better place for stargazing?” Sah asks sarcastically. They sound harsh. Annoyed. Bitter, perhaps.
Storm is far too tired of all this to properly care about it.
“A glass of wine, you said?” they ask after a brief pause.
Silence falls once again — Storm does not blame Samekh for not responding immediately. Though they can blame themself for still not facing their interlocutors: who knows what they may be missing by looking away. They should probably turn around. Yes, they should. They will. On the count of three.
One.
“You know, like the good old times.” They can hear Mekh shrug.
Two.
“Though I guess it’d be rather difficult to pull off…”
(Two and a half.)
“Scratch that. Bad new times — political systems made obsolete and stuff.”
Storm chuckles — and can hear Sah chuckle at the same time.
(Must they really keep counting?)
“Can’t be that bad, in this case.”
Three.