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Ithaqua’s footsteps thudded into the ground as the door to his room flew open, bouncing off the wall with a bang — to the chagrin and outrage of Keigan. Ignoring her warnings, he slammed the door shut.
Today’s matches had been a disaster, two losses and one tie. He tossed his axe against the wall, as with his mask.
Breathing heavily, the hunter proceeded to slam his hands down on the bathroom sink, shaky hands quickly removing his hood. It was hot, too hot. Wasn’t he just in Leo’s Memory? Why was he all of a sudden burning up?
Ithaqua looked down to see his legs trembling. He looked up again. Staring back at him in the mirror was his own reflection, his silver hair sticking to his face. His eyes seemed more dilated than usual, the pale irises so retreated his black sclera seemed to swallow them whole.
Ithaqua tore his hood off clumsily, looking back into the glass. A flash. Perhaps he had hallucinated it. When was the last time he ate, anyways? Or slept? He needed some rest.
His fingers started tapping. One, two, three, four. This continued with him losing count and restarting, until his hand shook faster than he could control. Tapping and counting helped him calm down, most of the time, though today it did not work.
Breaths heavy and strained, he splashed water on his face. Cool water. It usually helped, but for some reason, it also did nothing to calm his racing pulse.
Matches. That insipid Forward ruining his downs, he should’ve used excitement, god, he wanted to — god. Was he getting weaker? It took longer and longer to track down a survivor and down them, and much longer to even get them in the chair. Damn rescuers. Damn Coordinator.
His job was to kill! Why couldn’t he even do that?! They were so much smaller than him. All he had to do was tear his axe through their stupid flesh and chair them. Was that so hard?
Tap-tap-tap.
He shook in fury and something else, his gloved hands clutching the marble basin so hard it might break. Ithaqua’s fingers brimmed along the rim of the sink, the tapping resulting in a little dink-dink-dink.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
Get yourself together, Eta, he thought. Are you a hunter or not? Aren’t you a Vilulf? Didn’t you come to this godforsaken manor to —
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
“Mother,” he thought. “Mother, I’m sorry.”
A flash of white-hot rage burned through him. Mother, crying. Then, a face, so alike his own yet twisted into a taunting grin, filled his vision. Nathaniel. His —
Ithaqua took a deep breath and looked up, hoping to regain some semblance of control.
His reflection blurred, and staring back at him with a smile split like a wound, was —
“You.”
——————————————————————————————————————————
In a split second, he smashed the mirror, cracks spiralling out from where his hands had fractured it. Glass flew everywhere, adorning the floor. Blood.
And yet, his brother still stood, staring, smiling, still. Unfazed.
The fractured glass did nothing to soothe Ithaqua’s frazzled mind. The spiderweb cracks merely reflected himself more, showing that stupid smile, the monster that had tortured his mother.
He punched the glass again.
In front of him. Nathaniel— no, it— was in front of him. The hunter immediately wrapped his hands around his neck, choking. God, it felt good to feel flesh under him, the pulse fluttering erratically.
And still, it smiled.
Couldn’t save dear Mother? If only you had arrived earlier. Before I had broken her. Take her, if you want. It serves no difference, anyway, brother.
Shut up, shut up, shut up—!
Ithaqua dug his sharp nails into his brother’s neck. He scratched with the ferocity of a feral dog, tearing and slashing until the light would disappear like it had three years ago.
Flesh, he needed to feel flesh and to see the light disappear and to kill, tear, taste —
Another flash.
The hunter’s vision grew woozy, fading black at the edges.
The last thing he saw was his brother’s lifeless eyes.
——————————————————————————————————————————
Ithaqua opened his eyes. He was lying on the bathroom floor. By himself. No brother to be seen, nor a corpse.
The tile felt cool under his hands. Wait — hands. His hands were bloody. Then who had he —?
Standing up, the hunter felt a sudden weakness and jabbing pain in his neck. Turning around, he looked at the mirror, or what remained of it, and saw.
He had heavy eye bags. On his neck were bruises, and scratch marks. He recognized the patterns, and —
Oh. It hadn’t been his brother.
Thinking back, he thought, it would have been highly improbable that his traitor of a brother somehow teleported into his room. He’d died three years ago.
Killed. By him.
Ithaqua touched his neck gingerly, avoiding the inflamed and bloody marks that now scattered on the sides of his jugular.
Slumping back on the floor, he closed his eyes and thought,
“I really need to get some sleep.”