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In Pythor’s not so humble opinion, Strike was a traitor to their entire race and to everyone she had ever loved.
Counterpoint, she was the last Anacondrai besides him, whom he had always known rather well and perhaps even loved despite their frequent quarrels that were completely inevitable of siblings. He would be damned if he did not at least see her once again. It wasn’t as if he missed her overbearing presence, of course, he simply needed closure. As the young people said, “for the plot.”
He had learned of her unfortunate survival through Wu, who had visited him in prison a few months before the Crystal Spider had broken him out and delivered him to the Council of The Crystal King. Pythor’s reaction was certainly dramatic for someone who knew she was likely alive– but hardly unjustified, really. Of all the Anacondrai to live, it had to be her. The pacifist. The race-traitor. The liar, because when he had asked Wu how she was not imprisoned with the rest of them, (he could hardly remember his interactions in the tomb other than the blood, gore, children asking when they could leave, his little sister starving and shaking in his arms–) Wu... Wu had said she was immune to the wretched, overly lulling and dulling noise due to her desire for unity.
Pah! Unity– that was a good one, because he recalled many babies in the tomb crying and him, with the most unbearable guilt one could have, sinking his sharp fangs to their soft scales and into their flesh. Sobbing while swallowing what felt like lead going down his throat. Nearly throwing up when he had fed a child to his little sister. Children eating children. Fucking absurd, not something you could hear about every day. Anyways, when he told Wu of this, the man had at first refused, but after Pythor’s intense mental breakdown which had nearly caused the guards to drag him away from the visitation area, the old fool had believed him and urged for him to calm down, signaling for the guards to not interfere.
Pythor could not exactly pinpoint why Wu had chosen to tell him this now. According to several sources he had researched, the sensei was a troubled man who carried possibly as much guilt as him. From taking part in genocide to apparently not telling the ninja about at least three old enemies, he was certainly haunted by his past and sought to lighten the load of his weighing conscience. To lessen this sorrow, he had told the oblivious “last” survivor that another was alive. A part of Pythor wished Wu had not told him, so he could both live in ignorance and so the sensei would suffer this guilt for the rest of his days. Then again, he wanted to make Strike drown in her own guilt, to know that to some degree this was her fault. She would see a product of her actions, a broken, mangled mind of a man too crazed now to be depressed, and she would weep at him, spouting apologies at the fact that dear Amblya had died in his arms because of her ignorance. In return, he would coldly reply that it was all her fault, and then, if he’s being realistic, would also start crying.
While on the council, he had intended to slip away to perhaps see her in case something went wrong and he’d lose his chance. However, he had learned much to his dismay, that the powers of the Crystal King that inhabited his very veins now kept him from going against orders. His body had felt like tar was being poured over it when he tried to leave Ninjago City in search of her. Unfortunately, he had felt like that until late the next day and his colleagues had to help him back to the castle. Luckily, their ruler seemed too occupied to truly care, so he had been taken care of by Mr. F for the duration of the strange period. He had gone from in and out of consciousness, spouting what the Mechanic called “weird nonsense bullshit.” He never learned what exactly he was talking about.
Lo and behold, Pythor was correct about his assumption that something might, no, absolutely would go wrong. After the plans of worldwide domination had been put to a stop by those pesky ninja, they were all arrested. He was stuck in prison again for another six months and then taken to the mental ward after Vangelis had attempted suicide (haha, he knew that fool would crack under pressure) and their confiners had just assumed that the entire council wanted to kill themselves. The thought process was probably that serving the literal entity of evil screwed with their heads a bloody lot. And so the council spent two years in that strange place, save for Harumi and Mr. F, who had actually tried to resolve their issues and got out after one and one and a quarter years and did community service. Now, Pythor knew that the place could do nothing for him, even if he needed help… which he didn’t. He knew this place wouldn’t do anything for anyone, and that’s why he relentlessly teased Vangelis for trying to get better and then to Aspheera for not trying at all because she was truly a nihilist when being depressed about her lack of taken revenge. Then he made fun of them for staying together so often, like crazed drug addicts, like the other was the thing that they needed so much. In the therapy circle, it was labeled as possibly romantic codependency, though the staff were too scared to separate them or even simply ask if they were shagging. The Mechanic just fucked off to threaten the usual lousy janitor to give him weed, and Pythor gladly joined him in that conquest.
Many of those days were spent with them sneaking onto the roof and sitting together, talking about their lives, which did far more than what the therapists inside were able to. Some days it was about the Mechanic’s reaction to being revived after drowning in the ocean hundreds of years ago and Pythor talking about his deadbeat Fangpyre father that left when he was four, or it was about how they both wanted to eat ham and cheese hot pockets. Of course, Pythor also mentioned that arm muscles sort of tasted like ham to him, which the Mechanic grimaced at and switched the topic to something more palatable (ha) or found a way to light the blunt he’d been rolling while listening.
And then, one uneventful, cloudy morning, the Merge happened. His seemingly changed location: unknown. His direction: utterly unclear. His plan: well, there was none! None of his colleagues were in sight in the wreckage– to be fair, he hadn’t bothered to check. He knew they wouldn’t look for him, save for the Mechanic, so Pythor scratched a message onto a particularly large piece of rubble that said he left and hoped that he survived and that the other two died mid-intercourse. He left so immediately because he was so done with that boring place, he couldn’t stand another second of those bland white walls, no matter how demolished. What a dreary place, where there were few employees, but he knew that if he escaped, he’d need to hide from the plentiful authorities and the sewers were off the table now that the Serpentine resided there. It was painful, honestly, to not be accepted by the closest thing to him. Even if he could only blame himself for his foolishness in planning.
So now, with this new beginning, he found a new life of his own. He quickly learned that this was not Ninjago, not anymore. It was a whole new realm of possibility and opportunity! So he slithered away with a pleasant hum, because his life was finally emerging into its’ new stage.
He wandered around a lot, making new acquaintances and getting off on the right foot with most of them. Perhaps it was a sign to be more friendly, he truly needed all the allies he could get in this new, much bigger world. He even ran into a few old acquaintances, though he was more or less friendly with them. He had seen Aspheera, who had promptly told him to hang himself and he laughed until she started to chase him around the market with her staff, shooting spells left and right. He noticed she had a ring with an emerald on it on her ring finger. He was right about her and Vangelis then, huzzah!
He ran into Skales, who looked both regretful and affected with… something once he saw him at a teahouse. He wasn’t sure if it was love, hatred, bitterness, sadness, or all of the above, but it was certainly not nothing. The man was with his wife and son, a teenager bearing the same name. Pythor had sat with them and apologized even if he didn’t completely mean it. He made conversation with his old friend’s wife, Selma, and realized they got along on various things despite their clashing personalities. Skales had a strange expression the whole time, and while his wife was attentive to him, he seemed to drift away a little, his eyes purposefully averted. Junior talked with Pythor a bit and eventually went off to do his own thing in town. He said he was meeting a friend and staying over for the night, to which Selma had reprimanded him for not telling her and Skales was uncharacteristically silent. Junior had looked at him oddly, his head tilted to the side, before shrugging and leaving, giving Pythor a high-five when offered. Pythor mailed them presents every once in a while, and he only got letters back from Junior.
Pythor had also come across Harumi, and the two had seen each other while walking down the street. They passed by each other, eyed one another for a few seconds, and then just moved on with their days. They were not close nor on particularly good terms, mainly because Pythor had confessed to the therapy group that he was the reason her parents were dead and definitely not in a regrettable tone. Something akin to pride, really. Somehow, she had seemed to restrain her anger, going silent and leaving the room with her fists clenched. There was a rather odd feeling residing in his chest that night when he had laid in his flat, uncomfortable bed, with the pink fluffy blanket that some crazed fangirl sent him. He’d laid with his eyes open, thinking about nothing but still unable to sleep. A pang of something far too emotionally complex had entered his heart, but he had shut it out before identifying what it could be. So on that day, far after the ordeal, running into each other entirely by coincidence, they just pretended that the other did not exist.
He had run into a few more old foes and allies along the way, but no one stuck in his life, other than the Mechanic, who was out committing a life of crime and Pythor saw his defeat being live-streamed by some new, stupid ninja. The Anacondrai had made his way to the jail a few hours after the ordeal, paying the bail with questionably earned money (a wonderfully done crypto scam) and taking his old friend to his apartment to recuperate.
He still kept contact with the Mechanic after that, who had been eager to keep in touch. The criminal sometimes crashed at Pythor’s home when he was laying low and they usually smoked a hookah or drank and talked. Sometimes they watched a movie together or dabbled with the drag makeup that Pythor kept around. The Mechanic would run errands for him in return for letting him stay, though it was never required. It felt more comfortable that way though, like friendship seemed safer when it was more transactional.
One night, they had gotten so high and talked about so many strange things.
“… I dyed… my vodka pink last week..,” Pythor slurred, taking a drag of the joint the two were passing. He was fairly sure that it wasn’t only marijuana. The Mechanic took the joint back into his hands and breathed in the smoke from Pythor’s exhalation before taking another drag himself.
“.. I fuckin’ saw when I was getting the cereal… why the hell would you do that.”
“I don’t know, old chum! I was just having fun… I bought the dye because.. I remembered my old friend Cryptor had hated pink.. I miss him.”
“… Where’s the guy now?,” the Mechanic inquired, turning over from his laying position on the floor and settling onto his stomach, with his chin supported by one hand. Pythor wobbly turned his neck to him, blinking slowly and giving a mournful expression. His mouth quivered just a bit and a tinge of regret entered his voice.
“Dead.”
“Oh..”
And then they were silent for a few minutes until Pythor suggested getting up and watching something, to which the Mechanic grunted in agreement. As Pythor sank into his familiar plush cushions, his friend was busy finding the remote. He fiddled with the faux fur on a pillow before breaking the silence.
“… I’ve been alone for a long time, you must know,” Pythor said quietly. He took another drag and sighed.
“Of course I see some people… at clubs, smalltalk in the streets, but they are no placeholder for family. I suppose that it’s complicated. I should really…. stop that, you know? I keep sleeping with ladies and blokes and anything at the club that would willingly shag me. I can’t say it’s doing me much good save for temporary satisfaction with… deep longing afterwards.”
The Mechanic raised his eyebrow, abandoning his quest for a working television and sitting down next to his friend.
“You got any family?”
“One… I’ve been avoiding finding her, really. Whenever I think of her I just… occupy my mind with something else, you know? She gives me a headache from however many miles away… but I still might just miss her. I don’t know why I’ve tried to block her… seal her away, really. Oh, that’s funny. Truly. You know, I was oh-so adamant on seeing her some years ago.”
“Take a leap of faith and stop bitching then,” the Mechanic laughed, patting him on the shoulder despite his mild confusion in Pythor’s word choices.
“Look, whoever this lady is? This world’s damn dangerous, even more than before. See her before something bad happens, y’know?”
“… I suppose you’re correct. Oh my, I really have been quite the slob, haven’t I, old chum?”
Now, with nothing to do that day and week, he decided that he must finally see Strike for himself, if not to talk to her then to beat her senseless and scream at her. He decided this completely independently without his criminal friend’s insight on it, you could just ask him.
The first step to the task was to find where she might be residing, and if she was even alive, which was not too difficult when the internet is on the plane of existence. He simply typed in ‘Strike Anacondrai’ and already a few things showed up, although they were old Ninjago news articles trying to squeeze out gossip from the horrible war of years before. The information about her was mainly from pictures of old newspapers, with her as the mascot for the ‘good’ Serpentine. The contents of the paper spoke about the flutes and how she had helped the Elemental Alliance find them to trap her kind in. It was also said, just like how Wu had mentioned, that only the power-hungry Serpentine were imprisoned. Again, untrue. Regardless, he read through the articles. They just seemed to brush over the genocide, labeling it as self defense. The only other Anacondrai besides himself alive, and the poster-child for propaganda at that. Luckily, there were a fair amount of people, mainly Serpentine, but some humans, criticizing her actions or even going as far as to say that she was a fictional character for a cover-up story.
Unfortunately, it was a little bit difficult to find her whereabouts when everyone hated her but not enough to hunt her down, or did not believe in her existence. It was up to him, this time. When it came to family, it often was. He only hoped that he wouldn’t fail again.
He scrolled through the results on the search before something caught his eye. A news article, written two years ago, but obviously not on a reliable website since he had never heard of it and it was in the middle of the search results rather than at the top. The header read,
‘RUMORED SIGHTING OF STRIKE, A CONTROVERSIAL FIGURE OF THE HUMAN-SERPENTINE WAR, IN THE WYLDNESS.’
…
Well, that seemed to track more than he expected to find. The Wyldness is the closest place to Serpentine dwellings that she could enter without questions. They did come from there, after all. In legends, it was told that the First Spinjitzu Master had stolen them all away for reasons Pythor forgot and did not care to recall. However, he did know that Strike always did try to empathize with others more than herself since she was young, and that she argued that there was more to the story. Pythor chuckled under his breath involuntarily; she was so serious even about simple myths.
He looked further into the article, and it said that a young Serpentine couple, with one of the wives being a younger cousin of the journalist writing the article, moving into the outskirts had seen another like them. The Hypnobrai woman and her Fangpyre lover (Pythor was thrilled, it was so good to see interracial Serpentine couples!) had attempted to talk to this purple stranger in excitement, but the stranger was said to have “frozen in her place and in the next second, bolted away.” The Hypnobrai had told her cousin about the ordeal, hoping to get some insight on it, but when the journalist asked what type of Serpentine the stranger was, he was met with a description of purple scales with striking red eyes. A little short for the average Anacondrai, but still taller than both of the wives. And at that, Pythor closed his laptop, stretched out his arms, and cracked his knuckles. He took a deep breath and his face broke into a complicated smile.
“Well, I suppose that I’ll be rather busy.”
"Is this the real life?
Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide
No escape from reali—"
The beginning of Bohemian Rhapsody abruptly cut off as Pythor smashed his fist against the dashboard, fingers quivering as they spread onto the leathery and plastic-buttoned surface. Then came the tapping of his index finger, stopping every twenty seconds or so for a brief pause before continuing. He’d been sitting in his car on that street for fifteen minutes. It was interesting, to say the least, how the outskirts of the Wyldness seemed to be semi-industrialized. Less feral than a place called “the Wyldness.” It looked like an emptier mockery of a city, like something you would see in a diorama.
He looked back outside to the town beginning. Parking lots, streets, homes that were still primitive, yet with telephone poles going through the streets. Dirt roads. There were two children, a bear and a fox playing with a ball in the wide street. For a second, he could almost see himself and Strike in them. And then, another child ran from outside the house, waving wildly to the pair. A little ferret, giggling in excitement and speeding towards them, enveloping them in an embrace despite their size differences.
Ah, now that hit quite close to home.
He took a deep breath and at last grabbed his purse, opening the door after a thirty second pause where he looked down at his lap. He reached an arm out, feeling the cold air against him, and shivered. He sighed in disappointment and entered the car again to dig into the backseats, fishing out a brown wool coat. He leaned back and made his tail press the ‘off’ button and grab his car keys, dropping them into his hand. He shrugged on his coat, fumbling with the buttons a bit in the weather and additional stress.
As he pulled away from the interior of his car and shut the door, he again took a few deep breaths. This was it, and he supposed that there was no rush to this. It was fine to take his time with it, Strike apparently had no problem with that. It didn’t matter if she did, anyway. He finally started slithering onto the road towards the children. He made a high-pitched hiss to catch their attention, the Serpentine equivalent of a whistle, and they immediately looked at him. The ferret waved back and scampered over, soon in front of him.
“Hello, dear,” Pythor said in a sweet voice, a voice he often used to butter up children (to do something for him, not for food or molestation, get your mind out of the gutter!). He waited for her greeting back, which was a squeak and dook, and finally a speedily said “hello.” He bent his neck down, smiling with all his teeth. Perhaps it would be intimidating to a human, but to the people of the Wyldness, they seemed to be unaffected. The thought was almost comforting as the fox and wolf watched him with friendly faces. The ferret grinned back.
“Need something?,” she asked him in a friendly tone and heavy accent. Hm, so they did speak another language here. He chuckled.
“Yes, yes…. I am looking for an old… friend. She looks like me, with red eyes and the same purple as my hand,” he said while gesturing at every description. He then lifted his hand up for the girl’s further inspection. She looked at his hand, then squinted at his face. After a few moments, she seemed to break into excitement yet again.
“… Strike?”
Pythor’s grin widened at the mentioned name and he nodded. This was going very well, he had struck luck almost immediately. He thought about how he would knock on her door, yell at her, cry, laugh in her face and then leave, awaiting her desperate search for where he lived to see him once again and explain herself. But, what if she does not regret it and is the one who laughs in his face while he weeps for himself and Amblya? And what if he speaks of the horrors of the tomb and Strike shows joy, or worse, no reaction? He could almost see her face twisted in mirth or set in stone, pushing him to the metaphorical pavement and slamming the door on him. If she seriously did that, he would probably break into her house. The more he thought about all of these unrealistic scenarios, the more his hands seemed to shake. With a snap, he reentered reality and cleared his throat. Eugh, it still hurt, even after all the years of healing. Well, of course it did, he was swallowed by a creature with deadly acid in its digestive system. He sighed and prepared himself to ask another question.
“Thank you. Do you know where I can find her?”
The girl nodded again and couldn’t seem to find the words, but gestured around to the city and then to the two of them. Pythor was guessing this by a longshot, but the child was probably offering to take him around. He tilted his head.
“Your parents?”
“Fine,” she replied. Pythor shrugged; he was no saint. Whether the girl was lying or not, the response was good enough for him. The girl suddenly grabbed his hand and began to walk left on the street. His eyes went a little wider and he chuckled under his breath as he followed her. She yelled out a few sentences to her two friends and they seemed to understand, waving their goodbyes.
“Name?,” the girl asked.
“Pythor. And you?”
“Tiam. How you know her?”
Pythor paused at that. There was never a complete definition on it despite a clear technical term; lines sometimes blurred in the labels. He remembered Strike when she was a baby, then a girl, when they were both so young and he had so much responsibility. He had taken care of her. He remembered her hand on his wrist, tugging and calling him—
“Friend,” he lied smoothly, as he often did. Tiam made a click of the tongue in approval, turning on the street.
“Little longer,” she said while pointing in front of her. He nodded absentmindedly and looked around. They were venturing further into the settling. Parking lots and such seemed to stop. Less technology. It almost reminded him of Ouroboros in that sense, though the ancient city was an intended work of art, sculpted to perfection. This place was beautiful for the nature of it, the surroundings. Trees, people, natural light. No distractions of electronic light and giant billboards, no skyscrapers to tower over him. This place was overall less overwhelming than most.
“She has not many friends,” Tiam commented as they rounded another corner. Pythor raised a non-existent brow. Strike was very social… perhaps fear of recognition had overrun that aspect of her. That was probably it.
“Really?,” he asked noncommittically.
“And how would you know?”
“She does not go to festivals. I only see her when she buys food.”
“Hermit,” he snorted to himself, and the ferret looked back at him with a tilted head in confusion. He shook his head a couple of times.
“Nothing, dear, it’s nothing.”
The girl shrugged and pulled him more forward, beginning to speed up. After a few more minutes, she stopped in front of a two-story home made of wood and painted white, though the paint was visibly chipped. Wind chimes hung from the small balcony and plants were spread about the property. The front yard was covered with grass and sections of flowers that looked very… Strike. Despite the cute appearance, it somehow struck him as an unwelcome place, though that was probably because he likely wouldn’t be welcomed here.
“Tell her I say hello,” Tiam said, patting Pythor’s wrist and giving a large grin before running away. He gave a small wave and smiled, turning back to the door. He observed the window with the curtains closed in, looking at the coarse-seeming material. He then took the millionth deep breath of the day, sighed right after, and began banging at the door violently. He heard noises from inside the house, something being knocked over and a quiet interlude to where Strike picked up whatever she had overturned, and a rush to the door. The door flew open in seconds and Pythor was nearly smacked in the face by the wood.
Strike looked… older. In her expression of what seemed to be shock, horror, love, and grief all at once, he had immediately noticed the age in her eyes. The regret which seemed to dwell in the red of them, the tears that were beginning to form–
“Brother?”
The voice was so small. A whisper in the wind, a needle in a haystack for the ears, but he could hear her. Despite her sad, helpless voice, he was not swayed. Well, besides the tears that were beginning to creep down his cheeks, which gained no comment.
“No,” he said while shaking his head, clicking his tongue in a way where he was attempting to make the mood less serious, but to no avail. “You cannot call me that anymore, not after what you did,” remained unsaid but certainly acknowledged by the both of them as Strike sadly cleared the way for Pythor to enter her home. He slithered in, taking his time to observe the room, looking at the paintings on the walls, peering at the opened book on the coffee table which read in a language he could not understand. The blue sofa with its comfortable looking cushions, the plants that hung from the ceiling. Notably, there was a painting of them on the wall as children, with him leading Strike and Amblya around in a sunny forest like some mother duck from a child’s tale. He had to tear his eyes away from that one to look at a sculpted heart on the mantle of the fireplace, a simple thing with no paint, only reddish brown mud clay. After a few more minutes of looking around, feeling Strike’s anxiety, he sat down. It was a bit out of character for him, he would admit. In their younger days he just adored keeping her hands wringing in suspense. She sat on a chair opposite to him, with only the coffee table in between them as a barrier. Her hands folded into her lap and her eyes scanned over his body with a look of horror and confusion. She was staring at the scars, he assumed, from the brawls in the tomb and the remaining burns of the Great Devourer’s acid.
For a few minutes, she just seem to take him in with a haunted look to her, fingers twitching and wanting to touch the damage. Pythor looked at her a little closer, finally, and frowned. There seemed to be inked flowers on her arm, white and orange flooding a plentiful section of her scales near her wrist.
“A tattoo?”
She stared for a few seconds and then laughed nervously, nearly on the verge of tears. She smiled with a quiver to her lips.
“So…. Why have you come to see me?”
Pythor inhaled slowly, running a claw down his wrist, nearly breaking his scales with the pressure. He saw Strike shift in her seat and her eyes become more concerned as she glanced down at him. He quickly grabbed his wrist and hugged it near him, a jerked reflex. He looked down at his lap and swallowed thickly.
“You’re the only other one left,” he whispered bitterly, the words weighing on his tongue. He lifted his eyes to meet hers, which were also fixed on the ground until she realized his stare. She stared back, regret so evident in her expression. Pythor laughed slightly, trying to break the tension he created. He wasn’t quite sure what he wanted here, he realized.
“These people see you as some sort of cryptid, I think,” he said in a tone that attempted to be lighthearted. His voice cracked at ‘you,’ but he blamed his throat issues for that. The Great Devourer was a menace to his body, causing chronic pain, and he hadn’t had his medication for over twelve hours now. It was bound to hit him eventually. He ignored how he didn’t feel the familiar sting of rawdogging the day without any, how this sting was different, more personal. The more he stared at Strike, the more he wanted to cry and scream at her. This was the wrong place, though, he’d be dragged away by the locals, so he just had to keep his voice at an appropriate level. She hadn’t laughed at his attempted joke, just looking at him with an intense, visceral pain.
“Stop it,” she whispered in a broken voice, her breaths loud and slow. He automatically scowled at her, trying to ignore the tears that were bound to leave his eyes at any moment. His chest was burning with sadness, with rage, happiness miles away. He exhaled deeply and gave into his instincts.
“You stop it! Stop looking at me like that like you used to, like some sad, spoiled little brat who didn’t know how good she had it!,” he yelled, his hands shaking with emotion, something indescribable but soul-ripping all the same. Her eyes widened and she flinched, her mouth quivering and silent, save for a small pained whimper. He looked at her furiously and continued.
“You painted us and it’s hung on the fucking wall, like you aren’t the reason that she’s– t..they’re… that I’m-”
A raw, anguished sob broke through Pythor’s jumbled sentence and he continued to stare her in the eyes like his life depended on the connection. Her hand was slightly up, fingers outstretched by half an inch, quivering. Her very being seemed to leak guilt and self-loathing in the form of tears, in the form of her shoulders trembling. It’s as if she’s nine again and he is fourteen, taking care of her while their mother and her father are out on their romantic escapades, when she looked at him like he hung the moon and all he felt was anger because his mother had left him with her and the baby to slither into the sunset with her new husband. Abandoning him to look after the children she so unsubtly cared more for. She loved him until she realized she could have children who weren’t filthy mutts like him. Strike still managed to be a whiny child with the love she received, crying that humans weren’t so terrible and that they should all co-exist. She never learned to truly appreciate anything. He tried to think of these things even more negatively as his body seemed to automatically inch closer to her, tears flowing down his cheeks like a river.
“Pythor, I..,” Strike started to say, stopping as if she predicted she would be interrupted, but only sobs filled the air from him. He stood up shakily, slouching, making his way towards her. She stilled. Her hearts quickened their pace, and she jerkily adjusted her arms as if to defend herself. Strike’s eyes were wide until she heard him scoff over his tears, his head downturned. Incoherent mumblings and a continuous flow of tears, which she matched on the second part.
He raised his arm slowly. It was an agonizing pace, she knew. His fingers wrapped in the most anxiety inducing way, in a way that anyone knew they were about to receive the worst punch in the face of their lives. She quickly closed her eyes, expecting exactly what it looked like: revenge. Revenge for their mother, for Amblya, maybe even for her father. She deserved it, she’d been drowning in an ocean of pure guilt for decades. If only he had a knife hidden somewhere she did not know, or he would grab her and bash her head into the floor until the ultimate cracking of her skull.
“Your fault… you idiot,” she heard him whisper, and she braced for the blow– but it did not come. Instead, she suddenly felt weight on her, heavy like a weighted blanket, with arms on her shoulders and wrapped around her neck in a way that did not choke her, but shook so violently that they probably wanted to. Strike let out a sob at this, her hands at her sides, unsure of where to go. When Pythor nudged his snout at her chin, she knew he wished for a return in the embrace. Her eyes slowly opened; her arms seemed to lock around his waist like a robot’s, automatic and firm until malfunction, which seemed to happen within the next three seconds. And then, she was shaking all over, and so was he.
“I know,” she sniffled, bringing him closer to her and shifting in the seat so he wouldn’t need to stay piled on her. Regardless of her efforts, he stayed, like some stuffed animal. He did not seem to mind the lack of space, at the moment. He usually did before everything.
“Amblya should be here, with us, and she’s stuck in that ridiculous painting. We failed her, didn’t we?”
His voice sounded so broken to her. So tired, like hers. A vulnerability that he never could afford to show when they were young, with his schemes and ever-constant masking. She couldn’t find words, but he always seemed to know what to say, whether it was right or wrong. In this case, probably wrong.
“The painting is actually rather darling, I look dashing-,” a sniffle broke into his words. She didn’t dare laugh at the humor. He sniffed again and continued.
“She wanted me to live. She talked about you… e..even when she didn’t have the energy to get up.. She missed you. I hated you and I’m still here instead of her.”
Strike’s breath stopped, and she shut her eyes as if she was in agony, and she was. She let out a small cry and hugged him tighter.
“It’s not your fault, it’s m-”
“Those humans tricked you, Strike! They manipulated you.. And if you still see any of them as friends-”
“I don’t! They were just.. The first people I really befriended.”
“So no me? No Amblya, hm? No Mum-”
“You didn’t even like me! You cruelly teased me-”
“Because Mother loved you more than me! She smiled at you with the brightest eyes whenever she was home, and your father, damn him, spun Amblya around and kissed your cheek! All I got after you were born was a measly pat on the head and asked if I washed our clothes yet!,” he hissed, his claws beginning to dig into the top of her back. Her breath quickened and at that, he sighed, relinquishing the beginning grip, but still embracing her. Strike’s thumbs began to move up and down, massaging the tense muscles automatically. Like Pythor’s father had used to, or so he said. All he remembered from the bastard, but in the rare moments where he needed comfort, she’d come up to him and hug him like this. This did not speak for now. He sobbed and dug his head into the crook of her neck like a child. For five minutes, perhaps ten. She could not tell, she was crying even more too.
“I heard about your return,” she whispered.
“From that old fool?,” he breathed, finally adjusting himself to the side she had left open. He propped his arm up to face her. His eyes looked tired already, pupils docile and exhausted. She nodded slightly, sighing. He made an annoyed face, which she would have rolled her eyes at if it weren’t such an important feat. They’d been crying for over fifteen minutes, she thinks. His voice was congested as he continued.
“I don’t know how you could make friends with that damned fool.. Not one positive quality about the fellow, is there?”
Despite everything, she giggled at that. His spunk had not fully deteriorated from the sadness. She sighed heavily after a few moments, after the joy had minimized.
“I heard about the Devourer-”
“Your fault.”
“....”
“Indirectly. Or directly, actually. I don’t know how much you helped in the ordeal, Wu kept stopping when he went too far into a sentence. I presume that the poor bastard has memory loss or some other crud,” he muttered dejectedly and hiccuped.
“It’s not crud, he felt bad about it,” she said quietly, her eyes wandering off to the side until Pythor snapped in her face, drawing back her attention. Were his claws painted pink?
“Oh Devourer, you’re such a human. Species cleanser.”
“.. I thought it was temporary,” she murmured in a pained voice. His tongue flicked out and his eyes widened a bit, but they quickly went back to normal in a few seconds. Trying to appear as relaxed.
“Mm, really, dear Strike? I didn’t see you trying to save us when you found out about the arrangement.”
“.. I thought it was too late.”
“Of course it was too late, but you should’ve come anyway.”
“……”
Pythor took her silence as an agreement, as she closed her eyes in seeming pain. Oh goodness… it was unfortunately very difficult not to hug her right now. He’d never been the most affectionate brother, but he was.. her brother. No matter how much he’d been denying it since he got here. That he was nothing like her, that their past wasn’t anything. In their moment of pure sorrow, he called her painting ‘dashing.’ When he was young, he might have thrown a rock at it and laughed, so he was probably just getting old. Love and hatred, both at the same time, but sorrow had interrupted and was beginning to win. Dread, of all things. That nothing would be the same anymore, that he couldn’t.. forgive.
“I can’t forgive you,” he said quietly, tail curling in its place. She nodded, she knew. He just felt he needed to say it aloud.
“I know,” she replied, her eyes looking rather lost, turned down and half-open. Her shoulders hunched and she seemed to curl up, tears flowing yet again, though this time, they were silent. Pythor closed his eyes at the sight and swallowed, clearing his throat and moving himself to get up. He sat up and looked at her. She was miserable and tired, utterly regretful and self-hating. He stood at that thought, letting out a deep sigh. It seemed to be time for him to leave.
“Come find me if you wish to speak with me again,” he said slowly. Her eyes snapped open at that, confused. An aura of hope seemed to radiate around her in real time, and he had to stop himself from chuckling. He took a final look at the painting on the wall. The child version of him was smiling mischievously, he realized as he took a closer look at it. A cheeky smile with his tongue flickering out, pulling Strike’s reluctant hand along with him. She was frowning nervously in it, though there was a sparkle of excitement in those eyes. The painting was truly detailed, with the obviously negative expression on her face having an incredibly visible sense of joy to it, the joy of adventure. Finally, Amblya was grinning widely without a care in the world, holding Strike’s free hand and slithering excitedly through the woods, slightly trying more to keep up with them, as her body was much smaller than theirs. He had a feeling this had truly happened, many years ago. He closed his eyes and could see the rays of the Sun on the forest floor, hearing almost water-logged voices of a young Strike and Amblya, the first being excited and distressed, and the second being snarky but reassuring the older. One day, perhaps with Strike jogging his memory, he would remember it in full.
Pythor finally began to slither out of the room, a bitter smile beginning to play on his lips. He could hide, if he wanted. Strike would know if she was no longer wanted, as she knew he always liked to make a distinct presence in the world. A presence of something chaotic and fun, something so utterly far from them now. Maybe, with time, they could smile together, like their family had at the birth of Amblya, like they probably had smiled in the woods that fateful day. Everything was so murky in his head, but it felt… lighter, now. Uncharacteristically light.
Perhaps he really did miss Strike all this time.