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He’d learned about hurt at an early age. Not just pain, but hurt. The different kinds of hurting.
He could be harmed. He could feel pain. He could be permanently damaged. That was harm, not hurt, but he had extensive knowledge of the difference. Above all other beings, the one who could hurt him worst was–
“Dear brother. Why do you resist?”
They’d already yelled. Fought. Not like brothers, he didn’t think; like enemies. He didn’t want to hurt, he didn’t want to harm, but the same was not true of both of them. He knew that, really. He knew. Hope was a double-edged sword.
“You know I’m right in the end, don’t you? Even if you refuse to admit it even to yourself.”
Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. No screaming, no yelling, no refusal. No thrashing, no hitting back. No running. No escape.
“Destruction for the sake of creation.”
He was meant to be a weapon. Wasn’t he? He was a weapon. Was he more than that? But he was useless to express his will.
“We will have paradise.”
His will did not matter.
This, in every thread, in every situation, every world and time and place, this felt. Inevitable. Unavoidable. Inescapable.
“And now it is time for destruction and creation to entwine.”
Invaded. Deconstructed. There were other words for it, there were other words–
He knew them. The other words.
Rarely did his brother have that base animal instinct. Human instinct. They were supposed to be so far above that, so much cleaner. Plant blood only. Just blood. (It wasn’t just blood. He knew. He felt. He smelled. His brother was weaker than he was, in ways.)
He felt it. The pain and the hurt. The violation. It would have been betrayal, if–
If.
He couldn’t ask what his brother was thinking. If that was moaning or sobbing. If that little stutter at the end was realization or just…
Failure.