he remembers his brother's fall more vividly than he remembers his own. he remembers the part he played in taking down the uprising. how proud he was to crush his little brother in the name of their father. how his veins had burned with holy fire, how his eyes had gleamed with a maddened, desperate light.

how michael had been credited.

for everything, just like always.

he remembers that being the pivotal moment, the beginning of his fall. he remembers the beginning of a rage that was not holy, was not sanctioned. he remembers the seed of hatred taking root in what was once a pristine garden of love and light. he remembers that rage, that hate, not being aimed at the favorite son.

he remembers it being aimed at his father, instead.

at the orchestrator of every last sibling dogfight.

fuck his kingdom, his silver city, his so-called wisdom. fuck that which by any other name is abuse, not love. if he could, he'd burn his father's city down. let the flames wash clean the generations of this shit - but his brothers, most of them, are still there. still loyal to the only reason they've ever had to fight.

so he wanders toward new lands instead.

he's trouble, a warning sign wearing a devilish grin.

he burns -

but the flames in his veins are no longer holy.