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Genre: Angst/Drama/Action/Adventure
Rating: PG-13 for violence, language, blood, gore, and suggestive situations
Pairings: Will be revealed as story progresses
Timeline: After "Raven's Purple".
Listening Music: Sting, Crosby-Nash
As you can tell, characters from both 'Raven's Purple' and 'Hourglass' will appear in both stories. I only own Lao Oyokata, Kamar Oyokata, Aiko Oyokata, Heramore Millium, Saint Salem, Tir Oyokata, Lola Oyokata, Nil and Kevos. The other characters are Furball's.
Now, I present to you…Hourglass.
Shielded between shiny marble walls and pillars, the young warrior knelt in front of the oil lamp, which illuminated the silver statue of the phoenix in front of him. The great bird's neck was raised high, mighty lapis lazuli wings spread out as if ready to take flight. The black gem eyes seemed to reflect the flames in front of it. Passion, power, emotion, it flowed from the Phoenix and through the thirteen year old's body. A thirteen year old boy that did not look thirteen.
His long and limber body, with arms as strong as a smith's, did not show through the black temple robe he wore that night, but you could see his inner age on his face. His dark brown skin was greatly accentuated by his long unkempt tresses of black hair, so long that the locks nearly touched the ground as he sat on his knees. Black bangs brushed over the headband he always wore, going down to just a bit above his eyes. His black eyes were illuminated by the fire, shining dark pools of deep, eyes far too deep for his age. His face was smooth and had creases in all of the right places, giving him the look of a man in his mid-twenties.
And as he knelt in front of the statue of the Phoenix God, Alditar, the fire of faith wrapped around his body and cradled him like he was in his mother's arms again.
The little temple priest, Saint Talama, had scurried off to his family long ago, leaving the boy the only person left in the main temple of the village. The Saint would not bother his presence; after all, he was one of the most well-respected people in the surrounding township. And he had come every night since he was eight.
He needed those times to get by.
Since he was ten, he had slain seven people by the blade of his knight's sword. Ten others had been greatly injured, none left without a scratch. When he arrived home from the fights, he would always go to the river and scrub his body off with the homemade soap his mother made, but they could never erase the crimson haze he saw whenever he glanced at his callused hands. It hadn't gone away since his first casualty, and if it wasn't' for those nights, it would drive him mad.
Faith was the only thing that could scrub away the filth, the crimson, the sin. Faith was the only thing that could get the boy clean, and he relished every moment of it.
Faith drove him through the dances. Strength, teaching, and courage drove him during battles, but faith gave him inspiration to write. Gave him a voice to sing with. Faith allowed his fingers to strum the correct notes. And faith would carry his feet in a whirlwind of fire and physical prose.
There was only one thing he believed in more than faith…
As deeply as he was immersed in his prayers, the young warrior did not miss the sound of soft footsteps padding up behind him. Tensing from reflex, he turned his head and glanced behind him.
His throat tightened.
So he had come, after all. Even though he would be punished if he was caught, he came. There was one thing he believed in more than faith, and it had just shown up.
Another thirteen-year-old boy tiptoed up next to him and knelt. An almost exact replica of the young warrior, but with differences. His eyes were brighter, filled with far more light than the warriors. He looked older than most children, but younger than the warrior, only looking a year older than what he was. His body was slender under the borrowed black robe, his fingers tiny and graceful, slightly slimmer than the warrior's own. And they were covered in bruises.
“Tyratai…" The warrior muttered, his voice thick with emotion, taking the younger boy's beaten hands gently in his own. His Tyratai smiled weakly back at him.
“They will be better in the morning, Tyratao." He replied softly. His eyes locked with his Tyratao's, and nothing needed to be said. The two twins had a bond nobody could fully understand, and they used it quite often. Their bodies flickered in the fire and the statue of Aldatar looked on with eyes cast a-light.
Yes, everything would be better in the morning.
Little did they know that would be the last night they would ever be at full peace. Little did the warrior know that his faith would be crushed the very next night like fall leaves under a boot. Little did the younger twin know that it would be the last time he would see his elder twin fully relax. Little did they know that everything would change the very next night.
Little did the know that sixty-eight years later, the elder twin, Kamar Oyokata, would wake violently from a nightmare, and that Lao Oyokata, the younger twin, hands no longer bruised, would hold the fabric of reality in his fingers.
They only knew that things would be better in the morning. And for the time being, both were clean.
As a note, Tyratai means ‘Little Brother’, and Tyratao means ‘Big Brother’.
This story will help you understand more about my story, and my story will help you understand MA’s story, because they’re so closely woven its rather funny. Different links, through sibling, friendship, and antagonistic bonds come closely together into a giant knot. This unfortunately, is MA’s and my job to untangle.
Despite the fact that this was published on a Tuesday, MA plans to update it every Saturday starting on the 29th. Weee!!! Excitement!