Title: "When Our Worlds Collide"

Author: Shaitanah

Rating: to be on the safe side, NC-17

Warnings: m/m, incest, underage sex, non-con (I guess), mild torture

Summary: Two brothers; a vast abyss of emotions, but no hate, no love. 'Next time one of us will die'. Slash/Incest

Dedication: For AeternaNox; thank you for the tremendous inspiration that your company always is.

A/N: A few more details and it would make a fanfiction for a certain fandom. This ficlet is heavily inspired by a few things I read and watched before. However, I prefer to view it as an original piece; this way I get more artistic freedom. The title is inspired by Muse's 'Thoughts Of A Dying Atheist'.


These arms lack a purpose…

Would it not be madness to fight?

We come one.

Faithless. 'We Come 1'

'I knew you'd take it out on me one day. Tonight, perhaps?

I watched you grow. You were a seed once. That seed sprouted and became a beautiful young tree. I could see it bend in the wind, knowing that no wind could break it.

We were one of a kind, peas in a pod, sons of the same mother. No wonder you've come to detest me.'

I saw him coming from afar. The hem of his dark tunic swayed as he walked, his soft shoes stepping noiselessly upon the pebbles. The wind ruffled his black hair. When he came closer I saw how little he had changed. He'd grown a bit taller, and he looked rather thin for his height; I assumed he might have been underfed. Still, years hadn't affected him much, and for that I was grateful. I wanted to remember him as accurately as he remembered me.


One day I took him to the other side of the woods with me. He was foolish and young; perhaps too young to have understood what I had told him.

He was going to sweep the floors when I emerged from my room and remarked nonchalantly:

"I'm going out for a walk. Care to join me?"

He gaped at me and even dropped the broom. This was the first time I invited him to come along. He was dumb-struck; his eyes gleamed and a fervent blush crept out on his cheeks.

"But," he murmured hesitantly, "I gotta do my chores first."

"That'll wait. Work's not going anywhere."

We made our way through the grove, deeper into the woods. He walked beside me in his customary odd dancing gait, catching the leaves that floated in the wind, grinning. Clearly he felt proud to be walking by an older person as if he were my equal. However, we met none of his classmates; he was most likely disappointed.

"See that mountain?" I asked when we reached the plateau facing the great range spread all around us. "Higher." I smacked him lightly on the back of his head; he looked up, puzzled. "Higher. Higher… There."

The mountain's peak was covered in clouds. His jaw dropped. "Whoa! Higher than even you can climb!"

I chuckled. "One day I'm gonna climb it." He pricked up his ears. His gaze was still fixed on the rocks, but I could tell he was listening attentively. "An old legend says there's an ancient temple on top of that mountain. A crystal star shines on the spire on its roof. Its light streams all over the temple. When the night is clear they say you can see blue light in the sky. I'm gonna get that star."

He turned to me momentarily, a joyful smile transforming his delicate features. He practically hero-worshipped me for something I hadn't done yet.

"That is so wicked!"


He came to a halt a few paces away from me, giving me a hard, resolute look. He raised his hand holding a small bundle and tossed it at my feet. Something shattered inside it. I hooked the wrapping with the toe of my boot. Fragments of azure crystal lay there, drenched in thick blue liquid.

"Your star," he said huskily. "The blue light. I got it for you."

I looked at the shards, then back at him. His skin was deathly pale, and his fringe stuck to his damp forehead. A tiny scar crossed his sallow cheek.

'What are you going to do now, little one?' He wrapped his fingers around the handle of his sabre. 'You've grown stronger, but not nearly strong enough.'

"You will die now," he said, his lips barely moving.

He lunged at me; I dashed past him and punched him in the back with my foot. Ridiculously easy! He inhaled sharply, swinging forward as his legs refused to obey him, then spun around and rushed towards me. He threw his leg up; it hit the thin air. I retreated, swung my sabre, and we clashed. I could see his eyes; they flared and sparkled like the eyes of a madman, yet there was no hate in them.

'How do you plan to have me dead, little one, if you do not put enough blood into it? You only make me smile. This is not serious. I will crush you. One must lead by example; here's mine.'

We leapt backwards, turning somersaults, then back at each other; we ground our blades together, pouring sparks all over the metal. Mine slipped; he jumped and hit me in the face. I stumbled. But I was faster than him in any case. I let him move closer and grabbed him by the wrist. Dragging his feet over the ground, I flung him into the tree. He hit the trunk with his spine and slid down, moaning. I ended up squatting beside him and locked my fingers over his throat. He wheezed plaintively as I brought my lips closer to his ear and whispered:

"Not nearly good enough, little brother."

With every syllable I blew out whiffs of hot air. Shivers ran down his spine. He arched into me, eliminating whatever space there was between our bodies. I pressed my lips to his cheek. It was warm and sweaty. I tugged at his tunic, and tore it open, and pushed my hand underneath it, embracing him.

'I almost missed you. You have always been a bother, but I think I wanted you back.'


Father told me to look after him. It happened a day after he'd nearly drowned.

We went to the river, down the steep bank to the sandy shallow. I picked up a twig and began drawing the hieroglyph 'bravery'. I'd had some trouble with it and I wanted to make it perfect like those in the textbook. Only then could I achieve true power.

The little one was fussing about, chasing small fish in the river, giggling and splashing cheerfully. I stretched my legs out, cooling my feet in the water, and continued my exercise.

"Hey, I wanna see the swallows' nests!" the little one exclaimed. He gestured towards a prominent piece of land that hovered over a deep dark place of the river. I grimaced and turned back to my writing. "Oh come on! Your calligraphy can hardly get any better now that it's already perfect! I'm not asking you to climb there with me, just help me up. I'm not tall enough."

"Get lost, pup," I muttered and spanked him on the lap. Pouting, he walked away. As he clenched and unclenched his fists I heard him mumble under his breath: "Stupid nasty big brother!"

I dipped the tip of the twig into the moist sand. I dragged it forth, sharpening the joints of the hieroglyph. It turned out beautiful.

A wave ran over the sand and washed my drawing away. I gasped and started to my feet. I could hear a familiar voice screaming my name. I raised my head; the little one was not on the cliff. I rushed in that direction and saw him dabbling in the water. It washed over him; sometimes his head would appear above its level and go down again.

I dived and made it in time. My arm around his feeble body, I swam to the bank and hit him flat in the chest. He coughed; water trickled down his chin. It was cold for the season. I was grateful for the blankets lent to us by some kind-hearted tourists and a cup of hot tea.

The next day Father returned from his monthly trip to the city. Half of the day he watched the little one to make sure he was all right. In the evening he entered the drawing room where I was reading and the little one playing with his toy railway and took a seat opposite me.

"You were supposed to keep an eye on him," he said brusquely.

I put the book aside, but didn't dare look at him. Father was an honourable man; one could only expect the same of me, but the truth was I hadn't even been scared when the little one had fallen into the river. I simply knew I could reach him in time.

I didn't feel guilty. If Father had known it, he would have despised me even more.

"When I'm not around, you're the father figure," he went on. "The boy trusts you. He looks up to you. I expect you to take care of him."

From the corner of my eye I saw the little one squint at us. I said through gritted teeth, "I know". Father took the little one's hand and put it in mine. Abashed, the boy glanced at him, then at me, then back at him.

"He's your responsibility," Father said.

"Move," I ordered because he remained still and lifeless in my arms. "I want you to move."

He gritted his teeth and dared disobey me. I thrust my knee forward, positioning it between his thighs, and made sure he couldn't reach his sabre. He stared at me with indescribable disdain. It seemed that he'd vowed no sound would escape his lips. I pushed harder. A low growl was born in his throat but never made it to his mouth. His cheeks flushed; his breath became erratic. Damn if he wasn't enjoying this!

I moved my leg back a little. He gasped as if in protest and swung his hips forward, rubbing against me. The movement was hardly visible, but I felt it acutely. It pleased me. I had to bite my lip to contain a triumphant grin. He averted his gaze when I tried to look him in the eye. I grasped his chin, made him face me and kissed him, parting his lips forcefully with my tongue. I could feel his agitation building. He moaned into my mouth as I pushed my knee further. The sound was almost bestial. I wallowed in the shaky rhythm of his breath as he quickened the pace, his skin now burning.

The blackness of his eyes hypnotized me. It was only a few seconds before the strike that I realized he had freed one hand and was now reaching for the weapon. I forestalled him. I broke the blade, and produced a hank of tough rope, and tied him to the tree. He struggled, but to no avail. He scorched me with another passionate, disdainful look. I smirked and collected the shards of his sabre.

'Life hasn't taught you anything, little one. Let's see if I can. I never wanted you dead though I have always cursed our mother for giving birth to you. I was supposed to set an example, but I never could, and I never wanted to. Would you like to follow my lead now?'

He had a fine blade. A reliable one. A warrior could stand up to many adversaries with such a blade.

I opened my poach and fished out a tattered quill.


Shortly before my departure he decided to comprehend what was so special about calligraphy. He never enjoyed this, but he saw me reading books and practicing the hieroglyphs for hours, even past sunset. He came to me that hot summer noon and started painting hieroglyphs on my skin. I lay in the grass shirtless; the touch of the brush tickled, and I laughed. Encouraged by this, he went on. He drew a very clumsy 'honesty' upon my shoulder, a rather unstable 'purity' over the collarbone and a nearly perfect 'love' on my chest.


I sharpened the quill leisurely, took one of the shards of his sabre and pressed it to the skin of his forearm. Then I drew a long line downwards. He gasped, eyeing me in disbelief. Little fool! He should have known I never played meaningless games.

I dipped the quill in the blood and sketched 'agility' around his belly-button. It was bleared, nearly colourless. I deepened the wound and placed the second layer of red over the contours of the hieroglyph. He was not agile enough to overcome me.

I disposed of his tunic and placed a copy of 'strength' on each of his shoulders. I cut another line across his chest. He writhed in pain. I mounted him, pressing his legs into the ground, and set to scribble the infamous 'bravery' over his solar plexus. He shuddered beneath me. He was neither strong, not brave enough to defeat me.

I showered his burning face with butterfly kisses and whispered hotly, flicking my tongue over the shell of his ear:

"Haven't you missed me, little one? Well!? Answer to your superior."

A feeble, hoarse "No," came out of his lips with a groan. I chuckled.

"No? But you thought about me every minute of your life. You've been waking up thinking of me, going to bed thinking of me. You thought about me more than you have ever thought of yourself. And come to think about it…" I drove the blade deeper into his skin to draw more blood. He wheezed in agony. "Come to think about it, who am I but a ghost of a distant past? The past you'd better…" I scratched 'memory' on his temple, pressing the tip of the quill into the bluish vein that pulsed beneath his pearly skin, "forget."

He strained his back and then collapsed against the tree, relaxing in his bonds. His eyes dimmed. I licked the curve of his jawline playfully. In the middle of his forehead I outlined 'wit'. He lacked that too.

"You can't tell black from white," I stated, carving 'illusion' over his ribcage. He kept silent, save for his ragged breaths as his chest heaved. His eyes closed, he had the look of exhausted innocence upon his face. I kissed the corner of his mouth gently.

He had little faith in his powers – so 'faith' was stamped upon his body. He lacked power itself – so there went 'power'. 'Eternity' for eternal contempt he'd feel towards me. 'Pain' for suffering he'd been through. He looked like a canvas – smooth, flawless, covered in perfect hieroglyphs. I bit at his earlobe and opened his trousers. There was hardly any more place left on his upper body.

I bared his hips and inflicted another cut. He shifted, locked his fingers around one of the shards, breaking the rope, and drove it into my shoulder. The skin split and warm drops of blood welled up under the tunic. I hissed and pulled the blade out. At one stroke I cut him on the cheek. The quill outlined 'wisdom' on that spot – that was a very rash move.

'You never give up, don't you? Yes, that's what I like about you. You should have the first prize for persistence. But I won't let it slip, my darling young one.'

A sharp pattern of 'justice' lay upon his thigh. He thought he had deserved it. Sweet, brutal pain washed over me: his treacherous little trick had practically disabled my left arm. I was still fully clothed with no intention to disrobe; the fabric of my sleeve pressed uncomfortably on the wound.

He lifted his hand weakly. I compressed his fingers between mine and said listlessly:

"If you move, I'll break them all, so be mindful."

"Why?" he croaked. "Why are you doing this?"

"Ah, the bird finally sings!" I drawled maliciously.

I brought his hand up to my face and licked his palm. He twitched and spat into my face. That was too bold.

"Why am I doing this? Maybe because this way you'll finally learn your lesson and stop stalking me. This," I glided my finger over the writing, "is the book of your mistakes. You will best me only when you obtain all those qualities."

His eyes flared. "Fine, then! I will!"

'I have no doubt about that, little one. I have this funny faith in you. Your stubbornness does you credit.'

I imprinted 'desire' over his heart. The skin around the tip of the quill whitened at the pressure. My tongue danced over the lines of the hieroglyph, embedded into his skin.

"Please…" he maundered.

I stroked him slowly; little by little his body began to react. He pushed his hips up just as I shifted, giving him more freedom. His lower body was still trapped beneath me, almost numb because of long immobility.

"Please what?" I mouthed.

I thrust hard into him. He jerked at the intrusion, half-melting in my arms. Silly creature. He could not resist me.

I traced the contours of the 'desire' hieroglyph with my tongue. I whispered something in his ear, and finally he broke his vow of silence, he screamed as he gave into my fierce caress, spasming and quivering around me.

He tried to maintain the eye-contact, but eventually he closed his eyes, leaving himself at my mercy. I could see his face contort with painful delight as I moved inside him.

It was over only too soon. I straightened out my cloak, brushing off the dry dirt. He was looking at me furiously with his tear-filled eyes. Still no hatred. I barely refrained from kissing his crown affectionately. The little one would never change. It seemed the events of our past should have molded a ruthless, merciless fighter from the clay he had been, but alas…

"I'll kill you next time," he said weakly.

I smiled expressionlessly. "Yes. Next time one of us will die."

His breathing became husky. He had no control over his tears anymore. Ashamed to reveal them to me, he ground his teeth in the fullness of his lower lip and bent his head.

I turned my back on him and calmly walked away into the newborn mist.

June 27–29, 2007