#idrhisen aviro-tou means death window away from home. alternatively called an idrhikal (death stone) as well

[kazeofthemagun]

He did not remember falling asleep.

@cursedfortune

What he did remember was opening his eyes within the dream and seeing a wide field of dust, the ground already soaked with the blood of prior generations. Awaiting further tribute, as though forgetting that it no longer existed.

Nothing remained of Windaria, but his sleeping mind did not know that.

"Svaardzjetrorahm."

Ah, yes. The price of silence had to be paid.

He looked into crimson eyes and suddenly they were both children. Wide cranberry hues gazing from below as the older Windarian gave chase. A self-satisfied smirk on his face, leaping past wooden obstacles to try and snatch him by the ankle. Climbing onto intricate constructions, challenging their bodies until both were strewn on the ground, panting and sharing jokes.

He remembered laughing at them. Kaadhavriija was always vocal, a pride that demanded himself to be the center of attention. He picked up gossip like a sponge, particularly the kind about pretty women. He remembered acting holier-than-thou when Vriija was caught snooping on Tuenh-bani Majuru and they were both beat so hard by Ohnzhejhar-vahree they couldn't sit straight for three days.

It was a life. It was far from perfect, but it was theirs.

To think one would die at the hand of another.

"Vriija." His mouth opened, but no sound came. Instead, the memory replayed as it always did.

The dance in the dust, accompanied by the gazes of cold, hard wooden sculptures. Featureless masks deifying silence. An ode to their lives, their memories together, the drum-beat of their pulse quickening as blades met and shed sparks. As a vicious shotel of bluish metal glanced off the shell of Magun, allowing for Geryon's fang to slip inbetween Vriija's -

But - no. He tasted blood. It reeked of smoke.

"Kaadh -"

His voice erupted in a cough, dagger slipping from his grasp. He felt something rip and tear inside, stealing breath. The bottom of his mouth filled with heat that spilled from the corner of his lip. Dark droplets upon the dirt.

Wasn't it poetic? How their blades reflected their eyes. Crimson in blue and blue in crimson. Hand in hand, like the time they ran and chased one another down the training grounds of Lir Hassan.

Like the time they ran and chased one another through life. One step ahead - one step behind. A dance of brothers. Jealousy, but also pride. Not only in themselves, but in one another. And then the chase fell away. He became a summoner, then alihkar. Vriija stayed behind, the watchful raptor of the band. He could call him and he would come, a fleet-footed friend he could forever rely on. Despite their newfound shift of power, there was no resentment.

Until the day White Cloud took down his hood, of course. Wrong place, wrong time.

Just like Vriija.

...And him.

...And Chaos.

It was all a neverending string of misfortune layered ontop of misfortune, but he was paying for it, no? Paying for it with every day he lived and every day he died.

"I'm sorry, fenlai."

If only he could tell him. If only there was a way to fix this. Instead, his brother was prowling closer, red eyes trained on blue. No, there was only resentment now. Only hatred. He should have known, for he offered wrath for wrath that day.

Bare apologies were hollow. It was his suffering that gave them meaning.

He felt a gloved hand caress the side of his face, brushing aside sweat-stickied hairs. A whisper, almost too sweet. Like gently rubbing in salt.

"You are no friend of mine."

A wild, stabbing pain. He looked down to see his own dagger buried in his gut. Blood rushed freely past a trembling chin, painting streams of black down tan skin. He fervently mouthed an apology. Eyes wide, eyes like prey.

And then he felt Vriija's grip shift before the wolf's own claw ripped him open.

"AH -"

He awoke with a start, nearly kicking himself off the sofa in his panic. He must have swung the Magun in confusion, almost hard enough to strain his muscles. Breath returned to both his lungs, a series of coughs and a strangled whine as his hand clawed at the fabric over his middle, as though attempting to stop his innards from falling in a heap at his feet.

Breathe, Svaardzjetrorahm. There is no wound. There is no danger. There is no enemy.

"Haaa.... haaa...." both his lungs were in order, at least. A droplet of sweat traveled down his temple, and the Wind rose to his feet to head outside.

He was kneeling in front of the circle of painted stone that he had once created in the Witch's garden. The crisp night air cooled his skin and cleared his mind, helping suppress the jitters that sought to claim reign over his body. A part of him wondered whether the occasional tremor was still a vestige of the nightmare, or if maybe the low temperature was playing its part. Either way, it mattered very little.

Eyes like the ocean stared forlornly into the middle of the grave - the window to death. The idrhisen lay pristine and undisturbed, tended to regularly by the both of them. Truly, he could not even begin to thank the Witch for maintaining a monument not of her own people whenever he was gone. It was a testament to her trust in him, to trust in the significance of this symbolic grave he built. She never knew any of his blood, yet treated them like kin nonetheless.

As they all were. Connected not in blood, but in Soil. Prayers of the earth on the wind, answered now on another world under a different star. So that they may finally have a home away from home. Aviro-tou.

"I'm sorry." He repeated, finding his voice broken. A tear finding its way past the frigid dam in his eye traced a thin rivulet past his ekkti, only to fall upon stone.

If only there was a way to make it right. Their sins lived with them, but never died. He wondered whether it was holding his brother from rebirth. Do you miss them, Vriija..? The Wind's thoughts wandered. The old times, before any of this happened. Before the Gun met the Sword and the prophecy was set in motion. Before the hurt. Before betrayal.

Before bloodshed. Why did things always have to end in blood?

Why not, a stray thought answered. This is what you are. Accursed.

Kaze lowered himself, a deep bow of his back until his forehead kissed stone. Crimson hair spilling freely and hiding his face from sight. He remained like this for some time, meditating silently.

After all, the most he could do was remember.

There truly was not too much more left.