Chaos (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
chaos_silk) wrote2016-12-01 08:48 am
chaos_silk) wrote2016-12-01 08:48 am
Entry tags:
Advent Drabbles 16 - AtL:ToS Kharg&Darc
Title: Decisions
Fandom: Arc the Lad: Twilight of Spirits
Rating: T
Warnings: None.
Summary: Ficlet, intended to be part of a larger piece of snapshots of how Kharg and Darc's relationship developed over the years post-game. At Twenty-One, Kharg makes a decision, Darc does not like it.
A/N: I started writing, finished one scene and then half of the other. Then looked at what I was doing and went 'yeah, not doing that again, short fic Chaos'. I will finish and post it to another site later, just this bit for now until this month is over.
Kharg is twenty-one when he decides to set aside his sword and focus on politics. There's always another monster, always someone needing to be saved and after five years of constantly being hailed as a hero and being looked to for protection and guidance, he is tired of it. He places his sword on the wall along with all the other trophies and relics they managed to salvage from the ruins of Nidellia and takes up the pen and his mother's smile.
He does not allow himself to think of her, even when his brother storms in and fixes him with a glare that could melt through solid steel. The older they get, the closer they get, the more Darc reminds him of his mother. The furrow of his eyebrows and the fire in his eyes resemble her so much that it makes Kharg's heart ache. She might have been calm and cool in the later years of her life, but he still remembers her as the spitfire from his childhood. Darc might prefer to think that his anger comes from the deimos side, but Kharg knows better. He also will never tell, just to let his brother keep his pride a little longer.
He pushes aside all thoughts, picking up his pen again as he coolly regards Darc. "What do you want?" he says, in a tone he wouldn't use on anyone else. With Darc, he is allowed to be rude.
"I haven't beaten you yet," Darc snarls, clawed hand waving towards the sword on the wall. Kharg follows it with his gaze, one eyebrow raising as he turns back to Darc. By that time, his brother has crossed his arms over his chest, echoing their mother in ways he will never know.
"So?"Kharg says, brushing it off as casually as he would dirt on his sleeve. Darc gapes at him for a moment before hiding it with anger, stalking closer to Kharg's desk.
"You can't..." Darc trails off, jabbing his claws towards the sword and then back to Kharg again. He growls, grasping at the air as if he could rip the words from it. Nothing comes.
Kharg waits, pen poised over the paper, ready to write out the next paragraph of ridiculous bureaucracy needed to drive his point home. Anything he writes while Darc is here will have to be scrapped, he knows this, but it is the action that matters. He smiles, his mother's smile, their mother's smile, kind and patient, but also a little condescending.
Darc might have inherited her temper, but Kharg has inherited every iota of her patience. He watches. He waits. Then when the moment is right, he strikes. It has served him well in battle, it will serve him well in his new life as well.
"You..." Darc tries again, then stops, shaking his head as if to chase away his own thoughts. He glares at Kharg, scowling darkly. "I..." he says, losing the rage. His shoulders slump as he stares at Kharg, eyes wide as he bites his lip. It's so uncharacteristic that Kharg takes pity on him.
"Are you done?" he asks just as coolly as he had before. Darc blinks at him, then draws himself up, scowling once more.
"This isn't over," Darc spits out, head held high as he leaves Kharg's office as quickly as he came, fully cloaked in righteous anger. Kharg shakes his head as he departs, a small sigh escaping his lips.
He's already decided on his path, he will not be swayed.
Fandom: Arc the Lad: Twilight of Spirits
Rating: T
Warnings: None.
Summary: Ficlet, intended to be part of a larger piece of snapshots of how Kharg and Darc's relationship developed over the years post-game. At Twenty-One, Kharg makes a decision, Darc does not like it.
A/N: I started writing, finished one scene and then half of the other. Then looked at what I was doing and went 'yeah, not doing that again, short fic Chaos'. I will finish and post it to another site later, just this bit for now until this month is over.
Kharg is twenty-one when he decides to set aside his sword and focus on politics. There's always another monster, always someone needing to be saved and after five years of constantly being hailed as a hero and being looked to for protection and guidance, he is tired of it. He places his sword on the wall along with all the other trophies and relics they managed to salvage from the ruins of Nidellia and takes up the pen and his mother's smile.
He does not allow himself to think of her, even when his brother storms in and fixes him with a glare that could melt through solid steel. The older they get, the closer they get, the more Darc reminds him of his mother. The furrow of his eyebrows and the fire in his eyes resemble her so much that it makes Kharg's heart ache. She might have been calm and cool in the later years of her life, but he still remembers her as the spitfire from his childhood. Darc might prefer to think that his anger comes from the deimos side, but Kharg knows better. He also will never tell, just to let his brother keep his pride a little longer.
He pushes aside all thoughts, picking up his pen again as he coolly regards Darc. "What do you want?" he says, in a tone he wouldn't use on anyone else. With Darc, he is allowed to be rude.
"I haven't beaten you yet," Darc snarls, clawed hand waving towards the sword on the wall. Kharg follows it with his gaze, one eyebrow raising as he turns back to Darc. By that time, his brother has crossed his arms over his chest, echoing their mother in ways he will never know.
"So?"Kharg says, brushing it off as casually as he would dirt on his sleeve. Darc gapes at him for a moment before hiding it with anger, stalking closer to Kharg's desk.
"You can't..." Darc trails off, jabbing his claws towards the sword and then back to Kharg again. He growls, grasping at the air as if he could rip the words from it. Nothing comes.
Kharg waits, pen poised over the paper, ready to write out the next paragraph of ridiculous bureaucracy needed to drive his point home. Anything he writes while Darc is here will have to be scrapped, he knows this, but it is the action that matters. He smiles, his mother's smile, their mother's smile, kind and patient, but also a little condescending.
Darc might have inherited her temper, but Kharg has inherited every iota of her patience. He watches. He waits. Then when the moment is right, he strikes. It has served him well in battle, it will serve him well in his new life as well.
"You..." Darc tries again, then stops, shaking his head as if to chase away his own thoughts. He glares at Kharg, scowling darkly. "I..." he says, losing the rage. His shoulders slump as he stares at Kharg, eyes wide as he bites his lip. It's so uncharacteristic that Kharg takes pity on him.
"Are you done?" he asks just as coolly as he had before. Darc blinks at him, then draws himself up, scowling once more.
"This isn't over," Darc spits out, head held high as he leaves Kharg's office as quickly as he came, fully cloaked in righteous anger. Kharg shakes his head as he departs, a small sigh escaping his lips.
He's already decided on his path, he will not be swayed.