Special thanks to arsenicDreams for encouraging me to write this. Not to mention for introducing me to Homestuck in the first place.

Also, all credit to the amazing story that is Homestuck belongs to Andrew Hussie.

Despite the darkness that surrounded me, a darkness made thicker by my shades, I could still see it. Like molten gold, littering the ground. It hadn't hit me yet, the stench of blood, and I didn't understand what had happened. But I had a feeling, deep down inside me, where I keep the emotions hidden from the world. I felt the fear, and it was at that moment that I knew something was wrong.

I stepped forward, eyes glued to the golden liquid below me, because on some level, I seemed to know what would happen if I looked up. I seemed to know that everything would fall apart if I raised my gaze. So I took just one step and pretended that I still didn't know what the golden blood meant. I pretended that I didn't see the few drops of red blood scattered amongst the gold. And when I couldn't do that, I tried to reason with myself. Red blood isn't uncommon here. It could have been anyone's. It could have been anyone's.

But it wasn't.

I dared myself to take another step. A feathery mess came into view, and I stared at it dumbly. Several minutes passed before I realized that a single golden wing lay before me, torn from it's owner. And still more moments passed before I remembered where I had seen a wing like that before. The fear increased, rising with my panic, while I stared at the wing, taking in the feathers, the blood, the glow it still seemed to emit, even though it would never fly again.

I don't know how long I stood looking at the broken wing. Hell, I didn't care. I had time to kill. I had time to murder. And I would have stayed there longer. But it was eating me on the inside. The curiosity. The insane curiosity. And I just couldn't take it anymore. I had to know that I was wrong. I had to confirm that I didn't know whoever it was that was lying there. And then I could go back to messing wish time, and creating loops, and...and...

I looked up, and dammit, if I had a chance to change that one single action, I would have. Because then the world really did fall apart. And I almost didn't recognize him, maimed beyond repair, unjustly stripped of his shades. I almost didn't recognize the sword that impaled him. Because I didn't want to. Because I couldn't stand the fact that my brother, the coolest guy to walk the earth, the one with the sharpest sword skills I'd ever seen, then man who raised me, had been heartlessly stabbed with his own blade, the one I watched him wield so expertly so many times before. My brother. My father.

Dead.

My face remained stoic, just as he had always taught me. Because emotions make you weak. Except he wasn't there to tell me that anymore. He wasn't there to tell me to keep my sword up, to bend my knees, to watch my opponent carefully, keep my guard up, because at anytime something like...something like this might happen.

It took all my strength to hold the tears back. But I did it. I did it, because I'll be damned if I finally slip after all this time. Because I know if he were alive, he would tell me to walk it off, just like he always did. And I knew that if our positions were switched, he'd hold it together. He'd hold it together as much as I was falling apart.

But it became easier soon. Because something I was not expecting had decided to weigh me down, and it's name was guilt. And the guilt pushed back the tears. And that was the only good thing it did. Because my brother was dead, and if Davesprite wasn't dead he was close, and if there had been one more Strider fighting, we might all have made it out alive. Because Striders fight. They fight. They don't quit. They don't back down from a challenge, and they absolutely, without a doubt, don't die. Because once upon a time, we were all too cool to have dead family members.

What might have happened if I had been here? What might have happened if I had fought alongside my brother and myself? We could've been unbeatable. We could've killed the lousy bastard in no time and been out of there. We could be chillin' around drinking apple juice and having sick rap battles right now.

Why weren't we? Because I screwed up. Because I decided messing with time was more important. Because I decided that messing up the stock market was more important. Because I decided that enslaving the alligators and making stupid-ass suits, and flirting with a girl who was on a completely different planet was more important. More important than my brother's life. If I could have been there, maybe he'd be alive. Maybe I could've taken his place. And I think I would have been okay with that. Because it's a small price to pay for everything he's done for me.

I start to wonder if he knew. If he knew what would happen, if he knew how much the sword would come in handy, or how many times it had saved my life.

And the guilt came down harder, because maybe he did know. Maybe he did know that I'd be stuck on an island of imps surrounded by lava and cogs, and maybe he knew that somewhere along the way, it'd be necessary to kick some serious ass. And I remembered all those times I hated him for it, for the training, the harsh looks, the empty, impersonal conversations. There were times I honestly hated him. And our first strife, I remember looking at him like he was some kind of monster, because I was just a kid, and that sword, the same one sticking out of his stomach now, was taller than me, and for some strange reason he expected me to be able to block it with a nearly identical one, and it just didn't make any sense. Because if he was my brother, why was he trying to shish-ka-bob me, and why did I end up with small cuts and bruises that didn't hurt nearly as much as the betrayal I felt?

I never understood, never, until today, that maybe he did care more than he let on, even if it was so uncool, so un-ironic. And now it was too late. Because my brother was dead, and there was a chance, a big chance, that it was my fault.

So I stood there, and I looked at him from a few feet away. And there was a part of me that wanted to take a step forward, and another part of me that wanted to take a step back, and I didn't know which part to listen to, so I just stood there, and I watched his body in some sort of twisted vigil.

It started raining, but there were no clouds. There were only tears, and they belonged to me. And fuck, I admit it. I was crying. Silent tears were streaming from beneath my shades, and I didn't care who saw me, because the only person that really mattered was dead. And I'll be damned if I let the loss of his life go unnoticed. Because even cool guys have people cry at their funerals.

I stare at the sword. It becomes blurred, obscured by my tears, but I know it's there, and the image has been burned into my mind. And suddenly I want nothing more than to remove that sword from his mangled body. But I think twice about it. Because where would I put the thing? Because it'd be wrong for me to use it. No matter what, that will always be his blade, and his alone. So it stays there, because now it seems like there is no place else in the world where the thing belongs, even if it does seem wrong.

I blink a few times, because the world is getting blurry to the point of ridiculousness. I don't know how it happened, but suddenly, I'm not standing, I'm kneeling, and suddenly I'm not in Davesprite's blood, I'm in Bro's. And suddenly, his bright red eyes are staring blankly at mine, and I almost can't stand it. It's not right. He shouldn't have to be shamed like this. The shades were a part of who he was, they were his identity. And they were gone now, just like him.

I did something that I almost never did. I took off my shades. I took them off, and I gently slid them over his sightless eyes. I'm sure someone smarter than me might understand the symbolism of this, but all I knew was that if he had to be dead, he would be dead with dignity. He would not loose his cool even if he was gone.

I took his hand, and it nearly killed me, because there was still some warmth in him. And I realized how close I was to being with him in his finale moments, telling him that I understood, that I was sorry, that I didn't mean for this to happen. The tears came, more violently this time, and I let them flow, free as the blood pouring out of his open wound.

This day was filled with things Striders didn't do. Because Striders don't take off their shades. And Striders don't loose. And Striders don't cry. And above all Striders did not die.

I'd fix this. I swore it to myself, made a silent vow that I'd avenge my brother's death.

I would kill Jack Noir.

Or I would die trying.

My name is Dave Strider, and I will get my revenge, even if it kills me.