Remnants of Reflection
A young body scaled down the crag, legs pumping uncontrollably; feet slipped haphazardly down the rocks. The boy tumbled and scraped his knees, but refused to feel the stinging; the adrenaline melding to his bloodstream told him so. He was young, barely eighteen. But he had one simple goal in mind, one that he had striven to achieve for over four years. Today would be the day, he would make sure of it. He'd be damned otherwise. Suddenly, he lurched to a sudden stop near the base of the hill, the dry flat plains sprawling below.
Just one deep breath. That was all he needed, he thought mechanically; the oxygen worked its way through his lungs like clockwork. It bubbled deep in his chest, and he sucked in until he could hold no more. And before he knew it, the breath was expelled, and they spread out on either side of him, the sunlight splaying along the orange feathered monstrosities.
Just then, the wind picked up; his wings ruffled, and he felt the longing for flight bubbling deep inside him-
And then he jumped, the air catching in his wings for just a moment; for the rest of his life, he would remember the feeling of weightlessness in those precious few seconds. He sank rapidly back to the ground, body scraping ungracefully against the sandy rock. A groan arose from his throat and he stayed still for a moment, waiting for the initial pain to subside.
Gradually, he lifted himself up, leaning his body forward and sitting cross-legged. He muttered curses under his breath, trying to understand why he couldn't fly, when he should have been able to five years ago. Even three years ago wouldn't have been too bad; at that rate, he would have been just a late bloomer. But now, something was definitely wrong.
No, no, don't tell yourself that, Dave, the boy's thoughts echoed. You will fly someday, just not today.
Who are you kidding? If you couldn't fly then, how the hell do you think you could fly now? How much more worthless could you possibly be, a person with wings who can't even fly. Your brother flew-
-And he's gone now. Because he could fly. See, flying is terrible, flying is bad, it's glad that you can't-
Stop, Dave. Just. Stop.
Forcing his mind to break from its self-destructive revelations, he stood, ruffling his wings; thumbing through the feathers, checking for injuries. They were sensitive things, but not as sensitive as one might think – at least, not on humans. Wings could stomach a little bit of tumbling, even a little rough-housing. Of course, if you stuck a sword or something through, then yeah – ow, that would hurt quite a bit.
He finished the self check-up, taking note of some minor bruises and scratches. Just a few more obstacles he overcame in his goal of flying, of being like his brother. Of being brave.
It would eventually happen; deep in his subconscious, he knew that. Or, he believed that, but it didn't stop him from spending long nights screaming into the pitch black sky out of frustration.
Eventually, he pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind, willing his focus to return to the natural world. In the distance, he could hear the sound of approaching horses, or hoofbeasts, as Dave once overheard them; he could faintly see the orange blurs of the riders' horns closing in.
The nearest city, though far, was one populated with these people – or rather, trolls. They despised being equated to humans, who were generally smaller in stature, in muscle build; beings who generally lacked the fantastic abilities that most trolls did. But of course, there were exceptions that would occasionally frighten them.
Like humans with wings. Though they lacked the supernatural abilities that many trolls had, they made up for it in sheer prowess; most were actually stronger than the huskiest of trolls. Simply the sighting of a winged being would scare most of them away.
Of course, Dave didn't want to get too involved. After all, if he made a scene, the trolls would send an army out to look for him. As far as they knew, there was almost nobody like him in existence; most winged people had been hunted into extinction in the last war. His brother, Dirk, had been the last one in the area, or so they had thought.
He ducked behind an area of rocks, trying to stay as far out of their sight as possible. Dave had gone his entire life without being spotted, and hoped to keep that record going. But even still, he was curious, scouting to see what this squadron was up to.
Or rather, it wasn't even an army. Judging by their lengthy black coats and insignias, they were an execution team, the harbingers of death to thousands of innocent trolls every year. Granted, most weren't truly innocent; after all, trolls were known for their violent tendencies. But then there were those who had simply been present when a crime had taken place and couldn't offer any knowledge, trolls who were unable to explain their otherwise innocent actions. And then there were the ones hatched with defects, encompassing problems from a missing finger to speech problems to immobility. If you did not fit into a category in their society, you deserved to die; you were unfit, unnecessary to the continue survival of the race.
Which was why Dave felt his heart bubble whenever he saw the team bringing out a young troll, shoulders tense, eyes bulging with fear. Most were found out even before reaching Dave's age. As he grew older and watched the divide grow between himself and the condemned, he had learned to count his blessings, even though, in the worst times he'd feel a scratching at the back of his head of what he had lost.
It still hurt every time he saw them bring out a new victim.
The executioner dismounted, then walked over to the boy, who had been trailing behind. He began to unlock the chains which kept him attached to another member of the crew, then pulled roughly on the chains, dragging him away from the hoofbeasts. Though several people would follow him out to this space, there were usually very few prisoners; the other officers would simply stand on the side and observe. Today's head was massive, towering over the other officials. Like most execution leads, his coat was carefully threaded with the same color as his blood; thick indigo fabric outlined most of the larger pockets. Strapped along the belt of his coat were weapons, the most notable of them being a sickle and a pair of clubs.
Today's course would be light; a thin boy, probably no more than fourteen or fifteen years of age, weak and wiry. Dave could hear the uneasy clanging of shackles far too heavy for his wrists and neck. Above all else, he looked tired; Dave see the dark circles under the boy's eyes from nights, possibly even years of fitful sleep. Sure, seemed sad; most would be depressed, afraid of dying. But he seemed to have just given up, resigned himself to his fate; like he had been fatigued from battle.
Dave listened as they were reading the boy's rites, praying that something, someone, anything would swoop down and save him. He could hear the charges piled against him; the main ones being hemofraud - the faking of one's blood color – and hemomutation – being off the blood-tinged hemospectrum that ruled troll society, though it wasn't his fault.
Morally, he hadn't done anything wrong, just fought for survival. But he had been cursed to break the law from the moment he was born, helpless to society's whims. Dave had once heard that people are in control of their own fates, yet everything about this boy's life seemed to betray that thought.
Dave could see him a bit more closely now, age more apparent. The prisoner's body was tiny and made him appear younger, his growth probably stunted at a young age due to his mutation. But his face had lost the roundness of a child long ago; every side of it contained sharp, sunken edges, shadows running along the contours of his face. His hair was dark and curly and wild, curling around too-tiny horns. He probably wasn't much younger than Dave was.
This was made all the more apparent by the boy's eyes. From what Dave had observed of trolls, as they aged, their eyes began to tint according to their blood color. Some trolls would hit maturity early; most of the ones Dave had seen had just started to tinge around his age. But this boy's eyes were a flaming, brilliant red; they had clearly filled in at least some months ago. How long, then, had he been held captive for?
Dave threw himself out of his musings as he caught the distant glint of metal, a sickle raised to the target's neck; the collar around his neck had been removed, revealing raw, red skin. Gray eyelids slipped over his eyes, surrendering himself to death. But instead of slicing through his throat, executioner simply lifted the sickle from his neck, letting his arm sway gently to the side. The sickle remained grasped, but the agent refused to move it.
He'd never seen anything like this before. Were they letting the boy go, baiting strings of mercy above his head? No, that couldn't be. That would never happen. The prisoner seemed to be having the same thoughts as you; his eyes were wide open with shock, bright eyes burning underneath the sun. Dave listened closely, trying to find out why the execution had stopped. The one with the sickle began to step to the side, slowly raising a hand, fingers wrapping around the back of the convict's neck. He wouldn't meet the eyes of the executioner, who bent in, almost closing the distance between his lips and the boy's ear.
"Did you honestly think we'd let you off that easily?" he barked into it. "A swift death, for someone like you?"
The prisoner swallowed and took a breath, refusing to speak, as if it were a final act of defiance.
"Answer me!"
"Do you honestly think that I'm that stupid, Gamzee? You've known me, were friends with me for fifteen fucking years, and you don't know that?" he snorted.
"Friends? Karkat, brother, we were never friends." He turned away from Karkat and grinned, teeth glinting in the sunlight. From where Dave was, he could see the thinnest film over Gamzee's eyes.
Karkat stared at the back of his former friend, studying him intensely, trying to absorb the last bit of familiarity to him, even if his final moments alive would be the farthest from comforting. At the same time, there was a distance in his eyes, as if he were trying all too desperately to comprehend something far out of his grasp.
Until Gamzee blinked and lifted the sickle, claws wrapping tightly around Karkat's arm. Gamzee dug his nails in, tiny droplets of blood forming around the tips of sharp nails. Karkat winced, desperately trying to pry him off with his other hand. Gamzee tightened his grip, slowly pushing the prisoner down to his knees. As soon as his knees hit the floor, a noisome crack shattered the air quickly drowned out by a shrill scream.
Tears began to stream down Karkat's face as he gazed back up at him, eyes wide and pleading for Gamzee to stop. To his relief, he loosened the grip on Karkat's arm. Karkat began to catch his breath, though his face stayed wrinkled with pain; his eyes were still bulging, terrified. But even still, Gamzee could sense when Karkat became slightly less tense. He opened his mouth to speak.
"Sickles were always your thing."
"Y-yeah," he stammered.
"I know how much you like them, Karkat."
"Mm." He gulped, a new wave of tears ready to come gushing out. Karkat tried to look away, but Gamzee thrust the sickle under Karkat's chin, blade grazing him.
"If there's anything I hate more than sickles, it's a scared, weak little motherfucker like you trying to calm me down."
"Y-yeah, I'm wrong, I'm an idiot."
Gamzee grinned.
"Glad we're on the same page, brother," he sneered.
Karkat slammed his eyes shut as he felt a searing pain open on his broken arm, sickening warmth spreading in every direction across his skin. Gamzee snickered and dropped the sickle; the sharp metal clang rang in Karkat's ears.
"These," Gamzee said, unhooking a pair of clubs from his belt, "are more my style."
