Separate, Unequal

My, seems I've neglected rewriting this. And yet, here I am. This will be alternating primary/secondary priority with Bicentennial until it one is complete. If you've read TLoS: Rising, expect familiarity, but yet differences in this version. I'm ironing out plot wrinkles, and expanding on what little I had before.

So, enjoy.

All feedback is appreciated.

"Mom! Mom!"

Sorl's eyes flashed open. Blinking a few times, she tilted her head, and stared with contempt at the clock. Two hours before she would need to get up, before either of her sons should need to be up for school. Why did bad things always happen so early in the morning?

"Mom!"

She groaned softly, and rolled over into the fading warmth left behind by her mate. It couldn't have been long ago that he had gone, off once again to toil under the slave-drivers at the mill. But it paid well, and Orao was guaranteed a position managing soon. He'd been at the mill for fifteen years, slowly rising, and ever a part of the goings-on of the background, and the changes occurring. In just the past year they had set up something totally new, a means of generating electricity by using the same river on which the mill ran. She hoped Orao would end up in charge of it, in the end. It would be good for him.

"Mom!"

Sorl tugged the blankets up over her face.

"Mom!" Both voices, now?

Her blankets hit the floor, followed shortly by her paws. If they were both calling to her, something must have actually gone wrong. Sorl flew through the door, and turned sharply into her sons' room next door.

"Wh-"

"Mom! Bourgeoisie puked on me and, uh, his bed!" the small brown dragon whined.

She gasped, pushing past him to the bed. "Are you sick, Bourg?"

The gold-hued dragon shook his head, still lying beneath the soiled blankets.

"You threw up, right? Then you're sick."

"It was only something I ate, and I can't miss today," Bourgeoisie moaned. "We're doing our examinations and-"

"You can't go to school sick."

"But I'll have to make them up! They always make it harder when you miss the first time."

"No." She turned to her other son. "Proletariat, go clean up and eat some breakfast. Unless you're sick, too?"

Proletariat looked back and forth between his mother and brother. "I feel fine." He glanced down at the mess on his neck and chest. "Even better once this is gone."

"But I feel fine, too," Bourgeoisie asserted, as Proletariat slipped out the door.

Sorl shook her head. "When your brother's done, we're going to give you a very hot bath. And then you can sleep most of today." She snatched up the dirty blanket. "I guess my plans for today are going to change as well."

Sorl left the room, closing the door to a crack. Bourgeoisie groaned and fell prone, turning his head toward the wall. After a few minutes, Proletariat quietly returned, dripping water across the dark wooden floor as he came up to Bourgeoisie's side.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I believe you, and if I hadn't made a big deal out of it we could have taken care of it without either of them knowing."

"Whatever," Bourgeoisie mumbled.

"Bourg..." Proletariat lifted his paws up, wet as they were, and set them on the bed beside his brother. He slid forward, scooting his hind-paws across the floor, and raised one paw to set it on Bourgeoisie's shoulder.

Bourgeoisie rolled over slowly until Proletariat's paw was on his chest. In spite of himself, he couldn't help but smile from his brother's affections. "Tell them the bear I fought off last week had rabies."

"Gladly," Proletariat responded. He leaned down, and kissed Bourgeoisie on his cheek.

"Prole!" Bourgeoisie growled, ""Aren't we too old for that by now?"

Proletariat pulled back, slowly stepping away. "I...you're my brother, Bourg." He slipped his back end through the door. "I can't stop loving you, never will."

Bourgeoisie watched the door click slowly closed, and listened for Proletariat's footsteps to fade away. He threw his head harshly backward against the wall. "I'm stupid," he muttered, "Thank you, Prole. I love you, too."

With a soft sigh, he surveyed the room as the sun threw shadows on the wall before him. Directly across from him and his bed was Proletariat's bed. They had been lucky that their mother hadn't noticed it was untouched, yet again. He and Proletariat both hated how their parents were so viciously against their sleeping together. The individual beds in the room had been purchased two and a half years ago, but before that time they had always slept together.

For a few months, or maybe a single month, he and Proletariat attempted to separate into their own beds. Eventually though, there was a night that he called out to Proletariat.

[][][]

It had been abnormally quiet that night. Usually the sounds of the night would have pierced the walls into their room. By that time, Sorl and Orao had gone to bed, turning off all of the lights in the home. With the moon only just beginning to wax the light it provided hadn't been enough to even see Proletariat on the other side of the room, despite Bourgeoisie having known he was there.

The end of fall had come quickly, and with it the nights had become suddenly colder. However, their parents had not pulled out their winter blankets. But he wouldn't complain to them about it.

Bourgeoisie typically would roll and turn in the bed for at most, if he was unlucky, an hour. But this night felt different. He had gone much longer already, and couldn't even begin to fall asleep. Thinking back on the feeling, it was practically identical to the time when Proletariat stayed overnight in the hospital after cracking one of his claws nearly in two. (No one knew it had been Bourgeoisie's idea to climb the tree Proletariat had fallen from, because despite his injury Proletariat had taken responsibility for it.) He worried all day after it happened, afraid that it was more serious than it turned out to be. By the time he was taken home to go to bed, however, his fears had subsided. What kept him awake on that night was not concern, but simply missing the closeness of his brother.

In the moment, being left home sick, he could nearly feel it again.

"Proletariat," he whispered.

Across the room, he heard the rustle of blankets moving, but no response.

"Prole," he tried again, then raising his voice, "Prole!"

"What is it, Bourg?" Proletariat responded sleepily.

"Can you come over here?"

Proletariat grunted softly, and flicked the blankets from around him onto the floor, jumping down on top of them. He crept through the room, placing his feet carefully to avoid stepping on something and making noise. "I'm," he paused to yawn, "here."

"I want, that is, it's cold tonight."

Proletariat nodded slowly.

"And I'm not very c-comfortable. I bet we can fit, so, would you sleep with me?"

He yawned once again. "Yeah, sure. Move over."

Bourgeoisie shifted back until more than half of the bed was freed up in front of him. He climbed onto the bed, pulling a portion of Bourgeoisie's blankets over himself.

"Thanks. I love you, Prole."

Proletariat slid and touched his back to Bourgeoisie's underside. He mumbled, "I love you, too."

[][][]

"Bourgeoisie, bathe please!" Sorl called.

"Fine!" he replied, "How about if I go to school after?"

"Not a chance!" she yelled back.

[][][]

The loud, deep ringing of a bell interrupted Proletariat's thoughts. He hastily scratched out a few more notes over what he'd read. Placing his things in the bag about his neck, he stood. The doorway was crowded with fifteen others, all pushing to get out. But Proletariat had no need to rush. There were four more classes for him today, and lunch, but his next class was only across the hall.

Secondary Earth Manipulation, one of his favorites, especially because he had been allowed to bypass the primary class that was required for it. Which was only allowed due to his demonstration of mastery in nearly every basic skill he was to be taught. (Something he and his dad had spent many, many hours throughout his childhood working on.) And so, with the agreement to a few weeks of outside tutoring to pick up what he didn't know, he was allowed to move on. He wasn't the best in his class, being younger than most in the class by at least six or seven months, but felt he definitely ranked in the upper half.

Once the others had left, he nodded politely to the instructor and went out through the door. He skirted the lines of dragons moving in both directions, cutting to and keeping to the middle of the nearest, and turning into the first break in the line heading in the direction he needed to go. Quickly as he could, he slipped from the crowd into the short hallway that led to the room his class was held in.

It was an open-roofed room, that was practically a courtyard if not for the retractable ceiling that was only used during winter or when it rained. But today, with the early afternoon sun pouring in, and the warm smooth air of early spring flowing freely in the hall, Proletariat already knew it'd be open.

He walked in, glancing about shortly before setting a course for a bench on the far side of the room. As usual, he was the first to arrive, with even the instructor having left the room after the previous class. If he even had one, Proletariat wasn't sure. But what else could be expected, arriving ten minutes before the class was to start.

Slipping off his bag, he sat down on the bench to wait. For him, ten minutes was too long to get from place to place; nobody needed that long, but most chose to stand or walk around to talk. Proletariat wasn't as social as even Bourgeoisie. He had made a few relatively close friends, but even they didn't know him too well. Only Bourgeoisie did, truly.

Bourgeoisie and his friends composed the top tier of their age group. The self-proclaimed elite, formed from most of the dragons and dragonesses who came from Warfang's upper class. Bourgeoisie, and all of them, knew that he wasn't. But it hadn't taken much for Bourgeoisie to win them over, and get himself in. Occasionally, Proletariat stuck around with his brother and his friends, but it was always under the stigma of their constant begrudging of his presence; many didn't even remember his name when he was around. There were exceptions, few as they were, and Bourgeoisie would always come to his defense. Yet Proletariat often ended up leaving to save him the trouble of trying.

But none of it was really all that important. He was satisfied with dis-social, it gave him more of an opportunity to focus on excelling with schoolwork, and planning for his future. Of course, school came pretty easily without the distractions Bourgeoisie often complained about to him. And he already knew what he wanted to do. He had only shared it with Bourgeoisie, and for now it was going to stay that way.

Proletariat jumped at the sound of the second bell, ringing out the end of the time between classes. The bell was located atop the building adjacent to the room he was in, and with the open top it was especially startling. He stood, and quickly went to where the instructor was taking roll.

"Hmm, good, everyone's here," he rumbled, "Let's get started straight away and get this done." He looked down the line of dragons, his expression changing slightly at each face he scanned over. "I'm required to test you this way quarterly, but I don't have anything clever for you today. I felt that something simple, encompassing several skills, would suffice."

He turned from the assembled dragons, moving to a near wall on which several switches, levers and buttons were placed. Shifting two switches and pressing a single button, five crossbows filled with blunt tipped bolts rose from the ground and protruded from the wall.

"All five will fire at you at once, one of you at a time, and you will deflect them. Volunteers?"

Proletariat's hand shot up instantly. This was something he'd been working on with Bourgeoisie only a week ago. He knew he could ace it, easily.

The instructor grinned. "Knew you'd be one of the first, little guy." He pressed another button, and a small ring, raised perhaps three inches from the ground and about eight feet across. All five crossbows turned toward the ring.

Proletariat smiled, ignoring the mutterings of his classmates as he stepped toward it. He prepared mentally, to mess up due to a stray thought would not be beneficial at this point, not in front of all these others.

He closed his eyes for a moment after reaching the ring. He spread his legs slightly, and bent down. He knew how to do this. He began to gather energy from inside of him, carefully spreading it out to every inch of his scales.

"Ready, Proletariat?" the instructor asked. Proletariat nodded, his eyes still closed, and the instructor flipped yet another switch.

Proletariat flicked his eyes open. With the crossbows all firing from a consistent distance, his method should work. He listened, focusing his vision on the only bolt in view. When the one he could see was within range, Proletariat pushed out the shell he had formed around himself. It dissipated as soon as it left his body.

Completely open, he shoved his head against his chest, and jumped straight upward. One bolt struck his right foreleg with enough force to turn him over. Two others sailed over him as he spun around. The final two hit his chest simultaneously as he land on his back upon the ground.

Every dragon but the instructor burst into laughter.

[][][]

Bourgeoisie rolled over in the bed for what felt like the thousandth time. After bathing and eating, he'd been told to go back to bed. Right...like he even could fall asleep. He could see by looking at the cock, hanging just above his window, that he had spent nearly eight hours lying in bed.

"Proletariat will be home in...less than an hour," he dictated to himself, "Good."

He climbed from the bed, and walked toward the desks placed side-by-side against the wall, directly beneath the window. Since the door was closed, Bourgeoisie felt it appropriate to pull the shade on the window down, and turned on the standing lamp next to his desk.

The year previous, their dad had shown them the right way to carve wood; he then provided them materials and, with a few days of difficult work and Orao's finishing touches, the brothers had carved near-identical desks. He carefully pulled open the top drawer, and lifted up the false bottom that he and Proletariat had devised. (One thing their father did not know about.)

He pulled out a book of papers, all of which had some sort of idea or device of his scrawled out on them. Ragged as it may have looked, it was his most important possession. It represented his biggest dream- to get involved with the elusive and secretive group based in Warfang who developed and created all of the things they took for granted, IoTD as they were known. Everyone denied that they were all that secret about it, but Bourgeoisie knew better.

Tours and interviews constantly came in and out- it was a front. All the space they claimed to be storage surely hid their research and items in development. The portions they led tours through, several of which Bourgeoisie had managed to get on, never changed. It looked more like a bunch of dragons writing things down, and tinkering with objects that would never see the outside world, because they were all a facade. He just knew it. Why else would they allow tours on which anyone could come and go?

"Moooom!" The front door to the house slammed against the back wall. "Mom! Something's wrong with me!"

Bourgeoisie shoved the book back into the drawer and quickly closed it. He turned off the light and spun around, running out the door and down the hallway toward his brother's voice. When he got there, Sorl was already comforting a visibly distressed Proletariat. She had him wrapped up in her wings, holding his head to her chest.

"Proletariat, shh. It can't be that bad," she whispered, "Now tell me the last part again, and just what you're trying to say."

"I- um, in Earth Manipulation we had an exam today and...and I couldn't do anything! It w-was easy, but nothing."

"You mean you had trouble using your element?"

"Yeah," he sniffed. "And it was something Bourg and I did only a little while ago."

Sorl nodded, and motioned Bourgeoisie over, pulling him into the now-loosened embrace. "When the two of you were born, your father and I took you to see a doctor, because we had never, ever heard of two dragons coming out of a single egg. Of course, neither had the doctor we went to. In fact, he sent us away, only to call us back a few weeks later."

"We walked into the room again, but this time we were faced with a ton of unfamiliar equipment and six different doctors. They ran...far, far too many tests for young dragons as you were, but eventually said that you were both in perfect condition." She rolled her eyes. "Then they have us come back again, because they messed up on a few- well, several. Anyway, what they 'theorized' is that both of you developed from one thing, but it somehow split off early on."

She glanced at their blank faces. "Not...too interested right now, I see? Well then, basically you both only have a portion of the organ that produces your element, because apparently that develops first, and it's what split into you. They'd said it may or may not affect your ability to use them and, well, it seems it does. Though...not before today."

Proletariat looked to Bourgeoisie. At one time, they had been just one thing, inside of an egg?

"You have no idea how much it hurt when your egg came out...I may as well have split myself in two."

"Um, come out?" Proletariat asked.