I Wanted to be the Best

Come on, Gwyneira… where are you? Jaw muscles tightened imperceptibly, locking sharp teeth together like a zipper. Sergei has worked hard to control his breathing, to maintain the calm that would allow him to fight with focus and clarity, but as he awaited his sister’s approach the adrenalin souring his blood began winding him up like a coiled spring. Eventually, that spring would reach its limits. The young warrior could not compress his mounting anxiety any more than what he’d already tried. Soon he’d tip into that dangerous window wherein access energy threatened the accuracy of his movements - he’d attack too quickly, with too much force, leaving himself open to making stupid mistakes. Most wolves would probably witness Sergei off his game and never realize he fought with anything less than perfect skill; however, for a child that had grown up flowing through deadly combinations, he would sense acutely everything he did wrong. So would his sibling. Gwyn would most definitely notice any miniscule slip-ups… and then this would be over, before the striped prince had a chance to prove himself. Please, Gwyn. Get this over with.

The lass did not keep Sergei in suspense much longer. An odd humm caught his pricked ears - crescendoing at an alarming speed - and then something the size of a deer’s skull arched through the dark toward him and shattered into the branches above him, raining sweet-smelling shrapnel all around his hunched frame. That prickling noise Sergei had heard burst into a deafening drone that vibrated against the inner wall of his skull. The shadows of night were moving - no, not shadows, but hundreds of tiny insects flying in a pulsating cloud that distorted the darkness around them into a living seething mass. By the time Sergei had leapt to his paws and shot out from his hiding place, the bees had already arrowed toward him. Blanketing his head. Burrowing into the fur of his back. Clinging to his legs. And although the thickness of his pelt along his spine and shoulders prevented most stingers from reaching their target, there was nothing to be done for his sensitive face.

Realizing Gwyneira had located his position and that stealth was now meaningless, Sergei opened his mouth to shriek in pain. More insects flooded the corners of his gaping jaws, attacking his gums with tiny barbed feet and venomous stingers, injecting him with their excruciating chemicals. His skin burned. His blood was acid corroding every nerve fiber it touched. Sergei shook his crown violently, causing a swath of bees to peel away like a living patch of cloth - only for others to converge in the same place. Screams turned to snarls turned to roars turned to furious, keening yelps, the urge to break down and whimper overwhelming. Flesh swelled, his immune system desperately fighting the venom with scorching inflammation. His tongue flopped thick and heavy between his daggers. His eyelids pushed shut over his wildly rolling eyes -

A weight slammed directly into his left side. A high yip - like that of a startled pup - broke from Sergei’s chest. Sergei had been trained to brace himself and counterattack immediately when his enemy still lingered close, or shift with the assault’s momentum to better angle himself for defense. But this? The gladiator knew pain, knew the aches that came from rips, knew what it was to bleed more than you thought possible, and yet Gwyneira rocketing into somehow took him completely by surprise thanks to the mask of pure torment he wore. Sergei barked out - air punched from his lungs by Gwyn’s heft - and hit the earth hard, skidding across damp pine needles and rotted leaves. More of the bees fled from his fur or else dropped from where they latched to him, dead after expending their venom. Frantically Sergei scraped that the rest with his paws; he writhed on the ground like something possessed, trying to focus through his torture to anticipate Gwyn’s next -

This time, when he felt his sister throw herself at him, Sergei fought back. Since he was already prone on the ground, he flipped to his back, long strong limbs kicking at the air. He would attempt to hold a no doubt vicious Gwyn from snapping at his throat, the superior reach of his legs hopefully creating enough distance and leverage to save him from instant defeat. As he wrestled her away from him, he’d slash at her abdomen with his hind claws. The talons on his back feet were too blunt to rip lacerations into his sibling’s hide, yet if he could just bruise her, exhaust her enough…

No. Sergei should not be thinking of simply tiring Gwyneira out. That wasn’t the point of this battle. This was… this was their true Trial. It would not end with one of them out of breath and tapping out. He had to…

Sergei suddenly retracted his limbs, potentially knocking Gwyn off balance if she were still struggling to clamber on top of him to reach his most vital places. Before his sister had a chance to see through his bluff and escape, the tundra soldier swiftly threw his forelimbs around Gwyn’s neck and yanked her down hard, rolling sideways like a crocodile going in for the kill. He hoped to totally pull her off her paws and send them both tumbling over the terra in a snarling, biting, struggling mess, refusing to let his sibling spring away to stab at him with her signature speed. For every slash she gauged at him, Sergei would repay her in kind. Blood for blood. Crimson staining their pelts, mashing into the mud they rolled in to coat them in filth. A singular core of rage that burned hotter the longer they remained locked together in combat, because absolutely no one on this earth knew better how to hurt the siblings than each other. They had slept together at Athene’s side for warmth in the cold night; they had raced each other on the beach, testing the fantastic stretch of their muscles; they had been one another’s support, sparring-partner, confidant, best friend… worst enemy. And although the winter-painted warrior desired a magnificent victory - to see pride shining in his parents’ eyes - there was not a wolf alive that Sergei trusted more, respected more, than Gwyneira. Her fangs pierced his flesh over, and over, sewing the deepest pain into every inch of his canvas… and whether it was the sheer violence of her power, or the terrible pain drowning him minute by minute, or the familiar scent of her soft fur, something finally made Sergei let go.

They shoved apart like the fragments of an explosion, sides heaving with exertion, blood and spittle flecking from their mouths. “Gwyneira?” A small, low-spoken question. Wondering if the huntress glaring at him from mere yards away still recognized him the way he recognized her - searching hopelessly for any spark of love. Would she even want to hear his voice? Or would Gwyn regard any exchange of words as unprofessional, a waste of time - a diversion? The brindle-barred boy spat a mouthful of pink-tinged saliva between his forepaws, wincing at the harsh ache in his ribs. He thought perhaps his sibling would curse him for speaking her name… but she didn’t. Instead, to his astonishment, the wolfess he’d just been trying to mortally wound dropped into a play-bow, tail loosely wagging, an expression on her face that looked like some kind of wry apology: the same veneer she always put on when she hit Sergei too hard during practice. Sorry. I didn’t mean it. Can we try that again? Just like that… the tension vanished from Sergei’s physique. His visage became blank, impassive. The most important realization fell effortlessly into place, banishing the turmoil of his mind before and leaving his thoughts a clean landscape of snow. He knew Gwyneira was acting. He understood her angle as well as he understood the rise and fall of the sun. But he wanted his last sight of his sister to be this image, innocent and playful; he wrapped himself in the fantasy of yet another harmless practice round, believing they would walk back to their den and clean each other’s wounds. When Sergei did not move, Gwyn moved for him - flying like a falcon, maw unhinged, knives glinting like starlight. From teasing to murderous in an instant. She hit home on his shoulder, fur and flesh and finally bone yielding to her mighty jaws. He froze, mortified, despite the wrenching rip of Gwyn separating muscle fibers like roots from a weed. He tried to say her name, and discovered his throat paralyzed.

He would never get that Gwyneira back, the caring sister of the past. She would kill that side of herself like she was about to kill him.

And Sergei… felt at peace with that.

The would-be-warrior made his sister battle him for a little longer. He relied on all the things Athene had taught him, because he would not insult their teacher by failing on purpose. And when the time was right, Sergei stepped just a bit too wide… curved his throat a bit too high…

Gwyneira ended it quickly. Sergei felt no pain that was not already blazing through his nerves. His body dropped to the victor’s paws. He coughed.

Sighed.

And died.

Cruel Fate, Cruel Life!

Son of Kershov x Athene | No Love | Uyaraut | xathira