Fandom: Black Jewels Trilogy
Warnings: references to bloodshed, mild swearing
Author: Lily Zen
Notes: For comment_fic.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
The differences between them weren't always obvious. They had the same thick, black hair, golden eyes, and tanned skin of the long-lived races, though Daemon's was more of a melted gold where Lucivar's was bronze. The shape of their mouths were similar—sensual, if one ignored the sneer on Lucivar's face—as were their eyes if someone was brave enough to bear the coldness in Daemon's for a lingering look. Lucivar had a little more bulk to him as befitted a warrior, and of course his black-feathered Eyrien wings, and there was an angle to his jaw that made women describe him as 'handsome,' like their father, whereas Daemon was almost always 'beautiful,' or 'gorgeous.'
When the bitch-Queens made him clean up and play the pretty, which only the boldest and dumbest dared anymore, Lucivar was made well-aware by their lascivious stares just how much a rival for his brother's beauty he could be. That wasn't his game though. The deception, the sex, twisting something that should have been beautiful and intimate into the cruelest weapon one could imagine; that was the Sadist's chosen playground. Lucivar preferred a more straightforward approach of railing against what he hated. He wanted to sink his hands, his teeth, his blade into it, into them…through them. He wanted to rip them open and spill them out on the killing field like a man, like a male, like an Eyrien.
Daemon preferred a less hands-on approach that while more civilized-looking, was in actuality crueler. He kept his victims alive for a long time, kept them writhing in agony and begging for an end, and he did it all without ever laying a hand on them. He was an expert at using Craft to torment and to kill. In fact, it was all he'd ever really used it for.
When Daemon walked off a killing field he looked like he had when he'd just stepped on it, immaculate in his black tailored suits and white shirts, his hair artfully disheveled. He looked inhumanly beautiful amidst the carnage.
Lucivar wore the blood of his enemies like war paint when he left the battlefield. It coated him, dried and flaked off in rust-red splatters, sweat streaking through it to show his bare chest. He flicked off gray matter and bone marrow, and reveled in the fierce freedom of it. In those moments before the agony of the Ring ripped through him, he was whole and free. In Daemon's eyes, Lucivar could see he felt the same strange joy. They were tigers leashed but they were still predators, and Mother Night, they'd make sure those bitches remembered it for the next hundred years.
Though they raged in different ways, the brothers were bound the same way, felt the same hate. The differences between them were merely superficial.