5. Dagon

5

DAGON

O ne day, as I walk through my door, I'm overcome with shock to find my brother, Tagar, casually lounging on the couch. He looks up at me with a smirk, opening his arms wide. "Hello, brother," he says, his voice cruelly laced with contempt.

All at once, memories come slamming back, each one with striking force.

A younger me, looking up at him, mimicking his every move, desperate for his nod of approval. A muddy battlefield under a gray sky, the bloody clash of swords ringing in my ears. Tagar, a few steps ahead, his blade swinging with lethal precision. The cold dismissal in his eyes the day I told him I was leaving for a quieter life.

His voice, thick with scorn, "You'll fucking regret this, Dagon. You're not one of them."

It's almost overwhelming, the speed at which it all rushes back. The past, once neatly compartmentalized, now bursts forth, unbidden and uncontrollable, as if Tagar's mere presence has shattered the barriers I've painstakingly built over the years.

I didn't know that travel between Galmoleth and Aerasak was allowed these days. Yet here he is, bold as can be, his presence consuming the fucking entirety of my space, my peace. His sudden arrival instantly puts me on edge. I can feel the furrow of my brow as my face tenses, my fists balling at my sides. We were once so close, but that was before. We've since grown apart ever since I decided to pursue a peaceful life. He looks down on it as if it's beneath him.

As if right on cue, I watch as his eyes roam across my living room. "What a cushy fucking setup you have here, Dagon," he sneers, his voice dripping with disdain. His gaze is sharp and critical, stripping away the tranquility I've built around myself, turning it into something trivial, something laughable.

His words, meant to provoke, hang in the air like a challenge. I struggle to maintain composure, to keep the rising anger from coloring my response. "It's peaceful," I manage to say, my voice steady but cold. "Something you've never understood, Tagar."

He laughs, a harsh sound that echoes too loudly in the stillness of my once-serene living room. "Peaceful, or just plain dull?" he retorts.

I clench my fists, struggling to keep my anger at bay. He's always known exactly how to provoke me, a skill perfected since our youth. Each snide comment he throws my way feels like a hook, pulling me back into a past I've desperately tried to leave behind. I attempt to remain composed, every muscle tensed, silently pleading for him to just fucking leave.

But when I refuse to engage with his provocations, Tagar shifts his tactics. He reclines, a dark spark in his eyes, and begins to gloriously reminisce about our brutal exploits in the war, reveling in the violent memories.

"Don't you ever think of the war Dagon? How we tortured and maimed. How will killed in cold blood with our bare hands?" His voice isn't just wistful, it's hungry, as if he's savoring each bloody image as it passes through his mind.

My temper frays as these intrusive memories claw their way into my thoughts uninvited. I remember too—the chaos, the fear, the rush of power. But these aren't memories I want to relive. They're dark chapters I've attempted to seal away, wounds I've struggled to heal.

"I don't care to remember those times," I say tightly, my voice strained with the effort to keep my emotions in check. Tagar chuckles darkly, pleased by my discomfort.

"But those were our glory days, brother," he taunts, his eyes gleaming maliciously. "Or have you become too weak, too entangled in your peaceful drapes to recall the exquisite thrill of conquest?"

This moment encapsulates the internal battle I face, caught between who I was and who I strive to be, illustrating the profound impact of familial ties and personal history on my identity and emotional state. As Tagar revels in the blood-soaked memories, each word sharpens the images I've fought so hard to bury. His voice, dripping with a sick love for the chaos, slices through the calm I've crafted.

Despite my resistance, the memories break through—flashes of fire, the clash of steel, the cries of the fallen. It's not just the past that returns. It's the adrenaline, the fear, the raw fucking power—all flooding back, overwhelming my senses.

With each memory he dredges up, the walls I've constructed to separate my past from my present seem to shudder, letting the old darkness seep through. I can almost smell the metallic tang of the blood that spilled so freely, coating the ground in the crimson realities of war and torture.

Feeling my control slip, I suddenly stand. "I need a fucking moment," I mutter abruptly, my voice a thin veil over the turmoil inside. I can't trust myself to stay, to listen to Tagar pull up more horrors that thrill him and torment me.

As much as I want to deny it, Tagar's unexpected visit has blasted open the box of traumatic memories I've fought so damn hard to keep sealed. The lid to that dark place wasn't as secure as I believed, and now, with a few cruel words, he's thrown it wide open, letting all the darkest moments spill out.

I escape to the sanctuary of my kitchen, leaning heavily against the counter. My hands grip the edge, knuckles white, as I struggle to regain some semblance of composure. I close my eyes, taking deep, measured breaths, trying to replace the images of war with the quiet peace of my current life. But the echoes of Tagar's words linger, a dark shadow over my hard-won tranquility.

Why the fuck does he still have this power over me? Why can his presence and his words resurrect the past I've tried so diligently to bury? It's a troubling thought, one that shakes the foundation of the new life I've built. I realize that healing isn't just about escaping the past. It's about confronting and controlling it, something I still need to master.

With breaths, I attempt to close the box again, to secure the lid tighter than before. But now I know it's there, still filled with unresolved shadows, waiting just beneath the surface.

As I step away, holding tight to a thin sliver of composure I managed to conjure, I turn back toward the living room, watching him just out of sight as his brooding expression casts judgment on my life.

The pain and the torture he's so fond of reminiscing about is digging its claws in me, trying hard to cling to the darkness that seems to be taking hold, bit by bit.