Brakus was beginning to suspect that his parents were indeed shakened by the events of the last few days.
And how could they not be? The youngest had been revealed to possibly be on his way to becoming the most influential Veilkerhurst. Something he knew had to be irksome to father. That brat had been nothing more than a sniveling menace to the family name, a barbed thorn in their side. Always trying to weasel his way into the other's good nature. Trying to appear innocent when he was nothing more than a coward. Whereas all of the other children from all of the other branches have shown prowess for different abilities, he was still at the lowest level for mana manifestation, magic manipulation, potion making. Something so basic. And one was not to forget fighting of all things. How could they not feel shame with a brat that would cry at the drop of the hat?
Brakus could remember when the punk had tried to hug him. In the Veilkerhusrt household, touch always came with intention. Touch led to pain, permanent injuries and in many cases, death. That was why when Brakus had first heard about the birth of a new Veilkerhurst he knew that it was not a cause for celebration as each new member was nothing more than competition. N birth ever was. No. This was but a new head to take. A new arrow for one's back.
And a new brat to gain their parent's favor.
Brakus did not have the intelligence that Priscilla and Reilard portrayed; their ingenuity making it difficult to gain mother's attention. She would deign him with nothing more than a look of amusement at whatever progress he made in his training. He sensed that she had allotted a miniscule amount of fondness for him, most likely due to him sharing a battle prowess that was akin to her beloved husband. Other than that, she had shown no other interest in him. She even condescended some attention towards the youngest, even if it was full of derisive barbs and disgusted looks. Brakus would get brief glances and airy comments of disinterest, her compliments nothing more than obligatory praise for his expected talent. When she gained a more positive interest in the youngest Veilkerhurst six months into his existence, barely roaming the halls with her normal surveillance, Brakus focused most of his ire on the newest intrusion to gaining his mother's affection.
He knew that she was aware of his desperation for her attention, and that she enjoyed pitting him against the brat. That was just the way she was. He only wished that the bastard had died in birth or was ejected from her body during one of her missions. It made little sense that a child of that sensitivity could have been born of such a woman or have even festered from their father's loins. The wimp wept at the drop of a hat. He claimed to want to hug them and had even attempted. Honestly, his need for physical touch made Brakus's skin crawl. Being that vulnerable openly would only lead to death and it was not getting in.
Brakus remembered one of his earlier days of training. He had exhausted himself, pushing past his body's protests. His muscles strained, the pain burning in his joints. His fingers tried to jerk themselves open as he gripped his unsteady many sword. He did not know when it had happened, but he lost consciousness. If anyone else had come upon him, he may not have woken up at all. Instead, he awoke to the youngest, at the time eight years old, in his family asleep on his chest. Blearily, his vision cleared as his body grew more aware of the new weight on top of it. He saw how the young boy had curled himself comfortably, his head laid upon his chest with one arm putting place between their two bodies. His other arm curled partway across his chest, his hand relaxed above his heart. The youngest breathed deeply, each pull soothing inhale. Each exhale an, admittedly, amusing whistle. Brakus was unaware of the bemused smile that grew on his face.
His thoughts were strangely relaxed. Was he sick? He thought as he studied the abnormal breathing pattern. Why was his nose making such as sound? Brakus wondered as he took in the scene, his brain still adapting to the absurdity of it.
He tried to figure out how someone so small was able to get him onto his back. Did he not collapse face forward? He was positive that his face had been pressed into the compact dirt; a clump of grass tickling his nose and stabbing at the corner of his eyes was the last thing he remembered. Now, he somehow been laid against one of their oak trees, his back pressed into the bark with his legs splayed out before him. The youngest had settled himself between his legs, his head below Brakus's chin. He studied how the younger boy had one arm under his body and the other was laid above Brakus's heart. His fingers twitch as he shifted slightly. It was when he patted his older brother's chest, the rhythm gentle and comforting, that Brakus came back to himself.
He punched the younger boy awake.
Brakus sent him flying. The other boy rolled heel over head before settling a bit away from him. His breathing came out in shaky gasps, his body trembled. The look he gave his older brother was one of betrayal and such hurt that Brakus felt something in him shift uncomfortably.
"What was that for?" he had questioned him.
How was Brakus to tell him that it was due to having the reject as his guard as he laid unconscious? How being dependent on him for any aid was embarrassing? To think that he was even close to the nuisance made him shudder. Him? The runt of the family being a sort of guardian until he regained consciousness? No. Brakus would never hear the end of it if they had been caught. And with how many eyes crawled all over the castle walls, there could already be the snickering gossip of their parasitic relatives spawning sarcastic jeers. His burning shame transitioned into anger, the heat of it simmering under his skin.
"Brakky?" Came the hurt voice of the nag.
How he hated that nickname. He could barely tolerate it when the brat was sounding out words, his tongue too immature to fully pronounce words, When he realized that that was how wanted to address him, he became incensed. He was positive that it had to be nothing short of a slight against his character. Who could endure such a juvenile name.
"Stop calling me that!" Brakus had roared at him, his temper making his voice louder than it should be. "Why do you keep pretending that you love me?"
He felt revulsion as the younger boy's bottom lip trembled. "Because you're my brother. Brothers love each other."
Brakus only sneered at him. "Then let me show you how we love in this family."
He made sure not to break any bones, but he was pleased when he saw how the new bruises marbled all over the other boy's flesh. He didn't even mind his crying this time, the whimpers muffled from under his arms as he weakly cover his head. In fact, Brakus felt even more refreshed than before. Without a further ado, he left the brat to his own devices. His steps full of gaiety as his mood became lighter. It did not matter if he even had the energy to crawl back to his abode, a long as he understood where he stood. Brakus summoned his mana sword, ready to once again run drills.
.......................................
He wondered if the that was when it started. Or maybe it had been earlier. Was this why the youngest never adapted to the Veilkerhurst family? Because he planned to force them to adapt to his whims? Brakus thought of the last ten years of the youngest's life, trying to see if anything else stood out. Yet nothing came to mind. He did not like how things stood now. The rules were changing. Their world tilting on its axis. He could neither make heads not tale of this new world. But there was one thing he was certain of.
If he wanted things to go back to normal, then he needed to kill the youngest.