[/html]Rachias probably would have, but Kharma did not bring flowers. Andrezej -- if he lingered as an angry whisper or clung on as a vengeful ghost -- would probably sneer if he did. He was probably sneering anyway, laughing at his sentimental brother, but Kharma could not say that he was there out of respect, or longing, or duty, or anything substantial like that. It didn't matter. He sat at a rock near the sea and little more. Was it really a grave? Who could tell? The waves crashed on the jagged rocks in the distance like they always had, and the quiet moon said nothing. The air was heavy and his chest was tight, but only because it was summer.
It was strange to think about him, dying so young. How would he look now, if he had lived? How would he sound? Would he have changed at all?
No. He would not have. In fact, it was not so hard for the living brother to imagine how the deceased might have appeared. Andre had been larger, though only slightly, in their youth. The difference would be more significant now; the elder would have built up bulk, and the younger had always been made for speed. They were both grey and dark, confident shadows in the night. Kharma had the quiet, perhaps sad, red eyes of their father. Andre had had the fierce yellow eyes of their mother, and by then, he would have the dozen scars of both their parents. And he would be proud of them, of how he had earned them, of the those he had given in return, of the ones that had not survived what he had dealt.
The traveler turned towards the sound of approaching footsteps. Shadows draped over golden fur. He started a little, ears pulling back reflexively; the sturdy silhouette of the stranger reminded him instantly of Gabriel. Having left Inferni's borders, he had hoped not to cross paths with any other members during his visit, least of all the former Aquila. But it was not him, only someone similar, familiar. Kharma had not seen Ezekiel since the fire, since he had been hardly two months old. His lips wanted to tug into a tired smile, but he felt strangely wary. He did not know his nephew any more than his mother had known her youngest son. It was, perhaps, a worse sort of abandonment. Kaena had merely wandered away, been distracted, as far as he could know. Kharma had formally disowned and left behind everything he had ever known. They were strangers in every regard.
And so, "Hello" was all he could say.
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