In the vast and everchanging chasm between nowhere and everyplace they sit, the two constants. He’s tall, dark-haired, an ominous figure with empty eye sockets. In turn, her face is ageless in a way that it seems to wax and wane infinitely, so that when you have pinpointed her features as those of a young girl, they have already flowed into the shape of an old crone in the process looking.
They have spent their time overlooking many deeds great and terrible and oftentimes both, along with thrice as many that were just incredibly, mundanely boring.
Often they sit and haggle, and when sometimes their goals may feel at odds, that is where unlikely rebellion thrives, gods and masters are successfully shunned, and peace finally reigns.
You may imagine these times as a great big cosmic chess game on a planet-sized board, except that, no matter what some might tell you about the grand scheme of things, the kings and the pawns here are equal on all accounts.
He’s very close to winning. Two or three moves and he’ll be done, and then he’ll put on the smug face he reserves for special occasions. He does it on purpose.
It had started out in the age of heroes and, then, it had been fine to let him win sometimes— he was her little brother after all. But only as he started doing it more and more and getting better and better across centuries, millennia, aeons, she realized just how much it made her want to punt him into the sun.
In these times when the lowly wipping-boys rise, she is living out her Cain instinct on a global scale, which is as sensible as it gets when Death himself kneels before you and your brother, occasionally asking for a pay raise or vacation time.
“You’re in Check,” he drawls finally, leaning back into the chair he willed into existence (It’s made of Time, and very relaxing to lean into).
She hadn’t failed to notice. Every fiber of his eternal being seems to be aflame with satisfaction. It streams from his soul and pours out of his empty eyes, giving his black hair a deep blueish tinge and his insufferability a clear boost. He’ll triumph on his own this time.
Fate tuts. She is not having it. First, this one belongs to her. Second, she ought to not let her brother’s ego inflate too much, because unfortunate things tend to happen if it does. Unfortunate for the simple folk, mind you.
It’s not always like this. Sometimes their interests align, sometimes things just go too well, sometimes men are blinded by lust or rage or pure unadulterated hubris, noticing the pebble that is to trip them up only in falling.
She would be lying if she said there wasn’t some perverse, wretched beauty in it. Something deep inside her— and it takes a herculean effort of cognitive dissonance to overlook— relishes the carnage. Goes giddy at the sight of blood, wine-dark, smeary, and disgusting; how it gushes rhythmically from an opened carotid, clockwork intricacies of the mortal body revealed, how it mingles with pulpified grey matter in the remains of a smashed-in cranium, paints entire battlefields, villages, rivers, and cradles with its vivid hue.
There is something incredibly intimate about ramming a dagger into someone’s flesh.
…
She would not be better than him though, giving in to base desires like that. He likes to go down and have a bit of fun sometimes, a hands-on approach. Sit overhead watching as it all goes sideways, an artful conductor to a symphony of chaos and misfortune.
And chaos is what he does best, really. All it takes is a little whisper in the right person’s ear, a small twisting of the senses, and they’re done for. She, herself, she’s more discreet. Less overt with it. She weaves an intricate tissue of destiny, determinism, and ineffability; sturdy white cloth to wipe your soiled hands on.
“Didn’t you see this coming?” The edges of his lips creep upward. “Better luck next time.”
“I don’t think so,” she says. Purrs.
He shakes his head patronizingly. “Don’t try to tell me anything about winning by not playing in the first place. That’s not quite how that works, trust me—“
“I wasn’t being nearly as philosophical. I simply meant to tell you that you should’ve kept an eye on the upper right corner.”
“You—" His face goes suddenly slack. "Oh—"
“Check and Mate, my dear.”
“That one was boring anyways. Did nothing but mumble into his beard about culturally significant rosids and End Times and whatnot.”
“I have something in plan.”
She likes to think that she doesn’t leave anything to Luck, good or bad. It’s all very subjective anyways, and what is bad luck but fate indulging? It’s clear as cristal, laid out before her with the important parts underlined in red ink, twice.
“A rematch?”