(sorry everyone, something went wrong with the original thing so I republished it. either way, enjoy :D!)

A single heartbeat could be surprisingly loud. Especially when it was supposed to be two.

Why wasn't it two?

It had to be.

There were two people in the room. So there had to be two heartbeats. It was just how things worked.

Tyrael noted silence, excluding his racing heart and shallow breathing, even though there had been so much noise just moments before. His eyes opened, even though he didn't remember closing them in the first place. He wasn't fully awake, even now. But he remembered fighting. And being scared. And yelling someone's name. Or rather, trying to yell someone's name.

A very familiar someone's name.

Fyrdra.

He tried it. Twice. Thrice. He yelled it again, this time much louder. He felt like his throat was going to catch on fire it was so sore. It wasn't from the yelling, he knew that much. Someone had been holding it. Squeezing it. Trying to make him stop breathing, and succeeding for a just a little bit too long.

Coughs came and they suddenly wouldn't stop. Tyrael couldn't breathe.

The elf's hands found his brother's shoulders and shook. He was far too pale, and there was some wet stuff on his neck. It was water. Weird, dyed, water. Maybe even some of the water Fyrdra would use to wash his brush when painting. That sort of water. Yeah. Because if it wasn't water then it'd be

No, no it couldn't be. It just couldn't.

No!

This... this couldn't be happening.

Right?

Yeah, yeah! Its gotta be a joke or something!

Some sick, overly complicated joke.

His friend Mikirven always was a prankster, he would love to do something like this. Like that one time he caught some ferrets and put them in Tyrael's bed. Sure, Fyrdra ended up adopting one, but Tyrael still screamed. A lot. His father came running up stairs, and so did Fyrdra, and Mikirven got in so much trouble that he wasn't allowed out of his house other than for school for a week. He laughed a lot, though, so it was obvious he didn't really regret it, at least that much.

But then Fyrdra also made Mikirven apologize, and he hadn't done any pranks on Tyrael in a few months. So maybe it wasn't a joke.

Maybe a dream then? Tyrael hadn't had one this bad, though. Then again, the adults always told him that sometimes your dreams get worse when you get older. Less scary monsters in the night, more stressful situations every day. Or something like that. It could've been a dream, for sure.

That or a nightmare.

Yes, that would make more sense.

A nightmare that he would wake up from any second now, with his brother shaking him and telling him he was late for school. He shut his eyes, desperately wanting to open them and wake up somewhere else. In bed. Or in class. Or, but hopefully not, Tyrael had fallen asleep at the dinner table again. The smell of mint always did make him tired, maybe that was it.

It had to be.

He'd wake up, face in his salad, Fyrdra shaking his shoulder lightly and chuckling. The elf opened his eyes, mouth already forming an explanation, an excuse, maybe even an apology, given that there was no proper reason for his tiredness...

But all he saw were his hands.

The short elf vaguely registered footsteps, but his attention didn't linger on it. He couldn't look away from his hands, and all that he could hear was his uneven breathing, much too fast.

Tyrael stared down at his hands as raindrops fell onto them. He stared up, his wet eyes staring at the sun. Not rain then...

Tears fell onto his bloody, dry hands.

They fell, and they wouldn't stop falling. No matter how much Tyrael wished it would all go away.

But it wouldn't, none of it would.

Ever.

What had he done?

Fyrdra.

Always the happy-go-lucky kid. Always there for you. Always smiling.

And always the best big brother in the world.

Tyrael stared back down at his hands. His hands looked almost like jam. Strawberry, Fyrdra's favorite. ...Or at least his previous favorite.

The elf tried to keep looking at his blood-covered hands and think of jam. It was jam. He'd turn around any second now and see Fyrdra making tarts like he always does and he'd give Tyrael a big hug when he saw he was crying and ask what was wrong and they'd talk for a while and Fyrdra would hug him even tighter and he'd make all the bad stuff go away.

But Fyrdra couldn't do any of that.

Because Fyrdra was

Tyrael's father burst into the room, his large silhouette casting the already dark room into seemingly more shadow.

"What's wrong? I heard fighting, and..." he trailed off once he saw the scene before him. After that, the looming figure stayed silent for a few more moments.

Silence.

The young elf heard his heartbeat, faster than a rabbit's, pounding out of his chest and into his still aching throat. He quickly brought a hand to his neck to make sure he wasn't going to cough it out, but quickly put it down before he did so. He could check later.

The silence continued, a weird feeling that Tyrael didn't like seeping into it like red dye into water.

Now even the pair's breaths were silent.

It was unbearable.

The small boy turned around slowly.

"Dad?"

His tiny voice cracked, as he continued to hiccup through the tears. Staring up into his father's eyes... was he going to leave him? No. No! He wouldn't do that!

Right?

"Dad... it... it was an accident I promise... I didn't mean to..." Tyrael choked. He couldn't read his father's expression. His words must have sounded beyond pitiful, his voice still sounding like he was trying to hold his breath while talking. He continued, though, trying desperately to ignore how stupid he must look. "It was an accide–"

Tyrael's face was forcefully turned to the side. His father... he just... no, no, no, this was just a misunderstanding, this was a nightmare and Fyrdra was gonna shake him awake and it'd all be fine and

"You're no son of mine." his father scowled at him, obviously wanting to hit him again.

It... wasn't a misunderstanding, was it?

~~~

The trial went fast. It lasted a few hours, but Tyrael wasn't there for much of it. Maybe ten minutes.

Even if he was let into the room, it wouldn't have changed anything.

He wasn't going to be allowed back.

His step-mother, Sameia, was the only one who told him what happened. The only person who bothered to talk to him at all, in fact. She was a tiefling, and his brother's mom. But honestly, his mother could never be as nice as her. She'd apparently left the village a few months after Tyrael was born, so Sameia had raised him. She was nice. Like, really nice. Plus, she had really pretty horns that she used to let Tyrael pat when he was younger. They had never failed to calm him down... He longed to pat them again, but decided it'd be rude to ask.

She continued to talk, only a slight note of worry in her tone as she gently brushed Tyrael's hair. The elf felt slightly calmed by it, he always did, but it didn't work as well as it was supposed to.

If anything, it just made him feel even worse.

He knew that he'd have to cut his hair. It was tradition, whenever someone committed a serious crime, they'd have to cut their hair. It took ages to grow out, so it was seen as a really serious punishment. Fyrdra already had his hair short, though. He always used to think that it looked cooler. And, on him, anything looked cooler.

Sameia was nice enough to cut his hair for him, but Tyrael thought that she was really doing it for closure. To do it one more time. She also gave him a cloak and some food because, well, a small child wandering around on an infamously dangerous mountain just before winter didn't have much of a chance to live that long. Well, he didn't have much of a chance either way, but the cloak made Sameia feel better. It was Fyrdra's, so it was way too big for him, but she brushed it off and said he'd grow into it.

Tyrael thought about that last bit again. He wasn't a child, was he? No, no, he couldn't be. No person would banish a child. But still, he was an unskilled vulnerable looking person that didn't know how to fight, or hunt, or anything else. He was on a mountain, and no one would accompany him. The only person he could possibly consider asking would be Sameia, but...

The elf glanced over at her. She was saying something about when he'd be allowed back, of course the answer being never, and another thing he didn't quite get. Something about old gods? Probably just a prayer, though, as she said it rushed and under her breath.

He definitely couldn't ask her.

...Meaning he probably wouldn't make it to see the winter, would he?

Even more tears sprung to his eyes, making them prickle uncomfortably. He was going to die, wasn't he.

'Then again, is that really so much of a problem?' Tyrael pondered, pinching the top of his nose firmly to stop the tears from being too obvious. Dying was pretty much just leaving for a trip that you couldn't come back from, wasn't it? It had the same ideas. If a necromancer revived you, it would be just like coming back. People will have missed you, and they'll be happy you're back. But if, like Tyrael, you didn't have the luxury of being revived, people would miss you. You wouldn't see them again. It'd be sad for a while, but people would get over it, wouldn't they?

No one would really be there to miss Tyrael, though. He'd made sure of that now. And he probably wouldn't notice it, right? Everyone told him that dying felt like falling asleep. And sleeping was nice.

Sameia continued talking about what to do, that he should go to the nearest village, that he needs to find shelter before the winter, things like that.

Tyrael kind of zoned out while she was talking. The whole situation was setting in. He killed his brother. His father disowned him. He was being exiled from the only place he had ever lived, and if he ever came back he'd just get kicked out again. Maybe even killed. Fyrdra was dead. Him and his horns, like his mom's but smaller. More like the deer they sometimes watched in the forest. And he had bright yellow eyes that everyone in the village envied. Bright yellow, when everyone else around them had shades of dull, disappointing red. Bright yellow, like a hero from a scroll from the next town over. Bright yellow, that everyone used to tell stories about.

Hells, they'd probably just tell more stories now that he was... gone.

Sameia was at least nice enough to give him a couple tarts before he had to go. They were dry, and didn't have the right amount of sugar, but it was the thought that counted. Tyrael didn't have anything to wash it down with, though, so he ended up coughing for a while. Sameia apologized, but the young boy didn't really register it. He instead continued staring into the distance, trying desperately to wake up from whatever insane nightmare this was. He refused to believe Fyrdra was gone. If anyone was gone, it should've been

Sameia walked him to the gate. The gate, the place where he would get the charm. Bit of a misleading name if you ask him.

It was an enchanted earring that ensured he wouldn't come back. Supposedly, some old spirit would attack you if you tried to take it off. It was also the reason that actual piercings were frowned upon in most places, just in case someone mistook someone else for a criminal. Tyrael and Fyrdra would always joke about how weird the piercings looked on people. For a brief moment, Tyrael wondered if Fyrdra was laughing from the beyond. No, no, he was too nice for that.

Right?

Right, right.

His eyes were still wet from before, and he couldn't stop hiccupping. This wasn't a nightmare. He wouldn't wake up. This was real life and he had killed the best person in the world and he was lonely and he was scared and he didn't know what to do.

Before he knew it, the sting of the cold metal was piercing his ear. It wasn't meant to be this painful, was it? He suddenly regretted all the times he had mocked the other outcasts.

The day was beautiful. Any other scenario and Tyrael would've asked Fyrdra to paint it for him. Butterflies were flocking on the trees. There were dozens of them, all red like the wine the adults loved to drink. It truly was beautiful, but a cough from the guard brought him tumbling back to reality.

Looking up at the guard's face was a scare, to say the least. He had a scar blooming from where his left eye was supposed to be. Had he been... shot? No, that would be a cleaner wound... it had to have been some sort of magic attack. It was genuinely horrifying, to know that someone would willingly do that to another person. Another living, breathing, walking, talking person with their own life and emotions and family.

Although he had just done something even worse, so he wasn't exactly the best person to be giving moral advice.

The guard, who was much taller than Tyrael thought he should've been, scoffed at the fear that must've been scribbled all over Tyrael's face. Oops.

"What, never seen war before?" his voice was croaky, like he had a bad cold that wouldn't go away.

Tyrael simply put his head down in shame, throat still hurting too much to mutter an apology.

But seriously, was the charm meant to hurt this much? He could've sworn it was cold, even though it was meant to be room temperature. He brought a hand up to rub it, and found... ice? It poked his finger, drawing blood. He didn't dare to look at it, instead wiping it on his cloak. He had seen far too much of the substance for a lifetime, let alone for a day.

"Shoot!" Sameia whisper shouted. "Listen, Tyrael, we won't meet again but please, no matter what," she pressed a flower into his hand, "know that you are loved. Even if it seems like no one cares, know that."

And with that, she shoved him to the ground, out of the barrier.

He hit the ground with a hard thud, one that was all too loud to be alright. The boy stared up at Sameia, or where she was supposed to be. When you were banished, the barrier to wherever you used to live could only be seen out of, not in. He could feel her eyes on him, though. And he couldn't help but wonder if they were happy to have him gone.

Tyrael scrambled to his feet. The grass had a bit of frost on it, and it was cold and wet to the touch. Sure, it wasn't too irritating and it didn't have much of a chance of getting him sick, but it was the idea that counted. Plus, it would be seen as pitiful if he just sat there, with the whole town watching him, crying and sobbing. He could do that later, or even better, when he was dead.

For now, he had to get away from the eyes that were so obviously watching, staring, laughing, smiling, wiping their hands clean of the gross little inconvenience that was the weird little kid next door.

The elf, bringing a hand up to wipe his yet again moist eyes, quickly stormed off. He found himself wishing that he wasn't being so stupid as to not listen at all when Sameia was trying to help him. She said something very specific, that much he remembered.

Yeah, that was right. She'd said that he had to get water, then food, and that shelter wasn't as important for the first few days.

Wait. That couldn't be right.

She'd also said something about warmth. And another thing about a village or something, but that was probably just along the lines of shelter.

Did she say food, then shelter, then get warmth, then find water?

No, no, wasn't water important though?

He let out a quiet groan of frustration. Tyrael would've screamed to the heavens if he could, but his throat was still remaining annoyingly sore. He'd have to fix that later, it would probably look weird for a child to be wandering through a forest with a bruised neck and puffy eyes. Someone would think he was an illusion created by some sort of monster, designed to lure them in to eat them or something. Then they'd kill him.

Maybe it would just be better to find a quiet hole to die in? That way, no one would waste an arrow on him. Or, gods forbid, someone find him and try take him back to the village.

He didn't fancy becoming an ice statue. In the winter it would be fine, he would be relatively safe, but in the warmer time of the year...

Tyrael shivered violently. He knew where the water in the nearby lake came from, everyone did.

The elf again brought his hand up to wipe his tears, hiccupping once. Twice.

No, no, he couldn't afford to break down here. He didn't have anyone to help him now, he'd gotten rid of the only two people who used to do that. And sure, even if he was going to die soon, it would be more than a little bit embarrassing to know that you died because you got a little bit stressed and couldn't handle it.

On second thought, Fyrdra was definitely laughing at him.

Tyrael kept walking around the barrier, pretty much going in a humongous circle around it. But in his moping, he failed to notice the lack of a floor in front of him.

And he fell down, down, not even bothering to scream.

a/n
2988 words

hope you all enjoyed the prologue :D i'm also publishing up to chapter 3 in the same session (?) of me publishing this, so expect the next one in a minute or so

i'll try to do a chapter-ly question, just so the comments hopefully aren't so empty. i see you, ghost readers!

question 1: what are your thoughts/theories so far, if you have any?

see you next time :D