06-19-2020, 06:11 PM
Malik stood there among grasses and trees and a river lazily coursing its way across the land. He felt anger flash its way across his face, his clothing seeming to ripple, one moment his dark Sith robes, fringed in black leather, lightsaber hanging at his waist, the next moment, a dirty green t-shirt, faded blue jeans with tears in the knees. For a moment he stared at the ashy look of the dark skin, dry and weathered. The Lawsons didn't waste money on things like patches, not when the Reverend Bobby Cormady was asking them to 'Sow their Seed' fo fatih to grow into a bumper crop harvest.
His eyes jumped from himself to the woman- was this her doing?- and then...to Marcus. Not a sniveling child. Not anymore. His clothes were identical, hair unkempt and full of naps, lip still split from a blow from Momma's hand. Mirror images of each other, they were, and Malik's lip curled in disgust. He remembered coming to Marcus, a few years earlier. He had been scared and alone and Andre, of course, couldn't protect him. But Malik could. And did. Marcus could smile and laugh and play with Elena, could read and imagine and learn. Of course he could. Malik bore the brunt of it. Always Malik who took the blow, who couldn't breath, who went hungry. It was Malik in that cage, Malik hiding in the bed, raging at the burning pain and humiliation as Farian snuck away.
It had been Malik who had made them all cry too, who had taught the what they had awakened. Malik the one they feared and begged mercy from.
He was stronger than Marcus.
And yet Marcus refused to look away. His eyes were curious and studying him, seeing him clearly for the first time. Despite himself. Malik felt a delicious sense of exposure, one he'd only felt when out executing judgement as an Angel of Death. Marcus could see him. "I am Malik," he said without affectation or title. Those were Marcus' trappings.
At the very same time, as if in tune, Marcus spoke. "I am Marcus." Neither of them looked away from the other.
His eyes jumped from himself to the woman- was this her doing?- and then...to Marcus. Not a sniveling child. Not anymore. His clothes were identical, hair unkempt and full of naps, lip still split from a blow from Momma's hand. Mirror images of each other, they were, and Malik's lip curled in disgust. He remembered coming to Marcus, a few years earlier. He had been scared and alone and Andre, of course, couldn't protect him. But Malik could. And did. Marcus could smile and laugh and play with Elena, could read and imagine and learn. Of course he could. Malik bore the brunt of it. Always Malik who took the blow, who couldn't breath, who went hungry. It was Malik in that cage, Malik hiding in the bed, raging at the burning pain and humiliation as Farian snuck away.
It had been Malik who had made them all cry too, who had taught the what they had awakened. Malik the one they feared and begged mercy from.
He was stronger than Marcus.
And yet Marcus refused to look away. His eyes were curious and studying him, seeing him clearly for the first time. Despite himself. Malik felt a delicious sense of exposure, one he'd only felt when out executing judgement as an Angel of Death. Marcus could see him. "I am Malik," he said without affectation or title. Those were Marcus' trappings.
At the very same time, as if in tune, Marcus spoke. "I am Marcus." Neither of them looked away from the other.