''It just does.''
Steven looked him in the eye. ''I did not, I swear,'' he said, and David couldn't help noticing how the Typhonic Beast on Steven's cheek writhed as he spoke, as though the words were coming as much from it as him. ''Everything you've done has been of your own free will. I haven't tried to influence you in any way.''
David thought of Zafirah. He thought of Steven telling him,
If Steven was telling the truth, then he only had his own timidity to blame. Deep down he was afraid of Zafirah. Not of who she was but of how she saw into the heart of him and didn't hesitate to tell him what she found there. Women he had gone out with in the past had been superficial women. He'd known that and liked that. They wanted nothing more from him than to be what he appeared to be, rich and debonair David Westwynter, a man with a family cartouche and a wallet to match. Zafirah didn't care about any of that, which made her dangerous to him. As dangerous as she was alluring. With her, he had to be who he was, and what he was wasn't something he was all that comfortable with.
That was if Steven was telling the truth.
If Steven was lying…
Then on one level it didn't make any difference. He still had only himself to blame. Steven couldn't have made him shrink from Zafirah if that wasn't what he himself, whether he knew it or not, wanted.
It did, though, make a difference on another level. It meant Steven had used his power to reinforce David's self-doubt, in order to guarantee nothing would happen between him and Zafirah.
''I don't believe you,'' David said at last.
''Fair enough, then don't.''
''You haven't been straight with me this whole time. Why should things have changed now? You've kept so much hidden from me…''
''For a good reason. If you'd known everything, you'd never have stuck around, and I wanted you to stick around. We'd been brought back together by some incredible quirk of fate. We'd become the closest I can ever remember us being. There were times when I wanted to come clean with you, really I did, but I was just so happy to have you back and have you respecting me for once. It seemed daft to put that at risk.''
''Good reason? Selfish reason, more like.''
''If that's how you want to see it, Dave, then you have something seriously twisted in your head. Anyway, I've had enough of this conversation. I need to go. Let me.''
Steven rose and waved at his brother to move aside.
David didn't.
Steven made to push past him.
David grabbed him by the shoulder.
Steven brushed his hand off.
David grabbed him again.
They stared at each other, and in each other's eyes saw twenty-plus years of brotherhood, of shared blood and experience. They saw a love that was so old they took it for granted and scarcely noticed it any more, and a rivalry that became only fresher and sharper with every argument they had, every set of insults they exchanged, every lie one or the other of them told. The bond between them was so ingrained — so familiar, in every sense of the word — that it was easy to forget it existed, while the things that separated them grew ever more numerous. Suddenly, now, more divided them than joined them. The canyon between them had grown wider than the span of its bridges.
Neither of them threw the first punch. Or rather, they both did. It happened spontaneously and simultaneously. David swung for Steven; Steven swung for David.
And then they were grappling, brawling, sprawling on the floor, rolling in the storehouse dust, now David on top, now Steven, and the blows came thick and fast, delivered with fury and scorn, and they were boys again, the children they used to be, as though years had not gone by and nothing had changed. They hated each other with the intensity of boyhood hate. All either could think about was hurting the other, physically expressing his contempt for the other.
Briefly David gained the upper hand. Straddling Steven, he pounded him with everything he had. Then Steven grabbed David's injured arm and squeezed the wound till several of the stitches burst and blood erupted, soaking through his shirtsleeve. David roared, and Steven shoved him off. Standing, he started to kick David in the stomach. David grabbed his foot, twisted it, and sent him spinning over onto his belly. Then he dived onto Steven's back and slammed his face against the floor repeatedly. Steven elbow-jabbed him in the nose. More blood gushed. David got an arm around his brother's neck and wrenched his head backwards. Steven gasped and gargled. David locked his other hand against Steven's temple and increased the pressure. Steven's face reddened, then purpled. Spittle flew from his mouth, snot dribbled from his nose. He flailed at David helplessly; clawed at his arm. David continued to lever his head backwards and sideways, aware he was preventing Steven from breathing properly. Aware he was asphyxiating him. Killing him.
''Dave… don't…'' Steven choked out.
Servant of Set. Betrayer of trust. Liar. Deceiver. Man who would be god.
In his mind's eye, David saw Osiris smiling. This was what
''… daaave…''
A few more seconds, that was all it would take. David had a firm grip. Steven's windpipe was being crushed. He was struggling to breathe. His throat was making a series of wet, glottal noises like hiccups crossed with grunts, but no air was getting in. A few more seconds, and then it would all be over. The Freegyptians could surrender. The Nephthysians and Setics might not treat them kindly as captives, but at least they'd have a chance of surviving. Otherwise they were as good as dead. By taking this one life, David might save a thousand others.
''… d…''
No.
David let go. Steven slumped face first on the floor, wheezing hard.
No. David had had his fill of killing. He remembered the terebinth tree and the corpses. Life, not death.
He sat in a corner while Steven recovered. Slowly the colour left Steven's face and his breathing began to come evenly, less harshly. He rolled onto his back and looked at David. His eyes were craze-patterned with broken capillaries.
''You fucker,'' he rasped, hoarse-voiced. ''You were going to do it, weren't you? You really were.''
David said nothing, just examined his hands. There was blood on them but only his own, stray spatters from his nose and his sodden shirtsleeve.
''I knew you were a heartless bastard,'' Steven went on. ''But even so. Fuck's sake, I was halfway to Iaru. What got into you?''
David wiped his hands on his trousers. He checked his nose. Not broken. The blood there was starting to coagulate. His arm throbbed exquisitely. The reopened gash would need attention. New stitches. His knuckles ached. Bad punching. In his blind, all-consuming rage he'd forgotten his training. He'd hit too hard. He was lucky not to have broken a finger.
Sitting up, Steven probed his neck in a gingerly fashion. ''Suppose I should just be thankful you stopped.''
David completed his self-inventory. Bruises, abrasions… He'd been in worse shape than this.
''You not talking to me any more? Is that it?'' Steven said. ''Bet you're not. Bet you're too fucking ashamed to. Psychopath. Honestly, David, if I were you I'd seek professional-''
''Shut up.''
''Don't tell me to shut up, you ruddy lunatic. There's you going on about how I don't care about other people's lives, and then you go and-''
''Shut up and listen, Steven.''
''To you? No thanks.''
''No.
