((Wrote this because I haven’t had the time to write for myself. Revon has a little bit of introspection at the beach. Happens right after his super duper hard fight. No I didn’t beta read I actually dictated this on the phone with siri /j))
Revon had never liked the sand.
It tended to get into every fold and wrinkle of his tunic, ever since he was a young child clinging to the sandal straps of his older brother. When they would play, when they would roughhouse, it would get into his eyes, and he would cry at how it stung, how it grazed against his eyes and blurred his vision with debris and tears meant to flush it out.
Even so, Revon would not be alone, on the sand. His brother would sit by him and get sand into every fold and wrinkle of his tunic, while waiting for him to calm down. His brother would use a waterskin to flush the sand from his eyes, and bring him nearer the sea, to feel the waves lap at his ankles. His brother would show him beautiful shells the tide would wash ashore, and help him bring the most beautiful home. His brother would be there, to care for him, and he would not be alone.
Even with such happy memories, Revon never liked the sand.
It slowed him down, and when one foot stepped, it would sink into the ground as all the little granules gave way. He would lag behind his brother, who would so effortlessly glide across the sand. Even before his magic was unlocked — even before his skills were honed on training grounds and battlefields, his brother was always so much stronger, so much faster than him. Revon never minded this. This was his big brother, after all. The strongest, the fastest, the person who would protect him from any harm. He believed his brother would be strong enough to protect Ravenna all by himself, one day.
When his brother tripped and fell into the sand, he figured he would still help him, anyway.
Even then, Revon never liked the sand.
He hated the way it clung to him, how it burned and dug into bloody bruises on his skin. How it found its way to open wounds torn into flesh. How it looked to swallow him whole as he fell across it. How he struggled to find his bearings on it, blow after blow. He hated how it lagged his moments, in the same way each blow to his head would lag his judgement.
He hated how it wrought tears to his eyes, and blurred his vision, obscuring the face and visage of the person standing before him.
He recognized the person anyway. They talked to him just before, so casually. Like they weren’t to be responsible for the death of his family. Like they didn’t take everything from him and leave it all to rot, right at the steps of his home. He hated how it wasn’t their blood staining beautiful shells on the sand bed. How it wasn’t theirs staining stone and satin and bronze and his own flesh.
He hated that all he could do is curse their name. Make promises on an empty beach long after they were gone. Long after the murderer fled aboard a ship too fast for his people to follow after.
He hated how alone he was, now — How alone he was made to be, to have to pick himself up off the shore, defeated and shamed, and come home empty handed, dusting all the sand off the tatters of his tunic. How blood would trickle alongside it.
It would take a long time to clean it all up, and he would have to do it, alone.
