In Your Dreams, Your Older Brother Wears A Crown Of Crimson Red And Speaks Of Death Like A Lover, Letting

in your dreams, your older brother wears a crown of crimson red and speaks of death like a lover, letting it spill past stained teeth and over his tongue with reverence. there is a smile on his face, too wide, too full of glee. your hands are wet and the hem of your dress is soaked and your brother’s hair is turning dark. his sword looks larger than your memory serves, and you never recall the shape his armour ought to be beneath the blood. he holds out a rust-coloured hand and laughs as though the audience he means to present you to is not the dead piled up beneath his feet.

you wake with screams trapped behind cracking lips and silver tears staining your cheeks. you wake early enough to watch the same red you fear spill across his blue skies as you clasp desperate hands until your knuckles turn white and your nails leave marks.

your sister, bright and hopeful, braids your hair with fast fingers. the flowers she pins among your curls won’t wilt until she asks them to and her hands are warm and steady in yours. your younger brother, restless and as pale as you, dips bread into soup like it has offended him but brushes a hand over your tense shoulders with gentleness he always says was taught by you. his voice is calm where his legs are not.

they wait the same as you, with your shoulders straight despite the taste of blood at the back of your throat. the fourth seat remains empty another day, and your voice is called for more often than it ought to if things were right.

you wait for him to come home, victorious, whole, with blood-free teeth and tongue. your siblings wait the same, your sister singing louder and your brother standing taller to fill the empty space.

in your dreams, your older brother wears a crown of crimson red and speaks of death like a lover and of war like home.

when you wake, you pray.