Youthful Flame

“How could I deny such a sweet request from my beloved little brother??”

“I’m going to remember that ‘loser’ comment, Azelle. I’m taking your share of dessert tonight.”

“Please. Right now it’s just my loser brother following me.”

@veltomer​ | AZELLE OF VELTHOMER

⊰ ♖ ⊱

                   As duke of the Duchy of Velthomer, right hand to Azmur, the king of Grannvale, knight-captain of the Weissritter royal guard, leader of the Roten Ritter mage fighters and inheritor of Fjalar’s major blood and the holy fire tome of Valflame, Arvis cut an imposing figure despite his relatively lithe body and the soft curves to his face, eyes and hair. He was less than half the age of every other duke in the realm and yet he still commanded their immediate collective attention whenever he spoke; he largely lacked their life experience but could still out-think most of them, and they knew it; he frightened nobles but held the common peoples’ favour, and that frightened them further. There was no doubt from anyone, anywhere across the realm that he had indeed inherited the Gift of Kings.

                   And yet he still absolutely lost his shit over the idea of his kid brother mucking around in his room.

                   Some things were simple universal constants, it would seem. It did not matter how imposing or intimidating or hard working Arvis was. Back behind closed doors, hidden away in the halls in Castle Velthomer, the sorcerer still ran through the empty corridors of his home with his hair disheveled and his robes askew, the wrinkled, burnt remains of what looked to be a stack of letters clutched in his fists.

                   "AZELLE!!”

                   He bellowed the name, face flushed as he stuck his head into the kitchens. No sight of his brother, still.

                   "Where are you??!! I know you went into my bedroom!! Were you trying to take my spellbooks to practice with again??!! You set half the day’s work on fire!!”

    As not the not-duke of Velthomer, not-right hand of Azmur, the king of Grannvale, and not anything else remotely close to what his brother was, Azelle did not cut a figure nearly as imposing. He had the same red hair, same gentle curve to his face, but somehow he was softer where Arvis was hard, couldn’t stand nearly as tall, couldn’t hold his head as high. 

He drummed his finger against an Elfire tome that he hadn’t had prior, fidgeting at the sound that shook the halls. He’d never been able to stop that habit. It was childish. Though perhaps, with the tone that Arvis was shouting, Azelle hadn’t grown up nearly as much as he’d thought. He bit his lip, fighting the instinct to run. A cornered animal was still a Velthomer. They were still brothers.

In the face of looming doom, stalking closer, he did what any cornered little brother would. He shuffled out of the room, book in hand, head hung low. When his gaze rose, slowly, timidly, he put on his best set of puppy-eyes.

“Sorry.” He mumbled. “But… You get angry when I practice magic in front of you, and now you’re angry when I didn’t.” His grip on the book, now held tightly to his chest, tightened.