Archon

The strongest sibling of the two. The sun, life's guiding force.

Everything stuck to her. The leaves and the flowers and the insects and the mossy stones in the stream: they clung to her gleaming hide, begged for some exaltation. Archon ignored them. She had responsibilities.

She had responsibilities from the very beginning, when she first came into the world, watched her father cast aside the lesser sister and gather Archon in his arms, administering firm, empty praise. Archon often wondered why her father hated her sister so much.

She had responsibilities when she was taught everything, when she was taught how to fight by Rhosyn, who lied to her at Aja's request, told her she was gifted. Archon despised combat.

She had responsibilities when Aja appointed her his supreme general, had her lead and make combative statements with her claws when his words failed to negotiate the ideal perspective. Archon hated making public speeches, but just as well hated allowing her claws to do the talking.

She had responsibilities when Aja demanded she lead them all in the last battle against Deepbloom, said it was all now or nothing forever, told her she would be made king of all things when he won for them. Archon knew she would fail when she marched across that battlefield, knew someone would die because of her, swept her older sister up in her arms and told her to run as her younger sister's flesh was ripped to ribbons.

Even now, she has responsibilities as she wanders through the Ruins at her father's side, the sun bearing down on her back, Aja's furious rambling ringing in her ears. Archon's armor, rusted now, once brilliant, sticks to her wings and her shoulders, rubs the skin beneath raw. Archon cannot remember the last time she took off her armor. She is growing tired of responsibilities.

She is tired. Day in, day out, her armor clings and scrapes and decays alongside her worn body, glistened with sweat and etched with webs of scars, a reminder.

Everything stuck to her.