Sibling Rivalry

Lifera sat in his throne, head propped on the heel of his hand, bored. It was no surprise that he was having trouble keeping awake, his sister was petitioning again, for those little people that he liked to call his subjects.

"They're trying very hard to impress you, my brother, but they aren't going to do it, especially if you keep changing your rules the way you do." Gressila snarled, "So if you could possibly come to an agreement about your laws and your expectations, we could all get along better."

"I hardly think that my choice of methods could be comprehended by these mortals, Gressila, and why you continue to soil yourself with them is beyond me. We ruled together before."

"That was long ago," the tall pale woman said, flatly, "and your rules have changed too often even for my tastes. Get a grip," she finished, and turned to leave the room.

Lifera was left sitting there, foot gently tapping against the marble floor. He glanced up, examining the gilded carvings on the top of the throne and noticing that parts of the wood below were showing.

"What a sad state of affairs when I cannot have a proper gold throne..." He sighed. Standing, shaking some life back into his limbs after having sat all morning, Lifera slid into one of the side chambers from the throne room, and watched the courtyard activities from a slitted window.

Pathetic little lives, of people who would barely live long enough to breed, let alone be able to understand the most basic elements of their own lives. It took them several generations to even chronicle their wars or their lineages - and even then most of them couldn't read.

Lifera tried to get rid of the foul taste in his mouth that arguing with Gressila always gave him. Though he loved her - in ways that siblings ought not to, in fact - he was growing to realize that she really did have it in her head that his rule was ... somehow wrong?

But he couldn't understand it. They had been raised under the same circumstances, of course not by their parents - they had died as per typical of immortal-born.

His mind wandering, Lifera growled at their parents for having brought even yet one more sorry immortal into the universe. One chance, they would have only one chance to breed, and then like horrific lower life forms they would DIE. He shook his head, and pushed his shaggy silvery hair behind his long pointed ear.

How could they be called immortal if they bred and then died? Living long enough to make sure their spawn could survive their childhood years and then suddenly wasting away. Lifera didn't want to face that.

He and his sister had lived for almost six thousand years on the barren world of their birth. Then, more than ten trying to get the native beings into shape for star-worthy travel. They studied swordsmanship, magic, politics and navigation together... Lifera proved best at manipulation and subversive magics. Gressila loved playing with swords and running around on the battlefield distracting people with her womanly assets.

She could be ruthless on the field. That was part of why Lifera loved her so much. That she could find an opponent's weak points and then blast through a hundred soldiers to reach her goals. That, and even though they were immortal and could take grievous hits, she rarely was even touched on the field.

Lifera didn't much like fighting hand to hand. He could do it, he thought as he drew his hand along the stone window ledge. He could jump down the thirty feet to the dirt below and wade through the dozen soldiers with just his hands. He had never forgotten the lessons learned when they couldn't leave their worlds. Starvation was one of them, and that taught them both more than even magic could.

That they would not die from being hungry was meant to be a blessing, he thought. Mortals, he gazed at them from the window, thought so highly of being immortal - to never die! But to an immortal like himself, the endless pain and even worse the boredom... The hunger of starvation gnawing at your insides yet eternally able to produce new cells to replace whatever had been lost... Thirst was worse. That always made them look like dessicated corpses, and even hindered their movement, for without water in their cells they could hardly be expected to flex muscles.

They had done things to keep themselves sane, while their subjects evolved into sentience. Games. Well, Lifera now suspected that HE was the one doing these things, Gressila didn't seem to like playing them. Not any more.

He grunted and walked away from the window, in disgust. But whether it was disgust for himself, the mortals there, or his sister, he wasn't sure and didn't care. He thrived in disgust - it was actually one of his favorite emotions.