My mother had given birth to violence and sympathy.  

Violence was Merlin in the way that I was sympathy; the choice was engraved in our bones and cascaded through our veins before either were able to open our eyes. Fed from the same breasts, clutched at the same fabric that wrapped our bodies, ate the same food that was spoon-fed from the same hands. Yet, Merlin’s hands were more capable, his radiance flooded the room with every step he took, and his tongue was wittier than mine. My fingers failed to do what he could, the hilt of the sword slipping past mine, my mind shadowed in light of his brilliance, always a few words behind him.  

Not one word was uttered through the two decades of suffocating in his silhouette, but I would always catch my father’s jaws clenching at every futile attempt of replicating Merlin. The blankness that overrode the look of pride when he gazed from me to his true son, the whispers that did nothing to soothe the festering frustration itching underneath my skin. Merlin’s gentle caresses atop my head felt like searing hot iron, a permanent reminder that I was a byproduct, an accident beside him. The venom that he uttered was worse, each word fuelled the quivering flames in me like firewood: charred and superfluous. Above all, the mercy in his eyes made me seethe; the shifting hues accentuated by the warm sunlight that shone for him alone, his pupils dilated in worry, looking at me like I was some sort of pitiful animal.  

“Sparrow, are you sure you’re okay?” Merlin asked, calloused hands falling to his side, leaving my dishevelled hair. Without waiting for an answer, my brother stands, striding towards the door, each step induced with confidence, carried with his whole body. “I think you should skip today’s session, I’ll go and ask the commander⎯” 

“No,” I blurt out, voice hoarse and strained, the opposite of his low, polished voice that everyone adored. Swallowing down the fear that clogged my throat, I shove aside the hatred clouding my mind and stare at Merlin in all his glory, the resplendent rays of sun illuminating his features. Slowly, I open my mouth, choosing my words with care, desperately ignoring the vindication toiling in my stomach. “It’s fine, father says I need to go anyway. I’ve already missed a session last week.”  

“Can’t be helped then, can it? You’re always so stubborn. I’ll see you in a bit, then.” Turning the handle, he pauses briefly, then shakes his head and leaves without a word, the soft click of the door being my only company before it too, fades into silence.  

Staggering up from the creased covers of the bed, I walk towards the bathroom, head hanging low as my mouth runs dry and I teeter back and forth above the grimy sink, forcing my gaze up to meet Merlin’s face. Startled, I jolt, eyes widening before my face contorts in fury, fingers curling into a fist before a thought could pass my mind and it connects with the mirror, the glass fracturing instantaneously. Under my breath, the wind silences the curse that I mutter, heart clambering back up behind the safety of my ribs, a viscous, crimson liquid trickling down my knuckles. It doesn’t pain me, no. What pained me more was that I thought of Merlin before myself, and the thought of my reflection belonging to him consumed me. 

“Sparrow, guess what?” Merlin’s practically flying with excitement, jumping up and down as he skitters around my figure, hands flinging around wildly before he continues anyway. “I talked to a foreign traveller today, and he taught me a word! He said he’s from Canton, can you believe it?” He clears his throat, and there’s a hint of vulnerability in his look before he puffs up his chest and his usual grin crawls back onto his face, mischief bubbling in his eyes as he stares right at me. “Bào, it means to burst.” 

The only other thing I remember from then was my scoff and dismissal of it, continuing to drag my feet on the cobblestone roads back home. ‘Why do you need to know that anyway? You’re going to forget it in three days. Neither of us are ever going to use it.’ I’d spat at him. Tossing and turning in my bed, I wince. Maybe I had been too harsh on him, but I was right, wasn’t I? He’d forgotten, and I deeply wished I had too.  

Resentment writhed beneath my skin, bitterness gnawed at my bones. Obedience didn’t come easy to the sword tangled between my fingers; it resisted, the shagreen dripping with sweat, my hands mirroring Merlin’s as they roughen up, like asphalt hacked into a hundred times over. Doubled over with excruciating pain streaming out of my abdomen, I gaze up at my twin brother, his ethereal face framed by the falling strands of his umber hair, the tip of his sword glistening with my blood, the same blood that runs through his body.  

Eyes twitching, a burst of irritation and envy floods my thoughts: that he could always be me, but I could never hope to become him. Why? I asked myself repeatedly. We come from the same mother, who bore the same children, lived the same days over and over, but at what point did the Gods decide that they favoured you over me? It’s not his fault, sympathy inside me screams. And then I have to ask: was the sympathy I was meant to be to pity him, for being so perfect, or for me, for being the thorns in a garden of roses? 

Merlin says naught, and doesn’t accompany me back home, it’s routine at this point. Wanderers, bartenders and citizens come to a screeching halt in their tracks at the sight of me, pleading, begging to talk to who they think is the next wonder of the world. Heart swelling with malice, I grit my teeth and say a few words that are bound to satisfy their poor, naive souls. Someone brushes past me and my eyes fixate on the poster they hammer into a signboard: a recruitment letter. Lo and behold, my brother’s unsightly name is already scrawled on the first blank. 

Weeks drift by lazily as the weather swelters with heat, temperatures reaching high enough to make me want to peel my skin right off. Even the night doesn’t do anything to quell the intense conditions, and I could feel my organs baking beneath the silver armour that clanks unpleasantly at every step I take. Cacophonies of metals slamming against each other arose during the fighting, pandemonium rising with every slash and squelch of a weapon driven into a soldier’s body, leaving their guts hanging out obscenely or spears skewed through multiple men at once, an almost comedic sight that was reminiscent to me of kebabs.  

Prodding one of the limp corpses with my sword, I seamlessly tear through the skin and watch as bloodied muscle splits in half, stepping over the makeshift slaughterhouse of the battlefield. I almost feel guilty relishing in the bloodbath, groaning as I lumber towards Merlin, who stands amidst the sea of lifeless bodies. My palms ache and the hilt of the sword twitches in my grasp. 

“Sparrow,” Merlin calls out, his voice echoing in the desolate space as he trudges towards me. “Let’s go back to the base, I think we’ve got all of them.”  

Frozen in place, I feel a rush of adrenaline at my brother’s voice, twenty two years of hatred coursing through my body at breakneck speed, and for a split second I finally feel it. The wondrous feeling of compliance in my sword, the beauty of the splatter of blood that sinks into my skin, it’s glorious. Merlin’s eyes widening, his red lips stained in with his blessed ichor, globules of dark, warm blood exploding mid-air, his hands empty and clutching at my armour.  

I’ve never seen Merlin cry before. He’s never had a reason to before, so it’s a peculiar sight as tears stream down his face, which contorts in misery instead of anger. Groaning, his hand weakly pushes at my chest, but I drive the blade deeper, desperate for some sort of disapproval. Scream at me, raise your sword, I think. What happened to being violent? Why won’t you reprimand me? Why haven’t you ever? Aren’t you mad at me? Get up, get up already⎯ 

But he doesn’t. My heart clenches and there’s something building up in my throat. Through blurred vision, colours rippling across the horizon as the sun sets in the West, I realise it’s my tears falling on his blemished face.  

Merlin was violence, and I had killed him. I had killed violence.  

Through the essence of his being, I became violence, became Merlin.  

Hadn't I gotten what I wanted? I was equal to Merlin now, wasn’t I?  

So then, why, why did violence feel like shame?