Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.
The clouds make up a corridor for the great voice in the sky, speaking from above. There is no face to address, no hand to offer sacrifices to, which is why neither of them dares to speak. They stand in sickening exposure, bare feet on arid and forgotten land, emaciated bodies covered only by a worn layer of cloth, face to face, at the mercy of this immense thing that only had the privilege of knowing how to ask for and never the misfortune of having to learn how to give away.
The elder barely averts his gaze, being pioneer as his position allows him to. He watches the cattle graze and thinks he isn't so far from that life wrapped in instincts and docility; after all, what can one expect from a calf?
He should speak first. He is designed to do things first. He was born first, and if nature cared to dictate its course as it should, he would die first.
Except he won't.
The pale sunlight makes the younger's eyes appear clearer, and they meet his, and only because of his sidelong vision, he notices the drying blood under his nails. It's as if he stole the innocence from the gaze of the lambs, preserved it in a jar, and smeared it onto his own, dirty fingers, longing soul.
He seems to be waiting for something.
Being the youngest always implies waiting for something.
Once again, this is a very old story.
Being the elder implies always wondering if something has been taken from you, torn away in strips, sliding through the birth canal, scraping off little knees from playing in the dirt by the house, losing something from within, always losing, losing, losing. Sometimes he feels it seeping away drop by drop like a leak in the roof when it's raining. Other times, he feels it so subtly, his brother consuming him, losing more and more parts of himself as they condense in the air.
The younger brother swallows. And the great voice in the sky demands.
Both lower their faces to what lies at their bare feet. They stand on opposite sides, witnessing what the other (but not so different, he is he, and I am I, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood) can offer. When the clouds part enough to illuminate the younger's face, the bitterness of the blood the elder tastes from biting his tongue so hard is a bit more than bitter.
Clay straight from his remains and yet it's better than him.
A part of him longs to kill him, to put him to sleep like the horses. Another part struggles to swallow the idea, to move beyond the eternal lump in his throat that would signify an existence, a life without him, knowing that the flesh he chewed from his entrails would die too.
He can't blame him.
Can he blame him?
He should stop thinking in cannibalistic terms, in flesh, blood and guts, but how can he when that's all there is? Aren't the lamb's entrails right in front of them now? Doesn't he flagellate himself constantly to feed him? They are the same and yet very different, the parasite and the host, the martyr and the murderer.
The older brother longs to step back and not be the one to take the first step; for the first time, he wishes there were no first times. However, he is the one who must break the silence. It is expected of him to do so.
In the end, he does what he knows best and is the first to turn and leave.
The roots of meekness growing from his brother's feet keep him glued to the ground.
Later, the elder will think about this. He will remember the passivity of his gaze and how it seemed to change only toward the end of the line, darkening with knowledge. Perhaps he ended up owning everything submissive, considering the lottery of life. Maybe he had the talent to care for the cattle correctly and offer something better. Perhaps it was expected of him, too. However, sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose, and the older brother was drawn with ambition, irritability, and can't He change these things? Shouldn't He have something to say about it?
Why would He place that rock in his path?
Why would He make a human skull so easy to break?
Crack.
The light goes out of his gray eyes.
The older brother thinks it could have been him if only he had been born later.
Relief turns out to be disgusting, clinging to his skin like flies feasting on carrion. It poisons him from within, and the paradox of the situation is humorous at its core, and he's laughing and trembling, shaking, tempted to look into the sheep's eyes to find the only thing he has left of his brother. Losing your brother is like losing a limb. Killing your brother is like severing it. It's not killing your child, but it could have, easily, yes because he feels it kicking in the womb he never had, he feels tears in his eyes imagining him saying daddy after a year of such little life, not knowing what it's destined for.
When God asks where his brother is, all Sirius can reply is, "I know not, am I my brother's keeper?"
You were his mother. You were his father. You were the marrow stuck in his bones, the spinal cord going down his vertebrae. You lived for him, and you failed to die for him.
He doesn't know where the voice in his head comes from. There are many things he doesn't know.
At the end of the day, nature cares little.
Regulus' ghost marks him for life.