Elementals

Dark left for work earlier than usual. There were still some flickers of light here and there clutching at the space—his space now––but not too much to make him irritable. As he was gliding through the plains of a planet, he saw Light giving him a finger and a glare accompanied by: “It’s not your time yet, you sunless beast. Go back to your hole until my shift is over!”

Light’s occasional outbursts didn’t bother Dark. Let him vent, he thought, and imagined his brother’s job for a moment. Dark shuddered in revulsion, but quickly collected himself. He inadvertently dropped a few meteorites too close to the planet’s gravitational pull. He swore, then swallowed the deadly rocks before they destroyed a quarter of the planet. Watch it, he warned himself and continued his train of thoughts.

If Light was to survive the next day, and the day after next, he needed a profusion of psychotherapy. Otherwise, how could he remain sane any further when dealing with two-legged monsters who hate every minute of their own existence, their insatiable appetite seems to have no borders, always craving for more, never satisfied with anything? And now, Air trembles and Water is frightened to leave her dwelling! How long would it be before the two-legged monsters destroyed everything alive around them? ...He should’ve made a bet with Light five million or so years ago. Dark would’ve won, big.

If I were him, Dark fantasized, I’d fry all the two-leggeds with no mercy or discretion. Although, the way things were going, and how thin his brother’s patience was wearing off, Dark’s desires might realize rather sooner than later, but at a dire cost. He recalled recent forest fires, and drying out of many lakes recently. Light got obviously corrupted by the very two-leggeds he was protecting, and chose wrong targets for his practice. The lakes, the forests, the four-leggeds and the air creatures did nothing wrong.

But what a good idea, Dark thought. He too could drop a few tiny meteorites onto heavily populated areas, dense with two-legged dwellings.

Aside from this, Dark ought to speak to Light at dawn to straighten things out and establish priorities. There are bounds that must not be crossed—only two-leggeds should suffer.

Decided, Dark went about his business. In silence, he glided across the planet's surface, cooling down earth and its dwellers, singing lullaby to those who longed to see dreams and hoo-hooed to others, who needed waking. He stirred fatigued Air in a few places, and flirted with clouds, overpromising them this and that. He witnessed two-leggeds’ wrong doings against their own. He hushed and concealed their crimes with his darkest hour, glad that there’d be fewer of them burdening the planet now.

A shriek pierced through Dark’s essence. He knew this cry. He rushed to it with the speed and force of all nocturnal critters put together in hopes of getting there on time and amplifying the cry, drawing attention to it. But he was too late. The four-legged’s––still a puppy––tortured body was lifeless, the dark-grey blood escaping from its fresh wounds was still warm.

Dark dropped to his knees and cried in silence, feeling helpless and wrong, as if he was conspiring against his own integrity, betraying the ones who couldn’t protect themselves. Then as if in a twinkle of a star, he felt immensely angry. He reached up and pulled out debris from Space and was about to smash them against the dwelling of two-leggeds who committed the despicable crime. But Water rained on him, embracing him, wiping his tears with hers, soothing his grief. She kissed his face, whispering to let go, and listened to him lament until his guilt dissipated into dawn.

Dawn already? Shaken up, Dark squinted discerning Light in the distance, and quickly dried the last of his tears, hurrying home. He wouldn’t speak to his brother today. Perhaps, tomorrow. But Light caught up to him and asked to linger for a little longer.

“Remember, brother, what you said to me millions of years ago? That life is a harmonious walk between the realms of light and dark,” said Light, casually throwing a flicker at the dark sky, watching it skip a few times. “People are still young and with my warning shots—not target-practices as you claim them to be—they will learn. I’m certain.” He touched Dark in reassurance, leaving an orange-red streak on his shoulder. “But if you ever interfere in my dealings with people, I’ll compel Water take no notice of you... It’s enough that you had bribed the oceans with your cooling curtains…they keep whispering their convictions of my madness and obsoleteness to everyone they touch,” warned Light.

 “Everyone believes in one’s own truth, brother. You preach yours, and I preach mine. Neither of the truths is the gospel nor it is a deception. I do think you’re mad and violent. And you think I’m too vengeful. Until we act on our impulses, neither of us is right or wrong.” Dark shook his head wearily and let Light go about his business. ◊