(So, I tried to edit this to improve its quality. I also changed things around a little bit. Please understand that this is fantasy and that it has a psychological edge to it--this has nothing to do with our world and it is totally an alternate universe. So the ecosystem, landscapes, and people [this includes age differences, eye color, etc.] are going to be quite different. I try to explain some of it here. Also, if I slipped from third person omnipresent [did I say that right?] to just plain third person, well, sorry. I hope I didn't or that it wasn't too noticeable...)
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The thud of hoof beats was loud around them, as they charged down the narrow cut path that lead down the hill to the deeper valley below.
Firs flashed beside them in a mottle of mint and bottle green, along with the chestnut and gray of the bark. Grass yellowed from the sun waved and caught at the legs of the horses, the lead a black-and-white, stark against the neutral landscape, while the second was a common bay, which blended into the background so well it seemed almost unnatural.
The pair of galloping horses rushed past a boulder, probably carried by the glaciers that had melted down the slopes and joined the nearby sea a millennium ago, and began to slow.
The muddy banks of the still remaining creeks squelched under the hooves of the horses, the only remaining sign apart from the spread out rocks, and the pair climbed onto a patch of raised land, the thorny grasses here flattening against the moist earth.
The two riders looked over the land, obviously pleased with what they saw as their ragged breathing showed how cold the land was as it came out visibly; no matter how green the mist and the thick furs the men wore seemed to paint a different picture.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Cyriac?” the younger and slighter of the two men asked, glancing at his brother.
The resemblance between the two would be uncanny if it weren’t for one being dark haired and clean-shaven, the elder, and the other being brown-haired with a minimal beard. Still, their facial features were the same and they had the same pale-colored eyes, the icy color about matching the ice floating amongst the slowly flowing creeks with just a hint of sky blue.
“Yes,” Cyriac murmured, and he narrowed his eyes against the cutting sunlight.
“The weather’s good, too; sunny, even in dead winter,” the younger man added, as he fixed the thin gold and brass crown on his head.
Cyriac chuckled softly. “If you don’t stop talking, they’ll never come and then we might as well let the peasants lose on our reserve, Erasmus.”
Erasmus blushed and nodded, before fidgeting in his seat and swinging the short pole he had in circles.
“Is someone cold?” Cyriac asked, his tone joking.
“A little,” Erasmus admitted, as he lifted up the oiled wood pike and felt delicately along the four pointed edge. “When do you think they’ll come?”
“Soon; they’ll need water and they’re dumb enough not to know what to do with the frozen lake,” Cyriac mused. “I can’t wait to see them either, or to see what you’ll do. This is your first time hunting adult enfields, isn’t it?”
Erasmus nodded excitedly. “Yeah, but I caught that yearling in summer, remember—the blond one?”
Cyriac let out an agreeable noise and the two sat in silence, while Cyriac situated his crossbow on his legs.
Moments later, seemingly small from a distance creatures darted out from the underbrush across the way. Up close however, you could see they were twice the size of the average hunting hound, but the soaring pines and ancient live oaks behind them dwarfed them.
“I get the first kill,” Cyriac hissed quietly. He then smiled crookedly at his brother, who looked ready to argue. “What? Someone has to show you how it’s done.”
Erasmus nodded and just reined in his slightly panicked horse in. The horse was as green as him, obviously, no matter if it was descended from elfin horses.
His eyes then once took in the breathtaking looks of the enfields his family had owned for generations; as a deterrent to enter their hunting grounds and protect their castle at first and then later as beasts to be hunted, much like the boar and bears that also lived in the dense woodlands that backed their castle.
The animals themselves seemed to be pieces of other creatures, as well, which also scared common human peasants—after all, apart from the muscles rippling under their thick pelts and obvious teeth, the animals had the faces of foxes, chests like that of a lean dog, front legs showing talons like those of an eagle, bodies like but smaller than a lion’s, and tails of a timber wolf.
They cut a fearsome image and it was no wonder they had ended up as the symbol of their royal house.
And with four now coming closer to them, he felt like running. After all, their size suddenly seemed to boom once they hit the flat lands.
And all four, even with their varied colorations of russet, deep brown, pale gold, and speckled gray, were obviously male—thick manes around their necks showing it. For a while, their grandfather had claimed that the lighter the color, the more of a chance they were female. Recently, that had changed. Either that or their grandfather was as crazy as their father, now deceased, had suggested.
“Stay here for now, until I need you and do what exactly what I say when I call on you,” Cyriac said, unusually formal.
Erasmus nodded and just watched as his brother loaded an arrow into his crossbow and aimed at the largest, the russet male.
“Too bad the yellow’s so small, his pelt is a sight for sore eyes—he’d make a lovely rug,” Cyriac mused, as he started to wind back, the bow string going taut.
“Just shoot the russet,” Erasmus coaxed, excitement building up again as the hunt became much more interesting. The stalking and skulking was over and it was time to kill and bring back their prizes.
Cyriac laughed quietly and Erasmus’s attention snapped to his face. He, while older, in some ways seemed younger, his eyes always having been brighter and his beard had yet to come in fully when he tried to grow it out, and if it weren’t for the wrinkles signifying a young man growing up too fast, well, he might agree with most people, who always thought he was the older brother.
Of course, maybe it was because their father had chosen him to lead their nation. It normally was the eldest.
Luckily, Cyriac had never minded.
“Are you ever going to shoot?” he questioned finally.
Cyriac nodded, and then narrowed one eye again. “I’m waiting on the perfect shot.”
“Well, I’m getting bored,” Erasmus complained quietly, but he grinned as he talked.
The bow string released with a loud snap.
Erasmus jumped in surprise and turned to see if Cyriac had hit their chosen enfield.
After spotting the russet again, he was pretty certain it had been hit; of course, the thrashing and short, throaty snarls, almost bellows really, were pretty obvious signs.
The thing’s eagle talon’s snagged at the underbrush, but it was unable to right itself.
The others watched it momentarily, their bad sight probably making them unsure of what was going on, but they eventually snorted in distaste and trotted off.
Cyriac was right, he thought. They were quite dumb.
“Well, are you going to go finish it, little brother?” Cyriac asked, louder now.
He glanced over at his brother and cocked his head. “You normally do that.”
“You should learn how,” Cyriac said. “And I’m tired.”
Erasmus shook his head in disbelief, but he saw a certain weary look on Cyriac’s face, that made him decide not to argue. He looked like a servant they’d had one summer who’d gotten heat stroke, actually.
“You’re never tired. But I’ll go do it.” He gave his brother a small nudge.
Seconds later, he dismounted from his horse and gave her a small pat on the muzzle. The enfield was still yowling in the distance and he stalked forward, pike in hand.
I probably should have gone and put the thing out of its misery sooner, he thought, slightly ashamed. And now they’ll be blood on his pelt.
He was slightly disturbed at how logical the follow-up thought was, but he ignored it, like as if it were a bothersome wasp in his family’s rose garden.
He let the pike end drag along the ground as he walked on whatever dry land he could find. He finally reached the tussock of earth that the russet-colored beast had fallen by.
It just laid squirming, yellow eyes pained. It sent a jab of pain to his chest and he just raised his pike.
He swiftly dispatched the animal and let out a small grunt of triumph.
He smiled a little, eyes momentarily flashing amber brown—a trait he’d gained from his partially elfin mother—and he could only notice as he glanced down at the animal, which unfortunately now had its tail in a quite reflective puddle.
And, as far as the change went, well, it was a sign he felt relaxed and unhindered, according to his brother.
He took the pike out of the beast and tossed it to the side, before turning.
His face went slack as he noticed how Cyriac was no longer seated upon his paint horse. Said horse was actually several yards off, eating on the tall grass of the meadow.
“Cyriac, where are you? Come on and come out, you’re scaring me,” he called out, back to the felled enfield.
There were still three enfields out there and probably more, along with many other deadly predators, and he was scared for his brother.
There seemed to be no blood upon his horse, though.
Maybe he’d just needed to relieve himself? Or he’d spotted something interesting?
He was about to call again when a choked sound came from his own throat, cutting off whatever he’d planned to say. Pain, almost too much to handle, shot up from his mid section and he saw black spots in his vision.
He glanced down to see hands, holding either side of a now partially closed maw. It was the russet beast, still dead, but with its two rows of fangs latched onto his midsection.
He followed the hands, only to see Cyriac’s face.
He must have not killed the beast properly.
“T-too late?” he asked, knowing that some enfields, adult males at least, had traces of poison in their saliva.
He was hopeful, at least, and he was sure he was pleading with his eyes for him to tell him that no, it wasn’t too late.
Cyriac didn’t respond to him, although.
“Cyriac?” he asked, feeling his legs start to tremble and hands shake as blood trickled down his hips and thighs, staining the furs he wore. “Get it off me.”
Cyriac did nothing.
He let out a gasp and his knees buckled. He tried to get away, but he was held in place. He felt numbness seep into every part of him and he felt tears streak his face. He couldn’t help it. He knew he was dying now.
Why wasn’t Cyriac helping him? Was this just the least painful way?
“I didn’t mean...” Cyriac said finally, his voice deeper and thicker than normal.
You didn’t mean what? He wondered, as the venomous saliva of the enfield continued to send him into oblivion. Soon he wasn’t able to hang on and his vision blacked out slowly, as he slumped back against his brother.
The good news was his elfin blood would keep him from dying; the bad news was he’d miss out on a life time, only to awake once everyone he knew was dead. Other things could happen, but that was most common.
He wouldn’t allow that.
“K-kill me, please,” he asked softly.
He could be killed, by a relative, if they took the right steps. He didn’t want to live again; he’d rather go up to be with their father and mother, who had only allowed themselves one life.
“I already have,” was Cyriac’s only response. And his voice was wrong, again.
His eyes widened slightly and he looked back at his brother, vision blurred but still partially there. “W-w-what do you m-mean?”
The last thing he noticed was that Cyriac’s eyes had no irises, just black as night pupils.
He had no answer for it and he didn’t have time to find one.
***
Cyriac let out a shaky sigh as his brother’s eyes rolled back and closed and his breath stopped. Of course, it wasn’t exactly him anymore that did it.
He couldn’t move, trapped in his own mind.
Then he could and he felt it, like something snapped—invisible bonds unable to be seen or felt.
He stepped back, his brother falling along with the beast’s upper body, which he’d been holding.
Why now? He wondered, sobs rising in his throat. Why couldn’t this have happened when I had the beast’s head in my hands, opening the jaws so I could latch them to my brother? I hadn’t wanted this! I still don’t...I don’t even know what to do!
And who had done this?
You did. His mind informed him. You’ve gone crazy, you’re a disgrace.
It didn’t sound like his conscience, but he didn’t care.
His tunic, with the blue and gold colors of his family’s crest, which bore the jade green image of an enfield, was now crimson red with blood—red with his brother’s blood.
This was unforgivable, if not by law but by himself.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry...”
Cyriac barely seemed in control of himself. He stumbled back farther until his boots were splashing in a stream. His breaths were gasps as he shook, his mouth opening and closing. He seemed to be trying to say something, but blood just dripped onto his chin.
He tasted metal and he was sure he’d get his wish; death for death.
“...Sorry...”
He barely made it onto the opposite bank, onto a thick layer of mud which made one of the creek’s banks, before he fell to the ground, a heap of twitching limbs.
***
From a distance it might seem like smoke, innocent if odd—since it was coming from the mouth of a man. Possibly it would make more sense if he was a fire breather had a fair, but this made no sense, since it seemed like the man was dead.
The smoke then coiled and bolted, which was definitely odd. It breezed past two horses, sending them running, then flew off.
You might call it a shadow or you might not. Its form was definitely off; nothing would account for the three dimensional shape in the form of some sort of creature.
It ended in a room, slipping under doors to reach said room and going through the smallest cracks.
It nearly slithered across a rough stone floor, a colorful Oriental rug, and to the foot of an arm chair.
A man’s hand dipped down and it twisted up his arm and slid across his neck. It barely brushed a ruby pendant that hung around the man’s neck before it disappeared, sucked into what might be considered a vacuum by some, or a container of some sort by others.
Nonetheless, it was gone—like it had never been there.
And for anyone who would come upon the two men later, it would seem to be a hunting accident, suicide, murder, or some sort of weird combination of all three. The order was twisted because no one could decide who had died first—beast, King, or Prince?
All in all, it seemed to be a crime without a criminal, no explanation for the sudden deaths, especially the death of twenty-year-old Prince Cyriac.
Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be long before that ideal was shaken up—if many years later counted as short.
For now, though? The townspeople and royals of the nation held their breath, praying for a bizarre but regrettable hunting accident—as the warden had suggested. They didn’t want it to be anything else.
They elected a new ruler from the young cousins, the King and Prince’s grandfather holding veto power over whom, and all went on as normal.
If there were a few more deaths than normal in the kingdom, well, it was a hard winter.
And that was all.
After all, why be worried if both sons of the previous King would return to life a few generations later?
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(Any comments now? Oh, and if you would, tell me, if you've read this before, if you like Cyriac as the older one and Erasmus as the younger.)
I like his description though. Also, watch out for places where you insult the reader's intelligence by saying something like "Look over there, john!" The other man, whose name was John, by the way, looked." 
And I don't like the "also" in "also looked like it was about to fall off. Maybe a bit more specifics?
