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liketwoswansinbalance · 10 days

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In Unrecognition of Rhian…

This fic is also available on Wattpad or AO3, if you would prefer to read it elsewhere.

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This fic was inspired by a comment about a stained glass window on this post by @wheretheoceanglows! Many thanks for the thought that jumpstarted this!

Summary:

Since Vulcan murdered Rhian, Rafal has not let himself grieve.

⸻

Something was out of place at the Good School and Hedadora did not like it one bit.

A week ago, she had been summoned by the remaining School Master to serve as Dean of Good, and as she had approached the Good School, on the day of her arrival, more and more oddities had come into view.

It wasn't the Stymphs nested atop the coruscating, glass towers, sitting vigil like watchmen.

And it wasn’t the newly-erected, wrought iron gates, proclaiming to all the Woods: TRESPASSERS WILL BE KILLED.

It wasn't even the acrid smoke, billowing from the silver tower that stood like a sentinel over the bay, either.

It was the body strung up in front of the School for Good.

Over the entryway that read: THE SCHOOL FOR GOOD ENLIGHTENMENT AND ENCHANTMENT in shining letters, lovingly polished to a mirror-like sheen, hung a haphazard, iron contraption that held a corpse which rattled about in the wind.

A plaque affixed to the base of the gibbet, beneath the gruesome display read: HERE, FOR SHAME, HANGS THE VILE TRESPASSER VULCAN OF NETHERWOOD. LET HIS FATE BE A WARNING TO THOSE WHO DARE THREATEN THE GOOD.

To Hedadora, the victim’s grisly, charred corpse was unrecognizable, dressed in tatters like a drunken pirate with a now-scraggly beard and bare, dangling, gangrened feet. A singular, rusted, stab wound through its heart had rusted over nearly as much as the weathered cage that contained the man.

Hedadora shook her head, thinking it was a mirage. This was highly unorthodox and quite grotesque for any Ever’s delicate constitution. Surely, that did not belong here.

It was rotting for Heaven’s sake! And the breeze was tainted by its ungodly stench, only exacerbated by the midday sun.

And not a single Ever looked as repulsed as Hedadora had felt! Not one pupil had spared it a second glance.

The bedraggled Evers milled about in a shiftless, permanent fog in black on their way to classes and paid the exhibit no mind. Evers? In black? Ah, yes, she’d heard word of the Good School Master’s death. Those poor, bereaved children!

And that thing likely hadn’t been taken down in weeks, Hedadora presumed. It seemed bolted there, built to last an eternity.

This castle was in dire need of a woman’s touch. But who was she to decide what did and didn’t belong? Well, she assuaged herself, once she was Dean, things would certainly change, that much she knew.

As it turned out, the Evers themselves had become inured to their once-regular feelings of repulsion. They accepted this hideous blot to their otherwise resplendent environs.

But, more than them, the Nevers knew why it hung there—they were finely-attuned to such messages by now in their young lives. Clearly the offal served to ward off newcomers. Harm a single soul on the premises and you were fated to die, uninterred, made into a spectacle for all to gawk at, trophied and mounted.

All this, and Hedadora still hadn’t met the man behind such an operation.

Naturally, rumors were bandied about—that he donned an iron mask, that he burned people alive, even in this apparent utopia, but finally, after training for a total of a week with Professor Mayberry, her soon-to-be predecessor, Hedadora was scheduled to meet the Evil School Master.

⸻

The week prior, Rafal had told himself that his first order of business was to find a competent substitute.

The day after Rhian’s death, Professor Mayberry, had returned to ease the tension and help the transition of power along, until Rafal found someone else to hire. It was the least she could do, she’d confessed tearfully.

Then, Rafal came across a list Rhian had left on his desk. The name Hedadora had not been struck out, so Rafal decided to allot the woman a trial run once he was able to contact her. Probably, she was the candidate Rhian would’ve hired.

When Mayberry left, Rafal stared hard at the calligraphic hand, about to crumple the list and toss it into the wastepaper basket. Instead, he hastily stuffed it into his pocket.

⸻

After Mayberry’s reappearance, no one had seen Rafal for weeks on end.

The Nevers could only verify his presence as they caught onto a new system he had put into place.

None of them, not even Humburg, had been notified, but they were able to intuit what was going on.

Each class, their smoking ranks snaked around the silver tower in an orderly train, and floated up to the tower window, entangled around a glimpse of a beckoning, pale hand.

Yet, no one could tell if the ranks were indeed being evaluated. The leaderboard hadn’t budged in days.

The numbers were always thrust back, burning and dripping with obscure, opaque pitch, driven into the ground by their weight, boring steaming holes into the ground as they guttered out like smoldering meteorites, burrowing their way to Hell.

Every time, the blackened fields were left pockmarked with craters as fearful Nevers jumped out of the missiles’ paths.

⸻

The day of Hedadora’s evaluation, willowy Nymphs flitted around in a nervous circuit in Good’s grand foyer with decanters of chilled, raspberry cordial, croissants, and rosettes of whipped butter. Silver trays held tiny saucers of black olives, pomegranate seeds, poached quail eggs, and luminous, pink, champagne currants.

Students clinked flutes of cordial, and the fairies chirred amongst themselves, but none was more apprehensive than Hedadora herself. She could only will herself to do her best, and hope to be looked upon favorably.

In an instant, the room hushed as the elusive School Master of Evil entered the foyer, appraising Hedadora’s cloud of white hair and pink-rimmed glasses.

He was positively saturnine, Hedadora noted as she saw the sunken shadows beneath his eyes.

Rafal picked up a pitted olive from a dish. It left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Hedadora sensed a lull, and decided to begin by pitching her best ideas: remodeling the Good School. Perhaps that would sway the unyielding figure before her.

Thus, she spoke of removing the horrendous gibbet to cultivate a more inviting atmosphere, widening the stairwells for easier access to the higher floors and the Library of Virtue, adding a statue garden to the roof, curtains so the students wouldn’t be blinded by the glass walls’ glare, fixing rounded finials to the pinnacles so the darling, little birds wouldn’t be impaled by the sharp spires of Good’s highest turrets. Just simple, minor architectural changes, as, oh dear, oh dear, the current state of Good wouldn’t do at all!

Rafal stared point-blank and said nothing.

Hedadora continued to prattle on brightly, about adding wall sconces and perhaps fresh flowers in them, reaching towards the glorious sun, like all living things did!

Not the Night Crawlers, thought Rafal. Not himself either.

The flowers would remind the students to always reach for the light and strive to be as pure and Good as they could possibly be.

Ridiculous, thought Rafal.

Undeterred by the School Master’s dearth of a response, Hedadora forged on valiantly. As it was, the design of the place was impractical, and the sheer vanity embedded in every cornice was clearly evidence that some frivolous magpie of a person, who only cared for surfaces and shiny things, had designed it without regard for those who actually inhabited the place.

“Out,” Rafal croaked hoarsely.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Hedadora wrung her hands.

“Out. Out from my Schools.” Rafal fired her on the spot.

“You’re being unreasonable, Master Rafal!” Dean Mayberry cried out on behalf of her replacement. She hadn’t spent an arduous week training Hedadora only for her not to fill the role!

Good fights for each other. We can only fight for ourselves, rang in Rafal’s head. Just as he’d last told his Nevers the last time he’d personally taught them.

He had no one to fight for, Evil as he was.

“Out,” he repeated.

⸻

Then came the day of the unveiling. Both Schools were gathered in memory of Rhian.

Onstage, Rafal nodded to Kyma at his side, and the Evergirl pulled a gilded rope, drawing velvet curtains back to reveal a stained glass window in which Rhian was haloed.

The Good School Master’s lithe, white-robed figure was set against panes of champagne and rose and golden-hued glass, with winding, golden, flowered vines encircling his likeness, the tableau resembling a page from a sumptuous, illuminated manuscript.

The golden light of the setting sun set the window aflame, blazing with color as the day approached dusk.

Rafal’s eyes watered, irritated by the excess light, or perhaps the cause was the copious number of flower arrangements festooning the halls.

He turned away from the window, eyes dull and dimmed to a deadened gaze.

Tears streamed down several Ever’s faces, as they split into piteous, extravagant sobs, derailing the assembly.

No one would get anything done if they were still mourning Rhian, Rafal realized. Perhaps he’d decided wrong when he’d commissioned the window. It was a reminder of the loss.

Rhian this. Rhian that. Rhian was dead.

His audience still faced him, the Evers and Nevers nearly indistinguishable in funereal black, eyes downcast.

After a long while, they quashed their sobs, some Evers shuddering into handkerchiefs, giving way for Rafal to speak.

He began expressionlessly, as if delivering a rote recitation from the Handbook’s student code of conduct. “Today, we are gathered here to remember my br—”

Rafal stopped, his throat suddenly dry. Nothing came out. His voice had caught on a gargantuan lump. He swallowed, then swallowed again, throat bobbing.

“We are here to—”

A student coughed.

The Evers leaned in and peered at him strangely like he was a novelty show.

Not a sound escaped his throat, like a noose had been wrapped around his neck.

The Nevers murmured amongst themselves, concerned.

“Goodbye,” Rafal muttered.

The Nevers stared dumbfounded. That was it? This was what they had slogged over to Good for? All that fuss for nothing?

Rafal stalked off the stage, past Kyma, past the gleaming window.

Humburg rose from his seat and started to waddle forward, stone-faced, but Rafal left too quickly.

Black robes snapping behind him, Rafal strode down the aisle past his Dean, past the gormless, huddled, sniveling, ebony-clad mass of students. They cleaved apart, as if by a knife, clearing a path for him straight to the doors.

He slammed the doors with such force that a deep fissure bloomed from a hairline fracture in the glass floor, riving the assembly room into two down the middle. The doors juddered along with everyone’s skulls.

“…Rhian.” He finished his sentence as the doors settled with a thud.

He took off, heedless, tearing through the fog at breakneck speed without a destination in mind, and nearly impaled himself on a lethal, spiked pinnacle—had Hedadora been right about the birds that day?

He landed on a steeply-angled slope of one of Evil’s turrets, sitting himself on the edge of an eave, cloaked in the shadow of the spire.

The golden light of the sunset did not suit him. It was too warm, too lively. He looked out of place.

A place for everything and everything in its place. Even children recognized the reason embedded in such a statement.

Most things you could find a place for.

First, rearrange, when something new strutted in, and installed itself, intending to take over.

Second, remove, when something old broke, when it was vulnerable and defenseless. Or rendered itself useless and weak.

And third, replace, when there was nothing else to do, when the old thing could no longer fill a gap. Because he had let it break. And it would never return.

Out with the old, in with the new. That’s how the world worked.

And that’s what he’d do. Rearrange, remove, replace.

It would probably take a few generations for each new Dean to die. Or retire.

Then, he’d simply find another.

And another.

Seeking out replacements was a job he’d never anticipated having to waste his time on. All he could do was continue, wait for another day, and the next, and the next.

Rafal pulled the list out of his pocket. There was only one name he wanted to see. One candidate who would’ve surpassed all the rest. He didn’t want another Dean.

A place for everything and everything in its place.

He balled up the list.

But what if it was the other way around?

What became of a place when it lacked its thing?

He watched the Stymphs, ever his wardens, watching over his new, Good wards. That figure had doubled overnight while another had been halved.

He thought back to the rankings, the spell he’d cast. Why couldn’t other things put themselves in order, slot neatly into place?

The dusk’s frosty, moonlit pallor illuminated the Evers’ castle, which glowed whiter as the sky darkened.

He watched Vulcan’s body sway in the breeze, trussed up in its creaking, rusted cage, threatening to fall, to succumb to the elements. It would, one day. But that was something he could set right.

He stared into his tower window, and there was the Pen, scratching away at another tale.

And through one of the door frames, he glimpsed an empty, undisturbed bed.

There was only one thing not where it should be.

So there he sat, in the cold, refusing to return to his rightful place all through the night.

The wind washed over him, and he remained, cold as a corpse like always, waiting for the darkness to descend.

⸻

Songs I associate with this fic:

"Marche Funèbre" - Chopin

Fits Rafal's internal state, part of the time, when it's plodding and routine. Also, there are some sections that sound outraged.

"Idea 22" - Anya Nami

The lyrics toward the end make me think of the burning rankings:

This second of life

Feels like forever

This world has failed us

So let burn

Let it burn

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Note:

I'd love to know your thoughts, feelings, or reactions!

31 notes · View notes

liketwoswansinbalance · 2 months

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THE ONE AND HIS BROTHER

This fic is also available on Wattpad or AO3, if you would prefer to read it elsewhere.

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Summary:

Rafal had lived to complete his oath and rule as the One (the one true School Master), and Rhian, reduced to mortal, was redeemed. Now, both brothers come to terms with their tale’s ending, an uncertain, prophecy-less future, and the two begin anew since the Great War, without the constraints of a fairy tale.

And, even Rafal must learn to accept his true nature, his supposed, newly-surfaced Goodness and the guilt it carries.

Context:

The "anticlimax" of Fall was narrowly subverted, and both brothers are alive, contending with the aftermath of the Great War.

⸻

Rafal stepped through the window of the silver tower that housed the Storian on a newly-healed leg, catching sight of Rhian huddled in the dark, afternoon shade.

Rhian flipped a page and looked up from THE TWO TROLLS, red-faced and bleary-eyed, his back against the stone cell’s wall. Restless souls indeed. A euphemism for Evil. An underplaying of his life and acts. “Did you return Midas to that book-gobbler village? What's it called?”

“Gavaldon—and, yes, I did. He deserves a peaceful life, for all that he’s done to serve our tale,” Rafal said sedately.

Rhian could no longer hold back as his mental dam broke. Hot tears spilled from his eyes, tracing trails on his sun-kissed cheeks. “I'm sorry."

“I know…” Rafal began, but he had other loads on his mind. “And, I can't believe I—I don't know why I revived that pastry prat, Rufius. He always got on my last nerve, the coward.”

And yet—Rafal appeared subdued, lacking in his usual contempt, Rhian noted.

Then, Rafal finally surrendered, posture sagging. He dropped down to the stone floor heavily, back sliding against the wall, settling beside Rhian, utterly drained by the Great War and his flight to Gavaldon.

His cape crumpled, crushed beneath him where he sat on it, and he drew his arms tight to his side, scraping his wrist on the wall without realizing it.

Rafal had drawn pinpricks of blood, the shallowest of scrapes, before his pale skin repaired itself flawlessly, proof the Storian kept its word, when he’d made his second vow. Alone. When he was named the One.

Rhian observed this, and heaved a sigh of relief.

Rafal turned to him.

Rhian stared back passively, his eyes leaden, chastened, finding nothing substantial to say in return. "At least his pastries were better than Gavaldon's."

"Mmm," Rafal mused unresponsively. He did not listen, buried in his own haze of thought. Then, he spoke once more. “I mean, I'm Good, but I'm not a weak-willed Ever. And, yet—I felt guilt. I still do,” Rafal admitted somberly. “What's wrong with me?” The pit of his stomach lurched at the thought again. “We’ve—I’ve cost lives.” He stared through Rhian, conscience-stricken, oddly troubled.

Rhian sighed defeatedly. “You're Good and... I'm not.” Guilt-ridden, his voice broke. "It was never you. I cost lives. My own foolishness and sin and hollow, bottomless greed. At every turn, I was cowed and tried to save my own skin. Every time. And you valiantly put your own life at risk. Repeatedly, for near-strangers, and for me, most of all."

“Thanks,” Rafal muttered, regaining a shade of his old self. “Now isn’t that reassuring to hear from the one who caused all our problems?” he sniped.

Rhian sunk his face into his hands, elbows propped up on the storybook settled in his lap.

Rafal rushed to set his mistake right. That had been unforgiving. The Good Forgive rang and reared in his head like a phantom presence. “Don't sell yourself short. You can still do Good with the life you have.” He prodded Rhian’s arm with his elbow, nodding at the storybook in Rhian’s lap. “At least you're not a cannibalistic face-thief of a monster.”

Rhian lifted his blotchy, red face from his hands and flushed deeper with shame as he looked up again to meet Rafal’s eyes. “I almost killed you, but I held my rogue, restless soul back. It was about to consume me again, but I never want to feel like that again.”

“It was like you were possessed,” Rafal reflected.

“But I wasn't. I possessed myself. It was all me, my soul.” Rhian paused. “How—how did you live with the Evil you once committed?”

“I… don't know. It just came naturally to me, as effortlessly as breathing back then. It wasn't as foreign as yours. My Evil was… controlled, for lack of a better word. It wasn't an out-of-body experience or like a parasite. I could command it, use it, use others, bend all to my will.” Rafal looked down, white, spiked sheaves of hair sweeping forward across his eyes, catching in his lashes.

Then, Rafal reddened with a realization that jolted up his spine.

“How will I lead the School, now that I've lost it, my Evil? Will anyone respect or even listen to me—Midas. Midas already opposed me, not that he was so wrong in the end. I wasn't fair to him. Who knows what else could happen? I could soon have a revolt on my hands, brewing under the surface without even knowing it!”

“Your students seemed ready to lay down their lives for you on the warfront, without question, without fear, without doubt. I think you'll have no trouble. In truth, I think you already convinced them, when you got them to follow you. You’ve probably secured their loyalty to you, and to the Woods you’ll shape, the future you’ll bring.” Rhian inhaled as if it pained him. “Your School seemed ready to die for you when I stood at the front. They trust you. You just have to learn to trust them.”

Rafal nodded slowly, his breath turning ragged. “But, how… did you live with a conscience weighing you down? How did you never feel ashamed and self-conscious all the time, every last minute of your existence? The guilt. The guilt that comes with Good—it's suffocating!”

“I was. Self-conscious.” Rhian brushed a stray curl back from his brow. “I… never entirely rid myself of that reflexive shame. But, there are other ways to lead. You've been and done both: Good and Evil. Just, use your judgment. It'll never fail you. Storian knows it's infinitely better than mine.”

“That, I'll do. I don't suppose you're willing to help me appeal to your… the Ever students though?”

“Always,” Rhian vowed. “I'll remain at your side for as long as my life allows. You'll forget about me one day though.”

“Never. That could never happen,” Rafal averred. “Besides, we can't know what's ahead now. I've sent a missive to Monrovia, in order to arrest Marialena and sentence her to life under the sea.”

Rhian smirked, mildly cheered by the prospect of the wayward wretch being locked up for good.

Of course—Rafal had neglected to mention to his brother that he'd publicly threatened the old king of Ravenbow with lethal, dark magic, before his entire retinue as eyewitnesses at Four Point, at a recent audience he’d sought without even a scruple of advance notice.

Everyone, most of all the king himself, had surpassed terrified, but Rafal hadn’t yielded his sorcery’s chokehold on the man, not until the old, quivering king had vindicated Rhian, in a rather quavering voice, for the act of malice against one of own, a loyal subject, the young soldier Rhian had killed in cold blood.

The king had proclaimed that Rhian would be formally deemed “not guilty by reason of insanity, on account of ‘possession by supreme, magical entity,’ henceforth not to be named in this aforementioned, binding document, nor in all subsequent documentation by the royal court or common scribes of Ravenbow, in accordance with rational forethought and the reasonable and necessary fear of condemnation by the manifestly blameless and divine law aboven, which all Men and other mortal beings doth and willen observe forevermore.”

Accordingly, the rulers of Bloodbrook, Kingdom Kyrgios, and Jaunt Jolie had swiftly fallen into line shortly thereafter, and had also very conveniently agreed not to press charges against Rhian after Rafal’s display of power.

Thus, on that fateful day, Rhian Mistral was absolved, granted total immunity from the rule of Woods law, and held in tremendously high esteem by all the kingdoms, that is, unless Rafal received further notice in any remote futurity which conflicted with the leaders’ decrees. Yet, he didn’t expect to see a single quarrel from the chastened Woods leaders. They would bow if he had to sidestep civil, Ever diplomacy in the name of a greater Good, and break their spines and their wills in the process.

The rest of the proceedings of the first-ever Great War Reparations Summit went on as usual, with the One silent as a stone statue yet still conspicuously in attendance in his midnight blue robes.

Since the final decision, to establish a Woods-wide railroad complex that would be titled the Flowerground, and the closing banquet of the summit, the other Woods leaders noted to themselves that they needn’t call in any bygone, originally agreed-upon favors of the last few decades from the School, ever. They feared dealing with the One, and felt their precious, social standings were satisfactory, left as they were.

Rafal also omitted the fact that he’d paid the Kingdom Council a staggering sum of leftover-rubble-turned-Midas-gold, which hadn’t yet reverted to worthless debris, in the School's name, to pardon Rhian for high crimes against humanity and the Woods as a whole.

The exorbitant lump sum was marked in a black, leather checkbook he’d stamped with a moth to dissuade Rhian from ever peeking in it. It was covertly labeled: 'Miscellaneous Outlying Expenses & Future Expenditures for the Enlightenment of Evers and the Propagation of Sin.’

A second, crimson checkbook, the decoy, or rather, the real one, depending on what Rhian would be searching for, was designated: ‘Immediate Repairs and Renovations.’ Eventually, Rafal told Rhian he'd accounted for collateral damage: the Pan’s and the Midas-gold’s devastation, and the overall destruction wreaked by the war.

Finally, the young Ravenbow soldier’s family had been presented with a vast, fruitful tract of land at the edge of School grounds, to recompense the pay the lad’s lost decades of mercenary service to the Ravenbow throne would have resulted in.

All was in order. Rafal had worked tirelessly in the name of Good. Rhian need not know of his brother’s more… objectionable methods.

Lie of omission still intact, Rafal instead opted to tell Rhian, “The rest of the Saders have assured me that they and the rest of their line won't interfere or involve themselves with the School again. Her word may not have been final. So, you could still be appointed, if the Storian views you as ‘worthy.’”

Rhian shook his head, dismissing Rafal’s attempts to raise his spirits.

“I know it'll never be equal to the crime, but you did atone and stand vigil for the Ravenbow soldier and all those taken by the war; it’s more than I’ve done. The king of Ravenbow doesn't hold it against you. You're forgiven. You're free to a fresh start. And I won't leave you to it,” Rafal declared in a brazen lie. “I won't ever leave you, full-stop. You'll never be alone again. We can learn to be human, together—until we can comprehend and piece together these broken souls of ours.”

(Rafal had decided to leave out the fact that he would briefly leave Rhian and the School in the near future, to free the Demimagus from its lamp and fulfill his promise to it. He’d leave in the night and return before Rhian awoke. Such news would require too much explanation and probably prove itself too much for Rhian to hear in this state.)

“Thank you.” Rhian leaned his head on Rafal's shoulder.

“For what?” Rafal breathed.

Head bowed, Rhian spoke. “For my redemption. For a second chance. For never giving up on me. For believing in me, in my ability to change. For not yielding. For forcing me to see the error of my ways. For being enough—even if I once couldn't see it, what I had right by me, all along.”

“I'll never stop being your brother,” Rafal promised. “And, we know well enough, better than anyone, souls aren't static. They never were. This strife has only sown an age of balance and peace.

“We can't spare a glance back, except to educate those that'll come after, so they don't fall into the same conflicts, so they know this tale will never repeat itself, as long as we've set the necessary safeguards in place.

“The Pirate Captain was installed in Neverland, the Mermaids’ throne was stabilized, and I reestablished Gavaldon as forbidden, barred from the Woods and safely tucked away, upon returning Midas. All sides now have moral purpose, and that, not me, will uphold balance for as long as we both shall live,” Rafal affirmed.

“Yes,” Rhian agreed, “We can only look ahead.”

⸻

Days later, Rhian insisted to Rafal that he gather the students for a School-wide announcement in the Theater of Tales. “Your time has come. I guess we have an announcement to make then. To our—your School.” Rhian’s stomach had finally settled with the weight of the truth.

“Our,” Rafal corrected. “Are you sure that you want me to break the news?” he asked with the ghost of a devilishly sly grin darting across his chiseled features, pallid, jade eyes glinting mischievously.

“Sure,” Rhian ceded weakly, wearily. “Have your way. I know you live to watch the drama of others. Just don’t shock them to death. Some Evers are faint-hearted.”

“Lovely.” Rafal grinned wolfishly. It was a rather predatory grin.

Rhian blanched sheepishly for having enabled his brother. “Wait—”

“It’s well overdue that I got to enjoy a new source of entertainment for a change. This will hereby be the start of my well-deserved vacation. From you.”

“But—”

Rafal sneered incredulously. “You don't know the students like I do. Remember who was on their side during the war? Not Rhian! Regardless, whatever harm I inflict on them is for their own good. It’s never severe or permanently scarring.” He paused. “With the exception of physical maiming, I suppose,” he amended.

Rhian sighed. Rafal’s sadistic streak would never end, would it? “If you're truly Good, you're going to have to work on that unquenchable bloodthirst of yours. It's not becoming of a Ever. Also, don’t get too ahead of yourself. You still have to lead us all. There's a lot only you can set right.”

“Since when has your behavior been becoming of an Ever, dear brother?” Rafal could only grin wider, eyes alit. “You're just trying to foist off responsibilities onto me," he accused, his tone turning sardonic and grim. “That trick won't work anymore."

Rhian laughed, ill at ease as his stomach began to roil once again.

⸻

Rafal's eyes roved over his eager audience as the students flocked to their seats in befuddlement. This was it. The moment of truth. And if all went well, his monumental announcement would ideally lead to a Theater rife with chaos, tearful distress, and crises, all serving his own boundless personal amusement.

Rhian beamed falsely, and let out a short, strained laugh. Even while Good, Rafal’s indelible Never sensibilities still seemed to spring out of the ether. Rhian doubted they’d ever be free of them. And yet, he found that he’d miss this characteristic sharpness of his brother’s, if it were to fully disappear.

Rafal wouldn’t be Rafal without it.

The students peered up at the brothers. Curiously, Rafal stood on Good's side of the Theater while Rhian languished on Evil's.

The room tensed, and whispers died as Rafal lifted a hand with all the authority of a time-tested necromancer.

A sea of heads below turned to face him.

The entire School had been called together for a momentous assembly.

One for the ages.

For the storybooks.

The whole room sucked in a collective breath—when Rafal had said what he said.

When he had admitted that he was Good.

But what did that mean for—everyone’s eyes flicked frantically, feverishly to Rhian. Did that mean?

No, it couldn’t be, they told themselves. They had ample material to deny the truth with, to fuel their deeply-rooted denial. Decades of it. Tales recorded by the Storian itself. It was just too hard to believe.

Or was it?

Not after they’d all seen him be Good for years and years. Not after he'd led the Evers to victory after victory for a century.

Except, there had been the Trial. And the Circus.

Could it—could it be?

Was he Evil? Did he pull the wool over their eyes? All this time?

And did that mean—was what the Evil School Master said true?

And if that was true, did that make the Evil School Master Good? And the Good Evil, exactly like he'd said.

He didn't seem to have any reason to lie.

And if he hadn’t lied, they were indebted to him.

He had saved them all. And the Woods.

But did that mean the inverse was true?

That he’d saved the Woods… from his brother.

⸻

Amidst the stirring, hysterical crowd, James sat unmoved. “Imagine, after all that, being Evil and second to your brother. The poor chap,” he murmured sympathetically. “Least I can profit off his loss.” James thrust out a pale hand to collect his prize. He’d won the betting pool. Praise the Storian for Rhian’s power after all!

“Alright, alright already!” Aladdin yapped and threw his arms up in surrender. Who cared about Rafal's sore brother? He was a total priss! Grumpishly, Aladdin got to work, fishing through his pockets.

“Stuff it.” James beamed waggishly, about to retort with Once a pirate, always a pirate.

Aladdin wound up and slung a hefty pouch of coins at the pirate.

It whapped James in the face.

Kyma startled and shifted her attention to the boys, those oafs. “Shh,” she admonished them viciously, then noticed James’ pouch, his hard-won prize.

Like a righteous zealot, Kyma snatched his winnings away from him. “Proper Evers don't gamble for their own personal gain, James. Though I will let you use what you need to restore the Jolly Roger, we are going to channel this money into a Good Deed, and donate it to a worthwhile cause: saving Neverland’s banarans.”

Half-heartedly, James opened his mouth to protest when his mind flashed to the fluffy, white creatures that had once been hunted and skinned for the heinous Pan. Nevermind.

“Luckily, you aren't in Rhian’s position. You don’t need redemption. Isn't that right, James?” Kyma blandished sweetly.

"HEY!” Aladdin wailed. “How's that fair!"

Kyma jutted out her chin.“It’s not a matter of fair or not. It's a matter of right versus wrong.”

Aladdin stuck up for James. “Who says that's a rule?" he squabbled.

Kyma put a finger to her lips wordlessly, casting her gaze back onto the School Masters on stage.

"Every Ever that's ever lived, Laddie. That's who,” James answered for her.

Kyma smiled, pleased.

The Evers clustered around them hemmed Aladdin in rather claustrophobically. They followed Kyma’s lead, shushing him devotedly, so they could listen, in case the School Masters spoke once more.

Aladdin was sure he'd be trampled underfoot if he so much as let out a peep during the rest of the assembly, so he plopped down into his seat and sulked instead.

Vanquished by his choice of princess, James sighed and curled an arm around Kyma’s shoulders. “I knew it the whole time,” he lied suavely.

Kyma rolled her eyes good-naturedly, and batted his arm away.

"Well, I knew it since I felt Rhian's magic in me and came to the conclusion. And found out that you're an incorruptible saint,” James added.

Kyma leaned into his chest. "Better."

"Better than Laddie?" he prompted hopefully.

Kyma sighed, feigning exasperation. "Don't try me, James. But yes."

Boys. They were so fragile and needed such reassurance every mulish second of their existence. One had to guard, and reaffirm, and care for their bruised egos, or they'd fall apart before long.

⸻

Meanwhile, Rhian's ego wasn't faring too well in the face of the multitudes before him.

A maelstrom of thoughts and doubts and revelations swirled above the crowd.

Subject to the heat of his former students’ stares, Rhian's hands shook tremulously, and he waited for the backlash, squeezing his eyes shut and bracing himself, trying to hold back tears. What to do, what to do? He'd never felt so exposed in his life.

Blood roared in his ears, infernal heat from deep within flaring and rising to the surface of his flushed skin.

Not the dragonfire, not the dragonfire, Rhian prayed with every fiber of his being.

A cool, glacial breeze grazed his hair.

Rafal laid a gelid hand on the back of Rhian’s neck to soothe him.

Rhian hadn’t realized that Rafal had glided over to attend to him after getting his fill of the so-called entertainment.

Rafal wouldn’t let them attack him. Instilled with trust, Rhian opened his eyes.

The outcry never came.

Rafal had sensed the impending swell, a potentially inexorable, unforgiving outburst, but what greeted the two brothers was far from the ire he too had been anticipating.

Instead, a cheer erupted from the Nevers' half of the crowd, a cry of pure, ebullient joy by the no-longer oppressed.

The hoity-toity, golden School Master was fallible! What a day!

The Nevers were exceedingly pleased as they still believed Rafal would be biased toward them. And they weren’t entirely wrong—Evers still irritated the formerly Evil School Master.

Once, they'd feared him, their School Master, but now they let out raucous cheers of triumph as they broke from their ranks. They revered him, the conqueror of Good, the new Master of Good, or so they thought.

Rafal chose to let them believe what they wanted, for the time being.

And so, they exulted in their victory. Celebrated him, their newly restored School Master. Theirs was the One.

At last! At last! At long last they'd get the endings they'd deserve. Live and die in glorious infamy with the spoils of the eternal war for Evil!

And naturally, if the winning School Master was on their side, they were bound to win. Their School Master was the One! He'd won the war! For them! For them all. And what pride they took in him. Or, at least, so went their logic. Flawed logic. Indeed.

Naturally, the rest of the Woods would be shaken if they hadn’t already figured out the truth. But the state of the Woods and the balance and the brothers would all be cleared up, given time.

He and Rhian would have to set the record straight with the Kingdom Council, possibly with a second, formal reparations summit, Rafal mused. He’d seize the opportunity to showcase the School’s newfound unity and his infinitely greater power. A fine political strategy.

It was never too early to keep watch for new enemies. You never knew who you could trust. And he'd gained a lifetime of paranoia since the war, yet it was a reasonable precaution, to pay close attention to his instincts surrounding others. The price of balance, the stress that would accompany the role, this burden he was laden with, it would all be worthwhile, if the Woods and Rhian would forevermore be safe and his.

Looking at his brother gratefully, then looking out at the crowd, Rhian appreciated the attention, the lauding, the adoration, the applause.

Though, he doubted the audience truly loved him, but at the least, he'd be safe because everyone feared Rafal enough to appease him and not deride Rhian for his wrongs.

He'd repent anyway, he decided right then and there. It was the least he could do after dragging Rafal through Hell and back.

But, they'd lived. They'd both lived, he thought to himself in disbelief. The Storian had granted them an ending, and he didn't intend to squander it. Not a chance. Not in this lifetime, not with a second chance, at life, at loving his brother, the students, and the Woods as he should.

He wrung his hands and hoped the Evers wouldn't riot when they found out he wasn’t their School Master, once they realized Rafal was Master of both Schools. Though they likely already knew—there wasn't any indication that anything was wrong. If anything, the Evers seemed… entirely accepting.

Later, Rafal filled in the gap in Rhian's knowledge and explained that all the students had known, to an extent. They’d had an emergent inkling as to the truth of the brothers’ souls. They'd seen Rafal revive Rufius and prove his soul Good firsthand.

Several students had exhaled in utter relief when they realized Rhian had been stripped of his status and immortality.

They no longer needed—or wanted—him, it seemed. Yet, it was probably fair penance given all that he’d done to Rafal. Perhaps, one day, he’d rise back into favor.

For now, he just glanced over at the One, and watched him lead.

⸻

Note:

Yes, this is finally a moderately happier, canon-divergent fic. It's a little melancholic, but not a complete tragedy. I suppose my hope is that this will fill even one person's void.

I ended one of the sections on “ahead.” Did anyone catch that? I had the opportunity and wanted to use it, partly because it felt right, and because I wanted to try to be “clever” and mimic Fall.

I think this fic idea came about a couple days after I first read Fall, so it's been sitting in my drafts for a long while.

Also, in its earlier stages, this one practically wrote itself. It just burst free from the dam weirdly enough and sloshed forth onto the page. Maybe, it had been simmering and developing in my brain since Fall’s ending only to overflow—since I wrote it in practically one late night, made minor edits over time, and added several scenes as they came to me in short spurts of inspiration.

Thank you for being a reader! I’m open to constructive criticism, and feel free to comment any of your thoughts, feelings, reactions, questions, concerns, etc. Don’t hold back—I’m willing to answer any unresolved questions you may have!

If you happen to catch any errors or inconsistencies, kindly let me know! Furthermore, if anything seems out of character, I’d love to know your opinion.

Lastly, I’m curious: what was your favorite line(s), scene, or part?

⸻

Songs I associate with this fic:

"Metamorphosis" - David Clavijo

Fits the beginning, kind of crescive tone, I’d like to think.

"To Be Human" - MARINA

I recommend listening to a sped-up version.

“If You’re Meant to Come Back” - Justin Jesso

I associate this one with the prequels and the brothers’ dynamic in general.

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