Simony

When Rafal returned to the Schools, still in an unrecognizable state after the brothers' renovations, he knew he had to find Rhian, to communicate. Yet, there stood Good, pompous like a cathedral.

Rafal paced outside the glinting castle for a moment. His brother had sold himself out, twice, for faithless, unworthy lovers, and he'd tarnished himself and his soul in the process.

Rhian was his perpetual foil. Rafal always had to clean up his brother's messes, do the dirty work his brother wouldn't deign to do, stain his soul when his brother wouldn't sully his hands. Wrap up everything when Rhian couldn't.

He flung open the doors to Good's foyer, and headed down an oddly vacant glass hall to another chamber, where he had sighted Rhian. With a conversation he would cast out Hook, purge one brother of impurities, and confirm the Evil of the other.

The wall of glass before him shone, the row of lancet windows casting long shadows. Rhian looked ethereal in the light, like a spirit.

His golden, wild-haired double turned to him. "Rafal?"

"Of course you're here. The ringleader of the corrupt Evers," Rafal said staidly, too drained to deal with false pretenses. "Where's your right hand?"

Rhian paused. "Here, with me."

There Rhian was, seeming as pure and untainted as perfectly blown glass. The walls behind him looked more the pure white of sugar glass, with distortions and cracks. He was backlit by the light streaming through the high, arched windows, haloed by it even. The dust motes swirled like powdered sugar. His soul was not unmarred, but it wasn't stained irrevocably, unforgivably. He was marked by only cheating.

Rhian cut a striking figure albeit a dark one, with his face shadowed. Meanwhile, Rafal stood opposite him, not bathed in light but shrouded in shadows. With his suit that matched Rhian's, Rafal stood out. Earlier, Rhian had doffed his royal blue jacket, and now, he only wore his white shirt, buttoned at the sternum, collar shielding his throat. On the dimmer side of the room, Rafal looked a smear of soot, sore and scalded.

He stepped forward and Rhian shrank from him. Rafal felt like he'd been impaled.

Rhian's face crumpled, and he spoke. "I wish you'd stop attacking me and antagonizing your students. Even the Storian is on Good's side, and it must have a reason."

Rafal's head spun as the harsh light glared, illuminating Rhian. Yet, it obscured him in shadow. Even this grandeur and light had forsaken him, just like the Storian and its tales. The Pen always abandoned Evil, condemned it. Rejected and denounced the Evil brother. Always. He was hurt, not the villain. He was reactive—trying to prevent the downfall of the Schools and felled by his supposedly virtuous brother—this couldn't be an Attack.

Rhian's hands shook as he continued. "I've only tried to improve Good. To bring glory to my Evers' tales."

"And what's all this? A new School, or a vanity project?" Rafal spat.

Rhian shook, more intensely than before.

"I was never consulted, so I shouldn't need to seek your permission for any changes I'll make to my Schools."

Rhian recoiled, and his vitriol struck Rafal like live coals. "Your Schools? You abandoned them. And me."

Rafal's hands were cold, as always, he supposed. Rhian's voice was weak and sputtering out now, like a smoldering match, the last embers of warmth. His brother had always been his beacon, keeping him in check.

"I fix everything." Rafal berated. "And then what? Do I get any credit? I don't care whether I do. I don't care what anyone thinks of me. But I'd appreciate basic respect for what I stand for. Yet, you seem to weigh the value of your life against what your reputation is. One day, you'll let your precious Ever followers, the standard-bearers, the bards, the minstrels, wax poetic about you, write epics, compose ballads. Do you want your subordinates to hail and herald you like a martyr, Rhian? Like you're Good's one and only savior?