THE ONE AND HIS BROTHER

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?"