The Nerve Of Some Evers, Master! Harrumphed The Former Dean Humburg. Can You Imagine Thinking Yourselfabove

“The nerve of some Evers, Master!” harrumphed the former Dean Humburg. “Can you imagine thinking yourself above murder?”

“No,” said Rafal, his throat parched. “What dull existences they must lead.”

This is not a fic-related excerpt. It's just a random dialogue exchange, if anyone is wondering. Some variation of it might make its way into a WIP, but no guarantees.

Will anyone else forevermore associate the word “enough” with Rafal, in the sense of “I will never be enough for you, will I?” Or is that just me?

Side note: Apparently, this is my 100th post!

A Title Guessing Game

If anyone can guess (or come close to guessing) the title of my SGE WIP longfic, or any of its details, I will post a brief excerpt from the draft. The fic's title is fittingly long, considering its anticipated length.

This is the title's abbreviation:

TOTSMOV41

I don't mind if anyone comes up with ridiculous answers either. If anyone does want to have some fun with the prompt, I'll be entertained, of course. So, have at it, in any way you want, as outrageous as you want! I’m literally inviting you to bring your assumptions.

You can comment below. Let the games begin!

Also, just so no one gets their hopes up, don't expect this fic anytime soon, not for months and months, or even a year or more, I'm willing to bet. It's going to take so long to organize my notes, arrange my outline more efficiently, and draft the thing itself, and I'm probably going to have to wait for a vacation to work on it. So, that's the status update though this is the first time I've really announced this fic formally.

Probably, the most abstract clue I could possibly offer you is this music. It is my fic's "theme song," in terms of tone. It's not entirely representational of the fic as the fic has some humorous moments. Yet, I've been associating this song with the fic, so it's my subjective interpretation. So, if you were to read the draft, there is a chance it would not fit 100%, so you can take the music in broad strokes, as some of the rising and falling plot beats or the shape of the story. (You can skip to around the timestamp 1:28 and listen from there onwards if you don't want to listen to the whole video.)

To me, the music evokes vibes like a phoenix rising from the ashes. When all is lost, when you've reached the "darkest night of the soul," and everything is hopeless and futile. The tension ramps up. Blood courses through veins, quickening. Becoming faster and faster, punctuated, overlapping. One trial after another. Trial after trial. It all comes to a head, a crescendo, the tension lancing through you. And you endure a hard landing, jarring your feet.

If you examine my description, you may find oblique, "symbolic" spoilers, so I doubt they'll be apparent. Anyway, I hope that I will be able to echo this tone in my fic, to be as "loud" and chaotic in certain parts of it.

But, when you guess, by all means, you can ignore the music, if you have any other ideas. To rule out some guesses, this fic is not exclusively a prequel-focused one.

Also, @heyo-428 this is the "crystal and bathtub" fic I told you about, if you're still interested. But, no need to engage if you don't want to! The answer may be more obvious to you, I suspect. And, if you want to, I'll let you present the miniscule details I gave you the other day.

Man's Fallibility & Immortality

I found a practically perfect song, by my interpretation, to add to my Rise to Fall playlist. (I haven't cleaned up/updated the playlist fully, so I'm not posting the whole thing yet, but I think this particular song warrants its own post.)

First, listen to the song: Nothing's New - Rio Romeo

Then, what follows below is something of a tragedy-analysis, abstract, meta-thing/omniscient prose narration experiment. I don't know what it is—an outpouring of thoughts. It may strike a similar chord as my narration at the end of Simony and its epilogue.

(Simony was a prediction fic I wrote before the publication of Fall. An extremely erroneous one though. I still think it could work, but oh, how wrong I was.

The direction Soman took the plot in, just, it was unpredictable, even if I did enjoy the book. I still like Rise better than Fall though, of the duology. If Rise had just ended at the point of: Vulcan is dead, Rafal tortures his students, and the brothers gradually learn to trust each other again, that would've been nice and comforting, honestly. But no, substitutes, substitutes, substitutes! On both sides. Drives me insane. Ack! But, I have four, short fics planned that have alternate endings to Rise and to Fall, to make up for it. Well, one of them is so far a little longer, three chapters long.)

If anyone wants me to analyze the actual lyrics more closely, I'm willing to do that too!

⸻

The tales.

They are all the same.

Good winning, Evil winning.

What difference does it make after centuries, really?

Everything probably feels numb and empty after a certain point.

Like nothing matters anymore.

Undiluted apathy after that certain point.

When? I've lost track.

When losses and victories all ring hollow, and all sound the same.

The End.

That's all It wrote.

The sum of lives distilled down to ink and illustrations.

Nothing beyond that. No life, no spark.

What more is there? When nothing will ever satisfy the restless souls, not even an Ending all to themselves.

Just pages that will yellow with time even if the stories themselves are timeless because nothing changes.

Nothing ever changes.

There's no evolution.

Every tale is the same.

It becomes nothing after nothing, not victory after victory, when you're ageless like we are.

And how, if that's how it is?

Why bother?

Why bother at all?

It's a cycle that continues, with or without the brothers.

Ceaseless.

So, why should it matter?

It's the same with or without them.

Their position was always ceremonial.

After a while, anyone becomes tiring. Anyone.

And one person just isn't enough, when you have no one else.

No one else to shield you.

It gets old. The love just... fades, and wears out.

Perhaps, human love can only span for so long, and that's why humans are mortal.

Made mortal, and no one should traverse beyond that.

It always leads to hubris, and then, a fall.

An unnatural fear of death trained into them, when limits were never set, when power was never checked, when they expected to have all the time in the world.

Nothing is built to last. At least, not by the Storian.

It does whatever it pleases.

You can't extend a life past its time.

It will always end in ruin. Isn't that the lesson the storybooks teach?

A cautionary tale.

Again and again, the cycle continues.

Every failed holy-grail of immortality, every spilled cup drawn from the fountain of youth, every cursed head of lettuce, every white snake, every chalice of sleeping draught that led to execution after execution, every baptism that succumbed to primordial wickedness, every impoverished fisherman's hovel?

Why not a tale about two brothers?

One where two are felled.

To caution against mortal greed that even immortality can't peel away.

To caution against always wanting more until you're left with nothing.

Nothing at all.

Just like how you can't truly resurrect anyone as who they once were, you can't revive the soul that a person once was.

And you can't play at being God because it defies the rules of nature.

And all that we know about transience and permanence and how ephemeral everything else is.

Everything but Man, who vies to leave a legacy wherever he goes, at any price, even at the cost of his soul, not life.

⸻

Now, I do wonder if I made anyone emotional? I certainly tried this time around, to be a provocateur like Soman is. Tell me what you think, if you want.

Smeared Hearts

Credit to @rosellemoon for this oddly, insanely compelling idea about the fluffy, rainbow Storian. I couldn't help myself, so I took her ideas and ran with them.

Here is the link to the original post.

@heyo-428 @cetastars @harmonyverendez Read this, if you’re still interested in the fluffy pen story!

Note:

I did toy around with the order of Rise’s series of events a little, and included elements of Fall. So, be warned: the continuity is by no means perfect, the tone is intended to be more comedic (and sometimes more modern?) than usual, and I wrote this more for the concept than the plot at first. You could consider it a loose chronological series of vignettes, if that’s easier to understand because it isn’t quite a full story. It cuts from scene to scene. Or, rather, it is a story with a lot of scene breaks. Also, this was kind of an impulse fic, so I didn't start with a plan until a little later, but I did edit.

⸻

When Rafal agreed to be named a School Master of the renowned School for Good and Evil, he hadn't expected to become a pet owner, or something of that ilk.

When he initially saw it... it was fluffy and rainbow. Oh, the indignity of it all, of his life. What had he agreed to?

He groaned. The Storian wouldn’t have been his first choice of godlike pens, but he supposed a magical, fluffy pen was better than no magical pen at all.

The Storian drew a heart on Rafal's hand. It was about the size of a coin.

He grimaced.

Why couldn't the pen have chosen a more tasteful mark? A crown, or an ace of spades perhaps. Even an abstract scribble would have been fine, preferable even.

When the Storian drew his brother's heart, Rhian had laughed at its tickle, and the Storian had taken his response as a sign that it was welcome to snuggle up with Rhian every night, beside him in bed like a beloved pet.

Rafal slept alone.

⸻

Rafal had lost all faith in the Storian.

The irritating pen knocked things from tables. It beat Rafal's dish-breaking record within a week. And, it mussed up his hair, and shed all over his robes, slacks, and jackets. If any comparison could be drawn, it was most like a recalcitrant cat, an everlasting thorn in his side.

He couldn't face his students covered in feathery scraps of rainbow fur! The Nevers would ridicule him.

Invest in a lint brush, he noted to himself. That would settle it.

And shave that pen to boot. Not that he could. The little devil was fast, and would punish him for high treason.

Rhian wouldn't mind, he told himself. But, his brother loved that worthless thing. Of course he would mind. The Storian was practically Rhian's child. Rhian's baby talk drove Rafal up the wall. He was so mawkish and cuddly with it, as if it weren't already a combination dust magnet and feather duster that aggravated allergies.

No way would anyone ever see him petting the thing. It was an object, not even a living object, just unusually sentient. It was a patently false imitation of a real animal.

Rafal’s Stymphs were far superior to the pen, and they obeyed him and his commands as any good pets ought to do. Though, he considered the Stymphs more akin to his faithful soldiers, pledged to serve his eternal cause of Evil than well… pets, or whatever the pen was to Rhian.

⸻

Lately, Rhian was becoming obsessed with the Storian, and it worried Rafal.

At least he wouldn't have to worry about Rhian getting attached, only to catch it belly-up, and be forced to fly to the nearest pet store and cosmetic apothecary to replace it with a magic-surgery-modified duplicate before Rhian saw. Getting the last fish to look identical had been one hell of a sleepless night he’d spent in a race to preserve Rhian’s feelings. He’d stayed up to ensure the new pet was in place, and had to bury the old one at the crack of dawn while Rhian was still asleep.

But, with a pen, that couldn't happen. What could possibly go wrong?

Well, he knew the worst had happened far too many times. Rhian tended to kill things with too much love. It was absolutely sickening. He'd overfed goldfish in the past, almost the Wish Fish too, if Rafal hadn't put an immediate stop to it, and he had overwatered various hydrophilic plants from humid, tropical climates.

Rhian didn't have the best track record when it came to pets. Or self-preservation for that matter. He’d struck up conversations with strangers left and right.

A pen could be good for him. It had no expiration date. It didn't even have a mortal life, so no matter how incompetent Rhian was, he couldn't kill it. No responsibility aside from keeping it entertained, no risk of accidentally killing it, something to distract him from Rafal's own wrongdoings. The pen could prove useful in that regard. Yes, he could live with it, he decided.

Then again, maybe the right question to ask was whether it had feelings. Could he insult the pen? And what would happen if he did? He was sure Rhian would be none too pleased. But what about the Storian itself?

⸻

Rafal eyed the heart on the back of his hand. It was glaringly obvious and far too… sentimental. He had to do something about it. Scrubbing vigorously hadn't worked. He'd only succeeded in scrubbing the skin of his hand red, raw, and dry.

Rhian had haughtily told him he needed moisturizer.

Rafal snapped back that he knew. “Go bother someone else with your fussiness, Rhian!”

In the end, he'd bought black, supple, leather gloves, fitting of his look. They molded to his skin perfectly, and they didn't clash with his typical mode of dress.

Rhian accused him of being needlessly "edgy." Well, there was just no satisfying him, was there?

But, Rhian was a squeamish fussbudget, and his opinion held no weight here. So, Rafal wore the gloves. And soon, the years turned to decades, decades turned into a century, and the Woods kept living.

⸻

Rafal wore his gloves every day without fail—until he needed the additional dexterity that could only be afforded by flesh and bone fingers while drowning in the sea amid Night Crawlers.

He tore off the gloves, and in his haste, flashed the rainbow-inked heart at James, James who began to snicker at the thing like it was the most contemptible mark in the world.

"Thought you were Evil. Eh, Master?" James taunted.

"Shut up. It's-it's Rhian’s,” Rafal lied, stuttering through his embarrassment. No need to explain a fluffy pen of all things to James. He'd only think Rafal a dolt.

The heart was so cloyingly sweet, but it still made him feel vulnerable when it was seen, out in the open.

Astonishingly, James’ previously murderous expression softened and its matching intent evaporated. "Guess you wear your heart on your sleeve then. Like the Good do, or as close to Good as you can get, huh? Wouldn't mind saving me then, wouldja?"

Rafal gave the heart a sidelong glance. “Fine,” he muttered unaffected with marked disdain.

In the end, neither of them made it to the underwater prison of Monrovia, which contained the infamous Saders, but no matter. They were both out alive, albeit drenched.

⸻

Suspended aloft, ever an eye, the pen bore witness to a stalemate between the School Master brothers and the Pirate Captain.

The Pirate Captain loped forward. “So, you've got a pen that draws maudlin hearts?” he drawled.

"Yes,” Rafal said through gritted teeth. The leather of his gloves was cracked and split by this point, and creaked when he held a staunch grip. He’d formed fists, but he held himself back. The man didn't deserve a blow to the jaw, yet.

Off to the side, James winced, and drew a great step back to distance himself from his sorcerer friend.

Ferret-boy lolloped into the fray. “Yer magical pen does what?” he piped up, as if he'd been deaf to the Pirate Captain's question.

Him on the other hand—he had it coming for him. Rafal bristled, clenching and unclenching his fist instinctually. His dispassionate gaze morphed into a glare.

“It be drawing that craven, girlish thing on ya hand? Gotta be stark raving mad fer that to ’appen,” Ferret-boy quipped again.

Rhian stiffened, face heating.

Rafal defended, “It's not stupid, fussy, or effeminate. Even if it is, it's my only tie to Rhian at the moment, and I, for one, would prefer to keep it, along with my immortality, if you'll excuse me, pests.” He nodded at James, and turned to leave.

The Pirate Captain lunged for the pen without warning.

The Storian darted away, answering with a sugary jingle. Then, it coiled like a spring, launched, and jabbed the Pirate Captain viciously in the chest.

"Oof," the bested Pirate Captain breathed, clutching his torso.

A true pity that it hadn’t drawn blood, Rafal carped internally.

Self-satisfied, the pen twirled in the air, and flew back to the brothers. It curled up in Rhian's waiting hands like an overgrown, weaselly, color-dyed rodent, its noodly form like a piece of rope gone limp.

Rhian headed back to the School, safely cradling the pen.

Rafal stayed back on the dock to deal with the pirates, and give James a proper send-off.

⸻

Rhian had never taken an interest in women’s undergarments until now, but he was desperate.

He had already sifted through the Beautification classroom’s storage, and had come up with nothing. So, now, he was knee-deep in Dean Mayberry’s dresser drawers that he’d pulled out entirely, and he found himself rifling through her delicates at an alarming rate.

He soon chanced upon what he was searching for, and fished out a pair of airy, white gloves trimmed in lace that she’d worn to a recent soirée. He pressed his lips together grimly. They would have to do. Hopefully, Rafal would be distracted anyway. His new attire could divert Rafal’s attention.

He reasoned to himself that a smudge meant nothing, and hummed to himself nervously. It couldn’t be covering up duplicity. That would be Evil.

He wasn’t Evil.

He buttoned the gauzy, eggshell white gloves up high with their glossy, pearl buttons. Then, he went on his usual rounds over the School grounds, pretending nothing was wrong.

Rhian should have known his brother would first set his eyes on his hands. His glove-covered hands.

⸻

As Rafal flew overhead, approaching the School's clearing, he roughly tugged on his gloves again. Then, he saw something had gone wrong as he glanced down at Rhian from afar.

Rhian clearly had a new, downy, swan-feather outfit, a cloak of pure, shining spun-gold, and something else. Something new. He was wearing dainty, white gloves.

Rafal caught sight of another, unsubtle change through the tower window. He was horrified to find that Rhian had apparently commissioned a golden cage for the Storian while he was gone.

Seemingly, Rhian now tended to it even more regularly, as if he were sure it would grant him a favor, like a genie or a magical creature of that sort would, once caught and released for a wish in exchange for its freedom.

How childish could his brother get?

The moment Rafal's boots hit the windowsill, he peeled off his leather gloves, and noticed that for once, from just minimal friction, the interference of the glove’s coarse fibers, the seawater and his sweat, his heart had smeared.

His heart looked more scrawled than deftly inked. It was a messy blur of rainbow splotches on his pale skin. It didn’t look right, smeared like a stain, an iridescent oil spill, formless and hazy, like liquified beetle wings and mercury.

It was supposed to be as permanent a mark as one from a branding iron. It was a fixed tattoo! It couldn't just be wiped clean away!

Rafal blinked, rubbing at his eyes, trying to clear his tainted vision.

The smudge stubbornly remained.

Something had gone wrong while he was gone. Something sinister.

Rafal stepped into the tower chamber, legging it over the windowsill. He did not observe the cloaked, vampiric man fleeing the scene, memento mori etched on his skin.

Rafal reasoned these circumstances out to himself slowly: Rhian had probably figured that because Rafal never took off his gloves, except in the dark, at night, to sleep, that he'd never notice anything was amiss. But something was. Something grave enough to compel Rhian to cover it up, to erase his mistake.

Their bond had been besmirched by something. By someone. A stranger Rhian had opened his heart to. But was their bond broken?

The implications sank in. If it was broken, he could now be killed.

Rhian flung open the door, and greeted Rafal with cheer, yet he seemed wary.

Uncharacteristically, Rafal reached out to Rhian for a hug, and used the rare moment of closeness to yank Rhian's glove off.

The seams burst with the amount of force he applied and the pearl buttons popped off, catapulted in all directions, clattering to the floor, bouncing and rolling between the stone tiles into every last crack and crevice.

Rhian gasped and tried to shove his hand into a pocket.

Rafal trapped him by the wrist.

Beheld, as sure as day, was a bloodred V slashed in ink, like a scar of rouge in Rhian’s disfigured, melted, rainbow heart stamped around it.

Rhian's hand turned gelid, clammy, and slick in Rafal’s grip.

Someone had replaced him, Rafal concluded, without a word.

Rhian did not even try to offer excuses. It would be too humiliating to explain how he’d let Vulcan violate him during one of their dinners. He blushed at the candlelit memory.

Rafal dropped Rhian’s wrist. “Woe are we,” he sniped bitterly.

Rhian’s eyes welled with tears, but Rafal wouldn’t look at him.

Rafal couldn’t look at Rhian.

In fact, both brothers had fallen silent as the pen scratched away, swishing back and forth like a pendulum.

Rafal glared at the fluffy pen that shivered and flounced and puffed itself up like a fox's tail in the breeze. From across the room he could sense the pen's swift movements as it whisked through the air.

Wisps of shed fluff floated in the sunlight filtering through the silver curtains in spotlit shafts.

He felt the swoosh of the pen's fluff.

It twitched like it was winking at him, and slunk towards his legs like a cat. The pen twined itself around his legs in greeting. For several rounds, it wound itself around him.

He stood uncomprehendingly until his rage got the best of him. He extricated himself from the pen, and couldn’t bring himself to care about brushing the fluff from his slacks.

Rafal jumped out the window, to fly off, and figure things out for himself. The crisp air stroked his bare hands for once, and the sharp wind ripped away the excess fluff, battering his clothes and rippling cloak.

Now, he had to keep his heart in sight at all times, until he reversed this curse. No matter if anyone thought anything while his heart was exposed. They could all go to Hell for all he cared. He was doing this for Rhian.

And to save his own lost heart as well.

⸻

He flew away at full throttle, landed, and set off at a brisk pace, slamming into a boy with golden curls, grey eyes, and a cherub-like face. The exact sort of fellow Rhian would crush on!

“Who are you? Are you the V?” Rafal demanded.

The boy looked confused, and narrowed his eyes, fuming. “Name's Midas," he gruffed, putting up a front. “Who're you?” He stabbed a finger at Rafal's chest.

“Your worst fears,” threatened Rafal placidly.

Midas’ eyes widened.

Rafal shot back up the silver tower, and hurtled through the window, Midas in tow, grasped in his iron grip over the starchy fabric of the boy’s shirt. Coolly, he tossed aside a squirming Midas, who scudded across the room, aided by his sorcery, and left the boy for a moment, vowing to deal with him later.

He turned to Rhian, who stood agape, next.

⸻

Rafal marched deeper into the stone chamber, snatched Rhian's wrist, and dangled his limp hand in front of their faces. “What's this?” he said quietly, menacingly, pressing down on Rhian’s pulse.

He dragged Rhian up to the Storian, and released him.

Rhian stumbled forward, only managing to stay upright with Rafal’s firm hold on his shoulder.

“WHAT'S THIS?” Rafal shouted at the trembling pen, now thrusting his own outstretched, ink-stained hand at the pen.

The Storian, previously backed up against a bookcase, leapt into its cage, and rattled around. It cowered at the back of the cage, against the golden bars.

“This can't be what I think it is. I love him,” Rafal assured the pen feverishly. He sank to his knees in desperation, casting his gaze up at the pen.

Rhian dropped to the floor with him, and looked pleadingly at his pet.

Long and sinuous, the pen performed a twist in midair with a light jingle, as if considering the chastened School Masters before it, contemplating their tale. It moved with broad brushstrokes, white streaks of erasure, fine, gossamer threads spinning through the air, weaving around the brothers’ forearms.

The hearts vanished off their hands.

Rafal flinched, and shielded Rhian.

Rhian quivered, his heart throbbing against Rafal's own pounding rib cage. He gripped Rafal's upper arms, bracing himself behind his brother for the worst, for his precious pet to turn on him.

Yet the pen forgave.

It hovered over their hands, and drew new hearts, the same as it had done a century before.

⸻

Note:

I'd love to know your reactions and thoughts, or if anyone laughed. What specific parts got a rise out of anyone? Did I manage to shock anyone, with anything? I’d love to know what. Feel free to comment anything and ask any questions if there’s confusion.

I hope everything’s up to par. Did anything (specific or not) feel out of character? I didn’t check the books, and I sort of forgot what Hook’s, the Pirate Captain’s, and Midas’ dialogue sound like. If anyone catches any inaccuracies, feel free to let me know. Also, if there's anything else wrong grammatically, or in terms of clarity, please tell me.

Wow, thank you! This is fascinating, especially the part about the Pen lacking humanity and essentially scoring a zero in the "Human Understanding department." A very apt way to put it.

I could almost imagine the Rule of Three applying to Rhian, Rafal, and the Pen! Even if it tends to apply to trios of humans, usually. Because, any of the pairs would have worked out fine, without a deathly rivalry. Well, maybe not Rafal and Pen. Yet, the others would have been fine: Rhian-Rafal and Pen-Rhian, because they are capable of respecting each other (and Rhian is not the most critical of thinkers). The Pen (and there being a narrative/roles everyone was too-aware of) just interfered, and ruined what otherwise could have been the Rhian-Rafal pair of two.

Also, "possibly artificial switch." You/the prequel fandom should coin that! I often tend to think of the progression in Fall as artificial, and I doubt I'm the only one besides you. It's really the perfect shorthand to explain how abruptly the character development/"mischaracterization" in Fall went awry, methinks.

Hating the Storian is a worthy, noble cause, even if the storybooks wouldn't tell it that way. If you succeed at overthrowing the tyranny of Pen, you'd deserve Nevermore in only the absolute best sense of the word.

Man's Fallibility & Immortality

I found a practically perfect song, by my interpretation, to add to my Rise to Fall playlist. (I haven't cleaned up/updated the playlist fully, so I'm not posting the whole thing yet, but I think this particular song warrants its own post.)

First, listen to the song: Nothing's New - Rio Romeo

Then, what follows below is something of a tragedy-analysis, abstract, meta-thing/omniscient prose narration experiment. I don't know what it is—an outpouring of thoughts. It may strike a similar chord as my narration at the end of Simony and its epilogue.

(Simony was a prediction fic I wrote before the publication of Fall. An extremely erroneous one though. I still think it could work, but oh, how wrong I was.

The direction Soman took the plot in, just, it was unpredictable, even if I did enjoy the book. I still like Rise better than Fall though, of the duology. If Rise had just ended at the point of: Vulcan is dead, Rafal tortures his students, and the brothers gradually learn to trust each other again, that would've been nice and comforting, honestly. But no, substitutes, substitutes, substitutes! On both sides. Drives me insane. Ack! But, I have four, short fics planned that have alternate endings to Rise and to Fall, to make up for it. Well, one of them is so far a little longer, three chapters long.)

If anyone wants me to analyze the actual lyrics more closely, I'm willing to do that too!

⸻

The tales.

They are all the same.

Good winning, Evil winning.

What difference does it make after centuries, really?

Everything probably feels numb and empty after a certain point.

Like nothing matters anymore.

Undiluted apathy after that certain point.

When? I've lost track.

When losses and victories all ring hollow, and all sound the same.

The End.

That's all It wrote.

The sum of lives distilled down to ink and illustrations.

Nothing beyond that. No life, no spark.

What more is there? When nothing will ever satisfy the restless souls, not even an Ending all to themselves.

Just pages that will yellow with time even if the stories themselves are timeless because nothing changes.

Nothing ever changes.

There's no evolution.

Every tale is the same.

It becomes nothing after nothing, not victory after victory, when you're ageless like we are.

And how, if that's how it is?

Why bother?

Why bother at all?

It's a cycle that continues, with or without the brothers.

Ceaseless.

So, why should it matter?

It's the same with or without them.

Their position was always ceremonial.

After a while, anyone becomes tiring. Anyone.

And one person just isn't enough, when you have no one else.

No one else to shield you.

It gets old. The love just... fades, and wears out.

Perhaps, human love can only span for so long, and that's why humans are mortal.

Made mortal, and no one should traverse beyond that.

It always leads to hubris, and then, a fall.

An unnatural fear of death trained into them, when limits were never set, when power was never checked, when they expected to have all the time in the world.

Nothing is built to last. At least, not by the Storian.

It does whatever it pleases.

You can't extend a life past its time.

It will always end in ruin. Isn't that the lesson the storybooks teach?

A cautionary tale.

Again and again, the cycle continues.

Every failed holy-grail of immortality, every spilled cup drawn from the fountain of youth, every cursed head of lettuce, every white snake, every chalice of sleeping draught that led to execution after execution, every baptism that succumbed to primordial wickedness, every impoverished fisherman's hovel?

Why not a tale about two brothers?

One where two are felled.

To caution against mortal greed that even immortality can't peel away.

To caution against always wanting more until you're left with nothing.

Nothing at all.

Just like how you can't truly resurrect anyone as who they once were, you can't revive the soul that a person once was.

And you can't play at being God because it defies the rules of nature.

And all that we know about transience and permanence and how ephemeral everything else is.

Everything but Man, who vies to leave a legacy wherever he goes, at any price, even at the cost of his soul, not life.

⸻

Now, I do wonder if I made anyone emotional? I certainly tried this time around, to be a provocateur like Soman is. Tell me what you think, if you want.