Excerpts From The One True School Master Of Vault 41

Excerpts from The One True School Master of Vault 41

These are two excerpts from my draft that I think I can share without disclosing major spoilers.

Warning: Contains blood and injury.

@discjude I should probably also mention, when I said "humorous," it's really just a couple lines. The whole thing probably seems a bit dismal. So, the first excerpt is the "humorous" one, and the second is the serious one. Also, there's a reason why the Wizard Tree is burnt, if you think it contradicts its canon descriptions in OTK.

⸻

A hideous, sickening CRACK from without interrupted them.

Sophie glanced worriedly at the charred, blackened husk of a tree around her, a single, unspoken question in her eyes.

“Broken bone,” Rafal determined, casually conclusive without a hint of emotion or morbidity.

“How in the world do you know that, pray tell?”

Rafal rolled his shoulders back, straightening. “Practice,” he answered. “I’ve heard it often enough.” He did not elaborate.

Typical Rafal, really. Nothing to stir up a fuss about, Sophie dismissed. She watched as he found a serviceable foothold in the wood, so he could scale the trunk-length, and reach the opening at the top where she’d first fallen through from the boughs high above. Only the faintest shafts of faltering daylight cut through the dark that subsumed them now.

He had to conserve his magic until he needed it more urgently as his immortality seemed compromised. His breath ran a bit ragged, and his strength had waned since the last time she’d seen him, as he died. They probably wouldn’t have the chance to rest until she reunited with Agatha and Tedros, and not even then. They had to reach the Schools, so they could redouble their efforts against Japeth. The outcome barely boded well though. It wasn’t heartening in the least. Even with her half-alive sorcerer, their pitiful forces were paltry compared to Japeth’s.

She began to make her way out, to climb up and out of the Wizard Tree after him. Her heels kept slipping, sinking into hollows and gouging the brittle, burnt inner walls of wood, now riddled with puncture marks and splinters that scraped her hands raw until pinpricks of blood appeared. Tears sprang to her eyes as she took a breath, attempting to calm herself.

Rafal offered her a hand.

She took it.

Hers was just as cold as his, he noted, pinning his gaze on her one, red-soaked, rusted, white sleeve.

The two of them emerged from the hollow inside of the tree, and Sophie attempted to brush off her concern, flush against the rough, dead bark, while straddling a branch that bowed slightly under her weight. Could it be the dragging, heavy, silken layers of her gown weighing her down? She just had to lower herself down to the ground, branch by branch.

She didn’t move, fixed in place by fear, gripping her branch until her knuckles turned as white as her dress had once been.

Even if everything was dwarfed by the great height of their vantage point, quite a battle persisted far below, a lot of figures scrabbling in the dust, others picking their way up the formidable tree, the dull clang of metal on metal ringing out, the shouts of men resounding. And, on the far side of the brawl, one lone, dark figure sprawled in the dirt, coated in blue pollen, choking and hacking, clawing at his—or her—throat?

Rafal reached out and steadied Sophie with a hand to her shoulder as he leaned over from where he was seated astride his own swaying branch.

Yet, something still nagged her, and her thoughts darted away from the potential fall she had before her. Just whose bones could it have been? What if it was someone she knew?

Well, Agatha had the answer to that.

[Timeskip to a different scene. A lot happens between points A to B on the run from the Snake, but that will be in the final draft.]

⸻

[After the timeskip and a harrowing chase. There are scenes missing between here that will be in the final draft.]

Kiko quaked on the polished balcony of Merlin’s Menagerie, peeping at a tangled, three-headed mass, silhouetted by the red, sinking sun, and flying in the sky above the Schools on the horizon! No, toward the Schools!

In the dying light, the three figures in flight rapidly descended, narrowly clearing the sharp spires of the School gates. Were they heading toward the clearing that fronted Good, the great lawn spangled with flowers? No, the mass landed on the man-made, cement island in Halfway Bay, near where the Schools’ dark and clear waters met, the way oil repels water, colliding but never melding due to the magical barrier in place. The waves crashed onto shore, below the former School Master’s silver tower, now Dean Sophie’s residence, and the bay beneath the bridge shone, refracting broken garnet and silver hues.

The mass promptly separated into three people. Two girls and a tall boy. The boy, who appeared to have jarred his feet, collapsed in exhaustion. One of the girls in a billowing, red-and-white gown knelt down to examine him, and the second girl prodded him with her clump-clad foot, but lost her balance and fell, arms flagging and windmilling. The first girl rushed over to her instead. The boy rose by himself, and he and the first girl led the second, fallen girl to the entrance of the School for Good, crossing the bridge without issue.

Kiko rushed down the slick, glass staircases to the entrance, almost tripping over herself. She had to get down in a hurry, to greet, or to possibly fend off these new arrivals—and find out who they were!

Kiko gasped, and just about dropped dead from shock, gaping in horror at the procession which filed into Good’s glass foyer.

Sophie entered first. She looked vaguely disoriented and disheveled, like an ill-treated porcelain doll as she stumbled forward gracelessly. Her complexion was bloodless, drained, as if the blood coursing through her veins as been siphoned away and sprayed all across the front of her prim, lacey, white wedding gown, its hem that was intended to skim the floor, draping in folds, torn to threadbare tatters. Flecks and smatters and streaky smudges of blood adorned her gown. It wasn’t all fresh blood, but she was still pale and staggered as if she were suffering from some sort of invisible blood loss. Kiko suspected the one aggravated arm, with a once-white sleeve that was soaked through. It was particularly rusty near her wrist and all along her forearm.

Agatha groaned in pain.

“Don’t ask,” Sophie snipped. “It’s a long story. Longer than we have time for.”

Agatha hobbled in second on what seemed to be a broken leg. Her arm was looped through Sophie’s, and she was barely able to shuffle forward as she had a significant limp. One entire side of her body was covered by a medley of unsightly purple, black, and blue bruises. And, thin cuts and scratches and shallow lacerations all over her bloodied, exposed limbs, injuries sustained from her fall from the Wizard Tree though Kiko couldn’t begin to guess their source. The wind had whipped the snarled branches around, lashing Agatha. She was paler than ever.

And, she was coated in dust, dirt, soot, and—was that blue pollen? She wore a soiled, raggedy black sack of a dress, like she’d reverted to her Graveyard Girl self, and worse still, had ceded to a dust bath. Kiko also detected an odd lump, a canvas bag slung over Agatha’s narrow frame.

Then, the School Master?

The School Master supported Agatha’s other side in his grasp. He met Kiko’s gaze, and she shuddered reflexively, thoughts of wicked geese and mogrification cycling around her mind, even if at this moment he looked too spent to pose much of a threat.

He stood in the doorway, grey and haggard, dour shadows under his eyes, exhausted beyond belief. A deep, dark shade of garnet permeated his clothes, the same black, double-breasted, dictator jacket, slacks, and tall boots Kiko remembered from the Great War, yet his clothes were rumpled and sooty, and the smears of coagulated blood had nearly oxidized to black. At least half of his scalp was crusted with thick, clotted blood, already dried and matted in his snow-white hair, plastering it, stained red, to the side of his face. It was as if he’d been cleaved through the skull with a rather wide blade.

“Well?” Sophie demanded harshly to poor Kiko who was stunned speechless. “Aren’t we going to bring her to the infirmary?”

Excerpt from The One True School Master of Vault 41

This is the much briefer excerpt I said I would post since the last guessing game, the one in which Agatha and Rafal bicker. Also, this is from a draft, so the final version I eventually publish may be subject to change.

Congratulations @discjude! You've won yet again! I think you're really well-versed in TCY, or I'm predictable, haha.

⸻

"Can't you fly us up?" Agatha asked.

"I'm not a Stymph," Rafal shot back in a strained voice.

"Well, why not? You're cold, boney, and soulless."

Rafal looked highly affronted, and stepped forward, encroaching on Agatha at his full height. "You underestimate me, Agatha."

Agatha bristled, and took a step forward. "Mistral," she intoned, tension rising in her voice. "I know you're dead on the inside. I just wish your body matched."

Their fingerglows ignited, black and gold.

Sophie heated with embarrassment. Oh no, she thought. They were acting like toddlers! She had no desire to see Agatha's sharp tongue spar against Rafal's infamously caustic temper. "Aggie? Rafal? Why don't we get cleaned up?" she warbled hesitantly.

Agatha looked back guiltily, and Rafal spun to face her in silence.

She'd managed to defuse the situation, for now.

Rafal would say that.

Also letter openers. This applies to letter openers too. Almost anything can be an instrument of murder if you stab hard enough.

““Anyone who thinks the pen is mightier than the sword has not been stabbed with both.””

— -Lemony Snicket, When Did You See Her Last?

On a boys' night out, on a certain assignment, circa the early days of Fall, a bit after Midas' kidnapping and before Pan's arrival:

James: Well, I'm stymied, lads.

Midas: I second that.

Aladdin: Eh.

James: So, what do we do with it? [referring to the corpse of their murder victim]

Midas: [dully] What. You never got any murder practice in while you worked with Rhian? [mumbled as an aside,] I never trusted him. Too self-righteous but just doesn't strike me as right.

James: [He shrugs.] He wasn't always corrupt. But, I think I may have had a hand in that. Never got the chance to apologize to his brother either...

Midas: Neither of those two deserve an apology! What would Kyma do? Give it an honorable burial?

James: She'd never be in a situation like this with the likes of us.

Aladdin: She's too Good.

Midas: Huh.

James: What would Rhian do?

Midas: Treat us like pawns? Wait, no, that's Brother Evil. Rhian would give us a hypocritical lecture about "morality." He'd never get off his high horse and give up those holier-than-thou delusions of his, not for as long as he lives.

James: [musing] Come to think of it—I never did take well to his magic.

Aladdin: All I know is that we're pathetic. I bet this is something first-year Nevers would get as homework. Or, would it be called field-work? Or target practice?

James: Speak for yourself. [he needles drolly,] You sure you weren't placed in the wrong School?

Aladdin: Nah, 'course not. Besides, murder is against the School Rules. If it weren’t, I would’ve offed you a long time ago.

James: [snidely] Is it? Well that’s just a fine bucket of eels left out to rot in the midday sun, no less. Glad to be appreciated, Laddie.

[Aladdin scowls. Midas smirks and holds back a laugh.]

James: [thoughtfully] Now, what would Rafal do?

All three: [nodding sagely] Burn it.

James: And all the evidence.

⸻

Sometime after the favorite sandwich and broken leg lies that went uncorrected:

Rafal: My ears are burning.

Rhian: Liar.

Rafal: That was uncalled for!

Rhian: Apologies, force of habit. I do ever so wonder why that is. Well, students do gossip, you know. [He dismissed with a wave of his hand, and set down a letter-opener.] You're just overly paranoid, as always.

Rafal: [with suspicion] What do you mean?

Rhian: [while opening an envelope, spoken lightly] Probably, the boys are doing my assignment.

Rafal [narrowing his eyes]: What assignment?

Rhian: [smugly] That's for me to know and you to not find out. I'm not worried though. You're too blind to see what goes on around you in plain sight.

Rafal: Hmpth. We'll see about that. [He covertly tucks a ink-stained, rubber moth stamp into his pocket, and stalks off on his limp, meaning to leave their study by the window.]

Rhian: [calling after him, preciously, saccharinely] Is that a threat?

Rafal: [cryptically, without looking back] No. It's a vow.

⸻

Note:

Please let me know if anyone seems too out of character. I'm not actually that used to writing Midas yet.

“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.

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.