Vulcan Of Netherwood - Tumblr Posts

This describes Rise so well. It really sounds like the entirety of the book because, as the readers, we are locked into a (semi-definite) ending as is the very nature of a prequel. It has to be so for the stage to be set for the future to turn out how it does. In a way, the prequel does serve Sophie and Agatha’s story a bit.

I think as a whole, Rise and Fall will be about the inherent fallibility of humanity, how it isn’t as durable as immortality is, thus setting an arc about the loss of humanity or the loss of the brothers’ relationship into motion.

Then, there’s mortality and how it’s inevitable. The brothers’ downfall will probably be a reminder of their and others’ fragile mortality (and morality). I feel like I already went on a mortality spiel in my literary “Suffering” post, so I may not expand on this thought for a while.

Also, I feel like the uneven keel, the impetuosity, and the hot-bloodedness of youths is thematically prevalent in Rise and in a lot of Soman’s writing. It might even become more of a point in Fall.

it's mementing absolute mori

Rafal leaving and Vulcan arriving are the two destabilizing conditions of Rise. (Also, I may be mistaken, but don't these two events happen in close proximity to each other? Months might have narratively gone by, but I think the pages must have been close? Not sure.) I know this is obvious, but I feel like this particular quote applies well:

“All great literature is one of two stories; a man goes on a journey or a stranger comes to town.” ― Leo Tolstoy

And the prequel duology is both. Just food for thought. Many stories, literary or not, are both, and it's interesting to see where and when such divisions intersect.

It's a well-known fact by this point that Rafal is often the more mature of the brothers, but actually, something interesting I took note of is how this characterization can also be observed symbolically.

Vulcan calls Rhian "duckling." Rhian also wears a swan feather doublet when he attempts to stand up to Vulcan, yet fails, flounders in his role, and doesn't live up to the image of "swan."

And what sort of creature emerges from Rafal's chest as Fala? What at first appears to be a dark, furry duckling, but actually, it matures, and it turns out Rafal's soul has borne a swan.

Then again, Rafal is also somewhat emotionally immature, so it evens out.

SGE Prequel Characters as Mythical Things:

Marialena: eye of newt from Macbeth

Vulcan: wool of bat from Macbeth

Pan: finger of birth-strangled babe from Macbeth

Rafal: the water of life from the fairy tale "The Water of Life"

Rise Rhian: unicorn horn (allegedly has healing properties, can purify water)

Fall Rhian: crocodile tears (symbol of hypocrisy)

Midas: pure spun gold from "Rumpelstiltskin"

Hook: snakeskin cloak

Aladdin: snake oil cure-all (a scam tonic or liniment)

Kyma: the diamonds from the fairy tale "Toads and Diamonds"

The Storian: monkey's paw (or in context, Wish Fish eggs)

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Does anyone disagree or have other ideas?

Vulcan: Vulcan kill Evil School Master dead.

Rhian: All murders end in death. Isn’t that unnecessary clarification?

Rafal: Not with me it isn’t. I never purchase one-way tickets. Death’s an old friend of mine, so he grants me round trips.

What if Rafal couldn't save Rhian in time? Like Vulcan successfully stabbed him with the pen before Rafal could prevent it?

The comedic answer is that I have one word for you: gibbeting.

That's the more "fun" answer, a form of medieval execution/torture, which was specifically intended to make an example of someone, publicly, to deter further criminal acts, and if Vulcan murdered Rhian, well, he deserves the worst death possible! And why not make it a creative one? However, I think, to an extent, that gibbeting could be too extreme, and that Rafal would recognize that if Rhian were alive, he'd view it as an eyesore, tasteless, or simply too brutal, so it's probably unlikely to happen. But, Rafal might not be above it, considering that the Doom Room exists, so it could go either way, potentially.

Plus, there's some added, bonus "fun" here, in how a certain canon moment would come full circle. Vulcan put Rafal in a birdcage (while he was a black sparrow), and now, Rafal would get the pleasure of hanging Vulcan (or rather, his slowly dying and later, decomposing body) up in a cage, a pretty neat form of revenge, if I do say so myself, haha! Besides, Vulcan was a bit exhibitionistic, wasn't he? So, this would also make for an ironical fate.

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Now for the serious answer. I hope you don't mind it if I get a little more subjective/personal with this one at some point. It's not quite as much an overblown, narrative-style post, and may be more understated than usual.

I took this "what if" ask to essentially mean: how would Rafal react to Rhian's death and how would he mourn Rhian over time? If I misinterpreted your ask, and this wasn't the kind of response you were expecting, please let me know. Also, everything is speculative, of course, so take my interpretations with a grain of salt. I'm open to hearing other opinions!

I think Rafal's immediate, knee-jerk reaction would probably be to murder Vulcan as revenge, but also it would serve the more practical reason of disposing of the tyrant usurper, ousting him from the School permanently. However, I don't think Rafal would find catharsis in it, not this time at least, considering why he is doing it.

He'd have to act on his feet, and quickly, because, Vulcan would still pose a threat to his own life, which would force Rafal to delay any kind of visceral, emotional reaction.

That is why I think the murder would be done instantaneously because speed is more important, and so is getting the task done right. And, having Vulcan dead sooner for everyone's safety is more important than the potential brutality of any kind of gruesome catharsis Rafal could derive from the act. That's why I think Rafal would go about performing this particular murder in a less sadistic fashion, for once, like how Vulcan died in canon by a stab wound, versus the time when Rafal turned Rufius to gold and shattered him, or did worse to others, generally. If Vulcan had simply been a foe who was already incapacitated, that could've given Rafal the opportunity to go for a worse form of murder, but Vulcan isn't harmless.

Thus, employing a "kinder" form of murder in this instance wouldn't be out of sympathy for Vulcan, but more so, to fulfill an urgent need. And, in some sense, the act of murder would be done out of a kind of duty to Rhian, for Rhian's sake and nothing more. I think Rafal deriving pleasure/catharsis out of this murder could possibly be a bit of a slight to Rhian's memory because this is somber business.

Then, after that adrenaline or rage-fueled clarity and the action taken, I think Rafal would next probably feel some kind of uncomprehending fog next because Rhian was suddenly ripped away from him with little warning. His supposedly immortal brother, who was supposed to be with him forever, just died. To an extent, that has to feel surreal.

The surreal feeling could start out as a detached, dissociated feeling, like the kind of out-of-body experience where you're like a third-person observer, (probably a similar feeling as a panic attack?) Like, what? What has my life become? Rhian is suddenly gone, for good.

(The revelation of Rhian's death being real could also prompt a lot of thought as to why their bond wasn't able to save or revive Rhian, and could evoke guilt.)

Once Rafal processes the implications of Rhian's death, his initial outburst could be the most, actual, unbridled emotion he lets out, at all, if ever—maybe, one raw, primal scream of agony into the ether and that’s it. (Yet, I'm also tempted to say, that's too dramatic of a reaction, even for him. As interesting as it is to go to extremes in other cases, I'm attempting to go for something closer to realism here, so bear with me.)

While there is probably a narrow chance, that under the exact, right conditions, he could be driven insane or become an extremist in some way, out of guilt or by how ridiculously unjust the whole situation would be, I think it's a little more plausible that Rafal would just bury himself in his work. He could devote his life to Evil, and still keep it in balance with Good, without Rhian there to keep him in check, even if he was more often the one to keep Rhian in check, from what we saw. (He could also become disillusioned with the world and the Pen.)

Given how I view Rafal, I think he would shut down emotionally but not functionally. He wouldn't let himself dwell on the grief for long, and he might even (irrationally) resent Rhian for dying, at first, on the surface, because he's now got twice the work. And yet, the work would be a welcome distraction from his actual grief.

Additionally, I think Rafal would become numb and immune to all emotional appeals from other people. Not even a trick like Hook reminding him of Rhian would work to convince him to change his mind that he's already made up in any future instance. He's never, never investing himself in the fate of another person again. Not when he could lose them. He just... does his job. Someone has to do it after all.

That said, I think his paranoia level would absolutely skyrocket, too, as a result of the whole Vulcan incident, and that he'd isolate himself more than he already did before.

Now comes the part where this may or may not take a weird turn, and I could be projecting with what I'm about to say, but I think I have actual reason to apply it to Rafal, purely out of thinking it could make sense for him, (as just one of the many possible ways he could take Rhian's death. Again, this is all just my speculation. I could easily be wrong, so keep that in mind.)

Ok, I'm not sure if this is a common or a weird thing to think and I had a feeling it could be controversial. Thus, I'm going to preface it with this: my intention is not to sound callous, but...

I (usually) do not miss people when they are gone. (Death is different from just absence though.)

I doubt that I "miss" people in what is the typical way, from what I have heard from others? Though, I have an explanation. Obviously, it depends, but missing others doesn't occupy my every waking thought. (And thoughts about fictional characters are a different type of thought to arise.)

I feel others' presence when they’re around, and when they’re not around, unless I'm concerned for them, I don’t exactly think about them. It's kind of "out of sight, out of mind," except for the cases in which I actually am holding something to say to them in mind for our next encounter.

I’m sorry if this is strange, but I think that’s how I operate most of the time. I don't "wait around" for people to return because I always have some thing to occupy myself with. Can anyone relate?

I suspect that the reason why is because, to me, missing someone is what I would classify as an active feeling. When someone I love is apart from me, I'm usually busy, regardless of whether they're present or not (that doesn't change), and I know that when you're busy, you don't have the time to feel, at least not active emotions. They just... don't occur to you? Or maybe they are not conscious?

Now, from my view of things, if something you feel becomes a problem, and interferes with your daily functioning or general contentment with everyday life, that could very well surface as a real reaction or outburst. But, that's an entirely different matter. I also think that I am reminded of people at times, but that I usually don't "miss" them without there being some kind of (internal or external) stimuli that causes me to think about them.

Maybe, I'm just projecting onto Rafal too much because I relate to him over other characters, and this is silly, or junk psychoanalysis, but it seemed to fit his character also???

Sometimes, I just want recognition more than I want actual companionship since I don't get lonely. I wonder what that says about me? That I'm an introvert, or lazy because relationships require regular maintenance to sustain them? I promise I'm not a misanthrope!

Ok, back to Rafal. He's sunken himself into his work and as such, he wouldn't actively miss Rhian. (If anyone would like more clarification, I'm not saying he wouldn't grieve Rhian at all. It's not that.)

And, if we're going down a more realistic than dramatic route, he wouldn’t lose his sense of self, or his mind over Rhian. Yes, not even Rhian. I think the only thing keeping him running and tethered to his life would be his commitment to the School/keeping himself alive.

What this makes me think of is how people romanticize grief or unrequited love, how they may end up looking wan and eventually wasting away (well, if we're talking about being heartsick in literary/symbolic contexts...). And, I just don't think Rafal would be the type of person to fall into some kind of "madness" or melancholic malady. Grief just wouldn’t be so debilitating or all-consuming to him because he wouldn’t let it do that to him. He wouldn’t stop eating or sleeping as I would expect these behaviors more from someone like Rhian, not him.

Similarly, he might not indulge in pleasurable things, but he’s a bit of an ascetic already anyway, so that’s that. He could potentially renounce pleasurable things in life out of mourning, in a traditional way, but I doubt that would happen either, to be honest. It probably wouldn't cross his mind. At least, it wouldn't happen on a formal, conscious level, even if he could very well deprive himself without realizing it.

I just don't think Rafal would be engulfed by grief, simply because he isn’t that much of an emotionally driven person or that vulnerable to being swept up by personal tragedy, when compared to Rhian, who's more "wild." He’d only let his grief manifest so far, assuming his emotions do still remained locked down and under his control.

So, while he may think about Rhian regularly, he might just accept the fact of Rhian's death, carry on, and not miss him because Rafal missing Rhian could (implicitly) mean becoming non-functional due to grief (or guilt) and that would be too great of a risk for Rafal to take, considering his current reality alone. Basically, to let himself wallow in those emotions would be an unnecessary "risk," from his viewpoint. That's why he might repress that reflective type of thought.

Such feelings would be too much mess or potential disorder for someone like him, especially if he realized he couldn't keep them contained, and they, as a consequence, actually jeopardized his fate or the School's, assuming the grief made him unable to perform his job properly.

(He'd probably subtly resent the Storian as well, for not preserving Rhian's life.)

Also, one small point: in canon, was his bond with Rhian really, truly all-consuming? Let's stop and ask ourselves that for a moment.

Yes, for a time, their bond may have seemed like it was priority no. 1, but Rafal was apart from Rhian for six months, and might not have consciously missed him, if it took him that long to return after getting an external reminder from his interactions with Hook. It might have taken something outside of himself (like the prophecy) for him to come to the realization that he had to return and reestablish his loyalty to Rhian (which was arguably never gone, just dormant for a while). And this would mean that if left alone to his own devices, had he never been moved by James, or "awakened" and been made aware by Adela Sader, he could have taken longer than even six months to return... if he ever decided to at all, if the thought ever arose in the first place.

So, overall, it would only be rarely, when he has nothing to occupy himself with, that Rafal would grieve in some quiet way, and over time, the grief would fade. It wouldn't leave him entirely, but it would diminish, I think, the more and more he distances himself from everything else.

Also, in canon, I suspect that he lies to himself about how much he cares for Rhian. He never shows Rhian much affection, but he sacrifices his life for him, on instinct, which probably means a grieving Rafal would also lie to himself about how “little” he mourns Rhian. In reality, he’d probably mourn Rhian a great deal more than he could know, but wouldn’t have enough self-awareness to realize it.

Perhaps, at night, he would be haunted by Rhian's memory, and take on Rhian's insomniac trait on occasion. Also, to credit @cursed-daydreamer, I think it would be plausible for Rafal to take on a few of Rhian's traits, unconsciously, to compensate for the loss, and fill his void; it could be a way of keeping Rhian's presence in his life.

Lastly, I doubt that Rafal would publicly erect monuments or dedicate anything to Rhian. He wouldn’t want a painful, visual reminder around. His rituals, if we were to call them that, any form of remembrance, I mean, would likely be private, away from prying eyes and students. Rafal wouldn't want to come across as weak or sentimental. That’s the last thing he needs at the moment, a ruined reputation, another so-called threat to his own life/power. Because, increased paranoia could lead him to believe that if he were to show any sign of vulnerability, more "Vulcans" could prey on him and the School.

He could maintain the cherry blossom trees though, but it'd always be a sobering occasion, and he'd never take the credit.

Besides that, he probably wouldn’t go eulogizing his brother or canonizing him. He can still recognize Rhian's flaws, and to praise Rhian so completely would be "too much," too public, and the performative (or contrived) nature of certain mourning customs like those would probably strike him as "wrong" because they just seem... insincere. I don't think Nevers (if we're assuming Rafal remains Evil) put as much much stock in praise anyway, according to their value system.

The exception to the rule would probably be if he recognized that it would be Rhian's wish, to receive some recognition or a dedication. Then, he would do it, out of reverence, I think. He'd have reason to "excuse" it (Rhian's dying wishes), unlike visible emotions, which don't have an excuse to be felt.

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Also, I was wondering: does anyone agree or disagree? I'm really curious because this ask provoked a train of thought I'd never considered before!

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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

Let it burn

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Note:

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

It's overdue, but I finally added ghostly text to the cover of this fic.

🩵 avant-garde-arbiter-of-virtue Follow

An unfortunate third friendly reminder that substitutes at the School for Good and Evil are not entitled to unapproved architectural renovations! Please and thank you in advance. No one is above the rules.

🦇 memento-mulciber Follow

*SCHOOL FOR EVIL AND GOOD. Duckling cheat with fat cat cowards. Duckling rot in Hell.

🐦‍⬛ stymphalian-master Follow

@avant-garde-arbiter-of-virtue Back from my hiatus. What did I miss? Who's "duckling"?

101 notes

🌒 cimmerian-divers Follow

B̶͖̯͑͊́͋̐L̸̤̣̻̩̀Ò̶̫͇̟̜̉̆͠Ŏ̴͈̳͒́́D̶̳͎̼̓̿́

🏴‍☠️ blackpool-victor Follow

Time sensitive question: Tips for maritime survival? When there are deep-sea vampires after you???? Please

3 notes

❤️‍🔥 avant-garde-arbiter-of-vice Follow

A call to arms to cancel @stymphalian-master. Enlist today.

666,666,666 notes

🦢 stymphalian-master Follow

...what did I do?

0 notes

👤 stymphalian-master-deactivated

...what did I do?

🖋️ the-storian-official Follow

WIP manuscript done. Preorder the latest tale now!

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How would Vulcan react to Evil!Rhian? And how would Evil! Rhian react to Vulcan.

Give me your honest and true opinion on it.

I believe that if Vulcan met Evil Rhian, he'd probably run for the hills, flee in order to preserve his life. Can't possibly use his "Duckling" anymore now that Rhian’s corrupted. And Vulcan was seemingly the first in Rise to recognize the rot within Rhian after all, so we shockingly owe him some credit to his intellect, for once.

Though, on the off chance that Vulcan reacts with stupidity and not cowardice, he would likely be stupid enough to not comprehend the change in Rhian's demeanor (or alternatively, stupid enough to challenge Rhian as a usurper of the Schools, regardless of any warning signs). Thus, he would fall into the trap of needling Rhian until he very quickly provokes Rhian, consequently, getting himself burnt to a crisp. So, get vaporized Vulcan. Hah.

As for Rhian reacting to Vulcan, I think he wouldn't fall prey to this loathly man, this horrid interloper, this trespasser. He'd probably think he does Evil better than Vulcan ever could, considering that Vulcan is so superficially, outwardly, flagrantly Evil that it robs him of all actual menace. Meanwhile, Evil Rhian is far more subtle about how he goes about doing anything, keeping his reputation with the Kingdom Council intact as he seizes power.

Rafal and the Curse of Obedience

Note: This sort of canon-divergent AU concept is loosely based off of this poll I reblogged with a little commentary in its tags and the storyline of Ella Enchanted, which I've done some plot-twisting to. I've only watched the film adaptation though; I haven't read the novel.

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If Rafal were cursed with obedience in canon, such a plot line could have so much narrative potential, and potentially add a new dimension to Fall.

First, consider the odd incongruity and implications of possibly the most defiant, stubborn, unswayable being alive in the Woods being subject to this particular curse, that is the antithesis of his very way of being. He can no longer do whatever he wants, regardless of the consequences, of how he'd harm others, when those very same victims of his could potentially become his master. The curse would probably cause him great anguish, be something for him to initially ruminate and agonize over, for days on end.

In the beginning, of course, Rhian, as long as he consciously remains Good, would likely be extremely careful to never address Rafal with a direct command, which would be rather considerate of him, all things considered. He might even be sensitive enough to Rafal's plight to realize that using the curse, even in jest, against Rafal, would be an all too vulnerable point, given how compromising a position it could be for his brother, if Rhian were to use it, as leverage to win a petty argument or as blackmail to get his way, especially, seeing as the idea of the curse being public, or even the simple thought of it being revealed to anyone at all always does strike a nerve in Rafal. Thus, I believe Rhian, while his integrity is still intact, would have enough restraint to just... not use the curse.

To Rhian, it's cruel and beneath his higher moral standards to bend someone else's will to your own means after all, even if Rafal does it to everyone else all the time...

Also, given this premise, the only beings who would know about Rafal's curse would be Rhian and the Storian itself. Plus, Rafal, in his position of high authority, would do his utmost to never let word of the curse get out because it could ruin him and he could be exploited, especially considering that he is a sorcerer capable of great feats. Who wouldn't want someone like that at their beck and call?

A few times, Rhian almost let word of the curse slip to Vulcan, but he ultimately managed to keep his promise to never tell anyone about his brother's curse, preserving Rafal's fatal-as-ever pride. And this, this best-kept secret of all the Woods, backfires for Rafal later on. Because, no one would know enough to save him from himself and the curse.

During his day-to-day life, Rafal would be more paranoid than ever about keeping his curse securely under wraps, and he'd go to great lengths to keep his secret, lest it be used against him. As per usual, he would exercise his authority regularly with an iron fist, and preoccupy others with orders he's dealt out to them, so no one would bat an eye, or even think to apply any of the same orders to him.

Besides, he strikes such fear into the hearts of all that no one would ever dare give him a direct order at all, assuming they would like to live. In addition, he never truly stops being the contrarian he is, at least, not in heart and soul.

Then, with Evil Fall Rhian, the traitor, the game changes entirely.

Rhian technically keeps his word and never lets news of the curse slip from his lips, but he does use it to his advantage now, like the snake he is. He'd likely command Rafal to "willingly" and publicly cede to him, renounce his newfound "Goodness," in exchange for the same old Evil image everyone already believes in, and abdicate the coveted position of the One, leaving it ripe for the taking, for Rhian to lawfully and "rightfully" claim. Worse of all, Rafal would be forced to lose on Rhian's terms, not even on his own, foregoing some of his precious dignity to that end.

Lastly, if Rhian didn't go so far as to murder Rafal himself in the end—well, I'd suspect Rhian would call for Rafal's arrest, and reintroduce Rafal's former Monrovia prison sentence. It is a convenient way to shove Rafal aside, out of his way, and it would get him out of the limelight entirely, with the passage of time. Perhaps, Rafal would be forgotten, slunk off in the shadows, where Evil belongs, according to the "proper" tyranny of Good, which regards the whole of Evil as lowly. And no one would blame Rhian for turning his psycho brother into the authorities, if Rafal already had an outlying bid on his head, by both the law itself and the many vengeful enemies he'd made during his long lifespan. He was an actual convict for a time in the eyes of the law. I mean, what else could be done with him, the man complicit in his own "weak" loss?

Rafal would have to comply with the orders to not resist arrest since his curse would compel him to obey, and he would "quietly," without protest, without much of a row at all, surrender, probably all the while resenting Rhian and his curse and the entire Woods, for the pitiful state he's in, locked up to rot for the rest of his life—all thanks to the rot in Rhian.

I love all of these! And I love the thought of a nocturnal Rafal and diurnal Rhian. (Never the twain shall meet, in their insect forms?) It fits their original personalities so well!

Have a Rhian art dump-

Alec Benjamin Songs That Fit the School Master Brothers

Note: Some songs are about couples. Obviously, interpret the lyrics platonically. Links to the songs are embedded in the titles.

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"Let Me Down Slowly"

Rhian to Rafal when Rafal deserted the Schools.

"The Book of You & I"

Fairly self-explanatory. Rhian would be the speaker the majority of the time.

"If We Have Each Other"

The last stanzas fit the most closely:

The world's not perfect, but it's not that bad If we got each other, and that's all we have I will be your brother, and I'll hold your hand You should know I'll be there for you When the world's not perfect, when the world's not kind If we have each other, then we'll both be fine I will be your brother, and I'll hold your hand You should know I'll be there for you

"Hipocrite"

Fala about the Evers at the Circus of Talents.

"Match in the Rain"

Their relationship decay and fire imagery. "Intuition" could be a stand-in for "paranoia," on Rafal's, or really, both brothers' ends.

"Devil Doesn't Bargain"

If Rafal lectured Rhian about his failed romances.

"Oh My God"

The moment when Rhian sobs at the end of Rise, after Hook has poached the brothers' students.

"Demons"

Rhian as the speaker, to Rafal. Rafal kept him Good. Rhian took Rafal for granted. (Well, admittedly, both took the other for granted.) Though, they did balance each other, even if they hadn't known the truth of their souls.

"Mind Is A Prison"

Rhian and his soul's possession of him, the all-consuming rot taking over. How he sometimes once overthought what the Good thing to do was, during the early days of his ruling with Vulcan as Rafal's substitute. Also, in Fall, this would be Rhian in the Doom Room, hanging on the wall alone to be found by the Pirate Captain and Hephaestus, abandoned by Rafal.

"Alamo"

Midas about the brothers, specifically about leaving Rafal after Rafal's betrayal.

"Outrunning Karma"

Vulcan and Hook to an extent, but mainly Rafal. Waiting to die in a sense, trying to prevent the inevitable, gone to fight in the war regardless. Also, this could reference Rafal racing through the night after the storybooks to Gavaldon.

"The Knife in my Back"

The fratricide scene.

@wheretheoceanglows Thank you for the recommendation!

"One Wrong Turn"

Ignore the specifics of the song's storyline. This one elaborates on the nature of predestination and preventability, which could be applied to the Storian and virtually everything. And, the lyrics remind me of the proverb: "For want of a nail":

"For want of a nail the shoe was lost. For want of a shoe the horse was lost. For want of a horse the rider was lost. For want of a rider the message was lost. For want of a message the battle was lost. For want of a battle the kingdom was lost. And all for the want of a horseshoe nail."

"Gotta Be a Reason"

Rhian post-Fall as the general, probably feeling futile because his next chance at a supposed True Love is a girl.

Salt & Storybook

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

⸻

@heya-there-friends and @wisteriaum Yes, the whump fic is out! And here it is!

Hopefully, if I meet your expectations, I’d be like a magician announcing an act:

Step up, one and all, Evers and Nevers, young and old—step right up to witness the death-defying struggles of one Rafal Mistral! The great Rafal, horrifically maltreated by his own Pen, tortured within an enclosure of his own “design!” After all, there is no rest for the wicked…

Anyway, have fun. I sure did. Ngl, whilst I wrote this one, it kind of became a laugh riot at Rafal’s expense. So, don’t kill me. I’ve done a lot of damage.

CONTENT WARNING:

If you do not like dark humor, graphic depictions of violence and injury, and/or do not like the thought of Rafal being physically tortured, please, do not read this fic, or read it at your own discretion. I do not want to upset anyone. So, that is why I’m telling you this now: that probably, by most standards, I’ve been really cruel to him.

The fic contains the following:

Alcohol, vandalism, book burning, physical assault and punishment (by the Pen), disproportionate retribution as revenge, some swearing on the milder side, depiction of injuries.

Thus, potential for violence in my TOTSMOV41 WIP aside, this is literally the absolute meanest I’ve ever been to Rafal.

And, Rafal is a bit of a silly goose (not in a good way) due to his impaired judgment. Though, I tried to keep him in character. Rhian should’ve grounded him in the absence of their parents. But it was too late.

Summary:

Rafal does some much needed “spring cleaning” to remove every trace of Vulcan from his tower and gets far more pain than he bargained for in return.

Or

Rafal has an idiotic episode after the resolution to the Vulcan fiasco while Rhian is oblivious.

Context:

This fic takes place during Rise, shortly after Vulcan’s murder and slightly before Rafal’s renovations to Evil and his torture of the Never students.

It is also somewhat plotless, so I could call it a character study. The exposition part towards the beginning was essentially my premise for writing the whump in the first place, which is why there is some lead-up prior to the action.

⸻

With an impish gleam in his eyes, Rafal blasted the glass display cases Vulcan had left behind to smithereens, spraying the stone walls and floors of his tower with razor-edged shards and splinters of glass.

Then, from Vulcan’s black desk, he dashed a cluster of black crystals to the floor for good measure.

The floor crunched underfoot with every step he took, a mosaic of inedible salt and pepper, as he whistled the shanty he’d composed, mentally gliding through the lyrics:

I asked the queen. . .

What is more pathetic than a Vulcan?

She said: Nothing I’ve seen!

He ground the shards into the grooves between the stone tiles, pulverizing most of what remained. The coarser flecks of glass dust caught in the traction of his boots, and it struck Rafal that he’d have to sweep up his mess before Rhian accused it of being a hazard to their eyes or lungs. Ah well. One more task to add to his steadily growing list. But it was all worthwhile.

No longer would his chambers be a stultifying “museum,” dedicated to the past exploits and conquests of that vile man. It was first and foremost his study.

Rafal sunk into one of the leftover black leather chairs, the one by the desk, and picked up the wineglass he hadn’t been attending to, swilling the garnet liquid around before taking another sip.

Just yesterday, when the brothers had supped together for the first time in six months, Rafal had gotten into an argument with Rhian about the restorations to be made to the silver tower and all the changes he’d already enacted in his School and its curriculum.

He would rather have lived in a bare cell than spend a minute longer in the company of Vulcan’s things, but Rhian had objected, saying the enemy’s furnishings were better than none at all.

And Rhian had further countered Rafal’s calls for immediate action, claiming they had all the time in the world, and to not be childish and impatient. With time, Rhian had said, he could devise a tasteful, new decorating scheme and between the two of them, they could even enjoy all the odds and ends Vulcan had left lying about in his wake.

Yet Rafal was having none of that. Their first order of business was not mindlessly pleasuring themselves but removal—no, it was the complete erasure and sterilization of the premises. That’s what would be done with the remains. Not the human ones though.

Rafal had eventually relented on that matter as Rhian had staunchly drawn the line at Rafal mounting Vulcan’s severed head on a wall as he’d once said. Thus, the head was discarded before it ever had the chance to rot.

Aside from Rafal’s efforts to claim a mortal trophy to no avail, everything else was proceeding smoothly—contrary to Rhian’s wishes. Rafal was still adamant that everything which so much as stunk of Vulcan’s musky cologne vanished from their sight as soon as possible. After all he’d endured to retake their School, he deserved to have his way, that much Rhian owed him.

Glancing out the window, he observed phase one of his plan already coming to a close as his chest swole with heady, vinous pride.

That very moment, thick, churning smoke laden with ash clogged the skies overhead, curling around Evil’s spires—physical proof he had retaken his School.

He stood up and inhaled the noxious fumes and drained the rest of his glass before setting it down again. He was recommitted all right. Here, he’d remain, ’til the end of time.

The spectacle far below was truly a sight to behold. Rafal had burnt the entirety of Vulcan’s life’s work in a great, purging pyre.

Gone now were the steaming, taxidermied bats, the mirror of molten, incandescent glass, the barechested portrait, warped and discolored, and more grotesque than ever, the deformed periscope Rafal had knocked the lenses out of, and the desiccated roses with their petals flaking off into the ether—it was all worthless memorabilia, everything, transformed into a charred, lifeless, amorphous mass that still smoldered this very hour, the objects caving in on themselves, the dying embers retreating into the disordered miscellany.

Rafal set his glass down, hesitated, and poured another up to the brim in celebration. The rising heat was hellish.

All that was left to do was buff away the gilded bats carved into the stairs and he would be rid of that loathsome viper forever. Then, his chosen renovations and agenda would commence, carried out by Humburg, his Stymphs, and the Man-Wolves.

But, he couldn’t get ahead of himself. He sipped from his glass, savoring the bitterness of the red wine, and set it down firmly.

Then he set to work, freeing the storybooks.

The benighted Vulcan had stowed the tales away in massive, black leather chests that had been ignorantly shoved aside, stacked slantedly like a slag heap in half-shadowed corners.

Coarse, drunken pirate. The imbecile was wholly unfit to direct the course of Evil’s future. Only Rafal could be capable of manning such an operation, charting such a course for the students once again under his eminent tutelage.

Hand aglow with black, he whisked his glass off the desk again, floating it over to himself, and took another swig before setting it on the floor beside him. He’d cleared away a small oasis for himself to sit in, until he swept up the shards decking the floors all around him.

The alcohol burned his throat, matching his surfacing rage as his head clouded.

No one would replace the storybooks on the tower’s shelves if he didn’t, he thought resentfully.

His brother had done enough damage already. Enough was enough. He wasn’t Rhian’s personal manservant. What a degrading role that would be.

But Rhian never remembered to clean up after himself, and the books had to get onto the shelves in some way or another.

Rafal exhaled. His brother was in dire need of a lecture, but first, Rafal carped to himself, the task of cleaning up lay before him.

He and he alone would restore the storybooks to their former, casual glory in their places of honor, just as the brothers themselves had been restored by the Pen.

Naturally, Rafal stacked all of Evil’s tales at the top of the tower’s shelves, for his own reference. Rhian surely wouldn’t quarrel with him after all the work was done.

Besides, it was true. Rafal was the only one willing to do it all. To forge order out of inscrutable chaos, mogrify the failed students at every class’ graduation, attend to the Stymphs, clean up the rubble, execute invaders, burn up the corpses—he took on all sins, all so his Ever brother wouldn’t have to lift a finger and stain his hands.

All for naught, was it?

No, Rafal consoled himself. Definitely not. Rhian couldn’t be trusted to do a thing.

Rhian was too cowardly and weak to handle the more gruesome chores on Rafal’s roster. He’d invited a numbskull substitute in, to replace his own brother with.

That batty substitute had no place in his School. Vulcan hadn’t even been a true Never. Not in name or in memory.

Rafal lifted his glass to his lips and tossed back more of his jewel-toned drink, blood and heat and vigor rushing to the surface of his alabaster skin.

If he had missed anything, every piece of evidence, every last little shred of a reminder would be burnt to the ground, even if it took both castles down with it, he decided right then and there. He would will it to happen.

He set his glass down on a stone tile.

No matter if the taxidermied bats could’ve raked in a tidy profit. He didn’t need material wealth when he had sorcery. The usurper’s mere presence had overstayed its welcome and Rafal intended to do something about it.

He picked up his drink again and downed half of it, swallowing the wine quickly as the rest sloshed onto the floor, glinting a deep ruby in the dim, afternoon light.

He scowled. More mess to clean up.

Rafal squeezed the fine, crystal stem of his wineglass with a vise-like grip. It snapped in two—just like how he would snap Vulcan’s spine in two, if the man ever dared return from the dead.

The glass had splintered under the pressure he’d applied, needly slivers sticking into his fingers, pricking his palm, until his pale hand was dotted with pinpricks of blood.

As always, the blood suctioned itself right in, drawn back by an invisible force, and the pinpricks sealed themselves up.

Rafal tended to cast off pain with ease, like it was just another one of his overcoats. By now, he was numb to little cuts like these, unlike his foolhardy yet absurdly delicate brother.

He scraped himself off the floor, up to his feet again, and staggered over to the last chest.

Then, he thrust the chest’s weighty lid back, and lifted out the first stack of storybooks.

His fingers grazed the gold-foiled title of the first book in the stack.

In a glaring, grandiose script, the tale’s cover read: THE UGLY DUCKLING.

Duckling.

Rafal grimaced as his temper flared, revulsion climbing up his throat. Then, his resolve hardened. He’d vowed to strip this place of Vulcan, and he would.

The other storybooks fell out of his grasp and clattered to the floor, face up at the one still locked in his grasp.

Duckling indeed.

Rafal flipped the front cover of the storybook open and tore out a single page.

The page sailed down and landed at his feet, settling lightly atop the broken display glass and fragments of wineglass.

Then, he grasped a stiff handful of pages, the heavy paper twisting, warping only slightly, and finally bending in on itself as he wrenched it apart from the book’s spine.

The paper’s edges sliced into his hand, drawing blood from cuts that vanished as soon as they appeared.

He let the handful he’d ripped out scatter to the wind.

Some pages flew out the window. Others dropped into the greedy, licking flames of the fireplace, curling in on themselves, blackening, joining the soot.

The rest of the pages, he extracted one by one, methodical in his process, tearing each painstakingly lettered sheet from its seams, which had been sewn together with care, as if he were plucking feathers from a wild fowl to be cooked—now, just a hollow, pageless shell of binding left in his hands.

Without a second thought, Rafal slung the storybook’s empty binding into the bright, steadily burning fire.

It caught on the fireplace’s grate, angled like a broken bird.

Rafal heaved a great sigh of relief. Gone. At last.

Then, fully satisfied with himself, he surveyed his efforts at cleaning up, even if the room looked worse than how it had begun this morning. Still, he cast his gaze over the terrain of reshelved tales, spilt wine, scattered glass and black crystal, and the few, loose pages pinned to the floor, wedged underneath the broken glass, fluttering in the breeze.

Despite everything, he felt accomplished.

It was only when he caught sight of the Pen, suspended and still, that he remembered he wasn’t alone. He was being watched.

Not long before, the Pen had stood, vertically suspended in the air over its lectern, its gleaming metal cool, but now, it scalded hotter and hotter, angrily searing hot as a branding iron. Then, it tilted, tip glowing red like a reproachful eye.

Rafal simply stared back, waiting for the Pen’s response. Yet, it did not move, a fact which puzzled him.

The Pen’s tip brightened to a blinding, radiant, white pinprick, as if it were readying itself to defend its tales from the scourge of Evil it had allowed to take up residence in its tower.

Rafal squinted at the light. What was it up to?

That was when he glimpsed something launching out of the fireplace in his peripheral vision.

The storybook’s binding rocketed out from its resting place, where it had nested in the grate, flying at him like a missile, sizzling through the air, like a shot bird with its flaming wingspan spread, its front and back covers open, its spine cracked.

A corner of the binding struck Rafal square in the eye. Hard.

Only one foggish, halfway lucid thought flashed through Rafal’s mind as he squinched his eyes shut: It was taunting him. Mocking his flight.

His face gnarled in pain as he doubled over before crumpling to the floor like an ungainly egret.

Splayed on the floor, Rafal hissed, clawing at his eye, knocking the smoldering mass away from his face. Then, he drew himself up into a crouch, his torso supported by shaking forearms, his hands pressed against the glass-strewn floor, jagged edges cutting through the fabric of his slacks at the knees and into his palms as he tried to sweep some of the fragments away.

Hell. Just Hell. He should’ve cleaned up sooner.

He supposed he was done with cleaning today, come what may, and that he should get started on the glass.

Yet first, Rafal strained his neck and examined his distorted, many-eyed reflections in the shards beneath him, prodding the skin near his wounded eye. His fingertips came away with bright blood.

A few areas of his face still bled slightly, gradually mending themselves, thin rivulets of blood trickling down his neck, criss-crossing in a fine, thorny latticework, ultimately staining his starched, white shirt collar.

He rose to his feet slowly and latched onto a shelf as he faltered for a moment, attempting to regain his balance. Then, he drew himself fully upright again, as if nothing had happened. And, with one hand still gripping the shelf’s edges, he unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, the one, restrictive one that always pressed against the base of his throat, so he could breathe properly and catch his breath.

Rafal sighed in relief. He’d served the absurd, seemingly arbitrary punishment the Pen had dealt him and it was now well over with.

Then, the Storian moved.

His every muscle tensing, Rafal clutched the shelf harder as it creaked under his death grip, his knuckles white as bone. About to bolt for the open window, he realized his legs were stiff and cold, a cramp shooting through his side from his last fall.

Straight as an arrow, the Storian tore through the air toward Rafal, dead set on harming him.

By some miracle, Rafal caught the Pen, letting go of the shelf as he dropped to the floor, not without taking the entire floor-to-ceiling bookcase down with him.

Rafal willed himself not to scream as his eyes widened in horror at a great shadow looming over him, deepening seconds before the crash as vertigo overtook his senses.

Were the pages whirling around him? It couldn’t be bats amid those ink-hatched illustrations. It couldn’t! Not when Vulcan was gone. Not when Vulcan was dead.

As it neared, the bookcase grew larger and larger in Rafal’s sightline, rushing forward rapidly, encroaching on him, almost eclipsing him. Blood roared in his ears and rushed to his head tossed back at a perilous angle, right before he shunted himself back, turning, his back towards the storybooks’ spines, as books fell out at random, several hardcovers hitting his flailing extremities as they poured out and passed him by en route to the floor, one solid thud after another.

The bookcase had narrowly missed his core, but it had trapped his legs, pinning him to the floor, slowly leaching away his vitality as his head swum and his vision dimmed, turning to a feathery blur.

All the bones in Rafal’s legs had shattered upon impact, when he made contact with the stone, bone spearing through his split skin, drenching his pant legs in hot, rapidly clotting blood as he choked aridly on what little spittle he had, too parched to scream, blinking away the blackness at the edges of his vision.

His bones immediately started to knit themselves back together, but refused to heal completely, for, the soul-crushing force of the bookcase still bore down on him, mincing all the unrepaired fragments in his legs.

Leaning on his elbows, Pen still clasped tight his grip, Rafal set his jaw, soldiered through his faintness, and tried to drag himself forward, out from underneath the suffocating weight of history, scraping slowly over the flagstones still littered with glass.

Suppose his bones joined the shards. Then what?

He freed his hips and one of his legs, struggling further, but found he was effectively immobilized for the time being. Only his ankle was caught now, but it would’ve been unwise to dislocate his leg from its socket by yanking it any harder than he was already.

The structure of the shelf collapsed further, the more he struggled beneath it, like a snare closing in on a bird, threatening to cut off its circulation—but if he could just loosen his foot from these damn planks, it…

It was like the Pen wished to teach him a lesson by entombing him, entombing him here, under the weight of every fairy tale he’d ever taught.

Rafal’s face burned.

EVIL SCHOOL MASTER ENCASED AMONG MANUSCRIPTS—he could picture the words emblazoned atop every paper in the Woods, documenting this final humiliation, all the next day’s headlines shouting and blaring in Rhian’s face.

The Evers would pop champagne bottles. His students would dance over his grave—dancing in the chequer’d shade… come forth to play, on a sunshine holiday—how’d that line go? And which tale was it from?

Wrapped in a delirium, he thought of the sprawling tale of Satan’s fall. Demon, chastened and exiled. Hell. What had he gotten himself into? Hell.

At least Rhian would mourn him, he thought grimly, and shook his head, his rage simmering. The boards wouldn’t loosen around his foot!

Rafal swallowed a heaving breath and let it settle in his chest like a stone. There he lay on his bed of glass, still holding the Pen, now hoisting it aloft, over his stone-abraded face, as it glinted in the light, his arms outstretched in a perverse kind of victory, absolutely sloshed and nearly slain, by his own shelf, by his own Pen, by his own hand.

Another thought surfaced suddenly, unbidden: He could lift it all with his sorcery.

But at that thought, the Storian sparked to life.

Hell. That Pen. To Hell with it.

The ancient script running down the side of the Pen glowed and cast shadowy glyphs across the floor, refracted light catching in the glass, piercing Rafal’s eyes, and the strange markings heated, the Pen’s shaft scorching against his palms, causing Rafal to loosen his grip slightly as he tried not to let go.

Yet, the Storian prevailed and wrested itself from Rafal’s grip, slipping out from his fingers with ease, likely readying itself for a second wave.

Gritting his teeth, Rafal steeled himself for action, both hands alit as he at once summoned the last of his magic, drawing from his deepest reserves, from his lifeblood.

Working through his total exhaustion, he managed to lift the bookcase up at a modest tilt, by only a few hairs’ widths—yet that was enough for him to crawl out from underneath it.

He hauled himself up onto his feet again with most of his weight distributed on his better-healed leg, thinking about slaking his thirst, punishment presumed to be over.

Just then, a cool gust of wind blew in, battering the diaphanous, silver curtains Rhian had put up, as if it meant to revive him, and Rafal turned away from the Pen to the window.

That was the moment the Storian chose to attack with a new vengeance, redoubling its efforts against Evil incarnate.

Some unseen force from within the tower flung Rafal across the chamber, casting him onto his side as he skid across the dining table, long limbs catching in the folds of the tablecloth, his obtruding form sending Rhian’s once deftly arranged table settings—now clashing utensils and dishes and glasses—flying before they smashed against the far wall along with Rafal’s skull as he clenched his teeth at the sheer percussive force of the collision.

To wit, it had to be the Pen. What else? Rafal griped. A fairy-tale punishment fit for a fairy-tale villain?

His ears rang with the strident sounds of shattering bone china and clanging metal, ricocheting off the wall as plate shards rained down on him, the whole tumult reverberating like he was trapped in an echo chamber with a cavalcade.

The din resounded as his side throbbed and he kicked blindly at the bonds of tangled tablecloth wound around his legs. Part of the white cloth had settled over his head, draping like a sheet, and he couldn’t see anything, couldn’t see any of the ruins about him, much less sit up.

Finally, he tore the cloth back viciously, reclaiming his sight in a huff. Apparently, a singular knife had skimmed past his heart and had instead lanced through the flaccid fabric of his shirt, burying itself between the stone tiles.

Rafal groaned and turned over rigidly, his shirt tearing around the knife blade as he settled for lying prone, bloodied cheek to the floor, small cuts abound, droplets of blood blooming across his shirt and the tablecloth.

Then, Rafal rolled his eyes back to the ceiling and noticed the Pen hovering above him. He dealt it a withering glare from below, not yet beaten into submission, and reached upwards with tremorous arms to grasp at it.

The Storian appeared to glare back as it flitted out of his reach, darting back and forth archly as if to tease him, rendering all his exertion futile.

That was when the Storian made to invoke a final crescendo to complete Rafal’s torture. It descended on Rafal with an exhilarating swoop as the School Master shielded his eyes, burying his face in his shuddering arms, bracing himself for excruciating pain, fervid blood coursing through him as he tried to propel himself onto his feet and act, but he felt as if he’d sunken into the floor. He couldn’t move!

And the Storian didn’t hold back.

Its nib ripped through the back of his shirt, tip to flesh, sharp as a spindle, glowing with white-hot ire. It then raked over his exposed back, his neck, and the back of his arms.

Eyes watering insanely, Rafal hissed and rasped for breath, abject fury surging through his veins. A strangled gasp left his lips—he wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been choked to death by his own slit throat.

One stroke after another, the Storian lashed across his skin, slashing with a capricious flourish.

He was sure that it intended to flay him alive, and he’d never gotten the chance to say goodbye to Rhian, he thought morosely, head dulling.

These cuts were worse than the time the vampiric, literal blood-sucking, ruby-throated hummingbirds of Akgul had swarmed him. The Never mining kingdom bred them specifically to flit around, slit the throats and tear to shreds the clothes of any passerby who ventured too close to the vaults which were filled to the brim with riches.

Those cuts had been shallow, mere scratches that had closed in a matter of seconds. These lacerations were flesh-deep.

And the Storian didn’t cease moving. Again and again, it slit open his flesh.

Rafal choked out another gasp and pressed himself into the serrated glass and crockery below him as if he could escape the terror above, and shifted onto his side, realizing his mistake immediately as he remembered.

The salt.

The night before, his routine dinner argument with Rhian had culminated in his act of hurling a glass salt shaker at his brother’s swollen head, for being pompous and self-righteous that day.

Naturally, Rhian had become upset last night—not just because he’d been clocked in the head and not just because Rafal had obstinately accused him of being an aesthetic-obsessed egomaniac—but because, of course, this all had happened after Rafal had already swept three dishes onto the floor that selfsame week and broken them.

Smashing the fine china had started to convert itself into a regular dinnertime event, much like an extravagant, exceedingly costly, burlesque sideshow. Predictably, Rhian had insisted that bone china plates were a rank pain to replace. And then, he proclaimed that if this, this breach, this delinquent conduct, continued, he would never dine with Rafal again. In sum, this was his tirade directed towards an unresponsive audience of one, one thick-skulled, unsympathetically glacial brother, all the while dramatically bemoaning Rafal’s dramatic tendencies.

Shortly after, both brothers had refused to clean up, each claiming the mess was the other’s fault, Rafal alleging that Rhian was the source of his provocation, that Rhian drove him up the wall and had thereby caused him to lose the plot—and break his tenuous accord with the Pen since it had last resisted his will over the matter of Aladdin’s placement.

And, the miserable result of these acts was that the salt shaker had cracked open and emptied all its contents—all over the very tract of tower floor Rafal had just rolled over onto. All due to the Pen.

Damn the little devil! Rafal fumed, writhing as his flesh was stuck by glass shards and the spilt salt needled its way into his fresh cuts, aggravating them. And his cuts weren’t healing! Instead they stung. Even the shallower scratches hadn’t closed.

The Storian sliced his front, nearing his throat, as he tried to suppress the feeling in his every nerve, awash with a sense of mounting dread as his own movements repeatedly caused him to be pricked by splinters of glass and the rough, tearing grit of the salt, recurrently entering his open wounds.

Why had he thrown the salt at Rhian when Rhian had simply asked him to pass it?

And now, he was paying for his deed. He’d only compounded this, this agony, and the Storian was making sure he knew it.

How much of an absolute sodding fool he was!

Rafal thrashed further, and spat blood in protest once more at the infernal Pen, choking on nothing but air as his tongue went dry and his voice died in his throat.

His eyes turned bleary and itched. It was as if he could feel his nerves drying out and dying with every passing second as the salt absorbed his blood, the skin around his cuts shriveling, even if the cuts themselves widened, rubbed, and stretched open by the salt and debris, which irritated him like sand would’ve, if not for the chemical burn—the prickling, electric flares of sharp, white-hot pain.

And yet, the corroding burn shocked him awake with a revelation, shearing through his senses that had been suffused with the duller pain’s veil.

What if this torment wasn’t just punishment for desecrating a storybook? It was a petty, Evil act, to be sure. But wasn’t that to be expected from him? Why would the Pen retaliate like this then?

And what if it wasn’t just punishment for vandalizing the Pen’s tower? What if he was expected to apologize to Rhian?

Never. What an indignity that would be, he rejected the idea like a foreign body, then stiffened at his first instinct.

But could apologizing be any worse than where he lay now? Perhaps, he should. If he lived through the Pen’s torment, he probably ought to.

In that instant, his vision whirled, reddening, and his body betrayed him, surrendering to the Pen as he blacked out.

⸻

Rafal’s breath hitched as he returned to consciousness. Had the Pen yielded?

He fought to turn his head as he glanced over at the Pen, watching him from across the chamber at a tilt.

Then, the Storian righted itself, stationed back over its lectern, dormant, as if nothing had befallen its master, once again turning a blind eye to Man’s treachery when doing so suited it, as it always did…

A fairy-tale punishment fit for a fairy-tale villain.

What scraps remained of Rafal’s shredded shirt clung to his lean frame. The fabric was soaked through with blood. He shut his eyes for a moment and inhaled. He’d have to peel it off in the bath, likely.

As he sat up, the muscles in his back twisted, exacerbating the pain of the gashes crossing his back, which still stung, continuing to bleed.

The blood loss wouldn’t be fatal, Rafal knew. But, he wondered whether the Pen would let it go on until he fell unconscious again.

His blood wasn’t clotting regularly and it was all the Pen’s fault, for its magical interference, preventing him from healing any quicker than he usually did.

At this rate, he couldn’t foresee the Pen granting him relief from these wounds—not when it believed he deserved to live so he could suffer. All he could do was staunch the bleeding.

Rafal clambered to his feet for what he hoped would be the last time, stumbling forward before he thrust out his arms to hold onto the edge of Vulcan’s desk and keep himself from falling.

He decided to seek out bandages, or rather, any strip of fabric he could tear, save for the tatters of his grimy, thoroughly bloodstained and oxidized shirt, which looked a rusted brown, far from its former, crisp, white state.

The curtains. The curtains would serve well enough. He hobbled over to them, lit his fingerglow to assist himself, and tore away a strip from the gauzy swaths of fabric, shooting the Pen another glare as he trod, breathless, towards the bathroom.

Once within the bathroom, he planned to run himself an ice-cold bath, but first, he’d run the cuts on his arms under the water for a while, to numb himself, so he could recover a greater range of motion.

No need to undress. His clothes were unsalvageable at this point, and he was certain his brother would agree.

Then, anticipating the reprieve of the biting chill, he bent over to turn on the tap, and did not realize that he’d overcorrected himself, headrush returning, knees buckling, as he pitched forward and slammed face-first into the faucet, passing out.

The bathwater continued to gush and his blood continued to flow forth, mottled bruises already forming across his severe pallor.

Rafal’s body slid partway into the tub, and he awoke minutes later, wracked with a dull ache, half his frame slung over the side of the tub, smeared with blood. His head jolted up, hit by the faucet a second time, as shock permeated his body, which was half-submerged in the frigid, faintly pink water. Not that he could truly sense the cold.

He tried to collect his bearings, but found he didn’t want to move any longer. Nor could he. But he figured he’d wait out the pain, or numb it. Whichever came first.

Albeit, when he sat up, extraneous heat still streamed through his body, radiating outward from his core to his extremities, and he doubted the swelling about his cuts would recede that soon.

Fortunately, he couldn’t catch a fever. He was immune to all illnesses… unless the Pen revoked his immortality. Though, he’d be fine alone. And besides, he had no time to brood.

Rafal stared down at the lacerations lining his forearms. New, youthful skin was already beginning to pave over his cuts, at an imperceptibly slow rate, even if the process hurt like Hell.

To pass the time and staunch the blood, he conjured up strands of gauze bandages that unspooled in midair, allowing them to turn rounds, to twirl and spin before his eyes for an infinitesimal moment before he seized them.

Then, he wound the bandages loosely around his arms, making a poorly-executed, overall hack job of it as his stiff, frozen fingers lacked the dexterity required to tighten them any further.

Well, that would have to suffice for his purposes.

But, no sooner than when he tied the last bandage did he realize the gauze on his other arm had to be replaced since it had leaked through, sopping red once again.

Nevermind.

A copious number of bandages dangled from his outstretched arms as he shuffled back into the main chamber of the tower like one of the undead.

There he sat as the day turned to dusk, stewing silently, tending to the rest of his wounds, awaiting Rhian’s return, applying layer after layer of rapidly reddening gauze.

At last, when he was partly wrapped up, he resembled a dehydrated corpse that would be preserved for the rest of time, forever bound to his duties, like one of the undead, who hadn’t the mind to know when to let go, tugged along by the colorless skein of an immortal life.

He didn’t bother to light a candle.

⸻

As Rhian ambled up the tower staircase, he hummed to himself under his breath and wondered if Rafal had left him any wine. His brother was often a spoilsport and Rhian wouldn’t have been surprised if Rafal had tossed their last bottle.

He took stock of his mental checklist while he continued on his ascent. He’d left Rafal alone for the day, after their tiff last night. Perhaps, Rafal would be ready to apologize. But Rafal was often stubborn, and Rhian suspected he was still sulking.

Brothers. They were such work.

The new furniture he’d ordered from Gillikin would arrive by the School’s shoreside tomorrow, so the place had to be spotless.

Without a doubt, Rafal had finished the spring cleaning by now. And petulantance aside, Rafal never could stand disarray, so surely, he could be trusted with that simple of a task.

Indeed, maybe the Pen really was on his side, and Rhian could check that item off his list now.

He set his foot on the next step, and flinched at a cracking sound.

Rhian peered down at a fragment of glass, cleft in two.

That was odd. Rafal had probably missed a spot when he’d taken out the rubbish, Rhian reasoned, his stomach turning with a twinge of anxiety. Nothing to fret about. Nothing at all.

Rhian knelt down and picked up the shards, stuffing them into one of his jacket pockets. He had to remind Rafal about sweeping up after airing out the place—speaking of which, not one of the windows Rhian had passed had been opened. The air was stale, and it seemed that Rafal had forgotten.

Rhian sighed. He would do it himself later, before his shower. He’d had a long day of curriculum reform as his brother had demanded he add a new section to Surviving Fairy Tales, about distinguishing Good from Evil, because, Rafal had jabbed, even Good’s Master direly needed a refresher when he’d invited the worst kind of Evil into their School.

As he proceeded on his climb, Rhian observed that the stairwell was coated in dust, like it had been beset by a cyclone of some kind.

Now, it wasn’t unlike the Nevers themselves to bathe in dust, but their School Master was definitely above poor sanitary practices, at least regarding himself, if not his renovations. And yet, every surface was saturated with dust, oddly granular dust, that drew blood when Rhian pressed a particle of it between his thumb and forefinger.

Rhian winced at the stinging sensation, knowing his pain would fade soon. Was this glass? He’d told Rafal he didn’t want to compromise their lungs! But Rafal never listened.

Rhian watched as the blood seeped back into his skin, that closed where he’d been pricked. Well… that was a comforting sign. His bond with Rafal was still intact despite last night’s conflict.

He made his way further up the stairs. It was a moonless night and he only had the stars to see by.

Stray storybook pages flapped in the stairwell, and the steps were riddled with more glass dust and drops of blood?

What if they had been besieged by another intruder? Another Vulcan? That would explain the glass. What if Rafal blamed him for allowing an uninvited guest to break in? Had he cast the entry-sealing spell when he’d left their tower that morning? Or had he been preoccupied by, by Storian knows what! He couldn’t remember now.

Heart thrumming, Rhian raced up the remaining stairs in a panic and flattened himself against the wall by the entryway to the tower’s main chamber, to listen.

All he heard was the echo of rustling paper and the cool night wind.

Rhian lit his fingerglow. It burned with warm, pure, golden light, gilding the stones around him. He would vanquish any threat that lay ahead of him. And if Rafal was there, they’d face it together.

Trembling, Rhian swept the presumably monster-clawed, blood-encrusted, silver curtains aside, unsure of what dark horrors he’d be met with in the confines of his own home.

Stepping softly over the threshold, he picked his way into the pitch dark chamber, gold fingerglow illuminating the space, as a scene of total carnage flashed into existence.

Rhian gaped as his eyes flicked across the blood-spattered floor, his light spilling onto it and bouncing back into his eyes. All he saw was pure upheaval. The fire had long since guttered out as it had consumed all of its kindling. An entire bookcase, overturned. Water, pooling out from beneath the bathroom door, circulating along the grooves between the stones. And the tales. They had clearly flown across the room, tossed about erratically, like they’d been subjected to a storm at sea. And—

His gaze landed on a stooped figure with a ragged, irregular breath, shielding its eyes from the sudden flare of harsh light.

Rhian’s breath caught. Was it a Night Crawler? Or some other lethal creature of the night? Some undead thing? He backed up.

Finally, Rhian’s eyes adjusted to the light—was that Rafal?

He squinted down at spikes of snow-white hair, matted with blood, then, eyes widening with recognition, surveyed Rafal’s baffling state of partial undress. Rhian’s distempered brother had propped himself up at the base of the fallen bookcase, and hadn’t risen from where he sat.

Rafal stared up at Rhian in the lit doorway without a word, his eyes hollow and vacant.

“I-I thought you were a monster.”

Rafal’s frown deepened. “Lovely,” he breathed hoarsely. “You’re not the first to think that.” He snuck a brief look at the Pen.

Rhian’s chest flooded with relief. It was only then, after Rafal had spoken, that Rhian’s fears had evaporated. He recognized his brother’s voice and was now certain he was with the living and not one of the undead, some sinister being risen from the grave with the intent of taking over their School.

“Where’s our intruder then? Have you burnt up the corpse?” Rhian wrung his hands, glancing around.

“There is none.”

Rhian paused for a moment, processing his brother’s words. “Then whose blood—” Rhian stopped, unnerved. “Yours? It’s yours?”

Rafal nodded, grim, and began to placidly wrap more bandages around his torso, tightening them with the aid of his sorcery.

With narrowed eyes, Rhian peeked fearfully at his brother’s back and almost passed out in shock. It was all cut up and bleeding, crossed by haphazard strips of overlapping bandages that hung off his arms.

Concerned, Rhian stared at Rafal, haunted by the bloody sight, until he found his voice. “Wh—” He swallowed the bile rising in his throat, trying to quell his nausea. “What happened?”

“The Storian.”

Rhian blinked at his imaginary monster, and gazed warily at the true monster, hard at work, diligently inking in a new tale, once and forever unmasked. It had been the monster all along.

What would they do now? Subdue it somehow? Though, Rafal’s trials were already over…

“Will it heal?” Rhian asked tentatively, wide-eyed.

“What do you think,” Rhian’s monster answered. “I’ll walk it off.”

That was when Rhian registered his brother’s resignation, and knew he should drop the matter altogether. But, he had one final question: “Why did it attack y—”

“Ice. Bring me ice.”

“But—”

“Now,” the Evil School Master cut out caustically. “And not a word about the Pen favoring Good.”

Stunned into dead silence, Rhian scurried away to fetch ice. The most damage always occurred within the shortest window of time.

Yet one fact held true in his mind: Rafal hadn’t learnt his lesson and never would.

⸻

Note:

I’d leap at any feedback you have! Please, if you’re up to it, I’d love to hear your reception of this fic, any thoughts, feelings, reactions, or concrit you have, any at all, especially as this is the most action and the least dialogue I’ve possibly ever written, given the unusual nature of the fic.

If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask. I’m almost always willing to elaborate!

In addition, I’m not of a legal drinking age in my country nor do I have any inclination to drink. So, apologies if there are any inaccuracies regarding the alcohol use. You can certainly let me know what the errors are, if there are any.

Did anyone catch any of the references I made?

In writing this fic, I realized it diverged a lot from my previous ones because it relies more on imagery than dialogue, so I personally had to really push the envelope with it. In fact, this was probably the most difficult fic I’ve written thus far because I think crafting dialogue tends to come to me more easily than action sequences do, and well, this fic is almost all action.

(And I wanted the fic to feel cinematic, as if it were panning over a train wreck or a hazard zone the audience wouldn’t be able to peel their eyes away from. Yeah, I know. It probably sounds strange, that the desired effect I had in mind while writing this was “vehicular collision,” haha.)

Trivia: My use of “Pen” versus “Storian” was very intentional here. For some reason, I just intuitively found that it made some kind of weird sense to call it “the Storian” when it had an active role and “the Pen” when it was an object acted upon or mentioned, with a few exceptions. It just felt right.

⸻

I even wrote a rhyme for the fic:

He gets bruised—he was struck.

He gets burned; he gets cut.

All done by a Pen

While he’d been drained of his luck.

And all befell him while salty and drunk.

⸻

Playlist:

“Fall Away” - twenty one pilots

“21 Guns” - Green Day

“Save You” - Turin Brakes

“Enemy” - Imagine Dragons & JID

See the reblog for the second poll.

Also, might I recommend this song playing in the background of the prequels, starting the moment Vulcan arrives on scene, acting like a real sleaze, with a musical motif of his own conveying here comes trouble:

I could imagine Rhian opening a slick, black, cab door and ushering Vulcan in with an effusive, showbiz persona, and with the build-up, the climb in the music, all of the changes he makes while Rafal is gone would occur in sequence, like in a montage.

At around [1:02], Vulcan would start challenging Rhian, the host, and things would go swiftly downhill, becoming rotten. Ball guests would riot. The so-called "party" reaches new heights and a chandelier falls, creating a crater in the middle of the dance floor.

At [2:12] Rafal reappears with a shotgun (apparently he strayed from home, having gone MIA after WWI), chases everyone out, and starts to clean up the party. If he gets a broom, he twirls it in the end like a baton before making an exit.

hear me out for a sec guys

"rafal" as gatsby

sophie as daisy

agatha as nick

tedros(?) as tom (he doesn't really fit the role so i guess he's kind of a placeholder??)

i am in NO WAY a literature nerd so humble me about these takes if need be lol

All Is Fair

This concept is not a fic, and I may not actually write it out as a fic. It's just a summary of an alternate sequence of events I had in mind that I wanted to record on impulse.

Warning: The content is dark. Comment if you want more specifics or spoilers before proceeding.

Summary: Vulcan won.

⸻

Vulcan didn't turn Rafal over to the prison warden of Monrovia. Instead, the Evil School Master was paraded down the halls in a straitjacket and locked in what was to become the "Doom Room," a name later coined by a future Dean years down the line, inspired by Rafal's blueprints for a veritable dungeon that Vulcan stole.

Vulcan kept Rafal as a prisoner of war instead of turning him over to Monrovia, and tortured him everyday, personally. Eventually, he became a lazy "fat cat" in his own right and hired Man-Wolves to continue on without him, so he could revel in his nemesis' agony.

Rafal never even had a fair chance to escape. Vulcan knew to use electrified, sorcery-resistant bonds, specially ordered from Monrovia, that rendered Rafal as powerless as any mortal.

Rhian languished in the tower over Evil, also trapped by Vulcan, and was administered drugs and various sedatives of questionable legality on the regular—all so he would agree to everything without putting up a fight and sign off on important documents to the Kingdom Council without retaining the presence of mind to read any of them.

And, to make matters worse, the Council never checked up on the Schools and assumed Rhian was spineless, like he'd always been. Or that's how it looked on paper.

Thus, Rhian lived in a haze of memory and Rafal lived in pain and obscurity—if one could call either of those states living.

And the lack of a Council fail-safe occurred because Rafal, for lack of foresight, wanted everything to be regulated by themselves, the twin School Masters. Thus, by the time handing over partial authority to the Council would've been convenient, Rafal was in no position to do so, and the oblivious Council had no jurisdiction to intervene on the Masters' behalf.

The brothers had no support system outside of themselves. How wrong they were to realize it as late as they did.

Those days, Rhian was not usually lucid, and eventually began responding to "Duckling." Though, when he was lucid, and remembered vaguely who he once was, he worried for Rafal and was consumed by guilt, overcome with nausea, wondering what had happened to his brother.

Whenever he was called useless for refusing the red "wine," a sleeping draught Vulcan kept bringing him, Vulcan pinned him down and forced it down his gullet. Rhian loathed the drink he'd once lauded.

Eventually, Rhian was killed when Vulcan got sick of his toy, and Rafal never knew.

Rafal was mentally disoriented, enough so that he could barely fathom his love for Rhian consciously and preserve his brother's life. His sense of self was slipping away.

The students greatly regretted rejecting Rafal and choosing Vulcan over him. As it was, Rafal would've been the better option over Lord Vulcan.

Fortunately, Vulcan never did gain the Pen's favor as a usurper, so he also died one day, decades later.

Yet, the Evil School Master was never spoken about and never got a tale to his own name, so he was lost to the sands of time, erased from living memory.

⸻

Since day one of Vulcan's reign, Rafal had been hanging by his wrists off a wall in the Doom Room, until he had gone numb, and his circulation had cut off. And yet, he was alive, sustained by only the Pen, the Pen that had once planned to allow him to become the One, as per its original plan, now a discarded plan, centuries old.

The damp cell grew black mold and the chains rusted, but the one who dwelled there never aged.

Perhaps, the Storian had forgotten to cancel its subscription for the one remaining School Master, in a sense, so there he hung.

Over the years, each day, or at best, a few times a week, he heard the screams of students he'd never met and had never taught and the gravelly threats of probing Man-Wolves. The screams never phased him.

Then, one day, he hears pleading, in soprano, and shortly after, a great splash.

That was new.

He opens his eyes and listens intently for once. His eyes had already grown used to the constant, endless dark.

The girl who peers in through the doorway looks haunted, lost in the labyrinthine sewers below the Schools. He senses her soul is Evil.

⸻

At first, Sophie believes she's stumbled upon a corpse, strung up on the wall, and almost runs off in alarm, until she notices it's blinked at her.

She shrieks.

Oh, it was a boy. A rather handsome boy.

He hasn't spoken in years, so he says nothing, and besides, he has no seductive appeals to offer her in the dense fog occluding his speech.

She musters up the courage to ask what happened to him.

His answer doesn't entirely make sense.

He says "bats."

Though, no one can expect coherence because he's been alone with his thoughts for two hundred years and has gone well off the edge of sanity. And his memory doesn't serve him as well as it once did, as, every unchanging day in the dark has bled into the next.

On his deathbed, as a wizened old man, Vulcan had ordered that the Man-Wolves keep torturing his prisoner for eternity, but eventually the Man-Wolves lost discipline without a leader, and faced with declining pay, they decided to let the prisoner alone to essential solitary confinement. They were too young to know his crime regardless.

Back then, Vulcan loved having a fresh "canvas" to bloody every session, thanks to Rafal's invulnerability. The days when Rafal still had functional nerve endings.

Not that either of them could know all that. He or the Nevergirl.

Rafal had all but forgotten, and never did truly register the passage of time, and Sophie would very much have liked to have surfaced right then instead of stare at the ghostly, hanged man.

Sophie thinks for a moment, and realizes she'd done what any prince would do. Kill the beast, save the—

The prince? He looked like a prince. Close enough. Albeit, he was a prince in a tattered, sorely outdated suit.

Thus, for once, Sophie chooses to do a "Good" Deed and releases him, as if to atone for her first murder. She melts through the bonds with her fingerglow, her magic fueled by the fear and burgeoning tension within her.

And, without so much of a bow or a "thank you," the man practically vanishes into thin air, shooting out of the sewers like a bullet, face grim.

But, Sophie doesn’t know she’s released two hundred years of pent-up fury into the Woods.

Her classmates seem afraid, not by the beast's disappearance. That's been overshadowed by something far worse. The changes in the sky.

The Coven had started to creep into the sewers to check on her since Sophie's punishment had gone on for longer than was customary, and even Hester steps back, bewildered, as a skeletal being whooshes by the entryway, up the stairs and into the blue day.

Lightning rains down from the already darkening sky.

And the Nevers all wonder what unholy eldritch being had risen from the grave? What abomination had Sophie released into their midst?

⸻

The daylight of the outside world blinds Rafal and burns him like it would a Night Crawler as he's spent centuries in the dark. His name has been lost to time, and he feels low, more base and wretched than a primal beast.

His rage and sorcery unleash themselves without so much of a command as he realizes this is a new time. Another era. And the magnitude of that starts to eat at his insides. The nearest forest is blue. The seasons have changed more than a hundred times over. His Stymphs have molted.

Then, it dawns on him: his brother is dead.

His head spins, and the sunlight doesn't provide anymore clarity than what shreds he ever might've had, and he starts on an utterly, literally blind, murderous rampage, his sight seared away, his irises sun-bleached to the coldest white-hot blue, besting even the lit sky itself.

This material world is his rival, as he's already lost his sight to it and wishes to, if not right the wrongs this world has scorched and slashed into him, to, to wrong this world. Right back.

Only the Storian remembers the archived tale it left with loose ends the day it had written itself into a dead end, but it must deal with Rafal, now that he has returned a threat.

During its first intervention of this new era, the post-School Masters era, the Pen lances through its once-last-hope for the One, and the balance resets, the two brothers laid to rest as equals in death.

With no corporeal form left, Rafal wanders the grounds, until he comes across Rhian in a quiet glade.

The two ghosts are reunited and they turn their back to the Schools for the rest of eternity, save for the rare times they return during a tale, to speculate about events that don't concern them from beyond, and to enjoy the offerings a new hire, a certain Professor Sader, leaves out for them on windowsills.

Rhian reminds Rafal of who he was, and gasps out shuddering sobs, apologizing for everything, and Rafal simply lets him, and doesn't scold him for once because he believed he was the one to fail and lose Rhian.

Occasionally, when Rafal watches the mortals below, he regrets having left Evil in that girl-in-pink's hands, but he gradually comes around to the fact that, perhaps, ruling was too precarious of a position for him.

Better to watch the mortals fell themselves to ruins. It's what they did best.

I was thinking of the naming conventions in the prequels, and it occurred to me that the characters could easily be cast in the roles of the original myth of Venus being married off to Hephaestus against her will. (The only factor that doesn't fit is that the brothers have an obviously platonic bond. So, disregard the actual type of union involved.)

Rhian = Venus/Aphrodite (assuming this whole sequence would occur while he's both desirable and desires romantic love for himself)

Rafal = Vulcan/Hephaestus

Vulcan or Hook = Mars/Ares

The Storian = Jupiter/Zeus

This set-up would mean that Rafal would catch Rhian and his forbidden lover in an impenetrable golden net. And well, I like the image for its comedy potential. Rhian would blush when he's caught red-handed at the enormity of his own deeds, of "cheating," like in Rise, but it would be worse than what went down with Gavaldon's barrier and Marialena since he'd literally be in bed.

Of course, the brothers couldn't be married like in the myth as I explained before, so their bond would have to be platonic and yet still legally-binding in some other way, like how it was sealed by the Storian in canon, or in the myth, sanctioned by Zeus. The whole scenario would dissolve their trust while being more operatic than usual.

And then, the Storian and all the rest of the Woods would gawk and laugh at Rhian, humiliated in a storybook, as, in the myth, Hephaestus drags the net with the lovers tangled in it to Mount Olympus, to shame the adulterous pair in front of all the rest of the gods.

And Rafal's character has a fair bit of overlap with Hephaestus' (the mythological god's, not the Ever's). He's the gruff, bitter, surly, unsociable man, cooped up in his stithy, or rather, in Rafal's case, his study in the tower.