Three men bearing swords creep swiftly but silently across the green fields. Two as alike as peas in a pod, one old enough to be their father. All bearing grim demeanors, yet animated with a strange, savage joy.
The Plan
We pause to catch our breath at the side of a building.
Father: Long have I dreamed of this day, but never thought it would come to pass in my generation. Much less that I would taste it with my own two sons!
Robbing: When will you tell us what you mean by that? How could my own folly in slaying my brother, triggering an evil curse that made us both forget our identity, become something to rejoice about?
“How could my own folly… become something to rejoice about?”
Robbing
BraveHeart: Peace, brother. All will be made clear in the Emperor’s own time. I am more curious about the enemy we will face in the house of our mad mother, and how to prevent him from doing her harm.
At this, Father grimaces in distaste.
F. Not a him… her. Fear not, I am not asking you to take up swords against a lady. Those are for the ruffians in her employ, whom we must put down before we can beard the witch in her den.
R. Is she some great sorceress, then? How shall we protect ourselves from her spells?
F. She isn’t… well, it’s complicated. Never mind all that. Your job is to get me into her Sanctum Santorum. I will take care of the rest.
Filled with irrational faith in the man we had until recently thought dead — but who had merely been hiding from his overbearing wife — we charge around the corner.
The Portal
We enter a stone chamber with a odd door on the opposite side.
F. Clean your swords and put them away, boys. You have done fine work, but muscle and steel won’t help you with what comes next.
“You have done fine work, but muscle and steel won’t help you with what comes next.”
Father
We obey without hesitation. He has led us expertly through a childhood home we thought we knew, using secret passages to ambush the interlopers and reach a totally unimagined chamber deep underground.
B. What manner of material is this door made of?
R. Is that… oak? Or steel?
F. Neither. I’ve been told by someone I trust that it is made from the flesh of animals who died uncounted millennia ago. It has many layers, some apparently of charcoal, resulting in a strange enchantment that dulls even the sharpest blade.
R. Then how will we get in?
In answer, Father gestures for us to give him our swords, then hides them out of sight around the corner. Then walks up to the door like a man attending his own funeral, and knocks.
Father walks up to the door like a man attending his own funeral, and knocks.
“Come in!” commands an indescribably ancient voice.
The Power
The first thing we see is Mother kneeling on a stool; appearing utterly content to be sitting in the middle of an evil lair doing embroidery.
[To be fair, Mother had always said she wanted to take up embroidery someday.]
Immediately behind her, however, sits a wretched, withered spider-hag of a woman. An impression strengthened by the tendrils of silk-like string stretching out from her fingers. One of which leads directly to Mother’s heart; he others disappear into the darkness.
F. [in the same curiously-neutral tone we use with Mother] Greetings, Grandmother.
The creature he called “Grandmother” stares at him through deep-sunk eyes filled with ancient hatred.
G. Greetings, grandson. Have you finally come to die?
F. No, ancient one. I have come to finally start living.
He stalks toward her mockery of a throne. With each step, rage seems to swell inside him. A lifetime — no, an entire bloodline — of pain, humiliation and regret is transmuted by some alchemical process into preternatural strength. He seems almost to glow, the years and deprivations falling away until he looks practically a youth again. As he might have appeared when he first sought to woo and win a bride.
Father looks practically a youth again. As he might have appeared when he first sought to woo and win a bride.
The witch cackles with glee.
G. Strike me down, will you? Ready to take my place, and inherit my powers? Do it, then! Life bores me. Let someone else bear this burden, this unending torment. Kill me now, and damn yourself to hell.
At first we think he will take her at her word. With a roar of triumph he rushes the throne.
Instead, he grabs Mother and holds her in his lap, making a cage of his arms. Instantly she transforms into a wild harridan: screaming, kicking and scratching.
“Now, Robbing!,” Father shouts as Mother draws blood from his cheek. “This is it. You. Must. Speak. Your. Truth.”
The Penalty
When brother slays brother And all names are lost The scales will be balanced No matter the cost
We freeze. What could Father possibly mean? He had little time, and apparently less desire, to tell us his intentions.
I have no idea what to do. Fortunately, Robbing does.
Hurling himself to the floor
Flinging back his head
Screaming at the top of his lungs.
“It. Is. All. My. Fault.”
At this, Grandmother perks up. Her face lights up with a dark rejoicing. She looks less like a spider than a cat that has got into the cream.
G. So! This is the one. The Betrayer. My prize. [Turning to Father] The Sacrifice!
I stare dumbstruck. What has Father done?
Grandmother turns to Robbing.
G. I should have known all along it was you, wretched child. Out with it!
I expect him to tell the story of killing me over jealousy for my bride. But that isn’t it at all.
In a voice soft as the grave, he whispers:
“I stole it. The Overlord’s signet ring. I don’t even remember why. He was furious when he found out. Threatened to brand my forehead. Cut off my hand.”
He turns towards Father. His voice growing stronger.
“That is the real reason you left us, isn’t it? You had been a great warrior in your youth. You offered him service again if he agreed to spare my flesh.”
Father speaks no words. But his eyes say it all.
Mother has quieted down, too. Perhaps Grandmother has stopped pulling on her heartstrings, now that she has a new mouse to torment.
Perhaps Grandmother has stopped pulling on Mother’s heartstrings Now that she has a new mouse to torment.
Robbing looks at Mother with a distant sadness. He squeezes his eyes shut.
“I broke Mother, too. She was always a little anxious. But when this happened, she blamed herself for not keeping a better eye on me. When I returned after a day and a night without food or water, she rushed me into my bed and kept me there for a week. She nearly killed herself trying to get nutrition into me, because I kept throwing it up.”
He opens his eyes and turns to me. Eyes red from weeping. He takes a deep breath, forcing himself into that neutral tone we use. When we are trying to avoid triggered — and triggering — emotions.
That neutral tone we use. When we are trying to avoid triggered — and triggering — emotions.
“And that is also the real reason I hated you. We were only five or six at the time, so you may not even remember. I was born first, by only a few seconds. But after the theft, the Overlord of this realm changed my name to Robbing and declared I would never inherit my birthright. So Father was commanded to tell everyone that you were the firstborn”
He hangs his head in shame.
“It was never about you. It was never about the girl. I just wanted whatever you had. Because I needed someone to blame — Besides myself.”
I just wanted whatever you had. Because I needed someone to blame Besides myself.
The Penitent
I stare at him. Shocked beyond words. His murder of me was the least of his crimes. Forcing Father back into war. Breaking Mother’s heart. Toying with my beloved’s affections just because he could.
Lying.
Cheating.
Stealing.
Blaming.
I find my fists clenching in rage. I had been a dupe and a fool the entire time. My family torn apart. My life a shambles. All because of
One. Senseless. Crime.
One. Idiotic. Brother.
The blood begins to boil in my veins.
Oblivious to my growing wrath, Robbing stands up and turns toward Grandmother.
“But no longer. I have spent my life chasing shadows. Running from the shame I dared not face. Raining death and destruction down on those who least deserved it. To avoid facing the ugly truth.”
“I have spent my life chasing shadows… To avoid facing the ugly truth.”
Robbing
“I know not which Betrayal was the worst Not what Sacrifice may be required But my sins are beyond counting And there is no punishment too great For one who has visited untold suffering On those who loved him best.”
“There is no punishment too great For one who has visited untold suffering On those who loved him best.”
Robbing
The Payoff
With a cry of jubilation, our evil ancestor yanks the heartstring out of Mother and stabs it into Robbing. He lets out an unearthly shriek and falls to his knees, his face twisted into an agony of self-loathing.
The crone rises from her seat and begins stalking on spindly legs towards Robbing. With each step she snaps a finger, and another string hurtles out of the darkness and pierces into his soul, multiplying his agony.
While part of me winces at my brother’s pain, another part rejoices in it. There is so much suffering in the world. Why shouldn’t it primarily be borne by those who have truly done evil? Especially those who acted out their failure by victimizing others? Especially if — like with Mother — his suffering reduces that of the innocent?
Then I hear something that freezes my boiling blood.
G. At last, revenge is mine! A dozen generations ago your forefather slew his older brother, my favorite and the rightful heir. I vowed then that no man child of mine would marry happily or well, until one day:
“When brother slays brother And all names are lost The scales will be balanced No matter the cost”
G. Upon my mother’s bones, I claim this traitor as My Sacrifice. With I spill the blood of the rightful heir within the Sanctum Santorum, all the hosts of hell will be unleashed to wreak vengeance. They will not rest til all the spawn of my younger son has been eradicated.
I stand there, stunned. His suffering dooms us all? Surely Father must have known this. Could he possibly have overlooked something so devastating?
Or does he know something I don’t?
I jerk my head in his direction, and see him mouthing a word. Apparently my Father has been waiting all this time for me to get past my petty recriminations and turn to him for guidance.
My Father has been waiting all this time for me to get past my petty recriminations and turn to him for guidance.
BraveHeart
The word seems to be: “Remember.”
Remember? Remember what? Something he told me? Something I said? Something that happ…
Then suddenly, I do.
The Prologue
I am playing in the sand garden behind our house with my twin brother Victor and the two little ones. I am building a castle, but Victor is telling them stories. They always loved his fantastical tales.
Victor: And when I climbed through the hole in the wall, I found myself in the training grounds of the Overlord’s Keep. Right next to the Great Hall where he issues royal proclamations.
Little Ones: Ooh!
BraveHeart: Spare me your lies, brother. Just because you found a way to sneak out the back wall doesn’t make you into some grand explorer.
V. I swear, it’s true. Why, here’s a discarded arrowhead from the armory itself.
He starts handing around a roughly triangular stone. The young uns are deeply impressed, and fight over who gets to hold it. Victor’s superior smirk finally gets the better of me.
B. That’s no arrowhead. That’s just a dumb piece of stone. If you really can get into the Great Hall, you should bring back something shiny. Something you can’t find just anywhere. Like… [my tiny mind racing] like gold!
My shout hangs in the air. The little ones stop fighting, and let the stone drop. They know “gold” is a serious word that adults use. They start chanting:
L. Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!
Now it is my turn to smirk. Victor starts to turn red.
V. Fine. If it is gold you want, then gold I will get. You’ll see. I really can go anywhere I want. I’ll get you the biggest, shiniest piece of gold you’ve ever seen.
The Price
No. It can’t be.
I was the one who taunted Victor — now Robbing — into stealing from the Overlord?
“But,” I say in my head. “I was only a child. I didn’t know what I was doing. I just didn’t want to look bad in front of my brothers.”
The deafening silence seems to mock my words, as I gaze upon the tortured form of my brother.
Sweat pours down my back. I must do something. If he dies, the family dies. In the end, I really am my brother’s keeper.
If he dies, the family dies. In the end, I really am my brother’s keeper.
But what? And how? And… can I? The threads. The pain. It is… too much. How can any mortal stand against it?
Then my brother turns his head. His eyes are on fire, like Willy the Wild Hermit. He stretches out his hand to me.
I am transported back to the vision the Hermit’s mother gave me, of the Son of the Emperor-Beyond-the-Sea:
I stare at Him in disbelief. He is standing in thin air. In the middle of a chasm. A dozen yards from the edge. Stretching His arm out to me.
And I know what I have to do.
I take a running leap across the rift between us. Clasping my brother’s arm. Pulling him into myself. Taking all the threads of his pain as my own.
I take a running leap across the rift between us. Taking all the threads of his pain as my own.
BraveHeart
Agony and self-loathing explode across every nerve in my body. Yet deeper than that shines a glorious truth:
I am not alone.
We are not alone.
We were never alone.
The spell shatters. Grandmother screams, “No!”
And in the sudden silence, I swear I hear a voice whisper:
Radically Happy 
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