"Always."
He walked her to the edge of the grove, watching until her silhouette disappeared down the path toward town. Then he turned and headed in the opposite direction, toward his cabin.
Toward Silas.
The cabin's windows glowed warm against the darkness. Silas had made himself at home, apparently. He could see movement inside—a shadow passing in front of the lamp, the suggestion of controlled pacing.
He paused at the door, taking a breath. Five years of avoidance, of pretending his brother didn't exist, of building a new life on a foundation of denial. It ended tonight.
He pushed open the door.
Silas stood by the fireplace, one arm resting on the mantle, a glass of wine dangling from his other hand. My wine, he noted with irritation. Of course.
"That was faster than I expected." Silas didn't turn around. "I assumed your… reconciliation with the florist would take somewhat longer."
"Her name is Marigold."
"Yes, I'm aware." Now Silas did turn, his dark eyes assessing. "She's not what I expected, you know. When I heard you'd found someone, I assumed—well. The usual type. Pretty, vapid, easily impressed."
"Shows how little you know me."
"Perhaps." Silas took a sip of wine, his expression unreadable. "She defended you quite fiercely. Even after I laid out the truth about your history."
"Your version of the truth."
"Isn't that the only version any of us have?" Silas gestured with his glass toward the sitting area. "Well? You came here to talk. Talk. I'm not going anywhere."
He didn't sit. Instead, he moved to the opposite end of the room, putting the width of the cabin between them. "Why are you here, Silas? Really. It's been five years. If this was about settling old scores, you'd have come sooner."
"Would I?"
"You're not a patient man."
"Neither are you, and yet here we are. Both of us pretending we don't recognize the other's games." Silas set down his wine glass on the mantle with deliberate care. "I came because I received word that our father is ill."
The words landed like a physical blow. His breath caught, his carefully constructed composure threatening to crack.
"What?"
"Nothing immediately life-threatening. Some kind of wasting sickness—the healers are managing it. But it's made him… reflective." Silas's mouth twisted. "He's been asking for you. Both of us, actually. Wants to see his sons reconciled before—" He waved a hand. "Well. Before."
"And you decided to come here first? To warn me? Or to ensure I wouldn't show up?"
"I came to see what you'd become." Silas met his eyes, and for just a moment, the sardonic mask slipped. Something rawer showed through—something that might have been pain. "To see if five years of exile had made you any different, or if you were still the same golden boy who never had to try for anything in his life."
"Golden boy." Thallos laughed, the sound harsh. "Is that what you think? That everything came easy for me?"
"Didn't it?"
"Nothing came easy." The words burst out before he could stop them, five years of silence crumbling. "Do you have any ideawhat it was like, growing up in your shadow? You were the smart one, the clever one, the one Father actually respected. I was just—decoration. A pretty face to trot out at parties. Every time I tried to prove I was more than that, you made sure to remind everyone I wasn't."
Silas stared at him. "That's… not how I remember it."
"Then your memory is selective." He began to pace, his hooves striking the wooden floor in an agitated rhythm. "Every accomplishment I had, you diminished. Every relationship I built, you undermined. And Jen—" He stopped, turning to face his brother. "Jen was supposed to be different. She was supposed to prove that I could be chosen for who I was, not what I looked like. And you took that from me."
"I took nothing that wasn't already leaving."
"Bullshit."
