The Twins of Hollow Valle

There were two brothers. Twins. Born under the same moonlit night. They were identical in form but not in spirit, and though they shared a face, their ways could not have been more different.

Elias had a voice like velvet, soft and warm. “I love you,” he told the baker when he bought his bread. “You are a dear friend,” he murmured to the farmer as he passed his cart. “We are all one people,” he reminded the priest on Sundays, nodding as if kindness alone could keep the world from cracking.

People liked Elias. He made them feel good.

Corwin was different. His words were sharp, cut clean. “You’re a fool,” he told the baker when the man almost burned his loaves. “You’re wasting time,” he said to the farmer who kept a lame horse alive out of pity. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he told the priest, who only blinked in stunned silence.

People didn’t like Corwin. He made them feel bad.

But words are strange things. They can be dressed in silk or wrapped in thorns, and neither says much about the hands that hold them.

One winter, a beggar sat shivering on the steps of town hall, blue-lipped and hollow-eyed. Elias knelt beside him, placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, and whispered, “You are loved.” Then walked away.

Corwin sighed, tossed his coat at the man, and muttered, “Get off the damn ground before you freeze.”

Another day, a child tripped in the market, scraping his knee on the cobblestones. Elias knelt, cradled his face, and whispered, “You are so very precious.” Then he left him there.

Corwin grabbed the boy’s arm, yanked him to his feet, and said, “Stop crying. Here.” He handed him an apple and walked off without waiting for thanks.

One night, a house caught fire at the edge of the village. Flames curled like hungry fingers, devouring the roof beam by beam. Elias stood in the crowd, eyes glistening with sympathy. “We are all in this together,” he murmured.

Corwin cursed, ran straight into the smoke, and pulled the old man inside to safety.

In time, the villagers whispered.

“Elias is such a kind soul,” they said. “So full of love.” People basked in the comfort of his words.

“Corwin is a bitter man,” they muttered. “So full of hate.” A cruel shadow besides his golden-tongued brother.

But then the beggar, the child, and the old man stood together in the market and watched as Elias whispered something soft and sweet into a young woman’s ear.

And the beggar said, “He speaks of love but acts with indifference.”

And the child said, “He tells me I am precious but lets me starve.”

And the old man said, “He calls us one people but never lifts a hand for another.”

Then Corwin walked past, insulted someone under his breath, and dropped a coin in the beggar’s hand without even looking at him.

And the beggar, the child, and the old man said nothing at all.

Because they finally understood.