Cain's POV – The Forest
The forest stretched endless before him, an emerald sea broken only by shafts of pale moonlight. His black steed padded silently across the undergrowth, wings folded tight, horn glimmering faintly in the dark. Each step the horse took kept Cain's curse from seeping into the ground, sparing the trees that would have withered if he walked on foot.
Cain sat tall in the saddle, one hand resting on the horse's warm neck. His arms glowed with that faint, eternal blue light — the same glow that once made men mistake him for a god. Now it was only a reminder of everything he had lost.
He thought of Abel. His brother had gone with Chel, chasing a life Cain could never have: laughter, warmth, children. Cain had smiled when they parted, but inside, a hollow ache burned.
"Family," he whispered to the night. "That was never meant for me."
The horse snorted softly, as if disagreeing.
That was when he saw Him.
A man stood at the edge of the trail, bathed in moonlight. Simple robes, bare feet, hair white as starlight. His eyes… infinite. The sight made Cain tighten his grip on the reins, though the stranger only smiled.
"Cain," the man said gently, as though speaking to a child long lost.
Cain knew Him instantly. He had seen that face once before, in the days before blood was spilled. His voice broke:
"…My Lord."
SCP-343 — God Himself — stepped forward, walking beside the horse as though He had always been there.
For a time, they said nothing. Only the sound of hooves and the night wind filled the silence. At last, Cain spoke:
"I've wandered longer than men can count. I've seen kingdoms rise, forests turn to desert, rivers dry to dust. Yet no matter where I go… I carry this curse. I can't love. I can't touch. I can't build. I destroyed my chance the day I struck my brother down."
The Lord listened, patient, as Cain's voice cracked with centuries of sorrow.
"And now," Cain continued, "Abel has everything I can't. A woman. A home. A future. He still seeks me out — again and again — but only to remind me of what I am not. Tell me, my Lord… why was I allowed to live this way?"
The old man's eyes softened.
"Because even in your curse, I gave you mercy. You say Abel reminds you of what you lack. But he also reminds you of what you still have."
Cain frowned. "…What do I have?"
"A brother," the Lord said simply. "A bond unbroken by death or exile. You will never be alone, Cain, not truly. He finds you, even when you do not seek him. That is no accident."
Cain's chest tightened. He looked away, hiding the wetness in his eyes. His horse shifted beneath him, restless but loyal.
"You forgive me?" Cain asked at last. "Even after… everything?"
"I forgave you long ago," the Lord said, placing a hand briefly on the horse's mane. "It is you who must learn to forgive yourself."
The forest seemed brighter suddenly, as though dawn were near. The figure began to fade, His form dissolving into moonlight.
Cain sat frozen in the saddle, trembling as his throat closed around words he could not speak. When the last of the light vanished, he exhaled shakily and looked toward the horizon.
Somewhere, far beyond, he knew Abel walked still. And someday, their paths would cross again.
Cain tugged the reins gently. His steed whickered, eyes glowing blue in the dark. Together, they moved forward — not toward redemption, not toward family, but toward something Cain could finally accept.
Not alone.
Never alone.
Abel's POV – The Island
The ocean shimmered gold in the fading sun, casting long shadows over the little farm he and Chel had built with their own hands. Rows of crops swayed in the breeze — grain, fruit, vegetables — each thriving under Abel's quiet care. Where Cain's touch withered life, Abel's hands called it to flourish.
Chel sat near the waterline, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders as she cradled their newborn sons. The twins wriggled restlessly, one with eyes of bright, unnatural blue, the other with eyes that burned red like embers. Opposites, Abel thought. A perfect reflection of himself and Cain.
Abel crouched beside them, brushing a thumb across each boy's cheek. "Two brothers," he whispered. "They will quarrel. They will fight. But maybe…" He swallowed, voice tightening. "…maybe they will learn to forgive faster than we did."
Chel leaned into him, smiling faintly. "Then teach them. Show them what Cain could not. Show them there is more to life than rivalry and blood."
Abel looked out over the sea, his chest tightening with memory. He pictured Cain astride his black steed, wandering through forests and ruins, cursed to destroy what he touched. He imagined his brother's lonely path stretching on, far from this shore.
For a long moment, Abel said nothing. Then, softly, he prayed. Not aloud, not to be heard — but inward, with all the weight of his soul.
"Lord… my brother still walks in shadow. If You hear me, if You walk with him as You once walked with our father, do not abandon him. If I can hold life in my hands, then let Cain one day hold peace in his."
A gentle wind passed over the island, stirring the crops and rocking the twins in Chel's arms. Abel let himself breathe, let himself believe that somewhere out there, Cain had heard the same promise from the same Lord.
He turned back to Chel, to his sons, and to the land he would shape with them. For the first time in endless years, Abel felt not just alive, but whole.
Where Cain's story was one of wandering, his was one of planting.
Where Cain bore the curse, Abel bore the hope.
And though oceans lay between them, the brothers were still bound.
Always.