He's too much your brother, never enough your enemy. Hitting him is one thing; it's another to watch the bruises darken his face, and remember that once you would have killed a man for laying a hand – for daring! – on your brother. You remember all of the boasts you made.
He hated that. You're sure. His whole face would pale and you would be picking spiders out of your soup for days and for days. Worth it though, to keep him safe. You never doubted that.
Now he's looking at you, face pale with rage, your bruises on his face, and you wonder just what you gave up to save him. If it was too much.
If it was not enough.