Chapter Text
“Are your parents soulmates?”
The question is so personal, and so out of nowhere it throws Zorba off-kilter. From anyone else, it’d be deeply rude, bordering on offensive. From Louis, it’s just a passing curiosity, merely a topic of conversation to pass the time and nothing else.
“They weren’t, no,” he replies slowly, keeping his voice as even as possible. “Why do you ask?”
“Hmm,” Louis turns away from him, casting his gaze to something in the distance outside the window. Zorba has to bite his tongue, lest he beg the man to face him. Without Louis’s attention, he may as well not exist. As undeserving as he is, he needs Louis’s eyes on him like he needs oxygen.
“The Church has a vulgar practice of forcefully severing the bonds of those born out of soulmate union,” Louis explains, unaware of Zorba’s yearning. “To prevent them from ‘wasting’ their false god’s gift, they snuff out a bond before it has the chance to take root,” the count’s eyes return to his most loyal follower. “I was merely curious if you were a victim of such barbarity.”
Zorba looks down at his arms. Once, there had been words, so many beautiful words. Now lay only a barren wasteland of flesh. The Church’s teachings had taken a lot from him, but this was one thing they couldn’t claim credit for.
“I had a soulmate, once,” he hesitantly offers. “The marks faded years ago. He’s dead, surely.”
“Marks?” Louis asks curiously, finally looking at him again. The way he latches onto the type of bond, rather than the gender Zorba let slip lightens a weight he didn’t realize he was carrying.
“Aye,” Zorba smiles ruefully. “My whole body used to be covered in them, head to toe. I’d wake up in the morning and look to see if any new ones showed up. Could never read the ones my back, but. I thought I had time.”
He laughs. It’s a quiet, bitter noise. “Figures. Someone who could look at a freak like me and find me beautiful? No one that sweet could last long in this world.”
Louis was eyeing him oddly. “What kind of bond did you say this was?”
“A skinbond. I was covered in all the things my soulmate would think about me when we met. Trivial, meaningless things, mostly. It’s nothing to concern yourself with, Lord Louis,” Zorba assures. “My loyalty is forever yours and yours alone.”
“You surprise me, Cirsium. I never took you for much of a romantic.”
The way Louis’s perfect, rosy lips wrap around his given name is so musical, so captivating.
“I’m not,” he shakes his head. “Before you found me, I was a pathetic wretch. Lost. Confused. But you made me strong, milord. You gave me worth. No soulmate could ever compare to the sense of purpose I feel serving you.”
“Fascinating,” Louis smiles something secretive. “My bond is the direct opposite of yours.”
Zorba doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t want to know anything about the perfect match who would one day replace him at Lord Louis’s side. At the same time, he yearns to know everything about Louis Guibern, every miniscule detail and facet of his personality. Both the things he shows the world and that which he only shares in these still, quiet moments. He wants to have all the pieces to the puzzle that is Louis, so he can carefully put them together and bury the image somewhere inside him, close to his heart, where it can never escape. It won’t be the same as having the man himself, but Zorba will gladly take every scrap he is offered. He’ll cradle the afterimage of this discussion, like every other interaction with Louis he’s ever had prior, against his chest as he falls asleep. The memory will warm his bed like a lover, before he awakes to find it cold and dead, smothered by his cloying, unrelenting embrace.
“Instead of words about how my soulmate will view me, I’m covered in how others perceive my mate.”
“Ah,” Zorba hears himself saying. “Anyone matched with you must be equally impressive.”
“One would think,” Louis replies coyly, the humor audible in his tone. Zorba feels like there’s something he’s missing, some unspoken secret Louis is holding above him, high but within reach if he could only figure out how to grab it.
“So? Anything particularly damning, milord?” Zorba asks. He wants to know nothing about this perfect person who will one day steal his spot at Lord Louis’s side, but he wants Louis to keep talking. He wants him to keep looking at him for eternity, but he’ll settle for just a little while longer.
“Not at all. My mate remains ever elusive.”
“I hope you find her, one day,” Zorba lies.
“Him,” Louis corrects. He has that look on his face again, the one he gets when he’s calculating a particularly complicated spell or trying to mentally envision spoken schematics.
Zorba feels like he’s been given the answer to something but he cannot, for the life of him, figure out what.
--0--
Soulmates are funny things. Everyone has one, regardless of tribe or noble standing. It’s the kind of higher magic that cannot be denied nor escaped. The culture surrounding them varies from region to region, and every tribe has its own traditions.
In the small Clemar village of Maldosa, just north of the bustling Altabury Heights, soulmates are life partners. Laying with anyone other than a soulmate is not only scandalous; it’s the ultimate sin, the highest affront to the benevolent God who so graciously blessed mankind with their Destined Pair.
When the town herbalist’s youngest daughter leaves for the Royal Academy and returns a semester later, pregnant with no soulmate in sight, the community greets her with disappointment and disdain. She is still welcomed back, because she is one of them, but her sin grows heavy inside her.
Cirsium’s birth happens in secret, his conception a mistake. His mother, a woman just barely old enough to not be called a ‘girl’- gives birth at home. It is a small, secretive affair. There is no midwife, and no doctor. No mage is summoned to announce the status of the Cirsium’s soul bond, and no relatives are invited to celebrate his entrance into the world.
When she first lays eyes on him, his mother bursts into tears. His maternal grandparents refuse to hold him, and their daughter doesn’t expect them to. Even cleaned and swaddled in fresh linens, there is an invisible filth that clings to him like a second skin.
--0--
By age four, Cirsium knows he is an unwanted child. Nobody tells him, but that doesn’t mean they don’t tell each other, loud enough for him to overhear. His grandparents, especially, make no effort to hide their disdain for him.
“Rosemary, please,” his grandmother will sigh to his mother. “I have company coming. Can you at least try to keep that unsightly boy hidden?”
His grandfather sometimes just looks at him, nose wrinkled the same way it does when he takes his medicine in the morning. That’s somehow worse than being talked over.
They talk at him, not to him, which means he’s not supposed to reply. Cirsium used to try to chime in and join conversations, but he knows better now. Only his mum wants to hear him talk.
He doesn’t mind, though. As long as he has his mother, that is enough. Every night, she reads him a bedtime story, brushes his hair, and they share a bed so he always falls asleep beside her.
Cirsium woke up in the middle of the night to find her gone, once. He knew he wasn’t supposed to leave their room by himself, but it was dark and he was so scared. When he crawled out of the room into the dimly-lit hallway, his mother was in the living room, sobbing into the arms of a woman he’d never met.
“I hate this,” she’d confessed “Being stuck here, day in and day out. Looking after him—I’ve tried to get rid of him so many times, and then he looks at me and calls me ‘mama’ and I feel so guilty. I should hate him, but I don’t. I try to love him like a mother, and I can’t.”
Cirsium didn’t want to hear anymore. He returned to the shadows, and tucked himself back into bed, promising himself he’d behave himself as much as he could so his mum would love him as he cried himself back to sleep.
When either of his grandparents are home, Cirsium’s confined to their bedroom. There’s a window, but it’s next to a giant tree, so he can’t see anything interesting. When it’s just him and his mum, she lets him roam while she cooks or sews, and he’s allowed to go anywhere but her parents’ room. He’s never, ever allowed to peer out any of the front windows, though, because someone might see him. No one is supposed to see him, not without his hat or headband on. He doesn’t mind; the garden is behind the house and that’s the only thing out the window that really interests him.
The plants look pretty from the bedroom window, but they’re especially pretty up close from the kitchen window. He knows he’s not supposed to, but he likes looking at them with his third eye. Every flower breathes sparkles into the air in more shapes and colors than he knows how to name.
(Once, he tried describing what he saw to his mum. She got really sad and told him not to talk about it anymore, to her or anyone else.)
Idlesday is different. On Idlesday, he gets to go outside and see all the flowers up close. If he is good (which he always tries very hard to be), his mother takes him to the market. Depending on the season, she either bundles him up in oversized hand-me-downs or lathered his pale skin in sunscreen.
“You’ll catch a cold, she’d say in the winter, struggling to push his horn through the hole in his hat. “You burn so easily,” she’d laugh in the summer as he puffed up his cheeks in impatience.
Regardless of the season, his mother always makes him wear a thick headband and one of his hats. He has four different hats, each a different style for different types of weather. They all have cotton-filled horns sewn onto the right side to match his real horn, and when he wears them, he feels more balanced. It’s easier to stand straight. The plush horns are weighted, is the explanation his mother gave him when he described the feeling. He loves his hats.
The headband he wears underneath them is another story.
It’s too tight at the top and too loose at the bottom. The way it touches his eyebrows makes him feel like it’s going to slide down his forehead, onto his nose, even though his mum triple-checks to make sure it won’t. Most annoying is the way it covers his third eye and pulls at his lashes when he tries to see all the pretty sparkles.
His mother says he has to wear them if he wants to leave the house, so he never complains, not after the first time, when she stayed true to her word and goes to the market without him.
Today is a special Idlesday. The market is filled with traveling merchants from surrounding towns, and even mages from the Academy.
“There are going to be a lot of people. Don’t go wandering off,” his mother warns him. Of course, he readily agrees, but that is before he sees the tents filled with sparkling items that glitter from every angle.
His mum is “catching up” with their usual bread dealer. Cirsium can’t understand it. There is a tent filled magical things, and she is discussing bread!
He was told not to leave her sight, and he isn’t. He can see her, and she can see him if she turns around and looks.
There is so much to take in. Pens that write without being held, bottles that unleash fire when opened, candles that stay lit forever.
The thing that finally manages to hold his attention is a mirror. It’s pocket-sized and doesn’t look magical like everything else. But there’s something about it. An invisible energy? That pulls him in.
Everything else in the shop looks magical, but this one feels magical, in a way he can’t explain. No one is watching, so he pulls down his headband and opens his eye.
The mirror is stunning. It’s so colorful, so vibrant, and there are so many different shapes of sparkles coming from it. It’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.
“That’s a good eye you’ve got, son,” a voice says behind him, spooking Cirsium so bad he jumps. He pulls his hat down as low as it can go, and slowly turns around.
“T-thanks,” he says, before meekly tacking on- “s-sir.”
The man—probably the merchant—towering over him laughs. It echoes behind his metal mask.
“Sorry, kid. Didn’t mean to startle you. This’s the most powerful item I’m selling. Not many recognize it for what it is,” The merchant taps on the face of his mask. “They don’t see what we do.”
Instantly, Cirsium’s shyness morphs into curiosity. “You see the colors?”
“Sure can,” says the man. The shape of the sparkles surrounding this stranger are different from Cirsium’s mum and grandparents. They look closer to his. “The magla is beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Magla? It’s all magic?” Cirsium looks back at the mirror in wonder. “What does it do?”
“Well, it doesn’t really do anything,” the merchant explains. “It’s a barrier. But, unlike most shields, it absorbs any magic you hit it with. All those shapes are decades- maybe centuries’ worth of magic its collected.”
“Woah.”
The little boy isn’t sure how long he stares at the pretty mirror. It must be a while, because his mum is frantic when she finds him.
“There you are! What did I tell you abou—cover that up—” she tugs the brim of his hat down until it nearly covers his nose before scolding him. “I told you not to run off, didn’t I? Don’t you ever, ever, scare me like that again, okay?”
“Mummy,” Cirsium says as he’s dragged away. “That man can see the sparkles, too.”
--0--
For the first five years, Cirsium has his mother’s undivided attention. When she’s not helping her parents run the shop, she’s with him. He never thinks to question her lack of social life or community outside his maternal grandparents because that is all he knows.
And then, she meets her soulmate.
His name is Finley. He’s strong and handsome and a carpenter from out of town. Cirsium never gets to go with her to meet him, but he listens to his mother gush about him constantly.
“Look!” she says, showing him her skin. Everywhere Finley touches her leaves a streak of color, in bright blues and greens that last hours afterwards. From how decorated her skin is, he must touch her an awful lot.
Some evenings, his mother feeds him dinner and then goes out, leaving him alone for the rest of the night. The first couple times, he tries to stay awake until she comes back to read him his bedtime stories, but he always falls asleep with the lights on and wakes up a couple hours later alone and confused. He tries to read aloud to himself, but his voice isn’t pretty and he’s not a good reader like his mum is yet.
Pretty soon, his mum stops taking him to the market every Idlesday, even when he behaves himself all week. She’s going out with Finley. She’s meeting Finley’s family. Finley’s taking her to the fair.
She smiles when she talks about Finley. He’s perfect and she loves him so much already.
Cirsium wishes he was that easy to love.
--0—
Cirsium is six when his mom marries Finley. He knows he is six, but he isn’t sure if anyone else remembered; his mum and her soulmate wanted a fall wedding and they decided on October 13, two days after his birthday. Everyone was far too busy making last minute preparations to pay attention to him. When he asked if he could have cake, his mom told him to wait until after the wedding.
His mum’s new husband is Finley, and Finley is fine. He’s a Clemar with soft features and a haircut that makes him hard to identify in crowds. When he talks to Cirsium, he’s awkward and stilted, but not outright mean. Even though he carves wood and makes pretty furniture, he has no knack for creativity. Cirsium doesn’t like him, but he doesn’t dislike him either.
It doesn’t matter how he feels, though. This boring man is his mum’s soulmate.
Cirsium spends the wedding ceremony dressed in an ugly grey suit that itches everywhere. He’s seated in the front row, on the same pew as his maternal grandparents (not next to them, of course. He never sits next to them. There’s a good half bench empty between them), allllll the way at the end. From this angle, the only bit he can see of his mother is the train of her skirt, but that’s okay. He got to watch her try on her white dress in their room a week ago. He’s sure she looks just as pretty now as she did then.
At the reception, his mother and her new husband sit at a long table in the front of the room, where guests and family members Cirsium has never met can go up to greet and congratulate them.
She looks pretty. Or Circium thinks she does, at least. It’s hard to see her clearly. He’s sat at the end of the kids’ table, in one of the far corners by the bathroom. Alone, like he normally is when his mother isn’t around. There are three empty seats between him and the children on his right, and no one is seated across from him. While the other children giggle to each other, he eats his fancy wrapped chicken in silence, making sure not to spill any on his nice pants so his mum won’t have to clean them later.
“Isn’t it strange?” he overhears somebody’s aunt—he’s not sure who’s; they were never introduced. “Rosemary’s son? What’s-his-name? Why wasn’t he in the ceremony?”
“Oh, you don’t know?” speaks another relative he’s never met. “He’s a halfling.”
“What?!” exclaims the aunt before lowering her voice. Cirsium can still hear her. “A halfling? Isn’t it inhumane to let them live this long? I’d have put the wretch out of his misery at birth!”
“She probably felt bad for him,” chimes in a third woman. “Rosemary and her bleeding heart.”
Cirsium bites his lip and leans forward so the brim of his hat covers his eyes. He waits until the women walk away, and then he leaves.
The reception hall—which is really just the largest covered pavilion in town—isn’t too far from the house. He spends the entire twelve-minute walk trying desperately not to cry. Once he gets home, he lets himself in, makes his way to his mother’s room, crawls into bed, and sobs.
Cirsium isn’t aware of it in the moment, but this is the first time he uses magic. The anguish leaks from him, sullies his already dark magla, and stains the bedding around him. His desire to be held is so strong it bends his blankets and pillows to his will. They wrap around him, in a mimicry of an embrace. His favorite blanket rubs his back, up and down, the same way his mother does when he’s sick. It’s not enough, but it’s all he has.
Only when the tears finally dry does he realize he never got to eat the birthday cake his mom promised.
--0--
After the wedding, Circium and his mother move into the house Finley built. It’s sturdy and solid and wooden. Very, very wooden.
There is built-in shelving lining half the walls, thick banisters and lots of rooms to spread out. There’s big master bedroom with a bathroom attached for his mum and Finley. Off the second floor, there’s door. Behind the door is a flight of stairs, and then another door at the top that leads to the attic.
“This is your room, Cirsium” his mom says giddily. “Isn’t it big?”
It is big. The attic could fit five of the bedroom from his grandparents’ house in it. There are windows on both sides of the house that let in plenty of light, and a sun hatch that opens to the roof.
There’s a bed Finley made just for him, with his favorite blanket and pillow already on it.
Cirsium glances around, then back at his mother.
“Can’t I sleep with you?”
“Not anymore. You’re a big boy now. You have to sleep here.”
Sleeping alone is miserable. Cirsium hates it. He hates the quiet. He hates going to sleep alone. He hates waking up alone. He hates being with himself.
--0--
The first word Cirsium notices is “perfect,” in small print on his right forearm. He checks his left and finds, “lovely,” and “cute.” When he changes into his nightclothes, “precious” is written on his chest.
The next morning, he discovers “wonderful” and “soft” on his legs.
He runs to his parents’ room—parents’, plural, because at some point, Finley had gone from being Finley, his mom’s soulmate, to ‘Dad’—and proudly shows them.
“These are soul marks,” His mother smiles down at him.
His eyes widen. “I have a soulmate? Just like you?”
She nods. “These will help you find her.”
“What do they mean?” Cirsium asks eagerly.
“Well,” his mother hums, “All soul marks are different. Usually, you can go to a mage to figure out what they mean but…” She trails off. Cirsium has never been to a mage or a healer in his life. “Oh! I have an aunt with marks like these. The words turned out to be all the things her soulmate felt about her. Yours are probably the same.”
The child looks down at his arms in awe.
Cirsium is seven-and-a-half when he discovers that, somewhere, there exists a person who will love him just as much as he loves them.
--0--
When he’s eight, Cirsium becomes a big brother.
His sister’s name is Campanula. She’s small, and loud, and ugly. After his grandparents, and his aunts, and his cousins, and his mother’s closest friends have all had their fill of ooing and ahhing over the new baby and go home, the newborn is placed into his arms.
“This is your little sister,” his mom tells him. “She’s small now, so you have to protect her. But when she gets bigger, you’ll be the best of friends.”
Three weeks after her birth, Campanula is taken to the church to be baptized and have her soul read by a mage. It’s her first official outing. She’s put in a pretty white dress made from the underskirt of his mother’s wedding gown, with flowers twisted around her little grey horns and a bow in her small tuft of lilac hair.
Church has always been an activity that is just for the adults. Cirsium is naturally confused. Maybe, because Campanula’s so small and delicate, they’re afraid of leaving her alone with him?
Cirsium wants, so badly, to be helpful. He eagerly tells his mom and step father how capable he is. Campanula can stay home with him, and he’ll be a good brother and watch over her. He knows how to pick her up, and rock her to sleep. He’s never changed her diapers before, but he can figure it out!
“That’s okay,” is the reply he gets, before he’s left home alone while his sister goes out.
Campanula isn’t made to cover her head with an oversize hat or an uncomfortable headband. She isn’t made to hide, like he is.
When they return, his mom is giddy. Campanula’s bond is a rare one, she tells him. A special one. The mage determined little Cammie won’t be able to see certain colors until she and her soulmate meet.
He holds his sister as they hang a new canopy in the nursery so the she’ll lay in her crib and look up at colors she can see, rather than the blue ceiling she can’t.
“Isn’t it exciting?” his mother asks. “There’s something so poetic about looking someone in the eye and it filling the whole world with color. She may even be able to see more colors than you or I.”
Cirsium nods, even though he doesn’t understand. Under his breath, he mutters “I can see things, too.”
It isn’t quiet enough, though, because his mother whips around and gives him a look so stern and horrified, he feels ashamed for even having the thought.
--0—
As soon as she can walk, Campanula, or Cammie as she’s lovingly nicknamed, toddles behind him like an unbalanced little duckling. When she starts talking, her big brother is the person she asks for.
“Ceh-si,” she calls to him, flailing her grubby arms to be picked up. He always obliges.
When Cammie takes her afternoon naps, he waits patiently outside her bedroom door. He practices reading her favorite story books. She loves it when he does the voices, so he rehearses them, over and over again, until he can read every word without stumbling.
When she has nightmares in the middle of the night, it’s his bed Cammie crawls into. He never hears her scooting up the stairs until she’s right beside him, shaking him awake.
“Had a bad dream,” she’ll tell him. “Can you chase it away?”
“I’ll do my best,” he’ll promise.
One night, he shows her his magic. He’s never shown anyone before, not even his mother, but Campanula is different. She accepts every part of him. In her eyes, he can do no wrong.
“Look, Cammie,” he says, channeling magic into her favorite stuffed rabbit. He closes his eyes, feels out the feet and hands and ears. His magic pulses beneath the velveteen fluff, penetrates the cotton filing. He takes a deep breath, and the rabbit moves.
His sister’s blue eyes sparkle with joy as the stuffed animal gives her a little bow before twirling. “He’s dancing!” she squeals in delight. “He’s dancing!”
The little show lasts for a few minutes until Cammie yawns, big and wide, her eyes closing in exhaustion.
She wraps her arms around Cirsium’s neck and whispers. “You’re the best. I love you, Cirsy.”
Cirsium smiles, basking in the euphoric bliss of being wanted.
--0--
As the years passed, more and more words and phrases fade into existence. Some come and go, others are slowly replaced over time.
Cirsium studied and practiced his magic in secret, until ‘smart’ morphed into ‘brilliant’ and ‘talented’ became ‘magical prodigy.’ He wasn’t good at anything other than moving things, but he did it well, even without the help of an igniter! Seeing visible proof of his efforts paying off written clear as day upon his flesh only motivated him to work harder. He went from being able to control one small object at a time to two small objects. Two became three, and three became four until he got to the point where he could move almost everything in his room that wasn’t bolted down simultaneously.
Of everything written on him, “little ray of sunshine” is Cirsium’s favorite. It’s not very big, but darker than most of the others, planted on the back of his right hand where he can always see it and imagine about the kind of person who could look at him and feel joy.
Reference to his size is something that several words have in common. Small. Cute. Adorable
He knows he isn't going to stay child-sized forever; one day, he'll grow up and be tall, like the men in his village. He’s already the same height as his mother, and he isn’t even thirteen yet. The idea of a soulmate larger than him... it makes his heart flutter.
When he reads picture books aloud to Campanula, he starts fantasizing about being the princess locked in the tower. One day, when he is beautiful and kind and smart enough, a tall, dark man with soft eyes and a blinding smile will whisk him away. Maybe, his soulmate will have only one horn like him, and together they’ll make a pair. Imagining it late at night has him giggling into his pillows, his comforter wrapped around him like the prince charming of his fantasies.
Soulmates are a blessing from God, but not all pairs are equal. To be matched with someone of a lesser tribe means He has deemed one unworthy of an equal, and to be partnered with someone of the same sex means a person’s soul is so inherently sinful they are undeserving of love. Two men cannot procreate. They cannot start a family, nor can they unite in the throes of passion, whatever that is. Soulmates or not, any union between men would never be accepted by the church nor civilized society.
Cirsium isn’t accepted anyway, so that’s fine with him. He’s never stepped foot in a church before, so why should he care if the Sanctists kick him out? Kids aren’t something he’s ever thought about, and society already rejects him. All he wants is someone to love him.
One day, when the rest of his family is away at church, Cirsium gets into his mum's closet. His feet are almost as big as hers, now. Her heels are loose but he can still shuffle in them. He isn't very good and stumbles a few times, but he'll get there, he tells himself, as he practices walking.
Then, he looks at himself in her full-body mirror. His skin is pale enough for all his veins to show and his deep purple hair is a scraggly mess. His lips are thin and chapped. His pitch-black horn makes him look lopsided, and, even closed, the third eye in the center of his forehead only highlights his asymmetry.
“Beautiful” is written large and bold across his collarbones, and “pretty” covers his entire bicep. The boy staring back at him is neither of those things. He’s ugly, Cirsium realizes in horror. No wonder people don’t want to see him.
He stares his reflection in the eyes- just two of them, because he’s terrified of what he’ll see if he opens the third one. At least his eyes are nice. They’re bright and vibrant, the color of the igniters he saw in the marketplace. He can work with this. He has to.
--0--
At thirteen, Cirsium decides he’s going to attend the Royal Academy. There, he can prove himself. He won’t have to hide anymore. A graduate of the Academy will be accepted anywhere. He’ll learn magic and make a name for himself creating spells. He’ll live in a cottage in the woods, like a witch from a fairytale. Or maybe a garden filled with all sorts of magical plants.
Maybe, his soulmate will live there with him.
The tuition is expensive, but, if he manages to prove himself and impress the king, he can earn a scholarship. Every year there’s an application process and 500 young mages are granted acceptance. Scholarships to the Academy can go to anyone, regardless of tribe or nobility. His mother had gotten one, and, hopefully, he will, too.
Cirsium reads every book he can put his hands on, studies everything he can about magic. When his family is traveling, he raids his mother’s small personal library of books from her Academy days. He doesn’t understand most of it at first, so he switches to the practical texts instead of the theoreticals.
He’s going to make it, he tells himself. The words from his soulmate are proof of it.
--0--
When Cirsium is fourteen, Campanula is six. She’s old enough to go to school now. A proper school, run by actual teachers in a classroom, and not their mother at the kitchen table.
In the mornings, Cirsium walks her to the old school house. In the afternoons, he waits for her in the courtyard. The time between seems to last an eternity without Cammie. Quiet. Without her constantly asking for her big brother, he’s barely acknowledged at all.
“Circy!” Campanula calls across the lawn, waving excitedly. Cirsium waves back, because how can he not? Her joy is infectious.
Instead of running over to him like she normally does, his sister turns to the two older kids behind her.
“See?” she points his way. “That’s my big brother!”
Before Cirsium has time to mentally prepare himself, his sister has made her way over with two older boys and one of her little classmates.
“This is Layla, Circy!” she introduces her mousey-haired friend. “And this-“ she gestures up at one of the older boys. “-is her brother, Phillip! And his friend, Benny!”
“Ah. Hello,” Cirsium greets uncomfortably.
“I made a lot of friends at school, but you don’t go to school, so you don’t have friends,” Cammie explains eagerly. “Benny and Philip are your age, so you can be friends, now.”
“I—thanks, Cammie,” Cirsium replies.
The two older boys look at each other and snicker. He’s not sure what the joke is, but he’s never had friends before, so maybe this is normal.
“See you around, Circy,” the taller one—Benny?- says, before the group walks off.
Benny and Phillip sometimes cut classes. Circium finds this out one afternoon when he’s practicing magic in the woods. Not every object moves when he wants it to. He can’t animate things out of his line of vision, but he can move things in water. It’s just a lot harder than puppeteering objects normally. The water weighs down whatever he’s attempting to control, so he’s been working on moving pebbles in the creek.
He’s so engrossed in his magic he doesn’t notice the other boys until one of them is directly behind him.
“So this is where the freak hides away.”
Cirsium squeaks loudly in surprise, knocking himself off-balance. He catches himself and lands on his rump. Which isn’t great, but it’s better than falling into the tepid water.
“He doesn’t look like a freak,” Phillip continues, looking him up and down.
“It’s hard to tell with that hat on,” says Benny.
Phillip tilts his head. “You’re right. Hey, Circy. We’re friends now. Mind taking off that hat?”
“S-sorry—I can’t-I shouldn’t—”
“Oh, come on. It’s just a hat.” Phillip goads.
“No, I can’t—”
Cirsium didn’t realize it before, but the boys are both taller and wider than him. When Benny reaches for him, he’s too shocked to move. Even if he’d tried to fight back, he wouldn’t have been able to escape from both of them.
His favorite hat-the lilac one, with the sand-weighted horn—is in the creek before he can process what has happened. Benny doesn’t stop there, though. His scarf is ripped off next, followed by his jacket. All are thrown into the near-freezing creek.
“Phillip, look! He’s only got one horn!”
“Is that an eye on his forehead? Gross! Do you think he can see out of it?”
Phillip snorts. “Why don’t we ask him. Well, freak? Can you see out of your third eye?”
The crisp, autumn air bites into Cirsium’s bare arms. It feels like there’s a lump in his throat, the size of large pebble. His face is freezing. When he reaches up, he realizes he is crying.
The action draws attention away from his eye and onto his arms. Or, rather, the writing on his arms.
“No way. Are these soulmarks? The freak has a soulmate?”
Benny grabs his wrist and pulls. “’Little ray of sunshine?’” He reads. “’Sweet angel?’”
Cirsium wants them to stop. He wants to yell at them, but he can’t breathe. Why can’t he breathe?
“‘Delightful?’ ‘Perfect?’” Benny continues. “Are these supposed to be about you?”
Phillip laughs. “No way. There’s no way this freak has a soulmate.”
“Can you imagine? What kind of weirdo would be bonded with him?”
Cirsium’s breathing is shallow, and he’s feeling light headed. His heartbeat is so loud, he can feel it in his ears. Phillip and Benny keep talking, but they’re getting harder and harder to hear. He focuses on breathing, in and out, until the feeling of being suffocated eases a bit.
“She’s probably ugly.”
“Or blind. Maybe both.”
“Or maybe--- she’s a dog. Dogs love anyone, as long as you feed them.”
“A mutt for a mutt? That sound about right, freak?” Benny nudges him with his foot.
“No…he…” sounds leave Cirsium’s mouth. He swallows and tries again. They’re wrong. He has a soulmate, and his soulmate is kind and strong and wonderful. These-these bastards have no right to speak about his soulmate like that. They have no right to speak about him at all. On the ground around him, multiple rocks begin to tremble.
“What was that? Does the freak have something to say?”
“-on’t talk about him,” Cirsium manages to get out. “Don’t you dare.” His vision is still blurry around the edges, but once he starts talking, he finds himself unable to stop. The rocks around him rise along with his voice. “Don’t say another word about my soulmate. He’ll find me, and he’ll be so much better than either of you.”
The other boys are startled silent for a moment.
“He? Your soulmate is a boy?”
“Ew, gross!” Phillip makes a show of jumping away. “You’re one of those gaysexuals?”
Benny looks at him with a different kind of revulsion than Cirsium is used to. He looks at him like he's dangerous. “I touched you. You enjoyed it, didn’t you? Gross! You’re one of those degenerates. No wonder they don’t let you go to school. You’d whore yourself out to anyone. Disgusting.”
“Don’t talk to him, Benny. He’s probably getting off to it.”
With that, the bullies leave, and Cirsium is left shivering in the woods alone. He collects his scarf, coat and hat, wringing out as much water as he can before going home to change before picking up Campanula.
The other boys are not quiet, and word travels fast. The next day is Idlesday. When his parents return from Church, Cammie is noticeably absent.
Cirsium is halfway down the attic stairs when he hears yelling and pauses.
“-semary! I’ve tried to put up with him because he’s your son, but I don’t want that boy around our daughter anymore!”
“He’s her brother.”
“He’s a monster. You heard what he did to those boys in the woods. Who knows what he’s doing to Campanula when she’s in his room at night.”
“Finley!”
“Don’t ‘Finley’ me. You know damn well it shouldn’t have gotten this far.”
“We can’t just kill him!”
“I’m not suggesting we do. Look. I understand. He’s your son, and you’ve done everything you can. But he’s not normal. No teenage boy is that interested in a six-year-old.”
“I—”
Cirsium presses his ear to the door, waiting to hear his mother defend him. She never does.
For a while now, Cirsium suspected his mother didn’t love him. This only confirms it.
By the time Campanula has returned from their grandparents’ house, Finley installed the bolt lock on the attic door. Cirsium is only allowed out of his room when his sister’s not home.
No one ever asks for his side of the story. No one ever tells him what he did wrong.
Campanula is willful in a way Cirsium could never be. When she’s told her big brother isn’t allowed to play with her anymore, she screams and cries and begs their parents to let her see him. When they refuse, she tries to break down the door herself. For a week, she walks herself home from school and sits on the top step, sobbing on the other side of the locked door and Cirsium can do nothing but whisper soft apologies. Eventually, their parents catch her and put a padlock on the door at the bottom of the staircase as well. Cirsium soon starts receiving letters, slipped under the door in her messy scrawl. Every day, there’s a new one. He keeps a collection of them, in a box inside one of his pillows where no one will think to look for it.
--0--
The June before his fifteen birthday, Cirsium becomes a big brother again.
His mother hadn’t even told him she was pregnant, but she didn’t have to; he could see the fetus growing inside her before she even started showing. He probably knew before she did.
This time, he isn’t asked to greet his new sibling. Her name is Hazel, but he only knows that because Campanula told him through the door.
After the extended family has left and Hazel is able to sleep through the night in her own nursery rather than the master bedroom, Cirsium goes to visit her.
The lock never stops him from leaving his room. It took him two minutes to figure out the inner workings the first time. Now, it’s second nature.
Unlike Campanula, who is very obviously his sister, Hazel looks nothing like him. She has Finley’s brown hair and milky white horns that curve inward rather than upward. His new little sister feels like a stranger, but he swallows his nerves and presses a finger against her soft cheek. He doesn’t remember Cammie ever being this small.
Hazel smiles in her sleep, and he smiles back. “Hi, Hazel. I’m your big brother.”
That isn’t the last time he goes to visit Hazel in the middle of the night. After a week of nightly visits, he grows brave enough to hold her. She opens her eyes, and they’re the same bright and vibrant blue as Cammie’s.
He hopes she’ll stay this small forever. As soon as Hazel becomes verbal, his visits will have to end.
--0--
Six months after his sixteenth birthday, his brother Rowan is born. Rowan is loud. He screams a lot, at all hours of the day, and it’s hard to study. That’s all Cirsium does now. Study. Study, and practice, then study some more. In the evenings, once his parents finally sequester Rowan into his own nursery, Cirsium sneaks downstairs and gently rocks the crib with his magic as he reads beside it. Sometimes, he’ll cradle Rowan in his arms and turn the pages with magic, but Rowan loves pulling his hair and giggling at the pained expressions it results in.
Cirsium’s filled out the application paperwork for the Academy scholarship twice. Both times, he receives letters back saying there were too many applicants. This year, he made sure to mail his months in advance, and he got a letter back with a date for his interview for the next school year. It’s in 10 months, which is and isn’t a lot of time. Cirsium plans to spend every day honing his skill.
The venue is in Altabury. It’s two days by carriage, and he has no idea how he’ll get there yet. He hasn’t talked to his mother about it.
He’s afraid she’ll tell him no.
--0--
Cirsium Zorba is freshly seventeen when the Mage Academy burns, and the sky above his home is darkened by its ashes.
Instead of taking the entrance exam as he’d planned, he enlists to join the military. It’s not ideal, but it’s an escape. He needs to leave this village, and show the world he’s worthy. There’s a war brewing, and they will take anyone, even someone as unfortunate as he.
The night he leaves—he doesn’t run away. It’s only running away if people want you to stay- Campanula catches him walking out the door.
It’s the first time they’ve seen each other face-to-face in over three years. She cries in his arms.
“Where are you going?” she asks. She doesn’t ask why—child that she may be, she knows the reason.
“The military,” he responds. “I’m going to find my soulmate.”
“Please don’t die,” she begs him instead of asking him to stay. “Can you come visit? I’ll write you letters every day.”
He promises her nothing. just whispers a quiet ‘goodbye’ before sneaking off the property for the last time.
--0--
Cirsium hates the military. He hates the heavy, layered uniforms, the heat Grand Trad sun, the “yes, sirs” and the way he’s always singled out by those in charge.
He needs to become a smart and skilled mage as quickly as he can so he can finally meet his soul mate. That’s what he tells himself, and it gets him through basic training and into the infantry. It’s hard, and he hates ever second of it, but it’ll be worth it, in the end. He’ll transfer to the mage corps, and prove his potential.
Exhausted from the sudden influx of physical labor and constantly surrounded by other people, he breaks his habit of reading his soulmarks before bed.
Three months into his enlistment, he finally has a set schedule and an off day and a moment alone to himself. After writing Campanula, Cirsium enters the vacant bathroom and strips in front of the mirror.
Cirsium Zorba is eighteen years old when he looks in the mirror and finds not a single word left on his skin.
Louis Charadrius was born covered in marks. The old soulmate magic took to him immediately, painting words upon his puffy red skin seconds after he’d exited the womb.
“Cursed child” was written on one of his chubby arms. “Bastard” wrapped around his left foot. “Disgusting” made its way down his tiny back. Engraved in the flesh above his beating heart in bold, black ink was the word “mistake.”
The village’s most respected mage cradles him in her arms. She listens to the whispers of the Old Magic as it tells her the meaning of such horrible words. Each of the marks on Louis’s skin, she determines, are the way his mate is perceived by those around them.
“They aren’t based on mere hearsay or passing first impressions” She clarifies. “From what I gather, these are the thoughts of those who have gotten to know his mate.” The mage laughs humorlessly and tucks a strand of silver hair behind her ear. “At the very least, the language is the same.”
This type of soul bond is practically unheard of. Typically, this would be a boon; the rarer and more specific a bond, the stronger the connection between mates.
In this instance, it feels needlessly cruel.
The night of Louis’s birth, amidst the joy of rocking their perfect, beautiful baby boy to sleep for the first time, his parents wept for another child they had never met.
--0--
Every tribe has their own customs and superstitions surrounding soulmates. Only the Elda, with their carefully documented history of both this world and the last, know the truth.
When the Old World collapsed under the weight of mankind’s hatred and hubris, after the screams died and the deafening silence was only broken by the tide crashing against a barren shore, someone made a wish.
“Please,” a lone voice whispered into the putrid air, thick from the smoke and raspy from disuse. “I don’t want to be alone. Don’t let me die alone.”
Perhaps this was a wish shared by many. Perhaps that voice was one of a thousand silent pleas from those who could no longer speak, for it was strong. Strong enough to bend reality. Strong enough to bless the last remnants of a dying civilization one final magic, a fragment of hope to carry into the New World.
Soulmates.
Soulmates are funny things. Everyone has one, regardless of race or social status. The magic is powerful. It cannot be destroyed, nor can it be redirected. (In some rare instances, a bond can be severed, though the process is highly dangerous and often deadly.) Despite the efforts of generations of scholars and mages, soulmate magic isn’t replicable.
There are different types of soulbonds, seemingly perfectly tailored to each individual pair. (Or trio. Or even quartet, in rarer cases.)
The most common category are skinbonds. Skinbonds, like the name implies, are any bond that manifest as marks on the skin.
Sensory bonds where mates share a sense—be it pain, taste, or smell- are the second most prevalent. They are the reason most parents have a mage or healer determine in infant’s bond type immediately after birth. Families with the means will purchase magical items for newborns to wear that dull the effects of a bond until the child is old enough to understand.
Bonds that grant a pair unique abilities outside the realm of traditional, learned magic are called Psibonds. These are the most varied, as they can range anywhere from being able to locate a mate from any distance to having visions of the future.
Link bonds are the rarest and most dangerous type of soulbond. In less severe cases, thoughts, emotions, and dreams are the only things linked. However, there have been many documented cases where magic reserves, stamina, or youth were shared between and one mate drained the other dry.
Stephanie and Benoît Charadrius shared a passion for healing—both magical and medicinal- as well as a mental link they used to collaborate on their research long before they’d ever met. Medicine was something they loved almost more than each other, and that mutual dedication pushed them to work harder.
Only after the two were well-established as the best healers in the Elda Sanctum and every smaller surrounding Elda village, did they consider getting married and starting a family.
By that point, both were well into their fifties. Conception was something that took years of trial, error, and diligent dedication, but the pair of doctors were well used to creating miracles.
To them, the medical accolades and heart-felt words of thanks from patients paled in comparison. Louis, their little ray of sunshine, was his parents’ crowning achievement.
--0--
By the time he was three, Louis had developed a desire to learn that far surpassed other children his age. He had started writing his letters, practicing his vowels and nothing short of hiding every written word in their cottage would stop him from trying to read.
Louis was so bright, so smart. He was a little prodigy, and his parents couldn’t be prouder. But they wished they had a more time; the world was so cruel and he was still so, so young.
The words on Louis’s skin had gotten worse. They were things no four-year-old should have written on them, let alone attempt to sound out. Despite their best attempts to hide the marks from view, there was no way to stop a child from looking at his own skin.
Louis’s mother had been bracing herself for the day her son would repeat one of the words, but it didn’t prepare her for which word he’d chosen to repeat.
“Please,” she begged, sitting her son down by the kitchen table, “Never, ever say that again. Can you promise me?”
“If it’s so bad, why’s it written on me?” Louis pouted petulantly. Other children had their terrible twos and the ‘no’ phase where they blatantly refused things; Louis argued. It was as endearing as it was frustrating.
“Oh, honey…” she struggled to find the words. “Every soulbond is special. Yours, too.”
She gently clasped his tiny hands. “These words are the things people think about them.”
Louis squinted down at his arm. “My soulmate is a fool?”
“Foul, dear. It’s pronounced ‘foul’. And no. Look at me, Louis,” she cupped his cheeks in her hands before he could attempt to sound out another awful word. “Your soulmate is a very special person, just like you. But they’re not in a good place right now, okay? Wherever they are, the people around them are being very, very mean to them.”
Her brilliant little boy scrunched his face up in confusion. “Why? Is it because they misbehaved?”
“Louis,” she squished his face. “The world outside the Sanctuary isn’t nice. Sometimes, people can be mean just to be mean.”
--0--
When he’s four, Louis attempted to run away from home. It was short-lived, however. He’d barely left the village before he was spotted by a strange man, clad in all black.
“Good afternoon,” the man said pleasantly. “Are you out here by yourself?”
Louis pulled his backpack higher up on his shoulders. “Of course. I’m running away.”
“I see,” the man replied. “Where are you going?”
“I’m leaving the sanctuary,” stated Louis. “I’m going to see the rest of the world.”
“Is that so? That’s a quite a distance. You must have packed very thoroughly for such an adventure.”
“Yes,” Louis affirmed proudly. “I packed everything.”
“Everything? Are you sure?”
Louis nodded. He set his bag down and began removing items to show the stranger, listing them off, one by one, “My favorite book, a knife, a magic mirror, some paper to draw a map, a pen, and—ah! Potions! Plenty of potions!”
“Hmm,” the man stroked his chin sagely. “There’s a desert outside this forest. You’re going to get very thirsty without water.”
“Oh.”
Louis returned home.
The next day, he tried again, this time making sure to pack a flask of water to survive the desert. Right outside the village, he encountered the same man, and, once again, the man asked to see his inventory.
“No sturdy boots? Once you get past the desert, there are some very tall mountains you will have to climb.”
Louis decided not run away just yet.
A day later, he made a third attempt. The strange man smiled softly in approval before telling him,
“You know, you aren’t dressed warm enough for the elements—it’s very cold after you pass the mountains.”
Louis stomped back to the village.
On the fourth day, Louis didn’t try to run away at all.
“You know a lot about the outside world,” he pointed at the man. “Tell me everything.”
(The man doesn’t, of course. Louis can tell that everything the man tells him is watered-down because he’s a child. He won’t leave now, but one day, when he’s big enough to be taken seriously, he’ll leave this small, boring forest and see the rest of world for himself.)
--0--
Louis had known the Elda Chieftess far before he knew she was the Elda Chieftess. To him, she’d always been “Aunt Sylvie,” the aunt who wasn’t biologically the sister of either of his parents. She was someone the Charadrius’s grew close to whilst learning magical medicinal remedies, and had even been the mage who’d determined Louis’s Soulbond. Whenever his parents were traveling for work, he got to stay with her.
The Chieftess was born without a soulmate, and remained unbonded well into adulthood. In all the Elda’s documented history, she is the only instance of such a thing. Being mateless didn’t make Aunt Sylvie sad. She was bonded with no one, free to go wherever her heart took her (as long as she carried out all her duties in the Sanctum, of course.) She was bright and bouncy, and perfectly content to live her life without a higher power dictating her fate.
That was until she met the traveler.
The strange man at the edge of the village made no attempt to hide himself, so it was only a matter of time until someone alerted the Chieftess of a possible threat. Being the most powerful amongst all the Elda, she’d gone to meet with him alone. An hour later, she’d returned, dragging the man into the village by the arm.
That evening, she invited herself over to the Charadrius household for dinner, unannounced and uninvited, as was typical for her.
Louis has always thought of his Aunt Sylvie as someone larger than life. Beside the lanky wanderer, she looked short.
“This is Thomas,” she announced. “I’m his soulmate.”
The traveler, Thomas, had the ability to sense and locate Aunt Sylvie. That’s how he’d managed to find the Elda Sanctuary: he followed his bond until it led him to her. However, the bond is painfully one sided. There’s no special magic pulling her towards him. He will always need her far more than she needs him.
Louis can’t help feeling bad for him.
“Weren’t you disappointed?” he asked the man. It's one of those 'insensitive questions' his parents always pester him about asking, but Aunt Sylvie never seems to mind them, and neither does Mr. Thomas.“You came all this way to find someone who doesn’t need you.”
The wanderer simply laughed at him. “Of course not. She completes me. You’ll feel the same when you meet yours.”
“No, I won’t.” Louis disagreed. “My soulmate’s a—well. Look for yourself.”
Louis pulled up his sleeves, and the traveler’s eyes widened as he absorbed all the words blemishing Louis’s skin.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, before pulling Louis in for a hug. “I’m so, so sorry. I’m going to fix this. I promise you. I’m going to fix this.”
At the time, Louis didn’t understand what he meant.
--0--
When he’s six, Louis’s mother notices a new word on his neck. It’s a bad one, obviously, because all anyone seems to think about his mate are bad things. This word, however, is a particular genre of slur unlike any of the others.
His mom makes that face she always does when she’s telepathically communicating with this father, and then he’s sat down at the kitchen table to have another ‘talk.’
“Louis,” she starts, gently. “You know there’s nothing wrong with two men loving each other, right?”
“Of course,” Louis nods. He read a psychology book that had a chapter entirely dedicated to sexualities just the week before. “Homosexuals exist to raise the children of those who are incapable, or have too many. They’re crucial members of a balanced society.”
His mom winces. Louis knows, instantly, she and his dad are going to raid his room and confiscate every book they don’t deem ‘age appropriate’ again.
Then she smiles proudly and ruffles his hair.
“That’s right,” she says. “But some people aren’t smart enough to understand that. They’re not as clever as you are, nor as well-read.”
“Well, then. Those people are idiots.”
--0--
Louis doesn’t hate gay people (or whatever they prefer to be called), but he hates his soulmate.
They tell him his soulmate is someone around his age, so whoever he’s matched with is probably stupid. Every other kid he’s met is dull. When he talks to them, they can’t understand most of what he’s saying. All they want to do is run around and play pretend. It’s all so trivial and childish. Half of them can’t even read. The afternoons where his parents take away his books and make him play with the immature brats in the Sanctum to ‘socialize’ are some of the worst he’s had to endure. Louis can’t imagine putting up with that for the rest of his life.
He hates being coddled and babied, and the way his parents lean on each other and cuddle is gross. They do this horrible thing where they make eye-contact with each other across rooms and smile, and it’s the worst.
Secretly, he hopes the person is his rival. Those are rare, but some of the intellectual and driven people in history were matched with a person who pushes them to improve. If that’s the kind of person he’s bonded to, it’s acceptable.
Otherwise, he doesn’t need them.
Based on the things written on him, a fated enemy is the most likely scenario. His mom told him not to believe the words, but he’s not a baby. He’s read that, if a large group observes the same phenomenon, it’s considered fact.
The size and darkness of the words directly correlate to how often they’re thought and how many people share that opinion. “Disgusting” and “rancid” wouldn’t be so bold if his soulmate didn’t stink.
He hates that he has to keep his body covered so the dumb kids (the same ones he doesn’t want to ‘play’ with in the first place) that can read don’t repeat any of the more offensive things written on him. He hates the way adults look at him with pity after seeing his skin. He hates how he’s constantly reminded to “be kind” and “cherish” his mate when they inevitably cross paths.
Why? Why should he?
His soulmate is a pitiful fool with no redeeming qualities, aside from the single, delusional outlier who seems to find them ‘amazing.’ Pathetic.
They haven’t even met yet, and Louis already hates them.
Him.
Whatever.
--0--
“This is very impressive,” the Chieftess said, looking down at the spell Louis crafted. He had always loved spending the afternoon with her. She’d do her leadership duties while taking breaks periodically to give him tasks to better hone his magic. Recently, she’d started giving him various spell components and tasked him with creating his own, original workings.
“Using an inverted ground glyph, rather than the air one… Quite an innovative approach to floating shoes.”
Louis shook his head. “They’re meant to soften a fall, not float. This takes less magic from the wearer.”
“Oh?” Aunt Sylvie teased. “What situation would require fall-softening shoes?”
“I don’t know. Falling off a building?” Louis scowled indignantly.
“There isn’t a single building over three meters high in the entire Sanctum.”
“Not here. Out there. There are towers that touch the sky in the outside world, right? Falling off them is surely a regular occurrence.” Louis insisted.
“Surely.”
They sit in silence for a bit. The Chieftess reads through more papers, while Louis furiously brainstorms practical uses for the fall-softening footwear.
“You know,” she smiled over at him, one hand idly rubbing the firm swell of her stomach. “This baby is going to be a king one day. I hope, when that happens, you’ll be there to help him out a little bit. If he’s anything like his father, he’ll need all the help he can get.”
Louis rolls his eyes. “The Chief role is determined based on magic affinity. It’s not hereditary.”
“Who said I was referring to the Elda?” Aunt Sylvie asked conspiratorially. “Maybe his father is the king of Euchronia.”
“There’s no way Uncle Thomas is the king of anything.“
--0--
Aunt Sylvie and Uncle Thomas have their baby. Louis, being the closest thing the Chieftess has to a nephew, gets the honorary role of big cousin once baby Wilhelm is born.
Unlike the adults who are so blinded by the novelty that they are incapable of viewing little Wilhelm objectively, Louis is unbiased. Since it’s apparently ‘rude’ to call an infant stupid, he keeps a private log weighing the newborn’s pros and cons. Hopefully, when the ‘new baby smell’ finally wears off, his parents and Aunt Sylvie will finally recognize that Louis’s observations are factually correct and give Wilhelm away to someone else.
Looks: 8/10
Wilhelm is cute, Louis will give him that. He has pudgy cheeks and a wide, toothless smile that somehow doesn’t come off as creepy. However, even after three months, he has barely any hair, and his eyebrows are uneven and weird.
Strength: 1/10
Uncle Thomas insisted that Wilhelm had a ‘firm grip’ when one of those little hands wrapped around his fingers. Louis tested for himself and found he could, very easily, break out of the baby’s hold. Even when Will grabbed his hair, the pull hurt, yes, but far less than when he tugged it himself for comparison. Even his legs (which, based on their fatness, should theoretically be stronger than his wimpy arms) are woeful lacking. He kicked Louis in the face, once, and it didn’t even hurt.
Magic/Intelligence: 1/10
Louis looks into Wilhelm’s eyes and sees nothing. There is no spark of life, no glimmer of higher thought. Wilhelm is devoid of intelligence and comprehension. The adults insist his “little cousin” will be talking soon, but Louis has his doubts. Wilhelm can’t even read.
Agility: 1/10
Implying Wilhelm has agility is like insinuating trees can walk. It’s factually incorrect. Wilhelm can’t even crawl. He cannot hold his head up, nor can he roll over. He is somehow so incapable of basic functions, such as sitting, and requires PILLOWS to support him when he’s not being held. Were any other animal this weak, they would be dead. Even a newborn kitten a quarter of Wilhelm’s size and weight would be more self-sufficient. Were it not for Aunt Sylvie and Uncle Thomas, Wilhelm would simply lay on the ground and die.
Endurance: 1/10
Wilhelm has no endurance. He’s been alive for three months—long enough to get his sleep schedule situated. And yet, he naps twice a day and sleeps almost as much as he’s awake. Aunt Sylvie says he’s sharing dreams with his soulmate, but Louis doesn’t buy the obvious excuse. Clearly, the chieftess is deluding herself into thinking Will’s behavior is normal and healthy. It isn’t. Louis’s parents are doctors. He knows things. He might need to direct his pseudo aunt to some of the psychology books (he snuck out of his father’s study) so she can recognize the failings in her current mindset. After he finally convinces her to rehome or dispose of Wilhelm, that is.
Luck: 10/10
Baby Wilhelm is lucky to be alive with how pathetic he is.
One evening, four months after Wilhelm’s unfortunate arrival into the world, Louis sits his parents and his aunt and uncle down in the living room. He’d waited until the baby was put down for bed to avoid the potential distraction.
He handed each of them a handwritten copy of his findings before clasping his arms behind his back and standing up straight so they know he’s serious.
“I cannot read this,” Uncle Thomas squinted down through his glasses. “Sylvia, what does this say?”
His wife scooted over to have a look. “Proposition? Proposal? Share mine, honey. It’s a lot more legible.”
Louis winced; his uncle had wound up with the last copy he’d made. By that point, his wrist had hurt and his handwriting was a lot sloppier.
“Ahem,” Louis cleared his throat. “I’ve gathered you all today to talk about the obvious elephant in the room. See, for the last fou-”
“Louis,” his father (rudely) interrupts. “Did you write a review on a baby?”
Perhaps he hadn’t thought this through, Louis realizes. Perhaps, he should have presented his argument before presenting his evidence. Now, it’s too late.
“Baby Wilhelm cannot do basic arithmetic,” his mother reads aloud. She’s laughing. He can tell from her tone, she’s laughing at him.
“A four out of ten for tolerance is very generous,” Uncle Thomas offers. “I would have given him a two: Will hates his socks.”
Aunt Sylvie burst out into a fit of giggles.
“It’s not funny,” Louis insisted. “There is something wrong with him. You need to take him back.”
“Take him back?” his mom repeats. “Sweetie, that’s not how babies work.”
“He can be put up for adoption, surely? Aunt Sylvie, you are far too smart to be weighed down by a creature so stupid.”
The room goes quiet. Louis can tell his parents are having a silent conversation. Hopefully, they finally recognize the severity of Aunt Sylvie’s condition and are discussing treatment options.
Then, his mom crosses her arms and legs in the way that means Serious Business. She aims an icy glare at him, and Louis swallows.
“Louis Charadrius,” she says in her scariest, flattest tone. Louis knows he’s right and did nothing wrong, but he can’t help feeling a little bit afraid. He crosses his arms back at her and stands with his feet shoulder-width apart in order to exude righteousness.
Aunt Sylvie stands and stops the confrontation before it begins. “I think Louis and I need to have a talk.”
Louis is gently guided out of the common area and into one of the guest bedrooms. When his aunt closes the door behind him, he frowns. (Louis does NOT pout because only children pout. He’s eight years old. Practically grown.)
“Come here,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Sit next to me.”
The safest thing to do when interacting with someone not quite mentally stable is humor them, so Louis obediently complies.
“You know,” starts Aunt Sylvie. “You were smaller than Wilhelm when you were born.”
Louis scoffs. “No, I wasn’t.”
“You were!” she insists. “You were really cute, too. You were born a month early, so you were very underweight.”
The chieftess only laughs when her nephew scowls up at her. “If you weren’t such an adorable baby, I probably wouldn’t have had Wilhelm, no matter how much Thomas insisted.”
She fluffs Louis’s hair.
“You know, I’m not going to forget about you just because Wilhelm exists. I’m still going to teach you magic. So can you do me a favor and be a good big cousin to Wilhelm?”
Louis still thinks Wilhelm is a waste of space, but he’s not a liar. He told Aunt Sylvie he’d be nice to him, and so he does. When Wilhelm starts learning how to crawl, Louis never once tells him how pathetic he looks. When Wilhelm begins walking, Louis doesn’t comment on his poor balance or how often his falls. When Wilhelm starts talking, he can’t pronounce things properly and Louis allows himself to be called ‘Rui’ even though that’s not his name. When Wilhelm starts running around and tripping over his own feet, Louis politely does not start screaming upon discovering this baby is the heir to a nation.
Aunt Sylvia teasingly called Thomas her ‘dark prince’ and referred to Wilhelm as her ‘little prince,’ but Louis assumed she was joking. Uncle Thomas was a novelist who worked at a prestigious college and Wilhelm was. Well. Wilhelm.
So, imagine Louis’s surprise when, one evening, while he’s staying with his Aunt and Uncle, a skeletal staff over two meters high comes barreling through the front window in a ball of flames.
“fuck.” Uncle Thomas said.
Apparently, it’s no ordinary two-and-a-half-meter tall skeletal magic staff burning a hole in the Elda Chieftess’s living room. It’s the King’s Scepter, meaning the previous king is dead. Uncle Thomas, who had been Hydroflask IV, heir to the crown of Euchronia this entire time, is now King Hydroflask IV. Making Aunt Sylvie the Queen? And Wilhelm the heir apparent?
As if the situation wasn’t bad enough, both adults refuse to let Louis touch the cool magical skeleton staff.
--0--
Louis’s childhood ended five months after his tenth birthday. The fire took his home, his family, and his innocence. Sanctist monks raided his village attacking everyone in sight.
All for the crime of being born Elda.
He’d wanted to leave, but not like this. He’d wanted the choice of coming back.
The children playing in the open fields are the first slain. Next, were those in the marketplace. Louis heard the screams from his favorite reading nook in the kitchen window. His father had, too, both outloud and crystal clear in his head.
“Louis,” he said, voice deadly calm. “Upstairs, on the top shelf of my closet, is a red box. I need you to take that box and go to the Vault—go there and do not come out until it’s quiet.”
For the first time since he learned to speak, Louis can’t find words. All he can do is nod.
He’s pulled into a hug. It’s firm, and warm, and Louis doesn’t even think to pull away.
“I love you, so, so much.” His father whispers into his hair. “Do whatever you can to live. I might not be there to see it, but you are something special. I know you can change this world.”
One last squeeze, and his father is gone. When Benoît Charadrius sprints out the front door, he doesn’t take any of his medical supplies or potions. They both know he won’t need them.
They both know he’s not coming back.
After watching his father leave for the last time, Louis grabs the travel medical bag-- the big one that’s enchanted to make its contents weigh next to nothing—and starts filling it with everything that could be useful: knives, matches, the first aid kit, potions, herbs, balms, sutures, water flasks, books, medical journals, several pairs of clothing—
He races through the house in a daze, until he reaches his parents’ room. He grabs the red box from their closet, and then, on a sentimental whim, grabs all the family portraits he passes on his way out the back door.
The Vault is an underground keep filled with a collected history of the Old World as well as every spell the Elda had amassed. Without knowing to look for it, it was impossible to find.
Hopefully, more so than the Sanctuary had been.
The taste of smoke fills his lungs, but Louis sprints from the fires, and cries for help, past the familiar trees he’d always hated and the community center he’d found boring.
He undid the seal, the same way he’d watched the Chieftess do so many times before, and flung himself down the stairs, into the magically lit and preserved archive.
After catching his breath, Louis tore open the red box and pretended his tears didn’t blur his view.
Inside is a letter.
Our dearest Louis,
You are such a smart, wonderful boy and you’re shaping up to be an amazing young man. We know much you want to leave the Forest—we know you! There is so much for you to see and experience out there, and we don’t want to clip your wings.
When Aunt Sylvie goes to Grand Trad to visit that big castle in the spring, she offered to take you with her. And, well, how could we deny you what you want most?
We’ll miss you. Oh, we will miss you so, so much. Those three months without you will be torturous. Our days will be quiet and slow without you sharing your books and showing us your magic. When you come back, please promise to tell us all you learned, okay?
The outside world is not a nice place for the Elda. This a gift will help keep you safe. (I know you hate being told what to do, but please trust us on this, you beautiful, stubborn boy.)
Always with love,
Mom and Dad
Beneath the letter sits a pair of horns, white as the flowers that fill the sanctum.
Louis dries his tears and grits his teeth in determination.
He refuses to die. He’s going to live.
Within the Vault is a copy of the enchantment that keeps the Sanctuary hidden from those unaware of it. It’s a detection spell, a powerful one, mixed with several minor wards that cause confusion and drowsiness. Clearly, it wasn’t strong enough if the Church managed to find the sanctuary. It needs to be altered.
Louis carefully copies the base spell onto the band connecting the horns, then alters some of the runes. He modifies the perception ones so they’re less vague. Whereas anyone who is aware of the Elda Sanctum could locate it, his adjustments mean only those he personally wants to see him are able to see him, and only when and how he desires.
As he works, he keeps getting distracted by the words on his dominant arm. He’d ignored them for so long, but now, suddenly, he understands. His soulmate isn’t some pitiful creature he’s been burdened with. He’s a survivor, just like him.
The horns will need to be adjusted when he grows, and he’ll have to constantly make sure the spells never wear out, but, for now, the headdress fits snugly on his head.
From that moment onwards, Louis Charadrius is dead.