Chapter Text
Kinich had spent most of his life in one place. He stayed in the Canopy, in that house separated from the rest of the scions, running errands and taking commissions as he pleased. Though, on occasion, he would venture out from his comfort zone and take jobs from other tribes– a little something for the Echoes here, a job or two for the Flower Feather Clan there, and a delivery or two for the Collective of Plenty in between. He never stayed for long, never lingered in one place, and never bothered to make connections past the ones he worked for. He would pop in, take and complete whatever commission was available, and retreat back to his house. It was a solitary existence, but it was one that he was used to.
The first time he’d been invited to another tribe as a friend, he was eighteen. He was eighteen, and he was still shaking off the fear of being watched and scrutinized, this time by a whole new group of people who didn’t even know him. He pretended that nothing was wrong, acted like going swimming with Mualani and Kachina would be fine– and it would be, if he could just get over this one thing. He let them drag him through the springs, ducking his head as he went, and hoped desperately that nobody could see the ghost of his father looming over his shoulder. He hoped that nobody saw his father’s face in the shape of his eyes or the slant of his mouth, hoped that nobody would recognize the way his hair fell into his eyes or the depth of his voice. He hoped that nobody would look at him and see right through him.
He was eighteen, and he was worried about the scars on his chest. Were the people of The Springs like the scions? Would they call him cursed? Would they assume he was weak for carrying them? If they looked at him and hated what they saw, would that ruin Mualani’s reputation? What about Kachina’s? Archons, he never should have agreed to go swimming with them, what if, what it, what if–
(It takes him longer than he would have liked to take his shirt off in the changing room. It takes deep shuddering breaths and a pep talk from Mualani. When he finally does, for a handful of seconds, he just stares at himself. He stares at his too-pale skin and all the little white lines he has and the jagged mottled scars that sit sunken into his chest. He stares at the boy in the mirror, and the boy in the mirror stares back. There is one pair of eyes on him, the same shape and colour as his father’s, but they’re his own. I look… he thinks, and the memories and whispers already fill in the blanks. He ignores them. He raises a hand to his chest, thumbing over the marred skin. He’s a stranger to himself, just another person walking down the path, just somebody to pass by on the road. Like a stranger.)
–and then he was walking through the springs, scars on display, and nobody looked at him twice.
He was eighteen the next time too. And the next time. And the time after that. He was eighteen, and he had learned that nobody, nobody, in the Springs cared. Nobody in the Springs cared about who his father was. Nobody in the Springs cared about the scars on his chest, nobody had asked about the pallor of his skin, nobody had even spoken a word about him. He was just Mualani’s friend from Canopy. He was just Mualani’s friend with the claymore, the one who did freelance commissions and had an Ancient Name. He was just Mualani’s friend. There was no shadow lurking behind him, no eyes that followed him as he walked, and no rumours to circle around.
And then he had somewhere to go and somewhere to be. He had somewhere that would accept him without question. He had people who would accept him without question. He had a safe place to land. It was hard to be normal again, hard to be a stranger, hard to be somebody nobody looked at, but at the same time, it was as easy as breathing.
The people of The Springs were somewhat known for hospitality. They got the most frequent abyssal attacks and all of them were hardened warriors, but they were connected like no other place. They had a strong sense of community, celebrating each other's feats and easily welcoming others into their circles. It didn’t take long for them to adopt Kinich into their celebrations and traditions, sending letters and notes to his home in the Canopy just to invite him to their gatherings.
(Kinich stared at the paper in his hands, bewildered. Mualani chuckled at his expression.
“So,” She prompted, “are you going to come?” Kinich blinked down at it again, rereading the words over and over again. ‘Dear Kinich, you’re invited to Atea’s birthday party!’
“Did they mean to–” He cut himself off. Of course they meant to. Nobody wrote, stamped, and sent a letter to the entirely wrong person. He stewed in his confusion for a second. Mualani looked at him in anticipation, waiting in suspense for his answer. And there, with her, looking at this invitation, everything suddenly felt easy. “Okay,” he said, a mix of unsure and confident, “I’ve got nothing else on the day.” She grinned brightly at him. As easy as breathing.)
At some point, he’d stopped being just Mualani’s friend and had started being Kinich. People would greet him even when she wasn’t around, stopping to chat with him about something or other. They would ask him for his opinions on things he had no knowledge on. Once or twice somebody had asked him about his scars, but just as Mualani said they would, they dropped it as soon as they noticed that he didn’t have the words to answer.
Kinich was acutely aware of the fact that the Springs wasn’t his home. It was somewhere he was wanted and somewhere to be, but he still didn’t fit in there. He always had and always would belong to the Canopy– where the eyes never stopped following him, where he saw his father in every reflection, and where he was talked about behind his back– it was his home. It was his home, and it was where he belonged; as his mother’s son and his father’s curse. Kinich knew that he wouldn’t be able to fit in anywhere that wasn’t his lonely house– but Archons did he love the Springs.