Chapter Text
There was so much awe in her eyes when she was a child. The way she looked at each stroke of a pen, the smell of the ink that filled the air.
Her eyes held a gaze that saw so much more, with an experience that was unlike a child’s. It was her little secret, the way she only focused on what was in front of her, instead of what was going on in her mind.
She thought she could enjoy the magic a little longer.
She thought she could be so much more.
She thought that she could help.
Slap!
She never imagined that she could be hurt so badly.
Thwack!
The way her face stings. The way her arms burn…
Lala is only four years old when her world comes crashing down on her. It starts with mistakes in her sigils. Too sloppy… Not quick enough… Too ugly…
Not perfect.
Never perfect.
Her hands are too small for her pen, but she is stricken for complaining. Forced to use such a heavy pen that slips from her fingers. The weight destabilizes her strokes. She makes mistakes—her memory is terrible. She’s not allowed to look at her book—not for this practice. She has to memorize it all, but how can she, when she’s still struggling to perfect her lines?
Smack!
The taste of blood fills her mouth, her vision blurring with tears as she sees torn paper falling to the floor. They don’t care about how much neater her writing has become. They don’t even care that she’s managed to cut half the time it used to take her.
All they care is that the child who was showing so much promise was starting to fall behind those in her class. Even other children her age could do so much better, can pay attention so much easily. All while she struggles to keep up, losing track of the lectures, constantly flipping through the books to fill in the gaps of her knowledge.
She’s five years old now, and her fingers are constantly stained with ink. It stains her hair…her clothes…her face…
Crack!!
Her arms and legs are littered with scars, hidden by the long sleeves of her clothes. There are gaps in her mouth from the loss of her baby teeth. The experience itself was harrowing, but the punishment she received for overreacting silenced her from ever voicing her thoughts. An embarrassment for causing such a scene during class hours.
She tries to keep it bottled in.
Thwack!
Tries to be better.
Thwack!
Tries…to ignore the smell of blood seeping through her bandages.
Thwack!
She has her outbursts—she can’t always control her emotions. She’s tried so hard over the years, which is likely why they all chose to treat her so differently. And maybe that’s why their disappointment hurts so much more, when she can no longer keep up that unshakable façade…
Because now they see her as useless as any other child without promise.
“Stop throwing tantrums—you’re almost six.”
Slap!
“You used to be so well-behaved. What happened?”
Smack!
“Why can’t you just stop acting out?!”
She stops interacting with her classmates—too many of them look down on her. Too many of them say things about her behind her back. She can hear it all…
It’s the same words she’s heard adults repeat to each other. Whether or not they truly mean it, she doesn’t care—their words hurt all the same. And so she starts to think…maybe something truly is wrong with her.
Maybe it really is her fault.
All my fault.
Then she has a breakthrough at age six—she’s starting to catch up again. Starting to improve. There’s less and less pain now. The hand on her head is gentle instead of harsh—her hair is gently tousled instead of pulled. It’s almost enough for her to ignore the pain in her wrist. The way it throbs painfully, the way the urge to shake her hand with each stroke of the pen just nags at her.
It doesn’t hurt that much anyways—not when it compares to the rejection and disapproving gazes. She can power through it. She’s done it before, after all…and unlike before, she’s so much younger, in a body that doesn’t ache.
Surely this pain is all in her head.
Surely…she can ignore it.
Surely…
She can escape it all, when she is seven years old.
She cannot.
She’s not allowed to choose a mentor yet—she’s still needs to polish the fundamentals of her learnings. She is not yet ready to leave. So says her father, when his scrutinizing gaze falls upon her. She has improved considerably, yes—but she should be so much better.
Much, much better.
Thwack!
Her hands won’t stop shaking—so it’s her own fault that she receives this pain. She’s stricken again, when her cries are too loud. She shouldn’t be making such noise, when she’s only been hit once. Anymore, and she’ll be given more reason to cry.
Thwack!
She’s losing her resolve.
Thwack!
Losing whatever patience she had to endure.
Thwack!
She needs to get out.
Thwack!
Needs…to tell someone.
Thwack!
But who?
Thwack!
Everyone looks at her like the unruly, disruptive child that she is. The child that often bumps into corners and people, because she can’t focus. So impulsive, that she forgets and smacks into things in a rush. Loud and obnoxious, making such a huge deal over trivial matters. She’s a lazy, good-for-nothing child that neglects her studies…
(Even though she spends more time with her nose in a book than sleeping.)
Ink stains her face when she wipes the tears from her eyes. She ignores the mess, choosing to keep writing—she’s spent too long on this particular seal. She’s almost perfected her memorization of the sigils. It’s so neat, and lovely…and precise.
Smack!
It’s the wrong one.
Smack!
How could she make such a novice mistake?
Smack!
She’s made to rewrite the seal, over and over and over again, until droplets of blood spill from her nose, onto the paper. She’s not allowed to go to sleep. Her mother smacks the back of her legs when she catches her slipping.
All the way until the light in her eyes is gone, her fingers stained with ink and blood, hands shaking so much. She doesn’t know what to expect. Doesn’t know how much time has passed. She can never tell, since it’s been so long since she’s last seen the sky in this life…
She sees a hand being raised in the corner of her eyes and she flinches violently…and absolutely melts when fingers gently stroke her hair.
“Good job.”
Her heart skips a beat. The elation wells up in her chest, in ways that makes her feels so lightheaded and dizzy. She’s praised by a family friend that has come over to visit her father. She knows of him—one of the few Knights of Moralis that her father has befriended. He’s always been so kind to her, always telling her father to go easy on her when he sees her hard work…
Always…
Kind.
Kind kind kind…
Lala is almost eight years old when she starts chasing after the kind Knight. He’s the only one that seems to care. He gifts her treats, when she’s barely ever received any due to how little she truly deserves them.
In between the harsh studying sessions and the punishments, his kindness is the light at the end of the tunnel that she’s been searching for. That she’s been yearning…
Since she can’t pick a mentor yet, then maybe she can…pretend.
Yes…pretend.
Pretend that these little moments of reprieve from the cruelty that’s inflicted upon her are worth it. The more that she improves, the more kindness that she receives…never from her own parents.
Never from her cousins…
Never from herself.
Bam!!
The pain in her forehead hurts all the same, but unlike everything else, she controls how often she feels it. And despite the way she punishes herself all the same, for messing up… She can’t help but fall into the same old habits of the past.
Because sometimes, she feels she deserves it.
Bam!!
And above all else, it’s the one thing that has his complete attention on her. The way he pats her back, lightly admonishing her for being so clumsy, all whilst applying some ointment he picked up from the Medical Spire.
Maybe…she can trust him.
…
…
Lala is only eight years old when she tells the Knight the truth. About the pain…about everything. He’s playing so gently with her hair, while she sits on his lap. She doesn’t question anything, too focused on finally getting her issues off her chest.
Tears spill from her eyes when he presses his head against hers, his fingers gently stroking her hair, telling her that everything is going to be okay. And she believes it…
She has so much hope…the way that hand gently brushes the hair out of her face. And then there’s a flash of light—a pressure that flows through her head. It spreads, muffling her thoughts. It feels so strange, like cotton slowly filling her head.
She can vaguely register the lingering touches that drift downwards. Body tensing up momentarily before relaxing. Anxiety fills her chest, clawing away at her in ways that makes her want to scream…
But then she hears her father, and so she freezes, in the deceptively caring embrace of the Knight as he speaks to her father. The Knight’s hand soon covers her eyes, forcing them to close…and she obliges, not knowing what to do.
She pretends…
Pretends that it’s all a dream.
Because that’s how he treats it, when he gently pats her face, telling her to wake up. He smiles at her like he usually does, and unlike before, she no longer trusts it. The way her chest almost seizes at each and every stray touch of his.
I’m scared.
Her father acts so kindly, lightly admonishing her for being so clumsy.
I’m scared.
She needs to stop throwing a tantrum and bothering the Knight if she wants to improve.
I’m scared.
Her mother says the same, as though she wasn’t the cause for the scars on the back of her legs.
I’m scared.
There’s a brief moment of tranquility—a peace that stubbornly tries to cloud her head with doubts. In between the bouts of sudden kindness, the sweets she’s given, and the gentle, gentle touches that make her heart skip a beat…
It’s not just the Knight that treats her kindly, but her parents too…even some of her other relatives. It’s so, so strange…
It makes Lala feel like she’s losing her mind, when she’s asked what’s wrong when she flinches at any relatively loud noise or sudden movements. And slowly, it all comes crashing down on her again…
Thwack!!
She’s using too much ink, blotting the paper with unsightly marks.
Thwack!!
Her seals were incomplete—missing a few keystones here and there.
Thwack!!
She’s still not ready to pick out a mentor, and yet, her younger cousins have already done so themselves.
Thwack!!
Her hands won’t stop shaking, so her seals have become imperfect messes that has her teacher talking to her parents. The shame it brings them only adds to her pain.
Craaack!
Her lip is split, and a bruise mars her face—far too inconspicuously, the way it makes her left eye swell up. She feels like she’s going to die when the Knight visits her not too long afterwards. How nicely he treats her, despite his touch making bile rise in her throat.
Her heart won’t stop racing, it’s so hard to breathe. His hand is on her forehead again and that same pressure hits her again. She has to pretend again—because she doesn’t know what to do.
Why, why, why?
Unwanted touches, a sickening inhale of her hair…
Get away, get away…
Past trauma lingers in her memories, the way it makes her stomach churn. She has to pretend everything is okay when the Knight gives her candy, telling her to be more careful when she’s going around a corner—she gave herself a nasty blow.
The hand on her shoulder feels heavy. So very, very heavy…
Hate, hate, hate…!
She tries to bring it up to her mother. She gets scolded for being a bother to the Knight—for taking his kindness for granted. She’s such a difficult child, that she should be happy that someone cares to give her any of their time.
Help, help, help!!
More and more times, the cycle repeats—whenever they deem it appropriate, the Knight fills her head with cotton, with just a single touch of his hand. She’s drowning in a sea of her thoughts, barely registering any touches to her body. She’s treated so nicely, when she knows better now.
By the time Lala is nine years old, she realizes the true extent of her situation. The role that she’s meant to play. A difficult child that struggles to behave. That would rather slack off and eat sweets instead of study. That likes to act out for attention and accidentally hurt themselves, because they’re so damn impulsive and clumsy.
(They’re trying so hard to pretend that they don’t hurt her.)
She doesn’t know who to trust anymore. It took her so much courage to open up to someone, only to have it blow up in her face. Because he was never on her side…
No one ever was.
She’s isolating herself more and more. Unable to stand the thought of accidentally touching anyone, when everything feels like sandpaper across her skin. It’s a mistake that she makes, when the Knight seeks her out. And she has to pretend that everything is okay.
Because she doesn’t know what to do.
Help…
She tries to pretend that everything is okay. Tries to pretend that she doesn’t want to die. Because she’s trying hard to avoid that train of thought that plagued her younger years, in her previous life. She’s trying so hard…
But it’s not working.
The Knight treats her kindly when she vomits, the constant churning of her stomach and the forced consumption of sweets finally pushing her over the edge when he asks for a kiss. It’s all an act, because another Knight of Moralis shows up to interrupt their private moment. As usual, that Knight plays it off, like he wasn’t causing her any distress. Like he doesn’t have any unscrupulous thoughts about her, when he ruffles her hair and sends her off.
No more.
Lala tries her hardest to improve. Pushing herself even further past her limits, ignoring the constant pain in her hands when she practices. She’s getting so much better, that even her father is praising her.
She’s at the top of her class now, much to the ire of her classmates. But there’s nothing that can be done, when the teacher notes how well-behaved she is, even when the other jealous children shun her.
She’s doing the utmost best to destroy the image of that unruly child, so that someone can finally see her for what she truly is.
Please see me.
A child that’s crying out for help.
Please…help me.
…
…
Lala is ten years old when they find out the horrifying truth. The fact that she never forgot.
An anomaly.
She was supposed to forget it all, but she didn’t. So now her parents look at her with such fear in their eyes. The way she stares at them with such empty, empty eyes that have seen so, so much…
A failure.
That’s what they called her. It spreads fast throughout her peers, through the teacher’s mouth. No one wants her anymore—her family has chosen to cut their ties with her. The adults fear her, since she’s such a strange existence. It’s only a matter of time before someone comes to investigate her.
The Knight certainly tries, but she avoids him, choosing to hide in various little nooks and crannies that only she can fit into. She’s so small—far smaller than children her own age. It used to be such a sore spot for her.
Now…it’s all that she has to defend herself, as she chooses to hide within the groves of silverwood trees in the Argentgard. She’s never had this much time to explore the Great Hall, so every moment is a new experience for her. She has been deprived of so, so much. Because even with the lies that her parents have spread, they still took enough caution to hide what they have done to her. They couldn’t afford to let anyone find out…
Of course, it no longer matters anymore. Not when her parents have enough influence to label her a liar. And certainly, her own self-harming habits didn’t help either…
Alone…
She has no one. Just the comforting embrace of the silverwood tree.
Tree…
She wants to be a tree.
Useful.
Even in death, they have their uses. Unlike her, with her useless memories. And these hideous, hideous scars…
Ugly…
On her forearms and legs, from all the lashes that she’d received throughout the years. Marring tan skin with horizontal scars that make her want to dig into her own flesh. The urge is there, though she tries to avoid digging into her own skin, to pick at the scabs with her sharp fingernails.
She bites her lip, choosing to ignore her intrusive thoughts—she’s trying to avoid a relapse. Trying to focus on the food that she’s taken for herself, since there’s no one else to feed her anymore. The carapace yam in her hands is hot to the touch, so she eats it slowly.
It’s the best thing that she’s eaten in years—no longer having to worry about anything that’s attached to it. No unwanted touches… No pain…
The tears are spilling from her eyes, as she can’t help but get emotional. It’s hard not to, when there are so many bad experiences tainting her memories. Her new life hasn’t been that kind to her at all…
Maybe…she should have stayed dead.
Dead.
Certainly, it would have hurt so much less, after seeing the beauty of magic in a world that once brought her so much joy. Now…all it does is bring her pain. The way her hands won’t stop shaking, the longer that she thinks about it all.
“Ah…” She drops her carapace yam, her unsteady hands struggling to hold onto it. It bounces off a few roots, and lands in the sand. She doesn’t feel like fetching another one for herself, so she climbs down, nearly losing her grip as she hops down to the sandy banks. The sight of the large pool of water in the center puts her at ease, reminding her of a time that has long since passed.
All that’s missing is the sky…
She hasn’t seen the sky in ten years…and yet, somehow, that isn’t what truly bothers her. What truly bothers her is how easy it was for her to be discarded. Like a broken toy that no longer has any use…
Useless.
It’s useless to think otherwise. She picks up the carapace yam from the sand, brushing off the grains, and continuing to eat from it. Even when the annoying grains of sand fill her mouth. She used to be so picky, but right now…she can’t afford to care.
Hungry.
She keeps chewing and chewing, forcing herself to swallow, even when it makes her gag. Even when the tears spill from her eyes, her stomach churning from its forced attempts to expel its contents. She wipes her mouth, swallows down the saliva that starts pooling in her mouth. She knows the sensation all too well, and forcibly chokes down a violent retch.
She drops the carapace yam again, her hands shaking so vigorously and her grip so weak… She watches it roll across the sand, covering itself in more and more grains of sand. She follows after it, not paying attention to anything but the carapace yam itself. That’s how she finds a tiny hand offering it back to her, after picking it up.
She blinks, her gaze staring at a boy with snowy white hair. A lone blue eye stares questioningly at her, the other eye hidden behind his hair. All that’s missing is a pair of spectacles, the thought pops up in mind.
“Did you make a friend, Quifrey?” another voice speaks—it belongs to an older man, with long, flowing hair, moving about on a sealchair.
Sealchair…
She’s seen them in some of the books that she had been given over the years, but… The term itself is from a memory of a life that she left behind. Yes…she vaguely remembers it now, since most of it has been buried under her studies. She had to…she had to prioritize what to remember.
So now…
Now her memories are untrustworthy. They’re so weak, when she wishes they were stronger.
“Hey—there’s no need to cry.” She flinches under the hand that reaches out to her and pats her head. “We’ll get you another carapace yam.”
The tears keep flooding her eyes, her chest hitching as the painful memories flood her head. She can’t breathe—thinks that she’s in trouble. She’s such an unsightly child, with hair that hasn’t been brushed in days. Her clothes have seen better days—she hasn’t been able to clean them. Hasn’t…been able to bathe.
She probably smells. Probably…looks so ghastly, the way she finds herself hiding the scars on her forearms. She can’t let anyone see.
Because maybe, she won’t be recognized. Maybe…she’ll be treated kindly for once, instead of the outcast she’s been made to be.
For just a moment, she dares to pretend that everything is okay as the man with long, silvery hair tries to calm her down. Because someone is treating her kindly. Someone…is showing her warmth.
Warmth.
It feels so nice…