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Vythensi’s mother was a witch.
He had grown up knowing so, and agreeing to follow in his mother’s footsteps the moment that he watched her heal a broken bone with nothing but her will. “To take a wound is to take the scar.” She had told him quietly one night, when his father had vanished to the bedchambers in a rage. He had been arguing with Athriel for hours and hours, and his mother’s cheeks were stained with bitter tears. He did not want his son to become a witch. “Be careful who you heal.”
He was.
He did not use his gift on others for years. He knew that he was capable however, for what else was the thrumming power beneath his skin, the itch to fix and stitch back together the threads of a barren existence? And as much as it wasn’t fun to slip and fall from the branches of the willow trees in his Aunt Narweli’s home and scrape his knee, it was enjoyable to use his power, to watch the skin stitch itself back together by the sheer will of his mind. He remembered the very first time that he had done it. His mother’s fingers had slipped while she was cutting mushrooms and her knife had fallen, slicing open the side of his arm. He had been ten years old. She had burst into tears of shame whilst Vythensi’s father had glared disapprovingly towards his wife, muttering under his breath that she had better not use her craft to fix the mess. To use ANYTHING else.
And so Vythensi had used his.
He would never forget the look on his father’s face - or his mother’s - when he had willed the skin together with little more than a thought. Athriel hadn’t grinned outwardly as she dried her tears upon the kitchen cloth, but he could feel her pride radiating towards her son like a beam of light too bright to dim. His father had frowned, but said nothing and it was then that Vythensi realized that he was scared of his wife, and his son. When Ovaran had slipped off to bed, Athriel had lifted her son into the air with a strength that she hadn’t had in decades, and kissed him on his head, whispering her pride. Vythensi didn’t want to use his power on others. If he could use it himself and only himself...
Then several years later, Atarinkë had fallen and broken his arm. Badly.
It wasn’t even Vythensi’s fault. It happened on one of the rare days that Vythensi was allowed to visit his favourite cousins. He’d been sitting on a grassy hill with Carnistir, reading into numerics and arithmetic when he had heard a scream emanating from the hill where Tyelkormo, Makalurё, Findekano and the twins had been messing around with one another and racing through the sticky garden mud to see who was able to run the fastest. Once they reached the grass, it was far too slippery for running and Curvo had fallen hard, landing upon his wrist. Vythensi and Carnistir had run as fast as they were able to down the hill and once they reached the bottom, Nerdanel and Fёanoró were already knelt down beside their son, drying his tears and comforting him with quiet words and ministrations.
“I can heal it,” Vythensi had whispered quietly, almost afraid that Fëanoró - his cousin - would hear him, “It won’t be too hard.” Nerdanel heard instantly though and right away began to nod at his offer, terrified of her son’s screaming and of the blood that had begun to drip down his tunic. Vythensi knelt down and quickly closed his eyes, reaching outwards to take Curvo’s bleeding, mangled wrist in his hands and willing it to heal itself, to stitch itself back together by the force of will.
It did, but then Vythensi gasped loudly and suddenly felt as though he were going to faint. Constellations appeared before his eyes, flashing and bright and Moryo grasped his shoulders before he was able to topple over but the sudden shock of pain and the blood...the blood was dripping down his arm in thick, red rivulets and his hands were shaking in terror. The pain wouldn’t stop and it was pulsating, demanding every bit of his attention. This didn’t happen when his mother healed others. She swapped her powers for a scar.
It would seem that his demanded injury.
Once he was able to calm himself and tear his eyes open against the pain, he silenced his terrified family with a shake of his head - mostly Nerdanel’s panicked questions and Tyelkormo’s confused yelling - and concentrated, shaking off his cousin’s hands. For a moment it seemed as though his body was working against him, refusing to heal itself but then he felt the telltale itching of a scab, and the bruising of a healing wound and then...nothing. He risked a glance downwards and found that his arm was completely healed, and upon his wrist was a noticeable, painless scar that wrapped around his arm like a bracelet, jagged and ripping at the end.
Fëanoró was kinder to him after that, and Nerdanel was so incredibly curious about him.
After Athriel had realized the extent of her son’s powers and what they demanded, he wasn’t allowed to visit his family as freely anymore. He was allowed to bend water and rebuild broken cutlery and even start small fires with his mind but he was NEVER permitted to heal. “It is far too risky,” His mother had told him as she traced her fingers across his aching scar, “It will hurt forever, and you do not deserve that.” Then she had paused however, and kissed his brow. “You helped Curufinwë though, which is good.” He didn’t miss the broken glint in Athriel’s eyes when she spoke of her nephew, her dead sister’s son who refused to visit her more often than not.
Vythensi was nearly as powerful as his mother which was a fact that terrified the Curuniammë*. She could feel the power thrumming through his veins when she would take his hands and trace his smooth, white scar, the telltale sign of a proper and terrifyingly powerful witch and he would smile. Even his smile held all the power of the universe and in her eyes, he was the centre of hers and so she vowed to keep him safe. From himself and all of the power that he held within.
Vythensi was allowed to bend water and and rebuild broken cutlery and even start fires when he was bored enough to do so but never was he EVER allowed to heal.