Chapter Text
Once upon a time, a boy with bright green eyes and shining golden hair was born in a small village town on the coast. He had two parents and an older brother who loved him very much indeed, and an entire farm to run around and play in. It was a simple life, but it was one that the boy enjoyed. He and his brother spent their days running around and playing with the animals, jumping into the nearby river, and playing all manner of games with the other village children. The boy never seemed to get injured; or, if he was injured, it never seemed to last as long as it did for the other children. His mother didn’t know what to think, really, but as long as her son was safe and healthy, she didn’t feel a need to consider it too closely.
The father worked long hours at the mine, and didn’t get a chance to notice much about his two sons. He wanted them to be proud of him, to respect him, and to someday follow in his footsteps as great miners of their own. But one thing he did notice, as small as it might be, was that every time his younger son hugged him, regardless of how brief, he felt some of the weight lift off of his shoulders for a moment. Like the mother, he didn’t question it; it’s easy to ignore little things like this, of course, when you don’t have the time to think about it.
The family didn’t learn about the boy’s powers until he was five years old; an old, sickly bird had built a nest right next to their house, and come winter, the poor thing was without a pulse. It made the boy sad, when his mother told him, and he reached out to touch the bird before she could pull him back. A burst of golden light fell over the boy, and the mother shielded her eyes until the glow faded. When she looked back, the bird was chirping happily in the boy’s hand, looking happier than it had in life. It flew away in an instant and the boy smiled up at his mother, pride falling away when she could only look at him in fear and confusion.
It wasn’t the boy she was scared of, for he was still her son and she loved him very much. She was scared of other people finding out about his incredible gift, and wanted to keep her son safe. His older brother was sworn to secrecy, and both boys learned how important it was to never tell anyone of the younger boy’s gift.
The boy was made to wear black gloves; his mother painstakingly sewed the thickest gloves she could without removing any of the boy’s ability to move his fingers. For many long days, and many long nights, she worked at it, thread rubbing along her fingers as she knitted and knitted. The boy was cautioned not to touch anyone or anything while his mother was finishing up the gloves. His mother and father knew that if word was to get out about what he could do, they’d have no end to the stream of people at their door begging for a miracle.
The mother and father lied to the entire village, saying that their son needed to wear the gloves because his hands were always so cold that it was a shock when he touched you. The neighbors believed it; the boy had been born earlier than expected, so him having some sort of sickness wasn’t that much of a stretch.
And so the boy grew up, and learned the truth of what his hands could do, and was instructed not to touch anyone else directly, even if they were living. He became a wonderful farmer, and his brother became a wonderful miner, and together they all kept the secret of the boy’s powers.
For life (and death) is not something to be trifled with, no matter the power that one has.
—
Once upon a time, in a mansion high upon a hill, a beautiful baby boy was born with brown skin and dark eyes. He had five siblings and a mother and a father who doted upon his every action. Their family was very rich, indeed, and so he received some of the nicest and most expensive presents the day he was born. He was the happiest baby in all the land, gurgling and laughing and smiling at all who came to see him. Everyone in the shining city below the manor would talk about the boy with the strange white gloves.
For this boy had powers too, you see; the slightest touch from his hands and you would drop dead in an instant. The family learned about his powers the first day he was born, when he reached out for a nurse’s hand and she collapsed onto the floor, heart stopping in an instant. The new parents decided then and there that the young boy would only cause harm and destruction wherever he went, so they decided to cover his hands to protect himself and others.
All of his siblings were cautioned never to touch his hands, no matter how much he grabbed at them. They instructed one of the maids who was a particularly skillful tailor to knit small gloves for the baby and tied them on his hands, tightening them around his wrists so that the boy wouldn’t be able to slip them off.
As the boy grew, new gloves were made to fit his hands, and still the boy never touched something directly. For his father was a loving but stern man, and the boy did not want to upset him in any way.
From a young age, the boy was instructed to never touch anyone without the gloves on, to never touch anything without the gloves on. His parents were terrified that if someone found out what he could do, he’d be stolen away from them in the dead of night. The parents lied and said that his hands were delicate, so delicate that without the gloves, his hands would always be cut up and bleeding. It seemed a strange condition, but no one in the city below their manor thought it would be polite to question it.
He was still given the best of everything, but the boy still knew that he must have been cursed, and never knew what it felt like to truly touch anything, not without gloves in the way. For no one knew what other effects his power would have, and it being what it was, he wasn’t keen to tempt fate.
And so the boy grew up, and the boy became a man, and he still never directly touched anything with his hands. He’d been taught well by his parents, after all, and knew that any contact with his hands would spell death for any living thing. He left home, eventually, looking for bigger and better things and deciding to make something of himself, but he never took off the gloves, and he never told anyone else the truth, repeating the same lie his parents had told to others for longer than he can even remember.
For death (and life) is not something to be trifled with, no matter the power that one has.
—
Until now.