Chapter Text
There once was a boy who lived with his mother.
Of course, many boys lived with their mothers, once upon a time, but this boy was slightly different. It wasn’t just one thing that made him different, this boy, but all these tiny little things that tumbled and rolled and collided and created an impossibly giant mosaic that didn’t make sense unless you were half a mile back and had a telescope.
So our prologue begins.
This mother had never had a child before – the boy was her first. She was inordinately proud of the boy, from his small, pale toes to his vibrant curly hair.
But before him – before her pride for him – she’d felt fear. She’d been fifteen when the war kicked up full force, married at eighteen, and at nineteen discovered the sorrow and agony of loss. She and her husband were incapable of having a child together. This woman who would become a mother was a stubborn one, though. She would have a child if she had to die to do it, and her husband would trade his soul for a child of their own.
At twenty-one, a child was born cradled in his mother’s will and his father’s soul.
A son born to those who’d doomed themselves to death.
This is the tale of a son born of death and his learning to reach out, to be his own.
—
There’s a habit all children have when surrounded and smothered by their parents, and that is to pull away.
The child – the mother’s firstborn – may not have known her touch or her scent or her voice, but he did know her will. Burning orange. A desire for unity. A will to fight for peace. The boy’s will had always been under his mother’s. His soul remained buried beneath his father’s. How can you explain being stifled by figures you don’t remember?
A toddler, he didn’t have his own will. He followed his Aunt and his Uncle and his Cousin. How confusing is a world made by three? How can a child understand that he is the one thing wrong with the world?
( he’s not able to. that’s how. )
At eleven, all he wanted was to be in the one place that was his. Stay home and stay safe and follow the rules because he’d figured them out. But there was a longing, pulling feeling in his ( not his soul, not his longing ) soul that begged him to return to old stomping grounds, and a burning in his mind that called him to fight and grow and protect.
A mother who pushed him towards the same life she’d gone through. He is to be his own, is he not? Yet Mother gives him her eyes, her demeanor ( her burning, never ceasing, steady angerlovejustice ), and her House.
A father who guides his feet to through trouble and danger just like him. He is to be his own, is he not? Yet Father gives him his hair, his sight ( trouble, danger, sparkling gold, and adrenaline ), and his name.
What is his, at eleventhirteenfourteen?
Not his name, not his fame. “His” money, his mother’s eyes, his father’s hair. Their House, their anger, their spirit. Her kindness, her stubbornness.
What is his, at twelvefifteensixteen?
He has no home, he has no guardian, his dogfatherfriend was thrown to the wolves. He is running from Death. Or running from the one who runs from Death. Maybe he’s running towards Death. But sixteen. Sixteen and faced with the souls of the dead, and the cold, and shielding himself, and people coming and going and dying.
Sixteen-turning-seventeen and his home (something that’s his in a way his soul isn’t quite ready to understand) is gone. Corrupted. Nothing but a shattered dream of childhood innocence. There’s child soldiers, and child corpses, and children who died under their own will to fight and maybe-
Maybe it’s not okay that he was a child soldier.
Sixteen-turning-seventeen but seventeen-and-an-adult in all the ways that matter. He didn’t choose to come to this school (his home, his territory ) but it was his. He didn’t want to let go of it. There’s a decision – a choice – and it’s not okay that everything he’s done hasn’t been truly his, but this can be his choice even if he’s choosing to die. A stone that brings shadows of the dead to view. A clearing filled with ghosts.
Finally, he’s free from his father’s soul.
It’s suddenly, viscerally clear that even if he wants to save his school, he can’t stay here.
It’s his, but it was his father’s first. It’s his, but it's sacred ground that has been desolated and ravaged by war and scared children. It’s his, but he’s spent a year traveling and running and hiding and free. He can’t stay here. He’ll break again.
He can’t break again. It’s too soon.
At seventeen, his father’s soul is released through a stone with the ability to summon spirits and send them away. At seventeen, his desire to live, to leave, to be free, finally overpowers that of his parents to stay and protect.
Beautiful, regal, royal purple overtaking burning orange-gold.
There’s something to be said about a parent’s attributes being passed to their children. Something to be said about those who reject their parents becoming the most like them.
Something to be said about changing minds and turmoil and grief and shattering Wills.
How can you explain being stifled by figures you don’t remember?
The answer is that you don’t. You suffer and are stifled. A bonsai in a too-small pot, a garden in a desert, a cacti in the snow. Every day – every moment – is spent struggling to breathe while everyone around you is fine. You burn and rage. You want to stay where it’s safe, where it’s yours, but you can’t. You want to stay free and wild and running, but you can’t. You want to die, but you can’t. You have to choose to live, and maybe that’s the first choice that’s ever been yours.
How confusing is a world made by three?
The answer is ‘very’. When you are not one of the three – one of the common masses – you cannot understand their rules and laws and the thoughts behind their decisions. You know you are different, but not why. Something is off, wrong, twisted about the whole situation, but you’re too young and don’t have enough experience to figure it out.
How can a child understand that he is the one thing wrong with the world?
The answer is that he’s not able to. If you are what’s wrong, then you must not belong. To not be of the world, that’s where everything breaks. Not of the world, a disease, a poison. Cancer. He can be cancerous. Deadly and burning and slow and silent until it’s too late. He may not be of the world, but the world is his.
He is to be his own, is he not?
The answer is ‘yes, but not yet’. One day he’ll be free, one day he’ll be his own, and one day he’ll take the whole world as his.
What is his?
The answer is nothing, for now. Nothing is his, but that just means he has nothing to lose. That just means he has a claim to the whole world as much as nothing. Nothing can claim him, nothing can chain him. But the world – its people – are his.