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Sion is six when he realizes he’s different.
The first person to explain soulmarks to his class is a teacher whose face he can't recall, her features a blur framed by wavy blonde strands as her voice carries across the room.
(He remembers thinking it was annoying – high-pitched and shrill in the same way his younger sister's is.)
She talks about words on wrists and their history, all of his classmates excitedly raising their hands to share the sentence their soulmate would one day speak, while Sion can only look down at the bare skin of his wrist.
He sits in his seat, numb with lurid understanding.
It's the first time rage sinks its teeth into Sion’s bones with a viciousness he’ll yet grow familiar with, his vision drowned in the same vibrant red as the blood dripping from the nose of the boy who asks him why he doesn't have a mark.
They give him detention, and Sion spends the entire hour staring at his right wrist as if it would make the words appear.
He doesn’t know how he makes it home that day, nor can he repeat the angry, betrayed words that tumble from his lips the moment he sees his parents. He can't bear to look at the sadness in his mother’s eyes, the harsh set of his father’s mouth, his disappointment.
All Sion knows is that everyone else has a soulmate, and he doesn’t.
(And if he wakes up with ink stains on his bedsheets, a dark smudge on his wrist instead of the words he meticulously penned there the previous night, then no one has to know.)
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It isn’t until Ellenor conjures the Kingswood and leaves him behind that Wignall learns elves aren’t supposed to have words scribbled onto their skin.
Are your brains an illusion too? is what mars his right wrist, the letters sharp - angry almost - with their pointed edges and thin ink. He never thinks of them as such until an elder sneers at the sight of the words, nothing but disgust in his eyes as he looks at Wignall.
“Even a common Lyzance finds you lacking,” he says, and Wignall’s eyes sting with the realization that he’s right, any traces of hope dissolving into a hollow pressure beneath his sternum.
It's already bad enough his magic is lacking, but for an elf to have a human for a soulmate… Wignall really can’t fault the others for their contempt, for not wanting to have anything to do with him.
Even so, like the disgrace of an elf he is, he can't help but look at the words in quiet reverence, tracing them whenever he's alone to etch each stroke into memory. It becomes a strange source of comfort, the mark a physical proof that there is someone out there who's meant for Wignall, who'll care for him despite—
His finger stops, the darkness of the room suddenly gripping his chest and pulling the breath from his lungs in a silent sob. His wrist burns like the tears staining his cheeks.
Because if Wignall’s own kin don't want him, why would his soulmate be any different?
(They're better off without him, anyway.)
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Afterwards, Sion grows angry.
Angry at the pitying looks from people who see his bare wrist, angry at his parents for blaming him for not having a soulmate, angry at the universe for not giving him one.
(Angry at himself for not being good enough for one.)
At ten years old, he goes to Regarden Academy with his head held high and his shoulders pulled back, daring any of the other noble children to bring up what they’ve doubtlessly heard from their parents.
Most stay away, smart enough not to test Sion’s already infamous temper, but some of them don’t.
Some take it upon themselves to remind him of what he’s known for years now, the pain of it an ever-present pressure between his lungs as his eyes catch on the black peeking out beneath other people's sleeves.
He shuts them up with an Ignis Rooks and a right hook, his knuckles throbbing well into the next day.
(It doesn’t loosen the knot in his chest.)
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Wignall takes to hiding his mark – long sleeves all year round, a bandage underneath just in case.
(He tried to get rid of it once, naively hoping it would somehow endear him to the others, and by the time he turns ten, there’s more than just the words darkening the skin, a pink scar cutting across them with jagged edges and clear intent.)
He enters Regarden Academy with a hollow smile and an even emptier heart, his only means of ever reaching Ellenor again a place so far beneath elves that the very sight of the entrance makes hot shame wash over him. The gazes of the other students are an added discomfort, somehow even more damning in their fleeting interest than the ones back at Alfeskogr.
So Wignall goes to class, trains alone every night, and doesn’t let anyone touch him. On the really bad days, there’s a phantom ache in his left arm where it had been cut off, and he can’t help but wonder whether they’d have healed it had it been the other one.
Their first year passes him by in a detached haze, the second highest credit score mockingly bright next to his name.
There's a joke somewhere in there he doesn’t have the energy to parse out.
Still, he doesn’t mind falling behind Lihanna during the following years either – not when she’s the only one who seems to understand they’re all naught but leftovers, infinitely closer to the laggard Serfort than the Magia Vander.
(Lihanna’s mark is sweet, like her soulmate surely will be. She’s his first friend.
He doesn’t tell her about the words on his wrist.)
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Sion feels a familiar heat crawl up his spine, hands clenched at his sides and palms stinging from the bite of his fingernails. His molars grind together as he shoves the laggard away. “Get out of my sight,” he snarls, ignoring the glare Colette sends him.
(There had been a time when he tried to catch a glimpse of her wrist – an ugly hope for it to be bare in his heart – but once he saw the dark ink, it warped into familiar resentment. He didn’t care; it was more than fitting for him, anyway.)
His eyes burn with the image of a mark on the laggard’s wrist as he turns on his heel sharply, walking down the hallway in a furious haze because how come even Will Serfort gets one while Sion—
“Careful there,” a voice says, the sound like a gentle spring breeze brushing across his skin, the other student's cloak darkening the edge of Sion's vision as they step to the side to avoid running into him.
He lifts his gaze and his blood thrums, eager to lash out. “Watch where you’re…” The other boy – Wignall Lindor, the wonder elf, his brain supplies needlessly – is closer than he’d thought, both of them frozen in place as if hit by a spell.
His eyes are ridiculously green, Sion thinks, a little dazed. His hair looks soft where it brushes high cheekbones, and Sion’s fingers twitch as if to touch.
“Are you alright?” the elf asks with the same lilt as before, and the question snaps Sion out of his reverie.
His skin still feels too tight, the wildfire blazing just beneath it itching for release.
The elf tilts his head slightly, a furrow between his brows as he blinks at him, and the motion draws Sion’s attention to the other’s eyelashes, his face suffusing with heat when he realizes he’s been staring for a few seconds too long.
He clears his throat. “I’m fine. Just,” angry, he can’t say. But no, that’s not it, not really. Tired, is much closer to the truth. Tired of life constantly finding new ways to remind him he’s unworthy. “—a long day.” He meets shamrock green eyes as he says it, for some reason unable to look elsewhere.
Sion sees the moment Wignall’s gaze flickers down and then back to his face, a tautness to his shoulders that wasn’t there before, vibrant eyes turning glossy, and he realizes his sleeve is still torn at the elbow, his bare wrist on display in a way he hasn’t let it be in years.
The moment it clicks, his hand shoots out to cover his bare skin, and he looks away from the beginnings of pity on the other’s face. He mutters something that doesn’t even pass for an excuse, stepping around the elf with his jaw clenched tight.
“I didn’t mean to...” Sion hears from behind him, and absurdly, it even sounds like Wignall is sorry.
He manages to keep himself from turning around despite the forlorn tone tugging at his insides with an intensity that almost makes him stumble, the echo of his steps loud and harsh in the empty hallway.
(His skin tingles with the urge to look at the face Wignall is making. He grits his teeth harder and walks on.)
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The tavern is dirty and loud - a place he never would have stepped foot in had it not been for Will and the others. He says as much once they’re all present, a washrag flying in front of his face before the owner tells him he can leave if he wants to.
Colette tries to calm him down while Sion only gives him a flat look.
“Are your brains an illusion too?” he says like an afterthought, and Wignall freezes, all thoughts coming to a halt. His chest feels tight, the rush of blood loud in his ears and drowning out the rest of the conversation around him.
He looks at Sion, thinks soulmate, and tries not to cry.
His wrist stings something fierce, a burning sensation spreading all the way up his arm as he forces down the urge to clutch at it. He doubts it would help, anyway.
Still, Sion.
To Wignall, he had always seemed so resolute, like he always knew what he wanted and would not hesitate to do anything to get it. Even now, as he glances at him from the corner of his eye, all sharp features and squared shoulders, fierce scarlet eyes softened by the warm light overhead, someone strong and not afraid of confrontation—
Oh, Mercedes help him. He’s the reason Sion doesn’t have a mark.
As if it wasn’t punishment enough to get Wignall as his soulmate, he somehow managed to ruin any chance he might have had by being… well, himself. He can’t even imagine what Sion would say – thinking he was mateless this entire time only to find out he’s stuck with Wignall of all people?
The thought barely occurs to him before Wignall’s mind is made up – he won’t tell him. That way, Sion won’t feel pressured into giving him a chance, can find someone better, someone more deserving than…
He forces himself to tune back into the conversation with his mind still a muddled mess, caught somewhere between dread and delight, and well aware of which one would win out.
(The thought of Sion being his soulmate makes him feel warm all over, a dense yearning pressing down on his lungs.)
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“Hey!” he calls after the elf, his eyebrow twitching. “You can’t just—”
The moment his hand grabs Wignall’s bare forearm, Sion knows.
A near-painful sensation rushes through him, tearing through his veins before settling at the base of his spine with an almost uncomfortable warmth, and he rips his hand away as if burned.
“What the…” His gaze flickers between his palm and Wignall’s face, the elf’s – his soulmate’s – features frozen in something that looks terribly close to panic.
The gears in Sion’s mind turn, then screech to a halt. “You knew,” he says, and it comes out more hurt than anything, desperate instead of accusing. His heartbeat speeds up, a smear of anger-red already at the edges of his vision.
“I apologize,” Wignall says, his eyes downcast. “I merely wanted to avoid pressuring you—”
Sion’s scoff is loud and brittle. “Really? That’s what you’re going with?”
“It’s the truth,” Wignall whispers as he hunches in on himself. “I found out a few months ago – at that dwarf’s tavern. You said ‘are your brains an illusion too’, and it’s not a common enough sentence for doubt.” His hands tighten where he’s gripping his arms, and he lets out a wry little laugh, too-bright eyes refusing to meet Sion’s own. “Not that I fault you for it, of course. But you have to admit it isn’t the most encouraging soulmark to have,” he says, and before Sion knows it, he’s tugging him forward by the collar of his cloak.
Wignall makes a shocked sound, but Sion doesn’t loosen his grip. “Not the most encouraging?! Imagine not having a mark in the first place! All this time, I thought I was—” he cuts himself off, swallows around a sudden lump in his throat. “Turns out it’s because I got stuck with you for a soulmate that…” his voice tapers off as he takes in the resignation in Wignall’s expression, the redness around his eyes. Involuntarily, his shoulders relax, and he lets go of the other’s clothes with a heavy sigh. “That wasn’t how this was supposed to go.”
“You’ve… thought about this?” Wignall asks, all hesitant voice and twitching ears, so endearing it makes Sion bite down on his tongue to keep himself from saying something embarrassing.
With a huff, Sion crosses his arms over his chest and looks off to the side. “Sue me, I was seven and markless. What was I supposed to do other than make up a soulmate and imagine meeting them?” It’s more of the truth than he’d ever planned to divulge and the vulnerability leaves an ashy taste in his mouth, his entire body tensing as if ready to bolt.
“I’m sorry,” Wignall says, and the defeat in his voice makes Sion glance back at him out of the corner of his eye. “You must be disappointed.”
There’s a moment of stillness, a second, maybe two, while Sion tries and most likely fails to relax his face into something akin to gentle. The frustration bubbling up in his chest makes it all the more difficult.
Wignall opens his mouth to continue, and Sion’s hand shoots out and grabs his before he could say anything. Warmth spreads through his veins from the point of contact, less intense than the first time, and it gives him the push he needs.
“How about you stop assuming shit and just ask? Or better yet, listen,” Sion says, meets that vibrant gaze head on. “I’ve spent so long trying to accept that I don’t have a soulmate, that this is, well, unexpected, to say the least” – Wignall’s face falls, his fingers going lax between Sion’s – “but not… unwelcome. I uh—”
There’s a flush high on Wignall’s cheeks now, and Sion can feel a matching heat spreading across his own face, and they’re still holding hands.
“I wouldn’t be opposed to…”
Wignall’s smile is tentative, his skin soft against Sion’s as he gives his hand a light squeeze. “I’d be honored if you were to accept me as your soulmate,” he says, and whatever he sees on Sion’s face makes his blush darken, stark against his pale skin, and something that feels dangerously close to fondness fills Sion’s chest at the sight.
“Good,” he manages to force out, voice thick and heavy with sincerity.
Wignall chuckles in response, and it sounds like a promise.
(He doesn’t let go of Sion’s hand.)