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Marko was hit as a kid.
It might've fucked him up. Who knows, really? (That is to say, look at him. Of course it fucked him up.)
He's heard all the old excuses. They grew up in another time. He wasn't really hit that much. It was only when he really deserved it. My parents hit me and I turned out fine. He's heard all of it.
He's said and repeated all of it to everyone else, too.
…it…
It doesn't make the violence of it any more pleasant. Now. Now on this fucked up world.
It doesn't make the memories of all that hurt any less sharp. Saying how fine it all was. That hurt. It doesn't even make it sting less.
All it really does is make the other person stop looking at him so much like he's broken.
Marko doesn't do hate well. Can't hate well. He used to be able to, maybe. He hated the wings something vicious. Hated them enough to hold his sword at them, to cast magic, to kill them.
Not now. Though. Not.. not now. Not anymore.
He's bad at hate now.
He wants love. It sounds stupid to say, it does. But he needs love. Precious fucking love. He wants to live. Wants the best for his family. Wants peace. Love peace and comfort.
It's a lot to ask. It seems. A lot to ask when war has clawed through every planet and through everyone's hearts.
He doesn't do hate well. But that doesn't mean he doesn't hate at all.
Marko does hate one thing. Violence. He hates it. He hates it. The hurting. The pain. The blood spilled. The innocent lives broken. The refugee camps. The prisons. The harm to everyone and everything in them.
Marko hates it.
Hates just seeing any of it, even. The fighting makes his lungs feel smaller than they should, the gunfire and magic make his hands shake. The sheer scale of the hurt caused makes him so so so sick.
He hates the war. He hates the fighting. Hates how it's spread into every aspect of everything, of everywhere.
He wishes he could stay far far away from it. Forever. And never let it touch him or anything he loves again.
Well…Maybe he hates two things.
He hates how Alana is twisted out of shape by the war. Hates how Hazel's pretty little wings have to be wrapped down by bandages in public.
He hates it.
The violence.
(He also hates, smaller, and with less conviction, how he's been twisted into the shape he's stuck in by that violence)
(That maybe, just fucking maybe, he could have been softer without it)
(Conscientious objector)
Marko was hit as a kid when he deserved it.
In comparison to how he was hit in prison, it was a simple.. demonstration of what hurt can be.
In prison, he had bruises around his wrists, blood in his mouth, hardly food to fill his stomach. In prison, he was hit simply because he was there to hit.
There’s a difference, really. But in the end it's all exactly what it always has been. Violence.
His childhood was…
It was.
When he was small, he'd run with Rumfer in the fields. He'd dance with his friends and smash his horns with others over sports. It was fun.
It was fun.
Wreath was beautiful. Is probably still beautiful.
In many ways he was loved.
In many ways he was hurt.
And now, now he’s trying, with all the will he has, and all the hurt he’s experienced, trying not to be hurt anymore.
Even so, even now, in this new home, with his perfect, perfect family, theres still…
He’s committed himself to nonviolence.
He’s also…
Beside everything else, of when he was younger, of the war, of it all..
Marko’s childhood was alright. It was not the worst childhood. It was not the best.
But…
But. All the same. When Marko was something like young, and very alone, sometimes, well, sometimes he'd wear his mother's clothes. Not often, but he'd put them on. Father made them, After all, and they were just as lovely as any of his own.
He loved the fabrics sway of skirts, and he liked the cut of the neck and shoulders. Liked them quite a lot. Even then, he knew it was a strange thing to do. And he knew being caught would mean questions, and more than questions it would mean doing all the laundry. So he always packed them back up nice after.
He wasn’t caught. Not once.
Looking back, before he realized some things, he really had no idea why he ever did that. Sure they were lovely, but they were women's clothes. And he had a war to train for regardless.
Sometimes, before he was deployed, when Gwen was asleep he’d put on her Gwen's rings, her necklaces, stare into the mirror. Pose a bit in their glimmer. He always knew Gwen would hate it though, if she caught him. Would have laughed in his face at the decadence.
He’d take them off before she could see. He was going to be be a solider, for both of them, for Wreath. He didn't have time for pretty things.
He didn’t have time for pretty.
He married Alana.
A lot changed when he married Alana.
Things got a lot softer. And a lot of things got more important.
Marko had just broken Hazel out of jail, and he's been having— Feelings. Since.
He has his girl back. His beautiful baby girl.
He doesn't have his mother, though, and Hazel keeps crying for her, all night, and in his arms.
He doesn't have his mother, though, and if he knew Hazel wouldn't sob even harder if she heard him crying, he'd be doing the exact same.
He doesn’t have his mother. She stayed there for the women in the prison. Needed too, she said, and he certainly hadn’t had the time to argue that perhaps him and Hazel need her more.
She’s not here.
Still though.
Marko has been having feelings. Since before getting Hazel back even. Terrible inexplicable ones.
Feelings and emotions somehow larger and worse than the always-dread of being an on-the-run fugitive with a defenseless baby daughter, a missing mother, and far, far too much free time.
And they've only gotten worse, because Petrichor is here. Petrichor is here. Instead of his mother. Which is… it's fine. Hazel likes her. So it's..
Fine.
It hurts his heart, but it's fine. He worries some nights, curled into Alana’s arms, shaking, he can't stop thinking. What if she's dead? He thinks, says with shaking shoulders, What if she's dead?
Petrichor. Petrichor is here.
Petrichor is…. Well, she's a hardass, which is fine enough. She’s sharp. And Marko doesn't know what to make of her. She's different. Not Alana different. But different.
She was a man once. She isn't now. It's not that-- it's not that he didn't know that was possible! He knew being trans was very much thing people could be. Are. Are quite often in fact. It's fine! Petrichor's a woman! Clearly and obviously! He knows this.
Marko had.. also never properly met someone trans, until Petrichor, until…
Well. Until now. And he's maybe having terrifying feelings and terrifying thoughts. And has been. For a while. And they've been louder since Hazel unceremoniously announced that Petrichor had a dad-part, and that that's okay, and that she’s still a woman a few days after getting home.
Petrichor had stormed out of the room, and Alana’d hurried after her, apologizing, and it had been left to him to tell Hazel that Honey girl, we don’t talk about our friends down there parts.
So Marko knew. He did, that you can become a woman. Both with magic and more simple medical knowledge. But Petrichor has-- She boobs and no beard and LOOKS like a woman. Very properly. Like she has always been one.
(He's almost envious. That thought makes him shake a bit.)
And that's---
What??
He’d never hit a woman again, he swore that as a kid, even as it felt so unfair he could be sick. He'd thanked his father as he---
Don't think about that.
---made sure the lesson stuck. He'd held Rumfer and healed him, after. With snow made from freezing the tears on his face. What makes him any different from a woman? He'd thought after, shaken. Hurting people is bad, he never wants to hurt people again, violence isn’t the answer but--
(That train of thought is a terrible one, and his shoulders too much if he starts thinking too much on it)
His father was a good man.
(Alana took off her belt a bit too loudly the other day and had to hold him for a half hour while he cried himself sick at the vividness of the memory)
His father was a very kind man.
(Marko doesn't have being a soldier in him, anymore)
His father made him who he is. His mother loved him dearly.
(Sometimes, when Hazel is a little too loud, or breaks something, Marko thinks about how his parents would have reacted)
(He was that small once too)
His father was a good man. It was another time. It was another time.
Marko’d never quite been like the other men, never quite gotten it, really– discussions of manliness, strength, competitiveness, war, in most ways he did, but sometimes---
Sometimes Marko looks at Alana’s hips, or how his hands feel against her soft skin, and the way her hair falls about her shoulders. And he just wants. His shoulders feel all too broad and clunky, his frame to fucking rectangular. His beard too scratchy, even as Alana peppers kisses across his cheeks.
Sometimes Marko wishes he could just look like her. Alana. She's so pretty. So fucking attractive. Alana is perfect. She's his perfect. She's his. She's beautiful.
Sometimes, Marko really wishes he could be beautiful, too.
Petrichor looks like a woman. Is a woman. Even though she didn't always. \
His thoughts slam together, all in a bumper-car line towards Sextillion. That is to say, out of hand, too apparent, and chaotic. Sure, Petrichor did it, and ended up pretty, but who's to say he would? Or even could!
Who's to say he even wants to end up pretty?
Alana is out with Hazel and Izabel, right now. Marko is supposed to be home doing laundry. Marko is.. not doing laundry. He is sitting on their couch. Biting his lip raw, thinking too much about shit that doesn’t matter but he can't get out of his head.
What would he look like pretty? In nice clothes? Petrichor would make him something perfect, she'd know how to do it, if she does it for herself. Something to offset the shoulders and no hips? And---
And what is he thinking? They've got a war to outlast! Sure, he is always in favor of self discovery! And all that's well and good! But---
Isn't it a waste of time?
To even think about this?
He has laundry to do. He has laundry to do. He has laundry to do. And after that, he has dinner to start, and a child to love, and a wonderful, beautiful wife to love on.
He has laundry to do.
Marko stands in front of the mirror. No one else is here. They’re all out. He's wearing one of Alana’s bras, padded with cloth, one of Alana’s shirts over it, even though it's very tight in the shoulders.
He feels ill, nearly, staring at that reflection.
At how different it is. At how--- pretty the mirror makes him.
This is selfish of him. He thinks, terribly, staring at himself.
He should tell Alana. He should tell Alana? He doesn't know how to tell Alana.
She’s bisexual, so it's fine. Even if he-- if he's different, she’ll be fine. They'll be fine.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Petrichor is sewing, when Marko approaches her. She looks up at him, frowns, then back down to her work.
He's jittery.
“Salut” / "Hi" / he starts, which is not a great way to start this, he just doesn't know how else too. Doesn't know what to say.
“Kio?” / "What." / Petrichor’s voice is short, annoyed.
“....Tiel-” / "So-" / He pauses. Sits across from her. “Tiel vi estas transgenrulo?” / "Do you’re transgender?" /
Petrichor looks up at him, sharp, needle in hand, pointing at him, he holds up his palms, placating, nerves twisting in his stomach.
“Mi estas virino.” / "I am a woman." /
“Mi scias! Mi scias-- mi,” / "I know! I know- I," / he scratches his neck, then the base of his horn, nervous, "Mi-- Ĉu mi povus demandi al vi kelkajn demandojn?" / "I- Could I ask you some um, questions?" /
She stares at him. Eyes scanning his face, then down, then back to his eyes. He keeps thinking about her body, about-- She looks like one, in shape, he knew that was possible, magic makes it easier, but--
“Ĉu ili temas pri vi, aŭ pri mi?” / "Are they about you, or me?" /
Fuck.
He puts his head in his hands. Shrugs. He’s all twisted inside, right now. Can’t make sense of it. Like there are knots in his throat. Like he's all impossible in his body.
When he was very small, he was so jealous of the neighbor girl's dresses.
"Vi." / "You." / She laughs, short. Crosses her arms across her chest, leans back. "Havas krizon, Marko?" / "Having a crisis, Marko?" /
"Kiel vi sciis, ke vi estas... Ne, um, viro?" / "How did you know you were.. Not, um, a man?" /
"Plej multaj viroj ne demandas ĉu ili ne estas viroj."/ "Most men don’t question if they’re not men." / Petrichor points out.
He bites his lip. Rips skin off of it with his teeth.
"Sed-" / “But-” /
"Mi ne estis unu. Do mi ŝanĝis ĝin." / "I wasn’t one. So I changed it." /
"Kiel vi sciis?" / "How did you know?" /
“Nu.” / "Well." / She jabs his knee with a single finger, "Kiel vi scias, ke vi ne estas?" / "How do you know you’re not?" /
He curls over his arms tighter. "Mi povus esti. Mi povus daŭre esti." / "I could be. I could keep being." /
Petrichor shrugs, he can feel her eyes on him. "Ĉu ankaŭ vi bezonas?" / "Do you need too?" /
No. He doesn’t. He’s already a conscientious objector and a fugitive. What’s a woman on top of that?
"Ne." / "No." / He mumbles.
"Mi estis mizera kiel viro." / "I was miserable as a man." / Petrichor states, "Ĉu vi?" / "Are you?" /
He doesn’t know. He’s never been anything else. But-- He could?
He thinks of his reflection in Alana’s top, in a bra that isn't his.
He thinks about Hazel. She deserves a father.
(His father was a good man.)
(He tells himself that until he's sick, some nights)
(His father died for Hazel)
"Kiel diable mi rakontos al Alana?" / "How the fuck am I going to tell Alana?"
“Tell me what?” Marko jumps, turns over, speak of the devil, she steps in. He freezes up, really, his eyes are all wet. Shit.
Alana squints at him. At Petrichor. Then crashes down beside Marko, pulls him into her arms, into her lap, trails a hand through his hair, petting him, really. He’s so lucky to have her. He’s so fucking lucky.
“What,” Alana asks, squeezing him, holding him, he loves her, he loves her, “Are you two having secret meetings now?”
Petrichor raises her hands, surrender, “Not mine to speak,” She stands, takes her sewing supplies. “You two, talk.”
And then it's just him and the love of his life. Alana pulls him closer, pets the soft fur of his ears, behind them, at the base of his horns, he could melt into her, he could, “Baby,” she says, she’s so fucking soft, she’s so fucking pretty, she’s so fucking perfect. She’s his. His.
“Alana, I-” the words tangle up, he pulls back, face so close to hers. “You’re um, bisexual, right?”
What is wrong with him starting like that.
“...Yeah?”
“Good. Um. I-” Fuck. fuck. Fuck fuck. “I- uh. Would it be a good idea for me to be a woman?” That came out wrong. Shit.
Alana’s eyes narrow, a bit, then she smirks, laughs, buries her face into his shoulder. “You’re having a gender crisis with Petrichor and you didn’t even invite me? Shame on you, fuck me, I guess, what am I, star scrap?”
Her hands hold him so close. He shudders, Alana wraps him into her arms.
“I’m not sure.” He says, “If I am.”
“You can go slow,” Alana points out, still petting him, he’s so safe with her, he loves her, he loves her. “I’d love to see you with long hair, I could- We can think of a new name, if you want, you want? I could- we could use she? See if it- if you like it?”
Marko buries his- her? face into Alana, shaking, a little. Maybe a lot, really.
“I love you.” Marko says, “So much.” and Alana just laughs.
She starts going by Mirra not long later.
It's like her mother's name. Klara. In a fashion. Maybe. She wishes she were here. Were here to help with it. With all this. Wishes she were with them.
The name slots well enough into Alana’s vocabulary, even if Mirra cries the first time she's called it.
What's it being a woman, really, to being a conscientious objector?