Chapter Text
Marcus sat in the library at the Orange Street house watching Philip construct a wobbly tower out of blocks. He was staring at the empty fireplace, lost in memories. They had just moved back from France, with Diana and Matthew both ready to resume faculty positions at Yale. Without Marcus realizing it, Philip crawled into his lap. His chubby hands shot out and his tiny fingers closed around something Marcus couldn’t see. He definitely felt a burning tugging sensation shooting up his arm, like a nerve was on fire, though.
“What the hell?” Marcus breathed. His expression froze as the gilded monstrosity of an old clock in the corner let out a loud thump before it suddenly stopped ticking. The second hand hung suspended over the numeral XII. A preternatural silence fell over the room.
Marcus couldn’t speak. His mouth opened but no sound came. His limbs refused to move. He could see Diana on the other side of the room, lips parting in alarm, but everything was muffled, as though he were looking and listening through fogged glass.
“Bye-bye, owie,” Philip cooed, smiling sweetly. He kissed his own hands, still clutching the invisible threads, and murmured again, “Bye-bye.”
Marcus wanted to scream, or shake the kid, or do something, but he could do nothing but sit there and feel reality warp around him. And then—
“Philip Michael Addison Sorley Bishop-Clairmont. Put time down. Immediately.” Diana’s voice was carrying an urgency that Marcus had never heard before.
Startled, his pudgy hands unclenched. Then with a jolt, the clock’s hands resumed their movement, tick-tock, tick-tock, as if nothing had occurred. Time was flowing once more. Philip’s lower lip trembled, his eyes going round. He sensed he’d done something wrong but didn’t understand.
“We do not play with time. Not ever. Do you understand me?” Diana scolded, gripping him firmly under the arms as she swept him off Marcus’s lap. A single tear slipped down Philip’s cheek. Then, he burst into wails. As his sobs rang out, the half-constructed tower across the room collapsed outward, blocks scattering across the rug.
Marcus blinked, looking as dazed as if he’d been awakened from a dream. “What just happened?” he asked unsteadily. He pressed a palm to his temple.
Diana opened her mouth to answer, but before she could Rebecca crawled over to console her brother. She could never bear to see Pip cry. Becca held out her right thumb, her left firmly planted in her mouth. Marcus could see a violet sparkle glimmering on her thumb, trying to use her own magic to distract her brother. Philip hiccupped at the sight of Becca’s glowing thumb, momentarily forgetting his tears.
“Wow. That was weird. I could see you, but I couldn’t hear you. And I couldn’t seem to speak,” Marcus said, voice recovering some strength. He was still trying to process his recent experience. “Everything started to fade. Then you pulled Philip off my lap and it all went back to normal.” He looked from Diana to the twins, confusion knitting his brow. “Did I… timewalk?”
Diana managed a faint, almost reassuring smile as she shifted Philip onto her hip. “Not quite,” she replied. The hesitation in her voice made it perfectly clear to Marcus that his stepmother wasn’t entirely sure what had happened in that frozen moment. He hadn’t vanished into the past, but something unnatural had tugged at him. At least now the danger seemed to be over.
In the doorway, Matthew appeared, drawn by the commotion. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow and a streak of coppery grime was smeared across one cheek, no doubt he’d been up on the roof fixing a gutter when time ground to a halt. “What’s going on?” he asked, alarmed at the confusion he could feel in the room.
“I think Philip just worked— or rather, wove—his first spell,” Diana cautiously explained. “He was trying to smooth out Marcus’s memories so they wouldn’t bother him.”
Matthew’s face shifted from puzzlement to pure shock. He was thinking that it was impossible. But the evidence was clinging to Philip’s lashes in the form of tears and to the fearful look on Marcus’s face.
“Owie,” Philip whimpered to his father through a remaining sniffle, as if offering an explanation. He pointed a tiny finger at Marcus. “All better.”
Matthew’s mouth fell open slightly. “Shit.”
Meanwhile Becca, still sucking her left thumb, patted Philip’s head with her free hand and solemnly repeated: “Shit.”
Diana couldn’t help the startled laugh that escaped her. Matthew cleared his throat, attempting to regain some semblance of parental composure. He stepped fully into the library and surveyed the scene: Marcus pale and shaken in the armchair, Diana clutching Philip, and Becca trying to offer comfort in her peculiar, profane way. The scattered blocks lay all around like evidence of a magical storm.
Marcus looked between Philip and Becca, first in alarm and then slowly in amazement. The color was returning to his cheeks as he absorbed this revelation.
Matthew let out a long breath and raked a hand through his hair. “We’ll, ah, discuss this later,” he said, attempting a smile for the twins’ sake. “For now, perhaps we should all have a bit of a rest.” There was an undercurrent of concern in his voice as his eyes flicked to Marcus. Clearly, Matthew didn’t want to agitate his son any further tonight.
Diana nodded in agreement. “Good idea. Why don’t we—”
But before she could finish, Marcus swayed where he sat, a hand rising to his forehead once more. “I… I think I just need to close my eyes for a moment,” he mumbled. His voice was suddenly thin with fatigue. The evening’s events had taken a toll, and whatever spell Philip cast might have lingering effects.
“Marcus?” Diana stepped forward, alarmed by the way his eyes unfocused.
Marcus tried to respond, but only a soft grunt escaped him. In the next heartbeat, his eyes rolled back and he slumped sideways in the chair. If Matthew hadn’t darted forward with a vampire’s swiftness, Marcus might have crumpled to the floor.
Philip let out a frightened cry at the sight of his big brother collapsing. Becca whimpered around her thumb.
“I’ve got him,” Matthew said. With effortless strength, he lifted Marcus’s limp form into his arms, as though Marcus weighed no more than one of the toddlers. Marcus’s head lolled against Matthew’s shoulder, completely unconscious.
Marcus awoke to the sound of hushed voices and the sensation of soft sheets against his skin. The world felt muffled and off-kilter, as though he were underwater. He groaned quietly, eyes still closed, aware of a dull ache throbbing at the back of his skull. What happened? he wondered. The last thing he remembered was sitting in the library…and Philip’s strange magic. He vaguely recalled Diana saying something about time. After that, darkness.
He forced his eyes open and immediately winced; the warm light of late morning flooded his vision. How long had he been out? Blinking rapidly, Marcus tried to push himself upright—but something stopped him. Specifically, there was a small hand resting on his chest that did not belong there. Marcus frowned at the tiny hand in confusion. It lay atop the cotton t-shirt covering his chest.
Except it wasn’t his shirt. His clothes had been changed. The hand itself was delicate, the fingers short. It certainly wasn’t Matthew’s large hand or Diana’s slender one. And it was too big to be Philip’s or Becca’s pudgy toddler hands. This hand looked like it might belong to a child perhaps nine or ten years old.
Heart pounding, Marcus lifted his right arm, intending to poke the mystery hand and see if it would vanish. As he did, his own right hand floated into view and horror lanced through him. His hand was tiny. Instead of the broad, long-fingered hand he’d known for over two centuries, he saw a child’s hand attached to a scrawny, youthful arm. He wiggled his fingers in disbelief and the small hand on his chest wiggled in perfect unison. It was his hand. Both were his hands. Marcus jerked upright, far more quickly than he intended, and the room spun around him.
“What the—” he spluttered, the words coming out in a high, youthful voice that he barely recognized. “What the fuck?!”
The curse echoed off the stone walls of his bedroom in an alarmingly childlike timbre. Marcus clapped his hands over his mouth. He could feel the smooth roundness of his cheeks, the absence of the stubble that normally roughened his jaw. His heart thudded at the shock.
Across the room, Matthew shifted to pin his son with a stern glare. “Language,” he admonished, looking every bit the imposing patriarch. The single word carried the crisp authority of someone well practiced in scolding unruly children. He stepped closer, arms crossed over his chest.
Marcus gaped at him. Of all the concerns right now—language? Truly? He opened his mouth to retort, but all that emerged was a strangled half-squeak of indignation. His mind was reeling, thoughts tumbling over each other chaotically. This isn’t right. This can’t be real.
He scrambled off the massive bed, feet tangling in the oversized nightshirt someone had dressed him in. The hem hung below his knees. Marcus almost tripped, but Matthew was there in a flash, steadying him with a firm hand on his shoulder. The top of Marcus’s head barely reached the middle of Matthew’s chest. That realization sent a fresh jolt of panic through him. He felt absurdly small next to his father now.
Matthew’s lips twitched as though he were suppressing a smile. “Careful,” he murmured, easing Marcus to sit back down on the edge of the bed. Marcus noticed Matthew’s hand spanned most of his back—another disorienting detail in this nightmare scenario.
“Wh-what happened to me?” Marcus managed. He hated the tremor in his voice. It sounded so young, brimming with confusion and a hint of tears he refused to shed.
Matthew crouched so that he was at eye level with Marcus. Despite Marcus’s terror, the rational part of his brain noted the sheer curiosity and concern on his father’s face. Matthew studied him with a gaze that was equal parts clinical and fatherly. “You’ve been…changed,” Matthew said slowly. “Physically.”
“Changed?” Marcus echoed. His small hands balled into fists in the folds of the oversized shirt on his lap. That single word couldn’t begin to cover the insanity of what he was experiencing.
Matthew raised an eyebrow. “Do you remember Philip grabbing your threads yesterday?” he asked gently.
Yesterday. Marcus’s mind whirled. He recalled the library, the feeling of time stopping, Philip’s hands yanking at something within him, the dizziness… Fainting in his father’s arms. And now this. He nodded, throat too tight to speak.
Matthew continued, carefully matter-of-fact. “Apparently, he pulled you back. Back along your life’s thread.” He paused, as if unsure how to phrase the next part. “Diana thinks Philip was trying to take away whatever hurt you, to make your ‘owie’ go away. In doing so, he might have unwoven years from your thread.”
Marcus’s stomach dropped. Unwoven years… It was unthinkable, but here he was, living proof. He glanced down at his body—at the knobby knees visible now that the too-large nightshirt had slipped a little. A child’s knees. His knees, from a time long before Matthew had met him in the aftermath of the Battle of Brandywine. He felt suddenly light-headed again.
“This isn’t possible,” Marcus whispered. He searched Matthew’s face, hoping for any hint that this was a bad joke. But he found none. Only sympathy, worry, and a slight glimmer of mirth that Matthew was trying hard to suppress.
Indeed, Marcus realized with a mixture of irritation and dark humor, Matthew was going to enjoy this far too much. After all, how many times had his father sighed in exasperation over Marcus’s youthful impulsiveness, his boyish enthusiasms? Marcus could practically hear Matthew’s future teasing: Well, now your body finally matches your behavior, son.
A flush of mortification heated Marcus’s cheeks. He scowled, fists still clenched. “Don’t you dare say it,” he muttered, narrowing his eyes at Matthew.
Matthew’s brows lifted in an almost comically innocent expression. “Say what?” he asked, but his lips curved ever so slightly at the corners. He knew exactly what Marcus meant.
Marcus groaned and buried his face in his small hands. This could not be happening. Having siblings was weird enough—after centuries of being an only child (Benjamin didn’t count; Marcus hadn’t even known about that “failed execution” of a brother until recently), he had finally accepted that he was no longer the sole apple of Matthew’s eye (if he ever really had been). Becca and Philip were here to stay, and as bizarre as it was to have toddler siblings, he truly did care for them.
But this? Being magically de-aged to the body of a child by one of those toddler siblings? This was beyond weird. It was utterly uncharted territory. He peeked through his fingers, voice muffled. “How…how old do I look?”
Matthew stroked his chin thoughtfully, as though assessing a patient. “About ten years old, give or take,” he answered. “Your hair is lighter, too—more blond than I’ve ever seen it.”
Ten. Marcus let out a shaky breath. He was the age he had been in 1767, a boy running wild in the Massachusetts countryside long before war and blood changed him forever. Part of him felt a distant, surreal awe at actually being young again. But the dominant emotion was a rising wave of panic.
“This will wear off, though, right?” Marcus dropped his hands to stare imploringly at Matthew. “Please tell me Diana can fix this.”
Matthew’s momentary smirk faded, replaced by the cautious look of a father who doesn’t want to lie to his child. “Diana is already researching a way to reverse it,” he said carefully. “We’re optimistic, but this is entirely new ground, Marcus. Even for her.”
Marcus’s shoulders sagged. The room fell silent except for the gentle rustle of the breeze through the open window and the distant clatter of domestic activity elsewhere in the house. He could hear Philip and Becca laughing faintly in the distance as they played. A memory from yesterday floated up: Philip’s bright face yesterday, cheerfully saying “bye-bye, owie” as he yanked on Marcus’s threads. The little one had only meant to help.
Marcus exhaled slowly, trying to rein in his tumult of emotions. Dramatic as the situation was, the introspective part of him knew there was some irony here. Perhaps this was the universe’s way of forcing him to confront his past—literally in the form of his past self. Diana had wanted him to remember his human life, after all. Well, I certainly can’t escape it now, he thought wryly.
He felt Matthew’s hand squeeze his shoulder reassuringly. “We’ll sort this out,” his father promised in a firm voice. “You have my word.” There was love and resolve in that tone that made Marcus’s throat tighten. In that moment, despite everything, Marcus was profoundly grateful that he didn’t have to face this alone.
Then Matthew stood and ruffled Marcus’s unruly, white blonde hair. “Come now. No use hiding up here all day. Let’s see if we can find you something that actually fits.”
Marcus looked down at the tent-like nightshirt and managed a rueful chuckle. It was a small relief that he could still laugh, even in this predicament.
Matthew’s only response was a light pat on Marcus’s cheek as he moved toward the door. “I’ll fetch Diana,” he said. “She’ll want to see that you’re awake and alright.” He hesitated. “And Marcus? No more fainting if you can help it, alright? You gave us all quite a scare.”
Marcus nodded. He didn’t particularly want to faint again either. As Matthew slipped out of the room, presumably to gather the family, Marcus was left momentarily alone with his thoughts. Sunlight slanted across the wooden floorboards and up to his dangling feet. He swung them slightly, marveling at how short his legs were now. This day was only getting started, and he already felt exhausted by the sheer absurdity of it.
He fell back onto the pillows with a dramatic thump, covering his face with his forearm. Maybe I’ll wake up and find this was all a bizarre dream, he thought fleetingly. But as he inhaled, he caught the subtle, sweet note of young human blood coursing through his veins. Not even a vampire anymore, he realized distantly; a ten-year-old boy’s heart beat steadily in his chest. There was no denying the reality.
Marcus let out a long, muffled whine of frustration into the crook of his elbow. This was real, all right. And if he knew his family, the next few days (or however long this lasted) were going to be hell. Ysabeau would likely coo over how adorable he was. Sarah would fuss, Matthew would hover, and Miriam, when she found out, would probably laugh herself sick at his expense.
He sat up once more, summoning a spark of resolve. Alright. I’ve faced worse than this, he told himself. Revolutionary War. Smallpox. Matthew’s driving. Surely he could survive being ten years old for a little while. How bad could it be?
As if in answer, a giggle sounded from the hall, followed by the unmistakable patter of toddler feet. Marcus’s vampire hearing (still keen, thank God) picked up Diana’s voice pleading, “Slow down, Philip!” and the deeper rumble of Sarah’s amused chuckle.
Marcus steeled himself. A moment later, the door burst open without ceremony. “Buvver!” Philip squealed in delight, barreling into the room with Becca hot on his heels. The twins came to an abrupt halt just inside the threshold, four wide eyes taking in the sight of Marcus perched on the bed in an oversized shirt.
Philip’s face lit up in pure joy and triumph, as though everything had gone exactly according to his plan. “Buvver little!” he declared, pointing at Marcus and jumping up and down with glee.
Becca clapped her hands, brown curls bouncing. “Little Marcus,” she echoed in a singsong voice, grinning from ear to ear.
Marcus pressed his palms over his eyes, feeling both utterly exasperated and on the verge of laughter at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. Having siblings was weird indeed. And it was about to get a whole lot weirder.
“Oh, God,” he muttered under his breath as the twins scrambled toward him, giggling. Marcus braced himself for the onslaught of excited toddlers. He had a slightly sinking feeling that this was only the beginning of a long, interesting ordeal.