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Soft, soft grains of wheat passed through Scar’s fingers, dancing with soft whispers in the wind. The fields blew to him, the earth itself caressing him in its soft grasp. Tranquility— the calm sensation of existence, as time slowed to a stop and all Scar needed was breath.
Yet the exhale rattled in his lungs, and he fought the urge to cough lest he break the transcendence of the moment. He glanced back to the old farmhouse, its peeling paint and thatch roof in various states of disrepair. He could tend to the cows, pull the chickens into his lap and stroke the feathers on each one. He could gather another bucket of water from the well, prune the vegetable garden out back, watch the fields of wheat wave to him in welcome. He could ignore the dull ache from his legs like he had a thousand times before, walk from the village to his home and back again in search of his farm cats.
But it would hurt. And Scar had to choose. Pretend nothing was wrong, or go back home. He sighed. Then turned back the way he came.
Inside, he set the cane on the adjacent wall, falling back onto the couch and pulling his irritated legs towards him. The dim firelight wove its way through the small rooms, dust and the smell of sugar diffused throughout. The couch itself remained Scar’s prized possession— a “gift” from the villagers after he had successfully convinced them to let him stay. With his Blessing. Sniffing, Scar started from the tips of his foot, massaging in the balm he kept out for situations like this. He rubbed in extra dollops for each old scar he came across, knowing the phantom pains they stood for would be slightly relieved with the pressure.
An old, well-established mark that had sliced his left foot arose after a day spent training. Barefoot, as always, he had stepped upon a jagged rock. He still remembered the way his eyes blurred the world around him, the way his lip had bled after holding sobs.
The ring around his right ankle was nearly as old as the first. He was sparring with the Controller, and his ally— never so naive as “friend”— had used his Blessing of blood crystallization to turn a simple scrape into an exasperated mess of raw skin. Simply another fight for the Listeners to teach from, despite his inability to put weight on the leg for weeks after.
The one under his knee was most recent. A bullet graze scabbed over, not really a scar at all but something Scar refused to wrap in gauze. After it had stopped bleeding, he discarded the tell-tale white of the bandages as soon as he could. Wounds were easily traceable.
And anyways, Scar was well-used to the sensation of being shot. As a Blessed, it came with the territory, after all.
After applying the salve, Scar hobbled over to the nearby wooden chest. He opened it, taking out an assortment of dried beef and herbs. Waving it slightly, Scar called out, “Jellie! Over here… yes, that’s right!” He cooed as the furred thing padded over to him. Despite many of his residential cats being merely visitors, Jellie had attached himself to Scar from the beginning. Or perhaps it was the other way around.
Nonetheless, he threw the jerky to the cat, turning back around to close the chest. His eyes caught on something, and his grip weakened.
White clothing, threaded with gold and the telltale yellow eyes. The suit for his Listeners persona. Memories played in his mind, the silent obedience of his childhood morphing into something… other. His duty to defend the city became that of fear; the Blessing he was endowed by his predecessors broken in two, inverted into something he refused to recognize. Hands shook as he clasped the chest.
His responsibility as the Blessed of Majores Love was that of true love, loyalty: genuine adoration. As opposed to Menores Love— the false, corrupted love— his Blessing was made to appeal to the people, to give them a voice.
Not terrify them. Not turn the Listeners into a fear more bitter than the worst villains. It took a long time for Scar to realize that, to see the face of the people without the mask of Majores. The Listeners were no champions.
The Heir of the Listeners may have had a tough start, but didn’t they all? The Curse was as much of a burden to bear as the Blessing. The Listeners— the Controller, the Corrector, Satiation, the Heir, and him, Majores Love— were meant to keep the balance, however terrible.
Not invert the power.
Scar remembered the way he ran, body coursing with the Curse as his mouth spouted the Blessing. He remembered running, years of training pushing him forward, forward.
The bullet didn’t hurt. It was more so the person who delivered it.
He sprawled on the ground, chest heaving with fear. He looked up, expecting to see a Blessed or an ignorant Listener at the very least. Not the bright orange of braided hair, not green eyes sniffing as they left him sprawled on the cobblestone. His heart hurt from the look on her face, the finality of her actions.
Merciful as it may appear, there was a reasoning behind everything. The girl with the braids and the green eyes was the Heir of Listeners’ most devout follower. She didn’t shoot his leg and miss his heart merely from a stroke of goodwill— no, any bit of that would’ve died in the last seven years. It was an order; of that Scar was certain. And if he knew the Heir as well as he did…
It meant that Scar’s little escape from the Listeners was not an escape at all, but a vacation for Majores Love. Sooner or later, the doorbell would ring. Jellie would be left behind. He would be back in the city, as Majores Love once again.
—-
Thus when the doorbell rung, Scar was ready. He took Jellie into his arms, reminiscent of the daily choice he made between manning the farm and caring for his legs. Pretend nothing was wrong, or go home.
The doorbell rung, and Scar barely needed to glimpse outside before standing on two shaky legs, unfit to do anything more than hobble on their own. Pretend nothing was wrong, or go home. Those were his options.
He opened the door to find the familiar white suit, and the familiar man wearing it. Blue, streaked hair; a soft, ageless smirk; and rubies adorning him, rubies Scar knew weren’t gems at all, but stores of crystallized blood.
Pretend nothing was wrong. Go home.
Scar made his choice.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Controller.”