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“Let me clean that out for you,” says Julien, already extending a hand for his arm expectantly.
“It doesn’t need to be cleaned out, it's not like it can get infected,” Occtis replies, drawing his arm in closer. The thick, almost black blood is staining his sleeve, but he ignores that for now.
“I don’t care. You harmed yourself to save my life today. The least I can do is help clean you up, you wouldn’t be wounded if it weren’t for that,” Julien insists, still holding his hand out expectantly.
“It wasn’t really that big of a deal,” Occtis mutters, then sighs, still looking at Julien’s hand, “Fine. But please- please just be normal. About this.”
“Why would I not? Come on, sit,” With that, Julien starts rummaging through his bag.
Occtis sits down on the bedroll next to Julien. He needs to take off his glove to actually have the wound be bandaged and cleaned. The thought is unpleasant. Taking in a deep unneeded breath, Occtis works the glove off. Julien is still trying to find the rest of his supplies in the bag, giving the wizard a moment to collect himself. His arm, no longer hidden from the world, lies in front of him for anyone to see.
The tell-tale spiderwebs and swirls of dark grey necrotic scarring covers the hand, moving up his arm and stopping just short of the elbow. The scars are quite ugly in Occtis’s opinions and his peers' reactions to the sight have only further proven that. He had only tried to go without covering them for one day when studying at the Penteveral, and the reactions had been more than enough for him to vow never again. Almost no one has this kind of mark, and those who do are usually veterans of the rebellion, not anyone as young as Occtis, and he has learned that it’s jarring for most.
As is proven when Julien finally pulls out a roll of bandages and looks back at Occtis, his movements stop short, eyes locked on the scars. He looks a second longer than is considered polite before pointedly looking away, grabbing the wet rag and tenderly pulling Occtis’s arm towards him, then wiping out the long cut down his inner forearm. The silence between them is tense at best, and Occtis catches him peering at the scars, eyes tracing the lines and subtle texture on the edges. Yet despite this, the knight says nothing, dutifully wiping out the debris that made its way into the deep cut on Occtis’s forearm.
After a tense minute of unsubtle staring, Occtis cannot take the silence anymore, “Ask your questions,” he says, voice terse.
“I thought you wanted me to remain normal about this?” Julien teases. Or at least Occtis thinks he is, a tiny smirk is on his lips that Julien seems to be trying to hide, but it does not seem mean.
“Balently staring is not being normal about it,” Occtis huffs.
“Do you want me to ask about it?”
“Does it really matter?” Occtis retorts, and a strange expression crosses over Julien’s face, “I don’t know. People usually press about it. Thaisha did when she first saw it.”
“Well unlike most people, I have no reason to bother you with needless questions. I have fought in a war before boy, I know what scars that magic comes from. And I know your family,” Julien states, the false implication hanging between the two.
“Oh- um. My family didn’t do it,” Occtis clarifies.
Julien hums, “Well now I am a little more curious. If you want to tell me, I will gladly listen, though I will not press you to. Not all scars need their stories told.” The same strange look passes over his face.
His hand sets down the rag before absentmindedly scratching the scar on his upper lip before looking into the wound one last time, deeming it clean enough and grabbing the bandages.
“Uh. Yeah. Sure why not,” Occtis starts, “I was, thirteen? Yeah thirteen, and I had just acquired my first spell book.”
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Occtis remembers the occasion quite clearly, even now. He had been alone in his room, spell book in his right hand, and trying to form the somatics with his left. The first cantrip to attempt felt obvious, Chill Touch was a spell he had seen his siblings cast countless times and they made it look so easy. Even in the spell book it seemed doable, even if a little tricky. Not as simple as presdigitation or dancing lights, the other two in the book, but father would not be impressed by what equaled a magic trick.
Occtis had spent days practicing the verbal component, a familiar practice taught by his tutors, still trying desperately to draw the magic out of him. But Occtis knows that he lacks sorcery. Even as hard as they push, he does not feel the connection to his family's magic that he knows he should. Even Ethrand had manifested small magic by ten, though he could not properly cast a spell until last year. Try as they might, Occtis will not be able to perform the magic that his tutors demand of him, that his family demands of him.
But nevertheless, the intensity of their teaching has meant that Occtis knows better than most how to learn the verbal component for a spell. He is able to decipher the syllables and stress them in the correct order just from reading them off the page. It's the somatics that he has had more trouble with. The moves for this spell aren’t complex necessarily, but the speed at which he has to execute them is troublesome for his fingers. But still, he has been practicing for days, to the point where his fingers feel sore. But he thinks he has it now. Looking at the spell book again, he copies the moves one more time, and succeeds. All he needs to do now is combine the components.
The excitement at possibly being able to cast magic, to make something of himself, fills him with excitement and it's hard to steady his nerves. Occtis takes a deep breath. Then another. He can do this. He was born to do this. The words leave his lips flawlessly, and the somatic dances across his fingers quickly, hitting all of the right moves in just a second. All but the last one that is. A combination of nerves and the soreness of his fingers causes Occtis to trip on the very last movement. Instead of the spell failing like it should, it backfires.
A bone cold chill starts at his fingertips, moving up his arm and turning the skin to a deathly grey color as it does. Occtis cannot help but cry out at the pain, and he can feel his life force leaving his body in the seconds the spell lasts. When it's over, he drops the spell book to the ground, clutching his arm to his chest. It is obviously wounded, and the markings are clearly magical in nature. If anyone sees this, they will ask about it. Hurriedly, Occtis shoves the spell book under his bed, and rushes to change into a long sleeve shirt to cover most of his arm. His hand is clumsy as he does so, the buttons painful to try and do, but he manages.
As for his hand, it is a dark grey, with black fractals spiderwebbing over the skin. Occtis has not started wearing gloves regularly yet, always borrowing a pair from Ethrand for any events he is needed at to match his family. Occtis shoves his hand in his pocket, hissing at the drag of the fabric on the sensitive skin.
No one is in the halls of the castle as Occtis makes his way towards Ethrand’s room close by. He really hopes his brother isn’t in there. He shouldn’t be if Occtis remembers correctly. His brother is probably with Koral right now, bothering their older brother while he does actually important work. Luckily the teen doesn’t stumble upon anyone on the short way to his brothers room and even more luckily, the door is unlocked and the room empty. Occtis moves quickly, looking through Ethrand’s drawers for the pair of gloves he always borrows. Finally in the fifth drawer, he finds them. Ethrand has so many pairs that Occtis doesn’t worry about him missing just the one. Even if he complains about Occtis’s thievery, Occtis will just say he never took them back so they rightfully belong to him.
Ethrand and him are the same size, much to his older brother's irritation, so the gloves fit just short of perfectly. He will have to ask father soon for another pair made for himself, but these will do for now. His arm still throbs in pain, and he knows he will have to bandage it tonight, but for now, this is enough.
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“So why didn’t you already have your own gloves at that point? The Tachonis all wear gloves.” Is the first thing Julien asks when Occtis finishes, bandaging long finished.
“I didn’t really need them at the time. Most of my siblings didn’t wear them outside of public events until around fifteen. Even then, no one really cared that I started early compared to them. I don’t even think they noticed,” Occtis answers
“Should I start worrying about you messing up a spell that badly again?”
This makes him chuckle lightly, “Oh no. I still don’t know how I managed to mess up like that. That disaster eludes me. My hypothesis is that it was in part due to the castle's place in the Reaches causing the necromantic magic to flare up since my slip up was at the very end. Even that does not fully explain it but I have had no luck in recreating the incident since so that guess will have to do for now,” Occtis explains.
“Do you dislike the scars?” Julien is more hesitant this time when he asks.
“Hm- I don’t think so? I think they aren’t very pretty, but it’s not like I’m very pretty anymore. In all honesty if people weren’t so weird about them I wouldn’t be as worried about hiding them. I like my gloves but it would be nice to just not have to worry about it.”
“Do you truly believe you aren’t pretty? Nevermind. Don’t answer that please. You will just baffle me more,” Julien’s face goes from astounded to something more troubled, “You’ve mentioned it twice now, are people really that bothered at the sight?”
“I mean, yeah, most people haven’t seen scars like it before. Once during my time at the Penteveral I had to go without gloves for the day. The reactions I got became the reason I always have at least two pairs now. So many questions and no one would just leave it alone. You may have from your time fighting but for the common person this sort of damage is unthinkable, especially with how badly it healed. I wasn’t the greatest at treating wounds back then,” Occtis tells him honestly.
Julien hums, “I suppose that makes sense.”
An easy quiet settles between the two in the tent as the conversation finishes, and they both start adjusting for the night ahead. Occtis looks at his glove, hanging off his pack, and takes the other off, tucking them both into the bag. If Julien notices, he does not say anything about it. Occtis is grateful for the help with the wound, and the conversation. Despite his initial doubts, Julien had been far more kind about this than Occtis could have ever hoped.
Grabbing his novel, Occtis wonders what Julien meant when he asked if he truly didn’t believe he is still pretty.