Scrap Piece + Word Count: 1012
Trigger Warnings: mentions of abuse, violence, implications of assault, main character uses force to make a point
Written by: Del Rey
Prompt Used: At first you will feel special, not everyone knows what that’s like… many of us cried like children… many of us were children…
Extra notes: This was another archived piece from my 100 prompts in 100 days challenge! It became one of my favorites, and eventually I hope to explore these characters more thoroughly!
“What is it like?”
I hate that question. I want to pretend I didn’t hear it. I don’t want to answer her.
She’s looking at me with these big eyes full of wonder, though. They pull on my chest and demand I satisfy her curiosity. I hate her innocence. . . god, she’s far too innocent.
She’s soft and adventurous; doesn’t know what fear tastes like in her throat, nor what the flight response does to a person’s legs. She is gentle. Seeing the silver lining in every situation we have ever come across thus far, like some kind of angel.
Her fingers trace the iridescent markings embedded in my skin. A swirl of her feather-like touch tickles the inner curve of my forearm.
“It hurts when the power is used,” I mutter, shifting my gaze away.
I can’t stand the frightened way her pale eyes dance, nor the loss of her fingertips against my skin.
I roll my eyes and settle her fear softly, “your touch doesn’t, don’t worry.”
She is easily assured, casting me a soft smile. The glow burns me even when I only see it from peripheral vision. I heave a half annoyed breath.
“They’re a mark of honour from your people, aren’t they?” she urges.
Heat flashes through my chest, but she will never know. Immediate, enraged fires roar to life inside of me. I can’t let them burn her.
I grit my teeth and hiss from between them, “that’s what we’re told.”
She is quick to catch the bitter tone, raising one delicate eyebrow. “But not the truth?”
This girl never ceases to amaze me. Every time I expect to leave her behind my walls, she prods at them despite the care I take to hide the stones. And I can’t deny her when she’s so soft and innocent like a toddler exploring the vast new world around them.
I always forget that she is not naïve, or dim-witted. . .
No. She’s intelligent, with a quick mind that misses very little, and she reads people well for someone who has issues staying focused for longer than a minute.
I finally turn back to catch her gaze with mine again. My voice is quietly scraping her skin as I try, and fail, to speak as softly as her touch.
“We receive the markings when one of our gods chooses us for a purpose they have. They cannot interfere with the human world directly, so they take champions to be their tools of manipulation instead. When they do that, it creates a bond between us and the deity who found use for us. . . Some never receive a mark at all and get to live long, peaceful lives.”
Her silence declares her confusion more so than her eyes do.
I get it, though. I have explained this many times before, and my stomach shifts restlessly as I resign to explain why that isn’t as honorable as it sounds.
I take her wrist in my hand with care to the pressure; I want her to feel the pulse beneath her skin, but not any pain.
Not yet.
“At first, you will feel special,” I begin with a voice like smoke.
“And I’ve come to learn that not everyone knows what that’s like.” I brush my knuckles down her cheekbone and watch her pull in a sharp breath.
“Many describe it like euphoria.” I glide my fingertips carefully up the inside of her arm; ghosting my touch to bring goosebumps to her skin.
“Many of us cried like children as we were overcome with warmth and something that tickled in our blood.” I struggle to keep my gripping hand from tightening as the memories ease into my mind.
“Many of us were children.”
Finally, I take my other hand, which had drawn a gentle flush of red to her skin, and place it around her arm next to the other one.
And I twist them opposite each other as I whisper, “the markings begin to carve themselves from the inside out in glowing lights that dance across our blood stained skin.”
Her cry of pain splinters my collarbone, but I grit my teeth and tighten my hold so that the skin would feel to her as though it’ll tear between my hands. Her nails dig into my arm as she tries to stop me. She struggles and yanks on her arm trapped in the snake bite.
As calm as my resolve will allow, I continue, “then the glow fades and the god comes down to see its freshly marked slave.”
My voice is unstable, dipping low to a growling thunder. “The blood in our veins rushes faster as the heart rate speeds up. As it does so, the binding of mortal and god within the wounds lights the entire body aflame. And inside this torture, our gods humiliate us with their own idea of giving thanks to their servant, staining us beneath their hands so the world will know who we belong to. We’re still crying, but it’s for an entirely different reason.” Tightening and tightening, I absently wonder if I will snap her wrist. But I can’t stop. I need her to understand. “Most don’t survive the visitation if they are chosen too young. The rest…”
I yank her arm down to my hip and she slams forward into my chest, letting out a yelp. She scrambles to turn up her now terrified face, attempting to read the intent on mine, but I hook one strong leg over her waist and pin her against me. I lean down so that my lips brush the shell of her ear. She stills like a statue. Finally, she is afraid.
“… we wished we were dead.”
I shove her off me with harsh hands and shuffle away until I am stopped by the trunk of a tree.
I won’t look at her as she wipes away her tears and mechanically smooths down her hair. She is shaking in my peripheral vision. Her wrist is darkening with purple bruises.
“I-I’m so sorry.” She whispers.
I hate her.