Kieran paused.It occurred to him that the child-version of himself was, in a weird way, trying to thank him for preventing this future—the one where he was nothing but a sacrificial lamb to his family members.It was what was supposed to have happened.A foregone conclusion.The fact that it hadn’t…Well, there was a lot to unpack with that.
“We’re not done yet, though,” little Kieran said.“Come on.”
He took off running into the woods, the funeral scene vanishing in an instant.Seaweed immediately raced after him, chirpingwith concern.Kieran choked on what he’d been about to say, calling, “Wait!Tell me what you want!”
When he got no reply, he let out a sigh, then chased after his younger self.He was fast, so Kieran had to hurry to keep up.Deeper into the forest they went, leaping over fallen trees and stones, still not a single bird or small animal to be seen.Kieran felt a shiver come over him but shoved it down.
Finally, his younger self skidded to a halt.Seaweed squeaked just as another vision flickered into existence in a new clearing.In this one, Kieran saw himself at thirteen.He’d started to grow out his hair so it hung around his chin, his face soft and childlike in contrast to a recent growth spurt that had made him nearly as tall as his mother.He had his arms crossed and his eyes pointed at the floor.
Looming over him was his father.Kieran bore more of a resemblance to him than to his mother, but his father was all sharp edges and heavy muscle.He kept his curly blond hair cropped close to the scalp and had a short, trimmed beard.Everything about him was well-kept, from his appearance to his reputation.Only the best could be expected from the head of the family.
“I heard from your uncle that he caught you spying on your cousins’ magic lesson this afternoon,” Kieran’s father said, his face giving little away.“This isn’t the first time either.Tell me, Kieran, what are my expectations for you?”
“To enjoy the time I have,” Kieran’s thirteen-year-old self whispered.“To not distract myself with things that aren’t meant for me.”
Kieran felt his stomach twist.He remembered this—vividly.Itwasn’t a memory he particularly enjoyed reliving, much less seeing played out in front of him like some sick piece of theater.Seaweed too was growling in William’s direction.
“Correct,” the vision of his father said.“Practicing magic will only expend what little of it you have.You’ll only cut your time shorter if you try it.”
“But, Father,” the younger Kieran said, his voice cracking.He sounded on the verge of tears.“I’m a witch.I want to know how to do the things that everyone else can!I’m the only one in the whole family who doesn’t know how to cast—”
“And you’re also the only one in the family who was born with such a special purpose,” his father cut in.He reached out, putting a hand on young Kieran’s shoulder.Kieran winced: From the outside, the gesture might look comforting, but he was all too familiar with it.It was a power play on his father’s part, meant to hold him in place if he tried to draw back or run.“You have so little time, Kieran.Do not waste it on something that will only cut it shorter.”
At Kieran’s side, he heard a sniffle.He glanced down to see that Little Kieran had begun to cry, wiping tears away with his fists.Kieran’s chest ached.Despite the years that had passed since this moment, it still made him want to cry too.
“He wanted me to stay weak,” he said to no one in particular.Little Kieran and Seaweed looked up at him as he continued: “That was his plan all along.Keep me uneducated in magic and complacent so there was no chance I’d be able to defy him.No chance I’d defy the family.”He sighed.“And I’m still weak.I guess he succeeded at that in the long run.”
Little Kieran frowned at him.“You’re not very nice, you know that?”
Seaweed chirped in agreement.
“Not very—what?”Kieran wrinkled his forehead.“I’m just saying—”
“Come on,” Little Kieran said, snapping his fingers.The vision in front of them vanished.“You’re still not getting it.Follow me.”
“Still not getting what?”The younger boy ran off again, Seaweed on his heels, and Kieran groaned.“Oh,come on.”
He ran to catch up.He wished he could see the sky better—time was beginning to feel a bit too nebulous for his taste, and not being able to track the sun wasn’t helping.He could have been following his younger self for minutes or days—he couldn’t be sure.
Anxiety tightened his throat again.If he was gone for too long, it would give Elias time to catch up with them.All he knew was that running through the brush had scraped up his exposed skin, and the wound on his neck still throbbed whenever his heart rate rose.
Finally, Little Kieran stopped.He waved Kieran over as a new vision appeared before them, reflected all around in the trees.
Kieran recognized it instantly.This was himself eight months ago, wearing all black as he prepared to run away.He was minutes from heading to the Pelumbra airfield, where the aeroship he’d decided to steal with Santiago, Ariel, and Adelaide was parked.The curse had begun to progress, leaving him pale and thin but not yet withered, as he’d been in the funeral vision.In his hands, he held either side of a large portrait.
“Remember this?”Little Kieran asked.
Kieran nodded.“It’s the night I ran away—I was terrified.I was so sure I was going to get caught.But at that point, I knew it was either run away or just…die.So I ran.”
In the vision, the other Kieran held the painting up.It was a familiar one—a portrait of Kieran with his parents, all dressed in finery.None of them were smiling.Kieran remembered the afternoon they’d spent sitting for it—how his mother had kept standing up to correct the painter, her annoyance palpable.Make Kieran look like he’s sitting straighter.Make my waist narrower.Could my husband be taller?All the while, Kieran had sat silent, his father behind him like an evil entity ready to spirit him away if he so much as breathed wrong.
“They got that made to use at my funeral,” Kieran said, feeling his shoulders sink.“Father had noticed that the curse had begun to impact me physically, so they wanted the painting finished before I got worse.It was a way to memorialize me before I even died.”
In the vision, the other Kieran withdrew something from his pocket—a steak knife, stolen from the kitchen.Gritting his teeth, he stabbed it into the portrait, ripping it down the canvas so it tore with a satisfyingrip.He hacked at it until he’d cut a triangular piece free: the painted image of himself, sitting with his back straight and hands folded neatly in his lap.
He stared at it for a moment, a scowl on his face.Kieran remembered the way rage had bubbled up inside him at the sight—physical proof that his parents had long given up on keeping him alive, if it had even been a priority in the first place.His entire life he’d been the perfect martyr—so kind, so giving, so patient.
And he was tired of it.
