He knew this. He’d been trained.
He’d had so many teachers, he’d forgotten half their names. His father himself taught him. He’d learned from Oracles, experts, praecuri, scholars, chimaeric illusionists employed by the Royal Family, the Tsars of Russia, the Emperor of Japan.
He knew this. He knew it.
More than that, he was good at it. He cared about it enough to be good. He studied it on his own, began studying it even before his father demanded he learn it. He hid books in his room, found things in the library he hadn’t been given. He cared. He cared about it. He knew, somehow, he would never stop needing it to survive. But everything was going dark.
Out of that darkness, he heard thethwackof the cane.
Dripping. Dripping on the stone…
Fuck. What was happening to him?
The muttered scolding and screaming and reminders all became nonsense in his head. None of it stopped the pain in his chest, the burning from within, the certainty that he was dying, and worse, that he’s the reason others were dead. Saying the words over and over under his breath didn’t actually fix anything, or make the chimaeras return, the happy illusions that allowed him to cope with the pain. Saying the words “chimaera” and “shield” and “control” didn’t actually produce any of those effects.
Still, the effort distracted him.
It was something to focus on, to keep his mind off of––
The cane, coming down, harder, in rage, over and over…
No. Not that. Not that.
Pain ripped through him, magical that time, another moment of writhing in his own blood and saliva, his head smacking against the black stone.
At some point, he just cut out––
Everything disappeared.
He blacked out.
His mind stopped working, the lights flickered and went out, only to ripple back to life, going out and coming back on like the gutter of a candle’s flame. His mind returned faster than it should. He protested the whole being conscious thing, buthe couldn’t stop that, either. He found himself awake, freezing cold, wet. Did he piss himself? He probably did, but that didn’t explain the wetness of his hair, his face, or how gods-damned cold he was.
He felt outside his body still.
He could see everything again.
The pain remained, lingered, but he pushed himself away from it.
He watched as the next thing unfolded. His mind tracked every movement, every word, every breath from a great distance.
Give me your arm. Give it to me, whelp.
His body sprawled on the cold, wet stone, unable to move. His thoughts moved only sluggishly, distant from everything going on with his body, distant from that part of him watching from above. The thinking part of him turned clinical, cold as the stone.
Pretty sure my skull is cracked.
Pretty sure I’m dying.
He was surprisingly calm about those things. He was surprisingly all right with them, too. Death didn’t sound that bad, not in that quiet, cold place.
He can’t help anyone, anyway.
He can’t even help himself.
Despite that acceptance, when his father snatched at his wrist, he still fought him. He still struggled to wrench his arm away. He whimpered at the raised iron, the renewed threat, but he can’t hand over his arm. He can’t force himself to give it to his father willingly.
He would rather take the mark. He’d rather wear the obscene burn of the skull on his face, the brand that marked him his father’s slave, than this thing his father wanted.
