“I’m sorry.” Wayland knew a little of what it meant to be ignored and passed over by family who were meant to care about you.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Idris said, with a shrug. “My parents had no right to expect their elder children to assume their parenting duties. And their shortcomings did not end there. I was too young to understand at the time, but Laoise and Elen were fighting a constant battle, too, one not of their own making. And I was one of many weapons deployed in the war.”
Wayland frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Perhaps it is with good reason most Gentry families limit themselves to one child at a time.” Idris ducked his head. “Even at the tender age of four, I knew my parents did not treat my sisters the same. Elen was praised for her obedience, while in the same breath, Laoise was criticized for her willfulness. They expected Laoise to lead, burdening her with duties and responsibilities, while Elen, despite her obedience, was shielded from the harder tasks. Whether my parents did it knowingly or not, they constantly pitted my sisters against each other.”
Idris passed a hand over his forehead, smoothing his length of hair. His dark eyes were shiny—whether with tears or memory, Wayland didn’t know. His fingers twitched with the urge to comfort Idris. He curled his hand into a loose fist.
“Laoise resented Elen for never carrying the same weight yet effortlessly being favored; Elen felt underestimated, trapped by our parents’ expectations of her perfection. By the time I was four, and they were both teetering on the brink of womanhood, they were at each other’s throats. Literally.”
Wayland waited, a cold premonition of tragedy ghosting over his skin.
“Mother sent the girls on some errand to the Sept of Scales’ official storehouses—she and Father were hosting a feast for Laoise’s birthday. At the last minute she shoved me out the door after them and shouted, ‘Take your brother with you!’ But Elen and Laoise were already arguing, and neither of them heard. I followed anyway, down winding halls and up towering staircases. I almost lost them a few times, but they were easy to spot, looking like twins with their long auburn curls.”
Idris’s throat worked, and the next words seemed to scald him.
“By the time we reached the warehouse, the argument had escalated into a quarrel. I don’t know what they were fighting about—I suppose it doesn’t matter. When I stepped to the door, I saw Laoise slap Elen across the face. Elen grabbed for a silvercandlestick, hoisting it like a club. Then Laoise…” Remembered horror bloomed in Idris’s eyes, reflecting the smoldering heat of the campfire. “Despite the omens of her birth, Laoise had not yet manifested the fiery magic of our bloodline. Until that moment. She…combusted. Fire burst from her skin in a towering inferno, then exploded outward. The contents of the storehouse were tinder for the conflagration—barrels of wine and oil slicking over the floor, fine silks igniting, expensive paintings and priceless books kindling. I saw Elen go up in flames a moment later, her beautiful clothes and long hair torched to ash before my eyes. And then—then—”
Idris’s voice cracked. Broke. Wayland put a hand on the other man’s knee, ready to pull back if Idris flinched away from him. But the touch seemed to steady him.
“I don’t remember much else. The fire burned for days—it demolished a portion of the city and took several other innocent lives. I got lucky—I hadn’t stepped all the way inside the warehouse when the first explosion hit. The door protected me from the worst of the flames. Well. Most of me.”
Abruptly, Wayland understood. His eyes slid over Idris’s features, following the path of light and shadow cast by the flickering firelight. As always, the half of his face revealed by the shaved side of his head was beautiful, expressive, vulnerable. The other half was hidden beneath the purposeful veil of his glowing red hair.
“Do you want to show me?” Wayland did not move to touch Idris beyond his hand on his knee.
“No.” His hand passed over the sheen of his hair again, tugging restively on the ends. “But I will. If you truly aren’t afraid to see me.”
“I fear a great many things in this life, Red.” Wayland held Idris’s gaze with all the steadiness he possessed. “You are not—and never will be—one of them.”
Idris hesitated one last moment, then caught his hair with his hand and pushed it back from his face.
The scar cleaved his face almost perfectly in half, puckering his hairline, twisting over his eyebrow and the corner of his eye, pullinghis cheek and the edge of his mouth sideways, before sweeping the line of his jaw and the side of his neck and disappearing beneath his clothes. The firelight played over the burn, casting shiny whorls and puckered divots in deep relief. Horrified sympathy spangled through Wayland—not for the way the scar looked, but for how much the original burn must havehurt. Wayland lifted his hand to Idris’s face. The other man flinched but did not move away. Wayland’s fingertips skimmed over the contours of his cheek, barely touching the damaged skin.
“There must have been skilled healers in Findias, before the purge,” he murmured. “Could they not—”
“They tried,” Idris said, without inflection. “But in the end, saving my face was of lower priority than saving my life.”
“Then they performed their duty,” Wayland said fiercely. “And now you are perfect.”
Surprise flared in Idris’s eyes, igniting the threads of gold hammered along his deep brown irises. He lowered his gaze as a ruddy flush crept over his cheeks.
“Don’t say that to me.”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t mean it.” Idris’s tone was flat. “And it isn’t true.”
“It is true. And I do mean it.” Wayland lifted his other hand, until Idris’s whole face was cupped between his palms. The unblemished half was cool and smooth, rasping with the faintest hint of stubble; the scarred half was warm and raised, etched with ridges and valleys that Wayland longed to explore. “Scars are maps etched in flesh, Red. Topographies of pain charting the wounds of a life lived. Every twisted seam of flesh tells a story of a battle fought—and a battle survived. Some are fought in blood-soaked soil, some in flame-doused warehouses. And some in the deepest recesses of the heart. Scars are roads carved by suffering, places where pain has folded and healed. This scar is not just a memory, but a testament. To all you have endured.”
Idris sighed, his own hand clasping over Wayland’s where it rested upon his scar. “But it is so ugly.”
“You are perfect,” Wayland said again, more forcefully. “Do you think beauty is synonymous with being unblemished? I would rather you bear a thousand scars than none. Suffering is sacred. Damage is divine. Healing is holy. Imperfectionisperfection.”
Idris said nothing, but a single hot tear slid from the corner of his marred eye and dripped over their joined hands.
“What do you want me to say to that?” The question came out half desperate. “What do you want from me, Wayland?”
