a/n:

tw: violent imagery. body horror. blood. child abuse.

IRA EMERSON ELYSIAN

"Keep trying," father's voice cut through the heavy atmosphere, his cold eyes fixed on my back, where a few feathers had protruded after days of failed attempts. The feathers hung loosely against my back, smeared with old and new blood. I wondered if father was disgusted by that sight. I wondered if my blackened blood had made the feathers dirty. I wondered if he regretted giving me his wings when I couldn't even use them properly.  "It may happen today."

The feathers did not grown at once, like they should have. They grew slowly, one feather at a time, slowly tearing off my back, filling it with excruciating pain and stung. There were days when no feathers grew at all, but those were the days when I had to try the hardest. And when the day finally came when there were a cluster of feathers on both sides instead of just a few, I tried my best to not show how happy I was, because father hated it when I celebrated too early.

I tried. I gave everything that my nine-year-old body could give. Sweat trinkled down my forehead as I forced my back to straighten, so the wings would form -- but they did not. Only those few feathers were stuck, not growing, only blood and sweat embracing each other.

"Force your back more. The feathers are stuck. They won't protrude so easily. Would have been a different case if your body was just eligible with the transfer," father's voice held no sympathy, no emotion as he watched me nearly losing my consciousness because of the pain. He only demanded more and more, and I gave him more and more.

I felt my back burn, felt the feathers struggling to get out of my back but I was more determined than the feathers trying to stay in -- I arched my back, crouched and screamed when I felt the feathers forming against my back rapidly, one top of another, growing and growing, without any break. The feathers that were just struggling against my skin now clawed their way out of my back, their edges as sharp as needles, scraping my back with a force so intense, I felt my back tear apart itself to give the feathers freedom.

I no longer recognised my screams. My entire body was trembling in agony, my hands pressed to the ground, tears bathing my hands as I felt thick crimson liquid rolling off the sides of my back and hitting the ground. The skin from where the feathers emerged throbbed in pain, as if someone had sliced that part just so the feathers could come out, blood dropping as fast as the feathers emerged.

I must have lost track of time because for the next few minutes, all I heard was my animalistic screams, as if death was trying its best claw out the soul out of my body but was failing terribly.

I convulsed, and then retched, because I couldn't bear it any longer — it was all too much, and throwing up liquids from deep within my throat made me forget about how the flesh of my back was being sliced by my feathers.

My body trembled continuously, as I felt snot rolling down my nose to lips, mixing with whatever I just threw up. My guttural and ragged screams only continued, my head bursting with an intense pain as the world around me began shifting, circling and simply blurring.

When my voice could no longer produce anymore screams, when my body was finally giving out along with my will power, I finally felt it — the birth of my wings.

They were heavier than I thought, flapping against the wind harshly as I slowly lifted my hand to my back, feeling the thick blood first and almost swatting my hand away in disgust but then I felt it -- the softness of a feather, smeared with my blood. But the blood didn't matter to me anymore -- all that mattered to me was that when I touched the spot of my wings, I no longer felt any flesh there, only the sharp edges of my feathers cutting into skin.

My screams died down, my breaths uneven as I tried to stand but the pain in my back struck, making me fall on my knees. I felt a figure standing in front of me , head tipped down. It was father.

"It's done," he finalised, his voice still holding no emotion at all. "You did well." 

I slightly bowed my head, feeling the incessant saliva all over my mouth due to the vomit. "All memories regarding you being a Naught will be erased from everyone who knows you, except for me," Father explained, turning around.

"Mother, too?" I managed, breathing heavily.

Something about mother's memories about my true identity being wiped off shredded me apart more than my wings. That was the right thing to do, I knew, but I wanted her to see what I had done to myself just so she could see me as her other sons. I wanted her to acknowledge that I had survived something that most people couldn't. I wanted someone other than father to remember me.

"I would do it, if I could. But your mother's mind is highly focused and trained. It's not easy to breech her memories," was father's reply, his expression disappointed, as if he considered himself a failure for not being able to do that.

Right. That was stupid of asking -- mother was a soldier before Father retook Elysia and declared himself as the liberator, and she was equal to ten Ezerian soldiers, at least, that was what I heard from the court members. The only thing that I could imagine when anyone would try to alter her memories were that person would either get burned to ashes before they could even touch an inch of her memories, or would be incinerated while they would alter her memories, if they were able approach her at all, that is.

In a way, I was happy. Happy that I would have someone else other than father remember my true self. Happy that she would finally notice me, wouldn't tell me to wait for her and then have her not come back at all. Happy that if Elliot and I were in the same room, I might be the first person she would look at.

Happy that if I scraped any of my body parts while sword fighting, mother might take a look at them and assure me I would be fine, happy that I wouldn't have to clean my own wounds. Happy that if I were sick, I could go to her, show her my trembling body in fever and I wouldn't have to take care of myself all by myself. Happy that I could show her my overgrown hair, and ask her to cut it however she liked.

I was so happy that I almost forgot about the pain in my back, how the feathers were stinging my back, how father had left the room. All I knew was that I had stood up, my wings secured in my back, my full wings, flapping against the air. I wiped my face using my sleeves, and raced to the hallway, searching for my mother's chamber. I almost levitated myself due to my quick sprint, and I almost laughed.

Mother would be happy, Mother would so happy to see me. She might even hug me. She might even visit my sword spars. She might even praise me. She might even check how I always finished my lessons. How I always kept my room neat, more than Elliot. She might even say she was proud of me.

"Mother--" I barged into her room, my smile falling off my face the moment my eyes landed on the sight before me.

The Ezerian's touch against my back was light, soft, and almost hypnotic to the point my senses blurred, my guard constantly down. I squared my back, as if that would stop these feelings. Her index fingers slowly trailed the spot from where my wings emerged, mumbling incoherent words. I felt the uneven skin from that spot, hoping she was not repulsed by it.

Her touch was even lighter in the areas where my feathers had struck my skin, ripping it open and wounded. As always, my back itched at the beginning, and then began the burning and slowly, after that, my back felt as light as her touch. Her slow breaths brushed against my neck as she did her work, not uttering a single word, simply immersed in her job.

I cleared my throat. "How is it? Can I use my wings frequently?"

I couldn't see her reaction, but I knew she held a frown on her face. "I would advice you not to. I can heal your wounds fast, and for days, but the wings are not trying to stay in, as you know," she said, her fingers still on my back, now pressing my wounds as I slowly felt my pain fading away, as if they never existed in the first place.

"Begin intense healing. That might do something," I told her.

She was a quiet for a while, not responding until she had finished one part of my back. "I can do that. But it might effect your body. There are too many side effects of it,"

"As long as it keeps my wings, do it," My answer was as quick. Losing my wings would mean losing my entire identity. It would mean losing my importance as my father's son, as the prince of this country. And I could not risk that. I could never risk that.

"Yes, Your Highness," My room fell quiet after that, only her and my slow breaths existing, her fingers trailing the skin of my back, soothing away the sting, the blackened bruises, and everything else that contrasted to my white wings.

Her armory was placed on a stool beside the chair I was sitting on, meaning she wasn't hiding herself -- her hair set loose, and sometimes the locks of her hair brushed against my back whenever she came too close, almost making me flinch. I would straighten my back at that, and she would ask if I was alright, if she should go more slow and I would shake my head -- but how could I tell her that it was not that, it was her mere presence in my room that sent my heart spiraling to the point I wondered if she could sense it through my back?

How could I tell her that it had been half an hour since she had started healing my back and throughout the entire time all I could think about her was how her slight touches were making my stomach knotted. How could I tell her that just the mere sight of her sometimes made me question reality itself, made me question my own self because I was so sure I knew myself, but I had no idea what was this.

"Do you only heal wounds?" I asked, my voice low.

"Is there anywhere else you are hurting?" she asked concerningly.

"I am not sure what it is. But my heart my palpitates sometimes? And my stomach knots itself albeit I follow a strict diet, so it is not my digestive system. I have been suffering from terrible lack of focus as well, but I think that is because Elliot has screwed up the entire kingdom but then again, I am always focused when I am practicing swordsmanship so it is not Elliot. And what bothers me the most is that I have been letting down my guards consistently the past few days," she listened to me without interrupting me once, taking in my words. "Can you heal this?" I finally asked.

"That. . . ." she was at loss for words. Was my condition that serious? I turned around impulsively, facing her, her eyebrows raised seeing me. "That sounds concerning."

"Can you. . . can you fix this?" I asked, concerningly. "I know I am asking for too much. But this has been bothering me more than my wings--"

"I am afraid I don't know the solution to this sickness, Your Highness. I apologise," head bent low, she peeked at me with one eye, as if trying to control her laughter.

I frowned, seeing her reaction. "Is there anything that you find particularly amusing, miss Echethier?"

She lifted her head. "You have attracted a terrible, terrible sickness, Your Highness," she said, shaking her head and sighing through her nose.

"What-" I stood up, my height hovering over her. "What is it?"

"You might be developing some profound feelings for a particular person," she announced with the hugest of grins, eyes gleaming like the stars, almost making me forgot about what exactly we were talking about just now.

These are the eyes that I am suppose to be terrified of? This is the face that I am supposed to be disgusted by? This is the existence that I am suppose to show no mercy to? Will father cut my wings off with my own sword if I go and tell him that I couldn't even hold an eye-contact with this Ezerian?

"What?" I asked, shaking my head, her words slowly dawning upon my consciousness.

She only chuckled.

"Whatever you just uttered held no sense. I would advice you to refrain yourself from using words like that," I said, snatching my ruffle shirt from the hook and putting it on, buttoning the wrists, sensing the Ezerian's gaze upon me, her lips holding a small smile.

"It is not a terrible thing. It just means you are a human and you have feeli-"

"You should wear your armor, I will leave now. I have a meeting with father," I said, watching her shrug, but she still had that teasing smile on her face. "Heal the rest of my back at night. Start practicing intense healing. If it is too unbearable for you, stop at once."

I did not wait for her to speak, walking away from my room, making sure to close the room and left, feeling my ears burning. It must have been because of the healing process that my body was doing this whenever I was with the Ezerian. This was all happening because of the side effects of the healing. My body was unknown to this foreign concept, thus these peculiar reaction emitted from my body.

Yes, that is right.

I shook my head lastly, heading towards my father's chamber.

It had been a day since Elliot revealed his identity and destroyed the peace of Elysia. I'd never seen Elysia in a state as wreckful as this -- the throne of Elysia was being questioned for the first time after decades. The kingdom that my father had shed his blood and sweat for, came crumbling down the moment Elliot declared he was an Ezèrian.

Elysia was the kingdom that rose from ashes, and it it was burning again.

Father still hadn't made any kind of public appearance, he was cooped up in his court room, discussing with his counselors, advisors and generals, trying to come up with anything to save the kingdom from falling apart, trying to find where Elliot was. He had sent every one of his soldiers to look for him, and get him to the king alive, but so far, I still hadn't seen any of those soldiers coming back.

Father might try his best to pretend that he still hadn't acknowledge how the rebels were pouring out in Elysia -- most of them being Ezèrian, but even a child could say that the protests were only getting wilder. A king could give his best to erase an entire race, but there would always be rebels who would not give in to the oppression, who would fight back. And Ember wasn't the only rebel. All the rebels who were hiding were now out to light, using their abilities to the fullest, demanding something that I always found non-existent: justice.

Elliot's declaration was the last straw for the rebel Ezerian to reveal themselves in public, demanding true justice. They were perceiving Elliot as some sort of a savior, saving them from the cruelty of their king.

A savior who shared the same blood as their oppressor.

If it came to war, would father shed his own blood again, meaning his son's, to build Elysia from ashes once more?