The night air was a shock of warmth against Jethran’s cool, mallow flushed skin. He ran, heedless of the branches that whipped at his face or the roots that tried to snare his ankles. He ran with the desperate terror of an animal sprung from a trap. Behind him, the oppressive silence of concrete, order, and judgment gave way to the unfamiliar, living quiet of the woods.
This was worse; it was ancient and felt aware. Every rustle of slate hued leaves was a BAP’s footstep, every hoot of a night bird a signal of his pursuit.
He didn’t stop until his lungs became ragged in his chest, and his legs gave out from under him. Jethran collapsed at the base of a towering tree whose bark was not gray, but a deep, unnerving lilac. He fell onto the damp moss, his cheek pressed against the lilac ground, gasping. The moldy flavor of the forest air coated his tongue.
He lay there trembling and broken like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The silence of the forest was absolute and vast. It pressed in on him, amplifying the frantic, tearing sound of his breath. His mind was trapped in a cycle of assault by memories from the past two days.
He still felt the disgust in the Medic’s cold eyes. He could still hear the helpless sound of his mother's weeping. The inescapable efficiency of Martier’s hands, the way his bones nearly cracked as one hand pinned his arms, the other gripped his jaw. He could still feel the graveled taste of the pill like a phantom grit on his tongue. He tasted the cold shock of the water from the flask, as if it would cleanse his Flaw.
Martier and the Big Aught Medic had trespassed his body, forced their way inside, and that violation had unlocked something.
But worse, far worse, was the memory of the aftermath. The eruptions of light that had erupted from his body. He had done that. He was no longer just a flaw; he was a monster.
This new truth was reflected in the purple eyes and hair of the tavern men. He could never forget how they stared in horror. His fear was only compounded by the stained lilac wood of his small home. The terror on Martier's face as he saw the little blue flowers scattered across the wallpaper was a terror that was only half as heavy as his.
He rolled over and looked at his hands in the faint moonlight filtering through the smoke hued canopy against the unworldly hued trees. A faint pink still formed the outermost edge, but inside it was a sharp, clear ring of undeniable indigo. As if that weren't enough, inside that stood now a matching ring of a deep cobalt blue.
The young boy felt the same colors on his cheeks. No longer the cool Blush but a warmth from the azuressence and indigosity of these terrible scars. He could feel it, a faint vibration under his skin, a cool pulse that was no longer just a color but a presence.
He hated it. The pink had been a mark of shame, a secret to be hidden. But this... this was a broadcast.
This was the color of his powerlessness, the brand of the violation Martier committed against him. He scrubbed at his cheeks with the sleeve of his tunic, the rough fabric scraping his skin, his breath catching in a sob. He had done this countless times in his life. He always wished simply to scrub the color away, to be gray. Just as before, the color remained, impervious to his panic. Now it was a deeper stain on his spirit made visible.
He had run to protect his mother. That was the only clear thought in the screaming chaos of his mind. As far as he knew, she was safe, asleep in her room. She was unaware of the cobalt cataclysm he had just released.
He was grateful that Martier had seen him leave. The fear of what they might do to her if he had stayed was a physical sickness. He rolled onto his back, the world spinning. They would call her a sympathizer, an accomplice, the mother of a monster.
The thought was a fresh spike of terror that jolted him to his feet. He pushed himself forward, his body screaming in protest, and stumbled deeper into the woods, traveling east, driven by desperate hope.
For hours, he walked, lost in a fog of fear and self-loathing. The world was a blur of lilac barked trees and gray stones. The glow of his skin felt like a mockery, a torch lighting his way through the monochrome it dared to disrupt.
He was the thing the world taught him to fear. He was the spectacle, the infection, the flaw made manifest.
As the first hint of dawn threatened to turn the gray sky a slightly paler shade of gray, he felt a pulse. It was a low, resonant beat he felt in his bones, a vibration that seemed to draw him off his aimless path. It thrummed in his teeth, in the soles of his feet.
He followed the feeling, his feet moved as if guided. His exhaustion was momentarily forgotten, replaced by a magnetic curiosity. It led him to the edge of a clearing.
The landscape here was different. It was a long hill that rose from the forest floor, bare of trees. Running across its crest was a jagged scar of dark gray rock, as if a giant had once dragged a claw across the ground. It was a wounded place. The ground seemed as if it had been burned. He neared the hill and the lullaby his mother sang echoed in his mind.
Upon a once before, there was a great wound on a hill…
And yet, from the deep center of the rocky fissure, the pulse was strongest, and a single spot of impossible vibrancy emanated in the gloom.
…a traveler saw the scar…
Drawn by the strange rhythm, Jethran climbed the hill. The air grew still, the sounds of the forest fading behind him. His breath caught. He could clearly see a flower with petals the same defiant indigo that he had released in the tavern. The flower grew directly from a crack in the stone. Its luminescence seemed to push back against the gray air.
…shined a light out and above…
He reached out a trembling hand, just to feel the warmth coming from its petals. Fearful of what might occur if his hand touched this strange budding flower.
A voice that sounded like a thousand screams spoke from behind him.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it? The life that still grows despite the deepest wound.”
Jethran spun around.
Standing there was a figure that seemed woven from his spirit wound itself. They were neither male nor female, their form wavered like smoke, their skin marked with gleaming lines of silver and violet light that resembled the scar in the rock they stood upon.
“Crezwil,” he breathed. “You are Crezwil. But how do I–”
“You carry a fresh wound,” Crezwil's voice pulsed with a low rhythm.
They looked at Jethran, their eyes holding a compassionate sorrow that was almost unbearable. They weren’t looking at his face, but specifically at the new indigo ring that emanated from it.
"It sings a painful song," they said. "It's a Pulse. We can feel it, even here."
“I want it gone,” Jethran rasped, the words surprising him with their venom. “It’s a sickness. Proof of … of what they did. It’s ugly.”
“Is it?” the living being asked gently. They gestured a hand at their form, as it was of the same lines of soft pulsating light.
“The world has taught you that a scar is a thing of shame. That a wound is a sign of weakness. They taught you to cover it, hide it, and wish it away. This is the great lie of the Gray. The scar left on this world is deeper than the scar on this hill. The Gray itself is a scar. It was left behind when the world refused to die. A scar is not an ending; it is a beginning. The place where the body, or the spirit, refused to die. It is a story written in the flesh and spoken on to the spirit.”
“But it’s a story of pain,” Jethran insisted, his voice raw. “Why would anyone want to read it?”
“Because it is also a story of survival,” the entity replied, their eyes seeming to see right through him. “You look at the world and think it is in its final form. The world survived and still lives despite Gray. You look at your skin and you see the memory of a violation. I look at it and I see a world that has only begun to live. I see a boy who endured and erupted with a light Evenhere had forgotten… like a spectra.”
“But this light,” the being continued, “is only the first note of your song. It is incomplete. You must seek out the other Songs, Jethran. Find them, listen to them, and you will understand the truth of your song.”
“Songs?” Jethran’s head snapped up. “What are you talking about? The lullabies my mother sang? Those are just lullabies. They aren't real. They don't exist. No one believes in that.”
“The reality of our existence is not dependent on the belief of others,” they said. “We exist no matter what Aught be felt.”
“You have been taught that the stories are a lie,” they continued. “But lullabies hold deep and powerful magic, sweet ling. They are the oldest truths. The source of your strength, the path to understanding your power, will be found within the Seven Songs. They are your way of learning to love the one who wears the scar.”
Jethran stared at them, his mind reeling. He was supposed to seek out Silvarii Stories. The idea was so impossible. It felt like an attack. This being, this myth, was telling him to embrace the thing that was destroying him.
A sad smile touched the being’s lips. Their form wavered, the lines of light upon them shining brighter. They gestured to the flower.
“That bloom honors the scar on the hill, it does not hide from it. It makes the wound its foundation. The color you wear is the story of your survival. Do not try to erase the story. Learn to love the one who lived through it.”
Love it, he thought. Love this humiliation? Love what forced me from my home? Love the flaw?
“You don’t know what it’s like,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re a myth. I’m just… Jethran. The Flaw. They’ll hunt me for this. They’ll hurt her. I can’t love this. I just want it to go away!”
He turned and fled, scrambling down the far side of the hill, away from the impossible flower and the being with its gentle, unbearable wisdom. He ran from the hard truth, seeking an easier silence.
His flight led him into a part of the forest where the trees grew thicker, their branches knitting together to block out the pale dawn. He felt the air grow warm and heavy, and a hot cobalt mist swirled around his ankles, muffling the sound of his frantic footsteps. The world became indistinct. The sharp edges of his panic dulled.
As they burned, the self-hating thoughts in his head grew quiet, replaced by a strange and welcome emptiness. The mist dimmed the indigo light from his skin. It was absorbed by the encroaching cobalt cloud.
This felt… better. It felt like relief.
As he walked deeper into the fog, the world around him dissolved. He was no longer in a forest. He was in the dream from the night before, a place made of memory and mist. His skin seemed pale and rough. His breath became shallow.
The mist around Jethran swirled, and a voice murmured from it, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It was a voice like exhaled breath, like a secret you tell only to yourself.
“That pain is too much to carry,” it sighed. “The wound is too fresh. The truth is too hard for now. Let it go. You don’t have to feel it all right now. Let me hold it for you. Just… breathe. Forget, so you can remember.”
Jethran’s breath hitched. He knew who this was.
“You’re the one from the vision,” he gasped. “Muralis. The world doesn't believe you're real. They think you’re only a story.”
“Many are in denial,” the voice murmured. “Their belief is of no consequence to my truth. I exist no matter what Aught be done.”
“Are you one of the Seven Songs?” Jethran asked. “The ones I'm supposed to find.”
“We both are,” Muralis sighed.
He assumed that it meant Crezwil and itself. Jethran thought of the world he’d left behind, a world that had erased these beings. The mist seemed to be amused, and the voice grew a little stronger, tinged with a deep, ancient mockery.
“Fear is a wild beast,” the voice softened again, becoming seductive. “I will help you cage it. The pain is a fire. I will give you rain. You need to be strong to face what comes next. Evenhere is facing a storm. You will need many things to weather the storm. I can only offer a simple cover from its rain. The others will provide the rest.”
It was right. He needed focus. He needed control. Crezwil asked him to love his pain. Muralis offered to take it away. He made a choice. Not forever, he told himself, just for now. For survival.
“Okay,” he mumbled to the mist.
He took a deep breath, inhaling the warm cobalt vapor. It tasted of forgotten memories. As Jethran inhaled, he felt the frantic, painful Pulse within him slow, dulled by the mist into a profoundly wonderful numbness.
He could feel his internal rhythm changing, becoming blessedly quiet. The burning shame of the indigo on his skin eased to a distant, observable fact. He could think again. He could see the path forward.
He felt a surge of gratitude, a profound, aching relief that made his knees weak. But as the initial wave of relief passed, he felt a deeper, more dangerous pull. He felt a desire to just keep breathing, to let the blue wash away everything. He wanted to disappear into the calm. He felt the seductive power of the gift, the temptation to let it control him completely.
The memory of the tavern heremen pointing. The memory of Martier's hand on his jaw. The memory of his mother's slumped, defeated shoulders. It all came rushing back, the pain sharp and sudden. He gasped, tears springing to his eyes.
No... don't want to feel that.
He took another, deeper breath of the mist. The images blurred, lost their sharp edges, and dissolved. The pain vanished, replaced by the warm emptiness.
“You must not stay long within the mist,” the voice warned. “As with any escape, you must eventually return to yourself.”
But the memory of Martier’s hands, of his will being erased, was still a fresh wound. He was in control now, not Martier. This new, warm numbness felt like power. It was his choice.
The deep, pulling desire to just... let go. It was stronger than his fear. He invited it in. In that moment of surrender, he ignored the voice as he took another deep breath, and another, letting the peace wash everything away.
The blue mist he had inhaled glowed from within his chest with a soft luminescence. He looked down at his hands. The colors were a map of his morning. His baseline mallow pink formed the outermost faintest rim. Inside that was the sharp, clear ring of indigo from his encounter on the hill. And inside the indigo, a swirling ring of deep cobalt pulsed with a gentle light.
The peace he found at this moment was sharply interrupted by the sounds of the BAPs’ horsemen. Martier had found him. He put his hands out just as his guardian stepped forward. A light erupted from Jethran. It was a deep surge of pure cobalt that pulsed outward, silencing the woods. It was a wave of pure sensory deprivation.
Martier and the Big Aught Police recoiled, hands flying to their faces, their eyes accustomed only to gray, were overwhelmed by the sudden color. They had been struck deaf, unable to hear even their own voices. They shouted, but heard no sound. They looked at each other, their faces masks of panic, their authority instantly shattered by a silence they couldn't control.
In that single, precious moment of confusion, Jethran acted.
He spun around and bolted, plunging deeper into the misty woods. The numbness was still with him, making the run feel strangely detached, as if he were watching himself from a distance.
He ran until the fear faded completely, not stopping until he was sure he had left them far behind.
He looked at his hands and wondered how he made the BAPs go deaf. He was now even more scared than he had been before. What am I?