Royally Marked

Chapter Three

 I'm woken up by the pain.

It feels as if someone has taken a red hot poker from the fire and pressed it against the skin of my inner forearm. Pain radiates outward in agonizing bursts, and all I can do is writhe on the bed and try to remember how to breathe.

It feels like an eternity before it stops, leaving me shaking, breathless, and alone in my dark room.

Last night I was cold, layering on extra blankets before bed and making sure my window was tightly latched, but now I'm feverish, sweating, struggling to push up the sleeve of my pyjama top.

I finally get it up to my elbow and run my fingers over the skin, but it feels smooth and normal. I can't feel any difference from my wrist last night to my wrist now.

I squeeze my eyes shut and flick on my bedside lamp, taking a deep breath before staring down at my wrist.

Your soulmark is on the inner wrist of your dominant hand, and is usually no bigger than the width of your wrist. Some people will have marks that wrap around their entire joint, or extend downwards onto their palms, but for most they are fairly small and easily concealed by a shirtsleeve or wristband.

My Mark is average, a swirling design that fits perfectly on my inner wrist. I study it, picking out the patterns and making sense of the image as a whole.

As my eyes adjust to the light and my heart rate slows down, I see it isn't a mess of swirls at all, but a picture. A small but intricate rose detailed in black, with a leafy vine extending down and curving back up to loop over itself, almost like the tail of a cursive y.

Something inside me loosens at the sight. I've never really been one to consider a tattoo, but this one is nice, the delicate black lines looking like they belong on my skin.

I trace the lines with my finger, my breaths slow and shuddery. The sight of the Mark, so clearly there on my arm, has awakened thoughts I'd thought I'd gotten rid of ages ago. Hopes that I thought I'd convinced myself weren't important.

A tear makes its slow way down my cheek, and I don't even notice my mom has entered the room until she speaks.

"Sweetheart," she says, her voice soft. I look up, meeting her warm brown gaze, and something inside me unlocks. She's smiling, her eyes watering as she sits down on the bed beside me and wraps an arm around my shoulders.

"My little girl, all grown up," she says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. I have to fight the urge to hide my Mark from her. I don't know why, it just - it feels private right now. Like something that should be only for my eyes.

She must notice my stiffness, because she reaches over and draws my sleeve over my wrist, hiding the Mark. "You can show me if and when you're ready," she says, smile growing bigger at my apparent confusion. "What, you don't think I know how it feels?"

I wipe the tears off my cheeks and shoot her a look of skepticism.

She laughs. "Okay, I'll admit it was a little different. I might have done some googling."

"Mom," I say, but inside I'm relieved and so, so grateful. I lean my head on her shoulder and sigh. "Thank you."

"Of course." We sit there for a moment before she sniffles wetly. "I can't believe you're eighteen," she says, voice thick.

I slide my arm around her waist and hug her. "You know I'll always be your little girl, Mom," I say, giving her an extra squeeze. "I'll always need you. Promise."

"Good," she says, squeezing me back. "I'm going to hold you to that." She presses a kiss into the top of my hair. "I'm proud of you, Casey."

"Thanks," I whisper.

Even though it's four in the morning, I take a shower. I'm sweaty and exhausted from the pain and overwhelming emotions, some of which - a lot of which - I thought I was going to be able to ignore.

The spray hits my face, and I revel in the warmth on my aching body. My muscles feel tense and sore, and I'm annoyed once again that no one really told me how much getting your Mark hurts.

It still doesn't feel real. I have my Mark. I have my Mark.

This isn't a dream.

I run my hand over it again, half-convinced it'll wash away in the water. When it doesn't, I let out another breath.

I don't know what I thought my Mark was going to look like. I don't think I ever really imagined it; after all, it's only been a year. I didn't exactly have adequate time to process the whole thing.

Magic, especially the stuff that seeped into our everyday lives, seemed like a much more important - and cool - thing to deal with.

That's one of the things I'll never understand - how a lot of people can be perfectly fine with the whole Mark thing, but freak out about magic. Lots of people are still worried that it's secretly evil or something, a weapon of some foreign race sent to disarm us.

Well, if it was, it did a good job.

I'm the complete opposite. Magic, sure. It's weird, and doesn't exactly follow any established rules or patterns that we can understand yet, but it's magic. I mean, come on. And anyway, lots of perfectly normal everyday processes used to be thought of as magical or impossible before we figured them out.

Marks, on the other hand? Super weird. How do they work? Why do they work? It just seems so random.

I'm sure there'll be an explanation eventually - for magic and Marks - though I'm honestly not sure I'm looking forward to it. Marks, sure, it would be nice to know how and why they work, but it's not like it'll change anything. It'll still be there.

And I'm sure if we can explain magic, we'll find a way to control it. And the weaponize it.

I like magic the way it is. Unpredictable, whimsical. It makes the world a little brighter, a little more unexpected in a good way. Like Del's coffee, or the songbird that perched outside Mom's window every day last summer and chirped her favourite songs back to her.

Just little things that make you feel like you're living in a fairytale.

I slide back under the covers, and unlike last night, I'm tired enough that I fall asleep as soon as I'm tucked tightly into my blankets.

If I dream at all, I don't remember it. The only thing I'm left with in the morning is a deep sense of peace, like I had the best sleep of my entire life. Like I've been wrapped in the softest blankets imaginable, in the warmest, safest room in the world.

When I wake up, it's actually sunny for once, the light hitting my face in a way that's more comforting than annoying.

I can hear Mom puttering around downstairs, and smell her signature raspberry - chocolate chip pancakes, which are my favourite.

I take a deep breath and let it out. I'm smiling, which isn't really something I planned on doing today.

I think in my head, I was just going to sulk dramatically all day in the wind and rain, which just doesn't have the same effect in the sunshine - plus, I'd be delusional if I thought even for a moment that Mom and Del would let me hide away all day on my birthday.

I get up and pull on my jeans and a sweater, the gray sleeves long enough to hide my Mark and fall over my wrists. My hair goes into a ponytail. There's nothing worse than getting syrup in your hair, and I plan on drowning my pancakes in the stuff.

Suddenly, I'm excited about my birthday. After all, you only turn eighteen once, right?