The Marked Perspective

Names. Names. Names.

𝗖𝗪: 𝗠𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘃𝗶𝗼𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲, 𝗖𝘂𝘁𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗕𝘂𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴.

Chapter is set right after the execution of the apostasy leaders, so be warned, it's heavy.

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𝗝𝘂𝗹𝘆, 𝟲𝟮𝟴 𝗔𝗨

𝘽𝙤𝙙𝙝𝙞 𝙋𝙤𝙫

𝘟𝘢'𝘦𝘯 𝘙𝘪𝘰-𝘰𝘯… 𝘉𝘰𝘥'𝘪 𝘋'𝘳𝘢𝘯… 𝘎𝘢-𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘛𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘴… 𝘔𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘯 𝘚𝘢𝘯𝘣'𝘯… 𝘚𝘰-𝘪𝘭 𝘛𝘦-𝘳𝘺…𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘤'𝘴-

He finally dozed off, face flat on the pillow, back exposed. From where I sit at the foot of the bed, I can clearly see all the hundred and seven red lined cuts on his back.

He's been up all night, delirious and not making sense. To other ears it may seem he is sleep talking gibberish. To mine? I have been hearing it all night. Names. Hundred and seven names. In order of age except mine, mine stands next to his own. I assume it's because we are family, our blood makes us more responsible than others.

He's been reciting all hundred and seven names in a loop. Since last night, since Garrick and I found him sat leaning against the chair on his chest and his back exposed covered in blood, delirious and heating up in fever. Probably from all the cuts, the pain and dehydration, and no food because he's heaving anything that he swallows.

He spoke three words. Just three words other than the names.

𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘭. 𝘙𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴. 𝘍𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘶𝘳.

We know what it means. Garrick and I. He informed us in solemn tones what he did to pardon our lives. Then he said he will seal the deal with the fucking archaic Tyrrish Custom. And we sat there. Just sat there in the next room while that vile piece of shit woman cut into him a hundred and seven times. For us. To let us live.

“𝘊𝘪'𝘳𝘢𝘯 𝘋𝘦'𝘶𝘯… 𝘌𝘺𝘢 𝘉𝘳-𝘬𝘦𝘯… 𝘐𝘮-𝘨'𝘯 𝘊𝘢'𝘶𝘭𝘰…”

He is still reciting in his sleep. It was clear in the beginning, the first four loops. When he was awake, not sane, just awake. Then he slowly dozed off, then woke up, then dozed off again. It started getting slurry then, but the reciting doesn't stop. He's still mumbling.

I wish I could take it away. Take the pain away. Make him sleep a little peacefully. But I can't.

At least we did our best to clean him up. Clean all the blood up, cleant the cuts up so it doesn't go septic. The bleeding has stopped for now. He can't be mended, it's against the fucking custom.

I want to scream, “Who bloody cares, he is fucking delirious! Mend him.” But to whom?

The woman who did it? The General whose dragon burned our parents? The King who made us watch? They, who would have killed us kids if not for him bargaining for our lives?

The door opens and Garrick steps in.

“How's he?”

“Dozed off again.”

“𝘑𝘢'𝘦 𝘚𝘶𝘵𝘩-𝘢𝘯𝘥… 𝘓𝘪'𝘮 𝘔𝘢-𝘪… 𝘋𝘰𝘶𝘨-𝘭…”

Garrick nods and hands me two muffins, “That's all I got for now. Cooks are starting breakfast soon anyway. We'll get it early.”

We have been up all night looking after Xaden, and it's sunrise now, by the looks from outside the tiny open window.

We are in Calldyr City, in the outhouse to the palace. All of us ‘Marked Ones’, and Lady Danbar with her unborn child. They started calling us that three days ago, after the relics etched on us when our parents burnt. Three days since I saw my mother burn.