Title: Young
Summary: Adulthood is thrust upon those too early, and innocence is far too fleeting. They all grow up too soon.
She was too young to be a mother. Twenty, un-married, and pregnant with her first child. She saw the way that the townspeople spoke of her, though none said it to her face, and she feared the responsibility. She could barely handle herself, how could she manage a child?
Yet she loved her sons all the same.
He remembered the first time he tasted a cigarette, bullied into having one by his friends, who claimed it was the first step to becoming a man. He sucked it in, choked, and ended up coughing and throwing up from the acrid fumes. But, in time, they became his balm, the thing that inspired normality even in the most odd of circumstances, the item and activity that soothed him when he became too stressed out, or when he was depressed from being turned down yet again.
He regretted the very moment he touched it.
The first time he killed a man was embedded in his consciousness forever. The tang of charred flesh on the air, the screams that echoed and then petered off into a silence that seemed to hang over everything, the fear, admiration, and barely concealed horror in the eyes of his comrades.
The impact his knees met as he fell to the ground, the tears that ran down his cheeks, the firm grip of his best friend's hand on his arm, and the broken, shattered smile he attempted to paste on.
He hadn't even gotten to the count of three. Just snap… gone.
Mother was sick. So it was time to work, time to try and pay the bills, and get her treatment, time to dismiss her hobbies and work. She had no talents, she had no skills, but… she had to work. Had to earn money.
After all, Mother was sick… again.
The pain was the only thing that echoed in her memory. She knew there must've been screaming, must've been heat, and smoke, and probably blood, too, considering the loss. All she could remember was the pain, the pain, the pain…
And then it was time to heal. More pain.
When was the right time to lose one's other half, the part that made them complete, forever? Before you had known them, when fate disenchanted you and you walked the same paths without realizing the 'what ifs' and 'could haves'? When you were old, gray, wrinkled and tired, soon to follow them into the abyss, as well?
What about when you were young, in the prime of your lives, with a loving, adoring daughter, and a good home?
…No one said that Fate knew when the right time was.
He was the youngest, bar the exception that always was the exception. The innocent one, the one without ghosts in his gaze, the one with clean hands, a clean soul, and who was afraid of those ghosts, who didn't meet eyes because of it, shied away because of it, yet… did not get confided in upon.
He didn't need their ghosts. He'd get his own soon enough.
When dreams shattered, when your life and hopes and love and very being broke into tiny pieces, hung together only by the fragile string that was a group of words, begging to be heard. When you fell to your knees, crying, begging, screaming, for you had nothing anymore. You betrayed the very good you longed to seek for, for the sake of one who would never know, when light itself was dimmed and you had no idea what to do.
…When you picked yourself up and walked, for you had two good legs to carry you.
He wasn't stupid. Even at his age, he knew they were watching him, dogging his footsteps and keeping eyes riveted on his every movement. He saw the way the lines on his mother's face tightened, how she'd smile despite her sadness, and not answer his questions.
Why are they here? Why do they watch me?
…What's wrong with me, Mommy?
She still remembered the pain. It had been her choice, of course, and though he had asked it of her, had requested, had made sure that she had willingly chosen to perform this task, she still said yes.
But she wouldn't forget it. Her back, the pain, and the imprinted memory that would last forever, painted on her very skin.
Scars, it seemed, were not enough.
He was going to hurt her. Break her, beat her, tear her up into little pieces so she would be like those beautiful flowers she saw made the other day, from his magic circle.
But they were going to play! Play, and have fun, and wrestle till they got dirty and muddy and then Daddy would scold them all, smile in place, and Mommy would be there, too. She would've changed her mind, and come home. Scooped up her little girl and they would play, with her brothers, and they would all be happy.
No more empty holes in anyone's eyes.
But how could she do that, if she were broken? Bent, and not-pretty, not like the flowers… So why did he want to do that?
Why did she say yes?
She wasn't young. She was old, tired, the last generation that still hung on tightly. There was nothing she was too young for, anymore, and was too old for some things.
But no mother should ever have to say good-bye to their child.
He was there, he really was. Wooden, blending in to his surroundings, over-looked and dismissed by all, unless they needed information.
Knowledge. His skill, his wit, his being. The only reason that he was spoken to, the only reason he was sought out.
…He was there, he really was. Just look closer.
She had failed him. She. Had. Failed. Him.
And that was all there was to it.
She didn't want to hear it.
Not about how they managed, oh yes, they always did. Not about how she could see them again, about how they were watching over her, and about how proud they would be.
She was doing great, wasn't she? A credit to her parents, they would love to see her as she was. Compliment, compliment, acknowledgement. She just wanted them back.
He wasn't supposed to go. She knew that, and knew that he was supposed to be here, was supposed to be working. How could Daddy go now? Why wasn't he coming back?
Daddy said he had work, so he had to be back. Daddy didn't slack off like Uncle Roy. So if she sat here in his chair long enough, he'd be back. He'd scoop her up in his arms, rub his beard on her face, and then they'd laugh and play and everything would be normal again.
So she sat.
Sat.
Waiting patiently.
Sitting.
Waiting.
Watching.
…Daddy was very, very late.
He was powerful, very strong. His most identifying feature, his most redeeming one, the strength that could smash walls, send villains flying, and save the damsels (and young boys) in distress.
The strength that carefully held a broken child in its arms, afraid to snap him, crying softly.
Trust. Such a fragile thing, right? She had thought that you could always trust family, before all things. Trust in your husband, trust in your little girl… In your mother, your father, your siblings. It was a thing that she was taught from birth, taught to always trust your family no matter how many pranks on you, how many times they broke their promises, how many times they pulled your hair. It just was.
Some things, though, you couldn't give trust back for. He would never gain her trust again. She'd rather starve.
He was too young. Way, way, way too young. He couldn't handle this, not the pressure, not the role far above his years, not the things that he shouldn't be doing.
It should be someone wiser, older, sitting in this seat. Someone who knew what they were doing, someone not relying so much on companions, friends, and family.
Someone who could rule this alone with a distant touch, never emotionally involved in anything.
Like the one who came before him.
They thought it was stupid. Laughed at him, mocked him, wondered why he had such a stupid fear. It's not scary! It's so little!
He hated them. Bad memories with them, all of them. The scars on his legs were proof enough. Gnawing, biting, leaving imprints that would last forever.
He had been six.
He was the farthest thing from young. He was old, incredibly old, as far on the scale from young as one could be. Leaving echoing footprints, ripples in the water, the chessmaster that adjusted all the pieces.
No, he wasn't young. He was very far from it.
But everyone around him was.
She was alone. No, not alone, she was there, too, her only companion, her only life-long friend, and maybe they could do it together, could succeed. She could fight, she could fall, she could rise above the challenges and try to win everything, to come out on top.
Never alone, though. Never, ever, alone. Not since they found each other.
Groaning, she spit out the acrid sand in her mouth, wiping her brow of sweat, and tried again. Not alone, not alone, never, ever alone.
No matter what, he couldn't do it. Even if she was a fake, a copy, not her, he couldn't do it. Couldn't kill her, let the blood and life leak out of her body as it stained his mind, stained it forever.
He'd wake up, panting, each night, nightmares permeating him as he glanced over to the side of the bed, double-checking that she was still alive. The ghosts would haunt his gaze, the memory as well, of him being such a monster, such a horrible, horrible monster.
And what if it was really her? What if it was all a delusion, an illusion, and it really turned out to be her in the end? What kind of person would he be?
So he stayed his hand, and left the world bereft.
The pain was always fresh in his memory, the horrible pain where his arm was supposed to be. He supposed most would think it his worst memory, when his people were dying, and he was dying, and his brother gave his life.
No. The worst happened later, when he was older, more experienced, but it didn't matter.
There was no proper age to gain blood on one's hands.
He had always been young for things. Sheltered from the storm by the shadow of his meaning, the person that meant the most to him above all, but even with that protection, he was still vulnerable, still hurt.
It was hard to decide, for him, what the worst was. So many choices, so many things. But once he had lit upon the memory, he knew there could be absolutely nothing worse.
His meaning, his source of life, the one that mattered most, bleeding and dying and oh god so much blood and is there a pulse oh god I can't tell someone help me. Fix him, fix him, please. I can't live without him.
Many would claim to know what his worst memory was, the day went everything was shot to hell and back. They'd be wrong.
It wasn't when she crumbled and died, falling and sickening and leaving them forever.
It wasn't when he was broken, screaming, shattered into pieces and it was all his fault dammit.
Nor when he went through excruciating pain, all for him, all to make a difference in his life, all to find a cure.
Or when he took on tasks made for those far higher than him, for a mantle he couldn't reach.
No, it was when the door closed, leaving behind a broken house. Three, not four. Three, not four. There was one spot missing.
…He'd just have to fill two, then. Even if it broke him.
Word Count: 2,022 Words
A/N: Sadness. I tried to make it fairly obvious who was who, but if you can't tell, let me know, and I'll clarify it. If there's someone else you'd like to see, as well, drop the name and I'll see what I can do.