Hands were simple things. But they were almost like names. Things that could easily identify someone.
Irene had the hands of a princess. The skin soft, pampered with herbs from birth. Never touched by hard work. But the delicate fingers gripped tightly, and even when they do not exert much force, the desperation behind the action was evident. Much like the girl herself. Harsh from the inside, crushing her soul and other's savagely. Her body, yet, was never damaged from the emotional torture she suffered from. Every hardship was carefully concealed; it would only be a weakness to show her true self. She had always been a child.
Gen had the hands of a rebel. Or rather, hand. The absence of the other was a mute testimony to his real nature. The other skin had dark skin, typical of his countrymen, and which had him distinguished from everyone else. They think him strange and foreign, but he had never been afraid of being different. The scars on the back crisscrossed in a pattern, like the careful dance of shadows and unsubstance his life was. Its seeming fragility belied the deadly strength beneath. Despite how reduced he was, missing one hand, and the other almost like a mangled piece of flesh, his pretty fingers were long for a boy, and nimble, twisting and graceful. He had never been a child.
Helen had the hands of a queen. A warrior indeed. They were intact, unlike her cousin's, but not smooth like nobility's. Callouses covered much of it, and they were often smudged with ink. Clearly, she was not afraid to work hard, to get herself dirty for the best of her country. A brilliant leader, tinted still by the recklessness of youth, which was slowly fading, the harsh reality hammering it out of her. She had the trademark dark skin, but instead of being hated for it, she was loved and cherished. She was once a child, but she shed some of her naivety, yet none of her energy.
Sophos has the hands of a king. They were strong, yet always gentle and contemplative. He had the telltale calluses from a sword, but they were awkward around the weapon. Instead, they looked more at home curled around a quill, creating lines of beautiful cursive, borne of a certain patience. Or gingerly flipping through the old scrolls in the library, careful not to damage it. He was once a child, and even after slavery took his naivety away, he kept his child-like wonder of the world.
If there was something is common amongst their hands, it was the fact that they were all dripping blood.