Renato was five when his Words first appeared, Yeah, that's, uh, that's me. Chicken scratch handwriting sprawling across his left wrist in dark indigo. His father ignored them, but his mother smiled and patted his hair.
He was ten when a second set of Words, Merlin knows, I've been worse spread across his wrist, this time in bright orange, in what looked like old-fashioned calligraphy. His father wasn't too pleased by his son having two soulmates – said it was "unnatural". His father had killed his mother the year before, but he knew she'd have been pleased. (A year later he murdered his father and changed his name to Reborn.)
Shamal wasn't born Shamal, he had a different name, but he knew he should use Shamal. After all, he was born with the Words on his left wrist saying Trident Shamal, I presume? in bright Sun yellow. His parents, a minor Mafia Family, were pleased that he would one day make a name for himself.
He was five when a new set of Words appeared, Sky orange vibrant against his young skin. His parents were thrilled – two soulmates was unusual, of course, but one of them was going to be a sky! Shamal guessed he was going to walk into his Sky. He couldn't think of another reason they'd say I'm sorry.
Shamal met Reborn when he was sixteen, Reborn twenty-one. Reborn had been looking for a partner for a job, one who was knowledgeable in poisons, and had been directed towards Shamal. It was fortuitous that they met so early in life.
They, of course, kept in touch after the job; both agreeing to keep their eyes and ears out for their third.
Reborn was returning to France from a small ski lodge in the Alps. He'd been hired to execute a crooked Swiss businessman; a warning to others who thought to try and swindle his employer. He was enjoying a cup of coffee, when he heard the rumbling.
The next few minutes were filled with screaming as the train down the mountains was tossed about in the grips of an avalanche. Reborn was knocked unconscious in the commotion.
After Reborn woke up, only a little worse for wear, he started making himself useful. He helped gather the passengers who were too injured or in shock to move themselves, taking them to a mostly in-tact train car where everyone was congregating and huddling together under emergency blankets for warmth.
A harried looking woman pulled him aside.
"Could you be a sweetheart and check on the young man in the car a few down?" she asked, distractedly. She handed him a bottle of water and a blanket. "He's too injured to move and I'm too busy right now to go check on him myself."
"Of course, signora," Reborn agreed, flashing a tired but still charming smile at the woman.
He walked the way the flustered woman had pointed, checking the cars as he went. Finally he found the correct one four cars down, the lighting dim as the light sin this car seemed to be no longer working, and the car covered in snow, and winced internally at what he could see.
A dark haired teenager lay on the ground, a great metal bar impaling him through the chest, and blood trickling down from the side of his mouth and slowly spreading around his form, and blood-loss-weakened Sky Flames flickering around the boy.
"Hey," Reborn said, "how are you holding up?"
The teenage Sky opened his eyes and looked at him with the most vibrant green eyes Reborn had ever seen, and let out of bitter wheezing laugh.
"Merlin knows, I've been worse," he said, coughing blood.
Reborn took in a sharp breath, eyes wide, and swore viciously.
"I… It would have been preferable to meet you under different circumstances," he finally said, kneeling down beside the teen, resolutely ignoring the blood soaking into his suit.
"...Yeah. The Potter Luck strikes again," the teen said bitterly, grimacing in pain. "I'm Harry."
"Reborn." He went to spread the blanket over Harry, but the teen shook his head.
"No point. I can't feel the cold anymore," he explained, coughing up some more blood.
Reborn took Harry's hand, intending on using his Sun Flames to heal the wound, but stopped. He could feel how close to death Harry was. His Flames would do more harm than good now. His grip on Harry's hand tightened.
"I wish," he started, his throat feeling tight and his eyes hot. He traced his fingers over the bright sunny yellow text saying Hey, how are you holding up?, and the indigo So am I that lay above it.
"Me too," Harry sighed, fingers twitching against Reborn's. "Can you… do something for me?"
"Yes. Anything."
"Can you tell our third that I'm sorry? That I never got the chance to meet them?"
"Him. His name is Shamal."
"...tell me about him?" Harry asked. "And yourself, too."
"I'm twenty-eight, he's twenty-three, and I'm guessing you're… eighteen now? Shamal attended the University of Oxford, and he's a doctor..."
Reborn found Shamal a week later. He silently sat next to the half-drunk younger man.
"Reborn." Shamal turned wet bleary eyes towards him, arm curled into his chest.
Reborn knew if Shamal held out his arm he'd see what he saw on his own arm. The Words, once bright vibrant orange, now dulled and grey. Reborn swallowed thickly, slinging an arm around the Mist's shoulders.
"His name was Harry Potter, and before he… He asked me to tell you that he was sorry."
Shamal buried his face in his free hand, muffling a sob.
"So am I."