AN: I planned to do these as one shots, exploring each Soulmate Trope from the list I found, but a couple of comments from my previous chapter made me think you lot might be expecting a complete story. Let me know.
Today's trope has been done before. The spectacular little N&S fic on AO3 by reindeerjumper, called "all i wanna do is fall in love with you, over & over again" does it far better than my modern attempt. Please read it. Cheers.
2 | Flowers Blooming (part 1)
The first flower appeared on Margaret Hale's skin a week after she was born. Maria Hale almost choked on her tea when a bright red columbine bloomed low on her infant daughter's forehead, across her left eyebrow.
"Ri-Richard," the strangled gasp fell from her lips.
"Maria?" He looked up from his book, a mild smile on his face that melted into concern when he saw her. "Good Heavens. What's the matter?"
Maria Hale pointed at a sleeping Margaret, and the flower stretched across her pale skin.
"Goodness," Richard breathed, brushing the mark with his fingertips.
"What is it?" Maria demanded, her voice shrill and hoarse. "What's happened?"
"A soulmark, Maria," Richard traced the line of the flower across his daughter's forehead. "Some little chap somewhere has just injured himself right above his left eye."
Maria Hale shuddered, a wave of bitter horror stealing over her as she digested her husband's words. Flowers would bloom on the skin of any poor sod unlucky enough to have a soulmate whenever their partner injured themselves. The bright mark would fade as quickly as the injury healed. No one knew why it happened.
"My poor Margaret Ann," Maria's eyes filled with tears.
"Don't cry, Maria," Richard admonished with a gentle squeeze of her hand. "Soulmates aren't all that bad, you know. Margaret will be very happy if she ever finds him."
Not everyone with a soulmate found them. But sometimes that wasn't enough. Her own sister had been tormented by her search for her soulmate only to discover that he was a jobless, friendless, cheeky little tosser from Liverpool. She'd married a proper Londoner a year after—in spite of the universe's poorly laid plans— but Victoria Shaw had never been the same since she'd found that man.
Maria shivered and pulled her hand away.
Richard was wrong. A soulmate only made a person's life worse. Maria Hale made a promise to herself then and there to never tell her daughter about the man whose soul was made for hers. Whoever this man was he would only bring heartache and trouble for Margaret, she was certain. Margaret was better off without him.
John Thornton swore rather loudly when the first flower appeared on his skin. He was chopping an apple for his little sister when a thin bright red flower bloomed from the center of his left palm traveling up his thumb about halfway. The big chef's knife he held slipped and hit the floor missing his foot by half an inch.
"John, what on earth—?"
"I'm fine." He hid his hand behind his back, the mark hot and stinging, and swiped the knife off the floor. He tossed it onto the counter, hurriedly scooping apple chunks into a bowl.
"I told you not to use that knife—"
John brushed past his mother and slapped the bowl on the table where Fanny sat playing with her dolls. He yanked her one of her pigtails, sticking his tongue out at her when she tried to hit him.
"John, come back here and answer me," His mother scowled at him, and he turned a pleading glance to his dad, who sat on the couch flipping through the newspaper.
His dad didn't seem to notice.
"John—"
"I said I'm fine, Mother."
"Did you cut yourself?" his mother pressed.
He rolled his eyes, "No."
"Let me see—"
"Leave him be, Hannah," his dad sighed, not even looking up from the newspaper. His voice sounded flat and tired. It had been a long winter. "He's thirteen. If he cuts his finger off it's his own damn fault."
John shot a small grin at his mother, but he frowned when he saw her defeated posture. He glanced back at his father. Things were strung thin as hell between his parents and John didn't like it. But he didn't want to get in the middle of it either. He sidled towards the door, but his mother shook herself and wheeled around.
"Don't think I didn't hear the foul word that came out of your mouth, John Thornton."
"Dad says it." He gestured toward the couch.
"And you may not."
"Can I go now?"
Hannah opened her mouth to scold him, but her face froze.
"What?"
She reached out, and took his left hand, examining the bright red flower in his palm. John's ears and cheeks turned hot and he jerked his hand away, flinching at the stunned look on her face. John stuffed his hands into his pockets, expecting his mother to pick at him, like she always did. But for some reason she didn't. Her eyes darkened and John squirmed at the rare display of tender sadness.
"Mother, what is it?"
"Go on," she said wearily. "You'll understand someday."
John stripped his gym shirt over his head and tossed it at his locker, sitting heavily on the bench. Coach Blake had dismissed him when he'd had fallen asleep on the bleachers during PE. At least Coach hadn't given him detention. John couldn't remember the last time he had a full night's sleep. Not since his dad—
"What's this, Thornton?" Graham Walker grabbed John's arm and jammed it up behind his back. "Is that a rose?"
John tried to yank his arm away, his shoulder protesting at the odd angle. He'd found the rose on his elbow that morning before school along with a few smaller ones on his knees. They were easier to hide. He'd carefully tied a blue bandana around the yellow rose before PE but the cloth had shifted enough for Graham and the rest of the senior football team to get an eye full.
Bastards.
"Looks like Johnny boy has a soulmate," Graham sniggered as the rest of the team hooted and made rude gestures. "Too bad for her." Graham turned back to John, "What kind of flower would your little bitch get if I break that giant nose of yours?"
"Go to hell, Walker." John growled, every muscle in his body tightening like a cable ready to snap.
The quarterback's fist caught John's face, knocking him to his knees. He grunted, spitting on the floor, the white tiles contrasting with the blood in his saliva. It was a good punch and he should've expected it.
"What did you say to me, Johnny boy?"
"You heard me."
"Not one more word, asshole," the older boy loomed over him, "or I really will decorate your little bitch."
John hauled himself back to his feet. At fifteen he was all gangly angles and bones, but he stood over six feet which was more than enough to look Graham Walker straight in his stupid face.
"Fuck off."
The rest of the team let out rowdy hollers as Graham pounced. This time John was ready for him. He felt his wrist break from the impact. Or maybe it was just Graham's nose. Or both.
John didn't give a shit who his soulmate was. His father was dead, his life was a shit storm, and he was too tired to care. But even if he never met her, John would be damned if he let anyone call her a bitch.
Margaret stared at the large purple flower blooming over the knuckles of her right hand, her skin suddenly hot. She didn't know what it was called but it was pretty. Another purple blossom wrapped around her wrist. The skin prickled and warmed on her left cheek and she stood on her tiptoes looking into the big hall mirror, studying at the large flowers unfolding on her face. One covered her left eye completely and several smaller red flowers clustered on her lips and nose.
She never knew why the pretty flowers appeared—usually they were on her hands or arms or legs. But she'd always liked them.
"Mummy, look," Margaret trotted around the corner into the kitchen where her mother usually worked. She stopped. "Mummy?"
Her mother sat at the table, staring out the window. The telephone lay on the floor, its yellowed curling cord trailing back to the cradle on the wall. Margaret's chest tightened. Ever since mummy made daddy leave, everything had been so quiet. She wanted mummy to smile again. To be happy again.
"Look, Mummy. Look at my flowers. Aren't they pretty?"
Maria Hale blinked and she flinched away, covering her face with her hands. "Oh Margaret."
Margaret shivered as her mother began to weep quietly, tucking her flowered hand behind her back. She ducked her head, trying to hide her face.
"I—I'm sorry, Mummy. Don't cry. I'll go wash them off."
But the flowers wouldn't wash off and her mother wouldn't look at her in the eye until they completely faded away.