❀ stained blood
The sun has set by the time he finishes with his Reason essay and moves on to the last item of homework: his Authority assignment. As he works, the light of the few candles flickers and wavers around him, tossing shadows here and there on the walls and furniture. Some people might find the dim and unreliable lighting annoying, but Saias has worked in these conditions for most of his life, learning his letters and tactics by night after the work was done and the other orphans off to bed. The low light does mean, however, that after he wraps up with his final piece of homework, he has to get up and walk all the way over to the better-lit washroom to clean off the ink stains from his hands and wrists.
(He’d almost always been a messy writer, and growing into the noble status he obtained upon entering the academy—coming in to the birthright he held within his veins—hasn’t done much to fix that, it seems. Good thing he uses inks that are easy enough to wash out, or his entire wardrobe would be sporting bad cuff stains right about now, to say nothing of his hands.)
The warmth of the water and the familiar routine soothes him, lulling his mind closer to sleep. It’s been a long day, and his candles had almost entirely burned down... he catches himself nodding off and jerks himself awake. He can sleep after he’s finished cleaning up, he reminds himself. It’s then that he blinks down at his right hand, which has been scrubbing at the same exact spot on his left wrist for several moments now. Oh, great Bragi, I really am tired, aren’t I. Shaking his head, the redhead huffs and rinses his hands, then frowns down at the smudge on his wrist in the same spot where he’d been repetitively washing. Saias sighs and gets the soap bar, rubbing it over the smudge and, when that doesn’t work, rubbing his thumb over it to get it to come off.
The smudge doesn’t budge.
Now more awake, the teen stares at the smudge in annoyed confusion. If his ink doesn’t stain like this, then what on earth did he get on his wrist and when? Is he going to have to ask a professor for help in removing it tomorrow? What if it’s a sign that someone cursed him while he wasn’t looking, unlikely as that may be since he would’ve felt it?
Gods, get a grip, you haven’t been this paranoid since you first came here. It’s just a smudge. Find a professor tomorrow and ask them for help instead of jumping to negative conclusions. Saias holds his wrist up to one of the lamps hung next to the mirror over the sink, in order to get a better look. The smudge doesn’t resolve, so he squints his eyes and brings his face closer—
It’s a sign of a curse, all right.
Bile churns in his stomach, clambering up his throat. He wants to cut off his hand and fling it away from him—except that won’t get rid of it at all, will it, not when it’s in his very blood, sewn into his entire being for the rest of his existence. It’s the emperor’s fault, for what other factor ties him to the only other bearer of the Mark of Loptous? Julius was lucky, in a way, that he didn’t grow up fearing the Mark and all that it stood for if that cult really was an integral part of his childhood. Saias hasn’t had that luxury, and now... now—!
He won’t go down to Abyss with his brother, he’s made too many good friends up here; however, he can’t hide the Mark forever, as the truth will always out despite a person’s best efforts. How will he be able to look the other Jugdrali who know and revere his future self in the eye when he is so thoroughly stained by the emblem of their ultimate foe? But going home is even less of an option—unless he goes home, back to the enclave, back to the people of Bragi, disciple of Maera, himself marked with Loptous’s filthy blood. Yes, that place may be the safest option for him until he can figure out what to do next (or more accurately, get a grip on himself and come to terms with his new... state).
He doesn’t want to leave though, not yet. It’s been a wonderful year and a half, and he has no intention of giving up his studies or his friends so soon. Not loyal and empathetic Chrom, not gentle and sensitive Shigure, and especially not his dear beloved stepmother. They don’t deserve to be left in the dark, and they would all be understanding towards him, comforting even...
—He can’t think. His heart races and his breath trembles. No, he’s in no state to do anything at all. He needs to go to bed and sleep and wake up and eat breakfast and then begin the process of putting his head back on straight, in exactly that order. He can do this, he did it after Mother died (but he was grieving the loss of a loved one, not the loss of his security in his identity, now, was he). He’ll have his friends and family to help him along the way. It doesn’t matter that he’s now Marked as Loptous’s. It doesn’t. He’s still the same old Saias Augustine Velthomer, son of Emperor Arvis and Aida, heir to Fjalar, stepson to Empress Deirdre, hardworking tactician, priest-in-training, student, friend, son, him. This can’t take that away or destroy it. It won’t. He won’t let it.
(Sleep does not come, and in the early morning he lingers at the gate, teetering on a precipice of decision.
He steps.)
