The First Scar

  Aedric stood motionless as the village elder lowered his mother's body into the freshly dug earth. The autumn wind swept brittle leaves across the grave, their fragile shapes swirling like echoes of a world newly fractured. His father's absence pressed heavier than the elder’s words, a void more palpable than the silence between each prayer.

  Elira’s hand, three years older and trembling, settled on his shoulder with quiet insistence. Her fingers trembled against his worn shirt, but he couldn't bring himself to reach up and grasp them. His skin felt distant, as if reality hovered just out of reach.

  "May the ancient ones guide her spirit," the elder intoned, scattering dried wildflowers across the burial shroud. The purple blooms—his mother’s favorite—fell like dim stars against the burial shroud’s pale fabric.

  Aedric's 6 year younger brother, Thoric's quiet sobs pierced the silence. He pressed his face into Aedric's side, dampening the rough cloth with tears. Aedric’s arm moved on instinct, wrapping around his brother’s shoulders. But inside, there was no grief, no anger—only a hollow space echoing where his heart should be.

  His mother's iron ring hung heavy around his neck, suspended on a leather cord. She'd pressed it into his palm three nights ago, her fever-bright eyes boring into his. "Keep them safe," she'd whispered in that strange, beautiful language she'd taught him in secret. The words had glowed in his mind, settling with unusual clarity—like all her teachings did. The same tongue she'd used to sing him to sleep as a child, words that always carried meaning beyond their sound.

  The elder raised his hands toward the grey sky. “We commit her body to the earth, her spirit to the stars.”

  Aedric’s throat tightened around words he couldn’t form. He should cry, should feel anything beyond the numb expanse inside—but no tears came.

  "Brother." Elira's voice cracked. She moved to stand before him, her face streaked with tears she'd tried to hide. "You don't have to be strong right now."

  But he did. The bruises beneath his sleeves told a truth his voice never could. Without their mother's buffer, someone had to shield Thoric from their father's rages. Someone had to preserve the fragments of warmth and wisdom she'd left behind.

  So Aedric stood, silent and still as stone, while the elder completed the burial rites. He committed every detail to memory—the drifting leaves, the scent of damp earth, the press of his siblings at his side—and buried it all in that hollow space grief had not yet filled.

  Thoric pulled away from Aedric's side, his small hands clutching something that caught the dim light. A polished river stone, worn smooth by countless years of flowing water. Their mother had given it to him on his last birthday, claiming the ancient river spirits had blessed it with protective magic.

  "She said-" Thoric's voice hitched. "She said as long as I hold it, she'd always be with me."

  Aedric knelt beside his brother, ignoring the damp earth soaking through his worn trousers. The stone gleamed with a subtle inner light – or perhaps it was just tears blurring his vision.

  "Let me see?" He held out his hand, palm up.

  Thoric hesitated, then placed the stone in Aedric's hand. It was warm from his brother's grip, its surface as smooth as silk. Their mother had spent hours by the river searching for the perfect one, he remembered. He'd watched her wade into the shallows day after day, testing stone after stone until she found this exact piece.

  "You know what she told me about river stones?" Aedric traced his thumb across its surface. "That they're shaped by patience and persistence. The river doesn't force them to change – it just flows around them, day after day, until they become something beautiful." As his fingers moved across the stone's surface, he could almost feel the years of water that had shaped it—an impression so vivid it startled him, like his mother's lessons always did.

  Thoric pressed against his side. "Like how she taught you the old languages?"

  "Just like that." Aedric placed the stone back in Thoric's palm, closing his brother's fingers around it. "One word at a time, one story at a time. Some things can't be rushed."

  "I miss her stories." Thoric's voice was barely a whisper.

  "Then we'll keep telling them." Aedric pulled his brother close. "Every one we can remember. That way, she's still teaching us, still shaping us – like the river shapes the stones."

  Thoric nodded against his chest, his grip on the stone relaxing slightly. The hollow space in Aedric's chest filled with something warm and aching – not quite grief, not quite love, but perhaps a bridge between the two.

  Aedric watched the villagers' eyes dart toward his father, who swayed at the edge of the gathering. Their gazes never lingered – quick, furtive glances followed by studied interest in the ground, the sky, anywhere else. They'd perfected the art of selective blindness over the years.

  Dreric Thornvale took another swig from his flask, the metal catching dull light as he lifted it. The sharp scent of cheap spirits cut through the autumn air. His father's bloodshot eyes challenged each villager in turn, daring them to acknowledge his state, to voice the judgment written in their averted faces.

  Old Willem, the carpenter, made the mistake of looking too long. Dreric's lips pulled back in a snarl, fingers tightening around the flask until his knuckles whitened. Willem quickly turned away, ushering his wife and children toward the path leading back to the village.

  Others followed suit, drifting away in ones and twos. They'd pay their respects to the dead, but they wouldn't risk drawing the attention of the living. Aedric had seen this dance too many times – the careful distance, the strategic retreats, the silent agreement to ignore what happened behind closed doors.

  His father's glare found purchase on Marcus, the blacksmith who'd once tried to intervene after hearing screams from their home. Marcus stood his ground longer than most, his scarred hands clenched at his sides. But even he eventually turned away, shoulders tight with impotent anger.

  The only sounds were the wind through bare branches and the quiet slosh of spirits in his father's flask. Dreric took another drink, challenging the remaining villagers with eyes that promised consequences for any show of disapproval. They scattered like leaves before a storm, leaving only the grave and the broken family beside it.

  Elira's eyes met Aedric's across Thoric's bowed head. In that shared glance lived every unsaid word, every stifled cry, every memory of their mother's gentle hands binding wounds and wiping tears. Her amber gaze held the same hollow ache he felt, but something else burned beneath it – fierce determination tinged with fear.

  They began the walk home, Thoric's small hand clasped in Aedric's while Elira took point, her steps measured and alert. The path wound through stands of silver birch, their pale bark catching the fading light. Their mother had loved these trees, called them "the guardians" in her secret language.

  Elira slowed her pace to match Aedric's, her shoulder brushing his. The contact steadied him, grounded him in the moment. She'd always known when he needed anchoring, even before he recognized it himself.

  "Remember how she used to braid flowers into my hair?" Elira's voice was soft, meant only for him. "Said every girl should wear a crown, even if it's made of weeds."

  Aedric's throat tightened. "You'd wear them until they wilted. Wouldn't let anyone take them out."

  "Because they were her gift." Elira's fingers found his free hand, squeezing once. "Like your language. Like Thoric's stone."

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  The path curved toward home, golden light painting long shadows across worn dirt. Each step felt heavier than the last, but Elira's presence at his side made them possible. They'd always moved this way – in sync, watching each other's backs, filling the spaces where the other faltered.

  Thoric stumbled slightly, and both older siblings steadied him without a word. The automatic response drew a ghost of a smile from Elira, sad but genuine. In that moment, Aedric saw their mother's grace in his sister's movement, heard her strength in the quiet humming Elira used to soothe their brother.

  They were her gift too, Aedric realized. This unshakeable bond between siblings, this instinct to protect and support. She'd forged it through years of quiet lessons and shared secrets, preparing them for a time when they'd have only each other.

  * * *

  Aedric crossed the threshold of their home, the familiar musty scent now tinged with absence. The house felt smaller, darker without her presence. Father's chair creaked in the back room – a sound that once meant nothing, but now carried weight and warning. The scrape of wood against floor boards. The clink of glass. The heavy breathing that meant trouble brewing.

  Thoric pressed closer to Aedric's side. Elira's hand brushed the knife hidden at her belt – a gesture so subtle most would miss it. But Aedric had learned to read his sister's movements like a language all their own.

  "Water," Aedric whispered, touching Thoric's shoulder. "I'll fetch some."

  The wooden bucket felt wrong in his hands as he stepped back outside. His mother's fingers had worn smooth grooves in this handle, marks of countless trips to the well. The path there held her footprints, though rain and time had long since washed them away.

  The well's stone rim was cool under his palm. He could almost hear her voice, singing softly as she drew water in the early morning light. The strange, beautiful words of her mother-tongue that she'd shared only with him, teaching him their meaning in whispered lessons.

  "The well remembers, little heart," she'd say in that musical language—words he understood without translation, as if they bypassed his ears and spoke directly to his mind. "Every drop holds a story, every ripple echoes with songs of those who came before."

  Aedric lowered the bucket, the rope rough against his calloused hands. The splash echoed up from the depths, and for a moment he thought he caught her reflection in the dark water – but it was only shadows and wishful thinking.

  His arms moved through the familiar motion of drawing up the water, muscles remembering what his heart wished to forget. The bucket broke the surface, water singing against stone, and he could have sworn he heard her humming on the wind.

  The floorboards sighed under Father’s heavy tread, each step telegraphing danger. Aedric set the water bucket down with practiced care, his movements measured and precise. The muttering from the back room grew louder – fragments of bitter words and accusations thrown at shadows.

  "Worthless... all of them..." Glass clinked against glass. "Should've left... years ago..."

  Elira appeared at his side, silent as a cat. She touched his elbow – their signal to move away from Father's door. Together they backed toward the kitchen, placing their feet exactly where she'd taught him. The outer edges of boards were safest, she'd explained during those midnight lessons. The nails held them firmer there, less likely to creak.

  "Good," she whispered, approval warming her voice. "You remember."

  Aedric followed her lead, matching her deliberate pace. They'd spent countless nights practicing this dance after Father passed out, Elira guiding his steps until the movements became instinct. She'd made it into a game for him – who could cross the main room without a sound. But her eyes had always held that watchful edge, even when she smiled.

  "Heel first," she reminded him now. "Then roll to the toe, just like walking on ice."

  They reached the kitchen. Thoric sat curled in the corner, clutching his river stone. The muttering from the back room rose and fell like waves against rocks, punctuated by the hollow sound of another bottle being opened.

  "You're getting better at this," Elira said, squeezing Aedric's shoulder. "Soon you'll be quieter than me."

  "Not possible," Aedric replied, managing a small smile. This was their ritual – her teaching, his denial, her quiet pride in his progress. It helped push back the darkness that lived in Father's voice, if only for a moment.

  The stew's steam curled through the kitchen like morning mist. Aedric watched Elira ladle portions into their wooden bowls, her movements precise and practiced. Father's heavy footsteps approached from the back room, and Thoric's fingers tightened around his river stone.

  They sat in familiar silence, broken only by the scrape of spoons and Father's labored breathing. The stew tasted of ash in Aedric's mouth – everything had, since they'd lowered Mother into the ground. His mind drifted to the traveling merchant who'd passed through last week, the lilting cadence of his foreign tongue as he'd haggled over cloth prices.

  "Skaer vos mehra," Aedric murmured, the phrase slipping from his lips like water over stones. The exact inflection, the precise roll of the 'r', the musical lilt – a perfect echo of the merchant's voice.

  Father's spoon clattered against his bowl. The silence shifted, grew heavier, more dangerous. Aedric's stomach dropped as he realized what he'd done.

  "What did you say?" Father's words came slow and thick, his eyes narrowing to dark slits.

  Elira's hand disappeared beneath the table, likely reaching for her hidden blade. Thoric stopped breathing altogether.

  "I... I was just..." The words tangled in Aedric's throat as Father pushed back from the table, chair legs scraping against the floor like bones being dragged across stone.

  "Demon tongues," Father spat, his face flushing darker than the wine that stained his breath. "In my house. At my table." His fingers curled into fists, knuckles white as burial shrouds.

  * * *

  Father lunged across the table. Wine bottles crashed to the floor, dark liquid spreading like blood across weathered boards. Aedric scrambled back, but not fast enough.

  "I'll teach you to speak those cursed tongues." Father's ring hand came down. Metal flashed in the candlelight.

  White-hot pain exploded across Aedric's cheek. The ring carved through flesh, from temple to jaw, in one savage arc. Warm wetness trickled down his neck. The copper taste of blood filled his mouth.

  "No demons in my house!" Father's voice boomed, echoing off the walls. He grabbed Aedric's shirt, yanking him closer. The stench of wine and rage rolled off him in waves. "Your mother filled your head with that filth. Had to have her precious stories and songs."

  Thoric's wail cut through the chaos. "I want Mother! Bring her back!" His small hands clutched the river stone so tight his knuckles went white. Tears streamed down his face as he rocked back and forth. "Please, I want Mother..."

  The pain in Aedric's cheek pulsed with each heartbeat. Blood dripped onto his collar, staining the rough fabric. Father's ring glinted red in the fading light – the same ring Mother had given him on their wedding day.

  "Crying for her won't bring her back, boy," Father snarled, his grip tightening on Aedric's shirt. "She's gone. And her demon tongues go with her."

  A blur of movement. Elira's dark hair whipped across Aedric's vision as she threw herself between him and Father's next strike. The impact knocked her sideways. She crashed into the table, clutching her shoulder where Father's ring had torn through her sleeve.

  There was blood her fingers when she looked at her hand. Her face went chalk-white, but she planted herself in front of Aedric, arms spread wide. "That's enough."

  Father's eyes narrowed. His hands trembled as he reached for another wine bottle. "Just like your mother. Always protecting the boy." He yanked the cork free with his teeth, spitting it across the room. "Weak. The lot of you."

  Aedric's cheek burned. The cut pulsed with each racing heartbeat as he watched crimson spread across Elira's shoulder. She didn't move, didn't flinch. Just stood there, shielding him with her body the way she always had.

  Father took a long pull from the bottle. Wine dribbled down his chin into his beard. "Demon tongues," he muttered, staggering toward his room. "Should've beaten it out of her years ago."

  The door slammed. Wood splintered around the frame.

  Elira's shoulders slumped. She pressed harder against her wound to stop the bleeding, it was not a deep cut, she had worse.

  "El..." Aedric reached for her, but she waved him back.

  "Check Thoric first."

  Their little brother huddled in the corner, still clutching Mother's river stone. His eyes were huge, darting between Elira's bloody shoulder and the fresh cut on Aedric's face.

  Moonlight filtered through the kitchen window as Elira threaded the needle. The flame of a single candle cast dancing shadows across her face while she worked. Aedric sat rigid in the wooden chair, hands gripping the seat edges until his knuckles went white. Thoric pressed against his leg, still holding the river stone like an anchor.

  Elira's fingers trembled as she cleaned the cut. Blood and wine mixed together, staining the cloth red-purple. The sting of herbs made Aedric's eyes water, but he didn't flinch. Mother had taught Elira well – which plants to gather, how to stitch wounds closed, the proper way to prevent fever. She'd learned early, watching Mother tend Father's victims.

  The needle pierced skin. Aedric focused on Thoric's warmth against his leg, on the steady rhythm of Elira's stitches. One, two, three. Like Mother's lullabies, like the forbidden songs that had earned him this mark. The cut burned with each pass of the needle, but he kept still. Silent.

  Elira tied off the final stitch. Her touch was gentle as she wiped away the last traces of blood, fingertips barely grazing the swollen flesh. The wound stretched from temple to jaw – a perfect arc carved by their father's ring.

  "This one, you'll remember forever." Elira's whisper filled the quiet kitchen. She traced the line of stitches, her hand steadier now that the work was done. "Every scar tells a story, Mother used to say. This one tells yours – the first time you refused to hide what you are."

  Aedric touched the stitches. The pain had dulled to a persistent throb, marking the rhythm of his heartbeat. This wasn't just a cut. It was a dividing line between before and after, between hiding and defiance. His mother's songs lived in his blood, in the strange words that came so easily to his tongue. No amount of violence could carve that away.