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Marcille stared at her face in the mirror. Her naturally white skin was so lacking in blood it seemed almost death-like, the paleness only made starker by the dark circles under her eyes. Her hair was held back from her face by a simple, efficient braid—gone were the days Marcille would wake up early just to pin her hair into elaborate designs. Her mouth was gritty, and her breath stale—she should probably brush her teeth.
Later. After she did this.
For the ninety-seventh time that hour, Marcille raised a shaky finger to trace the shell of her ear. From the root of her helix, bending upwards, the top of her ear stretched further than a tallman but with a convex curve that no elf possessed. Her finger sketched the rounded tip of her ear, something most didn’t care to notice but branded her as half-elf to any who paid attention. She followed the outline of her helix as it dipped down, moving towards her lobe, the curve of it a subtle derailment from the straight edge of an elf’s ear.
When Marcille’s finger reached the notch carved into her ear, her breath stuttered.
The inverted triangle cut into her helix was uniform, professional, its edges straight in a way her natural ear shape was not. Marcille knew it was there, how could she not, this was the ninety-seventh time her finger had wandered this path. Still, even as she forced her finger to move forward, Marcille couldn’t stop her hand from shaking. The barely-healed skin tingled unpleasantly as the pad of her finger dipped into the notch, then followed the slanting perimeter back out. It was nothing compared to what Marcille had felt when they cut the notch into her ear, and that had barely been an itch compared to the sigils they tattooed onto her chest.
Marcille tasted leather on her tongue. They had given her something to bite while they strapped her down and branded her Majesty’s claim into her skin, binding Marcille from ever manipulating mana without a guard’s explicit permission. The tattoo needle had been sharp against her ribs, but what had truly been painful was the way the sigils reached down, through skin muscle bones into the intangible core of her, foreign mana gnawing its claim into Marcille’s very being. Even as Marcille thought about the sickening violation, her sigils burnt, chains of fire stretching from her skin to shackle her intrinsic mana.
Her finger reached the lobe of her ear. Marcille exhaled shakily. Her muscles protested from holding up her hand for so long, but Marcille ignored the sensation. She raised her fingertip to press it to the root of her helix, and began to retrace her ear once more.
The ninety-eighth time.
The door to her quarters squeaked opened. Marcille flinched. She hurried to lower her finger, but she was not slow enough to stop the intruder from realising what she had been doing.
“You should stop doing that,” the woman standing in Marcille’s doorway chastised. Marcille turned to her. Cithis Ofri, a member of the squad Marcille had been assigned to. The kind smile on Cithis’ face did not reach her eyes. “You’ll reopen your wounds.”
Marcille’s eyes flickered downwards, towards her feet. Despite everything, Cithis’ words made her feel like a child, being caught pouring juice on ants because she wanted to share her favourite things and didn’t understand the consequences thereof.
But she was no longer a child. Marcille knew exactly what she had done to land herself in this position: a prisoner and member of the Canaries. Even with the notches in her ears and sigils branding her chest, Marcille refused to regret what she had done. She had saved Falin. (she did, she did, she did) That was all that mattered. So what if she had condemned herself to serving the Elven Queen? Marcille would survive, she would not allow any mission the Canaries would force upon her to permanently kill her, and at the end of this arduous journey she would be reunited with Falin once more.
For now, she was in a den of thieves and murderers who considered Marcille one of their own, and she could not afford to show them weakness.
Marcille raised her head and scowled. “I know.” she replied, forcing herself to glare at Cithis. “What do you want?”
Cithis raised a perfectly-trimmed eyebrow. She leaned against Marcille’s doorframe in a purposeful display of indifference. Her eyes sparkled with amusement, but when she spoke, her tone was reserved and polite. “I simply wanted to see how the newest addition to the squad was doing.” Cithis smiled cordially. “How are your marks?” her eyes flickered to Marcille’s vanity. “Have you applied the healing lotion yet?”
Yes, Marcille’s thoughts instinctively answered. Rubbing that lotion onto her ear notches was what had originally triggered her to trace and retrace the shell of her ear.
The jar of healing lotion remained upon her vanity, its cork uncapped. Undoubtedly, Cithis had seen the open jar and pieced together what had occurred.
“Thank you for your concern,” Marcille said stiffly. “My w—marks. My marks are healing fine.”
Cithis continued to smile. “Are you sure?” she asked with a fair approximation of concern, “Just because they’re healing doesn’t mean they feel comfortable. From what I recall, my notches itched quite a bit before they finished scabbing. And the tattoos, do they still burn?”
Marcille twitched. In truth, having to rely on the healing lotion was incredibly irritating. That stuff was next to useless. Marcille could perform a better healing spell in her sleep, if it weren’t for the fact she had been forbidden from using magic. She longed to study the ingredients of the lotion to better bring out their potential, but researching magic was yet another privilege that had been stripped from her.
“…it’s manageable.” she admitted. The pain wasn’t the issue, not really. It was the physical reminder that Marcille was a Canary.
Cithis tutted. “Manageable isn’t fine.” she chided, “Here, let me make it better.”
She raised her right hand, snapping her fingers dramatically. Abruptly, all of Marcille’s discomfort vanished. The notches on her ears, the sigils over her ribs, her sore muscles, the exhaustion from the past few days weeks months of bad sleep. It was only now that Marcille realised how much she had been hurting.
Marcille blinked. It was not healing magic, skin contact was required for that. Her mind sped back to her initial introduction to the squad, though she had been too distracted by the burning sigils to properly pay attention. What did Pattadol say Cithis’ specialty was?
“You used your illusion magic to remove my sensation of pain.” Marcille realised. She did not bother to question why Cithis had been permitted to use magic while Marcille was not—Cithis had been a Canary for decades, it was natural she would’ve earned some liberties by now. Rather…why did Cithis bother to take advantage of her liberties for Marcille’s sake? “Why?”
Cithis hummed. Her smile widened to something more genuine—but genuine didn’t mean sincere. “Why not? You were in pain, and I could help.”
Marcille narrowed her eyes. “That isn’t it.” Not entirely, at least. She didn’t know much about this world of criminals and soldiers she had been thrust into, but she did know that few of the Canaries would do anything out of the kindness of their hearts. “Why did you use your magic to…help me?”
Cithis’ eyes sparkled with mirth. “Why does any human do anything? Why do we make the choices that we do?” She paused significantly. “Why did you use your best friend as a test subject for your human experimentation?”
Marcille breath hitched. That’s not what happened! she wanted to scream, but she couldn’t dislodge the words from her throat.
Cithis took Marcille’s silence as an admission of guilt. Vicious delight bloomed on her face, “I’ve heard the rumours about you. Marcille Donato, the half-tallman convict somehow talented enough to be given a pardon to join the Canaries. You’ve been researching dark magic for…what, twenty—thirty years? That’s practically half of your life! Then you finally hit a roadblock, realised all the dusty tomes in the world wouldn’t give you the knowledge you desired, so you decided to move things to the next step. And who better to use for your research than your best friend?”
That’s not what happened, Marcille had saved Falin, she had healed her, it’s not Marcille’s fault that Falin had to go on the run, it’s not her fault that the elves wanted to lock Falin up just like they did Marcille, she didn’t ruin Falin’s life she didn’t she didn’t she DIDN’T —!
Marcille forced the words out of her throat, “…shut up.”
“A tallman girl, estranged from her family and an outcast at your academy.” Cithis continued, her smile gaining a sadistic edge. “A person nobody would miss, if things went too terribly wrong. And the witnesses said you were her only friend! You would be the last suspect if the evidence of dark magic became apparent—if you hadn’t been caught in the act, that is.”
Marcille felt as if there was thick chains around her chest, tightening with every word from Cithis. Her stomach twisted, threatening to throw up the meagre food she had forced down during lunch. “I told you to shut up.”
“I wonder, though.” Cithis mused, ignoring Marcille. “The forensic team said there were no signs of struggle. Is that why you befriended the poor girl, arranged for her to move into your room, strung her along until she imprinted on you like a lost little duckling?” her smile widened, “Had you been grooming her all along, so that she would willingly walk to her twisted torment when you decided her time has come?”
“Shut up—!” Marcille’s breaths were rapid and short. There was an invisible pressure upon her chest, and if Cithis didn’t stop speaking, it was going to crush her alive. “That isn’t what happened! I’m not—Falin, she…”
“Isn’t it?” Cithis tilted her head. “Because that’s what everyone believes.” She hummed, “I am curious, though. What is your perspective on all of this?”
“I’m…she got ill. We tried everything, all of the researchers—we were at the top magic academy on the continent, we had the world’s cutting-edge technology in healing magic, but it still wasn’t enough. I…I had been studying ancient magic, trying to find its applications in the medical field, and I knew I could do it. I could heal Falin.” Marcille took a deep breath, gasping for air. “She…she agreed to it. I would’ve stopped if she didn’t—I would’ve. But Falin agreed—she gave consent—! So I attempted the ritual, and it succeeded. It’s not our fault she had to go on the run, that you want to arrest her just because we used ancient magic to heal and it succeeded.”
Cithis was silent. Marcille’s chest heaved, as if she had run a marathon instead of giving a simple declaration. She tried to find triumph in Cithis’ silence, but the satisfaction that settled across Cithis’ face was as clear as day. Marcille’s outburst had only given Cithis exactly what she wanted.
“This…this is your doing, isn’t it?” Marcille accused, desperately grasping for...something. Anything that would let her regain some semblance of composure. “You’re using your illusions to make me feel—to make me confess—to…”
“I’m only permitted to use my magic to help my squadmates.” Cithis replied lazily, quickly losing interest in Marcille now that she had finished toying with her prey, “Though I suppose help does have a wide interpretation.”
“Then—”
“But I assure you, Donato. Your current feelings are all your own. You are the one who is letting your guilt drive you to the brink of panic.”
“Shut up, shut up.” Marcille hissed. Her fingers scrabbled at the loose fabric of her shirt, it was too tight too restrictive too choking she had to get it off, but she did not have the strength to rip the fabric apart. “I don’t believe you. Get your magic off me, get it off, I don’t want your help—!”
Cithis tsked. She raised her right hand to examine her fingernails, not bothering to keep her eyes on Marcille. “I told you, all I’m using my magic for is to dull your pain. Though, if you don’t want my generosity—”
“I said, get it off—!!” As Marcille cried out, the part of her that had been desperately grasping for reassurance, protection, anything—
—reached down, into the depths of her core. Power reached back, surging forward for Marcille’s desperate hands. Hope and relief flooded Marcille as her fingertips brushed the oasis of her mana after so long—
Her sigils lit up.
It felt like red-hot coals pressed against her skin, molten iron spilling down her trachea to drown her lungs, foreign magic tightening its chains around her mana because her magic had escaped once but not again, she was never to be allowed this miracle again. Her skin was hot—too hot—as if she was about to burn from the inside out, but her insides were as cold and empty as a void.
Reflexively, Marcille clenched her jaw, but this time there was no leather to bite upon—her teeth sunk straight into the tender flesh of her tongue. Darkness crowded her vision, her knees collapsing under the burden of this terrible body. By the time Marcille become aware of anything other than the pain, she was lying with her cheeks pressed flush against the coarse carpet. Her magic was imprisoned out of her reach once more. Marcille felt cold to her bones.
All the while, Cithis continued to lounge about Marcille’s doorway.
The elf’s impassive expression stoked an uncharacteristic hate within Marcille. She clung to her contempt, using the heat of her fury to chase away the icy hollowness where her mana used to be. She raised her head and bared her bloodied teeth at Cithis. A trail of blood leaked from the corner of her mouth. “Get out of my room.”
Cithis dropped her hand, straightening. She was looking at Marcille—truly looking at her, instead of the detached interest one showed a shiny new toy. Renewed fascination gleamed in her eyes—and—and…something else that Marcille couldn’t name. “…curious. I understand now why they allowed you to join the Canaries, despite being half-tallman…”
Whatever it was in Cithis’ eyes, Marcille decided it sickened her to the core. She took hold of the leg of her vanity. Using that as leverage, she hauled herself to her feet. Grabbing the first thing within her reach that could be lifted, Marcille hurled it at Cithis with all her meagre strength. “I told you to get out!”
The projectile slammed into the wall, shattering into a rain of glass. A residual trail of sludge dribbled sadly down the wall. It was the jar of healing lotion. Good riddance, Marcille thought viciously.
Cithis’ eyes flicked to the poor projectile, then to Marcille. “I suppose I’ve overstayed my welcome.” she mused. Her lips once again curled upwards, but for once, it didn’t seem like a mockery of a smile. “I’ll see you at dinner, Marcille.”
Then, finally, Cithis turned around to leave.
Marcille held herself together as Cithis pulled the door shut, waiting until the sound of her footsteps faded. Once she was sure she was alone, Marcille crumbled.
She collapsed to her knees, all the tears held back by her furious indignation spilling out at once. Marcille sobbed. For Falin, for her own captive freedom and magic, for all the choices that led her to this point but she was sure she had made the right decisions. She wanted to be back at the academy, in the room filled with Marcille’s research notes and Falin’s knickknacks and warmth and joy and laughter. Someone at the academy had betrayed them, led the elves to discover Marcille’s forbidden research, but it didn’t erase the fact that those days at the academy with Falin were some of the happiest days in Marcille’s life.
She missed Falin. If only they had managed to escape together.
Eventually, Marcille ran out of tears, though the emptiness within her did not cease. She stood, staring at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were puffy and swollen, tears and snot dripping down her chin to soak her shirt. Most of her hair had escaped her braid, the tear-soaked strands clinging to her face to give Marcille the appearance of a madman. Dry blood crusted at the corner of her mouth. The wound on her tongue was still raw from almost being bitten off.
Marcille tugged the bottom of her shirt upwards to check the sigils on her chest. Despite how furiously they had burnt barely an hour ago, there was no visible difference to the marks. Gingerly, Marcille prodded at the inked skin. Her ribs felt sore, but no worse than they had felt this morning.
She checked her ear notches next. Marcille’s eyes latched onto her ears through the mirror, and she froze. The notches were bleeding—or rather, they had been bleeding. Blood had trickled from the notches onto her neck and shirt, staining the fabric with droplets of dull red. Idly, Marcille rubbed the red-stained fabric. Her fingers came away with flakes of dried blood.
Marcille turned on the faucet, washing the blood flakes from her hand. She splashed the cool water onto her face, rinsing away the blood and tears and snot. Then, not bothering to grab a towel, she wiped her face dry with a clean corner of her shirt.
She turned off the faucet, checking her appearance in the mirror. Her bloodshot eyes betrayed the fact she had been crying, but at least her face was no longer encrusted in dried fluids. The state of her shirt and unkempt hair should’ve disgusted Marcille, but…she was so very tired.
Maybe she should cut her hair. That would be one less thing to worry about.
But Marcille still retained enough of her sanity not to reach for the nearest sharp edge. Instead, she got to work dealing with her two reopened wounds.
She cleaned the ear notches with less care than was probably wise, washing the blood from her ears and then stemming the renewed blood flow with her shirt. But that still left two fresh wounds and no method to heal them—except for the jar of healing lotion Marcille had just smashed in a fit of rage. Of course.
Sighing, Marcille dragged herself to the wall adjacent the door. She bent down, studying the pathetic remnants of the healing lotion. The glass jar was completely unsalvageable—its remains laid in a shattered pile upon the floor. But the viscous sludge the Canaries called a healing lotion…that was still trickling down the yellowing wallpaper.
As little as Marcille wanted to use healing lotion scraped from wallpaper probably older than her, she wanted to requisition a new jar of healing lotion even less. They would inevitably ask why Marcille needed a new one, and even if she didn’t get into trouble for attempting to attack Cithis, letting the Canaries find out about her breakdown was just…no. Marcille shuddered. She wasn’t going to let that happen.
Painstakingly, Marcille scooped the off-white sludge from the wall. She stared at the slimy liquid in her palms, then glanced around her room. Where to put it…oh! Her toothbrush cup laid on the shelf atop the mirror. Marcille climbed onto the vanity. With both her hands full of healing lotion, she picked up the toothbrush with her mouth and removed it from the cup. Checking that the cup was empty, she poured what healing lotion she had salvaged into her toothbrush cup, scraping her palm against the rim to get rid of the excess lotion clinging stubbornly to her hands.
Her task done, Marcille climbed down her vanity, bringing the makeshift cup of lotion with her. She washed her hands, drying them on her shirt, then dipped her fingers into the healing lotion. Bringing her fingers next to her head, she began tracing the shell of her right ear. Left ear.
The ninety-ninth time.