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John always knew about soulmates, at least in theory. He had heard stories of twin heartbreaks, had come home from playing with a scraped knee or bruised elbow he didn’t remember receiving. But nothing had left a scar, no permanent mark to have as proof that he really had one, that there really were soulmates beyond the story books and the priest’s sermons.
John’s parents weren’t soulmates. Most nobles weren’t. His father’s soulmate was dead as well, John remembered a scar on his father’s face that had disappeared one night. Apparently, there was one couple a few villages over, a pair of peasants, but for the nobility, even if one found their intended mate, one would still be expected to wed, for the sake of duty. Unless, of course, one’s soulmate was a noble of an acceptable rank.
But that was highly unlikely, so instead, John did his best to shift his daydreaming away from the ramblings of the old priest, his sermon of Christ’s resurrection hard to focus on with the empty stomach. The Good Friday black fast was hard on the hungry teenager, especially as his noble stomach was all too unused to the pangs of emptiness.
So instead, John distracted himself, watching which nobles twittered, who looked guilty as the priest railed against fire and brimstone, who looked smug as he preached redemption. It was almost enough to-
John gasped, biting his wrist to prevent the yelp of pain from escaping him as something sharp tore into his chest, slicing through his right collarbone. His father shot him a nasty look, they were sat in the front row and he would do well to keep quiet and well-behaved.
John pressed a hand to his chest, to where he knew, he *knew* he must be bleeding. Only, beneath his blue pourpoint, there was no stain, no pooling red liquid. Was he going mad-
The thought was knocked out of him as he felt his head slam backwards into the ground, vision spinning as something tore the skin, cracked his skull. There was blood dripping down his neck.
Everyone was staring at him. The priest had paused his sermon for a moment, his family glaring at him, the other nobles all gossiping. Had he let out a noise? He must have. His vision was swimming, teeth still rattling from the blow. No one had touched him, and yet it felt like his head had split open.
John bowed his head, trying to focus on his clasped hands and ignore the stares, play the good penitent, and hope that people re-directed their focus to the sermon. His father would certainly cane him for this disturbance, but there was something wrong, something so wrong, and someone was hurting him. He could feel each one of a succession of blows land, but forced himself to bite his lip. He didn’t dare make more of a scene.
It was only as John’s family rose to receive the Eucharist that John could take it no more. The blows and slashes had only grown fiercer, and as he stood, he staggered, letting out a cry of pain as something stabbed itself into his leg. He clutched the limb with white-knuckled fingers, chest heaving, breathing heavily.
The priest hesitated, wafer in his hand before the boy, glancing at John’s father, the man gesturing for him to continue on with administering the sacrament. The Father attempted to place the Eucharist on John’s tounge, only for John to colapse, a howl ripping from his throat. He clutched at his left side, flames racing their way up his arm and leg.
John writhed on the ground for one moment, two, then finally fell still as unconscious finaly claimed him, darkness replacing the pain of flesh on fire.
A cool cloth against his forehead. Familiar silk sheets beneath him. John slowly opened his eyes, to one of his mother’s maids opening the window to let the new day’s sunlight in onto his face. When she noticed him with his eyes open, she quickly came to his side, checking his head with the back of her hand.
“Oh, you poor boy” she cooed as she did, helping John sit up as though he was a sick toddler again. Though, that made sense, something in his bones ached like he had been feverish for days. “Your soulmate put you through the wringer, didn’t she. Poor lass, something dreadful must have happened to her.” With a pittying look, she handed him a bowl of broth and bread. “I’ll tell the lord you’re awake. It’s been two days.”
As the nursemaid left, John groggily set down the bowl, his stomach growling but his throat feeling full of clay. Christ’s bones, what on earth had happened… with a slow, trembling hand, John reached across himself, rolling up his sleeve. He had been changed from his formal pourpoint, but was still in his undershirt, yet when that was stripped away, what was bared to John eyes left his head spinning.
A scar. An ugly, red thing, all the way up his arm. It didn’t hurt him any more, wasn’t raised, and when touched it cool, nerves acutely sensitive to every brush of his fingers. The ghosts of flames flickered through his mind’s eye, and John yanked his hand back. But the mark stayed, glaring up at him red and accusing. Whoever *she* was, she was still alive. Still breathing, despite the angry wounds. And John? All he could do was press two fingers against the scar on his chest and pray.
Somewhere, on a dirt road between Prauge and Kuttenberg, a wagon rolls slowly, driven by a grandfather whose hair has gone-shock white. a little boy with the weary eyes of an old man is held by his Mameh. She weeps softly to herself as she checks the bandages on his arm, his leg, praying to g-d not to take her little boy. But the little boy just stares at the road ahead, hovering above the pain. There will be a time to hurt later.
All he feels is two fingers stroke his chest, down the still-seeping, crudely sown scar. But he does not comment on that, does not speak a word in that high treble voice. He is a man now. Not passed the covenant by a father, but submerged in a mikveh of blood, preserved from the alter of moloch. It must be so.