Content Warning: Allegorical Representation of Addiction, and C-PTSD

In my previous post I gave a full breakdown of Blush Born, Chapter 3 The Color of Pain. I explained how I took The narrative of my own personal life, and translated into this chapter of a dark fairy tale. This is the moment when he begins to discover the truth of his power and the reality of his existence.

Chapter 3

The Color of Pain

The night air was a shock of warmth against Jethran’s mallow-flushed skin. He ran, heedless of the branches that whipped at his face or the roots that tried to snare his ankles. He ran with the lung-searing terror of an animal sprung from a trap. Behind him, the oppressive silence of concrete, order, and judgment gave way to the living quiet of the woods. This was ancient and felt aware. Every rustle of slate-hued leaves was a BAP’s footstep; every hoot of a night bird was a signal of his pursuit.

He didn’t stop until his lungs became burning torches in his chest and his legs gave out from under him. Jethran collapsed at the base of a towering tree whose bark was an unnerving lilac. He fell onto a bed of damp moss, his cheek pressed against the lilac ground, gasping. The moldy flavor of the forest air coated his tongue, thick and cloying.

He lay there broken like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The vast silence of the forest pressed in on him, amplifying the frantic, tearing sound of his own breath. His mind was caught in a cycle of assault by the memories of the past two days.

He still felt the clinical disgust in the Medic’s eyes. He could hear the helpless sound of his mother's weeping. The inescapable efficiency of Martier’s hands remained, the way his bones nearly cracked as one hand pinned his arms and the other gripped his jaw. He could feel the graveled taste of the pill like a phantom grit on his tongue. He tasted the metallic shock of the water from the flask, as if it would cleanse his Flaw.

Martier and the Big Aught Medic had trespassed his body. They forced their way inside, and that violation had unlocked something.

Worse, far worse, was the memory of the aftermath. The concussive eruption of indigo light had exploded from his own body. He had done that. He was a weapon, a signal, a monster.

He could never forget how they stared in horror when his body released the exhale of cobalt. The moment when the flames turned cerulean only compounded the always present fear that the people had towards him. The terror on Martier's face as he saw the blue flowers scattered across the wallpaper was only half as heavy as his own.

He rolled over and looked at his hands in the faint moonlight filtering through the smoke-hued canopy against the unworldly hue of the trees. His palms, once a soft mallow, now held the pink rim at the outermost edge but inside was a sharp ring of undeniable indigo. Inside that stood a matching ring of deep cobalt.

He could feel it like a vibration under his skin. It was a cool pulse that was more than just color. It was a presence.

The pink had been a mark of shame; it was a secret to be hidden. But this was a broadcast. This was the color of his powerlessness and the brand of his violation. He scrubbed at his cheeks with the sleeve of his tunic. He had done this countless times in his life, wishing to scrub away the color and just be gray. The fabric scraped his skin as his breath caught in a sob. He scrubbed with a ferocity that scared him. No matter how hard he scrubbed, the color remained, impervious to his panic. Now it was a deeper stain on his spirit made visible.

He had run to protect his mother. That was the only clear thought in the screaming chaos of his mind. As far as he knew, she was safe, asleep in her room. She was unaware of the indigo cataclysm he had just released. But he knew the Aughts. He knew the heremen from the tavern would follow him. The obsession with tracing any disruption back to its source would lead them into the wilderness to find him.

He was grateful that Martier had seen him leave. The fear of what they might do to her if he had stayed was a physical sickness. He rolled onto his back as the world spun. He saw it in his mind: Martier dragging them both into the street and the BAPs surrounding them. They would call her a sympathizer, an accomplice, the mother of a monster.

The thought was a fresh spike of terror that jolted him to his feet. His flight was an attempt to draw the line of their inquiry away from his home and away from her. He had to become the sole focus of their hunt. He had to be the only target.

He pushed himself forward, his body screaming in protest, and stumbled deeper into the woods. He traveled east, driven by this singular hope.

For hours, he walked, lost in a fog of fear and self-loathing. The world was a blur of lilac-barked trees and gray stones. The glow of his skin felt like a mockery, a triumphant torch lighting his way through the monochrome it dared to disrupt.

He was the thing the world taught him to fear. He was the spectacle, the infection, the flaw made manifest.

As the first hint of dawn threatened to turn the gray sky a pale shade, he felt a Living Pulse. It was a rhythm that he felt deep in his bones. A vibration seemed to draw him off his aimless path. It thrummed in his teeth and in the soles of his feet.

He followed the feeling; his feet moved as if guided. His exhaustion was momentarily forgotten, replaced by a magnetic curiosity. It led him to the edge of a clearing.

The landscape here was different. It was a low hill that rose from the forest floor, bare of trees. Running across its crest was a jagged scar of dark gray rock, as if a giant had once dragged a claw across the ground. It was a wounded place. The ground seemed as if it had been burned. He neared the hill and the Silvarii tale his mother sang echoed in his mind.

Upon a once before, there was a great wound on a hill…

And yet, from the center of the rocky fissure, the pulse was strongest. A single spot of vibrancy emanated in the gloom. Jethran wondered what had happened here.

…a traveler came and saw not a wound, but a story…

Drawn by the rhythm, Jethran climbed the hill. The air grew still as the sounds of the forest faded behind him. His breath caught. He could clearly see a flower with petals the same defiant indigo that he had released in his apartment. Slowly, it began raining.

…a color so beautiful it made the sky weep…

The flower grew directly from a crack in the stone. Its luminescence seemed to push back against the gray air. He reached out a trembling hand, just to feel the warmth coming from its petals. He was fearful of what might occur if his hand touched this budding flower.

A voice that sounded like the end of a thousand screams spoke from behind him.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it? The life that still grows despite the deepest wound.”

Jethran spun around.

Standing there was a figure that seemed woven from his own spirit wound. Their form wavered like smoke and their skin was marked with gleaming lines of violet light that resembled the scar in the rock they stood upon.

“Crezwil,” he breathed. “You are Crezwil. But how do I–”

“You carry a fresh wound,” Crezwil's voice pulsed with a low rhythm.

They looked at Jethran, their eyes holding a compassionate sorrow that was almost unbearable. They weren’t looking at his face, but specifically at the indigo ring that emanated from it.

"It sings a painful song," they said. "It's a Living Pulse. We can feel it even here."

“I want it gone,” Jethran rasped, the words surprising him with their venom. “It’s a sickness. Proof of … of what they did. It’s ugly.”

“Is it?” the living being asked gently. They gestured a hand at their own form, made of pulsating light.

“The world has taught you that a scar is a thing of shame. That a wound is a sign of weakness. They taught you to cover it, to hide it, to wish it away. This is the great lie of the Gray. The scar left on this world is deeper than the scar on this hill. The Gray itself is a scar. It was left behind when the world refused to die. A scar is a beginning. It is the place where the body, or the spirit, refused to die. It is a story written in the flesh and spoken on to the spirit.”

“But it’s a story of pain,” Jethran insisted, his voice raw. “Why would anyone want to read it?”

“Because it is also a story of survival,” the entity replied, their eyes seeming to see right through him. “You look at the world and think it is in its final form. The world survived and still lives, despite the Gray. You look at your skin and you see the memory of a violation. I look at it and I see a world that has only begun to live. I see a boy who endured and erupted with a light Evenhere had forgotten… like a spectra.”

“But this light,” the being continued, “is only the first note of your song. It is incomplete. You must seek out the other Songs, Jethran. Find them, listen to them, and you will understand the truth of your own song.”

“Songs?” Jethran’s head snapped up. “What are you talking about? The lullabies my mother sang? Those are just lullabies. They aren't real. They don't exist. No one believes in that.”

“The reality of our existence is not dependent on the belief of others,” they said. “We exist no matter what Aught be felt.”

“You have been taught that the stories are a lie,” they continued. “But lullabies hold deep and powerful Magic, ling. They are the truths. The source of your strength, the path to understanding your power, will be found within the Seven Songs. They are your way of learning to love the one who wears the scar.”

Jethran stared at them, his mind reeling. He was supposed to seek out Silvarii tales. The idea was so impossible. It felt like an attack. This being was telling him to embrace the thing that was destroying him.

A knowing smile touched the being’s lips. Their form wavered, the lines of light upon them shining brighter. They gestured to the flower.

“That bloom honors the scar on the hill; it does not hide from it. It makes the wound its foundation. The color you wear is the story of your survival. Do not try to erase the story. Learn to love the one who lived through it.”

Love it, he thought. Love this humiliation? Love what forced me from my home? Love the flaw?

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re a myth. I’m just… Jethran. The Flaw. They’ll hunt me for this. They’ll hurt her. I can’t love this. I just want it to go away!”

He turned and fled, scrambling down the side of the hill, away from the budding flower and the being with its unbearable wisdom. He ran from the hard truth, seeking an easier silence.

His flight led him into a part of the forest where the trees grew thicker, their branches knitting together to block out the pale dawn. He felt the air grow warm and heavy. A cobalt mist swirled around his ankles, muffling the sound of his frantic footsteps. The world became indistinct. The edges of his panic dulled.

As they burned, the self-hating thoughts in his head grew quiet, replaced by a welcome emptiness. The mist dimmed the indigo light from his skin. It was absorbed by the encroaching cobalt cloud.

This felt better. It felt like relief.

He stood in the dream from the night before, a place made of memory and mist. His skin seemed pale and rough. His breath became shallow.

The mist around Jethran swirled, and a voice murmured from it, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It was a voice like exhaled breath, like a secret you tell only to yourself.

“That pain is too much to carry,” it sighed. “The wound is too fresh. The Scar's truth is too hard for now. Let it go. You don’t have to feel it all right now. Let me hold it for you. Just … breathe.”

Jethran’s breath hitched. He knew who this was.

“You’re the one from the vision,” he gasped. “Muralis. The world doesn't believe you're real. They think you’re only a story.”

“Many are in denial,” the voice murmured. “Their belief is of no consequence to my truth. I exist no matter what Aught be done.”

“Are you one of the Seven Songs?” Jethran asked. “The ones I'm supposed to find.”

“We both are,” Muralis sighed.

He assumed that meant Crezwil and itself. Jethran thought of the world he’d left behind, a world that had erased these beings. The mist seemed to be amused, and the voice grew a little stronger, tinged with ancient mockery.

“Fear is a wild beast,” the voice softened again, becoming seductive. “I will help you cage it. The pain is a fire. I will give you rain. You need to be strong to face what comes next. Evenhere is facing a storm. You will need many things to weather the storm. I can only offer a simple cover from its rain. The others will provide the rest.”

It was right. He needed focus. He needed control. Crezwil asked him to love his pain. Muralis offered to take it away. He made a choice. Not forever, he told himself, just for now. A tool for survival.

“Okay,” he mumbled to the mist.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the warm cobalt vapor. It tasted of night-blooming flowers and forgotten memories. As Jethran inhaled, he felt the Living Pulse within him slow, dulled by the mist into a wonderful numbness.

He could feel his internal rhythm changing, becoming quiet. The burning shame of the indigo on his skin eased to an observable fact. He could think again. He could see the path forward.

He felt a surge of gratitude, an aching relief that made his knees weak. But as the initial wave of relief passed, he felt a dangerous pull. He felt a desire to just keep breathing, to let the blue wash away everything. He wanted to disappear into the calm. He felt the seductive power of the gift, the temptation to let it control him completely.

The memory of the tavern heremen pointing. The memory of Martier's hand on his jaw. The memory of his mother's defeated shoulders. It all came rushing back, the pain sharp and sudden. He gasped, tears springing to his eyes.

No... don't want to feel that.

He took another, deeper breath of the mist. The images blurred, lost their sharp edges, and dissolved. The pain vanished, replaced by the warm emptiness.

“You must not stay long within the mist,” the voice warned. “As with any escape, you must eventually return to yourself.”

But the memory of Martier’s hands, of his will being erased, was still a fresh wound. He was in control now, not Martier. This warm numbness felt like power. It was his choice.

The pulling desire to just... let go... was stronger than his fear. He invited it in. In that moment of surrender, he ignored the voice as he took another deep breath, letting the peace wash everything away.

The blue mist he had inhaled glowed from within his chest with a soft luminescence.

The peace he found was interrupted by the sounds of the BAPs’ horsemen. Martier had found him. He put his hands out just as his guardian stepped forward. A light erupted from Jethran; a surge of cobalt pulsed outward, silencing the woods. It was a wave of sensory deprivation.

Martier and the stiff-robed Big Aught Police recoiled, hands flying to their faces, their eyes overwhelmed by the sudden color. They had been struck deaf, suddenly unable to hear even their own voices. They shouted, but no sound came. They looked at each other, their faces masks of panic, their authority instantly shattered by a silence they couldn't control.

In that single, precious moment of confusion, Jethran acted.

He spun around and bolted, plunging deeper into the cobalt forest. The numbness was still with him, making the run feel strangely detached. He could hear Martier’s shout behind him, but it was already distant, swallowed by the cloud.

He ran until the shouts faded completely, until his legs were numb and his lungs burned with the effort, not stopping until he was sure he had left them far behind.

He looked at his hands and wondered how he made the BAPs go deaf. He was now even more scared than he had been before.

What am I?

After the Songs

So now that he has met two of the Seven Songs, he's been given his mission, his goal, and a directive. He still doesn't believe it even though he's seen it right in front of him.

Now he has to continue forward with this confusing information that he's supposed to seek out the Silvarii Tales. And somehow he has power and magic that is tied to the lullabies. He's been given direct information but he's so overcome with exhaustion and post-traumatic stress that he can't relate the information in his mind to anything factual.

In the next chapter, Jethran gets a break and makes an unexpected friend. We'll see him continue to use the Mist of Muralis and learn how to use one of his other powers.

Let's Discuss

* How do you handle the concept of loving your scars?

* Can you relate to the way Jethran refuses to accept it even when the truth is scaring him right in the face?

* Have you ever just known that your way of coping was wrong but you knew it was the only way you could get through?

Feel free to answer and share your thoughts in the comments.

What's Next?

Now that I have completed my writing for this week, and now that new subscribers have joined, I will begin next week with a pinpointed schedule of a chapter breakdown on Mondays, the chapter on Wednesdays, and a character or concept deep dive on Fridays.

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