#we can pretend the dream vs reality theme for icarius mirrors warriors's real vs false memories for thematic reasons

[wutheringmights]

CTB Side Story: Icarius Backstory Draft

I am chipping away (slowly and surely) on the next ctb chapter. I needed a bit of a creative break from figuring out this scene I've been stuck on, so I took some time today to write out what would be the opening scene for a ctb spin off story about the Icarius and Nephus backstory.

I don't know if I will ever finish this. If I do, it would not be for a long time. But please place your eyes upon this and give me validation or something.

Content warning: depictions of violence.

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Only in his dreams did Icarius remember being branded. 

To be humane, the thrall must be branded when they are still very young. They were easier to hold down and placate, limiting potential injury. Young skin was faster to heal. A child could take the time to rest and heal the way an adult couldn’t. A child’s memory would fade with age, until the whole ordeal was nothing more than a footnote.  

It bred less resentment for the hands that held them down. The hands couldn’t feel horrified by what they did either-- it was more humane to brand a child who would forget than an adult who would remember. 

Nonetheless, Icarius knew some thralls who claimed to remember the day perfectly. They were lying, even if they didn’t realize it themselves. He supposed it made them feel rebellious, holding onto a memory they were ordered to forget. It was pathetic. 

As a thrall, you already were nothing. You were less than human. One of the cattle. The suffering of everyday was more tangible than the ever-fading echo of a memory. Why waste your time?

In waking hours, Icarius could barely remember his branding. He only knew the basics because his mother had described it to him. No matter how he worried the sigil seared onto his breast-- the octopus of the House of Nephus--nothing ever came to him. 

But in dream, he swore he could still feel the hands that held him down: one of a slave-driver, and the other of his own father. He writhed and screamed to be let go, only for more hands to clamp down on his ankles and legs. He screamed so loud that a rag had been stuffed into his mouth. 

In reality, he had been blindfolded. In dream, he saw the red-hot iron be lifted from the flames. From molten red to smoldering gold it was hefted high before being bore down onto his chest, right over his heart---no, no, please don’t hurt me. 

He screamed until his voice went hoarse. His words lost shape until his sobs were unintelligible croaks.

He didn’t faint. He cried and wailed, but he had been conscious through it all. His father would call it an impressive show of strength, but he always said it with a pin-point glint of pity. “Thank Opreun, you do not remember it,” he would say. 

After the branding iron was pulled away, his dream melted. The dark forge and the smell of burnt flesh slid away. The agony radiating across his heart would dull as dream was replaced by memory. 

It was his first time inside the main estate, his father’s hand on his back as he was ushered before the paterfamilias: a slight man who cut a more imposing figure than he should have been able to, with eyes that crinkled in good humor.  

A ceremony he did not quite understand played before him. Even at six years of age, he knew well enough to avert his eyes and wait patiently to be addressed, even as his uniform itched and the open V of his tunic invited a chill as much as it showed off his mark of the House of Nephus.

What he did understand was the little boy he was brought before. Two years his younger, he was still a baby shyly hiding his face in his nursemaid’s skirts. Both she and his mother had to peel his chubby fingers away to face Icarius. 

His freckles were the brightest Icarius had ever seen: beautiful white flecks adorning each cheek, bridging across his nose like a constellation map. 

“See this, Vas?” Heedless of her beautiful dress, the lady of the house knelt down to her youngest son’s height. A sheer veil conformed to the ridge of her nose as she held his shoulders straight and pressed her cheek into his. “This is Icarius. He’s the son of Papa’s valet. You like Papa’s valet, right? Well, his son is going to be by your side for now on. He’s going to take very good care of you.”

Bug-eyed, Vasileios turned and whispered something to his mother.

She sung a laugh. “Yes, Vas,” she said. “He’s yours, so you have to take care of him too.”

Vas accepted that with a solemn nod. When he looked at Icarius again, he flushed but managed to stretch his mouth into a smile so wide, Icarius could count each of his teeth. His cheeks were so chubby, his eyes disappeared into his brows. It was cute. 

His father nudged him. “Go on, Icarius.”

Icarius knew to bow his head and mutter his thanks to the paterfamilias for such a prestigious position. He knew he was still a thrall, but now he was something else as well, something that made him a step above the mud. He knew he was special, even with a common sigil branded into his flesh. 

He knew that if he had one thing in this world, it was Vas. 

He was Vas’s, but Vas was his. 

Then the dream would end, and he woke up.