by Daryl Banner
When they come around the bend in the road, Wick realizes with a sinking feeling what Lionis has dragged him down here to see. They cross the street and end up at the face of a metal shed, which looks so different during the day. Wick is far more used to seeing it at night when his father would wake him and pull him here for middle-night training.
“Here,” mumbles Lionis, opening the door and standing aside to let the boys in first.
The wood and metal workbenches all look the same as before. He notices a strange half-abandoned project at the end of one bench, as if someone on the street thought to come down here and try their hand at smithing, then gave up. This is, after all, a community shed that anyone on their street is welcome to use, but Wick’s dad seemed to be the only one who ever did, and everyone knew it. Scraps of metal are bundled and leaning against the walls in the back by the grimy window, which is covered by a ratty fabric torn near the end, revealing a slice of the window.
While Athan stays near the door, Wick drifts over to the other rack on the wall that still houses weapons he and his dad used when they trained. The beaten-up scimitar. The long, awkward sword. The different lengths of rods and wooden staves. The hammers.
It’s one specific hammer that Wick pulls from the weapon rack. Someone must have stored it there, thinking it was just any other hammer, but it isn’t. This is his hammer. Wick turns it over to look at all of their names etched along its back. Aleksand, Halvesand, Lionis, Anwick, Link …
And Elle.
“Elle,” echoes Lionis from behind him, as if drawing the name from Wick’s brain the moment he reads it.
Wick doesn’t turn to acknowledge his brother, his emotions too stirred at the sight of the name etched into the hammer. My dad knew, he has to remind himself. My dad carried the secret all these years. He carried the burden for all of us—but for me especially, so that I could live a normal life. What other secrets did he keep?
“Look at me now, dad,” Wick whispers to the hammer. “Such a normal life I’ve found.”
Lionis speaks from the other side of the shed. “Anwick.”
After letting himself enjoy one more moment of thought, Wick turns and, hammer still in his grip, crosses the shed toward his brother, who stands near a pile of something covered with a shroud.
“Do you want to see her?” his brother asks.
Wick lifts his gaze, alarmed. It hadn’t occurred to him until just now that his brother was entirely serious long ago when he told him there was a statue of a girl in the shed. “It might not be her,” Wick blurts at once. “W-What if dad took to carving a statue in her honor? What if he—?”
“Do you want to see our sister?” his brother asks again, his tone a touch impatient.
Wick frowns, his eyes on the ugly shroud that he now knows covers a stone statue of a girl that might or might not be his actual sister. He experiences a rapid series of thoughts that both reason why he should and why he shouldn’t see whatever is beneath that dusty covering.
Athan draws up to Wick’s back slowly, but doesn’t touch him, knowing his mind is in a spin of emotion thanks to his brother, who is likely doing this just to torture him. Despite the horrors and the hurt and the memories that race past his eyes, Wick finally gives a short nod, since he’s unable to speak.
Lionis pulls the covering off, sweeping it away and kicking up a cloud of dust in its wake.
The dust settles to reveal a girl made of stone. She’s reaching up, seemingly at nothing in particular. She wears a dress, every fold and wrinkle in its fabric too real to be some art project of his father’s. He knows that this girl must be his sister, though the memory, even after being unlocked, is still so far away that he can’t recognize her outright. In fairness, he hasn’t seen his sister in many, many years.
“Anwick,” shouts Lionis, alarmed.
Wick glances down to find the hammer in his clutch turning to stone. With a gasp, he drops it to the floor, only to find the floor at his feet turning to stone. The grey matter pools out from his shoes. Athan backs away from it.
Terrified, Wick lifts his hands, afraid to touch anything, then races for the shed, shouting, “STAY AWAY FROM ME!” in a panic. His every footfall stamps a stone imprint of his shoe into the floor of the shed, and then turns blades of grass to stone as he makes it outside, racing away from the shed as fast as he can manage. Tears of desperation sting his eyes as he runs down the street. He runs so fast that his shoes—which have also turned to stone—become too rigid to move in, and one miscalculated step catches his foot into a thick crack in the pavement, sending Wick tumbling to the ground.
He stares at his hands as they brace himself against the street. He doesn’t see the grey matter anymore. He doesn’t see stone. His heart is in his throat as a thousand fears from his past pour into his face and then empty in the form of tears. “ELLE …” he shouts, his voice squeezed by anguish. “OH, ELLE … FUCK!”
Wick sits back on his knees, ass to his heels, and he feels the stone texture of his shoes, which makes him immediately twist around to kick them off in anger. Barefoot and on the ground in the middle of the street, Wick buries his face in his hands and cries, unable to help himself. He doesn’t care that neighbors are likely staring at him from their porches and their windows, having heard his screaming. He feels subtle pulls of their Legacies too—maybe one of them rendering him overly emotional, maybe one of them giving him calmness, maybe one of them making his elbows tickle, maybe one of them causing his nails to grow. It doesn’t matter.
The one and only Legacy that he felt without a doubt was his sister’s as it crept into his hands and turned his father’s hammer to stone. He only drew on it because he looked at her, because some subconscious part of him reached for her. If he stayed in there any longer, he would have turned his brother and his boyfriend to stone too, letting them enjoy the same eternal slumber as his sister.
“Anwick!” shouts Lionis in the distance.
Wick lifts his tear-filled face, watching his brother race down the road with Athan trailing behind.
“Are you okay??” his brother asks, coming to a stop in front of him, out of breath. “I didn’t realize—”
“WHY THE FUCK,” Wick starts, already screaming his every word, “DID YOU DO THAT TO ME??”
Lionis’s eyes flash. “I … Anwick, I didn’t know that our sister—”
“YOU FUCKING DID THAT ON PURPOSE!” Wick screams, his hands shaking, snot and tears dripping from his face. “ALL YOUR LIFE, YOU HAVE NEVER FORGIVEN ME!”
“Don’t be silly,” blurts Lionis, annoyingly calm. “I never even knew until you got your memory back.”
Wick’s voice reduces to a deadly cold timbre. “Your mind forgot. Your body didn’t. You’ve hated me ever since I took our sister from us. You’re desperate for me to feel the amount of pain you and our brothers and our parents felt when I killed her.”
“You didn’t mean to,” Lionis says tersely.
“Well, I did. And you brought me back to that fucking shed and you almost made me kill you and Athan too.”
Athan stands next to Lionis, the pain and the panic living in his eyes. It’s that pain and that panic that Wick can’t stand to see, and so he sinks his head between his knees and forgets the world.
Lionis sighs. “I didn’t realize our sister was auto-borne. If I had known, obviously I wouldn’t have—Damn it, Wick, stand up.”
“Fuck you,” whispers Wick, not wanting to hear any more of it.
He hears his brother’s footsteps as he leaves, whether to go home or somewhere else, Wick couldn’t care less. Athan’s footsteps are softer as he approaches. He crouches down next to him.
When Athan reaches for him, Wick says, “Don’t touch me.”
“But Wick …”
“I don’t want to hurt you. Don’t touch me.”
Nothing is said between them for a moment. Athan only sits on the pavement next to Wick, honoring his wish of not being touched. A soft wind brushes past them, reminding W
ick of how lovely he thought the day was only ten minutes ago. How fast things change.
“You won’t hurt me. I know it,” says Athan. “It’s my Legacy to know it, isn’t it? Wouldn’t I be having a panic attack or something if your presence was dangerous to me?”
Wick doesn’t respond, his head still buried. Athan continues not to touch him, but stays by his side, refusing to go. After another soft breeze tosses his hair, Wick realizes how badly he does want Athan to touch him. He can feel that his sister’s Legacy is no longer in his fingers and toes, but can’t bring himself to accept Athan’s touch. He understands, Wick tells himself. Athan always understands me.
An hour later when the boys are back in the house cuddled up on the couch, Wick enjoys the safety of Athan’s tight embrace.
0197 Kid
The situation with Ames is not better. Twice during a food run, Ames dares them to sneak toward the Core, curious if they can find a way to the Lifted City. “Invisible, we have to be able to find a way up there. It’s gotta be so easy! No one will know!”
Kid told him about her friend Aryl who could see temperatures as a means of warning. “She could see me,” Kid tells him. “She called me Red. Maybe others have Legnasies that could see us, too.”
“Legacies,” Ames corrects her, though it sounds like ridicule.
When they’re back at the house, Kid watches as Link and Ames argue yet again about why they can’t run around trying to change the course of history every day. “Who knows what the hell we’ve already done!” shouts Link, infuriated. “Every little bit of food we steal is changing history!” Ames shouts back. “We are already doing it, so let’s do it more!”
The fighting is endless, and most of the time, Faery and Kid just sit together at the other end of the house. Faery asks odd questions, sounding a lot like a child who’s never seen the world, and Kid gives the best answers she can, feeling important when doing so. But then Kid decides to turn the tables and ask Faery a question or two. “Do you and Link kiss on the mouth?” and “Are you and Link boyfriend and girlfriend?” and “Where’s your mom and dad?” all earn Kid precisely zero answers, unless the flushing of Faery’s shy face and smooth, hairless head can be taken for an answer.
Kid makes the decision one early morning when Link and Faery are murmuring to each other on the other side of the closed door to the back bedroom. It’s a decision she doesn’t make lightly.
“Want to go with me?” she asks.
Ames stares down at her with half a frown. “Link and Fae-Fae are busy.”
“Just us,” she says. “We can make a breakfast run together and be back before they even knowed we’ve gone.”
“Know,” he corrects her, his eyes squinting. “You … don’t think that’s a bad idea?”
Kid pouts her lip. “I’m hungry.”
Ames glances back at the closed door, the two of them listening to the murmuring of Link and Faery, which quickly turns into the unmistakable sounds of smacking lips. “Yeah,” he says with a smirk. “Better we go on a run just to avoid listening to that all day.”
Kid smiles tightly with appreciation, though no laugh touches her. Don’t feel guilty. Don’t feel guilty. You’re doing the right thing.
“Ready?” he asks when they’re at the sliding glass door.
“Mmm-hmm,” Kid returns, not looking at his eyes.
Ames and Kid are walking down the street of a tenth ward back alley a half hour later. Their hands are joined tightly and the city is alive with people moving briskly, their hands thrust into the pockets of their oversized tattered coats. It’s a cold morning, a kiss of winter upon the morning air, and the two of them start to smell the cloying scent of baked bread, pastries, and cinnamon.
“You believe in fate?” asks Ames as they stand at the window of their target bakery.
Kid lifts her gaze to meet his. “Fate?”
“Yeah. Kinda like believing that our futures are already in place. Like there’s nothing we can do to change it. Do you believe in that?”
Kid scrunches up her face. “What an awful thing to believe in.”
“I agree. See, that’s why I know you’re on my side. Not Link.” Ames breathes in deeply, likely tasting their breakfast already with dreams fluttering in his stomach. Kid stares at his burnt, bumpy face, the way his white scars crash and twist with his red ones.
“Your side?” she prompts him, studying his scars. If he can make sure that his face is never burned, will he?
“I just need to convince the others that we can’t waste these ten years. This is a gift, Kid. Is that your real name?” he asks suddenly, giving a silly quirk of an eyebrow. “Kid, we need to convince them to embark on a journey with us. And with or without them, you and I are gonna change our histories. We’re gonna slay the Banshee and stop the Marshal of Madness from ever rising to power.”
Kid listens, saying not a word.
“You and I,” he says, looking down at her. “Maybe we can do it and remain unseen, with your beautiful Legacy.”
“What’s yours?” she asks, trying to mask the anxiousness in her tightened throat.
Ames looks off, her question taking his mind somewhere else entirely. For a second, it’s as if he’s forgotten his Legacy completely.
“You gave it up, right?” asks Kid. “Just like Link gave up his pink fingers? What was your Legnas—Legacy …?”
He smiles suddenly. Then, with a smirk, he says, “Once, long ago, a boy named Ames could paint his skin with his own feelings. At school, the other boys thought I had gotten tattoos with a trip to the Inkery. But the pictures on my skin could go away as easily as they appeared … though it wasn’t always in my control. When I was frightened, black webs would draw across my face. When I felt deep love … or shame … my arms turned pink and red.” He tilts his head down at Kid, who’s taken a different expression towards him. “You probably wondered why I’m so comfortable with my unseemly skin since I burned it when The Brae burned down. To be honest, I’ve always been used to having peculiar colors and designs all over my skin. I’ve been this way since I was a child. Just … now …” He shrugs. “Now I’m sort of stuck with these … ‘pictures’ … I suppose.”
Kid sucks on her own lips, her hands starting to tremble. You can do this. It’s for the best.
“Nervous?” he asks, picking up on her trembling hands. “We’ve done a hundred of these runs already. Let’s just slip in and get the food and be back before Link and Faery even leave their room. You do realize they’re having sex, don’t you?” he blurts with a snort.
Kid wrinkles her face. “Shut up. That’s gross.”
“It’s human nature. Give yourself a few more years, you’ll start to feel your own confused feelings. I guess that’s my only regret, really. I wish I had found love before I gave my life to Baron Poe.” He sighs exasperatedly. “Another thing to add to the list of what you and I need to do. My life in the Brotherhood would’ve been so much easier if I was a boy of other boys. Maybe I am. Maybe I just need to try it out.” Ames makes himself laugh with that last comment. Kid notices a nearby woman pick up on his laughter, her eyes searching for the source, like she’s wondering if someone’s laughing at her.
Kid closes her eyes, takes a deep breath in, then lets it all out. Now or never.
She tugs on his hand and moves toward the door of the bakery. Inside, the delicious smell is staggering. Kid nearly folds in half, for the longing, ravenous reaction her stomach has to the ever-appealing aroma. She ignores it all, moving with Ames as they cut through the bakery and into the kitchens.
With his one free hand, Ames is already poking through the pastries on the trays that have not gone out to the front of the store yet, awaiting their turn in the display glass. He mutters out loud, choosing which ones he wants—the best ones, of course—and which less superior baked goods he’ll bring back for Link and Faery.
And Kid peers around the kitchen at all the bakers. There is no exit back here, she notices, which makes her tre
mble all the worse. I can’t do this, she realizes, terrified. I can’t and yet I must.
Ames starts to eat a cinnamon sticky bun, the gooey sugariness gathering at the corners of his lips and sticking to his nose. He moans as he eats, savoring every bite.
Kid glances at the kitchen door when it swings open, a chef making his way in. Outside at the counter, two Guardian are peering into the glass and teasing each other about which pastry they want.
Kid stares at them, wide-eyed and terrified.
“To changing the world,” says Ames for a little toast, his words muffled through his mouthful of cinnamon and sugar and dough. “You and me, Kid, versus the future.”
Kid takes one last breath, then lets her hand slip from his.
Ames turns her way, alarmed, his mouth full and his eyes, fuller. He reaches out but doesn’t find her hand. He reaches again, frantic, but Kid has backed away to the wall, far out of his reach, invisible.
He pulls the sticky bun out of his mouth and sets it on the counter. “K-K-Kid?” His eyes dart around the vicinity of where she stands. “W-What are you doing? Kid?”
“HEY!” shouts one of the chefs. “The fuck you doing back here?”
Ames makes a quick calculation, then darts for the kitchen doors, running. The chefs shout out, chasing after him. The stores of pastries Ames had gathered are abandoned on the metal counter, his half-eaten sticky bun dropped to the floor.
The kitchen doors swing back and forth after their departure.
She hears shouting on the other side of the door. Kid rushes up to it, her eyes shimmering with regret already. Was this a mistake? she asks herself as she watches the two Guardian fumbling with Ames, having caught him. He screams out, thrashing against the two powerful Guardian who hold him perfectly in place without even the assistance of their Legacies, whatever they are. After several kicks and a twist of his torso, Ames is brought to the ground, a Guardian holding his knee to Ames’ back, pinning him.
