Once again, Percy found himself standing on the frigid wastelands of Huehue’s dark side, his – or rather, Micky’s – feet buried a few inches deep in the snow. The only source of light were the cyan lines glowing on his skin, faintly illuminating his imdiate surroundings, and no more than that. He was breathing hard; his lungs numb from the cold. But all four of his tiny fists were clenched tightly, the boy stubbornly keeping the boosting art going.
‘He’s even younger than the last ti!’ Percy realized. ‘Is this the day he first managed to activate the spell? But who’s teaching him?’
Percy knew from the previous mory that neither Micky’s mother nor his sister were fighters. The two hadn’t even made any effort to protect themselves when Mixcoatl attacked them.
“That’s enough for now, son,” a man spoke, his voice firm but gentle. “You’ll get better at it with practice.”
Micky had never ntioned his father, and Percy hadn’t seen him with them last ti either. They’d clearly lost him years before the rest of them got captured.
“I can… keep going…!” Micky chirped between pants, his child-like voice surprising Percy.
He couldn’t have been older than seven. At what age did these people even awaken their cores? Learning a Refined spell so young, and in such a short ti was quite impressive, even with a proper instructor.
The man walked up to the boy, evident by the rhythmic crunches of the snow beneath his feet. By the ti he was close enough for Micky to see him, the boy had to crane his head up, barely reaching the man’s waist. His father patted him on the head, his warm hand ruffling the fluff there for a couple seconds.
“A wise warrior understands when it’s ti to fight and when it’s ti to rest, Mic. Listen to your body when it tells you to take a break. Sotis, our world can be even crueller than our enemies.”
Micky nodded, begrudgingly letting go of the spell. The excess mana spilled out of his pores as a wave of weakness overca him. His knees buckled, but the man grabbed him before he fell, embracing him with his lower pair of arms. The boy hugged him back – about as tightly as he could manage, his tiny arms failing to fully wrap around his father’s broad chest. He was already shivering from the cold, even his Yellow core doing little to help him right now.
“I’m proud of you, Mic. I think you’re ready to get your tattoos… After we all get so sleep and so food, of course.”
“Shouldn’t we wait a couple more years for that?” a woman suddenly asked, approaching the two.
Percy recognized her as Micky’s mother. It had been years since he experienced the previous mory, but the feeling of familiarity she gave the boy couldn’t have been mistaken. That said, she looked a little taller to his pipsqueak friend this ti.
She was currently holding a child too – a girl a little older than Micky. Though she was clearly doing a worse job keeping his sister warm, their Orange cores leaving both of them vulnerable to the elents. Their faces were pale, their chattering beaks barely audible amidst the howling winds. Pulling them both closer, the man embraced his whole family, trying to warm everyone up.
“I was about his age when my father gave
my tattoos…” he whispered, before gazing down at Percy. “What do you think, Mic? I won’t force you, if you’d rather wait a little longer.”
Smushed between his parents and sister, Micky looked up. He balled his fists once more, returning the man’s gaze with a resolute one of his own.
“I’ll do it! I’m ready for it!”
***
Percy watched as Micky’s father squeezed the carcass of a small critter, extracting a dark ink-like substance from its beak into a hole in the snow. Its round body and long neck reminded him of a duck, but it clearly wasn’t a bird. It was covered in fur – not feathers – and it didn’t have any wings either. Instead, it had a bunch of short, stubby legs, all six of them ending in paws. Percy hadn’t seen the man kill the small animal, having found himself in this mory fragnt re monts ago.
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The boy’s mother was currently squatting a few tres away, spinning a cyan rod against a couple pieces of firewood, trying to start a fire as Micky’s sister watched her. The family was inside a cave this ti, the stone walls shielding them from the wind sowhat.
“Can’t we just eat it raw? It’s too bitter when it’s burnt!” the girl complained.
Taking a break from her work, Micky’s mother pulled her into her arms, flashing her what Percy guessed was a smile.
“Atzi, you know it’s safer this way. You’re less likely to get a disease from it. We would be doing it more often if it wasn’t this hard to bring wood to the dark side. Besides, it’s your brother’s big mont. Don’t you want us to celebrate with him?”
The girl nodded back reluctantly, not saying anything more.
Micky’s father suddenly stood up, drawing Percy’s attention. He was probably done extracting the ink from the creature. Walking over to his wife, he passed her the carcass, before returning by Micky’s side.
‘I guess that’s what we’re eating then…’
The woman manifested another construct, rubbing it against the wood once more. But Micky wasn’t looking at her, his attention having shifted to his father. The man gathered so of his mana too, forming a cyan needle in each of his lower hands, pinched between his thumbs and index fingers.
“Are you sure you’re ready, son? We can still do this another ti if you want.”
Micky swallowed hard, his gaze oscillating between the sharp points of the needles and the ink in the hole. His father chuckled at the sight.
“You don’t have to worry about wasting the ink, Mic. It wasn’t much trouble to collect it. Besides, we can also use it to season the at if you don’t want your tattoos right now.”
But Micky shook his head.
“No. I’ll do it.”
Taking his shirt off, he placed it on the ground in front of his father, before laying on it face-down.
“Okay. I’ll need you to activate Circulation too. The lines will help
draw the symbols at the right spots.”
Following the man’s instructions, Micky took a series of deep breaths, slowly filling his channels up with mana. Percy could tell the boy still wasn’t very used to the spell, but it shouldn’t be that hard to keep it active for a while. As soon as the glowing lines lit up again, he noticed his father dip the needles in the hole by the corner of his eyes. The boy tensed, clenching his hands against the snow as he braced himself for the pain.
It didn’t take long for Percy to feel the cold tips press against his skin. At first, it didn’t hurt that much, the sting barely registering a couple seconds later. The pain built up over the next few minutes, however, as the man moved thodically across the boy’s back, carving one intricate symbol after the other into his flesh.
Even so, it wasn’t a problem for sobody like Percy, considering everything he had experienced over the years. Hell, Elaine’s tattoos had hurt a lot more, his cousin clearly not as experienced as Micky’s father. That said, it was still quite unpleasant for the boy, given how young he was.
‘No… Actually, he’s handling it well too, for his age. Not that surprising, I suppose, considering how tough his everyday life has been…’
“Let
know if it’s too much,” the man said at so point. “We’ll have to take a few breaks anyway, since I doubt you can keep Circulation active for that long.”
***
When Percy next ca to, he was still in the sa place, though he was sitting this ti. He and his family surrounded the dying embers of the campfire, munching on the charred at as its all-too-familiar aroma perated the cave.
Admittedly, it didn’t taste quite as bad as the one Tlaloc had prepared for him in the Vault, or the one he had cooked for Micky in the Valley. Whether it was the at of the strange critter that was more suitable for this, or the boy’s mother who was a more skilled cook, the food was a lot easier to chew, and its acrid flavour was sowhat muted.
Micky’s upper back hurt quite a bit by now. In fact, the boy failed to resist the urge to touch his wounds at so point, his swollen flesh stinging as he brushed over it with his fingers, getting blood all over his lower-left hand.
“Don’t ss with it,” his mother said sternly, grabbing his wrist. “It’ll heal slower if you do.”
Nodding in understanding, the boy finished his al in silence, before returning to the previous position, clearly not deterred by the pain. Percy hadn’t missed the pride in his father’s eyes, and he honestly shared the sentint.
‘You were one tough kid, weren’t you, Micky?’
No, not just a tough kid.
Micky had always been like that – in both of his lives. It had been painfully clear when he risked his life to protect his mother and sister… Or when he threw everything in the trash for a chance to land a punch on Mixcoatl’s face… When he nearly rejected Percy’s possession, choosing a warrior’s death over accepting help from who he thought was an enemy… Even after losing his mories, Micky had begged Percy to kill him, unwilling to let Acton feed him a bunch of innocents…
That said, his father seed to realize this was a bit much for the boy, so he soon offered him a distraction.
“Mic, let
tell you the sa story my father told
when he was drawing my tattoos. Atzi, you listen too. This story is part of our heritage – no less important than the Dance. Make sure to pass it down to your own kids in the future.”
“What is it about?” the girl asked.
“It’s about a person. A man who saved our ancestors from the brink of destruction, countless years ago…”
“…The Dying Hero.”
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