No Second Prize.
Title: No Second Prize.
Rating: M (Sensitive Issue/Theme, Strong Violence)
Summary: Cadmus Peverell was never first in anything. He was not the first to be born. He was not the first to die. And in life, there's no second prize.
I.
The thin wails of a newborn fill the air, more piercing than the soft sobs of the almost unconscious woman lying on the floor. An older woman stands over the two, bending to pick up the child, as a man stands over to the side, detached. One of his large hands covers the chest of another child, though this one is closer to two. His wide blue eyes, shared by his mother, take in the scene, though he is silent. He has been punished enough times for talking when he is not supposed to.
The woman on the floor begins to slip into unconsciousness as her sobs slow, her breathing becoming deeper and more regular. After wiping her forehead with a rag, the old midwife turns her attention back to attending to the wailing baby, rubbing him up and down to make sure his blood is circulating. The fact that he is crying is a good sign, as is the fact that the mother is still breathing.
The smoke from the fire in the middle of the room obscures the midwife's view of the mother, but she can hear that she will be fine. Adeldreda is always fine.
"What is his name?" she asks the man as she hands the baby over, the father no longer restricting the movement of the two-year-old as he cradles his newest son.
"Cadmus," he replies, rocking the small body to try and quieten the noise. "A prince."
The two-year-old stares at the child in his father's arms, bubbles of jealously rising within him. That was his father, holding the baby to his chest. That was his mother on the floor, sleeping. They were not that boy's parents, they were his. But Antioch will have to learn to share. Share his parents with the quiet, soft-spoken boy Cadmus will grow to become. Share his skills with the weaker younger brother who will be far defter with his fingers than he ever will with brute strength. Share the experience of meeting Death on a lonely road on the way to the next village.
But Antioch will never be very good at sharing.
II.
Ever since meeting her, he has been lighter on his feet, not complaining about anything, taking scraps of wood while his father is occupied with other matters and fashioning her little trinkets - sometimes a model of a bird, other times a carving of a flower. Her name means life, so it is ironic that she dies so young.
He takes his latest present to her, covering it with his hands from the outside world. The smell of freshly-baked bread reaches his nostrils as he nears her home, and he smiles. He holds a carving of a robin in his hand, one of the first birds of the season having landed on the tree he had been resting under that morning.
She is ill. He knows that. He has visited her every chance he has, waiting until she returns to good health before asking her for her hand in marriage. He is lucky; he knows that some others are not able to marry for love. For some, marriage is merely an act of diplomacy. But he loves her, and she loves him, and as soon as she can walk about the woods and he can point out the newly-arriving robins, he will marry her.
That day never comes.
He reaches the door of her house, and immediately he knows something is wrong. There are whispers inside, and a fragrant smoke wafts out the open door. He has smelt that smoke before; he knows what it means.
The last steps are taken at a run, and the wooden robin slips out of his hand as he sees into the home. It doesn't make a sound as it hits the dirt floor, but a tiny cloud of dust billows around it, covering it in a fine layer of grit already.
She is lying where she has always lain, but her eyes are closed and her brow is dry. She is not in pain; she is at peace.
"Eva," he says, his voice cracking, though she cannot hear him call.
Her mother stands, all the sorrows in the world contained in each new wrinkle lining the soft skin of her face. She cannot look him in the eye for more than a moment, and his own brim with tears, though he dashes them away with the back of his hand. Eva is dead. Eva, who was destined to be his wife; they would have had a family, children with hair a darker shade than his own. He would have travelled to other villages to sell his wares and always have something to come back to, something to treasure.
The robin, the hope, the happiness, the bright future, is kicked further into the dust as he leaves, barely noticing its fragile wings as his foot sweeps it aside on the way out of the door.
Life is dead.
III.
His family are gathered in the street, as are her family, and half the village besides. The lord has been notified. Christianity is not a big part of life yet, so there is no priest. Just a ceremony of handing over, and a congratulations.
Cadmus will not be celebrating. He knows he has no choice in what is to happen, knows that this is an advantageous marriage. The Peverells will have more land, more money. He will have a wife, and he will be able to have children of his own. She has red hair, though; he does not know what their children will look like.
Her name is Cecily, blind. She does not live up to her name, figuratively or literally. Eva did. She knows he does not love her at all; she can see it in his eyes. Yet she marries him, for it is a fortuitous marriage.
After the ceremony they are left alone, and silence reigns. The silence stretches across the room, across the fields, across the entirety of Wessex. They do not say a word. He tries to look at her, but all he can see is Eva; he is the blind one. He does not notice the prettily-formed nose, nor the green flecks in her hazel eyes. Her skin, just a few shades darker than cream, reminds him too much of Eva's when he last saw her, resting at peace. All she sees in him is grief.
They are blind to one another, hazel eyes not finding anything in brown. They live as they should, Cadmus taking up his father's mantle of carpentry, she helping and caring for their child: a girl, born almost a year after Eva's death. Cadmus tries to love Caero, he does, but she has red hair. Perhaps Cecily knew, and chose an apt name. Or perhaps she chose it because of her own sorrows.
Regardless of the reason, Sorrow cries out in the middle of the night, laughs in the daytime, and when all Cadmus can see of her is her eyes, he almost likes her.
IV.
Three are better than one. Three minds, three pairs of eyes, three hand-whittled wands made from the wandmaker three villages over. Three brothers, one tall and muscular, one who would have been taller had he not walked with a bowed head and hunched shoulders, and the last, the shortest but the one with the brightest eyes. The youngest has reason to smile. He was married not a month ago, and his does appear the happiest marriage of the three. She works the fields, he helps her father make the clothing for the village.
Single file, each carrying their own burdens, they trek down the uneven path, only the third looking up as the sun departs. The first looks straight ahead, focused on nothing but their destination; the second watches his feet, seeming as though he carries far heavier weight than the bulging pack in his hand. They stop at a river, each watching the surging waters for a moment. They all think different things: conquer, surrender, bypass. The third one conjures the bridge, and they continue, aiming to get to the village before it gets too dark to see their own feet.
They are only halfway across the wooden planks when Death appears before them. They have seen him many times, though not in person. They have only seen what he has left behind. He speaks, congratulating them on the magic they have performed. The bridge is wonderfully sound, he says. He offers them a prize for being able to escape his clutches. A greedy glint appears in the first's eye, thinking of what he will gain. The second looks up too, for the first time since they left the village from which they came. He wonders if he will get a prize at last. He has never received a prize before - he has never come first.
Antioch, the strongest, the first, demands a wand fit for one who had conquered Death. Never mind it was Ignotus, the third, who conjured the bridge. He will take credit where ever he can. Death fashions him a wand of elder, as is fitting. Elder and death are never far apart. Antioch reaches out hungrily, grabbing the wand out of Death's hand as soon as it is done. He is consumed with thoughts of what he will do with it, who he will smite.
The second, Cadmus, asks for the power to bring others back from death. Death thinks he is arrogant; but the third knows he is merely lovesick. Any fool could see it if they looked hard enough, but Death does not ponder, Death strikes. It is not in Death's nature to look below the surface.
Ignotus asks for a way to go from the river without being followed by Death, so Death gives him his own Invisibility Cloak. The second thinks this is foolish; his stone is far more useful. Who would want anything but to bring back those you have lost? The cloak won't help you regain happiness. Of all people, Cadmus would not choose Ignotus as one who wants to live forever. He is far too sensible for that.
Regardless, they go on, leaving Death behind them at the river. It is just as the last of the sun's rays are dying that they reach the village, in time to hurry in and procure lodging for the night. Their only thoughts are of the prizes they have won, and the endless possibilities that are now before them.
V.
The stone is cool in his palm, though his hands are slippery with sweat and it is a spring morning. It has been three days since Antioch's death; he was murdered the night they met Death, throat slit as he lay in a drunken slumber. The wand of elder was stolen by his attacker, and Cadmus cannot care too much for who did it. Revenge is not his way; and besides, Antioch was never a good brother to him. They had grown further apart ever since birth, it seemed, and they did not start off close.
He and Ignotus had travelled back across the river, carrying less wares but a heavier load. A borrowed cart transported their brother's body home, though when they arrived there, the villagers did not grieve much. Antioch was not a person one liked; he was a person one tolerated because one could not afford to be hated by him.
And now he is dead, and people can hate him all they like.
Ignotus returned home to his wife, a smile not far from peeking out from behind the sorrowful mask he wears in public for his brother. He had scorned Antioch, Cadmus knows that. He has not seen his brother since the funeral, but he has not expected to. The world Cadmus now lives in is one of fearful hope, and even more fearful action. And so, almost four days after he received it, Cadmus turns the stone over in his hand three times, and holds his breath.
He is not sure what is supposed to happen. Does she rise from the graveyard? Or just appear in front of him? It is neither, in the end; she walks through the door, and he could simply disappear from happiness, as a puddle does in the sun, when he sees her face. Life has returned to him.
"Eva?" he whispers, though he doesn't know why he cannot raise his voice. She moves towards him and he reaches out his hand to touch her, pulling back a mere half-inch before his fingertips could brush the dress she was buried in. She smiles at him shyly, and he notices that she is not quite there. He is certain she is more than a ghost; he cannot see through her, and she has colour in her cheeks. But he is afraid to embrace her, just in case she disappears in a wisp of smoke.
She doesn't speak, just smiles the smile he fell in love with. Surely this really is a prize. To have her back! And even though he is still afraid to touch her, he smiles. What could be better?
VI.
Cadmus is thin, his face now not slender but gaunt. Cecily worries, but doesn't speak. She knows of Eva, knows of the stone. Eva is a part of her husband; she does not see her, and so instead she watches as Cadmus goes through various stages of happiness, longing and pain. It is not healthy, but it is not her place to say anything about it.
He sits for hours, the Resurrection Stone he received from Death clutched tightly in his hand, staring at nothing. She doesn't know how to deal with this, so she doesn't. She just goes about her life as normal, hoping it will go away. Perhaps something will change. It is nearing Caero's birthday - will he be there for that? And not just alive, but there. In this world, not the one after. Not the one Eva dwells in.
She has come to accept the fact that Cadmus never loved her. She loved him, for a time, but gave up when things became hopeless. He would never love anyone but the dead girl, even if it meant messing with Death himself. She knows he says he was awarded the stone as a prize, but she can't help but think of other theories - was there some sort of deal? Did he have to sell his soul?
Or did he merely have to sell his heart? His life? That is what it seems to her, as he wastes away. She can hardly watch it.
As for Cadmus, he sits in his bedroom, trying to speak to Eva, though he can see now that she no longer smiles when she sees him. She is in pain, as much as she was before her death, and it hurts himself to see her like that. He knows he is the cause of her suffering, but he cannot stop; he needs her half-presence like he needs to breathe. Torn between worlds, he suffers as she does, eating less and less as time goes by.
Perhaps this stone is not a prize, or a gift; the elder wand had gotten Antioch killed, and it feels to Cadmus like the stone is sucking the very marrow from his bones. Not even his own child's laughter can rouse him from the depression he has sunken into; not even when her eyes - the eyes the same as his - sparkle with delight and her chubby hands show him her latest possession does he even stir.
And all Cecily can do is watch.
Tears are shed when no one else can see, the salty droplets falling on the floor quickly absorbed by the dirt. If only, she thinks, the cause could be so easily remedied - then things might work out.
VII.
Death never gives something for free. Death is not generous, nor kind; Death is cunning and greedy. Death wants to take you as his own, claim you, suck the breath out of your lungs. And Death, in the end, will always triumph.
In life there is no second prize; you are first or you are nothing. You are born weeping, you live weeping, and then you die when there are no tears left to shed.
The funeral is a quiet affair. Caero does not laugh, though she is not aware of exactly what is happening. Her mother found her father sleeping in his bed, a goblet dribbling liquid onto the floor fallen from his hand. And then they took him away. They speak about him now, telling of how well he crafted pieces of wood into works of art, how he was gentle, fair, quiet. He did not cause trouble, but merely lived his own life.
He had made her a flower just two days ago; a wildflower he had seen in the woods. He had put a stone in it, a mottled grey pebble with a carving she couldn't work out. She hadn't shown it to her mother; it was her secret. She would keep it forever. It was a gift, a prize. And she was first.
Rating: M (Sensitive Issue/Theme, Strong Violence)
Summary: Cadmus Peverell was never first in anything. He was not the first to be born. He was not the first to die. And in life, there's no second prize.
I.
The thin wails of a newborn fill the air, more piercing than the soft sobs of the almost unconscious woman lying on the floor. An older woman stands over the two, bending to pick up the child, as a man stands over to the side, detached. One of his large hands covers the chest of another child, though this one is closer to two. His wide blue eyes, shared by his mother, take in the scene, though he is silent. He has been punished enough times for talking when he is not supposed to.
The woman on the floor begins to slip into unconsciousness as her sobs slow, her breathing becoming deeper and more regular. After wiping her forehead with a rag, the old midwife turns her attention back to attending to the wailing baby, rubbing him up and down to make sure his blood is circulating. The fact that he is crying is a good sign, as is the fact that the mother is still breathing.
The smoke from the fire in the middle of the room obscures the midwife's view of the mother, but she can hear that she will be fine. Adeldreda is always fine.
"What is his name?" she asks the man as she hands the baby over, the father no longer restricting the movement of the two-year-old as he cradles his newest son.
"Cadmus," he replies, rocking the small body to try and quieten the noise. "A prince."
The two-year-old stares at the child in his father's arms, bubbles of jealously rising within him. That was his father, holding the baby to his chest. That was his mother on the floor, sleeping. They were not that boy's parents, they were his. But Antioch will have to learn to share. Share his parents with the quiet, soft-spoken boy Cadmus will grow to become. Share his skills with the weaker younger brother who will be far defter with his fingers than he ever will with brute strength. Share the experience of meeting Death on a lonely road on the way to the next village.
But Antioch will never be very good at sharing.
II.
Ever since meeting her, he has been lighter on his feet, not complaining about anything, taking scraps of wood while his father is occupied with other matters and fashioning her little trinkets - sometimes a model of a bird, other times a carving of a flower. Her name means life, so it is ironic that she dies so young.
He takes his latest present to her, covering it with his hands from the outside world. The smell of freshly-baked bread reaches his nostrils as he nears her home, and he smiles. He holds a carving of a robin in his hand, one of the first birds of the season having landed on the tree he had been resting under that morning.
She is ill. He knows that. He has visited her every chance he has, waiting until she returns to good health before asking her for her hand in marriage. He is lucky; he knows that some others are not able to marry for love. For some, marriage is merely an act of diplomacy. But he loves her, and she loves him, and as soon as she can walk about the woods and he can point out the newly-arriving robins, he will marry her.
That day never comes.
He reaches the door of her house, and immediately he knows something is wrong. There are whispers inside, and a fragrant smoke wafts out the open door. He has smelt that smoke before; he knows what it means.
The last steps are taken at a run, and the wooden robin slips out of his hand as he sees into the home. It doesn't make a sound as it hits the dirt floor, but a tiny cloud of dust billows around it, covering it in a fine layer of grit already.
She is lying where she has always lain, but her eyes are closed and her brow is dry. She is not in pain; she is at peace.
"Eva," he says, his voice cracking, though she cannot hear him call.
Her mother stands, all the sorrows in the world contained in each new wrinkle lining the soft skin of her face. She cannot look him in the eye for more than a moment, and his own brim with tears, though he dashes them away with the back of his hand. Eva is dead. Eva, who was destined to be his wife; they would have had a family, children with hair a darker shade than his own. He would have travelled to other villages to sell his wares and always have something to come back to, something to treasure.
The robin, the hope, the happiness, the bright future, is kicked further into the dust as he leaves, barely noticing its fragile wings as his foot sweeps it aside on the way out of the door.
Life is dead.
III.
His family are gathered in the street, as are her family, and half the village besides. The lord has been notified. Christianity is not a big part of life yet, so there is no priest. Just a ceremony of handing over, and a congratulations.
Cadmus will not be celebrating. He knows he has no choice in what is to happen, knows that this is an advantageous marriage. The Peverells will have more land, more money. He will have a wife, and he will be able to have children of his own. She has red hair, though; he does not know what their children will look like.
Her name is Cecily, blind. She does not live up to her name, figuratively or literally. Eva did. She knows he does not love her at all; she can see it in his eyes. Yet she marries him, for it is a fortuitous marriage.
After the ceremony they are left alone, and silence reigns. The silence stretches across the room, across the fields, across the entirety of Wessex. They do not say a word. He tries to look at her, but all he can see is Eva; he is the blind one. He does not notice the prettily-formed nose, nor the green flecks in her hazel eyes. Her skin, just a few shades darker than cream, reminds him too much of Eva's when he last saw her, resting at peace. All she sees in him is grief.
They are blind to one another, hazel eyes not finding anything in brown. They live as they should, Cadmus taking up his father's mantle of carpentry, she helping and caring for their child: a girl, born almost a year after Eva's death. Cadmus tries to love Caero, he does, but she has red hair. Perhaps Cecily knew, and chose an apt name. Or perhaps she chose it because of her own sorrows.
Regardless of the reason, Sorrow cries out in the middle of the night, laughs in the daytime, and when all Cadmus can see of her is her eyes, he almost likes her.
IV.
Three are better than one. Three minds, three pairs of eyes, three hand-whittled wands made from the wandmaker three villages over. Three brothers, one tall and muscular, one who would have been taller had he not walked with a bowed head and hunched shoulders, and the last, the shortest but the one with the brightest eyes. The youngest has reason to smile. He was married not a month ago, and his does appear the happiest marriage of the three. She works the fields, he helps her father make the clothing for the village.
Single file, each carrying their own burdens, they trek down the uneven path, only the third looking up as the sun departs. The first looks straight ahead, focused on nothing but their destination; the second watches his feet, seeming as though he carries far heavier weight than the bulging pack in his hand. They stop at a river, each watching the surging waters for a moment. They all think different things: conquer, surrender, bypass. The third one conjures the bridge, and they continue, aiming to get to the village before it gets too dark to see their own feet.
They are only halfway across the wooden planks when Death appears before them. They have seen him many times, though not in person. They have only seen what he has left behind. He speaks, congratulating them on the magic they have performed. The bridge is wonderfully sound, he says. He offers them a prize for being able to escape his clutches. A greedy glint appears in the first's eye, thinking of what he will gain. The second looks up too, for the first time since they left the village from which they came. He wonders if he will get a prize at last. He has never received a prize before - he has never come first.
Antioch, the strongest, the first, demands a wand fit for one who had conquered Death. Never mind it was Ignotus, the third, who conjured the bridge. He will take credit where ever he can. Death fashions him a wand of elder, as is fitting. Elder and death are never far apart. Antioch reaches out hungrily, grabbing the wand out of Death's hand as soon as it is done. He is consumed with thoughts of what he will do with it, who he will smite.
The second, Cadmus, asks for the power to bring others back from death. Death thinks he is arrogant; but the third knows he is merely lovesick. Any fool could see it if they looked hard enough, but Death does not ponder, Death strikes. It is not in Death's nature to look below the surface.
Ignotus asks for a way to go from the river without being followed by Death, so Death gives him his own Invisibility Cloak. The second thinks this is foolish; his stone is far more useful. Who would want anything but to bring back those you have lost? The cloak won't help you regain happiness. Of all people, Cadmus would not choose Ignotus as one who wants to live forever. He is far too sensible for that.
Regardless, they go on, leaving Death behind them at the river. It is just as the last of the sun's rays are dying that they reach the village, in time to hurry in and procure lodging for the night. Their only thoughts are of the prizes they have won, and the endless possibilities that are now before them.
V.
The stone is cool in his palm, though his hands are slippery with sweat and it is a spring morning. It has been three days since Antioch's death; he was murdered the night they met Death, throat slit as he lay in a drunken slumber. The wand of elder was stolen by his attacker, and Cadmus cannot care too much for who did it. Revenge is not his way; and besides, Antioch was never a good brother to him. They had grown further apart ever since birth, it seemed, and they did not start off close.
He and Ignotus had travelled back across the river, carrying less wares but a heavier load. A borrowed cart transported their brother's body home, though when they arrived there, the villagers did not grieve much. Antioch was not a person one liked; he was a person one tolerated because one could not afford to be hated by him.
And now he is dead, and people can hate him all they like.
Ignotus returned home to his wife, a smile not far from peeking out from behind the sorrowful mask he wears in public for his brother. He had scorned Antioch, Cadmus knows that. He has not seen his brother since the funeral, but he has not expected to. The world Cadmus now lives in is one of fearful hope, and even more fearful action. And so, almost four days after he received it, Cadmus turns the stone over in his hand three times, and holds his breath.
He is not sure what is supposed to happen. Does she rise from the graveyard? Or just appear in front of him? It is neither, in the end; she walks through the door, and he could simply disappear from happiness, as a puddle does in the sun, when he sees her face. Life has returned to him.
"Eva?" he whispers, though he doesn't know why he cannot raise his voice. She moves towards him and he reaches out his hand to touch her, pulling back a mere half-inch before his fingertips could brush the dress she was buried in. She smiles at him shyly, and he notices that she is not quite there. He is certain she is more than a ghost; he cannot see through her, and she has colour in her cheeks. But he is afraid to embrace her, just in case she disappears in a wisp of smoke.
She doesn't speak, just smiles the smile he fell in love with. Surely this really is a prize. To have her back! And even though he is still afraid to touch her, he smiles. What could be better?
VI.
Cadmus is thin, his face now not slender but gaunt. Cecily worries, but doesn't speak. She knows of Eva, knows of the stone. Eva is a part of her husband; she does not see her, and so instead she watches as Cadmus goes through various stages of happiness, longing and pain. It is not healthy, but it is not her place to say anything about it.
He sits for hours, the Resurrection Stone he received from Death clutched tightly in his hand, staring at nothing. She doesn't know how to deal with this, so she doesn't. She just goes about her life as normal, hoping it will go away. Perhaps something will change. It is nearing Caero's birthday - will he be there for that? And not just alive, but there. In this world, not the one after. Not the one Eva dwells in.
She has come to accept the fact that Cadmus never loved her. She loved him, for a time, but gave up when things became hopeless. He would never love anyone but the dead girl, even if it meant messing with Death himself. She knows he says he was awarded the stone as a prize, but she can't help but think of other theories - was there some sort of deal? Did he have to sell his soul?
Or did he merely have to sell his heart? His life? That is what it seems to her, as he wastes away. She can hardly watch it.
As for Cadmus, he sits in his bedroom, trying to speak to Eva, though he can see now that she no longer smiles when she sees him. She is in pain, as much as she was before her death, and it hurts himself to see her like that. He knows he is the cause of her suffering, but he cannot stop; he needs her half-presence like he needs to breathe. Torn between worlds, he suffers as she does, eating less and less as time goes by.
Perhaps this stone is not a prize, or a gift; the elder wand had gotten Antioch killed, and it feels to Cadmus like the stone is sucking the very marrow from his bones. Not even his own child's laughter can rouse him from the depression he has sunken into; not even when her eyes - the eyes the same as his - sparkle with delight and her chubby hands show him her latest possession does he even stir.
And all Cecily can do is watch.
Tears are shed when no one else can see, the salty droplets falling on the floor quickly absorbed by the dirt. If only, she thinks, the cause could be so easily remedied - then things might work out.
VII.
Death never gives something for free. Death is not generous, nor kind; Death is cunning and greedy. Death wants to take you as his own, claim you, suck the breath out of your lungs. And Death, in the end, will always triumph.
In life there is no second prize; you are first or you are nothing. You are born weeping, you live weeping, and then you die when there are no tears left to shed.
The funeral is a quiet affair. Caero does not laugh, though she is not aware of exactly what is happening. Her mother found her father sleeping in his bed, a goblet dribbling liquid onto the floor fallen from his hand. And then they took him away. They speak about him now, telling of how well he crafted pieces of wood into works of art, how he was gentle, fair, quiet. He did not cause trouble, but merely lived his own life.
He had made her a flower just two days ago; a wildflower he had seen in the woods. He had put a stone in it, a mottled grey pebble with a carving she couldn't work out. She hadn't shown it to her mother; it was her secret. She would keep it forever. It was a gift, a prize. And she was first.