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Perfection comes with no reward. There are no kind words. No soft touches or reassurances. The best little Enver Flymm can hope for is to be ignored. Words are tools, weapons that cut almost as well as blades when it comes to the tenuous pride of a child.
A seed of darkness takes root, grows breath by breath. It erodes the trust and kindness which could have thrived had they been nourished with more than venom and knuckles against his cheek, but when perfection is the expectation, there is no room for praise.
He swallows his bitter tears in silence.
He has nothing which can properly be considered his. Not even the blanket and lumpy pillow he sleeps with most nights. The single rickety drawer in which he keeps his two changes of clothes and a small stack of drawings on scrap parchment is frequently emptied. His careful work becomes tinder for the cook fire, his clothes turn into cleaning rags.
He learns quickly to hide anything he cares about in the dusty crevices behind workbenches or behind a loose panel in the wall, and, even then, little is safe. He has to be smarter —better— than everyone around him.
Hate is an easy thing to learn when surrounded exclusively by malice. Easy to learn when the only words spoken are in anger or tinged with bitter resentment. Easy to learn while he scrounges for discarded food on the shaky legs of a toddler. While he is put to work for the family business instead of being given the chance to play in the sun.
Friends are things that belong to other children. Just like bedtime stories and wooden blocks and parents who say 'I love you'.
Hate is just another word for pain, but one which requires less self-reflection.
Once upon a time he had dreams, just like any other child. Dreams of sweets and gifts and a mother who smiles and a father who ruffles his hair. Dreams where they praise his cleverness.
Instead, he grows up far too fast and locks away dreams in favor of survival. There is no use dwelling on what will never be. He learns when to bite his tongue and when to bloody his knuckles. He learns which words slash deeper than a knife and how to wield them.
He cuts his teeth on resentment and makes plans instead of curating fantasies.
Debt. That is his worth. The collateral on a debt. Bitter words rise in his throat, but he holds his tongue as he swallows against the bile.
The world around him has a new coat of paint and the voices speak with a fresh cadence, but nothing truly changes. It is nothing more than a set dressing of reds and golds, of marble and velvet, which do a poor job of disguising the ash and fire.
But at least now the bruises are mostly concealed beneath the hems of his clothing.
The tremble of hunger slowly disappears from his limbs.
Fancy clothes and expensive soaps. Scrubbed hands and trimmed cuticles. His hair combed and oiled in ways he has never experienced in his short life. Nothing by his own choice. He has become a toy. A dress-up doll. An accessory for the devil who had purchased his very soul.
For all the luxuries he is given, for all the ways it seems like he has stepped up in the world, little Enver Flymm still owns nothing. Instead he, himself, has become a piece of property and spends every waking moment, every breath, in a desperate bid to not be discarded.
He is expected to be a self-sharpening tool. Expected to seek out his own knowledge and refine his skills all for the benefit of the hand at the end of his leash. To learn etiquette and language and mathematics. To learn both magical theory and practical sciences.
But he refuses to die here. Refuses to die without seeing the sun again. Refuses to die with lungs full of ash and sulfur, with the fires of the hells against his still mortal flesh.
He knows how to be patient. He knows how to hold his tongue.
So he bides his time.
It is a cell, not a room. Barely big enough to lay down. Narrow enough that he can press his hands flat against opposite walls despite the fact that he hasn't even hit his growth spurt.
But it has clean sheets and a real mattress. It has a door that shuts and usually isn't locked from the outside.
It is 'his'— all for the small price of his dignity. Free-will.
It is a reward for ceaseless perfection. Obedience.
For being useful. For gathering secrets.
But he refuses to give up here. Refuses to die here.
All he needs is patience.
Cuts and bruises and burns. Scars collect up and down his arms. Across his shoulders, his back, his legs. But never on his face. Never his hands.
A careful application of pain to punish —to teach — but not to damage.
Lessons are etched permanently into his flesh, yet hidden from wandering eyes by finely woven fabrics and shiny buttons.
Every extraneous piece is cut away. The carefully hidden dreams are scraped from behind his ribs with sharp knives until he is little more than a hollow shell which slowly refills with anger and determination.
With desire for retribution.
With purpose.
Little Enver Flymm grows like a weed once his stomach is no longer perpetually empty. He practices his elocution and sharpens his mind like most would sharpen knives.
Before the first hair appears upon his chin he's already learned to carry himself like a man instead of a boy.
He becomes the perfect toy soldier.
The darkness in his heart grows and the anger festers like an abscess, but he knows patience.
He knows one day he will find that perfect crystalline moment which will grant his freedom.
And he promises himself that he will answer to no one again.