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His mother kneels down to his level. She’ll be much taller than him for his whole life, that’s something he’s grateful for: inheriting his father’s height. At least that brings him a bit closer to his ideal visage based on his parents, if not based on society’s view.
She tucks a stray hair behind his ear. They are pierced, of course. Though he hates how it looks magnitudes more than he hated the process, his parents couldn’t afford to give up the extra spot for some magical trinket. He wears earrings made of gold, runes carved into them offering him protection from the evil that lurks in this world. He will be safe, soon. Safer, at least. That doesn’t mean much, however, given the creatures desperate to feast on his blossoming magical energy.
“You will survive,” his mother whispers, in their native tongue, imbuing each word with a small bit of mana, transforming the simple phrase of encouragement into an evocation. In her very speech, she begs to universe to bend to her will and keep her child safe from harm.
Yet, she uses the feminine form of ‘you’, and the spell falls flat. She is trying to protect a daughter that never existed.
It is there, in writing, on the papers that document his existence.
But his belief is stronger in the infinite eyes of the universe.
Soon to be joined by that of every to-be-powerful wizard he will meet.
This is his chance to rewrite the perspective of him. A new place, a new page, a new set of introductions and first impressions that will cement his truth. Perhaps the undying magic that weaves his growth will loop his strings over in the direction he so desperately longs for in his every waking moment.
He delivers that tiny slip of paper devoutly. El is hard to miss: cold eyes evidently crafted by those welcoming ones of the woman that had sent this message through with him, short dark hair and smooth skin, holding herself with a certain air of confidence somehow entangled with a presumed hatred for everything around her. She understands this place well, he can clearly tell from her posture and the way her eyes dart around the room, scanning for threats.
She looks as though she regrets each moment ‘wasted’—rather, those spent talking to any other being—and she obviously weighs each one carefully to prevent such loss of valuable time. Yet she palms him a scrap of the very message he had brought for her.
“Eat it.” Her voice is sharp, controlled. She understands the etymology of each word, as languages-track students must (though she appears to resent this knowledge). He’s learned that through former students that are friends of his family.
He reads the scrap before placing it into his mouth. His heart falters when he does so, but the dread fades away as the enchanted paper dissolves under his tongue.
Of course, it reads ‘daughter’. However mindlessly he knows this young woman must have decided who to give what piece to—no thought to it at all, likely—it still feels like somewhat of a personal offense on the universe’s part. Why must it draw him forward in this struggle?