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Two times a day.
That was how often the Better Book expected it’s followers to do devotionals. Prayers at Sunset, begging for the day that the sun would shine at all times, begging for protection in the dark, for forgiveness for sins.
And then, Sunrise.
Sunset was for asking the lord for things -- Sunrise was for honoring his return. Sunrise was where you broke your fast, because there was no eating or drinking when the light was not shining upon you. Sunrise was for devotionals, for burning offerings.
For…
Well.
Rolland knew why the Lord asked it. Prophets must suffer, and prophets of the Lord were the most devout. Even before his tenth birthday, before the Lord began speaking to him, Roland did the most sincere devotionals every morning and his parents loved him, respected his choices and supported his faith.
Which was why they had, lovingly, helpfully, reminded him no less than three times to pack his discipline in his bag, and checked before he left that he had remembered.
Rolland's shoulders hurt just thinking about it.
He wasn't even sure where he'd have the space to do them -- he knew if his father was here, he'd say to just do them in his room or the common room and if his classmates had a problem with it they were probably sinners, but something about Kevin made Rolland want him to like him -- something about all the boys, Rolland wanted the camaraderie, he wanted limbo nights and friends. He wanted to be normal.
Normal is for the non believers, Rolland, the Lord hissed, normal is for the weak, the unfaithful.
His first morning at St Churnley's, Rolland headed into the bathrooms with his discipline wrapped in his blazer. The toilets were communal, but there were a few stalls for privacy. waited until he was sure it was empty, then quietly pulled off his shirt and folded it atop his blazer.
Then, whispering his first prayer, he flung the discipline over his shoulder, feeling the knotted ends of each rope strike his upper back and pull as he finished one prayer and went into another, tugging it over and swinging again. Twelve times on each side, for the Rising Dawn and the Falling Dusk. He didn't strike hard enough to bleed, but each day as he hit on the bruises from the previous day, he remembered; prophets must suffer.
Toward the end of the ritual, he heard someone enter the bathroom, and he froze, discipline held up in the air. Shoes squeaked on the tile as someone came in, brushed their teeth, and left again without even realizing he was there.
If he rushed through the last four and mumbled his final prayer as he actually walked to the dining hall, he figured the Lord wouldn't mind.
This became Rolland's routine.
He'd wake up, quietly say his first set of prayers and get dressed -- sometimes Kevin would be awake, sometimes he wouldn't be. He learned to keep his discipline in his satchel, so he could act like he was just heading to the restroom before breakfast, perform his devotional, and then move on.
The ache in his shoulders was comforting, almost -- a way for him to carry the honor of the Lord into control class and out into the plagueround.
As the first few weeks passed, and they dealt with the mimic and with Monty and with all the bloody drama that came with, Rolland found that his devotionals weren't as… significant? As they once were? He still believed in the Lord and the Better Book and the church, of course he did, but with so much else going on and so many new friends and teachers to learn things from, his faith felt oddly… less important, than it once had.
Once all that was over, the significance did not return, and with less to occupy his mind… well.
Nobody did guilt quite like the Church of the Rising Dawn.
No matter how hard professor Hinks and Sarge and his new friends (new family) tried to convince him that maybe, the voice in his head wasn't the Lord, Rolland still believed in his faith, still believed in the better book, and the orders for how to devote oneself were right there in psalms.
In the face of doubt, that most wicked sin, reveal ones flesh to the firey light of the dawn with increased devotion, and beg forgiveness upon one's knees, through blood and prayer.
Rolland had doubted.
And so, around his sixth week at St Churnley's, Rolland silently prayed for forgiveness for his lie, and told his friends at dinner; “I'll be awake extra early tomorrow, Kevin, don't worry if I'm not there when you get up.”
“Oh?” Kevin asked through a mouthful of Spag Bol. “Why's that?”
“Tomorrow is an important day for the Church of the Rising Dawn,” Rolland recited, having practiced his tale in the mirror. “We get up and do a sunrise ritual, outside -- don't worry, I'll be close enough to the school that the fog won't get me!”
“Oh,” Kevin nodded, and immediately Edgar said “would you like company? You know I'm always eager to hear more about your traditions.”
He was, all his friends were, and Rolland loved them for it. He also wasn't an idiot -- he knew exactly how they'd react.
“Sorry, but it's really more of a private thing.” Rolland said, trying to sound apologetic. “Like, even family members do it separately. In fact, I'd really appreciate it if you didn't look out the window either -- I'm pretty sure the spot I have in mind isn't in view, but just in case?”
His heart hurt. He hated lying to them like this, hated the easy way that they nodded and took him at his word.
“Thanks, chaps,” Rolland said with his best fake smile. “I'm blessed to have friends like you.”
Dinner concluded, and none of them asked him any more questions.
(A small, small part of him, a part he pretended didn't exist, had been hoping they would.)
He barely slept, and the next morning he grabbed his satchel and a spare towel, and headed outside to kneel in the misty dew.
He watched the sun rise with trembling hands, shirt peeled off, discipline laying across his lap.
As soon as the first light hit him, he raised the discipline, closed his eyes, and said; “Almighty Lord, forgive my weak and foolish flesh, forgive me my sins and my doubt.”
And then he swung.
And this time, he purposefully felt the knots catch, and rip open his shoulders.
With a soft cry, he pulled back, and swung again. And again. And again.
With blood and prayer.
Lord, forgive him.
Poe was not a foolish bird, thank you.
He may not have been a raven or whatever his foolish human wanted him to be, but he was still quite smart, and he was starting to like these people Edgar had become attached to. They, along with Edgar, were his now, and Poe would keep them safe, just like he would keep Edgar safe. That was his purpose, and he took his job quite seriously.
Which was why he knew that something was going on with the blonde one.
Poe didn't know what, exactly, he did, but each morning Rolland went into the restroom, and came out smelling sad, and Poe hated it, but no matter how many times Poe tried to get Edgar to follow, his fledgling never listened.
So when Rolland told his -- frankly obvious -- lie about a sunrise ritual, Poe had pecked Edgar to alert him. Alas, one of the issues with (finally) growing closer to his boy was that Edgar no longer listened to every little peck, and while Edgar finally believed he was here to help, Poe had learned that harder pecks would just get ignored, since Edgar wasn't afraid of him anymore.
The next morning, Poe attempted to fall back on his tried and true method of dragging Edgar over to the window to see the important thing, but Edgar had gotten very good at ignoring him. Poe cared louder and louder until Monty lobbed a pillow at him from across the room and told him to shut up.
Poe felt himself growing frustrated -- nobody was listening to him! Rolland was being an idiot, and nobody was there to stop him!
He gave one particularly hard peck to Edgar's sensitive neck, drawing blood, but Edgar just opened one eye and glared at him.
“I'm not going,” He said, “you can bite me all you like, Rolland asked me not to go, so I'm not.”
Fucking Edgar and his big, trusting heart. Poe loved him, even when he hated him.
With a huff and a nevermore, Poe flew out of the room and out of the window that the first years always left open for him, down to where Rolland had sequestered himself to try and grab the stupid evil hurting rope out of his hands. If no one else would help, Poe would do it himself.
“And lead me- Poe!”
God, the fledgling was already bleeding.
Poe flew a few feet away, landing and pecking at one of the knots, trying to destroy it. He wanted to go throw it in the nearest pit, but he knew that the blonde one could actually do some damage when prompted, and he wasn't looking for a fight.
Unfortunately, Rolland wasn't scared of him either, anymore, which really made Poe rethink this whole be nice to the fledglings thing. He didn't shout, or even look angry. He just crossed his arms and sighed heavily. “Give it back, I was almost done.”
“Nevermore!”
“If you take it, I'll have to use my belt, Poe, c'mon, at least that doesn't have metal.”
Poe paused his pecking, looking up at him. Rolland looked… sad, pulling his knees up to his chest.
“I had a feeling you knew,” Rolland said, “Edgar always says you're smarter than any bird has the right to be. Can you just -- let me finish this? Tomorrow I'll go back to just the bruises, like before, I needed the blood today as penance so my Lord would forgive me. You understand, don't you?”
Poe didn't, really, but he knew what a belt was, and knew -- the same way he knew everything about Edgar, his emotions, and his physical health -- that Rolland was deadly serious when he threatened to use that instead.
Fucking hell, why did he have to get attached to these idiot, idiot boys.
With one last indignant caw, Poe flapped his wings and took off, leaving the item in the grass. He landed on the roof of one of the towers, watching as Rolland clambered back onto his knees, reached forward and carefully picked up the rope.
He flew away before he could watch him hurt himself.
He'd just have to keep trying to tell someone.
Rolland’s shoulders were burning.
After Poe interrupted him, he lost count, and figured it was better to do extra than not enough, so he’d done ten more strikes on each side before putting on his shirt and his blazer and heading inside.
Control class was awful, each swing of his hammer pulling at his torn flesh. Sarge yelled at him for being off his game - one must show control even in the face of exhaustion, Thudberry! - and during playtime, he tripped over a tree root and nearly poked his eye out on a twig.
He supposed that was good, at least, because Monty’s nose wrinkled and he said that Rolland smelled like blood, and at least Rolland could blame that on the cut on his cheek.
Understanding class was equally terrible. Usually, it was Rolland’s favorite -- professor Hinks was a fantastic speaker, always willing to answer Rolland’s thousand questions with a patient smile. Today, Rolland had no questions, his body felt heavy and sore. He wanted to put his head down and go to sleep.
If Professor Hinks noticed, he didn’t call him out on it.
Sarge, on the other hand, didn’t mind calling him out, giving him extra laps during football practice, pushing him and pushing him because she knew he was better than this, and Rolland couldn’t even be angry, because he knew it too.
By the time dinner rolled around -- beans again, the highlight of his bloody day -- Rolland was nearly nodding off at the table, and Poe pecked him gently on the top of his head to remind him to eat.
“You alright?” Edgar asked softly. “Not getting sick, are you? Have you been to the nurse for that fall earlier?”
Rolland managed a small, exhausted smile. “I’m alright. I just need a good sleep.”
Poe nudged him again, probably wanting him to say what actually was going on, but Rolland just sighed. He wanted to, Poe didn’t get that -- He wanted nothing more than to tell them, to hear them say he didn’t deserve this; because that’s what they would say, he knew. They’d say that he shouldn’t hurt himself for anyone.
They are fools and sinners, Rolland! The Lord shouted in his ear, loud enough to make his head hurt. They are weak and you should force them into the light! Draw their blood, tear their flesh, purify them and bring them to heaven!
Rolland felt tears come to his eyes -- it was loud, and he was tired and it hurt and he didn’t want to hurt himself or hurt anyone!
“Rolland!”
Warm hands gently held his hands, and another set of cool fingers brushed across his forehead. Monty was pressed up next to him, and all three were concerned.
“Could it be your blood sugar?” Kevin asked, “You got your insulin today, right? Tell us what’s wrong, mate, please, we want to help.”
Rolland sniffled a bit, wiping his face on his sleeve. “I’m really, really tired.”
“Ok,” Edgar soothed. “Ok, let’s get you to bed then.”
Monty gently threaded an arm through his, helping him up. Even though Rolland wasn’t that dizzy, (his blood sugar probably was a little low,) he let himself be helped, leaning on his friend as he was guided back to the first year dormitory.
He didn’t realize what would happen until it was too late.
He felt Kevin undo his blazer, and his eyes went wide as he suddenly woke up and realized- “no, wait!”
“Jesus, Rolland!” Kevin gasped. “What happened?!”
His back was bloody, white uniform shirt stained from the marks on his shoulders. Rolland quickly turned so he was facing them, shirt still fully buttoned, sunburst necklace sitting heavily on his chest.
“I, um, I fell! At practice!” Rolland said quickly. It wasn’t even a lie. “I fell, got some road burn, I’m fine!”
“Why didn’t you go to the nurse?” Kevin chastised. “Between this and earlier, you need healing! I know you don’t like to bother him, but its his entire job!”
As he spoke, a quiet tune filled the room, and little music notes flew from Kevin’s backside to Rolland’s shoulders. The burning sensation eased, and Rolland slumped a little.
“Thanks, Kevin,” he mumbled, “I’m sorry, I just- today’s been so busy, I’m really fine. I just want to go to bed.”
As he spoke, he grabbed his silk pajamas out of his night stand, holding them to his chest. “I need to do my prayers.”
“You already did prayers today.”
“You do them-”
“Twice a day, we know.” Edgar sighed. “You just seem… sad, Rolland, we’re worried.”
Rolland felt tears in his eyes again -- which wasn’t helped by the Lord choosing that moment to chastise him for being a bother.
“I’m ok,” he lied, “Really, I’m ok.”
The other three exchanged looks, then nodded at him. Edgar put a gentle hand on his shoulder and cast prestidigitation, cleaning the blood stains from his shirt.
Rolland managed a brave smile, and they finally left him alone after wishing him sweet dreams.
Once he was alone, Rolland changed his clothes, prayed, and climbed into bed.
Only when he was under his blankets with his face pressed to his pillow did he let himself cry.
It didn’t get better.
Rolland didn’t let himself doubt again -- he hated bleeding himself -- but suddenly, instead of feeling invigorating and holy, his devotionals became something he loathed doing.
He was surprisingly glad that there were no phone calls or parent visits at St Churnley’s; his mother would be displeased if she found out how he was struggling. His father wouldn’t be upset, merely remind him that if he was struggling to self-flagellate each day, he could always have someone else mortify his flesh for him.
That would be worse. His father had a much, much heavier hand than him.
He missed his brothers, missed the comfort of church service. He missed the days when his faith was easy and the Lord's voice was a comforting rather than a burden.
He only punished himself more for his sinful thoughts.
Something was wrong with Rolland.
Monty's sense of smell had been stronger since his curse, even in his human form, and sadness had an acute, sharp stench, almost metallic in nature, and lately that smell had been emanating from Rolland nearly non stop.
It didn’t make any sense. They had defeated the mimic. They had friends. They were safe, protected, they had good food, and even their curses were getting a little lighter -- hell, Monty was happy, and Monty, according to Sarge, “had every reason to be fucking miserable.”
“I just don’t know what to do,” Monty said to Kevin one night. “Like, its not just me, people notice, right?”
“Ben asked me if Rolland needed help the other day,” Kevin said. He was flopped on the couch next to Edgar, who had a book open in his lap. It was titled The Art of Asking by Amanda Palmer, and Monty was pretty sure he was reading it for advice about their situation with Rolland.
“According to this, we shouldn’t push him,” Edgar pointed out. “If he was in danger, he’d tell a teacher… right?”
“I think they would know, at least Hinks would know.” Monty said. “Rolland likes Hinks. And he’s on the football team with Sarge.”
“Monty, everyone at this school knows Sarge likes you best.”
“That’s not true,” Monty blinked, “is it?”
“Never mind that,” Kevin scowled. “What if someone’s hurting him? What if it's Morty again and Rolland’s keeping it a secret? He absolutely would not tell a teacher, and you know that.”
Edgar sighed heavily but nodded, looking down at his book like it had all the answers. Poe cawed.
“Maybe that’s the answer?” Monty said. “Maybe we tell a teacher.”
“And say what, our friend seems vaguely sad? What can they do?” Kevin ran a hand through his hair. “I still say we confront him about it.”
“That'll just make him shut down,” Edgar said, “you've seen him in understanding class, he tries but he gets so upset, I don't wanna do that to him.”
“I don't want to either,” Kevin said, “but you've heard him talk -- he was never allowed to ask for help, what if he doesn't know how?”
“Or worse,” Monty sighed, “what if he doesn't even know there's a problem?”
They had all heard Rolland discuss his home and his faith -- smile like the shining sun, spread your light no matter what! Rolland had never outright said his parents had hurt him, he wouldn't. But based on what he said, it sounded like his house wasn't an environment that appreciated it when you needed something.
Monty knew, in the back of his mind, that Kevin was so upset because of that. Because Kevin saw his family and Rolland's family as equally terrible, albeit in different ways.
As he did every now and then, Monty felt a stab of grief, remembering his own mum kissing his scraped knees and his dad playing with him in the yard, tickling him until he was crying with laughter. Had any of his friends ever had that? Had Rolland ever known that kind of joy?
“I just…” Kevin shook his head, sitting up and wrapping his arms around himself. “I'm scared. He's quiet and sad and I'm worried about him.”
Before he could stop or second guess himself, Monty got up and hugged him. “I am too. We all are, okay? But we gotta do this right.”
“I don't want Rolland to hate us,” Edgar whispered, pulling his knees to his chest. “I don't want to lose him, and I feel like whatever this is? It's big. Losing our friend big.”
Poe cawed again, nuzzling his beak into Edgar's ear. Monty reached over and pulled Edgar into the hug.
“We won't lose him.” Monty said, determined. He would make it so. He would die before he lost anyone else.
He couldn't lose anyone else.
“Tomorrow,” Edgar said, “we'll talk to him tomorrow. Gently, without pressuring him.”
“Tomorrow.” Kevin agreed.
(As it turned out, fate also intended for them to find out the truth tomorrow, but it would be much less gentle than planned.)
On the day everything changed, Rolland woke up late.
His instinct was always to rise with the sun, but he'd been at this school for nearly 5 months, and his body was heavy and exhausted. His sugars were off this morning, he could feel it, and he had a throbbing pain behind his eyes as the Lord -- the curse -- the voice in his head tried to convince him to burn this school to the ground with everyone inside.
Kevin shook him awake, telling him it was breakfast time, and Rolland threw some clothes on and barely had time to grab his bag before he was dashing to the cafeteria to get some porridge before control class.
He remembered the discipline in his bag after about five minutes, and he bit back a curse before excusing himself to the bathroom.
Unlike the dorm bathrooms, the lavatory off the dining hall was busy, but Rolland figured he could at least get a few strikes in with his prayers, and it would just have to do -- he'd pray for forgiveness later.
He managed to slip in when it wasn't too busy, removing his shirt and getting about four on each side--
And then, he heard a loud oi, pudgey! And the door to his stall was slammed open.
Morty and Melvin stood there, staring at him, at the rope in his hand. Rolland stared back.
Kill them kill them kill them!
Rolland didn't move. The pain in his head sharpened like a hot iron, pushing through his skull. His heartbeat roared in his ears.
“What the fuck?” Morty said, and Melvin tugged him back and out of the restroom, as if knowing Rolland was about to attack them.
Rolland was alone, discipline still in his hand. His knees buckled.
He had to clean up. His hands were shaking. He felt like he was going to throw up or pass out or both.
Mechanically, he got up, he tucked the discipline in his satchel, he put on his shirt.
He walked to control class in an absolute daze, not making eye contact with anyone, a buzz filling his ears.
(If he'd been listening, he likely would have heard people, the upperclassmen, whispering about him)
When he got there, his friends gave him odd looks. Rolland wasn't one to be late, and he probably looked off.
Sarge started them on exercises, but before Rolland could even take out his hammer, Sarge called him over to the side.
Hexmaster Singh stood there, and his eyes…
Rolland's heart sank.
“Mr Thudberry,” Singh called. “Come with me. You are excused from classes today.”
“Rolland?” Edgar called softly, and Rolland couldn't even bring himself to look back at him. He grasped the strap of his bag with two hands, looking at the ground as he walked over to Sarge and Singh.
To his credit the hexmaster didn't confront him in front of the other students, leading him back toward the school, a good distance away, before saying; “we'll be going to the nurse now, Rolland.”
Rolland nodded. There was no point in fighting anything the headmaster told him, he knew.
They were probably going to send him home, now, back where he had no friends, back where he'd redevote himself to the Lord and the Better Book and the Church. Nothing mattered, now, he'd been discovered for his weakness. He'd failed to honor his Lord sufficiently, and now he'd be punished for it.
Nurse Lenny's office was empty and quiet, and he looked at Rolland with the gentlest eyes.
“Hello again,” Lenny said, “come on in.”
Rolland didn't answer him, just climbing up on the exam bed. He kept his hands around the strap of his satchel and his eyes down. Lenny stayed back, giving him plenty of space. They door wasn't blocked either -- Rolland could leave, if he wanted, but he knew Singh would just bring him back.
“Rolland?” Lenny asked, voice pitched low and comforting, “I won't heal you without your consent, but I'd appreciate it if you could at least show me where you're hurt.”
“I'm not hurt,” Rolland said. “I didn't break skin today, promise.”
“I believe you,” Lenny said. “Have you broken skin before?”
Rolland felt tears form in the corners of his eyes. “Its not -- its religious, holy, I'm not just hurting myself to hurt myself, its how we s-show devotion, its-”
“Rolland,” Lenny said, “may I check your blood sugar? You're very upset, which can cause a high.”
Rolland nodded and held out his hand for Lenny to prick his finger. He wasn't sure what magic allowed Lenny to know his blood sugar, but it only took a moment of examination for him to nod and turn toward his cabinets to get Rolland his insulin pens.
Rolland hated his body, sometimes. Even before his curse, he'd hated that the lord had tested him with diabetes and asthma and so many other health issues.
Then, of course, he'd been punished for his doubt. Forgiveness through blood and prayer.
Rolland wiped his face on his sleeve, still refusing to look Lenny or Singh in the eyes as he cried silently, shame and anger filling him. Anger that he'd been found, anger that he'd have to go home, anger that a God that was all good would ask for his pain and his blood and his tears and-
He smacked himself on the thigh. He was doubting, he was blasphemous and terrible and, and-
“Rolland,” Lenny said gently, and Rolland raised his eyes, just a little.
Lenny's eyes held nothing but kindness. No judgement, no pity, just gentle concern. He held out his insulin pen.
Rolland sniffled, taking it and untucking a corner of his shirt so he could inject himself in the abdomen. He knew this would help, but he still hated it.
After he handed the pen back, Lenny leant against the counter, still giving Rolland plenty of space. Singh had not gotten closer, or spoken, just stood quietly by the door.
“I won't take it,” Lenny said, “or even touch it, but may I see what you've used?”
Rolland's hands clenched around the strap of his bag. “Its a holy instrument, prescribed by our lord-”
“I know,” Lenny soothed. “I won't judge you, Rolland, I just want to see. To understand.”
Rolland swallowed thickly, then nodded, opening the bag and reaching in. When he pulled out the discipline, nobody gasped or judged him, nobody said a word.
Lenny examined it with his eyes, then nodded. “And you only strike your shoulders with it, yes?”
Rolland nodded.
“That's all I needed to see, Rolland, you can put it away if you'd like.”
Honestly, Rolland didn't want to, he wanted to throw it across the room, out the window, into the plagueround so some beast could devour it.
He put it back in his bag.
He was still crying, he realized, without words or sobs. Tears were slipping down his face silently, he couldn't stop them.
“Are you sure you don't want me to look at your shoulders, Rolland?” Lenny asked softly, “if they hurt, I can help.”
Rolland quickly shook his head. He deserved it, he deserved it and so much more, surely his Lord would hate him after today.
Lenny just nodded, getting out his stickers. “Here, you can have two, for being so patient with me.”
Rolland shook his head again. “I don't deserve one.”
Lenny finally let himself look sad, and he nodded once. “Alright then, you're all done with me, Hexmaster?”
“I'm going to take you to my office now, Rolland, is that alright?” Singh said, and it was polite of him to ask, but Rolland was fairly sure he didn't have a choice. He nodded.
They walked there in silence, and at one point, Rolland looked out the window and saw the flares lit in the forest, and dark figures running around the edges. Playtime had begun, and Rolland was here alone.
His chest ached fiercely, almost as much as his shoulders and his head. He felt foolish, and small. The pride he used to feel about his faith had vanished entirely. He just felt miserable.
Sarge was in the office, along with professor Hinks and professor Kelly, and Rolland felt a bit sick to his stomach as they all turned to look at him.
“Were there any more issues with the students?” Singh asked as they walked in and each sat in a semi-circle around the desk.
“The first years nearly refused to leave,” Sarge grumbled, “but the rumors have continued to spread, and I think they were angry enough about people saying mean things about Rolland to head out. I wouldn't be surprised if there are a few fights between students today.”
“To be expected,” Singh sighed, and then turned to Rolland.
“You aren't in trouble, I want to start with that.” Hinks said. Most of his eyes stayed back so Rolland didn't feel overwhelmed, although he was fairly sure nothing could keep him from being overwhelmed right then. “You aren't in trouble, and we aren't trying to accuse you of anything. I'm sure you can figure out what rumors have been spread amongst the students.”
Rolland swallowed the lump in his throat. “Melvin and Morty saw me doing my dis- my devotionals this morning.”
“They did.” Sarge confirmed. “Although they weren't sure what it was, so the stories have been… quite wild and varied.”
Rolland groaned softly, he didn't even want to imagine.
“We want to understand,” Singh said. “Understanding, Respect, Control, remember? We want to help if we can.”
“I don't need help!” Rolland exploded, “It's a religious ritual, how we show our faith and our fealty, and I have control over it, otherwise I would be bleeding every day and I'm not, you've seen me! I go to practice and class and I eat proper, and I'm not, I'm not hurting myself, I'm doing, doing what I'm supposed to do, prophets have to suffer, they have to, we, we show our devotion through pain, please, please don't tell my parents I'm slacking off!”
Rolland felt his heart racing, his curse roared in his head, and he clapped his hands over his ears, trying to make it be quiet, just for a brief moment, just so he could think, could breathe, so the grip around his ribs and his throat would lessen.
“Rolland.”
A gentle hand rested on his back, and Rolland realized belatedly that Sarge was standing over him, face infinitely gentle. “Breathe, Rolland, control it. It's your curse, you're in charge, just like we practiced.”
Rolland felt like he was breaking apart, but he nodded, taking a deep breath, just like he'd practiced.
“It hurts,” Rolland whispered, finally letting himself truly sob, “it didn't used to hurt, my faith used to be a comfort and now it's painful and scary and- and- and I don't want- but I have to-”
“Rolland,” Professor Kelly interrupted softly, “Can I just ask; why do you think you need to perform self flagellation? Is it in your holy book?”
Rolland gave him a little nod, and Hinks hummed softly. “I believe it's in other holy books as well, such as the catholic bible -- yet I know many Catholics do not practice that.”
“My- my mother and father, they believe in total devotion to the Rising Dawn.” Rolland explained, “they believe I was chosen to- to be a prophet, that's why I always- why I'm so- I practice constantly. I always have, I love my church, I love my Lord, and my parents saw that and encouraged me to… to…”
To hurt myself, he couldn't say.
“I believe,” Singh said, hands clasped on his desk, “that you know why we're concerned, Rolland, I presume it is for the same reason you never told the other students about this… ritual.”
“I… I know how it looks,” Rolland said, “but I don't know… they won't let me come home, if I stop believing. My family is everything to me.”
“Is that your fault?” Hinks asked. “Or is that their fault?”
Rolland didn't have an answer for that, and he thought they could see it on his face.
“Rolland,” Hinks said, rising to rest a hand on his shoulder. “You are a smart, kind young man. One of the brightest I have ever taught. You deserve to be safe, and to be free of pain and fear, just as all children deserve those things.”
Rolland said nothing, ducking his head again.
“I'm going to ask that, in the future, if you feel the urge to do this again, or if you simply wish to continue with your routine, you do it where one of us or nurse Lenny can monitor you.” Sarge asked, “just for safety's sake. I know you have excellent control, as you've said, but just in case, is that agreed?”
“Agreed, sir.” Rolland said. “May. May I leave now?”
“You're excused from classes for the rest of the day,” Singh said. “Please stay within the grounds.”
“I'd like to be alone, if that's alright.”
“It is, Rolland, no one will disturb you.”
Rolland nodded, wiping his eyes and turning to leave.
As he reached the door, he stopped. The voice in his head was a constant stream of noise, protests, curses, calling his teachers fools and non believers.
For the first time, Rolland felt as though it was wrong. As if he could prove it wrong.
With slow, shaking hands, Rolland pulled the discipline out of his bag, turned, and placed it on the Hexmaster's desk.
Singh nodded at him, and Rolland nodded back, then turned and left.
Each step felt worse, and worse, but Rolland forced his feet to continue moving -- away from the office, from the discipline, from the pain he'd been feeling.
He wanted to be free of it. This was the first step.
“Right,” Ranjit sighed heavily, sitting back in his chair. “That was terrible.”
“He left it here,” Kerry said, glaring at the fucking whip their student had taken from his bag. “That's progress.”
“It doesn't feel like progress,” Matthew hissed, his eyes swirling around the office in his anger. “Ranjit, think of what else they might be doing to that boy.”
“He's here now, I've already added the Thudberry's to The List.” Ranjit said.
The List was an unfortunate aspect of running a school for the cursed. There was a theory, a likely one, about why curses only happened to a dozen or so boys; there was a very high possibility that some parents, in response to their child getting strange attributes and features, would simply murder their own child in cold blood. The ones who made it to St Churnley's were already lucky, because they had parents who at least thought to bring them here.
However, amongst those lucky, there were usually a few whose parents maybe didn't kill them, but had hurt them in an abundance of other ways. Parents like the Creeley's who more than likely had no intention of ever parenting their son again. Parents like those of Melvin Charles, who wore a mask to protect people from his acid but also to hide the scars around his mouth.
Parents like the Thudberry's, apparently, who were awful before their son had been cursed. It was rare they caught those parents, but it did happen, and they went on the list with all the other families who Ranjit kept an eye on -- families who he had evidence about. Families who should not be allowed access to their children anymore.
Children of those families were allowed to stay at the school until they were grown, unless the families of another student were willing to take them in. Matthew knew that the Allans and Missus Finch had already been asked if one of them would possibly take Kevin, and now Ranjit would have to ask them to take Rolland.
He felt a deep sickness in his stomach, thinking about what Rolland had said.
They won't let me back if they think I've stopped believing.
What parents put some invisible god above their own child?
“Matthew,” Elliot said, reaching forward to rest a hand on his arm. “You should take a break. I can combine dramatics and band, let you and Edward have an afternoon?”
Matthew didn't answer, fists opening and shutting as he tried to calm himself.
“Speaking of enrichment, we'd better get out there, playtime will end soon.” Kerry said, rising and brushing her hair behind her ears, even though none of it had fallen out of its bun.
“I can still teach understanding this afternoon,” Matthew decided. Understanding was a first year class, everyone else would be taking their Gen Eds. It would only be a dozen of them, and they would have questions. He could handle that. “I'll make a decision about enrichment by the time it comes around, Elliot, thank you, you're a good friend.”
Elliot nodded, and the three stewards rose from their seats. Ranjit remained sitting, staring at the whip some more.
“Ranjit?” Kerry asked, and he finally looked up at them.
“Thank you for handling this matter with such decorum,” Ranjit said, looking at each of them and lingering on Matthew. “I know this is… a dreadful moment, but this young man needs us more than ever, and I think he knows that he can rely on us today, and in the future.”
The three stewards filed out, and Ranjit took a very deep breath, exhaling. He felt wrung out, useless, weak.
Quietly, he took the whip in his hand, and clenched his fingers. He would destroy this, he decided, he would turn it to ash.
He set it back down, then reached into his desk to pull out a photo he didn't let himself study too often. It was a photo of him, when he was younger -- arm in arm with Elliot Allan and his Raven. They were sixteen, at the time, smiling and soppy and in love.
His heart hurt just thinking about it.
He hoped young Rolland could have a happier future than the boys in this picture. He hoped that they had gotten to him early enough.
He could only hope.
As the groups of boys came out of the woods, several of the upper classmen were sporting bruises, nosebleeds, and limps, but nobody was dead or dying, so Kerry considered that a win.
The entire first year class didn't swarm her, but Kevin, Edgar, and Monty beelined for her the second they saw her. They looked down right pissed, ready to attack if she didn't tell them where their friend was.
“Alright, you three, calm yourselves. Control, remember.”
“Please, Sarge, where's Rolland,” Monty asked, eyes wide. It sorta hurt, to see the kid so afraid. “He's our best friend, please-”
“Mr. Thudberry is fine,” Kerry said. “He's resting back at the dorms and you three are to give him space. Go to lunch and afternoon classes, you can visit with him after dinner.”
“But sir-”
“Boys,” Kerry said, softening just a hair. “I know you're worried, I can't imagine what rumors you've heard, but I promise you that we are dealing with the situation. I promise you, he is fine.”
They all exchanged looks, then turned back to her. She shook her head; “Mr Thudberry asked for privacy. He deserves that, don't you think?”
She knew it would work, and she was proven right; the boys immediately accepted that they wouldn't see their friend right then.
As the students trailed inside for lunch, Kerry heard some of the whispers that were going around; I heard he was bloody, I heard the wolf attacked him, I heard he's got scars everywhere, I've heard he's got scales, I've heard he's a freak.
She gritted her teeth. Control. She didn't trust herself not to snap; just as she had barely resisted the urge to break something when she'd heard what Morty had seen.
To his credit, Mortimer Cullens had originally said exactly what he saw. Rolland Thudberry, in the bathroom, with a weird fucking whip. Melvin had been the one to tell the teachers, but the original story had been accurate. The gossip train had warped it, of course, but even the allegation had been serious enough for Singh to immediately pull the boy from classes.
And after seeing his face, seeing him cry the way he had? Kerry was glad. She was angry on the boy's behalf, furious that someone would tell that kind, gentle young man that pain was the answer.
She ducked out of the dining hall. She needed to breathe. She wanted a cigarette.
As if summoned by her thoughts, Elliot followed her out into the hall, already offering his own pack. They fell into their normal positions by a window, Kerry lighting both of their cigarettes before passing one to Elliot.
They smoked in silence, as they always did. They let their feelings sit heavy and unspoken between them. When their smokes both burnt out, they rubbed out their stubs on Elliot's horns, and put them in their pockets.
They headed back inside, still silent, but a little lighter than they had been before.
Instead of having his first years climb the tower, Matthew met his students at the base of the stairs, and gently prompted them to sit in a circle around him. All his eyes were up above, so he could see them all.
The three he was most concerned about, Kevin, Edgar, and Monty, all sat close together. He’d seen them during lunch, looking worried, pushing their curry around their plates and barely talking. Kevin’s eyes were red, as if he had been crying.
“I figured we’d pause our lesson, today,” Matthew said. “And simply talk. A great deal of understanding can be gained from simply talking about how you feel, and I believe most of you are likely feeling upset about a certain situation.”
Brandon’s hand -- his actual hand -- shot upward, and Matthew nodded at him.
“What happened to Rolland?” Brandon asked. “Or -- is he ok? When Singh pulled him out of class he didn’t look hurt, but I heard the upper classes talking and they said he was hurt.”
“I can’t share everything,” Matthew explained, “Rolland deserves to have privacy, and certain details about this situation are very private. What I can share is that he is safe, and he is healthy. He’s sad, and I’m sure he’ll be upset when he hears the rumors that the upper classmen have been sharing, but trust that myself and the other teachers are dealing with that. Currently, he’s resting in the dorms, and nurse Lenny brought him some lunch.”
He hadn’t eaten, of course, Matthew was fairly sure Rolland was in a state of shock, but it had been offered. He had requested to be alone, so no one was actually watching him, but Matthew had one of his eyes hidden outside the dorm, so he knew that Rolland was staying there.
“Morty spread terrible rumors about him,” Monty said. “He called him a freak, Rolland’s not a freak, he’s our friend!”
“Of course he’s not,” Matthew said. “You all know Rolland quite well at this point, yes? Tell me; would he ever willingly hurt anyone?”
Edgar, Kevin, and Monty all immediately shook their heads, but the other boys hesitated.
“Sometimes,” Emil said, “his voice - he calls it his lord, but I don’t think it is, sir. It tells him to do or say scary things.”
“It does,” Matthew nods. “Such is the nature of Rolland’s curse. In control class, Sarge has spoken to you about curses that have caused harm to others, yes?”
Here all the boys nodded. The issue with the mimics at the beginning of term had solidified that piece of their new reality -- Monty ducked his head, uncomfortable even though nobody blamed him anymore.
“But Rolland himself doesn't believe in harming others,” Matthew pointed out. “He’s being told that he should. Imagine you have a voice in your mind, and you are encouraged to listen to it, because it’s a holy voice -- if you feel comfortable sharing, are any of you religious or have a religious family?”
A few boys raised their hands. Matthew nodded; “My family was as well. When I was your age, I was under great pressure to believe certain things and act a certain way. After interacting with Rolland, I’m sure you know that Rolland’s family puts a great deal of emphasis on his faith, and he’s put a lot of pressure on himself to follow their rules, can anyone think of any examples that they’ve seen?”
“Rolland prays at every meal,” Ben said. “And he specifically puts a bit of his breakfast to the side and burns it.”
“He prays at sunrise and sunset too.” Kevin said -- his voice was sniffly, and he kept wiping his face. “He, um, he’s very… dedicated.”
“He never had birthdays,” Edgar said, “or holidays. He just goes to school and goes to church and spends every special day in prayer.”
“He doesn’t eat certain things!” Jeremy -- the boy whose skin had turned to pastry -- said. “We had blackberries one time, and he said he wouldn’t eat them.”
“Morty said he was hurting himself,” Simon (the boy who changed colors) whispered. “Was… is that true?”
Matthew didn’t believe in lying to his students, but he also didn’t believe in sharing secrets. He also, as he had been all day, felt sick to his stomach as he remembered Rolland talking about his faith, his parents, how scared he was to lose that.
There was a time when he’d been scared to lose his faith too.
“Sir?” Edgar asked, and Poe cawed. Matthew sighed deeply.
“There are some faiths,” he said, “that believe in punishing oneself as a form of devotion. Rolland’s church, the church of the Rising Dawn, is one of those faiths. The degree to which Rolland follows his faith is his own business, and you’ll have to ask him about it if he’s willing to share.”
But Matthew knew that by not denying it, he had, in his own way, confirmed what they were asking. The boys all fell silent. Kevin turned and pressed his face into Monty’s shoulder.
“How can we help him?” Brandon finally asked, and Matthew smiled -- genuinely, for the first time all day, he smiled.
“I’m glad you asked.”
They spent the rest of the period discussing things they could do to support Rolland and support one another during this time, what warning signs there were if anyone was hurting themself.
It warmed Matthew’s heart to see all of these boys coming together for their friend. It also made him ache -- for Rolland, and for himself, who never believed that people cared.
Class ended, and Matthew headed toward the assembly hall. He nodded at elliot, who quickly pulled Monty and Kevin aside and asked them to help him get both the band and the drama society to the same location.
Edward locked eyes with him across the hall -- they had spoken during lunch, but Matthew hadn’t truly broken down, not yet.
His husband understood immediately, the way he always did, and turned to head out of the assembly hall and toward the teacher suites.
Matthew trailed behind him in silence, throat thick with tears, chest tight tight tight, and as soon as their door closed he collapsed to his knees with a strangled sob.
“Oh, my love,” Edward muttered, crouching down to gather him close. “Shh, shh darling, I have you, I have you…”
Matthew cried -- for himself, for Rolland, for the kids he’d never meet who he couldn’t save. He mourned for the peace he’d lost, and the way Rolland was suffering now.
When he ran out of tears, he sniffled, and raised his head from his husband’s shirt, to find that he’d fashioned the little metal scraps he kept in his pockets into little birds, and they were soaring around, letting out little squeaky chirps. One brushed against his knee, and Matthew smiled.
“Better?” Edward asked, kissing the top of his head, and Matthew nodded. “Better.”
And it would be.
After enrichment, Kevin ran to the dining hall with Edgar and Monty on his heels, determined to grab their dinners and get back to the dorms before the rest of the first years.
It was beans tonight, and standing at the hatch was nurse Lenny, already holding a tray. As they approached, he stepped forward. “Boys!”
Internally, Kevin groaned -- he didn’t want interruptions, he wanted to go check on Rolland.
“Yes sir?” Edgar said, already getting a tray. “Can we help you?”
Lenny smiled at them. “Yes, actually - would you three mind taking this to Mr. Thudberry?”
The three of them perked up immediately. “Have you seen him?” Monty asked. “Is he alright? No one will tell us anything.”
“He could use some good company, and a good meal.” Lenny said, handing them the tray. “We’ll keep the rest of your class back. Go on.”
“Thank you,” Kevin said sincerely, then grabbed his own plate and rushed out of the dining hall.
It had been a terrible day. Rolland had been so upset at breakfast, then he’d disappeared and come out looking terrified, and then he’d just disappeared. When playtime started, someone had asked them, actually asked them if their best friend had really tried to kill himself in the bathroom, and Monty had nearly turned on the spot. They had spent the entire period working with the other first years to gather information, but no one had been able to give them a straight fucking answer.
Mr Thudberry wants privacy. Rolland’s faith believes in self punishment.
Kevin just wanted to see his friend. He wanted to see with his own eyes that Rolland was alright. He hated not knowing.
They burst into the first year commons, only to find it empty.
“Rolland?” Monty called, an audible tremble to his voice. “Rolland, its us, we brought you dinner!”
And then, finally, the door to Kevin and Rolland’s dorm creeped open, and there he was.
His cheeks were bright red and covered in dry tears, his hair was a complete mess. He was wearing one of his large, cable knit sweaters that he’d brought to school with him, along with a pair of comfortable pajama pants and his socks.
“Hi,” he croaked, voice hoarse, and Kevin barely took the time to set down the tray of beans before running forward and throwing his arms around his neck.
Rolland hugged him back, gently, and he felt Monty’s arms join the hug, then Edgar's. Poe cawed, feathers brushing against their cheeks as he nuzzled his beak against Rolland’s face.
Rolland let out a quiet, wordless sob, and all at once the three of them held him a little tighter.
When they finally stepped away, Rolland wiped the fresh tears on his sleeve.
“I’m sorry,” He whispered, “I’m so sorry, I can’t imagine what you’ve heard, please don’t hate me now, I’ll be better-”
“We could never hate you,” Monty said fiercely. “And we never believed a word Morty said.”
“We don’t even know what he said, there’s been ten different stories circulating.” Edgar said, heading over to the couch so they could eat while they talked. “What -- that is, if you feel okay sharing--”
“Do you know what self-flagellation is?” Rolland asked softly, and Monty and Kevin both shook their heads, but Edgar tensed.
“Is-” he swallowed, pulled off his glasses and cleaned them on the edge of his shirt. “Is that- with the- the whip?”
“The discipline,” Rolland corrected even as he nodded. “My- my parents, they taught me that… that it was how to show devotion.”
He looked down at his plate. “It… maybe it…” He sighed, clearly frustrated. “I don’t know. I feel like I don’t know anything anymore.”
None of them spoke for a long time, sitting with the new information.
Then, gently, Kevin moved his foot forward to nudge Rolland’s ankle. “I can’t make you do anything, and I don’t know much about your god,” Kevin said, “But you shouldn’t need to hurt yourself for anybody.”
Rolland immediately teared up again. “They said I should. They said it- they said it was holy- why would they lie to me?!”
Kevin immediately pulled him into another hug, and Rolland wailed into his shoulder. “They lied, they lied, they lied! They're the sinners, not me!”
“Rolland,” Edgar whispered, “your hands.”
They were glowing, not producing any heat, just glowing. Rolland pulled away from Kevin, retreating to the corner of the couch to pull his knees up to his chest.
“My head hurts so much,” He whispered. “It hurts all the time, the voice is so loud, and I can't -- I feel like I'm going to lose myself if I stop listening to it.”
“I felt like I’d lose myself to the wolf,” Monty said, “and you three made sure I didn’t. We’ll do the same for you.”
“We promise, Rolland.” Edgar said, and Rolland wiped his face again.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, mate,” Kevin said. “We’re here for you, no matter what.”
And Rolland managed a smile - a small one, but it was there, and it was full of hope.
Tomorrow, the sun would rise again, and things would be better.
Two months passed.
They were difficult months, filled with tears and nightmares, and even a few moments where Rolland tried to hurt himself.
But each time, when he felt bad, he turned to his friends. He turned to professor Hinks, or Sarge. He turned to Nurse Lenny and sat in his office until his hands stopped shaking. He found himself heavily respecting the earth around him, finding the love for his lord translated into love for the breeze, the animals, the earth beneath his feet. He'd sit outside with Poe and feel the sunshine without worrying about it burning him.
Winter came to the plagueround, and the winter equinox approached. Normally, the shortest day of the year would be a day for deep mourning, prayers, and sadness, but for the first time, Rolland didn’t fear it.
Instead, after the sun set, he and his friends snuck out of the dorms with Rolland’s telescope, and they looked up at the dark skies and studied the stars.
“Each one of them is a sun,” Edgar said, “with its own planets and systems and people, maybe.”
“Maybe they worship the sun too,” Rolland said, watching the vapor leave his mouth. “Its nice to think about, that there are other people out there like us. The better book used to call that thought heresy, because it implied life beyond the sun's reach, but if there are other suns…”
“You seem relaxed,” Monty said, leaning on his shoulder. “Its nice.”
“Yeah,” Rolland said, “It is.”
Nights like this, with his friends, with his family, were more sacred than any ritual he'd practiced before. Rolland's heart was full, and yes, the voice still spoke to him, and sometimes it even controlled his actions. And yes, the guilt crept in, the shame, the doubt.
But Rolland's shoulders no longer ached from the weight of carrying his burden, and he no longer worried about what the future held as fiercely as he once did.
Because now, he'd face it with his people by his side, and that was what mattered.
Rolland breathed in, breathed out, and smiled warmer than the sunshine.
The feeling in his chest was holy, and Rolland no longer doubted that.