Chapter Text
The impacts of the Nightmare Spell on humanity are countless. The Spell did not merely inflict death, suffering, and the collapse of civilizations; it also brought about the Awakened, the Great Legacy clans, and the phenomenon of soulmates. It has altered our species beyond what our ancestors could ever have imagined, ushering the world into a new era of hard-won peace. Among these myriad changes—both beneficial and detrimental—soulmates have always captivated my academic interest.
I still recall quiet nights spent within the haven of NQSP, studying scrolls of the Old World for historical research. Within those archives, I discovered a common saying from eons past, a poetic fantasy that has manifested into our modern reality: “The eyes are the windows to the soul.” Never in human history has a phrase proven more literal. Because a person's irises mirror the identity of their soulmate—or, more accurately, the region of their birth—one's own gaze explicitly reveals the other half of their spirit.
A comprehensive study on soulmate pigmentation compiled by NQSP classifies the demographics as follows:
Midnight eyes: Child of Night, of the lower echelons of society.
Amber eyes: Child of Day, of the middle echelons of society.
Amethyst eyes: Child of Dawn or Dusk, of the upper echelons of society.
—“On Soulmates: from the dawn of the Nightmare Spell to our world now.” By the Researcher Julius. K.
Sunless hated his eyes, those damned white eyes.
They are ghostlike, haunting, like the sheets of death flying around the funeral parlor. His eyes were a white so white that all he could see — from the fragments of glass around the alleyways — were the stains of a winter-borne, pristine gleam on layers of frost and snow on the ground.
They weren’t black or amber or even amethyst, but a startling white, white.
He didn’t like his eyes.
He didn’t like the blatant look of scarring white from miles away, the contrast against his midnight-hair sharp.
He couldn’t hide like the others, couldn’t hide as a target could be placed easily on his back, his eyes blinding in the shadows of the outskirts, a scream to be caught by the others in this godforsaken world.
They say soulmates are real, a lifelong blessing that the ascension of the nightmare of a Spell brought. To be free and bonded with the other half of your soul, anchored into the flows of the world.
They say one’s eye colour would determine who they are, who they will be with. A distant dream from the everlasting night.
In a world so enthralled with soulmates, enchanted by the black, amber and amethyst that promised a forever happy after, winter-white was different, and sometimes, being different can mean the world.
“They say,” Sunny whispers, tracing a circle on dried soil, fond smile with fond eyes on a fond girl, “those amethyst eyes are a sign your prince will one-day arrive with your own two eyes. And when you look into the colour stained on their irises, are you truly complete.”
“No Rain, your soulmate won’t have amethyst. I’d think they’ll have midnight eyes, a sign of a child from the outskirts, of you.”
“Am I sure? Of course I am!”
“What about my eyes? I… I can’t tell you even if I wanted to. They’re certainly annoyingly bright. Damned torches in this economy,”
“…Yea. You certainly are smart, Rain. We’re special, but what use is it when special equals anomaly? You were born amongst the raging storm, of rain dancing patterns on grey clouds. I’m born in an eclipse. Of the one moment where the sun or the moon overlap, of the darkest time for the ages.”
“Sometimes I want mom and dad to be here too. And sometimes, I hate being special.”
“But sometimes all we can do is laugh and accept and hope.”
“I don’t hope, Rain. My hope was taken long ago .”
“…”
“Alright. But only for you.”
Sunny’s eyes were special; and the outskirts never loved special.
…Rain liked them; she had loved to grab and squeal and touch. To use her little hands that were so thin and small, climbing onto his lap and lifting them to his face, trying and failing to touch his eyes.
He moves out of the way with a laugh each time, twisting his lips to a ‘o’ and letting his eyes show.
Rain laughs louder.
He couldn’t stop the grin from forming on his face.
He wraps his arms and hugs her, tight, his mom’s dimples and gentle words a whisper in the wind, “Live each day like it’s your last.” He hugs her tighter. Sunny never believed his mom until time came with a vindictive glee. And he was left all alone in the world with a sister too young and with nowhere to go.
He couldn’t deny it when he thought about the end. Perhaps of a time where no one would look and see him as an omen, a monster to be feared.
Sunny was 6 when his parents left; he was 6 when there was no one left in this world to shield him from his own two eyes.
It wasn’t a frequent sight, but it was common enough that even Rain knew something was up.
Dragged home with a gash in his leg, Sunny stealthily stumbled into their humble abode. A tired smile graced his lips, at the sight of Rain. Sweet, innocent Rain.
In their home in an alleyway, his sister laid, sleeping. She’s silent, clothes ragged with muddied dirt as she gently breathed. It was at times like these that Sunny allowed himself to pull up his legs and burrow his head into them, squaring his shoulders and tugging his head in.
The outskirts is a cruel place, and it never gave its inhabitants a chance of weakness. In the shadows, nobody would know, nobody would see. Sunny breathes — in, out. In and out again. A sniffle escapes him, pain coursing through his body, more so on his mind. He glances at the mangled bag before him, one which barely held itself together. He breathed as he glanced onto his catch: a piece of molded bread ripped unnaturally from a whole.
The past flashed within him, regret pooling in his eyes. He picked up the bread, and gently caressed Rain. When her amethyst eyes fluttered with weariness etched in, he silently offered the scavenged food.
She nibbles gratefully.
Sunny ignores the rumble of his stomach, lifted his head and stared at the morning sky for the last time. It’s grey; the same grey eons ago when he made the decision for his sister. He breathes — in, out. To cast the hunger and desperation away, he focuses on good things, on bad things, on hopeful things. Just like how mother had taught him. He fixes his injuries. Wrapping aged cloth around it to stanch the bleeding. It’d infect, he knows. But he was born outskirt, and outskirt rats were so persistent, so hard to kill.
A silent death by starvation, he thought. Sunny takes a gulp of water, and forces his gaze to the bright colours of the police stations in the corner.
Rain soon finishes her food, and falls back into slumber. He nodded. She needed sleep and food; surely more than him. Rain with pale skin, midnight hair and amethyst eyes was a promise. A promise of a future with one of the higher ranks. Unlike him with ghastly eyes, a pale thing sick to a point that bone can be seen through skin.
His eyes shifted to the orphanage nearby — purple, royal colours promising a future it’ll never give. He looks at Rain. At her soft edges and gentle smiles.
She deserved a better world.
He silently swore that he’ll give it to her.
Sunny was 9 when he made his choice. Sunny was 9 when he started gathering what was left from mother and father, digging through old documents for Rain’s. It was a few moons until she’d turn 6, more than enough time to compose himself for a goodbye.
Time flew by. He hated it. The slow dripping of hours on a hot summer’s day that blended into their blemished air. A familiar rumble echoed towards the east, more construction and building of skyscrapers in the cities. Sunny popped open a synthpaste tube, drowning the contents in seconds. He’s not sure why he expected anything. It was just another tube of boring old synthpaste.
But it was a lesson he learnt from.
Synthpaste was easier, small tubes that could easily be carried through rotten streets. Cheap and disgusting that no merchant, no vendor, no man would ever spare a glance to. It was food, and it was enough.
The city towered over him, and Sunny was no fool to look and gaze into its eyes. There was no use sparing energy for a broken place. Just like there was no use in standing out amongst a desperate people.
Time had not spared him, years passing yet he was still the skin and bones from before, only that Rain had long since gone to a better place. To clean food and clean air.
At times he missed her presence; at times he was relieved for her to be gone. Their family only needed one of them to suffer, and he would do this a thousand times over. For her pure soul, her eyes that promised a future.
The rustling of footsteps drilled into his ears, and Sunny dropped everything in a second, shifting as silently as he could into the shadows. Men rapidly poured past him, and he held his breath in. One, two, three. They left soon after.
Isn’t he such a coward? He wryly thinks. But a proud coward. For it would do no good for a stray like him to be picked up by the men in scraps. Unlike them, he had yet to sell his soul to the devil, but he just might when he grows older. …If he wasn’t dead by sheer, desperate survival, and if the Nightmare Spell was merciful to him, he just might.
Over the years, he learnt silence. Over the years, he knew the shadows. A silent boy and a silent world. Wasn’t it fitting for the Spell to enact his cruelty on young Sunless of the 17th alleyway near the outskirts grove?
Sunny was 16 when the Spell clawed its ways into his soul. Sunny was 16 — just a few weeks off the winter solstice, his birth date — when he was sentenced to death.
A manic laugh escaped his chest, as pure, blinding eyes shone amongst the shadows. He was so lucky, so lucky that he hadn’t died just yet. But surely, the Spell would do him in, and he would be just a shadow that lingered in his too-young sister’s dreams of a past.
The night lingers overhead, grey smoke covering whatever stars were left to shine in a broken world.
He’s reminded of the past, of whispered tales under the blanket of night. Sunless. One born during an eclipse. Where the moon and sun meet at the top of their dance, and the world is plunged into true darkness. He thought of blinding white, of ghastly, haunted eyes. He thought of the brilliance of the stars of old.
A childhood dream creeps up to his mind, and Sunny allows himself to fall. Tonight, he could afford to be a child. He’ll be dead this week. Another body to be burnt and broken. His eyes glaze as his heart beats, and his soul pulls on fragmented bits of heat and warmth. He thought of his other half, of the rare imprints of smothering heat and silent grace his dreams had given. Of the bright white that stains his eyes, a lingering touch of his dearest soulmate he’ll never know.
He whispers an apology to the stars. His soulmate will never know him, know the disgraceful child of the outskirts that the world itself damned. His soulmate would never be whole, and for that, he apologizes.