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His first memory is not of his mother holding his hands. It is not her with her palms open and outstretched to encourage him to take his first steps in her direction. He wonders about her, often, though, and at the very least knows she must have loved him, right? Why else stay with his father, if not for love of him. She had to have loved him, right?
His first memory is also not climbing a tree with Violet, though those became the highlight of his childhood once they met. Climbing trees with Violet, lectures from Mira, and the occasional mend from Brennan, those were the moments he felt like he mattered beyond his potential as a soldier, even as a little boy.
His first memory is not of his mother, his best friend, nor of one of the minimal posts he liked enough to call home.
No. His first memory is his father, or rather the sting of his hand on his face, when he failed a cleanliness inspection.
By that, to be clear, the bottom left corner of his blanket was not perfectly tucked with a pleat.
“Rules exist for a reason, it is your purpose to uphold them. How can you enforce them, how can you lead, if you don’t do so by example?”
He had been three and a half years old, and the message was clear.
His purpose was to know the rules and to live by them.
He had been six, they were just about to leave for the first big deployment, the one that would result in his life long friendship with Violet, when his father sat him in front of a mirror with scissors in his hand. He was perfectly meticulous in the length he chopped his hair, a perfect, military issue buzz down to his skin.
“This wild hair is unprofessional, no one will ever respect you like this.”
By then Dain had learned better than to speak out against the man, the verbal degradation he would face would only be second to the physical reprimand he’d receive. Still, he choked back the tears as his curls fell to the floor in soft, well formed ringlets.
Men don’t cry men don’t cry men don’t cry.
Dain understood the message young.
We live by the rules. We die by the rules.
The rules, first, were house rules. Then the laws of being on military bases, and of course eventually the codex.
He doesn’t know exactly when the panic associated with the rules started. Theoretically, it had to be as a little boy, when mismatched socks would result in withheld meals, or when an unbrushed curl would result in a slap.
He had been seventeen the first time that missing a rule took away his breath, left the room spinning in a downward spiral, and took away his vision until he only saw black. He had skipped his morning shoe shine, and when Brennan Sorrengail was announced dead, Violet’s scream sent him spiraling.
It was his fault. It had to be. He didn’t follow the rules, and bad things happened when he didn’t follow rules.
That's why they existed, right? To protect them from bad things.
He made sure to wash his hair three times that night, and when he came back to his body, he was sitting on the edge of the bed. He wasn’t even sure how much time had passed. He didn’t know why it felt like he hadn’t been breathing, or why he had dried tear marks down his face.
If he followed rules, this wouldn’t happen, right?
What he did know is that his father returned in the following days, a smug, disgusting smirk on his face as they announced the execution of a hundred rebel leaders by dragon fire. He seems almost disappointed when he has to announce that the children were allowed to live, but Dain’s used to the disgusting aspects of his father by then.
They won the war.
There were rules in place so this didn’t happen again.
He rises in the ranks. Squad leader. Wing leader. He is the perfect cadet, the perfect leader, the perfect son.
His grasp on rules falls apart when they try to use him against Violet, and they are thrown to the side when he makes the decision to fight his way out with her, knowing they likely were both going to die as a result.
He arrived in Aretia to an all new set of rules to learn. He commits himself to the customs, to the laws.
Bad things don’t happen when you follow rules, right?
His world turns upside down in Tyrrendor, and he learns that sometimes yes, terrible things happen even when you follow rules.
He maintains his perfectly tucked sheets. He maintains his perfectly pressed clothing. He washes his hair three times before a battle.
They continue to lose people anyway.
The rules do not always protect them.
Sloane Mairi doesn’t follow rules, he learns that quickly.
She’s mouthy and stubborn, and doesn’t even bother to show up to signet training half the time.
She sticks her finger in the icing of a cake before it’s served, just to be sure she wants to commit to a whole slice.
Her hair is incredible, a tumbling, curling gold with all the freedom of a field of wild flowers.
There’s no taming her hair, there is no taming her.
She only wears one sock to bed. She is the reason the left side of his sheets become permanently untucked. She sleeps with one leg hanging over the blankets for maximum temperature regulation. She skips classes at least once a week.
He’s sometimes certain there is no one as wild as her in the whole continent.
She’s a girl who has said a solid ‘fuck you’ to every aspect of the codex she can get away with, and an even stronger one to the whole of Navarre for what they have done to her.
Yet, he never once considered that she was at fault. It is not because her socks don’t match, that her brother died when he did it. It is not because she was mouthy to authority that her parents were executed in front of her.
It is not because she was unlovable or imperfect or didn’t brush her hair correctly that she fell victim to the abuse of men and women alike as a teenage girl.
She didn’t deserve the bad things that happened to her. She didn’t cause them.
Neither did he.
He learns that it is okay to eat a cookie before dinner. He learns that it is okay to skip a shoe shining day. He learns that it is okay to run barefoot after her in the halls of Riorson House, breathless from laughing as they try not to get caught by Bodhi or Imogen.
He learns that it is okay to live and die for more than the codex.
He learns that his entire purpose in life is not to uphold rules. He is allowed to be more than the perfect, ideal little soldier.
He thought he loved rules, the peace and security they ensured, but he starts to believe that he loves the freedom that comes with Sloane so much more.
They win the war. They survive.
This does not happen again.
He cannot be sure what his son’s first memory will be. It could be his mother, holding his little hands. It could be her sitting there, palms outstretched, encouraging him to take his first step in her direction. He’d never have to wonder a single thing about her, because it was clear to anyone that she was the entire world to him. He’d never have to wonder if his mother loves him.
He watches his son, all the joy in the world, dragging a little yet well-loved stuffed dragon in his hands. The plush will collect all the day’s dust before it settles on his bed next to him at night. There will never be a perfectly pressed edge to his blankets, and the curls on his head will always be a little unruly.
He watches his son, and cannot help but wonder how his father ever loved rules more than he loved him.