Darcy A. Königsmann // D1 // FIN.

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

Name:
Darcy Actinolite Königsmann long pretentious name
Age:
basically still a baby 
Gender:
male
District/Area:
d1
Appearance:
 

freckles r real

Personality:

loads of stuff here like tons
basically an innocent lil beb until he realized everything sucked

History:

something about stuff idk
something about his relatively unsuckish but suckish life
kind of just bad at everything he's supposed to be good at
like everything
fam is not pleasedd
something about a boy named cal who was a dick to him
and was his only friend since 5ever
but not really b/c stuff

Codeword: oDair
Other:

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

D a r c y .

He’s always had a stupid heart.

When he was four, some doctors said it was because he had a misshapen left mitral valve, the slight prolapse muffling a beat into a clicking murmur. Those muscles had never pumped quite right from the backflow of blood, but his heart had never been broken enough to be worth fixing either. In the end, one half-assed physical formation wasn’t much compared to the billions of cells in a body — a hairline fracture in the whole scheme of things. Imperfect, but just barely. When he was four years old, some doctors told him it was this collapsing valve that made him too weak to matter, too weak to be, too weak to live up to what he had been born into.

But now he knows.

He’s got the right kind of blood in his veins to be a Königsmann, and he’s got the right kind of name — one that’s been stamped onto a prosperous history — nine letters, three syllables of sky-high privilege.

They are a family of careers and they are a family of jewelers, molding victors the same way they mold gold and gems into pretty things on pedestals. And his life was all pre-determined by the womb he was conceived into, the lines of wealth he lives on all pools into a time long before his birth. This is supposed to be fate.

And by the definition of nine letters and three syllables, he is supposed to be Darcy Actinolite Königsmann (a name he can’t speak without stuttering over the strangeness of those letters),and he is supposed to be a textbook specimen of his lineage, built by an ancestry that makes up everything he could be. These are the things that had been assigned to him for decades and decades and decades. (And he studied this history, searched for an origin when he could not find his own.)

And yet, as hard as he tries to do otherwise, he's still spent more time at the training center patching up wounds for others than drawing blood from his peers, and has spent far more time tripping over his own words than managing the workers of the Königsmann business. In fifteen years, he has never managed to craft anything of beauty, clumsiness somehow managing to kick in each time his fingers close over a pair of tweezers for retipping a prong — but not when he delicately sketches the curling petals of a spring bluebell. In fifteen years, some dozens of scars have collected on his skin as proof of his training — but he still can't look at them and feel strong, substantial, extraordinary. 

He looks like he could be the son of his mother and father, inheriting a mash of blunt features and odd angles, and maybe he looks the part of a Königsmann: sat up straight and always dressed primly, his dark hair brushed back smooth and the wild spray of brown freckles hidden under a layer of powder, (“Those dots are ugly,” his mother reminds him each morning, “Cover them up.”)

But in the moment he opens his mouth, any pretense dissolves immediately in a great vat of bubbling inelegance. None of his gangly limbs seem to work right. Not his arms or legs, and certainly not his god-fucking-damn tongue. He's too much of a wuss to do ugly things to a person, and he's  too much of a klutz to do beautiful things to a gem. No, he’s not good at anything he should be inherently good at and he can’t do anything and he’s so fucking furious that he’s not the person he’s supposed to be and that everything’s wrong and oh fuck fuck fuck fuck can he just— 

(“It’s in your name,” his father says, pushing him up against the wall. “Now fucking act like it.”)

Now, three days away from fifteen, he remembers the diagnosis of a white-coated doctor from more than a decade. This malformed mitral valve was what still caused his heart to still sound like flutters from a the end of stethoscope, (and to sound like the ghost of what he should’ve been born as, like the things that he had lost with the blood that leaked from those seams.) Physically, the defect had never affected him much other than a few occasional moments of breathlessness, but it is then — three days away from his fifteenth birthday — that he realizes what a stupid heart he had always carried. (And he doesn't feel the pain when the fist connects at his face, his father still pinning him against the wall. Just a steady thudding in his chest.)

("They only like you because of your family name, remember that," his mother once told him.) Sometime down the road of stumbling over words, he's long given up trying to speak, unless spoken to. And it's not just the fact that he can't seem to form a coherent sentence in front of strangers, but it's also that he's never learned to accept respect he's never thought he's deserved yet. From years and years of being deathly shy and deathly friendless,  he has learned, however, to throw himself at anyone that shows him the slightest sign of congeniality; he's learned to fall with desperation, learned to be entirely too breakable all at once.

In many ways, his mother was right when she said those words. He grew up not quite believing he was to be worth nothing more than a miss-placed name and the history written into his skin. He grew up thinking that he could finally become the person who could fulfill all the things that had been handed to him on a silver platter (because isn't that what fate was? Wasn't it meant to be that way?) — but when he was fifteen, he discovered the truth.

(Cal had promised that they were friends, honestly and really...It made him nervous to show the other boy the storage room, but they had to trust each other, right? That was the whole point of being with another person, and he didn't want to disappoint his new friend.

The way Cal said his name, "Darcy," like he was finally something important and that he was worthy of this name given to him...He didn't want to disappoint.)

Call it innocence, call it naivety, call it stupidity: when he was three days shy of fifteen, a fire-haired boy stole his fucking stupid heart and then stole a whole fucking heap of priceless scrap metals from the backroom of the store he was supposed to have kept locked and monitored while his father was away.

("It's in your name," the words echo.)  

He was never meant to wear the crown,
and was never meant to make it either.

He's always had a stupid heart, and his fate is threaded through the abnormality between an atrium and a ventricle, and not the name he thought he had. For fifteen years he's believed that he was supposed to be a career and a jeweler, supposed to gradually fall into the right path that's been planned out for him long before he had been born. But he's never thought —  not through all those years — that he was never going to be any of those things. And he never realized the possibility of being doomed for nonfulfillment until a petty thief picked at the defect and showed him what it really meant to be weak and stupid and a complete failure at living up to nine letters and three syllables.

(It doesn't hurt when his father stamps on his wrist and walks away.
He deserves this, he's sure. It's the blade of knowing that cuts the most.)

In the end, it's only laughable how hard he tried to go against his fate of being just Darcy. 

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

ok i think i'm done idk ahh

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

I like his dots!

ACCEPTED!