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 Martín Marzán
Stells Artois · 16 · 6th · Viridian Guild · Pureblood · 5'11
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Feb 20 2017, 10:52 AM   Link Quote
ORIGINAL APP

Name: Martín Marzán
Do you have permission from an admin to create this character? Which admin? Tine gave me her beautiful blessing <3
Age: 16
Bloodline: Pureblood
Appearance:
Expressive blue-green eyes inherited from a mother from whom he has no memory, a woman who’s smiling portrait the child he once was spent hours talking to. Carefully combed light brown hair, so much like that of a American grandfather who’s name Martín never even knew and never even cared for. The thick eyebrows and the chiselled features of the missed and longed for father, the one remembered every single day as the boy continues living. The soft olive skin passed down through generations in the Iberian family, so easily tanned by the sun. A height he has an American ancestry to thank for, the cursed 5’11 that just couldn’t be 6 feet, could it? Thin lips of a gentle pink, were the lower one is slightly prominent, much like those of the stern and strict grandmother that’s ever feared by the Marzán’s servants. And the moles, so notorious in the Spaniards, the lonely one under his right eye, the ones on his cheeks, and the ones all over his body, so similar to those of the ever-despised grandfather, reminders of bearing the Marzán name. For, whether we like it or not, our appearance marks who we are and where we come from, we’re puzzles put together with pieces granted by this or that ancestor. As well as pieces acquired overtime, pieces like our bruises and scars and they way we carry ourselves.

Pieces like the way Martín walks, so full of confidence and pride, a confidence once faked by a child forced to act a terrible part, a confidence that’s now true and real, and that no one can deny. Pieces like all the small and faded scars, result of this and that dangerous event. Pieces like the way he speaks, accent more American than Spanish except for that faint and small yet ever-present dragging of ‘R’s, as if a purring cat, all thanks to having spoken the language from such a young age. Pieces like the way he sometimes curses in Spanish without even nothing, words seeming to come so naturally. Like the involuntary mentions of muggle culture, because of years of living amongst them. Pieces, pieces. Pieces like the toned body which is result of much training, like the rather broad shoulders that speak of a fondness for swimming. Pieces like the only item of jewelry that the Marzán boy always carries on himself: the ring hanging from his neck, a gift received at the short age of five, the only memento of the long-forgotten mother. All these are pieces collected overtime, but equally as important as the ones inherited, all coming together to form the boy who is Martín Marzán.

Personality:
“Sing, O muse, of the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans.”


Had he been born in Ancient Greece, epic poems would have surely been written about him. For epic poems tell the stories of great men who suffered great tragedies, of heroes of such skill and might they can’t possibly be just human. And he would have been considered divine, a demi-god, born of one of the great deities that inhabit the heights of Olympus itself. Maybe Apollo, as the Spaniard often does seem to shine like the sun: so bright, so warm, so golden and full of such light. Light that is reflected in easily cast smiles that always reach his eyes, in contagious laughter that can fill a room with its sound, and in stares, stares that make one wonder if blue and green had ever been colors of such warmth. There’s melody to Martín Marzán, even if he’s no particularly amazing singer (though he’s definitely quite decent), but his laugh is like a song and his words are like poetry, all coming from the deepest and most honest parts of the heart.

Or maybe he’s the child of Aphrodite, as he possesses undeniable charm, a creature of such beauty that he seems impossible not to love. Iberian blood is blood of passion, blood of fire, and blood of love, and Martín reflects all this in the way he talks: so full of excitement, intensity and with such strong words. One that is quick to give affections: hugs, kisses, wonderfully recited Spanish words; and one that certainly craves love, a hopeless romantic that listens to too many ballads about devotion and adoration. Such things do seem to come naturally for the boy, even if he has never really fallen in love, but he walks from meaningless relationship to another, hoping to someday meet the feeling he has longed for for so long.

Though, sometimes, one can’t help but wonder if he’s born of Dionysius, as he seems so keen of celebration and ecstasy. Living a life that appears to be centered around entertainment, full of festivities and parties. Always a reason to drink, always a reason to celebrate, always a reason to go overboard and wake up in the hospital wing because he fell off a tree (yes it has happened before). Because Greek heroes sure knew about excess, and so does Martín, drowning in personal bliss while commemorating their own achievements and triumphs. He’s a social drinker, as drinking is not what the Spaniard does to wash away concerns or sadness, but he’s the kind of drunk who does increasingly stupid and dangerous things when inebriated. Enjoyment is a second nature: The bigger and wilder the party, the better; a second nature that more often than not comes with costs that the Marzán boy has no apprehensions in paying.

Sadly, the thing about epic heroes is that to all of them there is always one unquestionable truth: a child with too many blessings is cursed. What may seem like a divine gift of the gods is also cause for terrible misfortune, glory comes in hand with great tragedy, and possessing amazing skills always comes with a terrible price, a price that heroes will always be forced to pay. Like the Hercules who was beloved by the gods that gave him great strength but also drove him insane, forced to murder his dear wife and children because of Hera’s jealousy, living a life of suffering and dying a terrible death all to earn his rightful place among the Olympians. Like the Achilles, who’s wrath was the fall of Troy, who paid great prices all to be forever remembered throughout history. Heroes are always cursed, with curses like ego, pride and anger. Curses that Martín shares, always so confident and so volatile.

In fact, he is no child of Apollo, or of Aphrodite, or Dionysius, because as much as he may have beautiful qualities of beautiful gods, being born a Marzán means being born for war. Ares calls his name like the roaring fire, like his brewing anger, like the endless battles that are fought inside him. Maybe this is why he prefers to be called ‘Mars’, an acknowledgement of war itself (In all honesty he also does like the nickname ‘Marty’), an acknowledgement of living a life of nothing but hate. Hate. Hate for his family, for the Marzáns that know nothing but to hurt and take everything away, to destroy and to consume and to govern over the ashes. Hate that makes the boy do everything in his power to antagonise this family, as he rejoices in imagining the raging face of his grandfather. Hate that makes the boy so volatile, so easy to anger, so quick to throw punches ad so fast to cast hexes. Hate. Hate that drives him, that motivates him. The drums of war pounding inside him.

The greatest tragedy of an epic poem is that the hero always tries to fight his fate, always tries to get the upper hand, unknowing that in Greek writing destiny can never be avoided or changed. And Martín also fight his fate, desperately tries to avoid it, venting negative emotions through an almost compulsive obsession with exercise and an attempt at keeping an almost permanently cheerful personality. Sure, he may run, run fast and run far, run from all his problems, run until his chest hurts, until its hard to breath and every muscle aches, but that still wont stop him from punching someone if they dare compare him to his despicable family. He fools himself, and he keeps on running, and he keeps on training, and he keeps on exercising. And he keeps on playing Quidditch, because he’s a child of Ares and he loves a good challenge, competitiveness in all aspects always being like fuel to his aching body.

And this is who Martín Marzán is, a hero of tragedies. A flame that’s so beautiful, mesmerizing and warm when under control, but that can so easily extinguish or cause a burning fire.

Character Background:
Not so long ago, in the not so far away land of Spain, lived a beautiful young witch of flowing brunette hair and eyes like turquoises. Her name was Isabel, and she spent her days confined within the walls of a luxurious Valencian residence. See, the thing about magic is that while it may be wondrous and amazing, there are still things it can’t do, problems it can’t fix, diseases it can’t cure, and that was exactly Isabel’s problem. Born with a frail and sickly body that prevented her from doing most things, the witch grew up isolated from the world, learning all she knew about it from professors and tutors and never attending any of the fancy wizarding schools, all out of her father’s fear that any of his enemies may take advantage of such an obvious weakness. Yes, Isabel wasn’t your typical run of the mill witch, she was a Marzán, and the Marzán definitely did have a lot of enemies.

The Marzán family, Los Marzán, held great politician and economical power within the wizarding community in Spain, they were wildly known around Europe, esteemed and respected, but also feared, the name often resulting as intimidating, it carried an unquestionable reputation of oppressors, ruffians and extortionists. Indeed, the Marzáns were immensely and undoubtedly powerful, but they gained their power through questionable methods: through fear, threats, and increasingly illegal activities. Had they been Sicilians, they would have been truly worth of being called a mafia, living by the motto that was engraved on every family crest and coat of arms: Los fuertes jamás perecen. The strong shall never perish.

The leader of this mafia, their own personal Godfather, was a sly old fox by the name of Emilio Marzán, Don Emilio, Isabel’s dear and beloved father. A man who claimed to be of honor, who would charm anyone with artfully spoken words, only to carve poisonous wounds into their hearts the moment they stopped being of use. A man who believed in the difference between family and legacy, doing everything for the preservation and empowerment of the Marzán name, empowerment that clearly was unlikely to happen when having a frail and weak heir. Thus, overtime his daughter become nothing but the means to an end, a woman who should and would give birth to a child worthy of the Marzán name. A fact Isabel was painfully aware of, as she also grew increasingly aware of her family’s despicable reputation thanks to the comments made by ever-charming men during the ever-exciting balls sometimes thrown at her beautiful home.

Balls that weren’t planned by the young woman, as her connection to the rest of pureblood society was almost inexistent, but celebrated under the insistence of her mother (Catalina), serving as an fantastic and great excuse for the young Marzán to find a man suitable of being the father to the family’s heir. Such a man would soon be given the name of Jonathan Symmes, an American politician who didn’t come from a particularly well known or respected pureblood family, yet who had a rising and promising career within the Magical Congress. Career the Marzán family were most certainly interested in, as it would help them expand their influence oversees, Jonathan seeming like the perfect charming and handsome puppet. A duty the man carried out to incredible extents, specially the time when he conveniently fell in love with Emilio’s own heir.

It was a romance fit of a movie, or an old novel. A love of letters, of poems, of short visits, of gifts and flowers. Jonathan lived far away in America and Isabel was doomed to never leave the walls that often felt more like a prison than a home. Still, they loved each other, they still wanted one another, and they still got married. The man who was once a mere puppet becoming much more, as one can rarely lie or keep secrets from those one truly loves, being his wife’s eyes and ears in the outside world. Isabel may have been sheltered, withering and doomed to have a youthful demise, but the woman was no fool, and she knew full well any child of her would live a life far from innocent and happy, that they would never have the childhood she so desperate wanted to give them.

And she was right, for conflict was quick to arise on the fateful night of the birth of her darling son. First a conflict of name, Symmes of Marzán, which would remain? The Marzáns definitely held more power, a linage of prestige worth of being remembered and preserved regardless of how that prestige was obtained, but the pride of a father is not one that would allow Jonathan to quickly give up on his own name. It was losing battle, and for two years Martín Marzán was raised exactly as what the name claimed, the strong heir of a strong family who only remained in Valencia because of Emilio’s wish to fulfill the stubborn desires of a dying young mother. A wish the old Spaniard shared with Isabel’s husband, as Jonathan would quickly and without question agree to his wife’s last selfish request pronounced in sweet whispers at Isabel’s deathbed, not even thinking for a second of consequences or how much his actions may anger the strong and resentful Iberians.

This is how Martín Marzán became Martin Symmes, Spanish accentuation abandoned for a simpler and more common English pronunciation, white mansions abandoned for small apartments and hotel rooms, Spanish abandoned for English, Valencia replaced by America. And they lived on the run, escaping from the ever-threatening Marzán family, hiding among muggles and pretending to fit in among them, moving from city to city and from state to state, but at least they lived happily, as they lived together and Martin was just a normal young boy who knew little of why it was they were running. For five years, they lived like this: running, Jonathan didn’t give any explanations or talked about Isabel’s family, only ever giving his son one memento of his mother: a ring, bearing the family crest, given as a warning to run if he ever saw such symbol anywhere else. The Marzáns had taken everything from the American man, but they sure as hell weren’t going to take away his son.

Or so he thought, though the truth was much different, as anyone who isn’t with the Marzán family is against them, regardless of who they are or what favors they may have once granted. A truth Jonathan soon learned on a sunny Philadelphia day, the sunny day when he fell victim of a Curciatus Curse, dying after hours of cruel torture which a crying child was forced to watch until it’s very end. An imposing old man sternly starring at the scene from where he stood. “This is what happens when you mess with the Marzán family, Martin. This is what will happen if you ever leave us again.” He said to the child in a heavily accented voice. And this was Martin’s first memory of his grandfather, the man who was soon to become the living representation of all things evil and hated for the growing boy.

Because when Martin was taken to the family’s main home in Madrid, he went back to being Martín Marzán, stripped being an Symmes or anything that may have been slightly related to his father; tutored, trained and raised to inherit the Marzán name, a name that by this point he dreaded and felt like a heavy curse placed upon himself. A name he decided to make crash and burn the first day the boy spent at Beauxbatons, doing everything in his power to anger and enraged the head of the house he was forced to belong to. And yet, the French palace felt more like home than what any Iberian mansion ever did: at least there he had friends, a real family that was chosen and not imposed. A family that was soon lost as his father was, taken away by the Marzáns and by his own foolish mistake, fault of the uncontrollable anger caused by the sole mention of such a name. Having anger issues sucks, and it specially sucks when it’s what almost gets you kicked out of your beloved school because you beat consciousness out of some kid that was stupid enough mock someone like you. Whoops. Mistakes were made. Mistakes that ended up with Martín sent on his way to the dreaded Hogwarts. But hey…at least it wasn’t Spain.

The Sorting Hat is placed on your head. What are you thinking at that moment?:
Martín Marzán had never been a hat person, should you ask him, he would insist hats make him look awfully ridiculous, and that’s exactly what he thought of the moment he met the Sorting Hat. Would he had been able to use a phone, he would have Snapchatted that moment, as it definitely seemed to be an image that was sure to spark laughter. The hat was likely to read his thoughts, though the Spaniard did not quite care, pondering on the idea that – had it been his choice – he would have enchanted a cape and not a pointy hat, because while they are equally ridiculous, at least a cape makes you feel majestic, regal or like some hero fit for comics. Comics. Comic. Comic like the awful turn of events that had lead Martín to be sitting there that day. “What’s the difference between the houses anyway? And why is it such a big deal? Just don’t put me in the yellow one, okay? I look awful in yellow.”

Special Request: N/A
OOC Name: Stells!
Your Pronouns: She/Her
How did you find out about Wizarding Realm? Le Google~

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Stells Artois · 16 · 6th · Viridian Guild · Pureblood · 5'11
Administrator
Offline
2390
2305
Awards:
Awards: 158

Mar 29 2017, 12:35 AM   Link Quote
FIRST REVISION

Name: Martín Marco Marzán
Age: 16
Bloodline: Pureblood
Appearance:

What does it take for an individual to love their own reflection? To look at the mirror and be proud of that at which they are staring? In Martín’s case, he can name and list all the factors, as his appearance is something that holds great importance to the Spaniard. Despite his unimpressive and very standard height of 5’11, he’s recognizable from a distance, distinguishable among any crowd and impossible to miss. There’s just this light about him, this radiance, this aura that speaks of grace and glory - as if he were more than just a mere human being like in the other.

It is in the way he stands, so full of pride and unshakable confidence, bowing his head before no one. In the way he walks, in casual and calm strolls, as if he owned the floor he steps on. In the way he smiles, so warm and honest, as if he was the only one to know true happiness. In the way he stares, eyes burning like turquoise fire, blue and green meeting with intensity and expressiveness. In the way he speaks, never shy or bashful, words pouring out of his pink lips be them poetically flirtatious or painfully truthful - always spoken with a faint Castilian accent, one that becomes more present in his times of anger or drunkenness. And in the way he laughs, so easily and deeply, a sound that can lift anyone's spirits.

Maybe it’s this cheerfulness that makes him seem so radiant, the way he so easily finds enjoyment in everything, crackling and chuckling at those things he considers amusing, smirks and grins often curving his lips and brightening up his expressions. And he is expressive; thick eyebrows furrowing or raising in reaction to any situation, greek nose wrinkling at those rare times when he feels discomfort, charmingly batting long eyelashes when wishing to obtain something… or for the mere sake of entertainment. As Martín is fully aware of his appearance, of how there’s much about him that can be considered appealing.

Like the fair skin that so easily tans under the warmth of the sun - as if even this celestial body loved the Spaniard - a skin that has never been tainted by ink, yet that carries the thin and faded scars of childhood and more than one accident, almost unnoticeable unless looking closely and searching. Like the playful and small dark marks that lonely rest upon his cheeks. Those perfectly white and straight teeth of which he takes so much care. The light brown hair that’s never looks out of place even when facing wind or breeze, so soft and touchable with it’s strands of gold and honey (though someone touching them is something that would most definitely not please Martin). Those broad shoulders that speak of a love for swimming, and the athletic body which is result of constant exercise and rigorous training.

So warm that he could be mistaken for Summer, surrounded by the faint aromas of almonds and apricots, by hints of spearmint and orange. Is that his shampoo or his bodywash? There's no way to tell, as all scents blend together in harmony, new delicate notes being found with the more time spent in his presence - cedar wood, rosemary, the list goes on and on. Every detail matters, from scents to the clothes he's wearing, attires always carefully chosen regardless of where he's going. Shirts meticulously buttoned up and enjoying the feeling of soft fabrics, never daring being caught wearing something as simple and vulgar as jeans and a t-shirt.

The real question is, how can he not love what he sees when looking at a mirror? How could he not be proud of his own appearance? He could be Narcissus, cursed by Nemesis to be enchanted by the sight of his own reflection, but the boy has never been one to disdain those who love him, and while he certainly may had a degree of obsession with his own appearance, he always appreciates the beauty in others and values all those who appreciate his own. Because in the end, he is a creature of beauty, outside and within. A creature of gold, magnificence, splendor and majesty.

Personality:

“Sing, O muse, of the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans.”


Had he been born in Ancient Greece, epic poems would have surely been written about him. For epic poems tell the stories of great men who suffered great tragedies, of heroes of such skill and might that they can’t possibly be just human. And he would have been considered divine, a demi-god, born of one of the great deities that inhabit the heights of Olympus itself. Maybe Apollo, as the Spaniard often does seem to shine like the sun: so bright, so warm, so golden and full of such light. Light that is reflected in easily cast smiles that always reach his eyes, in contagious laughter that can fill a room with its sound, and in stares, stares that make one wonder if blue and green had ever been colors of such warmth. There’s melody to Martín Marzán, even if he’s no particularly amazing singer (though he’s definitely quite decent), but his laugh is like a song and his words are like poetry, all coming from the deepest and most honest parts of the heart.

Or maybe he’s the child of Aphrodite, as he possesses undeniable charm, a creature of such beauty that he seems impossible not to love. Iberian blood is blood of passion, blood of fire, and blood of love, and Martín reflects all this in the way he talks: so full of excitement, intensity and with such strong words. One that is quick to give affections: hugs, kisses, wonderfully recited Spanish words; and one that certainly craves love, a hopeless romantic that listens to too many ballads about devotion and adoration. Such things do seem to come naturally for the boy, even if he has never really fallen in love, but he walks from one casual lover to another, always willing to demonstrate how much he appreciates the beauty of others.

Though, sometimes, one can’t help but wonder if he’s born of Dionysius, as he seems so keen of celebration and ecstasy. Living a life that appears to be centered around entertainment, full of festivities and parties. Always a reason to drink, always a reason to celebrate, always a reason to go overboard and wake up in the hospital wing because he fell off a tree (yes it has happened before). Because Greek heroes sure knew about excess, and so does Martín, drowning in personal bliss while commemorating their own achievements and triumphs. He’s a social drinker, as drinking is not what the Spaniard does to wash away concerns or sadness, but he’s the kind of drunk who does increasingly stupid and dangerous things when inebriated. Enjoyment is a second nature: The bigger and wilder the party, the better; a second nature that more often than not comes with costs that the Marzán boy has no apprehensions in paying.

Sadly, the thing about epic heroes is that to all of them there is always one unquestionable truth: a child with too many blessings is cursed. What may seem like a divine gift of the gods is also cause for terrible misfortune, glory comes in hand with great tragedy, and possessing amazing skills always comes with a terrible price, a price that heroes will always be forced to pay. Like the Hercules who was beloved by the gods that gave him great strength but also drove him insane, forced to murder his dear wife and children because of Hera’s jealousy, living a life of suffering and dying a terrible death all to earn his rightful place among the Olympians. Like the Achilles, who’s wrath was the fall of Troy, who paid great prices all to be forever remembered throughout history. Heroes are always cursed, with curses like ego, pride and anger. Curses that Martín shares, always so confident and so volatile.

In fact, he is no child of Apollo, or of Aphrodite, or Dionysius, because as much as he may have the dignified qualities of graceful gods, being born a Marzán means being born for war. Ares calls his name like the roaring fire, like his brewing anger, like the endless battles that are fought inside him. Maybe this is why he prefers to be called ‘Mars’, an acknowledgement of war itself, an acknowledgement of living a life of nothing but hate. Hate. Hate for his family, for the Marzáns that know nothing but to hurt and take everything away - to destroy, to consume and to govern over the ashes. Hate that makes the boy do everything in his power to antagonise this family, as he rejoices in imagining the raging face of his grandfather. Hate that makes him so volatile, so easy to anger, so quick to throw punches and so fast to cast hexes. Hate. Hate that drives him, that motivates him. The drums of war pounding inside him.

The greatest tragedy of an epic poem is that the hero always tries to fight his fate, always tries to get the upper hand, unknowing that in Greek writing destiny can never be avoided or changed. And Martín also fights his fate, desperately tries to avoid it, venting negative emotions through an almost compulsive obsession with exercise and an attempt at keeping an almost permanently cheerful personality. Sure, he may run, run fast and run far, run from all his problems, run until his chest hurts, until its hard to breath and every muscle aches, but that still won't stop him from punching someone if they dare compare him to his despicable family. He fools himself, and he keeps on running, and he keeps on training, and he keeps on exercising. And he keeps on playing Quidditch, because he’s a child of Ares and he loves a good challenge, competitiveness in all aspects always being like fuel to his aching body.

And this is who Martín Marzán is, a hero of tragedies. A flame that’s so beautiful, mesmerizing and warm when under control, but that can so easily extinguish or cause a burning fire.

Character Background:

”No matter where you are, there will always be the sun. It may shine brighter and stronger at some places, it may hide behind dark clouds at others, but it will always be there to illuminate your path.”

All heroes of legends have their own prophecies. The boy had learned as much long ago, from the father that told myths as if simple bedtime stories thanks to knowing little regarding the latter. Those words -spoken in his mind with a sweet and loving tone- could have been his prophecy, one pronounced by a beautiful priestess of Apollo, for he did not remember the face of the woman who had truly made such a prediction. It had happened when he was a mere infant, the last promise made by a dying mother to the child she so desperately wanted to save from the fate that awaited him. And what a foolish woman she was, because any priestess of Apollo knew there was no such thing as escaping one's fate.

Isabel Marzán had been fated to die from the moment of her birth, but she ran from such destiny with every breath taken, for years and for over two decades. Escaping while hidden within the magnificent walls of a luxurious mansion, rarely ever seeing the outside world as illness slowly consumed her. She had been born frail and to a family that had never tolerated weakness. Such was the cruel nature of her destiny, the only daughter to a man that was both respected and feared, daughter which was meant to inherit the dark empire ran by her family. The Marzáns. A proud pureblood lineage which had existed for centuries, a prestigious family that held power in the wizarding society, specially in Spain. No rules applied to them, only their own, for the ways in which they obtained such power were far from those to be abide by law - organized crime, extortion, the list goes on. Los fuertes jamás perecen. The strong shall never perish. Words engraved in every crest and coat of arms, the only words that governed the family.

Yet Isabel was doomed to perish, for her body was not as strong as that persistent mind of hers, and for such reasons she was a shame to her heritage, never to become one capable of representing the Marzán name. Instead, the role Emilio Marzán - sly old fox known as the head of the family and her father - had for her was one much different: to marry someone worthy and useful, to give birth to a strong heir which was worthy of inheriting all of which the Marzán’s stood for. And she fulfilled such role all too well, as in her husband, Jonathan Symmes, the family found an asset they would utilize until the very end. While still a pureblood, the man did not have a renowned name, he was American and no one to the eyes of the Marzáns… except for his rising political career within the Magical Congress and the contacts made thanks to his natural charisma and amiableness.

And fools they had been, both of them, the man who stupidly feel in love with the stunning beauty he had once met at a ball, the woman who had only ever desired for happiness and had never wished to cause pain to a single thing in the world. Both tools. Both puppets, controlled by the puppeteer that was her father. If only she had not turned a blind eye until it was too late, if only she had not chosen to ignore the truths about her family and all the warnings Jonathan had for her. Poor man who let himself be used and control just for the sake of being with the woman he loved, poor man that allowed himself to be shacked the moment their dear child was born. Martín. Bright and golden and the greatest gift ever given to Isabel. A child forced to carry the Marzán name, a child which's life was controlled by Emilio from the very moment of his birth. That’s what it took for the woman to understand the fate that awaited that dear son of hers.

In the end, they were all bound together by the strings of destiny: the manipulative monarch, the frail princess, the foolish husband, and the golden son. All characters in their very own greek tragedy, one that reached an stasima once one of the characters disappeared… or three of them. It all started with the death of Isabel, finally completely consumed by illness, and the despair such an event caused to Mr. Symmes. Despair that awoke the anger and fear held for the woman’s family, despair that drove him to escape and take his child with him. Martín had been two years old back then, and has no recollection or knowledge of such events. All he truly knows about his parents is what was learned years later, for Jonathan never spoke a word about the boy's mother.

The episode that is Martín’s early childhood -who at such time went by the name of Martin Symmes- is full of memories of his father. Memories of roadtrips and staying in the houses of strangers, of sleeping at the back of cars and the uncomfortable beds of small hotel rooms, of going from one city to another, never staying anywhere for longer than a couple of months if lucky. Friendships never lasted, though he was still happy, blissfully spending years with the man who would tell him mythological stories, who would teach him everything the child ever knew about the world around him. Sports, history, culture… magic. Wizards, hiding among no mags, but from what were they hiding? From what were they running? Every time Martin asked, he got no answer, only stares and a rapid change of subject.

It was not until he was seven years old that he learned the truth, a sunny summer day in Philadelphia, happy like any other. A day that would end up haunting his dreams for years, as it was soon voided of all joy and cheer. In just a few seconds his world change, by the presence of strangers in their hotel room, of tall men in dark suits that took him away from his father, those who made the man kneel as he stared at his child with empty promises of safety. The boy remembered crying until tears would no longer come, remembered desperately trying to free himself until he was too tired to even try, remembered fear and anguish, watching his father suffer for hours. All the memories are vivid, too clear, relived every single night, from the last time he held his father’s hand to the light extinguishing from the man’s eyes, from the pool of blood that stained the room’s carpet to the cold words of a man that spoke with a heavy accent and pronounced his name in the weirdest of manners.

Martín. Spanish. The language the boy would grow to know as his own, the pronunciation to which he would grow accustomed after years of struggling against it when living in the Madrilenian mansion - the mansion they expected him to call his home after losing the life he had with his now deceased father. Father which no longer existed, there was never a Jonathan Symmes; for all who weren’t with the Marzán family were against them and the man’s offenses had earned him torture, death, and all records of his existence being wiped out from the world forever. But the boy still remembered, the boy still feared, the boy still wanted to cry even if tears would no longer come, and the boy still hated. Dislike for the Marzán family and his grandfather growing stronger every single moment spent in the man’s presence, with every single time they tried to force him into being the heir Emilio desired.

He fought, he resisted, and he rebelled, because the Madrilenian mansion was not his home and there he would never find happiness. He screamed, he destroyed and he ran, but the Marzán family still managed to change him. Because while he may have hated them, they still showed him the pride to which he was rightful, they still made him understand who he truly was, and doing so they awoke the god of war that laid deep inside him. The god who would not let them bind him, who would not surrender, who would not allow their darkness to dim the well earned radiance that shone inside him. Because even among the Marzáns he found reasons to smile, specially in the few relatives that he would grow to know as what remained of what he truly considered his family: the cousin that seemed to be the only person with whom he could share the truths that tormented him, the girl who he desperately wanted to save from also being shackled by their family. The Isleys.

While in Theodore he found understanding, in Victoria he found reason - someone for whom he could smile, a companion that would join him in all his misadventures. For her he smiled and pretended the world had never been as bright as when they were together, for her he laughed and joked and did anything to ensure her happiness, for her he would have done anything. Even as the years drew them apart and they never saw each other as much as they once had, even as they attended schools at completely different sides of the continent. He was a Marzán, and the Marzáns always attended Beauxbatons. And such was the place where Martín truly learned who he was, the place which would grow to become his home.

The mansion may have been more of a prison than a home, but within its walls he had learned quite a lot during the four years that passed before attending Beauxbatons. French and Spanish, etiquette, manners, to observe, to understand, to plan and strategize...and to make himself be respected. All things necessary of a heir of the Marzán name. All things which quickly earned him his rightful throne within the palace...aside from the aid of his own personality. While his last name may have been feared and esteemed, he was still Martín, and he possessed the charisma of his father, the warm smiles and the sweetly spoken words, the things that made him be loved and not just respected. And it was at that place that he shone the brightest, for there was harmony and delight, for he learned to appreciate all the wonders that the school could offer him.

And he loved Beauxbatons, truly and more than any other place in the entire world, as it had been the only place he could call home from the moment he lost his father. Yet, after almost six years, Beauxbatons was lost too, result of his own foolish actions and hatred for his family. Result of the rage that burned within him when being compared to his despicable grandfather. One Quidditch game was all it had taken, one stupid child attempting to insult him, one shove that had thrown the kid off his broom, one punch followed by many others, one tearful apology which had been completely ignored as his knuckles were covered in the blood of another, one person who was finally capable of dragging him away from his unconscious victim, one week spent comatose in the hospital by that same victim, one complaint from the kid’s family, one refusal from his grandfather to intervene in the situation… one expulsion. All it took for him to be forced to leave behind those majestic gardens.

Another episode of his never ending greek tragedy. How could Hogwarts ever compare to the beauty of the French palace? How could he ever call home to a place that felt like yet another prison to which he was sentenced. Once again stolen away from all he loved and punished undeservingly. Thrown in a castle of ancient stone walls and a cold weather that made him long for the sun of his birthland. Sun like the one that shone inside him, that would not dim even in such a situation, that would find reasons to be radiant even if he had to fight for them, because even in such a place there was still silver lining: the presence of his cousins, that of the old acquaintances which would soon become friends who brought reminders, and that of the people who were still wonderful even when living in that school of nightmares.

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04
god - captain / chaser
Gryffinpuff
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