Chapter Text
There had been no doubt about it. His father had known he wasn’t right since the day of his birth. The old doctor had been lucky enough to confirm that suspicion when Ludwig was only three, dressed in a pale blue overcoat his mother would have adored, long, black hair tied into a tight, headache-inducing braid. Archimedes had never been a normal daemon, the silent vermin with the red eyes that followed him into each of his forms. Always birds, always winged, always pulling Ludwig as far away from his father as his metaphorical leash would allow.
One day he became a dove, a perfectly white thing whose beauty rivalled the Humboldt family's heraldry. And for a single, calm day, Ludwig’s father dared to believe his child would be normal.
The next day, Archimedes flew off into the forest surrounding their estate, going so far that an ache settled within Ludwig's breast and refused to leave until the evening. The dove returned within minutes, heavenly visage marred by the blood of a rat he carried in his talons.
Ludwig's father knew that his spawn would not be normal; wishing had never brought his family solace. Devilry ran in their veins, after all. Ancient magics that Germany had long since forgotten. Archimedes was not a cause, but a symptom of a child borne of a curse. He was the reflection of a tainted soul, a spitting image of his mother’s albino peacock. Despised, but never hated.
When the rat had been dropped at Ludwig's feet, the babe let out a shriek. His father had recognised it as delight, and he had refused to watch as those tiny, chubby hands pulled the vermin apart with a precision that would remain with him for the rest of his life.
Archimedes watched on, red eyes focused on Ludwig, red spots already blooming on his feathers. Ludwig was three years old when his daemon settled into the form of a dove. But even as he grew, he never quite realised the irony of it.
A runaway entered university, and a runaway left Germany only a few years later. When he walked into the administration’s office, a dead man’s identification on him, Archimedes was there to charm the sweet, old woman behind the desk. A dove, brilliantly white, could have only been a sign of a pure soul.
Ludwig went to university as a runaway, a murderer, hiding under someone else’s identity. No one dared to question his white wings.
When he ran from Germany, followed by a reminder of his genetics, Archimedes soared alongside him. And it was so easy to charm those nice boys in France to let him join. After all, a nurse with a dove was only second best to a nightingale. Healers all had birds, just like soldiers had canines, and officers had big cats. The dove sealed the deal.
Ludwig left the army with blood on his teeth. Archimedes left with him, stained crimson on his breast. Had his father been right? Ludwig would never know. After all, what was yet another dead fool’s opinion to him?