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An old bit but I'm still happy about this heehoo

#skost skribbles #writing?? #how do writing work

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This month has been a roller coaster for writing but I'm so happy with how this ridiculous drabble turned out and the dialogue isn’t half bad,,,,

#skost skribbles #writing #actual writing????? in this economy???

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only important scenes included in this outline

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depending on the form of the question the details of my WIP will range from either a long but expressive explanation on nature and being unable to stop the inevitable as you strive to save the ones you love to me mumbling "ghosts"

#this was made clear once again while on a voice call with a friend i tried and yet djdjs

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Behind, familiar footsteps crunch down on the fallen leaves, falling to a stuttered stop at his side. Tomás has almost perfected an art Faramund will forever find charming and amusing; his legs were not built for long treks, and they were certainly not built for steep hills. Despite this, he braves a face and swallows down complaints that he’ll never speak. 

Faramund considers his next words in silence. “You’ve been carrying that pack since yesterday morning. I would, that is, if you’re… I’m happy to share the load for the rest of the way. That’s not to say you’re lagging or it’s too heavy for you,” he quickly adds, catching the beginning of an all-too familiar knit of Tomás’ brows. “It’s simply, we’ve been walking so much lately, and…”

A huff cuts him off, but Faramund finds himself smiling at it nonetheless. “Don’t you go and paint me as a delicate rose who can’t afford to bruise a petal; I’ll have you know I’ve found my second callus the other night on my hand.” 

An amused snort escapes from Faramund. The taller man simply huffs again, the puff void of annoyance.

“In any case, your offer is. Appreciated, but I actually sold a small portion to the merchants in Monsor who were smart enough to avoid questions.”

He chuckles. “We’ve been significantly lucky in that regard.”

Tomás gives a small hum, his eyes forward and scanning the treetops back and forth. The corners of his lips were locked in battle in which way to go, whether to stay sealed or break open, to attempt a smile or form a frown. One hand remains balled in the pocket of his heavy wool coat and the tips of his knuckles but a brief bump through the fabric in their movements, and the other runs down one side of his jaw before moving to the other side, absent-mindedly picking and twisting at stray hairs. The bottom of his lip juts outward suddenly, a telltale sign of growing contemplation.

“It’s odd, perhaps, but I can’t help but think of it,” Faramund muses, locking his hands behind his back. “Here, seeing the tops of these trees, walking off the path and seeing nothing but what the forest is offering, it reminds me of your mo… Of. Of Lady Ozwell’s garden.”

Tomás doesn’t respond at first, the briefest of shadows falling over his face. Faramund chews on the inside of his lip in worry; he should know better than to even mention the other’s former family, even in passing. He opens his mouth, the immediate apology ready, but Tomás is quick to shift in his place with a sharp clearing of his throat. 

“Hers was. Tolerable, I will admit. However, what I’m seeing now is far more impressive than hers could ever be,” he says finally. “Hers demanded order, forced structure to the point where even a fool will see no love, no, no creativity, originality. But here, I see this disorder that’s comforting, this chaos that is understood by beasts, and it fits. It’s clear, Faramund. And what’s before us, surrounding us...” He waves his hand around, as if hoping to catch words falling from the sky. “Her façade of a garden does not compare to the one we wander through now.” 

“I… never considered that,” Faramund says with a smile in his voice.

#skost skribbles

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my other half

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Photography by ukgardenphotos

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𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 & 𝐁𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐒

                                                     𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐍𝐉𝐔𝐑𝐘 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄                                       

“You’re dripping blood on the carpet.” “When I said scars are kinda sexy, I didn’t mean you should get one right away…” “Press that against the wound, I’m going to get the med kit.” “It’s bleeding quite badly.” “Oh God, what happened to you?!” “You’re covered in blood! Is it yours?” “Your head looks pretty bad. I’m sure it’ll need stitches.” “It’s going to hurt for a moment, but I’ll need to clean the wound.” “I’m so sorry this happened to you. But you’re safe now.” “That’s a pretty nasty bruise. Want some ice?” “Does it still hurt?” “I don’t think a band aid is gonna fix this…” “Whoa, hey, stay with me! You’re as white as a ghost. Don’t pass out.” “Damn, that must hurt. I’m sure there are some painkillers around here.” “You have to be seen by a doctor. This isn’t going to heal on its own.” “It looks broken. Can you move it at all?” “Here, lean on me. I’ll support you.” “I’m not going to leave you behind. If need be, I’ll carry you.” “I’m going to pick you up now, okay? Just hold on to me.” “Everything is going to be okay. Just hang in there.”

“I don’t feel so good.” “It’s seeping through the bandages.” “My head is throbbing. I think I have a concussion.” “I can barely breathe, it hurts so bad!” “It looks worse than it is. I’m sure it’ll be gone in a couple of days…” “You should see the other one.” “Don’t look at me like that. I don’t want your pity.” “It was my fault, really. I wasn’t paying attention and got hit in the face.” “Getting stabbed wasn’t really on my bucket list.” “I don’t think I can walk.” “Leave me behind, please. I’m just going to slow you down.” “Am I going to die?” “I can’t stop the bleeding.” “I think the bruise matches my eye color.” “Don’t touch it, please! It hurts.” “I don’t want to go to a hospital. I hate doctors!”

#eyes emoji

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She inched closer to his crib, sinking to her knees to gaze upon Sotiris slumbering away. One hand gripped tightly to the stuffed lynx with mismatched button eyes, the other open and laying listless along the sheets. In the dimming candlelight, she could make out the beginning of curls forming in the dark mop of his hair.

Drawing her hand close to his sleeping form, head resting on her arm, a thought wormed its way inside.

How many times did her son smile, but she never took notice? How often did he laugh, and she only stared blankly in return?

Why was something so precious and warm blind to her?

Wee bit update as I learn how to words

#skost scribbles #my writing #i attempt words

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"You," she repeated, hoarse. What could she say to him that he could even understand? Even here, it was unlikely he grasped that single word. Yet he still reached for her, eyes filled with unbound curiosity locking with ones that drove disgust and fear to those who risked looking at a being they deemed more creature than human. 

And yet, he reached for her.

Shaking, she held out a hand to him, dread coiling around in an unforgivable snare. Countless times, her attempts to grab at passersby, random strangers just to feel them, to feel anything, shattered as they walked on, her hand dragging through their arms and shoulders, cries demanding to be seen or heard falling to deaf ears.

She knew his own hand would catch nothing, and a shuddering chill draped over her form. What a sick joke played by fate, she thought bitterly. To finally be seen by her son, only to remain as a ghastly, intangible...

Warmth.

lil excerpt from a new scene I got goin’ on dklsjf

#my brain is pleading me to stop i have so many WIPs going on and yet they reach the void as i go heehoo type type #skost scribbles #my writing

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The Shore

AKA, Sad Dad Takes Son on Depressing Roadtrip, AKA I can’t think of good titles I’m not sorry

More OC nonsense with our ( @bogglebabbles and myself) characters in a scene that happens before the story even takes place but consider the following: so what

What was she like?”

The soft but endlessly inquisitive voice of his son rose above the clatter of the train storming along the tracks. Faramund turned his head so slightly downward, met immediately with hazel eyes, staring solely at the older gentleman. Already he could see the striking slivers of grey seeping into the hazel.

“I…” Faramund licked his lips, adjusting himself upright on the bench. “I can’t say much for certain. She…”

She was in so much pain, and we were powerless to help.

“We didn’t have many opportunities to talk on the ship, y-you see,” he mumbled, hooking his fingers along one of his cufflinks. “Everyone rather kept to themselves.”

The uncertainty was not caught by the young boy. He leaned closer, hands pressing firmly into the wool seating. “Did she look like me? What did she sound like? Did she have a pretty voice?”

Desperately, his fingers searched for a loose button or even a thread to pluck at. Finding that the tailor’s immaculate work lived up to its infamy and neither were found, he prayed for a distraction among the blurry scenery outside. The country landscape offered nothing.

“I don’t…” Faramund paused, gulping down the hesitation trembling in his voice. “I, ah, I don’t recall. It was risky to go out on deck during the day, and even at night any trace of light would have alerted us to unwanted eyes. On the chance I did see her before… I wouldn’t have remembered.”

“Oh.” Sotiris sank into the seat, shoeless feet dangling and swinging to and fro off the bench. Lips pursed, and suddenly his head lifted with a wide grin. “Maybe she was really nice…! And she sang as good as you do!”

A small, somber smile played on Faramund’s face and he chuckled. “You’re far too kind, son. If you believe my singing is good, then hers would have been the voice of angels! You certainly got your generosity from her.”

The younger beamed, throwing a brief look to the empty seat across the way. “How come Da didn’t come with us? He said he loves traveling!”

“A-ah, he does, yes! It’s, well…”

I worry he’s done what he always does with things that put him in great distress: he avoids it at all cost. He’ll always tell me he’s fine, but it upsets me to know how much he’s allowing to build on his shoulders. I fear it will be too late for me to pull him free when it collapses on him.

“He thought it better to stay at home to oversee the factory’s remodeling. But, I know any other day he would have loved to join us.” His smile broadened and he mussed the curly mess that was Sotiris’ hair. A moment later, the smile dropped. “Are you certain you want to do this now? We can always come back when you’re older, no one will fault you for that.”

When I can be stronger for you. When even I can accept this.

Sotiris was quiet for a passing minute, then leaned against Faramund. He pulled his knees to his face and lowered his gaze.

“I do; I don’t want to wait. I… I want to see my mom.”

                                                       ~ ~ ~

In dreams, he would see the beach.

He saw the same shoreline, walked along its eerily perfect curve over and over, to the point where he could spot even a grain of sand out of place. He would see the same waves roll and crash along the shore leading to the forest on overseeing hills. Sometimes, the sky would be as blue as the ocean’s surface, with nary a cloud to be seen; sometimes, it would be hidden by the dark blanket of the moonless night.

For a moment, Faramund would hold a hand in the air, running his fingers through the incoming winds, and in that moment, he believed all would be well.

Truly, what a fool he was.

It would happen so quickly, so suddenly that he would stumble and fall on the rocks. The flames swelled high from the scattered ruins, a sickening odor of smoke choking his lungs. In both the distance and within an arm’s reach, he heard the cries and pleas of the faceless, nameless passengers before they succumbed to silence, swallowed by the fire, or the dark waters. Tomas was nowhere to be seen, and his own hands began to burn to a ghostly heat. Somewhere, elsewhere, a woman -- no, a child cried for help…

In a blink, the calm waves returned below a gray sky, the melody of crying seagulls echoing far away. Faramund’s hands started and he threw a panicked glance downward. Uneasy relief in the form of a gentle breeze slithered past him; they were not burning, but shaking.

A small voice calling for him pulled his head upright and he turned. Sotiris stood at his side, hands grabbing the back of his heavy coat. His eyes followed the child’s sight, spotting the barren, skeletal remains of a vessel lodged in the shallow waters. A hand cupping the boy’s head, they walked towards the looming, metal wreckage. Perhaps a curious passersby would mistake the sight for an unlucky ship running aground, never to make it back to the vast waters; perhaps the House of Gilroy succeeded in wiping the ambush off the face of the beach to mask their crimes on innocent lives before one became wise.

Sotiris tightened his grip on the coat, taking a cautious step forward towards the waves. They sputtered to a stop before his feet and retreated in haste. One, both hands slipped away from the safety of the thick wool and he edged around the coming of another wave, eyes wandering up the bare frame trapped within the sand and ocean.

Softly, Sotiris spoke. “Is this, is this where...”

Faramund nodded, his voice wavering slightly. “Her and many others, yes.” He forced a swallow and exhaled faintly. “We were to dock in a small fishing mill down the coast, go about our new lives.” A shell crunched beneath his foot as he stepped towards his son. He rubbed his thumb in circles along Sotiris’ hair. “Had they mistaken us for the enemy, or they simply despised the idea of newcomers, I’ll know not, but… it won’t change what they did. What they stole.”

The last words lingered in the air; like a hot knife, they poked and prodded at invisible wounds thought to be healed years back. Across the waters, he spotted the protruding, smooth rocks of the foreshore making itself known; at the hitch in his breath, day swirled into night, and he stood, rooted in place, watching a scene so utterly familiar to him play out.

Two obscure silhouettes pull themselves upon the rocky outcrop, towing along a single lifeboat. Through the roaring flames, the crashing water, the whimpers and gasps of a young woman are barely audible. One slumps to their knees, the other scrambles to grab hold and gently ease her out of the boat, immediately dipping and catching as she collapses upon setting foot on land. She shrinks closer into herself, and a sharp, keen sound of shock breaks into the night sky. 

The cry is not from her.

“I don’t see Mom.”

Night flashed back to day in a fell swoop, wiping the tidal pools clear of any beings, of any boat. Faramund started in place, shuddering at a swell of goosebumps riding up his arms and neck and a patch of cold sweat breaking across his neck. Shaking his head, he rubbed furiously at his eyes with the heel of his hand before catching a trail of footprints leading away from him, aimless in their journey as they stopped in numerous directions in the sodden sand, stopping at the foot of marram grass atop a small mound further from the shore. There, he saw Sotiris, head and body twisting and turning for a destination he knew not. 

“What was that, Sotiris?” 

Sotiris wrung his hands along the hem of his capelet, frowning slightly. “I don’t see her. All the people in the cemetery had graves and headstones, and so did the people in the churchyards back home. How come there’s not one for her, Dad? Or for the others?”

“O-oh,” Faramund whispered, his heart sinking like a stone. “I,” he continued, louder, his own hands now pressing tightly against one another. He feared both would break under the mounting pressure any moment, and he forced them to latch onto his coat. “I’m afraid… I’m afraid there aren’t any.”

Sotiris turned quiet, eyes downcast. “Why?”

He opened his mouth to reply, but Faramund found his voice to be dry, bare. What could he say to the child? That their attackers likely held no interest in granting the passengers a proper burial, for doing so would bring to light their crimes?

Faramund’s head drooped, his gaze at his sand-coated shoes. “I’m sorry, Sotiris, but… I don’t know.”

The distant lapping of waves turned heavy to his ears, accompanied with the howling of winds that were once faint and soothing. Above, the gray clouds split apart to reveal blue skies, and rays of the summer sun found their way to the crescent shore and waters. The warmth it delivered, however, was but a fleeting touch to the man. 

“I wish I could tell you so much more.” Faramund exhaled heavily, his eyes settling upon the tidepools. “I wish I could tell you with certainty that her voice was soft and surpassed those of the angels. Of what she looked like, of how you have her eyes, her smile. I…” Heat bit at his eyes, and tears trickled freely down his cheeks. “I wish I could say why there’s no grave for your mother. I wish… And knowing that I can’t, knowing that my memory is as dark as that night… I-”

He found himself at a loss of what to say when a cutting, sudden sob broke into the air. His head snapped up, panic written across his face before, trembling, guilt swept over him in a landslide. 

Rooted in place among the marram grass, small fists clenched at the capelet’s hems, Sotiris stood, his own tears brimming and rolling wildly downward and disappearing within the grassy sea. Immediately, Faramund stumbled over to the mound and rested his hands lightly over Sotiris’ arms, kneeling as he gave the boy’s arms a reassuring squeeze.

He opened his mouth to speak, to freely utter words of comfort.

“I’m sorry,” Sotiris choked out. He shut his eyes and tugged at the capelet, shaking. “I-I’m sorry!”

Rigid, he furrowed his brows. “Sotiris, wh… what are you…”

“I, I…” The boy sniffled sharply, raising his hands as if to wipe away the tears before they fell limp at his sides. “Y-you’re supposed to r-remember all the good times you had with s-someone before they died, and you’re supposed to know wh-who they were when you visit them. But, but… I don’t remember Mom. I don’t kn-know, know anything about her. I thought if y-you o-or Da knew, seeing Mom would...” His breath began to hitch between deep, heaving sobs.

All Faramund could choke out was a shuddering “Oh,” and with it came a devastating realization that gripped his soul. “Oh, Sotiris-”

“I… I…” He threw himself at Faramund and buried his face within the man’s shoulder with a mighty whimper, his small arms wrapping tight around his torso as his fingers dug and twisted into the coat’s fabric. Though muffled, his voice rang clear as day. “I wanted h-her to see I was a go-good son and m-make her, her proud! How can I do th-that when I…” His voice cracked and devolved into hoarse, sharp sobs, each one a striking flinch through the child’s body. 

Faramund absorbed each snivel, each flinch with the same countenance one would find on a prisoner facing the judge. The persistent questions shot at both he and Tomas to the point of exhaustion; pressing requests to return to the island, a land once home to them all, hidden over the ocean’s horizon. These questions were not to fulfill a child’s curiosity; they were to earn sole gratification from those of the past, from those whose voices were as silent as the night stars. 

Both arms easily took up Sotiris in a warm embrace, pulling him closer with a gentle squeeze. “My dear, sweet boy,” he said slowly. One hand trailed up and rested upon the boy’s hair. “You’ve nothing to apologize for. Not for this. You can’t fault yourself for something far out of your control, out of anyone’s control. You were much too young when she passed; it would be maddening to think she or anyone else would condemn you for it.”

He shut his eyes, exhaling shakily. He fought to keep his voice steady. “I know it hurts, Sotiris. I know it hurts to have your mother’s image as nothing more than a blank slate, and the memories you would hold close to your heart are vague details told from others. But, she did not leave you stranded. What she left you is something that surmounts everything else, something no one else could provide or take away.”

Sniffling, one teary, reddened eye peeked from the shelter of the coat, staring upward.

“Your mother… she loved you more than anything the world could have given her. When the ship was attacked, through the destruction she made certain you were safe, e-even when it meant risking her own well-being in doing so. She…” He stilled, swallowing down a growing break in his throat. “It didn’t matter to her that she was hurt, how far she had to pull that lifeboat through the cold ocean waters that night. Nobody or nothing else mattered to her. Only you, Sotiris. The love she had for you, even in her last moments… Try as your father and I might, there’s no such affection or obstacle that can master it.”

His gaze flickered back to the tidepools, and through half-lidded, misty eyes, he saw her.

It’s a challenge to keep her head upright, to stop herself from completely slumping over and away from the lifeboat. In slow, harsh gasps, she puts on a rueful smile and stares at the crashing waves along the rocks. It takes minutes for her to gather her bearings, more to utter a pained request. There’s no hesitation from the two figures at her side, and immediately a small bundle is set in her shaking arms. Her smile only grows, the tranquil demeanor along her face a stark contrast to the grim injury stealing her life. She lowers and presses her forehead into the bundle, holding off the trembles that took over her body a short while ago as she murmurs a hushed promise to the infant wrapped snug in the dry blanket. 

‘You’ll protect him, won’t you?’ She breathes out. Her eyes don’t leave the bundle. ‘Please, he deserves what I can’t give him anymore. My Sotiris, he…’

He found himself nodding, an anguished, silent reply to her plea that night. Neither he or Sotiris moved or pulled away from one another, and it wasn’t long before a growing wet patch broke through his coat and seeped past his shirt. His hand lightly rubbed circles into the boy’s back as the sobs rumbled against his shoulder, dying off into sputtered coughs before a spell of stillness fell over them both.

After a long while, sniffling, Sotiris withdrew from Faramund, the heels of his hands rubbing at his eyes. Faramund wasted no time, fishing out a small, green handkerchief decorated in red holly leaves and carefully taking hold of Sotiris’ arms in one hand, dabbing away tears fresh and old along the child’s eyes and cheeks with the other. 

He mustered a small, melancholy smile. “One does not require memories to mourn the loss of a loved one, Sotiris, and let no one tell you otherwise. You’re allowed to grieve for your mother, now and forever.” He paused to wipe a new tear from the corner of Sotiris’ eye. “Her love for you, you carry it wherever you go, and it will stay strong through your own love. I know… if she were here now, she would be proud to see how far you’ve come. To have such a bright and passionate child as her son… she’d be honored.”

Sotiris’ voice was meek, croaky. “R-really?”

“Of course.” 

Sniffling again, his eyes bloodshot, Sotiris glanced to the tidepools. “Can we stay here for a while longer? Please? I don’t want to go back to the inn yet.”

Faramund blinked in surprise before his face turned somber, patting the boy’s shoulder. “We can stay here for as long as you’d like. Come, the tide’s still low, and we can look at all the little plants and creatures nestled in the pools…”

                                                     ~ ~ ~

He found himself thinking of her. 

With the exception of a single candle fluttering in an ashen-coated lantern in the corner, the inn’s room was completely dark. Outside, the clouds returned in hordes and hid the stars and moon from curious onlookers, much to one’s displeasure outside their window. Much to Faramund’s relief, their outcries of vexation did not disrupt the sleeping occupant in the bed across the room, curled halfway into a ball beneath a patterned quilt. 

In the dark, his back and shoulders pressed along the headboard and hands wringing themselves, Faramund thought of her. 

How would she react, knowing he brought her child to not only her unmarked grave, but to the grave of the other passengers? He came to the only reasonable conclusion he could think of: furious. No doubt she would have berated him for such a foolish action, and he wouldn’t have blamed her had she decided to strike him.

Children should be basking in the care of their parents, running around and exploring imaginative worlds. 

They should not be led to an area once clenched in death’s cold grasp.

Ah, a voice sang in his head, but the boy was in those cold hands once not so long ago. Is he not already familiar with its ways?

He winced at his fingers nearly choking one another, prying them away with some hesitation. He shook his head, shutting his eyes closed with a shaky breath. 

What was your name?

Quiet.

Why were you on the ship? What were you running from?

Nothing.

Had she survived, he wondered what would have become of her and Sotiris. Would she have gone the way of her unknown goal, possibly to be never seen again? Would she have accompanied him and Tomas to Amaranthine, perhaps extending a branch of friendship and camaraderie? 

He shook his head again, shifting his position on the mattress. He had all these questions and more, questions to answers that will forever be out of his grasp.

“Dad?”

A sudden creak of wood against pressure snapped him from his thoughts and he started, his hand nearly slipping from the bed and almost throwing him to the floorboards below. He righted himself, fumbling with the ends of his undone necktie when he turned his head. In the dim light, Sotiris’ outline wrapped in the quilt stood out clear.

“Dad?” he repeated, hushed. “How come you’re not asleep?”

“Ah, unfortunately it’s one of those restless nights I picked up from your father. Did I wake you?” 

He could barely make out Sotiris shaking his head. “I can’t sleep. I did all the suggestions you and Da say to do and I can’t. I don’t feel tired.”

“Given today’s events, I’m not wholly surprised to hear that.” There came a moan from the bedframe, and Sotiris’ mattress dipped from the newfound weight shifting on the edge. “It was a lot to take in, I’m sure.” 

A moment of stretched silence crept through the room.

“I suspect, however,” Faramund added, slowly, “that today isn’t all that’s currently on your mind.”

“No,” came the shy response. The quilt rustled faintly in the dark. Then, “Da said you were an orphan, and… a-and you didn’t know your parents, either.”

His brow knit, Faramund said nothing at first. His hands took to tugging at his cufflinks once more, and he swallowed. “He is correct. Why… How did he come to tell you this?”

“I asked,” Sotiris mumbled. “I was asking him about his family, and then about yours, b-but he didn’t say anything else after it. Da wouldn’t talk about his family, either.”

“That… sounds like your father. But don’t take it too hard, Sotiris. He…” The corners of Faramund’s lips flickered downward. “The less he’s asked about that particular subject, the better.”

The fabric of the quilt continued to swish in Sotiris’ grip. “Did you miss them? Your parents?”

Were the lantern closer to them, a shadow would have fallen over Faramund’s eyes. “Truthfully, I did not think of them with pleasant thoughts growing up. I was about your age if not younger when th… When I lost them.” He licked at his lips, pinching his fingers deep along his cufflinks. “I didn’t miss them.”

“Oh.”

The candle sputtered out its last flames, then the once feebly lit corner turned black. 

Sotiris’ voice was barely above a whisper and he shuffled closer to Faramund. His head rested along his father’s arm and he said, “Dad?”

“Hm?”

“Is… is it okay if I miss Mom? Even if I can’t remember her?”

Against the window, faint droplets of rain tapped and splattered along the glass and shutters, falling to a rhythm lasting seconds before it unleashed a mighty torrent to the inn and streets. For but a moment, Faramund feared some had broken through the ceiling, as the sleeve of his shirt became damp. His heart sank at the reality, but he shifted and closed his arm around the child’s shoulders with an assuring squeeze.

“Absolutely.”

In the distance roared thunder. Neither seemed to notice, nor care.

“I miss her.”

Faramund closed his eyes tight at the brimming heat poking at them. 

“So do I, Sotiris.”

#skost scribbles #i started this thing like 2 months ago and my one braincell wanted to keep this sht going why am i like this #more OC writing sht

[skost-skribbles]

Shrike

He wakes to the steady, slow motions of the shoulder he claimed as his pillow from the previous night. The chest rises, falls, then rises again in step to a rhythm known only to the man’s body. The morning sun, painting the sky in warm streaks of orange and pink, begins to peek over the rolling hills past the small village.

Faramund’s eyes flutter open upon a particularly deep inhale, and the sight before him is far more glorious than the sunrise and her growing canvas.

Slowly, he sidles closer to Tomas and tugs along the thick cover. With one hand gripping loosely on the blanket, the other finds refuge on Tomas’ chest, on a spot graced with the approaching light. Through the nightshirt’s fabric, the man’s heartbeat rumbles softly beneath Faramund’s hand, and a flush of pink touches his face. 

Each night, they found themselves weary in their aimless journey. Each night, they found shelter by way of a roadside inn or hostel in a town along a road overwhelmed by weeds or fauna seeking to take back what was once theirs. They would share their meal, share the same lie on their names, their desire to tour the southern shores of the isle to anyone curious enough to ask. Each night, they would retire to their room, throw their bags and clothes and shoes on one bed, and fall victim to sleep in a warm embrace in the other.

And each morning, Faramund woke first, first overcome in silent joy at finding himself so close to a man he dreamt of for so long, and eventually, overwhelmed with a crippling, stabbing fear.

Is this real?

Curling in on himself, a heavy sigh escapes through his nostrils. His hand trails up to cup Tomas’ cheek, careful of the bruising that is now an ugly stain of black and blue beneath his left eye. A limp strand of dark hair brushes along Faramund’s fingers and he pauses, a nostalgic yet melancholy look sweeping his eyes. Once beautiful and shining locks of hair held together by a silver ribbon have turned short and unkempt, an unnecessary casualty in Casimiro’s brutality. 

Still, he finds his fingers twisting and combing through ghostly strands, brushing his thumb along a thick lock seen only in memories. Deep down, he hopes Tomas will grow it out again, and he’ll rake his hands through those locks over and over. Perhaps, he thinks to himself, he should learn to braid. 

If this is a dream, may it be one I never wake from.

The last year had been pure agony. To be by a man he wanted to embrace, to take his hands and never let go, to welcome Tomas’ smiles with ones of his own, to care for him, but to force his wants to remain only desires for fear of rejection, repulsion. How painful it was to keep it buried when Tomas sought his company only, hiding within the confines of the willow tree in the garden from afternoon to the late evenings; how he fought to restrain himself from blurting it out during conversation.

He pauses in his reflections, throwing a glance to his love’s sleeping form. If it ate at him, Faramund can only imagine it was torturous for Tomas to quell his own wishes. 

Tomas breathes sharply, sucking in a deep breath, and Faramund is snapped from his thoughts with a felling swoop. He lifts his head and props himself on his elbow, eyes softly watching as the man sits upright with stiffened arms, his own eyes still closed as his lips crack open upon a silent yawn. Faramund looks on in a silent calmness with a fond smile and lowers himself back to the bed, resting his head on the goose down pillow left forgotten from last night.

Tomas licks at his lips, and eventually his eyes creak open. Half-lidded, they stare at the blanket before turning to his left, falling to Faramund. One arm bends and reaches, cupping Faramund’s stubbled cheek as if it were a fragile work of art; not so long ago, Faramund would have surely melted from such a touch, but now it spreads a soothing warmth through his body.

Leaning down, Tomas presses his lips to Faramund’s brow. Once, twice, three times. “Is this a dream,” he mutters sleepily, his eyelids drooping closed once more.

Outside their window, the constant chattering of a shrike reaches through the glass, and with it comes a comforting ray of sunlight that falls on their faces.

Chuckling, Faramund wraps his arms around Tomas’ shoulders. “No,” he answers in a soft voice, and lays a kiss on his lips.

#skost scribbles #more OC writing sht #you can pry me using hozier song lyrics from my cold dead hands

[skost-skribbles]

Beginning of some [REDACTED] with some OCs

#you may say is that a hozier song lyric #and I'll say yes but consider the following: so what #skost scribbles

[skost-skribbles]

I know I'm found, with your arms around me

To the most lovely and amazing of best friends I’ve ever been honored to know, @bogglebabbles​ (this was to be a surprise birthday present but turns out even with one braincell I shARED EXCERPTS WITH HER ANYWAY) 

For as insufferable as the summer days stretched and beat upon the island, the nights offered a hand in mercy with its cool temperatures accompanied with a dull but fluttering breeze. Above, the waxing moon and her stars watched over a seemingly empty garden behind a massive manor lit brightly and roaring with a multitude of voices, young and old, man and woman, sober and drunk beyond belief.

A wandering cloud moved before the moon, vanishing as quickly as it appeared, revealing two silhouettes wandering through the garden’s labyrinth of fauna and assortment of flowers foreign to the island. The taller of the two threw a look behind him once, twice, before taking the smaller by the arm and guided him across the stepping stones through the makeshift pond and over to a bench hidden by the draping willow branches. 

Still, the moon watched on. 

Tomas slumped onto the bench in a huff, albeit delicately, rubbing at his temples and inhaling sharply. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say you’re a blessing from the gods. Were I trapped there for a minute longer, I would have surely gone mad from all that incessant jabbering.”

Faramund offered a small grin, thankful for the shadows of the willow masking the pink rushing to his cheeks. “Gone mad? You and I both know you’d tear them all asunder with your brutal honesty of their games. I for one would have loved to see Casimiro utterly devastated!” The grin dropped, he blinked and fumbled with his cufflinks. “Oh, I, I didn’t mean, I…”

What he expected to be a snap to correct his behavior arrived in the form of a short chuckle. Turning, he was sure the pink shade in his cheeks darkened as a wide, toothy smirk appeared on Tomas’ face.

“You might get your wish later tonight. He can hold respect he doesn’t deserve, but can’t hold his alcohol to save his life. He’s bound to open his mouth to the wrong person at the wrong time, and fate will find that wrong person to be me.” His eyes dropped for a moment, humming approval. “I do believe the tailor was correct to go with blue. It suits you much more than green.”

“A-ah…” Faramund tugged at the silver-embroidered lapels, then patted along the fabric of his new waistcoat in hopes of coming across a loose thread or button to fiddle and tug at. To his misfortune, the coat had none to speak. “Well, you’ve a profound, er, sharper eye for these things than I. T-to think this would have been more than three months’ rent…! It was most generous of you to barter with her. I’m supposed to assist Roland next week, but I can absolutely postpone and help you and m-make up for--”

Tomas threw him a look, stopping him with an arched brow. “Hush now, you’ve more than earned it with how much my family demands of your work. Consider it a gift, if it pleases you. Ah, that reminds me.” He reached into his coat, pulling forth an opened wine bottle and two glasses, filling them both with generous amounts and handing one to Faramund. 

Brows arched, Faramund stared blankly at the glass, starting. “Oh, but won’t they… won’t they notice…”

“One bottle missing from almost a hundred? Doubtful. Besides, it’s the least I could do on such short notice. You always mentioned your curiosity to malbec, so consider your curiosity quenched.” Tomas continued to smirk, leaning back against the bench with the glass held so skillfully in his fingers.

As he leaned, a lock of dark hair fell along his face. Faramund’s gaze fell on that lock; how he wanted to wrap his finger around it, push it ever so gently behind Tomas’ ear, cup his cheek and… 

Oh, you fool, a thought said to him. A fool would think he deserves to touch an aristocrat. As if he wouldn’t be repulsed at the very touch. You’ll be back to nothing, no, lower.

“I… I th-thank you. You’re very kind, you didn’t have to,” he mumbled, eyes downcast at the wine. 

Beside him, Tomas grunted a scoff. “Two.”

“I-I’m sorry?” Faramund furrowed his brows.

The other took a long sip of his wine, his face twisting before he spoke again. “Two years, and you’re still as timid as when we first met. I would think by now you’d even poke your head out of that shell you’ve fortified around yourself.” 

Faramund didn’t respond, shirking his gaze to the patches of grass beginning to dampen with dew. Suddenly, the growing joy of sampling malbec dropped a sour stone in his stomach. The garden fell silent save for the various insects playing a melody only they would find enjoyable.

Along the thin stem, Faramund caught sight of his hands, and a pang of shame swept over him. Callused from years of rough, jagged surfaces. Coarse from years of hard work to please those who would otherwise not give him a second glance if he needed help. Casimiro once compared them to gravel, sneering that the latter was a better view. 

How could Tomas bear to have these hands hold his, comfort and caress him? 

Slowly, he lifted his head, and past the winding and limp branches, the night sky shone down on them, with nary a cloud to be seen. Some are smaller, some are giants in comparison; some are spread far from their fellow dots, and others are close, side by side. 

“They’re nice, aren’t they? Th-the stars,” Faramund finally said. 

“Mm,” Tomas hummed in response, tipping the glass back for another drink. 

“In Heimto, I used to sneak out of the orphanage on some nights, just to look at them. One of the older children, she had a book about the stars, a-and the things they represented. She even said people centuries ago connected the stars to create constellations. Up there, we’re right below the Grand Stream constellation.” He raised a hand, tracing the three lines of stars. 

Tomas arched a brow, facing him. “A stream? You’ve hundreds if not thousands of better names for stars, and they choose a body of water. Not even a good one, at that,” he snorted. 

“I… suppose you’ve a point. It is rather silly.” He attempted a chuckle, however brief it lasted. Across the garden, the manor erupted in cheers and laughter. Faramund didn’t dare look to Tomas, though he could already imagine his face.

In truth, Faramund hit all the points, though the taller man’s upper lip curled upward, flashing gritted teeth. He expected to hear a snarling insult towards his brother and his many acquaintances in such a manner that would make a drunkard turn red.

Instead, what came out was a soft question rich in curiosity.

“What does it represent? The stream.”

“Wh… Oh!” Faramund blinked, the cursed pink shade along his cheeks turning stronger. He moved as if to gulp down the wine, but stopped halfway, as if the thought completely vanished from his head. 

“From what I remember, the Grand Stream is said to symbolize salvation. She told me that those who see it, those who are lucky to be born under it… They will be safe, they’ll find escape and safety. As a child…” He paused and his voice wavered, swallowing. “As a child, I almost believed her. I was hopeful that I would be seen by a loving family, that I would escape from the orphanage and would never have to step foot in there again.”

The caregiver’s words rang loudly in his ears. Your mother thrust you into my arms and left without another word. I called out to her; she didn’t answer. 

I don’t believe she even cared to name you.

Something heated pricked his eye, rolling with growing momentum down his cheek until splashing faintly on his bare wrist. He didn’t move his hands, didn’t lift a finger to wipe along his cheek and turn surprised at the hot tears growing along an invisible but weakening dam. 

A sad, quivering smile remained. “I was so hopeful, even after she was adopted. I looked up at the stream, I prayed until the morning dawn for escape… O-oh, but they never came, Tomas.”

There came no reply from Tomas, and in his mind, Faramund could picture the disgust on his face. The sheer audacity of breaking down about his wretched hopes before a man he had no business drinking with or sharing the same bench! Were the thought to hit him, he would have surely uttered a bitter laugh. 

A thumb pressed against his cheek, and gently, so gently, brushed away the newborn tears.

Startled, the wine nearly spilling from the glass, Faramund turned his head. 

Upon Tomas, there was no sign of disgust towards the man, no look of a sneer or a glower. Swimming in those green eyes, pale eyes that burned ferocity at cruelty, bitterness to the false sympathy and concern that oozed from the mouths of his fellow aristocrats at those they saw hold less value than a work of art, he saw nothing but pools of soft, sincere warmth.

The urge to turn his face into Tomas’ hand screamed in his head, to feel his touch along Faramund’s skin and burn a memory he could cling to forever. Almost immediately, the absolute absurdity of it all jerked him back to the present, and with it a rush of red flooding his face. Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled away, swallowing a gasp and fumbling with his sleeve as he tugged to rub away the lingering tears. 

“I, f-forgive me!” He stammered out, averting his eyes. “I didn’t, I didn’t mean to… I-I’ve no reason to act in such a manner, especially not before someone holding such significance as you. I...”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for,” replied the taller man, though his tone held no sharp rebuke, no scorn. Before either realized it, the space that divided commoner from nobility vanished with a simple, graceful movement. Along Faramund’s wrist, Tomas’ hand lingered there, giving him a careful squeeze. Cautiously, he moved his hand down, resting over Faramund’s and guiding it gently to his knee.

“You…” Tomas knit his brows, a heavy sigh turning his shoulders slack. “You speak so highly of me, praising my actions as if I just returned from a bloody battle and bearing the banner of our land. You view me as one would a savior. I’ve done nothing to warrant such appreciation from you.”

“I don’t know the pain you’ve experienced, the loneliness you’ve had to endure in your childhood. Most don’t, and will never know. But you, despite all your trials, you’ve overcome so much, more than I have and may ever accomplish. You speak highly of me, but in truth, it’s I that should be commending you, Faramund.”

He inhaled slowly, deeply. “You said you would pray until the mornings for an escape from the orphanage. You’d pray for a family to whisk you away…” He squeezed Faramund’s hand again, his thumb brushing the back of his palm. “It wasn’t how you envisioned, but you did what few could dare to think. You found your escape. Perhaps the stream heard your wishes, and presented a current you couldn’t turn away from.”

Across the garden, the manor’s clamor became that of a dull roar far in the distance. To Faramund, the whole world may as well have been hills away. A stray beam of moonlight broke through a wandering cloud and seeped through the willow’s branches, falling upon a large hand enveloping his, holding it as if it were a priceless vase. He sat there, his pounding heart thundering in his ears, but dared not move. 

Hesitantly, he shut his eyes, and turned his hand. He returned the squeeze.

Moments later, soft fingers laced their way between his. 

Neither pulled away from the embrace; neither wanted to pull away. One kept his gaze tilted downward to the faint trickle of the pond’s runoff, the other braving to open his eyes and stare, frozen, lips parted in blossoming marvel. That someone would - no, that Tomas would look past the rough calluses, the grooves of scars, the very sight of them, and to willingly place his own atop it without a second thought… Before he knew it, a rush of tears welled in his eyes once more. 

Quickly, he turned his head, almost jumping in his seat at the glass of wine resting in his other hand, as if it had suddenly appeared. Tomas’ share was little more than a small puddle at the bottom of the tall walls, and here his had remained plentiful, forgotten amidst his pitiful sorrows! Attempting to clear his throat, and once more to hide the mangled grunt that was the first, he threw his head back and took a hearty, filling gulp.

There was a long moment, then Faramund’s lips twisted before he broke into a laugh, under his breath for a passing second and growing into a rich, breathless chortle. 

Tomas gave a start, jerking his head to face Faramund. He cocked a brow. “What?”

“O-oh, it’s…” Faramund’s shoulders shook as a wide smile broke out. His laughter only intensified. “It’s, it’s only… Forgive m-me, but this wine is awful. It tastes terrible.”

“You…” 

Tomas barked out a laugh of his own, his composure shattering in an immediate, invisible blow. From the corner of his eye, Faramund swore he saw a shade of flustered red swell over the taller man’s cheeks.

                                                     ~ ~ ~ 

The night grew on, and the waxing moon settled for a position higher in the sky, watching over the small port town that settled into a peaceful silence as its residents drifted off to sleep under blankets thick and thin, bland and colorful. Even the boisterous, thunderous party-goers huddled within the manor dropped quiet, a lucky few managing to leave with their senses intact as the rest collapsed in a dead sleep on the floor and any piece of furniture they could find.

Once more, the moon shifted her attention to the garden. The willow branches parted, and in the pond’s reflection, the moon spotted two men, one leaning heavily on the other, stumble through the rows of roses and flowers plotted down the way. A hollow thud bounced shortly through the air as the bottle of malbec, depleted of its wares, slipped from the taller man’s loosening grip as he staggered forward, rubbing what he thought was his head and what was in reality his shoulder. 

“You didn’t need to finish off the whole thing,” Faramund chuckled.

“Nonsense,” Tomas sang. “I shan’t dare let it go to waste! The less available to that brute of my brother, the better.”

“Ah, of course. One bottle removed from hundreds stored in your manor, he’ll be soundly defeated.”

Tomas snorted, but he only grinned in response. “If only I became an audience to this wit sooner. Here, head towards those stone steps past the trellises. We’ll have a good view of the stars up on the patio.”

Faramund paused in his trek, blinking. “The stars? You want, you want to see them?”

“Not particularly, but I don’t want to go inside just yet. It’s warm out here, and I’m finding the company vastly more preferable than the furnace and horde that await me in there.”

Faramund tilted his head away, fumbling with the lapel on his coat in hopes that it would hide the blush swelling on his cheeks. “I, er, I suppose I can’t argue with that logic. Perhaps I could entertain you with more stories about the constellations…!”

“If you wish to do so, I’ll have no objections, as silly as the names may be to me.” Lazily, he moved a hand to pick at a stray thorn clinging to his pant leg as he was led up the narrowing steps lined with flat stones. That rose a small chuckle from Faramund, and his grin widened.

“Trust me, if you believed the Grand Stream to be nonsensical, you’ve heard nothing ye-”

Along the fifth step to the patio, a loose flat stone gave way under Tomas’ left foot. Faramund felt himself yanked violently downwards, but despite grabbing a handful of Tomas’ coat to keep him upright, the heel of the taller man’s boot crashed into his leg, and both pitched sideways off the stairs. 

There was a resounding ‘oof’ as they collapsed into an unruly shrub below the steps, toppling and rolling to a stop along a sea of grass drenched in dew. Pushing himself in a slouched sitting position, Faramund bit back a curse as a long stem of juniper tangled itself in his hair, tugging it free with a jerking motion and tossing it into the shadows.

He whipped his head to and fro, an unsettling panic rushing over his skin. “T-Tomas, are you alright? By the gods, that could’ve seriously hurt someone, what horrible craftsmanship, tru…”

He cast his eyes down, and his voice died off.

There, pressed into the grass, still as a statue, lay Tomas, staring upwards at him with a look Faramund knew not how to describe. Gulping, he reluctantly moved his gaze to the left, then to the right, his eyes popping wide. What Faramund sat upon was not grass, and was not stone.

He was sitting on a pair of thighs. Tomas’ thighs.

All color drained from his face.

“Oh. O-oh, my…” Faramund trembled. His head screamed, howled for him to move, but his own legs remained listless, dead to the world. “O-oh, Tomas, I… My, oh, forgive me, please, I…! How stupid, how completely stupid of me, I didn’t mean, I only meant to stop you from falling, I… I… T-Tomas?”

The man said nothing, brows arched high and mouth agape albeit barely. His eyes remained on Faramund, almost as if he were searching, before pale green locked with dark brown. Faramund didn’t think to avert his gaze, returning the longing stare with a look of concern, of fear, of…

Slowly, Tomas rested his hands on Faramund’s arms, pulling himself upright. Before Faramund could unleash a stammer of apologies, one hand placed itself along his cheek, drowning the apologies in a single touch.

“Tomas?” Faramund choked out. “Tomas, are you…”

Tomas’ voice was low, hardly above a whisper as he spoke. “Ever since we met, you sought forgiveness for actions that never required it. You were and are so quick to beg for it, even when it was out of your hands. Even here, now, you throw yourself before no judge, no jury, seeking their mercy. Each time, I’ve forgiven you with nary a moment’s hesitation. And here, now… I hope you can grant me the same.” 

Faramund furrowed his brows, a familiar heat rising in his face. “Tomas,” he repeated, “what are you…”

“For so long, I’ve fought to keep it tied down, to quell it should it erupt and drive you away. I fought, Faramund, I fought for so long.” He swallowed, exhaling shakily. “But I knew it was a matter of time before it would engulf me in its flames and leave me a broken man who couldn’t speak what his heart desired, no matter what may become of it as a result. I couldn’t allow you to become a witness to such horrors.”

One hand clutching the fabric of Faramund’s sleeve and the other slipping around to his nape, Tomas drew his face close. Faramund quaked, a gargled, unintelligible question dribbling out of his mouth.

“I beg of you,” Tomas breathed, a hitch in his hushed plea. “Please, forgive me this one time.”

His eyelids drooped closed, and he leaned inwards, pressing his lips softly to Faramund’s. 

Everything. The noisy insects, the breeze singing through the trees and branches, the bright moon and her stars littering the sky, they all vanished before Faramund’s eyes. The manor was no more, merely a blurry memory. The caregiver’s words, cold and merciless that once engraved themselves behind his eyes, Casimiro’s sneers and blows, dissipated to dust.

Everything vanished to him, save one person.

The stoic countenance of the younger Ozwell sibling that shattered and revealed a genuine kindness to Faramund alone in their isolation; the small scowl the townsfolk were quick to comment on that rose to an amused smirk and thoughtful smile in their privacy; the flat tone of which one was certain shared a relationship with apathy that broke out of its shell to voice concern and care to one man. All the fronts and masks hiding one’s true self from the world, to unveil upon a soundless command for his audience alone.

Tenderly, yet tentatively, Tomas pulled away in a shuddering gasp. His eyes drifted open; for a striking, stabbing second, Faramund watched a flash of guilt glaze over them. He was no longer staring at Faramund, casting a look to the hand that remained holding his sleeve in an iron grip. 

His fingers prised themselves away, lowering his arm and sagging. “I.” He clenched his teeth, pressing the heel of his hand against one eye, then the other as silence held a firm clasp on Faramund. “You may go now, if that is what you wish. I understand. You’ll need not concern yourself with my presence any longer, I will…” 

The blades of grass tickled his skin when a blur was caught in the moonlight, swooping up his hand into the grip of one laden with hardened patches and scars, but one he would never call coarse. Another, warm despite the dew splattered along his palm and fingers, cupped the side of his face, guiding him with fondness to a sight that gripped at his soul.

Rivers of tears poured freely, wildly down Faramund’s cheeks and falling gracelessly upon their laps. Yet, nowhere on his face did Tomas find repulsion nor terror. No, he found a brightness of hope once buried beneath doubt shining in brown eyes, greeting him alongside a quivering, beaming smile. 

He opened his mouth, however, no words were spoken.

Chuckling, Faramund shook his head; to who it was directed at, Tomas could not say for certain. “How could you ask me to forgive you, when I’ve dreamt of this for nearly a year?” 

“If you would permit me,” Faramund continued, blinking back the growing onslaught of tears. “I would be h-honored to return such a gesture.”

Breathless, the phantom grip tightening on his very being, Tomas succeeded in a small nod. 

A sob, rich in relief, escaped Faramund. “Bless you, th-thank you. Thank you,” he sighed, and pulled Tomas close to his body. 

The taller of the two barely uttered a thanks of his own when he found his lips locked, parted and accepting the loving gift. Fingers laced in perfect harmony, their palms pressed firmly against one another, they sank back to the earth and her chilly dew drops. Neither took notice or cared; if they did, neither showed it.

Wine once a bitter mouthful splashing on his lips blended into the sweetest, most savoring sample he never wanted to end. A small, bubbling laugh forced Faramund to pull away, his forehead pressed fondly on Tomas'. "I, I would have thought myself foolish in the past to think this possible outside of my dreams. Of someone, of you wanting to… I was so foolish."

"Well," Tomas said, kissing away a hot tear on his cheek. "It seems I was just as foolish as you. You're in perfect company."

They lay there, basking in the ghostly light of the waxing moon. Then, Faramund opened his mouth, his voice unwavering.

"I love you."

The answer, strong and resolved, swept a passionate breeze through him.

"I love you, too, Faramund."

#YEA the title is an LP song lyric dont @ me #two idiots meant for each other #I'M ACTUALLY WRITING AND USING THIS BLOG WHAT