#skost scribbles

[skost-skribbles]

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-skribbles]

"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

[skost-skribbles]

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-skribbles]

Beginning of some [REDACTED] with some OCs

[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.