Chapter Text
Only the sea is enough to comfort him.
Tommy walks his beach, hands shoved in his faded blue shorts. There is nothing to scavenge today as the sun sinks into the shimmering sea. A warm breeze ruffles his golden hair, the sky bleeding from pinks and oranges to a dark, hazy blue. It is days like these and the sunsets like this that he doesn’t envy the blizzard choked kingdom to the north. Its citizens know nothing of the ocean’s salt on your tongue and the sun’s warmth on your skin as she whispers goodnight.
The waves gently lick at the sand as he carefully steps over snails and crabs alike, scurrying to find a new home before the moon raises her curtains. Tommy envies these creatures and their ability to pick up and leave, the homes on their backs a happy burden to bear.
The world has not treated him so kindly before, forcing him to seek this seaside refuge.
As he climbs the hill to his home, his cow, Henry, calls out from the pasture. Tommy smiles at the fireflies lighting his path to the field as he runs to his pet, arms outstretched. Henry moos softly, knocking his head into Tommy’s chest as the boy strokes him gently. The moon takes her place in the sky as her chorus of stars sing a lullaby to the world below them. Tommy walks his cow to the barn, kissing his head goodnight.
He returns to his cabin and begins his dinner. There was talk in the village of war coming to their shores; of feuding gods controlling the royals like puppets. Tommy was never one to believe in myths anyway, as he has seen the power of the earth, sky, and sea. Nature yields to no demon, titan, or cruel god, no matter how hard they try to bend her elements to their will.
This still holds true as thunder rumbles off in the distance. Tommy peers out his window into the black night, catching a glimpse of clouds gathering for an imperial march. They hang just out of reach, gripping the ocean in their lightning strike fists. He shivers as he watches the waves rise and fall, never once stopping to consider their destruction. Tommy returns to his dinner, taking careful bites of stew as he reads over a tattered, worn book.
The storm comes swiftly. It batters the cabin with bruised fists, the rain screaming obscenities at the sandy shore. Tommy sings himself to sleep as the walls cave in, until it stops like a terrible crescendo in an off-key symphony. The waves rise and fall, angry and unforgiving as they slam against the cliffs. Even the life that resides in the sea cowers in fear.
It is a long night.
The sun rises slowly, creeping out from behind the mountains that lay north; frightened of the storm that laid waste to the land. Tommy rises with the fearful daylight, slipping into fresh linens and scrambling downstairs before taking a bucket by his front door. He swings it at his side as he walks to the beach to scavenge materials left behind from the brutal monsoon.
He walks upon the cold, wet sand, careful to avoid groggy crabs. He stoops to gather glistening shells, gently setting them into the bottom of his pail. Tommy admires the shimmering sea as her waves crash softly against the shore, the storm all but forgotten. There is not much of a haul, much to Tommy’s disappointment. A few glass bottles, splintered pieces of wood, and sea glass lay sadly in his bucket. He throws a rock back to the sea before turning to continue on his walk.
He squints at a large shape on the beach in the distance, a seabird hopping about nearby. Tommy grips his pail tightly as he pushes himself to sprint, heels digging into the soaked sand. As he approaches the mass, he can make out dark blue fabric and he expects that it’s an old jacket, something that he can salvage, sew, and trade for food.
His hopes die in his throat as he comes to the mass’s side and discovers that it’s not just a jacket… but a person. A man with wet, dark brown curls pressed to his pale forehead. His face rests in the sand, eyes closed, almost as if he’s asleep. The waves lap gently at his still ankles and for a moment, Tommy is afraid. His heart beats wildly in his ribcage and he worries that he has just stumbled upon a dead man.
He stares at the stranger’s chest and waits. Silence. Another moment.
The man’s chest rises and falls faintly, and Tommy is grateful. Grateful that he does not have to run into the village and wake up Sam to dispose of a poor soul’s body.
He sets his bucket down, collected items all but forgotten as he bends to pick up the man. Tommy lifts his chest and slings a damp, jacketed arm over his shoulders as he begins to drag the man back to his cabin on the hill. A breeze, not one of warmth, dances along the shore, licking at Tommy’s hair playfully as he struggles to help the sea-flung stranger.
Tommy kicks his door open, flinging the stranger onto his couch before he goes upstairs for medical supplies. He gathers bandages and splints before returning to his living room and pulling a chair over to the stranger on his couch.
“Right so…” Tommy says nervously, “This is going to be extremely awkward for me.”
He carefully unbuttons the man’s jacket and then the white, sea-soaked shirt beneath it. Tommy winces at the large bruises that bloom on the stranger’s chest, all in various healing stages. Scars, new and old, race along his pale skin like the sky flung lightning bolts directly through his chest. Tommy stares in quiet awe at a particularly large burn scar on the man’s side.
Tommy finds that the left arm is definitely fractured and his ribs aren’t in the best of shape. He gently wraps the man’s chest with bandages and sets his arm in a splint.
“I am not removing your pants. That’s a job for you to do when you wake up.”
He sits back, admiring his handiwork and staring at the man’s chest to ensure that he is, in fact, still alive. Tommy takes the salt-soaked clothes in his arms and carries them off to be cleaned, grabbing a bar of soap from his cupboard.
He takes the laundry through the dark forest behind his house. The trail through the wood is nearly gone now, choked with weeds and budding flowers. Tommy doesn’t pay the plants any attention, he used to be quite fond of flowers, but that is in the past now.
The trees grow thicker, their trunks large and bursting with age and wisdom as he walks deeper into the forest. The insects that buzzed at the front of the grove where the sun still poked through a thin canopy of leaves have long since fallen silent. Tommy doesn’t mind the quiet.
Finally, he approaches the old, crumbling stone well. He pushes aside wild vines adorned with small purple violets before he begins to crank the wheel. While Tommy waits for the familiar sound of the bucket splashing into water below, he wonders about the man in his house.
Where did he come from? How did he end up in the sea? Did he do something to deserve the storm that flung him onto Tommy’s beach? Is he a sign of something greater to come?
Tommy feels the pail grow heavy as it tips, water rushing inside. He begins to turn the wheel again, the cold water sloshing over the sides as the bucket makes its journey back to the surface. Tommy unhooks the metal cask and hoists it over to a mossy patch underneath a great, billowing dark oak tree.
He dunks the grime covered white shirt into the water first. He scrubs at rusted red stains until his fingers are raw and red. The clear water slowly turns brown and muddied before Tommy moves onto the deep, midnight blue jacket. Judging by the looks of it, it was some kind of military uniform. He scrubs at it roughly, the water grows more and more dirty and his hands ache and ache.
Finally, he is finished. He lays out both pieces of clothing on the moss as he takes the water to the cliff-side. He tosses the bucket, watching the muddy brown stream flow down to the ocean’s waves that wait for it hungrily.
He returns to the forest and scoops up the wet clothes, carrying them out of the cool, shaded trees and into the glaring sun. He hangs up the jacket and shirt on the clothesline in his fields, before his eyes catch a white, blurred label. It says, Wilbur’s, and Tommy looks back to his home where the stranger lies unconscious on his couch. He must be Wilbur, then.
Tommy walks to the stables to let Henry out. His cow moos in irritation as Tommy unhooks the stall door. The chickens sit soundly in their coop, gentle clucks and hoots coming from inside. Tommy rubs Henry’s head as they walk to the damp pasture, cold raindrops cause goosebumps to rise on the teenager’s legs.
“I’m sorry, big man, I know I’m late. I went to the beach to look for shit to trade in the village but I found a dead guy- well, I thought he was dead.”
Henry stares at him, tail flicking behind him. Tommy hangs his head.
“I brought him back to the house because if I just left him there, then he probably would’ve died anyway.”
Henry licks his hand. Tommy scoffs.
“Yeah, well, I don’t think I’m that great of a person.” He smiles, “But thank you, big guy.”
The rest of the day is relatively normal. Tommy feeds his chickens and chases away the rooster when he gets too arrogant. He walks his fields, checking on carrots and potatoes and strawberries, assuring that the storm hasn’t over-flooded his crops. The man called Wilbur sleeps soundly when Tommy comes in for lunch, not even stirring when the teenager drops a large pan and lets out a string of words that even the gods would be offended by.
Tommy sits at Wilbur’s bedside nervously all that night, afraid that if he leaves for even a moment, the man’s lungs would expel their last breath and he would return to a cold, heavy body. Luckily, no such thing happens and the next morning, while Tommy eats breakfast at his table, Wilbur wakes up with a series of pained groans.
His voice is hoarse and dry. “What the fuck?”
Tommy’s mouth hangs open as his egg slips off his fork. He rises quickly, chair tumbling backwards behind him as he rushes to the living room. Wilbur slowly sits up on the couch, grimacing as he wraps his right arm around his chest.
“Whoa, whoa, stop moving!” Tommy cries. “Your arm and ribs are still fucked up, mate.”
Bruises bloom under his bandages, Tommy needs to change them today. Wilbur stares at him, dark eyes unnaturally focused in the shining gold sunlight that streams in through the windows; as if Tommy was a particularly interesting book he was quietly picking apart in his head. Sweat pours down his face.
“Who the fuck are you?” he accuses.
Tommy crouches beside him, gently patting his forehead with a cold rag from the cauldron. “I’m Tommy. You washed up on my beach a few days ago.”
Wilbur lays back, sighing in relief as Tommy cools him down. “My ship…”
“There was no ship, mate. Just you and your disgusting clothes- which I washed, by the way.”
Wilbur simply glances at him. Tommy stops, pulling back the cloth, offended. The other man’s mouth parts, but cries of protest die on his tongue as he murmurs something else instead:
“Water…”
Tommy stands up quickly. “Oh, right. I’ve got some fresh in my cauldron. Could you wait a moment?”
Wilbur nods weakly. Tommy smiles as he dashes off to his kitchen, prying open a cabinet and dunking a glass bottle inside the kettle. He carries it back to the living room and sets it on the table beside Wilbur.
“You’ve got to sit up a little more first,” he says, helping the older man rise. He then takes the glass and thrusts it into Wilbur’s uninjured hand.
Tommy sits back while Wilbur drinks greedily. He gulps the water down and Tommy tries not to imagine the salt water that forced its way down his throat two nights earlier. Tommy reaches over and takes the unfinished bottle from Wilbur’s grip.
“I wasn’t done,” Wilbur pants, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Oh, I know,” Tommy says coolly. “But you haven’t eaten anything in Prime knows how long so consuming a fuck ton of water right now is definitely going to hurt you more than it’ll help you.”
Wilbur looks around the small house. “What do you suggest I eat then?”
“Well,” Tommy says as he returns to the kitchen, “I’ve got some scrambled eggs and bacon. Or could I make you something else?”
Wilbur sits up even further, grimacing as more pain shoots about in places he wasn’t aware of. He swings his legs over the side of the couch, feels smooth, hardwood floor on his bare feet; and he thinks he can definitely manage this. He slowly pushes himself off the couch, wobbling for a moment before he begins to fall forward; careening right for the coffee table.
“Wilbur? Oh mate, what the fuck are you doing?”
Tommy rushes at him. Wilbur squeezes his eyes shut, embracing for waves of pain that are sure to come once he crashes into the table in front of him. But nothing ever does. He opens one eye carefully.
Tommy has caught him, one arm holding his chest up and the other, his uninjured right shoulder. Wilbur stares down at the pissed off teenager who in turn, glares at him.
“How do you know my name?” Wilbur asks.
Tommy straightens himself up, letting the other man lean into him. “I saw it written on the tag in your jacket when I was hanging it up to dry. What the hell were you thinking?”
Wilbur nods thoughtfully before turning his gaze to the window beside Tommy’s dining table. “I wanted to look outside,” he says simply.
Tommy stares at him. “You could’ve just said so, big guy.”
The two shuffle across Tommy’s small living area together, the younger boy doing most of the work while Wilbur simply leans against him. Tommy gently sets Wilbur into the chair closest to the glass and the man’s brown curls flutter in the soft breeze that flits through the open window.
Tommy moves to the kitchen, watching Wilbur out of the corner of his eye. The other man stares out the window, eyes almost glazed over as he watches the ocean’s waves crash against the shore. Butterflies and bumblebees flit lazily about the meadow, stopping to take rests on budding orange and yellow flowers. The sky is cloudless and clear, a shield that protects the earth from the black void above.
“Do you want bacon or eggs?” Tommy asks from the counter, spatula raised above the pan. “I’m also roasting some rabbit but that’s for dinner.”
Wilbur doesn’t look away from the window. “Eggs and bacon, if you don’t mind,” he says.
Tommy nods, shoveling eggs and slices of meat onto a chipped blue plate. He pulls a bottle of milk from the ice chest and grabs some silverware from a nearby drawer. He carries it over to Wilbur and slides it in front of him. Wilbur finally tears his eyes away from the scenery outside.
“This is a lot of food…” he trails off nervously.
Tommy sits down across from him with his own meal, scooping an egg onto his fork before shoving it into his mouth. “Yeah well,” he says around the yolk, “I always make more than enough.”
Wilbur nods. “An old habit?”
“...No. In case I’ve got guests,” Tommy says. “Food brings people together.”
“Perhaps.”
They slip into silence while they both dig into their meals. Wilbur finds that he is indeed quite hungry. His stomach aches, a wide, gaping cavern demanding to be filled immediately. Tommy watches in quiet awe as Wilbur digs in, scarfing down his food in only a few minutes.
“Figured you were hungry,” Tommy smiles as he takes the clean plate away. Wilbur downs the milk and slides the glass across the table with a sigh.
“Yeah, well-” he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand- “you figured right.”
Tommy dunks an egg covered plate into his cauldron, wiping it down with a rag. Wilbur watches him in silent fascination as a lazy breeze wafts through the window.
“I’ve got to change your bandages today,” Tommy says.
“I can do that myself.”
Tommy scoffs. “Sure you can, if you want to fracture your arm even further.”
Wilbur glances down at the splint and white sheet that holds his injured arm. He sighs.
“At least it isn’t my dominant,” he says. “That would be shit, wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah, it would.”
They fall into an awkward silence. Wilbur looks around the kitchen and living room. There’s a large bookcase groaning with the weight of being overstuffed in the living area. A couch and two grand chairs sit around a slab of wood, the coffee table. From the looks of the cabinets in the kitchen, there are four plates, four glasses, and four bowls. Behind him is a staircase that leads up into a black pit. This house certainly wasn’t made for just one boy.
“Where is your family?”
Tommy freezes. The plate in his hands falls into the soapy water and little waves slosh over the sides of the cauldron. He puts the rag at the kettle’s edge and turns away.
“I’ve got to check on Henry,” he says stiffly.
Wilbur has definitely hit a nerve. He watches as Tommy rushes out of the house through the back door, running to a field beside the cabin where a single cow basks in the sun. The cow must be Henry. Tommy wraps his arms around Henry’s neck and buries his face into his fur before leading him out of the pasture and into the forest, their silhouettes disappearing in the dark wood.
He does not return until the moon hangs high in the sky.