#ougg

I think. You like the art :3

Just a lil thing I wrote oopsie. If you’d like to get a peek into the (WIP) dynamics between him and Leandra and Bethany then keep reading :)

“Carver... He was such a little boy. Never had a knee that wasn’t scraped or trousers without holes.”

There was a monster in Trystan’s head screaming back at his mother that he was once a little boy too and he never had someone to nurse his scrapes. There was a monster screaming and roaring and cursing her out for every brushed-aside bruise, for every tut ever made over the fact that he’d gotten mud on his dress or over the fact that his hair had fallen loose of its braid—nevermind that such things were usually a result of him doggedly attempting to keep the twins out of trouble.

He wanted to shake her back to her senses. (This is your fault. I want my son back. How could you let him run off like that?!). It had taken everything within him then and everything in him now, over a year later, not to scream at Leandra that she still had a son. That he had done everything he could to keep Carver safe; that some things were out of his control and he couldn’t be the one to drag them through each day because she couldn’t stop crying about it.

Guilt-ridden as he was, Trystan had to get over his grief quickly. He still had Bethany to look out for, as it was clear to him that his mother and Gamlen weren’t going to do it. If he lost her, it would wreck them all. It would ruin them. He wouldn’t be able to look his mother in the eye again; he wasn’t sure that she would consider him her child anymore. His job, above all else, was to make sure that the same fate didn’t befall his sister. He knew it. He hated his mother for it.

All of that anger in his chest left him in an unsteady exhale as he saw the tears running down his mother’s cheeks. Pity took its place.

“I just keep thinking there was something more that we could’ve done. It’s killing me— eighteen years of loving and feeding and raising, and… that was it.”

Trystan didn’t know what to say. What could he say that wouldn’t make it worse? Talking things out was always Bethany’s strength, and she wasn’t here now. It was for the best that she wasn’t. It wouldn’t be fair to her to see their mother like this, broken apart, and him barely swallowing his anger back down into his throat. He hoped that he could resolve this before she came back into the room; it was all he could do to shield her from Gamlen’s inane diatribes.

“I’m glad you’re past blaming me,” he said, bitterly and with little humor. Leandra hiccuped and looked up at him with wide, teary eyes. Anger mingled with guilt in his throat.

“Oh, Trystan, I— I’m so sorry,” she pleaded. “I didn’t really mean that, I… I miss him.” When he didn’t respond, she looked back to the low-burning hearth. “…I am working to make an audience with the viscount. With any luck, we will be able to reclaim the Amell estate.”

“Good,” he said, and he wavered. Leandra glanced back at him, waiting for him to continue. Trystan hesitated as if he had more to say. If he were to be honest with himself, he did have more—much more. Yet what purpose would it serve except driving the knife deeper into his mother’s grief? It was a selfish sort of anger, the one that he harbored against his mother. He would hate her through his own tears as they fought over her neglect, silently wishing her dead; yet hours later would be tucked around the table laughing as though nothing was wrong. Trystan might have been Malcolm’s spitting image, but the wretchedness was his mother’s mirror.

He stormed off before he was tempted to say anything he’d regret.

Bethany caught his arm before he could reach the door, and all of his anger dissipated in an instant. Trystan turned to face her and, upon noticing her brows furrowed into a line of worry, he forced a smile to his face. “Don’t worry about it,” he said in answer to her silent question. He was unsure how much she had overheard. “We were just discussing Mother’s big plans for the estate. Where have you been?”

“Sleeping,” she said, “but I know you were talking about a lot more than just that. Are you all right?”

“Of course,” Trystan lied. That old rage was like bile in his throat, but he had to lie for Bethany’s sake. Mother’s pandering had been no fault of hers, after all.

Bethany had only ever been his biggest supporter, and grateful for his efforts; as young children they had shared dresses and ribbons in their hair, and as he grew up, she was the first to embrace calling him brother with her full chest and a big hug. It had taken Carver longer to come around for fear of no longer being the only boy of the family. Not that such fears came to fruition, in the end, thanks to how unsurely his parents had adjusted to such a change.

“Why don’t we go to the markets?” Bethany suddenly asked, breaking him from his reverie. “Just to look, or maybe to get Apostate a snack. He hates this musty old house, you know, and being cooped up all day.”

The Mabari raised his head at the mention of his name and talk of treats.

Trystan turned his head to look at her. “You aren’t worried about Templars?”

“Why would I be?” She asked as she grabbed onto his arm, just as she had always done. “I have my big brother to protect me. Besides, I think you can do with getting out of this house, too.” Light streamed in as they stepped out onto the porch, and with a whistle, Apostate jumped up from his spot on the floor to join them.

“Besides,” Bethany continued as they began their trek into Lowtown, “maybe now you can tell me about that other apostate friend of yours. The healer? He seemed really fond of you when we stopped by the other night.”

“Maybe we can not talk about that,” Trystan replied. “He just lost someone important to him. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to imply about it.”

“Fine,” she sighed, and looked away with a huff. “I just think you’ve been lonely. It wouldn’t kill you to make some friends. If one of them turns out to be more than that, well, would that be so bad?”