β³ Silco, the Drop Off thread
π ππππ ππ₯πππππ πππ₯ π¦π’π‘'π¦ πππ‘π π₯π’π¨ππππ¬ ππ‘π ππ₯πππππ πππ ππͺππ¬ ππ₯π’π π§ππ π¦π§πππ. Such an inquistive mind to always look at the goods, but she was on a mission:
It had been the fourth time since Viktor had blown up their house, and she, frankly, had had enough of the boy for a lifetime. She loved him dearly, but she was only a fisherwoman in Zaun, and these boundless house repairs were putting her further into debt.
Viktor's mind was quick, and though he had, at first, helped her with her fisher duties, his experiments soon became a liability. Magda knew the father of their child, Silco, had more resources. The man had been supporting Viktor's growth with money, but enough was enough: perhaps he could help the burgeoning prodigy grow.
"Love," she gently cooed, "I'm giving you a fiddle. Promise me you'll play it?"
The child's brow furrowed. Sometimes, his mother's emotions were more akin to a light switch than a spectrum of color.
"Why are you giving me a fiddle?"
Golden eyes, the color of fresh honey, stared up at her. Pangs of guilt rippled through her chest. Would she regret dropping him off? Her precious little boy - "You are going to live with your father, and I won't see you as often as I'll like."
Viktor blinked at that, the fact his mother had him pack all of his meager belongings into his rucksack finally clicking for him. He would never be sleeping on the rug by the fire again, nor would he help her with fish. He was to live with this unknown man, this absent father, instead of his mother.
"When you miss me, you can play it."
Magda gently ruffled that mess of chocolate curls and stooped down. Viktor balanced on his wooden stick, head tilting as she pulled a wrapped package off of her back.
"You've had your moments, love, but you've always tried your best. I can't help you now. Maybe he can."
She grabbed the letter out of her pocket, also, and gave both the wrapped fiddle and scribbled note to her son.
"He's a good man. He's kept you fed. But I don't have it in me to see him again. So you find a man in there, you say you're the son of Silco, and tell him that Magda wrote him a letter. He'll know what to do."
Viktor was shaking by the time she finished, his eyes darkened with anger. "You are leaving me?" his voice was incredulous, high and squeaky.
Magda nodded, "Yes, Vik, I am. Now, run along."
Her words made him flinch. Ever rough about his leg, she made him feel bad for it, because it made him a bad fisher. As he struggled to open his mouth, he blinked away tears, and when he looked back, his mother was gone.
Liquid gold snapped to the building in front of him. The building wasn't run down, but like all buildings in Zaun, it wasn't well-taken-care-of either. Boards were on the iron windows in the front of what appeared to be a warehouse.
He clutched his rucksack tight and the new fiddle that had been his mother's apology, and he grasped the letter in a shaky hand. By the time he had ambled to the door with his wooden stick, Viktor was tired and worn out. He opened the door and found the first man he could.
"I am Viktor, son of Silco, and my mother, Magda, left a note."
He held the note out in a trembling fist, the six year old's expression just devastated. Abandoned on the doorstep of a man he didn't even know. More tears started to spill, and when he offered the man the letter, all Viktor could do was sob, silently, into his hand.