Brothers Wittebane

08

AN/CONTENT/TRIGGER WARNING: Implied/Mention of racial discrimination. 

shdshsfdhfsuef- run for your fucken lives this is so fucken long, fuck.  like seriously its twice as long as the last chapter fuck. also not edited i got tired fucking save yourselves.  

Also wattpad corrects my section breaks sometimes? So I'm so sorry if everything looks so jumbled together 

1618, September 9

I'm going to hell. Oh, please God let him not hate me. What is Caleb going to think? What have I done. Out of everything I hate myself for this the most. As if I wasn't wrong enough.

It was raining, Caleb had the collar of his blue coat turned up. His father's old coat. Mother had mended it for him several times over the years. The golden bird sewed onto the top left was streaked with dirt. "You're such a dainty little princess," said Bastian, sat atop Snowy, who was shaking the water from her mane . The rain was dripping off the brim of Bastian's hat and had given a glossy finish to the rich earthy colour of his cheeks. He was chewing tabacoo spitting it out to the road every time he had finished all its juices. Then he'd take another bite.

Caleb rolled his eyes from the donkey cart. He was sitting next to Mr Knight who was deaf in one ear. He was holding a parasol over the man. He'd wished he could hold one over Daisy the donkey as well. Knight was making his usual trip to the harbor. Supplies from England had just come in. Besides the escort of Mr Knight, Bastian and him had business to attend to down in one of the taverns.

"It's called being kind Bastian. Ever heard of it?" "What was that me boy?" "Nothing Mr. Knight. I'm just talking to my friend," The old man nodded and gave a gentle flick of Daisy's reins. Bastian snorted, "Bet he can't even piss straight," "Now you're just being cruel," "Apologies princess,"

Caleb rolled his eyes again. That was Bastian, crude, cruel, and idealistic but efficient. Caleb doubted he would of been able to make such quick and clean kills without Bastian's constant insults, his drills, his work ethic, holding a sword to your throat as he recited a perfect word for word, passage from the Holy Book.

Caleb had seen Mr Knight off after figuring out how to tie the parasol to the cart in such away that it would shield the poor man from the down poor. Pip would have come up with a solution in a matter of minutes. He had a gift for innovation, a talent with natural and manmade. He often teased him, "Ah look who's the witch now," Philip would flip him the bird. Caleb loved watching his brother flourish. He designed weapons, stakes fired from a repeating crossbow, knives spiked with wolfsbane thorns, pistols that shoot iron filings in multiple directions. He'd tinker, and he'd write. But he'd also be out in the fields, by the stream, entertaining children from the village, and the town combined.