"Family has nothing to do with blood. You can have relations that are not your family, but friends that are every inch more loving. Family has everything to do with love and bonds."
"One last lesson."
Tyler can hear his mentor speaking to the class before they leave. He waits just outside the room for his foster-brother, knowing that Mr. Strickler will most likely want to talk to them both. Given this evening's scheduled event.
"Who can tell me where Napoleon kept his armies?" there's a confused pause as everyone considers the question. "In his sleevies!"
The boy snorts in amusement, a grin on his lips as he hears the other students groan. It takes a certain, historical sense of humour to understand the finer delicacies of the subject.
"Young Atlas, if I could have a brief word before you leave," Strickler pauses in his words for a moment. "Alone, please. And I'd like to speak with you as well, Tyler."
He smiles lightly, letting a mumbling Tobias pass before walking into the classroom himself. Somehow Jim seems to relax a little upon seeing his familiar face. Strange.
"Mr. Strickler," he greets, finding a seat on one of the desks.
His teacher offers a small smile to the student before turning back to Jim. He has little concern over the elder's reaction, he's already expressed his thoughts through his subtle actions.
"Uh, is everything okay?" the younger of the two asks, kicking his bag under the desk, making Tyler frown a tad.
"Actually, no," Strickler sits on the desk behind him, his tone calm and casual. "Due to recent developments, I don't want things to be strange between us."
The amber-eyed boy chuckles softly to himself, both due to his amusement and his attempt to hide his discomfort. His skin tingles and his hair rises, leaving him uncomfortably aware of his surroundings.
Every sound echoes a hundred times louder; the click of a pen cap reverberating through him like the thunder of a war drum, a scuffle of clothing like a sandstorm. His eyes swim with recognition and distant longing, reflecting the expression of his soul. The tang of something bittersweet taints his silver tongue, a taste that he subconsciously rebukes, flicking his tongue between his teeth.
Another episode. He should have guessed. But should he really? Even in the moment, it keeps him locked from the realisation of his experience.
Nonexistent smells of sage and burning wood fill his nostrils, bringing tears to his eyes with the intensity of the scent. The smooth leather of his jacket starts to feel more like a scruffy rag, ripped from long years of use but providing the comfort of shelter. It's powerful, and he doesn't want it to cease again. It offers such a familiarity that he misses in his current life.
"Your mother has invited me over for dinner," a more recent voice continues as though nothing is happening. "I've graciously accepted."
The young boy makes a soft sound of acknowledgement as he desperately tries to grasp on to the fading tendrils of far-off memories, wanting to cry out as they slip through his fingers. It breaks him to know that it will haunt him in fleeting moments from now-on.
"Will that make things awkward between us?" Strickler looks between the two boys, his gaze lingering on the sorrowful expression of the elder.
"Awkward?" Jim asks, voice cracking slightly. "No, no, no. It's just dinner. Right?"
"Splendid," the man concludes, tucking his fountain pen back into his pocket. "Then I shall be seeing you this evening."
The student nods cautiously, narrowing his eyes on the back of his head as he collects his belongings. He fails to sense the depressing atmosphere around his foster-sibling and only pats his shoulder as a sign for them to go.
Tyler reluctantly follows, feet dragging on the ground as he bites his lip. So close. He was so close to understanding and remembering, but he just had to go and give it the chance to elude him.
He needs some time to himself.
《《》》
From his place in the tree, the boy smiles. Black smudges coat his fingers and face, a dusting of evidence from his most recent activity. In his hand is a shortened piece of charcoal, dulled from repeated use on the paper in front of him.
His requirement for personal time had drawn him to a small clearing in the woods behind the house with his sketchbook and flashlight in hand. And quite literally, he had drawn the clearing. Even as the sun set, he continued until every detail was captured in the image, using the flashlight to light his work.
Now, with his work complete, he finds no need for him to remain any longer.
He pulls his phone out of his back pocket to check the time and swears loudly. Barbara had told him to be back by six, when Strickler was supposed to arrive. It's seven-fifteen.
"Tì iced mil siùcar!" he curses, hurriedly grabbing his charcoal pot and torch. She's going to skin him alive.
《《》》
Meanwhile...
"Bular called you 'Young Atlas' to force this very moment," Strickler states, as calm as ever. "He told me, if I can't get you to hand over the amulet, I should kill you."
Jim scoffs quietly, glancing over to the empty place at the table. "You would kill me in front of my mom?"
"Granted, your death might affect our relationship," he smirks, eyes narrowed at the boy, "but I will if I have to."
"Funny," his fingers rub over the patterns of his bracelet. "I was just thinking the same thing."
From within the kitchen, Barbara mutters something unintelligible that must have to do with the time.
"How about you tell me where the bridge is, and I'll leave your head attached to your body?"
"It seems we each have something the other wants," the Changeling draws his eyes to the chair in which an elder boy should be seated. "And share a single common interest."
Jim watches tensely as his teacher taps his fingers on the wood table, unsure as to where he's going with this. He has an unusual fascination with his foster-brother and it's unsettling. The intentions are unclear and any action might mean anything at this given moment.
"To keep your brother out of this," Strickler says lowly, a sly and predatory gleam in his eyes.
《《》》
"Sìol, sìol, sìol, sìol, sìol!" Tyler sprints through the underbrush toward the house, praying to whatever deity listening that he gets to live until tomorrow. "Sèid an ùine!"
He doesn't bother with the fence gate, just hops over with the smallest amount of difficulty. The sight of his foster-mother standing in the window only spurs him on faster, fearing for his life.
The door opens easily, and he ducks his head as the woman whips around to face him, disappointment in her eyes. His shame is instantly recognisable in the way he holds himself, apology written on his face. It does little to soften her attitude.
"Where have you been?" she asks him sternly, folding her arms across her chest. "I told you to be home at six, not half-past seven! And what have you been doing? You're filthy!"
He accepts this all with a small nod and places his stuff on the side table. The boy knows exactly what he's done and what he needs to do.
"I'll go clean up," he says quietly, shuffling into the tiny downstairs bathroom.
His appearance doesn't surprise him, only makes him sigh as he turns on the tap, scrubbing off the black dust from his hands. The small scratches from sharp branches sting as he rubs them, but he pays no mind as he wipes away a streak of charcoal from his cheek.
He grows frustrated as the mark fails to fade, rubbing his cheek red in a poor attempt to get it off.
"Tyler," Barbara tries to stop him. "Tyler."
The boy gives her a look of defeat, and she chuckles, picking up a flannel from the side. She wets it under the running water and tilts his head to look up at her.
"Here," she suggests, gently scrubbing the mark with the flannel. "Let me."
Her foster-son makes an expression similar to a pout, but allows her to finish cleaning his face.
"I'm sorry," he finally says, sounding extremely apologetic. "I didn't see the time..."
"Tyler," she stops him, meeting his eyes, "it's alright. I'm not angry. A little upset, yes, but not angry."
He sighs in what might be relief.
"There's a plate of food waiting for you on the kitchen counter," Barbara tells him kindly. "Go eat, and we'll talk about this later. Alright?"
"Yes, ma'am," he smirks halfheartedly before wandering into the kitchen where a plate of lamb and mash potatoes.
Tyler expresses very little as he approaches the table, the only telltale sign of his arrival is his soft footsteps on the hardwood floor. He has no wish to humiliate himself nor make a fuss of his tardiness, though he cannot speak for the others.
The first thing he notices in the remarkably tense atmosphere in the room. It's thick enough to make him shudder and if he wanted to, he could probably cut it with a knife. Then it's the way the two males are staring at each other. Both of them look ready to launch out of their seats and start knocking the other up.
He's unsettled by the environment, finding it unwelcoming and violent in nature. He feels like a mouse trapped between two cats fighting for dominance. But he knows that there is no threat to him here; he can feel it in his bones.
Cautiously, he takes his seat at the dining table, watching as the silent dispute shatters instantly, banished to the far corner of each's mind. A grin breaks out across Jim's face as he pretends that he was never scowling and Strickler heeds him with a subtle smile. Something's definitely wrong.
"Where have you been, Tyler?" his foster-brother is the first to speak, and suddenly, Strickler's interested too.
"I lost me mind in the woods," he hums, taking a bite of his cooling lamb. "'Got distracted. I didn't realise the time until I came back to myself."
There's silence for a bit, and for that, Tyler's thankful. He does not wish to speak, and as much as he had previously been looking forward to this supper, he just wants it to be over. He can only handle so much insanity in one night.
The moment they've all eaten, Barbara clears the plates and he finds himself wishing that he were as oblivious to the thickening air as she. It's only by the grace that is his foster-mother's cooking ability that he gets to escape, the smell of something burning drawing him out of his seat.
If not for his quick thinking and a can of whipped cream, their dessert would have been toast. And it was only his will to avoid the situation in the dining room that got him to stay and save the pie that had been in literal flames only moments prior.
In his opinion, the evening went quite well.
Somewhat.
He had said his goodbyes to his mentor a few seconds ago and currently busies himself with cleaning the dishes. How on Earth smushed peas are so hard to clean off a plate is a total mystery to him.
"That went well, right?" Barbara asks the two boys, hands on her hips and a pleased smile on her lips.
"I think so," Tyler comments quietly, scrubbing a pot clean.
His foster-brother, however, seems to have different ideas. "I don't know," he states boldly. "He seemed kinda two-faced to me."
"That's going a little far, I think," the elder of the two frowns.
"And I thought you guys were getting along so well."
The bronze-haired boy snorts softly. She clearly couldn't see the struggle, nor the dominance issues between the two.
"Honestly? He's not the guy he says he is," Jim tries to insist, failing to convince anybody.
"Mate, he's one of the very few people that I confide in," Tyler drys his hands on a kitchen towel. "I trust him an' if ye can't at least do that, respect him. It is not yer choice to decide who yer mother is interested in. Grow up."
It's true, he does trust Mr. Strickler. And his trust is relatively hard to earn.
May Dreya have mercy on those that break it.
So many words! I'm glad this is done and I'm looking forward to exploring future episodes with Tyler involved.
Hope you enjoyed!