Prompt: Write a scene or a monologue, where your character introduces themself to the reader, or to a random, friendly stranger.
@yourocsbackstory
I stared at the cup clasped in my hands, wishing that the water within could tell me a way to escape my current situation. Three months free of my parents' influence, three months of living my best life, and this one little hiccup was going to bring it all crashing down.
“I need your name,” the policeman at the desk stated, holding up my brand new fake ID. “Because this ain’t you.”
“It is,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m Jessica Langam.”
He glanced at the ID again. “Jessica Langam is twenty-seven, while you barely look a day over eighteen.” He pressed his lips together, eyebrows raised, and stared at me until I looked away. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Didn’t your parents ever teach you not to lie to the police?”
There was no way I could answer that question in a way he wouldn’t be annoyed with, especially as what I’d actually been taught was that they were inept and corrupt. “Can I have something to eat?” I asked instead.
“Does this look like a restaurant?”
“Sorry,” I mumbled, returning my attention to the cup in my hands again.
The policeman huffed and shuffled the papers on the desk, a scowl forming on his face. “Let’s try this again. Your name, please. Then we’ll put you somewhere safe to sleep off your intoxication.”
“But I’m not even drunk!” I insisted, in a last ditch attempt to convince him to let me leave. “Can’t you just let me go? I won’t cause any trouble…”
The policeman’s scowl deepened. “You were wandering across the highway with no regard for traffic, necking a bottle of tequila. There’s no way we’re letting you leave until we’re sure you’re sober. And,” the way he stressed his words made me squirm, “you tell us your name.”
I really didn’t want to. I knew what would happen if I did: he would call my parents and then they would make me go home, and I hadn’t even had the opportunity to dye my hair a fun colour yet! I wasn’t ready to give up the fun I was having. I didn’t want the party to end.
But I also hadn’t known that being drunk and disorderly was something the police didn’t like - not that I thought I was drunk or disorderly, but apparently they did - and I was better off not upsetting them over my parents. But only barely.
I let out a sigh. “Bethany Norton.”
“ Norton,” he muttered under his breath, typing my name into the computer. “Beth-a-ny.” His hands froze on the keyboard and his eyes flicked to me, making me squirm once again. “You’re Henry and Eliza’s daughter?”
Oh no, he knew of them. “Yes.”
He typed something else into the computer, then reached for his phone.
“Please don’t call them!” It came out as a squeak, far more embarrassing than the calm request I’d intended to make.
“Do you have proof that’s who you are?”
Sullenly, I shook my head. This was exactly what I’d been afraid of. If only I’d known I needed to take my birth certificate with me when I ran away from home.
“Then I need to call them to confirm you are who you say you are. You can’t claim to be the daughter of the largest developer in the country and not expect me to check, now do you?” His condescending tone made my skin crawl, and I dropped my head into my hands as he dialed. It was the middle of the night. They would be really upset at the intrusion.
“Hello,” he said after a minute. “This is Senior Constable Fleming with the Sydney Police Department. Can I please speak with Mr or Mrs Norton?” he stopped, waiting for whichever of the staff he’d woken to speak. “Yes, I’ll hold.”
I cringed, unable to decide which of my parents would be better for him to speak with. Neither of them would be happy with this situation.
Suddenly I realised he was speaking again. “...have a woman here claiming to be Bethany Norton and--” He paused. “Yes. Brown hair, brown eyes, five-seven.” He paused again. “Drunk and disorderly.”
I stared down at the floor, wishing it would swallow me whole.
“The Rocks Police Station,” he said after a minute. “Policy states we can’t release her until after eight, so you’re welcome to collect her then.” He hung up the call, returning his attention to me. “Good news, Miss Norton, they’re going to come in the morning to confirm who you are. Till then, you can wait in one of our finest cells. No drunk tank for you.”
Dear gods, couldn’t my curse just kill me now? It would be way less painful than what the morning would bring.
PROMPT - Think about your character’s past. When were they most afraid?
slides this in right at the deadline
@yourocsbackstory
This took me a while because I had to go back and establish a solid timeline for all the characters.😅 As a pantser I've really been winging the general timeframe of events, but before I could go into Brom's past I needed to know everyone's relative ages to each other. Now that that's done, enjoy!
For this prompt, we go back to Brom's childhood, when he was around 9 years old. His brother, Quartus, is about 15.
The sun rose, bright and early, and Brom rose with it, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. He was still hungry from the night before, and hopefully his brother had some yummy porridge waiting for him. But when he looked up at the stove, nothing bubbled atop it.
That was alright. He could eat the oats plain. Brom didn't really like porridge that didn't have water or milk to make it tastier, but he'd eaten worse. He pressed a hand to his stomach, trying to get the pinches of hunger to subside, and stumbled over to the pantry.
It was bare.
Brom had known it would be, since Quartus had announced as much at supper when breaking the last of their bread, but he had hoped that maybe Quartus had managed to beg a few coins of his meager apprentice's pay in advance and gone early to the bakery. Maybe he was there even now.
But when Brom looked at the kitchen door, he saw that his brother's boots and cloak were still in their place by the door jamb.
Tears sprang to Brom's eyes. He didn't want to go out begging, not again. But his stomach hurt something fierce, so he mustered up the strength he did have and pushed open the door to Papa's old room. It was freezing, a stark contrast to the warmth of the kitchen, and Brom rubbed his arms and shivered before hurrying over to the bed.
“Quartus. I'm hungry,” he said, reaching out to touch the bundled up lump on the straw mattress. There was no response, and he shook Quartus a little. “C'mon, get up. We have to go to the square.”
Quartus still said nothing, and apprehension twisted Brom's guts. He climbed onto the bed and crawled across his brother, twisting until he could see him properly.
Quartus was awake, eyes open, but staring at nothing.
Brom pressed at his face. “Quartus! Please, I'm hungry.”
His brother just lay there, a whispered, “I can't, Brom,” his only response.
“But my stomach hurts,” Brom pleaded, shaking Quartus. “Please, get up. Please.”
Quartus rolled over the other way, drawing the blankets up to his ears. “Not today. You'll have to go by yourself.”
Panic bloomed in Brom's chest. “You told me I should never go to the square without you. Please, you have to get up. I'm so hungry.” He climbed back over Quartus, and grabbed his face in his hands.
“Get off me, Brom!” Quartus yelled, and pushed him so hard he toppled over, hitting the wooden planks with a sick crack.
Brom looked at Quartus in stunned shock. His brother had never shoved him like that before. He scooted back a few paces, his rough sleeping chemise catching in the splinters. “Why did you do that?” he asked, voice watery with tears.
“Forgive me, little brother,” Quartus said, weariness lacing each word. “But I can't. I can't. I simply can't.”
“But what about your apprenticeship?”
“The apprenticeship can go hang.” Quartus rolled over again, showing his back to Brom.
Thoughts started to spin wildly through Brom's mind. If his brother didn't get up, they couldn't go to the square. They wouldn't have any food. He wouldn't even be able to drink a little water from the fountain.
He was so thirsty.
But if he did go to the square by himself, he could get lost. Someone might accuse him of stealing and throw him in the dungeon. A spy from Hyphantria might grab him and spirit him away to the spidery-filled Shalott caves where he'd be forced to slave away with hundreds of other children until his fingers were worn to the bone.
And the apprenticeship! If Quartus didn't report to his master, they would throw him in the dungeons, and then Brom would truly be alone. They might even take their house, the only thing they had left from Papa.
“Quartus!” Brom gasped, close to hysterics now. “I don't want to live on the streets.” They would surely freeze to death come winter. Even now, as the leaves turned gold, a chill hung in the air, leaving the kitchen the single warm room in the house. “What will we do when there's no more wood?”
What if Quartus never got out of bed again?
The ax was too heavy for Brom to swing more than a few times, and it always took the two of them all day to collect brush from the forest. And that was in the summer time. How was Brom supposed to struggle through waist-high snow with the wood-cart all alone?
Bracing himself to be yelled at again, Brom crept forward and shook Quartus with all his might, before tugging on his arms and legs, trying to drag his brother from the bed, uncontrollable tears running down his face as he did so.
“Leave me alone, Brom,” his brother whispered, curling into a ball and resisting all efforts to rouse him. “I just want to sleep.”
Images flashed into Brom's mind of their Papa, the last time he had ever seen him, white bandages swathing his chest as he struggled to breathe. Papa had said he was tired, and that a little rest would make him right as rain.
But he went to sleep and never woke up again.
Terror struck him.
Brom redoubled his attempts, sobbing until he could barely breathe, at which point he collapsed next to Quartus, face messy with tears, throat burning with each laboured gasp of air.
“Forgive me.” Quartus reached a hand out from under the blankets and grasped Brom's sweaty palm. “That you should be cursed with such a brother as me.” A single tear trickled from his closed eyes. He said no more, his shallow breathing Brom's only indication that he yet lived.
Brom lay there, thoroughly exhausted, holding his brother's hand in the dark and cold. Quartus must be near death indeed to stay so still after everything. The gnawing pit of fear in his stomach dug its tendrils into his heart, and Brom wept until he could weep no longer, convinced they would both waste away, as the dread seeping through his body whispered that neither of them would ever see the daylight again.
Depression will really kick you when you're down, come into your home, steal everything you own and then light it all on fire.
Tag Crew: @adie-dee @writtendevastation @catharticallysarcastic @francestroublr
PROMPT - Think about your character’s past. What makes them angry? How often do they feel it?
This is more frustration than anger, but enjoy!
SO SO LATE AHHHHHH😭🥴@yourocsbackstory
Set just before the events of Afallon.
The charcoal snapped in Brom's hands, and he threw down the broken pieces in frustration.
“Why can I not draw her correctly?” he shouted, then ripped the page from his sketchbook, crumpled it up, and threw it across the table at which he'd been sitting.
“Oi! Mind where you're tossing your rubbish,” Alwain reprimanded him. He bopped Brom lightly on the shoulders with his broom. “Father won't be pleased if we've mucked up the place when he returns.”
“I just. My hands refuse to work,” Brom said, before grudgingly getting up and retrieving the piece of paper from where it had fallen. He sat and smoothed out the crinkles as best as he was able and peered at the lines he'd sketched before wadding it up again so tightly it was completely concealed in his fist. “Intolerable,” he muttered and let his head thunk onto the bakery's table.
“Suffer me to see?” Alwain asked, and leant his broom against the table before sliding into the seat opposite Brom.
Brom uncurled his fist and let Alwain pluck the smudged sketch from his hand. “Terrible, is it not?”
“Methinks your eyes have gone bad from the sugar pastries,” Alwain said. “Brom this is–”
“Wretched.”
“Beautiful! Who is she?”
“I'd thank you to cease humouring me; I know it's awful,” Brom said, and snatched the paper away from his best friend, ripping it to shreds before Alwain could stop him. “I know not. I see a faint image of her in the glass sometimes, when at the ruins. An echo of someone I ought to know. But when I try to put my recollections to paper”—he gestured at the well-worn leather binding his sketchbook—“well, look for yourself.”
Alwain leafed through the pages, a deeply puzzled frown etching itself across his face.
Brom knew what he was seeing. The pages and pages of scribbled out drawings, all of them of a pretty girl with curly hair and dark eyes. Except he'd botched the pretty part. He kept drawing her nose too small, or making her freckles look like some hideous skin disease.
“Pitch the whole lot into one of your ovens, why don't you?” he said, and dropped his head back to the table. He reached blindly for the broken charcoal, and, seizing upon it, started grinding the two halves to powder. How foolish he was to call himself an artist. How vain.
“Stoppit, Brom,” Alwain said, and shook him roughly. “You're a fine hand with a pen, and you know it. Stop berating yourself over not quite managing the likeness of a girl you're not even sure exists. What's more, these sketches are marvelous. Or well, they would be,” he added in an undertone, “if you hadn't scored through most of them. But I shan't be destroying your remaining drawings. You might want them later, when you've pulled yourself out of whatever self-pitying pit you've dived into.”
“I very much doubt it,” Brom grumbled, hands now coated with a fine, grey-black dust. If his stupid hands hadn't let him draw yesterday, nor would let him draw at present, they certainly wouldn't yield on the morrow. He had half a mind to thrust them in one of the bakery's ovens. A foolish thought, but one that matched the simmering frustration at his inability to achieve the one thing he was good at.
He stood abruptly, shoving the table back as he did so. It creaked and started to tip alarmingly, but settled as Alwain caught it. “Keep the stupid thing,” he said, and banged out of the shop, ignoring Alwain's shouts.
Let Alwain think he was effecting something noble by saving that sketchbook. The stacks he had at home would make a particularly nice bonfire.
Tag Crew: @adie-dee @writtendevastation @catharticallysarcastic @francestroublr @crystallized-ink
PROMPT - Think about your character’s past. What makes them sad? Was it because of loss, hurt, an argument?
In this one Brom is about 7, Quartus 13. I don’t think I’ve mentioned it before, but their family name is Stableton. @yourocsbackstory
“No, please!” Brom sobbed, barricading the door to the stall with his body. Not that that helped much, since the door was taller than him by half. “Why must we sell Archer? Surely we can keep him?”
Quartus stood before him, a desperate look on his face. He looked as ill now as he did that morning, when he broke the news that their sole remaining mount was to leave them at last.
“Sir Trenton's groom is already arrived; be sensible, and come away from there.”
Beyond the thrown-open doors of the stable, Brom could see the man coming up the path towards them, his cheery yellow and red uniform seeming to make a mockery of Brom's feelings. He shook his head, and Archer whuffed softly from above, as if agreeing with Brom. How could he not, when Papa's stables and fields had been all the home he had ever known?
“I-I-I shan't!” Brom yelled, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I don't want Archer to go.”
Quartus grimaced. He looked like he wanted to yell, but instead he let out a deep breath and knelt in front of Brom, cupping his wet face in his hands.
“I too wish with all my heart that Archer could stay. I know how much you love him, Brom, and that he helps you remember Papa.” Quartus' voice cracked, and he had to clear his throat several times before continuing. “But we can no longer afford his upkeep. Sir Trenton will take good care of him, is it not so?”
He looked to the groom now standing in the stable doorway, who nodded.
“Aye, lads. My master is not one to work his steeds cruelly. Archer will want for naught, and mayhap Sir Trenton might on occasion permit a visit.”
“I. want not. to visit,” Brom hiccuped, trying to push Quartus away from him. “This is. Archer’s home. He belongs with us.”
“Not anymore,” the groom said, stepping forward with a bridle and lead rope in hand. “The papers have already been signed and stamped. I'm sorry, lad, but 'tis time you finish your farewells.”
Quartus pulled Brom to him, and Brom went, his resistance suddenly gone as he clung, weeping, to his brother, face buried in his neck. “Archer,” he mumbled, words muffled by Quartus' shirt collar. He could not bring himself to say more.
Quartus rose and stood aside. “Forgive me. I would open the stall, but . . .”
Brom lifted his head, and through blurry eyes he watched the man enter the small space and affix the bridle to Archer. The great grey horse followed him out, dancing a little in response to Brom's distress. Brom tucked his face back into Quartus' shoulder, not wanting to see the forlorn mounds of straw lining the now-empty stall.
But he could still hear the clip-clopping of Archer's hooves as he was led away, the last remnant of the Stableton legacy receding like water soaking through sand.
They stayed there, the sole occupants of the drafty stables, for what felt like hours, while Quartus held Brom and tried to console him.
But what comfort was there to be had?
Archer was gone.
Tag Crew: @adie-dee @writtendevastation @catharticallysarcastic @francestroublr @crystallized-ink
HELLOOOOO WRITEBLR!!! I'm super excited to be participating in this spring's @yourocsbackstory event. I don't do a lot of writing events/challenges due to level of interest/time constraints, but this one has sparked my imagination from its first iteration, and I always get some great pieces of writing out of it, as well as finding new stories and writeblrs to connect with.
Last time I participated I focused on my villain from my current WIP, Zora, but this round, I'm going with the love interest, Brom! I really need to flesh him out more so this is how I'm doing it 😅
Write a scene or a monologue, where your character introduces themself to the reader, or to a random, friendly stranger. (c) Have them stuck in a police interrogation (guilty or not...)
(This one is not *technically* backstory, as it happens during the events of the novel, but it is a “deleted scene” of sorts, in that it is referenced, but never explored in detail.)
“Please state your full name and occupation for the records.”
Brom looked at Tajon in disbelief. “Sir, you know who I am.”
“For the records, lad,” Tajon repeated, and the chronicler behind him adjusted his glasses in a sort of “get on with it” manner.
Brom stuffed his hands into his pockets to keep from fidgeting. “Bromleigh Stableton. I paint, sir, and draw.”
“By your own admission you were at the ruins when the spy approached you.”
“She's not a spy,” Brom said, “I told you, she's the princess.”
“I know you think that, lad, but you've been deceived. Have you ever met this woman before today?”
Brom flushed. “Yessir.”
“And did you believe this woman to be Bytheinia's lost princess on any of those occasions?”
Brom nodded.
“Aloud, if you please.”
“Aye, I believed her to be the princess from the moment we met.”
“Then why did you not immediately make your concerns known to Her Majesty?”
Brom sank lower into the hard wooden chair. “I didn't have time. The enemy found us and gave chase, and when I looked behind me, she had disappeared.”
“Back to her queendom, no doubt. It is likely the prince orchestrated the affair to make you sympathetic to this spy, thus prompting you to be agreeable to her plan of sneaking into the palace.”
“That was my idea, not hers,” Brom protested. “I thought things would be less overwhelming that way.”
“Or you wanted to be a hero and redeem your family's tarnished reputation. The person who could return our lost princess would forever be remembered in Bytheinia's histories, not to mention the accolades the Queen has promised to any who could reunite her family once more.” Tajon stepped forward, looming over Brom. “That's quite alluring for a young man like you.”
“My family's name isn't tarnished, and I have no need of fame or glory. I simply wanted to do my duty.”
Tajon withdrew a little black book from within his blue officer's jacket. “According to the reports in here”—he tapped the book with a gloved finger—“you were seen traipsing around the city with this girl for hours before you attempted to breach the palace. That doesn't sound like a man who simply wanted to do his duty.”
The tips of Brom's ears burned. A hot flushed suffused his face, and he found he could no longer look Tajon in the eye. “She's the princess. I'm the son of the former stable master. I knew once she got to the palace I'd probably never speak to her again. I only wanted a few hours to remember her by.”
“And your foolish youthful desires meant that you led a spy though our city—into our most sacred places! Who knows what sort of damage she could have done with that knowledge if Aton and I hadn't apprehended you.”
“But she is the lost princess, you must believe me!”
“I've heard those exact words more times than you have years, lad. A pretty face deceived you, it happens to the best of us. Well, I think you've told me all you know. I shall remand you to your brother's custody once he finishes his shift. Your belongings will be returned at that time as well. Until then, sit here here and think about how close you came to helping a spy assassinate our queen. This interrogation is over.”
Tajon slid the book back into his jacket and straightened the garment before leaving the room and locking it behind him.
Brom looked at the sunlight coming in through the window and groaned. It would still be another few hours until Quartus was relieved of guard duty. He hoped Candi was alright. He couldn't bear it if something happened to her.
And that's where we end for now! The other backstory prompts will be more firmly set before the events of Afallon, but this WIP adjacent scene was a nice way to jump into Brom's POV to kick things off.
Tag Crew: @adie-dee @bbcalamity @catharticallysarcastic @francestroublr
Is it over already? This was so much fun! I really enjoyed participating and reading everyone's pieces. Thanks to our wonderful hosts @cirianne and @kosmosian-quills for putting this on! These prompts filled my mind with layers upon LAYERS of backstory, and really helped me flesh out Brom as a character. Afallon is so much better because of it!
You probably stumbled upon something between the last prompts, that moved you. An idea that didn’t really match the prompt. A backstory character that deserved exploring. A question that stayed unanswered. For this week, I encourage you to look for these questions and explore them, write on them, and tell me about it!
In keeping with the theme of this event, I chose yet another emotion, the story behind which I'm excited to share with y'all! Brom is about 14 here. (I started writing this and it wouldn't stop. Help.) @yourocsbackstory
“These paths look treacherous,” Brom said, glancing nervously back at the way they'd come. He and Prentice had been traversing the numerous twists and turns of Hyphantria's revered caverns for quite a while, looking for all the secret entrances. Each time they explored the maze-like tunnels, they went a little farther, a little deeper.
Prentice waved a hand dismissively. “I've a sure foot.” He tapped the top of his boots with his walking staff. “Furthermore, how often have we quested here? These caves are as familiar as mine own hands.”
“We left familiar behind two chambers ago,” Brom reminded his friend. “I'm actively adding to our map as we progress.”
“If on the map, 'tis familiar,” Prentice rejoined. “No matter how new the path may be.” He patted the crystal-studded wall to his left. “In fact, I almost feel at home.”
“The whispering,” Brom said, unease, twisting in his chest. “It's stopped.”
Prentice quirked his head, listening. “Why so it has,” he said, brows knitting together before sheer panic stamped itself onto his features. “Brom, run!” He turned and dashed back through the tunnel, Brom following, the both of them slipping and sliding and cutting themselves against the sharp-edged walls.
Beneath their feet, the earth started to rumble, and dread seized Brom's heart. Would they die down here in the bowels of Hyphantria, ground into dust by the ceiling collapsing upon them? He pushed faster, past Prentice, towards the sparkling glimmer that marked one of the other large chambers whose tunnels would lead them back to the surface.
A sharp cry made him whip around and jerk to a stop. Prentice had fallen, struggling to regain his feet amidst the wobbling, unstable ground. A stalactite shook loose and crashed to the ground just where his head would have been, had he not managed to roll away in time.
Brom staggered towards him, hand outstretched, when the earth shook mightily.
Prentice flung himself at Brom.
Too late.
With a great, groaning sigh, the floor gave way, and Prentice tumbled deep into the newly formed crevasse.
“Prentice!” Brom screamed, dropping to his hands and knees, swaying with the sudden shuddering of cavern. He called his name again, peering desperately into the dark. But while the softly glowing crystal shards that lined the Shalott caves could well enough light the paths and tunnels they'd been exploring, their gentle luminescence was unable to penetrate the deep, yawning blackness that fell away in front of him.
He called again and again, but there was no answer. Either his friend had fallen so far he could not hear him, or he been knocked insensible upon landing. Neither scenario was desirable, and Brom squeezed his abruptly burning eyes shut, refusing to consider the possibility that Prentice might be gone.
No. He had to be alive. Had to be alright.
Ominous rumbles filled the sharp-toothed cavern, more stalactites falling during a particularly vicious quake.
The wisest thing to do would be to run, to flee to the next chamber and worm his way through one of the escape tunnels until he could see the sky once more.
But Brom couldn't leave Prentice here to die. He would be the worst kind of coward if he did that. His first and only friend in all of Hyphantria, who risked all manner of danger to sneak him across the boarder on occasions such as these, and showed him many of the wonders his mother's country had to offer. Brom would save him. Or die trying.
“Give me strength,” he prayed. He thrust trembling hands into his pack, withdrawing his climbing rope. He kept up the silent prayers. He felt so utterly alone, the jarring earthquake shaking and horribly distorting the natural light of the caves so he could barely walk. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” he breathed, reciting the verses over and over even as his hands shook so much he could barely fasten the clips in place.
Brom tugged hard on the rope once he had tied it off, looping it around for added strength. He looped his climbing pick around his hands, aware he could lose a limb if it snagged in the wrong place, at the wrong time, yet horribly afraid to lose his means of retreat. With one of the picks he struck the vibrating wall, breaking off some crystals, which he tied about his arms.
“Prentice!” he called once more, and again received no answer. “Please be alive,” Brom prayed. “I need a miracle right now.”
Then he turned around, and—clinging to the ropes—lowered himself into the black abyss.
Brom descended for long minutes, the crystals lashed about him providing the faintest light. He steadily climbed deeper, the glow from the ceiling above diminishing until it felt like a distant memory.
This far down it was cold. The quake continued to rage, and Brom grew ever aware of a powerful thirst that made dizzy. But he dared not let go of the rope, not even to slake his needs.
His feet touched ground. He'd reached a small ledge.
Brom relaxed for half a moment, and then a terrible jolt flung him off its crumbling edge. He hit the other side of the crevasse hard, the breath knocking out of him and leaving him gasping as the rope tied around his middle yanked him to a stop. He hung there, dangling in the air, fingers barely able to brush either side.
Thankfully his picks had stayed attached, so he struck out with them, painfully aware that he'd run out of rope, and yet hadn't found Prentice. Brom gulped. He would have to climb up again and unloop the rope.
Ascending seemed to take twice as long, and Brom's arms were shaking when he reached the top. Everything was cast in an eerie blue and white glow, and Brom could feel that time was running out. If he didn't find Prentice soon, the falling stalactites might well block their path home.
Once he had the rope unfurled to its full length, Brom ventured once more into the place that had swallowed his friend. He passed the spot where he'd had to stop before and kept going, deeper, and deeper, the chill of the abyss freezing him to his bones.
And there!
Prentice's walking stick was wedged into a narrow part of the crevasse, two bloodied hands clinging to it.
Brom started crying.
One of Prentice's hands slipped, and he swore at Brom. “I didn't hold on this long for you to lose heart at the finish!” His voice was horse, likely from screaming. The shock had hit each of them in different ways it seemed.
Ignoring his friend's harsh words, words that were driven by the terror in Prentice's eyes, Brom rappelled down closer. He gathered up the slack in the rope and looped it around Prentice's waist, securing it using a knot his father had once taught him.
“You can let go,” he said, testing the rope to make sure it still held fast.
“I confess, I cannot,” Prentice said, shaking his head minutely. His clothes were torn to shreds, like he'd scraped against the walls the whole way down until his stick had caught, and he had cuts and freshly-formed bruises adorning his entire body. One of his eyes was swollen shut, a jagged cut bisecting it that stretched from his cheek to his temple.
“One hand at a time,” Brom said, getting his hand under Prentice's and shifting it from the stick to his shoulder. He did the same with the other, and the next instant Prentice was clinging to him, limpet-tight.
A massive shudder rocked the cave at that moment, and the gap widened, Prentice's stick dislodging and spinning away into the darkness.
If I had been but a moment later, Brom thought, unable to repress the full-body shiver that twitched through him. He slid one of his picks into Prentice's hand, slipping the loop over his wrist twice.
“You must help me climb, I have not the the strength to lift us both.”
“Aye, 'tis time that I cease clutching you like a babe,” Prentice said, the words meant to be joking. The fine tremour in his voice spoiled the effect.
They struck out together, Prentice and Brom, inching their way up until they reached the cavern floor. Mercifully, the distressing bucking had stopped, and they lay on the rubble-strewn ground until they caught their breath.
“Thank Heaven,” Brom uttered aloud, and Prentice nodded solemnly along.
“You saved my life, Brom,” he said.
They rose to their feet and began the arduous, limping walk back to the escape tunnels.
“I owe you a great debt. I should never have placed you in this position. I . . . I almost killed you. I would not have begrudged you had you fled and left me behind.”
“I wanted to,” Brom admitted, shame flushing his skin. “At first. I was so afraid.”
“But you did not.” Prentice paused for a moment and clapped Brom on the shoulder before they resumed their trek. “I really thought I would die. I screamed and screamed, but you didn't answer. Or I couldn't hear a response amidst the earth's pain. The longer I held on, the more I began to wonder if I were mad for simply not accepting my fate. I had myself near about convinced that I should just let go.”
“Then I saw you, descending into the pit like the Archangel Michael himself. You could have died rescuing me. You looked as terrified as I felt. But still you threw yourself into the unknown. For me. In the greater world, we are yet seen as boys, but Brom—I tell you truly—you are the bravest man I've ever known.”
They turned a corner, and the bright sun greeted them.
Additional thanks to everybody who has read and commented on my work for this event. Y'all rock!
Tag Crew: @adie-dee @writtendevastation @catharticallysarcastic @francestroublr @crystallized-ink
PROMPT - Think about your character’s past. What disgusts them?
This is closer to the start of my WIP. Brom is about 15 here.
I think I finally pinned down the style of dialogue I've been trying to achieve for the people of Afallon! @yourocsbackstory
“Ho, Brom, where are you off to so early?”
Brom froze in the kitchen doorway, his bulging satchel thumping against his chest with the sudden stop. He gestured to it. “Painting.”
“In town, I hope?”
Brom bit the inside of his cheek. If he could bring himself to agree with Quartus, then all would be well. But he wasn't in the habit of lying to his brother. “My intent was to wander the moor,” he admitted.
Quartus let his fist thunk onto the table where he sat, an array of breakfast foods on small wooden plates before him. “The moor near the city?”
Brom said nothing, only looked at his brother, then the ground, the open doorway, and the ground again.
“Brom,” Quartus said, sharp and impatient. “Don't suffer me to drag the truth from you. How far afield plan you to wander?”
“To the castle,” Brom said. He clutched his satchel nervously. “Th-the old ruins.”
“No.” Quartus said, a note of finality in his tone. “I forbid it.”
“Wherefore?” Brom burst out, the denial sparking anger within him. “What do you have against the ruins? These many years the castle has stood abandoned, any threat long since passed.”
“'Tis still our enemy's old territory,” Quartus said. “A pit of snakes and all that is vile. You should have nothing to do with that tainted place.”
Brom drew himself up to his full height. “That tainted place, as you call it, is our birthright! Or have you so easily forgotten that our own mother hailed from that queendom? The blood of Hyphantria runs through our veins just as surely as it does those you impugn so callously.”
Quartus flinched, a muscle tightening in his lower jaw. “And I am ashamed of that heritage, as you should be. But instead, you make a fool of yourself prancing about the land that still bears the scars of battle where so many good Bytheinian men fought and died. Where Papa died.”
It was Brom who flinched then.
“Those battles have long been waged and won,” he said at last. “Our queendoms have had a truce these past few years, and are there not are talks of reopening trade betwixt our two countries? 'Tis time to put the old hurts behind us and stop living in fear and suspicion.”
Quartus shook his head. “Oh, Brom. How little you understand. Rest assured that my ill-will toward Hyphantria is more than justified.”
“Justified? Never once have you given me a convincing argument for your continued hatred.” Brom struck the wall to his right, hardly noticing as splinters drove themselves into his hand. “There are children, my age and younger, who are as innocent as I in the rift between our queendoms. We still have kin there, cousins and uncles and the like with whom we have been estranged since I was a babe. And you would condemn them all?”
Quartus said nothing, only pressed his lips firmly together. His eyes were narrowed, dark with anger. They more than expressed his feelings on the matter, Quartus' intense gaze warning Brom to tread carefully. Normally, Quartus' unwavering dedication to his ideals was something Brom admired, but on this matter he fervently wished Quartus were not so set in his ways.
“This – ugliness of yours, it disgusts me.”
Quartus lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug, as if to say, “and what of it?”
Brom breathed deeply as he struggled to contain his own fury, appalled by the extent to which his brother refused to even consider thinking upon their former enemies with compassion.
“Have it as you wish. I shan't go to the ruins today. Pray this bitterness leaves you, for until then, it is you who I am ashamed to call kin.”
Brom stepped through outside and let the door slam shut behind him. He walked until he couldn't see the house any longer and then found a tree and sat under it.
He sat there for a very long time.
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