Solomon 453Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡScYpV2OZRl
1836 453Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDqBRcUFBj9
From his sixteen years, Sol knew only two things for sure. His father was honest and his mother was a liar. It was those two things that had led him to this moment. His father sat at the head of the table, thrumming his ghostly fingers against the dark oak. Sol sat the opposite end, hands entwined with a muscle persistently twitching in his throat. He wore a simple white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, but it hadn’t done much to hide the gash to his left arm. Sol winced as he touched the bruise on his jaw, sure to swell and hurt like hell in the morning. He held his wounded arm, blood oozing through the thin fabric of his shirt and onto his fingers. Despite the blood, despite the bruise and despite the fact that Sol was glaring at him with every inch of hatred he could muster, his father avoided eye contact with his son and casually sipped on his wine.
“The Manning’s will withdraw their support of the races and encourage their close ties to do the same,” Sol hissed, ice lacing every letter that poured from his mouth.
“I’m aware, you stupid git. I’m also aware they’ll marry off their faggot son to some desperate, wealthy spinster,” Lord Ashford replied, flicking to the next page of his newspaper.
Sol winced and internally withdrew from his father’s white hot words.
“Cyprus isn’t some sellable good they can just sell off. And neither am I,” He said with a tremor in his voice.
“You are what I deem you to be. I’ve only ever done what was best for you, but you’ve always found a way destroy any advantage I’ve handed to you. The Manning son is a man of twenty-two years and you are but a sixteen-year-old boy. It’s obvious he was just taking advantage of whatever misdirected lust is running inside you. Tell me, what were the two of you planning?” Lord Ashford asked, calm and collected, much unlike his son. He looked to his only son now, looking with the exact same icy blue eyes. Yet instead of rage, hurt and embarrassment, there was a guarded wall ice and laser-focus in his older eyes.
“We were planning nothing. We just – just wanted meet away from prying eyes. We did nothing, schemed nothing. It was only when your guard found us that he….that I kissed him. I know that you knew about us before last night, but what I don’t know whether you gave them the order to beat me to a fucking bloody pulp and make Cyprus watch. Of course, I did get a laugh out of it when I got to watch Cyprus leave a bloody imprint of his silver rings into Fat Walter’s disgusting face and kick Liam Ogburn in a place that’ll make sure he won’t be having any offspring,” Sol smiled softly even though it pained him more than he’d ever admit.
Lord Ashford pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut.
“I haven’t the time to deal with you myself, so you’ll be spending the rest of the winter at the Plyberry Academy in the far off countryside. Mayhap you’ll find some sense of self far away from home.”
“Hmm, you mean far away from you?” Sol said without a single hint of the pain of having his hear wrenched from his chest. Yet, when his father didn’t say a word Sol understood that the feeling his chest was only the snapping of a few heartstrings, not the complete tearing of his heart itself. His father was not worth such a thing. The loud scrape of his chair against the stone floor echoed around the room as he pushed away from the table and stood taking his string strapped rucksack pack.
Sol pushed open the door, but not before Lord Ashford interjected his silent leaving to try and have the last word.
“I won’t come looking for you,” He assured his only son.
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Sol replied, closing the parlour door behind him.
What he did expect, was to find his mother standing by the fountain outside, alone in the snow.
Why do you do this to yourself. Why do you force yourself to keep living, mother?
Sol shrugged off his blue suit-jacket (which was now in bloodstained tatters,) and wrapped it around her shoulders.
“Mother,” he said softly. Even though he was only sixteen, Sol had grown to be even taller than her. His mother fell into his arms, tears messing up her once beautiful face.
“It’s going to be alright my son, I promise you it’s going to be alright…you’re going to be king of the world someday, remember, don’t you remember…?” She wept.
Oh, how those words took him back. She’d first said them on his sixth birthday when father had first hit him. He’d been so immersed in his work, his head pounding and the hour so late that Sol’s insistence on him viewing on his drawing that it had proven too much, and Lord Ashford backhanded his son with his hand laden with the family rings, sending him sprawling and bleeding onto the floor of his office. She’d found her son hiding beside his bed in a sobbing bloody mess. It was there that she’d taken him in her arms and sung him to sleep, promising that these memories would dissipate like the morning mist and matter not when her little darling was king of the world
Sol buried that memory and brushed away those words just as he brushed away Mother. He shifted the rucksack on his back and left her to weep in the snow, and his father to pretend not to watch him leave from the windows on the second floor. Sol walked the lonely, snow-swept road, and he let the cold seep through his skin and wounds and pour into his heart, feeling it freeze over was the only way he could find the strength not to look back.
The streets of London were doubly cold than the ice that had hardened Solomon’s heart that day. Slowly but surely throughout his week-long travel to London the icy core within had melted away, leaving only his bones to ache and skin sore with blisters, the gash on his shoulder throbbing more so every day, even though he’d attempted to clean and treat it his first night on the road. Like Sol’s father had promised, none had chased after him. On the last few days of his travel, Sol had joined a caravan of men given food and the warmth of fire in the return for the protection of a merchant’s van. When the outskirts of the city came into sight, a thuggish man Sol had befriended on the way had suggested he head to the Church that could be found on a small patch of fenced land just inside the city. There he’d find room and board in return for hard work, or so the man had said.
And so Sol left the group as they made their way into the city, and payed a visit to particular church. It was surrounded by a black pointed fence as the man had said, the small wedge of land choked with snow so much that it was making headway on the chipped, grated statues of angels and saints alike. He trudged through the snow that reached his ankles, and knocked upon the towering, black doors.
How cruel of fate that I must go from a mansion with parents that could neither understand nor accept me to a Church. Cyprus…he was an opportunist, that was clear. But…he saw both opportunity and something else in me. But he was no Egad. How laughable…the only three friends I’ve made and I can see none of them. Cyprus, I’m not sure if I ever – if I ever had more than lust after his power and fair looks. Rhydian was one of the strangest fellows I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting, which made him one of the only trustworthy friends I’ve had. If it weren’t for the fact that both him and his brother Jeremiah were too smart for their own good and left for some over intelligent college I might’ve left to live in secret at their estate. Being the annoyingly smart git that he was, it didn’t take him long to figure out my lack of interest in women. It was funny, how little he cared of the fact and how fascinated he was with the fact. He might’ve actually been jealous even, as in his letters he oft complained about the undeniable lure of the female teachers and young nuns that ran the college and how god-damn distracting it was. Rhydian…you made for a good friend, but none compares to Egad…but, its best to forget him now. I think it’s best to forget the idea of ever finding someone to truly love, if only at least for now considering I’ll be working in God’s house I’ll most like be struck by lightning if I’m lucky…heh.
The tall door grinded against the floor of the church as it groaned open by a surprisingly young lad dressed in priestly attire. His mop of brown hair was thick and curly-like brushing by his green eyes. It made Sol wonder why such a lad would take such a lonely path. There was a moment of awkward silence between the young priest and dirtied, wounded drifter-for-a-week.
“Um, I was told I could get room and board here for honest work?” Sol queried.
The priest looked him up and down. “Honest work, yes. My name is Father Elijah, it’s nice to meet you, -”
“– Solomon.”
“Welcome then, Solomon,” Father Elijah said with a handsome smile as they shook hands.
Cautiously, Sol stepped inside the empty Church and promptly found and sat by the roaring fire. The Father disappeared for a moment, returning with a steaming bowl of broth and some bread and a mug of ale.
“Here, you must be weary,” The priest said, handing Sol the much appreciated food and drink. Sol nearly downed the entire mug in one gulp and practically drank the broth itself.
“Life here is simple and honest. I shan't ask of your pasts every detail, only that you confess of any general sins. There's plenty to do around here and I need a workman in for shape, so needn't worry I’ll tend to your hurts,” Father Elijah assured him, sitting on a chair opposite to him. He sat so gracefully and so…peacefully that he anise seemed feminine. Again, it made Sol terribly curious at how such a young man had found himself in a cold stone house with a whispering ghost for company, surrounded by snow, stone and statues.
“You'll sleep up in the old rookery in the attic, it's plenty warm up there especially with a woollen blanket or two. All I ask is that you respect the property of the church and please don't drink the wine. It has happened before, sister Lily was having an off day and I really just walked in at the wrong time – just, don't drink the wine?” Elijah explained.
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Sol’s chores were many, and most consisting of psychical labour. Elijah gave him some simple winter clothes donated by the city-folk, which was about two sizes too big for the sixteen-year-old but worked all the same. Thick black gloves, a black scarf to wrap around the lower half of his face, a heavy grey coat and big boots to fend off the cold and wade through the snow. There was a slight fall as Sol cleared the stone path leading from the gate to the Church itself. His heavy breath materialised in white cloud, pouring from the scarf tugged over his mouth. Sol cleared the snow around and on the statues, and as he did so, he couldn't help but let his thoughts wonder.
Am I just wasting my time here? To do all these fucking menial tasks…is this to be my life? When I eventually go to confession…could this really be my chance to begin anew? Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. It won’t matter either way if I live in a goddamn old bird attic for the rest of my life. Eck.
Once he was done clearing the snow for the patrons when they arrived later on in the day and shovelled as many dead leaves as he could into a pile and cleaned the frost from the windows, Sol went back inside. Father Elijah had left for the town for a good half of the day, leaving Sol with the only company being the wooden crucified Jesus with many an abdominal muscle. The Father would be gone for a few hours more, which gave Sol free range to do what he liked, like maybe pray for example.
Sol did that in his own way, sitting on the cold stone altar, drinking the rich blessed red wine. He swung his feet, tapping a random tune on the stone. He whistled some old lullaby that his mother would sing when he was just old enough to remember, and drunk himself stupid on holy wine. Despite Sol’s small frame and even thinner self, thanks to the light meals and heavy travel he’d found he was quite the climber. Which, in the current moment became very handy, considering he was now drunkenly climbing up to the wooden Jesus statuette. Sol traced the wooden jaw, his neck and abdominal muscles.
“I wonder, if you suffered the same utterly confusing perversions that I do today. It’d be most curious and just hilarious if so. I know it’s wrong but by God I can’t imagine any other way of being. You – you’re one of the most famous human beings in history, but we’re not so different are we? Two young men, oppressed because we differ in views to our peers. Only, I shan’t be known as you are…maybe. But that – that’s a choice isn’t it?” Sol laughed. He was crying now. Slurring his words and crying. Sol could almost remember the slight shake in his mother’s voice whenever she sang that damn song to him.
Hush, little baby, don't say a word.
Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird
“I’m gonna…I’m gonna be something. I – I don’t know what, but…something,” He said, holding the wooden jaw and staring wooden Jesus right in the fucking eye.
And if that mockingbird won't sing, 453Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCSKHUB9Lgw
Papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring
“I don’t care whether I go down in history like you my friend, but – but they’ll know my name,” Sol didn’t really know where this sudden motivation was coming from, (he could guess the wine had something to do with it,) but he went with it regardless.
And if that diamond ring turns brass,
Papa's gonna buy you a looking glass –
Despite being cleaned and stitched up, his shoulder was still healing it and reminded him so when it ached, flaring up when Sol put too much weight on it making his arm jerk violently, sending him falling to the stone fall. The second his head hit the cold floor, Sol was knocked unconscious.
When he came to, he found himself lying in his wooden, itchy cot in the attic. Sol tried to sit up, but the gash on his shoulder throbbed in response leaving him to fall back onto the cot. He held the wound, moaning slightly at the pounding pain.
“Thought I told you not to drink the wine, Solomon,” Father Elijah sighed, placing a damp cloth on Sol’s shoulder. The adolescent merely grumbled, rolling over with his back to Elijah.
“Too many thoughts in my head, couldn’t think too clearly,” He sighed.
“And you think Church wine could clear your head?” Elijah asked, sitting on a wooden stool by the cot.
“Made for a good distraction,” Sol said, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
“Thing is distractions are only temporary. For the longest time, I didn’t know what it was I was meant to do, what path I was meant to take. I found small distractions, some longer than the others, but like all the rest they were temporary. I was lost, until I found my calling. Whether it be with the Church or not, you need to find your calling,” Father Elijah explained, patting Sol on the shoulder.
Soon after he left, leaving the broken boy laying beneath the itching sheets atop a wooden cot that made his back ache. Sol pulled the blanket over his head and nestled into the scratchy fabric. From the sleeve of his shirt Sol pulled out a piece of worn, crinkled paper. His drawing skills had certainly improved over the years, but he was still humbly proud of the skill he’d mustered years ago to draw him. The drawing of him was in pencil, but Sol had coloured the paper of his eyes yellow. It was a simply drawing, really. It was of him, just smiling, a picture of complete happiness.453Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYBlmJpvh2F
I wonder what you look like now…stronger than me, doubtless, with all the farm work your father probably makes you do. Strong and handsome, and a world away. Wherever you are, North, look out for yourself.
Sol scrunched the paper in the palm of his taut fist and held it to his heart as he faded into sleep. 453Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvsX8zyO1FU
