The sun, rising higher, cast its golden warmth across the swamp, still and silent except for the faint rustling of leaves.
He squints against the bright light, brushing the hay off his back. The dampness of the hay beneath him clings to his skin, but he doesn't mind the warmth of the summer air. It's familiar now, part of the rhythm of his life out here.
"Morning, Grace," he mutters, stretching out his limbs, trying to shake off the lingering sleepiness. "Hope you're ready for tomorrow. Scylla's taking you out for a ride later... Those woods are tough, you know. Wonder who in this family decided to go this deep into a swamp."
He runs his fingers through the strands of hair stuck to his forehead, thinking of the miles of marsh ahead. The damp, soft earth and the distant murmur of the swamp always make things feel farther than they are. One spot, and I really do mean one—where the land doesn't swallow you up in mud and murk. The thoughts drift in and out, as his gaze shifts toward the distant, crooked trees.
"And the well..." he trails off, shaking his head. "You'd think it'd be closer, right? Or, y'know, easier to get to. But hey, at least that filtered swamp water from it doesn't taste half bad."
He turns to Grace then, the apple in his hand, reaching out to her with a smile. "You don't talk back much… but you're a great listener. Here," he hands her the fruit, his fingers brushing against her soft fur.
With another look toward the trees, he exhales a quiet breath, his eyes lingering on the horizon, wondering what today will bring.
The sun climbs higher, casting its soft, golden glow across the land. He squints, feeling the warm rays hitting his face and shoulders. Chores... He looks up at the sky, noting the angle of the sun—maybe 15 minutes to pull himself together before the day fully begins. There's no time to waste.
Leaving the stables, the fresh light greets him like an old friend, the warmth a welcome embrace. That radiance, that golden warmth, never gets old, but the salt in the air—ugh, that he could do without. It clings to his skin and hangs heavy on his breath. It's all part of living by the swamp, though. Can't escape it.
Without thinking too much, he stumbles toward a nearby barrel of water. Nothing like a quick dunk to get the day going, he thinks, and before he can second-guess it, he slides face-first into the cold water. The shock of it makes him gasp, but it's the kind of sharp wake-up call he needs.
"Try this in winter," he mutters with a grin, wiping his face. "I'd be out of commission for weeks if I did." The cold always stings a little more when the wind's bitter and the world's frozen solid.
He scrubs away the dirt, grime, and whatever other garbage managed to cling to his skin. His hair—dark enough that you can barely tell where it ends and the dirt begins—feels heavier than usual. His fingers rake through the mess, clearing off what he can.
He pulls on the same clothes from the day before, the familiar fabric soft but worn. It's all he needs for now.
With a final stretch, he exhales and turns toward the stables again, heading to wake Scylla. The day's chores won't do themselves, but at least it's another chance to get his hands dirty, another chance to push forward.
One more day.
The floorboards creak softly as he moves carefully through the house, each step taken with deliberate quietness to make good practice of Master Belmire's reminders, prim and proper, just as he was reminded. Up the stairs, the faint scent of the morning air slips in through the open windows, mixing with the familiar but grungy smell of the house. Three doors down the hall, one foot after the other until reaching her door. He pauses, then taps gently on the oak door with the back of his hand. Two polite knocks, just enough to let his presence be known without alarming her.
"Scylla… I mean, Young Master…" He hesitates, a soft sigh escaping his lips. "Scylla, arise, there's much to do today before the return of your parents."
He waits a moment, hearing only the stillness of the room. Then, with a slight turn of the handle, he steps inside.
The room is as beautiful as it is messy. Sunlight pours through the window, spilling across the disordered bed and scattering a gentle glow over the cluttered nightstand. The family emblem—a delicate, polished silver pin—sits there, gleaming faintly beside a half-finished cup of tea.
He glances at the figure still nestled beneath the covers, her outline barely visible against the soft fabric. Scylla is still asleep, the faint rise and fall of her chest a quiet rhythm beneath the sheets.
"Scylla, wake up," he says again, his tone a little firmer this time.
With a soft rustle of fabric, he reaches over and snatches the nightcap from her head. The action is quick but not harsh, a reminder that the day waits for no one—not even for royalty.
She stirs, her eyes still heavy with sleep, but her expression shifts into one of mild irritation. He can't help but smile just a little, knowing that no matter how many times he wakes her like this, she'll never quite be used to it.
"Whaaaaaat?" Scylla mumbles, her voice thick with sleep, as she tries to pull the covers up over her head, retreating into the warmth of her bed. She sounds less like the young master and more like a child trying to avoid the inevitable.
He sighs, crossing his arms as he watches her. "You know, when your parents are here, you have no issues waking up. But when it's with me, you seem to lose all ability to care."
She groans from beneath the covers, clearly not ready to face the world. "Yeah, yeah, yeah… get out. I'll get ready."
He smirks, shaking his head. "Good. I'll begin making your breakfast then."
He turns to leave the room, but not before casting one last glance over his shoulder. Scylla's still tangled in the sheets, her hand lazily reaching out to reclaim the nightcap, as though it's her only defense against the start of a long day.
The door closes behind him, and he heads downstairs, ready to begin the morning routine, knowing full well that by the time breakfast is on the table, Scylla will be grumbling her way out of bed, ready to face the day—though likely not in the best of moods. The usual pattern, but one that's never dull.
The kitchen smells warm and comforting as he begins to work. The eggs crack with a soft snap into the heated pan, the sizzle echoing through the air as they start to cook, the rich scent filling the room. The bogfish, caught the day before, sizzles in its own pan, the faint scent of brine and earth mixing with the heat. He flips the fish carefully, looking over at the kitchen as he does.
The wooden shelves are polished to a gentle shine, their grain catching the light that filters in through the small window. There's a rustic charm to the space, The table, made of the same sturdy wood, sits ready for three, though it's usually just him and Scylla who occupy it in the mornings.
The soft sound of footsteps on the stairs draws his attention, and he glances over his shoulder. Scylla comes down, now dressed in a simple, plain outfit suited for the days ventures—a mix of practicality and subtle elegance. It's closer to the way commoners dress in style, but with the elegance of something far greater.
"Ah, there you are," he says, turning back to the stove. "I was starting to wonder if I'd have to drag you out of bed myself."
Scylla doesn't respond immediately, instead eyeing the plates he'd set out—one with eggs, another with the crispy bogfish, and a loaf of bread he'd freshly sliced.
She eyes the food briefly, then her gaze shifts to him, already preparing herself for the day. "It smells good," she admits, the faintest hint of appreciation in her voice, though she doesn't let it linger too long.
He gives her a nod, serving the food onto the table. "I'd hope so, if i couldn't cook the something this simple, id question the quality of my training
She takes a seat, still groggy but clearly aware of the need to get moving. "Thank you Brutus," she says, not quite meeting his eyes but still acknowledging the effort.
Leaning against the door ready for the day ahead
Morning is well underway, and the first task has been taken down—waking Scylla up . The food's finished, Sitting at the table bothered me, I've always preferred to keep moving, can never be to comfortable.
"Miss Scylla," he begins, his voice cutting through the light chatter as he tidies up the remnants of breakfast, "If you are ever actually going to get into Bloom Concordia, you need to be able to—"
"Don't call me miss while my parents aren't here," she interrupts, raising an eyebrow as she stirs her tea. "Acting all proper and stuff for no reason."
Brutus glances over at her, lips curling into a half-smile, but he remains firm. "Listen, if we get too casual, I might slip up while your parents are around, and we both don't need that, do we?"
She huffs, rolling her eyes as she leans back in her chair. "Fine, but it's a bit much."
He shrugs and moves on, looking at the door as though sensing something. "Side note, Brutus," she starts, the words almost too casual, "Quit sleeping in the stables when my parents aren't here. You smell just as bad as the swamp does because of it, and it's ruining my breakfast."
Brutus, who had been standing by the door, gives a short, surprised laugh but doesn't seem too offended. "I'll keep my distance," he mutters, though there's a slight hint of rebellion in his voice.
Scylla gives him an amused look but doesn't comment, her attention returning to her plate. "Just don't make it worse. We've got enough to do today without taking your smell into consideration.
With that, Brutus pulls himself away from the door and begins sorting the various items that will be needed at the range.
"Everything's packed," he says, giving one final look around the room. The bags are by the door, everything in its place, and the weight of the last weeks injury's weigh heavy on his mind.
"Let's grab Grace and head out," he adds, walking toward the stable door. The sound of hooves can already be heard, the familiar rhythm of Grace's movements as she shifts around, waiting to be led out.
He pauses for a moment, looking over at Scylla. There's a brief flicker of a smile, though it's more of a determination than anything else. "Ready?"
Scylla's already moving, slipping into her riding gear, and with a final nod, they step outside, the warmth of the sun greeting them. Grace's ears perk up as she sees them approach, the horse's patient eyes looking between them, ready for whatever lies ahead.
With a gentle hand, he tugs open the stable door, letting the fresh air flood in. "Come on, Grace," he murmurs, leading the horse out, "It's a long ride ahead for you … and a looong walk ahead for me."