Hyacinth (Tamlin's Healing Arc)

The Beast: Chapter One

Bron's staggering entrance into the house, resembling that of a drunken fool, no longer held any surprise.

It had become a nightly ritual for nearly two years. However, on this particular night, Cin found herself annoyed.

With a sharp tone, she inquired, "Busy night?" as she unceremoniously dropped the plates onto the kitchen table behind the sofa. Bron, grunting in response, kicked off his boots and sank into the plush sofa, seeking warmth from the gently burning heated rods.

His eyelids drooped lazily, and his smile appeared lopsided. Cin was well aware of the reason behind his relaxed demeanor; her brother had indulged in more than just alcohol. While Bron could immerse himself in fermented fruit and vegetables to drown his sorrows, Cin remained behind, fulfilling her role as the dutiful daughter.

Bron, too exhausted to provide the desired response, simply pulled the fuzzy blanket from the back of the sofa and draped it over himself. His words slurred as he asked, "You could say that. How's Papa?"

Cin released a long exhale, her shoulders slumping as she sighed, "He's asleep in his room. He's not getting better, Bron. He's not going to get better."

It had become something of a routine with them. It was the first question Bron would ask each evening as if he hoped one day she'd give him a different answer. Their father had lived a long, hard life, and now, in the twilight of it all, he'd been forced to witness the kind of unspeakable events no parent should endure. If Bron anticipated the day when she would proclaim their father's improvement, he would face bitter disappointment.

"You can't be sure of that," he murmured, peering over the brown, patchy sofa, his eyes widening as he regained some sobriety. Bron desperately clung to the belief that their father could recover, as if he were struck by some curable illness rather than the ravages of old age.

"Yes, I can," Cin responded, her voice softening, carrying a gentler tone. When the inevitable moment arrived—because it would—Bron would bear their father's death more heavily than she would.

For the first time, Bron noticed what Cin was occupied within the kitchen. He wrapped the splotchy blanket around his shoulders before heaving out of the sofa to trudge up the two steps that separated the living room from the kitchen. He collapsed onto the wobbly stool and plucked an apple from the bowl on the table.

"Papa's growing weaker, and his skin is covered in bruises," she stated, setting the pan aside and heaping a serving of scrambled eggs onto the plate in front of him. She knew they could discuss their father's deteriorating condition all morning, but it wouldn't change a thing. Bron refused to accept that reality.

So, Cin squared her shoulders and tried to not be an asshole as she asked, "How was your revelry, really?"

Her brother glanced up at her, the apple set aside to make way for the forkful of eggs he was about to devour. "Hart attempted, yet again, to outdrink me."

"Yeah?" She placed the pan on the wooden board, allowing it to cool. A lifeless laugh escaped her lips. Hart was Bron's lifelong best friend, their friendship spanning far beyond Cin's recollection. Ever since they both ceased serving the High Lord of the Spring Court, Hart had made it his personal mission to surpass Bron in drinking prowess. Two years' worth of unsuccessful attempts had done nothing to diminish Hart's determination to emerge victorious over Bron.

"He does nothing all day. We've been at this for years. You've think he'd at least make a chink in my record." Bron chortled, but it's as lifeless as Cin's had been.

Cin knew why they both did nothing all day except drink and smoke various herbs. They'd abandoned their posts in the High Lord's service. No matter how much she tried, Bron refused to go back to the High Lord, refused to make things right. "Since you brought it up, have you heard any news him?"