Eeeee crazed desperate ashcombe is my favorite thing
Gasping, he would stagger from his bed, drinking whiskey straight from the bottle in an effort to steady himself. Guilt clung to him like a second skin these days, omnipresent and unshakable. Had Christopher died quickly, he wondered, pulled down by the clawing waters? Or had it been drawn out, clinging desperately to the battered remnants of the ship as the world raged around him? He could only pray the end had been swift. -my jaw dropped
He remembered a boy, covered in flaking blood, sitting by the slashed body of his former master. How young Christopher had looked to him then, tear tracks still drying on his face. Skinny as a bird and as frail as one too. It was only a few days later that he’d watched him be tortured, his screams echoing off the stone walls of the mausoleum. No, Christopher Rowe was made of sterner stuff than he appeared. -okay but this scene from Ashcombe's pov??? The urge to write it rn
Comment on Watching the Shoreline (And Hoping to See You There)
acidmeringue on Chapter 1 Wed 07 Feb 2024 06:52PM UTC
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