#it may be the sleep deprivation talking bc icr but i don't think achille has ever said a curse word in his life

[sealrock]

SCOLDED.

ask meme

cw: depiction of corporal punishment

(ty for the ask @abalathia!)

The unnatural humidity clung to his hair as he sat by the riverbed. His clothes unpleasantly stuck against his skin, meaning he would have to take a long bath afterward. The now lonely moon peeked through the canopy every now and then, its white glow illuminating an old pipe held between shaky hands. The trees were silent. He scratched at the still-healing tattoo near his cheek. The evening song of cicadas, crickets, and toads grew louder as the minutes passed. Thirsty mosquitos bit into Achille's bare arms and exposed lower legs with vigor, leaving behind swelling welts as he contemplated in solitude. 

No one's around to see me, it's ok. 

Everyone else's doing it.

Nel and Nilo'ya keep making fun of me. They call me a bloody altar boy. They piss me off sometimes.

If this was so bad, why do adults smoke it? Seems to be pretty good, I'd imagine.

A warm summer night such as this, especially deep within the southern parts of the Shroud, should be spent listening to bard tales around campfires with friends and family—on any other day and not in the aftermath of an apocalypse, not hidden away in the thicket of the forest alone... Alone. That's how Achille spends most of his nights recently. His foster father, Chiron, began working evening shifts at the mines after they moved to Boughbury roughly a few moons ago to escape the permanent winter that fell upon the lands when Dalamud fell. But Boughbury was not home—home was up north, in the crisp, open space of Coerthas. Besides his two only friends, Achille hated Boughbury—and the feeling's mutual with the older locals.

Chiron wasn't due home until late into the night. Achille was independent enough to make his meals and look after the cottage, and Chiron trusted him not to make a mess of things now that he was older. Achille had his chores to keep him busy—clean Talona's pen, feed Talona, scrub the floors, wash and fold the laundry, and inventory the food stores. But menial tasks led to boredom, which quickly led to mischief, and Achille found himself leaving the relative safety of his home to partake in youthful disobedience—such as drinking, stealing, and smoking.

Achille considered robbery immoral, and drinking dulled the senses. He tried a mug of ale once, it was disgusting. His peers, those he tried to integrate with, would hurl all kinds of names at him for his perceived self-righteousness, and Achille would respond with harsher insults and physical violence. But Chiron raised Achille with concrete morals and beliefs, like a true monk he once was. Chiron refused to indulge in these activities; to indulge in the base excesses of man would be to sever the connection to the Destroyer. He raised Achille to follow the same beliefs: he must never drink, smoke, or use violence for the sake of violence. Chiron had broken the creeds in the past, and he toiled every day to make up for it.

Unfortunately, this would make Achille the target of social pressure; as the new kid on the proverbial block, Achille was an outsider looking in. Nel and Nilo'ya, fellow outcasts in the tumult hierarchy of adolescents, saw Achille as a kindred soul. They, too, followed the rules set by their elders... When they were being watched, of course. Nilo'ya, a rambunctious Keeper boy with a blinding smile, gave Achille the initiative after snatching his grandpa's smoking pipe and tobacco for Achille to try out.

While Nilo'ya tends to snort the stuff as dried snuff, he considered this to be "too easy" and that "the reward must equal the risk." Achille was reluctant at first, but after watching Nilo'ya make smoke rings as effortlessly as he skipped stones across the water, Achille was quick to change his mind. Alongside Nel, a lively Duskwight girl as tall as Chiron, they taught Achille the know-how of pipe smoking. His heart hammered in his chest with excitement, but Achille's stomach rolled with anxiety. He drew in a few deep breaths to steady his hands; Nilo'ya would cry if he were to drop his grandpa's pipe into the water and lose it. From his front pocket came out a tiny pouch of fresh tobacco; it reminded Achille of mulch.

As instructed, Achille carefully packed the bowl with at least three pinches and packed it down with his thumb. He tested the draw once, twice—it was just right. All that was left to do was light it. He took a glance behind his shoulders on the off chance there was someone nearby who could spot him. He had walked a suitable distance away from the village, and no one besides his friends knew about this particular spot in the woods. It's now or never.

He clutched the mouthpiece between his teeth as he struck the match, watching the flame sway in the light breeze of the night. His hand was still trembling as he watched the flame dance across the top layer of tobacco. He could hear Nel in his ear telling him not to inhale the smoke as soon as it hit his tongue, just let the vapors roll around in his mouth before he released. Nilo'ya said to draw in small puffs to keep the embers lit, or else he would have to relight. Achille blew out the smoke slowly. It disappeared into the night air.

Achille took another draw, and before he knew it, he was smoking as if he'd done so for years. The flavor was something to get used to, however. It had a bitter taste as it sat on his tongue, and it almost put Achille in the mind of Gysahl greens. How did Achille know what Gysahl greens tasted like? He ate some on a dare once; he had to clean up the vomit before Chiron came home.

Thankfully, Achille didn't get hit with a sudden wave of nausea. The tobacco, or at least the thrill of smoking, calmed his nerves and settled his stomach. Achille couldn't find any reason not to smoke now that he was doing it, displeasing taste aside. But, like all things, Achille would get too bold and disregard consequences. Thinking himself a master, he drew in a deeper puff he wasn't ready for. The smoke reached past his mouth, slithered deep into his chest, and burned his insides. Achille dropped the pipe as a coughing fit overcame him, his eyes stinging with tears the more he hacked and wheezed up the smoke, his throat crackling from the dryness. Desperate for relief, Achille took a few gulps of river water, careful not to let the pipe roll away from where it fell into his lap.

"Who goes there?"

Achille nearly jumped out of his skin at the voice—he knew that voice. He tried to speak, but his throat was still raw. A flurry of coughs spilled from his lips instead, thus making the voice come closer to his location. In his blurred vision, Achille could make out a large and dark figure in the low light, and it carried a small ball of light that swung from left to right with every footstep. Achille rubbed at his eyes to see Chiron standing before him, confused and shocked to find him sitting here in the dark. Soot and dirt dusted Chiron's clothes, and the lamp he carried cast a deep shadow across his face, revealing a drained appearance.

"Achille? Seven hells, what in the world are you doing out here this late at night?"

Achille couldn't answer. His foster father must've got off early, of all the nights. He could feel his face burn from embarrassment, his ears drooping from being found out. Achille tried to hide the pipe from sight, but he couldn't conceal the lingering stench of tobacco.

Chiron sniffed at the air. He narrowed his eyes, "What are you clutching?"

Achille hummed in ignorance. Chiron set his jaw.

"Show me. Now."

Chiron's tone of voice was something not to argue back to. Achille had only heard it a few times in his life, and he could count on one hand how many instances Chiron was this cross with him. Unable to talk his way out of this situation, Achille shamefully gave the pipe over to the now greatly disappointed man before him. Chiron's shoulders sagged as he inhaled a steady breath, his nostrils flaring and eyebrows pinched. Achille awkwardly rubbed at his neck, his mind flailing to find an excuse, an apology perhaps. But no amount of pious posturing would make up for this latest act of rebellion.

"Achille," Chiron started, voice low, "I raised you better than this. I've tolerated your behavior because I can understand what it's like; becoming a man in this world, especially the world we have now, is not easy. A boy's coming-of-age is full of many trials. But this crosses a line that I cannot accept. You have disrespected me, my rules, and my teachings. We monks must keep our bodies and minds unclouded, and we must be diligent in our pursuit to become one with the Destroyer. You have used our techniques for petty squabbles and disregarded our truths as fiction. It's dishonorable."

"But Baba, it wasn't me, it was-"

"Not," Chiron's eyes grew dark with rage, making Achille shrink back, "another word. You will go home, and you will wash off this taint... And you will prepare the salt."

Achille's eyes grew wide in fear. He shook his head in a panic as he began to plead and beg, but Chiron grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and ordered him to walk. Achille only experienced this punishment once when he was younger; he acted particularly ornery one day and said something he shouldn't have. Punishment was swift—kneel in a line of salt until his kneecaps bled. The monks in Ala Mhigo used this against new initiates to fortify their resolve, a type of thick salt that could cut through flesh. But Achille broke down after ten minutes in tears and wails. It was an experience he wouldn't forget for as long as he lived.

The second time around was worse. Achille had done what Chiron requested: he washed away the stench and prepared the salt. The whole while, he willed himself not to cry. His fifteenth nameday was approaching, and men did not cry. Chiron sat at the kitchen table, his face stoic and hands clasped on top of the wood surface. Dressed in his smallclothes, Achille stared down at the salt before he lowered himself on top. The pressure from his weight allowed the sharp salt to pierce the skin almost immediately.

Achille bit down on his tongue to keep from crying out. His back stayed rod straight, and his hands were clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. His face started to turn scarlet from the pain, but he kept his eyes on Chiron with an unwavering stare.

"I hate to make you do this," Chiron had a tinge of guilt in his voice now, "but you know the rules, my son. You must endure it, embrace the pain."

My son. Spoken with the unconditional love of a parent. They weren't related by blood, but Chiron never saw Achille as anything else.

Achille wanted to cry. The more the crystallized salt dug into his bleeding wounds, the more Achille's resolve shrank. He felt himself double over, his nail-bruised palms flying out to keep him from falling facefirst into the hardwood. The fringe of his red hair kept his watery eyes hidden, but the tremble of his shoulders gave him away. The sob that threatened to spill from his lips caught in his throat; it was getting harder to keep his composure.

The dam finally broke when Achille adjusted his legs to keep the numbness away—the overwhelming pain was too much. His forehead met the planks of the floor as he wailed, tears and snot and drool staining the wood. Achille lost track of how long he stayed on the floor, but he wanted it to end. He screamed himself raw:

"Make it stop, Baba! Make it stop! Please!"

Before he knew it, Chiron lifted Achille into a tight hug, the air of the room cutting into his bleeding wounds. He openly sobbed into Chiron's shoulder much like he used to do as a child—he still was a child. Chiron shushed his sobs as he walked to the bathroom to clean and treat the wounds.

"You're alright... You're alright, my son. It's over, it's all over."

Achille continued to cry, breathless and wracked with exhaustion. He felt Chiron's hand card through his hair, making Achille curl into his chest in shame. Chiron held him close; he said nothing for a long while until he whispered:

"You may think me cruel and even hate me for this now. This seems fun for your friends, and you think I'm being too hard on you. But please understand, my son, I made a promise to someone when I found you: I promised to keep you safe. Don't give in to the temptations of man, for you will be lost. I wouldn't be able to live with myself watching you go down the path of wickedness. You will overcome this, I have no doubt."

Achille had calmed to sniffles as he listened, his eyes swollen and face splotchy. His head throbbed. He let the words of his foster father—nay, his father, sink in. He didn't have the energy to talk.

"Everything will come together in the end. I'll be right here with you. I love you, son."

Achille felt his heart stutter. He swallowed back tears and buried his face into the fabric of Chiron's work shirt. His words were muffled and small, but the message was clear.

"... I love you, too, Baba."