All There Is To Tell (1/2)
Title: All There Is To Tell (1/2)
Author: Anteros
Characters: Kennedy / Hornblower
Rating: PG-13
Notes: POW fic. Set after and before Hornblower and Kennedy return to Ferrol. Long, grim and really not very cheerful.
I
Kennedy had returned to El Ferrol with understandably mixed feelings. Surely he must have lost his senses entirely? To return voluntarily to prison to preserve the honour of a shipmate who had long since given him up for lost? Not that anyone appeared to notice his derangement. Far from it, Captain Pellew had commended him for his duty and honour, Hornblower had thanked him awkwardly for his loyalty and Don Massaredo had received them as highly esteemed guests. It was all very different from the last time Kennedy had returned to the fort, dragged behind a mounted guard, chained wrist and neck to the saddle and forced to run or be throttled. That had been his final attempt to escape. After that there had only been the pit.
But this time it was different. This time, the garrison turned out to meet them as they disembarked from the gig and formed a guard of honour to escort the bashful seamen to the fort. Archie wondered idly which saddle he’d been chained to. Shawled women lined the road and cast benedictions as they passed. Last time they had crossed themselves and turned away. Children skipped at their heels cheering and shouting “O inglés! Os mariñeiros Inglés están de volta!” The same children that had spat at him and thrown rocks. And Don Massaredo was waiting in the courtyard to receive them with all the dignity and ceremony his proud lineage could muster. Archie still could not look at the Don.
So Lieutenant Hornblower and Mr Midshipman Kennedy were returned to their former cell, but this time the door remained unlocked, allowing them to enter and leave the cell courtyard and cloisters as they pleased. The Don received Hornblower’s parole with his customary nobility, and the newly minted lieutenant resumed his daily walks to the town and the beach. No such privileges were extended to Mr Midshipman Kennedy. Hornblower immediately offered to answer on his behalf but Kennedy rejected the offer with ill concealed disdain.
“No thank you Lieutenant Hornblower, I would not have you sell your word of honour to that Torquemada on my paltry account. Besides I’m sure it would not do for an officer of your standing to be seen about the town with the likes of me.”
Hornblower frowned and turned away with a look that Kennedy took to be contempt.
It was only later, alone in their cell, that he recognised the shadow that had darkened Hornblower’s eyes for what is really was; hurt and concern. Kennedy felt more alone than he had ever felt through all the long years of his captivity. He had not expected this. He had not expected to care.
Archie had expected to hate Hornblower, not for his career and his promotion, not even for striking the blow that had cast him adrift on the tide of war, but for his simple faith in the shining idols of duty and honour and for his stubborn refusal to give up on him. And there was no question that he expected Hornblower to despise him in turn for his cowardice, his weakness and his failure.
The very last thing Archie expected was the tentative resumption of the fleeting intimacy that had been severed so abruptly by Jack Simpson’s return and the fateful assault on the Papillion. But slowly, slowly, as the days passed and each grew more familiar with the others presence, the barricades constructed through years of loneliness, fear and despair started to crumble. At first it was little more than a hand that rested a little too comfortably on a thigh as they sat reading together of an afternoon, or fingers that strayed carelessly across the neck while tying a queue, almost a caress. One evening Archie woke to find his head pillowed in Hornblower’s lap, where he had fallen asleep listening to him read in halting Spanish. When he woke, Horatio had fallen silent and was gently running his long fingers over his forehead and through his hair. Archie lay motionless and revelled in the long forgotten feeling of contentment.
From there tentative touches turned to ever bolder caresses and the lightest brush of lips against cheek to deep hungry kisses. With every kiss, every caress, the walls and ramparts crumbled, until the barricades were breached and they allowed themselves to be overwhelmed by an irresistible torrent of need and want. It was a sweeter sentence by far than anything Archie had ever imagined to exist on this earth. They revelled in each other, in warm breath and hot skin and cool evenings when they simply lay side by side listening to the mingled rhythm of their breathing.
But for all the unexpected contentment they found in each other’s company there was a restless energy in Hornblower that could not be contained. Even with his daily parole Hornblower had chaffed against his confinement, fretting that the war, their lives, their careers, were passing them by. Naval laurels meant nothing to Kennedy, and besides, if he had learned anything from two years of captivity, it was to endure.
II
“This is purgatory!” Hornblower was glaring at the rain sheeting down outside the cell window, turning the dun dust of the courtyard a startling vibrant orange. Kennedy sighed but didn’t look up from his book.
Hornblower had been confined to the small cell for four days and the strain was beginning to show in his restless pacing and the thin tight line of Kennedy’s mouth. Don Massaredo had been called away to a council in Madrid and had regretfully informed Mr Hornblower that his parole must be rescinded in his absence. The lieutenant was welcome to avail himself of the Don's library and could come and go as he pleased between his cell and the courtyard, however he was not to leave the fortress until the Don returned. Unfortunately it had rained continually and unrelentingly since Don Masseredo’s departure and Hornblower had found little pleasure and less release from walking around the courtyard in the rain. Walk he did though. Every afternoon for an hour he paced backwards and forwards across the courtyard, his already shabby uniform growing more bedraggled with each traverse. These morning perambulations amused both guards and men greatly but did little to improve Hornblower’s increasing ill humour. Even Archie’s patient ministrations couldn’t release the pent up tension coiling under his fingers as he ran his hands down Hornblower’s spine.
“Honestly, I never thought to find a place on God’s earth wetter than Spithead.” Hornblower was drumming his fingers against the bars of the cell window. “Does it always rain so much in this God forsaken hole?”
Kennedy sighed, “I really couldn’t say Horatio.”
“Archie, you’ve been here some time,” Hornblower persisted. Does it always rain so incessantly at this time of year?”
“I…I’m sorry Horatio, I really can’t recall.” Archie didn’t lift his eyes from his book, but he was no longer seeing the words. Hornblower continued to stare dolefully at the rain, oblivious to the shadow that had passed over Archie’s face leaving him pinched and grey.
Hornblower paced the length of the cell with slow deliberate steps before resuming his vigil by the window.
“Purgatory, ” he groaned.
“You said that yesterday.”
“Then I beg your pardon Mr Kennedy today this must be hell.” Hornblower retorted irritably.
“Honestly Horatio, you’re being a touch melodramatic, it’s just rain.”
“It's torture that's what it is!”
Archie closed his book with a loud snap. “Hell? Torture?” he hissed. “You know nothing. Nothing.” He threw the book down and stormed from the cell slamming the door behind him.
III
The rain continued to sheet down and the dejected ratings peering from their cell windows were surprised to observe Mr Kennedy patrolling the courtyard in place of Mr Hornblower.
Hornblower had been so absorbed in his own petty frustrations that Kennedy’s departure had taken him completely by surprise and he was initially at a loss to fathom his cellmate’s behaviour. He watched Kennedy pace the courtyard a few times before he disappeared from view, out of sight of the cell's small window.
An hour passed and Kennedy had not returned, by which time Hornblower had had ample time to reflect on the crass folly of his words. What selfishness had led him to speak of torture to a man who had endured over two years of incarceration? A man who had survived four weeks in the pit that had almost broken him after one?
Sickened by guilt and remorse Hornblower swallowed his pride and ventured out in search of his friend. He presumed to find him in the library; despite his disdain for the Don, Kennedy had been unable to restrain himself from yielding to the temptation of his books. But the library was empty, as were the other corners and alcoves where they occasionally sat to escape the harsh glare and stifling heat of the courtyard. Eventually by a process of elimination Horatio turned his attention to the courtyard, his heart sinking as he realised that Archie must have remained outside in the torrential rain for the past hour. He found him in the far corner of the courtyard, out of sight of the cell windows, sitting against the wall, knees tucked up to his chest, oblivious to the pelting rain and the ochre water pooling around him. Hornblower felt his stomach lurch as he crossed the courtyard in long quick strides. He crouched beside his cellmate and cautiously placed one hand on his shoulder.
"Archie," he said softly, "come inside, you're soaked through."
Kennedy remained motionless, head bent to his knees, his soaking hair plastered to the nape of his neck. If he had heard, he made no response.
"Archie," Hornblower tried again, carefully keeping any hint of command from his voice. "Come away, you’ll catch your death."
After what seemed like an age Kennedy lifted his head but his expression remained distant. Something twisted in Hornblower's gut. He had seen that expression all too often in the past, on countless fearful nights aboard Justinian, on the dimly lit deck of the Indefatigable before the cutting out expedition, on the wreck of the man he had found lying senseless in the cell they now shared. Archie had retreated beyond where Horatio could reach him.
Desperation getting the better of him, Hornblower seized Kennedy by the arm and pulled him to his feet. "Come on Archie. Inside. Now." To his great relief Archie rose and followed without protest.
Inside Archie stood dumb and dripping while Horatio quickly and unceremoniously stripped him of his clothes before drying him with a blanket. Horatio was dimly aware he was talking the whole time, meaningless nonsense, soft words of encouragement and chastisement, though whether the words were to comfort Archie or distract him from this own fear and guilt he could not say. Archie made no protest, but his eyes remained opaque and his limbs heavy.
Once he was reasonably dry Horatio wrapped him in another blanket and gently pushed him down onto the low bunk. He sat there for a moment blinking at the floor then he lay down and curled in on himself, face the wall. Horatio stood and stared helplessly at his thin back. He desperately wanted to climb into the bunk beside Archie and hold him close, use his own body to guard against whatever fearful memories were stalking at the edge of his consciousness. But to touch him, to lay one finger on him even, while he was so awfully absent would have felt like the worst betrayal of trust. Instead Horatio settled himself on the cold flagstones beside the bunk and watched Archie's silent form as the light faded and the rain continued to fall.
Author: Anteros
Characters: Kennedy / Hornblower
Rating: PG-13
Notes: POW fic. Set after and before Hornblower and Kennedy return to Ferrol. Long, grim and really not very cheerful.
I
Kennedy had returned to El Ferrol with understandably mixed feelings. Surely he must have lost his senses entirely? To return voluntarily to prison to preserve the honour of a shipmate who had long since given him up for lost? Not that anyone appeared to notice his derangement. Far from it, Captain Pellew had commended him for his duty and honour, Hornblower had thanked him awkwardly for his loyalty and Don Massaredo had received them as highly esteemed guests. It was all very different from the last time Kennedy had returned to the fort, dragged behind a mounted guard, chained wrist and neck to the saddle and forced to run or be throttled. That had been his final attempt to escape. After that there had only been the pit.
But this time it was different. This time, the garrison turned out to meet them as they disembarked from the gig and formed a guard of honour to escort the bashful seamen to the fort. Archie wondered idly which saddle he’d been chained to. Shawled women lined the road and cast benedictions as they passed. Last time they had crossed themselves and turned away. Children skipped at their heels cheering and shouting “O inglés! Os mariñeiros Inglés están de volta!” The same children that had spat at him and thrown rocks. And Don Massaredo was waiting in the courtyard to receive them with all the dignity and ceremony his proud lineage could muster. Archie still could not look at the Don.
So Lieutenant Hornblower and Mr Midshipman Kennedy were returned to their former cell, but this time the door remained unlocked, allowing them to enter and leave the cell courtyard and cloisters as they pleased. The Don received Hornblower’s parole with his customary nobility, and the newly minted lieutenant resumed his daily walks to the town and the beach. No such privileges were extended to Mr Midshipman Kennedy. Hornblower immediately offered to answer on his behalf but Kennedy rejected the offer with ill concealed disdain.
“No thank you Lieutenant Hornblower, I would not have you sell your word of honour to that Torquemada on my paltry account. Besides I’m sure it would not do for an officer of your standing to be seen about the town with the likes of me.”
Hornblower frowned and turned away with a look that Kennedy took to be contempt.
It was only later, alone in their cell, that he recognised the shadow that had darkened Hornblower’s eyes for what is really was; hurt and concern. Kennedy felt more alone than he had ever felt through all the long years of his captivity. He had not expected this. He had not expected to care.
Archie had expected to hate Hornblower, not for his career and his promotion, not even for striking the blow that had cast him adrift on the tide of war, but for his simple faith in the shining idols of duty and honour and for his stubborn refusal to give up on him. And there was no question that he expected Hornblower to despise him in turn for his cowardice, his weakness and his failure.
The very last thing Archie expected was the tentative resumption of the fleeting intimacy that had been severed so abruptly by Jack Simpson’s return and the fateful assault on the Papillion. But slowly, slowly, as the days passed and each grew more familiar with the others presence, the barricades constructed through years of loneliness, fear and despair started to crumble. At first it was little more than a hand that rested a little too comfortably on a thigh as they sat reading together of an afternoon, or fingers that strayed carelessly across the neck while tying a queue, almost a caress. One evening Archie woke to find his head pillowed in Hornblower’s lap, where he had fallen asleep listening to him read in halting Spanish. When he woke, Horatio had fallen silent and was gently running his long fingers over his forehead and through his hair. Archie lay motionless and revelled in the long forgotten feeling of contentment.
From there tentative touches turned to ever bolder caresses and the lightest brush of lips against cheek to deep hungry kisses. With every kiss, every caress, the walls and ramparts crumbled, until the barricades were breached and they allowed themselves to be overwhelmed by an irresistible torrent of need and want. It was a sweeter sentence by far than anything Archie had ever imagined to exist on this earth. They revelled in each other, in warm breath and hot skin and cool evenings when they simply lay side by side listening to the mingled rhythm of their breathing.
But for all the unexpected contentment they found in each other’s company there was a restless energy in Hornblower that could not be contained. Even with his daily parole Hornblower had chaffed against his confinement, fretting that the war, their lives, their careers, were passing them by. Naval laurels meant nothing to Kennedy, and besides, if he had learned anything from two years of captivity, it was to endure.
II
“This is purgatory!” Hornblower was glaring at the rain sheeting down outside the cell window, turning the dun dust of the courtyard a startling vibrant orange. Kennedy sighed but didn’t look up from his book.
Hornblower had been confined to the small cell for four days and the strain was beginning to show in his restless pacing and the thin tight line of Kennedy’s mouth. Don Massaredo had been called away to a council in Madrid and had regretfully informed Mr Hornblower that his parole must be rescinded in his absence. The lieutenant was welcome to avail himself of the Don's library and could come and go as he pleased between his cell and the courtyard, however he was not to leave the fortress until the Don returned. Unfortunately it had rained continually and unrelentingly since Don Masseredo’s departure and Hornblower had found little pleasure and less release from walking around the courtyard in the rain. Walk he did though. Every afternoon for an hour he paced backwards and forwards across the courtyard, his already shabby uniform growing more bedraggled with each traverse. These morning perambulations amused both guards and men greatly but did little to improve Hornblower’s increasing ill humour. Even Archie’s patient ministrations couldn’t release the pent up tension coiling under his fingers as he ran his hands down Hornblower’s spine.
“Honestly, I never thought to find a place on God’s earth wetter than Spithead.” Hornblower was drumming his fingers against the bars of the cell window. “Does it always rain so much in this God forsaken hole?”
Kennedy sighed, “I really couldn’t say Horatio.”
“Archie, you’ve been here some time,” Hornblower persisted. Does it always rain so incessantly at this time of year?”
“I…I’m sorry Horatio, I really can’t recall.” Archie didn’t lift his eyes from his book, but he was no longer seeing the words. Hornblower continued to stare dolefully at the rain, oblivious to the shadow that had passed over Archie’s face leaving him pinched and grey.
Hornblower paced the length of the cell with slow deliberate steps before resuming his vigil by the window.
“Purgatory, ” he groaned.
“You said that yesterday.”
“Then I beg your pardon Mr Kennedy today this must be hell.” Hornblower retorted irritably.
“Honestly Horatio, you’re being a touch melodramatic, it’s just rain.”
“It's torture that's what it is!”
Archie closed his book with a loud snap. “Hell? Torture?” he hissed. “You know nothing. Nothing.” He threw the book down and stormed from the cell slamming the door behind him.
III
The rain continued to sheet down and the dejected ratings peering from their cell windows were surprised to observe Mr Kennedy patrolling the courtyard in place of Mr Hornblower.
Hornblower had been so absorbed in his own petty frustrations that Kennedy’s departure had taken him completely by surprise and he was initially at a loss to fathom his cellmate’s behaviour. He watched Kennedy pace the courtyard a few times before he disappeared from view, out of sight of the cell's small window.
An hour passed and Kennedy had not returned, by which time Hornblower had had ample time to reflect on the crass folly of his words. What selfishness had led him to speak of torture to a man who had endured over two years of incarceration? A man who had survived four weeks in the pit that had almost broken him after one?
Sickened by guilt and remorse Hornblower swallowed his pride and ventured out in search of his friend. He presumed to find him in the library; despite his disdain for the Don, Kennedy had been unable to restrain himself from yielding to the temptation of his books. But the library was empty, as were the other corners and alcoves where they occasionally sat to escape the harsh glare and stifling heat of the courtyard. Eventually by a process of elimination Horatio turned his attention to the courtyard, his heart sinking as he realised that Archie must have remained outside in the torrential rain for the past hour. He found him in the far corner of the courtyard, out of sight of the cell windows, sitting against the wall, knees tucked up to his chest, oblivious to the pelting rain and the ochre water pooling around him. Hornblower felt his stomach lurch as he crossed the courtyard in long quick strides. He crouched beside his cellmate and cautiously placed one hand on his shoulder.
"Archie," he said softly, "come inside, you're soaked through."
Kennedy remained motionless, head bent to his knees, his soaking hair plastered to the nape of his neck. If he had heard, he made no response.
"Archie," Hornblower tried again, carefully keeping any hint of command from his voice. "Come away, you’ll catch your death."
After what seemed like an age Kennedy lifted his head but his expression remained distant. Something twisted in Hornblower's gut. He had seen that expression all too often in the past, on countless fearful nights aboard Justinian, on the dimly lit deck of the Indefatigable before the cutting out expedition, on the wreck of the man he had found lying senseless in the cell they now shared. Archie had retreated beyond where Horatio could reach him.
Desperation getting the better of him, Hornblower seized Kennedy by the arm and pulled him to his feet. "Come on Archie. Inside. Now." To his great relief Archie rose and followed without protest.
Inside Archie stood dumb and dripping while Horatio quickly and unceremoniously stripped him of his clothes before drying him with a blanket. Horatio was dimly aware he was talking the whole time, meaningless nonsense, soft words of encouragement and chastisement, though whether the words were to comfort Archie or distract him from this own fear and guilt he could not say. Archie made no protest, but his eyes remained opaque and his limbs heavy.
Once he was reasonably dry Horatio wrapped him in another blanket and gently pushed him down onto the low bunk. He sat there for a moment blinking at the floor then he lay down and curled in on himself, face the wall. Horatio stood and stared helplessly at his thin back. He desperately wanted to climb into the bunk beside Archie and hold him close, use his own body to guard against whatever fearful memories were stalking at the edge of his consciousness. But to touch him, to lay one finger on him even, while he was so awfully absent would have felt like the worst betrayal of trust. Instead Horatio settled himself on the cold flagstones beside the bunk and watched Archie's silent form as the light faded and the rain continued to fall.