"For You Alone" by romanticalgirl - Persuasion
TITLE: For You Alone
AUTHOR: Laura Smith
PAIRING: Wentworth
RATING: G
SUMMARY: Turn away
DISCLAIMER: Persuasion and all the characters therein belong to people who are not me. I make no profit from this, I just like playing with them.
CHALLENGE: The heart's desire
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thanks to nolivingman for the beta. Hopefully the structure is understandable.
There is always noise on the ship, constant and regular like the ticking of a clock and it runs the same. Bells and whistles to keep all aware of the hour and events, and it never stops, even in the heart of battle. There is a comfort in it, that constant drone, which reminds him that despite all that he has left behind, he is not alone.
Tonight though the noise grates on his nerves, plucking at the strings of his control like a knife through rope, rending the twisted vines of it until it all unravels. Tonight, as they celebrate in the lower decks drunk on rum and fresh supplies, he hears every noise as a shout when he expects a whisper. He knows the men are not to blame, for they do nothing they have not done a thousand times. No the blame for this lies at the feet of a woman, as inconstant and vicious as the sea.
It does him no good to think on her, but he cannot help himself. There was something about the day - the sun glinting off the water or the curve of the wax dripping down the candle - that reminded him of her, something that brought her to mind and still refuses to release him. She lingers like the taste of wine on his tongue or the surge of energy that fills him after a battle. All are bound to sour eventually, turn to a hangover come morning or the lethargy that leaves him drained and every watch endless waiting.
The pen rasps against the paper, dark ink bleeding tiny sunbursts around each word. He scrawls the date atop the paper, his head swimming with all the things that are proper to say and the few he can manage even now after all these years.
Those few words that remain are like ash on his tongue, sacrilege to speak the mixture of truth and lies that come down only to polite society and the very real assurance that whatever his thoughts, hopes and desires had been, they are now forgotten, giving way in the none-so-gentle dismissal laid down by Sir Walter and Lady Russell, telling Anne of what was proper, and not what was honest.
“My darling Anne.” He whispers, his pen moving of its own accord.
Miss Elliott,
“Ages and eons seem to have passed since we parted, fate and Napoleon forcing such distance between us, though none more so than that forced between us by your friend, Lady Russell, and your father, both assuring you that I am nothing to look forward to in a husband, lacking a fortune and property that one needs to be pursuant of a wife.”
I hope this letter finds you well, that your family prospers and looks forward, as do we all, to peace.
“My love of the sea grows less gripping by the day. It is agonizing to know you are only a short ride away and yet to find myself incapable of the journey and so much the worse by being deprived of you, my Anne.”
We are all in a mind for peace, though the hope of it seems both false and faint.
He has counted off the distance in his head, how far a ride for him to reach Kellynch hall, measured it in leagues and miles, hours and minutes. He burns to sit astride a horse and let the wind hit him, whip his coat like loosened sails so he can see Anne once again. He needs to see her to steel himself against her, to remind his foolish, reckless heart that she was turned from him, persuaded to refuse him. What he believed love was nothing then and nothing now, save the broken promise of a young girl looking for better than what he could give her.
“Were it but true, Anne, that you loved me, that you wished for us to be married, how I would rue these days at sea; instead I find myself wanting more miles of water between us, wanting something to keep me from battering my heart and emotions on the surety of your refusal of me.”
Take care, Miss Elliot, until we see each other again.
He stares at the paper, covered with words he does not feel in the slightest, lies to deny emotion that he will not risk again. He reads them, silly and unnecessary, speaking of nothing in his heart or his mind. They are as empty and hollow as he feels. He crumples the paper in his fist, a huff of repressed anger and frustration parting his lips. He crosses the ward room and disposes of the paper, tearing it to small shreds that line the bottom of the wastebasket.
He stares out at the water, inhaling the salt tinged breeze laced with the acrid smell of smoke. Somewhere distant is his heart, beating uselessly for one who does not want it, refusing to give up, even when all is lost.
AUTHOR: Laura Smith
PAIRING: Wentworth
RATING: G
SUMMARY: Turn away
DISCLAIMER: Persuasion and all the characters therein belong to people who are not me. I make no profit from this, I just like playing with them.
CHALLENGE: The heart's desire
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thanks to nolivingman for the beta. Hopefully the structure is understandable.
There is always noise on the ship, constant and regular like the ticking of a clock and it runs the same. Bells and whistles to keep all aware of the hour and events, and it never stops, even in the heart of battle. There is a comfort in it, that constant drone, which reminds him that despite all that he has left behind, he is not alone.
Tonight though the noise grates on his nerves, plucking at the strings of his control like a knife through rope, rending the twisted vines of it until it all unravels. Tonight, as they celebrate in the lower decks drunk on rum and fresh supplies, he hears every noise as a shout when he expects a whisper. He knows the men are not to blame, for they do nothing they have not done a thousand times. No the blame for this lies at the feet of a woman, as inconstant and vicious as the sea.
It does him no good to think on her, but he cannot help himself. There was something about the day - the sun glinting off the water or the curve of the wax dripping down the candle - that reminded him of her, something that brought her to mind and still refuses to release him. She lingers like the taste of wine on his tongue or the surge of energy that fills him after a battle. All are bound to sour eventually, turn to a hangover come morning or the lethargy that leaves him drained and every watch endless waiting.
The pen rasps against the paper, dark ink bleeding tiny sunbursts around each word. He scrawls the date atop the paper, his head swimming with all the things that are proper to say and the few he can manage even now after all these years.
Those few words that remain are like ash on his tongue, sacrilege to speak the mixture of truth and lies that come down only to polite society and the very real assurance that whatever his thoughts, hopes and desires had been, they are now forgotten, giving way in the none-so-gentle dismissal laid down by Sir Walter and Lady Russell, telling Anne of what was proper, and not what was honest.
“My darling Anne.” He whispers, his pen moving of its own accord.
Miss Elliott,
“Ages and eons seem to have passed since we parted, fate and Napoleon forcing such distance between us, though none more so than that forced between us by your friend, Lady Russell, and your father, both assuring you that I am nothing to look forward to in a husband, lacking a fortune and property that one needs to be pursuant of a wife.”
I hope this letter finds you well, that your family prospers and looks forward, as do we all, to peace.
“My love of the sea grows less gripping by the day. It is agonizing to know you are only a short ride away and yet to find myself incapable of the journey and so much the worse by being deprived of you, my Anne.”
We are all in a mind for peace, though the hope of it seems both false and faint.
He has counted off the distance in his head, how far a ride for him to reach Kellynch hall, measured it in leagues and miles, hours and minutes. He burns to sit astride a horse and let the wind hit him, whip his coat like loosened sails so he can see Anne once again. He needs to see her to steel himself against her, to remind his foolish, reckless heart that she was turned from him, persuaded to refuse him. What he believed love was nothing then and nothing now, save the broken promise of a young girl looking for better than what he could give her.
“Were it but true, Anne, that you loved me, that you wished for us to be married, how I would rue these days at sea; instead I find myself wanting more miles of water between us, wanting something to keep me from battering my heart and emotions on the surety of your refusal of me.”
Take care, Miss Elliot, until we see each other again.
He stares at the paper, covered with words he does not feel in the slightest, lies to deny emotion that he will not risk again. He reads them, silly and unnecessary, speaking of nothing in his heart or his mind. They are as empty and hollow as he feels. He crumples the paper in his fist, a huff of repressed anger and frustration parting his lips. He crosses the ward room and disposes of the paper, tearing it to small shreds that line the bottom of the wastebasket.
He stares out at the water, inhaling the salt tinged breeze laced with the acrid smell of smoke. Somewhere distant is his heart, beating uselessly for one who does not want it, refusing to give up, even when all is lost.