Never to Forget - Penny/Desmond
I have reason to believe that my muse has returned. Hard to believe, I know, and many of you new folk didn't even know I'd had one to lose, but I did, and it seems to be back.
This is a story of Penny and Desmond on the boat and beyond - and of the constant that Desmond clung to once he and Penny were reunited. For hendercats, hereswith and geekmama, long time LJ friends who recently became RL friends as well. I'm blessed to have each one of you in my life. With thanks to said hereswith and hendercats for suggestions and hand holding.
Never To Forget
Penny woke with the sun, the first light of dawn stealing through the porthole in bands of soft pink and tangerine, warming everything it touched. She lay, eyes unopened, feeling the color on the insides of her eyelids, her lips curving upward in a catlike smile as she recalled why this morning, over all others, carried such importance.
She rolled toward the center of the bed, eyes still shut, bones cracking, stiff muscles at first protesting then easing into languid motion, one arm reaching out to rest against...nothing.
Desmond? She rose in a panic, patting the bedding, hoping to discover him hiding somewhere amongst the covers, but there was nothing save rumpled sheets and an otherwise empty bed. Had she dreamed his rescue? Had it been one long, lucid, inexplicably cruel nightmare; the sort which begins happily and suddenly takes an awful twist into Hell, where no matter how hard you try, you can't run away from the danger or open your mouth to scream? But the scent of him hung in the air and clung to her skin, and her body still reveled in the stretch and burn of their lovemaking. Neither nightmare then, nor dream, but a cause for concern all the same. Desmond had gone missing from her bed.
She pulled on jeans and a sweater and nothing more in her haste to find him, her sudden fear ridiculous really, when there was only a boat to search now instead of an entire world. Instinct took her to the stern, where she imagined Desmond would be looking back over the past eight years, trying to convince himself that his long ordeal was finally over.
He didn't seem to hear her as she padded up on bare feet to stand behind him - wouldn't have heard her had she been wearing combat boots and marching to an army band. He was, as she'd thought, off in a world she could never hope to comprehend, staring into the sunrise-gilded water off the stern, watching a pitifully small bundle of rags slip beneath the smooth-as-glass surface.
"Have you read the works of Santayana?" He didn't turn to acknowledge her, merely picked up in the middle of a conversation they hadn't been having.
"I don't believe so," she answered, moving to his side and laying a hand on his forearm, watching him in profile as he followed the descent of what had been left of his island clothing. "Is he someone you studied at university?"
"No." He spoke softly, more to himself than to her. "No, not at university... I... There was a book in the...where I was. His book. It was called The Life of Reason." One side of his mouth twisted up as he chuffed out a breath, almost a smile and almost a laugh, but not quite either one. He looked at her then, and she saw in his eyes a pain she could not fathom, something so deeply sad that she doubted it could ever be completely erased.
Suddenly the lines around his eyes crinkled and his mouth crooked up into the endearingly wistful half-smile that she had never really forgotten, as comforting as the feel of his hand resting on the small of her back when he had introduced her to the others. "Philosophy. A bit dry, I suppose, but... He made a good point."
She waited him out, having already learned the new pattern of his speech. Disjointed...hesitant, as though actually speaking aloud was something new to him. His gaze returned to the sea, which had swallowed the last physical vestige of his lost years. "He said, Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. I can't bear to remember, Pen... And I... And I can't afford to forget."
~ ~ ~
Years later, the island and all of its threats finally behind them, Penny and Desmond packed their few worldly belongings, preparing to relocate one last time. They'd decided to return to England, just outside Kirkbride parish in Cumbria, near enough to Carlisle to satisfy Pen's occasional longing for "civilization", while keeping Desmond within an easy drive of the wild western coast. They had passed through the village many times in the early days of their romance, always stopping at the only pub in town for what they had agreed upon to be the best fish and chips in the UK. It seemed only fitting that they should make their home there.
They were sorting through the wardrobe, laying aside most of the clothing for local charity, (what passed for daywear in the wilds of western Australia would hardly translate to the climes of north-western England), when Penny noticed that Des was standing quite still, contemplating a stained and threadbare bit of blue material. It took her some moments to recognize it as the shirt he had been wearing when rescued. She hadn't seen it since that night aboard the Searcher, when she had carefully undone the only two remaining buttons and slid it from his shoulders, letting it fall to the deck to pool at his feet, forgotten before it landed. And forgotten it had remained, to her mind at least, thought to have been buried at sea within that tightly bound bundle, long ago and a lifetime away.
"Love," she approached slowly, afraid to pull him too quickly from his reverie. He remained focused, one thumb lightly stroking back and forth across the tattered cloth. "You've kept it all this time." Again she paused, wondering if he was here with her at all. "I don't understand, Des. Why?"
He continued to stare at the shirt, taking one sleeve, still rolled to above the elbow as he had always worn it, in hand, his eyes clouded over, lost in memories of a darker time. With a quick shake of his head he came back to her, the smallest of smiles lighting his face.
"Because Santayana was right, Pen. Some things must never be forgot."
With that, he carefully placed the remains of the blue shirt in the suitcase. It was the constant in his quest never to forget, never to repeat - a faded reminder of what was and what must never be again.
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This is a story of Penny and Desmond on the boat and beyond - and of the constant that Desmond clung to once he and Penny were reunited. For hendercats, hereswith and geekmama, long time LJ friends who recently became RL friends as well. I'm blessed to have each one of you in my life. With thanks to said hereswith and hendercats for suggestions and hand holding.
Never To Forget
Penny woke with the sun, the first light of dawn stealing through the porthole in bands of soft pink and tangerine, warming everything it touched. She lay, eyes unopened, feeling the color on the insides of her eyelids, her lips curving upward in a catlike smile as she recalled why this morning, over all others, carried such importance.
She rolled toward the center of the bed, eyes still shut, bones cracking, stiff muscles at first protesting then easing into languid motion, one arm reaching out to rest against...nothing.
Desmond? She rose in a panic, patting the bedding, hoping to discover him hiding somewhere amongst the covers, but there was nothing save rumpled sheets and an otherwise empty bed. Had she dreamed his rescue? Had it been one long, lucid, inexplicably cruel nightmare; the sort which begins happily and suddenly takes an awful twist into Hell, where no matter how hard you try, you can't run away from the danger or open your mouth to scream? But the scent of him hung in the air and clung to her skin, and her body still reveled in the stretch and burn of their lovemaking. Neither nightmare then, nor dream, but a cause for concern all the same. Desmond had gone missing from her bed.
She pulled on jeans and a sweater and nothing more in her haste to find him, her sudden fear ridiculous really, when there was only a boat to search now instead of an entire world. Instinct took her to the stern, where she imagined Desmond would be looking back over the past eight years, trying to convince himself that his long ordeal was finally over.
He didn't seem to hear her as she padded up on bare feet to stand behind him - wouldn't have heard her had she been wearing combat boots and marching to an army band. He was, as she'd thought, off in a world she could never hope to comprehend, staring into the sunrise-gilded water off the stern, watching a pitifully small bundle of rags slip beneath the smooth-as-glass surface.
"Have you read the works of Santayana?" He didn't turn to acknowledge her, merely picked up in the middle of a conversation they hadn't been having.
"I don't believe so," she answered, moving to his side and laying a hand on his forearm, watching him in profile as he followed the descent of what had been left of his island clothing. "Is he someone you studied at university?"
"No." He spoke softly, more to himself than to her. "No, not at university... I... There was a book in the...where I was. His book. It was called The Life of Reason." One side of his mouth twisted up as he chuffed out a breath, almost a smile and almost a laugh, but not quite either one. He looked at her then, and she saw in his eyes a pain she could not fathom, something so deeply sad that she doubted it could ever be completely erased.
Suddenly the lines around his eyes crinkled and his mouth crooked up into the endearingly wistful half-smile that she had never really forgotten, as comforting as the feel of his hand resting on the small of her back when he had introduced her to the others. "Philosophy. A bit dry, I suppose, but... He made a good point."
She waited him out, having already learned the new pattern of his speech. Disjointed...hesitant, as though actually speaking aloud was something new to him. His gaze returned to the sea, which had swallowed the last physical vestige of his lost years. "He said, Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. I can't bear to remember, Pen... And I... And I can't afford to forget."
~ ~ ~
Years later, the island and all of its threats finally behind them, Penny and Desmond packed their few worldly belongings, preparing to relocate one last time. They'd decided to return to England, just outside Kirkbride parish in Cumbria, near enough to Carlisle to satisfy Pen's occasional longing for "civilization", while keeping Desmond within an easy drive of the wild western coast. They had passed through the village many times in the early days of their romance, always stopping at the only pub in town for what they had agreed upon to be the best fish and chips in the UK. It seemed only fitting that they should make their home there.
They were sorting through the wardrobe, laying aside most of the clothing for local charity, (what passed for daywear in the wilds of western Australia would hardly translate to the climes of north-western England), when Penny noticed that Des was standing quite still, contemplating a stained and threadbare bit of blue material. It took her some moments to recognize it as the shirt he had been wearing when rescued. She hadn't seen it since that night aboard the Searcher, when she had carefully undone the only two remaining buttons and slid it from his shoulders, letting it fall to the deck to pool at his feet, forgotten before it landed. And forgotten it had remained, to her mind at least, thought to have been buried at sea within that tightly bound bundle, long ago and a lifetime away.
"Love," she approached slowly, afraid to pull him too quickly from his reverie. He remained focused, one thumb lightly stroking back and forth across the tattered cloth. "You've kept it all this time." Again she paused, wondering if he was here with her at all. "I don't understand, Des. Why?"
He continued to stare at the shirt, taking one sleeve, still rolled to above the elbow as he had always worn it, in hand, his eyes clouded over, lost in memories of a darker time. With a quick shake of his head he came back to her, the smallest of smiles lighting his face.
"Because Santayana was right, Pen. Some things must never be forgot."
With that, he carefully placed the remains of the blue shirt in the suitcase. It was the constant in his quest never to forget, never to repeat - a faded reminder of what was and what must never be again.
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