Of Wishes and Wigs
Because I didn't want to disappoint you all dreadfully, I didn't put up a drabble request post for your Christmas presents, because the fruits of my labours would have made baby Jesus cry, and then nobody in the stable would have gotten an inch of sleep. Instead I wrote this, a little Christmas piece for you all.
It's a series of five drabbles, each 150 words long, coming together to tell a story about a character whose identity I'm sure you can all guess. This is dedicated to all my very good friends. Special thanks must be made to Ebs, as it was a cracky conversation with her (is there any other kind?) that gave me this idea, and also to Ellie, because Jamie is yours. P6 forever.
I hope you all have a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. ♥
Title: Of Wishes and Wigs
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Rating: G
Of Wishes and Wigs
I
He knew what it was even before he overheard his father. He could tell by the shape of the box, the crisp smell of starch that came from beneath the brown paper.
He did not want it.
High time he wore one, they all had said. Even his mother murmured the same as she fingered his dark curls wistfully, "High time, Jamie." And when they said 'high time' it sounded to him like 'high tide', and as they looked out of the window and sighed he knew they could see the ocean waiting for him.
It was not a ship. It was not a commission. It was not a pistol, or a telescope, and god-willing it would never be heavy with salt.
But it was more than that. It carried responsibilities, rules, reputation.
Still he did not want it.
It was Christmas, and he wanted to play in the snow.
II
When he confided in his nurse she laughed at him, pinching his cheeks and brushing dust from his jacket. But her gentle mocking could not persuade him, nor her fretting, nor pleading or promises of treats from the kitchen.
It was only when she began to spin tales that he truly paid attention. The old woman had many stories, from her own country and his, yet she always made them full of spices, glittering prizes and flashing swords.
This was a special gift, she told him, different to any other. This was his very own; there was no telling what he could do with it.
She had told him of special things before. Ships burdened with curses, trinkets that carried luck, an old tin lamp that had wishes pressed inside it.
Perhaps that was what she meant, he thought. Yes, that must be it. It all made sense now.
Wishes.
III
He had taken it out carefully, sliding the wrapping open with a penknife so nobody could tell. As he lifted it with shaking hands he had felt a terrible rush of adrenaline, a rush too swiftly quashed by the sight of it, which made him shake all the more.
But this was the test, the proof. The plan was obvious, what else would a boy like him wish for? His parents spoke of the sea, but out of his window the bluest thing he could make out was the sky, and at night he dreamt he sailed it in a sloop made out of clouds.
Two cushions on the floor, two steps onto his bed, two deep breaths before he set his stolen gift in place. He gulped. He wished. He jumped.
...And fell with a spectacular crash upon the floor.
It appeared flying remained an impossibility, wishes or no.
IV
As the purple-green bruise on his leg grew, his ambitions shrunk just as rapidly. James sat and considered: even if the gift was special it could not contain a djinni (where would it live?). A simpler dream was thus called for.
So this wish was silent, this wish was secret. This wish was made quietly in his room as he listened to his brother practice a minuet downstairs, the box sitting in his lap. In his mind he repeated it over and over like a constant arpeggio.
Voices called from the parlour, he dropped his unwanted treasure, he ran! He could already taste his wish on his tongue. There it was! He stretched out his hands eagerly, taking his prize and biting into it without a thought.
He gave a choke, sweeping the crumbs away. It was not gingerbread, but shortbread.
Perhaps the wish had been a little too simple.
V
It was his now. Regardless of his wishes it had waited for him on Christmas Day, the paper replaced with red cloth and a bow. His reward, his honour, one never asked or wished for, but his nevertheless.
His final attempt was hardly a wish at all - it was little more than a fleeting hope fuelled by days of fingers pressed against frozen glass, watching in vain.
Perhaps that lack of forethought was why this wish alone came true.
It snowed that night. Thick, white flakes that had been long-promised, coating the earth and the trees, and draining every hill of colour. A blank canvas, his to shape, a far-reaching sea pale as milk but just as filled with adventure.
His mother nodded with a smile, he rushed outside. There would be time to wear the wig later.
It was Christmas, and he wanted to play in the snow.
Fin.
It's a series of five drabbles, each 150 words long, coming together to tell a story about a character whose identity I'm sure you can all guess. This is dedicated to all my very good friends. Special thanks must be made to Ebs, as it was a cracky conversation with her (is there any other kind?) that gave me this idea, and also to Ellie, because Jamie is yours. P6 forever.
I hope you all have a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. ♥
Title: Of Wishes and Wigs
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Rating: G
Of Wishes and Wigs
I
He knew what it was even before he overheard his father. He could tell by the shape of the box, the crisp smell of starch that came from beneath the brown paper.
He did not want it.
High time he wore one, they all had said. Even his mother murmured the same as she fingered his dark curls wistfully, "High time, Jamie." And when they said 'high time' it sounded to him like 'high tide', and as they looked out of the window and sighed he knew they could see the ocean waiting for him.
It was not a ship. It was not a commission. It was not a pistol, or a telescope, and god-willing it would never be heavy with salt.
But it was more than that. It carried responsibilities, rules, reputation.
Still he did not want it.
It was Christmas, and he wanted to play in the snow.
II
When he confided in his nurse she laughed at him, pinching his cheeks and brushing dust from his jacket. But her gentle mocking could not persuade him, nor her fretting, nor pleading or promises of treats from the kitchen.
It was only when she began to spin tales that he truly paid attention. The old woman had many stories, from her own country and his, yet she always made them full of spices, glittering prizes and flashing swords.
This was a special gift, she told him, different to any other. This was his very own; there was no telling what he could do with it.
She had told him of special things before. Ships burdened with curses, trinkets that carried luck, an old tin lamp that had wishes pressed inside it.
Perhaps that was what she meant, he thought. Yes, that must be it. It all made sense now.
Wishes.
III
He had taken it out carefully, sliding the wrapping open with a penknife so nobody could tell. As he lifted it with shaking hands he had felt a terrible rush of adrenaline, a rush too swiftly quashed by the sight of it, which made him shake all the more.
But this was the test, the proof. The plan was obvious, what else would a boy like him wish for? His parents spoke of the sea, but out of his window the bluest thing he could make out was the sky, and at night he dreamt he sailed it in a sloop made out of clouds.
Two cushions on the floor, two steps onto his bed, two deep breaths before he set his stolen gift in place. He gulped. He wished. He jumped.
...And fell with a spectacular crash upon the floor.
It appeared flying remained an impossibility, wishes or no.
IV
As the purple-green bruise on his leg grew, his ambitions shrunk just as rapidly. James sat and considered: even if the gift was special it could not contain a djinni (where would it live?). A simpler dream was thus called for.
So this wish was silent, this wish was secret. This wish was made quietly in his room as he listened to his brother practice a minuet downstairs, the box sitting in his lap. In his mind he repeated it over and over like a constant arpeggio.
Voices called from the parlour, he dropped his unwanted treasure, he ran! He could already taste his wish on his tongue. There it was! He stretched out his hands eagerly, taking his prize and biting into it without a thought.
He gave a choke, sweeping the crumbs away. It was not gingerbread, but shortbread.
Perhaps the wish had been a little too simple.
V
It was his now. Regardless of his wishes it had waited for him on Christmas Day, the paper replaced with red cloth and a bow. His reward, his honour, one never asked or wished for, but his nevertheless.
His final attempt was hardly a wish at all - it was little more than a fleeting hope fuelled by days of fingers pressed against frozen glass, watching in vain.
Perhaps that lack of forethought was why this wish alone came true.
It snowed that night. Thick, white flakes that had been long-promised, coating the earth and the trees, and draining every hill of colour. A blank canvas, his to shape, a far-reaching sea pale as milk but just as filled with adventure.
His mother nodded with a smile, he rushed outside. There would be time to wear the wig later.
It was Christmas, and he wanted to play in the snow.
Fin.