[Hornblower] Where the Heart is
So I've decided to post my fiction here as well as the actual communities I write them for, just to give myself a kind of base of operations.
It can get a little difficult to keep up, otherwise.
So anyway.
Just a short story focusing on a quiet moment between Hornblower and his First Lieutenant.
Title: Where The Heart Is
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing: Hornblower, Bush (Undercurrents)
Word Count: 1123
There was a definite twinge in Hornblower’s neck as he straightened from his report. If he were given to fancy he might guess that he’d been hunched over them for countless hours but his logical mind argued that it had been a mere one or two at the most. Lieutenant Bush had knocked and entered some long minutes ago and when told that his Captain had delayed the evening meal they were set to share, he had seemed content to take the proffered seat across the table and study their course on maps and charts in silence, allowing Hornblower to continue his work. Finding himself loath to break the comfortable quiet that had descended upon them, Hornblower’s mind turned in search of further duties. With the paper spread before him and the pen resting atop it, thoughts of home sprang unwarranted and unwelcome into his mind.
Even the use of the word home in such a context unsettled him, a weakness that in itself irritated him further. But the truth was land had never offered much in the way of a home before he’d married and it had seemed even more removed from the ideal since. No, his childhood had been spent in a lonely cycle of education and imagination, all of which coalesced into preparation for his career. It was a career that commandeered his life, demanding his constant attention whilst in service and drawing at his thoughts when on shore.
Bush shifted one chart to get a clearer look at the map below and Hornblower picked up his pen with the sudden need to look busy. He poised it over a blank leaf of paper and glanced at his First Lieutenant; his head was rested in his hand as he poured over the documents, cool blue eyes flicking studiously between each and lips pressed together in concentration. Mr Bush would understand his compulsion. He was a man of the sea through and through; confident and capable. Hornblower could not have asked for a finer officer and he had no doubt in his mind that the man lived as much for the sea, on and off it, as he himself did. His devotion was clear through the competence of his actions.
He wrote the obligatory “Dearest Marie,” in carefully tidy handwriting and paused. She always expected word from him and yet she could never comprehend his life at war. What was he supposed to write about if not the progress of the mission? He suspected that what she truly wished for in his communications was some outpouring of emotion, some catharsis that spilt himself and all his innermost thoughts and feelings across the page. Did she really believe that such a thing would not centre on the successes and failings of his current command? There was a familiar wash of guilt as he realised that the only emotion he could offer solely for her would be an awkward composition of inadequacy, discomfort and misdirected duty. She deserved better but it was becoming apparent that it was beyond his means to provide it.
His Lieutenant cleared his throat softly across from him and rolled his shoulders slightly before resettling. There were many women in the Bush family, he knew. He’d never met any of them of course, but Mr. Bush would mention them occasionally and he wrote frequent letters addressing them. It was an odd concept for Horatio, knowing Mr Bush as an essentially laconic man, typically reserved in manner and speech but he knew the letters he drew up for his sisters were of some considerable length. The thought of them made his own attempts seem even less worthy. What could the man possibly write about? Unless the Bush women were simply more receptive of details on the Navy front than Marie. Perhaps they did not feel the need to understand his motives and preferences in any great depth and were content to learn of the more topical issues of his work. Perhaps Bush really did fill the pages with some glimpse into his innermost self. Hornblower could not bring himself to imagine it. He might make a point of asking one day though. It was always fascinating to think of Mr Bush as William, a man outside of the duties he seemed so constantly immersed in and catering to the demands of a gang of young woman no less. The thought of his formidable Lieutenant being herded, fussed over and ultimately outnumbered by these females threatened to bring an entirely inappropriate grin to his face. It was an urge he only half mastered. Perhaps one day he might find chance to meet them. It was unlikely, he knew, but the thought was a warm one and folded comfortably into the back of his mind. Marie’s only living family, that Hornblower knew of, was her perfect wretch of a mother. Somehow he could not imagine his First Lieutenant’s siblings being quite so painful to know when the man himself was, in his own way, so cordial.
Ink dropped from the tip of his pen onto the parchment in what was almost a perfect circle. It hit the paper in the exact spot he would have started his first paragraph, had he been able to formulate a subject. He set the sheet aside to be disposed of later and discarded the idea of starting afresh. There would not be sufficient time before dinner was served and Mr Bush was still waiting. Besides which, he knew that he would be unable to write anything even half passable in his current state of distraction. Any expression of affection or devotion would have to come second to his obligations of an officer in Her Majesty‘s Navy. It would need to be planned between the callings of his status for he could not just give over to sentimentality on a whim. There was simply no room in his life for any devotion beyond that for his duties.
Mr Bush glanced up from the maps to realise he had drawn his Captain’s attention. An easy smile creased around his eyes and he gestured at the documents before him.
“We’ve made good progress, Sir, considering.”
Hornblower returned the smile, sweeping the paper off the table to make room for their meal. His reports were made, his ship was in order and the steady burning of the lamp between them coupled with the gentle rocking of a calm sea felt endearingly comfortable.
He reached back to rub the ache from his neck and settled more comfortably into his seat. His Lieutenant was due back on deck in a number of hours but until then Hornblower had the promise of passable food, fine drink and excellent company. Home could wait.
It can get a little difficult to keep up, otherwise.
So anyway.
Just a short story focusing on a quiet moment between Hornblower and his First Lieutenant.
Title: Where The Heart Is
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing: Hornblower, Bush (Undercurrents)
Word Count: 1123
There was a definite twinge in Hornblower’s neck as he straightened from his report. If he were given to fancy he might guess that he’d been hunched over them for countless hours but his logical mind argued that it had been a mere one or two at the most. Lieutenant Bush had knocked and entered some long minutes ago and when told that his Captain had delayed the evening meal they were set to share, he had seemed content to take the proffered seat across the table and study their course on maps and charts in silence, allowing Hornblower to continue his work. Finding himself loath to break the comfortable quiet that had descended upon them, Hornblower’s mind turned in search of further duties. With the paper spread before him and the pen resting atop it, thoughts of home sprang unwarranted and unwelcome into his mind.
Even the use of the word home in such a context unsettled him, a weakness that in itself irritated him further. But the truth was land had never offered much in the way of a home before he’d married and it had seemed even more removed from the ideal since. No, his childhood had been spent in a lonely cycle of education and imagination, all of which coalesced into preparation for his career. It was a career that commandeered his life, demanding his constant attention whilst in service and drawing at his thoughts when on shore.
Bush shifted one chart to get a clearer look at the map below and Hornblower picked up his pen with the sudden need to look busy. He poised it over a blank leaf of paper and glanced at his First Lieutenant; his head was rested in his hand as he poured over the documents, cool blue eyes flicking studiously between each and lips pressed together in concentration. Mr Bush would understand his compulsion. He was a man of the sea through and through; confident and capable. Hornblower could not have asked for a finer officer and he had no doubt in his mind that the man lived as much for the sea, on and off it, as he himself did. His devotion was clear through the competence of his actions.
He wrote the obligatory “Dearest Marie,” in carefully tidy handwriting and paused. She always expected word from him and yet she could never comprehend his life at war. What was he supposed to write about if not the progress of the mission? He suspected that what she truly wished for in his communications was some outpouring of emotion, some catharsis that spilt himself and all his innermost thoughts and feelings across the page. Did she really believe that such a thing would not centre on the successes and failings of his current command? There was a familiar wash of guilt as he realised that the only emotion he could offer solely for her would be an awkward composition of inadequacy, discomfort and misdirected duty. She deserved better but it was becoming apparent that it was beyond his means to provide it.
His Lieutenant cleared his throat softly across from him and rolled his shoulders slightly before resettling. There were many women in the Bush family, he knew. He’d never met any of them of course, but Mr. Bush would mention them occasionally and he wrote frequent letters addressing them. It was an odd concept for Horatio, knowing Mr Bush as an essentially laconic man, typically reserved in manner and speech but he knew the letters he drew up for his sisters were of some considerable length. The thought of them made his own attempts seem even less worthy. What could the man possibly write about? Unless the Bush women were simply more receptive of details on the Navy front than Marie. Perhaps they did not feel the need to understand his motives and preferences in any great depth and were content to learn of the more topical issues of his work. Perhaps Bush really did fill the pages with some glimpse into his innermost self. Hornblower could not bring himself to imagine it. He might make a point of asking one day though. It was always fascinating to think of Mr Bush as William, a man outside of the duties he seemed so constantly immersed in and catering to the demands of a gang of young woman no less. The thought of his formidable Lieutenant being herded, fussed over and ultimately outnumbered by these females threatened to bring an entirely inappropriate grin to his face. It was an urge he only half mastered. Perhaps one day he might find chance to meet them. It was unlikely, he knew, but the thought was a warm one and folded comfortably into the back of his mind. Marie’s only living family, that Hornblower knew of, was her perfect wretch of a mother. Somehow he could not imagine his First Lieutenant’s siblings being quite so painful to know when the man himself was, in his own way, so cordial.
Ink dropped from the tip of his pen onto the parchment in what was almost a perfect circle. It hit the paper in the exact spot he would have started his first paragraph, had he been able to formulate a subject. He set the sheet aside to be disposed of later and discarded the idea of starting afresh. There would not be sufficient time before dinner was served and Mr Bush was still waiting. Besides which, he knew that he would be unable to write anything even half passable in his current state of distraction. Any expression of affection or devotion would have to come second to his obligations of an officer in Her Majesty‘s Navy. It would need to be planned between the callings of his status for he could not just give over to sentimentality on a whim. There was simply no room in his life for any devotion beyond that for his duties.
Mr Bush glanced up from the maps to realise he had drawn his Captain’s attention. An easy smile creased around his eyes and he gestured at the documents before him.
“We’ve made good progress, Sir, considering.”
Hornblower returned the smile, sweeping the paper off the table to make room for their meal. His reports were made, his ship was in order and the steady burning of the lamp between them coupled with the gentle rocking of a calm sea felt endearingly comfortable.
He reached back to rub the ache from his neck and settled more comfortably into his seat. His Lieutenant was due back on deck in a number of hours but until then Hornblower had the promise of passable food, fine drink and excellent company. Home could wait.