Fic: Curse 2/?
Shifting Sands/HH crossover continues.
The bright noontime sun slants in through the latticed windows, the mellow gold stone of the courtyard shining with a warm lustre. The piercing blue of the sky, as blue as Archie’s eyes - as this chap Bean’s eyes - found only in England in Spring and Autumn, lifts Horatio’s heart for a moment. The coffee is good, better than he’d have found at any inn, and the company is much better. This strange boy, the one who shares Archie’s name, who wears his features, who uses his voice, lights the room as much as the sunshine, his hands cradled around a steaming cup and an intense look of concentration on his face.
He isn’t Archie, although for one brief, glorious moment Hornblower did think he’d found him again. Although he must be much the same age as Archie was when last he saw him - floating off in that tiny boat, all Horatio’s hopes cast adrift with him - Bean looks younger, a mere boy. And there’s a quality about him, a stillness, which Archie never possessed.
“I should tell you my story, although I suspect you will not believe it.” Horatio turns the cup in his hands, wonders how he can ever explain what has happened to him.
“I’ll try.” Piercing blue eyes are shaded for a moment behind a gentle smile. Bean is astute; he’ll recognise any inconsistencies or half truths.
“I cannot promise you it will be either short or straightforward. I will promise you the truth.” Hornblower is startled at the way the words run from his tongue. He has never bared his soul to anyone, save Archie, and then not entirely, not enough. Too much was always left unsaid, the words hanging fire in his throat. “This uniform is not a costume; it was first sewn two hundred years ago and I wore it from new.” The startled, half swallowed laugh he gets in response makes Horatio rise, lay down his cup. “I’m sorry, I don’t think anyone could ever believe what I have to say.” He feels hot tears burning his eyes, a lump in his throat. He’s determined to yield to neither.
“No, please. I’m the one who should apologise. I was just surprised, that’s all. You see I’d guessed, half guessed, that you would tell me such a thing. Your uniform’s like the sort of things I’ve seen at Greenwich - it struck me from the start how authentic it looked.” Bean lays his hand on Hornblower’s arm, just as quickly removes it. “Tell me.”
Horatio takes his seat, lets his cup be refilled, takes another biscuit, and begins. “I was seventeen and a green midshipman. Literally green…” The story rolls out, wave upon wave of recollection. Bean is a careful listener, chipping in with questions both astute - What was Pellew really like, as a man? - and unnerving - How did it really sound, a broadside going off? What was the smell of the powder like?
He comes to the cutting out. Kennedy has been weaved in and out of the tale - his cheeriness, his camaraderie for a lonely boy with no friends, his bouncing enthusiasm at his first kill - but much of the truth has been hardly even alluded to.
“Your friend, Archie, you said the fits had stopped when you were transferred. You have no idea why they should have restarted at such an unlucky time?”
The name Simpson sticks in Horatio’s craw. The man’s role in making his fellow midshipmen’s life a misery has been mentioned, but not the damning effect he seemed to have on Kennedy. He tries again to say it. “Simpson, he reappeared. We…I…rescued him. I didn’t realise at the time, although now I see that he brought about the change. Whenever Simpson was there, Archie was prone to fits.”
“Was it fear? Had he beat him? Did he…?” Bean’s face, those clear, perceptive eyes, cloud over. “Did you ever hear them speak together? Was there anything said which made an alarm ring in your mind?”
Horatio recalls a half heard comment behind a door. Jack’s missed you boy. Only now does he think it a peculiar thing for a lover of violence to tell his victim; there is a depth of meaning in Simpson’s tone which, in recollection, turns his stomach. “There was one thing…” Horatio realises that there were actually many; they flood back into his mind like a riptide. “Let me tell you.” As Hornblower lays the pieces of the puzzle before his demi-Archie, between them they put together the picture. Horatio knows now that Jack was worth the powder and wishes it had been his shot finished the man.
The bright noontime sun slants in through the latticed windows, the mellow gold stone of the courtyard shining with a warm lustre. The piercing blue of the sky, as blue as Archie’s eyes - as this chap Bean’s eyes - found only in England in Spring and Autumn, lifts Horatio’s heart for a moment. The coffee is good, better than he’d have found at any inn, and the company is much better. This strange boy, the one who shares Archie’s name, who wears his features, who uses his voice, lights the room as much as the sunshine, his hands cradled around a steaming cup and an intense look of concentration on his face.
He isn’t Archie, although for one brief, glorious moment Hornblower did think he’d found him again. Although he must be much the same age as Archie was when last he saw him - floating off in that tiny boat, all Horatio’s hopes cast adrift with him - Bean looks younger, a mere boy. And there’s a quality about him, a stillness, which Archie never possessed.
“I should tell you my story, although I suspect you will not believe it.” Horatio turns the cup in his hands, wonders how he can ever explain what has happened to him.
“I’ll try.” Piercing blue eyes are shaded for a moment behind a gentle smile. Bean is astute; he’ll recognise any inconsistencies or half truths.
“I cannot promise you it will be either short or straightforward. I will promise you the truth.” Hornblower is startled at the way the words run from his tongue. He has never bared his soul to anyone, save Archie, and then not entirely, not enough. Too much was always left unsaid, the words hanging fire in his throat. “This uniform is not a costume; it was first sewn two hundred years ago and I wore it from new.” The startled, half swallowed laugh he gets in response makes Horatio rise, lay down his cup. “I’m sorry, I don’t think anyone could ever believe what I have to say.” He feels hot tears burning his eyes, a lump in his throat. He’s determined to yield to neither.
“No, please. I’m the one who should apologise. I was just surprised, that’s all. You see I’d guessed, half guessed, that you would tell me such a thing. Your uniform’s like the sort of things I’ve seen at Greenwich - it struck me from the start how authentic it looked.” Bean lays his hand on Hornblower’s arm, just as quickly removes it. “Tell me.”
Horatio takes his seat, lets his cup be refilled, takes another biscuit, and begins. “I was seventeen and a green midshipman. Literally green…” The story rolls out, wave upon wave of recollection. Bean is a careful listener, chipping in with questions both astute - What was Pellew really like, as a man? - and unnerving - How did it really sound, a broadside going off? What was the smell of the powder like?
He comes to the cutting out. Kennedy has been weaved in and out of the tale - his cheeriness, his camaraderie for a lonely boy with no friends, his bouncing enthusiasm at his first kill - but much of the truth has been hardly even alluded to.
“Your friend, Archie, you said the fits had stopped when you were transferred. You have no idea why they should have restarted at such an unlucky time?”
The name Simpson sticks in Horatio’s craw. The man’s role in making his fellow midshipmen’s life a misery has been mentioned, but not the damning effect he seemed to have on Kennedy. He tries again to say it. “Simpson, he reappeared. We…I…rescued him. I didn’t realise at the time, although now I see that he brought about the change. Whenever Simpson was there, Archie was prone to fits.”
“Was it fear? Had he beat him? Did he…?” Bean’s face, those clear, perceptive eyes, cloud over. “Did you ever hear them speak together? Was there anything said which made an alarm ring in your mind?”
Horatio recalls a half heard comment behind a door. Jack’s missed you boy. Only now does he think it a peculiar thing for a lover of violence to tell his victim; there is a depth of meaning in Simpson’s tone which, in recollection, turns his stomach. “There was one thing…” Horatio realises that there were actually many; they flood back into his mind like a riptide. “Let me tell you.” As Hornblower lays the pieces of the puzzle before his demi-Archie, between them they put together the picture. Horatio knows now that Jack was worth the powder and wishes it had been his shot finished the man.