Hornblower Christmas fic!
Once upon a time, there was a great little fandom with wonderful writers who produced excellent fic. THEN THE FANDOM DIED A HORRIBLE, PAINFUL DEATH.
I was not one of those wonderful writers. But allow me to knock on the grave of the HH fandom with this little Christmas fic.
Please read, enjoy, ignore typos and errors, be encouraged to write some HH fic damnit, and above all, have a very merry and happy Christmas. :)
This is for black_hound who will never cease to blow air into the dead, lifeless corpse of fandom.
Christmas in France was the happiest Hornblower could remember. Perhaps this was because, to Hornblower, Christmas was rarely a memorable event. It came and went each year and Hornblower drank the toasts, suffered the carols, and complimented hostesses on puddings. There was little Hornblower found worthy of reminiscing about.
But Hornblower was strangely content on Christmas Eve as their strange little group sat gathered in the parlor. Dinner had been a sumptuous feast and even Bush, whose stomach often seemed to know no bounds, declared himself quite full. Wine flowed freely and the pleasantly red cheeks of the Count served as evidence. Perhaps it was also the wine that allowed Hornblower to enjoy the music Marie played on the ancient, out-of-tune harpsichord. Her clear voice filled the warm room, the Count sang under his breath, and Bush tapped his good foot. Judging the reactions of the others, Hornblower gathered she sang quite well and joined in their hearty applause after she finished.
Marie had knitted long, thick scarves for all the men who, encouraged by another glass of wine, proudly twined them around their necks, declaring them the finest scarves they had ever had the pleasure of wearing. To Bush and Hornblower, the Count presented painted miniatures of the chateau. The small picture showed the home in spring with flowers climbing a trellis on the shed and swans gliding over the river. For long moments, both men held their gift, imagining the day when the snow might melt to reveal such a lovely scene. It would serve as herald for their departure.
From Hornblower, Bush received a fine pocket watch (purchased with whist money and fetched from town by a servant). Bush admired the craftsmanship, but then declared with a hearty laugh that the better present was that Hornblower had not asked him to indulge him in a game of whist that evening.
Past midnight, Marie and Hornblower helped a sleepy but happy Count up the stairs and into his bed. It was easy, under the pretext of wishing her a Happy Christmas, for Hornblower to kiss Marie in the dark upstairs hallway. Upon his return, the sight of Bush sitting alone in the parlor might have caused him reason for guilt, had his attention not been caught by something at his place.
"He'll not feel the chill tonight," Bush spoke, breathing heavily as if he had just stumped himself across the floor.
"No," Hornblower answered absently, returning to his place at the table before the fire. Sitting there was a carved ship with a red bow tied to its main mast. Hornblower caught Bush's eye and picked it up. Hotspur was carved across its stern.
"Happy Christmas, sir."
It was a near perfect replica. Hornblower turned the ship in his hands, running his fingers in the groves whittled with care by Bush's big hands. Before he could praise him for his work, Bush was pointing out the details. The gun ports were all there and accounted for. And see here is the quarterdeck and there a hatch.
Hornblower found himself watching Bush as his face took on a different light and as his expert fingers traced the bow and showed how he had worked with the grain of the wood to carve a port.
Although Hornblower was tone deaf, he was not oblivious to the tone of voice Bush used now. It was that of a man proud in his work, one comfortable in his element and sure of the way of things.
"Almost as good as the real thing, isn't she, sir?" Bush finished, raising honest eyes to Hornblower's.
"Quite so, Bush. Quite so." It had been difficult to answer due to a sudden coldness in his chest. He found himself wondering if the carved ship had not originally been intended as a Christmas gift. Had it, perhaps, been the work of Bush's hands during those long days abed or during even longer nights when the pain in his leg kept him awake? Might it have served as something akin to a saintly relic that the believer reveres as sacred and once possessing all that was holy?
There was not much here in France that Bush could grasp to as understandable. So perhaps he had turned to his hands, a block of wood, and his knife as constants that might link him to something he knew. This ship, then, was a token of England to Bush. A place where men knew their place, where the rules and laws were clearly written down, and where everything said was understood. Such a place must now seem like a far off dream to Bush, and perhaps a dream now at an end. This last thought of Hornblower's was reinforced as Bush massaged the muscle above his stump.
"It's wonderful, Bush. I thank you." He pressed a firm hand on Bush's arm. For a moment, all was silent save the lonely moan of wind around the old chateau.
Bush gave an unsteady laugh. "I suppose on a night like this, I would be in the hold with the men, sir. Having a bit of fun. Laughing, singing to cover to pounding of the rain or the roar of the wind."
Hornblower nodded and noted that Bush's skin was warm as he moved his thumb over it. Outside, snow fell silently and ice creaked along the edges of the Loire. The servants had gone home to their families and the Count and Marie were asleep, safe in the strong embrace of warm wine. Only the crackling fire stood witness as Hornblower moved his hand to cover Bush's.
"That's not to say, sir, that I have not enjoyed this Christmas. It has been a pleasure to share it with you."
Bush was not one to lie, even to please his captain. Yet, Hornblower could think of no reason Bush should enjoy the Christmas celebration. He was maimed and perhaps confined to a shore job for the rest of his career. The language around him was strange and spoken so quickly and flippantly around him. And, Hornblower begrudgingly admitted to himself, Bush had been largely ignored and neglected by the one person who might understand, in the smallest of ways, what Bush was experiencing.
When Hornblower spoke, he hoped his voice did not tell the remorse he felt.
"Spring will come quickly now, Bush. You'll see, just as soon as you are perfectly strong on your feet, we'll be in the capable little boat you will have built, sailing away. Towards the sea."
If Hornblower's hand tightened around Bush's, it was through no conscious effort.
Bush nodded, holding Hornblower's gaze with blue eyes that seemed like glass in the firelight.
"Aye, sir. Toward England. Toward home."
Hornblower would not even nod. A slight incline of his head was all he allowed.
"Yes. Home."
I was not one of those wonderful writers. But allow me to knock on the grave of the HH fandom with this little Christmas fic.
Please read, enjoy, ignore typos and errors, be encouraged to write some HH fic damnit, and above all, have a very merry and happy Christmas. :)
This is for black_hound who will never cease to blow air into the dead, lifeless corpse of fandom.
Christmas in France was the happiest Hornblower could remember. Perhaps this was because, to Hornblower, Christmas was rarely a memorable event. It came and went each year and Hornblower drank the toasts, suffered the carols, and complimented hostesses on puddings. There was little Hornblower found worthy of reminiscing about.
But Hornblower was strangely content on Christmas Eve as their strange little group sat gathered in the parlor. Dinner had been a sumptuous feast and even Bush, whose stomach often seemed to know no bounds, declared himself quite full. Wine flowed freely and the pleasantly red cheeks of the Count served as evidence. Perhaps it was also the wine that allowed Hornblower to enjoy the music Marie played on the ancient, out-of-tune harpsichord. Her clear voice filled the warm room, the Count sang under his breath, and Bush tapped his good foot. Judging the reactions of the others, Hornblower gathered she sang quite well and joined in their hearty applause after she finished.
Marie had knitted long, thick scarves for all the men who, encouraged by another glass of wine, proudly twined them around their necks, declaring them the finest scarves they had ever had the pleasure of wearing. To Bush and Hornblower, the Count presented painted miniatures of the chateau. The small picture showed the home in spring with flowers climbing a trellis on the shed and swans gliding over the river. For long moments, both men held their gift, imagining the day when the snow might melt to reveal such a lovely scene. It would serve as herald for their departure.
From Hornblower, Bush received a fine pocket watch (purchased with whist money and fetched from town by a servant). Bush admired the craftsmanship, but then declared with a hearty laugh that the better present was that Hornblower had not asked him to indulge him in a game of whist that evening.
Past midnight, Marie and Hornblower helped a sleepy but happy Count up the stairs and into his bed. It was easy, under the pretext of wishing her a Happy Christmas, for Hornblower to kiss Marie in the dark upstairs hallway. Upon his return, the sight of Bush sitting alone in the parlor might have caused him reason for guilt, had his attention not been caught by something at his place.
"He'll not feel the chill tonight," Bush spoke, breathing heavily as if he had just stumped himself across the floor.
"No," Hornblower answered absently, returning to his place at the table before the fire. Sitting there was a carved ship with a red bow tied to its main mast. Hornblower caught Bush's eye and picked it up. Hotspur was carved across its stern.
"Happy Christmas, sir."
It was a near perfect replica. Hornblower turned the ship in his hands, running his fingers in the groves whittled with care by Bush's big hands. Before he could praise him for his work, Bush was pointing out the details. The gun ports were all there and accounted for. And see here is the quarterdeck and there a hatch.
Hornblower found himself watching Bush as his face took on a different light and as his expert fingers traced the bow and showed how he had worked with the grain of the wood to carve a port.
Although Hornblower was tone deaf, he was not oblivious to the tone of voice Bush used now. It was that of a man proud in his work, one comfortable in his element and sure of the way of things.
"Almost as good as the real thing, isn't she, sir?" Bush finished, raising honest eyes to Hornblower's.
"Quite so, Bush. Quite so." It had been difficult to answer due to a sudden coldness in his chest. He found himself wondering if the carved ship had not originally been intended as a Christmas gift. Had it, perhaps, been the work of Bush's hands during those long days abed or during even longer nights when the pain in his leg kept him awake? Might it have served as something akin to a saintly relic that the believer reveres as sacred and once possessing all that was holy?
There was not much here in France that Bush could grasp to as understandable. So perhaps he had turned to his hands, a block of wood, and his knife as constants that might link him to something he knew. This ship, then, was a token of England to Bush. A place where men knew their place, where the rules and laws were clearly written down, and where everything said was understood. Such a place must now seem like a far off dream to Bush, and perhaps a dream now at an end. This last thought of Hornblower's was reinforced as Bush massaged the muscle above his stump.
"It's wonderful, Bush. I thank you." He pressed a firm hand on Bush's arm. For a moment, all was silent save the lonely moan of wind around the old chateau.
Bush gave an unsteady laugh. "I suppose on a night like this, I would be in the hold with the men, sir. Having a bit of fun. Laughing, singing to cover to pounding of the rain or the roar of the wind."
Hornblower nodded and noted that Bush's skin was warm as he moved his thumb over it. Outside, snow fell silently and ice creaked along the edges of the Loire. The servants had gone home to their families and the Count and Marie were asleep, safe in the strong embrace of warm wine. Only the crackling fire stood witness as Hornblower moved his hand to cover Bush's.
"That's not to say, sir, that I have not enjoyed this Christmas. It has been a pleasure to share it with you."
Bush was not one to lie, even to please his captain. Yet, Hornblower could think of no reason Bush should enjoy the Christmas celebration. He was maimed and perhaps confined to a shore job for the rest of his career. The language around him was strange and spoken so quickly and flippantly around him. And, Hornblower begrudgingly admitted to himself, Bush had been largely ignored and neglected by the one person who might understand, in the smallest of ways, what Bush was experiencing.
When Hornblower spoke, he hoped his voice did not tell the remorse he felt.
"Spring will come quickly now, Bush. You'll see, just as soon as you are perfectly strong on your feet, we'll be in the capable little boat you will have built, sailing away. Towards the sea."
If Hornblower's hand tightened around Bush's, it was through no conscious effort.
Bush nodded, holding Hornblower's gaze with blue eyes that seemed like glass in the firelight.
"Aye, sir. Toward England. Toward home."
Hornblower would not even nod. A slight incline of his head was all he allowed.
"Yes. Home."