Prompt Post 2
Welcome to the second round of the_eagle_kink .
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~CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS~
Please see the rules before posting.
Please check our delcious account before prompting.
Happy Kink, everyone.
~CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS~
- MORE MOD NOTES: Alright guys I know this fandom is really into historical accuracy and all that jazz but here's the thing. This is a KINK MEME and therefore historical accuracy is not ( Read more... )
Chapter 5
In which the Rev. St. John travels to the Indian Countryside, meets a Boorish Man, drinks Pale Ale, and finds himself unaccountably troubled by the Greek Aesthetic.
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The next morning St. John awoke still unsettled by the prior night's conversation. He did not know if he should present some sort of an apology for his too-direct rebuff, take offense at the earthy discussion of Greeks and Captain's assumptions as to his own nature, acknowledge-at least privately-that the Captain was a more perceptive man than he had previously given credit for, or ignore the entire episode under the theory that least said, soonest mended.
He hesitated at the door of the dining room when he saw Cpt. Aquilaine already well into his breakfast, but the Captain called him over jovially, the mood and the discussion of last evening evidently banished with the morning light.
“My dear Reverend, I have received a letter from an old army friend of mine, Corporal Fitzpatrick,” he exclaimed, waving the envelope about. “His family owns an indigo plantation up river, outside Hugli, and he is staying there for the summer. I am invited to go and stay for a week, try my hand at hunting the exotic game and generally mess about on safari. Would you care to come too? This might be an excellent opportunity to see some of the wilds of the continent before setting out into it on foot.”
“Most excellent indeed! But I am-that is-I regret raising my voice at you last night, Cpt. Aquilaine. I do not know what came over me. We broached a more tender subject than I expected, and I cannot accept your invitation without first apologizing for my hot words.”
The Captain held out his hand and gave a warm, easy smile. “No, it is I who must give apology. I was distemperate last night, drank far too much alcohol and said all manner of nonsense. I should model my behavior on yours and learn to curb my passions. Now, let us set it aside and think of better things instead. I shall write back and inform Cpl. Fitzpatrick of our departure date, Sanyal can make arrangements for a barge, no need to worry about hunting supplies...” he chatted on between bites of soft-boiled egg.
'Tis amazing, how weak we can be, when we are pulled hither and thither by such small changes in circumstance. Were the Bishop Wilson to babble like this I would be gritting my teeth and curling my toes. But when Cpt. Aquilaine prattles on it is no irritation; no, rather I find it lifts my spirits to have him be genial with me. How odd are we humans!
The next few days were a happy time filled with planning, packing, discussions of hoped-for animal sightings, pouring through maps of the local geography and settling affairs for the week. Cpt. Aquilaine took time away from his training duties with such ease that St. John suspected, with some sad feeling, that his position was more sinecure than necessary appointment. And St. John had, until the end of summer, no obligations whatsoever, other than writing a short letter to his sisters concerning his time in Calcutta. Their journey itself-two days on a well-appointed river barge, followed by 12 jolting hours in a carriage over dirt roads-was mercifully uneventful, for which even Cpt. Aquilaine gave thanks in a rare burst of genuine piety.
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Even Cpt. Aquilaine appeared a bit awed by the manor, although he seemed perfectly at ease by the time their host arrived.
“Fitzpatrick! You look as fine as always. Taking up the life of the gentleman rather than the soldier, I see? What a splended summer house you have! Here, meet my friend Rev. Rivers-from Stoke-on-Trent, near your ancestral lands. He wants to see a proper safari; I knew you could oblige!”
“My God, Aquilaine you bastard, you haven't changed a nonce in two years, except for your hobbling around like a cripple. Damn, but it's good to set eyes on you again!” He gave St. John a brief handshake. “Reverend, the pleasure is mine. Come come-come inside and sit. Beastly journey you must have had, stuck on a barge with all those natives. If I'd have known I'd have organized a decent sort of boat.”
Cpl. Fitzpatrick ushered them through a magnificent sitting room, replete with rugs and lamps and palms and portraits and turbaned house-servants. The Corporal dismissed it all with a casual hand. “I keep meaning to update this place-my father had it all put in, and it looks like a bloody Moslem harem. I have plans to redo the entire east wing in a modern Grecian style, vases and columns and vines everywhere, put all the coolies in Greek tunics and make 'em wander around with grapes. Assuming we can get the gardeners to figure out how to grow grapes here. You know I had two winemakers shipped in from France and they still haven't managed to grow a decent red?”
Lord, what have I done to offend Thee so, that Thou continuest to put me through such suffering? This man is alike to the Bishop, only more offensive to my ears and abominably rude to the Captain, to boot. Pray be merciful, O Lord, and do not make me spend an entire week in this philistine's presence.
Dinner was an interminable seven course affair. Cpl. Fitzpatrick and Cpt. Aquilaine drank liberally, reminisced about the army, complained about politics in India (“too favorable to the natives, who never managed to do anything with the place on their own”, the Corporal declared), chewed over past adventures in Calcutta and laughed at their wasted university days. St. John drank water with lemon, composed indignant letters to Jane in his head (“My dear Jane Eyre, your sensible heart would break to see the immoderation of the typical Indian country estate...”) and spoke exactly twice, when the topic of names was taken up.
“Fitzpatrick, my friend Rev. Rivers and I have found common cause for embarrassment in our Christian names. Mine of course is wretched and continental. Reverend, tell Fitzpatrick your name.”
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The Corporal laughed. “St. John-Tragedy!-although I suppose in a man of the cloth it is more fitting than Judas or Lucifer or Nero. Ah, St. John. Siiihn-Jiiihn.” He drew out St. John's name and laughed again, presumably under the impression that he was witty.
“Pray enlighten me as to your name, Corporal?”
Cpl. Fitzpatrick looked coolly at him for a brief moment, then sighed dramatically. “I am also cursed with a religious name, Siiihn-Jiiihn. My maternal grandmother, the Contessa di Monferrato, was very stubborn and insisted on naming me after my papist saint's day. Really, what can you expect from an Italian? She christened me Placido to my eternal disgrace, because I assure you I am no Catholic, and any man caught calling me such shall taste my fists for dinner. Alas, che sera sera. But at the least I can say Placido is better than 'Marcus'; the thought of passing through this mortal world with a Hessian's name? Absurd.”
St. John's narrowed eyes met his friend's across the table. A troubled look crossed Cpt. Aquilaine's face, so swiftly that St. John nearly thought he had dreamed it. When he looked again the Captain and the Corporal were back to gossiping about old friends from school.
That night, as he on top of his bed lay clad only in a shirt and trousers, sullenly watching blue curls of smoke float towards the ceiling and listening to the night-noises of the birds, St. John was startled out of reverie by a quiet knocking at the door. He opened the door to find a similarly-clad Cpt. Aquilaine standing in the hallway, evidently in such great mental distress that he had neglected to bring his cane.
“Reverend, please, may I come in? I do so want to see you.” St. John bade him enter and Cpt. Aquilaine, after closing the door carefully behind him, stood nervously in the center of the room. He clasped his hands before him like a penitent while St. John glared at him hard from the edge of the bed. The silence grew long; St. John spoke first.
“Your friend is an ass.” Encouraged by Cpt. Aquilaine's shame-faced nod, he continued, “an ass, a buffoon, and an idiot, with more money than taste and more breeding than sense; beyond all those qualities, he is offensive towards you in the extreme. You cannot possibly say anything that would recommend him to me.”
“Nor do I intend to, Reverend-I merely wanted to say how wretchedly sorry I am for subjecting you to his-eccentricities. He is-he was good to me at school, in his way; yes, he teased and pulled fun, but he also bought dinners and hosted countryside parties. That is just how I have always gotten by with him, and now I have no other means of going hunting or exploring. I had hoped you would enjoy the jungles and maybe see a tiger. I did not invite you here to make you miserable. I swear it!” He looked so distraught that St. John relented a little. He patted the bed and Cpt. Aquilaine sat next to him, hesitating.
“You are a decent fellow, Captain, but I do not generally understand the company you keep. This man laughs at you!”
Cpt. Aquilaine spoke in a quiet voice; the jovial exterior had once more given way to more private feelings. “In the past, when people laughed at my family's honor I could prove them wrong by strength or courage or faithfulness in battle. I have not yet found a good response, now.”
To this sad admission St. John had no answer, unless it was to place a hand on Cpt. Aquilaine's knee. “Captain-I am sorry to see you living your whole life under the shadow of your father's sin.”
“I feel I can never be forgiven for it, no matter how I try.”
“But Captain! That is the joyful news: God forgives. We cannot earn salvation, but have only to ask. And you do not even have to ask-you have nothing to need forgiveness for.”
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St. John looked at him carefully, considering for the first time that his friend's unhappiness was not due solely to Cpl. Fitzpatrick's behavior. “Yes, always! For you, Sir, always.”
The Captain placed his large brown hand over St. John's pale one. They sat in silence, staring into the middle distance. Cpt. Aquilaine let his gaze drift up to the stuffed hyena mounted on the wall, its mouth eternally bared in an unconvincing snarl.
“What a terrible house this is,” he whispered. He suddenly started snickering and tried to smother the noise with his hands. “What an awful man, what an awful place. I hope we find some good in all this.” St. John joined him in mirth, from relief as much as amusement, and they both choked down laughter until they were near to breathless. He patted Cpt. Aquilaine on the back as the Captain stood to leave.
“Sleep, with an easier heart!”
“I shall try. Thank you for your-reassurance. Good night.”
The next day, to their mutual joy-entirely submerged beneath deliberately downcast faces, the only exception being a quick glance between themselves over the selection of marmalades-Cpl. Fitzpatrick announced with regret that he was forced to spend the day sorting out production issues at one of the dyeing facilities. He encouraged them to explore the grounds at their leisure, and promised he would be back in time for dinner.
They spent the morning wandering through the various gardens, which included a traditional English herb garden, a medieval-style labyrinth, a garden showing off fine specimens of native flowers, and a garden dedicated entirely to orchids. Their host even had a row of box-trees trimmed into the letters of his name: PLACIDO FITZPATRICK, the trees read. Cpt. Aquilaine declared it the gaudiest thing he had yet seen.
“More so than the stuffed elephant's head in the drawing room, the one with the gilded tusks?”
“Phew-I had hoped to strike that from my mind entirely. Thank you so much, Reverend.”
They discovered a battledore-and-shuttlecock court behind the labyrinth and played an hour of bocce ball-Cpt. Aquilaine, once he had shown St. John how the game ran its course, was perturbed to learn that the Rev. Rivers had very good aim indeed, although he looked rather undignified in only a shirt and vest (coat having been discarded in the heat), crouching with a furious intensity over the green to determine the best lay for the next pitch, pipe jutting out the side of his mouth and one hand tugging absentmindedly at the whiskers on his cheek.
After the game reached its inevitable conclusion, they returned to the manor for a luncheon picnic basket and hiked to a small lake a half-mile past the gardens. While Cpt. Aquilaine poked around at the banks with his cane, St. John spread a blanket and lay out chopped egg salad, small meat pasties with curry, oranges, mangoes, and a large brown bottle of-he could not determine what.
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Cpt. Aquilaine twisted off the wires lashing the cork in place and sniffed. A slow, happy look spread across his tanned face. “Beer, Reverend! Probably made dans la maison, and now we have a reason to be genuinely grateful to our host. It is an Indian pale ale-do you know much of beer?”
“Not a thing. You must tell me more.” And so they ate while Cpt. Aquilaine told him more than he ever cared to know concerning the history of beer, monkish breweries, brewing styles, aromatics, and hop varieties. The bright afternoon light sparkled on the surface of the lake and the grass below them glowed as green as any well-tended lawn in England; the heat, however was entirely Indian and lay on them like a woolen blanket. But the beer was cool and crisp, excellent for reviving men who had gone limp in the hot sun. After the crumbs of the luncheon were packed away the Captain declared he would take a swim, explaining that the water made his leg feel almost whole again, that he nearly forgot the injury. St. John lounged on one elbow with his pipe, feeling the less-wholesome effects of the beer as well, while the Captain slipped off everything but his knee-length, cotton smalls and dove under.
St. John watched him from the bank as he splashed around in the clear water, bobbed back and forth across the lake, finally gave up on the breaststroke and floated on his back, eyes tightly shut. The Captain's ability to take pleasure in the commonplace was marvelous, and St. John could hardly fail to notice that in nearly every action-be it swimming, eating, traveling, exploring, or losing at bocce ball-he attempted to enjoy himself. He found himself envying Cpt. Aquilaine's enthusiastic embrace of his circumstances, despite his underlying sorrow, and wondered when last-if ever-he had himself been so carefree or unthinkingly happy. Never, perhaps.
He also could not help but notice, when Cpt. Aquilaine emerged from the lake to sun-dry, moving through various military calisthenics to stretch his back and legs, that the Captain's physique very much resembled one of the Greek sculptures he had described just nights earlier. Beads of water ran off his robust arms and broad shoulders, down a torso hewn as if from marble to vanish in his wet breeches. Dark hair stuck to his forehead over a straight Roman nose and square jaw line. Narrow hips, muscular thighs, and well-turned calves completed the statuesque Cpt. Marcus Aquilaine.
Cpt. Aquilaine turned to ask if they could stay a while longer, hoping to nap in the shade, but hesitated-for no longer than the single beat of a happy heart-before voicing his question. St. John realized, with a sudden flush of his cheeks, that the pause had been because St. John was staring at him, somewhat boldly. He glanced down to fiddle with his pipe while replying Yes, yes, of course they could stay as long as the Captain desired.
St. John whispered a humble prayer of thanks on the way back to the manor that he had been befriended by such a gracious gentleman; Cpt. Aquilaine gave no further indication, in word or in deed, that he knew he had captured the Reverend's eye.
That night he knelt on the rug to recite his usual Compline psalms and devotions and added a sincere, slightly desperate petition not found generally in the Book of Common Prayer.
Lord, I beseech Thee, forgive me for wayward thoughts. I know not what came over me. Thou alone knowest how I have striven against impurity and needs of the flesh. How I have struggled to bear my personal cross as Thou didst struggle to bear Thine. How I have always fought to keep my mind on Thee, and Thee alone, rejecting all others. We are all sinners, Lord, myself most of all-please, Lord, be merciful. Give me the strength and the will to claim victory over this failure as I have, through Thy Grace, claimed victory so many times in the past. Amen.
With that, he retired to bed.
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St. John woke slowly, happily, as loose-limbed and sleep-satisfied as he had felt in many a year. He stared up into the dark, trying to gather flickering visions from the dream that had quenched a long-simmering need as if with cool water. A labyrinth, an apple, ocean waves, a whispering voice.
He shifted his hips, almost imperceptibly, and froze as he finally grew aware of the sticky coolness in his lap. In one fell blow he recalled his dream in full, and the words of Tertullian drifted unbidden through his mind: in that last breaking wave of delight, do we not feel something of our very soul go out from us? St. John was no superstitious medievalist; he knew the powers of sin and temptation; he wholly rejected the tales of succubi. He could not lay the guilt at anyone's feet but his own.
What have I done? And Marcus Aquilaine, what have you done to me?
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The dream in this last part! Oh my heart! I love this.
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OKAY SO I DIDN'T LEAVE A COMMENT THE FIRST TIME AROUND CAUSE I COULDN'T COMMAND MY FLAILING HANDS TO DO MY BIDDING AND TYPE.
BUT AAAAAH HOW COME THIS IS NOT AMONG THE CANON OF CLASSIC ENGLISH LITERATURE?
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http://the-eagle-kink.livejournal.com/2132.html?thread=2215508#t2215508
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