After the storm
Title: After the storm
Author: Anteros
Characters: Archie Kennedy, Horatio Hornblower
Rating: G
Notes: This fandom needs another of these fics like it needs a hole below the water line! Everyone and their aunt as already written this, however Flotsam and All our sons felt unfinished so I guess this is the inevitable angsty conclusion.
I
In the end, it was the smallest things that did it. One hand resting on his shoulder, plucking at his dirty collar, pushed him over the edge. Another tapping lightly on his breast caught him and pulled him back.
II
Horatio Hornblower's appearance had all but shattered his fragmented sense of reality. And if that had not been enough, the arrival of an improbably familiar woman some time later had only added a layer of delirium to events.
It had taken him days to fully comprehend that Hornblower was real, not some phantom of the past such as had tormented him in the pit. He looked older, taller and there was a hard set to his face Kennedy did not remember. This was not the boy he had left behind on the Indy and nor was he the figure he had chased unceasingly through years of dreams. But he was undoubtedly Horatio Hornblower. Same voice, same eyes, same hands. Kennedy had never forgotten the feel of those hands, though he had pushed the memory to the back of what remained of his mind, unable to face the pain of what might have been, what had almost been.
III
For one so long ashore he suddenly felt as though he was caught in a great storm. To any observing eye, to Hunter, to Hornblower, he simply lay motionless, staring listlessly at the wall. All the while he was clinging on to the slenderest line, the last fragile connection to sanity. Tossed helplessly on huge swells of joy.
Horatio had found him. Horatio had come for him. For him. Horatio would save him and take him back to the Indy. And everyone would know how he had survived all those years imprisoned alone. Survived all the horror and degradation Survived all those failed escape attempts. Survived. Horatio would take him back.
In the next breath he was sliding into the deepest trough, towering cliffs of despair blocking out all horizons.
Hornblower had found him. Found him helpless and broken and less than a man. Hornblower would save him and take him back to the Indy. And everyone would know how he had survived all those years imprisoned alone. Submitted to all the horror and degradation. All those failed escape attempts. All those failures. Hornblower would take him back. And Jack would be waiting.
He was lost in the storm, pounded against the lee shore, against the incomprehensible improbability of the present.
IV
Hunter had not been slow to recognise his tenuous grasp on reason. "He's lost the use of his mind and his legs". And he had, it was true. But he had not lost the use of his ears. If anything, years of captivity and confinement had sharpened Kennedy's senses to an unnatural pitch. He heard everything, every whispered exchange. It all sounded so noble when Hornblower told his tale "one of the Indefatigable’s midshipmen...captured in action...one of our own..." Talk of escape, of leaving, of doing something, of going washed over him, making little impression at first but gradually penetrating even his dull wits.
Hornblower had sat down carefully on the edge of the bunk, lowering his tone almost to a sigh. "Archie I need your help."
Archie?
Archie.
His name.
His name had been lost along the way along with all the trappings of his previous existence. He hadn't heard that name spoken by another human voice since when? He wasn't sure. Not since he'd been captured, that was certain. What few memories he had were vague and disjointed but still he was sure the last time he had heard that name it had been spoken by Hornblower. Had they had been in a boat?
"We're going to work out how to escape." Horatio continued softly. It was a statement of fact.
"You'll never escape." Archie replied. Another statement of fact. He tried to explain. Didn't he understand? Couldn't he see it was futile? Hopeless.
But Kennedy knew, he knew that if anyone would find a way it would be him. Of course it would be him. Didn't Hornblower always find a way? Hornblower would work out how to escape and Horatio would leave.
Horatio would leave him.
V
When he came to he wanted to believe it was a dream. It was dark, a faint glimmer of moonlight through the bars of the cell. Horatio was bending over him calling his name, "Archie, Archie, it's all right, ssshh", whispering soft words. Smoothing damp hair off his forehead, straightening the collar of his filthy shirt, resting one warm hand on his shoulder.
In the space it took to blink twice cold reality congealed about him and he knew it had been a fit. He shouldn't have been surprised. It was inevitable. What else could he do but turn away, turn back to the wall, turn his back on Horatio, turn his back on hope?
But even was he lay there in the dark trying to calm the trembling that still shook his limbs he could still feel that warmth. He could still feel Horatio's hand on his shoulder; warmth and weight and life and hope. And that was when he knew he would not loose this again. Would not loose him. That was when he knew he had to let go of the line.
VI
He wasn't sure where he was. The room was clean, bare, white and there was a crucifx on the wall above the bed. He didn't know how long he'd been there. Several nights perhaps? It was dark but the room was lit by a warm glow from the grate. He thought he recalled being caught in a storm that had rolled in from the Atlantic and battered the fort, but he couldn't be sure. Real or imagined the storm had passed and it was calm now. His body felt heavy as lead and light as a feather.
He remembered little of the previous days and nights and suspected he must have been slipping in and out of consciousness and delirium. Fearful nightmares, lucid spells, snatches of conversation, sharp exchanges, words spat out like bitter gall.
Hornblower had been determined, insistent, angry, desperate, pleading, tender. Archie had forgotten the irresistible force of Horatio Hornbower's will. And he had submitted to that force drop by drop by drop. He always submitted, willing or no.
VII
Hornblower's account of the previous two years had been a litany of failures. One disaster after another. The loss of the Maire Galante. True, the brig had been lost, but Archie remembered Hornblowers return as something of a triumph. The disastrous cutting out of the Papillion. But hadn't they taken the French ship? And returned to save the Indefatigable from the corvettes to boot? His cowardice in failing to shoot Simpson. But he had called him out and the bastard was dead. That was all that mattered. The plague ship. Which he had returned to his starving shipmates, complete with supplies. The death of a man named Bunting. Men die everyday. The failed lieutenant's exam. That had been unexpected, but Kennedy suspected there was more to tell than Hornblower's inability to save a dismasted ship from the lee shore of Dover. The loss of La Reve and the final ignominy of captivity as a prisoner of war. And always it came back to one thing "It's my fault." The continual refrain of the litany. "It's my fault."
Kennedy had hated Hornblower then. Who was he to think he had suffered? Then he hated himself more.
"It's my fault, don't you see? It's all my fault."
"Half of Europe is at war Horatio, even you can not claim credit for that."
That was when he confessed what had happened during the cutting out of the Papillion. Eyes cast to the floor, voice falling to a penitent whisper. "You see Archie, it's my fault that you were captured." Horatio was looking up now, looking him straight in the eye. "I struck you down. It's my fault"
It all started to fall into place.
"This isn't about me returning because I'm one of your men, one of us, this is about you. This is about Horatio Hornblower! This is about absolving your guilt. You want me to go back so you don't have to live with the guilt." He spat the words out with all the bitterness of all those years of desperation and fury and hopelessness.
Kennedy had always been a good shot and he knew he'd hit his mark. Hornblower was motionless for a second, then he rose and left the room.
Kennedy hadn't expected him to return but he did, later that night, smelling of brandy. No doubt having enjoyed he Don's generous hospitality. He sat down in the chair by the bed, offering no defense, rebuke or apology. He just sat and started at his hands. Kennedy had withdrawn into a stupor of indifference. It took him a moment to realise that Hornblower was speaking.
"...do you remember Archie? Do you remember him? Williams? He was killed the first time we saw action on the Indy. Canon took his leg off, we hauled him down to the cockpit but he bled to death anyway. It was like that. It was just like that Archie. Like part of me had been shot away and it just kept bleeding and bleeding and bleeding and it wouldn't stop. It was just like that. When I saw that boat cut loose..."
That had been hours ago. Archie looked over at the figure sleeping in the chair beside the bed. His long frame slumped awkwardly where exhaustion had finally over taken him, his face pinched and drained even in sleep. Archie gazed at him with a kind of detached fascination. He reached over and touched one hand where it dangled over the arm of the chair. Without wakening Horatio shifted slightly and murmured his name.
At that moment Archie could not have said whether he hated or loved Horatio Hornblower. He didn't understand these things any more and he didn't know if there was a difference anyway. Because he was there, because he would not give up on him, would not concede, Horatio Hornblower had became the vessel into which he poured all his bitterness, all this fear and failures. And now there was nothing left. He was empty. But with the emptiness there was light. It took time for Archie to recognise the lightness for what it was. Hope.
Author: Anteros
Characters: Archie Kennedy, Horatio Hornblower
Rating: G
Notes: This fandom needs another of these fics like it needs a hole below the water line! Everyone and their aunt as already written this, however Flotsam and All our sons felt unfinished so I guess this is the inevitable angsty conclusion.
I
In the end, it was the smallest things that did it. One hand resting on his shoulder, plucking at his dirty collar, pushed him over the edge. Another tapping lightly on his breast caught him and pulled him back.
II
Horatio Hornblower's appearance had all but shattered his fragmented sense of reality. And if that had not been enough, the arrival of an improbably familiar woman some time later had only added a layer of delirium to events.
It had taken him days to fully comprehend that Hornblower was real, not some phantom of the past such as had tormented him in the pit. He looked older, taller and there was a hard set to his face Kennedy did not remember. This was not the boy he had left behind on the Indy and nor was he the figure he had chased unceasingly through years of dreams. But he was undoubtedly Horatio Hornblower. Same voice, same eyes, same hands. Kennedy had never forgotten the feel of those hands, though he had pushed the memory to the back of what remained of his mind, unable to face the pain of what might have been, what had almost been.
III
For one so long ashore he suddenly felt as though he was caught in a great storm. To any observing eye, to Hunter, to Hornblower, he simply lay motionless, staring listlessly at the wall. All the while he was clinging on to the slenderest line, the last fragile connection to sanity. Tossed helplessly on huge swells of joy.
Horatio had found him. Horatio had come for him. For him. Horatio would save him and take him back to the Indy. And everyone would know how he had survived all those years imprisoned alone. Survived all the horror and degradation Survived all those failed escape attempts. Survived. Horatio would take him back.
In the next breath he was sliding into the deepest trough, towering cliffs of despair blocking out all horizons.
Hornblower had found him. Found him helpless and broken and less than a man. Hornblower would save him and take him back to the Indy. And everyone would know how he had survived all those years imprisoned alone. Submitted to all the horror and degradation. All those failed escape attempts. All those failures. Hornblower would take him back. And Jack would be waiting.
He was lost in the storm, pounded against the lee shore, against the incomprehensible improbability of the present.
IV
Hunter had not been slow to recognise his tenuous grasp on reason. "He's lost the use of his mind and his legs". And he had, it was true. But he had not lost the use of his ears. If anything, years of captivity and confinement had sharpened Kennedy's senses to an unnatural pitch. He heard everything, every whispered exchange. It all sounded so noble when Hornblower told his tale "one of the Indefatigable’s midshipmen...captured in action...one of our own..." Talk of escape, of leaving, of doing something, of going washed over him, making little impression at first but gradually penetrating even his dull wits.
Hornblower had sat down carefully on the edge of the bunk, lowering his tone almost to a sigh. "Archie I need your help."
Archie?
Archie.
His name.
His name had been lost along the way along with all the trappings of his previous existence. He hadn't heard that name spoken by another human voice since when? He wasn't sure. Not since he'd been captured, that was certain. What few memories he had were vague and disjointed but still he was sure the last time he had heard that name it had been spoken by Hornblower. Had they had been in a boat?
"We're going to work out how to escape." Horatio continued softly. It was a statement of fact.
"You'll never escape." Archie replied. Another statement of fact. He tried to explain. Didn't he understand? Couldn't he see it was futile? Hopeless.
But Kennedy knew, he knew that if anyone would find a way it would be him. Of course it would be him. Didn't Hornblower always find a way? Hornblower would work out how to escape and Horatio would leave.
Horatio would leave him.
V
When he came to he wanted to believe it was a dream. It was dark, a faint glimmer of moonlight through the bars of the cell. Horatio was bending over him calling his name, "Archie, Archie, it's all right, ssshh", whispering soft words. Smoothing damp hair off his forehead, straightening the collar of his filthy shirt, resting one warm hand on his shoulder.
In the space it took to blink twice cold reality congealed about him and he knew it had been a fit. He shouldn't have been surprised. It was inevitable. What else could he do but turn away, turn back to the wall, turn his back on Horatio, turn his back on hope?
But even was he lay there in the dark trying to calm the trembling that still shook his limbs he could still feel that warmth. He could still feel Horatio's hand on his shoulder; warmth and weight and life and hope. And that was when he knew he would not loose this again. Would not loose him. That was when he knew he had to let go of the line.
VI
He wasn't sure where he was. The room was clean, bare, white and there was a crucifx on the wall above the bed. He didn't know how long he'd been there. Several nights perhaps? It was dark but the room was lit by a warm glow from the grate. He thought he recalled being caught in a storm that had rolled in from the Atlantic and battered the fort, but he couldn't be sure. Real or imagined the storm had passed and it was calm now. His body felt heavy as lead and light as a feather.
He remembered little of the previous days and nights and suspected he must have been slipping in and out of consciousness and delirium. Fearful nightmares, lucid spells, snatches of conversation, sharp exchanges, words spat out like bitter gall.
Hornblower had been determined, insistent, angry, desperate, pleading, tender. Archie had forgotten the irresistible force of Horatio Hornbower's will. And he had submitted to that force drop by drop by drop. He always submitted, willing or no.
VII
Hornblower's account of the previous two years had been a litany of failures. One disaster after another. The loss of the Maire Galante. True, the brig had been lost, but Archie remembered Hornblowers return as something of a triumph. The disastrous cutting out of the Papillion. But hadn't they taken the French ship? And returned to save the Indefatigable from the corvettes to boot? His cowardice in failing to shoot Simpson. But he had called him out and the bastard was dead. That was all that mattered. The plague ship. Which he had returned to his starving shipmates, complete with supplies. The death of a man named Bunting. Men die everyday. The failed lieutenant's exam. That had been unexpected, but Kennedy suspected there was more to tell than Hornblower's inability to save a dismasted ship from the lee shore of Dover. The loss of La Reve and the final ignominy of captivity as a prisoner of war. And always it came back to one thing "It's my fault." The continual refrain of the litany. "It's my fault."
Kennedy had hated Hornblower then. Who was he to think he had suffered? Then he hated himself more.
"It's my fault, don't you see? It's all my fault."
"Half of Europe is at war Horatio, even you can not claim credit for that."
That was when he confessed what had happened during the cutting out of the Papillion. Eyes cast to the floor, voice falling to a penitent whisper. "You see Archie, it's my fault that you were captured." Horatio was looking up now, looking him straight in the eye. "I struck you down. It's my fault"
It all started to fall into place.
"This isn't about me returning because I'm one of your men, one of us, this is about you. This is about Horatio Hornblower! This is about absolving your guilt. You want me to go back so you don't have to live with the guilt." He spat the words out with all the bitterness of all those years of desperation and fury and hopelessness.
Kennedy had always been a good shot and he knew he'd hit his mark. Hornblower was motionless for a second, then he rose and left the room.
Kennedy hadn't expected him to return but he did, later that night, smelling of brandy. No doubt having enjoyed he Don's generous hospitality. He sat down in the chair by the bed, offering no defense, rebuke or apology. He just sat and started at his hands. Kennedy had withdrawn into a stupor of indifference. It took him a moment to realise that Hornblower was speaking.
"...do you remember Archie? Do you remember him? Williams? He was killed the first time we saw action on the Indy. Canon took his leg off, we hauled him down to the cockpit but he bled to death anyway. It was like that. It was just like that Archie. Like part of me had been shot away and it just kept bleeding and bleeding and bleeding and it wouldn't stop. It was just like that. When I saw that boat cut loose..."
That had been hours ago. Archie looked over at the figure sleeping in the chair beside the bed. His long frame slumped awkwardly where exhaustion had finally over taken him, his face pinched and drained even in sleep. Archie gazed at him with a kind of detached fascination. He reached over and touched one hand where it dangled over the arm of the chair. Without wakening Horatio shifted slightly and murmured his name.
At that moment Archie could not have said whether he hated or loved Horatio Hornblower. He didn't understand these things any more and he didn't know if there was a difference anyway. Because he was there, because he would not give up on him, would not concede, Horatio Hornblower had became the vessel into which he poured all his bitterness, all this fear and failures. And now there was nothing left. He was empty. But with the emptiness there was light. It took time for Archie to recognise the lightness for what it was. Hope.