Impression
Title: Impression
Author: Anteros
Characters: Horatio Hornblower / (Archie Kennedy)
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Retribution
Notes: Hmmm, not sure about this at all. Overly angsty and slightly mangled attempt at second person inspired equally by thehappyreturn's " You construct intricate rituals which allow you to touch the skin of other men" and Muireadhach Albanach's "M’anam do Sgar Riomsa A-raoir" (ref below). Both beautiful in their own way.
At the very least you expected the world to stop turning. Or the light to fail. Or your heart to stop beating, when his stopped beating. But it didn't. You're still here, still breathing. The world is still here and you are still in it. But it's different; a different world, new, colder. Now that he is gone from it.
And how can that be? How can it be that someone who lived so hard can just cease? Just stop? In an instant. You'd been preparing for this moment of course, steeling yourself for it, retreating into yourself, into your shell, building walls, defenses. He once said you were like a hermit crab and had picked one up from some shore as a gift. "A companion for you Mr Hornblower." Shells, walls, defenses to keep out the one person who had breached every last one. You made yourself believe you had succeeded. You kept your distance, behind the barricades, to the very last. Choking down the desperate need to feel, to touch, to rage. You would win this last siege. Thought you had won. Until he laughed. Damn it Archie, why did you have to laugh? You had to have the last laugh. And you just can not bear it.
When death came it was oddly mundane. Ordinary yet inexplicable. The inevitable consequence of a life lived. And oh how you lived. But you still can not understand how it happens so. Even though you heard his last breath, saw the spark fade from those blue blue eyes. Where are you Archie? Where did all that life just go?
They talk of hearts breaking, but you don't feel broken. This is rawer, bloodier. More like mutilation, like part of you has been torn away, as sure as if a canon short had ripped away a limb. Part of you is missing, the part that was his. That man was half your life and it's a poor share that is left. Surely it is unconscionable to go on living?
They came to remove the body. The body? It was still you, still you Archie. You were still there. Still there but not there. Still here. Clive came, and others. He spoke to you, something meaningless, before lapsing into his usual latinate medical jargon, something about "...rigor mortis...putrefaction...this heat you know...". Then they wrapped your lover in the sheet and carried him away.
But you're still here and you can still see the impression of his head on the pillow. And you remember his face as he lay beside you. The smooth cheeked boy sleeping fitfully in a hammock on Justinian. The unrecognisable wraith on the filthy cot in a Spanish cell. Across your narrow cabin on Renown, face slightly pinched with strain even as he slept. Mostly you remember the man, the one who laughed at you, and made you laugh, who you trusted with your life even when he panicked, who was always just there. Friend, lover, other words that would never come to your tongue. He had never been afraid of these words, as you were. The lightest voice, but never afraid to speak. No need to conquer your fear now, no need for these words again. Locked away in that empty place. The space that he has left.
You stare dumbly at the empty bed. You were here Archie. A faint indentation still visible on the mattress and all you can think of is his weight and his warmth when his body lay on yours. Body like a flame. Really, will you never feel that weight again?
Now there is only absence where once there was weight and warmth and life and light. The hollow impression of what had been but is gone. You still have your shells and walls and defenses but now, right now, what is there left to protect inside?
Reference
Maclean, M. and Dorgan, T., (2002), An Leabhar Mor: The Great Book of Gaelic, Cannongate Books, Edinburgh.
Since all I knew of brightness died
Half of me lingers, half is gone.
Much of imagery, and more than a few of the lines, in this piece are lifted directly from the Gaelic poem "M’anam do Sgar Riomsa A-raoir" written around 1300 by Muireadhach Albanach. Most of the poetry that survives from this period is professional praise poetry which follows formal and complex metrical systems. This poem is rare in that it is an intensely personal expression of loss that still speaks clearly today over 700 years after it was written. You can find an abridged version at the Leabhar Mor website. If anyone would like to read the full text of the poem, let me know and I'll forward.
Author: Anteros
Characters: Horatio Hornblower / (Archie Kennedy)
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Retribution
Notes: Hmmm, not sure about this at all. Overly angsty and slightly mangled attempt at second person inspired equally by thehappyreturn's " You construct intricate rituals which allow you to touch the skin of other men" and Muireadhach Albanach's "M’anam do Sgar Riomsa A-raoir" (ref below). Both beautiful in their own way.
At the very least you expected the world to stop turning. Or the light to fail. Or your heart to stop beating, when his stopped beating. But it didn't. You're still here, still breathing. The world is still here and you are still in it. But it's different; a different world, new, colder. Now that he is gone from it.
And how can that be? How can it be that someone who lived so hard can just cease? Just stop? In an instant. You'd been preparing for this moment of course, steeling yourself for it, retreating into yourself, into your shell, building walls, defenses. He once said you were like a hermit crab and had picked one up from some shore as a gift. "A companion for you Mr Hornblower." Shells, walls, defenses to keep out the one person who had breached every last one. You made yourself believe you had succeeded. You kept your distance, behind the barricades, to the very last. Choking down the desperate need to feel, to touch, to rage. You would win this last siege. Thought you had won. Until he laughed. Damn it Archie, why did you have to laugh? You had to have the last laugh. And you just can not bear it.
When death came it was oddly mundane. Ordinary yet inexplicable. The inevitable consequence of a life lived. And oh how you lived. But you still can not understand how it happens so. Even though you heard his last breath, saw the spark fade from those blue blue eyes. Where are you Archie? Where did all that life just go?
They talk of hearts breaking, but you don't feel broken. This is rawer, bloodier. More like mutilation, like part of you has been torn away, as sure as if a canon short had ripped away a limb. Part of you is missing, the part that was his. That man was half your life and it's a poor share that is left. Surely it is unconscionable to go on living?
They came to remove the body. The body? It was still you, still you Archie. You were still there. Still there but not there. Still here. Clive came, and others. He spoke to you, something meaningless, before lapsing into his usual latinate medical jargon, something about "...rigor mortis...putrefaction...this heat you know...". Then they wrapped your lover in the sheet and carried him away.
But you're still here and you can still see the impression of his head on the pillow. And you remember his face as he lay beside you. The smooth cheeked boy sleeping fitfully in a hammock on Justinian. The unrecognisable wraith on the filthy cot in a Spanish cell. Across your narrow cabin on Renown, face slightly pinched with strain even as he slept. Mostly you remember the man, the one who laughed at you, and made you laugh, who you trusted with your life even when he panicked, who was always just there. Friend, lover, other words that would never come to your tongue. He had never been afraid of these words, as you were. The lightest voice, but never afraid to speak. No need to conquer your fear now, no need for these words again. Locked away in that empty place. The space that he has left.
You stare dumbly at the empty bed. You were here Archie. A faint indentation still visible on the mattress and all you can think of is his weight and his warmth when his body lay on yours. Body like a flame. Really, will you never feel that weight again?
Now there is only absence where once there was weight and warmth and life and light. The hollow impression of what had been but is gone. You still have your shells and walls and defenses but now, right now, what is there left to protect inside?
Reference
Maclean, M. and Dorgan, T., (2002), An Leabhar Mor: The Great Book of Gaelic, Cannongate Books, Edinburgh.
Since all I knew of brightness died
Half of me lingers, half is gone.
Much of imagery, and more than a few of the lines, in this piece are lifted directly from the Gaelic poem "M’anam do Sgar Riomsa A-raoir" written around 1300 by Muireadhach Albanach. Most of the poetry that survives from this period is professional praise poetry which follows formal and complex metrical systems. This poem is rare in that it is an intensely personal expression of loss that still speaks clearly today over 700 years after it was written. You can find an abridged version at the Leabhar Mor website. If anyone would like to read the full text of the poem, let me know and I'll forward.