Broken Chord
Hello happy people of Perfect Duet! I have long been a distant adorer of the talented artists in this community. I decided I have let myself wallow in a non-productive, passive state of writer's block for too long now, and by way of emerging, I humply give you...
Broken Chord: Prologue
By Venetian_mask
Summary: The Surprise is empty without him.
Rating: G at the moment, will go up.
Disclaimer: O'Brian's & Weir's. Never mine.
On the first day, the officers of the H.M.S. Surprise exchanged inconspicuous (or so they thought) glances of shock, fear lurking sinisterly behind. No one would voice what sentences pounded in their cold ears.
First Lieutenant Tom Pullings stood helplessly in charge of the quarterdeck in the midst of a miserable fog. He never imagined Killick would be handing him the limp, open Bible whilst he stood upon Jack Aubrey’s ship. Spirits bogged low under the grim clouds, not lifted by the bell signaling change of the watch.
On the sixth day, Stephen Maturin entered the Great Cabin, which he immediately regretted. Despite the cheery candle gatherings, the room was lifeless and taunting without the bellow of a familiar laugh. Even his beloved ‘cello was clammy to the touch, as though he were touching a sweaty body, only moments relinquished from its struggle with a terrible fever.
After fifteen days, the crew shuffled aimlessly around the decks, some even ignoring their grog to stare out across the monotone sea. Killick was himself so troubled that he vocalized, far louder and clearer than was typical, how he “would blast the bloody frigate to damnation” the next time he laid eyes upon it.
And on the fifty-seventh day, as Stephen stared at the ship’s log in disbelief that it had been nearly two months, the clear voice of William Mowett declared “Ship, ho!” The ship displayed a white flag.
Oblivious to the newly born thunder, Stephen hurried to the deck, grabbing a blanket and a bottle of laudanum, fighting back the panic that they would be direly needed. The real storm was on deck, however, as Pullings and Allen snapped at one another in a fury.
“You forget your place, Mr. Allen. It is my decision.”
“No, sir! No-you are suggesting opening cannon fire on a ship running white. Not only is it dishonorable, but it would be against the Captain’s judgment.”
“You fret over honor, sir, at a moment such as this? Do their actions appear honorable to you?”
“This is prisoner exchange, sir! Not an open invitation to start a battle.”
“ No, Mr. Allen, this was a prisoner exchange. They have clearly violated the rules of war. What I see on that deck is as much of an invitation as we could hope to get.”
“Tom-” broke in Allen, dropping formalities and his tone. Pullings straightened at this, seething. “Tom, if you beat to quarters now, you’ll kill him for sure.”
Both men swiveled ‘round at the sound of glass shattering behind them. The laudanum snaked out around Doctor Maturin’s feet as he saw, on the deck of the approaching boat, what was left of Captain Jack Aubrey.
Broken Chord: Prologue
By Venetian_mask
Summary: The Surprise is empty without him.
Rating: G at the moment, will go up.
Disclaimer: O'Brian's & Weir's. Never mine.
On the first day, the officers of the H.M.S. Surprise exchanged inconspicuous (or so they thought) glances of shock, fear lurking sinisterly behind. No one would voice what sentences pounded in their cold ears.
First Lieutenant Tom Pullings stood helplessly in charge of the quarterdeck in the midst of a miserable fog. He never imagined Killick would be handing him the limp, open Bible whilst he stood upon Jack Aubrey’s ship. Spirits bogged low under the grim clouds, not lifted by the bell signaling change of the watch.
On the sixth day, Stephen Maturin entered the Great Cabin, which he immediately regretted. Despite the cheery candle gatherings, the room was lifeless and taunting without the bellow of a familiar laugh. Even his beloved ‘cello was clammy to the touch, as though he were touching a sweaty body, only moments relinquished from its struggle with a terrible fever.
After fifteen days, the crew shuffled aimlessly around the decks, some even ignoring their grog to stare out across the monotone sea. Killick was himself so troubled that he vocalized, far louder and clearer than was typical, how he “would blast the bloody frigate to damnation” the next time he laid eyes upon it.
And on the fifty-seventh day, as Stephen stared at the ship’s log in disbelief that it had been nearly two months, the clear voice of William Mowett declared “Ship, ho!” The ship displayed a white flag.
Oblivious to the newly born thunder, Stephen hurried to the deck, grabbing a blanket and a bottle of laudanum, fighting back the panic that they would be direly needed. The real storm was on deck, however, as Pullings and Allen snapped at one another in a fury.
“You forget your place, Mr. Allen. It is my decision.”
“No, sir! No-you are suggesting opening cannon fire on a ship running white. Not only is it dishonorable, but it would be against the Captain’s judgment.”
“You fret over honor, sir, at a moment such as this? Do their actions appear honorable to you?”
“This is prisoner exchange, sir! Not an open invitation to start a battle.”
“ No, Mr. Allen, this was a prisoner exchange. They have clearly violated the rules of war. What I see on that deck is as much of an invitation as we could hope to get.”
“Tom-” broke in Allen, dropping formalities and his tone. Pullings straightened at this, seething. “Tom, if you beat to quarters now, you’ll kill him for sure.”
Both men swiveled ‘round at the sound of glass shattering behind them. The laudanum snaked out around Doctor Maturin’s feet as he saw, on the deck of the approaching boat, what was left of Captain Jack Aubrey.