FICLETS! Holiday: Day Seventeen.
For semielliptical
Luna/Neville
“Intrepid explorers.”
“Lost.”
“Braving new worlds.”
“Lost, Luna.”
“Having an adventure?”
“We’re lost, Luna.”
“I’m surprised, Neville. You’re not normally the dreary type.” She smiles at him, her head tilted just so, so that her hair spills over her shoulder like a candyfloss cascade. The sun manages to slip past the dense leaves around them to land on her hair, a shaft of light that makes is shine. “I fear I shall have to blame Ron. He’s far too good at looking at the wrong side of things.”
“I’ve not seen Ron in a month.”
“Perhaps it’s the absence of him then. You feel as though you need to emulate him. Perhaps you think I’m missing him.”
“Why would you be missing Ron?” Neville frowns, catching her hand before she can start to walk away. “You don’t fancy him.”
“He’s Hermione’s.”
“Which is not an answer.” Neville tugs gently at her hand, turning her around. “Luna?”
“I think Ron is quite lovely.”
“Luna.”
“And we’re not lost.” She tugs on his hand, pulling him down what now can clearly be defined as a path, a stark contrast to the bit of dirt she had attempted to pass off as one earlier. The trees seem to part before her, leaves dancing against her skin as she ducks beneath them. He reaches out with his free hand and plucks a leaf from her hair.
“Where are we then?”
She pushes past the last of the bushes, guiding them into a clearing. Sunlight fills it, the dark trees that line the rough circle less menacing in its brilliance. She produces a picnic from her pocket, spreading the blanket out on the uneven ground. He watches her unpack treats and drinks and books and music, carefully setting a small vial with several ants inside on its side so they can scurry out and join them. She settles on the blanket and looks up at him. “We’re here.”
Neville nods and sits opposite her, catching her hand in his again. “Of course we are. Where else would we be?”
For asta77
Archie
Archie makes his way through the ship slowly, finding his sea legs with every step. He doesn’t speak to anyone, merely feels their eyes on him as he goes down to his quarters. Whispers move along with him, passed from man to man, telling his stories with embellishments and lies.
He doesn’t know his own story anymore by the time he reaches the cot that is now his, the canvas rough and worn all at once. It hangs there, swaying slightly with the motion of the ship, and he wonders at it. This is his coffin waiting for him, sewn through with thick thread and the final needle through his nose. He rests his head on the fabric and breathes it in, memorizes the smell of salt and sweat and the sea so it will go to his grave with him. This is how he wants to die, not in some cell or hole in the ground. He wants to die with a sword in his hand, with a Frenchman on his blade. He wants to die in victory now that he knows that defeat did not kill him.
He straightens and moves to the mirror, inhaling sharply at the sight of his reflection. He needs many things, not the least of which is a hot bath and a sharp scrub of lye soap, a haircut and a new uniform. For now he wears the spare shirts and trousers of the others on the crew and combs his hair back into a tight queue, an extra of Horatio’s ribbons fastening it tight at the base of his skull. His reflection gazes back and he can no longer see the boy he was when he left the Indefatigable that fateful day of the raid on Papillion.
The boy is gone. He’s just uncertain if he’s yet to recognize the man.
Luna/Neville
“Intrepid explorers.”
“Lost.”
“Braving new worlds.”
“Lost, Luna.”
“Having an adventure?”
“We’re lost, Luna.”
“I’m surprised, Neville. You’re not normally the dreary type.” She smiles at him, her head tilted just so, so that her hair spills over her shoulder like a candyfloss cascade. The sun manages to slip past the dense leaves around them to land on her hair, a shaft of light that makes is shine. “I fear I shall have to blame Ron. He’s far too good at looking at the wrong side of things.”
“I’ve not seen Ron in a month.”
“Perhaps it’s the absence of him then. You feel as though you need to emulate him. Perhaps you think I’m missing him.”
“Why would you be missing Ron?” Neville frowns, catching her hand before she can start to walk away. “You don’t fancy him.”
“He’s Hermione’s.”
“Which is not an answer.” Neville tugs gently at her hand, turning her around. “Luna?”
“I think Ron is quite lovely.”
“Luna.”
“And we’re not lost.” She tugs on his hand, pulling him down what now can clearly be defined as a path, a stark contrast to the bit of dirt she had attempted to pass off as one earlier. The trees seem to part before her, leaves dancing against her skin as she ducks beneath them. He reaches out with his free hand and plucks a leaf from her hair.
“Where are we then?”
She pushes past the last of the bushes, guiding them into a clearing. Sunlight fills it, the dark trees that line the rough circle less menacing in its brilliance. She produces a picnic from her pocket, spreading the blanket out on the uneven ground. He watches her unpack treats and drinks and books and music, carefully setting a small vial with several ants inside on its side so they can scurry out and join them. She settles on the blanket and looks up at him. “We’re here.”
Neville nods and sits opposite her, catching her hand in his again. “Of course we are. Where else would we be?”
For asta77
Archie
Archie makes his way through the ship slowly, finding his sea legs with every step. He doesn’t speak to anyone, merely feels their eyes on him as he goes down to his quarters. Whispers move along with him, passed from man to man, telling his stories with embellishments and lies.
He doesn’t know his own story anymore by the time he reaches the cot that is now his, the canvas rough and worn all at once. It hangs there, swaying slightly with the motion of the ship, and he wonders at it. This is his coffin waiting for him, sewn through with thick thread and the final needle through his nose. He rests his head on the fabric and breathes it in, memorizes the smell of salt and sweat and the sea so it will go to his grave with him. This is how he wants to die, not in some cell or hole in the ground. He wants to die with a sword in his hand, with a Frenchman on his blade. He wants to die in victory now that he knows that defeat did not kill him.
He straightens and moves to the mirror, inhaling sharply at the sight of his reflection. He needs many things, not the least of which is a hot bath and a sharp scrub of lye soap, a haircut and a new uniform. For now he wears the spare shirts and trousers of the others on the crew and combs his hair back into a tight queue, an extra of Horatio’s ribbons fastening it tight at the base of his skull. His reflection gazes back and he can no longer see the boy he was when he left the Indefatigable that fateful day of the raid on Papillion.
The boy is gone. He’s just uncertain if he’s yet to recognize the man.