The soldier's tale. (NIne/Rose, G)
The soldier's tale.. Nine/Rose, Ten/Rose, G. 961 words.
For the challenge 2 prompt, fairytales.
He walked alone and swung his arms alone and counted in his head to keep from going crazy. There was a box at the end of the road and a door in the box, and a latch in the door that turned with a key.
The soldier went out from the war alone, as he'd gone in.
He smelled like earth, moss that crept up the sides of trees and sapped out their juices, cracking the hulls and sucking the marrow dry. Trees with skeletal arms held them outstretched as he passed, brushing the rough edges of his jacket and the close crop of his scalp with imagined affection. He walked alone and swung his arms alone and counted in his head to keep from going crazy. There was a box at the end of the road and a door in the box, and a latch in the door that turned with a key.
Inside the box were many beautiful things, and many terrible ones: bottles with jewels inside and some with genii, sweet music playing from brass music-boxes and bulky tube television sets, silks and furs from countries built up and conquered and knocked back down again, demons in white glass globes howling for their makers, gardens with every kind of vine curling around the hinges. And at the center, wires and circuits all connected, all touching and sparking a living engine that pulsed like indrawn breaths. The engine moved the box from place to place, and kept it warm and gave it light. It was bigger on the inside.
The man had collected all those things, one at a time, to save them or stop them or to mark the passing of days. Once, he had remembered their meanings, nearly all forgotten in the tide of battle and the angry clash of arms. Now he had little to fill the days before him, and nothing could give him any pleasure. He had tried travelling, but it only made him tired and lonely. "One more campaign," said the soldier, bitterly. "That's all I've got left. And then I'll shut the doors and let the dust go on settling." He put on his coat and went to meet the enemy.
He went into the battle alone, but he didn't come out that way.
"This," said the girl, "is a beautiful box." The soldier scowled and crossed his arms but the engine flashed the lights and raised the temperature one-half a degree, preening over the compliment. "Does it really go anywhere ? Anywhere at all ?"
"Anywhere-At-All ?" he replied. "It's probably dead boring."
"Somewhere else, then," said the girl, who didn't seem bothered. The solider had been alone so long that he muttered to himself while he steered the box, flipped the switches and circuits and spun the handwheel. He didn't even bother to apologize for the difficult landing, or the pool of muddy water now standing just outside the door. The girl walked out anyway, and he followed. Her name was Rose and she had yellow hair like the round sun at the center of daisies. They were at the top of a hill, overlooking a dull lake that he'd seen a dozen times before. "Oh, just look," said Rose. "Just look at that. It's like a mirror. And can you smell the apple trees ?" He could. And now as he looked around, he smelled everything else- the wet grass under their feet and the soft logs of the pier. The soap on the backs of his hands and on hers. She sat down in the grass and he sat beside her, noticing the ragged grass, the smooth skin on the underside of her ankles. "Do you do this all the time, traveling ?" she asked. "Do you like it ?"
"I must," he said. He didn't say more. But the girl stayed and for a while they walked together and swung their arms together and counted steps out loud to keep from going crazy. In the evening she squeezed into the faux-antique loveseat beside him and listened to his stories of his recent travels and punctuated them with laughter when he slipped into a mood. "I wasn't always a soldier," he told her, on one of those nights. She was pressed against his side and her hair tickled his throat. He pretended that was the reason the next words were difficult to say. "I was something else, before. Before the war. I don't remember."
"I think you must've been a doctor," she said, and held out her arm. There was a square bandage on the back of it, sticky plastic with gummy edges pulling at her skin. "Nicked myself on a thornbush, running from whatsisface. Remember ?" He did: her blood and his panic and her airy chuckles. "You did the best patch job I've ever had. Your hands are careful." His hands had been a lot of things, but never that. The soldier stared at them in darkness after she was asleep.
Wondering.
Rose fell ill, and there was no-one else to help, to soothe her hurt. She burned and ached and cried. Fire crawled through her insides and he stood helplessly apart. Rose held out her hands. "Doctor," she called. He didn't answer. "Doctor, doctor, doctor."
"Rose," he said. He knelt at her side and knit his fingers with hers and kissed her forehead, the high hairline, the arch of her eyebrows and the flush of her cheeks. He kissed her mouth and the fire flooded him. The soldier caught fire and burned, burned like the dry tall grass and the hollow trees at the edge of the battle, the smoking cannons and the chalky, stinging stench of powder. The soldier burned until nothing was left. In the ash his head was clear and light; he smelled flowers, morning damp, primroses, hearthfire. He smelled shampoo and nail polish. Rose opened her eyes, well and whole and cool.
"Doctor ?" she asked, and he smiled down at her.
"I'm here," he said.
For the challenge 2 prompt, fairytales.
He walked alone and swung his arms alone and counted in his head to keep from going crazy. There was a box at the end of the road and a door in the box, and a latch in the door that turned with a key.
The soldier went out from the war alone, as he'd gone in.
He smelled like earth, moss that crept up the sides of trees and sapped out their juices, cracking the hulls and sucking the marrow dry. Trees with skeletal arms held them outstretched as he passed, brushing the rough edges of his jacket and the close crop of his scalp with imagined affection. He walked alone and swung his arms alone and counted in his head to keep from going crazy. There was a box at the end of the road and a door in the box, and a latch in the door that turned with a key.
Inside the box were many beautiful things, and many terrible ones: bottles with jewels inside and some with genii, sweet music playing from brass music-boxes and bulky tube television sets, silks and furs from countries built up and conquered and knocked back down again, demons in white glass globes howling for their makers, gardens with every kind of vine curling around the hinges. And at the center, wires and circuits all connected, all touching and sparking a living engine that pulsed like indrawn breaths. The engine moved the box from place to place, and kept it warm and gave it light. It was bigger on the inside.
The man had collected all those things, one at a time, to save them or stop them or to mark the passing of days. Once, he had remembered their meanings, nearly all forgotten in the tide of battle and the angry clash of arms. Now he had little to fill the days before him, and nothing could give him any pleasure. He had tried travelling, but it only made him tired and lonely. "One more campaign," said the soldier, bitterly. "That's all I've got left. And then I'll shut the doors and let the dust go on settling." He put on his coat and went to meet the enemy.
He went into the battle alone, but he didn't come out that way.
"This," said the girl, "is a beautiful box." The soldier scowled and crossed his arms but the engine flashed the lights and raised the temperature one-half a degree, preening over the compliment. "Does it really go anywhere ? Anywhere at all ?"
"Anywhere-At-All ?" he replied. "It's probably dead boring."
"Somewhere else, then," said the girl, who didn't seem bothered. The solider had been alone so long that he muttered to himself while he steered the box, flipped the switches and circuits and spun the handwheel. He didn't even bother to apologize for the difficult landing, or the pool of muddy water now standing just outside the door. The girl walked out anyway, and he followed. Her name was Rose and she had yellow hair like the round sun at the center of daisies. They were at the top of a hill, overlooking a dull lake that he'd seen a dozen times before. "Oh, just look," said Rose. "Just look at that. It's like a mirror. And can you smell the apple trees ?" He could. And now as he looked around, he smelled everything else- the wet grass under their feet and the soft logs of the pier. The soap on the backs of his hands and on hers. She sat down in the grass and he sat beside her, noticing the ragged grass, the smooth skin on the underside of her ankles. "Do you do this all the time, traveling ?" she asked. "Do you like it ?"
"I must," he said. He didn't say more. But the girl stayed and for a while they walked together and swung their arms together and counted steps out loud to keep from going crazy. In the evening she squeezed into the faux-antique loveseat beside him and listened to his stories of his recent travels and punctuated them with laughter when he slipped into a mood. "I wasn't always a soldier," he told her, on one of those nights. She was pressed against his side and her hair tickled his throat. He pretended that was the reason the next words were difficult to say. "I was something else, before. Before the war. I don't remember."
"I think you must've been a doctor," she said, and held out her arm. There was a square bandage on the back of it, sticky plastic with gummy edges pulling at her skin. "Nicked myself on a thornbush, running from whatsisface. Remember ?" He did: her blood and his panic and her airy chuckles. "You did the best patch job I've ever had. Your hands are careful." His hands had been a lot of things, but never that. The soldier stared at them in darkness after she was asleep.
Wondering.
Rose fell ill, and there was no-one else to help, to soothe her hurt. She burned and ached and cried. Fire crawled through her insides and he stood helplessly apart. Rose held out her hands. "Doctor," she called. He didn't answer. "Doctor, doctor, doctor."
"Rose," he said. He knelt at her side and knit his fingers with hers and kissed her forehead, the high hairline, the arch of her eyebrows and the flush of her cheeks. He kissed her mouth and the fire flooded him. The soldier caught fire and burned, burned like the dry tall grass and the hollow trees at the edge of the battle, the smoking cannons and the chalky, stinging stench of powder. The soldier burned until nothing was left. In the ash his head was clear and light; he smelled flowers, morning damp, primroses, hearthfire. He smelled shampoo and nail polish. Rose opened her eyes, well and whole and cool.
"Doctor ?" she asked, and he smiled down at her.
"I'm here," he said.