The One That Leads Through.

[quigonejinn]

The term for it is separation, and there is even a manual: the Marine Corps Separation and Retirement Manual.

...

Hornblower is still having those dreams of the sea. They're not something he discusses, but Barbara knows him well enough to have suggested, a number of times, that he see a psychiatrist. Or a therapist. Anyone. If he doesn't want to use a military doctor, someone else could be arranged. There are many options available; there is no shame in it these days, and it would be easy to find someone highly recommended. It's not exactly an unheard-of thing in her line of work, where discretion is even more important.

Instead, Hornblower attributes it to sleep deprivation. Whitecaps driven before the wind and heavy grey skies promising western wind, even the bo'sun piping -- it was an unusually long deployment his first time, and during the last half year, he lived on four or five hours of sleep at a stretch and barely dreamed at all. He did not have time to. Now, his mind is just making up for lost time.

Lying in his cot and listening to the water underneath his stern windows.

The compass fastened to the bulkhead, the needle swinging in the night.

...

This fall, Richard is old enough for pre-school, so Hornblower takes him each morning, then returns each afternoon. He doesn't have much else in his day; as a result he is usually early. He is also the only father who waits for his son, so the other parents tend to leave him alone. On arrival, Hornblower positions himself by the handrail and crosses his arms: out of habit, he begins working out how he would defend the school building, how he would attack it. What if he had helicopters, but only half a squad of ground troops? What if there were snipers?

It is habit; people forget how urbanized Iraq was.

While the weather is still warm, he and Richard walk hand in hand back to the townhouse. If Richard gets tired or the leaves are deep or the wind is blowing, Hornblower carries him.

...

Barbara loses the baby a little before Thanksgiving. It happens, in fact, while she is at work, and Hornblower gets a call while he is in the kitchen: the doctor is calm, but when Hornblower arrives at the hospital, Barbara is as close to hysterical as he has ever seen her. She rocks back and forth in the hospital bed, blaming herself for exercising too much, for not eating properly, for working too much, and Hornblower has to put his arms around her to keep her from moving so much that the IV's come out.

It is a somber Thanksgiving. While in the hospital and out, Barbara repeats, over and over, that she is not afraid and wants to try again, will quit her job to devote herself to it, but her gynecologist comes up with at least ten reasons why she must not. When she tells him, point-blank, to start her on a second cycle of hormone fertility treatments, he refuses and tells her it would be malpractice if he did so.

Hornblower will not let her change doctors.

...

Richard's school has its every-denomination-and-then-some decorations out by the first week of December. One afternoon, Hornblower arrives early enough that he is the only one there, and out of boredom, he leafs through some of the newsletters left in the front hall. It is the usual cheap newsprint and photocopied work even at a school as expensive as this, but then he finds an article about the fund raiser for the school: he had not known the Comte was on the board of the school, and there Marie is, next to her father-in-law. Her sleeves are pushed up to the elbow, and she is presiding over some sort of bake sale for the high school French club.

Hornblower has only seen the woman once in his life, and even then, only briefly, but he cannot stop staring at the newspaper until Richard pulls on his sleeve.

...

Let me be very clear: Hornblower may dream of going to sea again, but he will never go back to war. He dreams, in incredible detail, of the cold Baltic and the heated Caribbean, of the Nonsuch and Bush, but that is another age. It is possible that he could redeploy, but he will never go to war again with Bush: America is a long way from being that badly in need of soldiers, and even more importantly, Hornblower served almost two years in Iraq the first time. It will be a while before he goes back, and even if he will never see Marie again, even if there is no chance of ever running off with her to France, there is a perfectly satisfactory life ahead of him.

On Christmas Eve, he calls Bush to wish him the joy of the season, and Bush picks up at some kind of bar or party. There is music and shouting; there are women yelling at Bush. Bush, himself, is at least three-quarters drunk. Probably more, as he says that he is wearing some kind of bead necklace with flowers, and then, says he is going outside so that he can hear Hornblower better.

Hornblower pauses, thinks for a moment, and tells Bush that there is no need.

These are modern times, after all. Everyone moves on; it is obvious everybody has more options. More happiness.

...

Bush, before hanging up, asks after Barbara's health. He also manages to drunkenly say that he wishes Hornblower were there with him.

With Bush's new job and Hornblower's absorption in his family life, it is the most they have communicated in months. Given the way that Hornblower's dreams have turned, perhaps it is best that way: there is a river, and in every dream that Hornblower has for a week, he sees it close around Bush.

...

At a little before midnight on New Year's Eve, Hornblower goes to Barbara and tells her that he has started the separation process. In two months, he will no longer be a Marine.

They are hosting a party, and thus far, it has been an absolute misery for Hornblower, which has annoyed Barbara, but after he tells her, she screams in joy and throws her arms around him. There isn't any mistletoe above them, but she kisses him, right there, in front of all their guests.

Her mouth tastes like champagne; distantly, Hornblower can hear a baby crying, and he knows that Richard has woken. His nanny is undoubtedly trying to hush him and is cursing the white mister and missus for being so loud. The clapping continues, and Hornblower feels himself blushing. He is kissing Barbara equally; he even tilts her back a little to kiss her better, and the clapping and hooting gets even louder.

In the rush of modern life, Hornblower can almost forget the sea. He can almost ignore the life and love that should have been, but exists only when he is asleep: it may have been a harder life, and it is almost certainly a sadder life, given the deaths of Bush and Marie, but the term is, nevertheless, separation.



Inspired in no small part by reading this. And uh. Listening to Patrick Wolf's The Magic Position on 1000000000000000x queue.