The Lotus Eaters.
Dec. 24th, 2006 11:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
quigonejinn*cracks knuckles, attempts to get back into the groove of writing* Begun March 07, 2006. And the post mark indicates something like 1:16 AM. o_O
Bush had only the vaguest notion of what a lotus was. In fact, he would have been vaguely horrified at the idea of eating flowers, and Hornblower never brought it up explicitly. Further, nothing in Bush's education either at sea or on land had ever brought exposure to the Odyssey, much less Homeric Greek, and as a result, his time on the Loire was utterly without reference.
They woke in the morning dawn and went down the river until it was dusk. There were dinners of biscuits and fish in front of a fire, then sleep sleep. There were no watches, no duty rosters, no wardroom. It was not like being at sea, and yet, it was not like being on land -- there was none of the usual shore delights or dockyard officials to bargain and beggar, nor were there sisters and relatives, all the pressures of being on half-pay, with nights on a cot in a corner of the cottage and days of heat and watery tea. The garden behind the cottage, staring at the ground, and wishing for a heaving deck and the sound of holystones.
If it had not been for the prospect of what lay in wait for them in England, Bush would, despite his suspicion of things either new or pleasurable, have been quite happy.
...
It was not that he doubted Hornblower, of course. There was no doubt in Bush's mind that his captain would be acquitted; there was nothing that could have been done more honorably, more perfectly in a fight against superior forces. Bush still carried in his mind the way that the Sutherland had rocked after delivering that first, devastating broadside against the French ship; if they had been in a single-ship fight, the Frog would've struck colors and surrendered in half an hour, but she had not been alone, of course. It had not been two ships, facing each other.
Thus, Bush lingered on the memory of the recoil from that first, glorious broadside. In theory, was exactly the same motion as when the Sutherland had taken a hard wave to her side, but the return was indescribably slower, indescribably more brilliant.
When he had been working on the boat during the winter, another moment would, sometimes, come to mind: it was after the third broadside. The Frog's main mast had gone forward after the third broadside. The topgallant mast tipped further still, until it almost touched the water. The assemblage held for a long, terrible moment, and then, Bush watched as the mast snapped, a dozen feet from the deck, and went into the water, topgallants first.
...
"Yes, Mr. Bush?"
It was their third morning on the Loire. Fine, bright weather. There were birds in the trees. They were finishing a breakfast of biscuits and fish, and there was even a touch of breeze, though since they were on land and he did not have a compass, Bush did not know the direction of it.
It was a land wind, though. That much was clear, and Bush let it blow out. If he'd had a hat worthy of it, Bush would have then taken it off and put it over his chest, with the flat-bottomed boat behind his right shoulder, tied to a pair of saplings.
"It's Sunday, sir. Would you care for inspection?"
The corner of Hornblower's mouth twitched. He looked surprised, though pleased; on the other side of the fire, Brown made a choked noise, and Bush pretended, badly, to be puzzled as to why they were all amused.
...
There was also another morning, where they were, again, preparing for a day on the river. Brown had finished loading the boat, but Hornblower had not yet returned from his morning walk -- they waited for a period of time, and they waited some more after that. Then, there was a bit of silent exchange that would never have occurred among an officer and a crewman who didn't hear their captain, with his trousers rolled to the knee, cursing like a Portsmouth marketwoman whenever their boat got stuck in mud, and Bush went off to look for the captain. .
In fact, Hornblower was down the river aways, in a bit of clearing. He had not answered to Bush calling his name, but Bush thought he saw his captain's profile around a bit of tree, and he found Hornblower staring down at the Loire, looking at a rock underneath the water. Bush called out again, and getting no response, came somewhat closer, intending to touch Hornblower on the shoulder to get his attention.
Hornblower moved at the last moment, though, and Bush caught him by the elbow.
Bush was short of breath from picking his way through the undergrowth; worry had also excited him, and he was starting to sweat a little, despite the coolness of the morning. Hornblower looked, quickly, at Bush's wooden leg, then at the signs of exertion on Bush's face. He looked stricken, and before Bush could say something to reassure him, Hornblower reached down and caught Bush's hand.
They were standing by the river, in a bit of a clearing. The Loire ran alongside, and aside from the birds and Bush's breathing, which had stopped, without any particular effort or direction from him, it was quiet.
...
Bush was not a man who thought of the future, but it was hard not to fret: the Loire was beautiful, but there would be an end to these days. He had no doubt that Hornblower would get them back to England, safe and sound, but what would happen once there?
He had lost his leg; he almost certainly would never go to sea with the Navy again. He would be unable to provide for his sisters; he had no trade besides that of being an officer in he Navy. During the Peace, he had been unable to find merchant work, and now he was a cripple -- was there any money left from the prizes that they had taken in the days before Rosas? How were his sisters getting along without his half-salary? How would he provide for them?
They were terrible thoughts, and whenever Bush found himself drifting too far into them, he made himself think about happier things. It was difficult, as he had few happy times on land, aside from when he had been in a port with prize money, but he made himself think of how he might find a situation with one of the trading companies. Perhaps someone would remember his father or have respect for the Navy. He could have a comfortable life in Chichester. He would learn to like living on land.
Perhaps he might even marry.
Bush only let his troubles slip to Hornblower once, and the distress on Hornblower's face made Bush curse himself for being a fool -- he had never known a captain whose emotions could be read so easily after a little practice, even if the reasons for the feelings were not always understandable.
"I'll see you posted as captain," Hornblower said, with odd intensity that most reminded Bush of the way that Hornblower had spoken, at times, while he was a lieutenant. "I'll see you posted if it's my last act on Earth."
Throughout that afternoon, Bush found that, in odd moments, Hornblower would be looking at him, not the boat or the river or the mill that they were currently passing. That night, when they were settling to bed, Hornblower looked at him, through the last of the twilight. They were sitting very close to each other; Brown was some ways down the river, taking a last piss before turning in.
Hornblower repeated the promise, which made for three times, all in all. And then he pressed Bush's hand.
Bush was too stunned -- and grateful -- to respond.
...
A few days later, girls with armfuls of flowers waving at them from shore. Brown was laughing and looking at them; some of the girls threw flowers into the river. Hornblower was staring, fixedly, at the front of the boat, and Bush reached over and clasped his hand. He held it as they went down the river, solemn as though they had just taken an oath, made a promise, or been married.
...
There was another night where it rained and all three of them slept underneath a blanket stretched between willow trees. Bush and Hornblower had a brief, tense discussion over who should have the dry middle with Brown sitting at the side and playing the neutral party, and in the end, Bush's obstinacy and Hornblower's own tiredness won out -- Bush did not mind so much these days when it rained, after all, not even if his arm ached all day from having lain like that at night, and while Hornblower went to go look at the boat the next morning, Bush looked at Brown, and Brown looked back: their tone-deaf captain was, in fact, singing.
He later explained that he had only been reciting schoolboy Greek and reeled off a line -- something about flowers and hollow ships. He had gotten to the Greeks in school, he explained. It was nothing but a little recitation. Even after that, though, even while they were sitting together in the cabin of Hardy's Triumph, to Bush, it still sounded like music.
...
It never went further between them than an arm across the chest, fingers lying against the palm in a moment of privacy -- Hornblower had nothing to do with Bush being made post, but he had plenty to do with Bush getting an actual command, and it was enough, in a sense, to have come through the Loire together, so they never further, not to mouths or bare skin.
In all truth, Bush did not mind.
Until Caudebec, Hornblower did not either.
[F]or once in his life he was able to live in the lotus-eating present.
I chose two of my men and . . . sent a third as messenger.
Bush had only the vaguest notion of what a lotus was. In fact, he would have been vaguely horrified at the idea of eating flowers, and Hornblower never brought it up explicitly. Further, nothing in Bush's education either at sea or on land had ever brought exposure to the Odyssey, much less Homeric Greek, and as a result, his time on the Loire was utterly without reference.
They woke in the morning dawn and went down the river until it was dusk. There were dinners of biscuits and fish in front of a fire, then sleep sleep. There were no watches, no duty rosters, no wardroom. It was not like being at sea, and yet, it was not like being on land -- there was none of the usual shore delights or dockyard officials to bargain and beggar, nor were there sisters and relatives, all the pressures of being on half-pay, with nights on a cot in a corner of the cottage and days of heat and watery tea. The garden behind the cottage, staring at the ground, and wishing for a heaving deck and the sound of holystones.
If it had not been for the prospect of what lay in wait for them in England, Bush would, despite his suspicion of things either new or pleasurable, have been quite happy.
...
It was not that he doubted Hornblower, of course. There was no doubt in Bush's mind that his captain would be acquitted; there was nothing that could have been done more honorably, more perfectly in a fight against superior forces. Bush still carried in his mind the way that the Sutherland had rocked after delivering that first, devastating broadside against the French ship; if they had been in a single-ship fight, the Frog would've struck colors and surrendered in half an hour, but she had not been alone, of course. It had not been two ships, facing each other.
Thus, Bush lingered on the memory of the recoil from that first, glorious broadside. In theory, was exactly the same motion as when the Sutherland had taken a hard wave to her side, but the return was indescribably slower, indescribably more brilliant.
When he had been working on the boat during the winter, another moment would, sometimes, come to mind: it was after the third broadside. The Frog's main mast had gone forward after the third broadside. The topgallant mast tipped further still, until it almost touched the water. The assemblage held for a long, terrible moment, and then, Bush watched as the mast snapped, a dozen feet from the deck, and went into the water, topgallants first.
...
"Yes, Mr. Bush?"
It was their third morning on the Loire. Fine, bright weather. There were birds in the trees. They were finishing a breakfast of biscuits and fish, and there was even a touch of breeze, though since they were on land and he did not have a compass, Bush did not know the direction of it.
It was a land wind, though. That much was clear, and Bush let it blow out. If he'd had a hat worthy of it, Bush would have then taken it off and put it over his chest, with the flat-bottomed boat behind his right shoulder, tied to a pair of saplings.
"It's Sunday, sir. Would you care for inspection?"
The corner of Hornblower's mouth twitched. He looked surprised, though pleased; on the other side of the fire, Brown made a choked noise, and Bush pretended, badly, to be puzzled as to why they were all amused.
...
There was also another morning, where they were, again, preparing for a day on the river. Brown had finished loading the boat, but Hornblower had not yet returned from his morning walk -- they waited for a period of time, and they waited some more after that. Then, there was a bit of silent exchange that would never have occurred among an officer and a crewman who didn't hear their captain, with his trousers rolled to the knee, cursing like a Portsmouth marketwoman whenever their boat got stuck in mud, and Bush went off to look for the captain. .
In fact, Hornblower was down the river aways, in a bit of clearing. He had not answered to Bush calling his name, but Bush thought he saw his captain's profile around a bit of tree, and he found Hornblower staring down at the Loire, looking at a rock underneath the water. Bush called out again, and getting no response, came somewhat closer, intending to touch Hornblower on the shoulder to get his attention.
Hornblower moved at the last moment, though, and Bush caught him by the elbow.
Bush was short of breath from picking his way through the undergrowth; worry had also excited him, and he was starting to sweat a little, despite the coolness of the morning. Hornblower looked, quickly, at Bush's wooden leg, then at the signs of exertion on Bush's face. He looked stricken, and before Bush could say something to reassure him, Hornblower reached down and caught Bush's hand.
They were standing by the river, in a bit of a clearing. The Loire ran alongside, and aside from the birds and Bush's breathing, which had stopped, without any particular effort or direction from him, it was quiet.
...
Bush was not a man who thought of the future, but it was hard not to fret: the Loire was beautiful, but there would be an end to these days. He had no doubt that Hornblower would get them back to England, safe and sound, but what would happen once there?
He had lost his leg; he almost certainly would never go to sea with the Navy again. He would be unable to provide for his sisters; he had no trade besides that of being an officer in he Navy. During the Peace, he had been unable to find merchant work, and now he was a cripple -- was there any money left from the prizes that they had taken in the days before Rosas? How were his sisters getting along without his half-salary? How would he provide for them?
They were terrible thoughts, and whenever Bush found himself drifting too far into them, he made himself think about happier things. It was difficult, as he had few happy times on land, aside from when he had been in a port with prize money, but he made himself think of how he might find a situation with one of the trading companies. Perhaps someone would remember his father or have respect for the Navy. He could have a comfortable life in Chichester. He would learn to like living on land.
Perhaps he might even marry.
Bush only let his troubles slip to Hornblower once, and the distress on Hornblower's face made Bush curse himself for being a fool -- he had never known a captain whose emotions could be read so easily after a little practice, even if the reasons for the feelings were not always understandable.
"I'll see you posted as captain," Hornblower said, with odd intensity that most reminded Bush of the way that Hornblower had spoken, at times, while he was a lieutenant. "I'll see you posted if it's my last act on Earth."
Throughout that afternoon, Bush found that, in odd moments, Hornblower would be looking at him, not the boat or the river or the mill that they were currently passing. That night, when they were settling to bed, Hornblower looked at him, through the last of the twilight. They were sitting very close to each other; Brown was some ways down the river, taking a last piss before turning in.
Hornblower repeated the promise, which made for three times, all in all. And then he pressed Bush's hand.
Bush was too stunned -- and grateful -- to respond.
...
A few days later, girls with armfuls of flowers waving at them from shore. Brown was laughing and looking at them; some of the girls threw flowers into the river. Hornblower was staring, fixedly, at the front of the boat, and Bush reached over and clasped his hand. He held it as they went down the river, solemn as though they had just taken an oath, made a promise, or been married.
...
There was another night where it rained and all three of them slept underneath a blanket stretched between willow trees. Bush and Hornblower had a brief, tense discussion over who should have the dry middle with Brown sitting at the side and playing the neutral party, and in the end, Bush's obstinacy and Hornblower's own tiredness won out -- Bush did not mind so much these days when it rained, after all, not even if his arm ached all day from having lain like that at night, and while Hornblower went to go look at the boat the next morning, Bush looked at Brown, and Brown looked back: their tone-deaf captain was, in fact, singing.
He later explained that he had only been reciting schoolboy Greek and reeled off a line -- something about flowers and hollow ships. He had gotten to the Greeks in school, he explained. It was nothing but a little recitation. Even after that, though, even while they were sitting together in the cabin of Hardy's Triumph, to Bush, it still sounded like music.
...
It never went further between them than an arm across the chest, fingers lying against the palm in a moment of privacy -- Hornblower had nothing to do with Bush being made post, but he had plenty to do with Bush getting an actual command, and it was enough, in a sense, to have come through the Loire together, so they never further, not to mouths or bare skin.
In all truth, Bush did not mind.
Until Caudebec, Hornblower did not either.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-25 09:11 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-25 09:21 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-06 02:57 am (UTC)Yes, I am the same Imadra Blue. Thank you so much for the compliment! *beams* I tend to have a love/hate relationship with FF.Net, so I may have deleted my stuff off of there, but I can't remember. XD
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-27 11:21 pm (UTC)Happy holidays, too, lady. <3
(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-06 02:58 am (UTC)♥ Hope you're having fun!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-25 02:38 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-27 11:25 pm (UTC)(Yeah, this story is rather not much with the linear and the explanation of what is happening. I'm so flattered that you like my writing enough to try, though.)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-25 09:20 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-27 11:26 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-26 03:58 pm (UTC)God. this is grand. All those little touches that you do so well of incorporating the character driven bits and pieces that CSF gave us. And as much as I love teh raw gayz0r of Bush/Hornblower, this whole idea that it was physically unrequited really works.
I mean. The intensity of those moments when they would hold the other's hand is powerful in the context of tough seagoing bastards.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-27 11:33 pm (UTC)MAY THE NEW YEAR BRING LOTS OF NEW FIC.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-26 05:37 pm (UTC)I'm with
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-27 11:59 pm (UTC)It's a bond beyond sex.
You're brilliant because that, in a nutshell, is why I think I love HH/WB so much. At the very bottom, it's got nothing to do with sex. *_*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-28 12:40 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-27 09:32 pm (UTC)I love the last two lines, and also this: Even after that, though, even while they were sitting together in the cabin of Hardy's Triumph, to Bush, it still sounded like music.
It would sound like music to Bush.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-28 07:38 pm (UTC)*is sap, and is glad that this worked for you*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-28 09:08 pm (UTC)Like crazy.
The imagery as vivid as the (always devastatingly) subdued emotional content. I'm practically eating my blankets with love.
(yes, I have blankets. It's winter!)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-28 10:18 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-28 10:51 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-29 12:43 am (UTC)XD but really no. I am snuck into my flatmate's bedroom borrowing her internet and *only then* because there's no chance of anyone coming back for a couple of days. At home, I am still more or less internetless.
still reading when I get the chance, though. which is worth it when it comes for this. I love the unrequitedness! The world is a wonderful place when you can have both HOT AND REQUITED and HEARTRENDING UNREQUITED Bush/Hormblower.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-29 12:55 am (UTC)You are seriously missed, man. Fandom is pretty much dead in its tracks these days, and I have dreams, DREAMS I AM NOT KIDDING DREAMS, about reading chapter 8 of Close Quarters. If there's anything that I can do to facilitate that -- increasing the sacrifice rate, editing, etc -- you have only to say the word.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-29 04:37 am (UTC)your dreams are about to become nightmares, my friend (hey! did you actually dream? XD )... off you pop to my journal for CH8 if you're still awake.
But I can guarantee that for at least one reason (and it's not the terrible writing, that's a whole world of awfulness of its own) you. won't. like. it. Just be assured that Bush is *never* far away from my heart. And I just wanted to get the damn chapter out of the way so I can write the rest of this thing!
MY HANDS ARE SHAKING FOR I HAVE SEEN THE GLORY
Date: 2006-12-29 04:58 am (UTC)Oddly enough, the f-list is purple. XD Which mine isn't. But.
And oh my God. After reading that. I could never hate your writing. Even if it is full of Kennedy-the-biscuit-fan. You didn't even have to throw in that hot, hot, hot wrong Pellew/Kennedy action. Fuck, I bet you could write St. Vincent/damp powder horn, and I would be all over it.Holy shit, I am almost blind with joy, and I know the person in the room next to me is deaf, because I've been squealing.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-30 10:14 am (UTC)*cough*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-30 10:12 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-02-28 11:17 am (UTC)