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gayalondiel_bak) wrote2010-07-15 10:39 pm
gayalondiel_bak) wrote2010-07-15 10:39 pm
Fic post: The Wait
Fandom: Hornblower
Title: The Wait
Character/Pairing: Maria
Episode: n/a
Length: 970 words
Rating: G
Spoilers: n/a
Disclaimer: All Hornblower characters and situations are the property of the CS Forester estate and of Meridian television. No ownership is implied or inferred. This is done for love only.
AN: Just a little piece about Maria being left at home. I won't pretend, for those of you who know me, that there isn't something of me in here, but I'll leave you to guess which parts that is! It is a lonely life.
Maria waits.
Every morning she walks down to the sea and counts the ships. She knows them well, marks their comings and goings and always waits with bated breath to see a ship that is never there. Every morning she schools herself against this hope, so as not to be disappointed, but every day she fails and her heart sinks a little further when he is not there. She buys a newspaper and scours it for mention of him, and casts it aside far too roughly when it tells her nothing.
She does not socialise with the other captains' wives that she sees going here and there about the town. They do not see her as one of them and she knows that people whisper that she is not like them, should not be married to a captain but to a tradesman or some such. She does not bear it well and knows herself to be less than them, and so she avoids their derision and keeps herself busy at home. Her little house with its wants and needs are enough for her to bear, but it is a lonely life.
Her fingertips are worn and sore from her needlework. Quite unlike a lady's hands should be, but Maria does her own mending as well as the finer crafts. She sews to keep her mind occupied, and when she has no mending she can turn her hand to the many handkerchiefs she has embroidered, the screens and tablecloths and more all for Horatio's cabin, the growing pile of gifts that he has not come home to receive. She wonders if she will give them to him when he returns, for he will surely be overwhelmed with how her thoughts have dwelt on him, and instead she puts them away to be unpicked and reworked some other time. Late at night when she cannot sleep she tears apart the handkerchief proudly emblazoned with his name, initials and the title HMS Hotspur, the vessel that takes him so far from her.
At daybreak she wakes and expects his presence, despite the little time they have spent as man and wife. For a brief second she believes he will be there beside her, and then she comes to herself and the realisation rushes up fast. He is not.
Every evening she writes him a letter. She tells him of her day, her comings and goings and the pleasant people she encounters running her errands about town. She writes of her mother's illnesses and complaints and then strikes through these paragraphs as she knows Horatio will not be interested to hear of them. In a small, excited hand she writes of the child growing inside her, the fear and thrill and wonder of it all. She ponders names and wonders if it will be a boy and dreams of the man he may be, following in his father's footsteps. Proudly she writes of all they will show him and all he will do, plotting out a life as yet unborn as though by thinking it she could make it so, and she longs in her heart for the day Horatio knows and can share her delight. She writes of the joys and blessings they will know, their little family.
In the mornings she reads her letters and then throws them on the fire, sending only the briefer missives and none at all of the child. Writing letters makes the distance between them so much more real.
Some evenings, after her mother has retired, Maria sits and weeps resentment that she is left here, bearing the burden of the lonely wife. The world tells her to be proud of her husband, and she is, so proud her heart aches. But she is also alone, and lost without her beloved. Her tears are bitter and curse the Navy and Horatio and the love that fell on her so suddenly, so that she could not bear but pursue him – for she knows it was her pursuit and not his that brought them together. She resents him for not loving her enough to stay and herself for loving him too much to let him go, and then the sobs come thick and fast as she curses her own name for thinking so cruelly of the man who keeps her in house and home and, though he may not love her as much as she would like, made her his own and blessed her so many times over. She curses herself for loving a man who could not stay, and could not love, and longs for the days she did not feel this way. Yet she cannot but love him, and finally she weeps again and whispers a prayer for forgiveness for evil thoughts and another for her beloved Horatio, to keep him safe.
In the dark of night she lies awake and anxieties wash over her, one after another, whispering fear like the wind whipping in the rigging of a tall ship. Suppose he dies? Maybe he is dead already and she is just marking time waiting for the inevitable horror of finding herself alone in the world. Maybe he is not dead, but misses her not at all – that would be worse, far worse. Maybe he will be captured. Maybe he will be grievously wounded and unable to serve the Navy that he loves. Maybe he will find another love, on another shore, and forget his dutiful wife awaiting him. The fears roll, one at a time until she cannot breathe, think or cry out from the smothering anguish. She longs for the comforting dark of sleep, when for a time she can forget that he is gone, until the next morning she wakes and remembers and walks to the sea to count the ships.
Maria waits.
Title: The Wait
Character/Pairing: Maria
Episode: n/a
Length: 970 words
Rating: G
Spoilers: n/a
Disclaimer: All Hornblower characters and situations are the property of the CS Forester estate and of Meridian television. No ownership is implied or inferred. This is done for love only.
AN: Just a little piece about Maria being left at home. I won't pretend, for those of you who know me, that there isn't something of me in here, but I'll leave you to guess which parts that is! It is a lonely life.
Maria waits.
Every morning she walks down to the sea and counts the ships. She knows them well, marks their comings and goings and always waits with bated breath to see a ship that is never there. Every morning she schools herself against this hope, so as not to be disappointed, but every day she fails and her heart sinks a little further when he is not there. She buys a newspaper and scours it for mention of him, and casts it aside far too roughly when it tells her nothing.
She does not socialise with the other captains' wives that she sees going here and there about the town. They do not see her as one of them and she knows that people whisper that she is not like them, should not be married to a captain but to a tradesman or some such. She does not bear it well and knows herself to be less than them, and so she avoids their derision and keeps herself busy at home. Her little house with its wants and needs are enough for her to bear, but it is a lonely life.
Her fingertips are worn and sore from her needlework. Quite unlike a lady's hands should be, but Maria does her own mending as well as the finer crafts. She sews to keep her mind occupied, and when she has no mending she can turn her hand to the many handkerchiefs she has embroidered, the screens and tablecloths and more all for Horatio's cabin, the growing pile of gifts that he has not come home to receive. She wonders if she will give them to him when he returns, for he will surely be overwhelmed with how her thoughts have dwelt on him, and instead she puts them away to be unpicked and reworked some other time. Late at night when she cannot sleep she tears apart the handkerchief proudly emblazoned with his name, initials and the title HMS Hotspur, the vessel that takes him so far from her.
At daybreak she wakes and expects his presence, despite the little time they have spent as man and wife. For a brief second she believes he will be there beside her, and then she comes to herself and the realisation rushes up fast. He is not.
Every evening she writes him a letter. She tells him of her day, her comings and goings and the pleasant people she encounters running her errands about town. She writes of her mother's illnesses and complaints and then strikes through these paragraphs as she knows Horatio will not be interested to hear of them. In a small, excited hand she writes of the child growing inside her, the fear and thrill and wonder of it all. She ponders names and wonders if it will be a boy and dreams of the man he may be, following in his father's footsteps. Proudly she writes of all they will show him and all he will do, plotting out a life as yet unborn as though by thinking it she could make it so, and she longs in her heart for the day Horatio knows and can share her delight. She writes of the joys and blessings they will know, their little family.
In the mornings she reads her letters and then throws them on the fire, sending only the briefer missives and none at all of the child. Writing letters makes the distance between them so much more real.
Some evenings, after her mother has retired, Maria sits and weeps resentment that she is left here, bearing the burden of the lonely wife. The world tells her to be proud of her husband, and she is, so proud her heart aches. But she is also alone, and lost without her beloved. Her tears are bitter and curse the Navy and Horatio and the love that fell on her so suddenly, so that she could not bear but pursue him – for she knows it was her pursuit and not his that brought them together. She resents him for not loving her enough to stay and herself for loving him too much to let him go, and then the sobs come thick and fast as she curses her own name for thinking so cruelly of the man who keeps her in house and home and, though he may not love her as much as she would like, made her his own and blessed her so many times over. She curses herself for loving a man who could not stay, and could not love, and longs for the days she did not feel this way. Yet she cannot but love him, and finally she weeps again and whispers a prayer for forgiveness for evil thoughts and another for her beloved Horatio, to keep him safe.
In the dark of night she lies awake and anxieties wash over her, one after another, whispering fear like the wind whipping in the rigging of a tall ship. Suppose he dies? Maybe he is dead already and she is just marking time waiting for the inevitable horror of finding herself alone in the world. Maybe he is not dead, but misses her not at all – that would be worse, far worse. Maybe he will be captured. Maybe he will be grievously wounded and unable to serve the Navy that he loves. Maybe he will find another love, on another shore, and forget his dutiful wife awaiting him. The fears roll, one at a time until she cannot breathe, think or cry out from the smothering anguish. She longs for the comforting dark of sleep, when for a time she can forget that he is gone, until the next morning she wakes and remembers and walks to the sea to count the ships.
Maria waits.