Ilthit (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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rainbowfic2020-06-08 02:00 pm
ilthit) wrote in rainbowfic2020-06-08 02:00 pm
Grey #4: In the Telling (Nature Ventured)
Name: In the Telling
Story: Nature Ventured
Colors: Grey #4: Grey mood
Supplies and Styles: Miniature Collection, Nubs ("gest"), Pastels
Word Count: 333
Rating: general
Summary: Three times Martin Thomas told the story of his involvement in the Parthenopean Republic, and one time he didn't.
Contains: References historical war crimes. Set during the Napoleonic wars.
Notes: Also fortrope_bingo Round Fourteen. A little style-dickery: 3 x three sentences, 1 x five sentences.
The first time Martin Thomas tells the story of what happened in Naples, he is telling it to others who had their version of that same story. Nelson’s ships in the horizon, or no warning at all; the men who came at night, or were evaded in the day; the anxious waiting once you found out your loved ones were captured. Mr Thomas can only talk of how he escaped, and who helped him, and who he left behind, and break down in tears along with everyone else.
-
The second time Mr Thomas tells the story, it is at a coffee-house in Paris, with the roar of argument all around, and attendant eyes sharp as knives behind pleasant smiles, and it is to explain his reasons for having been there in the days of the Parthenopean Republic, and his reasons for being in Paris now. His French is foreign, school-learned; his nationality a blemish upon his reputation. He must make them see, make them understand that whatever his blood and upbringing, he is a Republican, like them.
-
The third time Martin tells the story, he is once again crying, but these are healing tears, forgetting tears, tears of transformation. He is in Michael’s arms then, curled up against him on the narrow bed of the inn in Dublin, sweaty from their lovemaking. His archangel of retribution listens and does not interrupt, his fingers playing with the back of Martin’s neck, tangling in his overgrown hair.
-
The story becomes a part of him, no longer needing telling, one story among many.
So many of Mr Thomas’s stories are about loss.
He smiles and opens his arms for his little niece to climb into his lap and snuggle down on his still-too-thin thighs, and swears quietly to himself that no such story will ever touch her.
Not if he can help it.
Not if there is any justice in the world.
(But, of course, there isn’t; only the prospect of fighting for it.)
Story: Nature Ventured
Colors: Grey #4: Grey mood
Supplies and Styles: Miniature Collection, Nubs ("gest"), Pastels
Word Count: 333
Rating: general
Summary: Three times Martin Thomas told the story of his involvement in the Parthenopean Republic, and one time he didn't.
Contains: References historical war crimes. Set during the Napoleonic wars.
Notes: Also for
trope_bingo Round Fourteen. A little style-dickery: 3 x three sentences, 1 x five sentences. The first time Martin Thomas tells the story of what happened in Naples, he is telling it to others who had their version of that same story. Nelson’s ships in the horizon, or no warning at all; the men who came at night, or were evaded in the day; the anxious waiting once you found out your loved ones were captured. Mr Thomas can only talk of how he escaped, and who helped him, and who he left behind, and break down in tears along with everyone else.
-
The second time Mr Thomas tells the story, it is at a coffee-house in Paris, with the roar of argument all around, and attendant eyes sharp as knives behind pleasant smiles, and it is to explain his reasons for having been there in the days of the Parthenopean Republic, and his reasons for being in Paris now. His French is foreign, school-learned; his nationality a blemish upon his reputation. He must make them see, make them understand that whatever his blood and upbringing, he is a Republican, like them.
-
The third time Martin tells the story, he is once again crying, but these are healing tears, forgetting tears, tears of transformation. He is in Michael’s arms then, curled up against him on the narrow bed of the inn in Dublin, sweaty from their lovemaking. His archangel of retribution listens and does not interrupt, his fingers playing with the back of Martin’s neck, tangling in his overgrown hair.
-
The story becomes a part of him, no longer needing telling, one story among many.
So many of Mr Thomas’s stories are about loss.
He smiles and opens his arms for his little niece to climb into his lap and snuggle down on his still-too-thin thighs, and swears quietly to himself that no such story will ever touch her.
Not if he can help it.
Not if there is any justice in the world.
(But, of course, there isn’t; only the prospect of fighting for it.)
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