![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Ficlet:: Growth [Aubrey-Maturin]
A snapshot for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
teh_elb, who wanted wee Stephen Maturin.
Ficlet:: Growth
by Raven
G, gen, Aubrey-Maturin series, 700 words. Stephen, at twelve, is just beginning.
By the age of twelve, Stephen knew the meanings of a great number of words. Among them: digitalis, which was from the Latin, named for the way the petals of the flower encased his fingers, neatly, to the first joint; crepuscular, which was the blurred and interesting time before the nightfall; and bastard, which was what they called him. Women came from the village with food on occasion, stepping in their long skirts through the paths towards the castle, and they murmured in Catalan, sometimes, but they were foreigners; they called him bhudh, quietly, hiding the shape of their lips behind their hands.
Twenty years later and on the other side of the world Stephen would learn the word, would learn that it meant ghost, and be pulled back as though anchored across the intervening time, to that summer with its intensity of colour, and see himself as through the eyes of another: see those young, pale eyes, that white face against the riot of greens and yellows, the rich black of gnarly oak, and be unsurprised. At that time he had been caught up in the strangeness of it all, and thought nothing of his own strangeness. He had been startled by kites, dazzled by sunshine, fascinated by tortoises, thirsty for knowledge, and for rain.
More years had passed than twenty before he asked, plaintively, "Why, Jack, do the men tell their tall tales on long, dark winter's nights? Do they not understand that this" – this was the Pacific in a becalming, blue below and above, colour that hurt one'e eyes to look at – "is by far more unnatural?"
And he spoke half in jest - "I was not aware the heat troubled you, Stephen," Jack said, no doubt with Stephen's less than naval view on the necessity of clothing in his mind – but with that dragging anchor pulling him back through time, to those first days, that eerie learning of the anatomy of heat. He had come from Ireland; he had found the sailing a trial to his stomach before he had found it a stimulus to his mind, and in these new ruins, found his attention shifting to each cardinal point in turn, drawn this direction and that by everything that swam and flew, fluttered and scuttled its way across the earth.
It was in that summer that he learned the meaning of foreigner; that in truth it was a meaningless term, that all had travelled somewhere to be where they were, and he was foreign himself, to himself, and to all around. He had been told of the castle before this journey, and had he listened that might have made it familiar to him, if it were not that at twelve, he had outgrown fairy stories.
Later, his godfather had laughed at his grubbings in the ground, his scratchings of notes, and called him, too, a small thing that scurried, but Stephen had laughed in return, knowing no insult was meant. Through ghostly summer nights he stalked bats, already grown too old to hear their calls, but patient enough to wait for the sweep of their wings on his cheek, and old enough to envy them that peace and freedom of flight. By day there were geckos, and flowers the like of which he had not seen. It was a world of dizzy and distant riches, to be studied and catalogued but also to be drunk in, handled as rich earth spilling through small hands. He had grown older in mere days and years in that place, Catalan replacing Irish as the quicker language on his lips, but it was also, in that place, that he had begun to be whom he would be.
Jack asked him, very much later, "When did you come by your interest in nature, Stephen? Was it as a boy?"
"Not now, Jack, I see my albatross" – but Stephen was thinking of summer, remembering that first time he had felt no fear of the creatures of the earth and sky, knowing himself a part of all he studied, knowing himself.
finis.
teh_elb, who wanted wee Stephen Maturin. Ficlet:: Growth
by Raven
G, gen, Aubrey-Maturin series, 700 words. Stephen, at twelve, is just beginning.
By the age of twelve, Stephen knew the meanings of a great number of words. Among them: digitalis, which was from the Latin, named for the way the petals of the flower encased his fingers, neatly, to the first joint; crepuscular, which was the blurred and interesting time before the nightfall; and bastard, which was what they called him. Women came from the village with food on occasion, stepping in their long skirts through the paths towards the castle, and they murmured in Catalan, sometimes, but they were foreigners; they called him bhudh, quietly, hiding the shape of their lips behind their hands.
Twenty years later and on the other side of the world Stephen would learn the word, would learn that it meant ghost, and be pulled back as though anchored across the intervening time, to that summer with its intensity of colour, and see himself as through the eyes of another: see those young, pale eyes, that white face against the riot of greens and yellows, the rich black of gnarly oak, and be unsurprised. At that time he had been caught up in the strangeness of it all, and thought nothing of his own strangeness. He had been startled by kites, dazzled by sunshine, fascinated by tortoises, thirsty for knowledge, and for rain.
More years had passed than twenty before he asked, plaintively, "Why, Jack, do the men tell their tall tales on long, dark winter's nights? Do they not understand that this" – this was the Pacific in a becalming, blue below and above, colour that hurt one'e eyes to look at – "is by far more unnatural?"
And he spoke half in jest - "I was not aware the heat troubled you, Stephen," Jack said, no doubt with Stephen's less than naval view on the necessity of clothing in his mind – but with that dragging anchor pulling him back through time, to those first days, that eerie learning of the anatomy of heat. He had come from Ireland; he had found the sailing a trial to his stomach before he had found it a stimulus to his mind, and in these new ruins, found his attention shifting to each cardinal point in turn, drawn this direction and that by everything that swam and flew, fluttered and scuttled its way across the earth.
It was in that summer that he learned the meaning of foreigner; that in truth it was a meaningless term, that all had travelled somewhere to be where they were, and he was foreign himself, to himself, and to all around. He had been told of the castle before this journey, and had he listened that might have made it familiar to him, if it were not that at twelve, he had outgrown fairy stories.
Later, his godfather had laughed at his grubbings in the ground, his scratchings of notes, and called him, too, a small thing that scurried, but Stephen had laughed in return, knowing no insult was meant. Through ghostly summer nights he stalked bats, already grown too old to hear their calls, but patient enough to wait for the sweep of their wings on his cheek, and old enough to envy them that peace and freedom of flight. By day there were geckos, and flowers the like of which he had not seen. It was a world of dizzy and distant riches, to be studied and catalogued but also to be drunk in, handled as rich earth spilling through small hands. He had grown older in mere days and years in that place, Catalan replacing Irish as the quicker language on his lips, but it was also, in that place, that he had begun to be whom he would be.
Jack asked him, very much later, "When did you come by your interest in nature, Stephen? Was it as a boy?"
"Not now, Jack, I see my albatross" – but Stephen was thinking of summer, remembering that first time he had felt no fear of the creatures of the earth and sky, knowing himself a part of all he studied, knowing himself.
finis.
no subject
no subject
If I could kiss with words, it would be these ones. How utterly perfect.
this was the Pacific in a becalming, blue below and above, colour that hurt one'e eyes to look at
Exquisite. You are the master of description.
He had come from Ireland; he had found the sailing a trial to his stomach before he had found it a stimulus to his mind, and in these new ruins, found his attention shifting to each cardinal point in turn, drawn this direction and that by everything that swam and flew, fluttered and scuttled its way across the earth.
*shrieks* This is honestly one of the best Aubreyad fics I have ever read. Seriously. This is just the perfect portrait of Stephen.
Through ghostly summer nights he stalked bats, already grown too old to hear their calls, but patient enough to wait for sweep of their wings on his cheek, and old enough to envy them that peace and freedom of flight.
That sentence - it is squirming and fluttering in my chest, I adore it so much.
"Not now, Jack, I see my albatross" – but Stephen was thinking of summer, remembering that first time he had felt no fear of the creatures of the earth and sky, knowing himself a part of all he studied, knowing himself.
*is actually moved to tears*
I honestly think that was the most beautiful Aubreyad fic I have ever read. Your writing is always so lush and vibrant and haunting and this is just my favourite - I cannot even tell you how good this is.
no subject
no subject
The first line is the best, for me.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
What beautiful and vivid description of Stephen's thoughts. I feel the heat, the wandering ideas, first vague and then more detailed the longer he remembers.
Thank you.
no subject
no subject
no subject
This is stunning, and beautiful, and gave me goosebumps and watery eyes, and definitely a fantastic thing to take away to the land of dreams with me.
Thank you.
no subject
no subject
Beautiful descriptions of Stephen, of the passage of time and of slowly re-emerging memories - anchored across the intervening time - what a great image.
And the words, the Irish, the Catalan, the languages. Oh.
It was a world of dizzy and distant riches, to be studied and catalogued but also to be drunk in, handled as rich earth spilling through small hands.
YES. That is a perfect image, and such a great description of Stephen.
And generally just beautiful wording.
It was in that summer that he learned the meaning of foreigner; that in truth it was a meaningless term, that all had travelled somewhere to be where they were, and he was foreign himself, to himself, and to all around.
Oh Stephen.
This is lush and thickly, evocatively descriptive, and you found the perfect way to end it as well, which I think is always the hard bit.
He had grown older in mere days and years in that place, Catalan replacing Irish as the quicker language on his lips, but it was also, in that place, that he had begun to be whom he would be... remembering that first time he had felt no fear of the creatures of the earth and sky, knowing himself a part of all he studied, knowing himself.
Delightful. Just delightful. Thank you again.
no subject
Lovely ficlet. :-)
no subject
no subject
Thanks so much for sharing, I do hope to read many more such gems from you in the future!!
no subject
no subject
*nods*
This is just, it's just lovely. Thank you.
no subject
no subject
no subject