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fandomtownies2005-10-26 07:05 pm
actingltcrumpet.livejournal.com) wrote in fandomtownies2005-10-26 07:05 pm
On the Outskirts of Town [Late Wednesday Afternoon/Early Evening]
Archie is suddenly aware of the sand on his face and the sting of salt water against his skin. He staggers to his feet, wincing at the glare of the sunset sky. His head is pounding, his throat is dry, there's a foul taste in his mouth, and for some strange reason there's a burning sensation in his chest.
He has no idea how he got here, or when for that matter; the last thing he remembers is leaving class on Thursday. Was he by locker 327? It's possible. He seems to recall being in that area.
Past that, none of the jumbled memories in his head feel like they should be there. After all, Horatio isn't here, so there's no reason that he should have been dragging Midshipman -- Lieutenant? -- Hornblower to safety over a bridge about to blow, or returning in the jolly boat to a ship that isn't the Justinian and a captain who isn't Keane.
But he remembers all this with an odd, detached clarity. It makes no sense. The taste in his mouth and the way his body aches are telltale signs that one of his fits must have come over him; God only knows how long he's been out this time.
"I'm Archie Kennedy," he grates out, "midshipman in His Majesty's Royal Navy, late of the Justinian, currently assigned as a student at Fandom High." He knows this much -- should know this much -- but it rings false somehow.
Because the Justinian isn't at war. Britain isn't at war. Before he left, he and his shipmates were rotting at anchor in Spithead, in a vessel commanded by a doddering dotard, keeping a sorry semblance of guard against the presumed day Bonaparte's grasp would grow too long for Britain to tolerate.
And yet the sights, sounds, and smells of battle are familiar to him; he knows all too well what it's like to be in the midst of an engagement. He knows the chaos and din and almighty thunder of a broadside. He can tell the difference between the agonized screams of a man with a jagged two-foot splinter of oak in his chest, and one who has just seen his leg smashed to pulp by a cannonball. He knows the gritty burning of powder smoke on his skin, the thunder of the decks as bulkheads are torn away and the men take stations for action.
These memories are too vivid for him to discount as madness or imagination. But, as he stumbles up Neptune Boulevard -- why does this place look so strange? -- half-blindly, he just doesn't know where they fit.
He has no idea how he got here, or when for that matter; the last thing he remembers is leaving class on Thursday. Was he by locker 327? It's possible. He seems to recall being in that area.
Past that, none of the jumbled memories in his head feel like they should be there. After all, Horatio isn't here, so there's no reason that he should have been dragging Midshipman -- Lieutenant? -- Hornblower to safety over a bridge about to blow, or returning in the jolly boat to a ship that isn't the Justinian and a captain who isn't Keane.
But he remembers all this with an odd, detached clarity. It makes no sense. The taste in his mouth and the way his body aches are telltale signs that one of his fits must have come over him; God only knows how long he's been out this time.
"I'm Archie Kennedy," he grates out, "midshipman in His Majesty's Royal Navy, late of the Justinian, currently assigned as a student at Fandom High." He knows this much -- should know this much -- but it rings false somehow.
Because the Justinian isn't at war. Britain isn't at war. Before he left, he and his shipmates were rotting at anchor in Spithead, in a vessel commanded by a doddering dotard, keeping a sorry semblance of guard against the presumed day Bonaparte's grasp would grow too long for Britain to tolerate.
And yet the sights, sounds, and smells of battle are familiar to him; he knows all too well what it's like to be in the midst of an engagement. He knows the chaos and din and almighty thunder of a broadside. He can tell the difference between the agonized screams of a man with a jagged two-foot splinter of oak in his chest, and one who has just seen his leg smashed to pulp by a cannonball. He knows the gritty burning of powder smoke on his skin, the thunder of the decks as bulkheads are torn away and the men take stations for action.
These memories are too vivid for him to discount as madness or imagination. But, as he stumbles up Neptune Boulevard -- why does this place look so strange? -- half-blindly, he just doesn't know where they fit.
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"Archie!" She goes over to him, a little tentatively, not sure if he'd just been avoiding her or if something had happened. "Archie, are you all right? Where have you been? I've been worried sick!"
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He's lost; so many incongruous things seem real to him right now that he can't sort out one from another to get to the truth. "Please . . . I need to . . . it's too much . . ."
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He has a strong desire to bolt and run, go somewhere and hide himself until he can collect the scattered threads of his memory, but his muscles won't cooperate and he collapses instead.
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