Convergence
By Bria Stile
Horatio has walked into people before. It's part of the curse of being tall and gangly; you tend to loose sight of the people shorter than you.
Of course, that was when he had his first growth spurt and he couldn't quite master his long legs and arms. He ran into his old nurse, Martha, who was coming around a corner as he was quickly leaving a room. At the time, he'd been going so fast she actually lost her balance and flew into the wall. She'd bled from the impact, a little on her hand, which had gone out to brace herself, and a little on the back of her leg, which had hit the corner of a small table. They didn't know about that until the blood had seeped through her skirts.
Martha was old and wrinkled and often smelled of closed rooms, but she loved Horatio. He never understood why; she was the one he railed against when he threw a tantrum, who he sobbed against when he scraped a knee. He couldn't imagine anyone loving him after such faults.
He's never railed against Jack or the men, or cried in front of any of them. But that doesn't matter; he won't find love on the Justinian and he is comfortable with that fact. He doesn't want to find people to care about or who care about him-you only hurt those people.
And Horatio doesn't want to hurt people, only sometimes they get in the way.
Horatio's walked in on people before. He walked in on Jack viciously beating Kennedy, and he tried to stop it, but Jack beat him too, until he lost consciousness. When he woke he was alone with no clear memory of what had happened after the first punch. He thought he remembered trying to climb to his feet at one point while Kennedy told him through a swollen lip to stay down. He always tried to climb to his feet.
That was the second beating he got from Jack. It came close after his inaugural beating-his introduction to the bleak and agonizing world of the Justinian-and it darkened bruises over the ones he already had.
It feels like his heart was bleeding from leaving home and coming here, and like it will be a while before it soaks through his uniform.
He found out, after he had gained his footing and realized there was blood on his hand with a large and painful splinter in it, that Kennedy was in the sickbay.
Sometimes you hurt the people you love, and sometimes you hurt the people you hate.
His father doesn't look at him much after his mother died because he says it hurts him too much; Horatio looks too much like her. Horatio has his mother's eyes and her cheekbones. His mother's sister also has them. Also, she and he both have her long, gentle fingers.
When Horatio was younger, and his mother was alive, he had tried to help his father clean his study. His parents went to visit his aunt, leaving him with the instructions to scrub the floor and windows. He scrubbed them twice before his father, laughing at something his wife had said, walked in and surveyed the room. He grunted and exited. Horatio swept the hair off his sticky forehead and started to wash the floor one more time. Halfway through, his mother walked in and asked what he was doing. He told her that something was wrong, but he didn't know what. With a troubled look in her eyes, she laid a hand on his curly hair and told him to stop before he scrubbed his fingers off.
Horatio was leaving the room because of who he'd walked in on in there. It was his father and his aunt-his mother's sister. After that, he'd been packed up and sent off to school. Later, to the British Navy. After all, he had gotten in the way.
On the Justinian he talks to Clayton and Kennedy the most. None of the other sailors, superior or inferior, seem to desire conversation with him. He doesn't mind that; whenever Cleveland or Hether speak to him it's with some thinly veiled insult and is uttered in an insolent tone. Their dislike doesn't bother him; he doesn't care about their thoughts of him.
Martha saw him off. His father was too busy. After he packed his chest, Horatio went to his father's study and informed him he was ready to depart. His father sat with his back to him and mumbled a response. Horatio hovered by the door a moment in indecision before, nodding slowly to himself, he backed out and left without ever meeting his father's eyes.
He boarded the ship of ghosts with its creaking boards and its unsteady sway, a locket with a portrait of his mother around his neck; her features almost identical to his.
Sometimes you hurt the person you love. Sometimes you hurt the person you hate. Sometimes it's the same person.
By Bria Stile
Horatio has walked into people before. It's part of the curse of being tall and gangly; you tend to loose sight of the people shorter than you.
Of course, that was when he had his first growth spurt and he couldn't quite master his long legs and arms. He ran into his old nurse, Martha, who was coming around a corner as he was quickly leaving a room. At the time, he'd been going so fast she actually lost her balance and flew into the wall. She'd bled from the impact, a little on her hand, which had gone out to brace herself, and a little on the back of her leg, which had hit the corner of a small table. They didn't know about that until the blood had seeped through her skirts.
Martha was old and wrinkled and often smelled of closed rooms, but she loved Horatio. He never understood why; she was the one he railed against when he threw a tantrum, who he sobbed against when he scraped a knee. He couldn't imagine anyone loving him after such faults.
He's never railed against Jack or the men, or cried in front of any of them. But that doesn't matter; he won't find love on the Justinian and he is comfortable with that fact. He doesn't want to find people to care about or who care about him-you only hurt those people.
And Horatio doesn't want to hurt people, only sometimes they get in the way.
Horatio's walked in on people before. He walked in on Jack viciously beating Kennedy, and he tried to stop it, but Jack beat him too, until he lost consciousness. When he woke he was alone with no clear memory of what had happened after the first punch. He thought he remembered trying to climb to his feet at one point while Kennedy told him through a swollen lip to stay down. He always tried to climb to his feet.
That was the second beating he got from Jack. It came close after his inaugural beating-his introduction to the bleak and agonizing world of the Justinian-and it darkened bruises over the ones he already had.
It feels like his heart was bleeding from leaving home and coming here, and like it will be a while before it soaks through his uniform.
He found out, after he had gained his footing and realized there was blood on his hand with a large and painful splinter in it, that Kennedy was in the sickbay.
Sometimes you hurt the people you love, and sometimes you hurt the people you hate.
His father doesn't look at him much after his mother died because he says it hurts him too much; Horatio looks too much like her. Horatio has his mother's eyes and her cheekbones. His mother's sister also has them. Also, she and he both have her long, gentle fingers.
When Horatio was younger, and his mother was alive, he had tried to help his father clean his study. His parents went to visit his aunt, leaving him with the instructions to scrub the floor and windows. He scrubbed them twice before his father, laughing at something his wife had said, walked in and surveyed the room. He grunted and exited. Horatio swept the hair off his sticky forehead and started to wash the floor one more time. Halfway through, his mother walked in and asked what he was doing. He told her that something was wrong, but he didn't know what. With a troubled look in her eyes, she laid a hand on his curly hair and told him to stop before he scrubbed his fingers off.
Horatio was leaving the room because of who he'd walked in on in there. It was his father and his aunt-his mother's sister. After that, he'd been packed up and sent off to school. Later, to the British Navy. After all, he had gotten in the way.
On the Justinian he talks to Clayton and Kennedy the most. None of the other sailors, superior or inferior, seem to desire conversation with him. He doesn't mind that; whenever Cleveland or Hether speak to him it's with some thinly veiled insult and is uttered in an insolent tone. Their dislike doesn't bother him; he doesn't care about their thoughts of him.
Martha saw him off. His father was too busy. After he packed his chest, Horatio went to his father's study and informed him he was ready to depart. His father sat with his back to him and mumbled a response. Horatio hovered by the door a moment in indecision before, nodding slowly to himself, he backed out and left without ever meeting his father's eyes.
He boarded the ship of ghosts with its creaking boards and its unsteady sway, a locket with a portrait of his mother around his neck; her features almost identical to his.
Sometimes you hurt the person you love. Sometimes you hurt the person you hate. Sometimes it's the same person.