Chapter Five
Captain Got Run Over By a Reindeer

December 17th

Forgive and forget.

Wasn't that what everybody had always told him?

But Tintin doubted even they knew how hard it could be.

They hadn't understood—not at all. But they thought they did, and they couldn't get why he wouldn't just 'forgive and forget.'

Why are you still angry? Why can't you just move on? Why can't you forget?

But you couldn't just forget what eight years had done to you. And you couldn't just forgive it either.

They didn't understand that, and it had been a gap that spread wider and wider between them until Tintin wondered he had any friends at all.

Except the Captain.

And that wasn't a road Tintin was going to go down with him. He didn't want to hear 'forgive and forget,' not again, not from the mouth of somebody who'd risked his life to save him, and vice versa, innumerable times.

And Tintin wasn't ever, ever going to tell him what it was that he was never going to forgive, nor forget. Because he couldn't. And he didn't want the Captain to know.

He could never, ever know.

/

The sun was just peeking up from behind the rooftop of Moulinsart—a faint red glow promising sunrise—when Tintin stepped out of the front doors. He made his way to the garage, boots crunching on the slightly red snow as he trudged to the door and opened it wide.

Inside was the Captain's car. But a little behind the car, covered in a big, blue tarp, was an old bike. The Captain had found it when he was taking his car in for repairs, after doctored petrol cause its engine to blow up. The bike was an officer's bike from the War, old, beat up, and barely functional, so he got it for only 9 francs. He then got it fixed up for half that. It was a sort of pet project, nothing more, as the Captain didn't have the faintest idea how to drive a motor scooter. Tintin most certainly did. He mounted the bike and twisted the key in the ignition; it spluttered a couple times and released a cloud of foul-smelling smoke, but then came to life with a roar. He sat there for just a second longer, feeling the soft rumble beneath his fingertips, and then pulled out of the garage and onto the road.

As the cold wind ran through his hair, and the frozen landscape opened up before him, I looked around, taking in the world surrounding— the rolling hills, the swollen creeks, the church steeples poking out from the black skeletons of trees, the muddy roads leading through the old village. For a while, he drove with no particular destination in mind, but eventually he saw, in the far distance, the dark grey silhouettes that constituted Brussels. He rolled through the city, past the tall, beautiful buildings, over the uneven cobblestone slick with melted snow, hearing the bustle of the flea market and the sound of people's laughter echoing through the puddled streets. He dismounted the bike and began to walk in the direction of the market.

The Unicorn Market. That's what the Captain called it. It was a fitting name, really; Tintin had been shopping there for years, but never bought anything quite as life-changing as the model of La Licorne. Until then, he'd only really bought books. And lots of them. He'd always loved reading, but it wasn't until his search for the Arumbayan fetish with the broken ear, that he'd realised what a vital resource books could be.

He thought back to then. That had been early last year, almost two full years ago. He hadn't known the Captain then. He'd done his adventuring all alone. And was it better that way? Tintin couldn't say. At times he liked having someone being concerned about him, but at other times— well, it was just that… Tintin didn't want a father; he used to have one, and that hadn't turned out well at all. And he was worried that the Captain saw him as more than a friend; occasionally, he felt like the Captain saw him as his son. And that was the very last thing Tintin ever, ever wanted: to be part of a family again. When you put that many people that close to one another, nothing good could ever come out of it. Everybody just ended up fighting, and from Tintin's experience, it was always the fathers that came out on top. And Tintin wasn't about to be trampled into submission again.

Besides, he just didn't want the Captain to get hurt. Whenever they got into any of their so-called 'adventures,' which had happened five too many times (Khemed, the Arctic, Peru, Palestine, and of course the Unicorn affair) he had this crushing fear that something would happen and the Captain would try and die to save him. The Captain was a good man; he drank too much, but he was a good man, and Tintin didn't feel like he was worth Haddock's, or anyone's life.

Hands crossed behind his back, Tintin began to walk slowly through the market, surveying the crowds, the stands, the lights. After walking for ten minutes or so, he unintentionally drifted away from the markets and realised he was now in his part of the city. He walked down cobblestone roads, flanked by yellow stucco buildings and tall, dignified lampposts. He could still hear the bustle from the market—car horns blaring, glass chinking, dogs barking, people yelling—but it wasn't nearly so loud down the side streets. A horse-drawn carriage bedecked in garlands and golden bells jingled its way past him and down the street.

It was beautiful, he thought. Part of him wished he had invited the Captain.

But I came here to get away from him.

Tintin wanted to stay friends with the Captain. And any more conversations similar to the one last night could mean the beginning of the end. So he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and buried his fear deep inside, somewhere where he wouldn't have to face it. Somewhere where he wouldn't have to fight it. Just the way it should be.

Now. It was time to get his mind off of that and do some shopping.

/

The markets were up and filled with as much junk as usual. That was what Tintin loved about Belgium; it abutted 7 countries, if you counted Great Britain and Ireland, and had colonies in the Congo, Rwanda, Burundi and Tientsin; so many different cultures met here. There was something so fascinating about so much culture being crammed into such a tiny country. A lot of Europeans called Belgium boring and backwards. Backwards; maybe he could agree with them on that. But boring? They'd have to be blind.

The markets were so crowded that the word 'crowded' seemed like an understatement. But Tintin truly couldn't think of any other word to describe it. A handful of carollers clustered on the corner sang out Christmas tunes—French carols just make more sense than British carols, Tintin thought—and it was gently snowing. The store fronts were decked in garlands and lights, and Christmas wreathes were on every door and lamppost. Tintin really wanted to buy something, and he passed stand after stand of books, but trouble was, every time he pulled out a book that looked interesting, he remembered that he already owned it and put it back, sighing a little. He found some cute-looking ornaments. He even found a tiny La Licorne ornament, which he was fairly sure was made because of him. The tiny ship was a beauty, but something seemed kind of vain about him buying it, so it put it back, sighing again and shoving his hands in his pockets.

It would be more fun if the Captain were here, he thought.

He began drifting towards Marché aux Poissons square, where they had a Ferris Wheel, an ice-shaking rink, and rides with real malamutes. Tintin had no intention of going on the wheel, rink, or going for a malamute ride, but he thought it would be fun to watch. Since there was just about nothing he wanted here, he might as well.

There were malamute rides, but not just that—there were reindeer rides, too. Now that looked kind of fun. Tintin had ridden horses, camels, and llamas, but he couldn't remember any time he had ridden a reindeer. Not that he was lacking in the experience department, but it would still be cool. He was debating whether or not sitting on a horned pony for two minutes would really be worth his credibility, when he heard a roar from behind him and jumped.

"Out of the way!"

He turned around just in time to see a reindeer running, hooves pounding on the cobblestone road, charging straight towards him—

Yelping, Tintin dove out of the way, hitting the sidewalks as he fell backwards and slammed into the cobblestones. He just barely got a glimpse of the man's face; a red moustache, a black Captain's hat—

Captain Chester?

But he didn't think too hard about it. His brain was too confused to try to make any sense of it, he was cold, he'd just been chased by a reindeer—a reindeer!— and his tailbone was throbbing.

"Yeeeoww!"

It took a second for Tintin's brain to compute that that was Captain Haddock who was yelling.

"Great snakes! Captain!" Struggling into a standing position, Tintin stumbled forward, gripping the fence of the ice-skating rink for support.

A crowd had gathered—crowd being a relative term, as the entire market was like Grand Central Station—around the bodies of two men and a reindeer, prone on the ground. Hand over his mouth in horror, Tintin struggled through the mass of humanity around him and made his way to the tiny opening.

"Captain!" he burst out, getting to his knees and reaching out to his friend. "Captain! Are you alright?"

The Captain was face down on the ground, completely prone, not even moving. Across from him, Chester was on his hands and knees, heaving for breath. The reindeer looked even more pathetic, with all four hooves waving in the air, a string of bells drooped rather sadly over one ear, and was making pained grunting noises.

"Captain! Captain, are you—"

"Antediluvian bulldozer!" Haddock roared, through a mouthful of gravel and snow; if Tintin hadn't been expecting the familiar curse, he would have had never guessed what the man was saying. "Miserable barbecued blundering—"

Clenching his jaw, Tintin grabbed the Captain by the shoulder and began hauling him upwards. After a moment, they both went flying, landing on their backs on the cobblestones.

"Great," Tintin muttered, slowly easing himself into a sitting position. He rubbed his rear ruefully, wincing. "Like my tailbone wasn't crushed already."

"Figdy!" Haddock was shouting. "Fidgy! Fidgy!"

Snakes, not this again.

"Boodle!" Chester roared, attempting to pat his head and rub his belly at the same time. It didn't work. "Boodle—"

"Captain Chester, what a surprise!" Tintin broke in cheerfully, surreptitiously glaring at the Captain before returning Chester's snubbed expression with a winning smile. "I had no idea that you were in Brussels!"

"Oh…er…" Chester rubbed his eyes and blinked, still trying to process the fact that Tintin had just cut into a decade-old ritual. "Well, I was on my way back from Vlissingen… going to Cornwall. For Christmas, of course. Thought I'd just, er, drop by… see how me old shipmate's gettin' along." He tried to adopt a chummy, enthusiastic expression, but he was still clearly winded.

The Captain was muttering to himself as he struggled upwards, grabbing his back in pain, but managed to force a smile. "Grand of you to come, mate. I got your phone call saying you were in town and rushed over here. It's been years, hasn't it?"

"Aye, too long. So, this where you live?" Chester gestured to the city of Brussels. "I know you said that you lived in a Hall."

"In… in Brussels?"

"Yeah."

"In Brussels," repeated the Captain.

"Well, I actually didn't believe a word of it," said Chester sheepishly. "I thought to myself, Chester, there's no way your friend Haddock would go livin' in some Hall…"

"Oh. Oh, mate." Slapping Chester on the back, he began sauntering forward in the direction of his car, chuckling to himself. "You just come along, my friend…"

Author's Note: Poor Chester! He doesn't know what's coming!

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