Chapter Nine
Welcome the Piper

December 21st

A bagpipe.

It was a bagpipe.

And not only was Chester holding a giant, misshapen bag with tubes sticking out of the top, and not only was that bag making the most hideous screeching, but Chester was wearing a kilt. An honest-to-goodness kilt.

Tintin knew that he had looked…okay…in kilts, when he'd worn one back in Kiltoch... but Chester?

And now the Haddock was swinging his arms back and forth and singing to the bagpipe: "The wren, the wren, the king of all birds, on St. Stephen's day was caught in the furze!"

"What's a furze?" Tintin asked, struggling to make himself heard over the din of Haddock's whooping and the screeching coming from Chester's instrument.

"It's a bush," Chester explained, taking his lips off the mouthpiece for one blessed moment before clamping them back down again.

"Oh," said Tintin, like he understood.

"Come on, mate!" Haddock shouted, running back to the dining room. Chester followed, his face slowly getting red from playing the hulking instrument. Tintin trailed behind, unsure of what was going on.

When he entered the dining room, the Captain was standing on the table, a bottle of Loch Lomond in one hand, a glass in the other. After a moment, though, he forgot the glass and took a swig from the bottle.

"Tar suas anseo ar an tábla, maité!" Haddock shouted. "Ba mhaith liom damhsa!"1

"You're multilingual?" gasped Tintin.

Haddock didn't respond. Gripping Chester's hand, he shoved a second bottle of Loch Lomond into Chester's hand and began singing: "Wassail, wassail, all over the town! Our toast it is white and our ale it is brown!"

So this is what the Captain wanted, Tintin thought. This was the English Christmas he was talking about.

"With a wassailing bowl—" the Captain threw his head back and guzzled down half the bottle of whisky— "We'll drink to ye!"

Unsurprisingly, the Captains didn't notice when Tintin quietly left the room. Even Snowy, chewing on fallen pieces of meat and lapping up spilt whisky, didn't notice.

Am I the only person here who isn't enjoying myself?

Pulling on his coat, Tintin yanked open the front door and stepped outside.

When the door closed behind him, he could still hear the sound of the bagpipes, but it was quieter—much quieter. He walked through the snow for a long time, taking deep breaths of the winter air around him.

"Tintin!" he heard a shout, from behind him. He didn't turn around. He just stood there.

It was only a matter of minutes before the Captain found him.

"Tintin, what are you doing out here?" the Captain panted, a hand on his gut as he struggled to catch his breath.

"I never knew you spoke Gaelic," Tintin said quietly.

"What? That's why you came…?"

Tintin didn't say anything.

"Uh… I don't. It was something I remember my mates saying, way back," the Captain admitted. "I'd actually forgotten all about it, but they say drink loosens lips…" He smiled as he said it, letting Tintin know it was a joke.

Tintin didn't laugh.

The Captain swallowed, aware that wherever they were going with this conversation, they were going south, and fast. "Whatever made you run out here like that?" he asked, quickly trying to change the subject.

"I wanted some air."

"There's air inside," Haddock pointed out.

"Yeah, but it's too British," Tintin sighed.

"You could've gotten hurt."

"Coming from the man dancing on tables." There was an awkward pause, and then Tintin added, "And really; nobody's going to just pop over the hedge and shoot me."

"You don't know that."

"I can take care of myself," he replied nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders like he didn't really care.

"Well, you shouldn't."

Tintin blinked. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"You're only fifteen, Tintin. You shouldn't be able to escape from kidnappers like that. You shouldn't be a deadeye when it comes to shooting people."

He laughed tiredly. "Well, half of it is luck. Or divine intervention. Call it what you will. God and I are pretty close." He said it jokingly, but when he looked up to see Haddock's reaction, the man's expression seemed…almost pained.

"Well, you should be. Considering all the times you've almost met him." His voice was strangely tight.

Frowning, Tintin turned to give Haddock his full attention, accepting this wasn't going to be a casual conversation. "What's wrong, Captain?" he asked quietly.

"Tintin, I wanted you to spend Christmas at Moulinsart because I thought it would be a nice change for you. I wanted you to be happy."

" 'Wanted?' Has anything changed?"

"Yeah: I know now there's no reason to want it. Not when it's so obviously not going to happen."

"Oh, do I look unhappy?" Raising his arms at his sides, Tintin cast a searching glance over himself. "Do I look starved to you? I mean, honestly, Captain, I want to know. Really. Am I wasting away? Have I been threatening to kill myself?"

"Well, no…" Haddock admitted.

"Have I been cutting?"

"Not that I know of, no. But—I mean—I mean, it's more subtle than that. I mean, you're Tintin! I couldn't even imagine you—"

" 'Tintin?' " Clenching his jaw, Tintin straightened up to his full height, staring at the Captain. Haddock couldn't tell if the boy's grey eyes were burning with anger, pain, or shock; perhaps all three. "You think that... that..." After a moment, he shook his head, putting his fingertips to his forehead. "Captain, do you want to know what 'Tintin' is?"he asked, finally looking up at the Captain. "'Tintin' is a lie. 'Tintin' is no more real than if he came straight from a story book. 'Tintin' is the dream of a stupid, eight year old boy who was sick, and tired, and deluded, and who thought that by putting on a mask he could make all the problems of his life and all the problems inside of him disappear, but you know what? It's nothing but a mask. A stupid, lying mask. I'm hurt, I'm angry, there are a billion things I'd do anything to forget, and if you think for one second that pretending to be 'Tintin' is a mitigating factor in all of this, you don't know anything…" But his voice trailed off as he realised he was rambling, and he looked away, unable to meet Haddock in the eye.

"Then there's your answer," the Captain said quietly. "You're killing yourself inside."

There was a long pause, and then the Captain raised his hands pleadingly. He spoke, and his tone was begging and strained. "Just let me help, lad. I've known something's wrong ever since you came here, a whole week ago. Just… look, what's wrong? Are you…angry at me?" He raised his hands up even higher, with a slight air of hopelessness. "Was it something I did?"

No, Tintin thought. You've done nothing wrong. You've been like a father to me, and that's the one thing I just can't handle.

"I can take care of myself," he repeated quietly. It was the only thing he could think of to say.

Haddock nodded, but his expression said No, you can't.

And Tintin's mind filled in the rest of the words.

No, you can't. You can't heal yourself. You can't deal with pain by yourself. You just lock it up inside and hope you never have to face it in the light of day.

And he knew that the Captain would help. He wanted to. He would do anything to heal Tintin.

But instead Tintin shook his head.

No, he said, I don't want to be healed. No, I want this hatred inside me. No, I want this secret and this hurt as long as possible.

"Tintin…" the Captain began, but he didn't finish and Tintin didn't respond.

And instead, Tintin walked away.

/

Morning saw Captain Haddock standing in the dining room of the Hall, a bottle of whisky hanging limply in his hand, feeling baffled and wounded.

What did I do wrong? he thought. Did I hurt you?

But Tintin wasn't there to tell him it was okay. For all the Captain knew, Tintin had gone back to Brussels. He didn't even see the boy until the evening, when it was time for dinner. And even then, they didn't talk.

What did I do wrong? he was screaming inside, but he couldn't say it. He couldn't spell it out to Tintin. If only Tintin could realise how sorry he was... how much he wanted to be friends...

But there was no point in hoping for that.

He knew that now.

Author's Note: Confession time: I happen to adore the sound of bagpipes (pretty sure it has to do with the fact I'm almost completely Scottish/English); like Haddock, they make my 'blood run warm inside me' and all that. :D But I'm pretty sure a lot of people don't feel this way… and I'm pretty sure Tintin wouldn't!

So, reviews? :D

Translations:

1 Come up here on the table, mate! I want to dance! (special thanks to GingerJerkyPear for catching my translation error!)