Memory
Posted: Wed Sep 19, 2018 6:21 pm
AN: This happened exactly like this last night in the workshop. Every last word of this is true...
“There is no terror ground
Or place for the rage.
No broken hearts, whitewashed lies.
Just a taste for the truth,
Perfect taste choice and meaning.
A look into your eyes.”
Al stopped as Peter Murphy purred his lyrics into the air. Wearing grease-smeared jeans and an old Land-Rover T-shirt, he stood from the ancient horizontal mill he was disassembling, troubled by the lyrics.
Peter Murphy continued, pouring out his heart in the song.
To Al, this song had a much different meaning. Stepping over to the vinyl-topped swivel stool in front of the bench he poured a cup of tea from the stainless pot and sipped from it, heedless of the temperature. The tea itself was a simple reflex, as his mind was elsewhere – in a place not so far in either space or time.
Images flickered through his mind. This song playing in his ears, on a snow-covered range, practicing...practicing...music to break the concentration, with thoughts of the dam he loved intertwined with the music. A thorough weariness with the situation, and doubts of the outcome.
Civilians with a ragtag mix of old rifles, but each so proud and confident with their weapons of choice. Patrols of the fields, with his loves either beside him or carrying him on strong centaur hooves.
Cheek pressed to cheek, body to body on the rifle range as he taught his love how to shoot the old bolt-action rifle.
People at dinner – raucous noise, laughter and camaraderie. Discussions over papers, maps and gaming scenarios – one played against the other and the total of lost lives taken. Cursing at the results, then setting up again – a game of toy soldiers with a true cost of lives if gotten wrong.
Sipping again, he could feel this thoughts darkening, going where he’d have preferred never to go again.
The first blast of gunfire, and the feel of the Webley in his hand as he jumped to his feet shouting “FIRST DRAGOONS! ON ME!”. Pulling Rowdy away from the girl, dying in his arms. The indecency of it all, forcing him to leave and not comfort her, but so necessary lest he become another victim.
The fight on the stairs – bullets whinging and whistling by, with the SPACK of rounds hitting concrete, WEEOWWW on ricochets from the steel beams or THUNK embedding in wood.
The anguished AAUGH as Rosalynd was hit, dropping to her knees then her side. The frantic scramble to her side and the shock of the round entering his thigh. The pleased, hungry look of the eyes of the vermin holding Chryso as he stared down the bore of his own rifle, then the agony as Chryso went into action.
Trying to reach Rosalynd, leaving a blood trail on the floor, till Emerauld arrived.
Al sipped his tea again, trying to stop the remembering, but it was no use. The memories, once started, were determined to finish.
The aftermath.
Broken bodies, the sewer stench of the dead. Pushing his loves from the area, and staying for the longest time to deal with the aftermath.
The poor centaur filly, lying as she had fallen. Taking a tablecloth and covering her, gently.
They had won – but at what cost?
Hands circled his chest from behind, and a familiar pair of breasts pressed into his back. He stirred, setting the mug down and pulling away.
“I’m filthy – you’ll ruin your clothes-“
“I don’t care.” She released him and stepped around to stand in front of him. Clad in her nightdress she was an almost-ethereal presence, in white lace and satin.
“You’ll get your nightdress all filthy-“ he said, and stopped as her arms encircled him again, drawing him down to her shoulder. They remained in tableau for long healing moments, her standing and him still perched on the stool.
“How did you know I was troubled?”
She smiled gently. “The mages may have created the crystals, but we don’t need them anymore, do we?” She smiled again, the timeless Madonna smile of love a woman has for her lifemate.
“You’ve worked too long tonight. Put that mug down and I’ll send Edward down for the tea things. You need a shower, and sleep.”
“Yes, dear. You’re right.”
Al set the mug down on the tea tray, and together, hand in hand they left the basement shop. The light clicked off, and all was still.
“There is no terror ground
Or place for the rage.
No broken hearts, whitewashed lies.
Just a taste for the truth,
Perfect taste choice and meaning.
A look into your eyes.”
Al stopped as Peter Murphy purred his lyrics into the air. Wearing grease-smeared jeans and an old Land-Rover T-shirt, he stood from the ancient horizontal mill he was disassembling, troubled by the lyrics.
Peter Murphy continued, pouring out his heart in the song.
To Al, this song had a much different meaning. Stepping over to the vinyl-topped swivel stool in front of the bench he poured a cup of tea from the stainless pot and sipped from it, heedless of the temperature. The tea itself was a simple reflex, as his mind was elsewhere – in a place not so far in either space or time.
Images flickered through his mind. This song playing in his ears, on a snow-covered range, practicing...practicing...music to break the concentration, with thoughts of the dam he loved intertwined with the music. A thorough weariness with the situation, and doubts of the outcome.
Civilians with a ragtag mix of old rifles, but each so proud and confident with their weapons of choice. Patrols of the fields, with his loves either beside him or carrying him on strong centaur hooves.
Cheek pressed to cheek, body to body on the rifle range as he taught his love how to shoot the old bolt-action rifle.
People at dinner – raucous noise, laughter and camaraderie. Discussions over papers, maps and gaming scenarios – one played against the other and the total of lost lives taken. Cursing at the results, then setting up again – a game of toy soldiers with a true cost of lives if gotten wrong.
Sipping again, he could feel this thoughts darkening, going where he’d have preferred never to go again.
The first blast of gunfire, and the feel of the Webley in his hand as he jumped to his feet shouting “FIRST DRAGOONS! ON ME!”. Pulling Rowdy away from the girl, dying in his arms. The indecency of it all, forcing him to leave and not comfort her, but so necessary lest he become another victim.
The fight on the stairs – bullets whinging and whistling by, with the SPACK of rounds hitting concrete, WEEOWWW on ricochets from the steel beams or THUNK embedding in wood.
The anguished AAUGH as Rosalynd was hit, dropping to her knees then her side. The frantic scramble to her side and the shock of the round entering his thigh. The pleased, hungry look of the eyes of the vermin holding Chryso as he stared down the bore of his own rifle, then the agony as Chryso went into action.
Trying to reach Rosalynd, leaving a blood trail on the floor, till Emerauld arrived.
Al sipped his tea again, trying to stop the remembering, but it was no use. The memories, once started, were determined to finish.
The aftermath.
Broken bodies, the sewer stench of the dead. Pushing his loves from the area, and staying for the longest time to deal with the aftermath.
The poor centaur filly, lying as she had fallen. Taking a tablecloth and covering her, gently.
They had won – but at what cost?
Hands circled his chest from behind, and a familiar pair of breasts pressed into his back. He stirred, setting the mug down and pulling away.
“I’m filthy – you’ll ruin your clothes-“
“I don’t care.” She released him and stepped around to stand in front of him. Clad in her nightdress she was an almost-ethereal presence, in white lace and satin.
“You’ll get your nightdress all filthy-“ he said, and stopped as her arms encircled him again, drawing him down to her shoulder. They remained in tableau for long healing moments, her standing and him still perched on the stool.
“How did you know I was troubled?”
She smiled gently. “The mages may have created the crystals, but we don’t need them anymore, do we?” She smiled again, the timeless Madonna smile of love a woman has for her lifemate.
“You’ve worked too long tonight. Put that mug down and I’ll send Edward down for the tea things. You need a shower, and sleep.”
“Yes, dear. You’re right.”
Al set the mug down on the tea tray, and together, hand in hand they left the basement shop. The light clicked off, and all was still.