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whiskeycoffeeTitle: Paper Sails
Author: m.jules
Fandom: Jane Austen - Persuasion
Written for: Athenae in the Yuletide 2007 Challenge
Disclaimer: Not mine. Jane's.
Author's Notes: I owe a great debt of gratitude to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
unanon, who motivated me to write this story by mutually gushing with me over the fantastic breathing in the movie version of this.
The anger was what came first, blinding, scalding, with a white-hot edge of embarrassment to make sure he couldn't think about the situation long enough to find a solution. There were so many ways this was unfair that it took Wentworth a full six months at sea to remember he wasn't the only one being slighted.
It still pained him, fathoms deep in his soul, resonant like the low, lonesome sound of the wind in a conch shell. Even so, he would sometimes remember the way Anne's breath had hitched and, against his own best reason, he would hope.
When he first met Benwick in a pub, tossing back ale and laughing heartily with a dozen other sailors, Wentworth resented the man. Benwick carried with him a fine silver locket containing the picture of his true love, and it was on her virtues that he expounded with every new wind the drink gave him. The way her eyes would sparkle, the way her lips curved up in a smile, the sharpness of her wit and the quickness of her mind, the delicate shape and smooth texture of her hands -- Wentworth heard about it in such detail he felt he knew the girl as well as if she were affianced to him instead of Benwick.
He tasted rebuttals on the tip of his tongue, sweet against the bitterness of the brew. He wanted to tell tales of Anne's good sense and charming smile, her unfathomable forbearance with her father and sisters who would drive a lesser woman to tears or madness, the richness of her eyes and the way the dark silk of her hair was soft like a midsummer's night under his fingers. He was on the verge of speaking when he remembered and the words turned sour.
For all her good sense and patience, she had refused him. What he hated admitting more than anything was that this made him doubt his own virtue more than he doubted the goodness of her senses.
He downed more ale and tried hard to hate Benwick for still holding the affections of the girl he loved. He must not have hated him too well, for in the end, he never voiced the words he wanted most to say.
Beware the moment your love turns on you, fickle as the ocean. Hold fast your anchors lest she break you against the rocks of good advice.
He wrote letter after letter to his brother, and only once did he mention his misfortune.
Anne Elliot has refused me, at the behest of her mentor Lady Russell, a good friend of the late Mrs. Elliot.
He stared at the script on the parchment, ink fading slightly as it slowly dried, and felt the bitterness of sorrow that had begun to overwhelm his anger. Dipping his quill again, he continued.
I feel that I have lost that which I loved most, and so I have returned to the sea. Though we often say -- and it is true -- that the ocean is fickle as any woman, at least it does not bid me to leave its side or say that we are an ill match. Though it may not love me as well as she did, neither does it cast me away. The day may come when I die at sea but the life I had hoped to spend with Anne is lost to me now.
He set the paper aside to wait for the ink to dry and pushed himself to his feet, boots thudding dully on the wooden stairs as he climbed to the deck. He stood behind the ship's wheel, hand resting lightly on the wood, simply feeling the subtle movements of the ocean as he watched the stars. He remembered the dreams they had weaved together, he and Anne, about the sea and ships, the longing in her voice when she spoke of things she wanted to see, places she wanted to go.
He remembered her delight when he taught her how to fold a paper ship, remembered the way her face had colored with pleasure when he gave her the first one, told her it was a reminder of him, a promise until they could have a ship of their own and sail to the far fields of fortune.
"Teach me how to make them," she had implored, eyes alight. "So that any time you are away from me, I may have my own ship to sail after you."
He wondered if she still remembered how to fold those little ships and if she wished she could forget.
When he returned below deck, the ink on his letter was dry. He took up the parchment, folded it into the shape he had taught Anne how to make, and then dangled it by a corner above the candle on his writing desk.
The ship burned slowly and the grey ashes sank to the surface of his desk. The next letter he wrote to his brother contained only the barest mention of Anne's rejection and he honored no requests for further details.
The next time Wentworth met Captain Benwick it was in a pub again, and again they were both drinking. Benwick had his locket out, staring at the picture of Fanny he kept inside. He still told of her virtues and her beauty, but his eyes no longer shone with happiness, his voice no longer danced.
"She's died," Benwick said, one hand clasping the locket and the other a tankard of ale. "She's died and left me and I have no more reason for living. The world is a great stranger to me now and even the sea which I loved so much seems wicked and cruel."
There was a book of poetry tucked into the breast pocket of his coat, and Benwick reached inside to finger it once or twice, quoting lines of loneliness and loss.
Again, Wentworth held his silence, but this time it was out of guilt. As much as he had resented Benwick's happiness before, he had never wished such calamity upon him or his love. It made him think that he was glad Anne had only refused him but was still alive.
Losing her affections was a crippling blow; losing her would have killed him, he felt sure.
It was then that he realized all his pain and anger, while they still smarted from time to time, had only been hiding a deeper truth. In that moment, he realized he owed Captain Benwick a debt for showing him that he still loved Anne Elliot with all his heart.
Three nights before they were to return to Bath, Captain Wentworth folded a small paper ship and set it afloat on the ocean. He watched as it lurched on the choppy waves, watched as the water began to creep into the fibers of the parchment, and turned away before he could see it sink beneath the tide.
The wind that night was especially gentle, like the soft sighing of a woman. He couldn't stop himself from hoping it might blow favorably on his hopes and guide them into a safe harbor.
I wish this boat could carry me to you
For I am thirsty for your love
For it lies deeper than this ocean blue
And all this beauty is no substitute.
--"Divine Presence," Iona
Author: m.jules
Fandom: Jane Austen - Persuasion
Written for: Athenae in the Yuletide 2007 Challenge
Disclaimer: Not mine. Jane's.
Author's Notes: I owe a great debt of gratitude to
unanon, who motivated me to write this story by mutually gushing with me over the fantastic breathing in the movie version of this.The anger was what came first, blinding, scalding, with a white-hot edge of embarrassment to make sure he couldn't think about the situation long enough to find a solution. There were so many ways this was unfair that it took Wentworth a full six months at sea to remember he wasn't the only one being slighted.
It still pained him, fathoms deep in his soul, resonant like the low, lonesome sound of the wind in a conch shell. Even so, he would sometimes remember the way Anne's breath had hitched and, against his own best reason, he would hope.
When he first met Benwick in a pub, tossing back ale and laughing heartily with a dozen other sailors, Wentworth resented the man. Benwick carried with him a fine silver locket containing the picture of his true love, and it was on her virtues that he expounded with every new wind the drink gave him. The way her eyes would sparkle, the way her lips curved up in a smile, the sharpness of her wit and the quickness of her mind, the delicate shape and smooth texture of her hands -- Wentworth heard about it in such detail he felt he knew the girl as well as if she were affianced to him instead of Benwick.
He tasted rebuttals on the tip of his tongue, sweet against the bitterness of the brew. He wanted to tell tales of Anne's good sense and charming smile, her unfathomable forbearance with her father and sisters who would drive a lesser woman to tears or madness, the richness of her eyes and the way the dark silk of her hair was soft like a midsummer's night under his fingers. He was on the verge of speaking when he remembered and the words turned sour.
For all her good sense and patience, she had refused him. What he hated admitting more than anything was that this made him doubt his own virtue more than he doubted the goodness of her senses.
He downed more ale and tried hard to hate Benwick for still holding the affections of the girl he loved. He must not have hated him too well, for in the end, he never voiced the words he wanted most to say.
Beware the moment your love turns on you, fickle as the ocean. Hold fast your anchors lest she break you against the rocks of good advice.
He wrote letter after letter to his brother, and only once did he mention his misfortune.
Anne Elliot has refused me, at the behest of her mentor Lady Russell, a good friend of the late Mrs. Elliot.
He stared at the script on the parchment, ink fading slightly as it slowly dried, and felt the bitterness of sorrow that had begun to overwhelm his anger. Dipping his quill again, he continued.
I feel that I have lost that which I loved most, and so I have returned to the sea. Though we often say -- and it is true -- that the ocean is fickle as any woman, at least it does not bid me to leave its side or say that we are an ill match. Though it may not love me as well as she did, neither does it cast me away. The day may come when I die at sea but the life I had hoped to spend with Anne is lost to me now.
He set the paper aside to wait for the ink to dry and pushed himself to his feet, boots thudding dully on the wooden stairs as he climbed to the deck. He stood behind the ship's wheel, hand resting lightly on the wood, simply feeling the subtle movements of the ocean as he watched the stars. He remembered the dreams they had weaved together, he and Anne, about the sea and ships, the longing in her voice when she spoke of things she wanted to see, places she wanted to go.
He remembered her delight when he taught her how to fold a paper ship, remembered the way her face had colored with pleasure when he gave her the first one, told her it was a reminder of him, a promise until they could have a ship of their own and sail to the far fields of fortune.
"Teach me how to make them," she had implored, eyes alight. "So that any time you are away from me, I may have my own ship to sail after you."
He wondered if she still remembered how to fold those little ships and if she wished she could forget.
When he returned below deck, the ink on his letter was dry. He took up the parchment, folded it into the shape he had taught Anne how to make, and then dangled it by a corner above the candle on his writing desk.
The ship burned slowly and the grey ashes sank to the surface of his desk. The next letter he wrote to his brother contained only the barest mention of Anne's rejection and he honored no requests for further details.
The next time Wentworth met Captain Benwick it was in a pub again, and again they were both drinking. Benwick had his locket out, staring at the picture of Fanny he kept inside. He still told of her virtues and her beauty, but his eyes no longer shone with happiness, his voice no longer danced.
"She's died," Benwick said, one hand clasping the locket and the other a tankard of ale. "She's died and left me and I have no more reason for living. The world is a great stranger to me now and even the sea which I loved so much seems wicked and cruel."
There was a book of poetry tucked into the breast pocket of his coat, and Benwick reached inside to finger it once or twice, quoting lines of loneliness and loss.
Again, Wentworth held his silence, but this time it was out of guilt. As much as he had resented Benwick's happiness before, he had never wished such calamity upon him or his love. It made him think that he was glad Anne had only refused him but was still alive.
Losing her affections was a crippling blow; losing her would have killed him, he felt sure.
It was then that he realized all his pain and anger, while they still smarted from time to time, had only been hiding a deeper truth. In that moment, he realized he owed Captain Benwick a debt for showing him that he still loved Anne Elliot with all his heart.
Three nights before they were to return to Bath, Captain Wentworth folded a small paper ship and set it afloat on the ocean. He watched as it lurched on the choppy waves, watched as the water began to creep into the fibers of the parchment, and turned away before he could see it sink beneath the tide.
The wind that night was especially gentle, like the soft sighing of a woman. He couldn't stop himself from hoping it might blow favorably on his hopes and guide them into a safe harbor.
I wish this boat could carry me to you
For I am thirsty for your love
For it lies deeper than this ocean blue
And all this beauty is no substitute.
--"Divine Presence," Iona
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