fic: sail away, pg
Title: Sail Away
Rating: PG-ish
Summary: Escaping from a post-apocalyptic world, Arthur thinks of the things he left behind.
Notes: Just a short little ficlet for the FrUK comm's Christmas event. The prompt was 'the ghost of Christmas future'.
Arthur knows ships, and he knows that this is not one.
He knows because when he was young and wild and free as the ocean, ships were for exploring. They were for pushing horizons, they were for salt air and seabirds, they were for him. They were not for fleeing.
Among the rush of people, all pushing and shoving to claim a space on this last chance for escape from a dying planet, he's barely able to catch a glimpse of the land behind him. His own land, his beloved island, is deep below the sea now; there's barely more than a few tiny, uninhabited islands where once there was England. Here he is, now, waiting to board the- the thing that will take him away from all he's ever known.
As the great steel doors slide close, he curls up in a cold metal corner and tries his hardest to forget.
Part of him wishes that he'd stayed until the end; Gilbert had, and America, too, convinced until the end that he'd save his people, that he'd be a hero.
And Francis, some sadistic part of his brain reminds him. Francis stayed too. Francis loved his people enough to die with them. But you- you didn't.
I couldn't, he argues back. I would've, but-
(His boss had told him, firmly, I will stay. The Queen will stay. But you, England- you must go."
Maybe he should have protested louder. Maybe then he wouldn't be alone, the last of his kind.)
As they fly farther away, the last of Earth slips out of view, and Arthur's thoughts turn again to Francis.
"Frog," he murmurs, a bit fond, mostly pained. "I never did tell you anything, did I. Never did tell you how I-" He chokes on the word loved. "Never did tell you the truth about how I- how I felt about you. At least, not all of it."
That will be a regret he'll carry no matter how far this not-ship may take them.
The sun is little more than a speck on a canvas of black, indistinguishable from all the other stars in the sky.
He glances at the bright screen on the opposite wall. The date, in the lower right corner- December 25th.
Arthur realizes that it's Christmas.
Rating: PG-ish
Summary: Escaping from a post-apocalyptic world, Arthur thinks of the things he left behind.
Notes: Just a short little ficlet for the FrUK comm's Christmas event. The prompt was 'the ghost of Christmas future'.
Arthur knows ships, and he knows that this is not one.
He knows because when he was young and wild and free as the ocean, ships were for exploring. They were for pushing horizons, they were for salt air and seabirds, they were for him. They were not for fleeing.
Among the rush of people, all pushing and shoving to claim a space on this last chance for escape from a dying planet, he's barely able to catch a glimpse of the land behind him. His own land, his beloved island, is deep below the sea now; there's barely more than a few tiny, uninhabited islands where once there was England. Here he is, now, waiting to board the- the thing that will take him away from all he's ever known.
As the great steel doors slide close, he curls up in a cold metal corner and tries his hardest to forget.
Part of him wishes that he'd stayed until the end; Gilbert had, and America, too, convinced until the end that he'd save his people, that he'd be a hero.
And Francis, some sadistic part of his brain reminds him. Francis stayed too. Francis loved his people enough to die with them. But you- you didn't.
I couldn't, he argues back. I would've, but-
(His boss had told him, firmly, I will stay. The Queen will stay. But you, England- you must go."
Maybe he should have protested louder. Maybe then he wouldn't be alone, the last of his kind.)
As they fly farther away, the last of Earth slips out of view, and Arthur's thoughts turn again to Francis.
"Frog," he murmurs, a bit fond, mostly pained. "I never did tell you anything, did I. Never did tell you how I-" He chokes on the word loved. "Never did tell you the truth about how I- how I felt about you. At least, not all of it."
That will be a regret he'll carry no matter how far this not-ship may take them.
The sun is little more than a speck on a canvas of black, indistinguishable from all the other stars in the sky.
He glances at the bright screen on the opposite wall. The date, in the lower right corner- December 25th.
Arthur realizes that it's Christmas.