Come Away, O Human Child... [[Backstory]]
[[OOC - ....OMGANGST.]]
"Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of the reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand."
2234
Awash in early-morning mist, the heat rises in coils from the leaf-covered earth - dampening the wings of awakening butterflies, it makes their erratic dances slow, drowsy, and they drift along at a half-hearted, bumbling pace, wasting their short little lives in the suffocating heat. The sparse remainders of the foliage overhead do little to protect the ground below from the cruel, blasting heat of the new sun as it pounds down mercilessly, burning shafts of gold piercing through the thin layer of red and amber like arrows through paper.
Through this diaphanous wall of heat and moisture forges a young boy of seven. Out before his parents are awake, his brown hair is already damp with sweat and his legs, bare from the knees down, are nettle-stung and halfway-burnt, his bare feet cut and bleeding. But he pays little heed to these inconveniences - he is a child on a mission.
He pushes his way through the autumn leaves, feeling them crunch and crumble beneath his aching feet; his arm is stretched out before him, slicing through cobwebs adorned with tiny dewdrop gems; his clear blue eyes glint with the thrill of adventure. He follows the river East, trekking along steadfastly until he reaches that special point where it widens and spreads and becomes a glassy lake of flashing sparkles in the morning sun.
Like diamonds, he always thought.
In the centre of the lake squats the tiniest of islands. A sparse smattering of trees and bushes cover its earthy surface, and it provides a shimmering, heat-hazed haven of wonder for the boy as he stands on the banks opposite. His island. He can already see the smoky grey herons from here, standing still as statues - even their feathers do not stir. He grins as he plunges into the mercifully cool water without further hesitation and begins to swim.
He is surprisingly strong for one of his slim build, and he cuts through the water with ease, powering towards the island. Within a few minutes he is in the shallows and hoisting himself out onto the sandy bank - the herons, startled, are dislodged and some take flight, their shadows eclipsing him as they pass overhead. He just shakes waterlogged hair from his eyes, knowing the herons will return soon enough, and turns his full attention to the real objects of his venture - the dark green bushes, brimming with unidentified fruit.
These are his, these secret bushes, and he devours their sweet fruit greedily, plunging his hand deep into sharp thorns and brambles to reach them - the best ones are always at the back and they are worth a few scratches, he thinks as the juice stains his mouth and hands a dark crimson, making the cuts sting a little. On some days the berries make him sick, but this is a good day and he eats until he cannot hope to eat any more. And all the while the herons stand sentry by the riverbank nearby, hooded heads bowed and shoulders squared as they regard the water with a level of intent akin to dusty ancient scholars pouring over antique books in a hushed library.
Back home, his father shouts and his mother cries, because their little boy is missing and the mind of a parent is plagued with such horrors. When he goes home that evening - he loses track of time easily, a trait he will never quite overcome - he cannot understand quite why she is crying so hard (nor why her face is bruised again) because after all he is safe and nothing has happened, but his father gives him a stern beating and sends him straight to bed before he can ask.
But he doesn’t care - he doesn’t even cry.
He has his secret place that only the herons know about, and he won’t give that up for the world.
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"Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand."
2244
Two shadowy figures slip through the inky darkness, their path lit by moonlight. There is a sense of furtive excitement about them - they should not be out at this time, there are unseen dangers lurking out here in the night, dangers both have been warned about so many times. But in the heady joy of young love they discount the risks, and together they walk the secret paths used now only by those clandestine, unnamed creatures of the night.
Her hand seems so fragile in his as they move side-by-side, and yet he is the one who is trembling. He is not cold, although she has his jacket wrapped around her shoulders, but he trembles anyway, and she notices, and laughs a little as she leans into him.
He loves her laugh. High and sweet and musical, like church-bells on an early winter morning. He doesn’t know why he thinks of winter when he sees her because surely, with her radiance and her beauty, she is a girl made for summer. But he sees winter nevertheless. He never tells her that.
They tread the sandy banks of the river hand-in-hand, moondust painting delicate silver highlights onto their differing silhouettes joined at the fingers. Every so often their eyes meet - she holds his gaze steadily, hazel on blue, and he always drops his first. And when he kisses her she takes all the breath from his body, replacing it with her own. He could kiss her for the rest of his life.
They walk in comfortable silence for what feels like hours before they reach the lake. There he pulls her down with him onto the cool, silver-stained grass of the banks whilst she locks her arms around his neck and gazes up at him, silhouetted above her by the stars overhead - the son of a poor country doctor, no match for a young lady of her standing, her disillusioned parents had insisted. They didn’t understand, she had assured them - he was different. He was worth it. And now she was here, staring up into those impossibly blue eyes, fingers caught in the soft brown hair styled just the way she liked it, feeling those one-day-doctor’s hands gliding smoothly over her body, and it was everything she had ever wanted.
They make love for the first time that night, there on the banks of the lake with the moonlight draping them both in silver gossamer. And though it isn’t the first time for either of them, God he’s so scared and so is she, but it’s good-scared - beautiful-scared. And after they lay in each others arms to watch that same moon die, eclipsed by the flashing strength of the rising sun, and he whispers that he loves her, and she smiles (a face born to smile) and says it back, and means it with all her heart.
He gave her the stars that night, and years later, he looks at those stars and smiles.
Because they remind him that once upon a time, on a starlit night halfway across the universe, she had loved him.
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"Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
with a faery, hand in hand,
for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand."
2252
He lies stretched out on his stomach amidst the soft ferns of the bank, gazing down into the water. Beside him, a chestnut-haired little angel is imitating, staring intently into the river with a deep frown of concentration creasing her forehead slightly. She is perfectly still, perfectly silent, like a little heron, and he watches her for a while instead of the water, adoring her.
Below them the objects of her attention - the plump, lazy brown trout that hang so easily just below the surface - begin to settle down, and he sees a mischievous glint spark up in her eyes (a glint she got from him). Her little fists tighten in the grass and she almost quivers in anticipation. Like a little terrier, except a terrier does not have her patience.
He smiles, anticipating her next move and preemptively reaching out to take hold of the back of her sundress - and just in time, as she lunges forward enthusiastically to try and grab one of the fat brown fish. His grip on her dress is all that stops her toppling headfirst into the river.
He sees her stumble, saved by his grip, and in his mind’s eye there is a flash that causes him to falter, almost letting go of her but managing not to. There had been a little girl just like her…brown hair…dead now…like all the others…all dead…all his fault…dead…inoculations…not good enough…his fault...all dead…
The little girl calls to her drifting father, concern evident in her new voice, and he starts as though waking from a dream, staring at her blankly for a few moments. Then his shoulders relax and his expression softens and he stands, scooping her into his arms and carrying her back towards the house. She laughs, wraps her arms around his neck, and his grip on her tightens.
It’s more for his comfort than it is hers.
She can’t see the look in his eyes.
But his wife sees, when they return and she removes the now-slumbering child from his arms - that look of guilt, of insecurity, of doubt, of self-hatred, of everything she doesn’t want him to feel and everything he has been feeling ever since he came back from that Godforsaken planet as this broken shell of the man she married. Placing the girl to bed, she comes back to find him drinking again, halfway through downing a shot of the amber liquid she so hates the sight of.
For a doctor-in-training, he’s a straight-up hypocrite when it comes to alcohol.
But she lets him drink - waits patiently until he’s drowned himself half to sleep before helping her traumatised husband to his feet, leading him to bed. He follows mindlessly, gripping her arm tightly, blue eyes unfocused and staring off into terrifying nothing whilst she thins her lips and silently curses that damned planet and all it’s perished occupants for taking away the man she loved.
He has nightmares again that night.
She holds him in her arms, whispering, soothing, stroking his hair and telling him he’s safe even as he thrashes and whimpers and finally, inhibitions being non-existent in sleep, cries, curling up against her and weeping bitterly for those who he failed to save. Those he murdered. The fact that he had left the planet before the plague even struck doesn’t occur to him.
So quick, always so quick to blame himself. She hates that about him.
But she never tells him that.
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"Away with us he's going,
The solemn eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
For he comes, the human child!
To the waters and the wild
with a faery, hand in hand,
from a world more full of weeping than he can understand."
- W.B. Yeats.
2266
He walks once more around his childhood haunts, wearily treading the paths he wove as a boy. He had signed the divorce papers yesterday without a fight - just didn’t have the energy, nor the motivation. Whatever she wanted, she would get. Fine by him.
His mind drifts as he walks long-forgotten trails, flinging memories at him left right and centre. Some he doesn’t care to dwell on. Others he takes the time to revel in, if just for a moment.
He remembers one night in particular (moon and stars and ecstasy), remembers the boy he used to be - carefree, reckless, this world his oyster and burdened by nothing. Then he thinks of the man he is now (bitteuselesspatheticoh-so-lonely) and he silently hates himself for a few horrible moments, before forcing it all back down inside. Unhealthy. But sometimes he just doesn’t care.
He leaves tomorrow.
Space.
Deep and dark and silent and mysterious, untamed and uncharted. Wild.
Can’t get much further away than space, and there’s nothing here he wants to stay for. He can’t face it any more - all the death and the misery that seem to follow him like a plague (don’tsaythatword).
He’s stuck in a rut that he can’t get out of, and running away is his only option.
He’ll miss the turf after walking on metal; the breeze after breathing circulated air. He’ll miss the simple things eventually, but right now he just wants to put as much distance between them as possible.
So he sighs and walks on the solid earth one last time.
Tomorrow he’ll wake early, catch the shuttle and be off to start his new position, on some ship called the Enterprise. He doesn’t really care what the thing’s called, as long as it has enough power to fly him away from here.
His father wouldn’t be happy with his behaviour. Never thought much of people who wallowed in self-pity. His father would have beaten it out of him. Would have clipped him sternly, told him to man up, pull himself together and damn well get on with it.
…he wishes his father still could.
His fault again.
STOP IT.
…
…
…he can’t.
Two years, and he still can’t. Because it was his fault, even his mother said so.
She’d followed his father three months ago. His poor mother - so utterly, wholly devoted to her husband, so completely unable to cope without him. So full of hate for the one who had taken him away.
He had found no comfort at her bedside, as she whispered in his ear in a wheezing, fragile, horribly matter-of-fact voice that she had no son. Never forgiven him for what he did. She had died childless, and he had discovered a whole new dimension to the word heartbreak.
He suddenly realizes he’s on the banks of the old river, down on his knees, gripping the grass tightly as tears slid slowly down his face. Too much. It’s all too much. He wants to go back two years, when his father was alive…no…thirteen years, before his wife had the affair…no…fifteen, before that plague…no…no…twenty-two. Go back twenty-two years, to when he was young and happy and so, so in love that it hurt. Yes. Stop there. Stay there.
So he does. Kneeling on the grass he loses himself in his memories for a moment. He remembers the girl with the chestnut hair and hazel eyes, the girl born to smile, the girl to whom he’d have given the stars if only he could. The girl who had loved him. He’d had relationships since her - had told others he loved them and honestly meant it, but…
Sigh.
In a moment, he’ll force himself to his feet. Straighten up. Adjust his jacket. He’ll scrub at his eyes furiously, cursing himself for being such a sentimental old fool. He’ll turn and walk quickly away, leaving his old homestead behind and heading to find some sleazy motel to spend the night in.
Tomorrow morning he’ll leave for the stars, and he won’t look back.
There will be tears in space.
But at least there are fewer people to see them.