The Dresden Files / Bob / #7. Descent
Title: Bound for Infinity
Author: Cyloran
Fandom: The Dresden Files (TV-verse)
Characters: Bob
Prompt: 07. Descent
Word Count: 812
Rating: PG
Author's Note: Sequel to Cast Adrift. For the complete Titanic arc, please go here.
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files do not belong to me; just passing through.
Table: Here There be Ghosts
"Cap'n says it's every man for himself now, boys!" shouted an officer from astern. "God speed to the lot of ya!"
The shout was barely audible over the screams and cries of those poor wretches still on the boat deck. Passengers and crew alike scrambled to keep their footing on the slippery wood as they fought the ship's steep incline. Groaning, the stern rose high above the churning sea as the bow sank deeper toward oblivion.
In the midst of chaos, a tall, lean figure stood motionless at the starboard rail, his pale blue gaze looking out across the dark horizon. Far below, the water was filled with the dead and the dying, arms flailing, heads bobbing, voices begging heaven or cursing hell as they struggled to find purchase on bits of floating debris or grasp at a passing lifeboat.
So few saved, he thought sadly. So many doomed.
Had he ever witnessed anything quite so heart wrenching as the tragedy of this grand lady, cut down upon her maiden voyage, and those poor souls she would take to a watery grave?
"You! Ghost!"
Hrothbert of Bainbridge turned from his contemplation to regard his master. DuMorne's coat was open, the top buttons ripped away to reveal the silk dress shirt beneath, torn and covered in grease. His usually neatly combed hair was disheveled and matted, barely covering the bruises that had begun to darken his right cheek and eye from the pummeling he nearly escaped. He clung precariously to the starboard rail with one arm, his other hand still clutching the handle of the battered satchel containing the ghost's skull.
"My, you have had better days, haven't you? You're a positive fright."
"Don't just stand there!"
"What would you have me do instead?" asked Hrothbert with irritating calm.
"Do something!" cried DuMorne. "Find a way to get me off this blasted boat!"
"I believe the ship is already attempting that very feat."
"You know bloody well what I mean! I order you to get me to safety!"
"No."
Stunned, DuMorne's mouth dropped open like a gapping fish. He struggled for words and fairly squeaked, "What . Did . You. Say?"
"Your pardon. I should no doubt pitch my voice to be heard over the cries of the poor souls who are desperately trying to save themselves." Firmly, loudly, and quite distinctly, he reiterated, "No, my Lord DuMorne, I shall not guide you to safety."
"How DARE you!!" he spluttered.
"How dare I?" demanded the ghost, his tone as cold as the North Atlantic that surrounded them. "I remind you, sir, that this tragedy is your doing! I warned you that this trip was folly the moment you proposed removing the skull from England in order to cement your position upon the High Council. There are those who would stop at nothing to see it destroyed."
"If you don't get me off this damned ship, I'll throw your skull into the bloody ocean!"
"As if that could be any worse a fate than the 700 years I have already endured in the service of wizards such as you."
"I'm warning you! I'll do it! You'll be lost forever! Trapped on the bottom of the sea forever!"
"What is lost may eventually be found," replied Hrothbert. "And I have an eternity to wait." He offered DuMorne a curt nod. "Now, if you will excuse me?" So saying, he turned to walk with stately, surefooted ease down the sloping deck toward the submerged bow.
"Stop! Wait! Where are you going?"
"I am not yet certain, but I appear to be headed toward what appears to be a collapsible lifeboat."
"COME BACK HERE!" screamed DuMorne.
"I am rather delighted to inform you that I cannot obey. You are no longer the skull's master."
Dumbfounded, DuMorne looked down and turned whiter than the frost that glistened upon the rail. The satchel was gone. His bare fingers, numbed by the cold and the strain of hanging onto the leather grip, had not even felt its absence. Had it fallen and slipped down the sloping deck? Or had it been taken by stealthy, greedy fingers?
It no longer mattered. The satchel and its precious contents was gone.
"You can't just leave me here to die!" he sobbed.
Hrothbert paused, just for a moment, to look over his shoulder.
"Can I not?" he asked, his blue eyes frigid. "You have selfishly tried to dislodge at least seven women and still more children from their place within the lifeboats in an attempt to preserve your own miserable hide. The sins of which I am guilty do not begin to compare to your own transgressions against your fellow man." With the sweep of a pale, ghostly hand, he encompassed the whole of dying Titanic and concluded, "You have made your bed, Lord DuMorne. I trust that you will rest well in it."
Author: Cyloran
Fandom: The Dresden Files (TV-verse)
Characters: Bob
Prompt: 07. Descent
Word Count: 812
Rating: PG
Author's Note: Sequel to Cast Adrift. For the complete Titanic arc, please go here.
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files do not belong to me; just passing through.
Table: Here There be Ghosts
"Cap'n says it's every man for himself now, boys!" shouted an officer from astern. "God speed to the lot of ya!"
The shout was barely audible over the screams and cries of those poor wretches still on the boat deck. Passengers and crew alike scrambled to keep their footing on the slippery wood as they fought the ship's steep incline. Groaning, the stern rose high above the churning sea as the bow sank deeper toward oblivion.
In the midst of chaos, a tall, lean figure stood motionless at the starboard rail, his pale blue gaze looking out across the dark horizon. Far below, the water was filled with the dead and the dying, arms flailing, heads bobbing, voices begging heaven or cursing hell as they struggled to find purchase on bits of floating debris or grasp at a passing lifeboat.
So few saved, he thought sadly. So many doomed.
Had he ever witnessed anything quite so heart wrenching as the tragedy of this grand lady, cut down upon her maiden voyage, and those poor souls she would take to a watery grave?
"You! Ghost!"
Hrothbert of Bainbridge turned from his contemplation to regard his master. DuMorne's coat was open, the top buttons ripped away to reveal the silk dress shirt beneath, torn and covered in grease. His usually neatly combed hair was disheveled and matted, barely covering the bruises that had begun to darken his right cheek and eye from the pummeling he nearly escaped. He clung precariously to the starboard rail with one arm, his other hand still clutching the handle of the battered satchel containing the ghost's skull.
"My, you have had better days, haven't you? You're a positive fright."
"Don't just stand there!"
"What would you have me do instead?" asked Hrothbert with irritating calm.
"Do something!" cried DuMorne. "Find a way to get me off this blasted boat!"
"I believe the ship is already attempting that very feat."
"You know bloody well what I mean! I order you to get me to safety!"
"No."
Stunned, DuMorne's mouth dropped open like a gapping fish. He struggled for words and fairly squeaked, "What . Did . You. Say?"
"Your pardon. I should no doubt pitch my voice to be heard over the cries of the poor souls who are desperately trying to save themselves." Firmly, loudly, and quite distinctly, he reiterated, "No, my Lord DuMorne, I shall not guide you to safety."
"How DARE you!!" he spluttered.
"How dare I?" demanded the ghost, his tone as cold as the North Atlantic that surrounded them. "I remind you, sir, that this tragedy is your doing! I warned you that this trip was folly the moment you proposed removing the skull from England in order to cement your position upon the High Council. There are those who would stop at nothing to see it destroyed."
"If you don't get me off this damned ship, I'll throw your skull into the bloody ocean!"
"As if that could be any worse a fate than the 700 years I have already endured in the service of wizards such as you."
"I'm warning you! I'll do it! You'll be lost forever! Trapped on the bottom of the sea forever!"
"What is lost may eventually be found," replied Hrothbert. "And I have an eternity to wait." He offered DuMorne a curt nod. "Now, if you will excuse me?" So saying, he turned to walk with stately, surefooted ease down the sloping deck toward the submerged bow.
"Stop! Wait! Where are you going?"
"I am not yet certain, but I appear to be headed toward what appears to be a collapsible lifeboat."
"COME BACK HERE!" screamed DuMorne.
"I am rather delighted to inform you that I cannot obey. You are no longer the skull's master."
Dumbfounded, DuMorne looked down and turned whiter than the frost that glistened upon the rail. The satchel was gone. His bare fingers, numbed by the cold and the strain of hanging onto the leather grip, had not even felt its absence. Had it fallen and slipped down the sloping deck? Or had it been taken by stealthy, greedy fingers?
It no longer mattered. The satchel and its precious contents was gone.
"You can't just leave me here to die!" he sobbed.
Hrothbert paused, just for a moment, to look over his shoulder.
"Can I not?" he asked, his blue eyes frigid. "You have selfishly tried to dislodge at least seven women and still more children from their place within the lifeboats in an attempt to preserve your own miserable hide. The sins of which I am guilty do not begin to compare to your own transgressions against your fellow man." With the sweep of a pale, ghostly hand, he encompassed the whole of dying Titanic and concluded, "You have made your bed, Lord DuMorne. I trust that you will rest well in it."