Lost ficlet: Point of View
More fic! *bounce* (*leaves plate of cookies for muse*) Written for lostfichallenge challenge 51, In Loving Memory.
~~ Point of View ~~
Even now, most of the survivors are not quite sure what to make of him, tending to give a wide berth to the man who sits alone on the rocks, gently stroking his beard while gazing far down the beach.
They think he's staring at the ocean, or past it perhaps, seeing things they don't, but he is aware of each pilgrimage to the small hill where the crosses bloom.
The soldier is first, pausing during his morning reconnaissance. His hand drifts to the highest point of one marker in an almost casual fashion; his eyes close for mere seconds as his lips move. Then, once again scanning the perimeter, he continues his patrol.
When the sun nears its zenith, the doctor arrives to make his rounds, coming from the tree line to the far corner and stepping over what remains of the crude fence. He does not move between the mounds but walks along the sides. He stops three times, head bowed, penitent.
Late in the afternoon, siesta time, another visitor arrives. No attempt is made to hide his intent; he trudges up the rise carrying a single, perfect blossom. He kneels, fingers delicately brushing across the crudely carved letters on the transverse wood, then settles onto his heels and lays the flower at the upright's base. He remains until the sun kisses the ocean, still and animated by turns, sharing events with one who is no longer able to watch them transpire. After a final caress of the sand, he returns to the camp's nucleus.
The watcher bows his head, looks at the creased photograph cradled in his hand. He's painfully aware that like each of the graveyard visitors, all he has now are memories. The evening breeze tugs playfully at the tails of his sweat-dampened shirt, but the reality of six years of separation is relentless, trampling the bittersweet taste of hope and longing, and his shoulders sag.
Lovely banner by isis2015
>^..^<
~~ Point of View ~~
Even now, most of the survivors are not quite sure what to make of him, tending to give a wide berth to the man who sits alone on the rocks, gently stroking his beard while gazing far down the beach.
They think he's staring at the ocean, or past it perhaps, seeing things they don't, but he is aware of each pilgrimage to the small hill where the crosses bloom.
The soldier is first, pausing during his morning reconnaissance. His hand drifts to the highest point of one marker in an almost casual fashion; his eyes close for mere seconds as his lips move. Then, once again scanning the perimeter, he continues his patrol.
When the sun nears its zenith, the doctor arrives to make his rounds, coming from the tree line to the far corner and stepping over what remains of the crude fence. He does not move between the mounds but walks along the sides. He stops three times, head bowed, penitent.
Late in the afternoon, siesta time, another visitor arrives. No attempt is made to hide his intent; he trudges up the rise carrying a single, perfect blossom. He kneels, fingers delicately brushing across the crudely carved letters on the transverse wood, then settles onto his heels and lays the flower at the upright's base. He remains until the sun kisses the ocean, still and animated by turns, sharing events with one who is no longer able to watch them transpire. After a final caress of the sand, he returns to the camp's nucleus.
The watcher bows his head, looks at the creased photograph cradled in his hand. He's painfully aware that like each of the graveyard visitors, all he has now are memories. The evening breeze tugs playfully at the tails of his sweat-dampened shirt, but the reality of six years of separation is relentless, trampling the bittersweet taste of hope and longing, and his shoulders sag.
Lovely banner by isis2015
>^..^<