Post by Seek on Jul 13, 2013 19:32:16 GMT 10
Title: At journey's end
Rating: G
Prompt: At journeys end, (#68)
Character/Couple/Theme: Mattes
Series: White Shores Calling
Summary: He's reached the journey's end.
Notes: This is sort of a Mastiff AU. Therefore, spoilers for Mastiff. Kind of.
-
He does notice, after all, when the ship stills for the first time. They’ve been sailing for too long, with that slip of a breeze causing the grey sail to billow, however slight.
“We’re there,” he says, more to himself than to the boatman.
“Yes,” the boatman says. “We’re there.”
The boat comes to a halt with a smooth jerk, as the boatman tosses a rope around a mooring post—and tugs it fast. There’s a rough pier of old timber at the end, and Mattes clambers out of the boat. Land. He’s missed it.
“Where are we?”
The boatman doesn’t say a word.
Mattes looks. And then he knows, where he is. Beyond him, stretched out for acres and acres, isn’t rust-red, dried soil. No. It begins from here. But stretching onward, as far as the distant horizon, are gently rolling hills, rich and green. The soft years, the years his father had always spoken about, before the hard times. Before the rust years, the red years.
In the distance, where this far green country meets the horizon, he sees it. Exactly as he’d always dreamed of it: a small stone farmhouse, rough red where they’ve baked clay bricks from hill soil.
The wooden gate will be rough against his callused palms as he pushes it open. Vines twine about the wooden posts. And there will be a lush garden. Yamani roses everywhere. Along the hills is the vineyard.
He looks up, for a single moment. And there, above him, gleam a thousand, watchful stars.
He squares his shoulders, and begins to walk.
Rating: G
Prompt: At journeys end, (#68)
Character/Couple/Theme: Mattes
Series: White Shores Calling
Summary: He's reached the journey's end.
Notes: This is sort of a Mastiff AU. Therefore, spoilers for Mastiff. Kind of.
-
He does notice, after all, when the ship stills for the first time. They’ve been sailing for too long, with that slip of a breeze causing the grey sail to billow, however slight.
“We’re there,” he says, more to himself than to the boatman.
“Yes,” the boatman says. “We’re there.”
The boat comes to a halt with a smooth jerk, as the boatman tosses a rope around a mooring post—and tugs it fast. There’s a rough pier of old timber at the end, and Mattes clambers out of the boat. Land. He’s missed it.
“Where are we?”
The boatman doesn’t say a word.
Mattes looks. And then he knows, where he is. Beyond him, stretched out for acres and acres, isn’t rust-red, dried soil. No. It begins from here. But stretching onward, as far as the distant horizon, are gently rolling hills, rich and green. The soft years, the years his father had always spoken about, before the hard times. Before the rust years, the red years.
In the distance, where this far green country meets the horizon, he sees it. Exactly as he’d always dreamed of it: a small stone farmhouse, rough red where they’ve baked clay bricks from hill soil.
The wooden gate will be rough against his callused palms as he pushes it open. Vines twine about the wooden posts. And there will be a lush garden. Yamani roses everywhere. Along the hills is the vineyard.
He looks up, for a single moment. And there, above him, gleam a thousand, watchful stars.
He squares his shoulders, and begins to walk.
This is so bittersweet.
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!