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No updates, except that I've begun packing for Ireland. What I do have is a bit of Homer fanfic drabble, generated yesterday evening while I was out running. This is for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
permetaform, for pointing me toward the Iliad slash the other week.
Ships? Um, Odysseus/Ithaca, I guess. I think I've read one too many of Kapuna's Jack/Ocean and Jack/Black Pearl fics.
^_~
I am weeping as I kneel in the sand, fingers digging into the wet grains and tears falling from my eyes onto the earth that rears us all. Around me, craggy hills rise up from the ocean as if thrust forth from it by an angry hand, empty of livestock, empty of people, empty even of greenery. Never since the birth of the gods has a heap of barren rock looked so beautiful, because this is my rock. It is mine in a way that nothing else a man possesses can be, because I did not win it with strength or cunning, as I have had to win everything else I have owned, but was born with it, like a foot or a hand. It is not so much mine, really, as it is a part of me, and being away was like missing a foot, for a man always stumbles walking on unfamiliar ground.
This ground, though, is not unfamiliar. Looking about through eyes blurred with tears, I can see the cliffs I climbed as a boy, the hills I hunted with my father, the harbour from which I sailed so long ago, with my wife waving after me on the beach, our son in her arms.
My wife. I have not seen her in so long, so long that now the son who was a babe when I sailed away to war will be a man grown, so long that the sleek brown hair I once loved is likely flecked with grey and the clever fingers I used to kiss wrinkled and bony. So long that her heart, I fear, may no longer be mine.
But there is time enough for worrying about that later. Now is for laughing, for crying, for raising handfuls of damp sand to let it trickle through callused fingers, for pressing hands and face to hard, wet rock and feeling the solidity of it settle into a soul battleworn and weary, like coming off the field of battle into a friend's arms.
I may be made of salt water and blood, of bronze and the dust of a battlefield, but somewhere in my bones is rock. This rock. Finally, after too many years to reckon, I am where I belong.
^_~
And as my Mom pointed out, there's no copyright on Homer. ^_^. This, I could actually do something with, if it weren't only 300 or so words.
permetaform, for pointing me toward the Iliad slash the other week.Ships? Um, Odysseus/Ithaca, I guess. I think I've read one too many of Kapuna's Jack/Ocean and Jack/Black Pearl fics.
^_~
I am weeping as I kneel in the sand, fingers digging into the wet grains and tears falling from my eyes onto the earth that rears us all. Around me, craggy hills rise up from the ocean as if thrust forth from it by an angry hand, empty of livestock, empty of people, empty even of greenery. Never since the birth of the gods has a heap of barren rock looked so beautiful, because this is my rock. It is mine in a way that nothing else a man possesses can be, because I did not win it with strength or cunning, as I have had to win everything else I have owned, but was born with it, like a foot or a hand. It is not so much mine, really, as it is a part of me, and being away was like missing a foot, for a man always stumbles walking on unfamiliar ground.
This ground, though, is not unfamiliar. Looking about through eyes blurred with tears, I can see the cliffs I climbed as a boy, the hills I hunted with my father, the harbour from which I sailed so long ago, with my wife waving after me on the beach, our son in her arms.
My wife. I have not seen her in so long, so long that now the son who was a babe when I sailed away to war will be a man grown, so long that the sleek brown hair I once loved is likely flecked with grey and the clever fingers I used to kiss wrinkled and bony. So long that her heart, I fear, may no longer be mine.
But there is time enough for worrying about that later. Now is for laughing, for crying, for raising handfuls of damp sand to let it trickle through callused fingers, for pressing hands and face to hard, wet rock and feeling the solidity of it settle into a soul battleworn and weary, like coming off the field of battle into a friend's arms.
I may be made of salt water and blood, of bronze and the dust of a battlefield, but somewhere in my bones is rock. This rock. Finally, after too many years to reckon, I am where I belong.
^_~
And as my Mom pointed out, there's no copyright on Homer. ^_^. This, I could actually do something with, if it weren't only 300 or so words.
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That little fic bit's pretty good.
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I'm homesick already and I haven't even left to go back to university yet.
I especially like the second-to-last paragraph and the "clever fingers" bit. Thanks for sharing this.