![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Day 10
Create a fanwork. Leave a comment in this post saying you did it. Include a link to your post if you feel comfortable doing so.
The chances of me ginning up a fanfic from scratch are basically nil, but today's prompt did get me to dust off, edit, and post this Blake & Avery ficlet, which save data tells me I last touched on June 5, 2016.
Set directly after the events of The Infidel Stain, because the third book was still a twinkle in Carter's eye at that point.
A Tentative Correspondence
I retired to the study after dinner, claiming a need to see to my correspondence. I had done likewise for the preceding three evenings. Mayhew's letter was waiting for me when I entered where I had left it the night before. It sat upon the desk before me, a blank sheet of stationary beside it.
I dropped into the chair and put my head in my hands. To pen a response would be simple, so simple, in fact, I found I could not summon the energy to do it. Mayhew, for his part, had been as good as his word. His first letter, filled with news of Punch's fortunes and gossip about the goings on at the Reform Club, had arrived not three weeks after my return to Devon. We had been engaged in a regular correspondence since.
For a time, news of Helen's confinement and my impressions of the countryside had given me ample material with which to fill the page. But eventually I exhausted both topics, and as time moved on there was less and less of my own life that I wished to reveal. Although I was capable of writing convincingly of nothing, in truth it did not seem worth the effort.
But make the effort I must. I could hardly hope to continue in this vein evening after evening, without eventually producing something by way of a reply. Not least because Helen had begun to point out, petulantly and increasingly in front of the household staff, that I had never taken such pains when drafting my letters to her. And it was true. I had not, at least not since those early days in Afghanistan when our future together had seemed far brighter than it did now.
I had returned from London two months ago determined to restore our relations to the promise of those early days. Not long after, our child had been born: a son, who took after Helen far more than me. In truth, I was secretly pleased that she had delivered a boy, and openly thankful that he had inherited her golden good looks rather than my own somewhat plainer coloring.
I had thought that being delivered of a healthy child after the bitter disappointment of Helen's first pregnancy would be cause for great relief and joy. But Helen seemed to sink deeper into melancholy with each passing day, and I found myself as powerless to raise her spirits as I had ever been. I had come to dread my visits to the nursery, for they only ever seemed to end with Helen, or the child, or both, in tears.
Beyond the window, the grounds of the estate had already slipped into darkness, and I had yet to pen a single word. I would have to reply to Mayhew soon enough. But as I looked at my reflection in the darkened pane, I finally allowed that the problem was that I did not wish to write to Mayhew at all.
Admitting the fact at last brought momentary relief, and with it, the energy to take action. I brushed Mayhew's letter to the corner of the desk and pulled the blank sheet toward me. But I was immediately confounded by a different problem. There were so many things I wished to say; indeed, felt that I at last could. And yet, I simply did not know how to begin. I could not bring myself to use any of the standard salutations, and a casual address seemed an equally unlikely way to begin.
My head began to hurt. I sat, massaging my temples until, beneath the pressure of my fingers, they too began to throb. Then I looked up and took pen in hand. Jeremiah—, I wrote. There was no use in agonizing. It was not as though he would ever write back.
So there it is. Looking back at it 31 months later I'm amazed at how much I got right about what Carter had in store for Avery and his family.
これで以上です。
Create a fanwork. Leave a comment in this post saying you did it. Include a link to your post if you feel comfortable doing so.
The chances of me ginning up a fanfic from scratch are basically nil, but today's prompt did get me to dust off, edit, and post this Blake & Avery ficlet, which save data tells me I last touched on June 5, 2016.
Set directly after the events of The Infidel Stain, because the third book was still a twinkle in Carter's eye at that point.
A Tentative Correspondence
I retired to the study after dinner, claiming a need to see to my correspondence. I had done likewise for the preceding three evenings. Mayhew's letter was waiting for me when I entered where I had left it the night before. It sat upon the desk before me, a blank sheet of stationary beside it.
I dropped into the chair and put my head in my hands. To pen a response would be simple, so simple, in fact, I found I could not summon the energy to do it. Mayhew, for his part, had been as good as his word. His first letter, filled with news of Punch's fortunes and gossip about the goings on at the Reform Club, had arrived not three weeks after my return to Devon. We had been engaged in a regular correspondence since.
For a time, news of Helen's confinement and my impressions of the countryside had given me ample material with which to fill the page. But eventually I exhausted both topics, and as time moved on there was less and less of my own life that I wished to reveal. Although I was capable of writing convincingly of nothing, in truth it did not seem worth the effort.
But make the effort I must. I could hardly hope to continue in this vein evening after evening, without eventually producing something by way of a reply. Not least because Helen had begun to point out, petulantly and increasingly in front of the household staff, that I had never taken such pains when drafting my letters to her. And it was true. I had not, at least not since those early days in Afghanistan when our future together had seemed far brighter than it did now.
I had returned from London two months ago determined to restore our relations to the promise of those early days. Not long after, our child had been born: a son, who took after Helen far more than me. In truth, I was secretly pleased that she had delivered a boy, and openly thankful that he had inherited her golden good looks rather than my own somewhat plainer coloring.
I had thought that being delivered of a healthy child after the bitter disappointment of Helen's first pregnancy would be cause for great relief and joy. But Helen seemed to sink deeper into melancholy with each passing day, and I found myself as powerless to raise her spirits as I had ever been. I had come to dread my visits to the nursery, for they only ever seemed to end with Helen, or the child, or both, in tears.
Beyond the window, the grounds of the estate had already slipped into darkness, and I had yet to pen a single word. I would have to reply to Mayhew soon enough. But as I looked at my reflection in the darkened pane, I finally allowed that the problem was that I did not wish to write to Mayhew at all.
Admitting the fact at last brought momentary relief, and with it, the energy to take action. I brushed Mayhew's letter to the corner of the desk and pulled the blank sheet toward me. But I was immediately confounded by a different problem. There were so many things I wished to say; indeed, felt that I at last could. And yet, I simply did not know how to begin. I could not bring myself to use any of the standard salutations, and a casual address seemed an equally unlikely way to begin.
My head began to hurt. I sat, massaging my temples until, beneath the pressure of my fingers, they too began to throb. Then I looked up and took pen in hand. Jeremiah—, I wrote. There was no use in agonizing. It was not as though he would ever write back.
So there it is. Looking back at it 31 months later I'm amazed at how much I got right about what Carter had in store for Avery and his family.
これで以上です。
Tags: