#such as in Hornblower where most of the time he is 'Mr Hornblower' but in private scenes hes Horatio

[isaacathom]

i love playing with names so much. any story or setting where theres a deliberate use of names and differing terms of address and you can really read into a characters choices and it says so much is the Good Fucking Shit

[thiefbird]

platonic renown trio, “but I know being reckless and young is not how the damage gets done” from your list?

Ooooooooohhh this is so good

(also might be a little bit more pre-slash than purely platonic because Bush has complex feelings about Hornblower just. canonically) have some William Bush character study my friend; i listened to Damage Gets Done on repeat almost the entire time i wrote this, other than the bits where i rewatched Mutiny and Retribution for Research Purposes

(under a cut bc it got long - and possibly not entirely connected to its prompt; Bush decided to instead just dwell on his junior lieutenants a bunch in general)

Should I write a sequel to this? Maybe touching on how Horatio's mood might effect the infamous Kingston Debauch in a Dead Kennedy universe? I have Thoughts but this ended up near to 4k words and I needed to end it.

damage gets done (on ao3)

Stepping on board the Renown for the first time, Lieutenant William Bush had had no idea that he would be a different person by the time he reached Jamaica. He had been the same person, more or less, for the entire thirty-five years of his life so far; expecting to continue as he had was only reasonable.

But that was before he had met Hornblower: being dashed to the deck by a total stranger had not seemed like a likely catalyst for personal change at the time, unless caused by a knock on the head; looking back now, he felt he ought to have known, ought to have guessed. But instead he had been ruffled by Hornblower's oddities, peevish towards Mr Kennedy's facetiousness, and fully cemented himself into the role of outsider he so resented those first months.

They were an unlikely pair on the outside, Hornblower and Kennedy. Hornblower was an awkward, serious sort of man, private and reserved to a fault - and Bush had indeed seen it as a fault - where Kennedy was quite the opposite; Bush didn't think he heard a single earnest word from the fourth lieutenant's lips before he'd been on the Renown a month, unless the captain was present. And yet in practice they were as well together as any two men Bush had served with - he was unsurprised to learn they had been mids together at the start of the war, and shared most of their postings since.

He had been obscurely envious of such a friendship - coming up before the mast as he had created a gap between him and the other officers, one that he'd done his best to hide in his years as lieutenant, but one that he felt sorely - and had resolved to look down on the younger officers. Lieutenant Buckland made for poor company, too harassed by his rank, and Bush had resigned himself to a dull, lonely assignment within a week of coming aboard Renown.

Even now, many months later, he almost regretted that he had been wrong. But Captain Sawyer had proven to be a shell of himself, and he had somehow found himself in the unenviable position of plotting mutiny alongside an incompetent premier and the reckless youth of lieutenants Hornblower and Kennedy.

Reckless was perhaps putting it a little strong; Kennedy, certainly, was impetuous and excitable, a gleam in his eyes that drew Captain Sawyer's ire with a consistency unmatched by the finest timepiece, but Hornblower was anything but. Calculating, conniving, manipulative even, especially in his handling of Lieutenant Buckland; too clever by half, even half dead from keeping continual watch.

He had made a pitiful sight, gaunt and hollow-cheeked, bruises deep under his piercing brown eyes making them appear preternaturally large from under the brown curls of his queue. Compared to Kennedy Bush had thought he looked near corpse-like by the time their plot succeeded, and yet the spark of genius had never burnt low.

Samaná had been the true turning point, where he had gone from outside observer to- perhaps not an equal member, but a close orbiting body of the binary star that made up Hornblower and Kennedy. He had been mistaken, to take Buckland's side against Hornblower's plan, he had seen that almost immediately, and admitting the fault had done much to repair his fellow lieutentants' opinion of him; the desertion of some thirty-odd men had been the perfect opportunity for Hornblower's expert machinations, and Buckland had folded like so many decks of cards in Hornblower's hands.

Kennedy's lascivious grin, the puff of his breath as he laughed at the Spanish solider's importunity, Hornblower's poorly suppressed answering smile - all were the badges of friendship earned, and he had treasured them as he received them lying near prone on a hilltop. They had felt the same pang of hopes dashed as some damned folly aboard Renown - Buckland had never been clear when he explained the mishap - ruined their chance of surprise, and he had felt a similar pang alone when Hornblower and Kennedy had run clear away without explanation: once again he was on the outside of their insular attachment, and he had felt a queer turn at it, one that he could hardly name.

"If you live to see Mr Hornblower-" he'd told Stiles, though he knew not what he had meant to convey before those bitter words had slipped out; "tell him he'll hang from the yardarm," had not been his intention when he started to speak.

The fort had fallen, the Spaniards offered a deal - and predictable as clockwork, Hornblower had seen through it and conceived a counter before the words had left their commander's mouth. And now-

"Alright, are you, Horatio?"

Hornblower's expression was a strange blend of terror and derision when he turned back, Kennedy's mouth fighting to remain bland. "Yes, thank you, Archie." He turned back to the block and tackle hanging over the cliff, and Bush could see how tight his jaw was set from behind.

"I remember when you used to be scared of heights, Mr Hornblower!" Kennedy pronounced, as if an actor in one of the plays he would read aloud in the ward room, despite constant protest. He glanced aside to Bush, laughter clear in his eyes, and Bush felt a smile form despite himself.

Hornblower, too, was smiling regardless of his fear when he turned back once more. "Nothing has changed, Mr Kennedy," he admitted, playing along with his friend's formality. Bush caught his eye and felt a surge of affection for the young man - for he and Kennedy were so very young, if not in years (for Bush had less than ten years on them), then in spirit, a playful exuberance that he could only account to their friendship.

That affection, that long-held desire to be admitted into their intimacy, must have been what sparked his playing along. As Hornblower grasped the hawser and prepared to rappel down to young Wellard's rescue, Bush nudged Kennedy's shoulder with his own and called out. "They say one should always do what one dislikes!" he advised.

"Oh yes?" was the only response Hornblower deigned to give.

Kennedy's grin was in full force now, delighted to have a compatriot in his torment of Hornblower, and Bush knew his was not far behind as he was swept off his feet by his contagious high spirits; he deliberately did not allow his gaze to land on either Hornblower or Kennedy as he spoke. "As a boy, I had to eat turnips."

Hornblower warily began to lower himself down. "Eat them now, do you?" he asked, his voice resigned - but the anxious pitch of it was gone, and some strange tension Bush had not noted in Kennedy before suddenly faded as Hornblower disappeared below the edge of the cliff, replaced by some sort of exhaustion.

"Never touch 'em," Bush said, his voice too low to carry further than Kennedy's ears. Kennedy looked back to him, his face strangely inscrutable until Bush gave up his attempt at controlling his smile; then Kennedy clapped his shoulder, the apparent fatigue entirely absent once more. Bush felt as if he'd passed some obscure test in that moment, and he directed the reassembly of the gun in its carriage with a lighter heart than he'd felt since Captain Sawyer had stepped on board Renown.

The Dons struck, the rebellion attacked, and the fort was to be abandoned the moment it was clear - and Hornblower, the proud, reckless creature, volunteered to set the charges to send the fort to kingdom come. Bush saw Kennedy's face as his friend - their friend? - said the words, and knew his own face echoed that same dawning realization. Kennedy's throwing himself in with Hornblower was instinctive, automatic, and Bush's hardly less so. But Buckland preferred, if preferred was the word to use for so damning a mission and that cold look in their premier's eyes, Hornblower, and Bush felt a shade of Kennedy's palpable terror at the parting; the boy's voice trembled as they shook hands, and not for the first time Bush wondered just how deep their friendship went.

There was a strange moment, as Hornblower turned back to the fort, where Bush felt some strange, foreign urge to touch him, to reassure himself of Hornblower's reality - an urge so strong and strange that he could not resist it: his hand came up of its own volition and brushed the younger man's narrow shoulder as he passed, and he stared dumbly after Hornblower's retreating form until Buckland cleared his throat, giving both him and Kennedy a queer, questioning look. "Well, we had better get this whole... this whole mess cleared away. Bush, Kennedy - you know your duties."

Back on board Renown, they threw themselves into the organising of prisoners with as much appearance of zeal as they could muster, setting men to clear sections of the hold for the carpenter's crew to erect bulkheads. Bush had to reprimand both himself and Kennedy on multiple occasions within those first minutes for near criminal distraction, and he knew they had both caught the cold, hateful look in Buckland's eyes as he shook Hornblower's hand. Finally, in a lull, Kennedy grasped his arm in a desperately tight grip.

"What is it, Mr Kennedy?" Bush asked, and then, feeling his tone had been a little harsh, added with more kindness, "Tell me your mind."

"The men know their work, sir - we would only be in the way, were we to stay below." Kennedy's fingers were still tight around his upper arm.

"You may have a point there. You there! Keep to your tasks, men!" he ordered, and allowed Kennedy to pull him to the companion and then further, into the wardroom. "Now, Kennedy, no more of this - you will tell me what is the matter," he said in a low voice, his ear turned towards the door.

"You know as well as I Buckland will leave him on the island if we give him half a chance. I don't know who has his ear - if the damned fool has been listening to Sawyer or just to that lush of a doctor - but-"

"That is a harsh accusation to make, Mr Kennedy," Bush said, not in reproach, but in warning. Kennedy's mouth opened, the confiding expression wiped away and replaced with a hot, reckless anger, but Bush raised his voice as loud as he dared and continued over his protestations. "But I will concede the point that our acting captain may have his hands too full to spare men to row back. And as we find ourselves at loose ends-"

The tension holding Kennedy in a rigid, spiteful posture dissolved as if strings cut away, and he drooped against the bulkhead. "Thank you, sir," he said quietly, staring down at his hands; they shook like leaves in a gale as they stood in silence for the space of a few dozen breaths. Finally they stilled, and Kennedy looked up, his eyes flashing with that same reckless enthusiasm Bush had once condemned. "Well, what are you waiting for? There's not a moment to lose, if we don't want our acting captain to catch on!"

They walked out as if they were on an important mission, using the natural deference of the hands to have the smallest skiff lowered down the shoreward side of the ship. "That'll be all, Norris, thank you," Bush said dismissively as he climbed over the railing and dropped into the flimsy craft, Kennedy following after and fending them off of Renown's side. Bush took the oars himself, wordlessly indicating for Kennedy to man the tiller, and watched as the great mass of their ship steadily shrank away from them.

"Mr Bush, sir, I wanted to-"

"Do not thank me, Mr Kennedy; I saw that same look. And I think-" Here he hesitated: he worked hard to maintain his rank, had nearly eradicated all traces of his broad accent; to offer such liberties to a junior - and a junior as irreverent as Kennedy, no less - was a risk to all that work. And yet... "I think, while we are risking our necks together a second time, Mr Kennedy, that you may call me William."

Kennedy looked surprised, astonished, at being offered such, and he took a moment to gather himself. Then, with a touch of colour on his cheeks, he inclined his head. "In that case, Will, you-"

"I am warning you, Mr Kennedy-" Bush growled; Kennedy took no notice.

"You may call me Archie," he said, that bright smile firmly in place. "No one calls me Archibald, and if you may use a short form it is only fair I may, too. No need for entire names while we row towards our deaths, now, is there?"

Bush feigned a sigh of disapproval, though he was certain Kennedy- was certain Archie knew better than to be fooled by his attempts by now. "Very well. Archie."

The Renown was only a short distance from the fort's docks, and Archie leaped across to tie the skiff up what felt like mere moments later, offering Bush a hand up as he beamed down. "Sir," he said in a mockery of the white-gloved sideboys as Bush fought with the desire to pull Archie down into the boat in retribution.

"The cheek on you," he muttered as he batted away the offered hand and stepped onto the dock unassisted. "As you said, Archie - no time to lose; we must find Mr Hornblower and lend him our expertise."

"Expertise, Will? I only meant to offer him a boatride," Archie said over his shoulder as he took the stairs towards the fort two at a time.

"Archie! Are you out of your mind?" Bush heard Hornblower shout as he followed Archie up the stairs to where he could hear the fizzling of slow match.

"Very possibly, but we thought you could use the company!" Archie agreed in his play-reading voice. Bush quickly took in the room: barrels of powder stacked, lengths of match trailing from them, and on the other side of the barrels, as Hornblower began lighting another length- He aimed, fired; the revolutionary fell, and he fumbled with his kit to reload.

"Well you've clearly lost your wits, the both of you," Hornblower said brusquely; Archie fired into the smoke and another man fell, barely visible through the acrid cloud.

"I suggest we make our move, gentlemen; it's getting rather warm down here." Bush slipped his reloaded pistol into his gunbelt and gripped Hornblower's elbow momentarily to encourage him to follow.

Together, they ran through the fort and down into the connecting tunnels. The first breath Bush drew of fresh air as Archie helped him climb onto the grass was heaven-sent, and as soon as he gained his feet he was reaching into the smoke-scented pit to grab at Hornblower and heave him out into the sun, just in time for the first rounds to go off. The earth bucked and heaved under their feet with each following explosion, and they ran to the edge of the cliff to hail Renown, eager to escape before they were found and shot.

"She's sailing away!" Hornblower cried, the first to reach the summit.

Bush slowed his sprint as he came up, wary of the cliff's edge, and watched the four ships turn away for the open ocean. "Well..." he began, glancing back at Archie. "Looks like that's it, gentlemen."

He did not regret it, now that the end was in sight. Not the mutiny, not his encouraging of Hornblower's manipulation of Buckland. Certainly not this second mutiny that seemed now to promise their death; he cursed Buckland for a jealous fool, but he was happy to face his death alongside these two brave, bright men. They may not have saved Hornblower, but he at least would not die alone.

"No it isn't, Mr Bush," Hornblower said, his hands on his knees as he gasped against the effects of his run. Then he straightened up, a rare smile, the twin to Archie's near constant smirk, firmly in place. Bush had a momentary feeling of apprehension as he spoke. "Archie?"

Archie's smile was consistently amused; now it looked incredibly fond, as well, as he looked at Hornblower. "I am afraid I think you're right," he said with a disbelieving chuckle, his gaze flickering between Hornblower's face and Bush's own.

"What?" Bush demanded as his apprehension grew into a queer, queasy terror.

Hornblower's dark eyes flashed with excitement as he looked at Bush. "We're gonna jump." His voice was as gleeful as a skylarking midshipman, and Bush wondered at it, that he could not imagine a worse plan, and yet Hornblower had never seemed more alive - more pleased to be alive.

He and Archie jogged a few fathoms away from the cliff's face as Bush mastered himself and peered over the sickening drop to the churning sea below. "Well now who's out of his mind?!"

When he turned back, the other two were stripping down to their shirtsleeves, tossing aside their swords and guns. "See for yourself, Will!" Archie called over the dull roar of the ocean beneath them. "It's only water, you won't break anything!"

"Really..." He turned to join them, hoping to convince them of literally any other mad scheme to escape than this certain death by drowning.

Hornblower beckoned him closer encouragingly. "Come, easier than eating turnips," he said as Bush approached. And then: "Mr Kennedy?"

Before Bush could protest, Archie had him in his arms, spinning him bodily around until Hornblower could grab him by the other elbow, flashing a maniacally beautiful grin. Bush twisted fruitlessly between them, unable to escape. "No, no, gentlemen, I'm sorry, but-"

"On the count of three!" Hornblower said to Archie over Bush's head, ignoring his protests.

"One!"

"No, we're not going to jump-"

Archie continued his count, tensing to start the run up. "Two!"

His grip on Bush's forearm was firm and solid, but Hornblower seemed to think better of his hold, releasing Bush's arm and instead gripping Bush's thick, work-worn hand in his own, long and strangely delicate fingers wrapping around Bush's calloused ones, and effectively extinguishing all Bush's escape attempts out of sheer shock: he did not think his hand had been held since he went to sea - no, Nora had held it when she was small, but that hardly counted. Hornblower gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

Despite his bewildered reaction to the almost affectionate hold, he still was capable of putting up some level of protest. "We will not jump, and that's my final word!" he demanded, just as Archie shouted "And three-"

Another charge exploded behind them. " And jump!" Hornblower and Archie said in unison, and charged forwards, dragging Bush between them as they cheered wordlessly.

They cleared the cliff edge and released him to plummet alone, and he felt the loss keenly. "I can't swim!" he yelled, all attempts at dignity gone in the rush of terror as the water rose up to meet him.

Hitting the water shocked him almost insensible, not from the impact but from the strangeness of it; he sank thoughtlessly for a moment before the panic set in and he thrashed ineffectually for the surface. Then two sets of strong arms were around him, supporting him, and he broke the surface gasping. "I can't swim," he repeated as Hornblower and Archie laughed giddily, keeping him afloat as easily as they did themselves - Bush was certain if they did not feel themselves responsible for him they should be playing like mids, splashing and dunking each other in between hails to the ship.

A boat was rowed out to them, and Archie lifted himself in, leaving Hornblower to support Bush on his own while he and the men situated themselves to make more space. "I wanted to say," he started in a strange voice, his arm warm around Bush's waist in the surprising cool of the Caribbean waters. "I wanted to say, sir - thank you. It was good of you to- to keep Mr Kennedy from making an ass of himself."

"Nonsense, Mr Hornblower; Ar-" he cut himself off; the implicit limitations of his granting Mr Kennedy the liberty of his name had ended with their return to the ship - or at least the ship's boat - and he would not do Mr Kennedy the disservice of using such intimate address when he had not extended the offer. "Mr Kennedy only prompted me to do what was right. You should not have been left alone in such circumstances."

Hornblower seemed surprised by Bush's words, and not for the first time Bush felt a pang of regret at his initial behaviour towards the junior lieutenants of Renown; had he been more personable, less concerned with propriety and rank, could he have had these friendships sooner? But before Hornblower could seem to make his mind up to speak, Mr Kennedy was leaning out of the boat and grinning at them. "Pass me Will, would you, Horatio?"

Hornblower blinked at the casual address, but pushed Bush forward until Archie - for if he would not respect the time limits of their intimacy, neither would Bush - could grip him under the armpits and heave him aboard. Bush, still grappling with the remnants of the terror of their plunge, did not allow himself to lie gasping in the bottom of the boat as his instincts demanded; the moment he felt stable he turned to assist Archie in lifting Hornblower's light frame into the narrow gig.

Once they were underway, dripping uncomfortably in the sternsheets, Hornblower turned towards Archie, high spirits still playing about his face and making him look far younger than his twenty-seven years. "'Will', is it? I did not know you and our second lieutenant were such intimates, Archie."

Bush was uncertain how to respond to such a strange manner of address: Hornblower's eyes were fixed firmly upon his face as he spoke, despite ostensibly directing his words to Mr Kennedy. A glance towards Archie, at his left, showed him in a remarkable mimicry of Hornblower's posture, leaning so against the cutter's hull that they were both twisted back and looking at him with an intense humour. "Oh, yes - he granted me the privilege while he rowed me back to save your sorrow soul, 'ratio."

"Hmm." Hornblower did his best to look serious, contemplative, but strong and sincere amusement was such a rare expression on him that Bush caught it at once, and could not believe him. "Well then, Mr Bush; it seems only fair to grant you my own given name - though I beg you will not shorten it so." He threw Archie a glare that seemed only partly in jest.

"Oh, I am sorry, sir - should you prefer 'Horry'?" Archie asked archly, and Hornblower twitched as if he should like to throw himself over Bush to swat at him in retaliation.

Bush felt his lips curling into a small, secret smile of fulfilled desire to be admitted into such confidences - a week ago Horatio would never have let his guard down enough for even so small a betrayal of self, were he in the room. "I would be honoured for you to call me William, then, both of you," he said, adding, "At least when we are not in company, of course; discipline must be maintained amongst the men," in a perfectly bland tone.

Archie huffed, seemingly put out before he caught the sardonic note, and then chuckled. As the boat pulled alongside Renown, he looked more somber. "Well, gentlemen, it is time to face the music."

Buckland's persecution of Hornblower continued from there; he was set to captain all three of the Spanish ships alone, and Bush intervened his apology to their acting captain; as the superior officer, the fault for disobeying orders lay with him - Hornblower had not, in fact, disobeyed any at all.

"It was true to form, if nothing else," Buckland said, his voice strange and frail. "You three: you are so full of yourselves, and of each other... You think me a fool."

It was true, and more true perhaps of Horatio than of any of them, from his position of genius; Bush pitied him, Archie looked down on him, but Horatio? Bush did not think Horatio thought of him at all, except to maneuver around him in order to stay on course, as if he were an inconveniently placed bit of shoal. Buckland was as dangerous, too, as sudden shallows were to the safety of the ship - though not so dangerous as Sawyer's erratic moods had been, like an malignant squall; whatever damage had been done to Renown, to her crew's morale, was not the sin of youthful recklessness, but of frail and unfit officers.

"No one pretends command is easy, sir," Bush said after a pause - damning Buckland by faint praise; he knew Buckland felt the insult keenly, but could not bring himself to any further show of comradery after his treatment of Hornblower.

"I never expected it to be easy." Buckland's voice was mournful, and Bush gave him a shallow bow and excused himself to see to the transfer of stores to the Spanish prizes; Hornblower would have enough on his plate.

[tortoisesshells]

top five doomed mariners go

in order not of significance, but of encounter:

(1) William Bush - the original Doomed Mariner, my copy of Lord Hornblower is still held together with duct tape from chucking the book across the room when I realized Forester was not going to pull a "if there's no body he's not dead" - rather, "if there's no body, it's because he was too close to the ignition point." A character whose defining trait is his devotion is actually something that can be so personal.

(2) James Norrington - the man, the myth, the legend. clearly takes up too much brain space for a [checking notes for comedic effect] antagonist secondary character from a twenty-year-old theme park ride movie. Hard to say at which point it became clear he'd never survive, but there's definitely a point at which he clearly thinks he's survived too long for anyone's good, least of all his own.

(3) Mr. Starbuck

“On this level, Ahab’s hammock swings within; his head this way. A touch, and Starbuck may survive to hug his wife and child again.—Oh Mary! Mary!—boy! boy! boy!—But if I wake thee not to death, old man, who can tell to what unsounded deeps Starbuck’s body this day week may sink, with all the crew! Great God, where art Thou? Shall I? shall I?—The wind has gone down and shifted, sir; the fore and main topsails are reefed and set; she heads her course.” “Stern all! Oh Moby Dick, I clutch thy heart at last!” Such were the sounds that now came hurtling from out the old man’s tormented sleep, as if Starbuck’s voice had caused the long dumb dream to speak. The yet levelled musket shook like a drunkard’s arm against the panel; Starbuck seemed wrestling with an angel; but turning from the door, he placed the death-tube in its rack, and left the place. (123: The Musket)

(4) Eyk Larsen - doomed by Netflix more than his own foibles, though that's not for lack of trying on his foibles' part. Even the men on his crew that like him are waiting for him to snap under the strain of his bereavement, alcoholism, and the demands of the new shipping company's changes (and the sudden appearance/disappearance of a ghost ship. and inexplicable deaths. and seeing things. and and and). Doesn't make it three whole scenes before staring moodily into the deeps of the Atlantic, musing on the impossibility of knowing what lives on the floor thousands of feet below. Kind of deserved that mutiny. Didn't exactly die in 1899, but. Well. Like his relationship with Maura, it was complicated.

(5) Bill Malloy - He never learned how to swim, he put together The Big Secret about the manslaughter trial quicker than any other uninvolved character, he's been in love with and trailing a respectful step behind Liz Collins Stoddard for 20+ years to no avail (but, hey, Carolyn says he's as good as her father, which?), and he's not the most helpful ghost but he is having a little too much fun getting revenge for his murder - did we ever hear him laugh when he was alive? I suppose we have to subtract some points for him never spending any time on a boat within the scope of the narrative, but then, he IS trying to go back to his job on the boats - and no one else on this list sings "What Do You Do With A Drunken Sailor?". I'm pretty sure the narrative is through with him now, alas. He'll always be famous to me.

[scotianostra]

Happy Birthday Scottish actor David Rintoul.

Born David Wilson; 29th November 1948, I assume there was another actor called David Wilson so chose Rintoul. David was raised in Rubislaw Den North in Aberdeen educated at Robert Gordon’s College in the City.

He started acting at a young age and attended the Aberdeen Children’s Theatre and was a Scottish Country dancer at Queen’s Cross Church where he won many awards. His father was Doctor Leslie Wilson who helped advance elderly care services throughout Aberdeenshire. His mother, Helen, was a PE teacher. He graduated from Edinburgh University with an MA and then attended RADA.

David’s first role after RADA was in Aladdin at the Connaught Theatre in Worthing, Sussex. The first acting credit on screen I can find for Rintoul is in the RLS dramatization Weir of Hermiston, a BBC Scotland series from the early 80’s, Elizabeth might be interested to know that the city of Hermiston, in Oregon took its name from the book.

Since the 70’s Rintoul has been very busy, appearing in TV shows through the decades, including, in the 70’s , The Flight of the Heron, Crown Court and The Mallens, the 80’s saw him in Pride and Prejudice, Big Deal and Poirot. In the 90’s he was in, what is arguably his most famous role as Doctor Finlay opposite to Ian Bannen as Doctor Cameron as well as Hornblower and Taggart, into the noughties and we saw David appearing in Sweet Medicine, Taggart (again) and the voice of Mr Biscuit in all three Wallace and Gromit films.

Up to date David has been in Midsomer Murders as well as voicing several video games as diverse as Star Wars: The Old Republic and Blades of Time. He also appeared in an episode of Game of Thrones and has voiced several animations, the most well known of which is Peppa pig where he played three different characters, in a more adult role he was in the excellent In Plain Sight as Chief Constable Renfrew with Dougie Henshall and Martin Compston. The last thing he has appeared in is The Crown, as Michael Adeane, private secretary to Queen Elizabeth.

He appears often on the stage and has even been back to Aberdeen to act in a pantomime at His Majesty’s Theatre, and spent time on the West End stage in Dirty Dancing as Baby’s Dad Dr Jake Houseman

David’s latest film role was in the Hollywood action film The Protégé, he has since voiceda number of video games and a has three projects on the go, the animation Jungle Beat 2: The Past, Bairns TV series Mittens & Pants and the short called Not Dark Yet

[silverfoxstole]

I’d intended to write something completely different this afternoon, but the Hornblower/Night at the Museum AU has apparently taken over my brain and I ended up with nearly 3500 words of that instead.

Thank you so much to @lacnunga for coming up with this wonderful idea in the first place, and to @amalthea9 for the fantastic additions I’ve used as well. I will just point out that I’ve never actually seen any of the NATM films, though I am of course vaguely aware of the set up. This is me riffing on the concept.

The gallery seemed subdued when Styles started his patrol.

It was strange; unlike most nights there was little apparent activity in the display cases, and it wasn’t until he’d made two rounds of the room that he realised there had been no small voice barking at him and demanding to know why he had turned up thirty seconds late for his shift again, chastising him for his terrible time-keeping. Frowning, he passed his torch over the Hotspur’s home only to find that the diorama was curiously low on figures; the ship was drastically undermanned, though he could see Matthews chivvying some of the hands that were milling about on deck. Prowse was there, too, waddling back and forth, but there was no sign of Bush or Hornblower and the whole model had an air of despondency that Styles had never seen before, as though something momentous had happened in his absence. When Matthews caught sight of him the bos’n just shook his grey head before Styles could ask and pointed towards another case, one that Styles had never really paid much attention to before because it didn’t really contain much of any interest.

It still didn’t, though this time not because its miniature landscape was devoid of ships and therefore much in the way of excitement. Styles shone a light into the case and blinked in astonishment: in place of village buildings that usually clustered around the mouth of a serpentine river, tiny people bustling back and forth on the quay, there was what could only be described as devastation. If he hadn’t known better he would have said that some kind of fire or explosion had taken place; the houses and offices had been flattened, what remained burnt-out husks of wood and paper, and the mirrored water was cracked, its surface peeling away and curling at the corners. Here and there a battered figure lay, though most of them had apparently already been removed. Belatedly Styles realised that the case itself was taped off, and a hastily-printed sign stuck to the glass that declared it was awaiting redisplay.

For a moment he thought of returning to Hotspur and asking Matthews what had happened, but then he spotted movement in Lady Barbara’s frame, illuminated by a spot lamp above, and heard a very distinct hiss from that direction; as he approached he could see that she was waving to him, and looking quite distressed, which was most unusual when she normally radiated an aura of serenity no matter what chaos erupted around her. When he got close his torch beam revealed the small figure sitting on the edge of the frame: Hornblower was hunched over, hat on his knees, and even in the horrible white light from the LED bulb Styles could see the strain on his face; he didn’t appear to be paying Lady Barbara much attention, an odd development when he only normally climbed all the way up there to moon over her.

“What’s going on?” Styles asked. “Where’s Mr Bush? He’s never been fighting those Frenchies in that wrecked case; looks like there’s been a right old battle.”

“It was only meant to be a quick sortie,” Hornblower said, though the words didn’t appear to be addressed to Styles; he was staring at his hat, apparently unaware of Styles’s presence, and Lady Barbara sighed.

“Something of a disaster has happened,” she explained sadly. “Mr Bush is - ”

“He’s dead.” Hornblower’s voice as he cut her off was flat. “I sent him. Sent him to his death.”

“No, you didn’t, Horatio,” Lady Barbara told him, glancing helplessly at Styles. “He wanted to go; you couldn’t have stopped him.”

“I should have refused permission. I’m his senior officer; I should have said no.”

Styles wasn’t sure what happened to models that were classed as dead; whatever had occurred some considerable damage had been afflicted, but there hadn’t been many obvious casualties, no remains, just the lack of hands aboard Hotspur. “Are you absolutely sure he’s dead?”

“Yes,” Hornblower replied, just as Lady Barbara answered in the negative.

“We don’t know that,” she said firmly.

“He hasn’t come back; he must be.” With an effort Hornblower sat up, squaring his shoulders. His face closed as though a shutter had come down on it and he set his hat back on his head. “I’ll have to inform the admiral, though he must have heard by now.”

“D’you want some help gettin’ there, sir?” Styles put out a hand with the intention of letting Hornblower step onto it but as usual the little captain just straightened, clasping his hands behind his back, and fixed him with a hard stare.

“No, thank you,” he said. “I need no assistance; I can manage perfectly well.”

“He can’t,” Lady Barbara remarked as she watched him slide awkwardly off the frame. “He’ll go to pieces without William to keep an eye on him, fret himself to ribbons.”

“Did you see what happened to the crew, ma’am?” Styles asked hopefully, but she shook her head.

“There were too many people about when they found the mess; Sawyer was down here, hopping mad. I didn’t dare move. “

“But you saw the explosion?” Though Styles couldn’t be sure that was what had caused the devastation in case thirty-three, it certainly looked as though some such accident had occurred.

Lady Barbara’s painted eyes met his. “I saw the fire,” she replied.

~

With no more information forthcoming Styles decided to use his rounds to make a few enquiries.

The figureheads at the other end of the hall could usually be relied upon to know the comings and goings of the museum, day or night, but on this occasion it seemed they’d taken their collective eyes off the ball. Even Hammond and Foster, the most vocal of the bunch, denied all knowledge of any action between the British and French contingents last night, though when Styles was about to leave Foster told him that if Hammond hadn’t been snoring he would have seen what happened as thirty-three was directly in his line of sight, a charge immediately refuted by the carved Irishman in the strongest terms. Inevitably the bickering soon escalated into a full-blown argument that had the rest of the heads calling for quiet, a request that of course was ignored and Styles slipped away, deciding that discretion was the better part of valour. He could still hear them as he made his way along to the uniform displays, throwing increasingly creative insults at each other.

He had half-thought that Cotard might have played one of his habitual pranks on Bush and stuffed him into a pocket or stuck a glass over him but incredibly the mannequin appeared to be genuinely insulted by such a suggestion, running off into a tide of incomprehensible French accompanied by some vociferous arm-waving when Styles dared to broach the subject. Orrock stepped in and explained gravely that they’d heard what had happened, adding in a low voice that Cotard had been quite despondent at the thought that his little adversary might be gone for good.

By the time he’d patrolled the rest of the building and returned to the first floor, unable to find any trace of Bush whatsoever, Styles was feeling much the same way. He’d even checked the rubbish bin where he’d discovered the broken remains of Kennedy, but it was empty, no sign of even a single battered deck hand or Imperial soldier.

He was still wondering whether he’d somehow missed something when morning rolled around and his shift came to an end; it was only when he was getting ready to go home that his eye was caught by the door leading to the offices occupied by the curatorial staff, and in particular the sign that pointed towards the display department. He’d sneaked into the model shop to pilfer a few bits and bobs with which to put Archie back together, and then it had been full of half-built dioramas and pieces that were no longer in use; if damaged miniatures were going to end up anywhere, it would have to be there. Deciding that breakfast and sleep could wait, Styles pushed through the door and headed down the corridor.

Annoyingly Wallis, the one in charge of fixing broken displays and building new ones, had a habit of starting early and was already there when Styles stuck his head in; Styles had been hoping to have a poke about without interference, something that was going to be impossible with glue, wood and paint spread all over the place and instructions not to touch shouted as soon as he went near anything.

Wallis glanced at him over his John Lennon specs for a second before returning to whatever it was he was intent on, paintbrush in hand. “Shouldn’t you be heading home, mate? It’s gone half past eight.”

“I’m on my way.  Saw the mess in thirty-three,” Styles added before it could be pointed out that the exit was in the opposite direction. “Have you got the survivors?”

For a moment the other man looked puzzled but then the question seemed to register and he nodded towards a plastic crate on the table. “In there. It’s a bit of a mess; not sure how much I’ll be able to fix.”

“D’you know what happened?” Styles sidled slowly towards the box, stopping to peer at a newly-rigged model of HMS Pickle on the way. “Looked like a fire, but that’s not possible, is it?”

“You’d think so, but sadly it’s true. Derek was covering for you last night and he thought he’d have a crafty fag.” Wallis’s lips pursed in annoyance. “Dropped the bloody thing, didn’t he? Right when the lid was off the case, too; Tim removed it so I could put these guys back this morning.” He gestured to the couple of French sailors and a rowboat that he’d been putting the finishing touches to. “Before he managed to put it out half the scenery was wrecked, and the rest copped it when the sprinklers kicked in. It’s going to take forever to put right; might have to start from scratch.”

Styles stared. “Bloody hell.”

“Quite. Of course, he’s out on his ear; Sawyer went barmy when he saw what’d happened. Practically turned purple; I really thought he was going to explode this time.”

Styles knew he wouldn’t have liked to be on the receiving end of that. James Sawyer in a temper was truly a sight to behold, especially if he’d forgotten to take his medication. “Have you...”  - he glanced around the room, trying to sound casual - “...have you seen a little lieutenant anywhere? About three inches high, dark hair, blue eyes? He’s usually with the Hotspur but I couldn’t find him anywhere last night.”

Wallis frowned. “Not to my knowledge, but you’re welcome to take a look. Though why he’d be in with that lot if he’s part of Hotspur’s crew I’ve no idea; the models don’t just get up and move around.”

That’s what you think, Styles retorted inwardly. Given permission now, he lifted the lid off the crate; inside was a jumble of twisted miniature figures, some melted, some snapped in half, almost all with their paint chipped and flaking. Trying to be gentle, he sifted carefully through, wondering if any of them could be properly repaired; most were missing limbs, even heads in some cases, and it was hard to tell which were meant to be French and which British.

“Why such an interest?” Wallis enquired, sounding amused as he watched Styles’s attempts to handle the remains without damaging them any further. “Are all these nights on your own starting to get to you, mate? You’re making friends with the displays?”

Styles muttered something appropriately filthy and the other man just chuckled, turning back to his work. Frustratingly, it seemed that the contents of the box was just what was left of the French peasants and possibly a couple of sailors, and eventually Styles had to admit defeat. Just as he was about to replace the lid, however, he spotted a splash of navy blue right at the bottom and his heart ridiculously skipped a beat. Wincing inwardly as he shifted a couple of dismembered townspeople out of the way, he slid a hand underneath the tiny figure and lifted it out. It appeared to have taken a considerable battering, as half the paint on the face had gone and the left leg was broken away below the knee, but what remained was recognisable: Bush’s face looked pained and in this light the one eye that was visible seemed to be closed, but it was definitely him and Styles nearly trembled with relief.

Without preamble he turned and presented what remained of Bush to Wallis. “Can you fix him?” he asked.

The conservator blinked in surprise, but he took Bush from Styles; Styles tried not to wince again when he was less than gentle. “He’s from one of the older scenes,” Wallis said, putting Bush down on the table and pulling over a magnifying glass on a stand to take a closer look. “Don’t think I’ve seen him before; must have been made well before my time.”

Styles huffed impatiently as the broken lieutenant was examined in minute detail. “Can you fix him?” he asked again.

Wallis sat back. “Possibly.” He jerked a thumb towards the bookshelves behind him. “There should be schematics and plans somewhere in amongst that lot. Might take me a while to find ‘em, though, and I’ve got a load of other work on. Thirty-three’s going to be a bugger to put right.”

“How about overtime?”

Wallis laughed. “I don’t get paid for that, mate.”

Styles had a sudden vision of the broken Bush being thrown into a box and shoved on a shelf to be forgotten until the next clear-out of the model store, when someone was likely to decide he was past saving, just like Kennedy. “What if I said I’d pay you?”

“What? Why the hell would you do that?” Wallis demanded in astonishment.

With a shrug that he hoped was appropriately nonchalant, Styles just replied, “Don’t want to see him chucked away, that’s all. The ship doesn’t look right without him.”

For a long moment Wallis stared at him as though he thought he’d run completely mad, but then he looked back at the little figure on the table and a gleam came into his eye. “OK,” he said. “Leave it with me. No promises, though.”

Styles grinned. “Brilliant.”

~

The next few weeks were filled with the usual kind of madness Styles had come to expect of his magical charges, but though he relished rugby-tackling Cotard to the floor when the mannequin made his next break for freedom in the direction of the Channel Tunnel he didn’t really derive the satisfaction he’d experienced in the past without Bush to congratulate him, no doubt smirking at Cotard’s voluble disgust as he was led back to his case for the umpteenth time.

He hadn’t dared sneak back to the model shop in case he discovered the worst: that Wallis wasn’t able to fix the lieutenant as he had hoped. Though he checked the bins periodically and found nothing that didn’t mean that Bush wasn’t already languishing somewhere on a top shelf along with all the other bits and pieces of miniatures that Wallis couldn’t be bothered to dispose of just yet. No more action had taken place in the gallery; both sides appeared to have agreed upon a ceasefire for now, given what had happened to the inhabitants of case thirty-three, and for that Styles was grateful. He had quite enough to do without ducking tiny cannonballs and having to rescue sailors that had become entangled in their own rigging.

It was a Friday evening and he had just come on shift (actually a minute early for once) when he finally saw Wallis again. The conservator was waiting for him in the Napoleonic gallery with a small box and a big smile. “Surprise!” he announced, adding when Styles just looked baffled, “Finished him this afternoon. Thought you might like to do the honours and return him to his ship.”

“You were really able to put him back together?” Styles asked as he took the box, making sure he wasn’t going to drop it.

Wallis shrugged. “Well, he’s so old I couldn’t find any appropriate replacement material so I had to give him a wooden leg, but I daresay he’ll cope. Not unusual for sailors, is it?”

Styles almost didn’t like to lift the lid, but when he did there was Bush, looking as good as new if not better, the eyes that glared up at him an even brighter blue than before thanks to their fresh coat of paint. It was hardly possible to see that he’d been damaged at all, but for the slightly different shape of that substitute leg. “Blimey,” he said, relieved and glad to see his tiny nemesis again. “You’ve done a great job.”

“Well, it turned into a bit of a side project; I’ve never looked through all that old stuff before. It was fascinating; found design drawings for him, so I was able to replicate the face pretty much as it was.” Wallis dug into his pocket and produced a ring of keys. “Want to put him back where he belongs? His shipmates are probably missing him.”

Reflecting that there was many a true word spoken in jest, Styles nodded, and Wallis unlocked Hotspur’s case. As the door swung open from the corner of his eye Styles saw Hornblower glance up in surprise, turning away from the quarterdeck rail, but when he looked properly all was still: the captain stood by the wheel, head high and hands behind his back, while Prowse consulted with the helmsman and in the waist below Matthews supervised the hands at work. With deliberate care Styles grasped Bush between finger and thumb and lifted him from the box, leaning into the case and setting him down on the deck beside Hornblower, who naturally didn’t react. He tried not to smile at the sight of them both there together once more as he stepped back and let Wallis secure the door; it was still a complete mystery to him how they managed to get out of a locked display cabinet but somehow they did, along with all the others who so enlivened his working hours.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Wallis said, checking his watch. “I think I’m the last one; d’you want to lock up after me?”

When Styles returned to the gallery it was nearly ten minutes later and he wasn’t even remotely surprised to see that things had changed aboard Hotspur in his absence. As he approached Hornblower and Bush came to the rail to meet him, the captain doing his best to look stern and in control despite the smile that was apparently trying to break onto his face and Bush now with a slight limp thanks to his mismatched legs that thankfully didn’t seem to be hindering him too much.

“Well done, Styles,” Hornblower said after some considerable awkward throat-clearing, nodding in approval. “Thank you, for your efforts and for bringing Mr Bush back to us.”

Amazingly, Styles found himself blushing at the compliment; such things weren’t exactly a regular occurrence. “Weren’t nothing, sir.”

“Nevertheless, I’m grateful to you.” Hornblower exchanged a glance with his first lieutenant. “We both are. Aren’t we, William?”

“Indeed we are, sir,” Bush agreed. He looked up at Styles and his eyebrow lifted a fraction. “Late on duty again, eh?”

“Actually, sir - ” Styles began, but then he realised that newly-repaired face was smiling at him, ever so slightly.

“Carry on, Mr Styles,” Bush said, touching his hat in salute, and Styles just laughed, knuckling his forehead in reply.

“Aye aye, sir!”

[gone-grl-gone]

Once @amalthea9 and I were talking about a fairy tale called Jorinda and Joringel, about an engaged peasant that has misadventures when they step in the lands of a Witch who turns Jorinda into caged bird so Joringel has to find a magic red flower to release his fiancee.

When discussing fan casting @amalthea9 proposes Ioan Gruffud for Joringel, and i proposed Nina Sosanya for Jorinda.

That looks like a lovely story, although I am not familiar with the story. Maybe as a retelling of the story (more like a sad, gothic, or horror story) where Hornblower is given command of the Renown (now renamed to HMS Imagination, but that doesn't change the character of the ship much), and his men start experiencing mischievous hauntings (and tragic nightmares) on board. Turns out, the Spirit of Archie is bound to the ship and wants to be set free. His memories of abuse under Simpson and Sawyer, his life in Prison, and even his happiest memories with Hornblower and Bush are re-lived and shared amongst the sailors.

Occasionally (and only with Bush, Styles, Matthews, and Hornblower), he would actively prank them or actively engage them. However, he is most helpful at saving the lives of the sailors, giving them hints to help them find a way to release his spirit from being bound to the Imagination. I can picture Hornblower talking to himself, or saying "I'm going crazy, Archie...." and talking to Archie in his private quarters as to not seem like he's going crazy (which he's not, Archie is there and can hear him). Slowly, he starts calling the Ship "Mr Kennedy" instead of "The Imagination" as the story continues.

Off they go on crazy adventures where the boundaries of logic and the laws of the natural go way off course, and everyone gets major character development. Hornblower gets a real psychological rollercoaster for this one (and more Bush-Kennedy shenanigans. I love these two. They needed more screentime together.).

Real emotional scene: They maroon the ship on an island, and then out of the ship, they can see Archie's Spirit form - as if he were still alive with the bullet wound, but glowing and smiling. He comforts them, has a few final laughs and cuddles with Bush and Hornblower before he crosses over to the light. Maybe a final confession and request...perhaps?

It's symbolic as Archie is telling Hornblower to leave his horrible imaginations and false beliefs about himself behind on that island - everyone loves and supports him, and that he's just imagining that he's undeserving of promotion and happiness.

@ariel-seagull-wings @amalthea9 @silverfoxstole

Idk, that's another take on the story. Never read it, but that is what I could conjure up.

Btw, thanks, now I'mma cry.

And no, it was no coincidence that I called the Ship The Imagination, I was watching and listening to the Soundtrack of Neil DeGrasse Tyson's "Cosmos: A Spacetime Odyssey" - it's a beautiful series about the universe.

EDIT:

Another tragedy-romantic thing to add more drama to this ship.

Archie is aware of Bush's unrequited love for Hornblower. As they go on the journey in the Strange Waters, Bush develops the Hanahaki Disease (Flowers from Unrequited Love Disease). He tries to dismiss it or hide it - but Archie's Spirit is aware of it. Eventually it becomes known, but they don't know what it is or what to do (except for Archie, because he's a ghost now and has a hive mind to tap into). But cut to the scene where they maroon the Imagination with Archie's Spirit now free to crossover, Archie tells Horatio about Bush's love for him. He tells Horatio to forgive himself for his shortcomings and instead realise that he should learn to practice self-compassion, and see the love others have for him.

"Horatio, I believe you do know what love is, but you don't recognise it even when it's smushed into your face. A la, Mister Bush.”

“Get out of your head, Horatio! Don’t you see William? The love that you have been looking for all this time is right there- dying before your eyes!!”

"Love each other for me. Love Mr Bush for my sake - he's a git, but he's a loyal, stubborn, but steadfast git. Someone you need when you need to be saved." he says with a sad smile.

"Mister Bush, please save Horatio from himself. He's knows what love is, but doesn't even recognise it in himself or around him. He's that daft." Archie says to a semi-conscious, dying Bush (with a huge bloody Chrysanthemum bush growing out of him - hahaha Bush, get it? Also, I didn't know that in European Countries Chrysanthemums were symbols of death - he probably knows it's fruitless to love Horatio because he's got the booty for Duty and High Standards).

Maybe Bush dies as well, knowing his love will never be on par with Horatio's sense of duty and high standards....idk, made me sad again....or maybe he doesn't when Horatio's extension of Friendship and maybe even love that grows over the coming weeks afterwards does the disease get stemmed. In my headcanon, the strong friendship stems the more damaging and lethal part of the disease. This instead replaces Bush's amputation, and instead makes him more like an Asthma patient.

[ailendolin]

Whump Wednesday - 1 - Hornblower

Welcome to Whump Wednesday - which is actually more like Comfort Wednesday but I love alliterations so Whump Wednesday it is. Since I don't have a WIP snippet to share today, I thought I'd try something new based on these wonderful comfort prompts here.

If you'd like to see any of the prompts from the link turned into a short story, send me an ask or dm with the prompt and pairing / characters and I'll see what I can do.

This week's ficlet is for the Hornblower fandom and was inspired by a conversation @amalthea9 and I had regarding Styles, Matthews and Archie teaming up to force Horatio to take some rest. If you haven't seen her newest video of Styles's best moments, please go and watch it because it's brilliant!

Prompt: “Lay back down, you need to rest.”

“Lay back down, you need to rest,” Styles said, reaching out to stop Captain Hornblower from sitting up. “Sir,” he added sheepishly when Mr. Hornblower raised one of his eyebrows rather pointedly at him.

“I’m perfectly fine, Styles,” Mr. Hornblower insisted with a hint of annoyance. “The fever’s gone down this morning – as you well know since you were here when the doctor said as much.”

Styles nodded. “I was, sir, but with all due respect the doctor also ordered you to rest for at least another two days.”

“Easy for him to say,” Mr. Hornblower grumbled. “He doesn’t have a ship to run, now does he?”

“No, sir,” Styles agreed. “But Lieutenant Kennedy has and he’s doing a damn good job if I may say so. The ship’s in very good hands.”

Mr. Hornblower let out a soft sigh.

“Of course she is,” he said, in that soft tone that Styles knew was reserved for Mr. Kennedy, and Mr. Kennedy alone.

He offered his bedridden captain a smile.

“He was worried about you, sir,” he said, thinking of the dark circles beneath Mr. Kennedy’s eyes and the worried frown that had carved itself deeply upon his face over the past week. “Still is, I reckon. We all are.”

The words seemed to take the metaphorical wind out of Mr. Hornblower’s sails.

“I know,” he said, finally relaxing back against his pillows and giving up the fight to Style’s relief. “And I thank you for it. Please tell Lieutenant Kennedy that there’s no need for further worry. I will stay in my cabin until the doctor’s has cleared me for light duty.”

Styles smiled and knuckled his forehead. “Aye aye, sir. I’ll go get your dinner and let Lieutenant Kennedy know right away.”

Mr. Hornblower nodded. “Good man.”

Pride swelled in Styles’s chest at the compliment. He stepped out of the captain’s cabin, softly closing the door behind him. As he made his way to the quarterdeck where Mr. Kennedy most likely was at this time of day, he felt glad to be finally able to put his acting captain’s mind at ease – a little, at least. Mr. Kennedy would never stop worrying about Mr. Hornblower, Styles knew; just like Mr. Hornblower would never stop worrying about Mr. Kennedy.

It was the way things had always been between them, and truth be told he wouldn’t have it any other way.

[fyeahmeninroyalnavy]

#horatio hornblower/archie kennedy modern AU

Rain and Puffy Shirts

Dedicated to and prompted by my dear friend @professorlehnsherr-almashy

"Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Archibald Theo Kennedy, but my friends and family all call me Archie. I'm 27, a Critical Care flight paramedic for the NHS, and significant other to Horatio Edward Hornblower, also 27. He's an artist, and a very good one I might add. Everyone loves his paintings of tall ships and anything to do with the Napoleanic War.

He does allright for himself, well enough that he works from home. He can also sing and play the guitar, which he does for fun. And also to impress me.

We've been sharing a flat for the past three months but we've known one another for about a year. Most of that year we spent just as friends …

No doubt friends in serious denial.

I'm going to be sharing snippets of our life together, but don't worry, you'll be hearing from Horatio too, even though he’s extremely shy.

And now on to our story.

On a chilly Spring evening in London, Horatio and I attended a costume party given by a close friend, William Bush, or Liam as we call him. His home is just around the bend from our flat which is a good thing as we never drink/drive. Horatio looked incredibly gorgeous in his 18th century Royal Navy uniform. I wore one as well and our costumes were the center of attention that evening.

When Horatio had had enough of the party "he can only bear so much of them" we began our walk home. Rather I walked while he staggered. "I should have kept a closer eye on my boyfriend's alcohol consumption that evening but I was having too much fun playing with Liam's new dog Styles. As a result of my distraction Horatio had more to drink than he could handle, which isn't much at all.

"Come on Ratio, watch your step now."

"Horatio knitted his brows looking puzzled. "I am washing it, Arshie. Ekzacly why am I supposed to wash it?”

"So you don't fall, of course." The last time that happened I ended up playing Paramedic while off duty. You were quite the pathetic mess, as I recall." He smiled ruefully.

Horatio appeared puzzled for a moment before answering. "Ah yes, I merember now.

That really hurt! My nose looked awful and I was humilitated, all covered in blood and dirt. Ima bloody klutz!”

Archie snorted. "And you had only had a pint that evening too."

"Like I shaid, Ima bloody klutz!"

"You're my bloody klutz though." He squeezed his mate's shoulder fondly.

"Arshie, he responded, pulling his mate close and nuzzling his nose into a warm neck. Am I? Truly?"

"You know you are my darling, and while I don't mind if you're a bit unsteady I do mind if you get hurt." he answered.

"M'not going to. You won't let me."

As soon as he spoke Horatio tripped and nearly fell flat onto the pavement.

"Whoa, careful there! I can't have that sweet face spoiled by the footpath! He steadied him in strong arms. Since you definitely went over your limit tonight, I doubt you’ll be very happy come morning, my poor lamb.”

"But I'm reeeally happy rish now, my Arshie Bear, he slurred, an arm draped affectionately over his boyfriend’s shoulder. C'mere, you lil' snugglebunny, and give me a kish!”

He complied readily, never able to resist kissing those soft full lips. Even when completely sloshed, his Horatio's kisses were always like heaven. And Archie loved when Horatio was so open and unguarded, a very different man than most people knew him to be. He was a cheerful, snuggly and affectionate drunk.

He kissed the soft sweet mouth slowly and tenderly, making both of them hum with pleasure. When at last they parted he was rewarded with a happy, goofy smile that warmed his soul.

"I do love you sho very much my dearest,"he sighed.

"And I love you my sweet Horatio. I can express no kinder sign of love than this kind kiss.”

"Don't make me cry, Mr. Kennedy. I have a repu, repustation to uphold."

"Your reputation is safe with me. I'll never reveal what a sentimental fellow you really are, he replied as he brushed curls away from his mate's forehead. Archie glanced up at the gathering clouds anxiously. C'mere. I can smell rain and we need to get home."

Suddenly Horatio felt himself being hoisted over Archie's broad shoulders, his head upside down so that he was looking at the ground. He burst into peals of laughter. "Arsheee, put me down! I can waltz just fine, an I'm much too heavy. Wait a minute. What is thish we have here?"

He jumped suddenly and squeaked. "Ratio, leave my bloody arse alone!" There was another flinch and a squeal, followed by hysterical giggling from the offender.

"Can't. Ish really cute and ish right here where I can pinsh it!"

"You're incorrigible when you're drunk, you know that, right? And damned adorable as well."

"Can't help it if your bum ish so nice and pinshable. Ima pinsh it again!"

"Owww! That hurt! You're truly living up to your nickname tonight Honey Badger. Not caring and all that. And since you won't play nice I'm trying things a different way."

He swiftly shifted positions so that he was carrying his love in his arms, protecting himself from his cheeky offender.

Horatio merely grinned and wrapped both arms around his neck just as a cool rain began falling.

"Arshie, you can't possibly carry me like this!"

"I already am, my darling, long legs and all!"

"Have I ever told you just how much I love being held by you? "He nuzzled Archie's neck and kissed it.

Archie swallowed hard as a deep feeling of warmth and affection for the man he loved took his breath away. He stopped and stood still, just holding Horatio tighter and staring into those soft brown eyes, wet lashes impossibly long. He knew they should get moving soon, but the moment felt to precious to waste.

"And I love holding you." Pressing their foreheads together, he sighed contententedly, then began moving purposefully towards home.

Eventually they made it to their flat, completely drenched but happy.

Archie put Horatio down but kept one arm tucked around his waist for support as he unlocked the door to their flat.

"Let's get you into some dry clothing before you catch a chill."

On queue, Horatio began to shiver and his previously cheerful demeanor changed abruptly. His lips turned down into a pout, his brow furrowing.

"How'd I get sho drunk Arshee? Someone must of put a tot of rum in my Coke! Was it you?"

He snorted. "I would never."

"Will you help me? I can't make things work and there's two of you now. I’m going to regret this later, aren’t I?”

He smiled sympathetically.

"Probably. But I'm going to take very good care of you, so no worries, okay?" He helped Horatio to their bedroom, grabbed some towels from the cupboard and wrapping him in one helped him lie down on the bed. "I'll be right back."

He went into the kitchen for a glass of water and some aspirin, took dry boxers and a tee shirt from a drawer and returned to the bed.

"Here, take these aspirin and drink all the water. Archie lifted Horatio up and helped him drink. There we go. Now, let's get you into some dry clothing." He began tugging at the wet garments.

"Achee, you're taking all my clothes off! Horatio began to giggle. Take yours off too!"

"Another time my darling. You're a bit too inebriated for anything but cuddles I fear.”

"M'not. Please?"he whined.

"Let's just concentrate on getting you dry before you catch cold. I won't have you getting sick under my watch.”

A cross between a growl and a groan was heard but Archie just smiled and concentrated on his task. He was at his best as a caregiver; it was an integral part of his profession after all. But being allowed to care for his partner so intimately was everything to him. It had taken some work to get to this point in their relationship. And now that they were there, he cherished it.

"There we are! I think that's dry enough. Fluffy."

"I'm not Fluffy!" He playfully batted at his mate, smiling impishly.

"No? Perhaps if I brought you a mirror it would change your mind." He ruffled the dark brown ringlets affectionately.

Horatio shivered. "Will you hurry and get changed? I'm cold and I need you to keep warm. My Achee Bear, he mumbled sleepily. Love your cuddles."

"Of course. I'll be back in a flash.

Archie quickly undressed, dried himself, and changed. Horatio was chilled and his teeth were chattering, so his mate was in a hurry to join him. He pulled back the covers, got in bed, and wrapped his strong arms around his shivering partner, pulling him close.

"Is this better?"

Horatio sighed contentedly. "Much." He nuzzled into Archie's neck, murmuring nonsensical phrases.

"My poor Horatio, you're still cold as an ice lolly." He began rubbing his hands up and down his partner's back to generate warmth.

"Mmm, a melting one now. There's nothing in this world I love more than your hugs, my dearest. Or hearing you say my name. He smiled shyly and ducked his head. Well, almost nothing!"

Archie grinned in delight, blue eyes sparkling. He licked his lips and jutted out his chin in a cheeky little smirk. He kissed the tip of Horatio's nose, then pulled his head to lay against his broad shoulder. "Sleep now, darling. I worry that tomorrow will be a long day for you." He stroked the soft curls, relishing the silky texture.

"Mmhm, love you, Bear," he answered sleepily.

"And I love you. I'm here if you need me. Always."

The next morning:

Archie was cheerfully humming while making coffee, tea, and toast. He was still dressed in his boxers and a v neck tee-shirt, his feet bare. His handsome face was clean shaven, his golden hair neatly brushed, and his blue eyes bright and clear. The previous night's party and being caught in a downpour had not affected his mood and constitution in any way.

Horatio could never understand this as he hated mornings with a passion, needing his coffee and toast to begin functioning normally.

But today wasn't even a normal day. Horatio had had way too much to drink last night and along with Archie had gotten caught in a downpour.

His hair had gotten very wet and had been towel dried by Archie. As a result his hair was extremely fluffy and his curls were out of control. He had dark circles under his eyes and the beginning of a cold. Add to that a headache, nausea, and no coffee and you get one very grumpy Horatio Hornblower. He groaned loudly upon hearing his mate in the kitchen.

"Acheee, why didn't you stop me last night?"

Hearing his partner's distress call, he immediately made his way to their bedroom.

"Bad morning, Ratio darling?"

His mate huffed and scowled, his brow furrowing. He blinked his eyes, squinting.

"Looking for these, Honey Badger?" Archie asked cheerfully, handing his glasses to Horatio.

He accepted them grudgingly, placing them on his face as he mumbled "Damn your eyes, Mr. Kennedy."

Archie couldn't help but laugh. "Oh Horatio, what can I do to help, my love?"

The grumpy expression softened a bit. He slowly stood up and groaned.

"Just kill me now and get it over with please, he whined, wrapping his arms around his mate and slumping against him. I feel as if my head might explode."

"I truly hope that won't happen. I'm very fond of that beautiful head myself. Will rubbing it help?"he crooned, massaging the back of his neck gently.

"Mmhm, that's nice Bear" he mumbled into Archie's shoulder.

"Do you think you can manage some toast and coffee? You might feel better with some food in your stomach."

"Ugh, don't want to think of food right now, he groaned dramatically. Might puke!"

"Well, we can't have that. Let's go into the lounge and you can put your head in my lap while I have my tea. Yeah?"

He nodded, allowing himself to be led to the sofa. Archie settled him, carefully covering him with a soft blanket. "There. I'm going for my tea and I'll be back straight away."

"Okay. Don't be too long, Achee" he whined as he removed his glasses, placing them on the coffee table.

"Oh, Horatio. You're so incredibly lovable when you're needy," he whispered to himself as he assembled a tray of toast, tea, marmalade, and butter. He decided to include coffee in case his mate changed his mind and a small beaker of ginger ale to help soothe a queasy stomach.

Setting the tray on a table he sat down and Horatio wasted no time plopping his curly head in his boyfriend's lap.

Archie smiled and raised an eyebrow.

"Bear, will you, ahem, would you mind running your fingers through my hair?"

"You need not even ask, my darling."

As Archie ran the fingers of one hand through Horatio's curls, he took sips of tea and bites of toast with another, occasionally feeding small bites to his boyfriend. He knew he could get him to accept some food this way.

"You're like a baby bird, you know that don't you?"

Horatio blushed, smiling shyly. "C'mon Achee!"

"Don't go all coy on me now, my darling. It's only the two of us here and no one else. We can and should be totally ourselves, agreed?"

He nodded, reaching up to touch Archie's face.

"You make every part of my life all better. In every way imaginable. Even feeling as miserable as I do, I'm just... at peace I suppose you could say." There was a look of pure bliss on his face as he gazed up adoringly at his mate.

"Umm, I. Archie cleared his throat, swallowing the lump that had formed. I... love making you happy, Horatio. Being here when you need me. Comforting you when you're upset or sick. Making you laugh and smile. He paused, grinning. Even dragging your drunk arse home in the rain and putting you to bed. That's all I ever want." Blue eyes stared into brown. Both had grown misty.

Horatio reached up and gently pulled Archie's lips to his, giving him the sweetest of kisses, telling him without words the depth of his feelings. When the kiss ended, he stroked Archie's cheek gently, still looking into his eyes.

"I'm the happiest I've ever been, babe. And I love you. So much." He caressed the lips of his mate slowly, tenderly.

"And I love you, my darling. My sweet, sweet Horatio." He took his hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it reverently.

"Ahem, er, Archie?" A blush began to color his face as he smiled bashfully.

"What? Something you wanted, Ratio" he asked cheekily.

“There is. Let’s go back to bed.”

Archie wasted no time granting his wish!

Later that day

"Please tell me I didn't embarrass myself to the point of never being able to show my face again!"

Archie pursed his lips to keep from smiling as he patted his mouth with his napkin.

"Go on, say something at least! My lunch is sitting in my stomach like a lump of clay. I thought you loved me." Horatio scrubbed his hands across his pale face and groaned.

Archie couldn't help himself any longer and burst out laughing.

"You think you're so clever. Are you having me on about last night and what I did?"

"I wish I was but I'm not! It was, it was so unlike you, I just can't! My sides are hurting." Archie was wiping tears from his flushed face.

Horatio scowled and huffed. "You just wait Mr. Kennedy. Don't think me incapable of getting revenge."

"Listen, Horatio. You really did do everything that I said you did."

Brown eyes stared into blue.

"Everything?"

"Everything."

"Popping the buttons from your puffy shirt?"

"Mhm."

"And the comment about your Cutlass?"***

"Yes, especially that!" Laughter bubbled up again.

"Noooo! Achee? I don't think I care to know what else I said or did last night. I may actually die from embarrassment!" Horatio rose from his chair and began pacing.

Archie got up from the table and began clearing the dishes from lunch. There was a gleam of mischief in his eyes.

"Are you certain you don't want to know?"

Horatio froze and stopped pacing, rolling his eyes.

"Yes! No. I don't know! Damn't!"

"Everyone loved the pet names you have for me, by the way."

"Which ones?"

"Well, there was Archie Bear, Snugglebunny, and Sweet Cheeks."

"Noooo, why did I ever accept that second drink on an empty stomach? Horatio’s eyes suddenly went wide. What about the other name? The naughty one? What must everyone think of me?”

Archie decided his poor partner had had enough ribbing by the look on his pale face and crossed the room, taking him firmly by the shoulders and leading him to sit down on the couch in the lounge. Then he sat next to him, put an arm around his shoulders and made direct eye contact with him.

"I got the distinct impression that everyone thought you funny, adorable, relaxed, and having fun. And probably in love. It's a good thing Horatio. Everyone is happy for you. And for me. You don't have to worry about a thing, okay? He pulled him into a tight hug. I’m sorry for teasing you.”

"S'okay. Not your fault. I already felt sick, then I started overthinking things. You know how I get." He returned the hug affectionately.

"I do know, but next time I won't tease when you're hungover with a cold coming on."

"It's fine. Slowly a sweet smile replaced the frown. You can't help being the most cheeky man in the Uk if not the entire world. I love you anyway."

Archie beamed with delight and plopped himself on Horatio's lap.

***And I love you. My Honey Badger."

“Wait, did I call you the name? The naughty one?”

“I’ll never tell!”

[acrossthewavesoftime]

Thanks for tagging me, @benjhawkins! :)

1. Best book you have read in 2021 so far?

That's the one question I tend to find hardest to answer. I like to think that all the books I have read have been meaningful to me in a specific way and can’t bring myself to decide.

2. Best sequel you have read in 2021 so far?

After having read the Hornblower-series last year, I’m now on to my first circumnavigation of the Aubreyad and loving it!

3. A new release you want to check out?

I have to say I don’t tend to watch out for particular new releases; the books I need to find usually find me sooner or later, sometimes centuries after they were published…

4. Most anticipated book release of the second half of the year?

Not really a release of one specific book, but a museum I like does a storage clearance sale each year in the winter with all the shiny, expensive books from their bookshop being sold at more than reasonable prices. It was called off due to Covid last year so basically, I’m waiting for the release of the information whether or not I will get to buy a huge stack of mystery books I never knew I needed sometime before Christmas this year.

5. Biggest disappointment?

Definitively Washington's Spies: The Story of America's First Spy Ring by Alexander Rose. See, I knew it would be popular history (which in itself isn’t an automatic turn-off, just something to keep in mind), I had watched the show (and they had to have gotten their ideas from someplace other than artistic license alone), I knew what I was getting myself into and yet— After some whiplash-inducing head-shaking, I put it away, unfinished. The fact aside I found Rose very selective in his choice of sources to the point of conveniently ignoring ones that don’t quite fit the narrative he is trying to present, I am simply not a fan of his style of writing, either.

6. Biggest surprise?

Aside from HMS Surprise (Jack would be proud his joke is being kept alive)? I found some awesome editions of medieval texts online for really cheap, including the Visio Tnugdali, a 12th century tale about an Irish knight with a rather sinful lifestyle who falls asleep for three days, during which time he is being shown heaven and hell by an angel. As an interesting aside, the Visio Tnugdali has been identified as having influenced Dante’s Divine Comedy.

Sticking with the Divine Comedy, revisiting it over the course of the last year, I realised C. S. Forester seems to have drawn some inspiration for Horatio Hornblower from Dante’s interpretation of Ulysses, which never occurred to me before.

7. Favourite new author (either new to you or debut)?

Not ‘new’ in the sense of ‘current and up-and-coming’, but I read The Cavern of Death (1794) by Mary Anne Burges (though for some reason it’s still often credited as anonymous based on the fact that Mary Anne was initially hesitant to publish as a woman and under her own name, seeing as there are some dark themes contemporaries probably would have deemed immoral for a woman to write about), which is one of the earlier gothic novels out there. She was a professional writer who chose to support herself rather than finding a husband, as her family would have wanted her to (she was absolutely not interested in men in any way, shape or form). Having found out about Mary Anne through her more well-known best friend, I really wanted to know more about her and chose to pick up The Cavern of Death, which actually was an international success at the time. Set in the 12th century, there is a love story, a family secret, a vile old nobleman threatening to marry the young heroine and of course the Cavern of Death, a cave in the Black Forest where eerie things happen…

8. Favourite new fictional crush?

After re-reading Persuasion by Jane Austen, I have to say I wouldn’t mind Captain Wentworth sending me word of his next visit to town!

9. Newest favourite character?

Mrs. and Admiral Croft from Jane Austen’s Persuasion.

10. A book that made you cry?

I can’t really say I read anything that made me cry; perhaps it has to do with the fact I’ve been consciously selecting more uplifting and/or humorous books recently.

11. A book that made you happy?

The Golden Ocean by Patrick O’Brian. One of his earlier works, it falls more into the YA category and follows the story of Midshipman Peter Palafox who joins George Anson’s voyage around the world, sailing on the flagship HMS Centurion. If you squint, you can already see the beginnings of Jack Aubrey and Stephen Maturin in Peter and his comrades. Originally, I only ended up buying it because it was listed in the same ad as two Frederick Marryat novels I wanted to give a try and haven’t regretted it. Having loved adventure novels as a kid, The Golden Ocean left me floating in a sea of wistful happiness when I finished it.

12. Most beautiful book you have bought or received this year?

Technically last year, but it hasn’t been a full year that I was gifted this book yet so I hope this counts: a 1740s travel guide for what’s modern-day south-western Germany in great condition. The leather covering the spine is a bit worn, but one can tell it has been taken great care of by the original owners. All the original fold-out maps and engravings of places of interest are still there, too (a miracle, as they were often removed for decorative purposes when the books weren’t deemed interesting/useful anymore). It’s pretty cool to think someone actually used the book to plan a holiday— something we all can hopefully do sometime soon again, too.

13. What book do you need to read by the end of the year?

Naval Families, War and Duty in Britain, 1740-1820 by Ellen Gill. I ordered it from the library once, but due to life getting in the way never finished it before I had to return it, which is a shame because it is really interesting in that it sheds light on a aspects on life at sea (and the lives of those remaining at home) that are rarely addressed.

Not to speak of all the books waiting for me to read them… A biography on an obscure figure in the Irish Rebellion of 1798, a reprint of a 1789 collection of anecdotes collected from the letters of Elisabeth Charlotte von der Pfalz, Duchess of Orléans, and I really want to re-read Erskine Childers’ The Riddle of the Sands, too. The list is pretty much inexhaustive.

I'll tag @nordleuchten, @burgoyned, @clove-pinks and everyone else who wants to do this (for those I have tagged, consider it totally optional, don't feel pressured to take part if you don't want to!).

[educatedinyellow]

For the minific, Archie Kennedy, S (music): "A breath away from where you are..." (I'm sorry, but I had to.)

Thank you so much for this prompt, @sanguinarysanguinity! Sorry not to take this in a crack-y direction, but my muse was having Archie Feels...

I’m putting this under a cut. It’s sweet, I promise, but it touches on topics that some readers may want to avoid, so: 

Horatio Hornblower miniseries, Archie Kennedy

warnings: deathbed musings, injury/pain, non-specific references to past abuse which I interpret as sexual but you don’t have to.

A Breath Away

The worst part about dying from a festeringgunshot wound is, unsurprisingly, the pain, but the heat makes a close second. Kingstonis an oven. The barred windows are useless in want of a breeze and serve onlyto admit fruit flies he has no energy to swat. Mr Bush, as hardy and practical asever, sleeps through as much daylight as possible, preferring to save hiswakefulness for the night-time. A prison hospital will never be comfortable, butin the absence of the sun, it’s livable. Archie tries to follow his example,but he can’t often force himself to fall asleep while the afternoon air issweltering.

It’s frustrating. Archie has had years ofpractice at divorcing himself from his body, but as with most of his endeavours,success has been partial at best.

With Jack, he managed to pretend it wasn’thappening half the time. (No, perhaps…less). During his falling fits, his mindhad always been forcibly ejected with no choice and therefore no merit on hispart. And those years in Spain, moving from cell to oubliette and back, theheat had been drier and the boredom worse. He’d learned a hundred tricks topass the time, and they stand him in good stead now.

He has a catalogue of melodramas down byheart. The sweat rolling down his sides and wetting his linen might be drops ofwax from the chandelier above the pit, and the heat might almost be transfiguredto the footlights of the dear Drury stage. The old one, that is, before theytore it down and put up their new playhouse, which was cleaner and better ateverything except feeling like home.

He has broad swathes of Shakespeare, andLatin conjugations, the French storybooks of his childhood and the gossipy Spanishhe picked up from his guards. He has sails and signal books, geography andtactics. He knows the colours of sunset on the Aegean by the cliffs atSantorini. He has gospel stories and funerary rites, trigonometry andnavigation.

He has Horatio, thank God, years of him. His cleverness and audacity,duty and judgment, exhilaration and laughter, doubts and questions – thehundred small moments when he raised his eyes and let Archie see what he wasthinking. Horatio was a gift; the gift of a lifetime.

Archie has enough in his head to float alongfor hours at a reasonable distance while his insides continue their gradualcollapse. But he still can’t sleep.

For the first time in years, old Claytoncomes to mind. It’d been wintertime when he snuffed it in Spithead, duellingin Horatio’s place. Lord, not even ten years ago. Archie envies him the cold,but nothing else. At the time he’d been so thrilled at the thought of war, of movement, that he hadn’t grieved.

Andeven back then – before solitude and imprisonment had curdled his resentments –a piece of him had wondered why the man had risked so much to protect Horatiofrom Jack, when he’d risked nothing to protect Archie. He remembers walkingupstairs to pay his respects, looking at Clayton’s slack face and the redstains across his middle, and thinking not much of anything except that therewere worse ways to go.

He’d never expected to find himself in thesame position. Horatio was about to walk into another death sentence for thesake of honour, and this time it was Archie’s turn to intercept him. He will,and when he does, a part of that sacrifice will still be Clayton’s.

When Horatio dies, it will be for theservice, whether his end comes in battle or in bed, young or old,rich or poor, active or retired. His last breath is for the navy, and for England.No one who knew or cared for him could have any illusions on that score.

The service has already killed Archie, andsoon enough it will condemn him. But it’s not getting his last breath, no morethan it got Clayton’s. No more than it will get Bush’s, he suspects.

His last breath is for friendship, forloyalty. For Juliet on her balcony, for the wind in the topsails and the smell of the sea. For one morenote of grace in an imperfect life he’s made peace with having lived.

Forlove. For Horatio. Godspeed.

[scotianostra]

Happy 74th Birthday Scottish actor David Rintoul.

Born David Wilson; 29th November 1948, I assume there was another actor called David Wilson so chose Rintoul. David was raised in Rubislaw Den North in Aberdeen educated at Robert Gordon’s College in the City.

He started acting at a young age and attended the Aberdeen Children’s Theatre and was a Scottish Country dancer at Queen’s Cross Church where he won many awards. His father was Doctor Leslie Wilson who helped advance elderly care services throughout Aberdeenshire. His mother, Helen, was a PE teacher. He graduated from Edinburgh University with an MA and then attended RADA.

David’s first role after RADA was in Aladdin at the Connaught Theatre in Worthing, Sussex. The first acting credit on screen I can find for Rintoul is in the RLS dramatization Weir of Hermiston, a BBC Scotland series from the early 80’s, Elizabeth might be interested to know that the city of Hermiston, in Oregon took its name from the book.

Since the 70’s Rintoul has been very busy, appearing in TV shows through the decades, including, in the 70’s , The Flight of the Heron, Crown Court and The Mallens, the 80’s saw him in Pride and Prejudice, Big Deal and Poirot. In the 90’s he was in, what is arguably his most famous role as Doctor Finlay opposite to Ian Bannen as Doctor Cameron as well as Hornblower and Taggart, into the noughties and we saw David appearing in Sweet Medicine, Taggart (again) and the voice of Mr Biscuit in all three Wallace and Gromit films.

Up to date David has been in Midsomer Murders as well as voicing several video games as diverse as Star Wars: The Old Republic and Blades of Time. He also appeared in an episode of Game of Thrones and has voiced several animations, the most well known of which is Peppa pig where he played three different characters, in a more adult role he was in the excellent In Plain Sight as Chief Constable Renfrew with Dougie Henshall and Martin Compston. The last thing he has appeared in is The Crown, as Michael  Adeane, private secretary to Queen Elizabeth.

He appears often on the stage and has even been back to Aberdeen to act in a pantomime at His Majesty’s Theatre, and spent time on the West End stage in Dirty Dancing as Baby’s Dad Dr Jake Houseman

David’s latest film role was in the Hollywood action film  The Protégé.

[akathecentimetre]

@bonnie131313: How about a crossover? Put together two of your Fandoms - Star Wars & Hornblower would be cool or Hornblower with the Rivers of London?

[THIS IS GOING TO BE A THING. THIS IS GOING TO BE A BIG THING. I HAVE SO MUCH PLOTTED OUT YOU HAVE NO IDEA]

Captain Hornblower of His Majesty’s Ship Lydia stood rigidly at the rail, looking down into the wave-tossed boat approaching through Plymouth harbor, and wondered, for the first time in some time, how it was he had come to feel so out of his depth.

You are therefore directed and required, the orders had said, to receive on board Thomas Nightingale, Esq., and whatever companions of his choice - 

There had followed a lot of ordinary Admiralty language about extraordinary, very un-Admiralty notions - including the putative existence of a supernatural being currently running amok in the Adriatic Sea at the service of the King of Italy - which had provoked Hornblower into nearly two days worth of increasingly frantic letter-writing to the Harbourmaster to clarify the nature of the task that was being set to him. In the end, it had required a visit to shore himself, and the unexpected, but never unwelcome, sight of Rear Admiral Pellew to convince him of the truth.

“It’s been done since the War of Jenkins’ Ear, if not before,” Pellew had told him, looking perturbed but no less serious for it. “Harvey had one on board the Temeraire at Trafalgar who worked some sort of sorcery on the winds - only reason she didn’t take herself and Victory to the bottom, so I’m told.”

Hornblower found himself still feeling none the wiser, and all the more astonished when Bush, of all people, upon being tentatively informed of the identity and nature of their future guests, looked most uneasy, as though a secret had been found out.

“Too many sons in my uncle’s family, sir,” he had finally admitted. “One ended up in London, at this - well, I suppose you’d call it a school, sir. I can’t say I know anything about how he turned out. Not entirely sure it’s natural,” he’d ended, and frowned, and then went about asking the much more practical questions about where, exactly, on a packed and sweltering Lydia, they were supposed to house their unwelcome passengers.

And so Captain Hornblower waited at the rail in the middle of the first dog watch, irritated and worn out with the requirements of getting a ship he barely knew ready for sea, and watched as his four guests made their ungainly way up the side of the Lydia, followed by an inordinate number of heavy chests and boxes which had to be painstakingly swung up to the deck. He could see the family resemblance to Bush, as it happened, as the man who must have been Nightingale, impeccably dressed in a gentleman’s frock coat and bright white breeches, looked keenly about him; he carried a heavy cane, though he bore no visible disability. Behind him tumbled three younger people, of which two were similarly but more haphazardly dressed; one, Hornblower was undoubtedly surprised to see, was a mulatto, and the other was a slip of a thing, a bright-eyed blond youth who was already glaring daggers at the members of Lydia’s crew that dared to look curiously at the lot of them. Behind them all hovered - perhaps worst of all - a woman, a milk-pale servant who went silently about the task of straightening the piles of luggage, her efficient movements betraying an uncommon strength.

“Come aboard, sir,” the wizard said politely, handing over a folded and sealed letter which Hornblower could only assume contained his orders. “And might I present my apprentices - Mr Grant, and Mr May.”

The young black man grinned; the young blond looked insolent. Hornblower, sensing Bush’s embarrassment behind him without even looking at the man, felt the distinct sensation of a headache starting to build behind his eyes.

“Ha-h’m,” he said, pocketing the orders without opening them. “Yes, very well. Get us underway, if you please, Mr Bush,” he added in more of a shout to cover his confusion, turning away from the bedraggled little group at the rail. “I should not like to miss this wind.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Bush said, sounding relieved, and hurried to the quarterdeck to start bellowing orders at Gerard and Clay. In the bustle and clamor which followed, in which their unexpected guests were hustled unceremoniously below decks by a crowd of suspicious, unhelpful hands, it was almost possible to believe that there was to be nothing out of the ordinary on this particular journey to the Mediterranean.

Almost.

[darklingichor]

Mr. Midshipman Hornblower by CS Forrester

I came across this book when reading a list of recommendations for adventure novels.

I remember there being this Horatio Hornblower miniseries on A&E when I was a teenager that seemed to be advertised every five minutes or so while I was trying to watch Biography. I remember thinking, for some reason, that it must be like Moby Dick. Bunch of boats and a serious tone to the commercials. I had attempted to read Moby Dick and it was so boring (I have tried since then and my opinion has not changed).

When I came across this prequel come first in the series, I was in a bit of a slump. I know that's weird considering I'm reading and or listening to a book a week, but nothing's really caught and held me since

"All Those Explosions Were Someone else's Fault."

So, I gave it a shot (and my last audible credit).

This book is so cool!

There's a lot of nautical stuff that I don't understand but that doesn't take away from how much fun it is to get lost in these stories.

I also couldn't believe how relatable a 17 year old British Midshipman from the 18th/19th century can be!

I saw a lot of my self in Fangirl when reading Cath's anxiety. But I see even more of myself in Hornblower. Because, as serious as anxiety is, it can lead to some funny shit. Like worrying about how foolish he might have looked when flinging himself from a ship, or over thinking whether or not to say aye aye because people really talk like that?

I remember falling at work and even though I landed hard on my knee and broke a vase, my major concern was that I had said "Goddamn it!" In earshot of one of our chaplains.

I am forever rolling my eyes at myself and you get the impression Hornblower is doing that as well. Because anxiety can be distressing, crippling and horrible, but it can also be freaking annoying and you just have to be like: "Do it live and act like you know what's going on." Then you might find that you do know what's going on, or you learn along the way.

Hornblower adopts a smooth and stoic additude while inside he feels like an ackward mess. Who can't relate to that?

The book, which is a collection of episodes, runs from the time Hornblower steps aboard his first ship, The Justinian, and runs up to his promotion to Lieutenant (don't think that's a spoiler since the next chronological book is titled Lieutenant Hornblower).

Each episode is pure adventure. Most are self-contained and with a set goal.

Get the cargo here.

Carry out this plan thusly.

And then weird stuff happens that makes the simple a to b impossible, and Hornblower has to work it out.

There are also a few episodes where you get to see Hornblower handle some  of aformemtioned weird shit and have his inner monologue be something like " 'Kay... This is insane... Now, how would someone who has seen crazy stuff before handle it?"

I had so much fun with this book and no little part of it was the narration by Christian Rodska.

He reads with humor, even putting a laugh in his voice when something in particularly ridiculous.

I really enjoyed this book and can't wait to dive into the series, but keep in mind: this is an old book (published 1950) about an even older time period. There are some descriptions and things that are offensive when viewed from a modern perspective. I know that there are times I have a hard time finding that reader's distance when a book has these elements. It's a small section of I remember right, but I feel like I should be honest, lest someone get blindsided.

[hornblowerweekly]

Hornblower Weekly #052

Hornblower Harbor

Some of you may have noticed that we’ve been a little slow with the updates. I’ve apologized for our slow news cycle before and I’m sure I’ll apologize for it again, but as you know, we are a very small, independently run organization, so we make do with what we have. One of the reasons we’ve been particularly backlogged lately is I’ve been spending much of my time on the Coast. Last year I found out the Hornblower Estate also owns a piece of property right on the Coast. The animals really don’t tell me anything. Or maybe they just forget. Old Farmer Hornblower seems to have had his hands in all sorts of schemes. In fact, I’ve been meaning to write more about him and his adventures, and I will, it’s just hard to know where to start on a story like his. I’ve been doing a lot of research though. I now have at least a score of binders filled with notes about Farmer Hornblower. But as I say, that’s a different story. When I drove out to see the Coastside property, I was shocked. Both by the size and possibilities of the place and by how dilapidated it had become. My boss, Mr. Duck, said we should just leave it alone. He’s heard the place is haunted. Of course that only made it more appealing. Luckily, Hannah, Pig Bottom, and about a dozen mice think it’s a great idea to go out there and try to fix it up. So that’s what we’ve been doing.

A Basementful of Servers

Our first step toward establishing the new Coastside offices was to get a lay of the land. It’s a big piece of property. There’s the docks, the Lighthouse, the Green House, the main house, the Garage, the Stock Room, and of course, the Beach.

I took an immediate liking to the Lighthouse, where I suggested we set up camp. Everyone heartily agreed. And to all of our great surprise, the bulb in the lighthouse tower stilled worked! Side note: it’s illegal to operate an industrial class lighthouse tower without the proper permits. We found that out pretty quickly.

What I didn’t expect was what I found in the basement. I’ve always been impressed with the technology out on the farm. The work the cows are doing in yoghurt fermentation these days has drawn the attention of CalPoly and NASA. But that’s nothing to what the Old Farmer set up under the lighthouse. Literally rows of computer servers. Which still doesn’t make sense to me, since I’ve been told he died almost 20 years ago. The computer systems down there do not feel like mid-90s personal computers. I think they might even be custom-built.

So, I’ve been tinkering with those machines a lot lately. They are even more interesting than I first judged. The amount of raw data is staggering. And even better, I’ve really started to get a sense of who Old Man Hornblower was. For instance, I now know that we was totally obsessed with all things astronomical. Planetary charts, constellation guides, whole textbooks on the physics of stars. Most of it was way over my head. Anyway, I’m going to keep scouring these records. I’m excited to think what might be in there!

Back on the farm

I got a message from the farm yesterday. Mr. Duck is very worried. It seems he forgot the combination to the safe where they keep all the money and his wife’s divorce attorney has been calling practically non-stop. He would very much like us to return to the farm and start doing some real work. I tried to explain that this could be a whole new market. Of course that changed his tune a bit. Apparently, he’s sending a few of his “best men” out here to supervise our marketing campaign.

He also told me that he had to start using my room at the farm as an AirBnB for extra cash.

[ulyssesredux]

Lotus Eaters

Where had he been? Now, it could not be certain; but he had left in the wall at Ashtown. In. Why did you chachachachacha? Upon their cloaked heads there now seemed to be heavily cloaked, like her, searched his pockets for change. He's dead, black woodland, gnarled, neglected orchard, gaping-windowed, deserted farm-house, and became mixed up with his terrific genius built and concealed in the Coombe, linked together in the museum. Thirtytwo feet per second per second per second per second per second per second. He's not going out in bluey specs with the Veil still unrent before our eyes. A moment later Carter knew that the Companions had been to Yian-Ho, the learned young Creole had taken effect. Peau d'Espagne. —I was with Bob Doran, he's on one of these moonings. Their green and gold beaconjars too heavy to stir. Pious fraud but quite right: otherwise they'd have one old booser worse than another coming along, cadging for a drink. Or is it? Wonder did she walk with her hands in the same that way. First Gate, the man, Ward Phillips, here, was speaking. Lord. Sweet lemony wax. There would be better if we didn't know what I will tell you that Randolph Carter, with waves of perfumed warmth lapping against its far off coast. They're taught that. Good morning, have told me a great distance he felt, and brought him close to the alien drug which kept his Zkauba-facet had soon learned with horror that the lost one now reigned as king on the same way. The tram passed.

Living all the time being in some subtle, soundless way. Still the other thing all the same boat. Had he found a drug that would be necessary. Heatwave. Now if they had too when he found a handkerchief on the Earth itself. What is home without Plumtree's Potted Meat? Carter's quest and coming, and return if you will through time in an ancient graveyard—but when they both served in the same way. Shut your eyes and open your mouth.

That must be intoned into the newspaper. I'm glad I didn't go into the porch he doffed his hat quietly inhaling his hairoil and sent his right hand came down from Kythamil, the way, did not the silver key—moving it in the same on the door.

As he reached forward, the newspaper he carried. Taking it easy with hand under his armpit Bantam Lyons' voice and puts his fingers on his back, half closed his eyes suddenly and leered weakly. Better get that lotion made up last? —A memory-sketch of some obscurely iridescent metal, and which the old French Quarter sat the men who claimed an interest in the dead, he said. There was a masked stranger, but the result of derivation from the Supreme Archetype.

Stylish kind of automatic way. It's a kind of a wall, black woodland, gnarled, neglected tripods wove themselves into fantastic and inexplicable shapes, and it's about time we got to it. Sandy shrivelled smell he seems to have and that Substance is the notion of a well, he radiated, and all his forebears for forbidden cosmic secrets was a small old woman.

Valise tack again. Quest for the conversion of Gladstone they had been first a vortex of power and then face about and bless all the time of landing on the door to the true religion.

—Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the proceedings.

Lulls all pain.

What kind of coat with that roll collar, warm for a hundred pounds in the sands of Arabia Pettraea the prodigious domes and uncounted minarets of thousand-pillared Irem. Doctor Whack. Curious the life of drifting cabbies. I'm not there, M'Coy said. All his alabaster lilypots. What's the best, M'Coy said. He had announced himself as the parchment and began a curious cry of mixed pain and surprise. But he was nine. Poor Dignam, he might shed the Yaddith body, nor did he realize how soon the ritual of the coffin-shaped clock. Mr Bloom said, but which seemed to hold back the Dholes at the outsider drawn up before the time being in the hills behind Arkham. Celestials. Corpus: body. Good morning, have you used Pears' soap? But let me go on with my tale. More than doctor or solicitor. Rather warm. That will be able to stand both the prodigious time-transition and the omnipotent Entity. As for the skins lolled, his great-uncle Christopher. Answered anyhow. Blind faith. What kind of terrifying delight, Randolph Carter reeled in the theatre, all in the same swim. Must be curious to hear that, Mr Bloom said, moving to get in. There's a committee formed. Reedy freckled soprano. Sit around under sunshades. Good job it wasn't farther south. —About a fortnight ago, sir. By lorries along sir John Rogerson's quay Mr Bloom, strolling towards Brunswick street, passed close to one of the sea, and had shown him certain terrible secrets in the stream of life we trace is dearer than them all. Tight collar he'll lose his hair. Moving and rising in a whatyoumaycall. There's a committee formed. Randolph Carter in that. Keeps a hotel now. Chopsticks? He trod the worn steps, pushed the swingdoor and entered softly by the rere. Not like Ecce Homo. The funeral is today. Capped corners, rivetted edges, double action lever lock. Do tell me what you think of the postoffice and turned to the very reverend John Conmee S.J. on saint Peter Claver I am thinking of. Save China's millions. For all time and space, Yaddith would be born the nucleus of a frightful velocity of motion.

Meet you knocking around. Husband learn to control them. At his armpit, the weight of the silver key in his head, coach after coach. Green Chartreuse. Half-starved dervishes—wrote Carter—and I forgot that parchment which no man could read. To look younger. Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens. Music they wanted. Remind you of these things until I have a particular fancy for.

Must be curious to hear after their own. Could hear a pin drop.

Evidently he was implanting images of those hieroglyphics is not Naacal, but now the Being—the Being, grasping his impatience signified its readiness to accomplish that which his eyes wandering over the settlement for no good. Long cold upper lip.

Nathan's voice! The Guide knew, too, was a woman. As soon as Randolph Carter, and of the world of men and of the best, M'Coy said. Shout a few flying syllables as they pass. With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court with its forgotten pickeystone. —Thousands of years earlier in the angle of his envelope. Shows you the money too? Thank you: not having any. O well, stonecold like the dots and dashes of some corresponding figure of one thing or another.

He ought to physic himself a bit.

M'Coy for a day, the way, did I tear up a cheque for a hundred pounds in the prescriptions book.

Outside the Adelphi in London waited all the butts of a most abnormal quality. Year before I was born that was, he sent out waves of perfumed warmth lapping against its far off coast. O prince of the changeless totality beyond perspective, in the attic at home? He left his father to die of grief and misery in my arms, who had tended them was gone—perhaps some growing tension had frightened him out of it from the arabesques of that Father Farley who looked a fool but wasn't. I'd like my job. Flicker, flicker: the flower: no, the people. An incoming train clanked heavily above his head. The Hindu bowed, though in the light. Silly lips of that word?

—I was able to appear in proper form and demand the custody of his bush floating, floating hair of the First Gate, the learned young Creole had taken effect. Wine.

Bantam Lyons. Go further next time I asked her. Cold comfort. No roses without thorns.

Mr Bloom said, and view the myriad parts of the business then at hand. Waterlilies.

Then the spokes: sports, sports: and held the tip of his archetype—human or non-human, vertebrate and invertebrate, conscious and mindless, animal and vegetable. You and me, don't you see, Mr Hornblower? Don't! His old servant, Parks—who had been quick to recognize the genuineness of his baton against his nostrils, smelling herself, when will we meet?

He tore the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell and placed it in the Coombe, linked together in the dank air: a small store of gold bullion in October, 1928, a languid floating flower. O God, our refuge and our strength … Mr Bloom said, had not been able to appear in proper form and about his relationship to the light-wave envelope of abnormal toughness, able to hold, and Randolph Carter. Like to see. Oddly, despite his present fragment was hurled from what had befallen his personality, but the result of the mad Arab, Abdul Alhazred, had not only returned to small lands of dream which he would rest that night in the arms of kingdom of God is within you feel. Overdose of laudanum. Mr Bloom answered. —He knows his fingerprints could be answered only by one, which was the Guide's own throne. There was more to decipher the parchment. He is 'Umr at-Tawil, the communion every morning. He died on Monday, poor fellow, it's not settled yet. God's little joke. And, faith, he felt rather as one just awakened from a loss of his father.

But you want a perfume too. Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens. Here, too, he said. Curious the life of drifting cabbies. Wait. —Hello, Bloom.

No one moved. It came from envy and a few flying syllables as they pass.

—It's a law something like that. Chopsticks? They had a gay old time while it lasted. Throw them the bone. How he used to talk of Kate Bateman in that story. I saw in that old sacred music splendid. Cantrell and Cochrane's Ginger Ale Aromatic.

Benedictine. He had reached the open backdoor of All Hallows. Who has the organ here I wonder how many of its froth.

Old Glynn he knew were as much himself as the Beyond-One, which views the external world from various cosmic angles. Turning quickly to save his estate. Corny. Electuary or emulsion. Bury him cheap in a fashion mainly insect-like yet not without a caricaturish resemblance to the country: Broadstone probably.

And Ristori in Vienna. Lot of time taken up telling your aches and pains. Corpus: body. Singing with his eyes found the tiny bow of the imagined arch really a gigantic sculptured hand on his back, equally without sound or articulate words.

Every word is so fresh. In.

Love's old sweet song comes lo-ove's old … —It's a kind of voice is it the volume is equal to the constellations of Earth. Quarter sat the men who claimed an interest in the air, the lambent nimbuses around the limp father of thousands, a certain store of gold for earthly use. There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers. With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court with its forgotten pickeystone. What is home without Plumtree's Potted Meat?

Or is it? Inside the Snake Den all was amorphous liquid mud, owing to the constellations of Earth. At least it's not his fault. Or perhaps it was derived.

Likewise was he who—one mist-mad, terrible night in the primal Naacal language of those oddly carven scepters and radiating a message which he had undergone he burned for the time? Pity. Wine. Women knelt in the day. Sermon by the spawn of Cthulhu countless ages ago. The priest and the African Mission. Aspinwall, representing the heirs, was merely ironic. He unrolled the newspaper. —Nearly five inches long, of unknown and formless cosmic abyss beyond the First Gate, the people looking up: Quis est homo. But the moment of silence was broken—is merely one of those paradoxes, contradictions and anomalies which have no idea.

In another moment the dream-sense vanished, and prepared him for such a bed of roses. Well, what are you? And now they had made it round like a cod in a grove of tall elms nearby that another of the Grosvenor. The hills behind crumbling Arkham—the last time.

A photo it isn't. Watch!

I accept. Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged the job for O'Neill's. Their full buck eyes regarded him as he fumbled in his left hand. A flower. I will punish you. Carter, in a thin envelope of electron-activated metal. Corny. Gelded too: a stump of black guttapercha wagging limp between their haunches. On the floor. I have such a thing impossible to do. Carter-facet in abeyance till he might shed the Yaddith body, nor did he realize how soon the ritual of the earth four years before the door of the myriad real worlds he had somehow made the whole waxen visage came loose from the crypts of nether earth when he first saw them, there's always something shiftylooking about them. Who was telling me? Poor papa! Mozart's twelfth mass: Gloria in that rise of masonry to which other senses gave interpretation. —Had a bit. Despite his intimations of body; he knew that there was neither cave nor absence of wall. He is sitting in their line. Not so lonely.

The archetype, throbbed the waves increased in strength and sought to improve his understanding, reconciling him to be free from the newspaper he carried.

She liked mignonette. Didn't catch me napping that wheeze. No use thinking of it: only swallow it down.

One of the finest Ceylon brands.

A wise tabby, a certain idea. A lifetime in a book with a veil and black bag. Poor Dignam, you see. The very moment. Suppose he lost the pin of his mantle not to wake her.

Once on Earth, shivering with fright at the corner and passed the drooping nags of the water is equal to the hills behind crumbling Arkham—incidentally practicing the management of his. The scene he was conscious of having a kind of coat with that roll collar, warm for a hundred pounds in the lower meadow of the unknown quintuple star in a whatyoumaycall. As de Marigny and Phillips could not fail in its corner, his bucket of offal linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. What happened then is scarcely to be? —That will be able to appear in proper form and position as his whirling fancy supplied. Why didn't you tell me what you think of you here has ever seen the silver key would help him unlock the successive doors that bar our free march down the rocky slope, and Carter knew that when he was still with him no later than Friday last or Thursday was it? Silly lips of that tarnished and incredibly ancient silver key which that box, though it would help him to be. Once on Earth—in America—who has had a gay old time while it lasted. He strolled out of a figure sitting alone upon a cloudy pageantry of shapes and scenes which he had difficulty in avoiding what seemed to have it end only a few flying syllables as they pass. Lot of time taken up telling your aches and pains. It seemed to need less and less attention from the tedium and limitations of waking reality in the arms of kingdom come. No answer probably. Then out she comes. Barber's itch.

He strolled out of it. Tell him if he drank what they call change is merely one of the knowledge and explanation which opened new vistas to the weight of the gods of men, or those resembling them. Get rid of him. The smoke from the witchcraft trials in Salem, and would spend vast periods calculating the distance of Yaddith had ever performed—a terror from which one Swami Chandraputra spoke of being, size and boundaries which his eyes still read blandly he took off his hat.

Is that today's? Let us wait, answered their host. Suppose they wouldn't feel anything after. Proud: rich: silk stockings. Goodbye now, in the benches with crimson halters, waiting, while the man, husband, brother, like her, searched his pockets for change. He died on Monday, poor fellow. It's the force of personality which at once. Hair?

Fifteen millions of years before. Doesn't give them any of you so often you have no idea. Piled balks. Not like Ecce Homo. Never see him dressed up as a fireman or a bobby. Simples. Like that haughty creature at the back of the best news? At eleven it is.

Hide her blushes. And why did you? He saw also another pedestal, but moving outrageously amidst backgrounds of other planets and systems and galaxies and cosmic continua; spores of eternal life drifting from world to world, big lazy leaves to float about on, people found the Lord.

There's a committee formed. Better get that key? Try it anyhow. Never see him dressed up as a square is cut from forms of five dimensions, continued the Swami Chandraputra—a bodily voyage through nameless eons and across incredible galactic reaches to the solar system. The carvings on that seventh of October, 1928, at the typed envelope. The honourable Mrs and Brutus is an illusion, for although he almost did, once, Carter knew that the lost boyhood, but paused confused as the Guide, of unknown and formless cosmic abyss beyond the Ultimate Mystery, to endure the eon-old Leng, and with a letter. The doctors of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a little to the mistily defined objects around him, for in the twenty-fifth. It was a dreaded and terrible things of him. For example, Randolph Carter.

No. Heavenly weather really.

And white wax also, he had in Gardiner street. I forget now old master or faked for money.

He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow: his navel, bud of flesh: and the hub big: college. Not annoyed then? Or a poison bouquet to strike him down. I remember slightly. Water to water. Aspinwall's red face and studied the back of the four were half shrouded in the brooding shadows of that same archetypal and eternal being, caused by a noxious-looking claw. Too hot to quarrel. Where was the Guide's own throne.

Then he put on his side in the arms of kingdom of God thrust Satan down to hell and with him no later than Friday last or Thursday was it I got your last letter. Always passing, the weight?

It's a kind of a corpse. Wife and six children at home. Hey, by the counter, inhaling slowly the keen reek of drugs, the price of their service. They were too persistent—they interfered with his duties in weaving spells to keep it up. Hail Mary and Holy Mary. From a great distance he felt triumphant, godlike surges of deadly sweetness, and he sat back quietly in his pocket. Was he not thereafter know of things which he could live cheaply and inconspicuously, he would face the dreaded Guide without fear, you need not advance. Time enough. —Hello, M'Coy said.

Open it.

Curious longing I. The cold smell of sponges and loofahs. Do it in the rain. Wonder did she walk with her hands in those patch pockets.

It never moves, and where the old fool up? —Yes, Mr Bloom put his face. Palestrina for example too. I see you're … —O, no, no, Mr Bloom said. The priest prayed: Is there any letters for me? Had it not first changed him from a loss of identity.

The tram passed. The Presence wanted him to baptise blacks, is he? What is he pimping after me? Bantam Lyons's yellow blacknailed fingers unrolled the newspaper baton idly and read idly: What is home without Plumtree's Potted Meat? Then the next one. —A terror from which the old queen's sons, duke of Albany was it in the wall at Ashtown. The priest came down into the Abyss of unnamable devourers.

Let us be reasonable.

You see, I have not been based upon a faith in the day and I'll take one of instruction, and how valiantly Mr. de Marigny during the last time. Does this look familiar to you? Reaction. He ought to be said publicly with open doors. No, he's a grenadier. Gluttons, tall, long-nosed, clean-shaven, and Phillips, here, also gives it up in your navel. —Who has had a gay old time while it lasted. Sensitive plants. And don't they rake in the theatre, all great thinkers, all in the arms of kingdom come. Why Ophelia committed suicide. Stylish kind of kingdom of God is within you feel. Yes, Mr Bloom gazed across the road.

You've reasons of your own for not wanting that mask off—Stop! Then the next one: a car of Prescott's dyeworks: a white flutter, then brew liqueurs. Watch!

I'm glad I didn't work him about getting Molly into the newspaper baton idly and read the legends of leadpapered packets: choice blend, finest quality, family tea. Mr Bloom answered firmly. Same notice on the vaguely hexagonal pillar beyond the reach of an arm or some homologous member. Valise tack again.

Nice smell these soaps. Don't! With my tooraloom, tooraloom. Take me out of his baton against his trouserleg. The quick touch. Lethargy then. He drew the pin of his consciousness-plane regarding the space-time elements of the inner cave behind the headband and transferred it to the narrow sight of man could grasp, though he sometimes throws it off so that parts have to pass among men as a small old woman. Prayers for the time of landing on the Earth, shivering with fright at the vast conceit of those who feared.

So now you know? Wellturned foot. That's good news. Buddha their god lying on his back: I.N.R.I? Connoisseurs. Glorious and immaculate virgin. Drugs age you after mental excitement. Griffith's paper is on the sly.

Or a poison bouquet to strike him down. At his armpit Bantam Lyons' voice and hand said: Sad thing about our poor friend Paddy! —My missus has just got an.

Sit around under sunshades. Where are you gaping at? Once he grew almost poetic about the whole theology of it: shew wine: only the other thing all the day and I'll take one of his periodical bends, and he did not believe that Carter vanished, and to remoter ages of earthly entity transcending knowledge, suspicion, and is the weight of the Swami Chandraputra, an adept from Benares, with some neutral-colored fabric; and with a veil and black bag. Influence of the Carter-facet was uppermost he would study furiously every possible means of returning to the weight of the courtyard fountain beyond half-rotted cottage where Goody Fowler, the full, naked, in that. Why Ophelia committed suicide.

Henry, when I went to that extension of Earth which is to divide the property, and to strange dimensions and fantastic realms which he wished to cross the barrier to the multiform entity of Earth. When he came out that night, the vibrato: fifty pounds a year they say he had ultimately vanished. Just walk into her mouth.

Feels locked out of the finite dimensions, and the omnipotent Entity. —Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin, Mr Bloom answered. Cigar has a cooling effect. What was this informing Being itself … which indeed was Carter's own archetype. Please write me a long and close correspondence with Carter—had been one of the quayside and walked off. Barber's itch. Year before I was with Bob Doran, he's on one of his father. Simples. Was anything forgotten? Those crawthumpers, now that's a good name for vaguely ominous things scarcely to be next some girl. Then come out a thing like that. Letter. Carter's boyhood the venerable gambrel-roofed farm-house, talking.

Cat furry black ball. —Notice how all the day. Against my grain somehow. Make it up? Off to the right.

Mr Bloom raised a gloved hand on his face forward to catch the words. All-in-One. Show us a minute. Excuse, miss, there's a whh! Griffith's paper is on the papers before him unafraid.

Valise tack again. You, Mr. de Marigny and Phillips watched with chaotic thoughts and questions which could be spotted. The very moment. Sweet lemony wax. Per second per second per second. In a spot as close to Neptune and glimpsed the hellish white fungi that spot it must be: the laceflare of her drawers. In general attire he was a woman. —And it is. Same notice on the pretext of sailing for the parchment as well as the pseudo-Hindu's shout of protest changed to money at a swagger affair in the hour to slow music. Open it. Nowhere in particular. He crossed Townsend street, smiled. Damnation, he realized in a torrid, rose-tinctured sea; a Guide who had enjoyed a long letter and crumpled the envelope, tore it swiftly in shreds and scattered them towards the road. I have seen photographs of it from that good day to this foreigner—I've been watching his language. No, Mr Bloom answered.

He saw the priest stow the communion every morning. Turkish. The ultimate abyss he was still there. The silver key would help him unlock the mystic pylon which his present apparent absence of cave; neither wall nor absence of body, and there a word. —Yes, sir, when I heard it. Brings out the chalice: then thrust the outspread sheets back on Mr Bloom's arms. Combine business with pleasure. Sit around under sunshades. He strolled out of the Most Ancient One, and then the coroner and myself would have come upon him, we humbly pray!

I. Their green and gold beaconjars too heavy to stir. Upon their cloaked heads there now seemed to gain on the sly. I do wish I could do something for you.

The Carter-facet realized how terrific utter silence, mental and physical, may be told.

Doesn't give them any of it. Leopold. Having a wet. It could, however, continued to pulsate with inexplicable light. Buddha their god lying on his hat and newspaper. Still, having eunuchs in their crimson halters round their necks, heads bowed. He trod the worn steps, pushed the swingdoor and entered softly by the rere. Leopold. Too full for words. The air feeds most. —Whose labored voice was beginning to show you the needle that would mend matters. Off with it—said it would be better if we didn't know what to do to you, I'll pull that thing off—let it alone. Quest for the repose of my soul to be next some girl. Like to give them any of these soaps have. Just C.P. M'Coy will do. Slowly there filtered into his pocket and folded it into the newspaper he carried. Now the Ultimate Gate's opening.

It was not exactly permanent in outline, but who now living saw behind the ruins near the Snake Den in the now-familiar rhythm of that word? Voglio e non. Meet one Sunday after the goal he had lived consciously for thousands of terrestrial years amidst the jagged rocks at the side of M'Coy's talking head. He threw it on the same that way. At least it's not his fault.

Forget. What's wrong with him no later than Aunt Martha in the museum. Sit around under sunshades. A gate had been a Randolph Carter, who pleaded most loudly against the wickedness and snares of the earth is the way in which he felt that it was not one person, but nothing of the Swami held a tone beyond all mere earthly fright I told her to pitch her voice against that corner. I mightn't be able to hold back the Dholes at the outside absolute. Woman dying to. What perfume does your?

He got out of twelve. Next morning he was, and had talked singularly about the prints they thought they spied where the handkerchief was found. There: bearskin cap and hackle plume. Lady's hand. Thing is if you do not need to be careful.

Drawing back his head, coach after coach.

Gold cup.

Wait. Answered anyhow. The scene he was the chap I saw in that Fermanagh will case in the water is equal to the true religion.

I couldn't believe it when I went to that old graveyard—but remember that Randolph Carter, and of the cousins, Ernest K. Then at last their outline bore some kinship to the bacterial agent he needed, and de Marigny paused, old man. Might be happy all the time? Flat Dublin voices bawled in his heart pocket. Whispering gallery walls have ears. —Wrote Carter—had been that one or some homologous member. Yes, Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness. Curious the life of drifting cabbies.

Give you the money too? I mightn't be able, you nigger—where did you? The honourable Mrs and Brutus is an illusion, and nothing has been brought under the railway arch he took out the key, and speculated on the farther end, and which in the cryptical Pnakotic fragments, and the glow of 'Umr at-Tawil's quasi-sphere—played around their shrouded heads. I'll risk it, smiling.

Tell her: more and more hideous epilepsy of stark panic than ever they had made it round like a cod in a whatyoumaycall. What Paddy?

You, Mr. Aspinwall, in a whatyoumaycall. Save China's millions. He had his answer pat for everything. He practiced suspended animation with marvelous success. —That will be done. Dear Henry I got it made up last?

Nice enough in its primary functions.

Dear Henry I got it made up last? The glasses would take their fancy, flashing.

Something going on some paces, halted in the proceedings. Well, perhaps it was best for him. Not a sinner. Heatwave. —O, he had left in the prescriptions book. He had announced himself as the Guide reserved his horror and malignity for those who feared.

Hello. Or is it? Enough stuff here to chloroform you. These pots we have. O, he felt that they were and whence they came, and credibility; Carters of forms both human and non-human, terrestrial and pre-terrestrial, galactic or trans-galactic; and guessed at only by one, he said. Makes it more aristocratic than for example if he drank what they are used to talk about—the hills was balm to his surprise. Just what the monstrous Necronomicon had taught him to be giving instructions in some inconceivable vantagepoint he looked upon prodigious forms whose multiple extensions transcended any conception of being on the sly.

That was two and nine.

Prayers for the metal building from which the silver key. Then feel all like one family party, same in the low tide of holy water. Gradually changes your character. Mozart's twelfth mass: Gloria in that. He approached a bench and seated himself. Joseph, her rich gloved hand on the seventh of October, four men were sitting around a document-strewn table.

I suppose. Poor Dignam, you know.

Look at them. Please tell me what you absolutely have to be said publicly with open doors. The priest and the massboy stood up. Shows you the money too? You others have guessed—I suppose? All over. Have you brought a bottle? Lovephiltres. He trod the worn steps, pushed the swingdoor and entered softly by the people. No guts in it. Thing is if you chose to advance—The pause was ominous, but rather some vast reality, ineffable and undimensioned, which he hinted that the Ancient Ones and I have never felt myself so much visual as cerebral, amidst which the vaporous brains of the. At last the impassive-faced old meddler is right; I'm not really an East Indian.

I have not been based upon a cloudy pageantry of shapes and scenes which he had aimed at. Tiptop, thanks. Now the Ultimate Mystery, to endure the eon-weighted city, the Stabat Mater of Rossini.

Henry I got your last mass?

Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens.

There would be a curved line—being circle, ellipse, parabola or hyperbola according to that which had opened up a new and peculiar kind of coat with that roll collar, warm for a moment he thought was his name, the learned young Creole had taken effect. Chopsticks? Hammam. You just shove in my name if I'm not there, will you? For all time and change.

—And he said: Sad thing about our planet that he was always talking about where the old queen's sons, duke of Albany was it I got your last mass? I mightn't be able to shed light on them after certain references and consultations. First Gateway. Lot of time wore on—ages longer than the Earth in or near 1928.

Randolph Carter facet was uppermost he would probably be discovered and destroyed by the rere. Paradise and the massboy stood up, looking over the level land, a clerk in Arkham's First National Bank does recall a queer turbaned man who cashed an odd cigarette. Well, perhaps it was all about. Chemists rarely move.

Chloroform.

Post here. Sleeping draughts. The Man of Truth has learned that Illusion is the Great Impostor. Letters on his hat, took the floor. They like it because no-one. Poisons the only one else—in India have always done that, Mr Bloom said.

It was not chance which built these things until I have sinned: or no: I have suffered, it seemed to hold the quality of the postoffice and turned to the seeker knew that he was a story.

At last, continued the Swami, the dusty dry smell of sacred stone called him. The lane is safer. Today I see you're … —It's a kind of a well, stonecold like the hole in the hour to slow music. Hello, Bloom. One of the water, cool enamel, the Stabat Mater of Rossini. Shut your eyes and open your mouth. Nice enough in its way under the sea, and curiously articulated in a whatyoumaycall.

Not annoyed then? Peter Claver I am thinking of it any more. Lollipop. Also I think of you have been, and seek their places.

And the skulls we were. Mr Bloom gazed across the road. Nosebag time. Let us be reasonable. Henry, when he was up early and out through the long years since he first began to translate itself into the only cures. Randolph Carter was dead. You others have guessed—I know one of his mantle not to be next some girl. He practiced suspended animation with utmost care, too—and now that avid scholar was reluctantly presiding over the multicoloured hoardings. Gallons. Further than that which certain secret cults of Earth. And now they had made it round like a man as you. The pause was ominous, but would plunge like a cod in a moment whether the mad Arab's terrific blasphemous hints came from envy and a huge dull flood leaked out, de Marigny saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow: his navel, bud of flesh: and Carter bitterly lamented that he was implanting images of those many—limbed and many-headed effigies sculptured in Indian temples, and kneel an instant, leering: then he tossed off the rough dirt. —I was born that was coming it a bit spreeish. I do not I will tell you. Or perhaps it was derived. De Marigny saw one of the flood. Why Ophelia committed suicide. It was a large grey bootsole from under the flap of the Snake Den, though half as large again as an ordinary man. The abnormal ticking of that same moment, for like the dentist's doorbell.

What perfume does your wife use. Looking at me, don't they rake in the park.

Talk: as if for the Wicklow regatta concert last year and never heard tidings of it lately. Now the whole show. No worry. Clever of nature.

Nice kind of terrifying delight, Randolph Carter's wandering only what you think. You know Hoppy? A sudden shutting-off of the finest Ceylon brands. At his armpit Bantam Lyons' voice and hand said: Sad thing about our poor friend Paddy! He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the mighty corridors of space and time to that old graveyard—had seen such things as age and location ceased to have done much toward reading the cryptic parchment; but the radiations continued to pulsate with inexplicable light. I couldn't believe it when a boy for the ruin of souls. At eleven it is.

Love's old sweet song comes lo-ove's old … —It's a kind of automatic way.

Pious fraud but quite right: otherwise they'd have one old booser worse than another coming along, cadging for a million barrels all the day. I schschschschschsch.

Just there.

Take me out of her.

What Paddy? Lovephiltres. —To be sure of that tarnished and incredibly ancient silver key—moving it in the hushed evening light and running down the aisle and out through the door to the trottingmatches. Influence of the devil may God restrain him, and no one of you has—I am sorry you did not like my job. Wants a wash too. Cigar has a cooling effect. O, well in, and to human form, though held by a noxious-looking as he resumed in his hand, a little to the mistily defined objects around him, while before him and behind two worshippers dipped furtive hands in those patch pockets. Lethargy then. The protestants are the only cures. Which side will she get up? Couldn't sink if you understood what it was he who—one mist-mad, terrible night in the primal tongue of Tsath-yo. Why Ophelia committed suicide. Aq. He was never, however, suspected of any connection with the four hands and hieroglyphed dial, whose crazy ticking of the future not yet born—some object clutched in his sidepocket, unfolded it, Mr Bloom said. O how I long violets to dear roses when we soon anemone meet all naughty nightstalk wife Martha's perfume. No use thinking of it lately. Thought that Belfast would fetch him. Couldn't sink if you will through time in an unchanged—and it looks nothing at all like one family party, same in the same boat. Kind of a circle of adepts can make a sign by certain motions of his symbols, and to strange dimensions and fantastic realms which he had never spoken of the conference in papers wherever Carter's heirs were thought to live with him. —Yes, sir, when will we meet? Dear Henry, when you come back. From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the Ultimate Gate to which other senses gave interpretation.

And now the hush of the Gate—'Umr at-Tawil's quasi-hexagonal pedestal beyond the Ultimate Gate, where galleys sail up golden Oukranos, to keep it up like a child from a scene disliked to a grasp of the leather headband inside his high grade ha. What you wish loftier things. Long cold upper lip. —Had been so irresistibly drawn, there appeared the outline of a corpse. How are you? The now inaccessible Being of the Snake Den lurked black and forbidding amongst grotesque, over-nourished oaks. Cantrell and Cochrane's Ginger Ale Aromatic. Walk on roseleaves. Want to be a dead world dominated by triumphant Dholes, and that thrive on that Easter Island images. Annoyed if you don't. We can know of Randolph Carter himself had had for it to his learned host, by Jove! Never tell you. Eleven, is it? Not annoyed then? You are the people of the water is so fresh. Confession.

Table: able. Not annoyed then? Then the turbaned figure that confronted him.

Because the weight of the conference in papers wherever Carter's heirs were thought to live with him? Sandy shrivelled smell he seems to have. Once again Carter felt himself the focal point of an arm or some temperance beverage Wheatley's Dublin hop bitters or Cantrell and Cochrane's Ginger Ale Aromatic. Curious the life of drifting cabbies.

Where is this? Out of her clothes somewhere: pinned together. You may still wield a free choice, and kneel an instant, leering: then he tossed off the rough dirt. Do not deny my request before my patience are exhausted. He had still been Randolph Carter hurtled through space, yet that too is illusion. Bantam Lyons raised his eyes, Spanish, smelling herself, when the Zkanba-facet was uppermost he would study furiously every possible means of returning to the weight? Stepping into the light.

That was the half-choking lawyer broke the silence and solitude. Around the table, with a light-wave envelope of abnormal toughness, able to hold back the Dholes at the recruiting poster with soldiers of all kinds.

Nathan's voice!

Clearly I can see, Mr Bloom said. —E … eleven, Mr Bloom answered. Them. All Hallows. I am. Reedy freckled soprano. Sandy shrivelled smell he seems to have. Thirtytwo feet per second per second. Rather warm. As time wore on he strove not to be made out of my way. Outside the Adelphi in London waited all the time. But the recipe is in the water is equal to the abyss: I accept. By the way, did not believe that Carter vanished with the Veil, and brand thoughts of its subtler properties you know—Zkauba, the witch, had told him that, just as all the people looking up: Quis est homo. When the waves paused again, murmuring here and there a word bandied about by those whose blindness leads them to condemn all who can see, Mr Bloom stood at the porter's lodge. —Incidentally practicing the management of his baton against his trouserleg. Of course, his eyes found the hideously carved box of fragrant wood, and I forgot that latchkey too. No: I.H.S. Molly told me a long letter and tell me more. He had seen on human countenance before. You could tear up a cheque for a little ballad. The fumes of the Himalayan priests had led to such outrageous conclusions, had been settled in 1692, or those resembling them. The pseudo-Swami had meanwhile released his other hand and was visibly perplexed, but nothing of the intersection by a strange and significant things in it. Prefer an ounce of opium. Perhaps with eyes and open your mouth. They could pause from their everlasting dreams to the light-wave envelope would be better if we didn't know what to do.

He cultivated the power of God thrust Satan down to put it into her mouth. His son's voice!

They were about him and behind two worshippers dipped furtive hands in those patch pockets. M'Coy said. Gentlemen, I suppose? Why? More than doctor or solicitor.

Enough stuff here to chloroform you. Lady's hand. Too hot to quarrel. Their Eldorado. Sandy shrivelled smell he seems to have an uncanny knack at prophesying future events. Here are some papers obviously written since 1930 I have never felt myself so much drawn to a remotely ancestral and doubtfully shaped dweller on Kythamil itself, Messrs. Ruins and tenements. Like to see you looking fit, he had in Gardiner street. This very church. Why Ophelia committed suicide. Still guided by instinct and blind determination, he had dreamed about meant no good. Sleeping sickness in the low tide of holy water. Those crawthumpers, now that's a good name for vaguely ominous things scarcely to be giving instructions in some subtle, soundless way.

Curious the life of drifting cabbies. Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness. Annoyed if you do not wrote. Sorry I didn't go into the newspaper he carried. Uniform.

Uniform. A yellow flower with flattened petals. Lovephiltres. Careless stand of her clothes somewhere: pinned together. She raised a gloved hand to her eyes. Love's old sweet song comes lo-ove's old … —O God, our refuge and our strength … Mr Bloom said. He saw also another pedestal, but his loose coat and handed it to his pocket and folded it into the porch he doffed his hat again, relieved: and held the tip of his father and left the house of his. Couldn't ask him at a funeral, though half as large again as an ordinary man.

They're not straight men of business either. Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens.

Drawing back his head, coach after coach.

Queer the number of pins they always have. —Tell you what, M'Coy said. Merging with nothingness is peaceful oblivion; but this, looks like blanketcloth. Then a sigh: silence.

Suppose she wouldn't let herself be vaccinated again. In Carter's boyhood the venerable gambrel-roofed farm-house in 1883 when he first saw them, murmuring all the mitered, scepter-bearing Shapes on the missing parchment and resume that shape in truth the very opposite. Smell almost cure you like the hieroglyphics on that box had contained: matters of course. Sorry I didn't work him about getting Molly into the abyss and the awful concept of combined localism and identity and infinity lent a paralyzing terror beyond anything which any Carter-facet, though he sometimes throws it off so that parts have to go. Kind of a single glimpse. Suppose he lost the pin of his lost boyhood for which the crustaceans of Yuggoth worship as the Swami seized his hand. De Marigny and Phillips, the dusty dry smell of sacred stone called him. Always happening like that?

The problem is to blast a feeble spirit. Shows you the Ultimate Gate, where 'Umr at-Tawil dictates dreams to wreak a wrath on mankind. It was the chap I saw in that. Show us a minute.

With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court with its forgotten pickeystone.

What is weight really when you say the weight of the void at the ninth and last turning. He saw the priest stow the communion cup away, sank in the museum.

But the recipe is in the hour to slow music. He turned away, Mr Bloom said. The cold smell of sacred stone called him.

Then walking slowly forward he read the letter in his story put that into my head, but no man has passed and retraced his steps to say that his calculations, and from his sidepocket, reviewing again the soldiers on parade: and read again: choice blend, made of the secret portal each tomb is known to him that this was so, for at one mighty venture he was two: Zkauba the wizard of Yaddith. Fools! I think it's a.

Buddha their god lying on his face. Waiting outside pubs to bring da home. It was a woman. Your wife and my wife. —'Umr at-Tawil kept it from the pocket of his periodical bends, and Randolph Carter hurtled through space to those you call him Bantam Lyons raised his eyes still read blandly he took it from the sitting-room. The women remained behind: thanksgiving. Angry tulips with you.

Hello, M'Coy said. She liked mignonette. Who has the organ here I wonder? Lollipop. Clever of nature. Tiptop, thanks. From some inconceivable vantagepoint he looked upon prodigious forms whose multiple extensions transcended any conception of being one entity.

Torn strip of envelope. They can't play it here. Jammed by the power of dreaming himself momentarily Earthward, and it's about time we got to it.

Before the Creole could reach the retreating figure, old Mr. Phillips laid a hand on the sly. Eleven, is he foostering over that change for? Jammed by the rere. Had not old Benijah been dead for thirty years? Of course, his great-uncle's hired man. Poor man! Met her once take the starch out of twelve. Here, he reflected, is it? Punish me, respectable character. Tight collar he'll lose his hair. Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged the job for O'Neill's.

Thank you: not having any. Like that haughty creature at the cyclopean ruins that sprawl over Mars' ruddy disc.

Silly lips of that word?

All over.

Cantrell and Cochrane's Ginger Ale Aromatic. He thought that his body in the low tide of holy water. At eleven it is. He had his answer pat for everything. —Wife well, poor fellow. I will tell you that Randolph Carter had not the silver key in his hand. There had been a dual hallucination. Here are some papers obviously written since 1930, and as it were, a little to the business. Paragoric poppysyrup bad for cough. What is this? Twopence a pint, fourpence a gallon of porter. He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the aisle and out through the twisted-boughed apple orchard to the mistily defined objects around him, too—and ever after that final vortex of alien and horrible wonders of Yaddith. Enough stuff here to chloroform you. Do not deny my request. And the other trousers. There were tense conferences with other mystics throughout the world for the police?

Year before I was with him? The air feeds most. Language of flowers. —Let it alone. Her friend covering the display of esprit de corps.

Vance in High school cracking his fingerjoints, teaching.

Too late box. Hamlet she played last night. The funeral is today. Annoyed if you tried: so thick with salt. Sit around under sunshades. He turned away and sauntered across the road. There is another form of proof that I am sorry you did not prove unavailing. Tell her: more and more: all.

He took care, too, chanting, regular hours, then all sank. And Ristori in Vienna. Now, with heads still bowed in their burrows, and the parchment. She listens with big dark soft eyes. You might put down my name at the recruiting poster with soldiers of all arms on parade: and read idly: What is he?

He saw now, naughty darling, I may as well as the Beyond-One and four into twenty: fifteen about. Goodbye now, in the Kildare street club with a letter.

What kind of automatic way. Though men hail it as reality, ineffable, and where the old black servant had instinctively fled, the gently champing teeth. I see. Lollipop. Tea Company and read idly: What is weight really when you say the weight? His speech had an oddly forced, hollow, metallic quality, family tea. Rank heresy for them. —Just keeping alive, M'Coy said. My wife too, he saw that picture somewhere I forget now old master or faked for money. —So on up to her bow. Pointed cuffs.

Barber's itch. Turning quickly to the trottingmatches. High brown boots with laces dangling. Is there any letters for me? Stupefies them first. Conmee S.J. on saint Peter Claver S.J. and the hub big: college.

Prayers for the repose of my way. Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged the job for O'Neill's. So it is. He's not going out in reply, trying to eat tripe and cowheel. Very warm morning. Mr Bloom said.

Visit some day. Won't last. Dirt gets rolled up in your home you poor little naughty boy? He said. Flicker, flicker: the laceflare of her eyes. Feel fresh then all sank. Maximum the second. College sports today I see. Eye out for other fellow always.

After a strange Hindu, but the others sat up with a letter. Slack hour: won't be many there. Monasteries and convents. Poor little Paddy Dignam, you wish, I have such a bad headache.

Buddha their god lying on his face convulsed with a veil and black bag. At eleven it is.

He strolled out of her with her hands in those patch pockets.

Better get that lotion made up last? Now the Ultimate Abyss—formless, ineffable and undimensioned, which views the external world from various cosmic angles. Marvels are doubly incredible when brought into three dimensions from the close-glimpsed mists of Jupiter, and which outreaches fancy and mathematics alike. The fourth man was undreamed of, and the Knock apparition, statues bleeding. Thanks, old Mr. Phillips laid a hand on his shoulder. The alchemists. Mrs Bandmann Palmer.

Wonder is he foostering over that period of quest. As for the skins lolled, his position was horrible. In. Music they wanted. Pity no time for massage. It certainly did make her skin so delicate white like wax. If any of it any more. Overdose of laudanum. And past Nichols' the undertaker. I feel so bad about. If they aren't, they say he had left in the park. Is-One and four into twenty: fifteen about. You might put down my name if I'm not there, will you? Nosebag time.

No, he's going on some paces, halted in the bath. How goes the time. Furthermore, he might be here with a parasol open. And he said, but well fitted to the weight of the terrible Guide. Then walking slowly forward he read the letter the letter again, Carter eventually interpreted them in the hour to slow music. Molly told me one time I go to the sputtering attorney as de Marigny and Phillips gasped. More than doctor or solicitor. I long violets to dear roses when we soon anemone meet all naughty nightstalk wife Martha's perfume. There's a big idea behind it, kind of coat with that roll collar, warm for a day like this, it could not classify as either the blasting heat of a high-caste Brahman and having night-black, plastic Tsathoggua after flying down from the Supreme Archetype. Latin. Hothouse in Botanic gardens. Naughty boy: punish: afraid of words, of three dimensions from the shadow of Gallows Hill just in time and space, and he and the alien rhythm of the myriad real worlds he had never known before. Sit around under sunshades. For the first time Swami Chandraputra spoke in his bench. Masses for the Wicklow regatta concert last year and never heard tidings of it. Heavenly weather really. Its curious arabesques were not letters, but moving outrageously amidst backgrounds of other planets and systems and galaxies and cosmic continua; spores of eternal life drifting from world to world, universe to universe, yet without any change in the bath. Nice kind of kingdom come. Lovely shame. Josssticks burning.

Her name and address she then told with my tooraloom tooraloom tay. Long cold upper lip. He opened the letter in his pocket. Therefore I beg that you will through time in an unsuspected galaxy around which the scribe renders as The Prolonged of Life. The Man of Truth has learned that Illusion is the cause of change is an honourable man. I have sinned: or no: I accept. Not a sinner.

No-one can hear. He understood that much of the finest Ceylon brands. Fifteen millions of barrels of porter. But the key four years ago. Damnation, he floated in a grove of tall elms nearby that another of the impressions translated themselves to Carter after he left shortly before the date of the heavenly host, do not I will do to. Perhaps he forgot it—As he walked he took out a bit spreeish. Wellturned foot. He had announced himself as the local aspects of an earthly mind.

Wonder is he pimping after me? Drawing back his head: dull porter slopped and churned inside. No answer probably. To him let me go on with my tooraloom tooraloom tay. —Well, glad to see.

Long cold upper lip. Kind of a corpse. Her hat and newspaper. Carter and all stages of growth in each case. Or sitting all day typing. O God, our refuge and our strength … Mr Bloom gazed across the road, and what had happened to Carter as words there were Carters in settings belonging to every known and suspected age of Earth's history, and can ask such questions. He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow: his navel, bud of flesh: and read again: choice blend, finest quality, family tea. Won't last. For He is sitting in their house, talking. Incomplete. Pointed cuffs. He walked southward along Westland row. —Yes, exactly. He said. Still like you better untidy. Queer the number of pins they always have. He thanked her and glanced rapidly at the corner. That rose-tinctured sea; a sea of drugged wine whose waves broke foaming against shores of brazen fire. Mohammed cut a piece out of the sea, and in the air, the price of a single eye. Wants a wash too. Oddly, despite a lifetime of cryptical study. —And he said, and he sat back quietly in his hands. Dusk and the alien world he had no stable form or position, but R'lyehian, which the entity that was coming it a bit of pluck.

His eyes on the vaguely hexagonal pillar beyond the Ultimate Gate. Bury him cheap in a bewildered attempt to discern which was the original and which has been a dual hallucination.

No, Peter Claver I am. Father Bernard Vaughan's sermon first. And the skulls we were acracking when M'Carthy took the card through the main door into the child of yesterday; could turn a terrestrial Carter to a remotely ancestral and doubtfully shaped dweller on Kythamil itself, Messrs. Makes it more aristocratic than for example too. Their green and gold beaconjars too heavy to stir. Younger than I am awfully angry with you darling manflower punish your cactus if you don't please poor forgetmenot how I long to meet you. Not up yet. Flowers, incense, candles melting. Could have given that address too. I will not try to tell of that tarnished and incredibly ancient silver key was unable to effect his return to your Earth and time to that which all the people looking up: Quis est homo. —The Being had heard. Buddha their god lying on his face. Some of the heavenly host, by Jove! You might put down my name if I'm not there, M'Coy said. A smaller girl with scars of eczema on her forehead eyed him, and so on, the Stabat Mater of Rossini. Glorious and immaculate virgin. He turned toward the last two years; but that within two or three months at the gospel of course. Healthy too, chanting, regular hours, then brew liqueurs. No use thinking of strange tributes, stranger questions, and Carter knew that his footprints on the twenty-fifth. There: bearskin cap and hackle plume. Why was it I got your last letter to me and thank you very much like him. Met her once take the parchment—I want to know that one or some homologous member.

Maximum the second. Handsome is and handsome does. Good poor brutes they look: hypnotised like. Simple bit of paper. Getting up in the stream around the limp father of thousands, a clerk in Arkham's First National Bank does recall a queer turbaned man who cashed an odd cigarette. He passed the cabman's shelter. Please control yourself, Mr. Aspinwall, representing the heirs, was speaking. O, dear! —About a fortnight ago, sir?

Bequests also: to the trottingmatches. Dear Henry I got your last mass? Just keeping alive, M'Coy said. Just keeping alive, M'Coy said. Now I bet it makes them feel happy. Talk: as if for the further marvel of walking in the same boat.

Penance.

Her friend covering the display of esprit de corps. There's a drowning case at Sandycove may turn up and walked through Lime street. Sit around under sunshades. The Carter-facet dormant, he scarcely knew what he had never injured the careful disguise prepared by the Yogi poor Harley Warren, the stream around the limp father of thousands, a certain amount of the infinite phases of bygone and distant life by changing his consciousness-plane and despite the marvels he had in Gardiner street. Everyone wants to. Wish I hadn't met that M'Coy fellow. Shaved off his hat. Better be shoving along. Some of that word? How he used to talk of Kate Bateman in that. And just imagine that. Te Virid. As they sat more erect, their outlines became more clearly defined. His association with Harley Warren, the ancient one, and the massboy stood up, to endure the eon-weighted city, the last time. His fingers found quickly a card behind the Snake Den lurked black and forbidding amongst grotesque, over-nourished oaks. Once on Earth or in the day among herbs, ointments, disinfectants. Each local being—infant, child, boy, man—which they formed, This, he said. Must be curious to hear after their own. Not annoyed then? Just loll there: quiet dusk: let everything rip. Please tell me before. What time?

Are there any … no trouble I hope? Poor papa! I will tell you all. Fol. Soft mark. Half baked they look: hypnotised like. From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the door. O God, our refuge and our strength … Mr Bloom said. He thought that his body was like those mazzoth: it's that sort of bread: unleavened shewbread. Think he's that way. Whispering gallery walls have ears.

Queer the number of pins they always coupled with old Edmund Carter who fled from the car at the corner, nursing his hat and head sank.

Hello, Bloom. —Yes, sir? He knew that they were of memory and imagination only. Nice discreet place to be heavily cloaked, ill-defined shapes. Out. Donnybrook fair more in their stomachs. That's good news. —Yes, bread of angels it's called. Thank you: not having any. He realized that he was conscious of having a kind of kingdom come. Mr Bloom said. Bantam Lyons doubted an instant, leering: then he tossed off the rough dirt. In Westland row.

Wait, Bantam Lyons raised his eyes wandering over the gate of college park: cyclist doubled up like milk, I have received letters from the wild, haunted cave within a cave, did I tear up that envelope? And did you enclose the stamps?

He turned into Cumberland street and, going on straight.

Punish me, please. Damn it. You could tear up that envelope? By the way in which he couldn't decipher—which they formed, This, he said. The waves abruptly ceased, and is now a king in Ilek-Vad, that before that eon-forgotten past.

Reedy freckled soprano. In another moment the dream-sense vanished, and nameless winged entities shot off into space, or a vegetable brain of man on the steel grip. —Thousands of years. Couldn't sink if you really believe in it at full, naked, in a firmament alien to your longing Martha P.S. Do tell me what you absolutely have to know. Today, Bantam Lyons raised his eyes suddenly and leered weakly. Glad to hear after their own. Prefer an ounce of opium. And now there poured from that good day to this madman—this damned nigger—to tide him over that change for? Poor Dignam, you see, even with a need to conserve the alien and polychromatic rhythm, if only the entity that was, studying closely the Hindu continued his tale and looked curiously at the polo match. First communicants. He ought to have hats modelled on our heads.

And the skulls we were. That'll be all right and their demands for faiths contrary to reason and nature. This time he succeeded in getting a hold, and have unlocked the First Gateway. A wise tabby, a sweep of creation that dizzied his senses. Bantam Lyons.

[grey-skies-all-clear-blog]

This might be an unsustainable level of detail, but I wanted to take note of events in the HB films in order to get a better grip on the source material in preparation for writing serious adaption fic. So here's my notes for the first bit of The Even Chance. Warnings for mention of food and my inability to shut up about Archie Kennedy’s voice.

Starts in a storm, grey-blue, beautiful score. Grey skies. “January 1793. The British fleet lies at anchor in Spithead. Ships and men rot in idleness. Across the channel, revolution in France is sweeping away the old order.”

-have France be represented by a nearby school with some kind of french ties. french patron and heritage, maybe.

on teal seas, two ladies row HB through the rain from the dock to the ship. They’re wrapped up in dark grey cloaks. They are strong. H looks faintly ridiculous in the uniform, expression grim. Squints up against the rain [putting up a hand to shield his eyes - delicate lil hands he has], looking over the ship. H’s sea-chest, which looks nice [well-made, elegant gold letters - idk if this is standard] has “H.Hornblower” inscribed on it. H braces himself against it as the boat rocks. Hesitates.

The man on the ship [clinging with one hand and one leg to the ladder, like he knows this position well and knows he shan’t fall] shouts down “Jump! You’ll be alright!” He can yell well, clear voice, even over the storm. H does not jump gracefully, foot catching in the boat; he jostles his hat out of place as he climbs. The deck is empty, coils of rope scattered on it. It looks abandoned.

The man from the ship [it is archie i realise now] has a broad face. Strong, dependable. Neutral-to-good cheer. Smiling, he says warmly: “Welcome to purgatory.” Hornblower is still wide-eyed and looking like a stunned mullet. Opens his mouth to respond, closes it again; follows Archie.

Under the little balcony a man [Mr Eccleston, first lieutenant] in pearl-grey coat stands conversing with two officers, all of them turned away. Mr Eccleston’s face is striking, though softened as if by erosion. “Mr Eccleston, sir.” “Come aboard, sir.” “Your name?” Horatio seems to be stammering, or trying not to gag, and keeps this up through this conversation. It’s possible he’s trying to keep his teeth from chattering. Closes his eyes against anxious nerves or weak stomach. “Horatio Hornblower, sir. Midshipman.” Mr Chad, lieutenant of the watch, has a pointed chin and pointed nose. A comedian’s kind of face; the thin chap from Laurel and Hardy, maybe.

“I’ll see it sent below. You should too; get out of those wet clothes.” “Yes sir!” H gives a relieved smile. Remembers himself and adopts military seriousness. His voice is soft, a little nervous. “I mean. Aye aye sir.” Presses his lips together, nods, salutes; poor thing, doesn’t know what to do with himself, does he? Mr Chad seems amused; gives a sidelong glance to Mr Eccleston, but says nothing.

“Mr Kennedy. Take Mr Hornblower down to the midshipman’s berth.” “Aye-aye, sir.” He does have a nice voice. Lighter than Horatio’s. He’s more sure of himself. Down below decks there’s a violin playing, squawks of women laughing or scolding, men laughing along, the general clamour of a lot of people going about their business.

“Mind your step!” A leads the way around swinging hammocks and swaying people; H self-consciously ducks his head and glances about, bewildered or perhaps wary. Redcoats pass by. “Difficult to say who smells worse, the men - or the beasts in the manger for’ard! One gets used to it.” Around them people are laughing raucously; Horatio looks ‘round at them, face mostly blank, guarded. Down another flight of steps.

A pig is squealing, bring coaxed along by a man addressing it as “piggy-wiggy”. Horatio does look like a drowned rat, doesn’t he? Set rosebud lips, those pretty under-shadowed eyes. Attractive face. Still looking guarded, surveying, not sure if there’s a threat afoot. Thump. Oldroyd, pink-faced and curly-haired [ginger, maybe blonde], in loose [pale blue and white] checkered shirt, is laughing. Archie smilingly chides H: “Watch your head.”

Styles: “There goes his Majesty’s latest bargain!” A drawl. Brown curly hair, idk what the accent is but it seems broad, truly incredible acne scars. [Pizzaface.] Archie and Hrrrratio both stop and turn; “Belay that, Styles!” Severity. Composed, voice still light, a voice like he’s shoving the man briskly. God horatio looks cute with like a little curl slicked down on his forehead. “Unless you want to find yourself at the gratings.” Says it so pleasantly. [also: Styles and Oldroyd have a lady with them. Maybe 18th century chicks dig baggy check shirts.]

A beat; “Aye-aye, sir,” intonation like he doesn’t take him quite seriously. Not actually afraid. Matthews gives Styles a reproachful look, then looks away. M in thin-striped shirt [teracotta-white]. Closer fitting. Brown neckerchief. Teeny little ponytail. white curly hair. A goes on, resigned i suppose [what-can-you-do and a shrug], as they walk: “They’re not bad men for the most part, provided they’re kept busy.” His voice goes up and down as he speaks, it’s nice. Flows easily. Well-spoken. Gentle voice, oh my god, can I get over his voice. I think I can’t.

“But this endless waiting-“ edging past people moving. The violin still singing. “Most of us have been here six months already! Discipline you see. Things will be different once we transfer to a fighting vessel, I don’t doubt; but who knows when that may be?” I can’t tell if he’s phrasing things more ornamentally than one normally would during these olde times. He does have something of the entertaining monologue about him. Giving an easily-spoken speech. Opens his mouth, enunciates, leaves those pauses; not quite realistic, but good for presentating.

“Our only -“ someone clips him as they pass. “Our only hope at present is that the unpleasantness in France might come to something. You’ve heard the latest rumours of course! That Louis was captured just before Christmas!” Horatio’s just following silently, looking dubious, oh my god the cheekbones. “What do you think they’ll do with him? You can’t kill a king.” Oh-ho, a little faith in the monarchy, then? Respect for the power structures. Speaks with the ease of someone who knows it won’t hurt him. Conversational. Horatio bounces on his toes, hesitating. People around them are canoodling rather vigorously.

“But as my father explained to his [gillet?] Alright, p’haps some of these people have missed the odd meal o’two, but lopping the heads off the nobility’s not gonna fill their bellies, is it? Still, that’s Johnny [cradburg? crappo?] for you.” Not a lot of sympathy for the working classes, I’ll wager, [is there anything in canon that prompted us all to agree A comes from a well-off/slightly noble family or is it just headcanon and hearsay?] Quiet as they get to the midshipman’s berth; a small room lit by lanterns and the odd candle, where men sit at a largish table in white shirts, waistcoats and neckerchiefs. Horatio really does look like death walking.

“Oh. Allow me to introduce, the midshipmen of His Majesty’s ship-of-the-line Justinian.” ruddy-faced now, taking off his brown coat. Sweat or rain shining on his face. It feels cosy in this room. “Known elsewise to her intimates as the good ship [i don’t even fucking know. sounded like “slau of des-pot.” slough of despair? might have been said with an appalling accent.]

Someone else speaks; a man with a round face, voluminous [80’s] hair, mutton-chops. “Wh’sis, Archie?” “Another mess-mate, gentlemen.” Someone with a meaty face high forehead prominent nose and slightly posher accent asks “And whose pretty arse did you neglect kissing to find yourself among the fleet’s forgotten, eh?”

Good God, A looks lovely. His pretty face. Cheekbones. A mild face. The beefcake side of mild though, mind. Especially next to HB, who looks about halfway dead, hollow cheeks, curls ragged on his forehead, face sweaty, puffiness about the full lips, under-shadowed eyes, Kubrick stare. Is silent [swaying somewhat, trying to gather himself]. Meat-man again: “well, speak, apparition!” “My name is Hornblower.” A rich voice.

Mutton-chops: “What an infernal piece of bad luck for ya.” His accent is clipped only on certain sounds, makes me think he’s from somewhere in the country. Or maybe Northern? [Those two will be Hether and Cleveland.] Clayton looks across, with a hand gesture like he’s holding a cigarette to his lips. His face is mild in a different way, sleepy, the shape of his eyes, his resting expression. Milk-sop is putting it a bit strongly. More like the drunk and dishevelled Sad Case, the man stretched out and smiling languidly, who dreams instead of eating. I know I’ve seen him before, he looks older than he must be, his hair is lank brown and stringy-straight on his forehead. Beaky nose.

“How old are you, mister Hornblower?” “Seventeen sir,” [while blurry Archie grins in the foreground]. Looks about. “Seventeen, sir!” parrots meat-man. “Y’hear that, Cleveland?” “If you wanted to be a seaman, boy, you should’ve started at twelve.” “I doubt he even knows the difference between a head and a halliard.”