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barefoot_bardTitle: Lineage
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: The character George Thompson belongs tosharpiefan.
Original pen-date: 5 February 2011
Summary: Show the Colours AU; Thompson makes a discovery while taking stock of his mother's personal effects. Chatham, year unknown.
Author's Note: Written for a Kink meme. Prompt - Thompson discovers who his father is/is thought to be. (Didn't realise that I'd never got around to posting this here.)
The small box had been amongst his mother's things. At first, Thompson had not felt right opening it, for it had been hidden at the bottom of her old valise. It seemed like something his mother wanted to keep hidden from everyone. She must have kept her secret possessions in this little box. Why else would it be buried beneath dresses and petticoats? Opening the box to examine its contents felt like a heartless intrusion.
He did open it eventually, however. He had to. Curiosity was stronger than respectful discretion. The box's lid was worn near the edge, doubtless from years of opening and closing, rather like a sea-chest. Thompson ran his fingers over the lid then eased it open. The small hinges made no sound. Once it was opened, he paused to study the box's contents. These were his mother's treasures. The items she considered valuable, perhaps moreso than money. It was like glimpsing a whole new side of her.
The first item he lifted out was wrapped in patterned linen. It was light in weight but felt solid. He carefully unwrapped it from the folds of protective linen, revealing a carved bit of wood. It resembled a ship, without its masts. Thompson turned it over in his hands to examine it from every angle. The workmanship was not the best, but he noted an admirable effort had been made to capture the important details. There was no markings to suggest which ship it was meant to be, however. In fact, the only notable marks on the carving were two engraved numbers, carefully included near the stern gallery. '86'. The date of origin, perhaps?
The carved ship was rewrapped in its linen covering and set aside. Beneath where the ship had rested were several folded, yellowed pieces of paper. Thompson looked over each of these, taking care not to accidentally tear the old paper. He could read now, but only just. Several of the papers were actually letters and he recognised a couple of his own, which had been written for him by others. Discovering them again was surreal. These too were set aside. He could read each of them later. For, underneath the letters, he had discovered something that he wouldn't have expected to see in a box of treasured trinkets.
In his hands, Thompson held a jumble of white worsted wool, which fell naturally into loops when he dangled it from his fingers. He knew what this was, even as he marvelled that his mother should have one. A shoulder knot, from the days before the introduction of chevrons as marks of rank. This was old indeed. How had she come by it? He gathered the dirty loops gently in his cupped hand. A better question was, to whom had this belonged? The answer, of course, would probably never be known. There was no counting the number of men who'd come and gone from this room. Many of them had been Marines from the nearby Dockyard.
Thompson thought of his own rank, denoted by the two chevrons on his right sleeve. Those two angled stripes of white cloth were more precious than gold. Once he'd got used to them, anyway. It would require a strong attachment to someone to make him give them up, in any fashion. Could that be what had happened with these old, worn loops of cord? Certainly they had meant something to his mother, for her to keep such a thing for so long. He'd never known her to show anything in the way of genuine feeling for any of her clients, at least.
There was little else of interest in the box, aside from a few old buttons and the odd scrap of cloth. Whatever meaning those tiny bits had held, he had no idea. Reluctantly, he laid the old shoulder knot onto the bed, beside the collection of letters. This was something he would have liked to ask her about, had he known of it. Maybe it was something better left not revealed. Thompson managed a brief, sad smile. It was a little mystery that would never be solved, for there was no one left now who could solve it. Perhaps that was for the best.
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: The character George Thompson belongs to
sharpiefan.Original pen-date: 5 February 2011
Summary: Show the Colours AU; Thompson makes a discovery while taking stock of his mother's personal effects. Chatham, year unknown.
Author's Note: Written for a Kink meme. Prompt - Thompson discovers who his father is/is thought to be. (Didn't realise that I'd never got around to posting this here.)
The small box had been amongst his mother's things. At first, Thompson had not felt right opening it, for it had been hidden at the bottom of her old valise. It seemed like something his mother wanted to keep hidden from everyone. She must have kept her secret possessions in this little box. Why else would it be buried beneath dresses and petticoats? Opening the box to examine its contents felt like a heartless intrusion.
He did open it eventually, however. He had to. Curiosity was stronger than respectful discretion. The box's lid was worn near the edge, doubtless from years of opening and closing, rather like a sea-chest. Thompson ran his fingers over the lid then eased it open. The small hinges made no sound. Once it was opened, he paused to study the box's contents. These were his mother's treasures. The items she considered valuable, perhaps moreso than money. It was like glimpsing a whole new side of her.
The first item he lifted out was wrapped in patterned linen. It was light in weight but felt solid. He carefully unwrapped it from the folds of protective linen, revealing a carved bit of wood. It resembled a ship, without its masts. Thompson turned it over in his hands to examine it from every angle. The workmanship was not the best, but he noted an admirable effort had been made to capture the important details. There was no markings to suggest which ship it was meant to be, however. In fact, the only notable marks on the carving were two engraved numbers, carefully included near the stern gallery. '86'. The date of origin, perhaps?
The carved ship was rewrapped in its linen covering and set aside. Beneath where the ship had rested were several folded, yellowed pieces of paper. Thompson looked over each of these, taking care not to accidentally tear the old paper. He could read now, but only just. Several of the papers were actually letters and he recognised a couple of his own, which had been written for him by others. Discovering them again was surreal. These too were set aside. He could read each of them later. For, underneath the letters, he had discovered something that he wouldn't have expected to see in a box of treasured trinkets.
In his hands, Thompson held a jumble of white worsted wool, which fell naturally into loops when he dangled it from his fingers. He knew what this was, even as he marvelled that his mother should have one. A shoulder knot, from the days before the introduction of chevrons as marks of rank. This was old indeed. How had she come by it? He gathered the dirty loops gently in his cupped hand. A better question was, to whom had this belonged? The answer, of course, would probably never be known. There was no counting the number of men who'd come and gone from this room. Many of them had been Marines from the nearby Dockyard.
Thompson thought of his own rank, denoted by the two chevrons on his right sleeve. Those two angled stripes of white cloth were more precious than gold. Once he'd got used to them, anyway. It would require a strong attachment to someone to make him give them up, in any fashion. Could that be what had happened with these old, worn loops of cord? Certainly they had meant something to his mother, for her to keep such a thing for so long. He'd never known her to show anything in the way of genuine feeling for any of her clients, at least.
There was little else of interest in the box, aside from a few old buttons and the odd scrap of cloth. Whatever meaning those tiny bits had held, he had no idea. Reluctantly, he laid the old shoulder knot onto the bed, beside the collection of letters. This was something he would have liked to ask her about, had he known of it. Maybe it was something better left not revealed. Thompson managed a brief, sad smile. It was a little mystery that would never be solved, for there was no one left now who could solve it. Perhaps that was for the best.