Why am I doing this? I have other fills to complete…Damn my love of Poe!
England was drunk.
That seemed a harsh way of putting it, but he was. He was drunk and lonely and miserable, hiding here in the darkened nook of his private library, lit only by a weak and flickering fire in the hearth. The place should have been familiar to him, comforting. Here, he was surrounded by the familiar tomes of his personal collection, the beautifully illuminated volumes that bound his most stunning literature, most haunting spells and most brilliant moments of history into a solid and concrete form.
But there was no comfort to be found among the shelves tonight, nothing that could distract him from the aching emptiness of his loss, of three years spent across the sea in vain, struggling against the fury a force that should have crumpled before him only to be beaten down and lose the thing he’d clung to all along.
America…
The name shuddered through his mind like a musket ball. England let his glass fall from his hands, never minding how its dark contents stained the carpet below; the book he’d desperately tried to distract himself with soon followed. He leaned back in his chair, pressed his hands across his face and tried to force himself to sleep, so he would no longer be able to dwell.
Sleep would not come. Instead, he fancied he heard a visitor – perhaps a servant or some busy-body minister – rapping upon his chamber door.
England closed his eyes and ignored the sound. His ears craned for something else to hear and caught the fluttering of his curtains about the window frame. The wind beyond must be growing quite strong now, to force its way through the window’s lingering cracks. Perhaps a storm was brewing; perhaps it was bringing snow. It did not matter. He had a good fire, a good home, a good drink. He could weather any storm, any war, now that he was home.
The rapping came again upon his chamber door. The visitor, whoever they might be, was frustrating persistent. England rose, resigned, and made his way to the door. “My apologies,” he called as he undid the heavy latch, “but I was nearly sleeping when you arrived and almost thought your knocking was nothing more than a dream…”
With this, he opened wide the door. Yet, the hall beyond was empty; only darkness waited there.
England stood a moment, beneath the arch of his chamber door, and searched; but there was no more there than ever before. A cold wind howled through his ancient and lonely estate and, for a moment, he almost fancied he heard a child’s laughter echoing from further in.
“America,” he whispered, unable to stop the firing of the word.
The Raven and the Rattler [1/3]
England was drunk.
That seemed a harsh way of putting it, but he was. He was drunk and lonely and miserable, hiding here in the darkened nook of his private library, lit only by a weak and flickering fire in the hearth. The place should have been familiar to him, comforting. Here, he was surrounded by the familiar tomes of his personal collection, the beautifully illuminated volumes that bound his most stunning literature, most haunting spells and most brilliant moments of history into a solid and concrete form.
But there was no comfort to be found among the shelves tonight, nothing that could distract him from the aching emptiness of his loss, of three years spent across the sea in vain, struggling against the fury a force that should have crumpled before him only to be beaten down and lose the thing he’d clung to all along.
America…
The name shuddered through his mind like a musket ball. England let his glass fall from his hands, never minding how its dark contents stained the carpet below; the book he’d desperately tried to distract himself with soon followed. He leaned back in his chair, pressed his hands across his face and tried to force himself to sleep, so he would no longer be able to dwell.
Sleep would not come. Instead, he fancied he heard a visitor – perhaps a servant or some busy-body minister – rapping upon his chamber door.
England closed his eyes and ignored the sound. His ears craned for something else to hear and caught the fluttering of his curtains about the window frame. The wind beyond must be growing quite strong now, to force its way through the window’s lingering cracks. Perhaps a storm was brewing; perhaps it was bringing snow. It did not matter. He had a good fire, a good home, a good drink. He could weather any storm, any war, now that he was home.
The rapping came again upon his chamber door. The visitor, whoever they might be, was frustrating persistent. England rose, resigned, and made his way to the door. “My apologies,” he called as he undid the heavy latch, “but I was nearly sleeping when you arrived and almost thought your knocking was nothing more than a dream…”
With this, he opened wide the door. Yet, the hall beyond was empty; only darkness waited there.
England stood a moment, beneath the arch of his chamber door, and searched; but there was no more there than ever before. A cold wind howled through his ancient and lonely estate and, for a moment, he almost fancied he heard a child’s laughter echoing from further in.
“America,” he whispered, unable to stop the firing of the word.
“America,” said the darkness in return.