- A Hero's Death -
Jan. 18th, 2011 08:06 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
notasuggestionHelga Sinclair
Atlantis: The Lost Empire
645 words
A lie is sometimes gentler than the truth.
Two sharp raps came against the old but sturdy oak door.
Lieutenant Helga Sinclair chuckled under her breath, but any humor in it died the moment it left her throat. ‘Old but sturdy.’ Those three words summed up her surroundings perfectly.
The wire of the fencing needed replacing, but the posts were solid. No rot, no leans. The stable roof could use new shingles, but the actual structure had years left in it. The house needed painting, but it was as sound as the day it had been built. Even the old stallion and his mare looked tired and worn, but their eyes shone with no less intelligence than in their prime.
While she waited, the woman on the stoop straightened. She was a soldier, not a delicate creature prone to sentiment.
Her posture remained rigid, but her features softened when the door opened. A withered woman of seventy-five looked at her. Dressed in black, the elderly woman sighed. Her back was bent from years of labor, and her eyes were tired.
“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am,” Helga managed. She bowed her head. “I know Mr. Whitmore has called and written, but I wanted to come myself. Offer my personal condolences on the loss of your son.”
The old woman heaved a sigh. “Wish I could’ve put the boy to rest.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Isn’t your fault, sweetheart. Come in. I’ll make you something to drink.”
“I don’t drink,” Helga replied as she stepped inside.
“You drink tea, don’t you?”
“I—” Helga paused. “Yes, ma’am. I do.”
“Sit.” As she disappeared into the kitchen, the woman sighed again. “Don’t seem right, really. Seeing you here without Lyle just in front or just behind.”
Helga sank into an armchair, the seat traditionally reserved for the master of the house. She kept her voice low so her hostess wouldn’t hear. “It doesn’t feel right.”
A few minutes and a whistling kettle later, the woman pressed a cup of tea into Helga’s hand. Despite the lack of sugar, she drank.
“He’s really gone,” the woman said.
Helga nodded.
“Said I wouldn’t believe it until you said so.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Can I—ask you just one thing, sweetheart?”
“Of course, ma’am. Anything.”
The women’s gaze met. The older said, “How did it happen?”
Helga closed her eyes and took a long moment to savor her tea. Finally, she met the woman’s eyes and let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “The way we came was blocked, but we were in a volcano shaft. Only way out was up. We checked the climbing equipment, everything. All secure. Had the whole crew up on a ledge, almost there, when—I don’t know what happened. My line broke. Ours were hooked together, but we both had a good grip on the cave wall. It wasn’t solid, though.” Helga bowed her head. “One of our crew had a hand out to help us the rest of the way. Commander Rourke gave me a push so I could reach, and he lost his grip. Fell.” Her voice broke. “There was no way to retrieve the body. I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Sweetheart.” The old woman grasped the younger’s gloved hands. “He died doing what he loved and savin’ you. Bet he didn’t regret a thing.”
Helga sighed before she stood.
“Where you staying?”
“Somewhere in town, ma’am.”
“Got reservations?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then you’re stayin’ right here.”
“I couldn’t impose.”
“I insist.”
Before Helga could argue further, the woman was halfway to the stairs, talking to herself about the spare room and fixing it up.
The lieutenant collapsed back into the armchair and bowed her head again. She rested it in her hand and squeezed her eyes shut. Confident the other woman was well out of earshot, Helga repeated what she’d said too many times already when she was alone.
“God damn you, Rourke.”
Atlantis: The Lost Empire
645 words
A lie is sometimes gentler than the truth.
Two sharp raps came against the old but sturdy oak door.
Lieutenant Helga Sinclair chuckled under her breath, but any humor in it died the moment it left her throat. ‘Old but sturdy.’ Those three words summed up her surroundings perfectly.
The wire of the fencing needed replacing, but the posts were solid. No rot, no leans. The stable roof could use new shingles, but the actual structure had years left in it. The house needed painting, but it was as sound as the day it had been built. Even the old stallion and his mare looked tired and worn, but their eyes shone with no less intelligence than in their prime.
While she waited, the woman on the stoop straightened. She was a soldier, not a delicate creature prone to sentiment.
Her posture remained rigid, but her features softened when the door opened. A withered woman of seventy-five looked at her. Dressed in black, the elderly woman sighed. Her back was bent from years of labor, and her eyes were tired.
“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am,” Helga managed. She bowed her head. “I know Mr. Whitmore has called and written, but I wanted to come myself. Offer my personal condolences on the loss of your son.”
The old woman heaved a sigh. “Wish I could’ve put the boy to rest.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Isn’t your fault, sweetheart. Come in. I’ll make you something to drink.”
“I don’t drink,” Helga replied as she stepped inside.
“You drink tea, don’t you?”
“I—” Helga paused. “Yes, ma’am. I do.”
“Sit.” As she disappeared into the kitchen, the woman sighed again. “Don’t seem right, really. Seeing you here without Lyle just in front or just behind.”
Helga sank into an armchair, the seat traditionally reserved for the master of the house. She kept her voice low so her hostess wouldn’t hear. “It doesn’t feel right.”
A few minutes and a whistling kettle later, the woman pressed a cup of tea into Helga’s hand. Despite the lack of sugar, she drank.
“He’s really gone,” the woman said.
Helga nodded.
“Said I wouldn’t believe it until you said so.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Can I—ask you just one thing, sweetheart?”
“Of course, ma’am. Anything.”
The women’s gaze met. The older said, “How did it happen?”
Helga closed her eyes and took a long moment to savor her tea. Finally, she met the woman’s eyes and let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “The way we came was blocked, but we were in a volcano shaft. Only way out was up. We checked the climbing equipment, everything. All secure. Had the whole crew up on a ledge, almost there, when—I don’t know what happened. My line broke. Ours were hooked together, but we both had a good grip on the cave wall. It wasn’t solid, though.” Helga bowed her head. “One of our crew had a hand out to help us the rest of the way. Commander Rourke gave me a push so I could reach, and he lost his grip. Fell.” Her voice broke. “There was no way to retrieve the body. I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Sweetheart.” The old woman grasped the younger’s gloved hands. “He died doing what he loved and savin’ you. Bet he didn’t regret a thing.”
Helga sighed before she stood.
“Where you staying?”
“Somewhere in town, ma’am.”
“Got reservations?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then you’re stayin’ right here.”
“I couldn’t impose.”
“I insist.”
Before Helga could argue further, the woman was halfway to the stairs, talking to herself about the spare room and fixing it up.
The lieutenant collapsed back into the armchair and bowed her head again. She rested it in her hand and squeezed her eyes shut. Confident the other woman was well out of earshot, Helga repeated what she’d said too many times already when she was alone.
“God damn you, Rourke.”
