InsaneJournal

I can't stand the rain
What: Remembering.
Who: Breacan.
Where: 'Hell'.
When: Now.
Rating: PGR.
Word Count: 792.
Note: Un’beta as usual.
Additional Credit: Conversation with Breacan and Clotho, comes from play with flings_dice, particularly Clotho.

There are some things worth remembering.

PRIVATE

It was pouring down rain. Wet season had come to ‘Hell’ with a vengeance. The rain got into everything, made it damp, wet, cold and turned ground into murky mires.




The battle was the heaviest fighting they had seen since they had arrived, and, weather conditions made the fighting horrendous. The conditions made Breacan’s mood less than charming. He spent half the time bawling out orders across the field, the other half of the time he struggled with the desire to be someplace, any place but where he was.

The enemy made use of the rain making it difficult to see them. By now, the men were seasoned enough to tell by sense when the adversary would reappear. As the battle escalated, the captain used his mood to cut through the enemy. He was careful to pull himself back when the rage built, he did not want it to shift into Norse berserker rage. Just as he managed to pull himself under control he spotted a group of soldiers, seemingly just standing around doing nothing. Of course, his common sense told him they had to be waiting for something to appear. He wasn’t listening to his common sense, his rage kicked in and he saw red,

“What the bloody hell, are you morons doing over there? Tip toeing through the tulips?!”

Eothian was on the other side of a melee, fighting his own fight for life. He along with everyone else could hear Breacan yelling and cursing. From his vantage point, Eothian watched Breacan stomping off towards the group of men. There was nothing he could do to save the men from the captain’s wrath. Nothing could save them, unless they threw themselves at the enemy, considering the tone of Breacan’s fury it was likely a more merciful death.

Eothian did not know what made him look again. It may have been Breacan’s sudden silence. The whole day all everyone heard was Breacan yelling, cursing and now it had stopped. The silence was unnerving. When the lieutenant looked again, he saw the captain was standing dead still in the pouring rain.

In any other circumstances Eothian figured he was waiting for the enemy to appear. But no, Breacan had dropped his sword---his sword. The captain was a warrior of the highest order; dropping a sword would only occur if his sword arm was severed from his body. From his viewpoint, the lieutenant could tell the captain still had both his arms attached to his body. Eothian knew something was wrong.

In amongst the battle, the blood, the gore, the stench of burning flesh, and screams of men: the captain remembered.

“...you morons doing over there? Tip toeing through the tulips?!” The benign comment made him remember what he was meant to forget.

“Tip-toe through the tulips with me?” She had asked.

The remembering made him dropped his sword.

He had replied. “And be mistaken for Tiny Tim?”

The recollection brought him down on his knees to the muddy ground…

“What kinds of flowers please her?” And the answer given was Tulips.

…as everything came back to him with shocking clarity.

“A twist and you'd simply... forget.” she had said.

“Which will forget?” He asked, “Heart or mind?”

“Your heart has memories of me?”

“Tulips, smiles. Apparently easy to forget.” He had said.

A twist and you'd simply... forget. and he had allowed it. He let her wipe away her memories from his mind. They were brief memories, but for him powerful and potent. Suddenly the captain was glad the rain hid what he could not control, his tears.

The plan was spur of the moment decision, a desperate, insane idea that evidently worked for now. Breacan had conned himself into believing if Poseidon thought he had forgotten, they’d be safe from any future vindictive meddling.

All Breacan had to do was remember. He believed he could, he prided himself on his ability to never forget.

Now that he was remembering Breacan cursed himself, it was going to take all his self-control to hide the recall; he convinced himself he could. Slowly he pulled himself up from the ground, the weight of his emotions almost crippling him. Breacan picked up his sword and grasped the pommel, the familiar feel brought him back to where he was. He focused on his surroundings and attended to the group of men he was initially shouting at; by the time he got to them he was back to his normal self.

At the end of the day when the fighting was dying down, Eothian caught up with Breacan and fell along side of him as they walked,

“What happened out there?” Eothian asked concerned. All he got for an answer was frosty silence.