Secondhand Lions
More than a Roar
Time. He'd gone through it in a multitude of ways. He'd survived it. He'd reveled in it. He'd even stopped it a time or two. But this time, he'd let it blur and fuse into one long era of nightmare, uncertainty and epiphany. Since that night he, Archie and Harry had supper at the 'Forge he'd found himself cloistered in the room rented for him. At least it wasn't the Tower.
The interminable days and nights were spent awake and asleep only in short catnaps. In the waking hours, Renne had thoroughly examined anything on his person that had ever been touched or influenced by Harold Lowe.
The note.
It said goodbye. That was all.
No rhyme, no reason.
What were you locking me out from? Were you trying to protect me? Were you casting me off? What could have been so horrible that you, a hero of mine, could flee? Was it that bad?
That very note and one other possession under his unannounced care had triggered the stubborn imp to nearly panic, force that panic down and into rationality, then track the Welshman down like a frenzied bloodhound.
The Browning.
-- Feared weapon.
-- Beloved artifact.
Why had he left it behind?
He never leaves that thing far from his reach. So why then?
Only now had the imp time to try and contemplate all this.
In his meditations, the imp had analysed every scrap of emotional runoff he'd ever picked up from not just Harold, but from any Human.
Humans build things. They build Emotional things too. Start at the beginning.
So he did. He started from the first day he'd walked -- all those years ago when he could walk -- through the Maritime's doors. He dissected everything from the faintest smile to the most scathing outburst from then, on to his return two years later, then again his second return to the present.
The fires had been there.
I could not understand it. I do not entirely understand it now, but there is fire inside.
Duality?
Possibly.
But that duality has been suppressed, if there had ever been one.
He is doing what I did.
Through his brief, nightmare-ridden sleeps, the imp never made a sound. He never let that secret out and he never will. Nightmares are often irrational and baseless. Still, he kept each harrowing dream clearly in his mind.
You never know when the subconscious could be right about something.
In his waking hours, he'd come to his epiphanies with perhaps less shock than he'd expected.
Loyalty. They have it.
Trust. They are gaining it.
Faith. They are teaching it and learning it in themselves.
They are getting stronger, and I am right alongside them.
It was then that time ceased to blur off into an unrecogniseable haze.
It was then that the imp finally came down from his room at the 'Forge and found yet another message from Harold.
He was going back Home.
Renne had rarely understood relief to this depth.
Harold was returning Home.
That was perhaps the most uplifting message to date.
More than a Roar
Time. He'd gone through it in a multitude of ways. He'd survived it. He'd reveled in it. He'd even stopped it a time or two. But this time, he'd let it blur and fuse into one long era of nightmare, uncertainty and epiphany. Since that night he, Archie and Harry had supper at the 'Forge he'd found himself cloistered in the room rented for him. At least it wasn't the Tower.
The interminable days and nights were spent awake and asleep only in short catnaps. In the waking hours, Renne had thoroughly examined anything on his person that had ever been touched or influenced by Harold Lowe.
The note.
It said goodbye. That was all.
No rhyme, no reason.
What were you locking me out from? Were you trying to protect me? Were you casting me off? What could have been so horrible that you, a hero of mine, could flee? Was it that bad?
That very note and one other possession under his unannounced care had triggered the stubborn imp to nearly panic, force that panic down and into rationality, then track the Welshman down like a frenzied bloodhound.
The Browning.
-- Feared weapon.
-- Beloved artifact.
Why had he left it behind?
He never leaves that thing far from his reach. So why then?
Only now had the imp time to try and contemplate all this.
In his meditations, the imp had analysed every scrap of emotional runoff he'd ever picked up from not just Harold, but from any Human.
Humans build things. They build Emotional things too. Start at the beginning.
So he did. He started from the first day he'd walked -- all those years ago when he could walk -- through the Maritime's doors. He dissected everything from the faintest smile to the most scathing outburst from then, on to his return two years later, then again his second return to the present.
The fires had been there.
I could not understand it. I do not entirely understand it now, but there is fire inside.
Duality?
Possibly.
But that duality has been suppressed, if there had ever been one.
He is doing what I did.
Through his brief, nightmare-ridden sleeps, the imp never made a sound. He never let that secret out and he never will. Nightmares are often irrational and baseless. Still, he kept each harrowing dream clearly in his mind.
You never know when the subconscious could be right about something.
In his waking hours, he'd come to his epiphanies with perhaps less shock than he'd expected.
Loyalty. They have it.
Trust. They are gaining it.
Faith. They are teaching it and learning it in themselves.
They are getting stronger, and I am right alongside them.
It was then that time ceased to blur off into an unrecogniseable haze.
It was then that the imp finally came down from his room at the 'Forge and found yet another message from Harold.
He was going back Home.
Renne had rarely understood relief to this depth.
Harold was returning Home.
That was perhaps the most uplifting message to date.