joiedecombat (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
joiedecombat) wrote2004-09-14 05:45 pm
joiedecombat) wrote2004-09-14 05:45 pm
NaNoWriMo Exercise #3: [FFVIII] Old (654)
The word for this wordsplat was suggested by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kevasangel74.
He'd never seen a photograph of his son, but he'd built a picture in his own head. He'd soaked up every scrap of description that had been offered to him, all the stories of a shy little boy with wide grey eyes and a sweet smile, the more impersonal accounts of a skilled soldier and a capable leader, and he'd pieced every detail together into an image he'd perfected in his mind. He could almost see him: a strong young man, with a little of the softness of youth left in his face and a bit of growing left to do, perhaps, but with a confident bearing that belied his age. A handsome boy who'd meet the world with honest and intelligent eyes. The sort of person that people trust implicitly because they can see that his decisions come from the heart - mature and responsible, but with an unexpectedly innocent smile, because, after all, he was only seventeen.
They'd know one another automatically, he'd been sure. Even if there was no introduction, he'd known he'd see the image of the mother in the son, and wouldn't the boy recognize something of himself in his father? It would be a little awkward at first, both of them hesitating, each waiting for the other to make the first overture. But that would smooth away into the wonder of discovery. They'd have so much to talk about - not much time for it right away, of course, and not all of the telling would come easily, but it would come. When all the upheaval was finally put to rest, they'd have all the time in the world. After such a victory - and it would be a victory, without question - his son would be able to retire a hero with his whole life still ahead of him. They'd make up for lost time then.
He'd kept telling himself that. He'd believed it. It had never even occurred to him to doubt the portrait he'd painted in his mind's eye, never occurred to him to doubt the way he'd imagined it would go.
Meeting the truth face to face had felt like the ground dropping out from under him.
There was nothing of the boy he'd imagined in the tight-lipped stranger who came to meet him, a fresh scar on his face and a heavy, well-used weapon at his side. There was no softness lingering in that taut, angular face. He looked old, harsh and grim, shoulders squared tightly against the pressure of some great weight that left his face lined with strain, and he faced everything with the wary defiance of a man who didn't know when or from where the next blow would come but knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that it was coming.
He'd seen men who looked like that before, back in his own days as a soldier, but it was staggering to see it on his son - to see the way those cool grey eyes watched for movement at every entrance, and how automatically his companions fell into a protective fan around him. The stark black leather of his battered jacket had shown the marks of careful mending in a dozen places, and it was disquieting to look at the stitches and wonder how many of those marks covered matching scars on the skin beneath.
Worst of all was meeting those eyes, that guarded look, and seeing the contempt there - seeing himself reflected, a life of foolish mistakes and squandered time. Realizing, as he did, how much damage he'd done by doing nothing. It tied his insides into knots to have to ask for more, with the sudden understanding that even if his son returned from this last, impossible mission, there would be no reconciliation. It was too late. He would never be forgiven for his failures.
Those shadowed, too-old eyes haunted him for a long time after they'd gone.
kevasangel74.He'd never seen a photograph of his son, but he'd built a picture in his own head. He'd soaked up every scrap of description that had been offered to him, all the stories of a shy little boy with wide grey eyes and a sweet smile, the more impersonal accounts of a skilled soldier and a capable leader, and he'd pieced every detail together into an image he'd perfected in his mind. He could almost see him: a strong young man, with a little of the softness of youth left in his face and a bit of growing left to do, perhaps, but with a confident bearing that belied his age. A handsome boy who'd meet the world with honest and intelligent eyes. The sort of person that people trust implicitly because they can see that his decisions come from the heart - mature and responsible, but with an unexpectedly innocent smile, because, after all, he was only seventeen.
They'd know one another automatically, he'd been sure. Even if there was no introduction, he'd known he'd see the image of the mother in the son, and wouldn't the boy recognize something of himself in his father? It would be a little awkward at first, both of them hesitating, each waiting for the other to make the first overture. But that would smooth away into the wonder of discovery. They'd have so much to talk about - not much time for it right away, of course, and not all of the telling would come easily, but it would come. When all the upheaval was finally put to rest, they'd have all the time in the world. After such a victory - and it would be a victory, without question - his son would be able to retire a hero with his whole life still ahead of him. They'd make up for lost time then.
He'd kept telling himself that. He'd believed it. It had never even occurred to him to doubt the portrait he'd painted in his mind's eye, never occurred to him to doubt the way he'd imagined it would go.
Meeting the truth face to face had felt like the ground dropping out from under him.
There was nothing of the boy he'd imagined in the tight-lipped stranger who came to meet him, a fresh scar on his face and a heavy, well-used weapon at his side. There was no softness lingering in that taut, angular face. He looked old, harsh and grim, shoulders squared tightly against the pressure of some great weight that left his face lined with strain, and he faced everything with the wary defiance of a man who didn't know when or from where the next blow would come but knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that it was coming.
He'd seen men who looked like that before, back in his own days as a soldier, but it was staggering to see it on his son - to see the way those cool grey eyes watched for movement at every entrance, and how automatically his companions fell into a protective fan around him. The stark black leather of his battered jacket had shown the marks of careful mending in a dozen places, and it was disquieting to look at the stitches and wonder how many of those marks covered matching scars on the skin beneath.
Worst of all was meeting those eyes, that guarded look, and seeing the contempt there - seeing himself reflected, a life of foolish mistakes and squandered time. Realizing, as he did, how much damage he'd done by doing nothing. It tied his insides into knots to have to ask for more, with the sudden understanding that even if his son returned from this last, impossible mission, there would be no reconciliation. It was too late. He would never be forgiven for his failures.
Those shadowed, too-old eyes haunted him for a long time after they'd gone.