![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
It's quiet.
Well, that's a relative term, but it's certainly quieter than he remembers it. At this time on a Wednesday, the market should be in full swing, but there just aren't as many people there as there used to be. The weather isn't helping, but that didn't used to keep the punters away this much. People must be getting soft.
He buys a fruit pastry from Tam's stall on the corner and bites into it, his memory going back to cold winter days, fingers almost blue and toes probably matching, lifting them from under the back of the stall as Tam served customers up in front. He often got caught, but not every time.
Sorry mate...but we were bloody hungry.
He drops another florin on top of the payment. He never was good at maths, after all.
The streets seemed so huge back then. They were his whole world once, but grew smaller every year, as he got bigger, taller, more adventurous. Long before he left, he knew them for what they were - overcrowded, not particularly clean, even less safe, and populated by some of the most fiercely proud people the Prince could ever call upon (not that he ever would, which was an irony in itself). There was stuff they could teach the Illuminati about looking after your own. They didn't have much, but what they did have was undoubtedly theirs, and you couldn't prise it out of their grip with a crowbar.
People shouldn't have to live like this. It shouldn't be forgotten that people have to live like this. It's the byproduct of civilisation. Too many hands chasing after too little stuff. Not good.
Damn, but he's lucky.
...and there it is. He hasn't been there since he got back from Blackgate. That alone is enough to make him feel guilty. The 49th are no more than a day's walk from the Capital - he should have been up here every weekend. Still, he's here now.
It's not much to look at, but it's still standing. The subsidence is getting worse in the upper floor - it's not going to last many more years at this rate without some major intervention.
Buggered if they're going to move though...
The door sticks as he pushes on it. When he was a kid, it wouldn't even have budged. With a wry smile, he leans onto it ever-so-slightly, and it all but flies open wide.
"'ELLO?"
No answer greets the call, but the fire's gently burning. He frowns - they should have been in today. Both of them have a Wednesday off together every three weeks when they aren't on actives. It's been like this for years. Forever. They must have just headed out or something.
The kitchen is cluttered, but well used and clean, and the hearth brings more memories flooding back. Winter again, and huddling round it together, backs to the cold, whatever was cheap stewing away and smelling so much better than it had any right to. The smells would keep the unpleasant drafts at bay. So did the mulled ale.
Why do all my best memories involve being cold?
It's all wonderfully nostalgic, but it doesn't explain where his parents are. He heads into the back room on the off chance they haven't missed his announcing himself.
"'tenTION!".
It's dad's voice as he crosses the threshold.
In full dress uniform, boots shining every bit as much as their eyes, Guards Sergeant and Corporal Thomas and Sasha Knight stand to rigid attention, eyes front, backs straight. It's all they can do to keep from crying, and the smiles off their faces.
Him too.
Do your job, Lieutenant.
Almost shaking, he inspects his parents in silence, and to absolutely no surprise whatsoever, both are entirely faultless. He finishes walking the line and turns back to them, no longer quite able to keep his voice level.
"At ease...carry on."
Sasha takes hold of him and sobs on his shoulder. He doesn't try to stop himself any more.
"My son...my Gerrard...I love you so much."
Tommy has tears in his eyes as well, as he shares a long look with his son - he's a man of few words, and doesn't bother trying to say any. His huge arms wrap round both of the other two, and squeeze hard enough to better show the pride he is feeling more than words could ever manage.
They stay there for some time - tears of joy, tears of relief, shared together with as much relish as the cold-beating stews all those years ago.
"I did it...I bloody did it...I love you both..."
Well, that's a relative term, but it's certainly quieter than he remembers it. At this time on a Wednesday, the market should be in full swing, but there just aren't as many people there as there used to be. The weather isn't helping, but that didn't used to keep the punters away this much. People must be getting soft.
He buys a fruit pastry from Tam's stall on the corner and bites into it, his memory going back to cold winter days, fingers almost blue and toes probably matching, lifting them from under the back of the stall as Tam served customers up in front. He often got caught, but not every time.
Sorry mate...but we were bloody hungry.
He drops another florin on top of the payment. He never was good at maths, after all.
The streets seemed so huge back then. They were his whole world once, but grew smaller every year, as he got bigger, taller, more adventurous. Long before he left, he knew them for what they were - overcrowded, not particularly clean, even less safe, and populated by some of the most fiercely proud people the Prince could ever call upon (not that he ever would, which was an irony in itself). There was stuff they could teach the Illuminati about looking after your own. They didn't have much, but what they did have was undoubtedly theirs, and you couldn't prise it out of their grip with a crowbar.
People shouldn't have to live like this. It shouldn't be forgotten that people have to live like this. It's the byproduct of civilisation. Too many hands chasing after too little stuff. Not good.
Damn, but he's lucky.
...and there it is. He hasn't been there since he got back from Blackgate. That alone is enough to make him feel guilty. The 49th are no more than a day's walk from the Capital - he should have been up here every weekend. Still, he's here now.
It's not much to look at, but it's still standing. The subsidence is getting worse in the upper floor - it's not going to last many more years at this rate without some major intervention.
Buggered if they're going to move though...
The door sticks as he pushes on it. When he was a kid, it wouldn't even have budged. With a wry smile, he leans onto it ever-so-slightly, and it all but flies open wide.
"'ELLO?"
No answer greets the call, but the fire's gently burning. He frowns - they should have been in today. Both of them have a Wednesday off together every three weeks when they aren't on actives. It's been like this for years. Forever. They must have just headed out or something.
The kitchen is cluttered, but well used and clean, and the hearth brings more memories flooding back. Winter again, and huddling round it together, backs to the cold, whatever was cheap stewing away and smelling so much better than it had any right to. The smells would keep the unpleasant drafts at bay. So did the mulled ale.
Why do all my best memories involve being cold?
It's all wonderfully nostalgic, but it doesn't explain where his parents are. He heads into the back room on the off chance they haven't missed his announcing himself.
"'tenTION!".
It's dad's voice as he crosses the threshold.
In full dress uniform, boots shining every bit as much as their eyes, Guards Sergeant and Corporal Thomas and Sasha Knight stand to rigid attention, eyes front, backs straight. It's all they can do to keep from crying, and the smiles off their faces.
Him too.
Do your job, Lieutenant.
Almost shaking, he inspects his parents in silence, and to absolutely no surprise whatsoever, both are entirely faultless. He finishes walking the line and turns back to them, no longer quite able to keep his voice level.
"At ease...carry on."
Sasha takes hold of him and sobs on his shoulder. He doesn't try to stop himself any more.
"My son...my Gerrard...I love you so much."
Tommy has tears in his eyes as well, as he shares a long look with his son - he's a man of few words, and doesn't bother trying to say any. His huge arms wrap round both of the other two, and squeeze hard enough to better show the pride he is feeling more than words could ever manage.
They stay there for some time - tears of joy, tears of relief, shared together with as much relish as the cold-beating stews all those years ago.
"I did it...I bloody did it...I love you both..."
