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Our Pan
folder
Original - Misc › -Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
7
Views:
1,505
Reviews:
6
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
1
Category:
Original - Misc › -Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
7
Views:
1,505
Reviews:
6
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
1
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Prologue
((This won\'t be as quickly done as my last fic, is my guess. Nanowrimo is coming up! November! Oh my gosh! The MAYHEM! *L* For anyone interested, go to nanowrimo.com Good stuff.
Anyway - dunno what\'s going to come from this, let\'s just cross fingers and find out, shall we?
Prologue!! I haven\'t a clue where this is going! EEK! Heck, I haven\'t a clue who anyone is yet! So this should be fun! ))
Our Pan, or the Tale of My Family Tree
\"Martin! Martin!\" the boy\'s cry echoes off of the rock face and water like, clings to every surface while sloughing off all the same. It rings high like a bird\'s cry, bringing with it a silence of the forest below as all stop to listen to speech, an almost alien sound to the seclusion of these paths.
\"Martin!\" the boy sobs, stumbling down the gravel path leading from the cut in the valley\'s side. He is small and his feet can\'t quite keep up with the rest of him, though his legs and arms have grown considerably in the last year. They tangle with one another and the small body tumbles over and over, landing in a silent lump at the foot of the great dead oak that provides gate and keeper to the forest\'s holdings.
He struggles to his feet, gripping the smooth bark to drag himself to his feet before with a scream, pounds at the bulk of wood before him. \"Martin!\" his cries are dulled here where the passage is more slender and where the wood bars his way. \"Please! Please!\"
Like a babe, the boy slumps to the foot of the tree and weeps, his hands clinging to the wood. \"Martin, don\'t leave... please, don\'t leave,\" he whispers softly into the earth that he\'d only but a moment before fought against.
But like all other things that one learns in life, this unfair world he\'s lived in for ten years now, he will learn that what we desire does not often come to pass.
~*~*~*~~
\"As you can see,\" the realtor smiles back at the young man following her, \"the farmhouse is built of oak beams, cured and in some cases all but petrified. The kitchen here, is where you see the oak in the woodwork and ceilings most clearly. In other places it has been painted over, or built to hide. Yet the house was bulit solely of the wood. In fact,\" she places her briefcase on the old table beside her, \"much of the house was built of one tree, it is said. The house was erected in 1702 by a man named Finnegan Black. It is said that he named it the Martin not for the birds that so often attach themselves to the eaves, but for his missing brother. While I can\'t vouch for the veracity of the tale, it does make an interesting aside for a dinner conversation, does it not? And what better way to have a small dinner party but to show off one\'s own seventeenth century kitchen?\"
She walks into the large fireplace and stands within it, opening her arms wide. \"The ironwork was replaced with a more standard system only eighty years ago. Until then, you can see where bolts were in the rock to fix in the rack. The fireplace could cook a half ox if one spit it right, it is said.\"
The man, only half listening to her, has a hand on the oak and smiles softly to himself, his eyes slitted closed. Pleasure runs across his face and he sighs. \"No need for more, Mrs. Jordan. I would like to begin paperwork to buy.\"
\"You don\'t want to see any more?\" she asks, surprised. The upper gable is particularly exquisite and the stables are worth a look.\"
\"No,\" the man turns to her. Eyes, nondescript grey behind the lenses of his glasses, seem to laugh. He doesn\'t hold her gaze long, yet she feels her heart beating just a tad faster as he looks away and the world crowds in on her again. \"No, this is what I was looking for,\" his fingers caressing the wood of the beam.
\"Of course,\" Mrs. Jordan clears her throat. \"I\'ll draw up necessary paperwork.\"
\"Mrs. Jordan?\" he says calmly, stopping her as she prepares to walk out.
\"Yes, Mr. Finn?\"
\"Do what must be done. I\'m more than willing to pay full price, in cash, if you are able to seal this deal in three days.\" He twists at the waist and she feels the world spin away again, wondering what color exactly those eyes are that are looking at her.
A nod is enough to release her and the woman stumbles slightly, back toward the archway and out into the rest of the house. Yet the rest of the house tends toward grey in her eyes and all she can think of is violet and something sweetly scented, like honeysuckle or wild rose, but it is gone now.
She rests her hand on her breast and closes her eyes, leaning back against the arch of the door. Even the wall between them seems flimsy though she knows it is well over two feet thick. But how strange to feel frightened of a foreigner just because he looks at her like that, with his funny Americans style glasses.
She\'s breathing so hard she almost misses the words murmured in the next room. A phrase which she\'ll tell her social circle in London, about the mad American moved in just west of the city. One spoken in a voice low and trembling with unnamed emotion.
\"I found you. And this time, I\'ll be the one to steal you away from him, brother.\"
Anyway - dunno what\'s going to come from this, let\'s just cross fingers and find out, shall we?
Prologue!! I haven\'t a clue where this is going! EEK! Heck, I haven\'t a clue who anyone is yet! So this should be fun! ))
Our Pan, or the Tale of My Family Tree
\"Martin! Martin!\" the boy\'s cry echoes off of the rock face and water like, clings to every surface while sloughing off all the same. It rings high like a bird\'s cry, bringing with it a silence of the forest below as all stop to listen to speech, an almost alien sound to the seclusion of these paths.
\"Martin!\" the boy sobs, stumbling down the gravel path leading from the cut in the valley\'s side. He is small and his feet can\'t quite keep up with the rest of him, though his legs and arms have grown considerably in the last year. They tangle with one another and the small body tumbles over and over, landing in a silent lump at the foot of the great dead oak that provides gate and keeper to the forest\'s holdings.
He struggles to his feet, gripping the smooth bark to drag himself to his feet before with a scream, pounds at the bulk of wood before him. \"Martin!\" his cries are dulled here where the passage is more slender and where the wood bars his way. \"Please! Please!\"
Like a babe, the boy slumps to the foot of the tree and weeps, his hands clinging to the wood. \"Martin, don\'t leave... please, don\'t leave,\" he whispers softly into the earth that he\'d only but a moment before fought against.
But like all other things that one learns in life, this unfair world he\'s lived in for ten years now, he will learn that what we desire does not often come to pass.
~*~*~*~~
\"As you can see,\" the realtor smiles back at the young man following her, \"the farmhouse is built of oak beams, cured and in some cases all but petrified. The kitchen here, is where you see the oak in the woodwork and ceilings most clearly. In other places it has been painted over, or built to hide. Yet the house was bulit solely of the wood. In fact,\" she places her briefcase on the old table beside her, \"much of the house was built of one tree, it is said. The house was erected in 1702 by a man named Finnegan Black. It is said that he named it the Martin not for the birds that so often attach themselves to the eaves, but for his missing brother. While I can\'t vouch for the veracity of the tale, it does make an interesting aside for a dinner conversation, does it not? And what better way to have a small dinner party but to show off one\'s own seventeenth century kitchen?\"
She walks into the large fireplace and stands within it, opening her arms wide. \"The ironwork was replaced with a more standard system only eighty years ago. Until then, you can see where bolts were in the rock to fix in the rack. The fireplace could cook a half ox if one spit it right, it is said.\"
The man, only half listening to her, has a hand on the oak and smiles softly to himself, his eyes slitted closed. Pleasure runs across his face and he sighs. \"No need for more, Mrs. Jordan. I would like to begin paperwork to buy.\"
\"You don\'t want to see any more?\" she asks, surprised. The upper gable is particularly exquisite and the stables are worth a look.\"
\"No,\" the man turns to her. Eyes, nondescript grey behind the lenses of his glasses, seem to laugh. He doesn\'t hold her gaze long, yet she feels her heart beating just a tad faster as he looks away and the world crowds in on her again. \"No, this is what I was looking for,\" his fingers caressing the wood of the beam.
\"Of course,\" Mrs. Jordan clears her throat. \"I\'ll draw up necessary paperwork.\"
\"Mrs. Jordan?\" he says calmly, stopping her as she prepares to walk out.
\"Yes, Mr. Finn?\"
\"Do what must be done. I\'m more than willing to pay full price, in cash, if you are able to seal this deal in three days.\" He twists at the waist and she feels the world spin away again, wondering what color exactly those eyes are that are looking at her.
A nod is enough to release her and the woman stumbles slightly, back toward the archway and out into the rest of the house. Yet the rest of the house tends toward grey in her eyes and all she can think of is violet and something sweetly scented, like honeysuckle or wild rose, but it is gone now.
She rests her hand on her breast and closes her eyes, leaning back against the arch of the door. Even the wall between them seems flimsy though she knows it is well over two feet thick. But how strange to feel frightened of a foreigner just because he looks at her like that, with his funny Americans style glasses.
She\'s breathing so hard she almost misses the words murmured in the next room. A phrase which she\'ll tell her social circle in London, about the mad American moved in just west of the city. One spoken in a voice low and trembling with unnamed emotion.
\"I found you. And this time, I\'ll be the one to steal you away from him, brother.\"