Thank you for these great prompts! I have 500 words of dubiously-attributed Donne, vague whump (I’m still not sure I understand what that is understood to be!) and the marvelous Bunter being Bunter.
“ ‘Absence, hear thou my protestation,” quotes Lord Peter Wimsey, “Against thy strength, /Distance and length: / Do what thou canst for alteration; / For hearts of truest mettle, / Absence doth join, and time doth settle.’ Attributed to Donne, Bunter, but I have my doubts.”
“Have you, my lord?”
“Far too contented,” continues his lordship, between chattering teeth, “with his damned absence. ‘Reason doth win / Redoubl’d in her secret notions…’ Donne was too sensible a fellow to put overmuch faith in reason.”
“Indeed, my lord.” Bunter settles himself more firmly against his tree. It provides at least some shelter from the wind, and a shadow more substantial than his own. Even with the experiences of an earlier war, he finds himself starting at the sounds of foxes in the undergrowth, half-expecting the lights of electric torches, the shouts of pursuit.
“ ‘Hearts that cannot vary…’ I’m glad you’re here, Bunter.”
Mervyn Bunter, with more than half a lifetime’s training behind him, restrains the impulse to protest against his lordship saying such things. The sentiment that a field in France is no place for two middle-aged Englishmen on a midwinter night remains likewise unvoiced. Bunter keeps to himself the grim conviction that they will be told — presuming, of course, that the plane does come, and that they do get out — how necessary and how worthwhile were their endeavors. Familiar cant.
“What did you say, Bunter?”
“Nothing, my lord.”
“You said it very loudly.”
Bunter coughs. “Yes, my lord.”
“I know. It’s a damned filthy business. Food for powder, food for powder…”
“Hardly that, my lord,” says Bunter, alarmed. Fluent German and unassailable sangfroid have gotten them this far. Neither of those things, however, will provide assistance against the other man’s fever or his own frostbite. The cold has settled in his bones like a memory of the trenches; the sky over them is empty of all but stars.
“By absence,” says Lord Peter softly, “this good means I gain, / That I can catch her / Where none can watch her, / In some close corner of my brain. / There I embrace and kiss her, / And so I both enjoy and miss her.’ ”
Bunter makes no rejoinder. He is visited by a stab of anger, painful as freezing limbs. Perhaps it is better that they should risk themselves than that younger men and women should do so, but it is still a violation of the order of things. Bunter in his wrath decides that he shall refuse a medal, if it is offered, and then reverses his decision. He thinks wildly that he should have asked Lady Harriet to look after his mother in the event of his death. It would have meant asking her to confront the possible death of the man beside him. But remembering her farewell, solemn and dry-eyed, he rather thinks she already has. I know you’ll look after him, Bunter; look after yourself too, won’t you?
In the distance, low and unmistakable, comes the rumble of a plane.
You requested fic prompts? 1.How about something featuring John Donne poetry? 2. Are you comfortable with whump/hurt comfort? If you are, something whumpy with Lord Peter Wimsey would be great! bonus points for including Bunter being Bunter.
Published
Mooncustafer 