The Photographer
SYNOPSIS: Lady Sarah Ashley’s nephew—a young photographer—finds himself lost and restless after the war. Worried for his health in dreary England, his mother sends him off to live with her younger sister in Australia, hoping some time there will reinvigorate him to take up his artistic endeavors once more…
PAIRING: The Drover x OC/m!reader
POV: third person
W/C: 4.4k
RATING: 18+
WARNINGS: strong language, smoking, drinking, suicidal thoughts, ptsd, mild violence, nudity, sex, period typical prejudices, internalized homophobia
TAGS: part one, slow burn, pining, angst, romance, melodrama, consenting adults, character exploration, post-canon events, movie timeline (more tags to be added)
A/N: All the warnings are 'eventual', so just be aware they will pop up as this story progresses. I apologize in advance for any spelling or grammatical errors. I tried my best to clean it up, but something always seems to slip through😆 I hope y’all like this; it’s my first public fic, so any support is appreciated!
There was ne’er a more solemn sound than the hollow wailing of the wind through that vast, empty world of dust and brush. West, and west again, Zephyrus trod on weary legs, crying out desperately, and west he would forever wander in search of his lady-love, a flower from a land so wholly distant it seemed spun from myth. That’s all it was—the tale of Zephyrus. A myth. A reflection of the landscape—and subject—through that Kodak Monitor Six-Twenty, one-hundred-and-one millimeter f-stop lens. If not for the roll film, the man mounted on the back of the Capricornia mare would become one of mythology as he performed his well-rehearsed act on that familiar wind-hewn stage. A legend already fading into obscurity as the world changed around him with the swiftness of a flash flood, soon transforming the very desert which stretched out before the lens of the Kodak into an equally vast, but unfamiliar ocean. His fingers curled around the leather-braided shaft of the stockwhip, knuckles white. It was a desperate hold on a slowly snapping lifeline that kept him tied to the wanderlust world of dust. And brush.
When they received the telegram, the young man found his mother curled upon the hardwood floor just at the base of her bed. A small square of paper twisted in her lithe fingers. That wretched piece of paper which had grown to such infamy it was recognized as an unspoken omen of death. It started as a spark of assurance in desperate times, only to burst into a violent, raging pyre, burning quicker than the very material it was hewn from.
He had gone to her. Rushed and knelt to wrap his arms around her trembling form. She felt so small. It was frightening to see someone he had only known as a fearsome protector crack under a grief so powerful it was as if the weight of the heavens turned the reaching mountain tops of the highest alpine peaks to dust. It took him several tries to read the dreaded telegram, the words only appearing as ink blots through his blurring tears.
On this date, February 19th, 1942—(stop)— Darwin, Australia, has been attacked by air from Japanese forces coming from the north—(stop)—
After that, there were five long days of numbing agony until the unexpected surprise of a second message from that foreign land, herald in the form of yet another telegram and bearing news quite in opposition to its stained reputation. His mother’s only sister—Lady Sarah Ashley—was alive and well. Relief wouldn’t be the correct word to even begin to express what the young man and his mother felt that day. To be the eldest sibling is a responsibility that cannot simply be described in a sentence or two. Still, when the senior Ashley sister pulled her first son into a joyous embrace, he understood perfectly what it all meant.
Three years had passed since the air raids in the Northern region of Australia—three years since the arrival of the telegrams—and only the month of September had come and gone since the end of the war.
White gauze stained with black blood wrapped and wrapped again around limbs, neck, torso—tightening—his body arched into the strangling caress of the fabric, eyes snapping open as pale fingers desperately clawed at the sheets tangled around his throat and face. A scream crackled in his throat, only to be extinguished by moonlight pouring in through the veneer curtains wafting gently across the open window to his room.
The gold-framed mirror that stood sentinel in a shadowed corner mocked him. The silver night air glowing off his sweaty skin made him appear almost phantasmal. He felt as such. Cold. His desperate, wheezing breaths only added to the illusion of a spirit, a haunting echo of something long passed in the deathly silence of the black and white room—shadows split by moonlight in a shattered mosaic.
He thought his mother dramatic when she said he looked as if he was waiting for death, and—when he regarded the stranger reflected back at him in that gilded mirror—he could not deny that she spoke the truth. Cheeks sunken and hollow, green eyes subdued to a grey, and only darkened further by the bruise-like marks encircling them. Once golden hair dulled to a taupe from a lack of sunlight, and complexion in a very similar state. His posture was that of a vulture’s as he sat in the tangle of sheets, spine knife-like and looking as if it could tear through the rice-paper thin membrane that was his flesh. The ragged scar which climbed from his thigh over his hip stood out white against his ashen skin, and he watched in the mirror’s silver surface as those unfamiliar fingers tenderly traced their path along the healed wound. He felt as if he was on death’s doorstep. Waiting for sleep which he knew would be eternally more peaceful than the plaguing nightmares he was subject to every night when he closed his eyes against the darkness, only to be greeted by a darkness so abysmal he would rather cut open his own body in an attempt to crawl out of the constant, blackened misery.
He waited for morning to arrive, as he had done for six years now. Rosy-fingered Dawn yawned and stretched as she woke from her plush bed of cumulonimbus and nimbostratus. However, the young man was not witness to this alluring spectacle, as the world below was shrouded by one of dear Eos’s blanket of clouds, casting the world of Man into a dark pall. His open window was no aid regarding his already deteriorating health, but the icy fingers of morning that clawed their way into his room—escorted by figures shrouded in fog—seemed to keep the growing numbness at bay through their stinging grip, for now.
The young man stood, dressed, then made his way through the manor, shepherded by bleak shadows of brume. When he came into the main hall—before crossing into the dining room—he was greeted by his mother and three younger siblings, all standing solemnly, shoulder to shoulder. To his left, two members of staff waited with a set of trunks. The youth heaved a sigh, the tendons in his neck twitching as he cast his weary gaze towards the polished floor which reflected yet another strangely distorted version of himself he did not recognize, nor even care to.
“I will not be witness to your oblivion, nor will I subject my children to regard such a horrid and languid performance as this. If you are to die, whether by your own hand or that of God’s, you will do it elsewhere. I have sent a telegram to Faraway Downs. You will be living with your aunt until things are sorted.”
His mother’s words were harsh—unexpected—and he did not understand what she meant at the time, but realization dawned on him once he left. To see one's own child waste away before one’s very eyes, to see such sorrow. He knew, then, to send him away was in benefit for all.
The young man would not have believed war touched the shores of Darwin if it weren't for the grizzled captain of the small sailing vessel he was passenger to, yarning on in regard to the blitz that assaulted the seaside municipality. A lively buzz of voices wafted over on the gentle breeze from the quaint town. Its restored countenance relaxed in tranquil repose amongst the white and chartreuse of the native trees. In truth, he did not particularly care to listen, and perhaps it was cruel of him, but he didn’t care for much of anything in that very moment, least of all the tragic woes of strangers. During his journey on the BOAC Short ‘C’ Class flying boat–and now the schooner—the youth had learned, through unabashed eavesdropping, two out of the three elderly couples traveling over from Great Britain were wayfaring in sorrow to visit the graves of their missing children, nephews, grandchildren—who fought, and died honorably in the war. He thought of his mother when he heard their words as they chatted amongst themselves. How—when she looked at him—there was indignation.
The crush of water between the lacquered wooden hull of the schooner and the mussel-ridden dock pulled the youth from his own self-pity as the small vessel bumped rhythmically against the pilings, as if it was a polite vampire knocking for permission to enter a familial abode. Standing, he balanced himself on the gunwale before hefting himself with practiced ease onto the dock by means of the pilings.
“Aye, lad, you know a cleat hitch?” The old captain called to the youth from where he poised, wide-legged on the dock, whipping the bow’s mooring line onto the T-shaped mold of metal with a casual ferocity.
He nodded, taking two strides parallel to the schooner with stern spring cradled lightly in his grasp. His was a more taming, focused motion when he wrapped the length of woven sisal to the cleat; with a jerk from shoulder and elbow, the hitch was pulled taught. Stepping onto the gunwale, the youth hopped back down onto the deck with a dampened thud, the weathered planks groaning in symphony with the persistent beat of hull against dock.
“You was in the navy?” It was the captain again, his bushy brow raised like a storm cloud above the sea as he regarded the youth’s neat work of the stern spring.
“No.”
“Your hitch is sailor-grade.”
It was a comment charged with the expectancy of a reply, yet he didn’t answer right away. A soft, sea breeze combed its fingers through the blonde whorls waving gently over the youth’s forehead, his hair now shining brightly under the golden glory of the midday Australian sun. His hand readjusted its grip on the foreboom as he pulled in a steady breath through his nose; the smell of ocean spray and sun-baked wood were familiar personalities chatting in the back of his mind, making casual conversation as they waited patiently—gently—for him to remember something he had long forgotten. Something to remember for another time.
“I was a war correspondent.”
“Ah. So, you’ve seen it all.” The captain’s expression was not one of admiration but condolence. The tendons in the youth’s neck flexed, his eyes tracking the lumbering movements of the grizzled man as he laid the gangplank.
He was not particularly partial to revealing his position in the war. It was usually met with hostility in the form of reprimanding him for ‘hiding behind the lens of a camera’. He was informed his cowardice was due to the fact he was not shooting his subject through the sight of a rifle. That he didn’t know what it was like to feel the rawness of humanity if he wasn't executioner himself. Of course, these statements readily spilled from the mouths of those who could afford not to serve in any capacity: not as soldiers, nurses, merchants, manufacturers, laborers, seamstresses. They were words from men and women who hid behind their money and status.
‘So, you’ve seen it all.’ The statement was one of mutual understanding. To say it meant one experienced the ‘all’ first hand, and—far in the future—he would say those very same words to someone much younger than himself. After another war. After more loss. With just as much reverence as the old captain.
He waited patiently on the schooner as captain, crew, and dockhands maneuvered luggage down the swaying gangplank with the grace of dancers and the organized chaos found in the cramped combs of a beehive. The youth watched his fellow strangers to this new land as they waited in their respective pairs on the dock. The men, with squinted eyes and hands shoved deep in the pockets of their neatly-pressed trousers, supervised the departure of their luggage from the ship with misplaced confidence in understanding the order of operations when it came to the somewhat clashing worlds of sea and land. An elder lady fidgeted with the lace cuff of her tea glove, her eyes tracking the nervous tip and tilt of a particularly large trunk as it made its way down the gangplank. The captain’s booming voice came garbled over the fray of dockhands and crew scheming amongst themselves as how best to navigate the transportation of the almost comically behemoth item. The weight of the thing was clear in the strained, sweaty faces of the two sailors who escorted said piece of luggage down the narrow strip of board that bowed when crossing the treacherous centre point.
Seeing such distress over material items made the youth cringe, a scoff settling in his throat as he peered over the edge of the gunwale where the water was shadowed black by the hull. A narrow canyon of darkness created by boat and dock. The sea’s siren song called to him, as it had done to many a man who reached for its comforting embrace, only to be dragged in to find the waves razors, and the bewitching face of Calypso twisted into an icy sneer—stealing away a man’s breath before Death could hope to claim him. His wavering reflection in the broken, mirrored surface of lapping waves appeared to be one such lost spirit, forever trapped beneath the surface of the sea. To wander eternally, with lust for a peaceful end that would be forever out of reach. That stranger—peering at him through yet another reflection—curious, wide-eyed, and something more. Beckoning.
A gull shrieked, and the small sailing vessel pitched. His eyes met those of the captain as the old man gestured for the youth to depart the schooner. His heart wrenched in time with the jerking motion of the boat as it strained against the mooring lines when he realized he did not want to go. The golden lacquered wood and white canvas sails seemed to shift and morph with the harsh refraction of sunlight clashing against sea—into the magnificent feathers of a great eagle. Wind beat into the jib as if it was an updraft under wing, carrying the fierce creature higher and higher into the heavens. Zeus—disguised—held him captive; cross-barred by talon-like booms in a gentle embrace so deceptive one could overlook the sharp points of those death-dealing claws. He was held in unsuspecting limbo between monotonous familiarity and the daunting unknown, but only wanting to ride the euphoric waves of wind and sea for as long as his hypocrisy held firm.
He stood with his trunks around him like a shepherd to his sheep. An army-issued messenger bag slung over his shoulder, the strap frayed, the golden buckles dulled, and the once-green fabric stained to an earthy brown. He should have disposed of it long ago, but—as hard as he scrubbed, with lye burning his hands—the blood stains would not dilute. Most anyone would have tossed the bag because of the blackened reproach, but he couldn't bear the thought of discarding perhaps the only physical mark left by the person’s life force, which now permanently marred the canvas.
Rummaging in his bag, he coaxed a lopsided Panama hat from where it was trapped under his King James Version and a battered coffee tin. The starched palm bent at the brim from where it had been crammed between his other various necessities. He held it out at arms length, trying his best to reshape the poor hat and only managing to reform it slightly. The hapless thing slouched atop his blonde curls, looking disjointed and out of place as much as the man himself from where he poised on the dock in crisp white button-up, tweed vest, and matching trousers.
The captain lumbered over to the youth, lines spilling from the corners of his eyes as he squinted in protest to the sun.
“Ya got somewhere to go, lad? Got someone here?”
“I am waiting for a truck from Faraway Downs.”
“Ah. You do bear a striking resemblance to the fair Lady Ashley, now that I get a good look at ya. I know she ain’t got no children, you must be ‘er nephew… Or somethin’.”
The young man nodded. “Nephew.” His lithe fingers poked at the buttons of his cuffs before neatly folding over the sleeves of his shirt to rest just above his elbows. “You have been acquainted with my aunt?”
“Oh, aye,” the captain chuckled, his wide frame settling in for conversation as he crossed his arms, head tilted back slightly as he regarded the tall youth. “I’m the one who ferried ‘er to the shores of Darwin, just as I have done with you today.”
The young man tilted his chin up in silent acknowledgment as he turned his gaze from the captain to peer down the long stretch of dock from beneath the gentle shade of his hat. Darwin. Christened after the famed naturalist himself, and fairly fitting given the abundance of wholly strange creatures that roamed the equally strange land. In his home country, Australia was spoken in the same breath as Oz, or Lewis Caroll’s Wonderland, an extravagant place only ever imagined in illustrations or photos. In those depictions there was no war, no displacement of mixed-race children, no history of the convicts subjected to the inhumane living condition in the penal colonies, no brutal extinction of the Tasmanian Tiger, no rape of Aboriginal women by white colonizers. There was no truth in the fanciful postcards or tourism posters which read in bright, bold letters:— ‘Visit Australia; million-peopled cities and a European environment!’
“I reckon Lady Ashley will be sendin’ her trusted man to come collect ya.” When the captain said it, he wore a crooked smile that didn’t sit quite right with the youth. He did not make to inquire about this ‘trusted man’ and only traded a few more words with the old captain before making his way down the dock.
He considered relaxing on the porch of the Territory Hotel whilst he waited for his ride, but when a tangle of rough looking men stumbled out of the bar in a cacophonous wave of sweaty biceps and bloody fists, the youth decided against it, settling for perching on his trunks in the shade of a nearby Golden Wattle. He reclined against the rough trunk, hat in hand, and head pitched to gaze up through the yellow blooms. The puffs of flowers quivered and whirled, tickled by the teasing breeze as it brushed tenderly through the delicate foliage. His eyes tracked the sporadic movements of a Rainbow Bee-Eater as it darted through the boughs of the tree, its voice squeaking melodically as it called out to whomever was listening. Blonde eyelashes fluttered closed, lips parted as a mellow sigh was liberated from the depths of his lungs. Perhaps here—under the skirting canopy of a Wattle—was a better place to rest for eternity rather than the depths of the sea. Roots enveloping his body; Persephone’s comforting embrace. The welcoming scent of petrichor and sun-dried wheat. With a callous jerk, his own body woke him before he could drift off completely.
After producing a pack of Player’s Navy Cut cigarettes from the breast pocket of his vest, the youth tapped the small paper box against his thigh once, then twice, until a single roll staggered up, ready to be taken between his lips. He flicked open the brass cap of a battered Zippo lighter, thumb rolling over the flint wheel until a flame was sparked to life. Lips tightened around the cigarette—the tip flicking up to meet flame. A curtain of smoke obscured his composed visage before dissipating into the air, followed by the clicking-close of the cap and the shuffle of fabric as box and army-issued lighter were returned to their rightful places. The whole procedure appeared quite practiced to the point it could be considered instinctive, and, perhaps in a way it was.
Burning tobacco embers drifted up through the languidly swaying Wattle boughs, only to be swept away in the brush that painted the sky in similar hues to the butt of his second cigarette, which glowed orange in the dimming evening light. Stars began flickering in the heavens above him, their luminescence reflected in the town of Darwin as electric lights and oil lamps flashed and flared to life. He watched in rapped interest as ‘the midnight crowd’ made their way out of the woodwork. Locals slinked towards the Territory Hotel bar with the postures of Dingoes as Bandicoot tourists scurried away.
Slouching—forlorn—against the tree, he was beginning to think he had been forgotten, and the vivacious hotel began to beckon the youth towards its welcoming and warm bosom. The local post office was surely closed by now, so any hopes of sending an S.O.S. to Faraway Downs was practically out of the question till morning. Staying a night at the hotel appeared to be his only option at the present moment. He stood, stretched, then took a few steps out onto the dirt road to be met by the fierce glow of owl-eyed headlights, utterly blinding him as a vehicle screeched to a halt mere inches from his feet. He did not flinch. Did not even take a step back. Only glanced down with tired eyes at the side of the ‘40s Chevrolet pick-up truck to read in swooping, neatly painted, emerald letters:— ‘Faraway Downs Cattle Co.’ If it weren’t for the red dirt cresting up over the shining white paint job, he speculated this beauty of a Chevy was brand new. Which made sense, as it was the latest model in the line-up of American-made trucks.
There was a clack, followed by a boom of metal on metal as the driver’s door was promptly opened, then slammed shut. The headlights were split into beams of stark shadow and blinding brilliance as an imposing silhouette crossed them before coming to lean against the front wheelwell of the truck. The act was casual, but the man’s posture was clearly coiled with fraught tension.
“You Lady Ashley’s Nephew?”
The voice was a distant thunderstorm. The low rumble of boulders displaced by a fearsome river. The subdued roar of an avalanche tumbling down a remote mountain range.
Again, he did not answer right away. Settling onto his right leg, arm crossed over his chest, the youth took a drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around him in faint white blooms as it was exhaled in a guiding breath through his nose. He nodded.
“Yes.”
His own voice was the gentle bleat of a spring lamb. The whispering babble of a forest brook. The soft chatter of a country café just as the summer sun reaches its highest point.
“You look like her.” The statement was resolute, and—if the youth wasn’t mistaken—filled with a sense of remorse. He did not reply. The sing-song ‘a-woof-woof’ of a Barking Owl echoed over the rhythmic crash of waves against shore in the distance. The stranger’s chest rose, then fell as he released a weighty sigh. “Got luggage?” The young man nodded, gesturing to the trunks resting harmoniously under the Golden Wattle. His dull green eyes tracked the man’s cursory movements with interest as he lifted his hips from the truck before strolling over to the tree. The blonde ducked under the branches in suit, taking up his stained canvas bag and one of the smaller trunks. The stranger hefted his other two pieces of luggage into the back of the truck, silently taking the third from the youth’s hand before tying down all three and slamming the tailgate shut with a fierce tenacity.
He mirrored the man’s pace in parallel from across the bed of the truck as he stepped towards the driver’s door, then hesitated. “You’re limping.”
The tendons in the youth’s neck seized, his eyes finding the dim shine in the stranger’s eyes from under the brim of his Queenslander hat. “I know.”
“Get in.”
With messenger bag—and slightly squashed hat cradled in his lap—the youth readjusted his hold on the doorframe of the truck as the stranger gassed the engine, jerked the cumbersome vehicle in a tight circle, and left a nebula of dust behind as it lumbered onto a well-marked road leading out of the city. With the departure from civilization, the summer’s night air rushing into the cab from the open windows dropped from miserably hot to an alleviating cool.
“Will we not be resting for the night?” He turned to regard the man’s profile: straight nose, strong brow, stubbled chin.
“Gotta get in a few hours on the road to make up for lost time. Fuckin’ truck is leakin’ oil like a damn bull in rut.” The heel of the man’s hand slammed down on the wheel in frustration, the muscles in his jaw flickering under his skin in the dim light as they tensed. The blonde silently and reflexively gagged, rolling his eyes in utter contempt for the man’s lurid analogy. “I got a good drove the day after tomorrow, an’ it takes at least two days to get to Faraway Downs from Darwin.”
“A drove?”
“Yeah. I’m a drover. I drive cattle from one place to another for better grazin’, market, or what-have-you.”
“I see.” His reply was a docile whisper, head tilting onto his own shoulder as he gazed up through the dusty windshield, the stars reflected in his eyes as they traced the unfamiliar constellations. His mind was guided home by the shepherding memory of fog that teased a glimpse of wholly different heavens, as if it was a dancer taunting a Casanova with the swish of her dress above naked thigh.
His mind flipped to his retort of ‘I know’ when the Drover’s attention was lured to his faltering step. Thigh to hip—the scar which snaked across his flesh, strangling his nerves to numbness in a constant ache. The youth could not justify why he instinctively refused to give the Drover a plain answer. To say—in the simplicity of truth—that it was a war wound. His own reasoning was lost to him. Though, perhaps his answer was enough for the likes of the Drover. When he cocked his head to regard the rugged stranger once more, knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel with an almost desperate hold, the youth willed himself to repress that unfathomable…
Beckoning.
