AT ME , THE SEA WITHDREW

[hcrnblwer]

#HCRNBLWER: a private & highly selective h.oratio h.ornblower rp blog. sailed by erin (she/they, 21) personals dni.

heavily inspired by the h.ornblower tv series, mr. midshipman h.ornblower, & lieutenant h.ornblower

[cinematapestry]

Brick (2005) dir. Rian Johnson

[hcrnblwer]

thinking about how canonically horatio finds joy in sleeping next to bush and having bush's arm over him protectively at night like...

"they all slept huddled together under the shelter of a blanket stretched between willow trees—there had been a ridiculous pleasure about waking up to find Bush snoring beside him with a protective arm across him."

[cinematapestry]

The Dreamers (2003) dir. Bernardo Bertolucci

[hcrnblwer]

big research weeks are coming up so we'll see how replies go

[hcrnblwer]

he’s so horatio

[hcrnblwer]

BOLD   habits   that   your   muse   has  /  ITALICIZE   occasional   habits  .

nail   biting  .  throat   clearing  .  lying  .  interrupting  .  chewing   on   the   ends   of   pens  .  smoking  .  swearing  .  knuckle   cracking  .  thumb   sucking  .  muttering   under   their   breath  .  talking   to   themselves  .  nose   picking  .  binge   drinking  .  oversleeping  .  snacking   between   meals  .  skipping   meals  .  picking   at   skin  .  impulse   buying  .  talking   with   their   mouth   full  .  humming  /  singing   to   themselves  .  chewing   gum  .  leg   jiggling  .  foot   tapping  .  hair   twirling  .  whistling  .  eye   rolling  .  licking   lips  .  sniffing  .  squinting  .  rubbing   hands   together  .  jaw   clenching  .  gesturing   while   talking  .  putting   feet   on   table  .  tucking   hair   behind   ears  .  chewing   lips  .  crossing   arms   over   chest  .  putting   hands   on   hips  .  rubbing   the   back   of   their   neck  .  being   late  .  procrastinating  .  doodling  .  shredding   paper  .  peeling   off   bottle   labels  .  forgetfulness  .  running   hands   through   hair  .  overreacting  .  teeth   grinding  .  nostril   flaring  .  slouching  .  pacing  .  drumming   fingers  .  fist   clenching  .  pinching   bridge   of   nose  .  rubbing   temples  .  rolling   shoulders  .

[hcrnblwer]

i want to write ship threads with horatio so bad it's not even funny

[tennant]

Robert Sean Leonard as Claudio MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING (1993) dir. Kenneth Branagh

[hcrnblwer]

much ado rsl has such horatio vibes i’m sorry

[flowerytale]

The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1920–1923

[xanchor]

@hcrnblwer said “how did you find me?” ||| from a meme i'm too lazy to link.

It wasn't too difficult to find naval officers around on Port Royal and Corporal Murtogg was one to .. be aware of where they were. Just incase one of the senior officers were needed. It seemed like Murtogg was always running errands but he didn't mind it. Anything to get out of sentry duty with Mullroy - which usually ended with the pair getting into trouble over something stupid. Mostly with Mullroy arguing with him over very trivial things. Murtogg wasn't too much into arguments with others but didn't like being made a fool out of.

So, here he was today. Technically he was supposed to be guarding the docks but he was lucky he didn't have to stay long and was off duty now. He only had a few friends in Port Royal, Mullroy technically didn't count as the pair rarely saw eye to eye on things. He did manage to meet a naval officer who seemed nice enough. His name was Horatio Hornblower. A bit of an odd fellow, but Murtogg was odd himself. He had managed to find his friendly acquaintance somewhere close. He wasn't paying attention ot where, he just wanted to get away from the docks.

He heard Hornblower's comment and blinked a few times at the question. "Supposing by luck. I wasn't really looking for you." he admitted, tilting his head. was something wrong? Why was he away from the other officers? Murtogg was horrid at reading people sometimes. " -- everything okay?"

[hcrnblwer]

Horatio Hornblower had grown up a solitary child. With a busy father, dead mother, and no siblings or friends to play with, many hours were spent in seclusion or imagining his own games, conjuring up tales of vivacious nautical adventures. He had sailed in a pig trough, declaring himself Captain Hornblower between missing teeth and busted lips from falling out one too many times.

Such fantasy and solitude were the furthest companions from life in the British Royal Navy, he soon discovered. Nowhere on a busy ship or bustling port could a young man find solace, a place to rest with a book of the most magnificent, fantastical proportions of prose. Every moment was perpetually polluted with overwhelming noise, smells, sights, and textures that seemed to assault Horatio's brain as violently and relentlessly as a tumultuous storm.

Thus, with the rare chance to get away, with a near certain assurance he wouldn't be missing any action, he had made his way to an almost entirely secluded alley. Almost. For such blissful solitude was a blessing he seemed to never be able to achieve.

"Oh. Yes, yes, of course." A clearing of his throat, fingers running through wind-tousled curls, "I wanted to get away from the men for awhile for . . ." He didn't want to sound weak. The last thing he wanted was for some malicious officer to overhear poor little Horry couldn't handle noise on a boat full of men, but Mister Murtogg had proved himself a kind enough man, hadn't he? "Naval life is quite an assault on the senses, isn't it?"

[widowshill]

@hcrnblwer for r/v au.

❝ YOU'RE FREEZING ! ❞

she'd bolted down to the beach of LOOKOUT POINT in fear and desperation, the bile in the back of her throat tinged with the PREMONITION that it would be a corpse –– and not a survivor –– washed up once again on their shores. a shipwreck on these rocks has little chance. a FOOL'S CHANCE. and thus the mistress of the house finds herself pitifully empty-handed to greet the living, breathing face of the sea that crawls from the receding tide. neither blanket, nor cup of soup, not even a flask of brandy to comfort the dripping sailor, no more than driftwood himself. ( and no pinker in the cheeks, either. ) WITHOUT THINKING, Victoria takes her trench coat from her shoulders at once and wraps it around him –– although pitifully small, it will suffice for now. the wind nips at her; though, as Roger claimed she someday would be, she is used to it by now. fearsome though its wail, its BITE is as harmless and familiar as a PUPPY gnawing on the skin of its mother.

❝ come with me up to the house –– we'll put you in front of the fire. ❞

a quiet, menacing voice whispers in her ear that there ought to be more of them ––  that there will be no comfort to be had unless more of his shipmates are found. but she SILENCES such moroseness with a stern reminder that that is what her husband is doing even now, alongside the sheriff and the coastguard, searching. if he has lived there is no reason to believe everyone else hasn't. not until bodies –– warm or cold –– are found.

❝ can you walk ? it isn't far, but it is uphill ––  lean on me, if you need to. ❞

[hcrnblwer]

AIR VIOLENTLY LODGES ITSELF INTO HIS LUNGS.

an expulsion of sea water rushing out of his throat, his head THROBBING as if smacked with a rather unruly rig, Horatio coughs back to life, gasping and patting at the soaked papers in his pockets. the perpetual sounds of boisterous men, of gunshots, screams, the squelching of human insides and blood that made his skin crawl and sleep turn rotten at night are strangely ABSENT. something is wrong.

weakly, he pushes himself up. his crew. his men. his friends. dark curls hang over his red-rimmed eyes, BURNING with the invasion of sea salt, as he scans the horizon . . . empty, hardly any remains of a ship except for pieces of driftwood. silence, the very thing he prayed for so many times, was now the very thing seizing his RAPIDLY BEATING heart. how had he desired such solitude without considering the consequences?

❝ i . . . can. ❞ calves aching, the weight of his uniform a debilitating hand shoving down on his shoulders, the sea of GUILT begins to flood his mind and heavy, accusatory blame assaults any potential gratefulness for what trembling, bitter life he managed to cling onto. a vicious chill courses through him, shaking his body relentlessly, what little warmth the protective coat gave him had become enveloped in frigid water, desperately seeking to eliminate any semblance of heat. his steps are WEIGHTED by each droplet clinging to his clothes and shaken by the unfamiliarity of land, its lack of endless rocking and swaying upon a mutable ocean.

❝ have any other men washed ashore? ❞

[feral-ballad]

Julia de Burgos, tr. by Heather Rosario Sievert, from These Are Not Sweet Girls: Poetry by Latin American Women; "Poem arrested at daybreak"

[Text ID: "Everything in you: / wild sun! / And I? -- A simple truth to love you..."]

[aemperatrix]

Kobayashi Issa (tr. Stephen Addiss, Fumiko and Akira Yamamoto)

[hcrnblwer]

if bush could stop describing horatio’s fingers as being a foot long that would be great

[hcrnblwer]

“He caught himself wondering if all men were like himself, putting on a brave show of moral courage when actually they felt weak and helpless — he remembered Suetonius’ remark about Nero, who believed all men to be privately as polluted as himself although they did not admit it publicly.” -Lord H.ornblower

“There were few occasions when H.ornblower could do what was right in H.ornblower’s eyes.” -Admiral H.ornblower in the West Indies

[hcrnblwer]

"It was interesting after Bush’s departure to look into the speckled chipped mirror and observe his thinness, the cheeks and temples fallen in, the sharp nose and the pointed chin. But this was not the real H.ornblower. The real one was inside, unaffected—as yet, at least—by privation or strain. The real H.ornblower looked out at him from the hollow eyes in the mirror with a twinkle of recognition, a twinkle that brightened, not with malice, but with something akin to that—a kind of cynical amusement—at the sight of H.ornblower seeking proof of the weaknesses of the flesh. But time was too precious to waste; the weary body that the real H.ornblower had to drag about demanded repose." - H.ornblower & the Hotspur