the Dalaverse

A little Sparrington ficlet, inspired by the nature walk we took by the river in Modern Religious Though on Wednesday. Katharina is the coolest professor ever. Also, I'm tepid on poetry, but YEATS. The second half of the poem doesn't count.



Before the World Was Made


A cool breeze against his bare skin wakes James from an uneasy sleep. He rolls over onto the imprint in the mattress, breathing in the scent on the pillow and fighting dread, before he comes to his senses. It’s only Friday, after all, too early yet for him to be gone.

He rises and goes to the window, peering at the dark garden below, blinking until he catches sight of Jack exactly where he’d expected. With a sigh, he pulls on his dressing gown. The only good thing that came of telling the pirate about the fish pond – James always knows where to look when he goes missing in the middle of the night.

Jack is standing knee-deep in the water, clad only in one of James’s shirts, looking up at the three-quarter moon above the tree line. Hands on his hips, James tuts and begins, “All right, you’ve had –”

“Hush,” says Jack, holding up a hand to still him.

James cocks an eyebrow, but indulges him. He digs his toes into the scratchy grass and soft, loose dirt at the pond’s edge. All Jack seems to be doing is listening, so James does the same. The night seems quiet at first, but the longer he stays still, the more he can hear. Insects chirping bright and steady. The breeze he felt earlier, stronger out here, rifling through the leaves of the trees, turning up their silver sides. A frog croaking on the bank to his left, obviously not as cross as it sounds, as another one answers it from across the water. Rustling in the brush at the edge of the clearing makes him think of Jack’s stories of India and her yellow-toothed tigers, but is most likely a large rodent. A distant flutter, a dark shape darting into the shadowed branches, has to be a bat on its nightly hunt.

He closes his eyes, drawing the damp, rich air into his lungs. The pond surface stirring is a choral murmur moving outwards, followed by the muffled chime of a bauble trapped in braided, knotted hair. Weatherbeaten fingers curl around his wrist, tuck into his palm. If he listens hard enough, he can hear the rhythm of Jack’s heartbeat, even over the thump of his own.

The water ripples again, the grass stalks bend beneath Jack’s wet feet, and he wraps his arms around James’s waist. A wood thrush calls to its mate from some lonely perch.

“Thank you,” James whispers into Jack’s ear. “I would not have heard any of it on my own.”

Jack lays his cheek on James’s shoulder as James holds him close. “All’s you have to do is listen, James.”


If I make the lashes dark
And the eyes more bright
And the lips more scarlet,
Or ask if all be right
From mirror after mirror,
No vanity's displayed:
I'm looking for the face I had
Before the world was made.

–William Butler Yeats