Hi, all! I’m back for more, incredibly. The fun thing with these Trifecta challenges is I always seem to nose them in just at or under the limit–maybe because I always write freely, end up ten or so words over, and then chop it down. I need work on editing anyway, so that’s actually fun for me. 😀
Now, no doubt you’ve already figured out that my post is (again) 333 words on the nose. Let’s move on to this week’s definition (and remember to check the Trifecta category for the other posts on Gideon and co.; I’ll also be launching a page that compiles all the distinct posts, hopefully this week, which I can update weekly).
Ready? On to the post!
After leaving the other men behind, Gideon took a circuitous route through Dublin that carried him past several of the landmarks changed by the Rising, reacquainting himself with the city he’d made his own. New construction here, old rubble there. Now as never before he wondered if he carried a prominent mark that branded him as a defeated rebel, but he was unimpeded on his walk.
Eventually his feet and his flagging energy took him toward what had been his own address. There was a hollow ache somewhere under his heart at the thought that it would not be as he had left it: damaged by British guns, abandoned—perhaps not willingly, but abandoned nonetheless… He conjured the house in his mind, seeing it with the doorknob and knocker gone horribly rusty, no one to answer the empty knock…
Only when the door swung open did he realize he’d knocked on the door of his own house, afraid it would not be the home he remembered.
Somebody gasped sharply, then a swift rap on the top of his head with something solid made his eyes water. But the voice, the voice he knew.
“Just like you, and how’m I to have the place fixed up for you, I’d like to know, if I’ve no warning you’re coming?”
“It looks… grand,” he managed, blinking but not wiping his streaming eyes, goggling at the house that remained as he’d pictured it in all the long days in Frongoch. Finally his eyes cleared and he looked at the woman in front of him, as overwhelmingly familiar—yet not—as the house. “Grand, Eilish.”
“Aye, well,” she mumbled, a bit mollified. “I had a job, didn’t I? I did it well.” She lifted her chin curiously. “Will I be resuming all aspects of my former post?”
“Yes. Immediately, if you please.” He stepped forward, slowly took her hand, refamiliarizing himself, and looked up, dropping the pretense of indifference.
She dropped the serving spoon she’d coshed him with.