Chapter Text
Elusion ;
or,
Laurence casts a net
***
Being -- apparently -- a member of the Imperial family as he was, Laurence had been presented with a staggering array of perfumed soaps, powders, and oils with which to administer his toilet, when he’d finally ventured to request a shaving-kit.
He had never been one for much fragrance; after all, the demands of a life at sea were often not particularly conducive even to maintaining basic hygiene, much less indulging such frivolities. He had always maintained his person and effects with utmost fastidiousness, of course, but the variety of scents others applied to themselves had never particularly appealed to him.
Still, he supposed he ought not pick at random. Just a soap for his skin and oil for his hair -- was that too much to ask? His every decision seemed to be so fraught, these days -- his aviator comrades continued to look at him with faint concern, as if he were a badly loaded cannon -- trying so hard not to upset him that they were rather accomplishing the opposite: what could he possibly have done that was even now still so unspeakable?
Laurence sniffed cautiously at each packet and vial in turn, intending at first to pick the ones with the least possible perfume -- but then he came to a soap which smelled -- sharp, stiff? gray-green? -- and which brought to mind the soft rattle of wind through leaves; and warmth, close and dark -- he grasped at it, for the scent was unfamiliar to him: these scraps must be from some lost memory…
Lightning, thunder: the storm in his mind, drowning all thought, lifting the swells -- oh, he could not catch hold of anything -- any wisp, any fragment -- he pressed his hands to his eyes -- breathe, you must breathe, Will --
Was someone speaking…?
No. No, it was just another piece of the self he had lost, rising to the surface like so much flotsam only to be sucked back into the depths the instant he reached for it.
After that Laurence sampled the scents with rather more enthusiasm, hoping for another… and yes, there was a vial of oil which smelled of… flowering vines? It was -- not quite tropical, certainly not a fragrance readily identifiable to him -- he had perhaps come across something similar, in Egypt…?
He inhaled again, for a sense of deep calm had come over him: yes, the oil smelled of unfamiliar flowers, but they were flowers which smelled to him all the same of safety and relief, of relief and deep foundations, yes, of foundations and trust and… and the sound of water?
As soon as he groped for the memory, it was gone; he dived after it -- no, no, please stay, stay with me… oh, he was drowning, he was drowning… the storm was blotting out all thought, all cognition, all stability of self…
Breathe.
The soap, the oil -- these scents calmed him, made him feel as if -- as if he might be all right. As if he were already all right, just as himself, even now, just like this -- and even if it were not true, he could not help but cling to this little piece of comfort, pitiful though it was.
Laurence placed five drops of the flower-blossom oil at the base of his comb: one precisely in the center, and one each at either edge; and then in between. One, two, three, four, five.
He combed his hair, tied it back, and did not weep.
***