Entry tags:
These Mountains You Carry (Biggles fic)
Trying this crossposting to DW thing once again, because all of us need one more Buries a Hatchet AUs in our lives ...
These Mountains You Carry (2498 words) by Sholio
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Biggles Series - W. E. Johns
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: James "Biggles" Bigglesworth & Erich Von Stalhein
Characters: James "Biggles" Bigglesworth, Erich von Stalhein, Fritz Lowenhardt, Algy Lacey
Additional Tags: Book: Biggles Buries a Hatchet, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Huddling For Warmth, Angst with a Happy Ending
Summary: In the escape from Sakhalin, von Stalhein makes a different decision. Or: Biggles's determination to give Erich choices runs up against Erich's self-destructive stubbornness.
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sheron unborked my ending and also helped provide a title; thank you! ♥
Fic posted under the cut.
These mountains you are carrying, you were only supposed to climb. - Najwa Zebian
As Bertie paddled off into the swirling snow with Ginger in the boat, von Stalhein turned to Biggles. It was only the two of them now, with Miskoff a number of paces behind them, standing guard over the track. Snow continued to fall heavily, bending the branches of the firs.
"You said it was up to me what I do from here," von Stalhein said quietly.
"Yes," Biggles said.
"Then I will stay here."
Biggles turned toward him, eyes going wide; he couldn't hide his shock. "Fritz is on the Otter."
"Yes, he is. And if I might ask you for one thing only, I would ask you to make sure that he stays there."
It was the absolute calm that made it so hard to argue with him. There was nothing to argue against; it was as if Biggles's words slipped off, none of them making an impression on von Stalhein's still, haggard face. Still, Biggles said, "If you're determined to leave, we could let you off somewhere more agreeable, someplace warmer—"
"You said it was my choice."
"Yes," Biggles said. He could see the boat returning, Ginger paddling, every passing second unrecoverable. "Yes, it is, I—" He drew a breath. "Wait here, won't you? I have to bring Miskoff's boat back. I can bring a few things, we can spare some food and a blanket, surely."
"If you wish it."
As soon as the boat bumped against the snow-covered shore, Biggles stepped in, tipping it slightly. "Go," he ordered Ginger.
Ginger looked surprised; Biggles supposed he must have thought Biggles would wait until last, as would be his usual habit. But Ginger didn't ask questions; he turned and dug the paddle into the icy water. Glancing back, Biggles saw that von Stalhein stood still on the bank, looking after them.
"How is the Otter riding through the storm?" Biggles asked. He felt detached and cold. His fingers were clenched on the edge of the boat.
"Not too badly. Sea's a bit rough out of the shelter of the estuary." The boat rocked as if to underscore his words.
"Yes, all right." The amphibian loomed out of the storm, and Biggles caught her hull. "Hold the boat, will you? I'll be taking it back, but I—I'm taking a few other things as well."
He moved swiftly through the cabin, ignoring questions as he scooped most of their remaining supplies into a blanket and tied it up. The only person he spoke to directly was Pat. "I'll take my jacket back, if you don't mind."
"I thought you'd want it, seeing as it's coming down cats out there. I was just drying it off for you." Pat handed it back to him, looking less concerned than the others, who were watching him strangely.
"Where is my uncle?" Fritz asked.
Biggles could not quite bring himself to answer. "Fritz, go help Algy with the tea. Ginger, close the door as soon as I've cast off, but watch out for the boat returning."
Ginger and Fritz both seemed to relax a little at this, and Biggles stepped down into the boat with the bundle in his arms. Ice and slush rubbed against the sides of the little coracle as he paddled back in a hurry.
He truly did expect von Stalhein to have left already, but instead the man was with Miskoff; they were talking quietly. When Biggles landed, von Stalhein turned. The snow frosted his hair. "He says that you needn't concern yourself with returning the boat. He doesn't expect to need it again."
"Thank him for me," Biggles said absently. He could not bring himself to care about that. "I brought some things for you. Food, a blanket. And a jacket. It may be a poor fit but it will be better than what you have on." Biggles pressed the items into his hands. Von Stalhein took them with a slight nod. He was a little stronger, it seemed, his back straight as if he had gained strength from the clarity of his decision. There was only a slight tremble in his hands as he accepted the jacket and shrugged into it. The sleeves were a bit too short, the shoulders tight, but otherwise it hung loosely on his emaciated frame.
Standing in the snow, with the winter forest as a backdrop, he made a strange figure, heroic yet tragic at the same time. Alone on this hell of an island. He had survived worse, Biggles knew it, but never after suffering such privations as he had in the prison.
"Are you sure—" Biggles began, just as von Stalhein said, "If that's all—"
They both broke off; then von Stalhein gave him a curt nod and stepped away.
"Don't think I am not without gratitude for what you've done," von Stalhein said abruptly. "Goodbye, Bigglesworth."
Biggles felt as if the chill of the snowstorm had frozen him over; his tongue would not form words. He nodded and climbed into the boat, dug the paddle in, and forced himself not to look back. It was upon him to accept von Stalhein's decision; the man's pride would never allow anything else.
Time seemed to stop; he nearly missed the Otter, and then felt a dull surprise when he jostled against its hull. With half-frozen fingers he looped the boat's mooring line to one of the cleats that were used to moor the Otter at dock; they would have to cut it loose before leaving, but he didn't like having no way back to the mainland in case the weather trapped them here. All of this was more or less an automatic thought. The door to the cabin cracked open a little and Biggles saw Bertie looking down at him. He climbed swiftly up and slammed it, shaking the snow off himself.
"Where is my uncle?" Fritz asked, his voice rising.
"He wanted to stay," Biggles said. Over Fritz's shocked objections, he said, "I'll have the rest of my clothes back now, Pat. Algy, how's the tea coming?"
"Tea's about all we've got, since you took most of the food," Algy said, but it was complaining for form's sake, there was no heart in it.
Biggles changed out of the prison rags, but it made little difference; he still felt cold to the core. "No," he said sharply, seeing some form of altercation going on between Ginger and Fritz. "Fritz, it's done, sit down, that's an order."
"We can't leave him here!" Fritz exclaimed, blue eyes snapping sparks. "If you won't let me have the boat, I'll swim."
"No, you'll stay and you'll sit. Your uncle made his decision and we won't be taking that from him. Not you, not anyone else." His voice sounded harsher than he meant it, and he forced himself to modulate his tone. "Bertie, could you sit with Fritz for a while, if you don't mind? I need to see about our flight path."
He sat in the cockpit with the map, occasionally convulsed by a wave of shivering. After a while he noticed that he had entirely ruined the calculations, and was rubbing them out with short hard scrubs when Algy came up and sat in the navigator's seat beside him.
"You know it's always been my very great pleasure to tell you when you're being an idiot," Algy said quietly. "And you are a towering one now. Go get him."
Biggles clenched his jaw and laid the pencil carefully beside the scrubbed-out marks. "He made his decision—"
"And you and I both know what he plans to do there." Another wave of shivering wracked Biggles. "Don't make me suffer the indignity of watching you moping for the entire flight back, I can't stomach it." Algy took off his jacket and thrust it into Biggles's lap. "Here, take this and don't freeze. Looks like the mess out there is turning halfway to rain. I'll see if I can find a towel for the both of you when you get back, if you didn't take all of those along with the rest of our supplies."
Biggles put the map aside and pulled on the jacket. He had not expected it to make him feel warmer, but strangely it did. "Algy—"
"Don't thank me. This'll give me something I can hold over his head for the rest of his life, and I plan to make sure he knows it."
Biggles managed a small smile. He went back into the cabin. Pat and Ginger were at the camp stove, while Bertie sat in conversation with Fritz in the back. The look Fritz gave Biggles was dire, but it changed in an instant when Biggles went to the cabin door and opened it.
"No one goes with me," Biggles said as Ginger and Fritz both sprang to their feet. "With any luck I'll need room for two in the boat coming back."
"If you'd care to bring back a tin of stew we wouldn't mind that either," Algy called from the cockpit.
The damp wind bit into Biggles's face and hands as he paddled across, cutting through every gap in Algy's jacket. Biggles hadn't remembered it being so cold out here. He didn't think he had felt it much at the coal face or on their journey through the forest; there was simply too much to think about, and then—well. Then.
There was no one on the track where he had last seen von Stalhein and Miskoff. He hadn't expected it, but some part of him had hoped. He tied up the boat securely and set off down the path.
Biggles was no tracker, but the snow was deep enough that, even in the gathering gloom, it was obvious where someone had gone off the track and up the hill—presumably von Stalhein, it seemed that anyone as accustomed to the woods as Miskoff wouldn't have waded through knee-deep snow when other options were available. Biggles followed the resulting trail, partly drifted in places, which curved back toward the place where the headland turned a corner above their landing spot. From here, on a clearer day, there was most likely a nice view of the estuary and possibly the Otter.
Biggles saw von Stalhein from a distance, at first barely distinguishable from the rest of his surroundings, sitting with his back against a tree and gazing toward the white-out of the estuary. Biggles broke into a half run and nearly stumbled over the blanket and supplies, sitting a few feet away as if it had been dropped, untouched and buried in snow.
Von Stalhein was covered with snow as well, even on his eyelashes, but when Biggles dropped to his knees beside him—he moved, and Biggles let out a breath. Von Stalhein turned his head slowly. He blinked.
"You came back," he said, his voice a breath.
"This is a very poor camp, Erich." Biggles shook the blanket free of its burden, discovering in the process that the supplies were depleted to almost nothing—abandoned, dropped, it was impossible to say. Von Stalhein put up no resistance as Biggles wrapped the blanket around him, and then, feeling the tremors coursing through von Stalhein's thin shoulders, wrapped himself in it as well, bundling them both together.
"You came back," von Stalhein said again, a little stronger, as if repeating it was making it real for him. His teeth were chattering.
"What are you doing up here?" Biggles asked. Von Stalhein was shockingly pliant, allowing himself to be pulled into the shelter of the blanket as Biggles tucked it over both their heads, shutting out the pattering sleet.
"Oh, I ... thought I could watch you take off. It seemed that it might be beautiful. You might see me ..." He faltered and appeared to lose his train of thought briefly. "I thought I had fallen asleep and missed it. But—you're here."
Biggles didn't speak for a moment. He took von Stalhein's icy hands in his own to warm them. At any moment he expected von Stalhein would begin to fully understand that it was Biggles tucked inside the blanket with him, and would pull away. But instead he was leaning against Biggles's shoulder, allowing Biggles to chafe his hands until a little warmth came back to the knotted fingers.
"I wish that you would come back with us," Biggles said into von Stalhein's damp, matted hair. "I—won't tell you what to do, Erich. But Fritz is extremely distressed." He felt von Stalhein flinch a little at this. "At least let us go back to the Otter for now. You can get warmed up there, eat something, and make your decision under more agreeable conditions."
"You wish this?" von Stalhein said after a little while, slightly muffled under the blanket. He was still resting against Biggles's shoulder, his hands loosely curled in Biggles's. Biggles supposed he should put them down, but they were still very cold.
Biggles swallowed. "If you would like it. Yes."
"Then I will." Abruptly von Stalhein pushed himself off Biggles's shoulder. Biggles stood and helped him to his feet, then tucked the blanket around him, as von Stalhein still seemed dazed and only vaguely aware of where he was. Looking around, von Stalhein observed in a voice a little more like his own, "It's snowed a bit, hasn't it."
"Yes, it has." Biggles bent to collect the tins and stuff them into his pockets. "Is this all of the supplies?"
There was a moment while von Stalhein seemed to collect his thoughts. "I gave the rest to Miskoff. I felt that he could use them more than I would."
Biggles said neutrally, "I should have liked him to have something in exchange for helping us. That was a fine thought."
They started down the hill, pushing through the drifts. Biggles took the lead, which meant breaking trail and forcing his legs through snow that was past his knees in places. The blizzard had died down a little, but twilight was gathering, and with it came a sharp cold.
He glanced back frequently, finding each time that von Stalhein was close on his heels.
It wasn't until Biggles stumbled over a log beneath the snow that he realized he was shivering. Even with Algy's jacket to help cut the wind, he was soaked to the skin, exhausted and aching.
Before he could fall, a hand caught his elbow—strong despite its thinness, steadying him as he caught his balance.
"It's been a long day," von Stalhein said, his voice neutral. But there was something in the ice-pale eyes that hadn't been there before, something Biggles could not put a name to—but it took him back to earlier days, warmer days. All the way back to the beginning, perhaps, before all the missed chances along the way.
"Yes," Biggles said. When the hand stayed, Biggles leaned on it a little. "It has been."
Helping each other, they made their way back to the boat.
These Mountains You Carry (2498 words) by Sholio
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Biggles Series - W. E. Johns
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: James "Biggles" Bigglesworth & Erich Von Stalhein
Characters: James "Biggles" Bigglesworth, Erich von Stalhein, Fritz Lowenhardt, Algy Lacey
Additional Tags: Book: Biggles Buries a Hatchet, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Huddling For Warmth, Angst with a Happy Ending
Summary: In the escape from Sakhalin, von Stalhein makes a different decision. Or: Biggles's determination to give Erich choices runs up against Erich's self-destructive stubbornness.
sheron unborked my ending and also helped provide a title; thank you! ♥Fic posted under the cut.
These mountains you are carrying, you were only supposed to climb. - Najwa Zebian
As Bertie paddled off into the swirling snow with Ginger in the boat, von Stalhein turned to Biggles. It was only the two of them now, with Miskoff a number of paces behind them, standing guard over the track. Snow continued to fall heavily, bending the branches of the firs.
"You said it was up to me what I do from here," von Stalhein said quietly.
"Yes," Biggles said.
"Then I will stay here."
Biggles turned toward him, eyes going wide; he couldn't hide his shock. "Fritz is on the Otter."
"Yes, he is. And if I might ask you for one thing only, I would ask you to make sure that he stays there."
It was the absolute calm that made it so hard to argue with him. There was nothing to argue against; it was as if Biggles's words slipped off, none of them making an impression on von Stalhein's still, haggard face. Still, Biggles said, "If you're determined to leave, we could let you off somewhere more agreeable, someplace warmer—"
"You said it was my choice."
"Yes," Biggles said. He could see the boat returning, Ginger paddling, every passing second unrecoverable. "Yes, it is, I—" He drew a breath. "Wait here, won't you? I have to bring Miskoff's boat back. I can bring a few things, we can spare some food and a blanket, surely."
"If you wish it."
As soon as the boat bumped against the snow-covered shore, Biggles stepped in, tipping it slightly. "Go," he ordered Ginger.
Ginger looked surprised; Biggles supposed he must have thought Biggles would wait until last, as would be his usual habit. But Ginger didn't ask questions; he turned and dug the paddle into the icy water. Glancing back, Biggles saw that von Stalhein stood still on the bank, looking after them.
"How is the Otter riding through the storm?" Biggles asked. He felt detached and cold. His fingers were clenched on the edge of the boat.
"Not too badly. Sea's a bit rough out of the shelter of the estuary." The boat rocked as if to underscore his words.
"Yes, all right." The amphibian loomed out of the storm, and Biggles caught her hull. "Hold the boat, will you? I'll be taking it back, but I—I'm taking a few other things as well."
He moved swiftly through the cabin, ignoring questions as he scooped most of their remaining supplies into a blanket and tied it up. The only person he spoke to directly was Pat. "I'll take my jacket back, if you don't mind."
"I thought you'd want it, seeing as it's coming down cats out there. I was just drying it off for you." Pat handed it back to him, looking less concerned than the others, who were watching him strangely.
"Where is my uncle?" Fritz asked.
Biggles could not quite bring himself to answer. "Fritz, go help Algy with the tea. Ginger, close the door as soon as I've cast off, but watch out for the boat returning."
Ginger and Fritz both seemed to relax a little at this, and Biggles stepped down into the boat with the bundle in his arms. Ice and slush rubbed against the sides of the little coracle as he paddled back in a hurry.
He truly did expect von Stalhein to have left already, but instead the man was with Miskoff; they were talking quietly. When Biggles landed, von Stalhein turned. The snow frosted his hair. "He says that you needn't concern yourself with returning the boat. He doesn't expect to need it again."
"Thank him for me," Biggles said absently. He could not bring himself to care about that. "I brought some things for you. Food, a blanket. And a jacket. It may be a poor fit but it will be better than what you have on." Biggles pressed the items into his hands. Von Stalhein took them with a slight nod. He was a little stronger, it seemed, his back straight as if he had gained strength from the clarity of his decision. There was only a slight tremble in his hands as he accepted the jacket and shrugged into it. The sleeves were a bit too short, the shoulders tight, but otherwise it hung loosely on his emaciated frame.
Standing in the snow, with the winter forest as a backdrop, he made a strange figure, heroic yet tragic at the same time. Alone on this hell of an island. He had survived worse, Biggles knew it, but never after suffering such privations as he had in the prison.
"Are you sure—" Biggles began, just as von Stalhein said, "If that's all—"
They both broke off; then von Stalhein gave him a curt nod and stepped away.
"Don't think I am not without gratitude for what you've done," von Stalhein said abruptly. "Goodbye, Bigglesworth."
Biggles felt as if the chill of the snowstorm had frozen him over; his tongue would not form words. He nodded and climbed into the boat, dug the paddle in, and forced himself not to look back. It was upon him to accept von Stalhein's decision; the man's pride would never allow anything else.
Time seemed to stop; he nearly missed the Otter, and then felt a dull surprise when he jostled against its hull. With half-frozen fingers he looped the boat's mooring line to one of the cleats that were used to moor the Otter at dock; they would have to cut it loose before leaving, but he didn't like having no way back to the mainland in case the weather trapped them here. All of this was more or less an automatic thought. The door to the cabin cracked open a little and Biggles saw Bertie looking down at him. He climbed swiftly up and slammed it, shaking the snow off himself.
"Where is my uncle?" Fritz asked, his voice rising.
"He wanted to stay," Biggles said. Over Fritz's shocked objections, he said, "I'll have the rest of my clothes back now, Pat. Algy, how's the tea coming?"
"Tea's about all we've got, since you took most of the food," Algy said, but it was complaining for form's sake, there was no heart in it.
Biggles changed out of the prison rags, but it made little difference; he still felt cold to the core. "No," he said sharply, seeing some form of altercation going on between Ginger and Fritz. "Fritz, it's done, sit down, that's an order."
"We can't leave him here!" Fritz exclaimed, blue eyes snapping sparks. "If you won't let me have the boat, I'll swim."
"No, you'll stay and you'll sit. Your uncle made his decision and we won't be taking that from him. Not you, not anyone else." His voice sounded harsher than he meant it, and he forced himself to modulate his tone. "Bertie, could you sit with Fritz for a while, if you don't mind? I need to see about our flight path."
He sat in the cockpit with the map, occasionally convulsed by a wave of shivering. After a while he noticed that he had entirely ruined the calculations, and was rubbing them out with short hard scrubs when Algy came up and sat in the navigator's seat beside him.
"You know it's always been my very great pleasure to tell you when you're being an idiot," Algy said quietly. "And you are a towering one now. Go get him."
Biggles clenched his jaw and laid the pencil carefully beside the scrubbed-out marks. "He made his decision—"
"And you and I both know what he plans to do there." Another wave of shivering wracked Biggles. "Don't make me suffer the indignity of watching you moping for the entire flight back, I can't stomach it." Algy took off his jacket and thrust it into Biggles's lap. "Here, take this and don't freeze. Looks like the mess out there is turning halfway to rain. I'll see if I can find a towel for the both of you when you get back, if you didn't take all of those along with the rest of our supplies."
Biggles put the map aside and pulled on the jacket. He had not expected it to make him feel warmer, but strangely it did. "Algy—"
"Don't thank me. This'll give me something I can hold over his head for the rest of his life, and I plan to make sure he knows it."
Biggles managed a small smile. He went back into the cabin. Pat and Ginger were at the camp stove, while Bertie sat in conversation with Fritz in the back. The look Fritz gave Biggles was dire, but it changed in an instant when Biggles went to the cabin door and opened it.
"No one goes with me," Biggles said as Ginger and Fritz both sprang to their feet. "With any luck I'll need room for two in the boat coming back."
"If you'd care to bring back a tin of stew we wouldn't mind that either," Algy called from the cockpit.
The damp wind bit into Biggles's face and hands as he paddled across, cutting through every gap in Algy's jacket. Biggles hadn't remembered it being so cold out here. He didn't think he had felt it much at the coal face or on their journey through the forest; there was simply too much to think about, and then—well. Then.
There was no one on the track where he had last seen von Stalhein and Miskoff. He hadn't expected it, but some part of him had hoped. He tied up the boat securely and set off down the path.
Biggles was no tracker, but the snow was deep enough that, even in the gathering gloom, it was obvious where someone had gone off the track and up the hill—presumably von Stalhein, it seemed that anyone as accustomed to the woods as Miskoff wouldn't have waded through knee-deep snow when other options were available. Biggles followed the resulting trail, partly drifted in places, which curved back toward the place where the headland turned a corner above their landing spot. From here, on a clearer day, there was most likely a nice view of the estuary and possibly the Otter.
Biggles saw von Stalhein from a distance, at first barely distinguishable from the rest of his surroundings, sitting with his back against a tree and gazing toward the white-out of the estuary. Biggles broke into a half run and nearly stumbled over the blanket and supplies, sitting a few feet away as if it had been dropped, untouched and buried in snow.
Von Stalhein was covered with snow as well, even on his eyelashes, but when Biggles dropped to his knees beside him—he moved, and Biggles let out a breath. Von Stalhein turned his head slowly. He blinked.
"You came back," he said, his voice a breath.
"This is a very poor camp, Erich." Biggles shook the blanket free of its burden, discovering in the process that the supplies were depleted to almost nothing—abandoned, dropped, it was impossible to say. Von Stalhein put up no resistance as Biggles wrapped the blanket around him, and then, feeling the tremors coursing through von Stalhein's thin shoulders, wrapped himself in it as well, bundling them both together.
"You came back," von Stalhein said again, a little stronger, as if repeating it was making it real for him. His teeth were chattering.
"What are you doing up here?" Biggles asked. Von Stalhein was shockingly pliant, allowing himself to be pulled into the shelter of the blanket as Biggles tucked it over both their heads, shutting out the pattering sleet.
"Oh, I ... thought I could watch you take off. It seemed that it might be beautiful. You might see me ..." He faltered and appeared to lose his train of thought briefly. "I thought I had fallen asleep and missed it. But—you're here."
Biggles didn't speak for a moment. He took von Stalhein's icy hands in his own to warm them. At any moment he expected von Stalhein would begin to fully understand that it was Biggles tucked inside the blanket with him, and would pull away. But instead he was leaning against Biggles's shoulder, allowing Biggles to chafe his hands until a little warmth came back to the knotted fingers.
"I wish that you would come back with us," Biggles said into von Stalhein's damp, matted hair. "I—won't tell you what to do, Erich. But Fritz is extremely distressed." He felt von Stalhein flinch a little at this. "At least let us go back to the Otter for now. You can get warmed up there, eat something, and make your decision under more agreeable conditions."
"You wish this?" von Stalhein said after a little while, slightly muffled under the blanket. He was still resting against Biggles's shoulder, his hands loosely curled in Biggles's. Biggles supposed he should put them down, but they were still very cold.
Biggles swallowed. "If you would like it. Yes."
"Then I will." Abruptly von Stalhein pushed himself off Biggles's shoulder. Biggles stood and helped him to his feet, then tucked the blanket around him, as von Stalhein still seemed dazed and only vaguely aware of where he was. Looking around, von Stalhein observed in a voice a little more like his own, "It's snowed a bit, hasn't it."
"Yes, it has." Biggles bent to collect the tins and stuff them into his pockets. "Is this all of the supplies?"
There was a moment while von Stalhein seemed to collect his thoughts. "I gave the rest to Miskoff. I felt that he could use them more than I would."
Biggles said neutrally, "I should have liked him to have something in exchange for helping us. That was a fine thought."
They started down the hill, pushing through the drifts. Biggles took the lead, which meant breaking trail and forcing his legs through snow that was past his knees in places. The blizzard had died down a little, but twilight was gathering, and with it came a sharp cold.
He glanced back frequently, finding each time that von Stalhein was close on his heels.
It wasn't until Biggles stumbled over a log beneath the snow that he realized he was shivering. Even with Algy's jacket to help cut the wind, he was soaked to the skin, exhausted and aching.
Before he could fall, a hand caught his elbow—strong despite its thinness, steadying him as he caught his balance.
"It's been a long day," von Stalhein said, his voice neutral. But there was something in the ice-pale eyes that hadn't been there before, something Biggles could not put a name to—but it took him back to earlier days, warmer days. All the way back to the beginning, perhaps, before all the missed chances along the way.
"Yes," Biggles said. When the hand stayed, Biggles leaned on it a little. "It has been."
Helping each other, they made their way back to the boat.
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*rereads again because of the feels*
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