Who Fortune could not save

Well, this is the first in a series of one-shots involving APH ships based on various Pogues songs that are all pretty sad and melancholy because most Pogues songs are depressing as fuck. This one's LadKug and although it could be argued most of these stories take place in the same universe (with the exception of some of the stories with overlapping ships etc), the two that are definitely linked to this one are the AusHun and SuFin stories, so please look out for those. A lot of these stories are epistolary too, because that's something I want to explore more and I like using them for historical fics. Oh, and a lot of these are set in different historical time periods too.

This particular song is based on 'Thousands are Sailing' and parts of this song also inspired the SuFin and AusHun ones, though they get their own songs too. The fics will be called 'Dancing on the Line' and 'Set the Night on Fire' respectively, and are currently in the works.

...

Franz - Kugelmugel
Lars - Ladonia

...

18th October, 1952

Franz, my dearest friend,

You said you do not have anyone to send letters to, there are too few people in your life and you miss to romance of receiving a handwritten letter. Well, now you have me! I mean, you already had me but now you have me and a letter to read whenever you please. Maybe I can even write to you about things my stupid mouth refuses to say aloud. Or, you know, about the important things. Or about you. Or all three? So much for romance of this. Writing letters is a lost art, and I have long lost the art of writing letters since I stopped believing in Santa.

As for things that cannot be said aloud...

For example, I wish I knew what to say about so many things. I wish you were less alone. Where are your parents? Do you not have brothers or sisters? I cannot even believe you came to this country alone. Were you scared? You travelled to England as a child. To live? Your parents let you live on your own like that? Like a grown up? You were so lucky!

I did not mean to make this a letter prying into your personal life. Tell me when you want to.

You are a fascinating man, though, like you are from another time. You seem like you would be more at home in a mansion, writing and painting and being an odd, eccentric fellow with no one to disturb you.

The truth is, I have no idea what to put in a letter. We see each other every week. I suppose I could complain about Peter, but I do that in person already. Is there anywhere you would like us to go? I feel there is still so much of this city we have yet to explore – and I have lived here since I was three!

All the best,

Your good friend Lars

19th October, 1952

Dear diary,

Trying to recall my earliest memories reminds me of drowning. Like I am surrounded by inky water and clawing my way towards the light that might be the surface, or a siren. It is like staring at a half-finished painting: some details are there, but it is mostly white. Or an abstract work of art whose meaning I have not quite yet grasped.

Trying to put dates and time spans to these memories would be like tearing the pages of this diary out and throwing them on the floor, only to spend days putting them back in order.

This is how I feel trying to remember my papa.

I have one memory of his face. His living face, that is. Warm. Stern, but kind. He was proud of me, I think. Maybe I had taken my first steps? Or fed myself? But he was overjoyed. Was it back in Sweden? Maybe that is my only memory of Sweden, but I have long forgotten everything in the image that was not papa.

In my other memories, he is a corpse.

I remember wondering why papa was sleeping on the table. Why was the blanket covering his face? I was never allowed to hide under the covers – Mr Tino said I might suffocate in the night. He always worried about things like that.

He was crying. I wondered if it was because papa was sleeping under the covers. And on the table.

Papa was a strange man, or so I have since been told.

They put him in a box and buried him in the ground. I tried to climb in after him, wake him up and get him out of there or he'd be scared when he woke up alone and trapped. Mr Tino cried and pulled me out. I thought he might get angry, shout at me and tell me to stop playing, but he never; he just cuddled me as I screamed to get papa out of there.

He didn't like the dark. What were they doing?

Peter threw flowers into the hole after him. I remember little else.

I have yet to think of the reason I write all this down. Why would I want to document such an event? Then again, these are the only memories of papa I have.

Mr Tino told me to call him Isi. He said he was our new papa, that our real papa had asked him to look after us as if we were his own children. It was something we accepted without much thought, and something I will always accept.

Lucky I have more memories of Isi. He truly was my second father and I only wish Franz could have met him too. They would get along, most likely, travelling all the way from Europe on their own.

I think I now accept I cannot remember a thing about Sweden.