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The Omelette (Pencroff-Harbert | G | 1,706 words): Harbert is sick, and Pencroff is worried. This is one of those recs where I expect no one else is going to read this story because who in the world else is interested in Jules Verne novels that aren't 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and Around the World in 80 Days, but well. I will always want to read any and everything fic written about these shipwrecked fellows. This particular fic is completely charming and replicates Verne's style delightfully. The story manages to swing from an extremely angsty beginning to a very humorous ending without it being jarring. And the point of view is so perfectly Pencroff, mercurial and dramatic and just a little bit ridiculous, that I could never not love this story.
Excerpt:
Then the hope would come for a moment, and he'd realise what a fool he was being. Harbert would survive. Why, when he returned, Harbert might have opened his eyes already! After all, Cyrus, Gideon Spillet and their mysterious protector would all be taking care of his child, of course.
But he was being twice the fool he'd thought himself just a moment ago. As if he could suppose that Harbert would live. He had only to look at his face, Harbert's face, white and hot--his hair, wet with sweat--and if Pencroff were to take one of Harbert's hands, he was sure it would be trembling weakly. Harbert was as good as dead.
But no, no, how could he even begin to doubt Cyrus would save Harbert? After all, he was Cyrus! It would all be all right. It was only a matter of time, perhaps a very short matter of time. Perhaps he should go back now, so that if the first person Harbert wanted was him, he would there.
And on and on it went, the same thing nearly every day.
Excerpt:
Then the hope would come for a moment, and he'd realise what a fool he was being. Harbert would survive. Why, when he returned, Harbert might have opened his eyes already! After all, Cyrus, Gideon Spillet and their mysterious protector would all be taking care of his child, of course.
But he was being twice the fool he'd thought himself just a moment ago. As if he could suppose that Harbert would live. He had only to look at his face, Harbert's face, white and hot--his hair, wet with sweat--and if Pencroff were to take one of Harbert's hands, he was sure it would be trembling weakly. Harbert was as good as dead.
But no, no, how could he even begin to doubt Cyrus would save Harbert? After all, he was Cyrus! It would all be all right. It was only a matter of time, perhaps a very short matter of time. Perhaps he should go back now, so that if the first person Harbert wanted was him, he would there.
And on and on it went, the same thing nearly every day.