The day was muggy, but a bit overcast as well. Still, it didn't feel like thunder to Harry -- more like it was just going to be one of those days, and if a storm did roll in, it wouldn't be until late.

His left shoulder was terribly stiff, but not unbearable and it felt and looked no worse than it had before, so it wasn't showing any signs of infection. He kept it bound a little longer than he did his chest -- that was healing fine, and he doubted that it would be longer than a week and a half before those marks were just new scars.

His nerves were still ragged, and he knew he needed rest. Just... rest, to try to put his life back on the course he wanted it to be on, instead of out of control like it had been for a very long time. He'd rested quite a bit the day before, and planned on relaxing today as well -- he knew he had a lot of thinking to do, and even though it still galled him sometimes, he knew he had emotional limits that were different now than before.

So, he sat down at the kitchen table with some tea and some fruit salad, and penned a letter. He was close enough to the city that it would get there before nightfall, and he figured that even if he wasn't steady enough to deal with the city itself, he could at least write to one of the rocks that kept him going while he was there.

When he finished, he handed the letter off to Archie to drop off at the Hennings Beach post office while Archie was out exercising Seaton.

Then he went and grabbed a good book, and settled in to read.

--

To: Ms. Sarah Smith
C/O The Maritime Tavern
1801 Eastern Drive
Rhy'Din, Rhy'Din

From: Mr. Harold Lowe
P.O. Box 26
Hennings Beach, Rhy'Din


Dear Sarah,

Well, I said I would write, and so here I am. I figured that you'd still be at the Maritime, though if you decide to change your address, please let me know what it is?

I'm doing all right. Shoulder is still sore, but my chest is all right. I wanted to thank you again for taking care of me; I think I needed someone who knew me to keep an eye on me, and it means a lot that you did.

It's very quiet here, which is nice. I think I'm going to try to get ahold of a chest freezer and start stocking up on things for our cookout. We can make a whole day of it, and catch up more properly, where we're not rushed to deal with problems as they happen.

How is the Maritime treating you? Archie agrees that it's perfectly fine if you want to open and try to make some money. Hell, if you like it enough, maybe we can just turn it over to you, as neither of us really intend to come back. Though, I think it would be a shame myself if you gave up ranching for good -- you've such a talent for it.

Speaking of, how is Everett? I hope he's being a gentleman for you.

Anyway, I think I may have to stop back in the city in a few more days and see if I can track down Johnny -- if he hasn't found a doctor by now to pull those stitches, I'll have to do it. When I do, I'll make certain to track you down.

Until then, though, take good care of yourself. And write back when you have the time.

Love,
Harold

It was oppressively hot, but for reasons he couldn't entirely fathom, Harold liked it. It felt like a proper August, all heat and heavy air, and the summer bug life making noises in the tall grass.

He sat outside of the little two-room post office on the big stone slab, and felt the heat baking into his skin, and smelled the dust on the road, and sometimes a breeze ruffled the ancient trees. Hennings Beach was a small place -- it didn't even have its own school, and children had to travel to Southport to get an education. It was a summer town, he had learned early on -- a place where people vacationed, but very few stayed through the winter months.

He hadn't bothered wearing a shirt, and he'd taken the dressing off of his shoulder to let it get some air; it was still very stiff and he didn't use it much, but it was healing perfectly normally. All it really needed now was time.

So he sat outside and read Sarah's letter. The mention of Cinder sort of shocked him a little -- he had not even known if the elf had come back to Rhy'Din, or if he had gotten the letter Harold had written back in March. He figured, though, that Sarah would have filled Cinder in. Then, whoever it was asking about Renne, as well.

So, instead of waiting to go home, write back and then bring the letter back to the post office, he went back inside, bought some paper, borrowed a pen, then sat out on the step again to write a reply. She'd... they'd probably get it by nightfall.

--

To: Ms. Sarah Smith & Mr. Cinder Shirastan
C/O The Maritime Tavern
1801 Eastern Drive
Rhy'Din, Rhy'Din

From: Mr. Harold Lowe
P.O. Box 26
Hennings Beach, Rhy'Din

Dear Sarah,

I'll have to admit that I wasn't expecting to hear that Cinder had come home, so first things first... I've enclosed a letter for him in this here envelope, and would very much appreciate it if you could pass it onto him if he comes back in.

When it comes to the horses, I'm probably not the best person to ask. In part because I really don't know the breeds terribly well, more the individuals themselves. However, that being said, Archie's percheron/quarter has turned out beautifully, and even though I have a deep affection for my former Clydesdale, horses more like Seaton would likely be much easier to sell. He's been admired a few times by people in passing, and he's both strong enough to haul and quick enough to be useful in regular riding.

I'm not sure who you're talking about -- Renne has had many visitors over the years, so it could be any number of people. Still, I trust your instincts; if you think she was bad news, then I believe she was. Hopefully, if she means to do Renne any harm, then she'll have a Hell of a time getting past Gaston and the rest of the guards at the Port South holding house. Just watch out for yourself, even if not the Maritime -- if she is up to no good, then I don't want you or anyone else in harm's way.

I'm doing all right. My shoulder's still stiff as Hell (and the bruises make me look a bit like someone decided to go crazy on me with a paint brush) but it's healing just fine, and so is my chest. I feel all right, actually, if not a bit tired still from that mess that took place. And yes, I'm eating well -- believe it or not, Archie's managed to become something of a cook. I didn't know he had it in him, he and I used to be able to burn water. I'm not nearly so good yet, though I've managed to make breakfast today and it didn't kill us.

I suppose this is the part where I tell you why I don't want to come back. I know you don't expect me to, but I want to -- I want people to understand why it is that I'm willing to walk away from the tavern that I built my life around for six years. Though, you'll have to bear with me: My thoughts aren't nearly so coherent or clear as they used to be, though they're getting a bit easier to sort through.

I don't want to come back because it doesn't feel like my home anymore. I spent so much time there, trying to make a go of it, trying to make it and myself some sort of steady, unassailable place in a realm that changes its colours every single day. It's not to say that wonderful things didn't happen there, because they did. If not for the Maritime, I would not have had Sirin, Pacey, Ran, you, Vic, Lily, Cinder or any other number of people I have considered important to me over the years. I wouldn't have had a lot of things that made my life worth living.

But even for all of the wonderful things, in the end, the Maritime couldn't save me. In the end, I'm not sure anyone or anything could have, because I couldn't save myself -- I couldn't get a grip on all the little pieces that my life had become. I tried... believe me, I tried hard. I didn't want to go the route of ending it all, not until it came very clear to me that if I didn't, I'd just keep on suffering and making everyone around me miserable as well.

It's somewhat different now than it was then. I feel better being away from there, and the memories of the past six years. The good memories I can keep in my heart, and the bad ones lurk there too, for certain. But at least out here, out of the city, out of the Maritime, they only lurk inside of me and don't shout at me from the walls.

I don't want to come back because I don't want to live the rest of my life trying to hang onto an ideal. I kept the Maritime open so long, not because I needed the money, but because deep down I thought that if I could just hang onto it, all the people I've loved and lost would eventually find their way back there.

I don't know a lot now... about myself, even. But I know one thing: If I keep trying to live my life by waiting for old ghosts, if I keep trying to be the unassailable rock, if I keep trying to be everything to everyone, I will never be anything else. And even though it took a bullet, and a great deal of pain, and a lot of very hard-learned lessons since then... I just want to live and find contentment. I want to make a good show of it. I want to live happy, I think, and die old and peacefully in bed.

I don't know if that's the best answer; as I said, it's very hard for me to put my thoughts into words like I used to. And even then I was no master at it. But I hope it helps you understand a little, and if you want to ask more, go ahead. I owe it to you, and to Cinder, and to everyone really to at least understand, even if they don't agree.

Take care of yourself, and I'll talk to you again soon.

Love,
Harold

--

Dear Cinder,

I can only imagine how many questions you have, and how few answers. And to give you all of the answers that would help you understand everything that has happened, I'd need a great deal more paper than this. But if you can forgive me for being vague in my last letter to you, and for the heartache I likely caused you, and if we can find the time to sit together again, I'll give you all of the answers you want and that I have myself.

I'm glad to hear you're still alive, Cinder. You've been a good friend. If you want to write me back, Sarah has my address, and maybe the lot of us can arrange a cookout sooner than later, and do our best to find some of the answers we need.

Yours,
Harold of Barmouth

Like the day before, Harry sat on the stone slab outside of the post office and read the letter. The brevity of it concerned him, really; he had expected, at least, her to mention the horses or how things were going. But while the letter was warm and loving, there was a note to it that he couldn't quite place.

He didn't go get paper to reply just yet, instead turning it over in his thoughts, dark eyes narrowed a bit at the road. Though, he wasn't actually looking at the road, but something past it.

He thought about the bandages he had felt when he'd hugged her, and about her words. About what his demoness, his friend, could have done to deserve whatever it was that had happened to her. He knew Sarah was fierce, and that she had seen a lot of combat in over four centuries, and that she had, like Pacey, made her life as a mercenary at some point.

And, like Pacey before her, he didn't account for her past life and deeds in how he felt -- to him, she was Sarah, horsewoman and dear friend, and one of the people he would willingly die to protect. God only knew, he didn't want people to always think about his past actions; he would rather have people judge his character as it stands. And to him, Sarah's character was admirable.

He wondered a little on what made him choose the people he had as friends, but then had to cut himself off before he got too lost in his thoughts. Later, he'd work on that one: Right now, he was worried. So, instead of just writing back as he had planned, and waiting to go visit the city, he tucked the letter back into the back pocket of his jeans and got back on Seaton, and headed back towards the Maritime.