The World Godforsaken, II. - July 3rd, 2007

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
- T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land


Sleep was only ever kind to him when he was all right; it had always been a peculiar state for him, too deep or too light, either unstirring in contentment or restless in uneasiness. When his mind was at peace he dreamt only of simple, mundane things... when it wasn't, the monsters and sorrows lurked in the dark.

Harry sat with his legs hanging down off the porch of the cottage they had somehow ended up in, arms on the second rail, chin on his arms, staring out to the sea past the cove. As tired as he was, sleep was more frightening than exhaustion. Still he sometimes drifted off, only to startle back awake.

In past days he usually went, brewed a pot of coffee and wandered around the Maritime or dockside until finally exhaustion overcame any uneasiness and forced him into oblivion. Looking back on his life, he came to the conclusion that he had few periods where he actually slept like a normal human being -- between the days of constant fatigue at sea, from the time he was fourteen, to the long and stress filled early days of the Maritime, to the mad insomnia that came when the others left... so little of it normal, and routine.

Whatever this was, this place that felt like it was somewhere between death and life, was shaping up the same way. Except, he wasn't allowed to have his coffee, or his Browning. Only his lightsaber, sitting beside him, and only that for self-defense.

He closed his eyes; listened to the crickets, listened to the soft waves that were eased by the break-wall past the cove in from the ocean (tamed, rage taken from them), listened to the ever constant breeze off the water. Always the wind, it seemed, and this time it made him feel chilled and tired.

"Between wind and water..."

He shook himself back awake again, watched the flashes of blue moonlight on the crests of the little waves coming ashore. Tried to get his mind to stop running maddening circles, knowing it wouldn't work. Not strong enough to pace around, but still more than willful enough to battle with sleep.

It felt like April, except he knew it wasn't cold enough out to be, and also knew that it wasn't. April came and went and he had no part in it; wasn't part of the living world or any world during it. But for some reason, that wasn't a relief.

His eyes closed again, essentially without his permission, and the waves below that lapped to shore kept filling his ears, sounding not so different from the waves lapping wooden planks of a small boat, rocking with the motion of oars...

"...lay on your oars."

And he startled back awake.

The World Godforsaken, IV. - July 6th, 2007

And the ragged rock in the restless waters,
Waves wash over it, fogs conceal it;
On a halcyon day it is merely a monument,
In navigable weather it is always a seamark
To lay a course by: but in the sombre season
Or the sudden fury, is what it always was.
- T.S. Eliot, The Dry Salvages


"Just try to stick with me for a little while, and I'm certain things can be better."

"I'll try."

Harry had no doubt that his definition of 'a little while' wasn't the same as Archie's, but still he had given his word a few days ago, and his word had always been unassailable.

So, he tried.

Between the lack of sleep and the near paralysis of not knowing what to do or how to do it or anything -- "Be still." -- it was a more than tough few days. Finally, though, exhaustion beat out anxiety and he crashed into oblivion, black and dreamless and still, for about ten hours. It wasn't enough, but it cleared his head just a little; enough that his thoughts weren't running in a thousand different directions at once, leaving his body to sit silently and stare out to sea, unable to follow any of those directions.

He was still halfway moving automatically, but at least it was movement. In this case, Harry did the only thing he knew how to do, and worked. Was told he wasn't supposed to, of course, not yet -- half-growled, half-pleaded back that he had to. If he ever wanted to actually live, he first needed to survive, and to survive he had to work.

So, he turned his focus as much as he could to carefully scraping off the chipped and cracked white paint from the cottage. Being told to watch and not push too hard, but at least the work was something, and he could get a break from the frantic internal turmoil for awhile.

The choice was up between repainting the cottage, or coming up with a clear finish.

It was funny that the first truly mundane and normal thought Harry had in... well, frankly, a very long time, was that he liked how sea-weathered wood looked. Strong, but battered to gray and worn smooth by the occasional blast of wind and sand from the beach below, it reminded him of Barmouth and a hundred other seasides he had been on, and he felt it would be a shame to cover that up with more clean white paint. The sea left its mark, and that meant something to him.

It was a brief thought, absurdly out of the blue, but it was at least something.

He did the only thing he really knew how to do, and worked. Even if he didn't particularly want to live, he still had given his word to try to survive, and survival meant working until something weighed and measured came to balance and he could stop.

He didn't exactly know if that would happen now. But still he worked, and still he focused at least some part of his inner turmoil into his hands, and still he tried, at least until the 'little while' was up and then the decision would come circle again.

The World Godforsaken, VI. - July 11th, 2007

The garboard strake leaks, the seams need caulking.
This form, this face, this life
Living to live in a world of time beyond me; let me
Resign my life for this life, my speech for that unspoken,
The awakened, lips parted, the hope, the new ships.
- T.S. Eliot, Marina


It stormed in the morning hours; lots of thunder and lightning, but by the time the storm came in off the sea, the worst of the wind had abated. It was loud, then it was over, settling into rain... summer rain, the kind that fell steadily for a little while, then tapered, then became heavy, then disappeared into a cooler day, a bit overcast.

Harry still had good weather sense; he'd felt the storm coming in. He never really did figure out whether it was inborn human instinct that gave him his weather sense, or years at sea where his life and ship depended on it, but it was sort of comforting to know he did have it, and it had not gone.

He was still jumpy after what he'd woken up to find on the porch, but in a strange sort of way, that and the rapid-fire, anxiety-stricken conversation with Archie after things had settled a little was galvanizing. When faced with the choice between doing something (anything) to keep from losing his mind, or continuing on with whatever this was that passed for an existence, the answer was clear.

Do whatever you can, whatever you have to, in order to save whatever's left. He had, at least, found a few things in his life that were still what they had been -- pieces of himself he'd been certain were lost, but that when he actually spoke the words, realized that they were still there. Hurt, but not gone.

It wasn't that he'd given up the option of ending it all. He wasn't about to give up the notion that he did have a right to end his own life if he so chose, even if there was someone very bloody determined not to allow it. But, until that decision was made, when or if it was, he had to do whatever he could to at least get his life back under his control.

It wasn't easy, but it meant trying to move, and not letting himself get paralyzed from action by anxiety, and it meant maybe letting himself lean on someone else instead of trying to stand alone. The second of those wasn't easy -- he'd been very autonomous his whole life, and overcoming thirty-four years of mostly standing alone wasn't so simple as just deciding to go ahead and share the weight.

After the rain had gone, leaving the day cool (it felt like it was going to start clearing soon, too), he took some brushes, and went under the cottage where Seaton was living at the moment. Archie usually took him to graze and they'd brought along feed, but the temporary stable setup under the cottage wasn't exactly ideal.

Still, the bay percheron/quarter horse was good-natured. A bit more mischievous than Everett, a bit faster, not nearly as massive, but a good horse. Harry was certain that Sarah had some sort of gift when it came to equines; aside that one red stallion that he and Lil talked her out of to save his manhood, every horse they'd gotten from her had been impeccably trained, loyal beasts with big hearts. Even the stallion, wild as he was, had obviously never been mistreated -- he just had too much fire to ever be tamed.

Harry, perhaps too strongly, had felt that horse's plight and one quiet night after they'd begged him off of Sarah, Lily took the stallion away and let him loose far north where wild horses roamed in herds. His life probably wouldn't be easy, no... but Harry had no doubts whatsoever that the red beast would have had it no other way.

Few living things could understand that feeling better than he could himself.

But now, they had Seaton with them. He took the brushes and groomed the horse; handsome critter, really. Black mane, black tail, rich brown coat, with his four legs black from his hooves to about halfway up. He'd bought the horse for Archie, wanting his best friend to have a well-trained creature that would be loyal and affectionate. A worker, but also a companion.

Brushing the bay made him think of Everett. One of the harder things he'd done in his life was saying goodbye to his Clydesdale; saying goodbye after nearly four years and many miles, though never so many as it could have been. But Everett had been just as much friend as anything else; a steady, stable, patient friend when Harry really needed one. Plus, Ev came from Sarah, and the demoness of the Maritime was... is... dear to him.

He brushed the bay and bit by bit the brown coat started shining. He occasionally got lashed by Seaton's tail, as the horse battled off flies, but he just did his best to ignore it and followed the strange patterns of his own thoughts. Hoped, as he brushed one of Sarah's horses, that she was taking good care of Everett. But also that Everett was taking good care of her -- he knew she didn't have all that many friends, and while Ev wasn't exactly the best conversationalist, he was still a good friend. Few people deserved those as much as Sarah did.

Seaton shook his head, then went back to enjoying the brushing, sometimes sidestepping (and almost knocking Harry over) as if to say, "There, that's a good spot, brush there." It was surprising to the man that he was able to find some sort of easy comfort in the act of grooming a horse, even if Seaton wasn't his.

It made him wonder what Pacey would have thought. She'd had to work hard to get him on Ransom's back all those years ago, and he'd been far bolder back then. He liked to think, though, that she would be proud that he'd learned at least enough horsemanship to ride confidently, and properly care for the critters himself. Liked to think also that she and Sarah would have been fast friends; both of them so good to their animals, both of them fierce and protective of friends, and both of them good to him. They had a lot of common qualities aside those, too.

"Pace would have loved you," he told Seaton, pausing in the brushing long enough to hand off half a carrot, then going back to grooming as the bay crunched on it. "She would've loved Everett, too. She used to sleep with her little herd, did you know that? Curled up in the straw and never worried about getting stepped on."

The horse turned an ear back to listen to him, but having said pretty much all he wanted to, Harry just kept brushing and thinking.

He missed Everett. Missed a lot, really, but right now he didn't feel anywhere near ready to deal with people. But his horse was another matter -- he didn't expect to ever see the Clydesdale again, even now, but that didn't take away the fact that the horse was missed and that the last memory of saying goodbye ached more now than it did at the time.

He managed to shake out of the thought as he finished brushing Archie's horse, stepping back briefly to admire the job he'd done. The sun was out now, but even in the shade under the cottage, the bay looked handsome, good enough to take into some show ring somewhere and show off. Satisfied with that, he sat down and looked out over the water in the cove.

Seaton nosed the back of his head, then huffed out a breath, and Harry made a face, tipping his head back to look up at the horse. "What?"

Of course, he didn't get much of a reply; Seaton just edged closer, then bent down, head over his shoulder, to try to nose at his shirt. Looking for the other half of the carrot, Harry realized.

He pushed Seaton's head, complaining, "Come on, now. I just spent however long brushing you, and now you want something else? Doesn't Archie give you treats?"

Apparently not enough. Harry muttered, absolutely not meaning it, and pulled the other half of the carrot out of his pocket to offer the horse. Then had to endure bits of carrot falling on him while Seaton crunched his way through it.

He was about to comment on the lack of table (or stable) manners when a strange noise caught his attention. He turned his head slightly to listen; Seaton put both of his ears forward. Whatever it was sounded like it was coming from behind the rocks surrounding the cove; a sort of humming, not-quite-whining noise.

A gleam of something appeared between the entrance to the cove and the breakwall, flashing in the sunlight. And Harry, now fully curious about what it could be, got to his feet, gave Seaton a quick pat, then headed down the hill to get a better look at whatever it was.

July 11th, 2007 - Strange Salvation, II.


In the end, he only agreed to it because twenty minutes of non-stop cajoling was worse than just trying this... machine-thing out. Then came a surprisingly non-chattery block of instruction.

"Got it? Throttle, plane control, kill-switch, green button makes it go, red button makes it stop." Matt bobbed in the water as he untied the rope, still competing for the 'Most Cheerful Creature in Rhy'Din' award. "And have fun, it's really hard to screw things up unless you like, run it into the rocks or something."

"Uhm," Harry just said, feeling very awkward and rather nervous, perched atop this thing that he hadn't even known existed before an hour ago. He had the life-belt... er, life-jacket on, and he really didn't have any trouble understanding the controls or anything like that, but it was still well beyond his usual realm of experience.

"Seriously! Relax, you'll like it," Matt said for whatever-number-time, taking his sunglasses off and offering 'em up.

Despite not exactly knowing what the Hell he was getting himself into, Harry still had more than a small amount of knowledge when it came to boating principles, and maintained his balance as he reached down without so much as rocking the jetski to take the glasses. Had no idea what he actually needed them for, though; it was bright out now that the sun was out in force, but not so bright he needed to shield his eyes.

"And once you get kinda sure, if you really wanna rush, get it up to about thirty-five or so, let off the throttle, turn the handlebars and gun the engine hard." Matt nodded like he was sharing some big secret of the universe. "Just hang on when you do."

Having been in the rigging off of Cape Horn, hanging on was the least of Harry's concerns. He just nodded, running over the controls in his mind as he looked over them; they were really simple, probably more simple than even a dinghy would be, which required at least some understanding of sailing.

It was after Matt gave the jetski a shove out towards the deeper water of the cove, and Harry actually got bold enough to start the thing up, though, that he realized two things. The first was that this thing was most certainly not a dinghy.

The second thing was that it was the single fastest thing he'd ever been on the water on.

Hang on, indeed.

It likewise took him very little time to realize that the sunglasses were more for keeping the buckshot spray from the water from stinging his eyes, that hitting even a little swell on one of these things would result in it briefly becoming an airplane, and ultimately, that it really was a rush.

He certainly didn't leave the shelter of the cove with it, but it didn't take long to get a real feel for how the thing handled. At speed, it would only turn more slowly with resistance on the handlebars; at idle, it would literally turn within its own body length. Despite himself, entirely, Harold had to admit that it was really impressive how maneuverable it was. And how fast.

And sort of exhausting, he realized within about twenty minutes. First because he wasn't quite up to his usual strength, and second, because it did take some work to handle the jetski and hang on. But it wasn't a bad kind of tired, not really, more just...

He wasn't sure what it was. But it wasn't bad. Still, he wasn't about to push himself past the point of endurance, especially on something he wasn't entirely comfortable with, and turned the thing back to head back towards the cottage at the other end of the cove.

He didn't know what possessed him to try what Matt had suggested. It was purely an impulsive whim, and when he cut the throttle, turned the bars and gunned the engine, the word 'rush' seemed like an understatement.

The jetski howled, whipped around twice in a mad spin, and left Harry facing the shore he'd been facing before, rocking heavily in it's own wake. It had happened so fast, he wasn't exactly sure that it really had happened at all, until his breath came back.

He huffed out a breath, wide-eyed, and had only two words for it.

"Holy sh-t."

July 14th, 2007 - Strange Salvation, IV.


I suppose when we get older, we tend to notice the little things more. Not like how we see a spectacular sight and gape in awe at it, but maybe how we look at dawn as another chance for something special to happen. And special is that moment or those moments where you feel content, or at rest, or at sudden harmony and ease with all that's around.

Suppose the nice lady with her tea leaves might have prompted these odd notions.

-Harry's journal, August 5th, 2001


The world was fairly peaceful, at least. Hot, a bit muggy even, but still pleasant enough. With the front of the cottage stripped of the last peeling white paint, and after a very long night (and now day), there wasn't all that much room for Harold to do anything but think. And while he was very tired, and wanted badly to just get his mind to quit running around, it wasn't entirely miserable.

It was hard enough for him to concentrate when he was genuinely rested, for all the more often that happened, but it was next to impossible when he was worn out. Still, he had little choice but to go wherever his mind decided to take him.

He remembered the days in July of 2001. It had been right around this time when he'd reopened the Maritime after rebuilding it, and it had been blazing hot nearly all the time. He remembered Archie writing quotes from Shakespeare on the burnt paneling in the kitchen before it was torn out and replaced.

It was around then that they had the Midsummer Night's Dream, too, and tried to at least sometimes go out on the water. Never true blue-water sailing, but it was better than being land-bound all of the time. Remembered a storm they went through, both of them running like mad to handle the sixty-foot schooner, but also remembered that it had been far more exhilarating than frightening.

Remembered standing on the shoreline when bad storms rolled in, looking out to sea and wondering if Archie was able to handle the little schooner alone, and knew that it could not have been exhilarating for him then, wherever he was out there alone.

Few things worse in the world than standing on shore, wondering.

Harry remembered the days of July in every year since. Working on the Balclutha, shanghaied, working on the Balclutha again. Now here, working on a somewhat battered but very charming seaside cottage, spitting distance from a pair of married psychologists who swam and play-acted in falsetto at night.

He'd sent Archie this morning to go get him wood, nails and something to treat the siding of the cottage with. Archie, having already stated his intention to buy this place, and having extracted a promise from Harry to help him fix it up, was more than willing to take Seaton and the cart and go get what they needed.

In the meantime, Harry had tried to map out a course of action, but his thoughts were too hazed to do it. So he sat on the porch and let his mind wander and half-wished for distraction. He wasn't about to go ask his "neighbors" for it, though, despite holding a conversation with one of them the night before, which was pleasant enough after the initial posturing, but before she turned her somewhat too perceptive eye to him. It would be awhile before he wanted to put himself in that position again.

In as such, though, the distraction came seemingly out of the blue with the sound he now knew as a jetski. Actually, given the tones of it, more than one. And before long, two gleams of something catching the sun came around the rocks, between those and the breakwall, heading for shore.

Despite himself, and his wandering thoughts, Harry had to grin just a little at that. One, because he had decided to buy something that he wasn't even sure he understood; two, because he had enjoyed it regardless; and three, because he had managed to convince Archie to take a shot at getting on the thing once it was bought.

He got up and went inside, then brought back out one of the three bags of platinum that the Maritime had procured over the years. Two were still properly hidden and buried, but it had occurred to Harry that Matt would not think of the actual weight of that many equivalent gold coins, and therefore needed someone to take that into consideration. Which Harry willingly did.

He also brought out the pitcher of iced tea, glasses and a bowl of fruit, then headed down the steps to give them a hand.

"Dude! Oh, sorry. I mean, man! How's it goin?" Matt seemed to be just as excitable as ever, as he went and tied up the black and yellow jetski to the same tree, then help who could only be his father to get the other one secured.

"Harry. And it's fine," Harold replied, taking the second rope and tying the machine that would be his by the end of the day to a tree further down. "There's iced tea and fruit on the porch, if you're interested."

"I'm so totally on that." Matt came out of the water, his father holding onto his arm, and stayed long enough to steady his old man while waiting for Harry to come back. "This is my Dad. Dad, this is Harry. He's the guy who went and restored that ship!"

It was patently obvious that 'Dad' was not as chatty as his son, but he did seem very friendly. Somewhere in his fifties, salt-and pepper hair, a little overweight, and he looked like the ride had tired him out, but he was quick with a smile and offered his hand the moment Harry was back to take it. "My name's Jim; it's a pleasure. That ship of yours is amazing."

"Likewise." Harry shook his hand, then stepped back, shaking his head with a half-smile. "She's not mine, though; I just was the one who restored her."

"I can't even imagine the amount of work you had in her, though. Full-rigger! What kind of shape was she in when you started?"

Harry started for the steps, though he waited to make sure the other two had the idea to follow. "Rough. Her hull was mostly sound, but she only had stays supporting her masts; even most of the shrouds were gone, and so was all of the running rigging and a good number of her yards. Little more than bare poles."

"Mind telling me the process? I go to the Tall Ships Review, but most of those folks don't have the time to really talk much about it."

"Well, the first thing was jury-rigging some shrouds, else a good wind would've brought the masts down. Was half amazed it hadn't happened yet..."




It was only after a whole pitcher of iced tea, discussing the fair modern market value of platinum on Earth (which was far more than Harry expected, given the Rhy'Din gold standard), discussing ships, discussing horses, jetskis and everything else that Harry finally got a good look at the machine he just bought and signed the title for.

Cool was the single only word for it. Though, if he'd known 'brutal', 'wicked', 'awesome' or 'bitchin' those would have applied too.

It was fairly streamlined looking; metallic red, deep black, white hulled and a black seat on it. Very clean, and didn't seem to have much wear on it, just a little scuffing here or there. But the best part was the custom paint job -- black and white stylized dragons, all in sharp clean lines, simplified but distinctive ran from the nose, all the way down and back to just about halfway past the seat, where they ended in pointed lines. Lines of the red metallic ran along with them off the solid color of the nose. The effect was striking.

Matt had not failed to point out that the dragons on the jetski totally went with Harry's dragon on his forearm, and that that was the coolest thing ever. On top of the jetski were two matching life jackets and the lanyards, the original and a spare.

"You should give it a run," Matt said, looking at it fondly. "It's a wicked machine. Riding solo, when you got smooth water, it'll get all the way up to seventy miles an hour."

Harry was positive that there was no way in Hell he was going to try that speed anywhere, anytime soon. "It looks fast."

"It is! And we filled up the tank for you in Southport, so it's got, like just over three-quarters in the gas tank. You can get the marine oil there, too, and whenever it gets down to like, a quarter tank, you gotta take it to fill it back up from here. But that's bein' careful, and if you do run out, it's got a little reserve tank too that'll get you somewhere. I mean, all depends, but it's a rippin' awesome jetski. I can't wait to trick out my new ones like we did this one."

"That... would be a sight." Given how this one looked, Harry had a feeling that Matt's new machines would probably be at least as good. "I don't think I feel up to running it around right now, though."

"S'okay. You got the owner's manual, so you can read up and stuff, and maybe soon I'll come back and get to ride the horse." Matt beamed (the only word for it), then thought of something and opened up the nose-compartment, pulling out a pair of red-mirrored sunglasses and offering them over. He looked absurdly pleased with himself. "Even remembered these! Gotta have the look to go with the ride, y'know?"

Not quite something Harry would have considered wearing prior, but having been out on Matt's jetski before, he could see where they were more practical than not.

He took the sunglasses, shook his head and chuckled.



When Matt and his father left, it was definitely edging into evening, though long before sunset. And Harry was back on the porch, draped in his hammock, one leg hanging over, eyeing his new toy down there in the cove below. He wondered what the point of having the title to it was, given that Rhy'Din didn't really pay attention to such things, but it was still kind of nice that it was officially his on paper.

He never had many things he kept purely for fun. Many sentimental things, many practical things, many things that fell under the realm of 'hobbies'. But nothing that was just there for fun; just there to enjoy and not turn into a project. He supposed, though, that if he was going to try to do what Archie suggested they do (work on their lives, work on stability and have some fun since they rarely had when they were far younger) then this was as good a try as any.

He smirked to himself, put his new sunglasses on, crossed his arms and settled in for a nap.

July 15th, 2007 - Once Upon a Time, I.


He wanted his Browning.

It wasn't that he had stopped wanting it; it was his, and it was important to him, and it was his way out if he needed it. He supposed that if he were really determined, rope, a lightsaber or a good sharp knife would do, but it was deeply important to him that it was his Browning HP.

It was important because it was the successor to his old Browning automatic, which he carried that night in April, and it was important because it was the gun he fired back at the McGraths, and it was important because it had saved his life on countless occasions. It was important because he had never once fired it in anything but self-defense, even when he wanted to, until he'd used it on himself.

And it was important because it was the gun he didn't carry the night he really should have.

He sat at the kitchen table, where Archie had fallen asleep with a pillow; too tired to stay awake, but apparently not too tired to try to maintain the guard he'd kept.

"What do I say to you?"

Maybe if Harry told it like a story, he could. Maybe the newfound calmness and understanding Archie had found would be enough to keep it from killing them again, like it had last time.

"Once upon a time, there was a man who had a family and a home..."

He sat in the dark of the kitchen, stiff-backed and still in the chair. His mind tried to do several things at once; tried to run anywhere else, tried to stay and look, tried to shut down, tried to catch fire.

"Once upon a time, an evil vampiric creature named Sara attacked a brave but occasionally naive man named Archie on the docks. See, Archie and everyone else thought she was a friend until that point, because she was funny and lively, though perhaps a bit too outlandishly wild. She always wore pink..."

He stood and paced, running his hands through his hair, at least until the right side reminded him it was still a bit sore from where he had apparently tried to dig his own brain out with a plastic fork.

"Once upon a time, a man did something in his sleep that he couldn't remember doing, and he had no idea why. He couldn't understand why he would have tried to dig his brain out with a fork. It couldn't have been because there was something in his brain that he didn't want there anymore..."

He brought himself up short before he ran into the wall, realizing that he'd picked up his pace a little too much, and that if he wasn't careful, Archie would wake up, and maybe realize something was very wrong.

And Archie would ask him what.

"Once upon a time, nothing was wrong. Nothing. Nothing. Never anything wrong."

He knew, with everything he had, that if he asked for help like they said they needed to learn how to do, Archie would sit down and listen to it all, if Harry could have brought himself to tell it. He knew. Knew that no matter how much it hurt, Archie would listen to it, at least long enough to understand.

"Once upon a time, there were two friends. They fought together and bled together and laughed together... and even though things sometimes went bad, they would have died for one another.

"But they couldn't save each other. Even though that was what they wanted most."

He couldn't do this. He thought about tentatively trying to, and he told Archie he would try for a little while, but he was sure that little while was up now.

"This is not your fault. You need to understand that. It's not your fault. It's not your fault."

He wrote those words in that last goodbye. Needed them to be heard, and understood. It wasn't Archie's fault; it wasn't even Nance's fault. And when he boiled it all down, he was certain that it was no one's fault but his own.

"Once upon a time, a man was drowning. And..."

He couldn't. He couldn't think about it.

He went outside, as quietly as he could given how badly he was shaking by then, and went down the steps and almost to the water's edge. He hadn't been swimming just for fun since...

"Once upon a time, a man was drowning. And he was dying. And..."

He hadn't been swimming since... since...

When he was shipwrecked, he'd had to go into the water to fish, and he'd had to go into the water to bathe, but he never went swimming again after...

"Once upon a time, a man was drowning. And he was dying. See, an evil vampiric creature named Sara attacked a brave but naive man named Archie on the docks and was trying to kill him. But Archie was one of a pair of friends who would fight together and die for each other, and the other of the pair saw it and ran into Sara like a runaway train."

He stared at the almost glassy water of the cove. Somewhere to the east, his lighthouse flashed. Elena? That was her name. She liked to look at it; was impressed to know it had been him who had restored the Eastern Point Lighthouse.

His lighthouse flashed, but the rocks were too close to miss.

"He wanted to kill Sara for attacking his best friend. He didn't plan on stopping until she was dead or until he died trying. When he ran into her, they went over the side of the docks into the water."

The jetski was tied up still, calmly sitting in the water. The filter washed out. It felt like that was already years ago, not just this afternoon, or was it yesterday afternoon now? Archie said he wanted to go ride it tomorrow.

"They fought for a long time. It wasn't literally a long time, but neither of them could breathe, and neither of them would stop fighting long enough to get some air. He usually carried a gun, a Browning HP, but he hadn't had it with him that night. But he should have."

He wanted his Browning back. Even if he didn't use it, he just wanted it in his hand. It felt right there; safe and comfortable and familiar. Because if he had the gun, then nothing could get him.

"He fought and she fought, but even when the darkness went from being the darkness of the harbor at night to being the darkness of death, he still tried to take her with him. Except, when the water rushed in, he couldn't anymore and everything faded away."

He wanted to bolt. But there was no where to run; no safe place to hide from this, no one to save him from it.

"He didn't know what brought him back to life or how long he had been drowned. He wondered if that was how his brother had felt. He thought he saw an old, dead friend in the light. He heard his best friend calling frantically for him. His chest hurt, and it hurt to breathe, and it was hard to move, but he made himself try to get up."

He took a deep breath, then another, and another. Tried to force the thoughts out of his head. Tried to concentrate on anything else. Maybe Seaton wanted some company. No, Archie said Seaton had been pretty tired out from the long day. Both of them were. It was all right when Archie had come back and Harry could make himself useful and try to watch out for his best friend for once, instead of it being the backwards way it had been since he'd been dragged back to the world. So, he'd gotten the food out, had tried for some humor, and then settled in to listen while Archie talked.

"He didn't know what had brought him back to life, but as he was staggering away with his friend holding him up, something... someone... was being attacked on the beach. He was sick, and could barely stand, and he was frightened and cold and upset and confused. But he recognized..."

Harry didn't even know how he ended up in the sand. One moment he'd been standing, the next he was sitting there, like his legs had given out without him noticing it.

"I can't."

It was a good thing he'd put the majority of his dinner away. He was certain that if he'd eaten it, he'd be losing it to the local wildlife right now. That didn't mean he wasn't trying hard not to gag, though.

He put his forehead down into the sand, covered his head with his arms, and just tried to breathe. Tried to stop. Tried to...

"It wasn't me.

"It wasn't me.

"Once upon a time, it wasn't me."

Strike a Match - July 19th, 2007


He turned the matchbook over and over in his hands, watching it and thinking, debating on something far deeper than the carefully neutral expression on his face showed. He didn't particularly know why he kept himself so schooled and passive, there wasn't anyone here at the moment to see it if he let everything sit on the surface, but he did it anyway.

Harry looked up and out at the steady rain that was falling, from where he was just sitting on the porch and letting his mind wander. He had his good days, and slowly the good days were becoming more prevalent, but he still so often felt...

He wasn't sure what he felt. Lost was the closest word to it, but there were a million more to define that lost feeling.

It was cool, too, though the air was very wet. Not just from the rain, but humidity; it was heavy and damp and made him feel chilled, even with a long-sleeved shirt on.

That made him think a little about what was actually his in this world from his life before. He had not reclaimed anything aside a few of his clothes, his lightsaber and (though it was only a mental possession right now) his Browning HP. He had never given up claim on his lighthouse, hidden now by rain and mist, and he didn't really care what happened to the restaurant, but that was it. Everything else that he could claim was new.

He looked back down at the matchbook.

He remembered, back in the very first weeks of the Maritime's existence, that he'd had a rough go of it. And, rather miserable, he had walked out of the tavern and intended to go back to his law practice. Sure, the office was old and haunted and filled with a joy that made the overwhelming sorrow sharper, but he needed to run. And Sirin had told him that was what he was doing.

Archie had pleaded with him not to leave like that, and ultimately, it was Archie that made the difference then.

And in the evening, following some dictate in his heart that defied words, he struck a match and burned his old office to the ground.

If you have no where to run, then you've no choice but to stand and fight.

There were so many ways people could run away from the things that scared them, or hurt them, or threatened to break them. Sometimes literally, sometimes mentally, they found any reason they could to get away before facing it and dealing with it. Harry was no different. He had wanted to run and was going to.

He remembered standing in his dark law office with the matchbook in hand, and remembered reflecting quite a bit, and then he lit the match and walked out as the flames started catching bright and hot onto the curtains.

"How many times have I come back for you?" he thought, so many years later, looking at the matches. Maybe when Archie came home, he would have to ask.

He wasn't sure this was one of those times. But he knew he was here because Archie wanted him here. Not because he had wanted to be here, and though on occasion he at least was starting to, his main reason for sticking around was because his best friend asked it of him.

For a little while.

"Then don't go where I can't."

It wasn't that long ago, and it was a different life, too. His life. The one he left behind. He had been so hurt then, and knew with awful certainty that the dark place he was in would never let him go. It was funny, though, that for all that had changed so much in such short order, he had no trouble hearing Archie say that now.

"Then tell me how to find my way back," he had replied, then. Reaching out to take the hand offered, the one he knew was his last chance.

He didn't know if the answer would be the same now. He thought about how he would reply to it. That dark place had not gone away, and he was still running from it, in every single way that a man could run. He didn't know if he ever could turn around and face it. Even the thought of trying to made him tense up and get ready to bolt.

He knew that he wouldn't strike a match to the Maritime; it wasn't his to burn. But he thought about it. Thought about turning it to ash, so that he couldn't go running back there for refuge.

If you have no where to run, then you've no choice but to stand and fight.

Weathered - July 23rd, 2007


Harry worked steadily on treating the wood siding on the cottage; it was turning out fairly handsome, and the stuff that Archie had bought was not only durable, it was actually an all natural treatment. In the end, that left the wood he'd gone over a bit more shiny, but otherwise not stained or damaged in any way.

He wasn't really thinking so much about the work he was doing, though, so much as he was the conversation last night.

He wasn't sure, exactly, how it had come to that. To him actually assessing what had made him happy in his life; what had brought him joy. When he'd laid it out on the table, the list was worryingly short.

So, he went over it again in his mind.

It wasn't so much that he hadn't had a lot of joyful moments, when he actually could keep his mind on one track long enough to think about it. More that the moments themselves were something else, and the memory of them was the joyful part. When he'd been on deck with his coffee, a second mate, he'd been a bit sleepy and dreamy, but content. It was the memory of that which gave him joy, even though the moment itself was something else.

Realizing that was half comforting, half unsettling. Comforting because even though he'd rarely felt joy in single moments (though there were those on occasion), he really did have enough of it in his life when he felt happy with the memories of a good many moments.

Contentment had been his biggest joy. He was most content overall when he was certain of things; either his work schedule, or how things were going in the Maritime, or how things were going in his very private life. He was content for periods, and was content in moments. It was somehow very sad that one of his most contented, and peaceful, and happy moments was so short a time before everything fell apart.

That was where it was unsettling. How could anything that had been so good, go so badly?

How could he be that happy, and then fall so far into despair that heartbreak was all he ever felt?

He took a breath, let it out, then set down his paintbrush to go and get himself some water and lunch. It wasn't easy to remind himself that he had to actually eat more than once a day (if that) and he sometimes still had very bad days where Archie had to practically nag him to death. Which usually resulted in him doing what he was supposed to, despite having no appetite whatsoever, just to stop the good-hearted but sometimes irritating pestering.

But mostly he'd done all right with adjusting his habits, considering. Part of it was not really having much actual responsibility on him; he was working on the cottage, but he wasn't trying to run a tavern, restore a ship or something else he felt he had to save, protect and bolster everyone and otherwise be the rock of Gibraltar.

He didn't know, though, if he liked that feeling. Of not being responsible for everything else.

Harry shook his head, but he still sat there and peaceably ate lunch and looked out to sea, maybe still hoping that it had his answers. Archie was at 'work'; temporary job, but no doubt made him feel better, and probably wouldn't be home until late again. It sort of surprised Harry, though, that he kind of missed the company. A few weeks ago, he could barely stand to be around anyone, even Archie; he supposed it was probably not all a bad thing to be at least comfortable enough to miss the company a little.

It was strange, and sometimes unnerving, being cared about. Not that he thought for a moment that Archie hadn't cared before, but it was strange and sometimes unnerving that it actually found voice. Before, they'd talked a lot, but usually it was him standing behind Kennedy, waiting to catch him before he fell. Now, it was the other way around. It was a role he wasn't used to being in, but in some quiet way it felt all right, too.

That got him to thinking a little more about what he actually wanted, as he took his plate back in, washed it and put it away. He'd said the night before, truthfully, that it was hard to even want anything. But he'd at least come up with one answer then, and it was a good answer.

It was also the first time he genuinely realized that he was never going to be who he was before, that neither of them would be, but that it might be possible to be something else. He wasn't anywhere near ready to say it was probable, nor was he anywhere near ready to throw himself whole-heartedly into finding out what that was -- he knew perfectly well that his heart was still very broken, and his spirit was still very badly beaten and that he was going to fall again and probably a good many times before he managed to figure things out.

But in this moment, going back out to work some more, then maybe reading once he was finished with the siding, there was such a thing as possibilities again.

And he wondered, somewhere in his mind, if this would be one of those moments he looked back on with joy.

Over the Sound of Distant Thunder - July 28th, 2007


"I'm not ready for this!" he railed in his mind. Railed against the unfairness of it. Railed against the frustration of it. Against everything.

The battered but readable copies of the Dockside News Report sat on the kitchen table, and Harry stood with his back to the wall. He'd found them laying on the roadside while he was out exercising Seaton, and had brought them home just for the sake of curiosity. After the auction business, he had no real urge to go back near the city, but seeing a paper devoted to happenings on the docks he'd spent so many years on had piqued his interest a little.

He figured that they would just be an interesting read, with no bearing whatsoever on this tentative life he'd managed to find, and that was it.

"I don't want..." he had to pause there, to try define what it was he didn't want. It wasn't easy.

"I don't want to go back."

That was an easy one. He didn't want to go back to the city, back to anything resembling the misery that his former life had become. He didn't want to go back to the Maritime, and didn't want to see any of the people that had been a part of that life. He just didn't feel ready to deal with them.

Except, he knew that he had to do something. Because the incidental papers on his kitchen table talking about a murderer weren't a mystery to him. He knew who the killer was.

"Oh, no..."

He'd known instantly, and it had felt like someone stuck a knife in his gut and twisted it. Because even in all the years he had been in Rhy'Din, there was only one blue critter with large ears, transparent teeth and glowing eyes, haunting an abandoned building. Nevermind the spyglass.

Renne was out murdering animals. People.

Murdering.

Harry didn't know what to do. But he had to do something. And with anxiety strongly at war with the altruism, with fear building a home right in that space under his heart, he dashed off a quick note for Archie, then went downstairs, saddled Seaton, and hoped the answers would come to him before he got to where he knew he had to go.

And somewhere under all of that was sorrow, and bitterness, and some anger. He wanted to find his way, he wanted to find hope again, he wanted to try and build something new instead of clinging to the fragments of the old.

He wasn't ready for this.

And he was bitter that once again, he had no choice.

Lighthouse in the Fog - July 30th, 2007


The letter had been rambling, and a bit desperate sounding, and his handwriting had taken a turn for the worse since he was almost too tired to even see straight, but it was put in the post nonetheless.

It was all he had. He hoped it would be enough; he wasn't going to break himself, though, if it wasn't.

Dear Kitty;

I know that I'm probably the last person that you expected to hear from, given that everyone thought I was dead until just recently, but I need your help. Renne is the one who has been committing the Dockside killings; five, perhaps six victims, with eye witnesses, plus a slew of dogs, rats and seagulls. I spoke to Ewan Corinsson, and he said that Renne would be safe at Port South holding house until he could be brought to trial. I couldn't let him continue killing people, but he's sick in the head, I think, and I want him to be safe. Ewan promised me that he would be safe and cared for in Port South, and he's a good man -- I believe him.

I don't have the resources to find mental health help for him, but you might. He needs help, but it's beyond my powers to do so. I know that you're very tough on crime, but I don't think that he knew what he was doing at the time. Please, Kitty. You're the only one I know who has the pull to get him any kind of help, and to ensure he has a fair hearing -- I know perfectly well that letting him out on the street might result in more killing, but maybe with some help, he can pay those families he took people from back in some productive way and then be all right and free again.

A woman named Sev suggested a psychiatrist by the name of Sroid. I'm skeptical, but figure that you'd know better than I do. In the meantime, this is all I've got to give -- I'm tapped out, and have done my best. The rest, now, is in the hands of justice.

Please, please see that it's done right.

In your debt,
Harold Lowe

Once it was dropped in the post, he took Seaton and rode north. He could barely keep himself upright in the saddle; used to riders who fell asleep on him, Seaton kept on a straight path and stepped carefully, even when the reins went slack and Harry could barely find the strength to guide the horse the right way.

He hitched a breath.

He didn't know if there had ever been a time when he was more wrung out than this, but it didn't matter if there was or wasn't. He was well past the powers of his endurance. Not even all physically, but mentally. Emotionally. He couldn't find it in him to steady himself right now, though he'd been having to do that all day. Just brushed the back of his hand across his eyes, shakily.

He hurt from the inside out. Sore inside, sore outside.

It wasn't all bad. He got to see Sarah; got to hold her, got to kiss her cheek, finally got to tell her (which he hadn't been open enough to do before the Ides) how much her friendship had meant to him. He got to see his... got to see Everett, got to be accosted for treats by the big Clydesdale.

Sev, Lydia, even Dark... all kind. The drow he'd talked to, as well. The man who'd just gotten him dinner and tea, manning the bar in the Red Dragon.

That all meant something. And that all gave him enough strength to ride, and find somewhere safe, and rest. He wasn't going to be able to ride home tonight, though that's where he longed to be more than anything. But he could get to the closest thing he still had.

He was hurting, but he knew at least that he wasn't broken. And it occurred to him, as he rode, that he wasn't wishing for his Browning as an escape.

The city lights faded; left him in the dark and the thickening trees, and he kept having to jerk himself back upright in the saddle. Seaton must have been confused or concerned; the horse turned his head, and the highlight of his eye caught the ambient light as he looked as well as he could at his rider.

"I'm all right," Harry said, but he wasn't sure if it was to Seaton, or his owner, or himself. "I'm all right," he repeated, again, just for good measure.

Seaton blew a breath out through his nose, then went on walking. Everett would have known where they were going even if Harry was asleep in the saddle, but it was all right. Sarah needed Everett right now, and Seaton was a good horse.

Lizard jerky, and Ev, and Sarah; Lydia, and Dark, and Sev with a sprained ankle, and the drow who had come from the Underdark, who he had told that he was very tired now, or he would go and help that drow male end the tyranny chasing him, like he had once before for Tos, and maybe even for Vicfryn.

And tea, and a letter to Kitty, and seeing Victor last night... who put an arm across his shoulders, even as he railed gruffly that Harry wasn't dead. Ewan, patient and steady, telling him how to go forward.

"I'm all right," he said, or thought, he didn't even know which.

The Eastern Point Lighthouse came into view. And even though Harry felt like he would fall if he tipped his head back that far to look, he did so anyway.

He'd forgotten how beautiful it was.

The light shone through the night in it's seven and a half second rotation; guiding ships, protecting them from the rocks, bringing them home.

Bringing him home.

He slid down off of Seaton's back, whispered for the horse to stay close, knowing that he would. And as he went to get the key, and fumbled to unlock the door, he felt a heaviness settle on him that wasn't weariness or sorrow or loss.

It was peace.

Dear Sarah
August 1st - August 3rd, 2007

August 4th, 2007 - Echo


It was well after the sun was up before Harold could actually relax. And he had come to the dazed conclusion that anytime he was in the city, he would somehow end up losing sleep; if not to one thing, to another.

He didn't blame Sarah for that -- she already felt terrible enough, in so many ways, and she didn't deserve any of it. Even if she had gone back to her mercenary ways, even if she had committed crimes in other lands, this wasn't the way to pay penance for them. There had to be some better way; he believed that for Renne and for her.

She was still asleep. He figured he would be forgiven; in the end, he had to cut the rest of her clothes off to clean her up. But they were destroyed anyway, though he ended up still putting them in a bag for her in case she wanted them back. She was sleeping in Lil's old room, cleaned up, her arm bound from shoulder to wrist; she had about fifteen surgical staples in it, all told, and that was just using them on the worst parts of the wounds -- the rest, he had used some surgical type glue, matching edges, working meticulously, until it was all finished.

Unless she somehow healed better than a human would, she would have the scars for the rest of her life. He didn't even want to try to think of the nerve damage that could result, or the complications -- he'd been obsessively sterile during the whole thing, but that many wounds...

He and Cinder had talked for part of it, before the elf had to slip off to bed. It was good to see his friend again; he wished that it could have been at a cookout and not like this, but it was still good to see him. Still, he was worried -- Cinder had seemed like he'd had a bad time of it, as well, and Harry wasn't sure what to do.

He bowed his head under the water beating down on it, holding onto the pipe to the shower head with both hands, and closed his eyes.

He wanted to gather them all up, like he once did, here in the Maritime. Not because he wanted to be here in the Maritime, but because at least if they were all together, he could protect them. He could keep Sarah from hurting herself; he could be a good ear for Cinder, he could try to save Renne's mind, he could...

He could...

He was still good in a crisis, he could still fight, he'd found both of those things in the past week even though he hadn't intended to. But all of it took more out of him; he just didn't have the endurance he used to have. He kept pushing himself to the ragged ends, and kept hoping that if he maintained a grip, then it was all right to be at the end of his rope.

He didn't know where the line was. How he could take care of himself and still try to do everything else. He had to come back to get Renne -- to get the imp somewhere for help and safety for all, but it made him miserable inside from start to finish to do it. He had to come back to help Sarah -- to stop her from hurting herself, to tell her that they could find some better way than this. He had to help Cinder -- help him cope or deal with whatever it was that had that mournful aire all around him.

But how do you take care of everyone else, when you still weren't sure how to take care of yourself? Where was the line?

He stood under the shower head until the water had actually run cold. It wasn't that he meant to, but part of it was him dazing off and freezing still, and part of it was tired tracks of questions he didn't have answers to, and he was shaking worse than ever by the time he got out and got dressed. His own clothes were ruined; he had to go and get more from the third floor, packed in dusty boxes. That did little to help his mindset.

At least he was shaking alone and no one would see...

"No."

This Goddamned place had seen too much of that. Too much of people suffering in silence, not sure how to ask for help or support or even just a friendly ear.

This Goddamned place had sometimes even been the cause of it, though he wasn't sure if it was now, or if he was, or what was.

"No," he repeated again in his mind. He wasn't going to just bury his troubles. If he did that, he would never be able to survive any of this, not now, and not anywhere in the future. He needed help. He couldn't do this alone.

Kitty had offered him help. And he knew she would; she'd done immeasurable good for him the night before, either petting at his hair or letting him pet at hers. The contact, the affection, had made him feel mellow and even though he had still been worried about Sarah, he was able to just enjoy some time with Kitty. No strings attached, no pretending it was something else, just a good period of time where there was no heartache and only some much needed mutual affection. If it came to it, he would ask her. Ask anyone who was willing.

Which was why he got some paper and a pen out of the drawer in the bar downstairs, and wrote a brief letter.

Dear Archie,

I'm in over my head. I need your help. I'm at the Maritime, with Sarah and Cinder.

Please come.

-Harold

Archie would probably get the letter by evening; when the postman came in the bright morning light, Harry gave him some extra money and directions to deliver it directly to the cottage.

Feeling briefly just a little better knowing that he would, hopefully, have someone standing behind him soon that would catch him or hold him up, he went back upstairs. Sarah was still sleeping, under a clean white sheet and an old comforter that was a little worn but comfortable, and once he was sure she was breathing and all right, he kissed her on the forehead and left a note and a bottle of Cinder's deer blood on the nightstand.

Dear Sarah,

Don't use that arm; try not to move it any more then necessary, and only very carefully. I have to go lay down and get some sleep, but if you need anything, I'm just down the hall. If I have to go out, I'll be back soon -- I need you to make a promise to me, even if I'm not right here, to not do anything except rest and recover until I'm back.

We'll get through this. Somehow. That I promise you.

Love,
Harold

He didn't go back to his old room. It was empty, there was nothing there, not even bedding left on the bed.

Archie's room wasn't so much different than how it had been before -- some things were missing, like the pictures, and some of the books. Clothes, too, though there were still some of those hanging in the closet. It was surreal to be in there again; he'd spent quite a bit of time there in his life, either talking or in comfortable silence, either or. Not in many months, though.

The echo of that hurt. The echoes of all of it hurt.

And all of the accumulated sorrow and fear and desperation and loss and empathy for his friends, and overwrought nerves and everything in the world was far more than enough to crack his composure.

He curled up, pulled a pillow over his head, and sobbed until exhaustion pushed him past it all.

August 6th, 2007 - Senseless


F--k this.

F--k these people.

Harry was still a seething little bundle of rage as he galloped Everett onto the streets and planks of the docks; even the ride had not taken the edge off of his anger. He probably would have had to ride a good many more miles before his temper calmed down and he didn't feel like snarling.

F--k these people.

It was no wonder why he left the city. It was one big black hole of despair and drama, in equal amounts. Polite smiles and internal misery; drunken girls and self-deprecation; good people who said or did nothing to act until it was already too Goddamned late to. He couldn't say too much about internal misery -- he was an expert at that, and at never wanting to burden people, and at trying to bear up under too much alone. But that didn't mean he wanted to see other people go down the same path.

To Hell with this city. These people were f-cking addicted to their own drama and misery. They had no other way they even knew how to live, so they just kept on with the cycles until they burned out in some tragedy, and then those left behind had the nerve to say, "What could I have done?"

"Try getting up and getting in the way, instead of sitting with your thumbs up your collective asses," he thought, an internal snarl of rage, though he just narrowed black eyes at the sea.

To be fair, he was probably looking at it through the filter of his own experience. And some of that was bitterness that he'd never really allowed himself to feel, even since then -- bitterness at himself for not asking for help; bitterness at those who knew he needed it and didn't give it. It was an old bitterness, too, and he'd been on both sides of it; why he didn't get in Kit's way before she pulled the trigger on herself. And bitterness at her for not asking him to.

There was no reconciliation to those two kinds of frustrated anger. Only moving past it -- forgiving himself for being too proud or scared to ask, forgiving them for being too proud or scared to step in and give it anyway. And he was, though it wasn't easy -- forgiving others had always been easier than forgiving himself.

He cantered Everett up and down Eastern Drive, pacing in a way, but on horseback. Trying to calm down. Trying to think.

Where was the line?

He had never been one to just step back and let something go wrong. Never. He didn't gain the majority of his scars being reckless, he gained them trying to protect someone else. Almost every last one of them, he wore for someone else, either loved or a stranger. Not because he was a hero, not because he wanted glory, but because it was the right thing to do.

And trying to do the right thing, even misguided, was a part of him too buried in the core. But if he didn't learn to walk away from lost causes, he'd throw himself against the wall until he broke again.

Slowly calming down, he finally turned Everett back towards the Maritime. At least there was a girl there who he could help, and who would let him.

If Lydia wanted to trod the same paths he did, fine. If Erin wanted to live her life buried in a bottle, fine. If their friends didn't want to step up and intervene, fine.

They could all live or die with the f-cking consequences.

Aside from what friends he had (or still had left) in this city, it could burn for all he cared.

But somewhere in the back of his mind, he sincerely hoped that anger and bitterness would go away before it jaded him for good.

August 8th, 2007 - Cinder


It was still raining by the time Harold got back with the last bag of platinum that the Maritime had acquired over the years, and deposited outside the door of the room Cinder had been sleeping in. He certainly wasn't worried about the money -- God knew, they still had plenty of gold and silver stashed all over kingdom and creation, and he saw absolutely no reason why the people who had made the Maritime shouldn't use what it had gained over its years.

It was pleasantly cool out, though, and he didn't fail to note that with a little bit of a grin. But he just put on a pot of tea, then went back upstairs to take a shower and get clean, dry clothes on.

By the time he got back, the tea was ready and he just sat at the bar and let his mind roam a little.

It had struck him the night before, while talking to Cinder, that they were all searching for something still. He knew what he was looking for -- he was trying to figure out who the Hell he was now. Sarah was looking for redemption. Cinder...

Harry tilted his head, looking off past the wall, into some place he stared at often but never defined.

Cinder, he supposed, was looking for home. Wherever that home was.

At least in that much, Harold considered himself lucky. He had come to the conclusion that as a place in general, home was Rhy'Din; specifically, home was wherever he and Archie ended up, depending on where the road took them. For some reason, the idea of playing tutor alongside his teacher friend sort of felt right to him -- maybe, somewhere down south, they'd be able to spend a comfortable winter working towards some kind of normal, steady existence.

He didn't know when he would go back to sea, but maybe someday he would feel ready to command men again.

That made him think of Maia a little, and the Al Na'ir. He was glad she'd been given the brigantine to command -- though he'd known her only so very briefly, the way she walked and moved and spoke couldn't be faked. She was salt and tar and rope, through and through.

So was he, but it would be awhile before he truly found that part of himself again.

He took another long sip of tea and kept letting his mind go wherever it pleased. He thought of the little dragon and anchor statue Johnny gave him; he wanted to put it up beside the compass Archie had. Both of them good reminders that despite his deep frustrations with Rhy'Din, he still wanted to keep connected to at least some people in the city, even if he wasn't ready to live there again and maybe never would be.

The Maritime was quiet. Sometimes, he had liked the quiet; sometimes, it had made him miserable. Sometimes he had missed the summer days of ages past, with his first crew of lost souls. Sometimes he missed the days of winter since, with Lily and the lot of them together for holidays.

He tapped on the bartop he had made, and looked around the building he had rebuilt, and smiled a little smile to himself. Once, a lifetime ago, he had lived to keep this place intact and ready.

He was glad he didn't anymore.

But briefly it was like getting in touch with an old friend. A friend loved and resented, sometimes in equal portions. No real sorrow there, just a sort of mental tip of the hat, across some divide that couldn't really be crossed anymore.

Stories had to end.

This one had. He just wanted the people who had once called this place home to find a good path to follow -- himself, Archie, Sarah, Cinder.

Maybe someday someone else's would start here, in this place. Someone he knew, or a stranger, who would come in and see the age and see the ideal. The tavern of lost souls. One stable, safe place for people to gather and become friends, then family.

Then the story would start again, and maybe it would have a happy ending next time.

He didn't really plan on being around to see it; he had his own happy ending to aim for, somewhere down the distant road.

August 9th, 2007 - Traveled Roads, I.


The first step had already been taken, but the journey in itself was still in its earliest moments, those critical periods where you sometimes had to drive yourself to keep going, so you wouldn't go and turn back to old familiarity.

The rain was fairly steady and so was the thunder, but Harold wasn't going to put off moving any longer. So he and Archie got the carts loaded, carefully, Everett pulling one, Seaton pulling another, Owen tied up to walk behind. Inside of them were things for Sarah's (and maybe Cinder's) cottage, and things for their own, and by evening most everything would be set. It would probably take a few days to arrange everything, but with any luck, then they could spend the rest of summer and early fall somewhere peaceful, before heading out again.

Harry didn't look back when they left the Maritime and got on Eastern Drive, heading south. He had left two notes: One for Sarah, with directions, and one for Cinder with the same. He figured that Sarah, for certain, would be joining them -- he hoped Cinder would as well.

The rain kept falling, pooling on the road as it went from stones to well-worn dirt, packed over so many years of travel to practically be like concrete.

He didn't exactly know how he felt, except determined. There were a lot of things on his internal list that he had to address, though he wasn't going to push himself to accomplish all of it at once. He figured that he would just keep on walking, and eventually, the miles and hours would get easier.

He didn't look back at the Maritime or the city, and didn't feel any pangs of regret at leaving it. All the people he wanted to really keep in contact with had his address, and while someday he might wander back to reconnect with others or make new friends, now was not that time. Now was the time for he and Archie to get their plans together for fall, and to get Sarah to a stable place where she could rebuild her herd and her life and her hope, and maybe to get Cinder to rest and find his own path.

He didn't look back; home was ahead of him, not behind.

---

Dear Sarah,

We're going to go get your new vacation home set up for you. I know it's not ideal, but until we can build a little barn and corral, you can put your new stallion underneath the cottage between the stilts. There's a wooden deck there, and we'll lay down some straw for him. Maybe we can convert it into a proper place for him to sleep over the next week or so.

The directions there are on the back of this page. If you come in early enough, I'll make you dinner; if you come in later, I'll leave you some dinner in the oven. Take care, and hopefully we'll see you soon.

Love,
Harold

---

It took well into the afternoon and through to the early evening before they had Sarah's cottage livable. Working hard, Archie and Harry managed to get the place cleaned up, though it wasn't more than dusty, then unpack the new dishware, the new cooking implements, stock her fridge, and put brand new bedding with a comforter in the master bedroom.

Then they managed a few personal touches; Harry grinned and showed Archie the little 'Home Sweet Home' rug for under the front door -- it was sort of silly, because in smaller letters under the 'Home Sweet Home' part was 'Wipe your feet or die!' He had figured that Sarah would get a kick out of it. Archie snickered about that, then showed Harry what he had bought for the demoness as a housewarming gift -- in this case, a baseball bat with 'If you're able to read this, it's too late to duck' woodburned into it in small letters.

Aside the joking house-warming gifts, though, each of them had picked out a couple of things that were more sentimental. Archie hung some light wind chimes off of the porch, silver horses dancing around the chimes themselves. It wasn't extravagant, and the chimes were very soft-sounding, but he thought it apt.

Harry put a framed picture up for her in the open kitchen area, his contribution to her new home. It was just a simple picture; Sarah, Lil, Harry, Ranyor and Renne, hanging around the bar room.

They both had some things for Cinder as well, but they wanted to make certain that he was going to come and stay. They made up the second bedroom just in case; cleaned it up, put new bedding on the bed and otherwise got it squared away. If he showed up, they'd put his housewarming gifts up; if he didn't, then they could always mail them to him.

---

Dear Cinder of Plygrethia,

I hope that you join us; it's a beautiful place for a rest, and the cottage we rented for Sarah has plenty of room for you as well. I know that it's likely not the home you intended to have, but it's a good place for you to find the way to where you want or need to be. Plus, I think that it wouldn't hurt either of you to have some company -- you can teach Sarah how to fish, and she can teach you how to train horses.

I left directions on the back of this. If you don't wish to join us, I understand... let me know, either way. And any which way your path goes, go safely and go knowing that you have friends who care.

Affectionately,
Harold of Barmouth

---

Once everything was as finished as it could be, Archie and Harry went down and set up the decking under the cottage on stilts so that Sarah's horse would have a place to sleep. They laid down hay, and even managed to set up a temporary wind-block using the tarps, so that the rain wouldn't blow in on the stallion.

By the time they finished everything, including leaving some dinner to keep warm in the oven, it was getting on towards nightfall and both of them were soaked and rather tired.

"First in the shower," Archie said, with a grin, somehow managing to find some energy in his limbs to jog across the sand back towards their own place.

Harry blinked once in the rain, then growled good-naturedly, "Like Hell you are!"

They were laughing the whole way home.

August 12th, 2007 - Traveled Roads, III.


It was an old habit, and probably a bad one, but he reclaimed it anyway. Though, only in moderation, and only so often and not all the time, not like he had in his earlier days before everything in his life felt like it dissolved in front of him.

It wasn't even his coffee; he missed that sometimes, but not nearly as badly as he expected to. He planned on picking that habit up again someday, for certain, but again in moderation.

This time, it was wandering.

So, twice now, he roamed in the wee hours of morning. The first time he did it was only for an hour or so, and he came across a tavern in the forests; a place with a girl in thick glasses who gave him a business card, and vampires galore, and a pregnant women who looked at him like he'd grown a third eye when he helped her off the floor.

The second night he found a place called the Storm Beacon Inn. He'd been soul-searching; spending his days more on the quiet side, coordinating somewhat the efforts to build Sarah's mini-ranch, and spending his evenings cooking or helping Archie cook, and then sometimes in the night, sneaking out to roam.

It was on the second night, interacting with a dragon, a raccoon, a girl and a ten-year-old boy who insisted the older girl was his sweetheart, he realized something sort of wonderful.

He missed strangers.

He missed the wide-open realm he'd slowly come to love.

He missed seeing people only once and knowing he likely would never cross their paths again -- not because he didn't like them or anything, but because those brief encounters had made up so much of his life that they felt good. Sometimes they weren't great encounters... but then again, sometimes on nights like that, they were pleasant and positive and he was glad for them.

No being dragged into drama; no being obligated to get involved by virtue of friendship. He still helped out when there was a pileup in the first tavern, but then he left them to sort out their arguments and whatnot, and finished his tea and went back home.

It was good to know that the realm, even smaller, was still more than just the Red Dragon Inn and those people who lived practically in each others' skins. Good to know there were still vampires and raccoons and everything else, and that there were people in the realm not related in some way to the Ravenlocks or some of the other more well-known families in the city.

He missed that. Missed strangers. Missed seeing more than just the Red Dragon and the surrounding areas.

Missed the people, missed the one-time meetings.

Missed Rhy'Din.

It was good to know that it was still out there, and that he could find it again.

Ancient History - August 2007


To: H. G. Lowe, Esq.

As pursuant of Rhy'Din Codified Ordinance, sec. 0111265.54 (all those holding license to practice law in the realm of Rhy'Din are required to become officers of said court in the time of need, as well as fulfill all duties of court-appointed attorney for those who meet the requirements), you are hereby required to represent the People in the People vs. Horaetio Renne Arc'err.

Failure to do so will result in revocation of your law license and a bench warrant will be sworn out for your arrest. The defendant's arraignment is to be set in the near future, so as to give you time to familiarize yourself with the case beforehand and recommend whether the defendant should be given bail or held on remand.

You are hereby required to report to this court within a period of five days, wherein you will be given all public records relating to this case so as to build the case on behalf of the People.

Signed,
Judge Bill Wright
Rhy'Din Municipal Courts


--


Despite the rain and overall dreary weather (not a little reminiscent of London), Archie went out to get the post. He was hoping for a letter back from the schoolmaster of a town about five days walk to the south on a teaching position -- it was coming time for him to resume those duties and he was looking forward to it.

He also planned on picking up Harry's mail for him; after the encounter with Owen's hoof (as far as they could piece it out), he didn't particularly want his friend on horseback, or for that matter, even on his feet all that much until he felt better.

Things had been going smoothly enough despite that. Archie had finished up helping Brian renovate the other cottage, and he'd even thrown his hand in on finishing up Sarah's mini-ranch, though he hadn't come across her or Cinder. It just seemed like everyone was missing each other.

The letter from the schoolmaster had come, and Archie ducked into the little church at Hennings Beach to open it, grinning. He didn't want to wait the whole ride home to find out word on whether or not he had a position.

His grin got wider still when he found out that he did. Moreso, though, that Harry was welcome to tutor, given all of his knowledge in far too many fields of study. School started in a week and a half; Archie was sure that they could get there, find a place to live and get settled in some before they had to go to work.

Harry had some mail, too; one from the city that looked oddly official, and the other from Sev -- Archie had only heard about her, but Harry was a fairly decent judge of character, and said she was sensible and very likable. Rhy'Din could certainly do with more of those kinds of people.

He shook his bangs out, in a hopeless attempt to get rid of some of the water, then hopped back in the saddle and headed for home.

It was nice to be the bearer of good news for once.

--

His head hurt, and he felt generally awful, but it could have been a lot worse. For one, Owen could have easily killed him. For two, if not kill, the peg could have easily turned him into a vegetable. And while the very glancing blow of a hoof had certainly been made far worse by an old head injury, the fact he still had his wits, had not started having serious seizures and was still able to function made it tolerable, if not uncomfortable.

As such, Harry spent a lot of time over the past few days laying down, either on the couch or in his hammock or in bed, and was more than willing for once to do so.

He was laying on the couch inside when he heard Archie come home, recognizing the cadence of the footsteps up the stairs outside and onto the porch, then through the door. "Any news?

"Of the best sort, Mister Lowe!" Archie was all smiles, and held up a piece of paper, presumably the letter from the schoolmaster he'd been waiting to hear from. "We're due in a week and a half to start work."

"We?" Despite himself, though, and his headache, Harry smiled back a bit. He'd long since concluded that Archie's moods tended to be kind of infectious; sometimes like a nasty rash, but in times like this, in the best possible way. "I didn't know I was to be conscripted as teacher."

"Tutor, actually. And you had expressed an interest." Archie set the mail of the coffee table, still beaming some, then headed into the kitchen. "Tea?"

"Please," Harry replied, not picking himself up to take the letter or his mail off the table just yet. "It'll do us good, though. Now if only the weather would turn nice again..."

Archie was quiet for a moment, presumably in the midst of putting the water on, but it wasn't long before he spoke up. "I don't mind it too much. It reminds me of England. Though, I think I'd like fall to be fine and clear."

"And colorful," Harry added, quietly, to himself.

"What kind of tea did you want?"

"Uhm... you pick. Don't make me think."

Archie chuckled from the kitchen, then came back to look over the top of the couch. "Hopefully your thinking capacity will make its return before we have to go."

"Doubtless it will."

"Still queasy?"

"Not nearly so bad as I was." Harry finally pushed himself up to sit, wincing a little just from general discomfort, and picked up his mail. He nodded to himself at seeing the one from Sev, then opened it up and read it over. "Well, now I know where Owen ended up..."

Archie leaned on the back of the couch with his elbows. "Where's that?"

"With Sev's herd apparently. There's one mystery solved; I'll have to write her back and thank her for taking care of him." But for now, he set it aside and picked up the second one.

It didn't take long to read that one, either, but he made sure to read it about three or four times just to make perfectly sure that it wasn't caused by a peg-induced-head injury.

"What is it?" Archie asked, raising an eyebrow.

Harry shook his head, very lightly, then closed his eyes with a deep sigh and sank back against the couch cushions, unwittingly forcing Archie to move down a half-foot. Without opening his eyes, he offered the letter back to his best friend.

It didn't take long for Archie to come to his own conclusions, given what he said next. "This is madness! Can they seriously expect you to do this? Isn't there some sort of... of..."

"...conflict of interest? There is, but I doubt arguing it will do any good. Though I plan on trying to."

"I would hope that they would listen! First, because of that conflict of interest, and second, because you've done more than your duty to that city, Harold -- they've no right to ask any more of you, especially now."

Given the more-clipped-than-ever tones Archie was using, the 'bulldog' was less than happy. Not that Harry could begin to blame him; he wasn't thrilled about it himself in any way, shape or form. "I didn't even know a copy of my bar certificate and file still existed; I thought everything had gone up in smoke with my office."

"How long has it been? That's another thing -- you haven't practiced law in..."

"Eight years? Give or take?" Harry laid back down after a moment, rubbing his eyes one-handed. "I doubt that will matter to them."

"They can't just make you do this." Archie tossed the letter to land on the coffee table, then went into the kitchen, his footfalls ringing a bit sharp.

"Actually, they can." Harold pulled the pillow back under his head, and rested his arm carefully over his eyes. "Rhy'Din law... most law, in fact... is based on the Magna Carta, but Rhy'Din's law system is rather frontier. Because there aren't a great deal of the higher-educated professions, like doctors and lawyers and whatnot, they wrote the books so that the courts and government could take advantage of every single resource they had. If they didn't, then there'd be no legal representation or whatnot. I just didn't know they were still using the laws that I'd learned when I was practicing."

Archie brought back the cups of tea; given the smell, lemon and honey, then pushed Harry's feet out of the way so he could sit down on the end of the couch. "I vote we just go through with our original plan."

Harry drew his feet up once they were pushed, then curled up on his side. "If Renne's to be held to the law, then who am I to thumb my nose at it? I'm going to try everything I can to get out of this, but I at least have to present myself to the court and do it the right way; I don't want a warrant out for my arrest."

"Do what you have to, but--" Archie stopped himself, took a breath, and looked into his teacup for a moment. Then he nodded once to himself. "No. You're right, in that you should try to get out of it lawfully. But if you can't, then what?"

Harry watched the steam rising off of his cup, where it sat by the summons on the coffee table, and replied to himself and Archie and the world in general, "I don't know."

--

Judge Wright looked down from his position in the court room, and raised an eyebrow. He had expected Lowe to just show up, pick up his case files, and get to work; he had not expected the man to approach the bench and start arguing. "You did pass the ethics board, Mister Lowe. Did you not?"

"Yes, your honor, I did. But given that the defendant was not only my cook but my friend, and the conflict of interest in this case is too big to simply be overlooked by the court! Aside that, I have not practiced law in many years, and had no intentions of ever practicing it again. I'm certain that you can find someone more suited to the job than this."

Wright crossed his arms, eyeing the unwilling prosecutor. Lowe had not exactly won high marks by walking into the courtroom rain-soaked and wearing street clothes, and he was not winning high marks by arguing with an order of the court. Nonetheless, Wright most certainly did not want any of DCH's lawyers given that sort of authority in the justice system; there was a frightening amount of circumstantial evidence that another judge, Mbutu, had some unholy connections to the massive firm, though no actual proof. He didn't need to add any more to it, though.

Which left them with only one choice, because there was simply no one else to do it. Wright let Lowe stand quietly for a moment, waiting for a reply, then gave it frankly, "You are ethically obligated, nevermind being obligated by law, Mister Lowe. Your prior history with the defendant aside, I see no reason why you cannot competently perform your duty. Regardless of how long ago you practiced law, when you accepted your license, you agreed to submit yourself to the court as required. I don't care if it's an inconvenience, prosecutor -- you will do your job. And your job is to see justice done in this case; your personal affairs have no business interfering with that."

There was a long moment while Lowe glared back, but aside from working his jaw and looking like he both wanted to pass out on the floor and also start arguing, he didn't. If he would have, Wright would have had no difficulty calling him on contempt and letting him cool his heels in the jail.

Satisfied that he had made his point clearly, the judge pointed towards the door. "Go, get your case files, and get to work on it. I'll hear no more dissension from you, Mister Lowe -- do your duty, and find justice, and that should be salve enough for your conscience."

Then he went back to his paperwork, shaking his head to himself when he heard the doors banged closed at the end of the court room.

This was going to be quite a trial.

--

"Madness," Archie repeated, as they stood between the marble pillars in front of the courthouse. "Isn't there some other loophole?"

"Maybe I can talk your shrink into declaring me incompetent..." Harry leaned heavily on one of the columns, hand pressed to his head in the hopes that it'd ease the pounding in his skull. But he didn't think it was working, and arguing with the judge had just made it far worse.

Archie frowned, shaking his head. "If it'll work, do it. I'll even go with you!"

Harry highly doubted that it would, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to try. He offered his new briefcase over to Archie, forcing a half-smile. "Carry this? I think I'm having a hard enough time carrying myself."

"That's because you shouldn't be here." The comment was obviously not directed towards Harold, though; Archie took the briefcase, then waited for Harry to walk with him, probably in order to make sure he didn't keel over. "I can find us a place to stay here for the night... I don't think it was wise to even ride here, let alone try to ride back home."

"Up to you, Ahchie. I just want to lay down awhile, I think, then I could make it home. But it's up to you."

"A room it is, then. And maybe when you're rested, we can think of another way out of this disaster." Archie shook his head. "I can't believe they're putting it to you to convict Renne of murder."

"They aren't," Harold said, surprised by his own firm tone. But as unhappy as he was with being dragged into this, and with the idea of standing as prosecutor, he still believed in the principles of the laws, if not always the laws themselves. "They're putting it to me to bring justice to those he murdered. They're putting it to me to bring justice to the families and loved ones left behind. Someone needs to be the voices of those who cannot speak for themselves anymore. I only wish it wasn't me, wasn't now, never happened to begin with."

"That makes two of us." But after a long moment where Archie looked thoroughly irritated by the whole bloody affair, he forced a smile. "For now, let's just get out of the rain, get some rest and have some dinner. We'll worry about this later."

Harry nodded once, concentrating a little too much on walking to return the warm-hearted gesture. "Aye aye."

--

After an hour of laying down and a good meal of stew and soft white bread, Harry was feeling a good bit better. At least well enough to get back to the cottage, though he rode along with Archie on Seaton just in case; no sense in taking a tumble off of Everett and hurting himself any worse than he was.

It was still a God-awful long ride, but they made it.

And then Harry got another surprise, which came in the form of a note.

"This hasn't been my day, has it?" he asked, leaning on the outside wall beside the door, reading it over once more for good measure.

Archie may not have known what it was, but he had no trouble guessing that it was more bad news. "Now what?"

"The wife of your shrink is the court-appointed psychologist and expert witness." Harry offered over the note. He'd had two encounters with Elena Dumova; the first was uncomfortable and the second had... not gone well. Looking back, he was able to understand that he hadn't exactly been in the most stable state to begin with, but that didn't mean he desperately wanted to talk with her again, regardless.

Considering that Archie had been the one who had to live with Harry for the time after that it took to pull himself together, it wasn't a shock when he said, "I'm beginning to think fate's plotting against us, at this rate." He took the note and read it, then offered it back. "Well, with any luck, you won't have to do this. And if you do, at least it's in a professional capacity."

It still didn't sound like anything but pulling teeth to Harry; nonetheless, if he ended up having to do this bit for the prosecution, then he was going to have to deal with the woman one way or another. Maybe in a professional way, they'd be able to get along.

"I'm going to go see if I can talk to yours, before I try talking to her," Harry said, forcing down a sigh.

"I'll come with you," Archie said, straightening up from where he'd put his shoulder against the wall.

Harold shook his head. "I've got it. It's only just down the beach."

"All the more reason for me to come along." Archie gave him a grin; lacking some in humor, but making up for it in general kindness.

Harry smiled, mostly to himself, and then shook his head good-naturedly and headed down the steps and to the northern part of the cove.

--

Brian had not been expecting things to take the turns that they had. In fact, the 'vacation' that he and Elena had planned had not gone as planned pretty much from the moment that he stopped at a closed tavern named the Maritime. Not that he would blame Archie Kennedy for that -- in that moment, Archie needed someone objective to listen to him. Brian was glad to do it.

Then he had gotten slightly drawn into the story of the two mariners, though he still didn't know them very well even now, outside of his own experiences and assessments. Knew only that he kinda liked 'em -- despite their problems, they were good people.

But then problems escalated in the city, and the body count rose, and suddenly, a lot of good people were left in the need of some counseling. Even though it seemed to have tapered off a little of late, there was still a lot of work, even for a 'retired' shrink like himself, let alone Elena. She... she was the real one-woman mental hospital task force.

And now, she was working for the court, and supposed to work alongside a man who Brian knew wasn't fully recovered from a serious depression, even for as how far he had come on his own in fighting it.

"I wish I could," he said, handing a cup of herbal tea to Harry, then another to Archie. "But you're not incompetent, Harold. Maybe not recovered, but not incompetent."

"I'm not ready for this!" Harry said, emphatically, and Brian got the impression that if he wasn't holding a cup of tea, he'd probably be throwing something. "I don't even want to do this! My God, it's hard enough to just keep my own life in order, let alone have the weight of seven other lives on me!"

Six victims, from what Elena had said, and Brian guessed that Arc'err's would be Harold's seventh. But even though his heart went out to the Welshman, there wasn't much he could do. He took a sip of his tea, and keeping his voice calm, tried to explain, "I honestly can't help you with this. We have our own ethics to consider, and an ethical board to answer to, just like you do. Believe me, I don't think this is the best situation right now, for you or for anyone, but until there's a real danger to your health or society in general, I can't go tell the judge that you're incompetent."

He had the feeling that Harold was expecting that answer, given how quickly he quit arguing about it; once the ethics had been brought out, it wasn't hard in the least to see his expression change from a sort of angry pleading to a more quiet resignation. But it wasn't, at least, the kind of resignation that looked like outright defeat.

Harry spoke up, after he'd processed it for a moment, and after he took a sip of his tea. "If..." he paused, as if to collect his thoughts, then continued, "...if this gets to be too much..."

"I promise, if it looks like you're in trouble, Elena and I would both go in there and stand toe to toe with the judge." Brian meant it, too; he didn't know Harold nearly as well as Archie, and had only talked with him once in awhile and informally, but it hadn't taken him long to figure out what caliber a man this was, and neither of them had a wish to see him end up back in the awful place he'd been in. "I know you're probably not going to take me up on it, but we're here to help if you need it, and maybe everyone can get through this in one piece."

"I suppose I should wait for your wife, then." Harry shook his head, then leaned on the railing of the porch.

Archie, who had mostly stayed quiet, nodded and asked Brian, "I've got some dinner left over from last night; if you want, I'll go and get it?"

"I have some leftovers too. Bring yours, I'll get mine out, and we'll have a potluck dinner." Brian gave them both the best reassuring smile he had, then headed inside. As soon as Elena was done with her shower, he figured that the four of them could have some dinner, and the unfortunate officers of the court could talk.

--

Feeling much refreshed after a rest and a shower, Elena went downstairs, where she saw that they had guests. She greeted Harry and Archie with a smile, and asked them whether they wanted any dinner. Finding out that they did, and that they had brought some cheese and cured meat, she helped Brian set the dishes on the table. The dinner was a simple one - Brian had some fried fish, baked potatoes with onions, and bread remaining.

The niceties of settling to a meal out of the way, Elena asked them how they were doing. She did want to get down to business, but she also wanted to catch up on what happened. After all, she had barely seen the two of them in passing in the past month, and the last time she had talked to Harry had ended rather explosively.

Needless to say, given the rather explosive encounter, Harry had little to do with the conversation. And Archie, having been witness to the aftermath of said explosion did most of the talking, or tried to. "Well, I got a job teaching... though, it looks as though that may be on hold for the time being."

Harry frowned at that and leaned over, whispering something or another before sitting back again. And then he made a passable attempt to interact, though it was pretty obvious that he wasn't particularly interested in much more than dealing with business. "The plan is to go south aways, hole up for winter, teach children and stay the Hell away from the city. And the sooner we get this mess wrapped up, the sooner that can happen."

"It sounds like a good plan," Brian offered, smiling a little, not oblivious to the mild tension in the air. "I thought you two were buying your cottage, though?"

"We already did," Archie said, with his own smile, though it wasn't much of one. "It'd make a good summer home, if nothing else."

"Yes," commented Elena, her trip back to their house on Whitewall Island fresh in her mind. That was home - but she had not had so much fun and time to unwind on a vacation in years as she did here. Brian bumped his knee into hers, in silent agreement. "I've truly enjoyed my stay here - it sounds like you might have, too, despite now needing to get away. But of course, there are always new tasks to attend to. And before this conversation gets any more stilted, perhaps we should get to them, and get at least some little bit out of the way." She took another bite of the bread and cheese, and glanced up expectantly. One of these days, she really wanted to talk to Harry about their last conversation, but obviously, that was not happening right now.

Harry raised an eyebrow, then finished up the bite of fish he'd been on and set down his silverware. "I suppose the best place to start would be what I need to do, and what I'd need you to do. As to what I need to do... a good deal of footwork. I have to track down the witnesses and those who were last with the victims. I have to get ahold of everything Port South has on Renne; I haven't had time to look through the files they gave me yet, but I'm certain there's more. Plus, any number of other things. Now, what I need of you is this: I need you to establish whether he's competent to stand trial in your professional and credentialed opinion. I've never tried a case like this... actually, I only ever practiced civil law, though I had to learn criminal law as well. But I imagine you'd have to figure out whether or not he..." He paused there for a long moment to try and figure out what exactly this meant according to the law. "...can be held accountable. It doesn't help matters that I have some fairly strong ties to this case."

"Renne used to be our cook," Archie said. He shook his head, then, and leaned back in his seat. "We first met him over six years ago now, and he's worked for us off and on."

Elena's eyebrows climbed high at hearing that - if most of the people in this case knew each other, it would get complicated very quickly, to say the least. Being professional in those circumstances got very tricky, and as she worked through the implications of Harry prosecuting a man who had worked for him for a number of years, she thought that he might have the most difficult go of it. Not that she doubted his professionalism - even from the few things she knew about him, she was already sure that doing anything less than the right thing was unthinkable to him. But the right thing and the thing that does not tear you up and confuse you are usually two different things. Not to mention that confused people make mistakes.

Breaking the long pause, she said, "This gets more and more complicated. If you knew him relatively well, and this goes to trial, then I also have to interview you about him in my professional capacity. Find out your impressions of him, his history insofar as you know it, that kind of thing. And yes, it would be part of what I based my expert opinion on, and I might need to quote you." She gave Harry a look - not quite sympathetic, but one that acknowledged the difficulty. "I don't think I'd need that for determining whether he's competent to stand trial, though. For that, although practically speaking, the more background information I have about Renne the better, all I need to do is to interview Renne. See whether he is currently lucid, understands why he is in prison, and is capable of understanding what happens during a trial. Unless Rhy'Din law calls for something more - does it?"

"First things first." Harold kept a level enough gaze across the table. "All I know about the law in this case is from my side of it -- as far as the law goes, he needs to be deemed able to stand trial by a professional psychologist. He has to be found competent... meaning, he can help his defense counsel prepare his case, and he has to be found criminally responsible, meaning that he has acted of his own accord and understood the difference between right and wrong."

Brian frowned, shaking his head. "What happens if there's a challenge to her professional opinion?"

"It doesn't much matter -- it's their expert against my expert in court." Harry shook his head as well. "I need to know her professional opinion, not for the sake of going to trial so much, but so I know how to build the case and what sentence to recommend. So I know how to go forward with plea bargaining, recommendations, whatnot. One way or another, Renne is going to stand to arraignment -- he'll either plead innocent or guilty, probably by reason of insanity. From there," he looked back to Elena, "if he pleads guilty by reason of insanity, you're integral to the case, and your original assessment on competency and responsibility are everything. Because essentially, his defense will try to prove that he has neither and should walk away, and it's up to us to find the real truth of the matter, whatever it may be."

"I'm glad I'm not a lawyer," Archie chuckled, quietly. "My head hurts already."

"So does mine, or I'd probably be putting it more clearly." Harry rubbed his eyes briefly, then looked back up at Elena. "I'd also need to know if you deem him a clear, present, current danger to himself or others, though I'm fairly sure he would be right now. Then I take into account his flight risk, and the risk to his life, and to the witnesses and whatnot, and either recommend he be given bail or remanded at his arriagnment."

Elena nodded at the beginning of the explanation and took her notepad out of her pocket, jotting down notes. "Good to know that the definition of criminal responsibility is the same here - I did my forensic rotation way back, and not in Rhy'Din. Oh, and that might count against me when they question me on my expertise - I'm not aware of anyone else in Rhy'Din right now who has more experience in this particular area, but it might make me seem less credible." She glanced at Brian - he had been pretty quiet, and at times, she caught a look on his face as if he were trying to piece something together - something that did not relate directly to the conversation, or he would have asked some questions already.

After taking an absentminded bite of her food, which was going cold, she continued, "So, first - competence and criminal responsibility, both. Secondly, danger to self and others, and you need those things before the arraignment. In that case, I really do need to interview you both, but it does not have to be today. In fact, it would be better for me to speak to Renne first, before possibly getting my judgment colored by what other people think of him. However, he is not human, so if there are major ways in which his thinking differs from a human's, I would much prefer to know that going in, since in that case, I could misjudge him based on my own perspective." She looked up, shifting in her seat so as to ease tense muscles. All of them were looking worn at the moment, and nobody was eating much. "Tea, or can you have coffee yet? This might be a long night."

"Tea, very strong," said Brian, and gave her a brief smile.

"We have time," Harry said, shaking his head and getting to his feet. "The case doesn't go forward until I say it does, really. Judge Wright might not care for me all that much, but I've a feeling I'm the only one he's got as an option, and we at least have enough time to sleep. Which I firmly and intently plan on doing in very short order."

"He got pegged by his peg," Archie quipped, and was rewarded with a faint glower. "Wait, did that sound right?" he asked, mock innocently, looking up at Harry.

"It did not, Mister Kennedy, and I'll thank you not to be speaking of my peg again," Harold replied, straight-faced, before standing more formally. "What he means is that I got in the way of a flailing hoof of my pegasus, and while it didn't end up killing me, I'm not exactly up for any all night discussions. At least not tonight. So, if you'll excuse me," and he half-bowed, "I'll take my leave and thank you for dinner."

"That mean we'll be seeing you tomorrow?" Brian asked, standing himself out of courtesy at the same time Archie did.

"Maybe. If not tomorrow, then probably Wednesday or Thursday. I haven't even looked at my files yet. And as to Renne's species... he comes from a dead world so far as I remember, and so far as I know, he's the only record left of it." Harry took a breath and let it out slowly, and looked more weary after he did than before. "This is already a trial. Hopefully, justice can be found before it becomes one in court."

Elena grinned wryly at the byplay between Archie and Harry, and stood up a beat behind Brian. "When you have the time, then." Her tone grew more serious. "And yes, I hope that justice can be found. I foresee hard work ahead towards justice, so sleep well, and take care of yourselves." She opened the door for them, noting that although the wind was strong, it would at least be blowing their way for most of their path. They all shook hands, and Elena went back to the stove to make tea, her head full of thoughts about how to do this. Thankfully, Brian looked ready to talk for a while longer and help her settle her thoughts.


((Last section was co-written between Elena's (Fireplace Log) and Harry's muns.))

August 25th, 2007 - Divergence, II.


Archie had left late this morning, and Harry had not watched him take the cart and ride away. It was just too much.

He went back to the cottage, then, to get some clothes and prepare to live in the city at least part time. It was strange being there without Archie's things, and half the common household stuff -- Kennedy had left enough for him to cook with and whatnot, but had taken the majority of their dishware, as well as quite a few other things, though he left the furniture.

All in all, Harry felt more lost in those initial moments than he had even after everything started getting hectic in his life again.

But he kept it together, then sat down at the kitchen table to write a note. He hadn't seen Cinder or Sarah in quite awhile, and he missed them: Things had just happened too quickly for him to actually check in and make certain they were all right, and he didn't foresee anything slowing down anytime soon.

So he wrote the note, tacked it to their front door, then took Everett, his dufflebag and a weariness not all physical with him into the city.

--

Dear Sarah & Cinder,

I'm very sorry I hadn't had a chance to visit with you of late. I ended up being named as prosecutor in the trial against Renne, representing the People, and I've been running like mad ever since. I did get to see the new mini-ranch, though, and it looks very good. I hope that it works out.

I'm going to be spending a lot of time in the city trying to get ready for this trial. I hope you two are well, and I miss you -- take care of yourselves and each other, and maybe our paths will cross again sooner than later.

Please, be safe.

Always,
Harold

August 29th, 2007 - Malum in se


It was around four in the morning before Harold had made it back to the prosecutor's office; he was feeling tired, but he had too much to do before he could try to lay down.

The office itself was cleaned up. He had spent a couple hours dusting and organizing, and though it lacked any personal touches, it was a functional space that he could use as a staging point. Whoever had been the prosecutor before, probably years ago, had good taste -- the walls were painted dark blue, and the desk, trim, bookcases and everything else were a deep-stained oak. If not for the fact that he didn't particularly want to be here, Harold would have likely enjoyed the handsome space more.

But he had to be there, and as time went on, he was getting more determined to do his job and do it well. Detaching himself from how he felt was easier than he'd expected it to be -- he used to be able to do it whenever his duty needed done and there wasn't room to feel much about it at the time, but he had thought he'd forgotten how to do it.

He hadn't.

He listened to the tape of his interview with Malcolm; the original tape was already entered into evidence, tagged, logged and would not be touched again until trial, so this was one of three copies that he had made. When the post came around in the morning, one would go to Elena Dumova, and the other would go to Sev; as a profiler, she'd expressed an interest in lending her experienced opinion on things, though Harold wasn't sure if he'd need it in court.

The last copy he kept for himself, and listened to it as he paced behind his desk, occasionally underlining something in his notes. He still had six more witnesses he had to track down, in order to get what they saw, but Malcolm was the most important of the lot -- he was there from nearly the beginning of the killing spree.

Once the tape was finished running, he clicked it off and gave his notes a quick read. He was glad Malcolm was now under witness protection, both for the sake of the case, but also for the sake of the man -- the attack on him by Tapole, in Harold's mind, was reprehensible. He didn't know why she would attack this man, who had not touched Renne and had not done anything to him aside speak up about what he saw. Though, somewhere or another, Harold found it sort of amusing that she was willing to go beat on Malcolm, but didn't have the stones to seek him out -- afterall, he was the one who talked Renne into turning himself in, and was going to forcibly take him there if Renne didn't willingly go.

Those thoughts, though, had no place here and after a quick smirk, he pushed them out of his mind.

It was getting onto daylight by the time he kicked back in the overstuffed office chair, feet on his desk, and closed his eyes. It was stable, and even if he could only get a few hours sleep, it was better for his health than none at all.

A snippet of old conversation crossed his mind, even as he drifted off; he'd once been talking in the bar with Lil and Ran about malum in se, and finding that a useful term on which to apply to many a potential case in Rhy'Din. He'd just been joking, when he said that he someday wanted to go to trial with that as a basis -- that the notion of 'evil unto itself' would be a good case to argue. That there were some crimes that any civilized individual of whatever species could see as wrong, and that he would have enjoyed arguing it out.

He never expected that day to come.

No physical attacks on the bodies. That left precious few ways that Renne could have killed those animals and people.

And if what he did didn't fall under malum in se, Harold didn't know if anything ever could.

September 5th, 2007 - Genius loci


The Maritime was made for the sun.

Harold knew that more intimately than any being alive.

He stood on the dusty main floor; even under the dust, though, the old smells that identified it as home gave a tug on his subconscious -- just because he had moved on didn't mean that he had forgotten.

"No more," he thought, in the sunlight and dust.

His mind was a bit of a mess; the off-chance visit to the Rambling Rose had started off well, but had ended with him wanting to bolt somewhere to hide for awhile. So, that was what he did. He certainly hadn't slept well, though, not even in his lighthouse.

Which was why he came back to the Maritime in the morning.

He stood on the main floor, his tired and sometimes angry and sometimes mournful and sometimes even warm thoughts swirling around, flitting in and out of each other, following some old paths and some new ones.

After a time, he started cleaning. He had always liked cleaning; it had been only one of the thousands of ways he had taken care of his Maritime over the years. It was his way of unwinding after a long day, his way to focus his thoughts into his hands. He'd been tolerant, though a little irritated, by Renne scrubbing the place all the time -- he'd said a few times that he enjoyed doing it himself, but Renne never seemed to take the hint. Though, Harold supposed he should have been more direct and outright said, "Ease up; I like cleaning and I don't like my time to unwind being taken from me."

He doubted it would have been listened to without some sort of protest, but he'd never know now.

He swept the floor, pausing occasionally to look around the silent walls. His walls. No voice had rebounded off of them as much over the years; no four walls anywhere had seen so much of him as these. Six years and some odd months of memories, some public, some intensely private.

People came, people went, sometimes came back, sometimes never did.

He had thought that he would be able to part with the place, but when he came back briefly to let Darkmere use the shower and saw the dust and grabbed a rag, he realized that he would never be able to sell it. Would never be able to abandon it, either. It was his; it was a part of him, even if he didn't always want it to be.

That didn't mean he was going to come back to it, though.

So Harry swept and then dusted. Windowsills, the counters, the cabinets, everything. Cleaned up the second floor, as well, as afternoon was beginning. And when it was all said and done, Harry of the Maritime stood behind his bar once more and polished the top with the rag.

It was his. It always had been. He'd been willing to walk away a few times -- in frustration, in hurt, in defeat. But even in defeat, it was still a part of him.

"No more," he thought, polishing the bartop.

He loved the Maritime. Sometimes hated it, too, but mostly he loved it. He had fought for it, bled for it, lived in it; nearly died for and in part because of it. Had known many people over many years.

Once the place was back to its clean, maintained state, he took one more look around. No... no, it would not be left to abandonment. Nor would it ever be sold. He could not bring himself to strike a match to it, and that left precious few options.

He closed the back door quietly as he left.

Maybe Cinder could help.

September 18th, 2007 - Sky High


He wasn't expecting a package, but he wasn't too shocked when he got it, either. He spent a good five minutes just petting the black delivery kitten; she did not seem like a normal kitten to him, but she likewise didn't seem to mind the attention. Plus, he liked cats. Far more than he would typically admit to, though his sappiness by now was likely part of the collective consciousness.

When the kitten scampered off, he opened the package and sat on the concrete base the lighthouse was on, in the sunlight, to see what it was all about.

The aeroplane, just from the blueprint, looked amazing. He had a good mechanical eye; mostly from a life at sea, but also partly from having to improvise so much in Rhy'Din. But even the simple blueprint looked like a heck of a feat -- not because of each mechanical task, but because he had a feeling that there was a lot more that went into flying without natural wings.

Harold sat with it on his lap, and looked up at the sky.

The weather was steadily turning cooler, though some of the days were still warm. Nights were very cool, though, and he knew that he couldn't keep living in a lighthouse until winter set in -- he'd end up sick or worse if he tried. But he still had a little time before he had to start making the hard choices, and so he thought about flying.

He had no desire to fly himself. He found water to be a much more understandable element. But he could imagine the appeal.

Harold looked at the sky, and watched a seagull, alone in the blue on blue expanses. It floated up, catching drafts of air; he thought for a moment about Cinder's aeroplane. Thought for a moment about wings, and the movement of air over them, and how the bird could fly... even about how a machine could fly. He certainly knew it was possible, but he had never really tried to understand how it was.

He would have to go to the library later and see what he could find out about the craft. He had a feeling, though, that he would have to find help for this project -- it was one thing to work on things that would be on the sea or ground, but something else to try to fix something that would be in the sky.

He thought about the aeroplane, and thought about Maia as well, and how it felt to laugh. To really laugh. It had been a long time. Three sailors and two shrinks, singing bawdy shanties and dancing by a fire -- he felt, when it was all over, that she didn't often get to enjoy such things.

She spoke of tears in the world and dark things, and Harold knew inside himself somewhere deep that Maia had spent too much time looking at tears and dark things -- that she had spent too much time staring into places that no human should have to, and it made him sad in a way. God only knew that he had seen and even felt or done terrible things, and God only knew that life had overwhelmed him horribly once, but looking at her made him appreciate that he had not spent so much time looking into the very heart of darkness that he could not find some way back.

He wondered, sitting stone still and watching a bird floating, dipping, flying up again, if she could find a way. If he could help her find a way back, to some place where she wasn't always looking into dark places.

That maybe if she could find enough hope, wherever she had to, that she would be able to spend the rest of her years a happy sailor, loved at home, respected at sea, until her time was done.

Maybe he could find the same.

He thought of Cinder and Sarah; Cinder, who had said he ached for his home. Sarah, who he was certain had known few places she could call that. He wondered if they could make a home in each other, maybe learn to fly together, regardless of whether the wings were made of metal or flesh and bone.

So, he thought of the sea and the sky.

Of himself and Maia, and the salt and the sunlight and the canvas. Of Sarah and Cinder, and the clouds and the sunlight and the air.

He thought of home.

And finally, inevitably, he thought of the wind.