November 30th, 2006 - Futility, Thy Name is Kennedy


He was nervous. After countless sea battles, shootouts, and just plainly bad days, he hadn't expected something so simple could make him so nervous.

Archie Kennedy, before anything else, was a sailor at heart. He had spent the better part of his life standing on the deck of a ship, watching the horizon for signs of enemy sails and readying the men for inevitable action. Between raging storms, canon fire, and the eventual years of imprisonment in an enemy cell, he never thought he could manage such nervousness again. So, why was shaking at the thought of teaching a classroom full of children about something he was so familiar with?

His father had been a literature professor; teaching was in his blood. Everything that Archie had learned about books had come from a connection he had found with his father, and it was a part of him that he held almost as dearly as he held the ocean. Truth be told, much of the advantages he had managed in his career had been brought about because he always had his nose in a book; you can't read so many words without learning something more than you had known the day before.

As he gathered up his things, he wondered if his father had felt so nervous on his first day of teaching. Everyone's nervous on their first day, right? But Archie had come prepared: Lesson plan, literary notes, several books to reference, and a small picture frame he had been given as a gift (more for luck than any practical use.) With preparation, there was little chance he could mess things up too badly.

He read over his lesson plan, and a list of questions he was prepared to ask his students. Mouthing them to himself as he walked along, he couldn't help but smile at the clever questions he had come up with -- it wasn't every day a common sailor from a common home could pose groundbreaking queries that would change the life of a student when considered seriously.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all.

Stepping through the classroom door, the chatter of the students hardly registered with him. Everything but the lesson plan was set aside, as he kept his face turned towards the paper, and his back turned towards the students.

After a deep breath, and a few calming internal words, he picked up a piece of chalk and wrote his name on the board, glad for once that his mother had made him work so hard of penmanship. He stared up at his name for a long moment, and then added the title of "lieutenant" at the beginning; an unneeded measure, considering the uselessness of the title in the classroom setting, but it made him feel a little better at the moment, and he needed everything he could get a grasp on.

The students' voices lowered to questioning whispers, and then stopped when he turned around to face them.

"Good morning!" He tried to keep his tone somewhere between commanding and jaunty. "I'm Mister Kennedy, and today we'll be discussing the social morays of Shakespeare and their integration and justification within modern society."

Silence gripped the room for another few moments, allowing the tension to build between the teacher and his students. Kennedy had expected someone to immediately speak up and bring a topic into discussion, but was instead answered with the confused, very young faces of the students in front of him.

Tentatively, a small boy in the front row raised his hand and spoke up, "Um... we've just started on our letters," he offered, helpfully.

Archie blinked and scratched at the back of his neck nervously. It was only then that he looked over the faces of the children he would be teaching, and realized that literary debate in general was far beyond the grasps of young minds in front of him, let alone the social morays of Shakespeare.

What had be gotten himself into?

The children giggled at the perplexed look on their teacher's face, and Archie felt the nervousness inside of him grow ten-fold. Carefully, he crumpled up his lesson plan and dropped it in the waste basket, frantically searching through his mind as to what he could possibly do to save himself some embarrassment.

Instantly, he knew that his father must have been nervous, and very much like a fish out of water on his first day of teaching. Somehow, that connection made him feel a little stronger, and he gave his students a wide grin before turning and taking up the chalk again.

"Well, then," he said, turning back and holding up the chalk in offering to the class, "which of you brave souls can come up here and show me what the letter 'A' looks like?"

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

December 2nd, 2006 - Firelight


It was a very human compulsion to watch flames dancing.

It hadn't been as cold a ride as he'd expected, and he had made certain to dress as warmly as possible. He knew too well from over the years that he'd lose heat quicker than most, so he'd been wise about picking his clothing.

There was no reason for him to sit in front of the fireplace and watch the flames, but he did it anyway.

It was easier in the Underdark; he'd been less cautious, for one. But he and Lil sat a four hour watch, and when the time came to sleep, the old tar in him kicked in and left him asleep in moments. The only time he had to dwell on things was when he had to sit in the dark, listening to his own breathing and Lil's, and there he took refuge in memory.

He could sleep eight hours here, in the large and too soft bed.

At the same time, he couldn't.

His resolve was vastly improved over this morning, when he felt as though something inside of him cracked like glass. But it was still his first night away. It was still the first step, that could not be taken back, into something unknown.

For a man who had sailed around a world, many times, twenty-odd miles felt like the distance between crossing fifty south.

He closed his eyes. He hadn't left Lily a note. In the end, he couldn't find the right words. All he wanted to write was: "I love you, but I can't do this again." So he didn't write anything.

He watched the fire again, taking a breath. Reminding himself, for the umpteenth time today, "I'm all right." Of course, he knew he was, but he was still... something.

He wished he knew what.

He fought back the urge to wake Archie up, just for the cadence of a voice he knew would talk him back down again; after the whole falling-off-the-horse incident, he wasn't going to deprive Kennedy of his sleep. And Nance... well, he doubted she'd give a damn. The last thing he needed was to show that one any weakness -- she was a bit like he used to be, so long ago, with too much pride and not enough sense.

"I'm all right."

He still wasn't an expert at communication, though he tried much harder. His own internal dialogue was jumpy, a good mix between reassurance and anxiety. Once, he used to be high-strung nearly all of the time, always waging that internal war. He was amazed he'd lived through it. He much preferred the more easy state he lived in these days.

But sometimes the old war flared, and he found it far more disconcerting now than he used to.

He watched the flames jump as something disturbed the air, but they settled again fairly quickly. And he couldn't help but smirk, and think, "Funny."

He didn't dare look at his watch. Then he'd just think about how important that it was he go to sleep, which would make it all that much harder to do so. He sort of envied Archie, even after a tumble off of horseback -- if he'd known he'd be so jittery tonight, he might've cut short sleeping last night himself.

At least, even though he wasn't under his own roof, the most important part of home wasn't far away.

He nodded to himself, stalwartly.

"I'm all right."

It was taking a long time to sink in, maybe too long. But hopefully by the time he felt tired enough to crawl into bed, he'd believe it.

December 30th, 2006 - Politics, Sailing and Satire, I.


He had never been a big fan of politics, though he found them amusing at times. The notion of people vying desperately for some kind of power was always worth a good chuckle, particularly since most people who needed such things often had too much time on their hands to begin with.

Harold had not, however, heard much about politics since landing in Rhy'Din. In fact, aside from on his own property, he pretty much viewed the rest of the realm as a lawless, chaotic place where the only way to ensure any sort of order and safety was to make sure you carried a firearm.

But if there was one thing that was a constant amongst sailors, it was yarning. And even though he and the crew of the Brigantine Al Na'ir were not deeply friendly, given that he was their First Mate, they knew full well he had sailed before the mast and were therefore more willing to chatter in his presence than if he had been handed his commission through favors and an apprenticeship.

Which led to some interesting listening.

At first, he'd only heard snippets and didn't pay them much mind. He and Archie had been working almost nonstop on the Al Na'ir; him sounding out any weak points in the sweet little brigantine, and Archie learning some of the more mundane and ABish tasks that he hadn't really had the chance to learn in the British Royal Navy. It was enjoyable, despite the hard work and despite the fact that Harold had to be careful with his still healing arm -- there was no place he was more comfortable than onboard something with sails, and the chance to show off a little of his own career to his best friend? Even better.

But as time went on, he started listening more. Mostly while they were replacing any questionable planking in the brigantine's hull, where it required most of the remaining crew to help. That was when he became properly aware of this so-called election.

He didn't press for information, but he listened to the men. They were far more connected to the gossipy undercurrent than he was, given that he tended to keep to himself, and it didn't take him long to figure out quite a bit about the so-called candidates -- there were good points to having ex-pirates for a crew, in a realm that didn't seem to have many genuine merchant mariners left.

So he listened as they debated the merits of the candidates, and as they ultimately came to the conclusion that the Easter Bunny would do a better job.

And he grinned.

"I mean, I ain't heard much of any of 'em until this whole thing came up," Greystone was saying as he was putting the tools away for the night. "But you got yerself a Count and a Baron, right? What th' f-ck do they know about anything?"

Blackie snorted, sitting back on one of the crates in the Salvage Yard. "Hell if I know, Grey. Hear about those murders goin' on in the WestEnd? But suddenly, they're gonna protect us, aren't they?"

"Well, that one roams around dockside, but he's a pirate through and through, lemme tell ya. An' sure, that's what we are--"

"Were," Harold corrected, but it was with an amused sort of grin.

"--were, sorry sir, but I call bullsh-t when he an' the other one go walkin' around like that's some kinda reputable business venture an' all."

Given that he was shanghaied by pirates the summer before, and had to spend Christmas on a makeshift raft trying to sail home, alone and cold and dead exhausted, Harry wasn't about to even begin to call pirates reputable. Given how very few merchant ships he had seen in Rhy'Din (Gwyn's up north, and Cinder's dolshie, and Fanth's boat), he was more than a little bitter about seeing what little merchant trade Rhy'Din had to begin with decimated by a bunch of ne'er-do-wells who probably didn't even know the difference between a stay and a shroud. "So, what you're saying is you have two candidates, one a pirate and one a vampire, who want to suddenly bring about a shining new era in Rhy'Din?"

"Aye sir, that's about the long an' short of it. An' they both think the pirate life's all good an' fine an' law-abidin'."

Harold looked up at the dry-docked brigantine; he loved the Al Na'ir, and her lines, and the care they had put into her. Someday soon, she would be running legitimate cargo. The thought of his sweet-lined little sailer broadsided made him feel cold inside, and though most of his crew were ex-pirates, he had a strong suspicion they felt the same way about her as he did.

He looked up the brigantine and narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Easter Bunny indeed."

Blackie raised an eyebrow, tilting his head to eye the First Mate. "Got somethin' in mind, sir?"

Harry turned it over in his mind for a long moment more, then looked back at the other two. "You fellows... listen, all right? Keep your eyes and ears out, but don't give anything out yarning to the dockworkers and whatnot."

"Aye aye, sir," they replied in unison -- even though the whole lot of 'em had gotten to know each other under somewhat iffy conditions, they'd had time by now to realize that so long as they worked hard, they'd be treated well. And that even if he could get hot under the collar, and demanded a high level of performance, Harold never ordered someone to do something he himself wasn't willing to do.

Once the little Welshman was out of the dry-dock, Greystone looked over at Blackie and grinned. "This oughta be good."

January 3rd, 2007 - Watching the Board


He had not failed to check in when the candidate Count had gone and given a speech, though few people would likely notice a five-feet-six little dark-haired Welshman amongst the more colorful denizens of Rhy'Din. Not surprisingly, the encounter there had left him stepping back off the edge of the crowd and shaking his head to himself as he turned and went for home.

At least the Easter Bunny got a mention.

Of course, the crew of the Al Na'ir were also invaluable in ferreting out information -- something about scandal in tapes, something about a new candidate. As each new piece of information came forth, he did some quick investigating and generally tried to see the whole playing field as it came about.

Somehow, he found the flippancy and immaturity to be disturbing; since when was beer an issue when there was little more than boarded up buildings and empty homes? Since when was Gav's column (which he found useful advice in, though he'd basically come to the same conclusion -- still, he was thankful enough for confirmation) an issue, when the seaside merchant service was in ruins?

Mostly, the mud-slinging and childishness seemed to bother him the most. As though they weren't even trying to take this seriously. Then again... this was Rhy'Din.

It had been a few days since his satirical commentary on the elections had been posted up and about. But, not content to leave his voice unheard (though it certainly felt like it was), he sat down at the bar in the Maritime and penned another letter.

The tavern was quiet; they had not opened for business now in weeks, and had devoted their efforts towards the brigantine. As he wrote, Harry didn't fail to notice the silence -- most times, he found it kind of peaceful. Today, it just seemed like a lonely place where the people he had loved no longer were.

Shaking his head to himself, he wrote down what he considered to be important issues to be addressed, then copied the letter three times over for the sake of the candidates. Minus, of course, his own fictional nomination to the race. Perhaps they would post up replies on one of the common boards throughout town.

If he had any desire to stay on dry land, or to settle, or to get into politics, he would have been tempted to throw his hat into the race. Not because he wanted to, really... but because, as with all things, if he didn't do it, who would? He wouldn't hesitate for a single moment to place himself against any man, woman or beast -- his life spoke for itself.

But given the choice, he chose the sea, and his family.

That didn't mean he wanted his adopted home in the hands of idiots, though. So, once he was finished with the letters, he took them out himself to deliver them.

Time was short... but only it would tell.

January 4th, 2007 - Vote Claus, Not Flaws!


It had been a long day, but Archie was still in a fairly good mood. The teaching job he had picked up was tiresome, but a good way for him to use his more creative, literary side as stress reliever. Of course, he'd never expected to be teaching such young children.

Aside from the few hours he took out of the day for his class, he'd been hard at work, helping Harry with the overhaul of the Al Na'ir. Funny enough, they rarely had a chance to talk to each other, outside of a few moments here and there. It had even gone so far as the two of them passing notes to each other like schoolchildren.

Coming back to the Maritime was a relief, even in his good mood. Three hours of class, countless hours of back breaking labor, and he was just glad to be back, even for just a short time.

He had stopped by the community bulletin board, having heard that the replies from the so-called candidates would be posted there; it was always interesting to see what Harold Lowe could stir up.

From what Archie could tell, the candidates for governor were all pretty useless. Then again, he'd gotten a lot harsher when it come to judging people, as well. While he understood that many people would have the same stances on issues, it seemed as if those replies did little but skirt around the main points, and sling mud at the other candidates.

And, for a second, he imagined he could certainly do a better job.

Governor Kennedy? Hm. No, he liked the sound of Captain Kennedy so much more, and even if he could probably win the election, he was sure that he wouldn't enjoy that aristocratic life nearly as much as the somewhat humble one he'd managed.

Grabbing up a piece of paper, he jotted down a quick note to Harry:

Harry,

Are these "candidates" serious? From my perspective, people have no reason to trust them. I'd just as soon add a nomination for Santa Claus; at least we already know he's a mighty nice bloke, and any ulterior motives would have been apparent by now.

Vote Claus, not flaws!

-Archie

After the note was left on the bar, he headed upstairs for a long-needed and well deserved shower.

January 4th, 2007 - Passing Ships


They seemed to be like passing ships in the night (as clich? as that was, considering,) missing each other by the smallest of margins. By the time Archie was restless enough to get up out of bed, Harry must have been home. The shower down the hall was running, and it was doubtful that it would be anyone but the illustrious Mister Lowe.

Kennedy stepped out of his room and headed down the steps, fully intent on getting himself a glass of water and going back to bed. Sure, it was early, but he was positively beat.

The paper he had left on the bar was still there, but surprisingly enough there was sometime written under it. Harry probably expected that they wouldn't get a chance to talk before Archie would have to make for class the next day.

He read over the reply, an arm leaned heavily on the bar. It was strangely comforting that they still managed to at least see eye-to-eye on most issues, even after the time they'd spent living lives apart from each other; lives that didn't involve the Maritime Tavern.

Finished with his reading, Kennedy grinned and flipped the paper to write his reply:

Harry,

If there is anything we know, it is whether someone has the ability to earn trust, and I sincerely doubt those candidates do. I find it amusing that they all seem to come from rather well-off families, and yet they have little or no connection to the real citizens of Rhy'Din; the Red Dragon may be an integral part of the culture here, but it certainly does not have arms long enough to reach every corner of the realm. 'In crowds,' in a proper society (or even a slightly lackluster improper society) should do them no good.

I find it worrisome that two common gents like us can see the folly in their words, and yet no one else seems to. Do you think, perhaps, that we suffer from a clear head among a land of fogginess?

While Saint Nick would not be my first choice, I believe that if he were to run in conjunction with the Easter Bunny (for steadfast morals and consistent observation,) they would make a pair that could not be put down in the polls. 'Colored eggs and cheery cheeks put down slacks, pirates, and freaks.'

I will be sure to give my class a break with Shakespeare; I am certain they will be sending you notes to thank you profusely. In the meantimes, perhaps we could work out a day where I could bring them down to the Al Na'ir and show them the ropes you'd like them to learn.

Good luck tomorrow, and I will see you after I am finished with my class.

-Archie

Grinning to himself, Archie folded the note in half and kept it in hand. He'd drop it off upstairs on his way back to bed, just to make sure Harry got it.

After his glass of water and a cracker or two, he trudged back upstairs and left the note where Harry could find it.

January 13th, 2007 - Fifty South


The election business had fallen quiet of late, and Harold had not failed to notice that his letters and the replies had gone missing from the boards. He didn't know who would have taken them; either a pissed off candidate or maybe just someone curious who wanted to read them somewhere warm. Having found no recent replies, though, he was just as inclined to forget about them for now.

Which left his only course of business, at least for the moment, the brigantine.

And himself.

He stood on the deck and looked up at the foremast. Most of the work was finished; he'd even managed to rewire her electrical systems, though without the engine that must have once been a part of her makeup, he'd had to learn quickly the nature of electricity and how one would generate it. The end result wasn't what anyone would call reliable and dependable, but it was more a luxury than a necessity anyway.

The heating system was a bit more troublesome, and required more jury-rigging. The galley fires, not surprisingly, were always lit and attended. But turning that into at least some small measure of heat for the foc's'le and aft cabins took thought. Ultimately, it involved pipes and steam and while it wouldn't be enough heat to make anyone warm and cozy when the weather was cold, it was far better than the cramped deckhouses of his past.

The thoughts lead him back to the foremast he was looking up at.

At thirty-four, his career had spanned twenty years and every ocean on Earth, plus time on Rhy'Din's waters. He had worked hard for his pride in his profession; harder than most. At fifteen he was bound 'round Cape Horn, and crossing the line of fifty south had instilled in him something that no amount of self-doubt or sorrow or misery could take away.

Even when it sometimes seemed like it had.

"Below forty degrees there is no law; below fifty degrees there is no God."

The brigantine was in good shape, the Maritime was maintained, the election business had fallen quiet. It was time to see if the Al Na'ir's first mate could do his own job.

He grabbed ahold of the portside foremast shrouds, pulled himself up onto her railing, stuck his feet in the battens and started to climb.

Not even two months ago, he had scurried easily and comfortably up the Balclutha's mainmast without even being winded -- at the time, he hadn't really thought about how naturally he had done so. So much of his life had been spent in the rigging of ones like her that he was as at home aloft as he was on deck.

It took him all of ten feet to realize he would have a harder time on the little brigantine. But the failing wasn't in her; it was in himself.

"Below forty degrees there is no law..."

His right arm burned as he climbed; he wasn't so high as the forecourse yard before his teeth were locked together and despite the rain and cool air, he was starting to sweat. Mercifully the crew had knocked off for lunch, and there were no witnesses to the fact that a twenty year mariner, one of the Cape Horn breed, was struggling to climb shrouds.

He paused when he finally did get so high as the first yard on her mast; she was rigged to the upper fore topgallant, and it was a long way to go from here.

How it was possible for this climb to be this difficult, he couldn't fathom. It wasn't right -- it wasn't right that he used to climb on a pitching barque, underwater until he was high enough on the arcing mast, half-frozen and exhausted and starved, and now he was having trouble in a bloody drydock.

Snarling to himself, he grabbed hold of the platform and swung himself out; he would not, ever, use the lubber's hole to get onto the platform. And if that meant falling to the deck and breaking bones, or landing on his head and killing himself, then better that than act like a landsman.

The sea would not cut him any slack.

It hurt like Hell, and now his shoulder was burning as well, but he didn't let go. And finally, as though climbing to the summit of a mountain, he managed to get his leg up on the platform and scramble up himself.

Frustrated and angry, and wishing death yet again upon the girl who was part of the reasons for his troubles... mental, and physical... he sat against the mast and tipped his head back in the rain.

He felt as though he was well beyond forty south, into the unpredictable and violent Southern Ocean; the dark place down around the Horn where, on those rare days the wind fell and left the sails, you could feel the hundreds of ships and thousands of men who died there below the waters.

There was no going back from that.

"...below fifty degrees, there is no God."

January 19th, 2007 - To All Things


It was chilly, but some warmer than it had been. And the Al Na'ir's name was painted in gold on her bows, along the black line; the final touch on a long several weeks of hard work.

That didn't leave much to do, aside to give the crew liberty to enjoy themselves and to start provisioning the little brigantine for her first foray under her new command structure. She was as ready as she ever could be, and her captain and first mate weren't terribly far behind.

"Who're you voting for?" Archie asked, taking a sip of his coffee as he leaned on the port bulwark. "And for that matter, are we even staying long enough for the election?"

"I didn't go to all the trouble of stirring things up just to not cast my ballot," Harold replied, looking off across the dockyards. "I'm probably going to cast my lot with Albaelia. She seems rather young, but she's got the best ideas of 'em, at least from what I could tell."

"And this navy you two spoke of raising? Do you plan on serving in it?"

Harry glanced over sidelong, then went back to his previous gaze into relative nothingness. "I don't know. If I were called upon, I would, but I'm not a navyman at heart and doubt I ever would be. Not to say I wouldn't fight for Rhy'Din and to protect merchant shipping, but cannons have always been more your forte than mine."

Archie made a noncommittal sound in answer, looking down into his coffee mug, then jumped topics. "I invited my class to come see the brigantine this afternoon. With their parents, of course."

"Want me to tell the crew to stick around to show 'em the ropes, Captain?" Harry asked, grinning a little. "I'm sure they'd be inclined."

"It would be a good idea, yes," Archie answered, shaking his head a little to himself at the 'Captain' thing. That was going to be another thing that took some getting used to. "They'll have plenty of time to go and get themselves into trouble after this evening."

"All right, then. I'll be back." Harold pushed himself off of the bulwark and went to round up his crew.

---

It didn't take Harry long to round up the crew and ask them to stick around. Not surprisingly, they all obliged; he was a bit heartened to see how they were all working together, as much friends as shipmates. By the time he came back, though, Archie was occupied with a handful of parents and children who had already arrived.

So he stood back and watched, crossing his arms.

It was another heartwarming sort of sight -- Kennedy must've been a reasonably popular teacher, given the three or four apples he was already trying to keep a grip on, and given the good-natured expressions on the parents' faces. He thought about going and ribbing his friend a bit; he'd said and thought more than once that Archie would be a good father, and seeing him interacting with his schoolchildren only made that sense stronger. But for now, he didn't -- he just watched and stayed well back so he wouldn't be drawn into any conversations.

He still had to sit down and properly write a letter to Lil. It was not a task that he was looking forward to, and it was a slightly sharp reminder that his own wish for a wife and children was very likely never going to come to be. In a way, he supposed that was for the best -- afterall, having a family and still sailing wasn't an easy life to maintain. Not for the family at home, or for the man at sea; widows walks everywhere attested to that.

Still, he wished things had gone differently. He loved his life, despite his moments of inner turmoil, but Lil drifting away had been a harsh thing to come to grips with. He had thought for a very long time that they were made of sterner stuff than that.

Nothing could be done about it now, though, and he knew he wouldn't do anything about it if he even could. So he simply enjoyed the moment watching his best friend interacting brightly, even on a gloomy day, with people who admired him.

If anyone deserved to feel proud and bright, it was Archie.

---

The children were crowding around him even after the parents had long since wandered off to look at the ship. In many cases, Archie would have imagined that the parents would have been more interested in the inner workings of a ship, but it had turned out to be the handful of young faces instead.

It wasn't like there was anything particularly exciting about the life of a sailor, but his students always had a new question for him. Admittedly, they were often very juvenile questions, but he wouldn't expect them to see the very adult side of a life on the ocean. And, in a way, he enjoyed the young perspectives they usually brought forth.

As they walked along the deck of the ship together (more a gaggle than a group, really), Archie pointed out some lines and offered up some easily remembered terms to the children. They seemed less interested in the ship and more interested in what might happen to their teacher when he left.

"Will you be back for the Easter play?" One of the little boys asked, tugging at Archie's peacoat.

Kennedy shoved his hands into his apple-stuffed pockets and leaned against some ropes, all the while considering his words carefully. The last thing he wanted to do was disappoint the children. "I don't think I can be back by then, no." He wouldn't lie to them -- they deserved better than that.

"We were going to get a class pet, remember? You said we could have a turtle or a bunny..." One of the girls practically pleaded, causing the rest of the class to sound off in groans and half-complaints.

"I believe I stated that we might get a class pet. Besides, which of you ruffians are going to come in to classroom on the weekends and holidays to take care of it?" Archie leaned forward and gave them all a mock-disgusted look, shaking his head dramatically. "Not I!"

The children giggled at the theatrics they were so used to, and jumped up and down in a chorus of comments and questions that Archie couldn't make head or tails of.

If he was being totally honest with himself, he would have admitted outright that he was going to miss his students. He had spent a lot of his spare time (which didn't total nearly as many hours as he would have liked) figuring out ways to challenge them, and it really did surprise him how easily and quickly they learned whatever he had put in front of them.

The children were still making one heck of a racket, and Kennedy finally put his finger up to his lips to quiet them down. It only took a moment, and he then had to deal with a lot of very intent little faces looking up at him.

"I know that it's not fair of me to just leave you all in the middle of the school year, but you've proven yourselves to be very mature and welcoming students," he said, crossing his arms and grinning down at his students, "and I expect you to treat your next teacher with the same respect that you've always afforded me."

As if they were in the classroom, the students remained quiet and focused on what was being said to them; no one interrupted, no one let their attention wander.

"Some times we all have to deal with people leaving. Do you any of you remember what I said my favorite Shakespearean tragedy was?"

It took a moment for the children to stir, and they looked at each other, trying to remember back to the first few days with their new teacher. Finally, one of the girls raised her hand and spoke up when she was called on, "It was Julius Caesar, right?"

Kennedy grinned and nodded. "That's absolutely right." Pausing, he thought over how he was going to word the next part. He hadn't been planning to have a goodbye speech, or anything but some handshakes and some hugs, but it just seemed like he had to say something.

And while he thought about it, somewhere in his mind he wondered if his father ever felt the same way at the end of the school year. It seemed like it would be different to part with adults, and Archie had grown so attached to his students, he was almost melancholy at the thought of leaving them behind. Maybe it was the same with adults, and his father had felt it too, but he didn't think it could be exactly the same.

While teaching and advancing students through learning remained very similar on every level of education, it wasn't so often that someone could say they purposely molded a student's learning habits and outlook on the world. Archie Kennedy had not taken up the job to change those children, but he had inadvertently made it a practice for them to question right and wrong, and to think outside of the normal realm of things. Even if he could never make it back to teach them again, he hoped that they would remain just as curious and open far into their lives.

"At the battlefield at Philippi (not long before the war between those loyal to Caesar's name and the conspirators) Cassius and Brutus mended their ways. Now, this is a good lesson for all of you: Just because you've had a fight with a friend, it doesn't mean that the friendship ends.

"After the battle began, Brutus commented to Cassius with a statement that I would be proud and honored to pass on to all of you." Kennedy smiled and crouched down to the level of his students, looking them over with a great amount of fondness. He really was going to miss them.

"'If we do meet again, why, we shall smile;'" he paused and closed his eyes before continuing on with his quote, "'if not, why then this parting is well made.'"

Just as he finished with his words to his students, a group of parents filtered back towards them. As unfortunate as it seemed to be, it was time for everyone to part and Archie stood up to say goodbye to parents and students alike.

It probably wouldn't hit him until later, but for the moment, he was all right with leaving everything at that. Between the hugs and handshakes, he promised his students that he would write as often as possible, and encouraged them to write back. At least then they would all have some mail to look forward to.

When it finally came time for everyone to step off the ship, he followed them down on to the docks and waved his goodbyes. It wasn't until everyone was long gone and he was back on the ship that he noticed the envelope in his pocket full of apples.

He shook the rather heavy little envelope and raised an eyebrow, half paying attention to where he was going on the ship. His name was written in very messy letters on the front of the envelope, but they had spelled it correctly, and even added his title of Captain in front (instead of Lieutenant, which they were far more used to).

Stopping to lean against the port bulwark once again, he upended the envelope and let several gold coins fall into his hand. Immediately, he was certain he knew the reason for the money, but he wasn't going to venture a guess until he was absolutely sure. So, finally, he pulled the letter out and read it:

"Five gold pieces and you work for us now."

Archie chuckled and headed off to find Harry, fully intent on finding some time to return the money before they shipped out.

---

Harry took one more shot at the foremast. While the crew was below, gathering up their seabags for their shore leave, and while Archie was seeing off his gaggle of students and parents, he took the moment to try once more to make the climb.

He'd made the effort a few times over the past week or so, though he had yet to gain the upper topgallant yard. At first it was deeply frustrating, and then it faded into a sort of grim determination.

Even as the sun was fading out of the sky, he pulled himself up the portside shrouds. It certainly didn't hurt any less; the more he climbed, the more his arm protested the abuse. But it was, even though he had not even allowed himself to think it, now or never.

He focused on Sirin, and how her back had nearly kept her from the sea; focused, too, on Lil and how she feared for her firing arm when drawing her bow. He thought of Ran and his collar, and Renne and his backbone; thought about Cinder and the dolshie, Maggie going home to Ireland. He thought about all the people who had left...

...and all of those who came back home.

He wasn't sure there had ever been a moment he felt quite so whipped as when he looked out over the salvage yard, and Rhy'Din, and the sea from the upper topgallant yard. But even beat, he took a certain cool-headed pride that he was beat on the highest part of the mast he could possibly need to climb in his duties.

He took a moment to enjoy the view, nevermind catch his breath, then slowly worked his way back down.

It didn't surprise him to find Archie waiting down there. Nor did the look he got, which he easily was able to read -- an understanding, a kind chastisement not to overdo it, but at the same time, a salute. It made the climb even more worth it, really.

"Home?" Archie asked.

"One more thing to do," Harold replied, taking a deep breath and letting it back out again slowly. "I'll be along shortly."

Archie nodded, but made no move to head back to the Maritime. Though he hadn't learned all of the traditions that went along with the merchant marine side of sailing, he knew there were those that a captain wasn't a part of -- those that belonged to the first mate, and to the crew. "I'll wait."

---

The crew of the brigantine Al Na'ir looked up at their occasionally bully first mate expectantly, as the first flakes of snow began to fall in the darkness of night. Their occasionally bully first mate looked back with a wry half-grin, holding onto the time honored tradition.

It was understated. It always was.

They'd been paid for this stint of work, and knew to be back if they wanted to set sail by the first of February. That only left one final thing.

Harold said only four words, and those words echoed across eras and across generations.

"That'll do the crew."

---

(Co-written with Archie's mun.)

February 2nd, 2007 - The Nature of Survival


He had never been known for his overwhelming humanitarian nature. There had been countless times when weeping women or bleeding men stumbled through the doors of the Maritime, and the best he would usually offer was the first aid kit and some coffee. It wasn't that he didn't understand true suffering, or that he couldn't recognize it in fellow beings... but so rarely did it seem like these people were truly suffering. More than they were just desperate for someone else to make their lives better.

Harold wasn't sure, really, why he had written to the blue-haired girl he'd spotted in the graveyard. Outwardly, she didn't look like she was all that much different from most weeping women. But there was something about the fact that she was grieving alone that had struck a nerve -- she thought she was alone in her sorrow.

If ever there was a measure of grief that he could understand, it was the grief that someone felt and showed when no one else was there to witness it. The kind that it was impossible to fake, if only because there was no one to fake it to.

And if there was ever a desperation that he could empathize with, it was the kind that had no outlet. That was why he had been in the graveyard, unwitnessed -- to visit the girl there who had died almost a whole decade earlier, and who felt she'd had no way out, and no one to help her through.

And so he'd come back home after cleaning off Kit's grave, penned a letter, took it back and left it.

He was fairly certain he was writing as much for himself as he was for the girl he knew would be there before the snow destroyed the paper. A way to remind himself of things he had learned the hard way, and was still in some danger of forgetting. He had not been back, however, to see if it had been taken.

But it had been a good reminder, if nothing else: This too shall pass.

He missed Archie. They had barely spoken -- in easier times, it was hard to shut them up. It was funny in retrospect that a chatterbox like Kennedy would have ever been his friend, let alone his best friend; Harold wasn't talkative by nature, unless it was something he was passionate about, and was easily annoyed by inane chatter.

Somehow, though, Archie could get passionate on everything from literature, to the weather, to social issues, and everything in between. It was hard to get annoyed by someone who could make an everyday topic into an engaging conversation. No wonder he'd been a popular teacher.

He supposed, though, that Archie was dealing with his life in the best way he saw fit for now -- 'this too shall pass,' and this time there were no disappearing acts. Even if there was still some running going on, it wasn't as far, and that boded well for some future time when things would come back to rights and perhaps stay there for good.

He missed Lil, as well, though it was still a distant ache. He knew that things were over, at least in this present day -- somewhere deep down he still harbored a bit of hope that they would cross paths as old, gray-haired people and spend their last years sitting together on a porch. She had been his friend before she had been his love, and she had been a good friend; he knew they would never recapture that, but maybe they could build something else.

In the end, he found some better place than laying in the dark under his blanket and trying to avoid the world -- a settling of understanding that his best friend would work things out (and that Harold would be there if needed to help), and that Lil would perhaps someday find her way back to her own strength. And even that maybe the blue-haired girl would be able to understand what he had written, whether she chose to act upon it or not.

Any which way, like winter, this too would pass.

February 5th, 2007 - One Poison or Another


It was still too cold for him. Far too cold. But despite the fact that even looking out of the frost covered windows made him shiver, Harold nonetheless bundled himself up and went out anyway.

The first thing he did was go and get Everett from the boarding stable. The big Clydesdale wasn't very happy about going out into the frigid weather, but his winter coat was in and he was capable of handling it far easier than his owner. As usual, Harold left the saddle and rode without it; he had even invested in a bitless bridle, out of care for his horse, so that what riding they did do would be as pleasant as possible.

And he rode.

He rode out to the Eastern Point lighthouse and checked on the restaurant that would never be opened. The thought crossed his mind that he should just finally sell the damned thing -- it was a shame to leave it there like that, to collect dust.

He rode back to the salvage yard to check on the Al Na'ir; even in his funk, he had dismissed the crew to find lodging and employment until the plans to actually sail came to fruition, and paid them a retainer so that they would be available.

He checked the other vessels they owned, all of which had been pulled out into the dry docks of the yard for winter. The only one he steadfastly refused to step foot on was the Dream -- he could tell by the snow on her decks that no one had been aboard, and the fact that the schooner was there was proof that Kennedy had not tried to go find England again.

Unless he found some other way.

Harry shook the thought out of his head, then scrambled back up onto Everett, having to readjust his scarf once he was seated.

It was too cold for him to be out there. Too cold for anyone to be out there. And even though Harold's first inclination was to believe that things were fine, and his second was to believe that things weren't and he had been abandoned again to find his way alone, the uneasiness that crept in now was enough to stir him into searching.

He was worried.

He'd been shanghaied, and while he doubted Archie had been snatched by pirates, it was proof that it was possible for people to disappear in Rhy'Din against their will.

Between the business with the election, and the fact that it was far too cold for even an English bulldog to be out in weather like this, Harry found it all to be cause for concern.

But somewhere deep down, he wondered if worrying was just another way of coping; if searching and being a little irrationally anxious was another way of holding back the anger and frustration.

For now, it didn't matter. It was something, and he would take it.

February 13th, 2007 - Snow Drift


The snow started coming down before the sun rose and hadn't let up once. Everett's winter coat kept the big horse from losing body heat, and Harold was dressed in enough layers to preserve most of his own, so both of them were additionally wearing a layer of white that would not melt off. In the end, they looked a bit ghostly riding in the whiteout conditions.

The tracks were obliterated within ten minutes, and nearly a foot was on the ground already; if not for the fact that the horse was well-suited to cold weather, the trip might have been less pleasant.

As it happened, though, it was surreally enjoyable. The whole world was white, and gray, and soft wispy drifts around and in front of and between hooves.

Making a decision at least meant a clarity of purpose, even if the rationality of that decision was somewhat incomprehensible to most. And clarity of purpose, if nothing else, meant that there was a weight lifted off of Harry's shoulders.

He wished that he could have given a better goodbye before he had gone -- at the time, he hadn't been thinking much, just numb and lost and desperate to get away. But it was too late to turn back, even if he was at least now clear-headed enough to slow down a little and enjoy what he could of the ride.

The entire world was silent. No birds, no sounds at all; everything muffled except for the snow falling, sort of a raspy undernote. Evergreen bows were bent down, sometimes nearly vertical, from the weight of the snow. If not for the fact that the road was wide enough to be easily followed, he might have gotten lost.

But he didn't. He had the maps, and the translations and knew where he was going. The next town wouldn't be reached before nightfall, but having made a decision meant stopping and sleeping and eating properly -- reaching the goal was important enough to guard his health for, and at least he was able to think in those normal enough terms.

So, for the moment, he enjoyed the ride. Lily would have loved it; trees everywhere, except for on the road, and sometimes little falls of snow dropped off of the branches that arched over. Archie might have liked it, too, though not for the same reasons... maybe just for the sense of relative quiet and peacefulness. Or, maybe not.

Harry didn't know, so he just took what time he could, and enjoyed it for all of them.

February 28th, 2007 - The Road to Home


He was alone, but for the first time in a very long time, it was his choice to be.

It wasn't in a literal sense. He still had his friends, still had his bar, still had his life. He just didn't have any safety-nets anymore; strangely enough, there was a certain amount of comfort and security in that. Better, at least for now, to guard his own interests and rely on no one else to do it for him.

Not to say that it wasn't a little sad, because it was. He didn't want to spend the rest of his life holding the world at arm's length. Like most living creatures, he wished for a time when someone else would be willing to stand between him and ruin, even if he never asked it and even if he never needed it.

Maybe someday, he would have that. Even if it wasn't today, tomorrow or for a very long time. But for now, he just wasn't going to allow it; no one else was capable of doing it, even if they might have wanted to.

This morning, though, Harold was going home. He finished cinching the two smallish crates to the sides of Everett's saddle, not the least bit worried about the Clydesdale being able to handle the weight of the load. There were benefits to having a horse that was taller at the withers than his rider, and though Harry was well aware of how silly he probably looked riding the horse, he just didn't care.

The two boxes of the Elvish fire-water stuff, and a cloak made out of a dead yeti, were the only things he was taking home with him that he hadn't brought out here... intentionally or no. He'd worked it out with the barkeep to send two crates with the post once a month; he doubted anyone else would drink it, but Harry liked it and it made him absurdly happy.

He gave Everett a pet on the neck and lead the horse down the muddy road to tie outside of the tavern. He'd already said goodbye to those in the little mining town of Copper Forge he got to know -- they were good people, refreshingly free of angst and complications in their lives, and he had enjoyed their company.

Now he just had to track down Renne and Archie, see if they were either going with him or, barring that, if they'd join him for breakfast.

Then it was down the road to home.

March 2nd, 2007 - Credence


It sort of figured that the one night when he wouldn't have a place to stop was the one night it decided to pour down rain. It was a bone-chilling rain, too, like it should be on that edge between winter and spring; the kind that Harry didn't really want to be stuck in for longer than necessary.

The road and the weather had other plans, though, and didn't particularly care about providing a reprieve to a soaked little Welshman.

Harold, however, was not without a brain and an ability to use it. And though it took him an hour of getting wet and generally being unhappy about the weather, he eventually figured out that not only was his packed away yeti cloak good for keeping warm... it shed water like a duck.

The ride after that was a bit more pleasant.

It wasn't that he hadn't been in far worse conditions in his life. But he figured that at thirty-four, he should at least have earned some creature comforts and a right to bitch about the weather.

He didn't take either of those rights, of course, but he had least knew he had them if he wanted them.

Instead of dwelling on the mud, and the cold, and the fact that he was probably going to be stuck either sleeping in the saddle or not sleeping at all, he thought about Rhy'Din. The conversation with Archie had been insightful, even to him -- it was the first time he actually said outloud that he loved the realm for itself, not just because he had people in it to love. And while 'love' was a strong word he was always careful about using, he meant it.

It wasn't hard for Harry to figure out how he had come to love Rhy'Din. How he had gone from hating it passionately, to deciding to make a go of it, to being comfortable, to finally being loyal to the place itself. It just surprised him because he hadn't even realized the progression until he actually had to look it in the face. Hadn't realized how deeply he'd come to care about Rhy'Din until he was asked one too many times if he wanted to leave (just for a time) and automatically replied that he wouldn't mind travelling, but only if he could come back home when he wished.

The idea of leaving Rhy'Din forever, or even for too long a time, left him feeling cold. Not to say he didn't miss Earth -- he did. He missed his own stars, even after all of this time, and wanted to see the Pacific again. And deep down in a place he wasn't sure was quite right, he wanted to face down Cape Horn one more time. He still felt pride in his country of origin, still dreamt of Earth's oceans and people sometimes.

But Rhy'Din was his home.

It was a place where a man could truly own his life and destiny. It was a place where he didn't have to bow to anyone or anything; a place where he really was able to decide, all mitigating circumstances aside, how to live.

So far, looking back, he'd made a good show of it. Far from perfect, but he'd at least lived essentially by his own rules.

How those thoughts came to be finally came to fruition when he stopped at a small house off of the main road. The owner, used to living out alone and therefore very wary of passersby, was short tempered but tolerant. And after haggling a little (and a bottle of that not-fyrewyne stuff), he agreed to let Harold and Everett spend the rest of the night sleeping in the small barn.

He had told Lily, while they were in the Underdark, that he had never actually slept in a hay-loft. And it was the truth; he'd slept nearly everywhere else that anyone could in his life, but never in a hay-loft. Since then, a few years ago now, he had slept in the straw once when he and Archie had gone to Loriel.

He had never envisioned in his life before Rhy'Din that someday he would fall asleep in the straw, listening to the rain on the roof of a barn.

March 4th, 2007 - The Unfairness of the Common Cold


Upon waking, he realized two things.

First, that he wasn't lucky enough just to get away with a sore throat. God forbid that he actually make it through one winter without catching a cold and spending a few days, at least, feeling like death warmed over. No, that would just be too bloody easy, wouldn't it?

And second, he realized that hanging out in the Red Dragon for most of an afternoon and... well, the rest of the night, wasn't exactly the best way to have combated said cold. Not to say he didn't enjoy himself, in a sort of filtered way; it's always amusing to drag perfect strangers into a game of Truth or Dare. They put up an all right show of it, and took it in decent humor, and that was somewhat better at least than waiting for someone to come into the Maritime. But if he would have thought just staying home, drinking tea and staying warm would have given him a chance to escape feeling awful, he would have taken it.

Harry groaned and threw an arm over his head, trying to hopelessly block even more light out than being under a blanket was doing. It was at times like this that he usually had black thoughts towards mystical, magical, immortal, vampiric creatures who never had to contend with having the common cold. Sure, their lives were filled with centuries of drama and trauma, most of which they seemed to provoke just to keep some intrigue going, but they didn't have to contend with a pounding head, aching body and sore throat.

He mentally bitched about it for a little while, then finally forced himself to crawl out of bed. Wisdom would dictate drinking a cup of tea, maybe taking a hot shower, and crawling right back into bed -- he saw no reason to dispute that notion.

He nearly walked past the package on the bar, in his attempt to get to the kitchen without opening his eyes anymore than necessary. But it caught in his peripheral vision and he stopped, staring at it for a moment before going over and picking up the note.

It took him reading it through twice to make any sense of it. Not because Renne hadn't written it well, but just because his own brain wasn't working at anything near its usual capacity. He half-wished he felt better; he'd give a more proper 'thank you,' but for now he was just happy to get enough brainpower up to find the pen and the raised ink in the drawer and scrawl a quick, "Thanks, Renne," on the bottom of the note.

Making tea took even more mental effort. What the Hell was it, to feel tired just going from putting water in a kettle, to putting it on the stove, to turning the stove on?

"I really don't like vampires," he thought, as he stared at the kettle on the stove. Because vampires didn't get sick, they didn't get achy and sore and under the weather. Rhy'Din vampires were the worst, too, because somehow every single one of the bloody things could live in sunlight and was immune to holy water and laughed off wooden stakes and crosses... all of the strengths of their literary counterparts, but none of the weaknesses. How was that fair?

At least he hadn't made too much of an idiot of himself last night. Sure, dancing with Victor hadn't exactly thrilled him to pieces, and dancing 'sexily' was even worse, but he could confidently say he had been dared to do far worse than any of those within the Maritime's games.

He hoped that Lenika would get her chance to sail. Not that Harry was sure of anything regarding the Al Na'ir anymore, because everything was as it always seemed to end up being... up in the air. He really should have learned long ago not to rely on anything being a certainty but that which he did himself, but he was an idiot sometimes.

Well, worse came to worst, and he'd just take command of the brigantine and sail as Captain. He was more than qualified; he had just thought he would be happier as first mate.

The kettle whistled and dragged him back to the here and now. It took him too many minutes from there to find the tea, the cream, the honey and actually put all of those together. Once again, he threw mental insults at vampires. Well, to be fair, there were a lot of creatures in Rhy'Din that never caught a cold, but he had always had a particular dislike for vampires. Not all vampires; Sarah was sort of a vampire, in that she lived on blood, but most of them didn't have any personality and she at least did.

He hadn't seen Sarah in awhile. He had been cheered, though, not too long ago to find Cinder had dropped off some supplies while he'd been out somewhere. It was heartwarming to know that the elf was still alive, and out in the world... fishing for his redfin, or tooling around Avalon or Midgar.

It was a good thing that it wasn't Patrick's body laying out there last night, down from the RDI. Harry hadn't thought that it really would be, and therefore didn't allow himself to get upset, but he hadn't realized how relieved he was just to have that confirmed. Not that Patrick was really his friend, so much as acquaintance and fellow shanghai victim, but he deserved better than that fate.

He really didn't let himself think that the first worried thought in his head was that he had to make sure it wasn't Archie. Archie could take care of himself.

Frowning a bit, Harry took his tea back upstairs, stopping to grab the Browning off of the bar and leaving behind the wrapping. The firearm felt so completely familiar, and comfortable, and natural in his hand -- sometimes, he felt a bit silly being so sentimental over a gun, but it saved his life and never let him down when he needed it, not once.

Which was one of the reasons he'd left it behind.

He sat on his bed, sipped on the tea and for the umpteenth time thought bitterly that vampires should at least have to suffer the common cold once a year. It was only fair. They could move fast, live forever, heal from anything... they deserved to catch a cold once in awhile.

Maybe in a few days he would... do something. Pick one of the other vessels that they had in drydock and start restoring it. Check on the Balclutha, of course, and the Eastern Point Light. Couldn't hurt to try to get things done... if not actually build a stable for the horses, build a shed.

For now, though, he just finished the tea, crawled back under his blanket, curled up and tried to sleep.

March 7th, 2007 - Life or Death by a Silver?


"You do it."

The reply was an incredulous and hushed, "Hell no!"

"It was your idea!"

"An' you think that means I wanna risk my life?"

The two men stood outside of the back door of the Maritime, haggling back and forth. To listen to them, one would think that they were about to enter a dragon's lair, or waltz into the middle of a shootout. It turned out that it was neither of those things -- in fact, it could indeed be considered something more dangerous.

They were haggling about who would walk in there and potentially wake up Mr. Lowe.

How exactly their first mate came up with the reputation of being a demon upon waking was a mystery. None of the Al Na'ir's current crew had even had to deal with him in a sleeping state. It could have been, however, a horror story passed on by Captain Kennedy at some point, or it could have been one passed on by Lily (good greenhand, she was) while they were under the command of Captain Hanshaw. Any which way, given the nature of stories and yarning and gossip, it had probably gotten blown way out of proportion.

That didn't make either man standing at the back door want to rush in there and find out if it was true or not.

"You fuckin' coward. It's not like he's gonna eat you alive, Grey."

"Tell ya what, we'll flip a coin."

Blackie rolled his eyes, pulled out a silver and got ready to flip it. "Heads or tails?"

"Uhm... gimme heads."

"Gotcha."

Just as Blackie flipped the coin, the back door opened. The silver dropped down to land in the mud, and both men looked a little like they had been caught doing something they shouldn't have done.

Lowe raised an eyebrow, looking between the two of his sailors, then down at the coin, then back at them. "Do I even want to ask what you idiots are doing?"

Greystone smiled through a wince. 'Idiots' had been tagged to them years ago by Kennedy, and while everyone knew by now not to take it to heart (unless it was backed with a rope end or belaying pin, or a bellow), this was one of those situations he wasn't quite sure on. "Well, y'see sir, there was this guy wanderin' around the dockside. Wasn't doin' nothin', you know, but he was lookin' at all the boats in harbor and takin' notes."

Lowe leaned a shoulder on the doorframe. "And? He wasn't in the Yard, was he?"

"Nu uh, he didn't get a look at any o' ours. We been tradin' off, you know, watchin' over the boats. But we figured you'd wanna know. Might be some official, or he might be up to no good."

"So, keep an eye on things. And I'll do the same." The first mate was obviously wondering what the big deal was -- so long as his fleet was safe and sound, and guarded, what did it matter?

"I was thinkin' we should go an' warn the other crews an' such," Grey said, feeling a bit relieved that this hadn't degenerated into shouting yet.

"If you like," Lowe rubbed at his eyes, then stood up straight again. "It's probably nothing."

"Yes, sir." Grey motioned to Blackie, and then turned to walk away. Though he paused and glanced back, "You okay, sir? You look a bit roughed up."

"I'm fine; just getting over a cold." The mate shook his head, looking past them to the new snow on the ground, and obviously had to bite back a groan. "I'll be down at the Yard later to check on things."

The two crewmen just nodded again, gave a quick good-bye, then went around the building and stepped back onto Eastern Drive. Maybe they could catch a few of the men off of the Pride and Fury, or one of the other vessels docked, and spread the word. Better to err to the side of caution, and keep the eyes open, than risk trouble.

Though, of course, both were so relieved that they didn't have to risk the wrath of waking a demon, that they forgot their silver in the mud at the back door.

March 10th, 2007 - The Al Na'ir


It was a shockingly pleasant day; far warmer than it had been for a long time, and sunny to boot, at least in the early morning hours just around dawn.

The Brigantine Al Na'ir looked lovely in the warm, deep yellow glow. At ninety-two feet, she drew nine feet at the bow, eleven at the stern and had a spacey but not unelegent twenty-one feet of beam.

Harry stood looking at the boat in her drydock, the snow melting off of her where it had been allowed to sit (which wasn't in many places), and thought about the future.

She wasn't nearly so awe-inspiring as the Balclutha, five docks over. The Balclutha, like her counterpart that once sailed Earth's oceans, was a massive work of steel and wire and canvas and teak; a beautiful Cape Horner, and impeccably restored by one man for one woman.

But the Al Na'ir had her own unique flare. She looked a little more battered, just by virtue of her age, but there was no doubting that she would be swift in the water and capable of outmaneuvering almost anything else afloat. There was a rake to her masts that suggested she had once been a schooner or topsail schooner and was re-rigged, but the brigantine rig did afford her both speed and maneuverability that neither a schooner nor a ship would have.

"You're up early, sir," Greystone said, coming back from his morning patrol around the yard to check the fleet. "What brings you by?"

James Greystone was one of the men that had been with the Al Na'ir since before Archie had 'acquired' her from her previous owner, and it didn't shock anyone that he would have stayed with her probably into the deep, regardless of who was commanding. Out of the so far sixteen members of the crew, he was one of the four paid extra in his retainer to keep an eye on the fleet.

"I wanted to tell you that we may have a new second mate," Harold replied, though he didn't take his eyes off of the brigantine. "Her name's Maia; if she comes down here and wants to sound the boat, you've got standing orders to let her in and show her whatever she wants shown."

"Yes, sir," Grey replied, unbuttoning his coat in the warmer-than-expected morning air. "I'll make sure the other three know it."

"Good."

"So, busy night then, sir?" the sailor asked, trying for nonchalant and just managing to sound a bit like a gossip. He had probably not failed to notice that the first mate was coming from the wrong direction, at a fairly early hour, and was moving a bit gingerly. It was a good guess that Lowe had not spent the night brawling, which left very few other things that he could be accused of doing. Grey hastily amended when he got a look, "I mean, given the early hour an' all..."

"You just mind your own business, and I'll mind mine," Harry replied, though despite his matter-of-fact tone, it was still a fairly light-hearted comment. And with that, he turned and headed back for the gate and for home.

Grey smirked to himself and went to roust the other three in the fo'c'sle. Blackie (called that forever despite his given name being Frank White) was another of the Al Na'ir's 'permanent crew' in that he had been with her for as long as Grey, and had no intentions of leaving unless something awful happened. Jonson was the third, the most experienced AB on the crew -- he spoke very deliberately and couldn't read very well, but he knew everything anyone could possibly know about the care and handling of anything with sails. The last man was another AB, nicknamed Ducky (another strange one since his name was Dickerson), who had sailed before under Marial and decided to stay with the Al Na'ir when Marial returned to Midgar.

It was a fairly good crew; most of them had good experience, and the only greenhands would be Lenika if she joined, and anyone else who was looking for a chance to learn about life before the mast.

In the early morning light, the Al Na'ir was more than just a brigantine.

She was the potential for hope.

--

Curiosity was a thing nigh impossible to quell in the woman. She listened to Harry speak of the Al Na'ir as they sat, sipped their drinks and became acquainted. The idea of being back on the waves and watching the wind billow defiantly against broad sails tugged at that salt-soaked heart of hers, and she remembered well her better days. Her best days, so far. With those days in mind, and fairer weather on the horizon, the once-pirate made her way to the docks. She wanted to see his ship with her own eyes, to meet her, to feel her feet upon the deck and pace from forecastle to taffrail.

For a long while, she would drink in the sight from a distance, hands tucked in the pockets of her morning coat. The ships in a row all seemed to wait in their graceful, composed fashion, ready to be carried out to the blue to rock in the wind and leave the world behind them. It was how she often felt. Many would never understand what it was to have such kinship with wood, rope, tar, canvas... but it was poetry, better than any she could recite. A ship, as a whole, was always far better than the sum of her parts. The roll of the sea provided the rhythm to which she would walk, always, given the chance and the right set of circumstances.

To Maia's pale eyes, the Al Na'ir possessed a great amount of character. She was almost immediately charmed. The lines looked longer than she knew they could be; there was just a weathered grace about that ship. She looked quieter than her newer counterparts and perhaps more trustworthy for the history. Then again, Maia had always found the look of brand new ships to be more brash than anything else. She preferred something with history.

A slow stroll closer then, appraising eyes not missing a trick. The draft looked as though it might hit a bit shallow to make it a standard brigantine. A modified vessel- she could be very fast, indeed. As Maia studied the masts, she could picture herself high in the yards, with a clear view of the infinite blue and the wind in her hair. On sight, she was indeed everything that Harry had said. Perhaps more.

To the man that approached, Maia flashed a congenial smile, that dagger sharp gaze appraising the man like he was just another ship. She removed her wide-brimmed hat, better displaying her own weathered qualities. The way that woman held her chin and squared her shoulders gave her an air of authority so convincing, one might think she had never been told that she was a diminutive thing. A strawweight, were she to box. After a single nod, a respectful gesture on her part, she spoke.

"Hallo, love. Maia is my name, Harry sent me over." That icy gaze would then slip from the face of the fellow gaze again at the Al Na'ir, and the slightest of smiles would fix itself in place.

She hoped to hell it wasn't too good to be true.

--

The man approaching was a good-sized fellow, but there was something about the way that he carried himself that suggested he fell more along the 'passive and friendly' range of the spectrum. His gait was that of a sailor; rolling and graceful on a deck, despite his size, but never quite right on land, never quite at home on it.

His name was Jonson. Nothing more, nothing less; where he came from was a mystery only he really knew, but he was sea-tested through and through and would die on the water. In that sense, it seemed to matter little where he had originally been born.

He was also one of the finest ABs on three continents; a true stroke of luck that he would have found himself attached to a small operation such as this when any navy or merchant captain would pay good money for him. But he had, despite not meaning to, found himself feeling with the Al Na'ir, under Captain Hanshaw, as much a member of a family as a part of a crew.

It was purely unintentional, of course. He had been on the deck of more vessels than he could count as high as. But between helping Lilith searching for her shipwrecked lost love, and getting along with the small number of men he'd sailed with, it had just worked out that way.

He didn't appraise this woman now in any disrespectful manner, really; he had sailed more than once under female captains, or mates, or bosuns, and so long as an officer proved to be competent and fair, he never found cause to grumble. But he did appraise her just as any seaman would someone they may find themselves taking orders from.

Immediately he thought that she must have been at least a first mate before, or a captain; the note in her voice and the way she carried herself wasn't the same way a young second mate would, just off an apprenticeship -- it was of someone with experience, and the ability to make her voice heard from the poop all the way to the top of the foremast in a gale.

With that, and the standing orders of his own first mate in mind, Jonson ducked his head politely. His speech was on the slow side, had always been, and very careful, "Yes ma'am. We have orders to show you what you want to see. My name is Jonson."

--

"Jonson. Good to meet you." Her first impression of the AB was that he had something very steady about him, and it pleased her. Maia, understandably, had long put a lot of stock in her gut reactions to things. A beat then as she considered what she would see that day.

Truth be told, she was just as interested in meeting the other sailors as she was in meeting the ship. You could tell a great deal about a captain, and a ship, by the sort of men they held in their employ. Maia settled on requesting to see the more common areas of the ship. With any luck, she would have ample time to get to know the rest.

"I'll walk the main, have a look above first. Wouldn't mind seeing the berth, the fo'c'sle, meeting any of her crew that might work in drydock."

"Yes ma'am." The gent, who looked almost a giant beside her, turned and led the way.

As she paced through the spaces he opened to her, her footsteps fell gently on the planks beneath them. Wide eyes surveyed the lines of the ship in careful appraisal, and the little details tugged at both her imagination and her memory. Even in the ghost-ship state of drydock, the smell of her was undeniable, and held a distinct appeal for the woman who so passionately loved ships.

In time, she met the other fellows, and commited their names and faces to memory. White. Greystone. Dickerson. Maia liked Grey immediately. There was something about his demeanor, in particular, that reminded her of a few of her own men. She would not be surprised in the least to learn that he had once sailed under a jolly roger, too. None said much about Harry, or Archie, but the way they did not speak- it was more the respectful silence of loyalty than the guarded silence of fear or disdain. Just her theory, though.

When at last she left the yard to go back to the more dreary version of life she presently called her own, the hope in her heart indeed drummed gently, just like her footsteps on the deck of the Al Na'ir. She was more than worthy, and the four crew she met seemed decent. It would not be long before Maia would seek Harry again, that she might take a step towards quelling her considerable curiosity about his good friend Archie.


(Co-written by Harry's and Maia's muns)

And for a thousand years they went on talking,
Making such apt remarks,
A race no longer of heroes but of professors
And crooked business men and secretaries and clerks,
Who turned out dapper little elegiac verses
On the ironies of fate, the transience of all
Affections, carefully shunning an over-statement
But working the dying fall.
-Louis MacNeice


March 13th, 2007 - The Dying Fall


It was another day that could only herald spring; so warm, in fact, that Harry didn't even wear a coat out, or a sweater. It was hard not to appreciate that sort of day, so he did -- he just enjoyed it in his own strange fashion.

After several days of relative sleeplessness, it was almost tempting to curl up on some dry, warm rock in the sun and listen to the rotting ice on the harbor crackle and break up. That would certainly beat crawling out of bed at night to pace around the Maritime's floors, drinking coffee or that elvish firewater stuff.

But he had things he had to do.

The walk to the stable wasn't bad, if not a little muddy. They had the stable hands walking the boarded horses in shifts; it wasn't hard to see the animals were as happy about the beautiful weather as most living beings in Rhy'Din, given their dancing and prancing about.

They all knew Harry; he'd been keeping his Everett there for years, and paid well for the Clydesdale and the other "Maritime critters" to be treated top notch. So, when he waved to them, they thought nothing of it and just waved back.

He stopped and gave a half a carrot each to Seaton and Renne's little pony (he could never seem to remember her name; he always wanted to call her Annabelle, her old one), then went down and took Everett out of his stall.

It didn't take him long to saddle and bridle the horse. Harry had to smile a little to himself over that -- if only Pacey could see him now. Could see how comfortable he had gotten with riding, could see how much he'd learned since those terrifying first moments trying to ride Ransom, so very long ago.

He hadn't thought about Pace in awhile. Not that she was ever too far away from his mind, but ever since she had left, it was only in more recent times that he was able to remember her fondly without it having to hurt so much when he did. As friends went, she had been one of the best -- the gray-eyed girl from Sarcorria, who raised horses and zapped people with Force lightning, and taught him how to ride as he taught her how to swim.

He hoped, as he always did when someone vanished from his life, that she had found some place to be happy. That she'd found her peace, in the best possible way. Barring all news otherwise, that was the ideal that he carried with him.

He walked Everett outside, then turned and faced the giant horse that had been his friend and companion for a few years now. Even if they did look a bit silly.

It wasn't fair to leave Everett to spend his life by a rider's whim; even with the excellent care at the stable, he deserved to have a large green pasture and the chance to sire offspring, not to wait long periods before he was needed again. And Harry could never bring himself to sell the horse, if only because he didn't know anyone he trusted enough to give Everett another twenty-odd years of a happy life. That only really left him one solution -- to send Ev back to Sarah, who had bred and raised him to three years, and trust that she would see to it that he'd be loved and cared for.

Harry pulled an apple out of his pocket and fed it to the Clydesdale. And once the chomping and chewing was finished, he called over a stable hand and gave over a note and some gold, though he held onto the reins for a moment longer.

Everett was a good horse. A true companion; stalwart and patient and loyal... very patient, to have dealt with someone so amateur in the saddle as Harry. Sometimes he would kick up his heels and play tricks, but mostly he was just a good and steady horse with a warm personality. He deserved the chance to trot around pastures, making little Clydesdales, and spending the rest of his days in peace.

Harry rested his forehead against the horse's for a long moment.

"Godspeed, Everett," he said, quietly and really only to the horse, then stepped back and handed the reins over to the stable hand. "Goodbye."

The hand nodded, put the gold and note into a pocket, and then led the horse away.

Harry didn't watch; just turned around and headed back down the road to the dockside.

- --------- - --

Dear Sarah,

Hopefully this letter (and horse) finds you safe and well. I know that it's been some time since we've visited with one another, but I didn't know who else could possibly be trusted to do as I ask.

I'd like you to take my Everett back. He's been not only a good horse, but a good friend as well and I can't bear the thought of selling him to someone that I don't know and hope he'll be cared for properly. I know that you've gotten out of the ranching business, but perhaps if you have a nice pasture, you could find a place for him there with your own horses. He's also in fine form; never a problem out of him, and if you ever do want to breed him, I'm sure he'd sire some fine offspring.

The saddle he's wearing is a few years old, but it's in good shape, and the bridle is almost brand new. If you want, and get back word to me in time, I can also have his harness sent as well. And, if you need any money or want anything else to take him, then let me know as soon as you can.

I'm sorry to have sent him to you like this without tracking you down myself first, but I'm at the end of my rope and this was the best that I could manage. But I want to thank you; you sold me a horse, but I was far more lucky in the sense that I got two true and good friends from it: Him and you.

Take care;
Harold

March 13th, 2007 - Two-Winged


It didn't stop being a nice day; even after the sun had gone down, the air was still warm and comfortable. After walking out to the Eastern Point Lighthouse, Harry was glad to spend an hour or so sitting on the porch of the Maritime, drinking some homemade lemonade.

In such a state of relaxation, it didn't fail to shock him when he was dive-bombed by a hawk.

Well, at first it seemed like he was dive-bombed, but it soon became entirely apparent that it wasn't some wild bird trying to alight on his head or rip out a chunk of hair or anything. In fact, it was a messenger.

Shaking his head to himself, he figured that only Sarah would send a hawk instead of trusting the Rhy'Din postal service. It took him a moment to summon up the nerve to retrieve the letter, half-expecting to be bitten for his trouble, but no such thing happened and he settled back to read it with the little light coming out of the Maritime's propped open front door.

It made Harry smile that Everett had already made friends with Sarah's mare; he was stalwart, that horse, but a charming enough fellow where the ladies were concerned. No doubt he'd be trying for that tail whenever the breeding season started.

The rest made him smile too, though for entirely different reasons. Sarah, worried, offering to come down there to start or end trouble like the old days -- the memories made him grin. From the two of them making fun of that one vampire guy, to Sarah turning her demoness-ness up to full power to scare the piss out of some jerk or another. He still had the shirt she had gotten him, still remembered that they'd first met on the beach when she let him borrow a lighter to start a fire.

After he finished the letter, he stood, eyeing the hawk for a moment. "Stay here."

Then he went back into the Maritime and composed a reply. It wasn't terribly long, but he hoped that it would ease her worries some; he didn't want her to be concerned or upset. After he'd finished the note, he attached it to the hawk in the same manner that Sarah's letter had been, then watched the bird fly smoothly away.

March 14th, 2007 - To Maia


Dear Maia,

It seems a shame to have just gotten to know you, only to end our brief (but pleasurable) acquaintance so abruptly. However, I do want you to know that I did enjoy your company and from what I hear from the Al Na'ir's crew, you've already made a few "fans" onboard.

I suppose that I had better get to the meat of this. I won't be sailing with her. And though I don't know you as well as I wish I did, I consider myself to be a good enough judge of character to believe you're more than capable of taking my place as first mate.

If Captain Kennedy decides for whatever reason not to take her out under his command, I have also left word with him that he should offer that position to you. I still believe in her capacity to be a vessel for profit, but even moreso, a vessel for hope in a realm that needs all the hope it can get. And I still believe that you, who have obviously seen both the good and bad points of being at sea, would be a wonderful choice to use the brigantine to make a difference.

I know that all sounds terribly cliche, but unfortunately, I couldn't come up with any better ways of putting it.

Take care of yourself, and good luck.

Harold Lowe
Former First Mate, Brigantine Al Na'ir of Rhy'Din

The Last Goodbye


The last goodbye was always the hardest.

He managed to get things as well arranged as he could, given how little time was left. Tried to make certain that something was set up for the Al Na'ir, made sure Everett would be cared for, sent a few letters out in hopes of at least thanking those who had made his life as good as it was.

When all of that was done, what was left was the most difficult.

First he packed up Lily's things, whatever was left in her room, and whatever he had left of hers amongst his own possessions. Each box labelled neatly and concisely, so that if she ever returned for those things, she wouldn't have any trouble figuring out what was where. The last thing was a ring box.

He didn't pack that box up to make her miserable; he just couldn't imagine giving them away or selling them to someone else. He had bought them not long after she left in the spring, and meant to give her the two simple wedding bands for Christmas, but Christmas never really came. Inside the box he tucked a note.

Once that was finished, he paused to get himself a mug of coffee and stand out on the porch. It was overcast and he could feel on the back of his neck the energy in the air that would come before a thunderstorm. Given that he hadn't heard thunder since last fall, he was looking forward to it.

It didn't make it any easier to go back inside; not the warm air, not the rising breeze, not the smell of rain and lightning. But he did anyway.

Then he tackled his own room.

Photo albums, books, knickknacks. Clothes. Uniforms. Writings and letters. Blankets and bedding. His tools of the trade, and then some.

It sort of surprised him how much he had accumulated here in Rhy'Din; on Earth, the most he usually had were his uniforms and a handful of other personal objects. Here, he actually had plenty of stuff to pack up, from years of making a home in one place.

But little by little he did it, again labeling each box neatly in case anyone ever cared to go through them. There were a few he made sure to mark for Archie only; mostly the Maritime's massive collection of blackmail photos and tapes. And, not surprisingly, his own writing collection, even if it wasn't that large.

Even with the surprising amount of stuff, it didn't take as long as he'd expected it to. He left only one thing out; Oughtlake's sword from Avalon.

It was a surreal feeling, to look at his empty room and then at the stacks of boxes on the third floor. Pacey, Sirry, Stacey, Lil... and now his own name amongst the organized cardboard.

He stopped there, and listened to the rain on the roof. Took a deep breath; old paper and some dust, recently disturbed, and under that the moisture and thunder in the air.

It was getting harder to go forward, but not impossible. He figured, probably rightly, that it was more to do with biology than anything else. It wasn't enough to stop him, though, and it wasn't even enough to slow him for more than a few moments here or there. For a cup of coffee, or a breath of air, or a wistful thought.

The last goodbye was always the hardest.

He hated goodbyes, but he respected them. He had little choice but to respect them; in a realm where people came and went, he always, always preferred a goodbye to being left wondering and hoping and waiting. It meant, at least, a little bit of closure.

This was the single hardest goodbye he had ever penned. But he penned it anyway, wishing that he had a way to just take all of his thoughts and feelings over the past thirty-four years and put them all in paper form. All of the good, all of the bad, all of the in-between; every joy, every contradiction, every hope and every fear. Whether those words were ever understood, or not, didn't matter.

But he couldn't do that. So he settled for the best he could, writing what he deemed to be the most important parts down. When he finished the letter, he left it on the bar, resting under Sir Oughtlake's sword.

The sky broke open, in an almost ironically apt display.

He was never prone to drama. In as such, he viewed death as being a rather matter-of-fact thing; at least, his own. That didn't mean he wanted to die, though.

It just meant that he was tired.

He figured that some people would be angry, or confused, or frustrated. Or that they would be stunned and hurt. Maybe they would be all of those things, and then some. He couldn't blame them if they didn't understand, and he wasn't going to be able to stick around to explain it all -- there were no ghost-like hauntings in his future.

In the end, the only real judgment would have to take place between himself and God.

He was tired. He had been clawing on the edge for so long that he had forgotten what it was like not to. Always in that state where sometimes he could pull himself back up enough to be all right for awhile, but without fail, he would slip again and be left scrambling. It wasn't that he hadn't tried; he had tried everything he could possibly think of. Tried to stand and fight, tried to retreat, tried to just view life in terms of minutes instead of days or years. And a hundred things more than that, each day getting more frantic as nothing seemed to work.

Eventually, though, he just couldn't scramble anymore.

Eventually, he had to let go.



He stood on the dockside, in the dark and rain and thunder and lightning. He'd nearly died off of this dock once, so many years ago. But this time there were no second chances, and this time, it was his own choice.

He knew his timing was good -- had timed it, in fact, to try to ease as much of the trauma as he could. It wasn't likely in the cacophony from above that anyone would hear the gunshot, and the tide was at it's fastest point of ebb; the sea could have him, and he found that fitting.

He tipped his head back in the rain for a moment, took one last breath...

...and pulled the trigger.



In the end, all that was left was a shell casing for a nine millimeter, a few diluted stains of blood soaking into the wet planks of the dock, and a Browning HP in mud underneath of it. The soul went wherever souls go.

The sea took the rest.



March 15th, 2007
The Ides