January 28th, 2004 - Times Like This


The pale and thin light of the winter sun had found him doing the wash. It wasn't a warm light through the window, but it still served as something to cheer him a little bit where all of the days in cloud, warm or not, couldn't. Sunlight was too rare in the winter, particularly for a seafarer who had known mostly warm South Atlantic and balmy Pacific climates for a good part of his career.

He had hanged the typical wear up on a line in his room, over an old tarp. Two identical pairs of black trousers, his three dress shirts, underwear, socks. And his boots sat newly shined beside the bed.

It left him to a pair of blue jeans and a black t-shirt, clothes he wore only on occasion, when he was down to little else that was comfortable. He stood long in front of the mirror, grooming himself, shaving then combing his hair, the gestures smooth from so many years of practice.

It was at times like this, when the Maritime was quiet and he was essentially alone in it that the tavern belonged to echoes, ghosts and Harold Lowe.

It was times like this, when the natural light of day filtered through the window, that he wondered when he stopped recognizing the eyes looking back at him from the other side of the mirror.

In most ways, he looked the same as he could remember for most of his adult life. Even at thirty-one and some odd, he didn't look his age... yet he was no longer what anyone could call 'Baby-Face' either. There was a certain lean quality to his face that hadn't been there when he had passed this thirtieth year. His hair was darker without the sun's influence to bleach it lighter, and in its dark winter state he could see the gray strands here and there. Not many, but more than there had been.

He set the comb down on the edge of the sink and leaned his hands on the side, eyeing himself critically.

"You have to fall out of love with the misery and fall in love with yourself.. even if you don't recognize who you are anymore."

He'd dwelled on that since Ari had said it.

"Running away again, I see."

And on that, for years.

He bowed his head for a long moment, staring down into the sink and taking a deep breath. When the Maritime was quiet was when he could hear the conversations bounce between the walls, in all of their joy and all of their pain, and in all of those things that made the place, even as it was, hard to deny.

All at once a hellhole and a heaven, and nothing he could do to change it.

It took him awhile to look back up. The eyes looking back were older than they had been at his thirtieth; still dark, still sharp, but somehow more tired. There was a fine line between his eyebrows that was more permanent than it had been, and very fine lines tracing across his forehead.

Real lines.

"You look a bit older now," that boy had said, but wouldn't explain.

It was eerily true. And that bothered him too; that where once he couldn't sit still, he now found himself staring out the window or reading for long hours, and where once he was quick to rile and even quicker to argue, now he mostly avoided it, and that once... once he could step certainly in life and not fear the fall.

'I'm not the only one,' he retorted, mentally.

That was true too.

But she was still beautiful. Her hair pulled up sloppily from her neck, her figure which she used so gracefully and elegantly at times that just watching her was a pleasure. And eyes the green-blue color of the sea, on the best day of your life.

He closed his own eyes with a sort of reminiscent smile.

Those eyes, that burned or smouldered or cut right through him on more than one occasion, and that would eternally be linked in his mind to the Pacific in its beauty and occasional rage. He couldn't count the times he'd looked into them and had seen a mirror, or a fire or a dream of something, and when the ghosts and echoes quieted, he still took joy in those moments.

There were a lot of moments like those, where the fighting and arguing and uncertainties and fears and secrets could not taint them; they were moments beyond, good moments where life became a single breath, or a single feeling. Those are the moments that he calls on to comfort him, when the echoes and ghosts cry too loudly from the walls.

Pacey, from a planet now gone, with her ray guns and light sword. Pacey, whose gray eyes held her sorrows quietly, but who, when she smiled, could light a whole room. He hadn't known how badly it bothered Sirin when he had first started leaping across the bar onto Pace when she walked in; it was a ritual he started simply to make her smile, to realize that there was at least one place she was always welcomed and loved.

And he loved Pacey Calderone fiercely.

He was never in love with her, but he adored her. She was a shoulder to lean on, and a person who wasn't afraid to lean back, and she was gentle and kind underneath her unpolished rough edge, and she had slept more night than one in his arms when they both were trying so hard to hold onto something they could believe in.

Even now, after finding out that his affection towards Pacey had driven a wedge between her and her best friend, he still finds warmth and safety in her memory. He still aches hard and deep for her absense; the absense of that pretty blonde girl with the gray stormy eyes, who taught him how to ride a horse, and who went with him as he taught her to swim and sail, and it still hurts like a new wound to know he may never see her again.

Sirin and Pacey had a wedge between them; Sirin still hurt for it. And he knew wherever she was, so did Pace.

Archie and Harold had their own problems. He remembered more than one shouting match on the deck of the boat towards that end, in the main room of the bar, or outside on the docks. Not to say they stopped caring about each other, or that even for a moment one would have hesitated to give their lives in the service of their friendship. But the marks left by those fights were painful, and the last time that Harold had seen his best friend was a deceptively quiet occasion. A brief talk about the condition of the bar.

The next day, both Archie and the boat were gone.

He'd not known what possessed his best friend to leave like that, after all they had been through. But time has a certain understanding that open wounds don't; Archie was never truly at home in Rhy'Din, aside those moments, and he was miserable by the end of it. The second to last time he and Harold had spoken was a fight that Ranyor was a witness to. And after that, the bell was tolling it's inevitable claim.

He leaned on the sink heavier than he had been. It still ached like Hell to think about them; still ached like Hell to recall how good they had it, and how sadly it just faded into nothingness.

The nothingness was the hardest part of it. Even with all of the fighting and arguing and doubting and fear, he would have given his soul to have them back with him. There weren't words for that time; he'd slowly unravelled, line by line, until night would find him sleep deprived and out of his mind, screaming back at the walls that spoke with their voices. For days on end, until exhaustion drove him into oblivion, he'd walk the empty space... he lost more weight than he cared to remember, drank more coffee than healthy, made himself ill a few times. And even when he blacked out, he still heard one voice, low and bitter and sad and hurt.

"Running away again, I see."

'I'm not running!' he'd howl in his head, and over and over again until even that became blackness.

It took him a year and a half of losing his sanity and falling further and further into a neverending cycle of misery and despair before he finally just snapped completely.

First he snarled outside at the sea and the schooner somewhere out on those waters.

Then he went back home.

He nearly tore apart the bar he had so painstakingly put back together after the fire; nearly set the place on fire again. He destroyed bottles, glasses, plates. Broke a few chairs. Broke a table. And when he wore himself out too badly to keep up the rampage, he stood in the middle of the room, slid to his knees and sobbed his sorries until he lost his voice.

Something had died; he still didn't know what, just that something had died in him that was never going to come back. Be it the fire he used to have, or the courage or the self-confidence, but something was gone that had until then been a part of him.

He'd picked himself up from the floor, breathing ragged, and taken himself to Pacey's room to curl up on her blanket and seek the comfort she had given.

"Hey, look...I kept the roses you and Archie gave me. And the shell. All right next to Tevac's lucky horse shoe. Can see 'em all when I go to bed at night."

"Have to get you a shelf and more knicknacks."

"I'm a pack rat. Keep everything."

"Nothing wrong with that."

Soft spoken words, with Pacey laying under his arm. Just... words, soothing and there and how badly he missed her in those moments laying alone in her old bed. But even after her being gone so long, her blanket still smelled like her, and he drifted off to sleep. And though Sirry's voice still echoed in his head, he had not the heart left to answer.

The next morning, he started picking up the pieces of his life, starting with the pieces of his main floor.

It was hard work, but his nights slowly became less troublesome and he was able to recover his weight and his health. He did more work; added a few things, fixed a few things, repaired the second floor hallway, and the open third floor. Even did some roofing. The steady work kept him from dwelling too long, and from wandering the hours away at night.

It didn't take the echoes away, but it made them more bearable.

It was only about a month before he opened, though, that he had it in him to clear out their old rooms. He knew that if they ever came back, they would always have a place; to heck with any tenants in their old rooms, that was his family. Even if they weren't there anymore.

He packed their things away, slowly, tiredly. Mostly just knicknacks, and Pacey's dried roses, and some of Archie's things, and finally he put away a few old garments Sirry left and sealed the boxes and sat for a long time in the stuffy third floor trying to come to grips with it and walk back downstairs.

It was odd to open the bar after so long, but he did. And it didn't take long until Ranyor showed back up; for some reason, it didn't shock Harold that the tiger would find his way back. He was the first tender, afterall. Then Renne, as well. And slowly, things started to come back to a more even keel; he still pined for his lost crew, but he began to look more forward to the next day than dread every night.

He spent many nights listening in the back of the Medieval, and many a day working in the Maritime. Things weren't perfect; nothing ever was.

But it was, at least, all right.

February 14th, 2004 - Rhieingerdd


They say that if you're going to do something, you might as well do it right. They, of course, being the anonymous people who say things like, "Don't put all of your eggs in one basket", and several other bird comments. One in the hand, two in the bush, etc.

But they do have a point.

And if Harold was going to make a fool of himself, he was going to be the best damn fool in Rhy'Din.

He stood on the rotting ice on the path to the Dawnstar, looking at the quiet building for a long time. Almost as quiet as the Maritime was -- though, admittedly, he hadn't been there to tend bar or even open much over the past several weeks leading up to Stacey and Alec's wedding day. Too busy making sure the cottage he'd heisted for the soon to be newlyweds would actually be livable.

But he had found some time to do something he'd been wanting to do.

As he never managed to get his forms in to apply for the position of hilltop lover, and as he hadn't seen Sirin in far too long, he did the next best thing. Well, the best that he could manage, anyway, all given.

He finally stepped up to the door of the Dawnstar, setting the parcel where it wouldn't be missed. It wasn't very big; only about the three inches by three inches. Inside was a pendant; a delicate chain, with an aquamarine stone set in silver. Simple, maybe, but there was no one in the realm that it would look better on than Sirin.

He took a breath, looking at the door for a long moment, then pulled out a tack and two pieces of paper. One he left folded, and the unfolded sheet that he tacked over it bore a simple enough message:

Dear Sirin,

Happy Valentine's Day. I miss you.

I love you.

Yours,
Harold

He stood for another moment, contemplating quietly to himself, and then finally turned and headed back for the dockside and the Maritime. With the wedding tomorrow, there was a lot left to do, but nothing could have kept him from this self-appointed task.

If you're going to do something, do it right. If you're going to be a fool, be the best fool you can be.

The folded, hand-written sheet left behind didn't say everything he wanted to. But it was a start.

I heard a tune within my head,
Playing over, and over, and over again;
It sang the score, the harmony,
Struck a chord inside of me,
And as I tilted my head to hear,
A realisation drew a'near:

You are the song.

March 7th, 2004 - Going it Alone


Even before the first rays of sunlight began to peek through the window, Lilith was awake and out of bed. She was already showered and dressed, and her hair was almost dry -- albeit in a wild, unruly mass.

With the faint morning sun beginning to illuminate her room, Lilith climbed atop her bed and sat cross-legged surrounded by piles upon piles of her belongings. By her right hand, her quiver. The leather was worn, and it had certainly seen better days. But no one would ever be able to say that Lilith hadn't cared for it -- perhaps even better than she had cared for herself. The arrows it contained were fletched with simple feathers in a veritable hodgepodge of colors, yet each arrow was impeccably fletched; a fact that played no small part in Lilith's renowned accuracy with her bow. To her left was a small pile of clothes, most were plain clothes. Some were padded for use under her armor. All were in varying shades of brown and green. Immediately beyond her clothes was her supple leather armor.

She leaned and took a quick sniff to make sure she had been successful in beating the stench of the trolls out of her leathers. Although she had planned on destroying the whole set in the bonfire, she just couldn't bring herself to go through with it. Instead, she spent the vast portion of an entire day scrubbing and cleaning them. These leathers had seen her through many tough times. If she was superstitious, she would never part with them. But she's not superstitious... it's simply that these fit her so well. They're soft and supple and she would never have enough time to work in another set before they left for the Underdark. She's not superstitious, just... practical. Or so she tells herself.

It is a good thing she was able to clean her leathers.

She actually laid her hand fondly atop the greaves before her gaze swept past to settle on a small stack of odds and ends. Here, almost hidden by her hairbrush and some socks, lay her only piece of jewelry. A bracelet, hardly worthy of noting, except that it was hers. And that it was a gift. She doesn't wear the bracelet, but she always kept it close. Usually, she has it stashed in a small pouch buried at the bottom of her quiver. Not this time. She dug the bracelet out of the pile and fastened it around her wrist.

With the bracelet still on, she reached behind her for the paper and pen on the nightstand. Lilith sat quietly for a minute, trying to compose her thoughts. Her pen hovered over the paper while she kneaded the back of her neck with her free hand. She made a concerted effort to lower her hunched shoulders as she wrote a quick, unceremonious note. Then, she unclasped the bracelet, folded the note, and deposited both in an envelope, already addressed to a place in The Hartwood. She set the envelope and pen back on the nightstand, where someone would eventually find it if she did not return to Rhy'Din.

A quick shake of her head banished such thoughts from her mind. She returned to the task at hand with renewed vigor. She rose from the center of the bed and dropped her empty pack on the empty spot. It did not remain empty for long as she expertly packed clothes, food, a few necessary toiletries, rope, tinder, a folding set of silverware, a knife that bordered on dagger-status, and a few other small odds and ends tucked inside a small cooking pot. An experimental tug on her pack proved to be her undoing, as it was far too heavy to be lugged around in the Underdark. So, she unpacked everything, pared down what she wanted to take, and refilled the pack, topping it with her bedroll.

"This is it."

She grinned, a steady, almost rueful grin, and donned her armor, cinching it tight. Then, she left her room with one last look to make sure the envelope is on the nightstand, and went to the stairs...

---


For most of the day, Rhy'Din had been overcast. And colder, too, than it had been over the past week or so, though still not as cold as it was over winter. For most of the day, rain came in bands and washed over the dockside and the city, and the wind blew hard enough to rattle the new buds on the trees.

But the sun came out eventually.

To Harold Lowe, that was a good sign.

He stood on the still wet planks just down from the Maritime, back to the ocean and eyes closed in the sunlight. It was not a spiritual moment, nor an epiphany, nor anything of the sort; it was merely a moment to appreciate. White clouds drifted overhead, the dark gray over the ocean, the blue sky ahead.

He couldn't stand there forever, and he knew that. But he stood there for as long as he could get away with. They had to leave and get into this place before the sun was down for too long, and he knew that too. But still he stood, and still he breathed and felt the sun.

He felt the weight of the pack on his back. It was a good pack, and not cheap, bought at some outdoorsman place in the mall he knew frightfully well. And in it was food, and a first aid kit, and a new journal to try and write his adventures down in, and in it was a pen, and a good torch, and a small pan to make coffee in. On top of it was a bedroll of sorts; inside of the bedroll was the coffee itself, in a waterproof container, with matches and light tinder to start a fire.

So he was almost ready to go.

As soon as he could pull himself away from the sun.

It was a dark journey they were undertaking; it would be awhile before the light of day would come down again, and it would be too long before he was back beside the ocean, but it was a worthwhile journey.

He kept telling himself that.

A cloud finally drifted over the sun; the world grew momentarily colder, and he opened his eyes to look around again. It was getting to that time... that time to go. He already knew that his compatriots would be displeased with his and Lilith's idea to leave them behind and embark alone, but too much time had passed already. The job needed done.

It was with a slightly heavy, solemn gait that he finally made his way back to the Maritime. He paused only a moment to appreciate the building he'd spent so much time working on; paused only a moment to appreciate the tracks and streaks of mud from the lightsaber battle the night before. They'd have to go and do that again sometime, maybe when the summer rain was coming down, and the world smelled like mist.

Taking a breath, he stepped up onto the porch and pushed open the door. The sun, the Maritime and the rain would be here when they got back.

---

Lilith walked down the steps with her pack slung over her back, topped by her bedroll which was secured with an extra length of rope -- it never hurts to have extra rope, a lesson she learned the hard way, but learned well. Reaching the main floor, she donned the rest of her gear, slinging her bow over her shoulder and strapping a shortsword at her hip. As the door opened to admit Harry, she was in the process of draping a large cloak around her shoulder, over the pack and bow, but leaving her quiver free.

Wearing a grin that was caught somewhere between anticipation and anxiety, she looked him over head to toe. Not one to stand on formality, she covered her worry with light banter, "Not bringing the leather pants?"

While she waited for a response, she began to systematically check her gear, not only for completeness, but also for access. For a test of the bow, she slid it from her arm and took a knee even as she drew an arrow and noched it in one fell swoop. A satisfied nod saw everything back in it's place before the next heartbeat, when she flung back her cloak and drew her sword. This one would need some adjustment.

She looked down and adjusted her swordbelt, though her eyes swung to meet Harry's. "Are we going tonight?"

"That is the plan, isn't it?" he asked, though he didn't wait for a response before heading to the steps, tossing her a lopsided grin on the way. Might have everything basic in the pack he needed, but he still needed to get his clothes. He shouted back down the steps, though, "No, I'm not taking the bloody pants!"

"That's probably for the best anyway, we wouldn't want those female Drow getting any ideas."

Harry's footsteps faded away overhead, and she couldn't help it -- her mind drifted back to the Will and Testament that he wrote last night. The moment would come, she knew, when she will have wished she had written a Will. And although she didn't fear death, neither did she actively court it. "Calculated risks," she murmured to herself. "That's what it's all about."

She kept all of her gear on and sat at the table covered in maps. A recent addition sat atop the rest -- a rough sketch of the route to the tunnel. She went over that route inch by inch in her head until it was burned in her memory. The possibility of failure before reaching the Underdark was simply unacceptable. For good measure, she moved aside the hand-drawn map to take a look at the one Harry had been poring over. Although research was certainly not her forte, she could not go to the Underdark without at least a working knowledge of the area. If, the gods forbid, something were to happen to Harry, she was not willing to be left there, lost, for the rest of her life.

Her finger idly tapped some of Harry's scrawled translations, but her gaze was elsewhere, caught up in the sight of the setting sun. Unbeknownst to her, her thoughts traveled along the same path that Harry's did earlier. She reflected on the beauty of the sun and how sorely it will be missed in the coming days ... weeks ... perhaps even months.

----

It didn't take him long to pack everything else he needed; ten minutes, and he was ready to set out into God only knew what, for God only knew how long, in order to complete a mission that he'd given his word to help complete. And it was a worthwhile mission.

He kept telling himself that.

With the new pack, and with the canteens, the weaponry and the armor, it was a wonder that he even had enough room to pack what he did. Two pairs of jeans, two black t-shirts, one heavy sweater, and five pairs of socks. Laundry in the Underdark -- Harold highly doubted that it'd be as simple as a washboard, some soap and a line to hang it on. So he did the best he could.

There wasn't much additional room after all of that. He left behind his old journal, minus the pages of hurriedly written information he'd need in the coming weeks, but he did take the Drow dictionary, and he did take along two pictures. He might be leaving his commission behind, but he was not going to leave everything. If for some reason he and Lilith didn't make it back, he didn't want to rot in the dark without something on him that told the world that there once lived a man who had a family and a home.

So he took two pictures, both irreplaceable, and left the albums full of the like.

The first was a little battered and had lived in his journal; Pacey Calderone and Tevac the peg, and Pacey with the smile that he so loved to get and so loved to provoke. Her gray eyes squinted slightly, her blonde hair a wild disarray of bangs. He didn't let himself reflect on how many times he'd looked into those eyes, nor did he allow himself to reflect on how long it had been since he last had. He just tucked the picture away in his new journal, feeling the wound he had not allowed to heal and maybe never could.

The second was of the crew. It had been a good moment in the bar; not a game, nor a joke, nor blackmail, just a picture of people on a sunny day at work. Sirin sat with her feet up on the bar, dark hair pulled into a sloppy bun, blue-green eyes narrowed at him -- he sat three or four feet away with a bastard grin, back in the days he looked more like a kid just on break from college, rather than a twenty-eight year old man who'd been around a planet. Archie was leaning on the bar, back in the days he still wore his full uniform; his ponytail had caught the light of the sun, in reddish-gold, and he was looking back to watch the match between Sirin and Harold behind him. Ranyor was sitting beside Sirin, staring at the bar top. And Pacey... Pacey sat on the patron's side, smiling her smile, a cup of coffee and a cigarette in front of her.

It had been a good moment; a moment where that life was right, and made sense, and was what it was supposed to be.

It was a shame it hadn't stayed that way.

But this life now was not to be ignored; he knew that. Life now was worth living, and worth fighting for, just like it had been back then. He pulled his armor on with a growing determination, preparing for a battle. Instead of Tos'Un's armor, he had gone and gotten his own. It was the same style; chain mail, leather bracers (though these with dragons etched into them). He forwent the leather pants, however, and kept to his own black boots. He already had enough weight, and that would add to it.

He'd traded his back holster for a hip holster for the Browning HP; he put that belt on last, made sure he had two extra magazines of ammunition, as well as a box in his pack. The yellow-bladed lightsaber he clipped to the other side. He left the crossbow, the bolts and the short sword behind -- there was only so much a man could carry, and he was likely already carrying half his weight and some.

Finally he had everything ready; the packs set, the supplies set, the armor and clothing set. He had everything he needed.

It was still somehow hard to leave the room.

He took a breath, looked out at the growing darkness, and reminded himself that this mission was worth it. And reassured himself that if he was going to go into a place like this, there was no one in his life right now -- not Sirin, nor even Ranyor, no one -- who he wanted to watch his back more than the woman downstairs.

With a smart nod to himself, he stepped out and headed down the steps, aiming for something between a casual look and a businesslike one. He spotted her at the maps and smiled to himself, more from the way she was looking out the window than anything. He didn't particularly want to interrupt the moment, knowing all too well how important it was to appreciate the sunset, but time was getting close. Finally, he cleared his throat softly. "Lil?"

---

She had heard Harry come downstairs. She would have had to be deaf not to hear him on the staircase. It seemed that a hollow thud followed each of his steps due to the weight of his gear. Or was that just her imagination?

She heard him clear his throat and speak her name in his soft tenor. But she just couldn't look away from the window.

How long would it be before she felt the blaze of the sun warming her face after a refreshing dip in the ocean? How long before she felt the wind caress her skin as she let Hrothgar ride freely? Oh, how he can ride. And, she recently learned, jump.

That fond memory of Hrothgar leaping over a frightened young calf was enough to bring a little smile to her face. Hopefully enough to hide the moisture that was threatening her eyes.

She did the impossible. She looked away from that breathtaking view (and over to one that while not quite as breathtaking was still pleasing to the eye). She met Harry's eyes and pushed herself up to stand. "We had better start. The sun is going down."

"Do you need to take the map?"

She set her sketch aside and rolled up the top map, tying it with a length of twine. "I have us covered to the tunnel, but once inside, it's up to you, Harry."

And as she looked back to him, she nodded three times to herself. Once, as if to say all would be well (and if not, at least she'd be going out in style). Again, to remind herself that they had to do this to save innocent lives. And finally, for Harry. Because, in that moment when their eyes met, she knew they were in each other's keeping, and there was no place she would rather be.

He cracked a grin, the sort that was typically saved for a cheery night in the bar, or a dawning lightsaber battle, and stepped over to take the map. "Well, I suppose I'd better make some use of this research, then." He tucked the map under one arm, then nodded towards the door. "Ready?"

Lil nodded, a grin of her own tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Ready."

"Then, let's go." He stepped as jaunty as he could (considering the weight) to the door, held it for her, and then locked it.

The lock clicked, leaving behind the quiet Maritime. On the bar, two notes; one addressed to Tos'Un, Renne and Bella, and the other to Ranyor.

-------

Dear Renne, Tos, Bella,

Here's to daring adventures. Lilith and I have decided to take on this mission alone.

Now, before you get angry and tear apart my bar, or decide to burn us in effigy, let me explain our thinking. I know you'll likely be both hurt and angry with us, but at least if you keep reading, you'll hopefully understand.

Renne, for as wide and helpful as your skills are, neither of us can stomach the idea of taking one so young as you. Yes, lad, I know you can take care of yourself. I know you can fight, and have abilities far beyond those we have. But I have seen myself one too many young men, older even than yourself, dead. And I don't want you to be one of them.

Tos, you certainly have enough problems on this side of the earth's crust that you need to consider. Consider this a gift from your friends, and a chance to do the right thing, and be the right man, and hopefully make something of this that could not have been made of it before.

Bella; on the next mission, I hope we'll all go. If there is even a next, or need be. If not, then still learn to fight, and to be strong, because you never know when you'll need it. But for now, Bella, it's too soon.

All of you need to stay put and deal with your problems above ground. Lilith and I will be fine; she's one of the finest fighters I've seen, and I... well, I'm armed to the teeth. We've done quite a bit of research into this Underdark, and even into the Drow, so we're not going in naive.

Kick us when we come back if you feel the need. Until then, wish us luck.

Harold

(Co-written with Lil's mun.))

March 17th, 2004 - Not Now


The settlement had quieted down significantly after the bodies were cleaned up, and the armor and valuables stripped from them; it was almost possible to imagine that there hadn't even been a battle. Dwarves went about their lives as though nothing had happened, aside a family or three who had lost someone in the fight. But mostly, it was quiet.

Harry rubbed his eyes for about the thirtieth time, trying to ignore how much they were stinging. He hadn't woken Lilith up -- instead of four hours, he was now on his eighth hour of watch. She needed her rest after taking a cut like that, and being poisoned, and God, if something happened to her...

"Arglwydd Iesus, maddau inni ein pechodau, achuba ni o danau yr Uffern... ac arweina ysbrydau i gyd i'r nefoedd yn enwedig, y rheiny sydd eisiau dy drugaredd yn fwyaf."

It had gone through his head as he'd picked her up, and got her off of the battlefield; somewhere in the back of his mind, it had ran through. Whether that was why he succeeded or not wasn't even an issue.

"Amen."

He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. The battle was felt now far more than it had been earlier; his shoulder was useless and the bruises and aches were all topped off by a relatively fierce headache that just wouldn't quit. Finally, though, he dropped his arm back to lay across Lil's side, cast a glance at the now sleeping Drow, and then back to his thoughts he went.

Or lack of.

In the latter half of the battle and most of the aftermath, he'd been on autopilot; moving and doing and commanding, but not really feeling much. Just get the job done. Don't dwell -- not on Lil being cut down, not on Renne and his sudden and odd appearance, not on Vicfryn the Drow prisoner, not on anything. Just get the job done.

"Lay on your oars..."

He squeezed his eyes closed, hard, shoving that thought right back out of his aching head, snarling internally to keep it at bay.

Autopilot came in handy sometimes. In the middle of a fight, or a crisis, there wasn't time to worry about feelings. He was a leader -- he'd always been a leader, always been able to stand up and take charge and bark orders and hold it together until finally there was nothing left to hold together, and then he found himself worn out and all of those feelings he didn't let himself know on the battlefield came back.

He brushed a moment at Lil's hair, trying not to let that fear stay in his head or in the pit of his gut -- she was all right. A little battered, but all right. Not dead. Not gone.

Renne was wandering around somewhere. Harry didn't have it in him to go find the imp; he had a prisoner to guard anyway. He scowled to himself, unwittingly -- what ever happened to following orders? What ever happened to respecting someone's wishes? But Renne was off -- something was odd about him, and Harry would have to wait until he had the time and energy left before finding out what. And then he'd figure out what to do about it.

Not now.

Not now.

His head ached. Whether it was tension, or stress, or the battle, or the feelings or what was anyone's guess, but he felt like going and dunking his head in ice water. Maybe freeze the pain out.

"Lay on your oars..."

He snarled out loud this time, though softly, and once again buried that old wound where it couldn't bother him. It was something he had mostly gotten past, and had no place in a Dwarf settlement in the Underdark. It didn't even have a bloody place in Rhy'Din, aside within his own skull.

It took a few minutes for him to get back to center; back to an even keel. Finally, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes -- Lil was all right, Renne was off, the Drow was asleep. He could close his eyes. It would be all right. Later, he would get up and start planning again, and deal with Renne's presence, and take care of Lil, but not now.

Not now.

April 9th, 2004 - Good Friday


He wasn't brilliantly good at waking up on his own, but he'd gotten a decent night's sleep the night before and for once, the morning sun cresting his window frame was enough to drag Harold back to the land of the living. Instead, of course, of repeated cajoling and coaxing.

Well, that and the glorious smell of a breakfast that appeared to have come out of thin air. He blinked once or twice and rubbed his eyes, looking at the plate with a slight squint as it steamed in the morning sunlight. Well, there was no way Lil could've made it, and he doubted Ranyor or Vic did, which left the only other Maritimer (and the only qualified cook)... Renne.

He smiled slightly to himself and picked up the plate, sitting indian style on the bed. Judging by the sun, it was fairly early yet in the day and there was no sense in letting the food get cold. Particularly since the last time he'd had a cooked breakfast was years before.

In between bites he generally stared out the window to the not-visible-but-there water across the way. He'd finally figured out the date: April the 9th, Good Friday, and that was another reason he'd made a note the night before to try'n wake up early. He hoped Renne wouldn't mind that he skipped over the bacon, though he actually debated on it for a few moments, but he'd explain if it came up in conversation.

He finished the eggs in short order, and raised an eyebrow at the fruit before shrugging to himself and giving it a try. Huh... was pretty good, really. Sort of like something tropical, and pleasant, and something he could imagine growing on some distant island in the sun.

It looked to be a beautiful day.

It already had a very good start.

He thought, as he set the plate aside, empty except for the bacon and picked up his coffee.

April the 9th.

In his time, three years ago had been a beautiful day too; it was unseasonably bright and clear for England. Though some colder, that he could tell from the fact the furnace had barely been on, and the room was warm. He thought about that day, in a cautious and wary sort of manner, like an animal who skirts something it knows could be painful, but still has the need to look anyway.

Satisfied that he was able to skirt the memories without quite the same level of upset that had once claimed him, he took a sip of coffee and with his usual meticulousness put the past back where in belonged. Doubtless he'd be there again, but he wasn't going to allow that to be on this day.

He set the coffee back on the nightstand and stood, stretching, favoring his leg; yesterday and the day before had taken some toll on him, though not as much as the entire mission had. Then he pulled down his new white dress shirt, washed yesterday morning, and his new black trousers, and his old black tie. The uniform coat he left in the closet.

It didn't take him long to change, and he cursed again the length of his hair, but there was little that could be done about it today. It'd have to be taken care of soon, though, before it started into the curl that tended to annoy him. He did his best to comb it neat, wetting it with water from the glass, then finally put the tie on. For a moment, aside the length of his hair and the lack of his coat and hat, he could've well been on deck in England, three years ago.

But, he was in Rhy'Din. And for the moment, very glad of it. He gathered up the dish and the coffee cup, once he'd finished the Sumatra, then stepped out into the hall.

Speaking of the cook...

The corner of his mouth crept up again to spy Renne curled up in the hallway, apparently sleeping. Maybe making breakfast had tuckered the little imp out; any which way, Harry stepped back in and set his tray down, then back to the hall to carefully pick Renne up. Either he was very tired, or very good at pretending to sleep, it was anyone's guess, but Harry set him down on the sunlit bed and covered him over with a sheet before grabbing the dishware again and taking it downstairs.

It was a beautiful day.

The Maritime loved the sun; the wood glowed in it, and even though Rhy'Din in general might prefer the nightlife, the building itself was built for the day. As he set the dishes in the sink, he admired a moment the two-toned oak, and the general hard work, and then he went to the back door to check the temperature for the day.

Warm enough to go without a coat, though a bit breezy. And for one of the rare moments in his life, he took the Browning's holster off of his belt and left it pushed back against the kitchen wall, on the counter. Whether or not it was out of some kind of need to leave it, or because it was Good Friday, or because it was April 9th, or because Renne had made breakfast for him, for once Harold Lowe ventured somewhere without his pistol. He'd pick it up when he got home, but he went out without it.

Quietly, he closed the back door behind him and set off along the Eastern Drive, dockside.

----------

She slept light that night, as she does most nights spent indoors and alone. Even before the first rays of sun crept along the foot of her bed, the delicious scents of a fresh, homemade breakfast roused her.

With a languid stretch, she opened her eyes and pushed herself up to sit. She reached over for the coffee, wondering, in her semi-conscious state, who would have left such a feast. It couldn't have been Harry, the eggs weren't green from a C-Rat. And was that fresh bacon as well? Had she gone to heaven?

As the first sip of coffee warmed her, it also brought her around to full consciousness. She didn't even mind the lack of sugar, what with that heaping plate of breakfast tempting her.

That consciousness, though, also brought back memories from last night and she just groaned, unconsciously rubbing her cheek while putting her coffee down on the nightstand.

She had just one thought.... Why? ...and she left it at that for now.

A more comfortable position was soon found by drawing her legs up to sit cross-legged, and shortly thereafter, she pulled the breakfast plate to her lap. And then she realized who made the breakfast.

Renne....that little imp.

That thought was wrapped in as much warmth as a thought can be.

She couldn't believe that he had walked last night. His excitement and thrill were plain for any to see. And although she sometimes still had difficulty understanding him, that was one thing that was clear to her. He walked, and she had the honor of sharing that moment with him.

When her stomach growled loudly, though, she directed her attention away from last night and to the steaming food in front of her. It didn't take long at all for her to finish the meal, polishing her plate off until it nearly sparkled. She did pause a moment over the unique fruit, but after one tentative bite, she relished the remaining pieces, finding it quite unlike anything she had ever tasted before.

Once she finished breakfast, she changed into a fresh set of clothes. She still missed her leather armor, but she had not yet decided how to approach that topic with herself. She couldn't wait much longer, though. Sooner or later she would need it again. But that's neither here nor there, and the morning sun looked so inviting.

She spent a few minutes with her coffee, gazing out the window. Her thoughts were a jumble, and there was always one place she could go to sort through them. Now, though, she thought of two such places.

But first, she had to thank Renne for the breakfast.

She gathered up her bow and quiver, cinched her belt around her waist, and juggled the plate, mug, sugar, and cream in her hands before she emerged from her room. A glance up and down the hallway suggested that other than Renne, who had to be awake to cook, she was the first one up. In reality, though, Harry had already taken Renne and placed him on his own bed, stepping out for the day.

She went downstairs in search of Renne, and to put her dishes away. Successful at one, but not the other, she left a simple note on the bar.

"Renne- Thank you! Lilith."

She would thank him again later, once he could be found.

The sun called to her again, and she slipped outside, on her way to try and sort through her thoughts...

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

Morning, in all senses, had not come easily to Vicfryn.

The talk with Ranyor downstairs had done some good in that it had calmed the Drow down and gave him something to focus on aside from his own desperate self-consciousness and self-recrimination, but he was still in a rough state and sleep would not come to him. It wanted to, and he wanted it to, but still it drifted just on the peripheral of his mind.

He breathed in the quiet of the night.

Meditation didn't help -- though he sat indian-style on the floor, head bowed, eyes closed, chanting through his mind something his uncle had taught him to meditate on, words that flowed like a river smoothly and unhurried, even that was not enough.

Somewhere in his mind, he cried out for his uncle, for his dead brother, for his unborn brother, and even deeper down in some part he could not see or hear but only feel, he cried out for himself.

"Usstan tlun noamuth..."

The world was upside down, that much was true; everything was odd and strange and confusing and frightening. His own world, below, had been one where all thoughts had to be guarded hard and where all signs of weakness were to be hidden, and where comfort or companionship came in fleeting moments. He would not be recognized there now; there he was quiet, and kept to himself, but his steps were sure and his certainty in himself was strong enough to see him through.

Now...

"Usstan tlun noamuth..."

The plaintive refrain of his mind would not let him rest. Between the hopeless chant of meditation and the cries for all he knew dwelled Sarah's actions and Ranyor's words and Lilith's reassurances and Harold's lessons, and just under that was Durriia's touch, burning the back of his neck, and her lips on his neck, and then his forehead on the cold floor.

He tried to steady himself, and found the ground beneath him shook. It didn't do so literally, but it might as well have.

How long he tried to relax, to sleep, to find some calm place in his mind he didn't know -- he only knew that at some point his sharp hearing picked up something and instinct had him hiding in the shadows and invisible before he realized he was there. He listened as Renne came in, and smelled the food, and for some reason when he put the thought of what the cook had done for him together, it hurt.

Why was it, that when everyone here had been nothing but good to him (minus one incident, which he understood in a primal way), that he still waited for the knife to slide into his back? He knew in the part of his mind with reason that it wouldn't, and knew in his heart that these were good people who wanted him to be all right, and happy. Yet still he waited, still he expected, still he feared, and there was no way to make it stop.

Patience; that was what Harold had tried to say, but patience for what? How does one be patient when everything is odd and cockeyed and wrong with the world?

He waited until Renne left, and swallowed hard to get the lump out of his throat before sitting down again. He was still hungry, and after a moment or two he pulled the plate down and onto his lap.

His hands shook a little as he ate, which he did simply to keep his strength up. He was tired; even when the days were quiet and nothing was immediately wrong, he still slept uneasily and still dreamt of Durriia, and his brother, and his uncle, and the dwarves, and still tried to make sense of his life when all he should be doing is resting.

"Warm... like fire?"

Ranyor had shaken his massive head, and had said, "Like... contentment."

He tried to understand what contentment was; he had never heard the word before, and even after flipping through the dictionary could not find it. He feared asking about it, though, just as much as he feared everything else -- what was this thing that made the tiger look so peaceful? Could one thing make peace?

He slowly finished the breakfast, and tried to understand, and failed to understand. He tried to imagine that warm thing, peaceful thing, but all he had known was fire and he did not have the age or experience to relate the warm memories of his life, where life was real, to contentment yet.

The refrain, however, finally left him be for a moment as he set the plate back up. His eyes kept closing, and his head ached from tiredness; still he half welcomed it, and half fought it, and longed to be back in the cave with the other two sleeping feet away, curled up together, so that there was at least the sound of breathing. He didn't have the age or experience to understand that it, also, was a form of contentment.

Finally his eyes closed for good, and even as his tired brain tried to follow the twisted paths of his thoughts, it slowed, and stopped, leaving him leaning against the bed and facing the back wall. For now... this would have to do.

(Written by myself and Lil's mun.)

April 16th, 2004 - A Sailor and a Jedi


They had not hit it off initially. Actually, to be more fair, Harold had not particularly liked Kin-Jan's complete composure; at that time of his life, Harry was anything but composed, and he had made it his personal mission to ruffle the calm Jedi. It was an exercise in frustration -- it took an incredibly crude game of Maritime Truth or Dare, which was enough to shock the master speechless. Up until then, Kin-Jan had been completely unfazed by any attempts.

Having got what he wanted, however, Harry felt distinctly uneasy about it, like a young boy who aims to get a parent into trouble, succeeds, then realizes how childish it was. Of course, it was a different set of circumstances, but still a similar concept.

He had taken to watching Kin-Jan's morning routine from upstairs by then and his respect for the Jedi grew since then. He never went downstairs to watch, nor did Kin-Jan ever make a motion that he knew he was being watched, but Harry went from calling him by his name and deferring to the more respectful 'Master', which is a title to that date he would not give anyone. No one since then had gotten that honor either.

So he knew, instantly, when he was in the bathroom washing his face to get ready for the day, that it was Master Danar dancing with the lightsaber on the lawn.

He watched for a moment; Harry wasn't a swordsman, and didn't understand the motions being made below, but he did know that it was an amazing thing to watch. For the moment, he put it out of his mind that Master Danar would want his lightsaber back, not realizing that it had already been replaced, and decided to go and watch from the porch this time.

So he did.

The sun wasn't up yet; it was under the horizon, and the stars were fading with the growing light, and there was no noise aside those of the morning birds and the lightsaber singing through the air.

Harry leaned his shoulder against the beam of the porch on the top step, crossed his arms and watched.

Across the dew stained front lawn, Kin-Jan fought an invisible foe. To Harold, who hadn't seen the original battle, it looked like a regular sword fight, though beautiful in its simplicity and elegance. Kin-Jan had no wasted motion -- every move of his blade, and his body, had a purpose. And it was imminently graceful, and quick.

Had he seen the original battle, its sheer speed alone would have been close to incomprehension, but even this form of morning meditation was impressive.

The Jedi parried an invisible blade, pushed it off, and spun as he turned downwards to take his invisible foe across the knees, then immediately was back on his feet and leaping over the blade that was no longer there. Even before his feet hit the ground again, silently, leaving only tracks in the dew, he was arcing the lightsaber across in a quick strike. He stopped, halfway, as his blade met the invisible one, spinning his saber even as he spun his body, found himself parried, then locked for a moment, then retreated back a graceful step.

It lasted like that for fifteen more minutes; the thrusts, the parries, the blocks, the twists and spins and leaps and it was not hard to see why it would almost be dancing, but with a blade of humming light.

As the sun crested the sky, the final motion was made; one more time the blades locked and then Kin-Jan, and probably his invisible foe, took a step backwards.

The Jedi Master bowed once, low and formally, then stood straight and it was over. With one motion alone, he turned his lightsaber off and clipped it to his belt, then turned his passive expression to the man on the porch and gave a smile and a slight bow. "Good morning."

Harry nodded in turn, smiling himself a little. "Master Danar. What brings you back to Rhy'Din?"

"My lightsaber, for one." Kin-Jan walked lightly to the steps and climbed onto the porch. At five feet and eleven inches, built powerfully, it was hard almost to imagine that he was the same man who had danced so fluidly on the lawn. "You haven't talked to Lil yet?"

"No." Apparently, his favorite tenderess and the Jedi had met already. Harry refrained for a moment, though, asking about the lightsaber. It was strange to ask about it when it was back in the hands of the man it belonged to by rights. "There's coffee inside, if you want me to get you a cup."

"No, thank you." Kin-Jan took a moment to watch the sunrise, breathing the morning air evenly, then stepped to the door. "Stay here. I'll make tea."

Harry frowned to himself, briefly, wondering about the order and the tea. But he obeyed without question and took a seat on the step, back to the beam holding the porch roof up, and waited.

---

The Maritime's kitchen hadn't changed either, though it was considerably better stocked than it had been the last time Kin-Jan had been within these walls. It didn't take him long to find a tin of black tea, as well as a few spices with which to add to it, and he set the water on to heat before exploring the fridge.

Raising both of his eyebrows to himself with the smile that never seemed to get far from his face, he pulled out a few apples and took them back to the cutting board. The knife was not as elegant in his hands as the lightsaber, but at the least they were basically quartered and put on a plate.

Once all was finished, he carried the plate balanced on his forearm, and two cups of steaming, unsweetened black tea in his hands, and found his way back out onto the porch. The sun had already climbed a fair amount above the sea across the way, and had gone from red and orange to yellow, but it was a calm morning for both the water and the men on the porch.

He sat down, set the first mug of tea in front of Harold, his own in front of himself, and the plate between them.

It didn't surprise him when Harold said, nearly absently, "Pacey's gone."

"I know." Kin-Jan took a sip of his tea, then crossed his legs out in front of him and leaned his back against the opposite beam. "When did she leave?"

"Not long after you and your student."

Kin-Jan merely nodded. It had not surprised him, really, though it did sadden him. He had tried as much as anyone could to teach Pacey peace and serenity, and how to calm the voices in her mind, but Pacey still screamed inside for her lost world and family, for her beloved friend Echo, and it was a sorrow that kept her forever balancing on the knife-edge between light and dark. She would have never been able to become a Jedi; her grief and anger wouldn't have allowed it. The best he could accomplish in the end was offering her meditation and training exercises that would teach her to focus the internal light to give her a break from the constant thrum in her mind.

He didn't allow himself regrets, but if he did, Pacey would be one. Had she been found and trained properly from an early age, she could have become one of the finest Jedi Knights of the order. He wondered, sometimes, how many people who had it in them to become guardians of peace and honor slipped through the cracks because they were born on the Outer Rims, or even in another realm. How many of them ended up going mad, or turning to the Dark Side, or settling for a life where their full potential could never be realized.

Harold had made no further comment, simply sat with his tea in both hands indian-style, studying the water across the way.

The Maritime's kitchen had not changed, but its owner had.

"You still grieve," Kin-Jan said. It wasn't a question, nor a sympathy even, just a statement of fact. He had not gotten to know Harold over his short stay there; not well, anyway, but he was a good study of character.

"Every day."

"The others?"

"Sirin's at the Dawnstar... I think she is, anyway. Archie left with the boat. Ranyor's still here, however." Harold finally took a sip of the tea, then went back to reflecting over the water. He didn't look the Jedi in the face.

That was no issue for Kin-Jan. Even he knew that sometimes, it was easier to talk to someone when you weren't also trying to shore up your defenses. He had such problems when he was young, but had overcome them. Some people never do. "She loved you very much."

"I know."

"Do you?"

Harold finally did look over, one eyebrow up, and Kin-Jan fought down a smile. He had made the mild challenge intentionally, a test of sorts, and got the answer he expected; there was no question there, no doubt. Though he did doubt himself whether Harold knew just how deeply Pacey had loved him -- whether he knew that what light Pacey did revive within herself was for him. He didn't explain it, though -- the sacredness of memory wouldn't be sullied by lack of knowledge on Harold's part.

Kin-Jan deftly switched tracks. "Do you need any work done? I can still swing a hammer."

"You can help with finishing the basement, if you like. Though you're more than welcome to stay without doing that," Harold said, after a moment, taking another sip of the tea.

"I'd be glad to." He meant it, too. It felt good to work on things like that; building, rather than rebuilding, and Kin-Jan still enjoyed physical activity far more than he enjoyed debating politics between warring nations or planets. "When will you need me?" He added, with a grin, "I'd like to try to track down some clothes more appropriate for work."

Harold grinned in answer. "Nailing your robes to the floor would be inconvenient, wouldn't it? I suppose whenever you feel like it. I'm going to be down there today, and you can just come down when you're ready."

"I won't be long. There're still stores that accept credits, no doubt." Kin-Jan took a quarter of an apple and sat back with it, alternating between the light breakfast and his tea.

"How's Quilara?"

"Very well." He smiled in pride, which though it's not considered proper for a Jedi, he has long since given up trying to quell. "She was considering a Padawan when I saw her last. She'll make a fine master."

"She was taught by a fine master."

Kin-Jan gave a nod of thanks, acknowledging the praise, but not answering it. "Is there anything you need while I'm out?"

Harold took his own slice of apple and thought about it before replying, "You could pick up another hammer, maybe. And another couple of boxes of nails -- three inch would be the right size."

"I'll do that." Kin-Jan finished his tea quickly, then set it aside and stood, bending to take a couple more pieces of apple. When Harold moved to do the same, he said, "Stay here, take your time." Without any further comment, he stepped off the porch and began walking.

---

Typically, Harry didn't take orders from anyone unless they held the higher rank onboard ship, or unless the order was given in a time of crisis by someone capable, like Lil, but he nevertheless listened to the Jedi and stayed on the porch, sipping tea and eating apples, and pondering the brief encounter in his head. There was no doubt that it was an order, either; Master Danar was perfectly amiable, and perfectly willing to do as he was asked, but for the time he was in the Maritime, his authority automatically superseded Harry's and Harry knew it. It was partly respect and partly age, and was fine.

So he stayed there until he was finished with breakfast, looking out over the water. He still rather envied Kin-Jan's natural serenity, but in the near three years that had passed since their last encounter, he had gotten far better at finding his own peace. Not nearly so easily, perhaps, but in moments.

This was one of those moments.

He took a breath and closed his eyes in the sun; it was going to be a warm, fine day from beginning to end. How Harry knew it was probably not able to be explained, except that he felt it from the ocean, the sky and the mild breeze. Long years onboard ship gave him a good weather sense.

In that, at least, the sailor and the Jedi were alike. There was a single thing that they were born to do -- for one, sailing, and for the other, swordsmanship. In those singular fields, there was no one better than they; equals, yes, but no one superior. In other venues, be it scholarly, or business, or even building, they were somewhere within the line, with people who did it better above and people who did it worse below, but in their callings they were the highest, and shared that position with only the best.

It seemed the Maritime attracted otherwise average individuals with a single extraordinary ability. For Harold, sailing. For Kin-Jan, swordsmanship. For Lil, her bow -- though she may not agree, Harry had seen her take out a Drow with an arrow between the eyes from a hundred yards in low light, and that was truly extraordinary. For Vicfryn... perhaps it would be in his sheer intelligence in leaning new concepts and ideas in a short time that it would take others years to do.

Overall, in some ways, the whole lot of them had one thing they were good at, and then many things they were all right at, and finally some things that they simply couldn't manage.

As Harry took the plate and cups in, though, he settled easily for spending today working on a basement, as an average builder, with a Jedi, who was an average builder. And perhaps with Lil, who was learning to be an average builder.

Spending today as an average would be nice.

Balclutha

June 2, 2001

"You can always go climb rigging. Plenty of derelicts in the bay. These waters aren't what they used to be, I'm afraid."

"Anything salvageable?"

"Stormer was the last real trader to frequent these parts. Hmmm. Might be."

"Might be worth a look."

"There's one... Locals stay away from her. Hull's made of iron. Scares the heebiejeebies out of them. Gwyn tried to do something with her, but never got very far."

"Iron, eh? Basically too hard to work with."

"She still floats."

"Wind or power?"

"Wind."

"How many masts, and how's she rigged?"

"Her rigging's been cleared away, the masts are still there. Well, the mizzen's a bit beat-up. Three. Square. No one's really sure how she wound up there."

"Square-rigger... have you been aboard?"

"I checked her out, yes."

"Sound hull?"

"She seemed to be all right. Had a few old leaks, but we got a swordmaster to patch most of them before they got bad. She was essentially sinkin' at the dock beforehand, but she's riding high now."

"How's her keel and rudder, or don't you know?"

"I've seen the top part of her rudder and it looks okay. Didn't get to check the keel."

"Probably still sound, if the hull's not too bad... She have a name?"

"Yeah. Some weird one, Gwyn got all teary-eyed when she saw it. Balclutha?"


May 14, 2004

Balclutha...

The conversation was more like a movie than it was an echo; in retrospect, so many of the things said and done so long ago were easier to recall than last week. There's a kind of idiot refuge to be found in memory, before things went wrong, when there was nothing to taint the times or the people and carry the sting of regret.

The conversation remained clean and concise, and untainted, and brought forth the sort of warm ache that he'd long since become familiar with. That feeling mingled along with the awe that came with looking at the iron ship with the kind of weird name that was mentioned offhandedly so many years before.

With an iron hull, Harry had sincerely doubted that the ship would still be there; that she hadn't rusted out and turned into a true derelict without a future or any hope of revival. When he hadn't found her at any point along the dockside, he'd damn near given up the search and turned back for home, thinking that maybe someone had salvaged her and taken her, or that maybe she'd broken her moorings and drifted to sea as a ghost ship to dash against a far-off shore's rocks and prove herself real.

But he hadn't given up. Instead, not quite sure where his feet were taking him, he kept wandering under the heavy summer-like air, past the dockside, around the bay. He nearly walked past her.

A passing sidelong glance, and nothing more for about five or six steps, then he stopped in his tracks.

At first, he didn't know if the three-masted square rigger was even the Balclutha, or if she was some ship that had been hauled into the likewise derelict dry-dock by a group of pirates as a hiding place. Pirates were among the only seafarers left in Rhy'Din -- them, and Gwyn's ship up north, and the HMS Defiant, and Cinder's fishing boat, but aside that he had only heard of one or two merchant ships and they were all outbound.

He went to the edge of the dry-dock, built so that the massive doors at the end could be opened for high tide and the ship pushed down the sliding ways back into the sea, and looked at her for a long time. He had never sailed aboard the Balclutha, though from what little he'd found some time ago in idle research, she'd sailed from his native Wales, and her home port was Cardiff, the capitol.

There was no one around; the dry-dock and the ship were deserted.

He looked left and right, then picked his way around. The ship wasn't in terrible shape; rust streaked her hull, and her paint had faded to near-nonexistent patches of stained color, but all of her backstays were there and the masts seemed to stand solid. None of her running rigging was in place; even if it were, it would have rotted out without the constant maintenance required of a ship even near the ocean, let alone being used. Her spars were gone... her decking looked as though it was weak and apt to give way at best.

She was somehow sad and beautiful all at once.

He tried to push the thought out of his head, though it persisted in following him even as he found the build-in concrete ladder to climb down into the dock, in order to get a close-up look of the tired ship and see if she was the Balclutha, or just some windjammer left like so many others to sit, or become pirate strongholds, or lay on the ocean's bottom.

Her name didn't reveal itself on the transom, though; the paint was far too faded, and there wasn't even a hint of the words that might have been there. A long walk along her length showed that her bow likewise didn't have her name on it. There was space for what had once been a figurehead under the bowsprit, which was in need of repair or replacement.

He stood and looked at the ship straight on, looking up, taking a breath.

It could not have been that long ago that he was onboard one like her, but it felt like too long... far too long. He'd given up sail for steam because steam was the future and he was ambitious, but no deep-water sailor can leave the sail without always looking over his shoulder and missing it.

There was no need for wind on a steamer.

He shook off the feeling, though, as well as he could and then started pacing the length of the ship, trying to find a way onboard. There had to be some identifying marker on her somewhere.

"She has 1886 written on one of her walls."

All he could find in the end was a length of rope overlaying the side, so he leapt and grabbed it and pulled himself up. He climbed over the bulwark, and found a relatively stable spot on deck to put his feet before looking around.

There was the deck house amidships, between the fo'c'sle and the poop deck, which looked in sorry shape, but not unsalvageable. The quarterdeck aft, the fo'c'sle forward...

He took another breath, a slow one, and let it out equally slow. Everything on this ship, whether she was the Balclutha or not, sang out to the time he spent on ones like her. She had been around Cape Horn like him, had travelled the seas he had known, sailed under the stars he still remembered how to navigate by, faced down the graybeards and gale winds, and had somehow ended up here in this dry-dock, alone, faded and tired, and stripped of her power.

Harold chuckled to himself, a mixed sound between sympathy and irony.

He didn't allow himself to stand too long before he started picking his way across the rotting deck to the hatchways. Somewhere below, maybe the number 1886 was cut into a wall; somewhere below, maybe he would find some sort of answer to questions well beyond that.

He wanted her to be the Balclutha. Not so much because he wouldn't be willing to salvage her anyway, but because some part of him wanted to take Sirin by the hand (or if necessary, the wrist), pull her down here and show her.

He wanted to say, "See? I remember a time before it all went south, and I remember a time before I screwed everything up, and I remember what it felt like just to sit and talk to you.

"I remember, Sirin..."

The below decks were suffocating in the uncommon heat of mid-May, but he just loosened his collar further and kept going, eyeing the walls in the dim light from the open hatchways. One good thing was that the decking down here was more solid under his feet and wouldn't need nearly the work as the decking above.

In all, it took him sweating a half a gallon (well, it seemed like a half-gallon), and having to stick his head up above a few times for open air, but he finally found it.

1886.

For a moment the oppressive heat and the stifled air faded, and he ran his fingertips over the numbers there once, then twice, as if to confirm by touch that they weren't just a trick of his eyes, and something he wanted to see.

She was the Balclutha.

He stood there for a good five minutes, letting his mind absorb the fact, letting the identity settle back onto the old ship as she sat forgotten in this dry-dock. Letting the old conversation play once more in his head -- Sirin, with her occasional smile, or shrug, or cracking her knuckles as she thought. Before he called her 'Sirry' even, though it was a petname he still fell into whenever she was around.

It was a near impossible task. Rescuing and restoring a steel-hulled windjammer, with limited materials and no labor aside his own hands, which was probably dragged into this dry-dock by some pirate crew who could still come back for her, in the midst of trying to build a restaurant and sort out his personal life, and work in the Maritime...

1886.

He brushed his fingertips over the numbers one more time before turning and heading back up on deck.

There was no telling if Sirin was finished with him or not; even if she wasn't, there was no guarantee they'd be able to make it work. Years had passed between those days then and these -- years since they had sat together and bullshitted back and forth, about their ships, about the customers, about the future or the past. Years of old wounds, most of which he caused; years of silence, shouting back at empty walls. Looking at the sum total of making it work was like looking at the Balclutha, sitting there without her spars or sails or running rigging.

He climbed down from the ship, and put his feet back on the cement, and looked back up at her again.

It was near impossible. He'd need to find her sail plans... or, failing that, those of ships like her, and he'd need to learn carpentry beyond what he already had learned as a deep water sailor, and he would have to find materials and study up on techniques and figure out how one man can move a mountain of spars and masts and canvas and steel and make her sail again.

It was near impossible. He had to figure out how to atone for past mistakes, and prove that he was willing to fight tooth and nail and life and limb for her, and how to show her just how much of his life she was a part of even now; had to learn how to look forward to the future instead of always cringing about the past, and that it might have taken him years to learn his lessons the hard way, but he had learned them.

He looked up at the ship even as the clouds began to roll in, the cooling breeze drying his shirt and almost giving him a chill; stood there for a long time, trying to figure out how he could do two near impossible things and coming to the conclusion that maybe he could do them both at once.

He nodded to himself and climbed back out of the dry-dock, pausing there to pick up a flaky stone and write on the concrete alongside the road like chalk:

Balclutha
Under Restoration

May 17th, 2004 - Master Plan


After spending a second day in the bilge, Harry had at least some time to formulate a strategy. There isn't much else to do when you're scrubbing out dirt, salt and general neglect. He'd had a fair number of hours, until sometime around dusk, to come up with a more conclusive plan aside cleaning... and on the third day of his one-man restoration attempt, he put it into action.

Having a plan tends to make things easier, and even in the face of this daunting task, it didn't seem quite so daunting when there was a clear path to take.

Sometime just after dawn, he paced the length of the hull, from stem to stern, sounding it out. He could see where the swordmaster's old patches were; they were in better overall shape. The rest of the hull was rough, but not beyond salvaging.

In all it took until into the afternoon, but even if it wasn't genuine labor he still considered it time well spent. The worst of the trouble spots were mostly along the waterline, where oxygen had met seawater, and the plating under the hawse holes needed replaced as well. He wasn't entirely sure how he was going to learn how to rivet steel... the library and practice would have to do it, and maybe some help from someone with experience.

Surprisingly, the marine growth had already been scraped from the bottom by whoever it was who had dragged the Balclutha into the dry-dock, and even more surprising was how well the bottom of the hull had held out. There were a few questionable spots, but considering the size of the ship it had held well. He wouldn't have been too surprised if she would float as is.

Where one would float a ship without any rigging, however, was anyone's guess.

That was the next part. He'd spoken with Cinder the fisherman, who had spent quite some time in the salvage business before he became a fisherman, and Cinder turned out to be a valuable ally -- unlike Harold, he had a far better grasp on where someone would go to salvage rigging from other windjammers.

So, first repairing the hull, then salvaging the massive amount of running rigging from other ships... and whatever couldn't be salvaged would have to be manufactured. Blocks, tackles, bobstays, crosstrees; tons of equipment, and tons of line. He had a fairly good working knowledge on rigging, enough that he could repair it, but it seemed a large task to actually re-rig and entire ship.

Well, one thing at a time.

He still hadn't found a sail plan for the ship, though he'd come across one that would do in a pinch. And he did have a couple of pictures of the Balclutha, so at the very least he knew what she was supposed to look like and could try to match that.

Hull repair, running rigging, sails.

He pulled himself up the rope off the side and decided then he had forgotten one part of this plan; it needed to be done after the hull, but before the rigging and sails.

Her decks were a disaster.

Harold took a breath and sighed it out, leaning on the bulwark and eyeing the bowed, cracked or all together missing wood decking on her maindeck. Like rigging, he knew how to repair decking -- you don't make it around planet Earth without having to repair damn near every part of the ship at some time or another -- but like rigging, he had never tried anything so big as to repair all of it at once.

Mercifully, woodworking had become even more natural no thanks to the Maritime. It was still the steel he was worried about tackling.

All right.

Hull repair, deck repair, rigging replacement, sail replacement.

He didn't take a moment to think about how long these things would take, just plunged on ahead before he could allow himself to get discouraged.

With those things, provided the rudder and steering mechanism was still in good working order, the Balclutha would be seaworthy. Not pretty, maybe, but seaworthy. The most important (though perhaps not most difficult) part of the plan would be over.

He looked up at the main mast, standing surrealistically barren and lonely looking with only headstays and backstays. The collars seemed fit enough, but without the rest of the rigging to support the mast, he wasn't entirely sure how stable it actually was up there. The time would come when he had to find out.

He almost laughed at himself -- aside when he was fourteen, this would be one of the only times he was worried about going aloft on a fine day.

He decided this time to put it off somewhat, though, and went back to his master plan (or so he liked to think).

Once she was seaworthy, then would come the aesthetics and preventative measures. Painting would be crucial (he could foresee a lot of days spent on that, maybe even weeks), as well as tarring any stays not made of steel wire. Replacing or saving her brassworks and such would come then, as well as a new compass and new navigational lamps.

Only after all of that was finished would he worry himself about making the ship livable. Cabins, the fo'c'sle, the kitchen and pantries; those would be last.

Deck plans would come in handy about now.

He took a few minutes to rub at the bridge of his nose under the afternoon sun. Supplying would be fun... maybe he could send a note to Gwyn and see where she'd gotten what she needed when she'd had her new ship built. If he knew when and where she'd be in port. And if Rhy'Din had a mail service.

Maybe Cinder would find her on one of his fishing expeditions.

So...

Contact Gwyn; meanwhile, repair the hull, repair the decking, replace the rigging, replace the sails, paint everything exposed to the elements that could be painted, tar what needed tarred, replace or save the brassworks, replace the compass and nav lamps, then make the ship livable.

And then set her afloat and give her away.

He chuckled, climbed back down to get his bucket and soap and water and brushes and oil and lamp, and went back to the bilge.

December 28th, 2004 - Wind and Fire


It had to be a dream.

He stared at the ceiling of his bedroom, thinking the same thought over and over again. It had to be a dream. It couldn't be real; he couldn't be real.

It had to be because he was out so late. He'd taken Sirin's Christmas presents to her at the Dawnstar, and they had gone out for awhile to the Medieval Tavern, and he had finally made it back home when most people with jobs were waking up. And, as often happens when coming across Sirry, he had spent quite a bit of time tossing and turning and trying to clear his head. In the realm of logic, is was perfectly likely that he'd fallen asleep at some point, and dreamt the whole thing.

He had to have dreamt it. It couldn't be real.

It wouldn't be the first time. When people disappear, you look for them. You see them out of the corner of your eye, and when you turn, they're not there. But you look anyway, because they should be there. You dream about them, and the times when they were in your life.

Then you wake up.

It had to be a dream.

The realm... the Maritime... had been a different place back then. He had no illusions that it was perfect, or that they didn't have more troubles then, but it was somehow easier to cope. The bad things that happened were bad, but then they were over, and it was all right. He had people he trusted with his life. With his soul.

The dream was one of them.

Maybe the most important one.

He took a breath, but didn't move. Just kept staring at the ceiling. There was an old hairline crack in the plaster. He had lived in this room since the McGraths had burned their bedroom behind the kitchen; that room was still the way it had been. Still burnt, the only part of the tavern unrepaired. In a way, it was a reminder of what had happened, and how close they had come to losing everything.

In another way, it was a reminder of how far they had come.

The Maritime had been closed for near two years, while he had gone to pieces. It had been a slow progression, started off by the simple act of missing someone. And by the time it had ended, it had become a psychosis. It wasn't anyone's fault but his own that he had lost his mind the way he had; instead of putting a candle in the window for them, he had allowed it to take root and grow and get out of control, and when he finally broke, he broke into a million pieces. From that kind of place, you can only go up.

It had to be a dream; it couldn't be real.

He couldn't be real.

He had looked real, in vivid color. Harold had seen those colors before, in that same lighting, many times. Had seen it in a million other different lights, as well. By fire, by moon, by sun, by candle, by oil lamp. When you know someone like that, it's not unrealistic that you could have dreamt of them, looking real and alive.

They had shook hands. They had always been formal, in a joking way, even long after they had no need for formalities between them. Long after they had bled for each other, laughed with each other, fought with each other, they still called each other 'Mister', and 'sir'. Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Lowe.

Archie and Harry.

He closed his eyes, and breathed. He was within the walls of the business they had started so long ago, with three bottles of wine and some glasses, and laughter. He was within the walls where they nearly died. He was in the room where they had slept on the floor, wounded and exhausted, because it was the only room without bullet holes all through the floorboards.

And for the first time in three years, Archie Kennedy had been under the same roof.

It was a dream. It had to be a dream. It had to be.

He tried to convince himself of that, eyebrows drawn, eyes squeezed closed. It couldn't be real -- he had spent so long looking, and missing, that it couldn't be real. He had told everyone who would listen about Archie -- his best friend. Had told everyone who would listen about Shakespeare, and sailing, and how incredible a marksman Archie was, and how they had tossed each other around the main room of the bar until they were both exhausted and beat up, but happy.

There was so much he didn't tell them, though. About the moments of desperation, and sorrow, and how sometimes the only thing keeping them alive and sane was that they could lean on each other so they wouldn't fall alone.

It couldn't be real.

He swallowed, and looked again at the ceiling.

It couldn't be a dream.

August 24th, 2005 - Shanghaied


The envelope was fairly thick when it arrived, battered from a long journey. The ragged edges had held, though, despite the obviously rough handling; the seal on the back in deep blue wax, labeled with a crest now faded, was unbroken. Inside was a letter, as well as two similarly sealed envelopes.

The letter was written on a fine parchment in an unfamiliar, but elegant, hand. It read:

Dear Miss Blythe,

My name is Patrick Shehy, and I have written to give you word of your friend and companion, Harold Lowe. First, rest assured that when I last saw him, he was alive and well. That was quite some time ago, but in absence of further information, I prefer to think that he remains alive and well. It is my fond hope that he has already found his way home, and this letter and package is superfluous.

Allow me to explain how it all happened.

I was in Rhy'Din upon a business trip, to procure an artifact for my father. This task was completed, and I had decided to stay an extra week, having made the acquaintance of a lovely maiden. On my way back to the inne where I was staying, I happened across your friend, coming home with a somewhat weary expression -- obviously, given his bearing he was a sailor, and as I had given up passage back to Midgar, I was hoping he would be able to direct me to a ship heading that way.

We were in the midst of discussing a ship that he was restoring, as he already had dashed my hopes of finding passage easily, when a rather large and rowdy group of men made an appearance. Upon first look, given the low lighting, I had assumed they were a merchant crew and called out to them; immediately upon doing that, Mr. Lowe chastised me and I soon discovered why. It was no merchant crew -- indeed, they were pirates, and rather brazen ones at that.

In my fear, I missed most of the conversation that followed, but it soon became clear that Mr. Lowe would not be able to disabuse them of their notions. After some language I cannot repeat, their intentions became clear: They needed an extra few hands onboard, and meant to make us those hands.

I was frozen in terror, so I didn't take Mr. Lowe's cue to run -- truthfully, though, running would have done little good. I believe I saw him reach for a firearm of some sort, but before any shots could be fired, we were jumped from behind by some of these creatures -- all went black under the weight of a burlap sack. Again, I missed most of what happened next, though I distinctly remember hearing more very harsh words, as well as the occasional cry of pain -- I firmly believe that whoever had grabbed your friend ended up with at least a few bruises for it.

After a very uncomfortable time where I was riding on the shoulder of one of these brutes, we were pitched into what was later revealed to be a small cargo hold in the belly of their ship. It didn't take long for Mr. Lowe to get loose from his bindings, and once he had freed me, we set about trying to figure out how to make our escape.

Alas, it was not so easy as it might sound. Before long, we were at sea, still locked in the near blackness of the hold. After what seemed like a century of being there, the door opened to reveal the bright light of day.

The next part is somewhat painful to recount, but I will endeavor to do so anyway.

We were brought before the leader of this crew of vagabonds; he was a large man with more tattoos than bare skin and the sort of brutishness one would expect from the captain of a pirate crew. At first, he gave us a speech about how, if we wanted to be willing participants of the crew, we would be well rewarded with 'booty'. Mr. Lowe quite calmly replied that he would rather serve under a howler monkey -- it would probably be more intelligent and smell better. In part from his deadpan sincerity and in part from tension, I was not able to quell a laugh.

Instantly, the brute who had just tried to gain our services turned into a monster. We were both struck rather hard across the face -- I fell to the deck, all thoughts of howler monkeys dispelled; Mr. Lowe remained standing, but only just. Once I was dragged back to my feet, the captain suggested that the crew give us a good drumming; perhaps later we would be more willing to listen to his offers.

I don't believe that they intended to do us any permanent harm, if only because after this thumping nothing was broken; we were rather bruised and sore, but aside my nose bleeding and his head pounding, we were still able to stand and walk. Then it was back into the hold.

It was down there that I suggested to Mr. Lowe that discretion may be the better part of valor in this particular case; in turn, he smirked and replied that I was very likely right. So, during this brief period where we were supposed to be fearing another beating, we decided that we would hold our tongues and work as expected, then escape the moment the opportunity presented itself. I, being a scholar, was rather afraid I would be pitched overboard for not knowing the first thing about sailing, but he assured me that I would learn quickly and he would help where he could.

We were brought back above and after a suitable amount of silent defiance, I told the captain that I would be at his service... but that I didn't have to like it. He merely laughed and said that he didn't give a d--- if I liked it or not. Mr. Lowe simply gave a nod when he was asked if he would join up.

Time after that passed in somewhat of a blur. Day and night we were expected to work, with only a few hours of sleep between each shift. We certainly weren't trusted enough to be allowed to wander the ship; between our shifts, we slept in the hold with a pair of wretched blankets, and subsisted almost entirely on hard biscuits, truly awful meat, and water. (Shockingly, Mr. Lowe informed me that this was common fare on merchant ships, not just for on pirate ships for prisoners. I never knew that weevils could survive in a biscuit that was baked.) Despite the terrible conditions I managed to learn some of the basics of the trade and was able to get by with only a few lashes from the rope end.

Mr. Lowe had considerably less difficulties than myself -- he seemed to know his profession better than the crew of the ship, and before a month had passed, he had managed to gain the respect of several of the younger pirates. The captain, strangely enough, did not seem to mind this -- as a matter of fact, he even encouraged Mr. Lowe to teach them something called 'dead reckoning'.

I was beginning to wonder if I was alone in my hopes to escape; if, indeed, he had decided to take to the pirate life. He did not man the guns when we came across a ship the captain wished to attack, but he was swift in the execution of his duties aloft and it cost two ships their cargo.

I should not have doubted him. Another several weeks passed (I am not sure of how many), and by then he had gained enough trust to be allowed above decks between his shifts, though he still had to sleep in the hold. A week before the incident, he requested that I, likewise, be allowed the same privilege, and I was.

One night, we drifted into a fog bank. We had sacked yet another ship the evening before, and this one had carried innumerable fine spirits. I was even allowed some wine, as was Mr. Lowe, but I believe he likely dumped his out when no one was looking. I didn't know what he was up to, so I partook and eventually fell into a drunken sleep. In their own joviality, they had not locked us back below.

Sometime deep into the night, the fog so thick you could not see the bow from the stern, Mr. Lowe slapped me awake. I did not understand what he was telling me at first, but gradually I became clearer in my senses. It was time to make our escape.

He told me that I must take a jolly boat. He had already swung it out from the railing, and stocked it with biscuit, meat and water, as well as a small flask of wine. There were no tools for navigation (a compass may have helped me), but until I was in the boat, I had assumed he would be coming with me.

He was not. As he reached for the ropes to lower me into the water, I whispered as loudly as I could, "Stop! What are you doing?"

"Sending you off," he had replied, as though I would be merely going for a pleasant row in a pond. "Listen... in about two hours, the sun will come up and burn off this fog. If someone doesn't stay here to sink this damn boat, they'll be on you once the breeze springs up at dawn."

"I can't just leave you here. You'll be killed!" I was having a hard time keeping my voice down, somewhat panicked at this notion. Not only of being alone in this boat, but in leaving him behind.

He had shaken his head with a grin, and said, "I already have a plan, so don't worry. Now listen closely: You should have enough food and water to last you almost two weeks. Mind you, keep it from being rained down on, and drink sparingly. When you're down in the water, row as quietly as you can as far from the boat as you can get. When the breeze springs up, ship your mast and hoist sail. If you can, sail for sunset. Whenever night falls, over your left shoulder and high in the sky is a constellation -- a circle of stars with a bright star in the middle. Keep that behind your left shoulder, and it'll guide you home."

I didn't know what to say. I wanted to say something, but I didn't know what I could say. Good luck?

He didn't give me an opportunity, however. He pushed two letters into my hand, the two that are enclosed with this one, and said, "Get these to the Maritime Tavern, in Rhy'Din. I don't care how you have to do it, but get them there." Then he smiled in a very devil-may-care, irrepressible manner, and added, "Godspeed, Patrick."

I tucked the letters into my battered shirt pocket, over my heart and under my jacket, surprised by the lump in my throat. We had not spoken too much of our lives, and I'm not sure I could get away with calling him a friend, but my respect for him in those moments was stronger than any I had felt before. I managed to say, "Godspeed, Harold," and quickly and quietly, the boat was lowered into the water.

I did as he told me and rowed. It was difficult at first, but soon I fell into the rhythm of it and lost track of time. There was just beginning to be a gray hint to the air when I heard the explosions, like a distant battle being fought. I said a silent prayer for the man I had left behind.

Sure enough, a breeze did spring up and the fog burned off at dawn, near an hour later. I looked for a sign of the ship we had been on, but didn't find one. There was nothing there but a clear expanse of blue. I entertained the idea of going back in that direction, to see if I could find Harold, but I wasn't even sure which direction that was. So, I did as he had told me, and sailed for sunset.

I do believe that he had made it off the ship somehow -- there was one other jolly boat and two lifeboats, and he did not strike me as a man who would throw his own life away without putting up a fight. Nevertheless, I did not see a sign of another boat for many days... in fact, almost two weeks. I kept the constellation behind my left shoulder and followed the sun across the sky, and came across a small fishing boat. The owner, a pretty young woman, took me aboard and gave me a good meal and a place to sleep -- once I was rested (for I was exhausted), I told her my story and she took me on the long journey home.

Looking over her charts, I tried to determine where Harold would have been. Unfortunately, navigation is not my strong suit, and I could only guess that we were very well south of the main continent of Rhy'Din. On which side I do not know. There are, comfortingly enough, many small islands in the south which he may have landed on.

I have done my best to fulfill my obligation to the man who gave me my freedom in the swiftest manner possible. If you wish me to come to Rhy'Din and discuss it, I would be willing, or if you wish to come to Midgar and speak with me, I would be glad to have you as a guest. I wish I could tell you more, but alas, I cannot.

Yours,
Patrick

Sometime in the summer of 2005 - Pieces


"Harry, no!!"

Archie... desperation and panic, it was Archie crying out, and he was...

...was...

Where was he...?

...hurt, and he couldn't breathe and everything was black. What had happened? Why couldn't he breathe?

Then he remembered. It was Sara. She was trying to kill Archie, and he had attacked her and grabbed her, and they were fighting under water and time was running out, and he wanted her dead... God, he wanted her to die, because she attacked Archie, and he was bleeding but he had to make her die, because if she didn't die, she'd kill Archie, so he had to kill her, even if it killed himself. She was choking him; he could feel her choking him, and there was pain and it was dark, and he was underwater. She had to die.

He struggled and he felt something, familiar and sturdy and he stopped trying to get the arm from around his neck, and ignored the torture of moving and reached back to his waistband and there was the Browning... he didn't have the Browning when he went into the water, but it was there, and he pulled it out and brought it up to where her head would be and he didn't know if it would fire underwater, but it had to... it had to...

It did, and the arm left his neck, and he broke the surface only a second later and breathed, and then he realized that it wasn't Sara, and Archie wasn't there, and it all came flooding back as he dragged air into his lungs, every breath hurting sharply.

It was the pirate captain, and the ship had just blown up; he'd caught a glimpse of that rage-twisted face before he was yanked underwater, then held there. He blinked the water from his eyes, trying to find the jolly boat... in the faint glow from the fire, he could see it, mostly underwater and still sinking, damaged beyond repair. Turning his head hurt, breathing hurt, moving his right arm hurt... he had to find something to hold him up, because he wasn't entirely sure of how much longer he'd be able to stay up himself.

He tried to steady his breathing somewhat, tucking the Browning back into his waistband securely with his left arm. There had to be something left that was floating and not sinking, something that would hold his head up long enough for him to rest and think. The glow of firelight was fading quickly, the fog was still heavy and thick, and he was running out of time.

Finally, he started swimming, careful not to use his right arm. That slowed him down somewhat, and it still hurt like Hell to move, but at least he could move. There had to be something big enough left; God knows, he'd never be able to swim to shore... any shore.

After a good fifteen minutes, he bumped into the first crate, then stopped. In the ever increasing light of day, he was finally able to see somewhat; the fog was lifting and burning off, and past this crate were others. He held onto it long enough to get his bearings.

There weren't many left... a handful or so. Most were small, like the one he was hanging onto... filled with teas, or light things. But he could see one floating, about fifteen or twenty yards away, that looked almost disturbingly like a coffin.

Smirking to himself at the irony, he made his way toward it, trying hard to ignore the stain of blood in the water and the idea that there may be sharks, and that he was sure being eaten alive was worse than bleeding to death, but neither was a part of his plan.

It seemed to take forever to get there. By the time he did, he just wanted so badly to close his eyes and rest, and drift with the faint sea chop that was picking up with dawn, and he was so tired... just needed a moment, a rest...

...no. He forced himself back to a clear frame of mind, and studied the coff... the crate.

It was just under six feet long, and just about four feet wide. The sides were about three feet tall, which would not be any protection if the weather got rough, but would at least give him someplace to rest in the calm. It was made to be watertight, but the pirates had pried the top open to see what was in it; they had nailed it closed again, but in a half-assed way.

He found a jagged board from the ship's deck... the ship itself was completely gone; masts, sails, rigging, everything except some shattered pieces floating about. As quickly as he could, he started prying to lid off of the crate again.

It was getting steadily harder to think. He wasn't bleeding badly... not yet, but between that and an oppressive sort of exhaustion, he was finding it harder and harder to concentrate, to focus. He kept drifting off, though still awake... to Lil and the field in spring, and holding her hand and trusting her even though they only knew each other so short a time... to Pacey dancing with him in the water and hating the ocean because it might take him away... to the Underdark and riding on that damn lizard with Vicfryn and knowing he was going home...

...to Archie, sobbing on the sand...

"Harry? Harry, wake up!!"

He snapped himself back to the world.

The lid finally came off, and he was careful not the shove it away. Something in his fuzzy mind told him to keep the lid, because the lid had nails, and he might need those... once he got some sleep. It tipped wildly when he tried to climb in, took a little water in with him, but it didn't turn over and it didn't sink. And he knelt there for a long time, swaying slightly, kneeling on a bed of damp silks... it was warming, the fog was nearly gone, the breeze was rising a little...

He shook himself out of it again, grabbing a piece of the silk and tearing it, then tying it around the lid to keep it from floating away, keeping the other end under his knee. Silk was useless for most things, but it was at least mostly dry.

He centered himself as well as he could; breath after breath, then he gritted his teeth, took hold of the splinter that was still buried in muscle, and yanked it out.

He didn't cry out, but he did step out of his body for a moment or two, and came back to it with his face buried in the silks, his left hand clutching the damaged shoulder, blood leaking between his fingers, his breath in jagged gasps, bent over and doubled up. He came back to it by degrees, swallowing, queasy, and finally let go long enough to grab a handful of the fabric and then bring it up again... he didn't want to bleed to death, not after getting away, not when he had to get home.

He took a brief stock of the situation... no food, no water, no boat, just this thing shaped eerily like a coffin with barely any freeboard; he was bleeding and exhausted, and Wain was telling him that if he went to sleep... no... that was in the graveyard, when he'd been hit in the head, and Archie was sleeping, and Sirin and Pacey and Kalae were talking and crying, and...

He was so tired, though. He eased himself down onto the damp pile of silk, kept a grip on his shoulder, closed his eyes... Lil was holding his hand in the field, and Archie was sleeping there next to his shoulder in the graveyard...

And he slept.

August 27th, 2005 - At Your Back


In its existence, the Maritime Tavern had seen days both as bright as the sun and darker than the utter blackness of the Underdark. And though to her, these past few months seemed dark with despair, some of the darkest she had ever known, they certainly weren't the darkest the Maritime had seen. But at the rate things were going, it didn't look like she would have anyone with whom she could compare notes.

It was on one of those artificially dark days, with a black cloud seeming to hang over and all around her despite the late summer sunlight filtering through the windows, when she sat behind the empty bar, staring at the dust building on the windowsill.

There was a jiggle of the locked doorknob and then a knock on the door. Had she heard it, she would have ignored it. But it didn't even register in her mind. She had long since tuned-out and checked herself out of the world at large. Then, another knock. This time it intruded into her thoughts and she decidedly ignored it. The persistent person tried the knob once again and knocked louder, calling out "Maritime Tavern? Delivery!"

"We're closed." Her voice was hoarse and cracked from disuse, and it was wholly unlikely that the man would have heard her.

That damn knock again. He wasn't going away. "Delivery!"

"Go away!"

"Can't. Have to deliver this and get a signature. I'll stand here all day."

She would have sighed, but that would've taken too much effort. "Go around back. The door's open."

Moments later, the man stepped through from the kitchen to the main room and set the envelope down on the bar. "Sign please, lady."

She took the offered pen and scrawled something akin to a signature by the X, not once focusing her eyes on him. And not surprisingly, the man went on his way.

Slowly, she turned her gaze to the envelope and reigned in her attention and focus. Rubbing her eyes, she reached over for the envelope and examined it with an odd sort of detachment, wondering who would send such a package here.

Stifling a sniffle, she put the envelope back down and turned to look back at the dust.

Time passed, the sun set a few more degrees, and eventually she decided to open the envelope....

The smaller envelopes and the letter spilled from the larger package as she shook it upside-down, and she laid the three items out on the bar. When it finally registered that the two envelopes were labeled to her and Archie, her breath caught in her throat. Her heart lurched (or maybe even stopped for a beat or two) and she found her mouth suddenly dry. Who would send letters to her and Archie but not Harry? No one!

Fresh tears sprang to her eyes, and she hadn't even begun to read anything. She licked her lips, but with her throat so parched, the gesture did more harm than good. And trying to blink back those tears was a lost cause. She was wound so tightly that the mere possibility that this was word from Harry was almost too much to bear.

The writing...the writing isn't his.

"No..."

A simple word, nearly sobbed, when she realized that their names weren't penned in Harry's hand.

And in defiance of the cruel trick fate seemed to want to play on her, she flung her arm across the bar, scattering the two envelopes and rustling the letter.

"I don't care! I don't care! I don't care!"

She didn't even know what she wasn't caring about.

But then she saw it.

"...word of your friend and companion, Harold Lowe..."

If ever the realm could come to a screeching halt, it would have happened in that moment. Every concern, every fear, and every worry suddenly collided with all the anger, misery, joy, admiration, and love she ever felt.

This time the tears simply welled in her eyes and she had to blink furiously just to see. Everything was a blur. "Harry?" His name, whispered softly, seemed to swell and fill the empty space in the tavern. And this time, instead of filling her with a horrible hollowness, there was a glimmer of hope in her breast.

With hands trembling almost violently, she pulled the first sheet of parchment closer and read. She whispered the words aloud, as if that was the only way to make this real.

"Dear Miss Blythe, My name is Patrick Shehy, and I have written to give you word of your friend and companion, Harold Lowe."

"Oh dear Gods, please..."

"First, rest assured that when I last saw him, he was alive and well."

He's alive. Harry's alive. Thank the Gods he's alive. That bastard's alive. The sh*t is alive and well and didn't even have the courtesy to contact her directly? Wait a minute.... "last I saw him"? What does that mean?

She had no choice but to keep reading. This time she managed to do so silently, though her lips still moved, almost as if in prayer.

"...in the absence of further information, I prefer to think that he remains alive and well. It is my fond hope that he has already found his way home..."

She had to stop. She didn't want to stop, but she had to. Dizzy, she clutched the bartop with one hand, the other gathering up the smaller envelopes and the rest of the parchment, hoarding it. She wasn't about to let go. She was never going to let go. She tried letting go, and this is where it got her.... a mere shadow of the woman she was, in body and spirit. So much for that sage advice she once received: "Honey, you should never have gotten to the point where what one man says or does can affect you so greatly. But if you are there, never let him know how much he controls you."

Breathing rapidly and shallowly, she spoke aloud to herself. "Breathe. Relax. Relax." She was close to hyperventilating, and so clutching the envelopes and letter to her chest, she closed her eyes and made a concerted effort to regain some measure of control over herself.

When she finally had that control, tenuous as it was, she opened her eyes, wiped them, sniffled, and then turned her attention back to the letter.

It took her a few tries, but she was finally able to read the letter, pausing briefly here or there to clutch it to her breast, wipe a tear, or simply remind herself to breathe.

And then, surprising herself, she actually chuckled softly when she read that Harry said he'd rather serve under a howler monkey. That, of course, easily turned into more tears; this time tears of relief bordering on joy that Harry was alive. This man, Patrick, obviously wasn't making up this story; there's too much of Harry in it. She didn't even realize that that had been a concern of hers until that moment.

Slowly, she was crawling out of her despair. Harry was alive and was with this man, Patrick. They were set upon by pirates and forced aboard a ship. Despite everything, that was good news. If there was one place Harry had to be against his will, a ship was that place. But Patrick wrote that the story was painful. And Harry was alive last he saw him. That did not bode well and her initial elation began to twist in her stomach.

When she went back to the letter and read "Instantly, the brute who had just tried to gain our services turned into a monster. We were both struck rather hard across the face..." she whispered a breathless "F-ck" and continued reading, caught between wanting to skim to the end and see what happened and needing to know all that happened. And then, a whispered "Sh-t" slid from her lips when she read about the beatings, instantly concerned about Harry's old head wound.

She read quicker then, picking up speed as she picked up a sense of urgency. Unbeknownst to her, her lips were moving as if saying "you have a plan, you have a plan" as she was reading, and when she read that he did indeed have a plan, she actually grinned and spoke aloud, "You had a plan." And then mere moments later, "...my constellation."

She had to pause again at that point to re-compose herself. It was only at this point that she realized she was still gripping the edge of the bar with a vicelike death-grip. Of course, that didn't change anything. She kept on holding the bar as if that was all that was keeping her upright (and at times it was).

When she went back to reading, she realized that the two letters were the ones that Harry handed off to this Patrick fellow. And as much as she wanted to know what happened next, she put down Patrick's letter and picked up the envelope with her name on it. She tore it open and pulled out the half sheet of paper. Her hands were shaking so violently that the only way she could read the note was by putting it down on the bar.

"Dear Lily..." She read it once, whispering in the middle of it, as if he could hear her, "I love you too, Harry." And then her brow arched skyward, "Should you not come home? Oh no. No no. No, you're coming home if I have to go out there and drag you home." Yes, she was talking to herself. And then she blinked at the closing, "Love, Harry." Lily. Harry. Lily. Harry. Lily. She smiled at the Lily. And frowned at the Harry.

He never signed a note Harry.

He must be worried...

She read his note again. And then again. And once more for good measure. She even traced the lines of his letters with her fingertips as if it would bring them closer together. Hell, she read it again. And then once more. Each time becoming more convinced that he was coming home, come Hell or high water. Or in this case, probably both.

And then, after reading it once more for good measure, she carefully put it back into the torn envelope and held it close to her heart as her eyes shifted back to Patrick's letter. She read the rest quickly, having to reread parts of it that she skimmed in her rush to find out what happened. When she finally reached the end, she slumped down on the stool, resting her head down on the bar, all the letters and envelopes hugged against her.

"Harry. You're alive. And trying to get home."

She was a mess. Her relief was mingled with fears and concerns that were now proven to be valid. She couldn't help it; sobs wracked her too-thin body. Giving into a feeling of despair was all too easy, but when she felt herself skirting those edges, she gave herself a firm mental lashing. This was no time to fall back into that darkness. This was a time for action. She wiped her hand across her eyes to dry the tears that she shed unabashedly, and then pushed herself up to stand. Although she swayed there for a solid minute, she finally propelled herself away and staggered to the stairs.

Her plan was one that could probably use some more thought and revision. So far all she knew was that she was going to shower, to wake up - after all, she hadn't slept for days - then she was going to gather some gold and her chronometer, compass, a fisherman's sweater, the locket from Harry, and a few other odds and ends and head out to Midgar to find this Patrick fellow. But first, in her room, she penned a few quick notes. She didn't once let go of the letters from Harry and Patrick, at least not until she left the one for Archie on his bed along with a note from herself. She distributed her remaining notes and then went back to her room to pack a small bag. Sitting on her bed, exhaustion, relief, and worry finally overtook her. She tumbled sideways over top of the bag she had packed, still holding the letters.

The last thing she remembered thinking was that although they couldn't have spent every moment together, and there probably wasn't anything she could have done to prevent the kidnapping had she been there, she should have had his back. That one thought hung in her mind, and she vocalized it to her empty room before the darkness claimed her for the next few hours:

"I'm sorry" a.k.a. I didn't have your back.

But I do now.

(Written by Lil's mun.)

November 25th, 2005 and December 24th, 2005 - Dogged Determination


The skies were a little stormy, a little dark, but the weather hadn't turned truly cold. This far south towards the equator, he doubted he would see blizzards.

Harry had seen better days, but he was relatively healthy despite circumstances. Sure, his hair was wild and long, and sure, he was outright thin instead of just slim, and maybe he had a long beard... it could be worse, though. He could be dead.

He spent most of his waking hours working; if he wasn't crafting a sail-worthy vessel, he was fishing or hunting or harvesting. He'd had the decent fortune to land on an island with a fresh water spring and plenty of vegetation. Knowing a good thing when he found it, he simply spent his time working towards his way home.

It was at night, when it was dark and subtropical and quiet that he thought. About home, about family, about friends. About the stars, and ships and the past. Sometimes he sang hymns or shanties, just to hear his own voice; sometimes he imagined a conversation with those he'd left behind. He could only trust that Patrick had informed them of the situation -- blind faith, perhaps, but he didn't have much else.

He had long since lost track of time in any real sense... he knew only that it was getting to be later into the fall season and soon the seas would be too dangerous to tackle. He had a vague idea only where he was, but he knew that somewhere north was home and north he would go.

The vessel he'd crafted was still based on the coffin loosely, but much larger. From the paper-like bark of tropical trees, sewn together with braided vines, he'd fashioned something not unlike a sail, and another as a backup. The Chinese junks were his inspiration, in a roundabout way, and the end product was fairly reliable. The outriggers were now much larger, and he'd created a solid platform between them; a raft, two rows deep. The coffin served to carry his stores of food and freshwater; rudimentary jugs made from the skins of wild boars held enough water for a few weeks so long as it didn't get fouled and he watched how much he drank. He'd even fashioned a deck house to keep him out of some of the weather.

In the end, the vessel was large enough to weather some chop, sturdy enough to allow him to sleep on a dry platform, and hopefully enough to get him home. He was, in a way, proud of it -- it was all that stood between him and insanity on more than one occasion.

It was one cool day... November, he figured... when he started on his final task. It wasn't necessary in the game of survival, but it was somehow desperately important to him. For Archie, for Lil, for anyone who might be trying to find him.

The next two days, he spent nearly every hour of light and some besides carving in the largest of the rocks on the beach -- the top had been worn smooth over the years, and it was distinctive enough looking that it was a natural landmark -- a final message. It was a simple message.

Once he'd finished, he gathered up his smoked meat, his dried fruits, his fresh fruits, his smoked fish... gathered his stone tools, his homemade fishing gear... gathered his hopes and fears and ideas.

When morning came, he left the island. The sea was not displeased, though it was playful; not long after he left, the dolphins kept him company.

The message remained.

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

The brigantine Al Na'ir hove to off of the island; the forty-third they had spotted since this expedition began in August. None of them expected to find anything here, either; it was Christmas Eve, they were still at sea, battered and tired and sick of the terrible storms they'd seen more and more of as the month wore on.

It was not long after dawn under a slate colored sky when they put the boats over the side. This island was large enough to merit a search, and they could all use the time on solid ground. Marial left an anchor watch aboard and went with them, along with Lilith, even though both women were rapidly losing anything resembling hope.

It was so simple, though, in retrospect; as though it had something like divinity written on it. As morning faded to afternoon, and the crew came back from their search, they all met up by a large flat rock on the beach.

It was, afterall, a natural land mark.

It was also somehow fitting that it was Lil who first saw the message, carved fairly large on top of it... she had climbed up atop the rock with a boost from Jonson to have her own look up and down the beach. And she had looked.

But the answer was under her feet.

It's late fall.
I'm going home.
-Harold

February 14th, 2006 - Longest Walk


She had never before been so happy to walk upon solid land. After disembarking the ship, she took three steps, and promptly fell to the dock. It wasn't in homage or supplication, but rather because the solid land beneath her feet felt as if it was rolling and churning worse than the ship ever had.

Jonson, mere steps behind her, lunged but just barely missed catching her on her way down.

She laughed then, sitting splayed on the deck. It was an exhausted, stressed, overwrought, excited, nervous laugh. She was home. She. Was. Home.

Jonson, a far better sailor who needed little to no time to find his land-legs, and who had gotten quite friendly with Lil over time, simply stopped and reached out a hand to help her stand. Over their months at sea, he had seen her transform from a complete greenhand to a skilled sailor. He had also seen her emotional stability (or lack thereof) and its evolution over time. Thus, it was no surprise to him to see her down there, laughing. His smile was one of a calm sea. He knew what she had at stake here in RhyDin. "You'll get yer legs back in no time, Lilith."

With a nervous smile, she took his hand and rose with his aid. "I think I'd be willing to crawl to the Maritime to see if...." she left her sentence unfinished, suddenly intent on stretching her legs. It was as if finishing her thought could somehow jinx her hopes.

"Do you want someone ta go with you? I can ask the Cap'n if she can spare me for a bit."

She kept holding onto his hand for the moment, making sure her legs would hold her up. With a slow shake of her head, she raked fingers through her hair and offered him a grateful smile. "No, thank you Jonson. This is something I need to go do on my own." She looked out past him, then, the familiar scenery a wellspring of hope. "You do know you're all welcome at the Maritime when the Captain's through with you."

"Aye, Miss Lilith. We do. Godspeed."

It took a bit more of her than she expected it to, but she let go of his hand. "I'll need it...." And then, leaving everything but one small seabag aboard, she began walking to the Maritime. Walking toward her past. Walking toward her future, not knowing what it held.

It had been so long, and so much had happened. Step after step, she drew resolutely closer to the tavern. Memories came flooding back. Memories she had mostly kept at bay while on task of searching for him. The good, the bad, the inbetween. Memories that make up life. Tears welled in her eyes as she recalled them all, lived them again, the good, the bad, the inbetween.

At the end of the road, she came to a stop. The tavern was in her sights. Her legs refused to move. There was no sound save the rushing of blood in her ears. Lights were on inside, but that didn't mean anything. It was probably just Ranyor. She rubbed her face vigorously, cast eyes to the stars, and took a deep breath. There it was, her star. Her steady star. Steady breathing. Steady heartbeat. Steady, Lil.

Quietly, she whispered the last words she saw from him. "I'm going home."

And indeed, she was.

The distance between her and the tavern melted. Whether she ran or simply walked, she'll never know. But one moment, she was at the end of the street and the next, she was stepping in the back door, taking a deep breath, hoping that the aroma of coffee wasn't simply wishful thinking.

In a voice belying her nerves, she called as she crossed the threshold, "Anyone home?"

(Written by Lil's mun.)