#next port of order will be initial traumatic crash I think because I can write that; it's westlie relevant

[thepulta]

“Faaaaaaaire?”

Westlie jumped in her seat and whirled towards the screeching. There was a child loitering around the front arches of the library, casually kicking the carpet. It had to be what, eight? No older than ten?

“Faaaaaairee?”

She smashed her hip jumping out of the chair and nearly tripped over her skirt. Westlie strung out several whispered curses and made a flying tackle in the lobby, clamping a hand over the child’s mouth just as it inhaled for another screech. “You’re in a library you little shit! Jesus, don’t scream.”

“ ‘ah can talk as loud as ‘ah want!” The little goblin raised the letter with one arm and fucking punted her shin as hard as its little legs could. Westlie squeaked in pain and shot a glance around the rest of the library. The struggle was being watched by several students.

“God damn it, just give me that.”

“Pay me!”

“Jesus Christ, I paid in advance.” Westlie fished in her pocket and found a penny with some lint. She shoved it forward. “Don’t spend it all on candy.”

The urchin had the nerve to blow raspberries in the middle of the library entrance. It tossed the letter at her - Westlie snatched it midair - and raced away. There were a few polite coughs around the room and some less polite snickering. Westlie’s face burned as red as her hair as she slipped back to her seat.

She opened the note, laying it out flat so she could read it and straighten her desk at the same time. It was written in the same neat, pointed script she remembered from London. Fitzroy did not write unnecessarily.

.

Welcome to Port Prosper, Miss Faire. I’m glad to hear you arrived safely, and I apologize for The Pyrrhus’ tardiness. I hope you spent a comfortable evening at The Shroom.

The crew is currently loading a shipment of hours, which will most likely take the rest of the afternoon. I’ve decided to give them the night off since our passenger hasn’t arrived, which of course, extends to you as well. If you desire, you can meet us on the dock, port 2, at 8am tomorrow morning after another night at The Shroom or this evening at 5pm simply to get acquainted. You may also feel free to sleep on board the Pyrrhus, although it’s unlikely anyone else will be aboard the ship.

The next port of order will be the Eleutheria Transport Relay whenever our passenger arrives.

              Your Captain,

               Fitzroy

.

Funny, the Eleutheria Relay was the one place she hadn’t obsessively practiced navigating to. Westlie resisted the urge to open her books back up and pour over the seasonal wind speeds, trying to weigh her options for the night. She didn’t particularly feel like spending the night alone on board a ship she didn’t know. Then again, she could be at risk of looking tardy. Fitzroy had given her the option though, and it seemed like everyone else would be doing the same. Westlie puffed out a breath and folded the note back up, taking the opportunity to glance around the library. The students from earlier had gone back to their work, bent diligently over thick dictionaries and maps. The place was quite lovely, not as big as the one in London, but close. The entrance was grand and domed, with three wings to the right, left, and front. Books lined the walls of the bottom floors with desks lined towards the entrance. Three spiral staircases granted access to each of the three upper levels with bookcases where one could look down upon the massive (Surface-made, Westlie knew) Pakistani rug at the entrance. The walls were white, blue, and gold; there were a lot of Tuscan columns. ...a lot of them. The architect’s dreams must have been supported by Tuscan columns.

Westlie shelved her maps, absently drifting to another section and running her fingers over the titles. Flora and Fauna of Northeast Albion, A-N. Pteridophyta (Ferns and Horsetails) and their relatives in the southern areas of the Reach: a biologist’s memoirs. Edible varieties of fungi, 5th Edition. Geography and Biology of the Prosper Mountains, Revised and Selected by the Author with Illustrations. She selected that one. That was probably the reason for the gravity abnomaly around the island’s southern tip. Not that the biology of the mountain would help with that, but she was still killing time.

She took the book back to her seat, fanning the pages as she got settled. It opened to several depictions of the mountains around Port Prosper, lovingly illustrationed with several different angles. Gravity... gravity... Westlie yawned as she scanned through the pages, scribbling notes every so often as she found something useful. It ended up being mostly plants with a brief foray into naturalism about the shape of the mountains compared to others in the Reach (fairly large, minus Lustrum’s positive menagerie of peaks and valleys) while having nothing about the gravitational pull. At least she knew the abnomaly existed. Westlie shut the book and glanced up at the clock. 4pm. Well, she’d done enough for one day, hadn’t she?

Port Prosper was in the throes of dusk as she stepped out of the library. People thronged the streets, bustling to and from factories. It reminded her of London. Westlie slipped between the crowds, greeting a peddler and trading pennies for several hotbuns. She munched on one as she made her way back to the hotel, absentmindedly browsing the shop windows. The styles here were slightly different. A little higher on the ankle, a little wider in the hip, a little smaller in the chest. Westlie peered at one jacket with an upright collar. It buttoned down the front like her vest, but it had sleeves and the the collar was enticing. ...it was also a lovely shade of burgundy.

... it was ‘a night off’, wasn’t it?

Westlie slipped inside the shop and waffled over the decision for several minutes before finally giving the shopkeep the sovereigns. The jacket fit like a glove and did a fairly good job of matching her hair. Westlie felt like glowing as she walked down the street, dodging pedestrians and occasionally running children. Her time was her own; there was no sister, no Arthur, no Mary to reign her back. No judgement.

She’d wasted so much time, hadn’t she. A memory of Morgan popped up, unbidden, per usual - and in a bar, also per usual. Westlie had had one of her abysmal days; something about missing deadlines. There’d been a lot of screaming; a lot of accusations. She remembered not even wanting to drink, just huddling in the corner as Morgan sat there with her. They’d been older teens at that point, maybe. “You know,” Morgan had hesitated. “You could come with me on my next trip. You don’t have to stay here.”

“Father would murder me.”

Morgan had hesitated again. “... we don’t have to come back.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Westlie snorted, because it did seem ridiculous. “I have to work. I can’t just fuck off.”

They sat there in silence for a long time. Morgan finally leaned over and curled on her shoulder. It wasn’t a hug, but something akin to it and possibly more meaningful in their affectionless world. She’d let out a soft sigh as they huddled together. “...you’re so unhappy, Wes.”

They hadn’t said anything for the rest of the evening.

Westlie had forgotten about that whole encounter until now and there was a deep, sudden pang of longing for the weight of her sister on her shoulder. She let it settle, heavy in her heart. There was always the possibility they could bump into each other at a port. Morgan travelled voraciously. It was all she did, honestly. Westlie wasn’t sure if she did it to put a small dent in Arthur’s enormous sums of cash, to escape London and that horrid house, or just because she loved travelling and mischief. Regardless, from eighteen years onward she did all three things quite well. When she came home, it was a daily coin flip until she’d leave again. Westlie came to expect a note on her dresser with the lump sum of travel money taken, an address (occasionally), and some form of cheery goodbye. Sometimes, it was in person, like the last time she’d seen her a few months ago.

Westlie’d been woken up at 2am by a knock at the window to find Morgan sitting on her carpetbag in the garden. She remembered thinking it was a distinctly Morgan way to leave town at 2am. She kept throwing pebbles until Westlie opened the window. “Goodbye, Wes! I took a few thousand sovereigns this time!”

Westlie remembered making a rude gesture, half-asleep. ...Annoying but not surprising. Morgan just laughed.

“Don’t tell, but I packed that box of sunlight from the shop too.”

Westlie’s eyes shot open. “That- Fuck, Morgan, that’s expensive!”

“Don’t worry about it! It’ll all take care of itself.”

“You’re going to get robbed blind by some asshole carting around a fucking box of sunlight- What the fuck- What do you even need it for? You’re such a dipshit. Why do I have to deal with this? You know those take months to get in. Goddamn it, Morgan.” Westlie considered grabbing the rope and taking the box back but in the time it’d take to tie it Morgan would absolutely be gone. That was probably why she hadn’t said goodbye normally in the first place. Fucking sneaky.

“Shhh, shh shh shh~” Morgan spun around and blew her a kiss. “Westlie, you worry too much.”

“I worry for both of us. Fucking give me that sunlight. Father’s going to skin you alive when you get back.” Westlie hung halfway out the window, debating if it was worth jumping and squashing the fuck out of the little kleptomaniac.

Morgan gasped in pretend horror. “Oh, I forgot, I have thousands of sovereigns and I won’t be back for months.” Her mouth turned up into a cheeky grin. “Westlie please, you know me better than that. The old bastard won’t remember a thing.”

“I’ll remember!”

“You love me though~” Morgan grabbed her carpetbag and blew Westlie another kiss. “I’ll see you later! Sorry I left so soon. Don’t miss me too much.”

“Morgan!”

Morgan slipped into the darkness with practiced ease, and Westlie glimpsed a cheerful goodbye hand wave before she disappeared into the shadows. Saucy prick.

Westlie remembered going back to bed pissed as hell she’d have to pick up the pieces from stolen sunlight no less. Jesus Christ, there was embezzlement and then there was that. She did remember going to sleep after that and opening up the shop in the morning, but the memory grew a bit fuzzy. Westlie scowled at the irony because she’d tried to forget about it to save her blood pressure, regardless of the outcome she couldn’t quite remember. God, Morgan did the dumbest shit. 

Westlie was not going to miss that.

Even with the memories she was still more relaxed than usual as she approached The Humble Shroom. A few skyfarers milled about now after arriving from various ports, footmen moving boxes in and out of the lobby. Westlie took a moment to appreciate the soft touches of civilization they put on display. A rug, a lamp that had probably lived a former life in a grandmother’s cabinet; several crystal sconces on the wall that flickered appealingly. The rooms were off to the right, but there was a soft concerto playing off in the corner from the left where a doorway opened into another room. A bar? Probably where breakfast had been offered earlier. There were more skyfarers milling in and out. Westlie hesitated. She didn’t feel like going to her room and studying, but she didn’t want to stay out and about either. She didn’t need to drink, just... people watch. Tea would be nice.

The bar was excellent for her chosen past time; there were faces from all walks of life. A few stovepipe hats huddled in the corner while miscellaneous groups of suits - with patches or tears and without - circled about at random. There were three shelves of drinks, the aromas of mushroom wine and hard liquor circling about; a waiter handed off a plate of steaming something that smelled delicious. Westlie took a seat in the back and ordered tea, pulling out a piece of paper to work on navigating to the relay. It was far, but it wasn’t that far; a few days to a week or so. There was a bit of tricky gravity somewhere in the region and she tapped the pencil on her lips, staring up at the ceiling as she struggled to recall the numbers.

Someone cleared their throat nearby and she blinked, jerked back to reality. “Hello-?”

Jesus Christ it was Fitzroy.

He looked the slightest bit more worn with a bit of coal dust on his jacket, but otherwise quite the same and unmistakable. “Good evening, Miss Faire. You look well.”

“Thank you. You... you too.” ... she could die on the spot, or she could just die later after she made a complete fool of herself. Or she could have a normal conversation like a normal person. Westlie cleared her throat and folded up the paper while Fitzroy made a questioning motion to the chair across from her. “Yes, please, feel free- have a seat.”

He sat down and crossed his legs, pulling out a pipe from his pocket and taking his time stuffing it. After a good long minute he put up his hand to flag a waiter and glanced at her. “Would you like something.”

“No- ah, thank you. I have tea on the way.”

“Excellent.” His face betrayed nothing if that was the right or wrong answer. “Is that a 1890 Elegant on the shelf? I’ll take a small glass of that, please.”

There was heavy silence until the waiter brought both the tea and mushroom wine. Fitzroy lit his pipe and the smoke puffed lazily, adding to the rich scents around them. Instead of handing it off like the wine, the waiter chose to pour the tea himself. (He did not pour it the way Westlie liked it; she could already tell it’d been seeped too hot and it gave off the slightly acidic odor of a burned teabag. She held her tongue and comforted herself that the bitterness would keep her insides awake as she worked.) Fitzroy took a sip of his wine and savored it. Westlie did not enjoy the tea but she kept her face neutral.

When he placed his drink back down he faced her, dark eyes scrutizing. “I assume you received my note earlier?”

“Yes, sir. About an hour ago, I think.”

“I know the rest of the crew has divided themselves up across the city, so it was a good choice to stay put for the night.”

Westlie couldn’t think of anything to say, so she just nodded.

“As far as introductions go, you’ll meet them all tomorrow. I recently accepted another applicant as Navigator, an Owen West. I understand he’s been a reliable skyfarer for some time. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?” Westlie hadn’t. “He seems a bit shakey, but capable. I’ve known the rest of the crew for significantly longer. Marion is quite the ingenious engineer; Selmer is relable and loyal to a fault. Elijah is the kind of man who should be into politics but makes an excellent signaller instead.” He chuckled at a private joke and took another sip, re-crossing his legs and focsing on her. “I can’t speak for Owen, but the others were needling me about you.” There was a thin, not unkind, but not wholely trusting smile and Westlie could very clearly see the impression her interview left on him. “I was going to simply wait until morning, Miss Faire, but if you pardon me for noticing, you are not quite the same person I met in London and I know very little except your father is the kind of man I rarely associate myself with.”

Westlie took another sip of bitter tea, purposefully scalding her tongue as she tried to think. She drew on the remains of her evening, the calm purposefulness as she walked from the library back to the hotel. Why not be honest? She met his eyes and they were supicious, wary, but not unkind. He was being honest in his observations, and she wasn’t the same person in London. “I ran away.” That seemed the most straightforward, blunt way she could put it. Westlie sat the tea cup back in its saucer, half wondering if she was required to give more information. Fitzroy didn’t say anything. She tried to collect her thoughts. ‘I couldn’t take it anymore’ didn’t seem like the best phrase to describe it. Neither was ‘I’m nobody’, or ‘I don’t know who I am’, even though that was absolutely the truth.

Westlie hated sweet tea. She forgot, put two sugar cubes in her half-drunk cup and stirred it.

“Were you working on the Eleutheria Relay route?” Fitzroy broke into her thoughts and Westlie met his gaze again, briefly.

“Oh, before you came. Yes, actually.” She dug into her pocket and handed over the sheet of paper. Fitzroy browsed it. The look wasn’t quite like the interview; there was no judgement, just thoughtful acknowledgement. He was trying to distract her - he was actually quite good at that. Westlie stored that information in the back of her mind.

“You mapped this from Tratinson, didn’t you?”

How-?

“There’s a small abnomaly about three leagues in.” Fitzroy placed the paper on the table and pointed out the column of numbers halfway down. “Tratinson ignores it, because he considers abnomalies smaller than .5 newts to be immaterial. However, it’s enough to increase speed and throw off the trajectory of your second curve here.” He pointed to another set of numbers. “It’s never a big issue because the pull is small enough it doesn’t run you into any islands, but still. I have to look at the book, but Richards takes more of the northern abnomalies into consideration despite his occasional miscalculations.”

Westlie felt a deep flare of respect feed the hunger inside her. She could learn from him. She opened her mouth, couldn’t find which questions to ask, and settled on looking deeply appreciative. “Thank you.”

Fitzroy bobbed his head and took another drink. “It comes with experience.” He paused. “You were obviously well-trained.”

An image of her father brushed across her mind and Westlie’s hatred for the man flared deeply and uncontrollably. “I received a 102 on my piloting exam.” (For the fourth time, because Arthur kept forcing her to retake it, even though she passed the first exam without problems.) “And charting courses is... a hobby.” (It was an obsession. Definitely an obsession, probably unhealthy; kept her from losing her mind after hours of numbers in the ledgers.) “It helps me stay focused.”

She took another sip of tea and nearly spat it out. The sugar made it completely undrinkable. Westlie settled on refilling the cup until near overflowing, hoping between the bitterness and the hot substitute she could scald her tongue and ignore it some more. Between all of it she felt a minute, calmer spark of anger and she grabbed onto it, meeting Fitzroy’s eyes. “I was a navigator on one of my father’s ships. I think that’s what he planned for me to do until he realized I couldn’t take his commands mid-voyage and I wouldn’t save half a crate of supplies by driving through a shitload of scrive-spinsters.” Westlie reigned herself in. “After several instances like that, I worked in the shop instead for a... significant amount of time until I decided that... didn’t suit me.”

She glanced at Fitzroy and his face was blasé, but attentive.

“I won’t let you down.” Westlie remembered her stupid fucking mantra from the morning before and it just felt like something needed to be said. “I know I’m... quiet, and I know...” she hesitated, because it was a bitter pill. “I know my father. Nobody knows him better than I do. I can’t help where I came from, but I want to learn.” Please. She hoped it went unspoken. “And I learn quickly.”

Fitzroy finished his drink and there was the faintest hint of a smile playing at his lips. “You have the job, Miss Faire.”

“Well I-” Westlie moved to take a sip of tea, remembered the saccharine taste in her mouth already and thought better of it. “-You asked,” she tested the waters with a hint of a dry look. “Sir.”

“And I am grateful I know more about you than when we started.” Fitzroy stood up to take his leave, pulling out several coins for the wine. “For the record, Miss Faire, I don’t question your abilities. Anyone who can chart a course by memory under the duress you were under deserves second attention. However, I feel an understanding between us that your father’s company does not require nor, if I may be so forward, deserve special attention, is in order.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Westlie interjected, before she realized what the hell she said.

Another barely visible hint of a smile played on Fitzroy’s lips. “Well my drink is done, but it appears we are firmly in agreement. If you have time after getting settled tomorrow, I might be available to discuss the Richards and Geralt maps if that suits you.” He made a brief bob of the head. “Goodnight, Miss Faire.”

Westlie stared at his back and then at her incredibly shitty tea as he walked away, finally downing the rest of the cup in one disgusting shot and pouring herself something vaguely more palpatable. She slumped back in her seat. That... went well. Tentatively? Possibly? Jesus she needed to go to bed. Getting tea was supposed to be relaxing, and- gods this was shit. Westlie resisted the primal angry urge to dump all of the tea on the ground, dance on the ashes, and refuse to pay; instead she put down coins for her tab and slipped out of the room, trying to decide if Arthur or Fitzroy was more dangerous when angry.

-=-

In her room that night, Westlie dreamed about something peaceful. She woke up after midnight but she couldn’t remember it, just... something about flowers, something about returns. There was a subtle longing for a name, a face; it itched at her mind, making her sleepily tousle her curls. Fucking dreams. Westlie yawned, pulled the pillow closer, and fell into a now deep, dreamless sleep and the feeling was gone in the morning.

-=-

Selmer was a beast of a man. Owen looked horribly nervous. Marion looked... chipper. Elijah looked like he could murder someone in his sleep but probably wouldn’t because he was the nicest of all of them. He’d tipped his hat a bit as Westlie arrived, discerning something as she searched for Fitzroy and headed for the small group of people on the dock around him. That was probably what Fitzroy meant about his alternate self in politics; that was a niche skill. She joined the group, lurking a bit on the outer edges as Fitzroy muttered into a clipboard. After several minutes of writing and scribbling he looked up, unemotionally scanned each of their faces, and made several more notes. It seemed like a lifetime before he put it away.

“Westlie Faire, your crewmates:” Fitzroy nodded to each punctually. “Selmer Gallway, Marion Gascoigne, Elijah Fry, Owen West. Feel free to chat a bit to each other before boarding. I need to submit these reports to the Ministry.”

Westlie felt a rush of euphoria that she wasn’t submitting the reports. Jesus Christ she was free. Fitzroy walked away towards shore and everyone eyed her silently, expecting her to say something. “... Hello.”

Selmer looked like he was going to explode after another five seconds of silence. “‘s a bright day gov’nr! You from around these parts?” He grinned, and he showed all his teeth, flashing a blinding giddy white.

“Ah, from London, actually. I assume you are as well.”

“O’aye, but I packed me bags a long time ago. ‘ah followed Marion on board. A capt’n always needs ah good shov’lah. An a wrench!” He hip-checked Marion and she rolled her eyes.

“Right, right. Well, welcome aboard, Faire.” Marion gave her a little casual unofficial salute. “The Pyrrhus is a great engine! I know you’ll love her. Have you been aboard any others?”

Westlie hesitated, “I ah- some Bediveres.”

Marion’s eyes gleamed. “Now there’s ships! Nothing’s better than the Pyrrhus, obviously, since I’ve helped make our own improvements, but ahh, the Bediveres are gorgeous. Have you driven them? I hear their handling is a little rough around the edges since one of the steam propulsion gaskets blocks the radius grav hinges.”

Westlie had heard about radius hinges exactly once when she and Morgan were shit-faced drunk in a pub on Elinore St. and an equally drunk engineer following Morgan around started bitching about radius hinges and Altanis locomotives for a full hour before they all passed out. She remembered absolutely nothing of that conversation. “I uh- I have driven one.” I was seventeen; please don’t ask about turning radii. “I do remember how fast it was.”

Elijah patted Marion on the shoulder as she opened her mouth to ask more questions. “I’m sure there’ll be time to show her the improvements once she’s settled. Speaking of which-” he gestured a bit into the ship. “The crew’s quarters are to your right from the hatch. Would you like some tea?”

“I would, actually, yes please.” Westlie gave a brief little nod to Owen as she passed by, following Elijah gratefully, and Owen nodded back, his face grave but not unkind or unwelcome; he’d just seen a bit too much. She knew that look.

When she stepped through the hatch, the Pyrrhus itself smelled of hours and cinnamon. It wasn’t a heavy scent, just enough she noticed. The air was wet though, steamy, like Marion had been warming up the engine earlier. There was thin wood panelling on the sides of the walls, polished to a soft sheen through multiple scratches. (Four claws had been dragged down the wood with deep, deep indents at one point.) It was all very orderly though. The crew obviously took great care with their upkeep; the same with their quarters. It was neatly swept, no cobwebs, electric sconces lining the far wall between the bunks. Elijah motioned to the bed at the end of the row where her trunk was sitting, to the right this time, right against the hull; it was opposite the engine, so was probably at least in port, the quietest end of the ship. Westlie glanced around at the bare walls, wondering absently if she could fit them with shelves like the other engine had.

“None of us care to decorate,” Elijah offered helpfully, reading her mind. “But I’m sure Fitzroy wouldn’t mind. I’m-” he gestured at the door, “-going to make that tea if you’ll excuse me.” He stepped back, spinning around for a moment in the doorway. “Oh the passenger should be here soon, Selmer just carried in her trunk. We don’t know her name yet, but she’s sleeping in the Captain’s Quarters, across from the hall.”

“Oh, excellent.” Westlie had no idea what to do with her hands. What did a first mate do with their hands? She settled for a curt nod of the head. “Thank you, Elijah. That helps.”

His lanky frame disappeared from the doorway, and Westlie took a breath as she opened her trunk. Everything was there (of course it was there; she’d just re-packed it forty minutes before) so she closed it and sat down on the bed. A deep sting of fear hit her as she looked around; the casual, not-quite perfect orderliness of the bunks. Selmer’s? messy pillow. Either Elijah or Owen, they both seemed like good candidates, had repurposed a crate by their bedside and stacked several dozen books on top of it. There were a few more bunks but they seemed untouched. Marion must have moved her quarters somewhere else - which was eccentric actually. Westlie vaguely mused if Fitzroy would let her sleep in the map room. Did they have a map room? They probably had a map room.

She puffed out a breath and looked around the room once more, trying to memorize the small details. The iron bedframes bolted to the floor (advantage: no creaking) the wooden floors fitting snugly against iron walls, the four bare walls curving into an iron ceiling. A soft breeze whispered around the hull and Westlie had a feeling she would get some very nice whistles in the middle of the night being right in the corner. That was alright. This was ‘home’ now, wasn’t it? It was what it was.

A deep pang of not-quite-loneliness, not-quite-sadness hit her and Westlie pushed up her chin a little. No emotions allowed now. She was done here; it was time to work.

She took a deep breath and steeled herself, brushing off her skirt and heading out of the room.

The very first thing she learned on her own was that the Pyrrhus echoed, deeply. The metal walls carried sound; literally carried, where if you leaned in close you could probably see the tiny vibrations of the sheet metal. No whispers were safe. There was the hiss of the kettle in what she assumed was the mess quarters  and a roaring, boisterous laugh from Selmer. There were quick footsteps above her - possibly Owen.

“She’s very quiet,” Marion said from the kitchen, and a jar rattled with crackers or some sort of foodstuff. “Do you think she’s alright?”

“Juz giv’ ‘er time to settle in; Willy was pre’y quiet too,” there was a vigorous thump on the table. “Tea man!”

“Gods, you’re so impatient. It’s not ready.”

“You bloody know, Mar’on, you need to make ‘lijah a little thingamabobber that’ll heat the tea up twice as fast. Hook it up to the engine all fancy-like-”

Westlie hesitated at the open doorway to the mess hall, wondering if she should knock to announce her presence, but it absolutely was not necessary as she was almost blown over by the force of Selmer’s, “OI GOV’NAH.” He thumped the table again. “’e got apples, an we got ‘ese kipper snacks and if ‘lijah ever finishs that ‘ere bloody tea ‘e’s got some ought lovely black. Captain says ‘s from India but I think i’ tastes the same as London’s. Once ‘e finishes you can be the judge.”

Marion smiled and patted the table (in a much, much softer, friendly way). “Westlie, right?” she nodded. “We didn’t have breakfast earlier - or Selmer did-”

“But ‘ah’m always down for second breakfast.”

Elijah visibly, almost audibly rolled his eyes.

“-but we were going to have something if you’d like to join us.”

Westlie sat down closest to the door a little grateful for the offer so she didn’t have to figure out where to place herself. “Tea and a few snacks would be lovely, thank you.”

The conversation fell silent with just the hum of the kettle and Selmer tapping the table and fidgeting. Westlie vaguely wondered in the uncomfortable quiet if she was too attuned to it. There was a lot to be said in silence. Selmer very clearly did not think the same way. Finally he leaned forward. “Yous ‘ear the Captian was thinking about a new gun?”

“He did mention it to Owen the other day.” The kettle finally whistled and Elijah moved to pour. “We don’t encounter problems too much though. Is it worth it?”

“Eh, it won’t be too hard to install. Can’t hurt to have a nice bit of firepower now, can it?” Marion took her mug and sipped it gratefully, even though it’d barely seeped. “Absolutely worth it. Thanks, Elijah.”

“Thank you,” Westlie took her mug and settled back, letting the warmth flow through her hands as Elijah handed the next mug off to Selmer. There was a much more comfortable pause as they sipped, Selmer grabbing kipper snacks from the bowl in the middle of the table and tossing them tournament-style into his mouth. He crunched loudly. Westlie wasn’t sure why she wasn’t annoyed at his behavior. He was the spitting image of some of the skyfarers in Morgan’s bars; loud, obnoxious, bustling, but there was a sweet cheerfulness too. Maybe she just needed to be around someone that relaxed right now.

A knock at the hatch startled all of them.

Selmer bounced up, “I got it,” and he was out before anyone could put down their mugs. The hatch opened, and there was an unintelligible, questioning voice. “Oi yas, right this way, gov. I’ll carry in your cargo don’t bother with it. Step right this way.”

“Should we...?” Westlie made a vague gesture to the door. “Help...?”

Marion shook her head with a quick smile. “Selmer’s got it. He likes to feel busy.”

The room was significantly quieter after Selmer left and nobody felt like breaking it. Westlie considered asking where they’d been before London, but it seemed like such an empty question. Or any tales; maybe there’d be something useful. Fitzroy did say they’d been on the longest. For some reason she couldn’t quite muster up the words. The silence was comfortable at least though, Marion seemed to see she didn’t feel like talking and Elijah seemed comfortable with the silence as well. They listened to the footsteps reverberate about the Pyrrhus until Selmer hollared down the hallway. “Cap’ains back!”

Marion offered for Westlie’s tea mug and she handed it over, a few sips left. She tossed them in the sink before going through a back door into what Westlie assumed was the engine room. The cab. Fitzroy said they’d be taking off after the passenger arrived. She nodded once to Elijah before heading out and to the side, climbing up the tight stairwell on her left to the second floor of the Pyrrhus.

Owen was already inside the cab, a few maps spread over the table in the middle of the room, steam hissing from a pressure gasket. He glanced up as she walked in, smiled, and then refocused on whatever he was doing. Numbers, it looked like. Westlie hesitated before pulling the scrap of paper she’d been working on the night before out. “I ah- I did some crunching last night if you want to use this.”

Owen glanced up and blinked. “Oh... Oh, Tratinson. That’ll help actually, thank you.” He took the sheet and Westlie was left standing awkwardly in the middle of the room again.

It was a lovely cab. There were some references and maps in small bookshelves in the back, the familiar panels for navigating in the front. The Pyrrhus had bronze handles, steel interworkings with pipes of steam and cables welded to the sides of the cab, leading to the nav panel. The top was slightly domed with curved, arching blue windows for less drag, riveted along all their edges. It was somewhat soothing, Westlie mused, looking at the world through blue-tinted glasses rather than red ones. All the Bediveres had rose or yellow tinted glass. Something about looking more professional and yellow light being bad for your skin; turned the crew sallow.

There were footsteps up the stairs and she somehow picked out Fitzroy’s step in the hall, firm, patient, cat-like. He nodded to her and Owen as he entered the cab. “Everything ready? The cargo is on board. Adelia is settled.”

Westlie instinctively looked for the pressure valve, noting it’d only been a few minutes since the engine grumbled to life under her feet. “Almost. 50 psi to full capacity, sir.”

Fitzroy nodded acknowledgement, checked a pocketwatch, and went through the backdoor, letting a burning blast of steam and soot into the cab. His voice was almost drowned out. “MARION, NEW RECORD TO 250.”

There was a barely intelligible cheer from somewhere in the engine room which Westlie had to assume were Selmer and Marion. She found herself smiling a little as Fitzroy shut the door, brushing off his collar. “She’s done excellent work,” he informed Owen and Westlie without looking at either of them. He browsed the numbers on the table, checking the maps. “Mm, this looks good too. Pressure update?”

Westlie glanced again. “285, sir.”

“Close enough. Owen, take us out, please.”

Owen was already at the controls. They lifted with a lurch, the engine giving an angry hiss as the locomotive released steam from below. Westlie turned and stared out the window, resisting the urge to press her nose against the glass as they rose above Port Prosper. The library shown in the distance, the morning glinting off the glass in the dome with the mountains stretching beyond that, little plants dotting the slopes. Homes cuddled about the city, painted in red, grey, yellow, blue; Prospans weren’t picky. They grew ever more dotted and sparce further from the center, farms drawing lines in the landscape. The wind picked up as they rose higher.

Owen pushed the engine forward and Westlie felt the whisper of the breeze as it brushed the windows. Through the blue tint it was all so very alive, and it felt like... like being in love. Westlie had no idea how to confirm the feeling, but her heart squeezed and the rest of the world fell away. It was so beautiful. This was what she wanted. The love ached like a new happy fire in her chest and she embraced it, pulled it tight around her. It was easier to handle than her anger since it just glowed without burning, with a soft tender warmth. There was no action to it either, no demands, just a deep well of peace. She was never going to let this go, she swore quietly as Port Prosper faded away. She would die before she stopped traveling with the wind, watching these islands pass by, blessed by the soft glow of the fungi along their edges. She’d worked hard and she’d gotten so lucky. So very, very lucky. She would make every single second count. Damn the man who tried to take it from her.

[sesshatetsuko]

Rurouni Kenshin Fanfiction : See you in life Beyond -Chapter 4-

Summary : For as long as he remembers, life had never been easy for him. So when carefully-buried memories are brutally awakened, the worst can happen... * A canon post-Jinchuu story, depicting how Kenshin tries to survive his inner demons, and how he and Kaoru finally became a family...* (rated M)

To find previous chapters, just search for #fanfiction on this blog!

Sitting in seiza at the end of the training room so as not to disturb the endless flow of shinai, the wanderer was watching attentively the activity under his eyes. Kaoru was training students of Maekawa dojo in addition to her own. As a result Yahiko was redoubling of effort, proud of his master's teachings and eager to show his technical superiority against the opposing school. Sweat, quick gestures and kiai cries filled the air.

Giving lessons for another dojo allowed the young kendoka to support as much as possible the needs of the house, helped in this task by her only disciple, who although unable to pay for his lessons participated in living together by bringing a little money from his work at the Akabeko. Sanosuke, on his side, sometimes helped as a docker at Yokohama Port, his imposing physique allowing him to carry heavy loads. Thanks to this livelihood he was able to finance things like his nocturnal escapades. Above that, he had recently developed a strange fascination for ships coming back from abroad, and all the stories of unknown countries swimming with them...

Only Kenshin, unemployed, was out of step compared to his young companions.

Having always experienced poverty as a child and then wandered for more than 10 years as a penniless and homeless wanderer did not do anything to help things. He had lived so long without thinking about the next day, indifferent to the fact that his own death could happen from one moment to another, that changing his way of life now that he had settled at Kamiya dojo was very difficult. In fact, he had to relearn everything, having absolutely no personal reference of standard family life. Thus, if surviving had become one of his specialties, money remained a mysterious data for him, since absent during most of his existence. As a result, he had trouble caring for it, associating it personally neither with need nor with happiness.

Kaoru seemed to understand this, since she never pushed him in that direction, and for this he was secretly grateful to her. He had tried to look into it, but ... what could he do? His level of writing and reading was barely passable and he had only learned the art of the katana, developed more particularly that of murder, a perfectly useless competence in this new Meiji era he had sweated blood and tears to build. He did not want to transmit the Hiten Mitsurugi (his own youthful failure regarding the values that his teacher wanted to teach him was damaging enough), and the professions of policeman or bodyguard had proven to be a formidable stimulant for his innate assassin reflexes that he desperately tried to bury. Not to mention the fact that he did not like to go away of the dojo for a long time after the traumatic incident of Enishi, and that sometime, his body began to make him pay for all of his swordsmanship years...

Finally, this one might not be suitable for this new era ...

He focused his gaze again on the young students before him, and on the life that emerged from them. Basically it did not matter to him to be obsolete, if these people could know the happiness of a peaceful life. That was the reason he had fought for and would fight again.

Kaoru was in the center of the room, and she was performing a series of kata demonstrations for her students. She was lifting her shinai at full speed, hitting her arms and hips in different directions, her feet resting each time in very particular points on the ground. These were traditionally rigorously codified exercises where each gesture mattered.

Although he had initially come to see her out of sheer curiosity when he arrived at the dojo, Kenshin's eyes had become much less innocent since he had begun to develop feelings for her. Because if the young woman was just emerging from adolescence, his own adult life was already well under way, and his body was often painfully reminding him of that... which had earned him to this day many cold water buckets, meditation sessions and other nocturnal baths. Worse, since he had started courting her without allowing himself to touch her, training sessions had literally turned to torture. To see her waving fiercely in this low necked man's outfit, sometimes revealing her tightly bandaged chest, was enough to bring his blood on fire. Moreover, her incredible agility made him wonder what kind of acrobatic positions they could u... -Kenshin took a deep, long breath.

This one will definitely have to go back to the river ...

Chasing these ideas did put his self-control yet strong at severe test. Himura was also careful not to stare at the young kendoka too intensely, for fear of frightening her with the ardor of his thoughts. Concealment was after all a specialty among assassins. Kaoru was executing the movements with precision, causing her slim yet robust body to be covered with a thin layer of sweat, which slid down her neck and lower.

The river, the cold river ...

While Kenshin was struggling internally, all the students seemed captivated by the current demonstration. The master of Kamiya Kasshin performed kendo with a grace and tenacity inherited from her father. All except a boy who was standing aside, a pout on his face, apparently bored by all fo this.

She seemed to have noticed it since it was to him that she spoke first.

"Gyôsei, come to reproduce the exercise, I will mime your partner"

" Why me?" He replied, exaggerating his grimace.

He doesn't seem to want to work this morning, his master noted irritably.

"You're lucky she's the one taking care of you," Yahiko replied, waving his shinai. If you don't want to do any more katas, I'll be happy to be your opponent and kick your ass, idiot! "

If slackers were people of the worst kind for the brave first Kamiya Kasshin disciple, men who were not interested in martial arts were just downright aliens.

"Stop arguing, boys!" Kaoru continued without losing her concentration. "Come on Gyôsei, put yourself in position. "

The young man reluctantly complied. He began to realize his series of movement awkwardly, the assistant master reproducing them identically in front of him, then quickly lost patience. Kaoru countered every shot, but Gyôsei became more and more abrupt and rough in his gestures. After a while, clearly angry at having been put to work and ridiculing himself in front of his classmates, he aimed a shoot that was not intended in the choreography directly at his teacher's ribs. The young woman, although surprised, saw his attempt and narrowly dodged him, but the aggressive gesture did not go unnoticed by the redhead sitting in the back of the room, who had suddenly raised his head.

"Well," Kaoru noted, "you still lack coordination ..."

"Pfff ... what's the use of learning these choreographies? It's not even a real fight! "

"It's you who are the real moron! argued Yahiko who was regretting not having previously kicked the damn boy's ass "If you cannot even master that you'll never be able to fight! These are the basics, the ba-si-cs! "

The two boys stared at each other fiercely. Meanwhile, the wanderer had risen from the corner of the room, unbeknownst to everyone.

"Gyôsei, right?" He said with a smile. "You do not seem to have really grasped the concept of kata. "

" ...What do you mean? "

Why does it matter to him? If even the housekeeper of the dojo comes to annoy me now! Gyôsei already had no desire to come to class, only obeying the order of his parents, but if in addition everyone fell on him ...

"That stroke at the ribs was not in the demonstration. "

The boy clenched his teeth, displeased that his little hanky-panky was noticed.

"So what... ? "

"This one will be your partner. "

Without waiting for his answer, the samurai grabbed a training sword hanging from the wall. Gyôsei looked at him with a hint of apprehension. He had never noticed how callused his hands were, nor that his usually high-pitched, even feminine voice could become so low. Not to mention, did he not have a sword hung on his hip? The impulsive boy was suddenly intimidated by this scarred man with tawny hair, who had suddenly decided to take part in their training...He had been coming at the Kamiya dojo for some time now and from memory this guy was only satisfied to observe them without speaking, occasionally smiling in a honeyed or even silly way. If only he had been told that this man could do something other than cooking or washing laundry...

"Are you sure, Kenshin?" The young kendoka wondered. "It's really not worth it ..."

This is the first time he ever gets involved in one of my classes! He has never accepted to train with me, or even to give advice to Yahiko before...

"This one insists. "

He put himself in position immediately, to everyone's surprise. The students had spontaneously formed a small circular group around them, curious to see the abilities of the redhead who lived with their master. As for Kaoru, she was as shocked as her students.

"Hajime! "

His voice was definitely not honeyed, and Gyosei felt for a moment the dark authority of a powerful ki. He resumed his kata, this time reproducing it very carefully. The wanderer dodged all his blows without any difficulty, not bothering to lift his shinai or even change the position of his body. Then, half-way through the exercise, at the exact moment when he had previously tried to hit the kendoka at her ribs, the samurai vigorously pressed his foot between the boy's and mowed his leg with a dry gesture. Gyôsei crashed face down at full speed.

"Kenshin!" Kaoru immediately glared daggers at him.

The boy got up with difficulty, surprised at his sudden fall, having seen absolutely nothing. He would probably be rewarded later by a good bump on the head.

"Hey, that -that was not planned!" He groaned, rubbing his chin where a small hematoma was already forming.

"You deserved it!" Replied Yahiko, openly laughing. He, too, had not missed the gesture tempted against his master just now.

"A kenjutsuka must be ready for any eventuality. "The redhead calmly replied, hanging up the shinai on the wall. "That's why it is helpful to be focused on any exercise, as basic as it appears. "

The former Master of the Kamiya Kasshin gave him a complicit but accusing look.

He did it on purpose ...

She came near the samurai, partly amused by his possessive reaction and partly annoyed by his hint of authority and the punitive gesture that followed against her disciple.

"Kenshin," she murmured, "I'm able to correct my own students by myself. "

"This one knows, that he does. "

"Don't try to play the innocent with me..."

"Oro? Please forgive me, Kaoru-dono. This one will resume cleaning." He said, scratching his head, adopting a resilient posture. Challenging a kendo teacher in her own school was never a good idea.

"You'd better! "

The class then resumed to a normal rhythm, and the pupils of the Maekawa dojo as much as the one of the Kamiya dojo, redoubled their ardor in the execution of their katas. Definitively, Gyôsei would be wary of housekeepers.

Despite the recent building of a railroad between the two cities, the Tôkaidô road, more than 500 kilometers long, linking Kyoto to Tokyo in more than 50 relays - without forgetting Osaka and Kobe - was still very popular, mostly because modest people did not have enough money to buy a train ticket. It was dotted with thriving inns and abandoned checkpoints since the end of the Meiji era and the reunification of modern Japan. Its creation a long time ago had allowed the trade to prosper all along the coastal path, this axis having remained several centuries during the most traveled of Japan.

About two weeks of travel were needed to cross this road on foot without horse or palanquin, ridiculous and useless attributes in the eyes of the thirteenth master of the Hiten Mitsurugi, but by rushing only ten days would be necessary for the man to complete the journey. To have large legs and a developed musculature, fruits of a rigorous training for decades, had proved useful in many situations.

And the faster I will go, the faster I will get rid of this crowd ...

But while Hiko was only barely getting close to Kusatsu, second stop of the above-mentioned route, his sharp hearing suddenly detected the cry of a young boy, as if smothered by ...

...Leaves?

He moved instinctively towards a tree-lined massif at the entrance to the village. Above a Scots pine, half masked by thorny branches at almost 15 meters high, a small body was leaning dangerously towards the void.

"Help!"

"... what's your name, kid?" Hiko shouted from the bottom of the tree, very curious to know the name of the one who'd had the imbecility to climb higher than he knew how to get off.

"Toshiro, but ... HELP ME FINALLY! I'M GONNA FALL!"

The boy was desperately clinging at a medium-sized branch, which was already emitting dangerous crackling sounds. He was covered with green goads. Hiko found the scene in front of his eyes rather funny.

"Patience, kid, you don't have to be afraid when I'm right below you."

"Huh?"

With that, the master jumped several meters high, lifting the dust at his feet to land on a branch halfway from the child. He quickly made his way towards him, clutching the trunk with dexterity. Then came a moment when it was too thin to support his weight, and Hiko stopped his progress.

"Let yourself fall."

"No, I can't ..."

"Let yourself go, fool, I told you I was right below!"

"HUWAAAAAH"

The young boy did not have to execute the said move because the branch that supported him suddenly yielded, obliging the master to throw himself immediately in the emptiness to catch him. They landed on the ground with a crash but no damage, since Seijuro held the boy in his arms with a perfect squatting position. You don't become thirteenth master of Hiten Mitsurugi for nothing, see.

He laid the child on the ground and dusted his coat disdainfully.

"So, Toshiro... what kind of stupid reason did cross your mind to have you climbing on a tree ten times higher than you?"

Not that I really care about it...

Toshiro waited a few moments to regain his breath and his balance, then devoured with an indescribable intense gaze the imposing brown man in a white cape that had so spectacularly restrained his fall.

"It's my dog, Mochi... He ran away several weeks ago, and since then we've been staying at the hostel in order to find him ..."

The boy's face darkened sadly. From Hiko's point of view, he was only going to babycry.

They must have money to afford themselves to be stuck here for so long, just for an animal ... I guess these are the benefits of this carefree Meiji era.

"..You know, everyone loves him at home, he's part of our family. I thought climbing up this tree would give me a better view of the valley ..."

"It was a silly idea."

"He was scared by that damn raven!" continued the boy, as if to defend himself. "Mochi goes crazy every time he sees one ; you see, a bird attacked him when he was a puppy, and since then he has always been afraid of it!"

Stupid master, stupid dog ...

"I did not ask you for so much information ..." Hiko pointed out, his annoyance growing.

Toshiro suddenly looked up at his savior.

"Oh, I'm so rude ... You helped me, and I don't even know your name?"

"Niitsu Kakunoshin ... I'm a potter."

Even to a child, Seijuro Hiko did not reveal his true identity. Never. Precaution of thirteenth Hiten Mitsurugi's master, a school that had survived for several centuries with only one disciple and one name.

"Po ... potter?"

Toshiro could not believe his ears. This man was so muscular and agile ... Potters suddenly rose high in his esteem.

"Please come to the inn with me. My parents and my little sister are there and my father is an art dealer, he will surely give you money to thank you."

"That's nice, kid, but I'm in a hurry."

Hiko had no desire to hang out in this rotten shed, let alone meet other people.

"Just be careful next time."

"Yes sir!"

Toshiro greeted the great ceramist very low, who went on his way as quickly as possible, silently muttering against reckless kids climbing the trees and wasting his time. One stupid apprentice was enough.

Saito was fuming. They had a lot of trouble collecting data on this case, and he still had no tangible track. During these last weeks the agents deployed to the field had returned once again with shreds of information without concrete link to each other. Children were disappearing, mainly in remote villages and poor areas of Japan. In most cases they were orphans, making it hard to identify and even account for them. Nobody claimed their bodies, and few people cared about them.

The number of disappearances is probably wildly underestimated ...

He took a puff from his cigarette. A dirty habit inherited from Westerners.

They may simply have died of starvation and their corpses would have been left aside in the absence of a loved one to bury them.

Unfortunately, some disappearances were oddly localized. And Saito did not believe in coincidences.

What use would a group of kids without connection be?

This case did not make any sense. He was turning that same question again and again in his mind, spinning impatiently around his desk. Outside his window, afar in his visual field a little girl was holding a puppy on a leash. An Akita, probably, judging by its already imposing size despite its young age. It was then that he was wandering on this innocuous reflection that an unhealthy idea began to germinate in his mind...

...A human trafficking?

They were roaming into the streets of former Edo, still noisy despite the late hour. One of the pleasant changes of this new era, in comparison with the desperately empty alleys of Kyoto as soon as the day was off during Bakumatsu, noted the wanderer. Night had fallen and the red glow of Izakaya's lanterns alternated with the fleeting flashes of candles entrenched inside the intimate houses of wood and clay. Their path consisted of wide, animated passages as much as of narrow lanes, where the single shadow of the crescent moon gave the high stone walls an almost threatening look. The brawler had his hands in his pockets and was chatting about futile things on the way : this cuttie here had pretty eyes, the fish dealer there yet open rather looked like he was selling junk... He was smiling while walking, obviously relaxed, stretching his long legs covered with badly trimmed trousers to the front. The other man, smaller and older, remained silent most of the time, but was following him at a good pace. With his face somewhat lowered, only the slight wind that sometimes played among its red strands could discover his deep azure eyes.

It had become one of their rituals. Strange, how a friendship can be forged between two persons of a different generation, bound by a visceral fighting instinct and the trials that life had put in their path. Going out in such a regular basis was granting them with privileged moments between friends, far from the sometimes suffocating female agitation of the dojo where the samurai lived.

"... Hey, are ya even listenin' to me when I speak?"

He raised his head, suddenly thrown out of his thoughts.

"Gomenasai Sanosuke..."

The samurai let his words linger in the fresh air of spring. His eyes were still dark.

Kenshin doesn't seem like himself tonight... my job to cheer him up!

Sanosuke Sagara logically decided to take his mind off the brooding by using the best way he knew, a method that he believed had been proven in any age and any individual.

"Well, whaddya think about givin' a good hit into a woman tonight?"

"ORO?"

The wanderer gave him a meaningful, almost comical glare.

"This one does not value violence against women." he said seriously.

"Oh my, you're so straight, Kenshin! Relax a little!" He gave him a big pat on the back. "I only meant to have sex with a woman, if ya see what I'm talkin' about!"

"Oro? This one still does not see the interest, that he does." The samurai blushed discreetly, but seemed however to consider the proposition for brief a moment. "Besides, Kaoru-dono would be furious ..."

"Kami-sama, how can ya be so austere... Okay, let's have a drink instead!"

They were approaching a place with warmer vibes. Sanosuke went on with an exaggerated cheering tone :

"This spot will be perfect!"

He lowered his head and lifted the entrance's curtain of the small building which seemed almost out of time. The atmosphere was more hectic inside than outside - not to mention noisy. As soon as they had taken their seats near a window, the two buddies were knocking back fermented rice beverage shots together, one of the rare local alcohol on this isolated island of the Far East.

"Ya don't speak much tonight." He corrected himself. "I mean, ya're chattin' even less than usual."

The redhead sighed, annoyed by this display of hidden questions, before swallowing his saké.

"Sano... This one is just a bit tired, that's all."

With an absent gesture he handed the cup to his friend anew.

"I'm already used to do most of the talkin'," he continued, serving him, "but now that's a one-way dialogue."

Without paying more attention to his remarks, Kenshin emptied this new cup in one gulp, his cerulean gaze still lost on the outside agitation. Sanosuke stared at him, dumbfounded.

"And ya have a hellish thirst tonight, nothin' to compare with that fuckin' restrained behavior ya have with Jou-chan or the others."

"Ah, sorry..." He scratched the back of his head and forced a smile as he turned back to his friend.

"Give up the excuses, these drink're on me for once;" he smiled, elbowing the red-haired, "Want another?"

"Huh, I guess..."

He hesitated, then handed his glass again. It was like any other promptly emptied, but his attention never truly returned to the current conversation.

Sanosuke was peering at him silently. He knew that if the wanderer did not want to talk he would get absolutely nothing from him. This man could have a head harder than steel and was naturally not eager to confide. Although it was annoying him strongly (he was officially impatient), he had learned over years to get the best of it : it was better to spend a good time together and leave those problems until later on when he would feel ready to speak - if such a moment ever existed in this life. That's why he maintained the conversation on his own, Kenshin just nodding now and again.

The smell of saké was surrounding the small building enclosed between two other inns. Its wooden tables, worn but friendly, were covered with sticky and odorous traces resulting from the strong passage of individuals throughout the day. The evening continued until numerous bottles were emptied. Nothing unusual for the fighter accustomed to this kind of trip, but much more unnatural for his companion who appreciated so much self-control. He had swallowed the majority of the drinks served without really paying attention, under the half-amused eye of his friend.

Yep, definitely, somethin's wrong.

"... ya better stop here, don't ya think?"

It did not sound like the brawler at all to restrain others' consumption, but something didn't seem right in the samurai's behavior tonight, and he did not like it.

"Hmm." Kenshin put his glass down, awkwardly dropping his elbow on the table. "Let's go."

He got up with the help of his left arm and crossed the door, head bowed.

Sanosuke was following him closely. The samurai had a slightly feverish and unsteady walk. For an innocent eye his balance would seem perfectly normal, but for the trained eye of someone who knew the precise and agile moves of the fighter like the back of his hand, there was no doubt about it : he was dead drunk.

Sanosuke took place at his side while discreetly positioning himself in the background to be able to catch him in case of fall.

"I never saw ya drink this much..."

"Gomenasai" he mumbled

"Stop apologizing all the time, it's becomin' really annoyin' t-"

The wanderer suddenly lost his balance, stumbling on a misplaced pebble. Sanosuke narrowly caught him by placing his arm under his belly.

"Baka, I'll take you back to the dojo."

"... Arigato, S-Sano"

The fighter put his arms around his friend's shoulders, and while supporting most of his weight, walked on the pavement carefully. The wind that had gotten colder by now was playing melody against the surrounding silence, between the leaves of trees barely lit by the nocturnal star. They stopped several times on the way so that the redhead could empty the contents of his stomach, implicitly helped by his friend to stabilize him. As he watched the samurai folded in half, his hair stuck to his face, Sanosuke was thoughtful.

No more words were exchanged that night between the two men. Only the sound of occasional regurgitation and settas hitting the ground punctuated their march.

Next chapter : Enemy of my enemy