Figureheads

by Victoria Bitter

After his release from the Spanish prison, Archie must find his footing again.

Figureheads by Victoria Bitter He had learned how to stand. The thick planks of the Indefatigable's deck still rose and pitched with the swell of the waves passing under her hull, and even on a calm night such as this, it could still be enough to knock a man's balance off with a quick movement or ill-chosen stance. To an inexperienced man, or to one of a delicate constitution, this motion that to a seasoned sailor was the rocking of the cradle itself could even prove most...upsetting. Horatio showed not the faintest sign of illness. He was there, silhouetted in blue-silver moonlight, tall and trim and every inch the officer, and somewhere, he had learned how to stand. Somewhere, no doubt while Archie had been plotting one of his ill- fated escape attempts from Masseredo's prison, he had adopted the stance that he now seemed to wear as naturally as his own skin. His feet were planted solidly, squarely on the deck, but his body swayed ever so slightly, as fluid as the waves beneath. Knees softened and gave almost imperceptibly, hips shifted, spine curved and straightened below shoulders that were perfectly straight and strong. Perfect officer's solidarity somehow blending with the minute give and take of the sea...second nature to a sailor, yet to an outsider, it could appear almost magical. Poseidon's dance. Archie was an outsider now. His knees ached slightly from the effort of not quite remembering the sailor's stance, of overcompensating or not quite doing enough. His feet were sore, and he felt vaguely ill, though not really enough that he was actually in danger of being sick. Just enough to remind him that his body had forgotten. Bitter irony, wasn't it just? How perfectly, poetically right that while he was locked away - locked away in a world of fits and terrors that had even stripped away knowledge so simple as how to stand - Horatio had mastered the skill. Probably hadn't even realized it. One morning he would simply have woken up, and it would have just been. Like the day in the hole when he realized that he'd lost track of time. Like the moment aloft he realized that he was in love with Horatio. His hands, clasped behind his back, felt slick with sweat, and he wiped them against the white wool of his trousers. The moisture wouldn't be so simply dismissed, however, and he stood awkwardly for a moment, hands half-extended in front of him like so much foreign meat. His hat. He snatched the bicorn off his head and clutched it tightly, disciplining the ten aimless digits to a purpose, no matter how trivial. Horatio displayed no such awkwardness. It wasn't just the ease of his stance upon the deck. He seemed utterly at home in himself and his surroundings. So right, so unquestioning. Each line and motion and shadow fitting together as naturally as the crest and trough of the waves. Born to it, he had heard the men whisper. Born to command. Born to the sea. Born to it. Born to be without trying what Archie would have given anything for. It was a simple thing, he knew, even a silly thing, but Archie would have sold his very soul just for a few minutes of being able to stand there like that. Standing at the very tip of the bow, watching the water rush beneath the hull. Body adjusting thoughtlessly to the whims of the sea. Uniform worn like flesh rather than costume. Hands loosely, easily splayed on the rail. Head high, eyes closed, mind drifting in a world that looked so perfectly peaceful and pleasant. He should talk to him. Strike up ship's gossip. Discuss the events of the watch. Relate Styles' latest joke - that truly sick bit about the parson's wife and the chicken that had made him laugh false and hard just by virtue of being so very shipboard. Talk about the hole. The rats. Don Masseredo. Honor. Life. Death. Everything. Anything would be easier than standing here watching him. Besides, even with the blue light and dark shadows cast by the moon, someone was bound to notice him standing there soon. Wonder what he was doing. He was an officer, after all. Maybe not a Lieutenant, but an officer nonetheless, and that attracted attention. He didn't want attention. He had far too much of that as it was. If he stood here much longer, someone was bound to come over with that damnable pitying look in the back of their eyes and that set to their shoulders that said they wanted to put an arm around him like some toddling child. *Is everything all right, Mr. Kennedy?* Such a thoughtful, kindly, hateful question. The night air was filled with sounds - the music of voices and feet and fiddle from the men below, the lapping of the waves, the creaking of wood and the deep whispering of canvas sails - but Archie's footsteps on the deck seemed like gunshots. He half-expected Horatio to turn on him, to level those dark eyes at him in disgruntled accusation at the impertinence of Archie for bothering his reverie. There was no such movement, no such confrontation, however. Not even when the volleys of his footsteps reached the bow. Not even when he planted his own unsteady hands on the railing, remembering only at the last moment to tuck the hat away under his arm before he pitched it over the edge. Not even when he was standing right beside Horatio, his stomach suddenly threatening to take flight, his mind demanding to know what would have been so bad, really, about staying down on the maindeck and being asked that bloody question again. He licked his sandpaper lips, his gaze fixed on the swirls in the weathered woodgrain of the railing. He'd been almost hoping Horatio would confront him. Give him something to say, a way to begin. "Fair weather. I would hope it should last out the week." Archie turned his head slowly, feeling almost tongue-tied. "Yes. Yes. Good seas. Fine wind." "Though storms have a way of coming up rather suddenly at this latitude." His face was entirely relaxed, casually friendly, but the dark eyes seemed a touch darker, and there was something in his voice that caught Archie. A sense that for everything that was oh so casual about their properly barometric conversation, Horatio's thoughts were elsewhere. The question was...where? "It's not really the time of year for that sort of thing." "Perhaps not." A silence descended, thick as a shroud. Horatio turned his face back to the bow cutting relentlessly through the waves, the jagged silver reflections of moonlight on the water shattering on his fair skin. Archie forced himself to watch the same water, seeing the dark, looming black shadow of the ship's hull, the two almost indistinguishable outlines draped over the rail. "Are you..." Horatio's voice trailed off, and Archie was surprised to see the long fingers drum a quick, nervous tattoo on the rail. "Am I all right?" The words came out sharper, more bitter than he expected, with a biting edge that was almost laughter, almost scorn. Of all the people on the bloody ship, didn't Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower know the answer to that question? That question that he had come all the way up here to escape, only to find thrown at him by the one man who really and honestly knew the answer. He gestured vaguely at his knees. "Christ, Horatio, look at me." He bit his lip, the fire suddenly drained out of him, spent in a meager nine words. "Look at me." "Archie?" Horatio's attention was fixed solidly on him now, and he was oddly relieved to see only a bit of surprise, a bit of affront. No pity. Thank God no pity. Archie's eyes returned to the swirls in the railing grain again, but he was talking now, and it was as if someone else had commandeered his throat and lips, staging mutiny against his own orders of silence. "Maybe it was one of the fits...possibly the time in - I'm not sure. I've lost my sealegs, Horatio. It's...it's ridiculous. Everyone sees me stumbling around this ship like a green midshipman, and they've all heard the stories by now, and they - " "Marvel that you survived. That you're about at all, never mind your sealegs. Marvel at your bravery." He felt a thin smile pull his lips tight. "My bravery, is it?" "The men - " "I hear the men, Horatio. I hear them talk a good bit about bravery, but I hear the names as well. Captain Pellew. You. The men think very highly of you. That's where most of the bravery bits come about...and most of the talk of me, as well. Talk of poor Mr. Kennedy, mad as a March hare and dying in that Spanish hellhole when Mr. Hornblower soared in to rescue him from the jaws of death. How brave it was, how noble, how -" "Cowardly." The word, barely whispered, cut off Archie's diatribe like a guillotine's blade. He blinked. "Cowardly?" "Yes." "You?" There was a sound from Horatio, neither laughter nor sob nor sigh, but simply a quick gust of air that seemed to signal all three and a dozen more. "Yes, Archie, me." Archie slid closer on the railing, angling his head to try and read his friend's face. The dark curls hung as a protective curtain, shadowing and shielding Horatio's expression. Archie had to resist the temptation to push them back, to look straight into those piercing eyes and demand to know how the word 'cowardly' could ever, by any stretch of the imagination, be applied to the man standing before him. "For God's sake, how?" "The men applaud my actions, Archie. Have you ever heard them speak of my motives?" "Your motives, Horatio?" "Yes. Not what I did, but rather why I did it. I was afraid, Archie. Not noble, certainly not brave. Afraid." "Of what?" "Of Hunter. Of Masseredo. Of the oubliette. Even of the Duchess at times. Everyone assuming I was in command, even of the commanded, when I wasn't in command of a bloody thing. I envied you your choice, Archie...your simple, steady decision to be done with it all. I envied it, and I couldn't let you have it, because I didn't have the will to do it myself, and because as long as I could make you sip your water...take your porridge...get your feet under you again...as long as I could make you live, I was *doing* something. A coward's command." It was as if all the air had been sucked from Archie's lungs. He shook his head slowly, disbelieving. "You...you're wrong." "I forced my will upon you, my own need for a companion, a duty - " "You didn't make me live, Horatio." For the second time, a silence descended thick upon them, but this time, the shock was on the bold planes of Horatio's face. The slight, dumb parting of the full lips. The incomprehension in the eyes. The haphazard shadows cast across his high cheekbones by rebellious curls that seemed as befuddled as the mind beneath. "I don't understand." Leaning back against the rail, a vaguely serene smile appeared on Archie's mouth. "Don't you think the Spaniards had been trying to keep me alive? They saw I was leaving them. I'd tried to do it before. They'd put funnels down my gullet and forced porridge down me. Held my nose and forced me to drink. Staggered me around that courtyard at the point of a bayonet to force me to walk. I wouldn't let them, Horatio. Learned to vomit at whim, forced fits when they tried to rouse me. They gave up, in the end. By the time you found me, they'd long lost that battle. I could have won it again." "Then why did you give in to me?" There was a boyish cast to the question, a small child's innocent, slightly wounded curiosity, and coming from the strong, solid, achingly perfect Lieutenant, it tore an actual chuckle from Archie's throat. "Don't you understand, Horatio? Do you see at all?" "I'm sorry, Archie, I - " "You didn't make me live. I lived for you." "For me?" "When you came back - I'd thought you were dead. Not really, but...dead to me. Or...at least I was dead to you. When you were there, and you asked me to live - I didn't have a choice, Horatio. It was almost an order, but it was my order to myself." "I'm sorry, Archie, I had no idea..." "Don't say that!" "What am I supposed to say?" A thread of anger had wound through Horatio's voice, and Archie felt a splinter dig into the soft webbing between the thumb and forefinger of his hand as he ground it tightly against the railing. He tightened his grip. "I don't know. Just don't apologize." His eyes came up, meeting Horatio's in a desperate lock. Didn't he understand what was at stake here? What was going on. "Please, Horatio, don't apologize. Everyone is. There's nothing to be sorry for. I did what I did. You did what you did. I'm here, and you're here, and it's the way things are." "But what do you suggest we do about it, Archie?" The rock-solid tension in Horatio's slim shoulders was visible even in the darkness through the thick wool of his uniform. He leaned forward, his face only inches from the other man's. "Perhaps that is the way things were, the way they are, but we can't just go about..." He seemed to fumble for words for a moment, waving one hand almost frenetically. "...go about accusing or despising one another for things that we didn't - " Archie felt as though a bayonet had been driven deep into his gut. His knees went weak, and he tightened his grip still further on the rail, welcoming the increased ferocity of the pain in his right hand as the splinter burrowed in deeper. "You despise me?" "No! I just...Archie, I thought you..." "Damn it, Horatio, I love you!" Archie stopped, every muscle in his body as tense as an iron band. He had only felt this once before, during his first failed escape… dashing around a corner only to find his nose inches away from the barrel of a Spanish musket. Complete terror focused on one person, one point in time and space, with nothing to be done and everything on the line. He searched Horatio's eyes desperately, looking for some sign that he would be merciful, that he had possibly, by some miracle not heard the blurted confession. Horatio blinked. Once. Twice. A hot flush bloomed up from his collar to stain his cheeks, visible even in the dim moonlight. "Are you…" He stopped, ran splayed fingers through his hair. A handful of ringlets escaped his queue, falling in a veil across his forehead and sticking to the fine sheen of sweat there. The tip of his tongue ran quickly along his lips, then suddenly, Horatio swatted at the unruly hair with the flat of his hand, shoving it back. The eye contact was broken with a nearly audible snap, and the taller man was fixated on the movement of the waves. "Are you quite sure, Mr. Kennedy?" He was being given a way out. Officer and gentleman that he was, Horatio was offering him a chance to say that he had only meant it metaphorically or filially, or even that the choice of words had been entirely mistaken. A chance to bring this friendship back on an even keel, to keep going and pretend that the blunder had never occurred. A chance to keep things safe. Why, then, was it a chance he was unable to take? "Entirely certain." His eyes remained locked sightlessly in front of him, not a muscle seemed to move, yet Archie saw the bunching and flexing in the tendons of Horatio's hands, the only visible sign of whatever internal struggle was raging. "And you are feeling…quite well?" "Quite." "No fits recently?" "Nearly a month, Horatio. You know that." "True enough. And you…" "Love you." "Good God." Slowly, almost lazily, Horatio's head fell to his chest. "Good God…Archie…" There was a deep sigh. "How long?" Archie tried to swallow, but his throat felt drier than he would ever have believed possible, and he settled for a gulp of air instead. It left a salt taste on his tongue. "I…" A slight shudder ran through the muscles of Horatio's shoulders, and Archie looked away sharply, studying the complex spiderweb outlines of the rigging against the night sky. "It's difficult to locate a particular moment, to be honest. I can note the date when I first realized it, but the actual substance of it, I would say, likely developed over a course of time and…" He stopped. He was babbling. "I suppose it would." There was no animosity in Horatio's voice, only a calm acceptance, as though they were discussing the best way to calculate a difficult heading. "Since before…" "On the Indy?" "Yes." He forced himself to look up, to look directly at Horatio, even if his friend refused to look at him in return. "Please understand, Horatio, I value our friendship dearly…desperately even…I would never…and what with you being a senior officer…" "Don't. Archie, don't bring rank into this." "I…" He fumbled, looked away again. His mind was racing, trying desperately to find something to say, anything that wouldn't make matters worse. Once, he had been so good with words. A lifetime ago, memorizing and reciting pages at a whim, known among the witty for wit. Stumbling now trying to find something to say, a way to make Horatio understand that it had nothing to do with…"For what advancement may I hope from thee?" The words spilled from his lips before he quite realized he had said them. "What was that?" He didn't know. It was a play, he knew, a play he had heard? Had done? He couldn't remember. But the words…they were branded in the cracks of his heart. Archie closed his eyes, allowing himself to relax, his forearms to drape down, supporting him on the rail, allowing his head to sag as his fingertips swirled absently in the blood on his right hand. The lines came smoothly, strongly, with a rich timbre and surety he had thought he would never hear again, and for a moment, he let himself forget the Indy, forget Don Masseredo, even forget Horatio as he marveled at the long-lost music of his own voice. "Nay, do not think I flatter; For what advancement may I hope from thee That no revenue hast but thy good spirits, To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flatter'd? No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear? Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice And could of men distinguish, her election Hath seal'd thee for herself; for thou hast been As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing, A man that fortune's buffets and rewards Hast ta'en with equal thanks: and blest are those Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled, That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger To sound what stop she please. Give me that man That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart, As I do thee." There was a long moment in which even the sea seemed silent. Archie opened his eyes. Turned. Horatio had lifted his head and was looking at him in what almost seemed like awe. "Good God." Archie almost chuckled, but it came out merely a slight twitch of the lips. "Are you sure, Horatio? Is he always?" "What was that?" "Shakespeare, I think. I can't quite remember." He shrugged. The silken-voice spell had dissipated, and he felt the shame returning hard on its heels. "I'm sorry." "No…it was…" A soft smile appeared on Horatio's mouth, and Archie nearly gasped. "Beautiful." Now he did gasp, but it wasn't really so much a gasp as a desperate inhalation, the gulp of air taken by a man who has just surfaced after falling overboard. He let it out slowly, and the release of tension was such that for a few moments at least, he was leaning against the railing for genuine support. "Then you aren't…" "I was surprised, Archie. Certainly…startled. I hadn't expected it." No hate in his voice. No hate, no pity, no anger. Not in his wildest dreams had he thought that it would…but still, he couldn't hope that - no, that was going from an understanding friend to a ridiculous fantasy. "I'm sorry, Horatio. I didn't mean to…" "Don't apologize, Archie." "I know it was inappropriate, but…" "Archie." "It just came out, and if you want to ignore it, I'm perfectly willing to pretend it never…" "Archie!" He stopped. The way Horatio was looking at him. Standing with that fluid precision he had been admiring so few long minutes ago. Hands clasped loosely behind his back. Head tilted just slightly to one side, that thick lock of curls threatening to mutiny again. Lips quirked into a gentle smile. Eyes…bloody hell. Eyes that showed not compassion, nor even friendship, but…relief? And even - "Yes?" "Archie, there is no need to apologize. I was only surprised." He bowed his head slightly, and the blush thickened before he looked up again, and this time the expression in his eyes was unmistakable. "Pleasantly surprised." "Then you…?" "Yes." "Good God." The slight smile showed dangerous signs of transforming into a laugh. "Are you sure, Archie? Is he always?" Archie nodded, feeling almost numb. "In this case, I would say quite definitely so." He closed his eyes, trying to make sense of it all. Only minutes ago, he had been reflecting on the rocking of the ship, but that had proved nothing compared to the absolute insanity, the complete inversion of his life that he could swear he had heard just now from Horatio's own lips. Then there was an arm over his shoulder, long and lean and warm and heavy. He could smell wool and salt and sweat, and he slowly let his head drop to the side to pillow against it. The cloth itched slightly against his cheek, but he didn't care. His hand throbbed, his knees ached, his stomach felt as though he had just weathered the worst storm of his life, but he didn't care. A warm tickle seemed to grow from somewhere that he thought was nearly dead, nearly murdered by Simpson, by Masseredo, by life in general, and it expanded and flooded until he could deny it no longer. Wrapping his own arm around Horatio's trim waist with a boldness that would have surprised most who thought they knew him, Archie rolled back his head, gazing up at the stars and feeling his body begin to tremble with a sensation that had nothing to do with fits or fear. His eyes glittered, and a few strands of his hair were peeled away from his face by a gentle wind as Archie Kennedy began to laugh. It was a loud, full laugh, a laugh of complete ecstasy, and it's rolling sound seemed just the incantation that he had been waiting for so many years to find, excising demons and banishing them into the clear night sky. He laughed, and soon, Horatio laughed, and in the giddiness, a simple fact of his own body escaped Archie. His feet were planted solidly, squarely on the deck, but his body swayed ever so slightly, as fluid as the waves beneath. Knees softened and gave almost imperceptibly, hips shifted, spine curved and straightened below shoulders that were perfectly straight and strong. Perfect officer's solidarity somehow blending with the minute give and take of the sea…second nature to a sailor, but to an outsider, it could appear almost magical. Poseidon's dance. He had remembered how to stand. The End