Author Notes:

Sarah's behavior is peculiar. WARNING: potential trigger; oblique inferences may be drawn. If concerned about proceeding, contact author.

Part 10

Sarah settled into the dig mechanically. She had been assigned to Andrew's team. They were going to concentrate on the hilltop site again, but from the moment she stepped out her tent on the first morning she refused to look toward the hill.

She did not want to return. Her sister would not be there. Not really. Words were not enough, no matter what Laura had written. They were an unsatisfying substitute and a cruel reminder. The lady and the admiral were not up there either; she had seen to that.

Renfrew's brows knitted together when she requested another task on the dig. He seemed on the verge of asking her why but must have thought better of it. A detached voice in her head informed her he must have read Laura's letter.

Come to think of it: when had he read the letter, she wondered. Was that why he'd sent her to the hilltop last year? Because of the letter? Bastard.

Andrew dropped by at lunch. She was expecting him. She was expecting his interrogation. Instead, he crunched an apple and, in between chomps, brought up a topic she had forgotten – which was strange considering it was part of the reason she had decided to return this year.

"Renfrew doesn't know what to do with the data from your dig."

"Oh." She was listening to him – really she was - but why was his voice echoing as though through watery static? She looked at him, hands folded sedately in her lap.

Andrew looked at her strangely. "He's afraid to publish."

She nodded, remembering. "You mentioned it."

"He's afraid of being laughed out of academia – and you can understand why."

It wasn't hard to guess that why – but why did Andrew sound so far away? She answered him by rote. "He has doubts about the results."

He shook his head.

"There's just something about it, something strange – the site's almost too perfect. It's hard not to smell a rat. You call them the admiral and the lady," he said. It felt like an accusation.

"Just names."

He ummed. "Ever wonder where the admiral's ship is – so far from the sea?"

"You don't want to know what I think." The proverbial penny clattered in her own cold head. Yes. There was no way Andrew would want to hear her thoughts on the topic. She tipped her head back to gaze into the blue of the sky overhead. Let the archeologists work out their own theories. They needed a good challenge; this could have them guessing for years to come.

She wished she knew more of the couple's story, although – perhaps she already knew enough. Perhaps they had already told her everything she really needed to know. It didn't matter where they came from – to reach this place they'd traveled far and it hadn't been easy. They'd lost things that mattered to them, probably everything but each other. But they'd made it here, and somehow they'd found what they were looking for. The eye of the storm, the admiral had called it. A place where he could be at peace even though he was hurting. And then she'd gone and wrenched them out of the ground. She'd lost everything too, and still she'd gone and ripped them up.

Andrew had continued without her noticing.

"You've been here for nearly a day and you haven't asked." His face scrunched in concern. She eyed him curiously, hearing the question he wasn't asking. Hazy memories from her living room returned.

Belatedly she realized he was expecting something more from her. "Oh," she said. "You said you found something else."

"We sure did. When you make it to the top of the hill, I'll show you," he said, eying her intently.

"No."

"No?"

"No." She stared at him. "You won't be showing me at the top of the hill. There's nothing there for me. If you have something to tell me, you will tell me here."

His consternation was obvious. This wasn't going the way he had planned. She waited as his confusion played out in the scrunch of his brows.

He said, "Hold out your hand."

She did.

He took a small box from his pocket, opened it, removed something and placed it in her hand. It was tiny. Her vision blurred as she looked at it.

"It's got no chain," she said stupidly.

"If it had a chain, the links were likely so fine they long gone. The locket itself was made of a more vulnerable metal alloy than the ring and the bracelet. Not as durable as gold or silver, but tough enough to wait a few thousands of years for a group of treasure hunters and dreamers."

She stared at her palm. He wanted her to say something – and a tiny part of her didn't want to disappointment him. "Does it...?"

"Open?" He looked sad. "It's hinge was destroyed long before we cleaned it – but the rims interlocked perfectly; it was sealed tight. The edges still nestle into each other but it's in two halves now."

She hooked a fingernail into the edge and saw he was right. The top popped off.

"Oh."

Curled in a tight circle was a lock of dark hair. She moved her palm into full light, and the lock burnt richly. It was auburn - like Laura's. Sarah sagged. The first feeling she'd had all day was like fist to the stomach.

"This-this shouldn't be."

"No, it shouldn't," Andrew said. "But it is."

She counted three of her own swallow breaths. "It's her hair, isn't it? The lady's."

"Essentially the DNA appears to strongly match for the partial DNA extracted from the tooth – only this find is better."

"Better."

"As in 'we-mapped-her-genome-sequence' better," he said quietly. He took a scrunched up piece of paper from his pocket. "Do have any idea how much you can tell about a person from that sort of data?"

She shook her head.

He proffered the paper.

Sarah's hands shook. An almost familiar auburn-haired, pale woman looked back at her; they hadn't made her cheeks full enough, but the eyes were perfect.

"DNA, cranial modeling ... science is a wonderful thing," Andrew said.

She stifled a whimper.

She was transfixed by the lock. When her brain couldn't take the solemnity anymore, it turned to the ludicrous. She let out a sharp laugh.

"No wonder the old man is scared. This'll be a field day for the crazies."

-o0o-

None of this was about her.

She made this realization as she worked that afternoon: not the dig, not the lady and the admiral, not Renfrew's troubles nor his kindness, not Andrew nor the discoveries of his science, not Laura's PhD, not the hilltop vista, not the people who'd give up their summers to be here.

None of it, she knew, had anything to do with her.

She couldn't say she was really focusing on anything as she went about the task of troweling layers of earth. As she worked, her thoughts flitted from one idyl to another. In the end they kept returning to the locket and to the difficulty facing Renfrew. And when she would stop and look up, trying to solve the problem she had created for the professor, she would stare at the others working diligently around her. They went about their business, married to their tasks. They cared about why they were here. They wanted to talk, they wanted to interact, they wanted to make discoveries.

If she didn't play along, she was spoiling the game for everyone. She didn't need the attention her mood inevitably drew and she didn't need the pitying look she had seen in another volunteer's eyes: pity and irritation.

So it was time to stop – or at least take back some control.

So that night she forced herself to join the others around the fire (those who hadn't gone off to the tourist town bar) and she made an effort to listen and reply appropriately with laughter and conversation when needed.

Because none of this was about her.

The muscles in her cheek ached from overuse; she felt a genuine spark of joy as she volunteered her own stories and inquired about others. When a grad student produced a ukulele, it ended up in Sarah's hands and Andrew who hadn't stopped smiling all night issued the inevitable challenge.

"Go on, smarty pants, play us a song." He grinned. "Laura used to boast her little sister could pick up any instrument and play."

Sarah quirked an eyebrow. "Everything but bagpipes," she murmured. She wasn't worried. Her fingers worked the frets as she guessed, teased and perfected chord shapes. Within minutes she was confident she knew enough for a debut.

"Any requests?" she said archly.

As the fire died down, her fingertips burned against the catgut strings; she hadn't played for months. She was fearless, trying everything they asked of her. She played their favorites, sometimes getting it right, sometimes failing hilariously.

When she knew she had done enough she handed the instrument back. She put a hand to her mouth to hide a yawn. When Andrew would have offered to guide her back, she thanked him, laughing and saying she was not helpless.

She took her leave gracefully.

The moon was full and as she wandered away from the fire its glow lit a path to her tent. Under her breath she hummed an old song, walking with a sway. Her thoughts and the melody led her to the admiral.

"'Where'd you learn to be so strong? Every time you fall you know you bounce right back. With more determination every time; with more integrity every time. Oh it's got to be said - you came through for us more times than I could ever count.'"

She gazed up at the moon. The stars and galaxy were magnificent - milky, spidery threads netting the sky. No wonder the admiral and lady had been happy here. She would never forgive herself for what she had done. She would try, but she would never be able to. She would not live a single day without regret.

"'So thanks a lot. Don't you know that I will never forget? A true soldier committed to the cause in every way. Taking on the front line of our lives. Being there to give the good advice.'"

Although she had done this terrible thing, she sensed the admiral and the lady were forgiving sort of folk. Like Laura's words though, it wouldn't help. They could forgive her; she just wouldn't be free of guilt.

"'It's got to be repeated: you came through for us - more times than I could ever count.'"

The lady had spoken to her. The lady had reached out in her dreams.

The lady had spoken to her. And Sarah had done the unforgivable. She fought sudden tears as she thought about the grave on the stage. She knew what it meant. She knew Laura was lost to her, knew the admiral and the lady were gone.

Betrayal ... such a dirty word and much harder to take now she had a face to put to it. Yet, it didn't make sense – not entirely. Hadn't the lady told her to find the admiral? Didn't the lady know what she was going to do? Surely she must have known that Sarah was going to disturb her rest?

Was there some other reason Sarah was thinking about betrayal? Could she have possibly betrayed Laura as well? An image of the urn she always traveled with nudged itself into her mind. A sharp stab went through her gut.

I've loved my life and I've loved this world. All I could ask for is to be released to the life stream once again.

She couldn't give her sister what she wanted.

Is that what this was really about?

No! None of this is about me.

As she slipped into and then, moments later, out of her tent, she thought of the admiral and his daily vigil beside the lady's graveside.

I'm not you. I am weak. We're not the same - you had some place: you had this place. You knew where she was.

She stumbled as she made her way up the hill; she pulled at the grass to hoist herself upwards. She wasn't on the track; her course was straight up. Even with the moonlight to guide her the bushes clawed at her feet, each step a new hand ready to pull her down, as if the earth itself protested her destination.

Tell me it didn't hurt to get up every morning. Tell me it wasn't the easiest thing to get up in the morning and hate the sun. Tell me the effort of putting one foot after the other, day after day - until your shuffle up here wore a scar into the hillside - didn't have you begging for an early grave. Tell me it wasn't a relief when they finally put you down.

The admiral had been buried with a locket of the lady's hair – he had lived and been buried with tangible memories. In the end death had brought them together. Envy burned her chest. Death had been their solution.

This place was the eye of the storm; it was the lady's garden; somehow Laura knew it. Laura wanted her to climb the hill. Laura wanted her to be here.

At the top she gasped wildly.

Spent, she dropped to her knees.

She had no desire to be. She had no desire to pick herself up, no desire to put one leg before the other and scramble back down the hill, no desire to be here or anywhere now or tomorrow.

She had no desire.

She had nothing.

She did not want to be.

She wanted nothing but what was impossible.

She stared blearily at the tiny plastic container in her hand.

What I want is impossible.

She tipped the bottle against her palm, hearing it rattle like a warning.

The ring was impossible, she remembered suddenly as she passed out.

-o0o-

She hovers above the grave in the stage again. Water fills it to the lip, glassy and still. The stage is empty. She's alone. She cannot go up, she cannot go left or right; she cannot go out, cannot leave this place except by one exit.

Knowing the way to go at last she lets go and crashes through the surface of the grave.

End Notes:

Champion by Fly My Pretties. This song always reminds me of old soldiers. I always imagine the singer is singing about his grandfather.