Fortunately for Halt, his ability to speak Hibernian made him valuable, and he was treated well. His shoulder was re-set after it had become jostled about by his flee from Clonmel and by the smugglers themselves, and he was given a good meal and plenty of water to drink. He was verbally jibed and picked on by the crew, but Halt could bear that. What he couldn't bear, however, was the thought of imprisonment. Here he was, an escaped prince, sitting in a brig on some lonely smuggling ship, bound for a life of enslavement.

The only thing that could distract Halt from his predicament was his stomach. Halt had never been on a long sea journey before - much less on seas so deep and treacherous - and he found, much to his dismay and embarrassment, that his stomach didn't appreciate the rocking motion of the ship. Of course, while Halt bent over the vomit bucket, greenfaced and miserable, the hardened seamen only laughed and slammed him on his good shoulder, promising that he'd get used to it in time.

But Halt didn't want to get used to it. He wanted to escape.

It was all Halt could think about for the days that he was on board that smuggler's ship. He thought and planned and thought some more, but he could never figure out a good or practical way to get escape his captors. He couldn't even dream of swimming away - even if there was land in sight, his lame arm would keep him from going anywhere but to the bottom of the ocean. He couldn't fight the captain for his ship - for one thing, Halt's shoulder made fighting impossible, and for another, he didn't know the first thing about sailing a ship. Halt couldn't promise the smugglers ransom money, either, because he wasn't a prince anymore. Halt frowned at the thought when two sailors walked by his cell.

"We'll be setting port by this time tomorrow," one of them said, "Rumor is that the west ports have a strong market for translators these days. The captain'll probably sell 'im for decent price there."

"What, and not keep him for himself?" The other asked incredulously, "No, I think the little brat's stayin' 'ere. Captain goes to Hibernia enough to need him."

"But a small, clumsy git like that? No, the Gaeil-tongue is getting his hide sold at port, I'd bet money on it."

"Ten crown?"

"Done."

Money changed hands, and Halt sighed as the walked away, letting his forehead fall agaisnt the iron bars that held him. I have to get out of here, he thought.

That evening, Halt drifted off into an uncomfortable sleep below deck, and enjoyed several hours of rest. When he woke up, however, Pandemonium had erupted on the ship.

Everyone on deck was screaming and yelling orders. Water washed down into the lower deck to fill the bottom with several inches of water. Underneath him, the boat heaved violently, tossed back and forth in the waves. The roar of the waves and the unmistakable crash of lightning was deafening. Halt went to his cell door to try and see what was happening, but just as he reached the bars, the ship made a cunvulsive surge forward and upward, sending Halt sprawling against the wall, a spontaneous tidepool of water gathering about his legs.

He grunted and tried to rise, only to be knocked down again. Taking a hint, he stayed on the ground, and crawled back over to the door.

"Caiptain! Rocks ahead!"

"Hard to starboard! Hard to starboard!"

"Hold the mainstay! Half the foreyard! Hold on to it with everything ye've got, lads!"

"Buckets below! Bail the deck!"

The world was a cacophony of yells and shouting and orders thrown everywhere. Halt tried unsuccessfully to steady himself against the iron bars of his cell. His hands were still tied together, and with one of them attached to his broken and very tender shoulder, it was hard to do anything sufficiently without pain shooting up his back. He chose to sit on the ground rather than brace himself up against the door.

As he splashed back down in a puddle, a sailor came storming below deck with a bucket, and started an attempt to bail out the small pond that began forming on the floor. This went on for several mintues, but then, the top deck erupted in panic, and he abandoned his bailing bucket to join his fellow crewmen on deck. Then, with a great crash, the whole ship jolted and the timber near the bow cracked and exploded, a huge, jagged black rock tearing a gaping hole in the hull.

The water was gushing in fast - the whole floor was aflood.

"Hey!" Halt cried, unsuccessfully shaking the bars of his prison, "Down here! Help!" He kicked at the door as hard as he could, but nothing happened. He was up to his thighs in water, and he kept kicking. He knew that if that water got too high, he'd have to swim. And if he had to swim, he would drown. "Help me! Please!" Halt kicked again at the base of the door, but nothing happened. When the water rose to his waist, a crew member finally came below deck. It was the cabin boy. He came over and turned a key in the lock to Halt's cell.

"The Captain's been knocked unconscious. We're in a rockbed. The ship's going down." He swung the door open, but didn't bother help getting Halt out before he fled back to the upper deck. "Good like to you, Gaeil-tongue! If you survive this night, you'll be luckier than most!"

Halt staggered out of the cell and up the slippery ladder. The ship was tilting precariously now, its bow slowly sinking toward the black depths. Halt climbed upwards toward the stern with some difficulty from his shoulder. He would try and find something to float on, so that when the ship went under, he could-

CRRRACK-AK, KA-POW!

The sky suddenly turned purple, and the air hummed with energy. All at once, Halt was in the water. Around him, Halt heard men screaming and wood splintering, and he smelled a strong, sour smell like soot and nickel. Every hair, every nerve ending, every sense on Halt's body was left singed and tingling. He gasped for air and spat water as he bobbed in the angry ocean currents, looking blurrily towards the lightning-struck wreckage of the ship he'd been on. He didn't even try screaming for help, but kicked for all he was worth until he reached a sizable raft of timber and latched onto it with a vice grip. Nevermind his shoulder, he wasn't going to drown if he could help it. He drug himself halfway onto the hunk of board, and tried to breath the air normally.

Hanging on was hard in the rough seas. As the lightning flashed, Halt could make out the shapes of several downward-facing corpses, and one or two straglers like himself. Then he spotted something that he'd been sure was lost. The leather bag Caitlyn had packed for him before he left Clonmel. He supposed most of it would be soiled beyond repair by now, but he didn't care. As it floated past, he grabbed it and hugged the saggy baggage close to himself. As the lighning watched the last vestiges of the stern descend into the waves, Halt laid his head against the boards that kept him afloat, thankful to be alive - if only barely. Then, without even realizing what was happening, he fell into unconsciousness.

Martin sighed heavily as he walked toward the beach. He hadn't been expecting this when he'd come here a few days ago. He'd just come to drop in on an old colleague, and instead, he'd gotten this. A man could do without seeing such grotesque tragedy, he thought.

The first hunks of the ship had washed up on shore early that morning, the cracked wood fresh and the splinters sharp, and the locals knew what came next. Somewhere between breakfast and luncheon, the corpses started appearing. Hours old and waterlogged by the sea, the bodies found their way to shore one way or other, and although the gulls had already made a meal of some of them, Martin and the rest of those nearby felt obliged to check each one for any possible - if however unlikely - signs of life.

Martin looked sympathetically towards his apprentice where he was doubled over behind a bush. He'd given the boy some fresh water to drink, and now, having left him be for a while, went over to him and placed a hand on his back.

"Come along, John, it's best we get back to it," He said gently.

John wiped his mouth and grimaced in disgust and hurt. "I'll never get used to it," he said, "seeing dead bodies, I mean."

Martin patted the boy's back and nodded. "You're not supposed to."

As they approached the beach, another man called out, "Martin! Come here a moment, will you?"

Martin looked apologetically at his apprentice, but John only nodded. "Just a moment, Cowan!" Martin said, then turned to John, "Search for any others that might have washed up - if you feel sick again, you can go back to the portmaster's house." He said kindly, then left.

John sniffed and turned toward the beach with a grimace. He wasn't squeamish - he really wasn't. But seeing dead deer and dead hares was one thing; seeing a dead human corpse was another matter entirely. With a deep breath, he marched over to the shoreline, fearing the worst. He walked for some ways without seeing any new bodies, besides the ones that the locals were hurrying to clear out and burry, before the gulls swarmed in. Then, he came upon a small, dark form, and his heart twisted. The man was lying face-up, his lips purple and his skin clammy. Hesitently, John approached and eventually knelt by the still figure.

He was afraid to touch it. To touch him. For at one time, this body had been a him, a he, a life. It disturbed John, and made him incredibly sad. He looked over the small man, realizing that it wasn't really a man - barely more than a boy. "You're hardly older than me," He whispered to the corpse. "I'm so very, very sorry." Then, as he looked the body over, John's tortured expression turned to one of pure confusion.

He was bleeding.

The man - that is, the boy - was bound at the wrists for reasons John couldn't comprehend, and his wrists were swollen and purple and bleeding because of it. Bleeding. Abandoning his fear, John reached out and touched the body, lifting up the soaked rope bonds from the boy's limp wrists and pressing the clammy skin just below the welts. Fresh, red blood welled up, and John's face cleared in revelation. His eyes darted back up to the lifeless face on the beach. Dead men don't bleed. His heart racing, John pressed two fingers to the unconscious man's neck. One second. Two. Three. then, he felt it, and his heart leaped into his throat. He shuffled around and hurriedly pressed his ear against the man's chest. It was subtle it was crackely, but it was there. A breath.

"Martin," John said quietly at first, his eyes not leaving the face of the young man in front of him. then, when he realized that his master was out of earshot, he looked up and raised his voice, "Martin! He's alive! He's still breathing! Come quickly!"

The small dark-haired boy had been one of only three survivors. The other two, obviously sailors, where still conscious when they'd been found, and had been promptly issued into Cowan's custody while they recovered. They would be arrested and tried for smuggling once they were well. As for the boy, his discription fit none of the known fugitives or smugglers in the area, and so he was admitted into their makeshift infirmary without any impending charges.

Martin looked curiously inside the soaked leather bag that had been wrapped about the boy's arm. Although the garments inside the satchel were of high quality, they did not tell Martin much about the boy. He'd found a packet of wet, now spoiled bread, a waterskin, a small bag of half-dried white mush that looked like it was once some sort of medicine, and a small glass bottle, with a cork stopper and a piece of paper inside. He'd taken a moment to admire the charcoal sketch inside, but it didn't do anything to clear the list of questions that Martin about the strange young man lying on the healer's cot.

For instance, what on earth had happened to his shoulder? At first glance, Martin would have guessed that it had been broken in the shipwreck, but the healer assured him that the injury was several days old, at least. It had been re-set at least twice, and was now in dire need of medical treatment. There were welts on the boy's wrists from where they'd been tied, but why had he been bound? He looked well off, with the quality of his supplies and the muscle on his bones, but then, there was the binds and the shoulder - who was this strange boy?

"Well, how is the lad, then?" Cowan ducked into the room and sat down next to Martin, peering at the still form laid out under the white sheets.

"Alive, at least. I don't know any more about him than I did when John found him."

"Well, we can ask him when he wakes up, I suppose. What's in the bag?

Martin shrugged at his old friend. "Not much. Some very wet clothes, a charcoal drawing in a bottle, and some ruined supplies."

"Hmm," Cowan glanced at the comatose boy on the cot. "A bit of a puzzle, eh?"

"I'd say. You don't suppose he's part of the smugglers gang?"

"What, this one?" Cowan gestured to the boy incredulously, "No. His skin is to fair and too soft to be a sailor. And while I'm sure he has some strength in those muscles, no seaman would take him. His arms are too small. No, I'm sure he got caught in the crossfire somewhere or other - he was just along for the ride when that ship sank."

Martin nodded, glad for his friend's perceptive eye. "Yes, I suppose you're right. I have a list of questions a mile long for him when he wakes up."

Cowan smiled. "Aye, me too. Only, don't overwhelm the poor boy. He nearly drowned in the sea, no need to drown him in questions now."

When Halt woke up, he was nearly positive that he was dead. He was in a warm bed, with soft pillow behind his head and clean clothes on his back. A cool breeze brushed the tips of his hair, and the light filtering in from outside was bright, but not too bright. Halt had never really considered what the afterlife might look like, but he thought this couldn't be too far off.

And then, feeling returned in his shoulder and his wrists. Somehow, Halt couldn't believe that being dead would hurt so much. He must be alive.

He groaned involuntarily as a huge, bone-deep ache knit itself into his back and shoulder. He heard rustling closeby, but his eyes were closed and he didn't think it was worth looking around.

"He's awake," a voice said distantly, and then, closer, "Hello?"

After a moment of effort, Halt managed to focus his eyes on the figure above him. Behind a mess of sandy bangs, two sky blue eyes peered at him curiously, as if they recognized him, but didn't quiet know what to do with him. Halt thought he might say something, but when he moved his mouth, his tongue was dry and his cheeks stuck to his gums.

Apparently reading his expression, the blue-eyed boy went wordlessly over to a table and brought back a cup of water. "Here," he said, "Drink this."

Halt did, and after the other boy took the cup away, the young Hibernian finally said, "Where am I?"

The other boy smiled, as if amazed that Halt could talk. "Stockton," he said, "just north of Selsey." When he read Halt's expression of total incomprehension, he elaborated, "Stockton port - just west of Redmont, north of Selsey village, on the west coast."

Halt shook his head, blinking quickly. "I, I don't know where that is," he said. The other boy frowned at him.

"Really? But it's-"

"Never heard of it before, any of it." Halt put a hand gingerly to his head, which had started to throb.

"Go easy on him, John, he's not from here," Martin entered, giving Halt a sympathetic glance before eyeing his apprentice meaningfully. He turned a friendlly expression on Halt. "Hello, I'm Martin. It's good to see you awake. Are you feeling alright?"

Halt didn't know if he should trust the man or not, but he shrugged regardless. "Like I was in a shipwreck," he said, recalling the previous night like a bad dream. "My shoulder hurts."

"I bet it does, just give it time." Martin pulled over a small stool and sat on it. "Are you from Hibernia?"

Halt froze, his eyes wary. The sailors had asked him that, and this man seemed to have the same accent as they did, albeit this man was better with enunciation. He was't sure if he wanted to trust him or not. "Why?" He asked.

Martin tilted his head. "Well, you don't have to tell me. Judging by your accent, I'm guessing that you're from Hibernia - Northern Hibernia. Clonmel, perhaps, or Héiroch, if you're from a bit further west." Halt looked at him in surprise, and Martin knew he was correct in his assessment. He smiled at the boy. "What's your name?"

It took Halt a moment and a long, suspicious glance before he said, "Halt."

Martin took the name in stride and nodded. "Well, nice to meet you, Halt. Welcome to Araluen."

Araluen. The name stuck in Halt's mind, and he suddenly remembered why he'd recognized the sailors' strange accents - he'd heard them many times before among the Araluan delegations that would sometimes come to Dun Kilty. They were Araluan accents. He was in Araluen. Despite himself, Halt felt an accute curiousity for this strange new land - he'd heard much about it, and knew that Araluens were something like geographical and political cousins with much of Hibernia, even if the two tended to have diplomatic squabbles with each other.

"Thank you," Halt eventually said. Martin smiled again, and looked like he was about to say something else when he was called away by someone in another room.

"Just a moment," Martin called back with a sigh. "It's always one thing or other. I'm sorry, but I have to go. I'll be back soon. John, keep Halt company and see if you can't get the man some dinner. He looks starved."

And of course, Halt's stomach chose that moment to grumble. He hadn't noticed how hungry he was until Martin mentioned it. Now, he was ravenous. John snickered, but obliged by getting Halt a bowl of stew. After eating a few bites, Halt looked up to the boy that was watching him quietly.

John was a year, maybe a year and a half younger and a few inches taller than Halt himself. He had diry blond hair that looked like it could stand for a combing, and clear eyes that sparkled with honesty and something that Halt recognized as mischeif. He was also wearing a strange-looking cloak. Halt frowned to himself as he realized that Martin had been wearing a cloak identical to it.

"So, John," Halt began to ask a question, but John forestalled him.

"Please don't call me that."

Halt frowned. "But Martin called you-"

John rolled his eyes. "Martin is the only one who ever calls me by my first name."

"Why's that?"

"I don' t know. He seems to think it's more 'proper', even though there has to be a trillion other 'John's in this country. Do you know how annoying it is to share a name with a trillion other chaps who look nothing like you?"

Halt had never heard of the number 'trillion', but he shook his head anyway. "Well, 'Halt' isn't exactly a common name," he said. He'd always found it annoying that no one else shared his name. It made him feel like a freak.

Oblivious to Halt's opinion of his own name, John snorted. "You're lucky," he said.

"So, what should I call you?" Halt asked after a moment.

John smiled. "Oh, just what everyone else calls me, my surname."

"And, what would your surname be?" Halt was frowning.

John stepped forward and extended a friendly hand. "Call me Crowley."

A/N: Yay! He's on Araluen soil, at long last! I'm super excited to get the plot wheels turning and introduce my OCs! I've never thought myself much of an OC author, but lately I've been toting out more and more... I do hope I'm not annoying anyone to intensely with my OCs. Please tell me if I am.

We never were told if 'Crowley' was a first name or a surname, so I decided to mix things up and give him a full name.

Once again, no spellcheck! Tell me if you catch any typos!

Reviews are love.