"Everybody wake up! WAKE UP!"

Rane and Arthur, wound together forehead to forehead in the bunk afforded them, both sprang awake, Rane going instinctively for the sword that wasn't at her waist but lying on the side table. Dutch stood over them, his face wild. The ship was listing precariously, and the sound overhead was so loud that Rane could hardly believe she and Arthur had managed to sleep at all. Thunder was crashing, hellishly strident, and the rain hitting the hull was as hard as gunfire. It was storming like a motherfucker, and Rane felt a jolt of cold in her stomach.

"What the hell -?" Arthur was stumbling to his feet, his eyes large.

"I don't know but you two better come with me," said Dutch coarsely. "Think this ship might be goin' down to meet Davy Jones."

"Oh, fuck me," Rane moaned, jumping up and snatching her sword. "Please tell me he didn't just say that."

"He said it." Arthur was yanking his shirt over his head, staggering against the motion beneath them.

"You two hurry up, I'm gonna go find Javier and Bill," Dutch said, and with an effort left their cabin, grasping at the doorjambs against the tilting of the boat. Rane and Arthur were having enough of a hard time standing up straight on their own; the deck below was moving heartily to and fro, the sound of the waves loud beneath them. Arthur, still pulling on his shirt, was sent arms flailing into the far wall, arms waving.

"God dammit -!"

"Come on." Rane grasped his hand briefly in hers, stumbling. "Up top deck."

"You ain't never even been on a boat before -!"

"Yeah, well, I feel like if this fucker goes down and we're lower level, we'll be the first to know," Rane snapped, yanking on her boots with one hand clutching the wall. "Like that part in Titanic where Leo is stuck at the bottom. That's us."

"What in the hell are you talkin' about now?"

"Nothing, never mind. Just come on."

As if to punctuate this, a roll of thunder, ear-splittingly loud, echoed over them, shaking the very wood of the ship beneath them. The storm was close enough to kiss, and it didn't sound friendly.

"Alright, come on," Arthur said roughly, and together they followed Dutch down the narrow corridor, Arthur still pulling his shirt on. At the stairway, there was a massive crash, the boat shaking around them, and a crate from up top fell through the top, the sound of its cracking loud even in the storm.

"DUTCH!" Arthur was peering through the hole.

"I'm okay!" Dutch cried from up ahead, looking at Arthur from the stairway.

"We'll find another way up!" Rane cried, grasping the crate and gazing up ahead at him. "Just go! GO!"

"Can ya blast through?"

"Yeah, but I could put a hole in this bitch and send us all down, too," Rane replied, slightly winded. She looked up. "I got a better idea. Grab my arm."

"Oh hell. You're about to shoot us through the goddamned roof, ain't ya -?"

"ASCENDIO!"

There was a flash of yellow and then they were on the top deck, shards of plank raining down around them. Arthur stumbled away from Rane, shaking his head and coughing. It was raining like hell, and sailors were shouting from sternside. The skies, purple and hellishly abysmal, were churning and rumbling. The lightning in the clouds overhead was bright white and hot, forking across the clouds wildly as the thunder rolled, ear-splitting. This wasn't some spring rainstorm, this was a big mean bastard. The seas below them ripped about madly.

"We gotta get off this goddamned thing." Arthur grasped Rane's arm, looking at her. Her hair was already plastered to her cheeks, her eyes bright. "We gotta find Dutch, where the hell -?"

"There." Rane pointed to the seas, where a lifeboat was floating, visible only by the sparkling glimmer of the lantern on board. Arthur squinted, still stumbling against the motion of the ship. He could see a face beneath that light, and it could be Dutch, sure, but -

"I can't tell."

"It's him." Rane looked over at him, blinking beneath the rain. "It's him, Arthur, and they're all with him. Javier, Micah, Bill - I can see them as plain as I can see you. Trust me."

Arthur's face fell at this, and even in the madness of the moment Rane felt her heart go out to him a little. Dutch had left them both for dead and hopped into a raft and skipped out. And Arthur had been riding with him since he was a boy. Not for the first time, Rane felt a flash of dismay towards this brave leader they'd adopted. Not nearly brave enough to ensure they were able to escape the bottom level, clearly, but brave enough to flee.

"We gotta jump." Rane looked at him frankly. Thunder rolled overhead, and a flash of lightning ignited the skies as bright as daylight for a moment, casting them into sharp resolution. "We gotta."

"You swim?"

"'Course I do. What do I look like, a fucking moron?"

"Then you're doin' better than that fool back at Clemen's Point who loves ya." Arthur got laboriously onto the railing. The ship was listing hard now to the east, and turning Rane could tell that most of its stern was already underwater. "Don't you goddamned drown on me or I'll kill ya."

"Go. We gotta try to catch up."

Arthur looked at her for another moment. Her eyes were on the sea, the rain driving against her, her damp hair flying about her face, then she dove into the tumultuous waters. He took a deep breath and followed.

For a few moments the chaos and tumult of the storm faded as Arthur was swept beneath the waves. Beneath the surface, it was quiet and tranquil, the flashes of the storm overhead muted to just light and silence. After a time, all fell dark, and Arthur knew no more.

THE next thing Rane knew, she was on a beach.

She sat up, looking around her, and the motion brought a glut of seawater from her stomach. She turned, spewing it onto the damp sand, coughing hoarsely. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and breathing harshly, she blinked up at the sky. It was blue, bright and horribly hot, and she could feel sunburn on her chest harsh enough to hurt even as she breathed. For a few moments she simply sat there, the cry of gulls loud overhead, and stared at the turf. It was rushing up toward her with the usual cadence, not wild now but gentle and regular, bringing strings of seagrass and foam. The waves reached her boots, only just, then washed away. She'd been deposited here perhaps hours ago. Long enough for the tide to go back down, anyways. How she wasn't leagues beneath the ocean or in the belly of a shark was beyond her.

Her hand went first to her midsection, looking down her chest - sword still there, check - and then to her left boot, feeling around. Wand still there, check again. The relief of this was almost enough to send her onto her back again.

"Arthur," she muttered, her voice hoarse with disuse. She coughed roughly, then with an effort got to her feet. The black dress was tattered now around her thighs, the shoulder on her left side hanging by threads. The smell of salt was powerful, almost nauseating, and her hair hung around her face in strings. Overhead, the gulls continued to cry relentlessly.

"I fucking hate seagulls," she murmured, and lifted her voice to a shout. "ARTHUR!"

There was no answer. Rane started forward and stumbled over her boots almost at once, falling into the sand again. For a moment she just lay there, belly-down, looking across the beach, her breath shearing, spraying gusts of sand away from her lips. She was weak. Probably several days living on scant bison meat and alcohol and -

"No," she muttered, the sand shearing from her mouth with her words as her eyes flicked over the turf. "It's because you were in a fucking shipwreck like Tom Hanks in Castaway, you dumbass. Get up and find Arthur."

She did, laboriously, sand clinging to her cheeks. Christ, she was thirsty.

"ARTHUR MORGAN!"

Rane continued to stagger up the beach, eyes roving over the sand. She didn't think she'd find him. That was the truth. If the man was alive it would be a blue-eyed miracle; if she even found his body, it'd be just as -

Then, suddenly, she spotted him up ahead, as if this thought had conjured him. He was lying face up in the sand, arms splayed, eyes shut. Dead, she was almost sure.

"Oh, God," she muttered, starting for him. "Oh Christ, please. Please don't be dead, you dumb son of a bitch."

Rane made for his body, walking slowly through the sand. Almost trudging. She could feel her heart pounding terrified in her chest, and her brows were knitted above her bright eyes. He wasn't moving, not even a little, and his boots must have been lost in the fracas; he was barefoot, his elegant gray suit now as tattered as her dress. She drew near and dropped to her knees heavily before him in the sand.

"Arthur." She shook his shoulders roughly. "Arthur."

He didn't move. Rane bent, dreading the coolness of his skin, and placed her ear against his chest.

Her eyes fell shut at once and she sagged against him, moaning low in her throat. Arthur's heart was beating, slow and strong. Not dead then, just knocked out stupid. She leaned up, took his limp face in her hands and kissed his sun-scorched forehead, feeling the threat of tears at the back of her throat. Pulling her wand from her boot, she aimed it at his chest.

"Rennervate."

His eyes fluttered open and he jerked as if to make for his feet, his eyes surprised. She pressed him back down.

"Hang on, just - relax a second."

"You real?" he said gently, his voice rough, and touched her cheek gently with the tips of his fingers, his brow furrowed. Rane felt a rush of emotion for him so powerful she could have burst into tears right then and there. Instead she scoffed, shaking her head and batting his hand away.

"No. I'm a fucking simulation, you big dumb asshole." Rane leaned down and pressed her mouth against his forehead again, tasting the salt of the sea on his skin. "You scared the living breathing Christ out of me, you know it? Laying there like that? I thought you were done, Arthur."

"You keep talkin' like that and I'm gonna start thinkin' you like me or somethin'." Arthur reached up and pulled her face down, pressing his mouth against hers hard, his breath harsh against her lips. "God, ain't I glad to see your face."

"Well, that makes two of us, we should both be at the bottom of the fucking ocean right now." Rane could not seem to pull her eyes away from him. "I mean it, you scared the shit right out of me."

"I'm fine."

"Are you?"

"Sure I am." Arthur's voice was low and gruff, his eyes flicking between hers, soft, full of affection. One of his hands reached out and touched her cheek again, gentle, and Rane leaned back, clearing her throat.

Rane looked around them, her eyes roving over the treeline. "We pulled a Tom Hanks and ended up shipwrecked on a goddamned island, Arthur."

"I ain't even gonna ask who that is." Arthur got up onto his elbows with a grunt, staring around. "Dutch? The rest of 'em?"

"No idea. I just woke up on the beach, same as you. If they made it, they're probably here someplace. You said there wasn't much south of Saint Denis, right?"

Arthur shook his head, his eyes moving over the turf, his mouth downturned. "Not that I know of, no."

"Where do you think we are? Any idea?"

"Well." Arthur gestured to the treeline west of them, wavering in the light breeze beneath the sunlight. "That there, those are foxtails and coconut palms. And those don't grow north of Cuba. So either we're further south or we're someplace I ain't never heard of."

Rane followed his eyes, shaking her head. "The fuck do we do now."

"We find Dutch. Or what's left of him." Arthur turned to her, squinting against the sunlight. "You armed still? No way to tell what kinda folk live hereabouts."

"Yep. You?"

Arthur sighed, shaking his head. He pulled one of the revolvers from his belt and dropped it onto the sand with a disgusted flourish.

"I got guns, sure, but they're wet to the gills. I could try to take 'em apart and clean 'em but if they fire another round true I'll be surprised."

"Well, then I guess I'm your provisional bodyguard, my dear heart," said Rane, getting to her feet. She was still weak, and she staggered a little, her boots stuttering in the sand and her hands wagging at her sides. Arthur was getting laboriously up too, his breath harsh in his throat. "Do try not to piss off any locals."

"I don't know that there are any locals," said Arthur, dusting the sand off the back of his jeans. "Besides seagulls, that is."

"You mean rats with wings," Rane muttered, eyeing them distastefully. "I've got half a mind to shoot every last one outta the sky, nasty fucking -"

"Mae govannen."

Arthur and Rane whirled around. A tall man stood on the beach before them, his long blond hair floating in the breeze, watching them with one hand on the hilt of the sword that hung at his belt. He wore a long green cloak, wavering in the seawind and stained with sand at its hem. He was flanked by four more, all dressed in forest-green tunics, all armed with steel, all watching them. Rane was shocked for the second time since the O'Driscolls had taken her and Arthur; she had not heard them approach. But another look at the stranger's hilt explained it; there was tengwar, Elvish script, running up and down its leather wrap. Elves could slip beneath the senses easier than men.

"Who the hell are you?" Arthur asked roughly, and Rane saw his hand stray to the butt of his guns, useless or not. She reached out and grasped his wrist tightly, her eyes on the man before them.

"Mae govannen," she said, and inclined her head. Arthur looked over at her and saw her hand resting on the hilt of her sword, her body very still and her eyes sharp and focused on this stranger. "Ma istil quet'Lambe?"

The man laughed, a ringing laugh that seemed genuine enough. "Yes, I speak English, pretty little one. Of course I do. I have seen enough eons pass to learn the tongues of Men, yes." He eyed her curiously, tilting his head. "You are of Elf-kind."

"I am." Rane stood in the sand, her long hair flying about her face, still watching him, her eyes acute beneath her brows.

"Who -?"

"Arthur, shush for once in your life," Rane murmured sharply, her voice low.

"Ñoldor, I assume." He gestured at her. "We do not meet many Eldar black of hair in these lands."

"My father was of Vanyar blood, and his father before him," said Rane, and inclined her head. "Le suilon."

The stranger laughed, his thumbs linked in his belt, glancing back at his companions. They were chuckling too.

"You speak High Quenya like one taught it at her father's knee, certainly true." He eyed her derisively. "But would a daughter of Vanyar wash up on the shore of our lands like a stowaway, half drowned? I think not."

"I was born of Sindarin. My blood is theirs. So I speak it true."

"You aren't." The man took a step forward, eyeing Rane chest to chest, and Arthur made a move toward him instinctively, but the four at his back stepped forward too, their hands on their swords, watching him warningly. Arthur stepped back again, lifting his hands palms-out, staggering a little. Rane kept her eyes on the man before her, not yielding any ground, her hair flying about her and her face hard and beautiful in the bright sunlight.

"Im Eldarin," she said softly.

"Where do you hail from, Eldarin girl? Tell it back, and tell it true."

"Ylle Thalas of Elyfalume."

"Ylle Thalas? The capital across the sea?" The man's eyebrows were high. "You are a daughter of the purple city? Galad'othron?"

"I am," said Rane steadily.

"If you come from Ylle Thalas, then you will know who rules it."

"Iliwynn Talaeos, daughter of Elrohir Horsemaster." Rane felt a tremor of anxiety pass through her. Iliwynn had been in charge of Ylle Thalas in '97, sure, but she didn't know how long she'd reigned off the cuff, and if she was wrong she wasn't sure what these men would do to them. She needn't have worried, however; the man in the green cloak relaxed, and inclined his head.

"And long may she reign." He eyed Rane. "You are a long, long way from your home. Man esselya na?"

"My name is Rane. Rane Roth."

"And who is your close-mouthed mortal companion, Rane Roth?" asked the man, gesturing to Arthur. "Your paramour?"

The men behind him chuckled, smirking. Arthur cleared his throat.

"Arthur Morgan," he said, and then, feeling ungainly, tipped him a little salute. Rane could have laughed if this meeting wasn't so grim.

"He is a Man, and you are an Elf," he said, then shook his head, laughing. "You are no Elf. Speak true. My patience grows thin."

Rane lowered her head until her long hair whickered about her forehead, her eyes on the sand. Arthur could see her eyelashes flickering.

"No, I'm not."

"Then what are you?" And when she hesitated, he grasped the helm of his sword, pulling it halfway out with a clang, his eyes growing hard. "Speak, stowaway, or I shall part your pretty head from your shoulders. We do not suffer trespassers or defectors here."

"You lay a goddamned hand on her and I'll kill ya," said Arthur roughly.

"Arthur, hush." Rane met the man's eyes. "I'm a peredhil."

The Elf scoffed. "There has never lived one in all the ages of men. Prove it,"

"You don't want me to prove it."

The Elf gestured gently with one hand, and the four behind him drew swords, looking at them with cold eyes. The stranger grasped her arm roughly, looking at her, his hair wavering before his face

"You are not in Ylle Thalas, Rane Roth, you are in Hostas, and we are not so kind and gentle as our brothers and sisters across the sea." He threw her back. "You make wild claims and you will back them up, or we will cut you both down as liars and defectors, as I have said. These are our shores, and boe de nastad, your handsome friend. So speak."

Rane took a step toward him, and Arthur, watching her, was aware of a sudden cooling of the air around them even beneath the hot sun. The wind picked up, whisking the sand into an eddy around her, and suddenly, he realized her eyes had gone from hazel to bright, iridescent blue. When she met the gaze of the Elf who had challenged her, her mouth was downturned and her fists were clenched at her sides. A strange, blueish-white light was emanating from her now, pulsing in time with what Arthur suspected was her heartbeat, quick and hard and rhythmic as she glared at the men before her from beneath her brows, her hair whipping about her. He backed away, his cloak fluttering around him in the sudden wind.

"Mai istanyel?" she said, and lifted her chin. One of the four men behind them went flying onto his back, crying out, and the other three were on her at once. She was not daunted; indeed, she seemed not even fazed, almost lazy. When they came for her she drew her blade and caught theirs against it, her steel clanging, and threw them off of her, her motions almost too quick to track, and all three were flung onto the sand, crab-walking away.

Her eyes were falling back to hazel now, the sand falling as the wind around her died, and flipping her blade up she held it in both her hands, offering it to the man before them. He was watching her, his mouth open and his eyes wide.

"Peredhil indeed," he murmured, his gaze hard on hers. "They say that the peredhil is an ainur reborn, or so I have heard."

"So they say." Rane's hair flew about her face. "This blade was forged by a smith in my city."

She sheathed it with a clang. "My friend and I need help. We're weak. We need water. Please."

He looked at her a long moment, chewing his lip, then nodded.

"I am Limdur," he said, and spread his hands. "You will come with me to my city. You and your mortal friend."

"You won't harm us." Rane looked at him sharply. "Neither of us."

"Never in life," said Limdur, smiling. "Come."