***Author's Note*** it's been a long time for sure, but finally the long awaited (by some), possibly long forgotten (by others), and most likely unnoticed (by most), yet very deserving (in my humble opinion) "Second" Chapter has arrived! *YAY* I know my description said something about humor…and if not it at least implied it. It's in there somewhere I promise you, if not terribly obvious. But if you don't find it do not fret, it will become more blatant and obnoxious as time goes by. EireCat and Craeft, you can stop your damn whining now!

Chapter One: Catch of the Day

In which, a half-broke fisherman finds a half-sunken treasure, and an aged innkeeper laments the passage of time…

Lost. His guide left him some time ago, when the wind began to whip in cold blasts, and the sky turned dark. He said he'd be back, but that seemed to be ages ago. Now the wind has grown cold, rain hammers him mercilessly from an angry sky, and best of all, jagged lightning thrusts from the sky to the waters below, leaving in it wake a white-purple after image that nearly blinds him. His guide said it was too soon, but maybe he should seek land, and shelter, just until the storm lets up, then he can be on his way again. But where is the land? It's so hard to see, between the blinding rain and crashing lightning, he'd be lucky to see a mountainside in this-there! A light! It's a ways off, but lights must mean land.

Pain burns throughout his body and instant before the tell-tale crash and rumble of a lightning strike. The brilliance blinds, leaving only white and purple motes dancing in his vision. The boy tries to continue on in vain, trying to reach that light that spoke of salvation. It isn't until he feels the cold shock of water that he realizes, he'll never make it.

* * * * *

It had been a bad season for Jarl Tasslebrook and his crew, but this day was by far the worst. It is a daring fool that brings a ship out to the edge of the Boiling Sea, especially when all signs point to foul weather, and the captain of the She-Drake was just that. Of course, he was nearly broke as well, and money troubles had made many a fool more daring than he. Despite his hopes for one final catch that might bring some silver to a poor fisherman's pocket, he bellowed orders to bring the ship about and make the return trip home. His only hope now was to not dash the Drake against the docks while trying to bring her in.

A few of the men exclaimed in loud curses, barely rising over the din of thundering waves, pounding rain, and the creak of mooring lines. Jarl turned to look where the men were pointing in time to see a drake, smaller than some he'd seen, but large enough in its own right, flying low over the water only to be struck by lightning and hurl limply to the waves some distance ahead of the ship.

"It might be not all is lost Cap'n," one of the deckhands called, "if we can snare its carcass. I know a man or two that'd pay a good coin or two for a hide from a beastie like that'n"

"Nay," Jarl replied, " 'tis a terrible omen when the saints strike such a proud creature from the skies. Let us pray it is no portent of our own fate." With that, he whispered a hasty prayer to Saint Luther, patron of travelers and merchants, and from time to time stubborn sea-tossed fisherman hard on their luck.

The She-Drake plunged ahead along the treacherous course home. Some of the men were already talking about the warm meals, and willing women waiting for them at port. Jarl couldn't help thinking about fresh baked bread, and good thick stew himself, and some of Branen's home brewed ale. He couldn't think of a single woman there that would be willing to share a bed with him, but he scarcely had the coin for the meal and beer. Maybe that lovely young lass would be there at the Three Crowns Inn when he arrived, singing that song about hedgehogs and whiskey he liked so well. The singing maid with the silver eyes, he was of half a mind to rename his ship after her, if his luck kept running as it was. She was a maid as lovely as the sunrise, yet as rough as the seas today, a lot like his last wife. Perhaps if he skipped the meal and offered her his coin instead she would-

"Man in the water!" came the bellowing cry that broke Jarl's reverie. Shaking his head to clear it of his last lonely thoughts, Jarl rushed over to the railing where the cry had been raised. Sure enough, as he looked overboard there was a man floating face down in sea, with a terrible burn marring a well muscled back. Several of the deckhands were staring, mouths gaping down at the floating man, not sure exactly what to do.

"Well, what are you waiting for men," Jarl shouted over the storm, "Haul 'im up! Or has the poor season caused yer sea soaked brains to forget how to bring in a catch?"

"B -But sir, this is where that drake shoulda been." One toothless crewman stammered. "An there aint no wreckage to say he come off another ship."

"An I don't see no drake neither, just a half drown man, an a toothless sea-dog that's gonna join 'im unless he grabs a pole an hauls that man on deck!" With that the crew hastily jumped to action, grabbing long poles meant for large catches to hook the bedraggled man under the arms and drag him to safety.

The man was rather large, his body thick with muscle, but the men managed to get him aboard without too much difficulty. He hit the deck in a boneless heap, sodden gold hair clinging to his face concealing it from view. The captain was instantly on his knees, pushing the hair out of the man's face, and putting an ear close, feeling for an escaping breath. When it was apparent that he wasn't breathing, Jarl began pushing on the man's chest, trying to press the water out of his lungs to make room for air. The man coughed and tried to breathe, but it came out in a gurgle. The captain rolled him onto his side, pounding on his back to help him retch out the sea he had been trying to drink in full. After a moment, it seemed he had emptied a bucket full of salty water onto the deck planks of the She-Drake, though it made no real difference in the rain, and rolled onto his back once again.

"Can you speak, boy?" Jarl shouted to the man.

"That HURT!" he said, and looked as if he was going to say more, but then went slack, unconscious.

"Looks like yer gonna live, son." The captain laughed, as they pulled closer to docks. Maybe that silver-eyed lass would never go for a near broke, sea-tossed, old fishing boat captain, but she just might go for a hero. Yeah, some women just couldn't resist those hero-types.

* * * * *

It seemed like ages had passed in the dark place of dreamless sleep. Alone in the emptiness, he felt strangely exposed, as if he stood naked before the eyes of a crowd. But there was no crowd, only darkness deeper than any well. He wasn't even sure there was a him present to be naked, so to speak, at least there was none that he could see. He was dimly aware of the sound of waves hitting…well, something, and for some unknown reason that thought filled him with dread. He tried to speak, not expecting a response, but strangely curious if he voice would echo in this void. No sounds escaped, and he wasn't all together certain that his lips even moved. Numerous attempts to pass a hand in front of his face, or touch his nose likewise failed. One thing became certain, which eventually called a second thought to mind, and more quickly a third:

Well, I can't move or speak…but damn, my nose itches. If this goes on for much longer, I'm going to go insane!

Then, like the last runner in a foot race, came a fourth:

What if I already am?

It was impossible for him to tell the passage of time, mostly because of the boredom induced by counting for too long, but after a time the sounds of the sea disappeared. The sudden loss of noise caused panic to rise, as it seemed that his last tenuous connection to something outside of himself had been severed. Now he was truly alone.

He tried to fight it, if there even was an it to fight. His first instincts lead him to try lashing out with arms and legs and wings.

Wings?

He dismissed the thought as he remembered that his body would not respond. In a more desperate measure, he tried to focus his will, cutting out any stray, distracting thoughts as he called to mind the sound of the waves. The instant he decided to shut out other thoughts seemed to be the exact time they chose surface. Images only the eyes of memory can see flashed in his head. A woman, strong and beautiful, with outstretched arms that promised comfort and safety. The face of scarred teacher, with a stern look on his face, but amusement in his eyes. An angry, gray, storm-tossed sea, and a thousand other things danced away into the dark. The harder he fought to bring one back, the faster the others faded, and the more tired he became. Thoughts came slower now, and it was impossible for him to hold onto any one for long, like sand falling between fingers.

So this is what death is like? is the thought that came to him. Then one more, something someone had said to him, either in cruelty or as a jest, he wasn't sure: But, I'm too stupid to die?

Then there was nothing.

* * * * *

Heavy as an ox. That's the only expression for it that came to Branen Casterly's mind as he the boy up the stairs. He must have weighed twice what Branen did at his age, and Branen was a strapping lad to be sure, in his youth. Of course, in the years since then his hair had thinned considerably, and had lost the amber color that had attracted the eye of more than a few ladies. It seemed to him that he must have gained ten pounds for every hair he lost, and finely toned muscles had begun to grow slack. It was a chore moving heavy casks of his home brew up that short ladder from the cellar, and this boy was surely as heavy as two barrels or more, not to mention ten times as awkward. As the sweat gathered on his brow and his breath grew ragged, he paused at the first landing for a rest, leaning his weight against wood paneled wall.

"That boy isn't going to carry himself up them stairs, Bran!" came a familiar bellow from the common room below.

You don't say? I'd sure like to see you wrestle this brute up two flights of stairs, you wrinkled sack of venom! he thought to himself.

"Yes wife." was all he said, as he pushed away from the wall with some effort and continued moving. He scarcely had the breath to say that much, at least that was the justification for not saying what was really on his mind.

But he is a brute to be sure. More than six feet tall, and all hard muscle I'm willing to wager. Too bad this isn't Cadavaan. I hear those devils pay real gold, and lots of it, for boys like this in the slave pits.

He cursed himself, silently, for even having such a thought, and promised the All-Father, Kaladine, that he'd make penance. That is, of course, if he didn't have a more creative idea in mind, such as a few days of excruciating back pain.

After one more stair, and a few rest stops far from the vigilance of Mrs. Casterly, Branen had the boy laid down. He sat heavily in a creaking bedside chair, chest heaving, and mopped his sweat-soaked forehead with his apron.

"AHEM!" came her voice from the door, startling him to the point that he thought the rickety chair would give way under the force of him jerking up right.

"Well, now that you're awake and well rested you can get your self down to the kitchen and bring me up wash tub and some clean towels. And while you're down there, fetch some tea and honey. Don't add the honey yourself, mind, you'll just screw it up. Bring me the whole jar. And be quick about it, by the look of things this poor boy hasn't eaten in days!" She made a hurrying gesture with a towel as she moved to the bed, checking the burns on the boys body.

"Best call on Micah when you're done," she called as Branen lumbered out into the hall, "these burns look pretty bad."

"Yes wife." he replied tiredly, though those weren't the only words that occurred to him to say.

Shaking his head as he moved down the stairs, Branen couldn't help but recall a time when Armina had been a lot less bossy. Hell, when they first met she was down right pleasant, sweet even. She was always a bit headstrong, but that was half the appeal. The prettiest farm girl in the small farm town of Gale, far from the coast near the heart of Kalidesh. It seemed like a lifetime ago, and maybe it was, if thirty years are all a person is good for. She was lovely then, and be truthful she was still lovely now, but some of that was lost in her unwavering sternness. Sure she was tall, with skin softer than a lot of women half her age, and long raven black hair with only the slightest touches of gray, her eyes were still the same shade of emerald they had always been, but these days she rarely smiled. That is what he missed the most. He could deal with her cutting sarcasm, and scathing tongue, but he fell in love with that smile. For that one part of her to be missing, was as if she had died, and some angry old harpy full of spite came to take her place.

Of course, he couldn't blame her, not after what had happened. A piece of him had died away too. Twenty years ago, he never would have let her taunting go unchallenged, but in the passage of time he had lost his will to fight. He lost that part of him in the same instant that he lost his only son. His head swam with all the doubts he had carried from that day to today. If only he had turned back when the sun fell, or if he had brought Jance with him, instead of telling him he was too young to join the hunt. He was such a small boy, but wanted so much to be a man, just like his father. What would he say if he saw his father now? Would he still want to be the man Branen had become? If only his eye for tracks had been a little sharper, he might have noticed the wolf had doubled back before hearing his son's strangled cry.

A dozen or more things he could have done differently might have saved his son, might have saved Armina from the woman she's become. The very least he could have done was killed the wolf that stole his family from him, but even then the fight had gone from him. From then to now it has been the same, Armina never smiles, Branen never fights, and together they are miserable.

It shouldn't be this way, I should march up there right now and tell that woman exactly what I think of her. I'll tell that cow to shut her mouth, and if she doesn't like the way I do things she can damn well do them her damn self! he thought to himself, coming to a stop at the bottom of the stairs.

And maybe, just maybe, if I can find the strength to stand up for myself, she can find the strength to stop blaming herself for Jance's death, and she can learn to smile that sweet smile again. It was a thought he had had a hundred times before, but he just shook his head, and continued walking to the kitchen.

Tomorrow, he thought to himself, as he had a hundred times before, I'll tell her off tomorrow.