Constant Companion
Title: Constant Companion
Fandom: Hornblower.
Characters/Pairing: Archie, Horatio
Disclaimer: Archie and Horatio belong to CS Forrester, and possibly A&E/Meridian.
Summary: Archie has a fan. Of sorts.
Rating: PG-ish
Notes: Heavily inspired by 'The Book Thief' by Markus Zusak. So heavily inspired by it that you could almost call it a crossover except I wandered away from some of Zusak's premises and ideas. You don't need to have read that to follow this; I just borrowed his narrator and some concepts. Many, many thanks to xbeyondinsanex and bamberrific for betaing services. xbeyondinsanex also made the very pretty avi to go with it. Further notes at the end.
I am, as you can probably imagine, quite busy. There are a lot of humans, and although I have all the time in the world, it still isn't enough time to notice every person. I take their souls and that's it. Their faces, their lives, are nothing to do with me. Every so often, though, there will be one who catches my attention, whom I allow myself to be distracted by. Distraction is important in my line of work; it keeps me sane. This job is pretty relentless. So occasionally, I will allow myself to be drawn into the lives of those with whom my path crosses more than once.
The first time I noticed Archie Kennedy was in a prison cell in Spain. In retrospect, we must have met many times before that (anyone who lives that life must encounter me all the time) and I'm fairly certain I remember him from a couple of occasions - I saw him from a distance, floating alone in a rowing boat, and there was the aftermath of a fight where his friend lay in an inn, red blood vivid on white skin, soon to be acquainted with me. I think there may have been an incident in his childhood involving a horse, where he caught a glimpse of me but never really got close. But the first time I noticed him, the first time I really paid attention to the man and not just to the soul I was preparing to take into my arms, was in Spain.
His captors had removed him from his solitary confinement in the ground, a cruel and unusual punishment if ever there was one, and returned him to his grey-brown cell, which was still confined and still solitary. Didn't seem much of a step up to me. You humans are strange creatures. Does an extra six feet of space really make such a difference?
I was too early. It happens sometimes - my timing isn't perfect and human beings can be extraordinarily tenacious. You cling on by your fingernails; either loving life or fearing me. Or both.
He had been asking for me for some time, calling my name as he crouched in his hole, battered alternately by the sun and the rain. He had begged me to take him and I had heard him, but his body wasn't quite ready to let him go yet. By the time he was back in his cell, it was. His body was weakened and his mind all but gone, but some last little part of him was compelled to eat at least some of the food they brought him. He kept himself alive even as he made his desperate pleas to me. So duplicitous, you humans. Such caprice.
I sat with him for a while, waiting for the moment when I could gather up his soul and leave. That was when I began to pay attention. He was so close to me, I could see what he could see; the visions and memories that filled his head. What I saw astonished me: a bright, golden childhood, followed by years of increasing darkness and suffering which culminated in five failed escape attempts and a cold, hot hole in the ground. And through it all his soul shone bright and clear. That was what astonished me. That golden colour that suffused his childhood remained undimmed. It may have been hidden at times, shrouded and eventually buried, but in itself it never altered; never even flickered. His soul, I knew, when I held it in my arms, would be light and warm.
He knew I was there. They always do in these situations. They can feel me beside them; watching, waiting. I don't pay much attention, I simply wait. And of course, my mind is often elsewhere and I'm off in a hundred other places doing a hundred thousand different things. Or rather, the same thing a hundred thousand different times. But this time I was paying attention. Yes, he knew I was there, and his fear was palpable. Which is why, when one of the guards noticed his state and took pity and encouraged him to eat, I knew I would not be needed at the moment. That light and that fear would not allow me to take him just yet.
I lingered a while longer, reluctant to leave the golden light I could see hidden beneath the broken part of him, shining through the cracks. I'm so often in the dark, you see. But when it became clear that he'd regained enough strength to cling to life a bit longer, I departed. I couldn't wait for him indefinitely. There was a war being fought - I had much to do.
*****
When I returned he was no longer alone. Two other people shared the cell, one of whom I recognised but could not place. You don't expect me to have instant recall, do you? With the four of us in there it felt quite cramped. The two newcomers were unaware of me, of course, but Archie knew as soon as I came in. I was early again, but not by much.
He had been starving himself again, his grey-white face speaking of much greater success this time. His fear of me must have vanished. Or maybe not. He was closer to me than he had ever been and I could once again see what he could see, clearer than ever. What he could see chilled me to the bone, or would if I had bones. The things you humans do to each other are despicable. I sometimes wonder at the world and at God, wherever he is. How could the same thing that made Archie Kennedy also make a thing like Jack Simpson? That was what had driven Archie to this point. He hadn't lost his fear of me, it was simply that his fear of something else was greater. I longed to tell him that it was alright, that I had long since gathered Jack Simpson's soul into my arms (I remembered it now that I saw the man through Archie's memories - if you're curious, it was dark and non-descript, like smoke or ash, and was unusually heavy, as such souls are. Despite its weight, it felt insubstantial in my hands.) But I doubted it would have made a difference. It was not, after all, Jack Simpson that Archie was so afraid of (these things are rarely so simple) but everything Jack had done to him. And his friend had brought Jack with him. There were five of us in that cell, not four. Jack was there as surely as I was.
I realised now why I recognised Archie's cellmate. He was there when I took Jack, though he was not the one who gave him to me, and if Simpson had been a better shot I would have had him too. He was in the inn as well when I took Clayton. If I put my mind to it I could place him at dozens of deaths, though of course that is true of anyone in his profession. He was staring out of the small barred window, watching the rain. He was far away from me and I couldn't really see his thoughts, just a vague sense of unease, longing and concern. I can always feel a little - no-one is ever that far away from me. Archie summoned, from somewhere, the strength to turn his head and speak. 'No walk for you today, Horatio?' I was so close to him now, so very, very close. How could his friend not see? Humans spend so much time worrying about me and fearing me, and yet you frequently don't even see me when I'm right in front of you. I could see what was in Archie's head as he asked his question: a view of a beach from above, bare feet on the cool green grass of a cliff-top, waves pushing gently up the shore and, high above all, bright blue skies and white-gold sunlight glowing warm on yellow sand and glittering off the sea. 'It must be something, to walk in the sun with such a lovely woman'. So much time spent longing for that light, never realising it was inside him all along. I almost took him then. Normally I would have, he was more than ready, but something made me hesitate. Just for a second. Just long enough for Horatio to notice his friend had fallen silent and come rushing over, finally realising my presence. Of course, I could still have taken him then, taken him at any time, but his body was still putting up a fight and a tiny spark of gold glimmered through, and I didn't. Instead, I simply followed as Horatio carried Archie in his arms and begged for help from their captors.
They were taken to a room somewhat more comfortable than their cell and were soon joined by a woman several years closer to me than they were - my shadow was drawn in lines around her eyes and lips. I remember Kitty Cobham very clearly, even though after her adventures in Spain I did not see her again until the day I took her into my arms. She was silver and glittering and she lit people up; when she was around they were silver and glittering too. Horatio's feelings became much clearer to me as distress made them stronger - fear and guilt poured out of him.
Archie had regained consciousness by now and was muttering through his delirium. His visions were so clear to me now, though they were disordered and broken. I saw: Kitty Cobham on stage in a red dress; sunlight falling through green leaves; billowing white sails caught by the wind; the tops of Archie's own feet as he stared at them, arms wrapped around his knees; Horatio being held down on a table, Jack Simpson leaning over him; blue eyes above an indulgent pink smile, looking down from what seemed like a great height; a wooden desk, deep, rich brown, covered in papers and books; Horatio, dark eyes serious and intent. Any minute now it would be time.
And yet, Archie stayed. Despite his fears, despite his mind and his heart calling to me, it seemed that as long as there was still a scrap of life left in his body, his soul would not leave. It was obvious why, and I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed it earlier.
Horatio did not move from his bedside. He stayed there all night. He stayed there for days, mopping his brow, soothing him as he dreamed. He dripped water into his mouth, keeping him alive a drop at a time. His soul was dark. I know what your reaction will be to that word, but it doesn't always mean what you think. He wasn't dark like Simpson was dark, or Hunter. I don't mean 'dark' as in 'the absence of light'. He was dark like earth is dark - deep and rich and nourishing. He was solid and dependable, yet capable of producing wonderful things. Warmed by the sun, there is seemingly no end to the wonders good earth can produce. We must have made a strange tableau, we three; the golden glow laid out on the bed and two patches of darkness on either side, both so close we could breathe the light in.
I knew the moment my services would not be required. Horatio was leaning over Archie, almost as close as I was, using words to assuage his fears, his doubts, his insecurities, not realising that something else, something more than words, was doing that for him, and doing it far better. Their souls pressed against one another, one seeking strength and safety, the other seeking warmth. There was hesitancy at first, resistance. Then acceptance. Archie drank, and I departed.
It would be quite some time before I was that close to Archie again, but, his life being what it was, our paths crossed often. I picked up souls, orange and yellow and a soft, pale blue, from the sandy courtyard near his cell, noting with an unexpected relief that he was up and about, though still closer to me than even the Don. I plucked them from the dark, black water, oh so many of them - blue and green and lilac and red, and Hunter's liquorice-coloured soul, a little less heavy than it had been, leaf-green gleaming around the edges. He was strong enough then to be among the rescuers. There were battles and skirmishes and boardings where, arms full of colour, I would catch a glimpse of gold darting about the ship, thrusting and parrying and glowing brighter every time.
*****
The next time I was close to him was in France. I should point out that, though I was close to him, he was not close to me. I'm afraid my curiosity got the better of me and I spent more time with him than my work there really warranted. I stood with him on the bridge as his men loaded it with gunpowder and he stared unseeingly at the water. He knew I was there. He knew I was close by, somewhere, waiting. Maybe waiting for him. He didn't like it; there would be no welcoming me this time. 'A fine thing, to die in someone else's war'.
I was there, of course, when the cannon started firing and he was close to me then, even though he wasn't hurt. I am close to them all then, when the guns are firing and there is smoke and blood and screams everywhere. They are all closer to me and they can all feel it. They all react differently. Archie panicked. Long hours of waiting had taken their toll - nothing to do but wait and think and worry. His powerlessness was too much like his cell; too much like Justinian. I could feel his mind going in a hundred different directions, feel the tightness building in his chest as his heart raced, the knot that seemed to rise up to his throat choking him, spreading across his shoulders and back until his whole body ached with it; and underneath it all, that black choking fear that infected everything, that insinuated itself into every thought, until that beautiful gold that had fought so hard for freedom, was trapped once again.
Horatio arrived with his new friend Edrington and I felt them coming before I saw them, felt the clarity of their minds like a cool breeze. They, too, knew I was there, waiting. They accepted it and didn't let it bother them. They knew I was there, they knew that one day, maybe today, I would take them, but until then they had a job to do. Extraordinary, really, the human ability to hold two completely contradictory beliefs at the same time. They knew I was there, knew I could reach for them at any moment, and also believed just as strongly, that today would not be the day, and they would continue to believe that right up until the moment I held them to me. Archie, on the other hand, could not see the job he had to do, could see nothing but me and the abyss and the darkness that would snuff out even his light. He knew that today might very well be the day and that after this there may be no more days in which to right his wrongs and face his fears and eradicate his shame. To do all that for nothing, for someone else's futile war, was more than Archie could bear.
I wanted to weep for him at that bridge as he confessed his fears to his dearest friend, who couldn't understand them. I wanted to take him in my arms and hold him and tell him it would be alright. But of course, that was exactly what he was afraid of.
I did not see much of him after that; I was busy in the village, where Horatio spent so much time with the French girl. That surprised me. The human heart is a fickle thing, is it not? Later, though, I was there again, I was there on the bridge as he hesitated, again too afraid. Not that I would take him but that I would take Horatio. Fear stayed his hand.
I stood beside Horatio as he screamed uselessly at Mariette's body, her soul pale and wispy-white in my hands, and Archie raced the powder fuse across the bridge, all but running into my arms. He was brighter than I had ever seen him. He got closer to Horatio, closer to me, and I saw his life open up before him. It stretched ahead of him, for minutes or years it didn't matter, because it was all dark, all black. I couldn't help but agree with him. After all, what was the point of Archie shining when he had nothing to shine on? I stood and watched Archie and the fuse, twin sparks of gold, speed towards us. There was nothing I could do about the outcome; that was not my job, not my choice. I had no choice. All I could do was wait until the bodies could no longer hold the souls that inhabited them, and then take the souls and carry them over. All I could do was watch and pray (something I don't do often, as I'm sure you can imagine) that Archie would be quicker than the powder.
Maybe God was listening, maybe I have more influence than I think, maybe it was just luck, but Archie was quicker. He reached his friend and hauled him to his feet. Horatio was reluctant at first, but he wanted to live and the desire was stronger than anything, stronger than his grief. Together, they ran back across the bridge - running from me but getting no further away until they reached the far side. And still I was there, following. They would not be rid of me so easily.
I caught up with them at the beach. Archie's charge across the bridge seemed to have done him good; he looked calmer. When the shooting began and they were all that much closer to me, I could see that the suffocating fear was once again giving way to that irrepressible light that was at the core of him. His mind, though still his own and still a little disordered, felt a little more like Horatio's and Edrington's - a little cooler, a little calmer. More able to see clearly.
When I next saw him again up close, I shouldn't really have been there. At least, no more there than usual. I am always lurking somewhere on ship, even when they aren't in battle. There's disease, starvation, all manner of accidents waiting to happen. Not to mention the sea itself. I'm never far away on a ship. But I shouldn't have been where I was, even though he was doing something so dangerous; should he have fallen I would have been waiting for him on the deck. He would be unlikely to need me on the way down, unless he had a heart attack. But he looked so bright up there, I couldn't resist going for a closer look.
Sure enough, when I got up there he was as bright as the sun. He made a beautiful sight as he glanced at his friend, equally beautiful, warmed by the light beside him.
I lost myself as I sat and watched them live.
*****
The next time I was close to him he almost blinded me. I had been unusually close to them all anyway, thanks to their captain's invitation, and when the cannon from the Spanish fort began firing I was closer still. If I were fanciful, and if such a thing were possible, I would say that his light kept me from him, that it surrounded him with a barrier that prevented me from touching him. Of course, such a thing is absurd. Nothing can keep me from a soul whose time has come, and it's not as though I go around choosing the souls I will take. Those things are beyond my control, decided by the mundane realities of human flesh and human cannon and human frailty - things which pay no heed to things like light. I go merely where Chance directs me.
Some may argue that it is not Chance but Destiny. Perhaps they are right. Perhaps there was something keeping me from Archie. I do not know, any more than I know where the souls go when I take them. All I know is that as he ran around the ship and the fort, shining bright, he seemed untouchable. His friends did too. Every shot seemed to miss them, every splinter fell short, every bullet seemed to willfully avoid them all. And it seems Archie knew it. He knew I was there, he knew how close I was, but there was none of the fear, the panic of before. He dashed around that fort as though I wasn't even there, as though he had never met me and never would.
I was there when Horatio and Wellard rode the gun up the cliff. Horatio's mind, usually so calm, was filled with fear, though he fought it down as I would expect him to. Wellard's mind was full of me. He could feel me waiting for him at the bottom of the cliff. Had he been just a few years younger, he may even have seen me. I was there too when Buckland sent Horatio to blow up the fort, and for the first time I felt the old fear creep back into Archie as he shook his friend's hand. He didn't fear me near him, but he did fear me near Horatio.
I followed Archie and Bush back to the fort as they walked towards me, neither really afraid of me, just afraid I would take Horatio without taking them. A nice foursome we would make. But they did not need me in the fort, or in the water at the bottom of the cliff where I waited so patiently.
The Spanish prisoners escaped, somewhat inevitably. As I moved around the ship, gathering souls like flowers, I was constantly aware of him and when Chance finally put him in the way of the Spanish Colonel's bullet I was as close to him as I had ever been, close enough for him to feel my breath on his cheek. I felt his mind go momentarily blank, and then it was filled with me. He was numb for a while, which is not unusual. We sat together and watched the bustle of the ship in the aftermath of battle, as his mind gradually came to accept what his heart already knew - that this was it, this was his time. I had been his constant companion all these years, seen the best and the worst of him, and now I would embrace him and he would not resist. It was now only a matter of time as that little grey ball of lead pushed him closer and closer towards me. I was not close enough to Horatio to know his thoughts, but I felt his fear spike as he noticed the scarlet on Archie's clothes, as he held his friend close, though who was comforting whom is hard to say.
I sat with Archie and William in the hospital, close enough to William to feel his fear and admire the midnight-blue of his soul, but closer to Archie. Always, always closer to Archie. Once again I saw what he saw, and what he saw wasn't pretty. We watched, over and over, as Horatio stood in the dock, was condemned by the court, was walked outside in irons. We watched the watchers; those who gathered to see Horatio hang - Pellew, Matthews, Styles, even Hobbs. All unable to bear it, yet unable to look away. We watched as Horatio swung from the gallows, hanging like a ragdoll. It was all Archie could see, and I knew him well enough by now not to be surprised at his refusal to allow it. There was a seam of iron that ran through his gold.
He got closer to me by the minute, so close that I could feel everything - not just his emotions but even the incredible pain and weakness that comes from having a gaping hole in your chest. The emotions were there too, of course. His fear for Horatio was paramount, almost overwhelming even his physical pain, but there were others that made their presence known: anger at Sawyer for putting them here; amusement as he remembered the arrival of a very young, very green Horatio Hornblower aboard Justinian; exasperation when Clive asked him stupid questions. They were all so clear to me it was like I was feeling them myself. It is rare for me to spend so long so close to one person - this close to me they don't usually hang on so long. I do not often spend so much time with their thoughts, though when I have seen them once I then have lifetimes to examine them at my leisure. I usually don't bother. I don't have any leisure for a start.
I knew what he was going to do before he did. I felt the clarity of the plan as it moved through his mind, cutting a path through the fear and confusion and pain and anger. Once again I found myself wanting to beg him not to do it, not to put himself in danger. Why, I don't know. His life should have been nothing to me; how he is remembered is not my concern. His death should be all that matters to me, and even that only in a professional capacity - the right time and the right place so I can be there to take his soul. I should not have been there for this; I should not have been there so early. I should not have been there when he looked his friend in the eye and refused to ask the question. I sometimes wonder if I kept doing it deliberately.
He walked into the courtroom, running more quickly towards me with every slow, painful step. His body was weak but his soul was strong as it had always been. It astounded me, and still does, that they couldn't all see it. That they just carried on with the task in hand, oblivious to the ray of light amongst them. How could they not see it? Perhaps they could. Those who knew him, anyway.
The two friends looked at each other across the room; Archie brighter than ever, Horatio's darkness growing colder already as Archie moved away from him and towards me. His fear for Horatio left him, images of the gallows falling from his mind, but fear didn't leave him altogether. His old fear of me returned, and I confess it pained me.
Archie's body grew weaker still as he spoke with his friend and the three of us once again made our strange tableau, Archie's bright light flanked by darkness. The difference was that this time Horatio's solid darkness could not save Archie from the darkness of the abyss. Even Horatio Hornblower could not save Archie from the inevitable.
I was so close to him now, so close. I could feel the warmth of his skin, the beat of his heart. His hair tickled me as my hands ghosted over him. He could feel me too, and I know I scared him as he felt my touch but I couldn't help myself. He hid his fear well, smiling through the pain, the pain he denied, as he said goodbye. No panic, though. He was truthful then. Despite his fear, his mind was calm, content in the knowledge that he had saved his friend, that Horatio would go on in the world, though he could not. He saw Horatio moving through the world, moving through the ranks, standing on his own quarter-deck, watching his children grow up. Horatio through Archie's eyes was the Horatio who took Styles-powered showers and jumped off cliffs with a smile on his face, who argued with French aristocrats and made bad jokes about bridges. He was warm and full of life. It did not occur to Archie that without his friend to warm him, Horatio would be a very different person. For once, I was glad I was unable to disabuse him. His friend's future gave him comfort as they talked about the past and I would not take that from him even if I could.
With all the will in the world (and sometimes I do think he had all the will in the world) Archie could not cling on forever. He slipped away from life and we sat, side by side, as we had so many times before, though this time on a more equal footing. We watched Horatio as he sat by his dear friend's lifeless body, his dark head bowed, eyes closed, refusing to move even as they took the body away. The human heart is perhaps not as fickle as I thought. Archie reached out and touched the other man in an attempt to comfort him, but it was as futile as my attempts to comfort Archie. There was no comfort he could give. As we sat there I felt his fear recede as he realised that the abyss was not the horror he had imagined.
We should not have stayed as long as we did, we should not have stayed at all, but when it came to Archie Kennedy I seemed to find myself doing many things I should not have done. He wanted to stay, reluctant to let go until Horatio did, and I could not bring myself to deny him this. We watched as Pellew spoke with Horatio, Archie smiling with fond exasperation at Horatio's shock and dismay that Archie had not been mentioned in the exploits of the Renown. He understood in a way Horatio never would that it did not matter in the slightest, and he also understood in a way I never could that it mattered a great deal. Pellew informed Horatio of his promotion, Archie's vision already coming true, and it warmed Archie even as I could see it cooling Horatio. Archie had not noticed, had had no time to get used to being able to see these things, and I hoped desperately that he never would.
We stayed until Bush had managed to wrench Horatio away, long after Pellew had left. There was silence for a while before Archie turned to me and smiled, bright and beautiful. 'I'm ready,' he said. At last, at long last, I took him into my arms. His soul was warm, and light.
Author's note 2: As I said, this was heavily inspired by 'The Book Thief'. In the interests of giving credit where it's due, I borrowed/stole the following: the idea that Death needs a distraction from his heavy workload and sometimes finds that distraction in certain people; Death's fascination with colour; the idea that Death has no more idea about God than the rest of us and doesn't know what happens to the souls he takes; the idea that people who give of themselves in life have much lighter souls (in the sense of weight) than those who don't; the very physical nature of Death (he holds souls in his arms etc); the notion that as people get closer to Death he can see their thoughts. There are probably others I've forgotten and I think I even paraphrase Zusak in a couple of places. Many of these things aren't unique to Zusak's portrayal of Death but taken together they will be very recognisable to anyone who's read the book. Zusak's Death never waxed quite so lyrical bout anyone's soul, though, and he's not nearly so... stalkery as my version.
Once again, I cannot thank the Michelles enough for their help. Thank you.
Fandom: Hornblower.
Characters/Pairing: Archie, Horatio
Disclaimer: Archie and Horatio belong to CS Forrester, and possibly A&E/Meridian.
Summary: Archie has a fan. Of sorts.
Rating: PG-ish
Notes: Heavily inspired by 'The Book Thief' by Markus Zusak. So heavily inspired by it that you could almost call it a crossover except I wandered away from some of Zusak's premises and ideas. You don't need to have read that to follow this; I just borrowed his narrator and some concepts. Many, many thanks to xbeyondinsanex and bamberrific for betaing services. xbeyondinsanex also made the very pretty avi to go with it. Further notes at the end.
I am, as you can probably imagine, quite busy. There are a lot of humans, and although I have all the time in the world, it still isn't enough time to notice every person. I take their souls and that's it. Their faces, their lives, are nothing to do with me. Every so often, though, there will be one who catches my attention, whom I allow myself to be distracted by. Distraction is important in my line of work; it keeps me sane. This job is pretty relentless. So occasionally, I will allow myself to be drawn into the lives of those with whom my path crosses more than once.
The first time I noticed Archie Kennedy was in a prison cell in Spain. In retrospect, we must have met many times before that (anyone who lives that life must encounter me all the time) and I'm fairly certain I remember him from a couple of occasions - I saw him from a distance, floating alone in a rowing boat, and there was the aftermath of a fight where his friend lay in an inn, red blood vivid on white skin, soon to be acquainted with me. I think there may have been an incident in his childhood involving a horse, where he caught a glimpse of me but never really got close. But the first time I noticed him, the first time I really paid attention to the man and not just to the soul I was preparing to take into my arms, was in Spain.
His captors had removed him from his solitary confinement in the ground, a cruel and unusual punishment if ever there was one, and returned him to his grey-brown cell, which was still confined and still solitary. Didn't seem much of a step up to me. You humans are strange creatures. Does an extra six feet of space really make such a difference?
I was too early. It happens sometimes - my timing isn't perfect and human beings can be extraordinarily tenacious. You cling on by your fingernails; either loving life or fearing me. Or both.
He had been asking for me for some time, calling my name as he crouched in his hole, battered alternately by the sun and the rain. He had begged me to take him and I had heard him, but his body wasn't quite ready to let him go yet. By the time he was back in his cell, it was. His body was weakened and his mind all but gone, but some last little part of him was compelled to eat at least some of the food they brought him. He kept himself alive even as he made his desperate pleas to me. So duplicitous, you humans. Such caprice.
I sat with him for a while, waiting for the moment when I could gather up his soul and leave. That was when I began to pay attention. He was so close to me, I could see what he could see; the visions and memories that filled his head. What I saw astonished me: a bright, golden childhood, followed by years of increasing darkness and suffering which culminated in five failed escape attempts and a cold, hot hole in the ground. And through it all his soul shone bright and clear. That was what astonished me. That golden colour that suffused his childhood remained undimmed. It may have been hidden at times, shrouded and eventually buried, but in itself it never altered; never even flickered. His soul, I knew, when I held it in my arms, would be light and warm.
He knew I was there. They always do in these situations. They can feel me beside them; watching, waiting. I don't pay much attention, I simply wait. And of course, my mind is often elsewhere and I'm off in a hundred other places doing a hundred thousand different things. Or rather, the same thing a hundred thousand different times. But this time I was paying attention. Yes, he knew I was there, and his fear was palpable. Which is why, when one of the guards noticed his state and took pity and encouraged him to eat, I knew I would not be needed at the moment. That light and that fear would not allow me to take him just yet.
I lingered a while longer, reluctant to leave the golden light I could see hidden beneath the broken part of him, shining through the cracks. I'm so often in the dark, you see. But when it became clear that he'd regained enough strength to cling to life a bit longer, I departed. I couldn't wait for him indefinitely. There was a war being fought - I had much to do.
*****
When I returned he was no longer alone. Two other people shared the cell, one of whom I recognised but could not place. You don't expect me to have instant recall, do you? With the four of us in there it felt quite cramped. The two newcomers were unaware of me, of course, but Archie knew as soon as I came in. I was early again, but not by much.
He had been starving himself again, his grey-white face speaking of much greater success this time. His fear of me must have vanished. Or maybe not. He was closer to me than he had ever been and I could once again see what he could see, clearer than ever. What he could see chilled me to the bone, or would if I had bones. The things you humans do to each other are despicable. I sometimes wonder at the world and at God, wherever he is. How could the same thing that made Archie Kennedy also make a thing like Jack Simpson? That was what had driven Archie to this point. He hadn't lost his fear of me, it was simply that his fear of something else was greater. I longed to tell him that it was alright, that I had long since gathered Jack Simpson's soul into my arms (I remembered it now that I saw the man through Archie's memories - if you're curious, it was dark and non-descript, like smoke or ash, and was unusually heavy, as such souls are. Despite its weight, it felt insubstantial in my hands.) But I doubted it would have made a difference. It was not, after all, Jack Simpson that Archie was so afraid of (these things are rarely so simple) but everything Jack had done to him. And his friend had brought Jack with him. There were five of us in that cell, not four. Jack was there as surely as I was.
I realised now why I recognised Archie's cellmate. He was there when I took Jack, though he was not the one who gave him to me, and if Simpson had been a better shot I would have had him too. He was in the inn as well when I took Clayton. If I put my mind to it I could place him at dozens of deaths, though of course that is true of anyone in his profession. He was staring out of the small barred window, watching the rain. He was far away from me and I couldn't really see his thoughts, just a vague sense of unease, longing and concern. I can always feel a little - no-one is ever that far away from me. Archie summoned, from somewhere, the strength to turn his head and speak. 'No walk for you today, Horatio?' I was so close to him now, so very, very close. How could his friend not see? Humans spend so much time worrying about me and fearing me, and yet you frequently don't even see me when I'm right in front of you. I could see what was in Archie's head as he asked his question: a view of a beach from above, bare feet on the cool green grass of a cliff-top, waves pushing gently up the shore and, high above all, bright blue skies and white-gold sunlight glowing warm on yellow sand and glittering off the sea. 'It must be something, to walk in the sun with such a lovely woman'. So much time spent longing for that light, never realising it was inside him all along. I almost took him then. Normally I would have, he was more than ready, but something made me hesitate. Just for a second. Just long enough for Horatio to notice his friend had fallen silent and come rushing over, finally realising my presence. Of course, I could still have taken him then, taken him at any time, but his body was still putting up a fight and a tiny spark of gold glimmered through, and I didn't. Instead, I simply followed as Horatio carried Archie in his arms and begged for help from their captors.
They were taken to a room somewhat more comfortable than their cell and were soon joined by a woman several years closer to me than they were - my shadow was drawn in lines around her eyes and lips. I remember Kitty Cobham very clearly, even though after her adventures in Spain I did not see her again until the day I took her into my arms. She was silver and glittering and she lit people up; when she was around they were silver and glittering too. Horatio's feelings became much clearer to me as distress made them stronger - fear and guilt poured out of him.
Archie had regained consciousness by now and was muttering through his delirium. His visions were so clear to me now, though they were disordered and broken. I saw: Kitty Cobham on stage in a red dress; sunlight falling through green leaves; billowing white sails caught by the wind; the tops of Archie's own feet as he stared at them, arms wrapped around his knees; Horatio being held down on a table, Jack Simpson leaning over him; blue eyes above an indulgent pink smile, looking down from what seemed like a great height; a wooden desk, deep, rich brown, covered in papers and books; Horatio, dark eyes serious and intent. Any minute now it would be time.
And yet, Archie stayed. Despite his fears, despite his mind and his heart calling to me, it seemed that as long as there was still a scrap of life left in his body, his soul would not leave. It was obvious why, and I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed it earlier.
Horatio did not move from his bedside. He stayed there all night. He stayed there for days, mopping his brow, soothing him as he dreamed. He dripped water into his mouth, keeping him alive a drop at a time. His soul was dark. I know what your reaction will be to that word, but it doesn't always mean what you think. He wasn't dark like Simpson was dark, or Hunter. I don't mean 'dark' as in 'the absence of light'. He was dark like earth is dark - deep and rich and nourishing. He was solid and dependable, yet capable of producing wonderful things. Warmed by the sun, there is seemingly no end to the wonders good earth can produce. We must have made a strange tableau, we three; the golden glow laid out on the bed and two patches of darkness on either side, both so close we could breathe the light in.
I knew the moment my services would not be required. Horatio was leaning over Archie, almost as close as I was, using words to assuage his fears, his doubts, his insecurities, not realising that something else, something more than words, was doing that for him, and doing it far better. Their souls pressed against one another, one seeking strength and safety, the other seeking warmth. There was hesitancy at first, resistance. Then acceptance. Archie drank, and I departed.
It would be quite some time before I was that close to Archie again, but, his life being what it was, our paths crossed often. I picked up souls, orange and yellow and a soft, pale blue, from the sandy courtyard near his cell, noting with an unexpected relief that he was up and about, though still closer to me than even the Don. I plucked them from the dark, black water, oh so many of them - blue and green and lilac and red, and Hunter's liquorice-coloured soul, a little less heavy than it had been, leaf-green gleaming around the edges. He was strong enough then to be among the rescuers. There were battles and skirmishes and boardings where, arms full of colour, I would catch a glimpse of gold darting about the ship, thrusting and parrying and glowing brighter every time.
*****
The next time I was close to him was in France. I should point out that, though I was close to him, he was not close to me. I'm afraid my curiosity got the better of me and I spent more time with him than my work there really warranted. I stood with him on the bridge as his men loaded it with gunpowder and he stared unseeingly at the water. He knew I was there. He knew I was close by, somewhere, waiting. Maybe waiting for him. He didn't like it; there would be no welcoming me this time. 'A fine thing, to die in someone else's war'.
I was there, of course, when the cannon started firing and he was close to me then, even though he wasn't hurt. I am close to them all then, when the guns are firing and there is smoke and blood and screams everywhere. They are all closer to me and they can all feel it. They all react differently. Archie panicked. Long hours of waiting had taken their toll - nothing to do but wait and think and worry. His powerlessness was too much like his cell; too much like Justinian. I could feel his mind going in a hundred different directions, feel the tightness building in his chest as his heart raced, the knot that seemed to rise up to his throat choking him, spreading across his shoulders and back until his whole body ached with it; and underneath it all, that black choking fear that infected everything, that insinuated itself into every thought, until that beautiful gold that had fought so hard for freedom, was trapped once again.
Horatio arrived with his new friend Edrington and I felt them coming before I saw them, felt the clarity of their minds like a cool breeze. They, too, knew I was there, waiting. They accepted it and didn't let it bother them. They knew I was there, they knew that one day, maybe today, I would take them, but until then they had a job to do. Extraordinary, really, the human ability to hold two completely contradictory beliefs at the same time. They knew I was there, knew I could reach for them at any moment, and also believed just as strongly, that today would not be the day, and they would continue to believe that right up until the moment I held them to me. Archie, on the other hand, could not see the job he had to do, could see nothing but me and the abyss and the darkness that would snuff out even his light. He knew that today might very well be the day and that after this there may be no more days in which to right his wrongs and face his fears and eradicate his shame. To do all that for nothing, for someone else's futile war, was more than Archie could bear.
I wanted to weep for him at that bridge as he confessed his fears to his dearest friend, who couldn't understand them. I wanted to take him in my arms and hold him and tell him it would be alright. But of course, that was exactly what he was afraid of.
I did not see much of him after that; I was busy in the village, where Horatio spent so much time with the French girl. That surprised me. The human heart is a fickle thing, is it not? Later, though, I was there again, I was there on the bridge as he hesitated, again too afraid. Not that I would take him but that I would take Horatio. Fear stayed his hand.
I stood beside Horatio as he screamed uselessly at Mariette's body, her soul pale and wispy-white in my hands, and Archie raced the powder fuse across the bridge, all but running into my arms. He was brighter than I had ever seen him. He got closer to Horatio, closer to me, and I saw his life open up before him. It stretched ahead of him, for minutes or years it didn't matter, because it was all dark, all black. I couldn't help but agree with him. After all, what was the point of Archie shining when he had nothing to shine on? I stood and watched Archie and the fuse, twin sparks of gold, speed towards us. There was nothing I could do about the outcome; that was not my job, not my choice. I had no choice. All I could do was wait until the bodies could no longer hold the souls that inhabited them, and then take the souls and carry them over. All I could do was watch and pray (something I don't do often, as I'm sure you can imagine) that Archie would be quicker than the powder.
Maybe God was listening, maybe I have more influence than I think, maybe it was just luck, but Archie was quicker. He reached his friend and hauled him to his feet. Horatio was reluctant at first, but he wanted to live and the desire was stronger than anything, stronger than his grief. Together, they ran back across the bridge - running from me but getting no further away until they reached the far side. And still I was there, following. They would not be rid of me so easily.
I caught up with them at the beach. Archie's charge across the bridge seemed to have done him good; he looked calmer. When the shooting began and they were all that much closer to me, I could see that the suffocating fear was once again giving way to that irrepressible light that was at the core of him. His mind, though still his own and still a little disordered, felt a little more like Horatio's and Edrington's - a little cooler, a little calmer. More able to see clearly.
When I next saw him again up close, I shouldn't really have been there. At least, no more there than usual. I am always lurking somewhere on ship, even when they aren't in battle. There's disease, starvation, all manner of accidents waiting to happen. Not to mention the sea itself. I'm never far away on a ship. But I shouldn't have been where I was, even though he was doing something so dangerous; should he have fallen I would have been waiting for him on the deck. He would be unlikely to need me on the way down, unless he had a heart attack. But he looked so bright up there, I couldn't resist going for a closer look.
Sure enough, when I got up there he was as bright as the sun. He made a beautiful sight as he glanced at his friend, equally beautiful, warmed by the light beside him.
I lost myself as I sat and watched them live.
*****
The next time I was close to him he almost blinded me. I had been unusually close to them all anyway, thanks to their captain's invitation, and when the cannon from the Spanish fort began firing I was closer still. If I were fanciful, and if such a thing were possible, I would say that his light kept me from him, that it surrounded him with a barrier that prevented me from touching him. Of course, such a thing is absurd. Nothing can keep me from a soul whose time has come, and it's not as though I go around choosing the souls I will take. Those things are beyond my control, decided by the mundane realities of human flesh and human cannon and human frailty - things which pay no heed to things like light. I go merely where Chance directs me.
Some may argue that it is not Chance but Destiny. Perhaps they are right. Perhaps there was something keeping me from Archie. I do not know, any more than I know where the souls go when I take them. All I know is that as he ran around the ship and the fort, shining bright, he seemed untouchable. His friends did too. Every shot seemed to miss them, every splinter fell short, every bullet seemed to willfully avoid them all. And it seems Archie knew it. He knew I was there, he knew how close I was, but there was none of the fear, the panic of before. He dashed around that fort as though I wasn't even there, as though he had never met me and never would.
I was there when Horatio and Wellard rode the gun up the cliff. Horatio's mind, usually so calm, was filled with fear, though he fought it down as I would expect him to. Wellard's mind was full of me. He could feel me waiting for him at the bottom of the cliff. Had he been just a few years younger, he may even have seen me. I was there too when Buckland sent Horatio to blow up the fort, and for the first time I felt the old fear creep back into Archie as he shook his friend's hand. He didn't fear me near him, but he did fear me near Horatio.
I followed Archie and Bush back to the fort as they walked towards me, neither really afraid of me, just afraid I would take Horatio without taking them. A nice foursome we would make. But they did not need me in the fort, or in the water at the bottom of the cliff where I waited so patiently.
The Spanish prisoners escaped, somewhat inevitably. As I moved around the ship, gathering souls like flowers, I was constantly aware of him and when Chance finally put him in the way of the Spanish Colonel's bullet I was as close to him as I had ever been, close enough for him to feel my breath on his cheek. I felt his mind go momentarily blank, and then it was filled with me. He was numb for a while, which is not unusual. We sat together and watched the bustle of the ship in the aftermath of battle, as his mind gradually came to accept what his heart already knew - that this was it, this was his time. I had been his constant companion all these years, seen the best and the worst of him, and now I would embrace him and he would not resist. It was now only a matter of time as that little grey ball of lead pushed him closer and closer towards me. I was not close enough to Horatio to know his thoughts, but I felt his fear spike as he noticed the scarlet on Archie's clothes, as he held his friend close, though who was comforting whom is hard to say.
I sat with Archie and William in the hospital, close enough to William to feel his fear and admire the midnight-blue of his soul, but closer to Archie. Always, always closer to Archie. Once again I saw what he saw, and what he saw wasn't pretty. We watched, over and over, as Horatio stood in the dock, was condemned by the court, was walked outside in irons. We watched the watchers; those who gathered to see Horatio hang - Pellew, Matthews, Styles, even Hobbs. All unable to bear it, yet unable to look away. We watched as Horatio swung from the gallows, hanging like a ragdoll. It was all Archie could see, and I knew him well enough by now not to be surprised at his refusal to allow it. There was a seam of iron that ran through his gold.
He got closer to me by the minute, so close that I could feel everything - not just his emotions but even the incredible pain and weakness that comes from having a gaping hole in your chest. The emotions were there too, of course. His fear for Horatio was paramount, almost overwhelming even his physical pain, but there were others that made their presence known: anger at Sawyer for putting them here; amusement as he remembered the arrival of a very young, very green Horatio Hornblower aboard Justinian; exasperation when Clive asked him stupid questions. They were all so clear to me it was like I was feeling them myself. It is rare for me to spend so long so close to one person - this close to me they don't usually hang on so long. I do not often spend so much time with their thoughts, though when I have seen them once I then have lifetimes to examine them at my leisure. I usually don't bother. I don't have any leisure for a start.
I knew what he was going to do before he did. I felt the clarity of the plan as it moved through his mind, cutting a path through the fear and confusion and pain and anger. Once again I found myself wanting to beg him not to do it, not to put himself in danger. Why, I don't know. His life should have been nothing to me; how he is remembered is not my concern. His death should be all that matters to me, and even that only in a professional capacity - the right time and the right place so I can be there to take his soul. I should not have been there for this; I should not have been there so early. I should not have been there when he looked his friend in the eye and refused to ask the question. I sometimes wonder if I kept doing it deliberately.
He walked into the courtroom, running more quickly towards me with every slow, painful step. His body was weak but his soul was strong as it had always been. It astounded me, and still does, that they couldn't all see it. That they just carried on with the task in hand, oblivious to the ray of light amongst them. How could they not see it? Perhaps they could. Those who knew him, anyway.
The two friends looked at each other across the room; Archie brighter than ever, Horatio's darkness growing colder already as Archie moved away from him and towards me. His fear for Horatio left him, images of the gallows falling from his mind, but fear didn't leave him altogether. His old fear of me returned, and I confess it pained me.
Archie's body grew weaker still as he spoke with his friend and the three of us once again made our strange tableau, Archie's bright light flanked by darkness. The difference was that this time Horatio's solid darkness could not save Archie from the darkness of the abyss. Even Horatio Hornblower could not save Archie from the inevitable.
I was so close to him now, so close. I could feel the warmth of his skin, the beat of his heart. His hair tickled me as my hands ghosted over him. He could feel me too, and I know I scared him as he felt my touch but I couldn't help myself. He hid his fear well, smiling through the pain, the pain he denied, as he said goodbye. No panic, though. He was truthful then. Despite his fear, his mind was calm, content in the knowledge that he had saved his friend, that Horatio would go on in the world, though he could not. He saw Horatio moving through the world, moving through the ranks, standing on his own quarter-deck, watching his children grow up. Horatio through Archie's eyes was the Horatio who took Styles-powered showers and jumped off cliffs with a smile on his face, who argued with French aristocrats and made bad jokes about bridges. He was warm and full of life. It did not occur to Archie that without his friend to warm him, Horatio would be a very different person. For once, I was glad I was unable to disabuse him. His friend's future gave him comfort as they talked about the past and I would not take that from him even if I could.
With all the will in the world (and sometimes I do think he had all the will in the world) Archie could not cling on forever. He slipped away from life and we sat, side by side, as we had so many times before, though this time on a more equal footing. We watched Horatio as he sat by his dear friend's lifeless body, his dark head bowed, eyes closed, refusing to move even as they took the body away. The human heart is perhaps not as fickle as I thought. Archie reached out and touched the other man in an attempt to comfort him, but it was as futile as my attempts to comfort Archie. There was no comfort he could give. As we sat there I felt his fear recede as he realised that the abyss was not the horror he had imagined.
We should not have stayed as long as we did, we should not have stayed at all, but when it came to Archie Kennedy I seemed to find myself doing many things I should not have done. He wanted to stay, reluctant to let go until Horatio did, and I could not bring myself to deny him this. We watched as Pellew spoke with Horatio, Archie smiling with fond exasperation at Horatio's shock and dismay that Archie had not been mentioned in the exploits of the Renown. He understood in a way Horatio never would that it did not matter in the slightest, and he also understood in a way I never could that it mattered a great deal. Pellew informed Horatio of his promotion, Archie's vision already coming true, and it warmed Archie even as I could see it cooling Horatio. Archie had not noticed, had had no time to get used to being able to see these things, and I hoped desperately that he never would.
We stayed until Bush had managed to wrench Horatio away, long after Pellew had left. There was silence for a while before Archie turned to me and smiled, bright and beautiful. 'I'm ready,' he said. At last, at long last, I took him into my arms. His soul was warm, and light.
Author's note 2: As I said, this was heavily inspired by 'The Book Thief'. In the interests of giving credit where it's due, I borrowed/stole the following: the idea that Death needs a distraction from his heavy workload and sometimes finds that distraction in certain people; Death's fascination with colour; the idea that Death has no more idea about God than the rest of us and doesn't know what happens to the souls he takes; the idea that people who give of themselves in life have much lighter souls (in the sense of weight) than those who don't; the very physical nature of Death (he holds souls in his arms etc); the notion that as people get closer to Death he can see their thoughts. There are probably others I've forgotten and I think I even paraphrase Zusak in a couple of places. Many of these things aren't unique to Zusak's portrayal of Death but taken together they will be very recognisable to anyone who's read the book. Zusak's Death never waxed quite so lyrical bout anyone's soul, though, and he's not nearly so... stalkery as my version.
Once again, I cannot thank the Michelles enough for their help. Thank you.