Wish You Were Here

[rassafraggin]

Uncertain how long Moire would want to stay aboard the ship, Maggie left word with the crew to let her know when her husband emerges. She let Mr. Anderson know that she could be found in the office then closed herself in and set about going through the books to get up to speed on what the ship and crew have been up to. Silence falls in the office, broken only by the turning of pages and the occasional scritch scratch of a note being added or an entry underscored. Time drifts, as it sometimes does and Maggie's hair dries slowly from a deep, vibrant glory of crimson and blood toward her more natural fiery riot of reds, oranges, auburns and flame. Every so often she considers changing into something more Captainy and her glance slips to the wardrobe. The two knots she noticed earlier no longer look like they are glaring so much as... just knots in the wood. Setting down the pen, she scoots away from the desk and rises. Salt crystals shimmer from her hair and skin, leaving glittering white sparkles on the chair, the desk and the floor. Not bothered by the cold air, she did not need the cloak for warmth and it hangs on a hook by the door, tempting her with thoughts of coffee. But, coffee will keep her awake and sleep crawls around inside her head, trying to convince her eyes to shut. Surveying the cabin, her mood gradually shifts. Though it had been set up as an office, much of Merrisol still lives here. The lacquered wood, kept to his exacting specifications. The mirror turned to the wall. Shelves no longer laden with his books. The bed he used. Drifting closer, she trails a hand over the covers, breathing in the scent of heather and soap. Memories rise, stifling her breath for just a moment. Some are funny. Some horrifying in one fashion or another. Turning, she sits on the bed, closing her eyes as the scent rises up from the clean sheets and covers. They have been washed, but when someone uses them for a while...

Her thoughts drift a bit more as memories of... She blinks and sits up. Memories of their first while together rise and whirl around her head. Gods, but she chased him. Poor guy. Naive, kind of foolish, unsure of who she was... A frown puckers between her brows. Did she know that she loved him even then? Or was it just the way she treated men? Introspection is not always easy. Again sleep rises to snake around within her brain, trying to shut the processes down as quickly as they spark to life. Perhaps a nap. Looking at the bed, she half smiles as the notion that she might sleep better surrounded by his scents than she has without him. Stretching out on top of the cover, she tucks the pillow just so and curls up. Closing her eyes, she does not expect to be swept off into dreamland quite so quickly but she is.

It is silent in the cabin, the only sounds the soft breathing of the woman curled into the middle of the double bed, the soft hush of waves gently swaying the ship and, once, the sharper tok of the pen rolling off the desk to the floor.

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In truth, Moire was sort of startled, after the door had clicked shut behind her, to find she'd been left alone. Not wanting to turn around, thinking of what could happen if she did, then realizing from the empty silence it didn't even matter, she'd turned, and looked at the closed door. It was a sensible decision, of course. And a mistake perhaps to have planned to spend a day in each others' company. Already Maggie's absence, along with the slap of cooled air, was helping restore some equilibrium, bring down the heart rate and.. that other. Which did not explain why she was still gazing at that door. Like a dumb guppy.

When it still hadn't opened after a minute, she'd taken some slow steps into the main chamber, gaze falling on the circular green rug, the mementos on the desk and shelves, that large innocuous wardrobe. They conveyed a soothing sense of familiarity to her vessel, if not recognition or recall in her mind. If those memories were encoded in the gray matter of his brain, as with the journal filled with mnemonics, she did not possess the necessary mental keys to break into them. Regular clothing drawers, however, were much easier. A momentary setback, or setup perhaps, when drawing the curtain aside and seeing the marriage bed, she'd had to gaze out the porthole to the gently undulating horizon for some minutes to feel herself again.

Presently, back at the dresser, she frowns over the filmy and lacey things, and just to be safe checks the other draws and hunts up a couple of articles that correspond with Captain Merrisol's submariner outfit. Leaving the Rebmawear and bling bundled up in the cloak, she wrestles the briefs and trousers into place while wincingly aware of a certain amount of lingering soreness. She can only imagine that the day might still come when the Lord Warden himself would be standing before her, and she would look upon the man with a compassionate understanding for his considerable... challenges. Not the least of which being his sweet, loving, graceful.. ravishing... "Stop," she says aloud, though softly, because talking to one's body is absurd. "You shall obey me. I... am your Queen." Right. Quite.

Pacing slow and deliberate, the feel of the warm wood and hooked rug curious but not unpleasant, she keeps her gaze on the door. Sitting finally, at the foot of the bed from which position she can still watch the door, she tentatively caresses the smooth cool coverlet. Some moments later, she relents to the lure of that clean softness, that strange feeling of the dry fabric pressed to bare skin as she lays back, head cushioned on a pillow fragrant with soap and peaceful thoughts. That she can no longer watch the door is a fading concern. Margaret. Maggie. Wayward Girl. She means to stay away. Moire sighs, and lets her gaze shutter and slip closed. Out of sight, out of mind, the cabin is gone. And then, so is she.

---___----____-----_____-----____----___---

At first, Maggie's sleep is the dreamless, unknowing sleep of the lost and on edge finally finding peace. How long this lasted, she really could not say but when her body or mind reached a kind of balance, dreams began. At first, they were closely tied to her thoughts before she drifted off. Scenes from the past unfolded showing her teasing Merrisol one way or another in exagerated detail. Then the dreams changed, shifted and refocused to show her times when she had subconsciously seen him noticing her. As her own efforts to get and hold his attention were blown up out of proportion, so too are these. A glance becomes a stare and a stare a leer. Maybe the Dreaming intended to cause her consternation but her take-away is a pleased sort of sigh. It was not so one sided as she presumed. There are times when retrospection is a comfort.

Images swirl through her dreams, some pulled from the comparatively distant past, others from more recent weeks until settling on a forest leading up to a valley filled with dawn-blooming flowers. She stands on an outcropping of stone beneath the shadow of the ancient trees. The outcropping has a good view of the valley. The sun has touched the horizon with gold and rose though the light has not yet spread over the land. Moving to the edge of the outcropping, she stands still, breathing in the clean, pre-dawn air. Lifting her head, she feels the breezes playing across her face, she smiles a quiet smile. It occurs to her that she is now waiting. That the sun will not rise, the flowers below will not bloom, beauty and joy will be held at bay until he joins her. There is no question in her mind or heart about who 'he' is. There is only one 'he' for her now and, as the dream images demonstrated, always.

Spreading the soft, comfortably warm grasses over the outcropping of stone, she curls gracefully down to watch the sun-not-rise, the gentle sway of the flowers below not-bloom and soak in the peace that still holds in this corner of the Dreaming.

He. Her smile softens as her thoughts turn to him. This time, she lets them hold him near. His intelligence, sparkling in his gaze, unmistakable and true. The kindness he has in his heart, warm and generous. She draws her legs up, arms slipping about them to hold her knees to her chest. The love he feels for her, strong and passionate. And comforting. Another sigh eases from her. His hair, wheat gold and glowing. Eyes the green of the sea, laughing or stormy. His mouth, so expressive with kissable lips. His broad shoulders and strong chest, that narrowed waist and strong hips that can drive him forward... through the sea, Maggie. And otherwise. The smile turns just a little wicked as her dreaming mind plays through just a few of those 'other' moments before slipping lower to dwell on his long, strong legs. She even conjures his feet with their own strengths. She draws in a ragged breath, turning her head so she is resting her cheek against the upward curve of her breasts. Here, curled tightly into a ball, with the darkness of the Dreaming shifting beneath the trees behind her and the insipient glory ahead, she does not try to shove her longing, her desire, her love, away. She holds it close to her, wrapping it about her like a cloak or armor against whatever the future holds.

The held breath of the forest and valley below extends until it feels like a thread, drawn taut. The barest quiver is felt, then heard in that bowstring, which draws ever more tightly, until that trembling is a distant squeak. Something trying to squeeze through, emerge into her quiet, peaceful cliffhanger. Someone who must be not quite who she seeks, but answering the call of longing nevertheless.

Maggie lifts her head as the thruming reverberates through her. Her smile grows even though she recognizes that the person called to her is not exactly the one she yearns for. If the smile is a touch wry and the warmth is not what it would be under other circumstances, the warmth is still there. Rising, she moves back from the edge of her perch. Perhaps she turns over back there where she lies in his bed for the dream eases as well and thoughts of Moire as she knew her once, as she is now warm her and suffuse the dream with comfort and welcome. The landscape obliges by sprouting a few more chair-height rocks covered in soft grasses. "Moire." Her tone holds a quite sort of welcome, touched just here and there with hints of laughter.

The moment thoughts channel to another possibility, the pre-dawn sky swirls from its rose to a deep purple smoke, or perhaps it is fog; not over the valley, but behind Maggie, over the unseen spread of the forest behind the outcrop. A single jagged lance of pale gold coral builds itself in stiff branches through the darkening air, crackling like lightning, to strike down somewhere beyond the treeline. At that moment, a single strum to that thin tether of waiting shatters the stillness of the valley, the line not snapping in twain but split along its length. The distant squeak becomes a roar, as water pours through that gap with a force that sends the foliage at that end of the valley into a rush of harried bird flight, rising and spreading into the sky on that horizon. The inundation throws tremendous gusts of spray up the sides of the valley, and the ocean literally rolls in, rising frothily towards the pleasant precipice where Maggie stands. And on that haze, gold-lined horizon, a tall dark shape unfolds, a blot upon the cusp of the sun that will not rise. The Eclipse.

The shattering of her peace takes Maggie by surprise. Turning, she watches the forest drown in that purple fog. Against that backdrop the glory of the golden coral building itself into dream-existance is almost painfully beautiful. A name, beloved, yet so far unspoken by her builds in her mind, Her heart skips a beat as she senses the split in the tether leading from her outward. A crash pulls her attention from the budding undersea toward the inpouring of the sea's surface. The butterfly flowers lifting are almost enough to distract her from the blooming silhouette on the horizon. Another name, just as beloved, just as unspoken, grows in her mind and her heart flip-flops again. She lifts both hands, moving just a little until she can offer space to each. Her hair divides down the center of her scalp, one half darkening toward the crimson and blood that it shows beneath the waves. It rises to float about her in a cloud of flame. The other writhes, forming a braid that seems to be sliced up the middle like a carrot with one half missing. This weaves crimson, auburn, orange and rust into a complex pattern of fire. Her clothing shifts with one side bespangled in Rebman finery while the other sports her ship-board Captain's boot, slacks, nautical blouse, vest and captain's coat. She might look utterly ridiculous, but she seems Dreamily comfortable in either outfit.

The Corsair doesn't waste time on the great distance between them, but approaches at a phasing speed only achievable in one's impatient dreams. The flag flickering above the crow's nest bears that poignant image of the tidal wave hooking down the sun by its ray. A singular figure is upon that bowsprit, sun-bright hair aglow as though having willfully usurped the real sun. His justacorps is cardinal red, flashing scarlet and vermillion embroidery. The crew that scramble the Eclipse's deck and rigging are mere shapes of shadows, inconsequential to her operation. As the surf licks towards the clifftop, the ship drifts closer and the ocean swells accordingly to bring her deck level with the outcrop. The water does not seem able to overrun the grounds upon which Maggie stands, nor the forest beyond, as though denoting her own (so far) unassailable patch of dreaming. Lirre has bright, fierce green eyes, and a half-smile that barely keeps a swift temper in check. Maggie's bizarre ensemble doesn't seem to register with him as he steps lightly forward upon the length of the bowsprit, watching her intently, admiration and attraction all wound up in wary suspicion and a simmering rage. His hand rests on the scabbard of a cutlass hung at his left side, braced for the reply to his question: "Flame. Are you here to help, or hinder?"

Watching the ship come closer, Maggie's eyes are all for Lirre standing strong and proud on the deck. She does not register the strange physics that bring him closer to her haven for such is the way with dreams. When he draws closer she inhales, recognizing the admiration and attraction as well as the rest. The rage is as much a part of him as the skill and intelligent cunning. Her scabbard is on that hip, though she would normally wear it for a cross body draw. Her eyes seek his, showing both initial emotions in full measure. The wariness finds expression as well although the rage she held in the past, that drove her forward even through her own folly and the wicked nogitsune's spell has faded away over time. "To help, Captain Merrisol, if I can. What is the venture?"

"To lay siege to the tower of the Sea Witch," says Lirre, frowning as his gaze rakes her down and up again, for purposes beyond the lascivious. The waves crash tentatively against the outcrop still, and hold the Eclipse safely in place without any fear of buffeting against the edge of land. "Join me, then, and we'll dispense with this barrier and be on our merry way," the Pirate Captain invites, holding the sail line slanting above the bowsprit with one hand while he leans out and extends his other to her, his eyes on hers now.

Maggie says, "The Sea Witch?" Curiosity rises and it is in her to ask which one though the dream Maggie does not do so. She glances to the other side, having expected to see Sorrenson by this point. Disappointment eddies through her briefly, though hope lingers still. Turning back, she surveys the man before her, taking in his attire, the look in his eyes, and that extended hand. His hair fairly glows even though the sun has yet to rise and the sea is cast in shadows and silvery accents. She holds onto both tethers even as she moves toward her pirate love. Reaching the edge of the stones, she reaches up to take his outstretched hand. Her fingers touch his skin as her eyes meet and hold his. The smile that quirks her lips warms. One foot touches the Eclipse' deck, the soft hush of leather against wood comforting and known. The sails flap, the ropes creak. Her other foot touches the deck a half-moment later. Although she is now dressed in a uniform fashion, it is still a blending of Minos and Rebma. Her hair is braided for the first few inches, then flies free. Her coat is of the same cut, though it has scalloped accents at collar and cuffs. These are edged in blue and gold. Her blouse is shorter than it once was, showing the taut muscles of her midriff. Her slacks are tight, black leather tucked into boots. It takes a long moment, lost in those eyes before she clears her throat, "Okay. Tell me about the witch." Which, honestly, is not what she would love to not-speak of. But Dreams have their own rules, so she tries to follow them as much as she must. Wasn't that the advice given to them long ago?

Lirre's gaze is such that he appears to catch the slightest hesitations and shifts in her attention. He certainly notices the indecision with the clothing then, and a canny thought rises in his eyes. When his hand catches hers, his grip is strong and reassuring that she can leave those rocks behind and be borne up by the power of his arm to set her balance anew on the lashed length of timber. Once there, he looks her over once more, her new facade, and instead of answering about the Witch, he abruptly pulls his hand from hers... only to catch her around the waist and pull her up against him without heeding any gentlemanly code of conduct, in Dreaming or otherwise. Watchful and aware of her arms still being free and the state of their weaponry, he still presses in to put their faces closer together, close enough to trade breaths. He murmurs harshly, "How do I know you are real, Captain Flame, and not another sprite sent to divert my course? Why do you alter yourself, is it to suit my desires? Do you not know who you are and what you want? Speak now and plainly, before things end badly between us." The anger is evident in every flex and clench of his arm and jaw, but beyond it, in his searching eyes, there is something else. Hope? Fear? Or perhaps love, withheld and ferociously guarded.

Maggie's balance is good, her legs remembering the sway of the ship on the waves and how to bend and flex with every swell. Her hand is warm in his though flutters slightly as his is so suddenly withdrawn. She does not pull away when his arm goes around her, nor flinch as she is drawn in close to him. Her arms are free, yes, but they do not go for her weapons. Listening, she chuckles, low in her throat, "I am no sprite, Merrisol and I think you know it." One hand lifts to rest the palm against his cheek while the other loops about his shoulders, trusting him not to toss her overboard. "I know who I am, yes. I know what I am. I know what I want. I alter my clothing for my own comfort. If it matches your desires, all the better. If not? Suck it. Now, kiss me and let's go end a Sea Witch." Her eyes meet his, focusing utterly upon him, her love blazing deep within and setting the emerald to smouldering.

He does not deny the lady her due, then, leaning in the rest of the way with his eyelids dropping at the last moment, dimming their bright demands and channeling it all through their lips. His mouth lays its claim on hers, deepening their contact soon after the clash and pursuit that crushes them both. It is a kiss with all the worlds' assurance of a first kiss after an eternity's wait. Its realness is almost enough to shatter the Dream. Yet, the ship persists, beginning to press against the land, the waters rising above the line of the cliff in an impatience to be over it. Beyond them, over the canopy of the forest, the fog fades from a bruised purple to a smoky lavender. The bolt of coral has dissolved into shards, raining gold powder over the trees.

Maggie's smile lingers only until he leans in to claim that kiss. She reels as it deepens, her hand clenching at the back of his coat, holding him against her still. A shudder moves through her body starting at her lips and racing lower. Parting her lips, she welcomes the deepening of that contact, her heart beating a rapid rhythm that underscores desire. She feels the surging of the ship beneath her, senses the water's rising to cover the rocks, the trees. The coral's pulverizing, golden shimmering powder touching the trees with color and light, registers and the shock of it nearly wakes her. Something within cries out in anguish and, dimly, as though in another world, a tiny voice wonders if she has caused Sorensen pain. It is the passion of the kiss that holds her to this Dream. The hand at his cheek gentles, fingers slipping into his hair as though to reassure herself as well as let the contact linger.

Lirre draws it out for as long as possible, however the doubt and surprise experienced, however compartmentalized, signifies the beginning of its conclusion. He does appear satisfied of her realness in the Dream state, if not quite his claim on her heart. He draws back, a haze of pleasure and affection softening his gaze, but not completely erasing the bitter resentment, and nowhere near does it distract his purpose. "If you would speed our passage by removing your obstacles," he suggests with a courteous smirk, sliding his stance back so they are both standing firmly upon the bowsprit and can step back down to the forecastle. "I won't need to surmount them. A bit of resistance may be all in playful fun, but look - they are in retreat. We must give chase to that bedeviled fog, for beyond it stands the tower." Once his arm can slip from her waist, his hand moves to reclaim hers.

Maggie sighs as the kiss finally ends. For an instant, her forehead rests against his. Lashes lowered, she looks into his eyes as he slides back. A soft groan cannot be entirely stopped and she touches the tip of her tongue to her lips, seeking the taste of him there. It is an unconscious act, though the gleam left behind lingers in the sea air. Stepping down onto the forecastle, she lingers by his side, her hand taking his when his arm moves from her waist. His words were heard but their meaning remains unclear to her. "Obstacles?" Turning, she looks out over the sea toward the fog, "You speak in riddles that I cannot fathom. If you are speaking of clothing, then yes, I can and will remove them. But..." Her hand tightens in his, savoring the warmth and strength there. More softly, she continues, "But. If you mean something blocking our way to the tower? Tell me what must be removed and I will see if I can do the thing you ask."

He does look a sllliiight bit more distracted when she offers up her clothing, but then he turns and points out the forested land with which she had begun her dreaming, the world of the peaceful valley and nature laying in wait for the arrival of... what? Who? Much of it is flooded, but it remains, brushing at the ship as it plies the rising waters. "That is all yours, Flame, my sweet Huntress. You do not spend so much time here, I suppose."

Maggie's hand remains in his, tightening a little as though laying her own claim. She turns to look out over the land he names as her own barriers. The rocks, covered in soft grass. Their edges have been softened by time and tide. Or, perhaps intent. There are no jagged edges to tear at the side of a ship. Further in, the forest is dense and dark, a no-man's land where nightmares could stalk unmolested. Or... her own history, dark and grim, left mostly unexplored once certain events were illuminated. Her hand tightens a little more on his. Again, she looks farther still to where the fog rises, purple in the distance. What lies there? Her expression slowly loses the joy that had grown on finding him. There is only one reason that she can think of to have barriers here. Turning, she surveys him. Her beloved rogue. The ache in her heart is singular in that instant when she believes she knows what hides beyond the land, swathed in fog. Her free hand lifts to trace his face from his temple to his jaw, seeking not to arouse but to study, to know and possibly, to memorize. "Do you trust me?" There are elements of hope in her tone, of longing still and determination.

His eyes are intent on that receding fog, gold brows set stubbornly low over the jeweled green of his gaze. His features are somewhat more sensitively drawn than Kerf's, but prematurely lined by grief, guilt, and guardedness. His smiles are dazzlingly roguish, but they hide his feelings rather than bare them. He is tall, but not as towering as Merri, and strong but not as broad across. The enigmatic red waistcoat fits just fine on him, a golden vest and buff trousers for contrast underneath, with piratical leather boots for his feet and that mocking puff of ruffled linen at his throat. His hair is the sun glinting off Manzanil doubloons rather than ripened wild wheat, and grows unruly in the slightest breeze, though he keeps it fashionably trimmed.

When the land doesn't fall away into the depths with the anticipated urgency, he drops his gaze to seek hers, beetle-browed. Her subsequent touch over scratchy golden stubble is accepted, but he studies her right back, wary questions springing to his own countenance. His lips part with no response forthcoming initially when she puts that loaded question to him. With a displeased scowl, he relaxes his fingers as though to drop his hand away from hers. "Not blindly, no. Not with abandon. And not when you evidently do not trust me." With that, the waves surge and crash against what land still manifests, intent on giving the Eclipse an inlet upon which to set across the territory.

Maggie's eyes narrow as anger flashes within her gaze, "Do not try to tell me what I think, what I feel or whom I trust. You do not know, for you are not me, nor I you. I would not presume to know which of my assumptions are right or wrong. That is why I asked you." She closes the distance a little, her eyes still flashing fire behind the emerald light, "I trust you, my pirate love, with everything in this world or any other that matters to me. I trust you to make good decisions when you have all of the information." There is a shifting from the land as it reacts, not to her anger, but her intent. "Now, listen to me. Listen well and then tell me true. I have heard it said that all women from Alhambra are belly-dancing harem girls, that all women from Lyonesse are princesses in need of rescue and ravishing, that all women from Minos are but wenches or brigands and that all women from Rebma are sirens or sea witches. Every one of those stereotypes is bullshit." Behind her the land shudders as though gathering energy in anger. "Now, my love, Do we go to lay siege to a sea witch's tower in truth? Or are we terrorizing a woman lost and alone and in need of our help?" As she speaks those last words the land gives one final shudder and sinks away into the sea.

Lirre stares first with irritation, then bemusement, for the duration of her tirade. "You didn't hear any of that from me," is all he mutters in reply for a moment. Looking around, seeing the land mass finally disappearing, he grumbles, "If those statements were attributed to me through misguided publicists, you have my apologies." He puts one hand to the rail and the Eclipse steers into the waves which break over the vacuum of dreamspace. His demeanor is calm now, withdrawn. "In truth, I call this particular woman a Sea Witch for she has taken what peace and refuge I had in life. My life from that point on is dedicated to toppling her walls and seizing back that existence."

Maggie's stormy expression fades as he speaks. She nods, "Accepted." Her gaze follows his movements then and she turns to watch the fog as the ship moves forward. The waters remain fairly placid though there are a few treetops causing ripples on either side still. Inhaling the salt air, she leans a bit into his side, "Is her name Moire? And does your brother also lay siege? Or is he defending the tower?" The breeze stirred up by their passage tugs at her hair and teases the full tails of her coat. Lifting her free hand, she pulls a lock of hair from her cheek just before it settles across her chin.

Without those metaphorical barriers to impede progress, the Eclipse begins to leap forward, her full triangular sails shimmering and occasionally seeming to fade from view as they take on the changing colours of the sky. The miasma thickens dead ahead, and Lirre studies it with frustration. "Every attempt I have made to reckon a course to its center has ended in disorientation, harried by unseemly trickery. This is his doing. My little brother," he sneers. "It didn't take me long to remember how much I despise him." His arm comes up to slide his hand beneath her mass of hair, drawing most of it away from her neck as the arm settles around her shoulders. He glances over at her with a measure of troubled uncertainty, then back at the encroaching fog.

Maggie says, "Ah, then the answers are yes to both." Shaking her head, she does not move away from him though she frowns over something said, "I wish that you did not despise him. You and he are dear to me." Studying the fog ahead, she adds, "Moire. She did not mean to dislodge you or him. She is lost and alone. Thrust into your home by some manner of trickery and a spell. We are working to get her back into her own body so that you and your brother can return there. So that we can all be together as we should be. But, she has no place else to go, no place to live. And she must live, my rogue. She is my cousin Martin's grandmother and a good person. Will you trust me now? And let me see if I can introduce you to her?"

That tethered undercurrent of rage does not stay subdued for long, upon his hearing her explanations and bid for peaceful negotiation. "It is as I should have known it to be, Flame," he says softly as that temper flares and the anger reasserts itself. His hand tangles in her hair as he draws away, then finds a grip on a curling sheaf of it. "As always, you put your faith in the untruths and are aligned against me." For a second, his grasp is such that his next move might be to force her over the rail to plunge into the unruly sea. Then he opens his hand and forcefully separates himself from Maggie. Passion tears up his voice and fills up the sky, though he has never been thought to be Stormborn, "I.. /must/.. fight, Maggie! For me! For him! For /us/! Understand that, if nothing else!"

The ship plunges into the fog at that moment, and a cacophonous discord, like a steam organ minor melodic chord in full blast, explodes across the deck.

Shock at being brought that close to the railing steals her breath. His words fall upon her like tiny knives that dig through to her heart. Then she is released to stagger back a pace or two. Whirling as he speaks again, she holds his eyes, her own filled with pain and anguish. One hand lifts toward him, reaching...

And the ship hits the fog and the wrenching sound crashes over her. Even before she can mouth the words in her heart she is torn from the dream. Sitting up in Kerf's bed, she gasps for breath, hands supporting her body. Her heart races, eyes wide and staring out at... At...? It takes a moment for her heart to slow enough for her to realize that she cannot see more than a crystalline sort of smear of color. One hand lifts to dash tears from her eyes and rub them from her cheeks, "Damnit!" Looking back at the bed, she considers trying to return to sleep. A hand lifts to press at one temple. Speaking softly, certain that he will not hear her, "Damnit. I am not against you! Just... Sometimes fighting is the wrong answer." Leaning forward, she rests her throbbing head in her hands, "I will try to help you, still. Even if you do not want that type of help. I love you, you idiot. Please do not forget that." Perhaps she is lucky that she is alone. Anyone listening would think that she is nuts. "Damn it."

---___----____-----_____-----____----___---

Merrisol stands around all shirtless and woozy.

A knock sounds on the door to the cabin. It is quiet, as thuogh the person without is not really wishing to wake a sleeper.

Moire gets her bearings and goes to the door, working it open. She gazes at Maggie quizzically, then says, "I am better. I believe I slept for a time."

Maggie looks at Moire, nodding slowly, "Okay, good. I am glad." She smiles a little but does not try to enter the room, "In that case, I'd like to escourt you back to the Palace in Rebma. And... I want to propose something. Since, clearly, whatever tiff The Warden and his Wife were having is over, I would like leave to come into your room in the Palace at night, then trump here. If you would trump me once you are up and ready to go, we could leave the room together." And no one will be the wiser. Right? Maybe.