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Dec. 30th, 2008 11:44 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cocking_aboutTitle: Surfacing 1/? WIP
Author: Pip
Rating: this chapter PG
Wordcount: this chapter 5,200
Warning: AU, angst, drama, h/c
Summary: Principal Lighthouse Keeper William Boyd has a lonely existence as he watches over the storm-tossed seas from Dubh Artach Lighthouse. What happens when the sea deposits chaos on his doorstep in the form of Dominic Monaghan?
Many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tigertale7 for holding my hand through this whole thing and beta'ing along the way, to giddy_london, celtprincess13 and hyacinth_sky747 for the fantastic beta jobs, and to vensre for some last minute icon help! Most of all, thanks to voontah for the original idea and the song. None of this would have happened without her. ♥
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
monaboyd_month, but it wound up being longer than I could finish in such a short time. It is therefore a WIP.
But before the fic, a song! No, this is NOT a songfic. However, Ready For The Storm by Dougie MacLean was definitely inspiration both on the subject, and for my mood while writing. Download, listen, enjoy! Consider it a one-song soundtrack. Let me know when the link no longer works, and I'll re-upload.
Dubh Artach Lighthouse
First posted May, 2008
Billy woke abruptly, pulse racing, nearly toppling from his hard wooden chair. The screams from outside the lighthouse lifted him to his feet and propelled him two spirals down the stairs to the window embrasure, set deep into the three foot thick stone wall. Leaning in as far as he could, he peered through the glass, eyes searching.
Nothing.
Frantic, Billy raced up, around and around, through the kitchen and then the parlour, finally bursting through the trap door into the lantern room. The lantern was dark, of course--the seas were rough but visibility was sufficient that he wouldn't need to light it until dusk. He circled the round room, eyes scanning the seas, the rock, ceaselessly searching from his shelter behind the enormous glass windows of the lantern room.
There it was again--the scream of a man in unbearable pain. It sounded like it came from further east, and Billy ran to that side, palms flat on the glass, his eyes gritty and burning as he searched and searched for the source of the noise.
When he spotted it, Billy cursed and sank to his knees before they could give out entirely.
A bird. A thrice-damned bloody bird. Forehead leaning against the chill window, Billy watched the seabird circling one of the tidal pools on the rock below, forcing his eyes to stay open, staving off the whirling darkness that stalked him. He would not submit. He would not.
He should have known better than to hope for any survivors after this long. It had been three days and fourteen hours since the lighthouse tender Pole Star had begun to sink in a freak summer storm. Three days, thirteen hours and forty minutes since Billy's crew of three had disobeyed orders, thrown off all common sense and set out in the launch to try and save the sailors. The tender carried a crew of sixteen, provisions for the lighthouse and its crew, and their pay for the month--all three of them reasons for desperation, Billy knew. But Principal Light-Keeper Billy Boyd had also known the seas were too high, the gale too fierce; he had watched with dread choking his throat and lead in his belly as the launch capsized, as the tender sank beneath the towering waves with all hands on board at 11:23 pm. Three days, thirteen hours, and seven minutes ago.
He sighed and closed his aching eyes for a moment, offering up another fervent prayer for the nineteen souls he'd lost. Even for young Danny McBride, difficult pagan that he was. The thought of Danny, the self-professed disbeliever, having much to say if he'd known he was being prayed for brought a ghost of a smile to Billy's face, as it had several times over the past few days. Danny was--had been--one of the brightest young assistants Billy had had in years, but the lad's theological debates were--had been--the bane of Billy's existence.
He thought now that he'd give much for another lecture on the crackpot theories of that Darwin chap.
Billy struggled to his feet. His catnap earlier had helped a little, but there was too much to be done. He wished he dared lie down on his bed, but despaired of waking before dark if he did so. Not after four days with next to no sleep. He wondered with a cold sense of dread when a new crew would arrive; there was no way of knowing the location of the only other tender to sail out of Oban or how long it would take to outfit a new ship. There was no way of knowing because the lighthouse telegraph was broken and the replacement now lay forty fathoms down in the hold of the Pole Star.
It had taken a week for them to discover those three keepers missing on Flannan Isle, Billy thought. He himself had lasted four days already; surely it wouldn't be much longer. And when the men (boys, more like) arrived to replace his own lost crew, Billy would sleep a night and a day and a night, and then he'd begin again, trying to put this hellish week behind him.
Until then, however, he had to keep the lighthouse functioning on his own, and there was work to be done. Stretching until his spine let out a soft pop, Billy cast his eye first around the lantern room and then the service room below, checking to see if his fatigue had caused him to miss anything. All looked as it should, however--burner tanks filled and primed, wicks trimmed, lantern clean and polished, floor mopped. Everything was ready for the evening lighting.
Billy picked up the three empty paraffin cans and made his way carefully down the stairs, closing the trap door behind him. Trudging around and around down the spiral all the way to the storage rooms in the base of the granite tower took him longer than usual, and the thought of having to do it twice more to dispose of the contents of the privy and the kitchen slops was enough to make him want to weep with exhaustion and frustration. He hadn't emptied either the day before despite the regulations that stated it was to be a daily chore; until some help arrived, regulations could go hang. If he didn't get them out today, however, they would begin to reek, and Billy was by nature a fastidious man. Beyond that, the more he kept to the routine of the lighthouse, the less extra work he would create for himself if that help was slow to arrive. But it wouldn't be, he told himself firmly, trying to stem the rising tide of despair. They would be here--maybe even this very day.
Billy gave his head a shake, realizing he'd been standing in the doorway of the lower storeroom, empty paraffin cans dangling from the fingers of one hand and his lantern from the other, staring off into space like the village idiot.
"Too much to be done for you to be lounging about, Boyd," he muttered, and was almost surprised by the sound of his own voice. God above, no wonder keeping wasn't a solitary profession. A man would go mad.
Stacking the empty tins with the others, Billy held up his lantern and cast a critical eye over his paraffin supply on the other side of the room. He had always insisted on maintaining a reserve in case of emergency (and what was this if not an emergency?) so there was no need yet to ration the oil.
The word 'yet' reverberated in Billy's mind. Abruptly he snatched up a full tin and exited the room, slamming the door behind him.
Several hours later Billy had had a late luncheon, washed up, carried out the privy refuse and dumped it out into the ocean, and returned with the kitchen scraps. He'd sometimes thought it might be nice to be on a shore station, to have a bit of grass and maybe a pig or some chickens to thrive on the scraps. Then again, how would he ever sleep through a gale without the pounding surf crashing out a primeval lullaby against the base of his lighthouse? There was something to be said for living on a slip of rock far out into the mighty Atlantic.
Billy stood for a moment, his face tilted up to the overcast sky. The wind was freshening, the barometer dropping, and he could practically taste another storm on the way, although it was unlikely to reach the intensity of the last one.
Making his way to a rocky overhang he paused, the wind ruffling his short hair up on one side, before tossing the contents of his scraps bucket. The stiff breeze swung and gusted, though, and hurled the detritus onto the rocks underneath the little promontory. Billy shrugged; the seabirds would clean it up. He turned away to leave when he heard a human voice drift up from below, startling him so much he nearly tripped and fell.
"Well, that's a kick in the teeth, innit, m' boy?"
Billy froze, and he breathed, and he feared for his sanity. He cleared his throat and shouted, "Who's there?"
There was a moment of utter silence in which even the wind seemed to hush before--inexplicably--the disembodied voice said, "This better not be 'nother..." A pause, then slurred, "'Nother trick, Byron. Rip your wings off. Hello?" The last word was shouted.
Billy was already scrambling amongst the rocks, searching out a winding descent to the sea. "Hold on!" he cried, blood pounding in his ears, his knees trembling.
"Did y' hear that, Byron? Hold on, he says. Bloody hell."
Picking his way down, Billy kept looking all around, over his shoulders, trying to spot the owner of the weakening voice, and finally spotted him on a flat shelf between two tall craggy boulders. He was shielded from above by the rock overhang.
The boy--for a boy he seemed from a distance--was dressed in tattered rags that were once plain, serviceable garb, and lay flat on his back. As Billy finally approached, however, he could see the lad was actually well into manhood and in his early twenties at least. Billy knelt beside him.
"Are you from the Pole Star?" he asked, his voice uneven both from his exertions and from some strange emotion gripping his throat.
A pair of eyes--only slightly bluer than the sea beside them--met Billy's gaze. "Are you real?" he countered, his voice naught but a croak, as if he'd used it all up in that one shout. "Or 'm I dreaming again?"
"I'm real enough, lad. Where are you hurt? What's your name?"
"Dom'nic. Swept onto th' rocks." His eyes closed. "Arm broken. Leg broken. Chest...head... Make it quick. Don't let me suffer. Please."
Billy stared at him, horrified. "I'm not going to kill you!"
Dominic's eyes sluggishly opened. "You must. 'M in pieces. I'll be...crippled."
"Bollocks. You have a couple of broken bones--you'll be right as rain, man!" Billy's fingers quickly but carefully began to probe at Dominic's flesh, searching for other injuries. Dominic sucked in a sharp breath as those fingers found the break in his arm, moaned when they felt a crack in his ankle, and he passed out with a single touch to the wicked gash on his thigh.
"Bloody, bloody hell," Billy whispered, dragging a shaking hand over his eyes. Clearly, he had to get the man indoors as soon as humanly possible--after three days' exposure, even protected as he had been by the outcrop of rock, it was imperative to get him warm and dry and out of the elements.
Suddenly grateful the poor wretch had lost consciousness, Billy did the only thing he could think of. He pulled Dominic to a seated position and then--with a groan that sounded as though it came from the earth itself--hauled the limp body up and over his shoulder. With agonizingly slow, staggering steps, Billy picked his way back up the rocks, placing each foot carefully, using his thigh muscles to pull them both upwards, his free hand grasping at the stone. More than once he nearly went down, and it was only sheer bloody-mindedness that kept him on his feet, kept him going. He was not going to lose this last soul. He was not.
They'd just reached the top of the promontory and Billy, with an involuntary grunt of pain, was attempting to straighten his back, when Dominic gave a jerk and a shudder. A moment later he began to vomit, and the reeking fluid--what little there was of it--soaked into the backs of Billy's trouser legs.
Despite his vague disgust, Billy pitied the young man slung over his shoulder. Whether it was the pain or a head injury that had caused the sickness didn't make much of a difference at the moment; either way, the lad was going to be horribly uncomfortable for quite some time.
Billy crossed the tiny island as quickly as he could manage and entered the lighthouse. He nearly despaired at the thought of how many stairs he now had to climb, and his legs were already trembling after the climb up the cliffside, but there was simply no other option. With a muttering that was half curse and half prayer, Billy began to ascend the spiral staircase.
By the time Billy reached the level of the sleeping quarters he was drenched with sweat, his legs and back ached fiercely, and he was desperate to put the man down. He quickly realized, however, that leaving Dominic there would only create more work for himself, more cursed stairs to run up and down. In between the sleeping quarters and the lantern's service room lay two more floors, the kitchen and the parlour. The lad shouldn't be left alone, that was plain, but the lantern mechanism required winding every four hours, and Billy would also need the small desk in the parlour. It contained all of his logs and journals, and if there was one thing Billy had learned over the years, it was to never, ever get behind on the bookkeeping.
He was in excellent physical condition, but it took all of his considerable reserves of strength and willpower to hoist Dominic more securely over his shoulder and resume the climb to the parlour, the final room below the service room. Once there he leaned over to deposit Dominic on the chaise tucked into one corner, and nearly landed on top of the poor man as every muscle in Billy's body shrieked in protest of the abuse. Clapping one hand to his back, he slowly straightened, biting back an oath.
After a moment to gather himself and to catch his breath, Billy knelt by the chaise to remove the unconscious man's tattered clothing and damp, dirty underthings, thinking as he did of the supplies he would need. There was a medical kit, of course, in case of injuries that happened in the normal course of duty, but aside from that Billy would need splints for the broken bones and the sewing kit for the gash that ran from hip to thigh.
Billy gasped as his work revealed Dominic's bare torso; an almost solid mass of bruising, it looked as if not one square inch of flesh had escaped being battered by the rocks. God above, no wonder the lad thought he was done for!
Billy (not for the first time) wished whiskey, hell, any alcohol, was allowed in the lighthouse.
Removing Dominic's torn trousers, Billy discovered the rest of his body was in much the same state as his torso. With another muttered curse, Billy finished undressing him, covered him with a blanket against the chill of the room, and hurried off to gather his scant medical supplies. While in his own private bedroom, he stripped off his stained and malodorous trousers, yanked on a clean pair, and then retrieved the bottle of laudanum from his small safe. Later ("Too much later," Billy castigated himself, forcing his legs to run back up the stairs and ignoring the searing pains from his thighs, "Dammit, Boyd, shift your bloody arse.") Billy once again knelt by Dominic's side, an oil lamp lit close by.
Everything at hand, Billy hesitated, suddenly unsure where to begin. He finally decided a dose of the laudanum would be the best place to start; the last thing he needed was Dominic waking in the middle of having his arm set. He tipped a spoonful of the drug between pale, chapped lips, followed it with a few trickles of water, and then stroked the blessedly unbruised throat until involuntary muscles began to swallow.
"That's it, lad," he murmured, unaware he was speaking out loud. "Rest now, and heal. I'll not lose you, too."
After giving the laudanum a few minutes to take hold, Billy set to work cleansing, salving, setting bones, splinting, stitching, and bandaging as best he could. Florence Nightingale likely would not approve his efforts, but as she wasn't present, Billy thought he could be forgiven his somewhat sloppy bandaging skills. Finally, after dribbling some more water down Dominic's throat, Billy covered him with the blanket and staggered over to the desk in the corner of the parlour.
He sank into the chair, nearly numb with exhaustion. He was no physician, but he thought the boy would do tolerably well. If there had been any major internal damage, young Dominic would have perished on the rocks long before Billy found him. It was the head wound that was the most troubling--and for that, only time would tell. Billy sent up a quick prayer that Dominic would awake with his wits intact.
With a glance up at the clock, Billy made quick work of adding his discovery of a survivor of the Pole Star in the monthly Shipwreck Return. The bigwigs up the ladder liked everything to be fully documented. Billy had often thought they'd demand a recounting of every time he pissed in the pot, if they believed that information could ever be put to use.
Pocketing his fountain pen, Billy closed the Shipwreck Return, stacking it underneath the Daily Journal and Passing Vessels Log. Tomorrow he'd also have to update the Stores Log before he fell any further behind with his inventory.
Rising, he checked that Dominic was still deeply asleep, and then made his way up to the lantern service room. He only had twenty minutes or so before the lamp needed to be lit, and in order for the wicks to draw properly, the valves on the paraffin tank needed to be opened in plenty of time. Once that was done, he went up through the trap door to the lantern room proper to pull back the curtains from around the lantern lenses. The hundreds of glass prisms that made up the revolving light glittered softly in the setting sun, and Billy paused a moment to admire the seven foot tall lens. Normally he took great satisfaction from running his domain with clockwork efficiency. Now, however, doing the work of four men left him scant time for contentment, and he stole the moment with a pinch of guilt.
Letting the burner slowly come up to pressure, Billy hurried down the staircase once more. His patient was still dead to the world (a state of affairs Billy devoutly hoped would last until morning, both for the lad's sake and his own), but just in case Billy left a hand bell sitting on a nearby table. If Dominic awoke and needed help, one good ring of the bell would bring Billy at the double. After dripping some more water into the boy's mouth, Billy left him, knowing he'd done all he could for the moment. A quick trip down to the kitchen to stock up on some portable items for a cold supper in the lantern room, and he returned to his duties.
Just as the sun slid into the sea, Billy lit the cotton wicks, adjusting the valves as the flame rose high, sputtered, and then steadied. He released the clockwork mechanism, and the great light began to rotate, signalling its unique identifier of two flashes every thirty seconds. With relief, he positioned his wooden chair beside a tiny shelf where he could set his oil lamp, and set to making notes in the Daily Journal.
5 Aug. 1905
Morning winds westerly 10 knots, freshening in p.m. Visibility good to excellent.
Cleaned lantern room, privy, kitchen. Found single survivor of Pole Star, gave
medical attention. Sunset: seas moderate, still clear, barometer dropping. Storm
likely by tomorrow night.
Billy set the journal aside until it was time to add the evening observations. He took his monocular glass up to the lantern room and scanned the horizon as twilight fell, but seeing nothing except low white-capped waves in all directions, he felt free to take his supper.
*****
Throughout the long, chill night, Billy attended to his duties. He wound the lantern mechanism every four hours, he trimmed the wicks to keep the flame bright and even, he logged a ship that passed through the lighthouse's beam in the wee hours, and he kept a weather eye out for fog. If he also took the occasional catnap or left the lantern room to check on Dominic--both expressly forbidden in the rules and regulations--well, he didn't suppose he had much choice in the matter, really.
It was just before dawn when Dominic awoke. Billy had gone down to monitor his patient one last time before beginning the lengthy lantern shutdown procedure. In the midst of straightening the blanket, Billy felt eyes on him, and he looked up to see a confused, frightened gaze just focusing in on him. He smoothed sandy hair out of the boy's eyes.
"Good morning, Dominic," he said, keeping his voice soft. "No, lie still. You mustn't jostle your ribs."
"Where--?" Dominic's voice was thin; reedy.
"You're in my lighthouse." Billy reached for the glass of water. "I'll lift your head--try to drink as much as you can. No telling how much seawater you swallowed, is there?"
Slurping greedily from the tumbler Billy held to his mouth, his head supported by a sure hand, Dominic closed his eyes with a grimace even as he drank.
"Aye, I know it hurts, lad," Billy murmured. "But you're going to be right as rain, that I promise you." He gently laid the young man's head down on the pillow again. "Another dose of laudanum, and then when you wake up, I'll bring you something to eat, all right?"
"What's your name?" Dominic whispered.
"Principal Light Keeper First Class William Boyd. But you may call me Billy," he smiled. He lifted a spoonful of laudanum to Dominic's lips, and when the boy swallowed it, followed it with a few sips of water. "That's it. Well done." Billy rose to his feet, fighting a yawn. "Sleep now, then, and I'll return in a few hours. If you need anything before then, just ring this bell and I'll come."
"Don't go." Dominic's good hand rose slightly under the blanket covering him. "Please--tell me--"
Billy silenced him with a shake of the head. "Later, lad. Right now, you need to rest, and I'm afraid I need to get back to my duties. The lantern won't shut itself down, no matter how much I wish it were so." Billy tried to keep his voice light despite the ache in his heart. He knew what it was Dominic wanted to know, and he hoped he could put off recounting the fate of the Pole Star and her crew--the boy's shipmates--as long as possible.
*****
Billy sluggishly awoke to find his head pillowed on his arms on the desk in the corner of the parlour. With a stifled groan, he slowly sat up and scrubbed both hands across his face, then through his hair.
"Are you the only one here?"
Billy started, then remembered Dominic. He turned in his chair and summoned a smile. "Good morning. How do you feel?"
Dominic looked wan and uncomfortable. "I've had better days," he said, his voice raspy. "Could I please have a drink of water?"
"I'm sorry, of course you must be thirsty." Billy climbed to his feet and fetched the now-empty glass from the low table beside the chaise. "I'll just run down to the kitchen to fill this. Would you like another blanket while I'm about?"
"Yes, please."
"Certainly. I'll be right back, so don't run off now," Billy's attempt at humour fell a bit flat, but Dominic gave him a weak smile anyway.
One floor down, Billy stoked up the cookstove in the kitchen and put a pot of water on to boil. Fetching a warm wool blanket from his bedroom, he took it and the glass of water back up to Dominic.
"Let's sit you up," Billy said briskly, suiting action to words and propping several cushions behind Dominic's back. "Can you manage the water all right, or not quite yet? Don't be shy, lad."
Dominic's smile was stronger that time. "If only my Mam could hear you; it's not often I'm called shy," he said, taking the glass in his good right hand. It shook a bit, but steadied against his lips, and soon he had drained it. "Thank you."
"You're very welcome indeed." Billy spread the extra blanket over Dominic's legs, being careful not to touch the boy's broken limbs. "Now, how does a cup of tea and a bowl of porridge sound?"
"It sounds heavenly," Dominic said fervently.
Billy chuckled. "All right, then, Dominic, you--"
"Dom," the lad interrupted him. "Call me Dom, only Mam calls me Dominic, and then only when I'm in her black books."
With a laugh, Billy agreed. "You stay put, Dom, and I'll be back before you know it with your porridge."
True to his word, Billy soon returned carrying a tray laden with two steaming bowls and two cups of tea. He set one cup near at hand for Dominic, then carefully rested the bowl of porridge in Dom's lap and put the spoon in his good hand.
"Thank you."
"You're most welcome." Billy sat in the stiff wingback chair opposite and began to eat his own late breakfast. "I made yours a bit thin," he said in between mouthfuls, "in case your stomach is taken by surprise at seeing food again."
"It has been a while," Dominic agreed, eating each spoonful slowly and gingerly. "What day is it?"
"August sixth. Saturday," Billy clarified. Before the other man could ask the next, logical question, he hurriedly put his bowl down and crossed to the chaise, perching on the edge of it. He took the spoon from Dominic. "Here. Your hand is shaking."
Dom's mouth formed a moue. "I seem to have the strength of a consumptive kitten at the moment."
"Which is hardly to be wondered at," Billy countered, lifting a spoonful of porridge to Dom's mouth. "But you'll improve in leaps and bounds under my tender mercies, have no fear. Considering what you've been through, you're rather lucky just to be--" He cut himself off, flushing.
Dominic completed the thought. "Alive. I know." He turned his face away from Billy. "I'm the only survivor, aren't I?"
Billy paused, then set the bowl and spoon aside. "Yes."
"And are you the only one here?"
"Yes."
"Why?" Dom looked at him, frowning. "There should be a crew of four here, I was told. What happened?"
Billy lowered his gaze, his eyes resting on his fingers entwined in his lap. "They disobeyed orders and abandoned the lighthouse."
"They what? But...why?"
"I tried to stop them," Billy muttered, his thumb restlessly rubbing against the palm of his opposite hand. "I tried. They wouldn't listen. I ordered them not to go. I ordered them not to set one foot in the launch, I told them the seas were too high. Dammit, they just wouldn't listen!" Billy sprang to his feet and began to pace, agonizing, the responsibility for those lost lives weighing heavily on his mind and heart. "What more could I have done? There were three of them. Short of having a firearm, there was nothing I could do to stop them. But I should have stopped them, I should have prevented this! It doesn't matter, they were my crew, the fault lies with me."
"Billy--"
He turned and looked helplessly at Dom. He shrugged, his hands limp at his sides. "They just wouldn't listen."
Dom stared at him intently for a moment, then gestured him closer. "Come here."
Billy crossed to stand in front of him, but couldn't meet his eyes.
"Sit down," Dominic said, his voice gentle, his good right hand patting the edge of the chaise where Billy had been perched before. "Please."
Billy sat.
"The fault lies not with you, but with the men for disobeying orders." He put his hand on Billy's forearm and squeezed. "You were absolutely correct in ordering them to stay ashore. I was out there, I know; nothing less than a mammoth White Star ocean liner could have survived that sea, in that storm. They never stood a chance and it was suicidal of them to even make the attempt, no matter how difficult it was to watch us going down."
"I wanted to go with them," Billy whispered. "I so very desperately wanted to go with them."
"I know."
"I knew the captain. He's--he'd been piloting the Pole Star for as long as I've been here. Seven years. You come to consider a man like that a friend, almost. And I stood up there and watched his ship go down, and I couldn't do a damn thing about it."
"No."
Billy closed his eyes, anguished. "I lost them all. Eighteen men all told."
"You didn't lose them, Billy," Dom said, his voice firm, almost urgent. "They were lost at sea, but you did not lose them. There is a vast difference between the two. And on top of that--well, you saved me, didn't you? Which, as far as I'm concerned, is the most important bit."
Billy huffed out a breath that could have been a laugh and could have been a sob.
"Look at me." Dom waited until Billy opened reddened eyes. He caught his gaze and held it. "You saved me. You didn't lose me too."
Billy felt his eyes spill over, even though he managed to make not a sound. It was too much. He felt Dom cover his hand with his good one and hold on tightly.
"So you've been looking after this pile of rock by yourself since Monday night, hmm?" Dom lightened his tone. "I don't suppose you've managed more than an hour or two of sleep at a time since, have you? A miracle you're still on your feet, really. Why don't you go lay down and get some rest? I can ring this dirty great bell you gave me in a few hours, you needn't fear sleeping the day away."
While Dom spoke, Billy breathed deeply, trying to gain control over himself again. As tempting as Dominic's suggestion was, he knew he couldn't, not yet. "Thank you, but no," he said quietly. "I need to get the inventory done. I need to know what's on hand when the replacement tender shows up--"
"Billy." Dom suddenly looked utterly wretched. "It's--we weren't... Bollocks. Billy, the Pole Star wasn't going back to Oban after resupplying you here."
Billy shook his head, confused. "So you were to go where? Up to Stornoway?"
"No." He took a deep breath. "We were to sail 'round to Edinburgh."
"Sail 'round--but--" Billy stopped. He felt a little faint. "How long?"
"I'd guess another week before we can start watching for anyone."
Billy felt himself slide off the edge of his seat and land on the floor with a thump. He leaned back against the chaise and dropped his head into his hands. "Another week. Oh, God."
Chapter Two
Author: Pip
Rating: this chapter PG
Wordcount: this chapter 5,200
Warning: AU, angst, drama, h/c
Summary: Principal Lighthouse Keeper William Boyd has a lonely existence as he watches over the storm-tossed seas from Dubh Artach Lighthouse. What happens when the sea deposits chaos on his doorstep in the form of Dominic Monaghan?
Many thanks to
tigertale7 for holding my hand through this whole thing and beta'ing along the way, to giddy_london, celtprincess13 and hyacinth_sky747 for the fantastic beta jobs, and to vensre for some last minute icon help! Most of all, thanks to voontah for the original idea and the song. None of this would have happened without her. ♥Notes: Written for
monaboyd_month, but it wound up being longer than I could finish in such a short time. It is therefore a WIP.But before the fic, a song! No, this is NOT a songfic. However, Ready For The Storm by Dougie MacLean was definitely inspiration both on the subject, and for my mood while writing. Download, listen, enjoy! Consider it a one-song soundtrack. Let me know when the link no longer works, and I'll re-upload.
 |
Dubh Artach Lighthouse
First posted May, 2008
Billy woke abruptly, pulse racing, nearly toppling from his hard wooden chair. The screams from outside the lighthouse lifted him to his feet and propelled him two spirals down the stairs to the window embrasure, set deep into the three foot thick stone wall. Leaning in as far as he could, he peered through the glass, eyes searching.
Nothing.
Frantic, Billy raced up, around and around, through the kitchen and then the parlour, finally bursting through the trap door into the lantern room. The lantern was dark, of course--the seas were rough but visibility was sufficient that he wouldn't need to light it until dusk. He circled the round room, eyes scanning the seas, the rock, ceaselessly searching from his shelter behind the enormous glass windows of the lantern room.
There it was again--the scream of a man in unbearable pain. It sounded like it came from further east, and Billy ran to that side, palms flat on the glass, his eyes gritty and burning as he searched and searched for the source of the noise.
When he spotted it, Billy cursed and sank to his knees before they could give out entirely.
A bird. A thrice-damned bloody bird. Forehead leaning against the chill window, Billy watched the seabird circling one of the tidal pools on the rock below, forcing his eyes to stay open, staving off the whirling darkness that stalked him. He would not submit. He would not.
He should have known better than to hope for any survivors after this long. It had been three days and fourteen hours since the lighthouse tender Pole Star had begun to sink in a freak summer storm. Three days, thirteen hours and forty minutes since Billy's crew of three had disobeyed orders, thrown off all common sense and set out in the launch to try and save the sailors. The tender carried a crew of sixteen, provisions for the lighthouse and its crew, and their pay for the month--all three of them reasons for desperation, Billy knew. But Principal Light-Keeper Billy Boyd had also known the seas were too high, the gale too fierce; he had watched with dread choking his throat and lead in his belly as the launch capsized, as the tender sank beneath the towering waves with all hands on board at 11:23 pm. Three days, thirteen hours, and seven minutes ago.
He sighed and closed his aching eyes for a moment, offering up another fervent prayer for the nineteen souls he'd lost. Even for young Danny McBride, difficult pagan that he was. The thought of Danny, the self-professed disbeliever, having much to say if he'd known he was being prayed for brought a ghost of a smile to Billy's face, as it had several times over the past few days. Danny was--had been--one of the brightest young assistants Billy had had in years, but the lad's theological debates were--had been--the bane of Billy's existence.
He thought now that he'd give much for another lecture on the crackpot theories of that Darwin chap.
Billy struggled to his feet. His catnap earlier had helped a little, but there was too much to be done. He wished he dared lie down on his bed, but despaired of waking before dark if he did so. Not after four days with next to no sleep. He wondered with a cold sense of dread when a new crew would arrive; there was no way of knowing the location of the only other tender to sail out of Oban or how long it would take to outfit a new ship. There was no way of knowing because the lighthouse telegraph was broken and the replacement now lay forty fathoms down in the hold of the Pole Star.
It had taken a week for them to discover those three keepers missing on Flannan Isle, Billy thought. He himself had lasted four days already; surely it wouldn't be much longer. And when the men (boys, more like) arrived to replace his own lost crew, Billy would sleep a night and a day and a night, and then he'd begin again, trying to put this hellish week behind him.
Until then, however, he had to keep the lighthouse functioning on his own, and there was work to be done. Stretching until his spine let out a soft pop, Billy cast his eye first around the lantern room and then the service room below, checking to see if his fatigue had caused him to miss anything. All looked as it should, however--burner tanks filled and primed, wicks trimmed, lantern clean and polished, floor mopped. Everything was ready for the evening lighting.
Billy picked up the three empty paraffin cans and made his way carefully down the stairs, closing the trap door behind him. Trudging around and around down the spiral all the way to the storage rooms in the base of the granite tower took him longer than usual, and the thought of having to do it twice more to dispose of the contents of the privy and the kitchen slops was enough to make him want to weep with exhaustion and frustration. He hadn't emptied either the day before despite the regulations that stated it was to be a daily chore; until some help arrived, regulations could go hang. If he didn't get them out today, however, they would begin to reek, and Billy was by nature a fastidious man. Beyond that, the more he kept to the routine of the lighthouse, the less extra work he would create for himself if that help was slow to arrive. But it wouldn't be, he told himself firmly, trying to stem the rising tide of despair. They would be here--maybe even this very day.
Billy gave his head a shake, realizing he'd been standing in the doorway of the lower storeroom, empty paraffin cans dangling from the fingers of one hand and his lantern from the other, staring off into space like the village idiot.
"Too much to be done for you to be lounging about, Boyd," he muttered, and was almost surprised by the sound of his own voice. God above, no wonder keeping wasn't a solitary profession. A man would go mad.
Stacking the empty tins with the others, Billy held up his lantern and cast a critical eye over his paraffin supply on the other side of the room. He had always insisted on maintaining a reserve in case of emergency (and what was this if not an emergency?) so there was no need yet to ration the oil.
The word 'yet' reverberated in Billy's mind. Abruptly he snatched up a full tin and exited the room, slamming the door behind him.
Several hours later Billy had had a late luncheon, washed up, carried out the privy refuse and dumped it out into the ocean, and returned with the kitchen scraps. He'd sometimes thought it might be nice to be on a shore station, to have a bit of grass and maybe a pig or some chickens to thrive on the scraps. Then again, how would he ever sleep through a gale without the pounding surf crashing out a primeval lullaby against the base of his lighthouse? There was something to be said for living on a slip of rock far out into the mighty Atlantic.
Billy stood for a moment, his face tilted up to the overcast sky. The wind was freshening, the barometer dropping, and he could practically taste another storm on the way, although it was unlikely to reach the intensity of the last one.
Making his way to a rocky overhang he paused, the wind ruffling his short hair up on one side, before tossing the contents of his scraps bucket. The stiff breeze swung and gusted, though, and hurled the detritus onto the rocks underneath the little promontory. Billy shrugged; the seabirds would clean it up. He turned away to leave when he heard a human voice drift up from below, startling him so much he nearly tripped and fell.
"Well, that's a kick in the teeth, innit, m' boy?"
Billy froze, and he breathed, and he feared for his sanity. He cleared his throat and shouted, "Who's there?"
There was a moment of utter silence in which even the wind seemed to hush before--inexplicably--the disembodied voice said, "This better not be 'nother..." A pause, then slurred, "'Nother trick, Byron. Rip your wings off. Hello?" The last word was shouted.
Billy was already scrambling amongst the rocks, searching out a winding descent to the sea. "Hold on!" he cried, blood pounding in his ears, his knees trembling.
"Did y' hear that, Byron? Hold on, he says. Bloody hell."
Picking his way down, Billy kept looking all around, over his shoulders, trying to spot the owner of the weakening voice, and finally spotted him on a flat shelf between two tall craggy boulders. He was shielded from above by the rock overhang.
The boy--for a boy he seemed from a distance--was dressed in tattered rags that were once plain, serviceable garb, and lay flat on his back. As Billy finally approached, however, he could see the lad was actually well into manhood and in his early twenties at least. Billy knelt beside him.
"Are you from the Pole Star?" he asked, his voice uneven both from his exertions and from some strange emotion gripping his throat.
A pair of eyes--only slightly bluer than the sea beside them--met Billy's gaze. "Are you real?" he countered, his voice naught but a croak, as if he'd used it all up in that one shout. "Or 'm I dreaming again?"
"I'm real enough, lad. Where are you hurt? What's your name?"
"Dom'nic. Swept onto th' rocks." His eyes closed. "Arm broken. Leg broken. Chest...head... Make it quick. Don't let me suffer. Please."
Billy stared at him, horrified. "I'm not going to kill you!"
Dominic's eyes sluggishly opened. "You must. 'M in pieces. I'll be...crippled."
"Bollocks. You have a couple of broken bones--you'll be right as rain, man!" Billy's fingers quickly but carefully began to probe at Dominic's flesh, searching for other injuries. Dominic sucked in a sharp breath as those fingers found the break in his arm, moaned when they felt a crack in his ankle, and he passed out with a single touch to the wicked gash on his thigh.
"Bloody, bloody hell," Billy whispered, dragging a shaking hand over his eyes. Clearly, he had to get the man indoors as soon as humanly possible--after three days' exposure, even protected as he had been by the outcrop of rock, it was imperative to get him warm and dry and out of the elements.
Suddenly grateful the poor wretch had lost consciousness, Billy did the only thing he could think of. He pulled Dominic to a seated position and then--with a groan that sounded as though it came from the earth itself--hauled the limp body up and over his shoulder. With agonizingly slow, staggering steps, Billy picked his way back up the rocks, placing each foot carefully, using his thigh muscles to pull them both upwards, his free hand grasping at the stone. More than once he nearly went down, and it was only sheer bloody-mindedness that kept him on his feet, kept him going. He was not going to lose this last soul. He was not.
They'd just reached the top of the promontory and Billy, with an involuntary grunt of pain, was attempting to straighten his back, when Dominic gave a jerk and a shudder. A moment later he began to vomit, and the reeking fluid--what little there was of it--soaked into the backs of Billy's trouser legs.
Despite his vague disgust, Billy pitied the young man slung over his shoulder. Whether it was the pain or a head injury that had caused the sickness didn't make much of a difference at the moment; either way, the lad was going to be horribly uncomfortable for quite some time.
Billy crossed the tiny island as quickly as he could manage and entered the lighthouse. He nearly despaired at the thought of how many stairs he now had to climb, and his legs were already trembling after the climb up the cliffside, but there was simply no other option. With a muttering that was half curse and half prayer, Billy began to ascend the spiral staircase.
By the time Billy reached the level of the sleeping quarters he was drenched with sweat, his legs and back ached fiercely, and he was desperate to put the man down. He quickly realized, however, that leaving Dominic there would only create more work for himself, more cursed stairs to run up and down. In between the sleeping quarters and the lantern's service room lay two more floors, the kitchen and the parlour. The lad shouldn't be left alone, that was plain, but the lantern mechanism required winding every four hours, and Billy would also need the small desk in the parlour. It contained all of his logs and journals, and if there was one thing Billy had learned over the years, it was to never, ever get behind on the bookkeeping.
He was in excellent physical condition, but it took all of his considerable reserves of strength and willpower to hoist Dominic more securely over his shoulder and resume the climb to the parlour, the final room below the service room. Once there he leaned over to deposit Dominic on the chaise tucked into one corner, and nearly landed on top of the poor man as every muscle in Billy's body shrieked in protest of the abuse. Clapping one hand to his back, he slowly straightened, biting back an oath.
After a moment to gather himself and to catch his breath, Billy knelt by the chaise to remove the unconscious man's tattered clothing and damp, dirty underthings, thinking as he did of the supplies he would need. There was a medical kit, of course, in case of injuries that happened in the normal course of duty, but aside from that Billy would need splints for the broken bones and the sewing kit for the gash that ran from hip to thigh.
Billy gasped as his work revealed Dominic's bare torso; an almost solid mass of bruising, it looked as if not one square inch of flesh had escaped being battered by the rocks. God above, no wonder the lad thought he was done for!
Billy (not for the first time) wished whiskey, hell, any alcohol, was allowed in the lighthouse.
Removing Dominic's torn trousers, Billy discovered the rest of his body was in much the same state as his torso. With another muttered curse, Billy finished undressing him, covered him with a blanket against the chill of the room, and hurried off to gather his scant medical supplies. While in his own private bedroom, he stripped off his stained and malodorous trousers, yanked on a clean pair, and then retrieved the bottle of laudanum from his small safe. Later ("Too much later," Billy castigated himself, forcing his legs to run back up the stairs and ignoring the searing pains from his thighs, "Dammit, Boyd, shift your bloody arse.") Billy once again knelt by Dominic's side, an oil lamp lit close by.
Everything at hand, Billy hesitated, suddenly unsure where to begin. He finally decided a dose of the laudanum would be the best place to start; the last thing he needed was Dominic waking in the middle of having his arm set. He tipped a spoonful of the drug between pale, chapped lips, followed it with a few trickles of water, and then stroked the blessedly unbruised throat until involuntary muscles began to swallow.
"That's it, lad," he murmured, unaware he was speaking out loud. "Rest now, and heal. I'll not lose you, too."
After giving the laudanum a few minutes to take hold, Billy set to work cleansing, salving, setting bones, splinting, stitching, and bandaging as best he could. Florence Nightingale likely would not approve his efforts, but as she wasn't present, Billy thought he could be forgiven his somewhat sloppy bandaging skills. Finally, after dribbling some more water down Dominic's throat, Billy covered him with the blanket and staggered over to the desk in the corner of the parlour.
He sank into the chair, nearly numb with exhaustion. He was no physician, but he thought the boy would do tolerably well. If there had been any major internal damage, young Dominic would have perished on the rocks long before Billy found him. It was the head wound that was the most troubling--and for that, only time would tell. Billy sent up a quick prayer that Dominic would awake with his wits intact.
With a glance up at the clock, Billy made quick work of adding his discovery of a survivor of the Pole Star in the monthly Shipwreck Return. The bigwigs up the ladder liked everything to be fully documented. Billy had often thought they'd demand a recounting of every time he pissed in the pot, if they believed that information could ever be put to use.
Pocketing his fountain pen, Billy closed the Shipwreck Return, stacking it underneath the Daily Journal and Passing Vessels Log. Tomorrow he'd also have to update the Stores Log before he fell any further behind with his inventory.
Rising, he checked that Dominic was still deeply asleep, and then made his way up to the lantern service room. He only had twenty minutes or so before the lamp needed to be lit, and in order for the wicks to draw properly, the valves on the paraffin tank needed to be opened in plenty of time. Once that was done, he went up through the trap door to the lantern room proper to pull back the curtains from around the lantern lenses. The hundreds of glass prisms that made up the revolving light glittered softly in the setting sun, and Billy paused a moment to admire the seven foot tall lens. Normally he took great satisfaction from running his domain with clockwork efficiency. Now, however, doing the work of four men left him scant time for contentment, and he stole the moment with a pinch of guilt.
Letting the burner slowly come up to pressure, Billy hurried down the staircase once more. His patient was still dead to the world (a state of affairs Billy devoutly hoped would last until morning, both for the lad's sake and his own), but just in case Billy left a hand bell sitting on a nearby table. If Dominic awoke and needed help, one good ring of the bell would bring Billy at the double. After dripping some more water into the boy's mouth, Billy left him, knowing he'd done all he could for the moment. A quick trip down to the kitchen to stock up on some portable items for a cold supper in the lantern room, and he returned to his duties.
Just as the sun slid into the sea, Billy lit the cotton wicks, adjusting the valves as the flame rose high, sputtered, and then steadied. He released the clockwork mechanism, and the great light began to rotate, signalling its unique identifier of two flashes every thirty seconds. With relief, he positioned his wooden chair beside a tiny shelf where he could set his oil lamp, and set to making notes in the Daily Journal.
5 Aug. 1905
Morning winds westerly 10 knots, freshening in p.m. Visibility good to excellent.
Cleaned lantern room, privy, kitchen. Found single survivor of Pole Star, gave
medical attention. Sunset: seas moderate, still clear, barometer dropping. Storm
likely by tomorrow night.
Billy set the journal aside until it was time to add the evening observations. He took his monocular glass up to the lantern room and scanned the horizon as twilight fell, but seeing nothing except low white-capped waves in all directions, he felt free to take his supper.
*****
Throughout the long, chill night, Billy attended to his duties. He wound the lantern mechanism every four hours, he trimmed the wicks to keep the flame bright and even, he logged a ship that passed through the lighthouse's beam in the wee hours, and he kept a weather eye out for fog. If he also took the occasional catnap or left the lantern room to check on Dominic--both expressly forbidden in the rules and regulations--well, he didn't suppose he had much choice in the matter, really.
It was just before dawn when Dominic awoke. Billy had gone down to monitor his patient one last time before beginning the lengthy lantern shutdown procedure. In the midst of straightening the blanket, Billy felt eyes on him, and he looked up to see a confused, frightened gaze just focusing in on him. He smoothed sandy hair out of the boy's eyes.
"Good morning, Dominic," he said, keeping his voice soft. "No, lie still. You mustn't jostle your ribs."
"Where--?" Dominic's voice was thin; reedy.
"You're in my lighthouse." Billy reached for the glass of water. "I'll lift your head--try to drink as much as you can. No telling how much seawater you swallowed, is there?"
Slurping greedily from the tumbler Billy held to his mouth, his head supported by a sure hand, Dominic closed his eyes with a grimace even as he drank.
"Aye, I know it hurts, lad," Billy murmured. "But you're going to be right as rain, that I promise you." He gently laid the young man's head down on the pillow again. "Another dose of laudanum, and then when you wake up, I'll bring you something to eat, all right?"
"What's your name?" Dominic whispered.
"Principal Light Keeper First Class William Boyd. But you may call me Billy," he smiled. He lifted a spoonful of laudanum to Dominic's lips, and when the boy swallowed it, followed it with a few sips of water. "That's it. Well done." Billy rose to his feet, fighting a yawn. "Sleep now, then, and I'll return in a few hours. If you need anything before then, just ring this bell and I'll come."
"Don't go." Dominic's good hand rose slightly under the blanket covering him. "Please--tell me--"
Billy silenced him with a shake of the head. "Later, lad. Right now, you need to rest, and I'm afraid I need to get back to my duties. The lantern won't shut itself down, no matter how much I wish it were so." Billy tried to keep his voice light despite the ache in his heart. He knew what it was Dominic wanted to know, and he hoped he could put off recounting the fate of the Pole Star and her crew--the boy's shipmates--as long as possible.
*****
Billy sluggishly awoke to find his head pillowed on his arms on the desk in the corner of the parlour. With a stifled groan, he slowly sat up and scrubbed both hands across his face, then through his hair.
"Are you the only one here?"
Billy started, then remembered Dominic. He turned in his chair and summoned a smile. "Good morning. How do you feel?"
Dominic looked wan and uncomfortable. "I've had better days," he said, his voice raspy. "Could I please have a drink of water?"
"I'm sorry, of course you must be thirsty." Billy climbed to his feet and fetched the now-empty glass from the low table beside the chaise. "I'll just run down to the kitchen to fill this. Would you like another blanket while I'm about?"
"Yes, please."
"Certainly. I'll be right back, so don't run off now," Billy's attempt at humour fell a bit flat, but Dominic gave him a weak smile anyway.
One floor down, Billy stoked up the cookstove in the kitchen and put a pot of water on to boil. Fetching a warm wool blanket from his bedroom, he took it and the glass of water back up to Dominic.
"Let's sit you up," Billy said briskly, suiting action to words and propping several cushions behind Dominic's back. "Can you manage the water all right, or not quite yet? Don't be shy, lad."
Dominic's smile was stronger that time. "If only my Mam could hear you; it's not often I'm called shy," he said, taking the glass in his good right hand. It shook a bit, but steadied against his lips, and soon he had drained it. "Thank you."
"You're very welcome indeed." Billy spread the extra blanket over Dominic's legs, being careful not to touch the boy's broken limbs. "Now, how does a cup of tea and a bowl of porridge sound?"
"It sounds heavenly," Dominic said fervently.
Billy chuckled. "All right, then, Dominic, you--"
"Dom," the lad interrupted him. "Call me Dom, only Mam calls me Dominic, and then only when I'm in her black books."
With a laugh, Billy agreed. "You stay put, Dom, and I'll be back before you know it with your porridge."
True to his word, Billy soon returned carrying a tray laden with two steaming bowls and two cups of tea. He set one cup near at hand for Dominic, then carefully rested the bowl of porridge in Dom's lap and put the spoon in his good hand.
"Thank you."
"You're most welcome." Billy sat in the stiff wingback chair opposite and began to eat his own late breakfast. "I made yours a bit thin," he said in between mouthfuls, "in case your stomach is taken by surprise at seeing food again."
"It has been a while," Dominic agreed, eating each spoonful slowly and gingerly. "What day is it?"
"August sixth. Saturday," Billy clarified. Before the other man could ask the next, logical question, he hurriedly put his bowl down and crossed to the chaise, perching on the edge of it. He took the spoon from Dominic. "Here. Your hand is shaking."
Dom's mouth formed a moue. "I seem to have the strength of a consumptive kitten at the moment."
"Which is hardly to be wondered at," Billy countered, lifting a spoonful of porridge to Dom's mouth. "But you'll improve in leaps and bounds under my tender mercies, have no fear. Considering what you've been through, you're rather lucky just to be--" He cut himself off, flushing.
Dominic completed the thought. "Alive. I know." He turned his face away from Billy. "I'm the only survivor, aren't I?"
Billy paused, then set the bowl and spoon aside. "Yes."
"And are you the only one here?"
"Yes."
"Why?" Dom looked at him, frowning. "There should be a crew of four here, I was told. What happened?"
Billy lowered his gaze, his eyes resting on his fingers entwined in his lap. "They disobeyed orders and abandoned the lighthouse."
"They what? But...why?"
"I tried to stop them," Billy muttered, his thumb restlessly rubbing against the palm of his opposite hand. "I tried. They wouldn't listen. I ordered them not to go. I ordered them not to set one foot in the launch, I told them the seas were too high. Dammit, they just wouldn't listen!" Billy sprang to his feet and began to pace, agonizing, the responsibility for those lost lives weighing heavily on his mind and heart. "What more could I have done? There were three of them. Short of having a firearm, there was nothing I could do to stop them. But I should have stopped them, I should have prevented this! It doesn't matter, they were my crew, the fault lies with me."
"Billy--"
He turned and looked helplessly at Dom. He shrugged, his hands limp at his sides. "They just wouldn't listen."
Dom stared at him intently for a moment, then gestured him closer. "Come here."
Billy crossed to stand in front of him, but couldn't meet his eyes.
"Sit down," Dominic said, his voice gentle, his good right hand patting the edge of the chaise where Billy had been perched before. "Please."
Billy sat.
"The fault lies not with you, but with the men for disobeying orders." He put his hand on Billy's forearm and squeezed. "You were absolutely correct in ordering them to stay ashore. I was out there, I know; nothing less than a mammoth White Star ocean liner could have survived that sea, in that storm. They never stood a chance and it was suicidal of them to even make the attempt, no matter how difficult it was to watch us going down."
"I wanted to go with them," Billy whispered. "I so very desperately wanted to go with them."
"I know."
"I knew the captain. He's--he'd been piloting the Pole Star for as long as I've been here. Seven years. You come to consider a man like that a friend, almost. And I stood up there and watched his ship go down, and I couldn't do a damn thing about it."
"No."
Billy closed his eyes, anguished. "I lost them all. Eighteen men all told."
"You didn't lose them, Billy," Dom said, his voice firm, almost urgent. "They were lost at sea, but you did not lose them. There is a vast difference between the two. And on top of that--well, you saved me, didn't you? Which, as far as I'm concerned, is the most important bit."
Billy huffed out a breath that could have been a laugh and could have been a sob.
"Look at me." Dom waited until Billy opened reddened eyes. He caught his gaze and held it. "You saved me. You didn't lose me too."
Billy felt his eyes spill over, even though he managed to make not a sound. It was too much. He felt Dom cover his hand with his good one and hold on tightly.
"So you've been looking after this pile of rock by yourself since Monday night, hmm?" Dom lightened his tone. "I don't suppose you've managed more than an hour or two of sleep at a time since, have you? A miracle you're still on your feet, really. Why don't you go lay down and get some rest? I can ring this dirty great bell you gave me in a few hours, you needn't fear sleeping the day away."
While Dom spoke, Billy breathed deeply, trying to gain control over himself again. As tempting as Dominic's suggestion was, he knew he couldn't, not yet. "Thank you, but no," he said quietly. "I need to get the inventory done. I need to know what's on hand when the replacement tender shows up--"
"Billy." Dom suddenly looked utterly wretched. "It's--we weren't... Bollocks. Billy, the Pole Star wasn't going back to Oban after resupplying you here."
Billy shook his head, confused. "So you were to go where? Up to Stornoway?"
"No." He took a deep breath. "We were to sail 'round to Edinburgh."
"Sail 'round--but--" Billy stopped. He felt a little faint. "How long?"
"I'd guess another week before we can start watching for anyone."
Billy felt himself slide off the edge of his seat and land on the floor with a thump. He leaned back against the chaise and dropped his head into his hands. "Another week. Oh, God."
Chapter Two
