Appropriately enough, since I share my birthday with both Bilbo and Frodo Baggins, I wanted to give a gift on my birthday. Well – really, I just basically wanted to do something to cheer myself up since I’m having one of those days where everyone at work wants something and/or has a problem that needs to be solved, and posting writing always makes me feel better about myself. So, to prove I haven’t actually fallen off the face of the planet or stopped writing, here’s the first chapter of my newest thing, which is in no way ready to publish on Ao3 yet. Call it a sneak peek.
To the Upper Air: Chapter One
“…the descent to the Underworld is easy. / night and day the gates of shadowy Death stand open wide, / but to retrace your steps, to climb back to the upper air— / there the struggle, there the labor lies….”
—
Virgil, the Aeneid, 6.149-52, translated by Robert Fagles
Chapter One: Through the Looking Glass
He woke to find himself in an unfamiliar room.
The lack of his ordinary aches and pains should have been his first clue, James realized in retrospect. It was not that he did not appreciate the lack – no, of course not. It was simply that he had grown used to waking up to find himself in at least some small amount of discomfort, whether from an injury or simply from the wear and tear on his body incurred by not treating it as gently as he perhaps should have. He had not truly realized, for example, exactly how much his left shoulder still ached from the bullet wound until it no longer did, or how much better his back had felt when he was still occupying a real bed with a real mattress, however old, on a regular basis. Now, though, he found himself muttering imprecations only to find that there was actually nothing to curse – no cramps, no overwhelming desire to roll over and go back to sleep. He was well-rested. He was comfortable, and lying on sheets that smelled better than anything he’d had the privilege of laying on since he’d last slept in Miranda’s house. He was also wearing a nightshirt, and in a room that he did not recognize (or did he? It was familiar and yet -)
The knock on the door interrupted his attempt to remember where the hell he was, and he sat up in the bed.
“Yes?” His voice sounded odd – less hoarse, somehow, as if he had not used it to shout orders at anyone in quite some time, and yet he did not remember any such welcome time away from the ship. Had he been drinking? If so, what, and for how long? He shook his head, trying to clear it.
“Lieutenant McGraw? Message for you, sir.”
He froze.
“What?” The word came out as a choked whisper, the shock of hearing his name and former rank in use driving all other thought from his head, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. He could feel anger start to unfurl itself in his chest, accompanied by a sense of betrayal. This was Silver’s doing – it had to be, he was the only one in the world that had that name, that knew James’ history. He had shared it with someone – had sent someone looking for Lieutenant McGraw with a message instead of Captain Flint, he had to have, but why in the fuck -? Where the hell was he?
He stood up swiftly, and stalked his way over to the door, nearly wrenching it off its hinges in the process of opening it. He found a nervous-looking messenger on the other side of the door.
“Who the fuck are you and who gave you that name?” he snarled. The question was academic, but he wanted to hear it, to confirm for himself. The boy’s eyes widened.
“S-Sir?” he squeaked.
“I said who the fuck sent you?” James repeated, and the boy took a step back.
“Lord – Lord Hamilton, sir. He said to -”
James did not think – he reached forward, grasping the front of the boy’s coat and pulling him forward. When he found Silver, he was going to fucking kill him.
“Tell me who the fuck sent you right now or by God I swear I’ll -”
“Lieutenant? Is everything alright?”
The woman’s voice, familiar and absolutely fucking impossible, stopped him in his tracks, and he looked down the hallway, head suddenly snapping toward the source of the noise. There, standing at the end of the corridor, looking shocked and appalled, was the landlady of his former lodging house, Mrs. Pritchard, complete with her neatly-kept bun and familiar blue and white-striped dress. She stood, staring, shocked, and he released the boy almost out of instinct.
“Lieutenant, what on Earth is going on here?” she demanded, hands moving to her hips, and he floundered.
“He’s bloody loony, that’s what!” the boy yelped. “I come here with a message for him from Lord Hamilton, and he just about tore me to pieces!”
James did not hear the landlady’s reply. There was a roaring noise in his ears, and he stumbled backward, his hands reaching out to catch himself against the doorframe. This could not be happening. He could not possibly be in London, and Mrs. Pritchard could not possibly have failed to age a day since last he had seen her. He could not be – this wasn’t –
“Lieutenant? Lieutenant?”
Someone was standing in front of him, calling out a rank that no longer belonged to him. He blinked, and found Mrs. Pritchard still standing there, her hands still on her hips, her lips now pursed in a worried frown.
“Mr. McGraw – are you well?” He looked up.
“I’m fine,” he rasped.
“You certainly don’t look it. You’re as pale as if you’d seen a ghost!”
“I’m fine,” he repeated, and she shook her head.
“If you’ll pardon me for saying so, Lieutenant, well men don’t frighten messenger boys half to death by shaking them like a rat terrier with a prize.”
“If you know the answer then why the fuck would you ask the question?” he asked, and she drew back.
“You,” she said, “are not well. Not at all. And if you continue in this fashion, I’ll have no choice but to call a doctor.”
He did not answer, simply looked at her, still half-uncomprehending. This was still fucking impossible – this whole conversation, let alone the exchange with the boy, who seemed to have buggered off. This had to be a dream – or –
“What year is it?” he rasped, and the landlady blanched.
“God help us, it’s worse than I thought,” she murmured. “It’s the year of the good Lord seventeen-hundred and five, sir. Do you know where you are?”
“Jesus,” he all but groaned, face turning white. “Jesus fucking Christ -”
Mrs. Pritchard hurriedly crossed herself, backing away.
“I’m calling the doctor. I’ll not have -”
He held up a hand.
“No!” he barked. “No. I’m -” He was not alright – good fucking Christ, he was not alright, but he was suddenly also acutely aware that he could not allow her to see that. If this was truly London in the year 1705 –
“I – apologize,” he managed. The words sounded odd – stilted, and he swallowed hard, trying to think of something to say that would sound as if he hadn’t suddenly taken leave of his senses. “I was in the tavern last night,” he finally offered. “My head -” It wasn’t much of an act – there was a dull, pounding pain starting in his temples. “I seem to have misplaced most of the night,” he offered, and Mrs. Pritchard frowned, comprehension flashing across her dark face.
“It must have been quite the night, Lieutenant,” she said, and he forced himself to smile, forced himself to play the hungover fool. Something was very wrong here, and he couldn’t possibly find out what if someone carted him off to Bedlam.
Bedlam. The name knocked the breath out of him for the space of a second, and he felt his heart stutter. Thomas. If this was 1705 – He stopped the thought in its tracks, refusing to focus on it just now. Not yet – not here, not now, despite the traitorous, treacherous hope, the first in eleven years, that was setting his very nerves on fire. Not now. Not yet.
“I’ve never known you for a drinking man,” she continued, one eyebrow raised, and he cursed inwardly at her persistence.
He had been charming, once, he recalled, or at least so he had been told, or at least skilled enough at conversation not to appear boorish. He had lost the inclination over the intervening years, but not the ability, and he pasted a worryingly unfamiliar smile on his face, turning it on the landlady.
“You can see why.”
He didn’t feel an ounce of the humor he was trying for, but it seemed to work on the landlady, because one corner of her mouth turned up in the beginnings of a smile.
“Yes. I can. You’d better go and get dressed.”
He looked down. Ah. Yes. He was standing in the corridor in nothing but a nightshirt, wasn’t he? That was odd, for London, although he’d known men aboard ships to walk around in a lot less, and wouldn’t that be shocking for poor Mrs. Pritchard?
“You’re certain that you’re alright?” she asked, and he nodded, trying to paste a contrite expression on his face.
“Yes. It won’t happen again.”
Mrs. Pritchard clicked her tongue, shaking her head as if in amusement at what she no doubt thought to be the antics of a young man away from his ship.
“I should hope not!”
With that, she turned, walking away finally, and James allowed himself to fall backwards, leaning on the open door, shaking as if he had the palsy. Christ Almighty, what the fuck was going on? The thought traveled through his head over and over again, and at last he dragged a hand over his face, starting at his eyes and ending at –
His very-bare chin. The shaking increased, and, as if in a daze, he stumbled back into the room, barely feeling the cold floor against his feet, his hand fumbling the door closed behind him, and he moved to his sea chest – the one that he remembered had always resided at the foot of whatever bed he was renting, and sure enough, there it was, initials and all. He wrenched it open, not sparing so much as a thought for the aging hinges, and dug until he found his shaving mirror.
He released it again a moment later, only just catching it before it hit the floor and shattered. He shut his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to stop shaking, and held up the mirror again. He lowered it again slowly when he had looked his fill, suddenly breathing hard, eyes closed tightly, hand clenched around the mirror almost convulsively. He swallowed hard, and opened his eyes again, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. His knees, once so steady on the deck of a ship, wobbled beneath him, and he sat down on the floor abruptly, his stomach suddenly rebelling, tying itself in knots inside him.
This was 1705. His own reflection confirmed it, from the long hair to the only slightly stubble-covered jaw to the complete and utter lack of the creases in his face that he had come to know so well. The scar on his cheek from Singleton’s blade was gone as well, confirming once and for all that this was not, could not be, an elaborate prank. He was, without any kind of explanation at all, thirty-two years old again, and, from all evidence, still an officer in her Majesty’s Navy. Not a pirate. Not the monster Flint. Just James again, as if the past eleven years had never happened, the slate wiped clean, the various horrors that had turned him into Captain Flint never having happened except in James’ whirling, stumbling, confused mind.
It was over.
The thought took all others from his head, and he sat for several moments, still shaking. He was crying, he realized after some time – tears streaming down his face unheeded. He was weeping, and for once, he did not care – did not even attempt to rein in the sobs that wracked his frame, or the laughter that followed, born of mixed relief and a feeling bubbling up in his chest that he could only name joy, little experience though he had had of that particular emotion in what seemed like an eternity. It was over. He ran a hand over his face again, confirming to himself once again that he was no longer gazing out at the world from behind the grim mask of Captain Flint, and then allowed the hand to drop into his lap, allowed the other to rest flat against the floor to hold him up, and sobbed into his knees like a child. The fighting and the dying and the lies – it was all done. He was home, if ever he could be said to have had one, through some miracle or sorcery and Thomas and Miranda –
Thomas and Miranda were alive.
The thought slammed into him, undeniable and wonderful and utterly, completely terrifying. They were alive – not dead, not murdered, but alive. He could see Thomas again – hear his voice, kiss him until neither of them had any breath left the way he should have done so many more times than he had when he had still truly been the buttoned-up, self-conscious man that belonged in this body. He could go to Miranda and run his hands through her hair, listen to her laugh the way she used to when Thomas was still with them. They were alive –
And James had no idea how to go about saving them. That he had to was obvious, as simple and self-evident as –
As what, exactly? If he could wake up one morning James Flint, captain of the Walrus and terror of the West Indies and the next a decade in his own past, what else was not as certain as he had once assumed it to be? Was he next going to open his eyes to find himself still a midshipman under Hennessey’s tutelage? What if –
No. He shut the thought down ruthlessly, mentally grinding it into the dirt with one foot. That did not bear thinking about. If he was truly here, truly eleven years in the past, then he had a duty to Thomas and Miranda. He had been granted a chance, and he was damned if he was going to waste it chasing what-ifs. Whatever else happened, Thomas was not going to be locked in Bethlem and driven to suicide. Miranda was not going to die in front of him – not this time, no matter what it took. He stood, hands still shaking, and took a deep breath. He needed to get hold of himself. He needed to get dressed and –
“James?” The voice at the door startled him, and he whirled around, his eyes widening. That was Thomas’ voice – he would have known it anywhere, even now, eleven years and one trip through time later. The sound of it washed over him and he felt something in his stomach do a flip, his heart feeling suddenly as if someone had taken hold of it and squeezed as hard as they could. Thomas was on the other side of that door and James –
James wasn’t here. Not the James that Thomas expected – the James he had fallen in love with all those years ago. That James had gone to sleep the night before never to wake again, and in his place was the man who sat, staring at the door, his heart suddenly pounding at the realization that he would have to face Thomas again rather sooner than he had expected and unsure whether he could actually manage it.
“James? Are you in there?” Thomas rapped on the door again, the sound echoing through the room. “My messenger seems to think you’ve taken leave of your senses. Are you alright?”
For one brief, horrible moment, he contemplated not answering. If he pushed Thomas away – if he broke off their affair – Alfred would have nothing to use against them. He and Miranda would be safe. There would be no exile. No Bedlam.
And no point in continuing on – no air to breath, because Thomas would be gone as surely as if he were dead, leaving James to live without him again – to flounder and fall to his demons once again, and what the fuck was the point of being given a second chance if he was to be forced to do that to himself again? He would be miserable. Miranda would be beyond angry, and Alfred would still be a threat. If not now, then later – tomorrow, or the next day, or the next year, and James would no longer be present to fend him off. And Thomas –
He would be heartbroken. The very idea of it made James’ stomach clench, and he banished the idea firmly. No. He could not do it. Thomas deserved better. Miranda deserved better. He –
He did not deserve better, not after all he had done, but that did not matter in the slightest when compared with the golden, shining opportunity that lay beyond the door.
“I’m fine – give me a moment!” he called, and Thomas gave a sigh of relief.
“Well thank God for that,” he answered, the relief in his voice plain. “I was afraid I’d come and find you chewing the furniture!”
Thomas’ voice went straight through him, and he swallowed, closing his eyes. This was happening. Thomas was really here –
And he was still not dressed. The knowledge spurred him into movement, his hands reaching for the clothes that lay, neatly folded, on the chair near the bed. He needed breeches, at least, and preferably a shirt if he did not want to repeat his second meeting with Miranda.
“You gave the poor boy quite a fright,” Thomas continued. “What on Earth is the matter with everyone this morning?”
“Everyone?” James stopped momentarily, his shirt still only halfway on.
“Yes! First Miranda, now you – I feel as if I’ve woken up to find everyone gone mad!”
James flinched, his hands pulling the rest of his clothing on mechanically. Gone mad, Thomas had said. It was not far from the truth, not really, and he once more questioned whether or not he could really do this. So much lay between him and the man he had been, and Thomas knew none of it.
Could he truly go through with this?
No. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. No. He could not subject Thomas to the person he had become. He could not show Thomas that man – could not allow Captain Flint to have anything to do with either Thomas or Miranda, and they would see. They had to, because he was not James McGraw – had not been in so very long. They would know. They would hate the man he had become, and he could not bear the thought of their frightened, disappointed faces. He had to open the door and do his damndest to push Thomas away from this – away from him. The knowledge burned, and for a moment he wanted nothing more than to retreat – to lock the door and wait for Thomas to go away. He could not do this – either push him away or pretend. He could feel panic building in his chest – felt his breath quicken, his palms begin to sweat, and he backed away from the door, swallowing hard against the onslaught of tears that threatened at the corners of his eyes. He could not do this. He had to –
“James – you know if something’s wrong you can tell me, don’t you?” Thomas’ voice, laced with gentle concern, broke through the haze of pain, and tripped the panic in its tracks. “I want to help. Please, open the door?”
Thomas always had known him entirely too well, he realized distantly. He had always known when James was faltering – when he doubted himself, and he had never, ever been willing to accept defeat when it came to James’ demons. If James attempted to withdraw now, he would only be followed, and Thomas would see everything anyway. He swallowed. He could not pretend, and he could not push Thomas away. That left one other option, and the idea of it frightened him more than anything else had that morning. If he could not pretend to be James McGraw, and he could not be Captain Flint –
He had once been a very different man – one that didn’t turn to slaughter as his first option. One that Thomas could love. He had never thought to be given a chance to be that man again, but maybe –
His hands were drenched in blood, but perhaps – just perhaps – blood could wash off, if he scrubbed hard enough.
He took a deep breath, ran a hand over his hair, his hand shaking, and laughed, short and sharp. It was odd, he thought. Somehow he had never imagined that Captain Flint would die like this – quietly, in a room in a lodging house, without the slightest trace of protest. He had imagined going out with a bang, and yet here he stood, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, as he silently acknowledged what he was about to do. Captain Flint and his violence, his scheming, and his anger could have nothing to do with Thomas, but James McGraw –
James McGraw was more than ready to come home. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and then opened them again, breathing out as he did so. With hands that were suddenly steadier and feet that were suddenly much more committed to their course, he moved forward again, his hand reaching for the door even as the other wiped away the traces of tears from his eyes. He stopped for a split second, bracing himself, and then opened the door.
Meg's Mumbles 