Tears fell on his cheeks for the hand of night was on the sky, as it was on his love. The dark called for both to come to its gate, to walk into the realm of clouds and stars. Yet will could be strong, to break the rules of fate; but he was bent with winds of change, to have seen the blood upon his hands. His love would be well now, if he had done right.

"Archie!" he cried in the black of night.

No words came from lips. No breath came from the lungs. No beat came from the heart.

Death.

Tears of salt fell from brown eyes, now sad pools with no light. The sun had gone through the gate, to bask in the peace of sleep. Man should be glad of their love's rest, but the bed grave was cold with no one to hold. Friends could not take the place of this ray of hope, the one who gives and takes.

Now, he will live.

The sea was rife with superstitions, some seamen were rumored to have the luck of the devil. Among that pantheon was Horatio Hornblower, lieutenant in His Majesty�s Navy. To have survived trials and tribulations that he had was remarkable indeed, but to survive court marshal for mutiny was incredible. The local press had been convinced of his guilt, reaffirmed by their interviews with drunken seamen along the dockside. His luck had abandoned him, forcing him into solitude as his two comrades struggled with fatal wounds. He had grasped the rusted bars of his cell window, knowing he must confront death with whatever dignity that remained in his withered flesh.

He was spared by the wilted flower who lay in his arms, crushed by injuries the doctors could not save. They had delayed the inevitable, but to Horatio is was unacceptable as his eyelids fluttered to repress tears. He would not permit this body to be forgotten in some unmarked grave overgrown by weeds that attracted insects. The seeds of his passion would remain with him, even if it sowed his own death.

Life had exited mere minutes ago from the body of Archie Kennedy, but his skin remained warm from fever. Horatio lowered himself to kiss the lips which had engulfed his being, enticing him to acts of madness. The heat burned onto his lips, his pulse raging as it demanded the response it had been nurtured to receive. But there were no arms to undress him, to caress him in the pleasure of skin and sweat. Only the body remained, the carcass of dreams and aspirations.

His pudding-head.

He hungered for the affection he was denied. He could endure hunger and thirst, but to live without love? Once, he had survived without it, thinking only of his duty to his countrymen, but it would not suffice again. He bit his quivering lip, unthinking as he lifted the dead weight from the bed, wrapping the half-clothed body with a sheet. Away he crawled, struggling with the weight of his burden. He scuffled through the celled corridor, no guards alerted to the noise of the madman who disappeared into the night with the dead.

The last drop of rum tumbled down the staircase to his stomach, increasing the furrow of his grimacing face. He stumbled through the dark street, pausing only when golden hair glinted in his eyes. He licked his lips with thirst, wanting the flaming tresses outstretched across white pillows so he could comb his fingers through it better. If only he could possess the subject with the stubbed nose with freckles, but he noted the pale balding patches. The subject looked as though she belonged in the asylum with that complexion, so he stumbled onward from the lady of the night.

He threw his empty liquor bottle to the dust covered street, distracting eyes for mere seconds. The streetwalkers seem to turn away from him, probably assuming he had no more shillings for liquor. He would not be good for business to these money savvy women, uncaring as he trampled over shards of broken glass. What cares have they in the world except their beauty, disappearing by age twenty with disease and malnutrition. He was only another rejected client, another naval officer who wasted his money on the pleasure of life.

He pulled his greatcoat tighter around his shivering body, despairing that the liquor had not warmed his spirit. The night was cool, but it was not dark and stormy with winds howling through narrow alleyways with autumn chill. The moon was full and bright, obscuring the map of the stars as it grew larger with the season. He had the habit of noting the wind and weather, the sea and sky, but what did it matter when his heart was frozen with sheets of ice over the impaled dagger?