Based upon the plot decisions and written with the consent of The Absurd Rogue, this is something of a conclusion to a great deal of the Flowerdene arc. It follows When The Wars Are Over.
And May You Go Safely
Siúil, siúil, siúil a rún
Siúil go sochair agus siúil go ciúin
Siúil go doras agus éalaigh liom
Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán
(Go, go, go, my love
Go quietly and go peacefully
Go to the door and fly with me
And may you go safely, my darling)
Siobhan is singing. Her voice drifts out over the dark Unterzee, sweet and clear, and she stands at the rail, watching the lights of London fade behind the ship. Overhead, the light of the false-stars is faint, nothing like the starlight she once knew at home.
Home. Connacht. A part of her will always call it home, she thinks, and long for green fields and sweet breezes, moonlight and sunlight and the sounds of familiar voices. She’d never meant to make a home of London – not here, not this fallen heart of England, that she’d come to seeking a way to cut it wholly from its body, and end that body’s grasp upon so many lands.
But… it was more complicated than that, she’d discovered. It was always more complicated than that. And when she’d found so many of her countrymen in the filth and misery of Spite, what could she do but reach out to them? She couldn’t have ignored their plight.
And then there’s Eli. Elias Lowe. Siobhan smiles a little to herself, resting a hand upon her still-flat stomach. Others would not know it to look at her, especially in her plain gowns, but she knows, and he knows too. Their child sleeps beneath her heart. Her baby, and her husband’s. (Not official, that marriage, but they’d said the words in a church and they wear the rings, so what need they care for London’s laws on the matter? They’re as married as they need to be, paperwork or no.)
Behind her, the zailors carry on in their work, as Siobhan contemplates her husband. He’s been working so hard, wearing himself down, she thinks. That he’d decided to come away with her now can only be a good thing. They need the rest, both of them – some peace in the face of the turmoil and tension of the Flowerdene Initiative’s struggles.
In Port Carnelian they can be safe and happy for a time, and return renewed.
True, he’s not on the yacht now, but he’ll meet her there, he’s promised. All she has to do is wait.
A figure in an elegant suit joins her at the rails: Eglantine, one of Eli’s Barkers. Strange, that one, in so many different ways. Eglantine is… complicated, but Siobhan trusts them well enough, and they’ve always been kind to her. She knows them, she thinks, better than most.
“Making good progress,” Eglantine remarks absently. “Shouldn’t take us long to reach the Carnelian Coast.”
“I’d heard there was a pirate problem. Do you think it’ll delay us, or Eli?”
Eglantine just laughs. “Believe me, there’s not a pirate born who wouldn’t regret trying to cause that delay. And you’d help them regret it, no? I saw you packing those guns.”
“Best to be prepared, isn’t it?” Siobhan answers, just as a shaggy head appears beside her. She looks down, and scratches Cúchulainn’s ears. The marsh-wolf’s tail wags happily, and Siobhan laughs. She’s been informed, at least, that he’s a marsh-wolf, and he does look the part, but his temperament is something closer to marshmallow.
At least when she’s doting upon her pet, she doesn’t have to think about anything else. Cúchulainn, therefore, finds himself distinctly spoiled over the course of the voyage.
Still, it’s over soon enough, and the zailors all seem relieved when the yacht reaches Port Carnelian safely.
Now, all Siobhan has to do is wait for Eli.
All she has to do is wait.
She waits.
He never arrives.
He never will arrive.
Elias Lowe is dead.
The news comes, in time, to Siobhan: Eli went out to confront the greatest of his foes, in one last fight. No-one can say exactly what passed there, on that lonely little sandbar off the Prickfinger Wastes, for only two were there, and neither has survived the meeting. The first and the second to carry the name of Elias Lowe have slain one another there, and neither has returned, though all waited for days to see if the strange quirks of death in the Neath would bring them back.
The yacht is swift, and soon back in London. Too late, though, for Siobhan, too late for her to do anything but look upon her husband’s face and weep.
The Flowerdene Initiative shrinks in upon itself, its lost leader’s grand goals dying with him. All it can bear now are the more modest hopes that its structure already fostered: unity amongst the poorest; improvement in circumstances; the feeding of the hungry, and healing of the sick, and protection of the weak and vulnerable.
Those were always its greatest strengths, and they remain. Those few who can, like Siobhan and Eglantine, are holding onto those strengths, because what else is left but this?
Flowerdene lives. It must.
When you say ‘the widow’, in Spite, there’s only one woman you’re understood to mean. Even if Spite is a poor and hungry place, with many widows. Still, the Gracious Widow is foremost.
But when you say ‘the Widow of Flowerdene’? Ah, then minds turn to another, to fire half-drowned in bitter ashes, to the sharp-tongued and sorrowing woman who carries on with things others have left behind. Minds turn, then, to a woman who has hated London to its core, and yet found and lost love there, a woman who remains in the city’s meanest places, a guiding light for those in need. Do not reach out to that light - only follow, only seek aid - for it is housed in a heart of broken glass, with edges sharp as knives.
Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán…
-fin-
edited by Eglantine-Fox on 10/19/2016