merrimanlyon | (no subject)

Half a world away, the sun has only just risen over a stolen ship and her unconventional crew.

An ocean away, the sun hangs hot and heavy in the sky over an island fortress and the gallows that have been erected within its walls.

In London, the sun is about to set, though a murky cloud cover all but hides it from view. An East Indiaman lies at anchor on the slate-grey waters of the Thames, and until a few moments ago her commander had been in his cabin, on the point of dropping off to sleep in anticipation of an early morning watch.

He is far from asleep now.

Whatever he had just felt was nothing like the vague, distant echoes that he had come to expect as a result of keeping all of his senses open and attentive. This was something quite different, and quite inexplicable.

The officer in charge of the watch gets very little in the way of explanation for why the commodore is leaving the Pridewin and going ashore. Before the poor man has a chance to do much more than lower his hand from his salute, there is only the sound of a walking stick tapping briskly along the wooden planks of the dock below.

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Some distance down the dock a figure stands with his back to the commodore, and even with the dying light there's no mistaking that red hair.

The tapping starts to slow, gradually, as does the sound of footsteps on the dock. Both finally come to a stop.

At the moment, Merriman is half-turned away from the figure nearby. His gaze is fixed on the sluggishly moving waters of the tidal Thames.

Then, quietly:

'...will it rain, do you think?'

"You're asking the wrong man. Sir."

He turns around slowly, head raised to the sky -- but when he looks at Merriman, his gaze is direct, and his smile is full of teeth.

"That's a piss-poor conversational gambit, too."

Merriman bites back the first unpleasant reply that comes to mind.

Also the second.

The third is a little better. 'Do pardon me for attempting to keep up some semblance of the expected stereotype, for the moment.' He even manages to sound civil as he says it. 'Considering the circumstances last time, I thought it appropriate.'

"Who's around to listen?"

It's truth: sound may carry over water, but there are plenty of objects in the way to muffle it. So long as they keep their voices down --

No need for stereotypes.

"But maybe I'm being unfair." From seemingly nowhere he produces a toothpick, holding it between thumb and forefinger, examining it. "Was it a conversational gambit? Or was it an honest question?"

'To be perfectly honest,' Merriman replies, 'I doubt it will rain for at least another six hours or so. But there is no harm in having one's suspicions confirmed.'

He clasps his hands on top of his stick, folding one over the other.

'And I can think of few others who would be in a position to confirm my suspicions, all things considered.'

"...the weather isn't exactly under my control."

Merriman didn't answer his question. Merriman is currently getting a Look.

A slight sigh. 'It was meant to be an honest question, as well as a means of opening conversation, yes. Perhaps more of the latter than the former.'

The toothpick doesn't seem to meet with his approval; a flick, and it falls into the black water.

"Well, that's what you get for being metaphorical," he says comfortably. "You people seem to be fond of that. I'm still trying good ones on for size."

Merriman opens his mouth, then closes it when he realises that there is really no good counterargument he can make at this point in time.

A pause, before he tries again.

'Leaving metaphors aside for the moment,' he says, 'I strongly suspect that the deeply unsettling sensation that registered in my mind a few moments ago, faint though it was, is related to the substance of our previous conversation.'

Destruction meets the pause with a grin.

Which fades, quickly, into a thoughtful expression -- which turns away from Merriman, and looks out at the river. "The world is changing. I mean, really changing. You know that, don't you?"

'Seeing as how my intent in all this is to ensure that a mob of disaffected New England colonists eventually band together to destroy several thousand pounds' worth of perfectly drinkable tea?'

It could be said rather flippantly. It isn't.

'But I think that different people have different ideas of how it is changing -- and those ideas are not mutually compatible.'

He shrugs; the movement has a shocking rough grace to it. "The world's going to change no matter what. Right? The one certain thing is that there's going to be change. And that's mine."

"Or it was." No teeth to this smile. "Because it's happening without me. I'm not needed. I figured that out a while back. I'm not seeing this one through. You people -- and regular people -- you're the ones making it happen."

'...haul together,' Merriman murmurs, without really hearing himself speak. 'On a course that is set....'

When his eyes clear, refocusing in the fast-gathering twilight, his gaze is sharp and on the point of glittering.

'In this case, it is no longer a question of where, when, and how, is it? Not when the only answer to all three is now.'

...yep. There are the teeth.

"You're good at this," he says, pleased. "See? And you didn't even have to ask about the weather to get it."

Merriman lets out a huff of breath, somewhere between indignant and amused.

'There will be time enough for that yet,' he replies, his mouth twitching slightly. 'It will take a fair wind to cross the Atlantic at this time of year.'

"Have fun with that," he says, dry. "Me, I'm staying on land for a while. Seems a little smarter than being on the sea."

In spite of himself, a thin chill races down his spine.

(the hour is come, but not the man)

'I...would not disagree with that.'