Chapter Text
Boney was a warrior…
A warrior and a terrior…
Martin sang under his breath as he worked. His voice was no good, but that didn’t matter. There was no one around to hear him. The sound of the waves nearly drowned him out anyways. The sun shone on his back, his wool sweater trapping the small patches of warmth in the otherwise chilly fall afternoon. He picked up his bucket, splashing the last of the whitewash onto the walls, spreading it in thick, sloppy lines with his brush. He stood back. It would have to do for today, the sun would be setting soon. Although given how messy this looked, nightfall might not make much difference. Martin glanced towards the sky. Dark clouds were rolling in on the edge of the horizon, tingeing the falling sun. It would be a difficult night.
Martin climbed the creaking stairs of the lighthouse tower, a piece of bread in one hand and a mug of strong black tea in the other. Under his arm was tucked the book of poems he had bought on his last trip to the mainland. For now, he could rest. He sat down in the rocking chair he kept in the lantern room, finding he had to light a candle to see in the fast fading light. Through the glass, he could see the squall brewing far off on the water.
The light began to fail in earnest as Martin finished the last of his tea, and he got up, readying himself for the night. He poured the oil into the base of the lantern, shielding his eyes as he lit it. He began to turn the crank that turned the lens, and it began to rotate, blinking in and out of Martin’s view in steady rhythm. He opened the door to the gallery, pulling out his telescope to survey the area. No ships yet, but the sight of the waves below made his stomach lurch. He heard thunder roll above him, and quickly stepped back inside the lantern room. The light had begun to dim, although no one but him would have noticed. He turned the knob on the side of the lantern, raising the wick to give more fuel, and poured more oil into the base. He heard the thunder again, and counted 2 seconds before lighting cracked down, illuminating the island in a flash. The rain would be upon him soon. He pulled on his heavy raincoat, and prepared to make his second round of the gallery. Lighting struck again as he stepped out, and he felt rain begin to fall onto his hair. He pulled up his hood. Still no ships anywhere near the island, which was a good thing. The wind was rapidly becoming a howl around him, and he doubted he’d be able to see down to the water for much longer. He began to pray as he stepped back inside, a prayer that his light would keep and he would find no souls claimed by the rocky shores the next morning. The rain lashed against the glass panels, and Martin felt the door rattle. The wind, thunder and crashing waves surrounded him on all sides, but he found the noise of the island as calming as any lullaby.
He topped off the oil in the lantern, but the rain and storm clouds were thick around him. Martin sat in his rocking chair, half reading, half continuing his murmured prayer.
“Dear lord, may thy light shine through mine and keep souls from reaching heaven or damnation before their due, may my island shores be-”
A light shot up into the sky. Martin looked up. It had not been lightning, nor was it the steady beam of the lighthouse. It was small, and died quickly, falling back into what Martin only assumed were the roiling waters.
A distress signal.
“Oh no.” Martin whispered, standing up. His book slid to the floor as he grabbed his coat and the small hand held lantern he kept. He struck a match, lighting the lantern, and pulled on his coat, running down the steps to the ground entrance. He could barely keep steady in the gale. He tried to remember what direction the distress signal had come from, and decided to make for the island’s south shore. He did not have to walk long before he saw the origin of the signal.
What had once been a small boat, now a pile of shattered wood and cloth. It didn’t look like a fishing vessel. In fact, it looked as if it had only been built to hold one person. Martin raised his lantern, attempting to get a better look at the wreckage, and gasped.
A single man lay, halfway onto the island, half still in the water. Martin dropped to his knees in front of him. His eyes were closed, but he appeared to be breathing. Just in case, Martin laid two fingers against the man’s wrist. He had a pulse. Martin hauled him out of the water, and over his shoulder. He felt something dripping down the sleeve of his coat, and was almost certain it wasn’t rain.
The lighthouse keeper’s cabin only had a few rooms, including that spare bedroom that Martin himself had never once used. Well, tonight that would change, he thought, as he opened the door. He laid the man down on the bare mattress, setting his lantern down on the small table beside it. He looked almost as wrecked as his ship. A nasty bruise spread over half his face, and his shirt was torn, revealing a gouge that Martin could barely look at. From the bruising below it, he was sure that he had broken at least a couple of ribs. His left leg seemed to be twisted, too. He left the room, retrieving the small case of medical supplies from his kitchen, as well as a board for the man’s leg. He doubted the roll of bandages in there would be enough, and grabbed a clean sheet from his bedroom. He also grabbed one of his clean shirts. He hesitated, looking at the needle and thread on his dresser, but shook his head. He didn’t want to risk this man’s life further. He re-entered the spare room and opened the case, pulling out the bottle of disinfectant. He unbuttoned the man’s shirt, grimacing at the wound.
“This is going to hurt.” He muttered, pouring the liquid onto a rag. “But maybe it’ll wake you up.” It did. The second Martin touched the rag to the man’s skin, his eyes flew open. Martin smiled at him reassuringly. “Sorry.” He said, wiping the skin around the wound as lightly as he could. He threw the rag into the bucket in the corner of the room. The man’s eyes closed again, his head flopping onto the pillow. Martin picked up the roll of bandages and slid his hand under the man’s back, lifting him into a sitting position, one arm stretched across the man’s collarbone to keep him from keeling forward. He began to wind the bandages around the man’s chest, careful not to wrap too tight and obstruct his breathing. Even as Martin finished the roll, he could see blood seeping through, so he cut off a section of sheet and wrapped it. From there, he doused a new rag in disinfectant, running it along the man’s arms, and wrapped them in strips of sheet as well. He set the board against the man’s left leg and wrapped it tightly. The man clenched his teeth together, but his eyes did not open. He had begun to shiver violently, his teeth chattering. Martin felt his forehead. It was already too warm, and Martin suspected the man would be feverish come morning. Carefully, he draped his shirt around the man’s shoulders and buttoned it up. He picked the man up, carrying him to the small living room. He laid a blanket down on the sofa, laying the man on top of it and covering him with another, thinner one. He lit the fire, and sat down in the armchair next to the man. His breathing was more even now, but Martin suspected it would be a while before he awoke. He knew he should get back to his light, but he was scared to leave this man alone. He seemed so fragile.
Eventually, Martin got up. He banked the fire, keeping it lit but low so as not to cause any danger. He looked at the sleeping stranger one last time, and whispered a prayer for him.
Then he picked up his lantern, and began to make the journey back to the lighthouse.