Chapter Text
Disclaimer: All characters and settings belong to C.S. Forester, A&E, and ITV.
"The woods are lonely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep." - Robert Frost
In his relief and joy at finding Archie alive – joy that refused to be tempered by the dark cell around them or his fellow officer's maddened, unkempt appearance – Horatio had been overcome to the point of forgetting all prudence. His heart leapt and thudded in his chest, beating heedlessly against his ribs, its ecstatic tattoo surely loud enough for Hunter to hear. Archie lived, and even in this thankless hellhole of a prison, that miracle was enough to bring the sunlight back into the world.
Horatio breathed and felt himself relieved of a terrible burden. His deeds, that night taking the Papillion, had not caused the loss of his friend's life. Archie lived. He had not died, adrift in the harsh embrace of the ocean, mouth dry as the desert, bleeding from parched lips as the salty sea around him mocked his thirst. Or worse, been shot by some filthy Frenchman or Spaniard who would never understand the incomparable value of the man whose life they had just snuffed out.
Archie lived, and Horatio was redeemed, redeemed of the dreadful sin of having been the agent of his best and only friend's destruction. Simpson may have cut the fatal rope, but Archie would never have been helpless and unconscious in that jolly boat if not for Horatio's actions.
He was so relieved by the lifting of a fragment of his guilt that Horatio neglected to say any of the hundreds of things he had often longed to tell Archie over the years. The words and thoughts fell completely from his mind, and all he could do was bask, perched on the edge of his new bunk, watching the sleeping form of his shipmate in the darkness, a thousand plans running through his mind. He was scheming, and the rapid facility of his brain as he erected the bare framework of an escape plan surprised even him.
Considering with care, the acting lieutenant reviewed each of his men – Matthews, Styles, Oldroyd, Drummond, Flanagan, Cooper, Hunter – coolly assessing their abilities and character in much the same way that a silversmith selected the exact tools for a new commission. Gather your resources, know all you could about your enemy, and then act.
Horatio's mind was alight, and the muffled snores of Hunter on the bunk above could do nothing to dim the fire of his cheer. Archie lived! The soft breathing on the other side of the cell was a testament to that, the breathing that drew his memory back to anxious nights on the Justinian and the warm promise of battles and redemption on the Indy.
Archie lived, and every quiet breath reminded Horatio of that and filled him with hope. If such happy miracles could happen, if the sea could be forced to relinquish her dead, if life could be breathed back into a corner of Horatio's heart that he had sealed off years ago, then this prison could not hold them for long.
Archie lived, and they would escape. It was only a matter of timing.
. . . tbc . . .
A/N: HH was a part of my childhood and had the most influence on my character of any piece of literature or film, with the possible exception of The Lord of the Rings. I have often contemplated writing a piece of fic for HH, but until now, I had never found an idea that I thought worthy of publication. This idea will probably run from 5-10 short chapters. Feedback would be greatly appreciated!
-AiH