The Only Path Between Sea and Sky

[politestpirate]

To the right was the ocean, stretching to the horizon.

To the left was sand dunes, as far as he could see.

(The sky, blazing and blue, spread all around without a cloud to relieve the monotony.)

The only thing that could be kept track of, to follow, was the shore line winding its way out in front of him.

He lost track of how long it had been since he arrived here- there really was not any way to keep track of the time aside from the relentless crashing of the waves.

(Wellard glanced behind him, once, to see his footsteps washed away by the water, leaving no trace that he had ever been there. He did not look back again.)

There was not any place to go but forwards.

Comments

[politestpirate.livejournal.com]

Wellard just stares at both Sawyer, and the rope, his own hands tight on the pistol.

[bringmethatnpc]

The rope slides easily through Sawyer's hands as he gathers up the loose ends, until his fingers have closed around the knot of the noose.

"One choice is in your hands, Mr Wellard," he says calmly. "The other is in mine. One way or the other, we will see justice done."

His gaze is clear and bright -- and terrifyingly sane.

"Article Twenty-Two. If any officer, mariner, soldier or other person in the fleet, shall strike any of his superior officers, or draw, or offer to draw, or lift up any weapon against him, being in the execution of his office, on any pretence whatsoever, every such person being convicted of any such offense, by the sentence of a court martial, shall suffer death...."

[politestpirate.livejournal.com]

("Indeed, Death.")

He takes another step back, and raises the pistol to aim it level with Sawyer's eyes.

The air is silent except for the dull roar of the waves and the vast emptiness surrounding them.

Wellard's hand is steady.

"Is that it, then? No one here but you and I, and nothing left but your notion of justice?"

[bringmethatnpc]

"It is not my notion of justice, Mr Wellard." Triumph rings in Sawyer's voice as he takes a step forward. "It is our notion of justice -- stripped to it essentials, reduced to its purest and most incorruptible form!"

Even dulled by the oppressive heaviness of the open sky, the roll of the waves bears an echoing resemblance to a drumroll beaten on a hundred thousand drums.

"If any person in the fleet shall conceal any traiterous or mutinous practice or design, being convicted thereof by the sentence of a court martial, he shall suffer death...."

[politestpirate.livejournal.com]

("It makes things harder, to be the side that plays by the rules, doesn't it, sir?")

The rolling echo of the waves, the tension of the faint drum roll, and the hushed waiting stillness surrounding them both-

"You've little concept of what justice is supposed to be." Softly.

("You just have to make the decision- and it is a very important, difficult one-")





Wellard's finger squeezes the trigger.

[bringmethatnpc]

The click of flint striking steel is all but inaudible.

The blast that follows not a split-second afterwards is anything but.




The shot seems to ring out for an interminable period of time, fragmented echoes sharp and jagged against the now-muted sound of the ocean. The acrid scent of burnt powder lingers even longer in the damp salty air.

[bringmethatnpc]

Neither Wellard nor Sawyer have moved -- they stand facing each other in a frozen tableau.

The pistol is still in Wellard's hand, and a thin coil of smoke drifts upwards from the flash pan. But instead of being aimed at Sawyer's eyes, it is now aimed just slightly wide of the mark.

Sawyer's hands are empty.

[politestpirate.livejournal.com]

Wellard lowers the pistol, the smoke wreathing around his hand and up his arm.

"Without honor or mercy, justice is nothing." Quietly, dark eyes looking straight at Sawyer. "I didn't kill you then, even when you had my hate- and I won't kill you now."

He takes a deep breath.

"It's not justice."

[bringmethatnpc]

The atmosphere is no longer quite as oppressive as it had been merely moments before. Something has changed, however imperceptibly.



There is nothing in Sawyer's expression to give any hint of his thoughts. He merely gazes at Wellard, as Time seems to stretch --

(the hour is come)

-- and the air shivers, blurring like heat haze on a blistering day in high summer --

(but not the man)

-- and when it clears, Henry Wellard stands alone on the endless shore.