Private Interlude by Lanternlight

[Amnesty Greysoul]

It was late in the evening when Amnesty found her way to the infirmary again after discharging the rest of her duties, and her body ached as she deposited her armful of various herbs, ingredients, and bottles beside the well-used mortar and pestle that already stood atop the table there. Less than a month aboard this grand vessel, and it was already plainly evident that her stores of her most commonly used tinctures, compresses, and remedies were not sufficient to the task of keeping a whole ship’s worth of crew in decently good health.

Not for the long term. They had done well enough for the short term, but every time another crewbeast had come in with a headache or queasiness or a bloodied limb in need of something to keep it from growing gangrenous, she had watched the stockpile she had once imagined to be more than big enough dwindle at an alarming rate. And that was setting aside all the supplies that Dr. Barrett himself kept properly stocked. Technically, hers were extra additions to the ship’s inventory.

At least she still had plenty of the raw leaves, roots, flowers, seeds and the like to renew her stores. Upon coming aboard she had imagined she was overpacked. How wrong she had been. Now it was simply a matter of finding the time to turn those raw ingredients into medicines that were ready to use when needed, which required a nigh impossible convergence of events: seas that were calm enough for her to work, a night free of crewbeasts attempting to accidentally maim themselves, and duties that finished early enough in the evening that she still had the energy to work when they were done.

The last was only mostly true, she supposed, but aching back and bleary eyes aside, her paws were adept enough to the task at hand. And so, by the warm light of a lantern with the steady thrum of the steam engine and the even rock of the waves, Amnesty got to work.

@Arthur Barrett

 

[Arthur Barrett]

The sea had long exhausted her rage, and for some time, The Golden Hide had sailed with considerable ease. Down in the belly of the ship, oaken beams cradled the infirmary with the thick scent of oak, tar, and vinegar. Warm steam rose from vents in the floor, with a small window cracked open to keep the infirmary from becoming a sauna. Above deck, the ship's bell rang out in three muted pairs, followed by a lone final toll. The last bell hung in the air with some anticipation -- only half an hour until relief would come from the next shift.

The flicker of another lantern joined Amnesty's. Quietly, Arthur slipped into the infirmary, his bare footpaws quiet among the gentle creak of timbers. Though Arthur was technically on call at all hours, his duties came with the luxury of being exempt from the watch system. He'd retired early after dinner that evening, though it seemed he hadn't yet slept. The marten looked to have just gotten out of his bunk. He wore a plain linnen shirt and a tidy pair of night breeches -- but he looked unusually unkempt in his sleep wear. His fur was disheveled, as one having trouble sleeping.

"Still up?" he rumbled with quiet affection, surveying the vixen's work. Crossing the room, he fetched a copper kettle from a hook, and filled it with fresh water, before setting it on the infirmary's stove. "Tea?" he asked kindly, setting out a cup and saucer for himself, and another for Amnesty. As the water boiled, the marten fetched a key from his pocket, and withdrew the bottle of laudanum from the medicine cabinet. He gave it a gentle swirl, before filling a dropper with the contents, and depositing the liquid into his teacup. The dropper returned a second time to the bottle, and then a third[1].

"I've an awful bout of melancholy..." he mused aloud. "Just can't get to sleep. I suppose the storm rattled my nerves more than I'd hoped!" he said rather matter-of-factly. "The brandy in this is really first rate, if you'd like a drop in your tea?"

1. Quite the dosage, even for a marten of his size. The potency between bottles of laudanum varied -- perhaps this was a weaker batch?

 

[Amnesty Greysoul]

The vixen's ears perked and she looked up at the sound of the surgeon's pawsteps. For such a big beast, he moved with a stealth that continued to surprise her. She nodded her head in quiet greeting. Though... as tired as she was, Arthur looked even more beaten down than she felt herself.

"It seemed the best chance I was going to get to replenish some of my more coveted preparations. I'm afraid I completely underestimated how frequent the injuries and illnesses would be in a crew of this size. And yes, please, tea would be lovely."

She turned back to her own work as the marten began to bustle about the stove, the rhythmic scrape of her mortar and pestle adding to the clink of teacups and the bubbling of water in the kettle. And the telltale click of the key turning in the lock of the medicine cabinet. Amnesty glanced up again from her work, one ear flicking in Arthur's direction. There had only ever been a single bottle of laudanum in Redfur's Bywater to Amnesty's knowledge, with no sure way of restocking it once it ran dry. Even now, after years in the Imperium, it felt strange to her to use it in any but the most dire of circumstances.

Certainly, she hadn't so much as thought of taking a drop herself. Yet if she frowned or paused longer than was strictly necessary before giving a small shake of her head in response, she hoped it might have gone unnoticed.

"No, thank you. I'm alright. I'm afraid I'm already tired enough that any weight on that side of the scales would end with me asleep on the table and my work unfinished."

 

[Arthur Barrett]

While the copper kettle warmed, Arthur rolled up his sleeves, and fetched a small tin from the shelf. Carefully, he spooned a measured dosage of small dried leaves into the silver tea strainers balanced on the lip of the cup. "...like all medicine..." he mused aloud, "the key is consistent dosage." As the little copper kettle began to boil, Arthur reached over to fetch a small rag from a nearby hanger, and used it to lift the kettle off it's hanger. Meanwhile, Arthur shot Amnesty another coy look, a wry smile playing at the corners of his muzzle. Told you so. Amnesty's head shake was written off towards his rather boyish behavior, and he took it all in good cheer.

In contrast, Arthur had several galons of laudanum tucked away in his secure storage, and even more stored carefully in the ship's hold. Though it was useful to have a cold heart as a surgeon, Arthur found that in his later years, he found it increasingly difficult to bear good beasts in pain. He certainly didn't give the precious medicine out like candy, but he wasn't stingy with it either.

"We mustn't have that now, should we?" he said warmly, pouring the hot water into the cups. Each were given a little swirl, and then brought over to Amnesty's desk. "How are you finding your work aboard the Hide? Is it what you expected?"

 

[Amnesty Greysoul]

If only he knew how well she knew that particular truism. "I always heard it as 'the dose makes the poison', but it sounds like the same idea."

It had been a night not so unlike this one, hadn't it? A dark room. Ingredients spread on a table before her. A current of thoughts that ran towards all the damage that could be done by the same compounds that were capable of so much good. But then, the similarities ended there, didn't they?

She looked up as Arthur set the two cups on the table and gave him a grateful smile. Steam and a pleasant scent rose from both to dissipate above the table, and Amnesty let her pestle rest and wrapped both paws around the warm cup. A soft chuckle escaped through her nose.

"Truth be told, I'm not sure what I expected. It's not the Slups, that's certain. It's different than most of what I've done before, though the skills transfer well enough. The camaraderie is... welcome."

She attempted a cautious sip of her tea but, finding more likely to burn her tongue than anything else, settled for blowing on it instead.

"How long have you been the Hide's surgeon?"

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Arthur's expression froze briefly as the marten considered the turn of phrase. Gallows humor was certainly common in this profession, but there were still unspoken limits to what could be said, and when.

Was there an edge of menace in what she said? Arthur's eyes searched her face, before glancing at the medicine she was preparing. Nothing seemed off, really. Was he over thinking it?

His mind reached back to his drunken night in the apartment, and a stinging sensation suddenly flared up in his shoulder. The menacing statue loomed over him while he slept, but the warmth of the evening had seemed to silence it's searing taunts.

"Miserable cur will die alone!"

What did it all mean? Amnesty wasn't the looming menace, silenced by... Good heavens, no! Arthur was sure of it. All of those good beasts were the ones who had silenced the statue.

But the marten had hesitated for a socially unacceptable amount of time now, and was sure that Amnesty would have noticed. He let out a disarming chuckle, before blowing on his own tea.

"The dose makes the poison? Good heavens, I didn't put that much in my tea... Only fifty drops! It'd take nearly three times that amount to put me at risk. I'm a hefty beast -- as I'm sure you have first hand knowledge..."

The tea was a lovely amber color now. Arthur lifted the strainer from his cup, tapped it gently to shake the last drops off, and set it on his saucer.

"Only my second voyage, actually. The first, as I'm sure you gathered, was our... ...ill fated expedition to Urk. A bit of a joke that I was placed here, actually. The medical college seemed to want to be rid of me, and I can't help but think they were rather upset I came back to Bully in one piece!" he said dryly with a hint of pride.

His tea was still too hot, but Arthur seemed to be in no rush. "No milk or sugar I'm afraid," he remarked ruefully, diverting the subject away from himself. "Even with all her modern majesty, certain luxuries are yet too dear for our Hide. Some things take a while to get used to. You seem to be adapting rather well to life on a ship though. You've traveled before, haven't you?"

 

[Amnesty Greysoul]

Whether it was the pause before Arthur spoke again or something in the marten's eyes as he searched Amnesty's own, it was enough to spark all the subconscious warning bells the fox had so carefully placed. Five minutes alone in the room with the beast who had gotten her aboard in the first place and she was in danger of ruining everything. Watch your tongue, Amnesty, you did what you did and you'd do it again. You don't deserve--

But she couldn't finish that sentence, not even in the privacy of her own thoughts. Because if she ever got what she deserved...

She frowned, slightly, and her dark ears flattened behind her in an anxious combination of several emotions, none of which she could have identified with any kind of certainty. Even as Arthur assured her of the reasonableness of the dosage of laudanum in his tea, Amnesty babbled a stilted apology and closed her teeth over the rim of the mug with a clink and every intention of leaving them there until she could be trusted to speak again.

"The one where you got the injury I restitched," she said, and it seemed an innocuous enough thing to say.

She laughed once, softly and sincerely, at the surgeon's wistful mention of milk and sugar. "Those are luxuries for the likes of me even on shore," she said. "It makes the transition easier."

She didn't answer Barrett's questions about her previous travels immediately. A curl of steam rose from her mug, bringing the scent of tea to her nose. She breathed in deep, then chanced a cautious sip.

"I have. Years ago." It was there, on the tip of her tongue. Little details, hints about her past. Every one of them something she had spent the better part of the last... years avoiding. Burying. Denying. It was still there, though, wasn't it? Like an infection treated on the surface only to spread into the bone. She took another sip, too quickly this time, and winced as the scalding liquid hit her tongue.

Might as well see if there was still a chance to save the limb.

"I was born on the Cahntinent," she said, "and came to the Imperium six years ago now, I think. I found passage on a merchant ship that was willing to let me pay my way by acting as their ship's doctor while I was aboard. I stayed with them four months before we made berth in Bully Harbor. Long enough to get my sealegs, at any rate." She smiled again, faintly. "Honestly, they came back faster than I thought they would."

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Guarding.

Tails could be deceptive, but the ears were a window into the soul. Arthur reneged his dismissal. He'd touched on something painful, and his curiosity peaked. Perhaps he could return the favor, and offer some comfort?

Hardly a beast on the ship had a normal past. The Navy was like a giant ball of sticky gum that gathered up all the misfits of society -- and shut the Gates if he weren't a prime example. At the mention of the stitches, his muzzle flickered into a smile in spite of himself.

Lifting his cup, Arthur took a careful sip. The tea was spiced with the brandy, and the heat helped the medicine take effect immediately. The aches, pains, and sorrows of life faded, and his shoulders seemed to relax.

A bashful flush washed over his ears. Perhaps he'd betrayed his upper class heritage. Arthur had forgotten that for some beasts, even tea was a luxury. His ties to wealth wasn't a card he held closely to his chest, but one he was shy to flaunt.

The marten studied her again gently, holding his tea in his paws pensively while she spoke. Prying would do no good -- the story would come voluntarily, or not at all. Though there was nothing he could use to corroborate her story, lies were so exhausting. At night, there was only strength left for truth.

Questions swam in the Marten's mind. Gently, he began to probe. "Ahh -- I've been on Vulpinsula all my life, regrettably. Geography was my worst subject in school. What was it like there? I've been told it's rather nice. Just looking to see the world?" he asked, leaving plenty of room for the vixen to move within the conversation without cornering her.

 

[Amnesty Greysoul]

The wince came before she could stop it, nothing more than a momentary tightening of the muscles in the vixen's shoulders and around her eyes. Subtle as it was, Barrett must have seen it.

A dry chuckle. "It is. Nice, that is. Beautiful. More trees and rivers than you have on Vulpinsula. More of everything, really. It's massive." She attempted another sip of her tea, more cautiously this time, and was rewarded with both an excuse for several long seconds of delay and a taste of the hot liquid that proved more enjoyable than the last. "I would have been happy to spend all my life there."

A sudden ache clenched tight in the back of her throat and she tried to swallow the lump. It didn't help. The deep breath she tried next was only marginally more effective.

"Trouble is, there are more warlords and roving bands of murderers, too. One of them burned my village to the ground and killed anyone who didn't get away. Or join them." She shrugged. "I didn't get away."

She kept her voice even, clinical, her words describing a wound without allowing for the overwhelming emotion that would muddy the picture. And she forced her eyes to meet Barrett's. If the surgeon were to judge her, then by Mar'kan she would take it with a straight spine and all that remained of her dignity still intact. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a desperate little voice whispered that she didn't need to do this, that she could keep her secrets for a little while longer. But the ship rocked quietly and the lanternlight was dim and her instinct told her the big marten could be trusted. How she hoped that instinct wasn't wrong.

And she was so, so tired of carrying her grief and her guilt alone.

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Catching sight of the pained expression, Arthur looked off modestly out one of the port windows. He'd opened the wound rather clumsily, and nobeast wanted to be gawked at in their sorrows. Swifttail jumped to mind, and the marten opened his muzzle to quickly recommend they connect over their shared past -- but he held his tongue. No, Amnesty had come to him. There was no pawning off this duty to others.

He sat silently at the table while Amnesty enjoyed her tea, and cradled his cup of tea between his paws. The heat soaked up his wrists, fighting off the chill he'd gathered walking about in his bedclothes after dark. "I'm sorry to hear..." he said, eyebrows furrowing. "...it's been a difficult decade for more than just Vulpinsula, I see."

Something about her clinical tone made it difficult for him to push for further questions. There was an underlying bitterness that he was afraid to touch just yet. Questions about how old she was, and of her family seemed gauche and... almost indecent. The marten fell silent as his thoughts wandered.

She's a pretty vixen, too. There was a definite uptick in the number of beasts coming in for the slightest of injuries, and they always seemed somewhat disappointed when Arthur saw to them. The thought of a young Amnesty in a village raid tugged at his heart strings, and brought up memories of Urk. Vihma carrying Piper's broken body into the infirmary. It was always hardest to witness war and devastation afflicting the young, and the old marten seemed clearly affected by her revelation.

But now Arthur had paused for a long time. Even with all his time to think, he still hadn't been able to conjure up a better question. "How... how old were you when they came?"

 

[Amnesty Greysoul]

Silence wrapped around them. Amnesty let it settle on her shoulders like a cloak and let the older beast's solid presence anchor her to the present. The Hide creaked. The furnace grumbled. More distantly, the quiet waves fell against the hull again, again, again. The smells of various plants and half-crushed herbs mixed with the smoky, sulfurous smell of the engine and the salt breeze that permeated everything.

In the low light, the vixen's light fur appeared pale and ghostly.

"Nineteen." One word. The memories it contained crowded around her. The Midsummer feast. The talk of the coming harvest. Sivia's approving nods as the villagers began to trust her to treat their hurts and ailments. The heavy dread that fell over the village as the first beasts saw the fleet of long, flat-hulled ships creeping up the river. They arrived midmorning. "I was nineteen."

She stared down into her teacup, her eyes following the few drifting specks of tea leaves as they settled lazily to the bottom of the cup.

"Nineteen, and my whole world burned." A long, long pause. "And I was one of the lucky ones."

 

[Arthur Barrett]

"Nineteen."

In his mind, Arthur pieced together a short timeline. Amnesty must have been in her mid twenties. That made two-ish years unaccounted for, and Amnesty had already given a rough outline of what those years entailed. He perched his elbows up, holding his tea under his nose as he struggled with how to respond.

"Well at least you..." he started, before wincing. No, that wasn't the right path to take. What would Thistle have said? Or Berchar? Arthur cleared his throat, and looked down at his tea as he wished he were better with comforting suffering beasts. His defacto personality was gruff and abrasive, and it seemed like a small eternity since he'd had the need for his gentler side.

"Those must have been difficult years... how did you escape?" he asked, hoping that bit of the story might be a little brighter to discuss.

 

[Amnesty Greysoul]

That was what it had been. An escape. Extenuating circumstances. Justified. But couldn't she have found another way?

Amnesty looked up. Her ears pinned, her jaw clamped shut, her brow twisted in an agonized frown. Her slate-grey eyes met Arthur's in a look that contained defiance and despair and vicious hatred. And when she spoke, her voice was low, cold, and strangled.

"I killed the bastard."

The words hung in the air. Emotion warred in Amnesty's chest. Guilt. Fear. Rage.

Relief.

She had never told a soul. She had sworn she never would. And here she was, tearing open the old wound as if it had never really healed in the first place. Maybe it hadn't.

"Perhaps I'm not the healer you think I am." The words were soft, weighed down with the possibility of what happened next. Clapped in irons, marched to the brig. Removed from the ship at the first port of call. She had started over before. She could do it again. "I swore to do no harm."

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Arthur had only seen facial expressions like that in a pawful of situations, and he met her gaze with grim intensity. He listened intently and wordlessly, his expression unreadable for a moment. There was no favor in his eyes -- and yet, there was no judgement either. He merely listened. The gravity of the moment stayed his initial response. Though he wanted to return a grim smile and pour her a shot of brandy, she wasn't the jaded monster that he was. From what Arthur could tell, she actually felt regret for taking a life -- even the life of one who had razed her village. Perhaps he shouldn't be so fast to sear her conscience.

This sort of response required more thought. More questions. Arthur took a deep breath, and relaxed his expression a little as he looked up at the ceiling in thought. Slowly his expression began to relax, and it was likely apparent that his impending interrogation was not hostile, but socratic. "You say he was a warlord? Tell me of this beast. Was he a marauder, a pirate? Or was he operating under the flag of a nation? Did he spare the dibbuns and those who surrendered?"

 

[Amnesty Greysoul]

A flash of confusion. Whatever she had expected, it was not the big marten's softened expression. She found herself bracing. Her back and shoulders were rigid, taut as rigging in a storm. She had held her breath, and might have kept holding it if she hadn't unclamped her jaw to speak. A single word came out in a whisper.

"No."

The ache returned to the back of her throat. A prickling began in her eyes and spread to her nose, and the infirmary blurred. Her paws stiffened, clenching, and she removed them from her tea cup before she did the fragile porcelain any violence.

And she held Arthur's gaze.

It was all but impossible. She was exposed. Torn open with all her wounds laid bare for him to see. Fitting that he was a surgeon, then. She had stitches his body's wounds; perhaps he could make an attempt on the ones on her soul in return.

"Not even the dibbuns." A flicker of memory, of fire and blood. "We bought time for some of them. Not all. There was--"

But her voice cracked. She shook her head.

"He was a fox. Vulsk. A marauder. A beast who thought himself great because a ragtag band of cutthroats hung on his every word because he was just mean enough and clever enough to give them whatever they wanted."

 

[Arthur Barrett]

In the moment, the marten had steeled himself as he had on the shores of Urk. Though the loss of dibbuns was always a poignant subject, he forbid his mind to wander back to the Winter War, or to Rosamund. A dark expression washed over his face, and he sat frighteningly still. Arthur had quite the reputation aboard the Hide as a short tempered beast who was unpleasant to deal with -- and with his hackles raising up, he looked even more imposing than usual.

"And you're positive he worked alone? There were no flags, no letter of marque? He wasn't a privateer?" he asked, with his jaw set. But Arthur already knew the answer. Before the poor vixen had the time to answer, he fired off another pointed question. "Did you issue a formal challenge, and kill him under a properly conducted duel?"

 

[Amnesty Greysoul]

Amnesty's stomach clenched and her brush threatened to double in size, but still she held her superior's gaze. That dark look. Was it directed at her? Her actions? Or at that long-ago destruction she was resurrecting word by word?

She braced against the flood of questions, her mind a welter of certainty and reopened grief. Positive?!? The cold rage that shot through her must have shown in her eyes but there was no time to answer before the next hit like another awful body shot.

The sound she choked out might have been a sob or a bitter laugh. Either way it was disbelief given voice. "A duel? No. Maybe my honor would have survived. I wouldn't have."

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Anger. Incredulity. Defensiveness.

Honesty.

Arthur had drawn out all that he suspected lay under the surface. At her admission, a cold and hateful fire lit in his eyes. "Fitting."

The marten took a deep breath, and sat further upright on the table. "Vulsk didn't formally declare war on your village, did he? Nor did he show you or your people any mercy? Then it seems to me, Ms. Greysoul, you merely returned to him the kindness he showed you."

The marten studied Amnesty closely, and considered his words carefully.

"But suppose you stayed your paw. Do you think he'd have stopped at your village?"

 

[Amnesty Greysoul]

And that was the rub, wasn't it? A black abyss opened before her, its emptiness spilling from her eyes, dulling them and leaving her cored.

"You know a beast by what they do," she whispered. "If mine are the same as his--"

But Arthur spoke again. Another question, and the answer was fraught with more bloody memories. Because she had stayed her paw. For more than a year. And in that time--

No. She hadn't stayed it. It had been bound, sometimes literally. The moment she had the opportunity...

"He didn't. There were more villages. More... slaughter. I tried to help beasts get away, but I couldn't let him know. I was a coward. I... didn't want to get caught."

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Though other beasts may have been more gentle in their approach, Arthur was... a difficult beast. He had little patience for foolishness. Arthur's muzzle suddenly split into a grin, and he let out a dismissive laugh -- though it was hard to tell what he was laughing at, Amnesty or her notion.

"Ah yes, the spitting image of Vulsk, you are! Following straight in his paw prints. Young Master Finnian should keep an eye open while he sleeps!" he said with another great laugh. Though, a glance to her sorry expression tamped down some of his condescension. The marten cleared his throat sheepishly, and continued.

"Ms. Greysoul, I have not fully examined your story from every aspect. So I do not intend to play judge and jury... But I must say. It very well could be that you do not tend to drunken pine martens out of good will, but as a way to gain their trust. It may also be that you are secretly a pirate captain of the Red Fleet, and intend to take over the Hide. And it may also be true that I am Santa Paws, disguised as a ships surgeon, and Finny is my little elf. But those probabilities do seem... astronomically remote."

His mirth settled down as quickly as his ire. Arthur sighed contemplatively, and looked down at his tea. Tilting it upwards, he downed the rest of his drink, and set the empty teacup down on the saucer with a dignified clink.

"And should they all happen to line up, I regret to inform you that your name will be moved onto the woodlander list."