Beach Ghosts

The western coast of Tiragarde Sound is windswept and wild, and scattered with islands as though the mainland spat into the sea. Halfway between Freehold and Boralus is one island in particular: a rugged crag of a thing, rising above the tumultuous waters like the hump of a great sea beast, albeit one inclined to mind its own business. Enough dirt and sand has collected in its crevices that some tenacious shrubbery has made it their home.

On windy days, the sea foams and dashes froth over the rocks and the vegetation and makes it perilously wet. On sunny days, the rocks are hot and the dirt bakes hard, and the lizards come out to bask.

Whatever the weather, an old lighthouse stands at its summit. Nobody's used it since the Second War, during which Proudmoore Admiralty built another lighthouse a half-mile further up, on a more hospitable tidal island where the sea isn't quite so rough. So here it remains, a soldier relieved of his duty but not from his post, and with not much else to do but fall apart. Everyone's forgotten about it, more or less. Except for Flynn, who heard from a friend who heard from his mate that his uncle says the old light keeper used to parley with pirates, and so there must be all kinds of treasure hidden thereabouts.

Tandred knows it's nonsense, of course, but given the choice between a wild goose chase down the coast and an afternoon of penmanship lessons in a sweaty airless schoolroom, well—he'd choose Flynn and his adventures at the drop of a three-cornered hat.

It's a sunny day, and windy, too. The sea rumbles and sighs, its spray misting the air with rainbows. The lighthouse is a grimy white column against the brilliant sky. They've timed it all wrong, though. The tide's not done making its way out, so the causeway is a foot underwater still.

"We'll have to wade," Flynn says, hopping on one leg at a time to pull off his boots, then bending to fold his trousers into thick wedges at the knee.

"You can wade, I'll ride on your back."

"Lazy bones. You don't even have to roll up your trousers."

Tandred grins and rocks on his heels, fingers splayed in the pockets of his Academy shorts. One more year and he'll graduate to officer cadet, then his uniform will have actual breeches, thank the tides.

"What's wrong, Fairwind," he says, "worried you can't lift me?"

Flynn snorts and rucks a sleeve up to his shoulder to flex. He's been earning some coin stowing cargo instead of being light-fingered around Tradewinds, and it shows.

"Ha," Tandred says. "Noodle arms."

"Knobby knees."

"Hairy legs."

Flynn pulls up his shirt, baring his stomach and the dusting of hair that trails over it. "You just wish you could grow a pelt like this."

Tandred's blond, like his sister and his brother and his mother and not his father, and he's quite all right with that. He sighs with feigned jealousy. "Aye, it's true."

Flynn's ample pride falls for it every time. He thrusts his chest out and preens, and Tandred takes advantage, plucking at a copper-red curl of hair. Just like every time, Flynn squawks and lunges for him. A laugh tears from Tandred's mouth as he splashes across the causeway, through the clear water, hand on his head to keep his hat in place, Flynn on his heels and saltwater spilling into his boots.

"Watch, it's slippy."

There are steps cut into the rock that lead up to the lighthouse. Tandred has discarded his boots and socks on the island's black gravel beach to dry out in the sun. The rock is warm under his bare feet. Warm and steep, and both prickly-rough against his soles and slick with ocean spray and seaweed. Sand grits between his toes as they climb.

"Don't you worry," Flynn says with sunny confidence. "Got myself an anchor."

Anchor, aye. The hand he's gathered in Tandred's longcoat will send both of them plunging to the bottom if he's not careful. Tandred makes his way with a steady resolve, helped along by a handful of wiry shrubbery here, a tuft of tough, springy grass there.

On the second from last step from the top, Flynn shouts, and he's yanked back by his coat. The breath rushes out of him, his fear realised—Flynn must have fallen and now he'll fall too, they'll break their bones, Mother will be ever so cross—but in the next instant Flynn surges up behind him, shoving him up the last uneven step. His arms wrap around Tandred's chest from behind and they go bowling over onto the gritty hot rock.

"Saved your life!" he cackles as Tandred kicks his legs and swears.

"Ah-hh, you—" They might be safe, but Tandred's heart refuses to slow while Flynn still has him in his bearish clinch. "Bloody great oaf."

He elbows Flynn until he lets go and starfishes onto his back, laughing.

"Ha bloody ha," Tandred says.

"You deserve it for crimes perpetrated against my chest hair." He squawks anew. "Oh, your face! You should see it, mate."

It's hard to stay mad at him when he's rolling about laughing at his own jokes, and he figures the sand that's infiltrating his clothes will be a chafing enough punishment. Tandred blows his hair out of his face and gets to his feet, and lets himself laugh, too.

"House Proudmoore owes you a great debt," he says with mock sincerity, hauling Flynn up as well.

"Rightly so." Flynn brushes sand out of his shirt, then gives him a wink. "Don't think I won't collect one day."

They nose around in the oilhouse and the sagging remains of the light keeper's cottage first. The oilhouse is as boring as expected, simply a shed full of cobwebby shelves and few abandoned stoneware jugs marked 'lantern oil'. Flynn sniffs one then tips it onto its side, but nothing spills out.

" ... and Nass says his uncle said that the pirates trusted him on account of him being a pirate too, once upon a time," he says as they make their way over to the cottage.

Tandred wrinkles his nose. All pirates are untrustworthy dogs. It's one of the first things you learn in the navy. "Bah," he says. "I don't see the Admiralty ever hiring a pirate, even only to tend a lighthouse."

"No, no, see, you're not listening. Ex-pirate."

"Oh, sorry," Tandred says primly. "I don't think the Admiralty would ever hire an ex-pirate."

The wind whips the ocean into white crests and fills the air with seaspray. Flynn pushes his damp hair back from his face and shrugs. "Maybe he repented for his wicked ways. People can change, you know."

"He didn't, by your very account."

"Ah, come on." Flynn rattles the cottage's doorhandle without success. "Trading with pirates isn't the same as being a pirate."

"That's just splitting hairs."

Tandred stands with a hand on his hip and watches as Flynn crouches down to work his dubious magic on the lock. One of the tricks his friends down the docks taught him, along with how to pick a pocket. Sometimes Flynn's fascination with all things freebooter worries him. Someday he'll be enthusiastic about it in front of the wrong people, and, well. Folk don't take kindly to pirates, nor those who admire them. For good reason.

Flynn shifts on his feet. His shirt rides up to bare the small of his back. Tandred observes this with faint and distant curiosity. The ocean rains on them and the sun bakes its heat into his face. It must be hot on Flynn's back as well. If he put his hand there, would it be warmer or cooler?

The lock clunks, and Flynn makes a triumphant noise, shaking Tandred from his wool-gathering. The frame has fallen out of square, and Flynn has to give the door two hefty charges with his shoulder before it shudders open.

"Law of salvage, let's go!" he says, and dives into the cottage.

"Wait!" Tandred tries to grab the back of his shirt, but it slips between his fingers with hot friction. The whole cottage looks about to collapse, tides know what state the floorboards'll be in—

There's a splintering crash, a frantic shout; Tandred hangs in the doorway and blinks, trying to chase away the brightness of the sun. The crashing has stopped, but Flynn is still yelling. He barrels into Tandred in his escape, and once again sends them sprawling in the gritty dirt. His yell becomes laughter, high and bubbling.

"Pirate in there," he says, rolling onto his side and trying to catch his breath. "Well. Ex-pirate."

"Told you, didn't I?"

"I don't think they were friends."

The pirate is a heap of yellowed bones, interred beneath the cottage's floorboards. His ribcage is pulverised where Flynn landed, bare feet first. His skull is dented in an unrelated and probably terminal incident.

It's not terribly appealing to think about how he got there, and it doesn't seem to matter how many times Tandred says 'leave him be, mate': Flynn's found his courage and can't be deterred from dropping back down into the crawlspace to despoil his mortal remains.

Tandred leans on the lighthouse's rail and looks out over the sea. Behind them, the sun dissolves on the horizon, banking its embers in the clouds and refracting through the lantern's huge cracked lens, searing pink and orange hues that lick into its concentric circles. It melts over Flynn's silhouette and glows off the tarnished old cutlass he'd pillaged. It's so blunt it couldn't slice a currant bun that was already sliced.

The lighthouse rail could be a ship's rail, and he could be a sea captain, squinting at the bright water, a breeze stirring his hair. They could both be captains one day, each a friendly sail on the horizon the other would be glad to see. Tandred's heart brims to think of it.

He takes off his hat and pats it onto Flynn's head.

There. Perfect.

Flynn looks at him, bemused but smiling, and gives the hat a tip. "Thanks for coming out here with me," he says.

"Course," Tandred replies. "I remembered that it's your birthday—it's been a year, aye? Since we met, I mean. Of course I'd come."

Flynn stiffens a moment, then lets out a sheepish laugh. "Is that, uh. Is that what I said?"

Tandred blinks at him. "Oh my tides!" he says, voice rising in affront he only half-means, which only makes Flynn laugh harder.

"All right, listen," he says, "it wasn't anything personal. I tell everyone I just met that it's my birthday."

"Why?"

"So they buy me things, obviously."

"Oh, that's a bit wily."

"Nah. Never works." Flynn looks up at the sky. A smile rounds his cheeks, makes his eyes gleam. His voice is as warm and rich as the sunset. "Except on you."

His fingers twist a band of leather at his wrist, working it around and around. It's just a braided bit of thong; Tandred had threaded onto it some wooden beads he'd borrowed from Jaina's neglected craft box. A blue one, a green one. It had seemed a nice thing to do, even if they'd only got to talking because he'd caught Flynn with his fingers in his longcoat pocket.

It had been a good excuse to search him out again. He'd been so pleased at such a simple thing.

"That's when I knew," Flynn says, slinging an arm over Tandred's shoulder.

"What's that, then?"

Flynn tugs him in, and Tandred thinks for an instant he's going to put his mouth to his ear and share some carefully-tended secret—he's lost his breath just imagining what it might be—but instead he rests his knuckles against Tandred's cheek and scrubs at his whiskers.

"That we'd be friends," he says, then tries to get Tandred into a headlock.

"Oi, leave off." Tandred laughs and rears back, embarrassed warmth rushing to his face at his fancy. He shoves and shoulders him, gentle but determined, and manages to grab a wrist to subdue his mischief. "Scallywag."

Flynn leans back against the railing and guffaws. He's winded from their horseplay too, though they've had more energetic tussles. His eyes are alight in the dispersing sun. Tandred still has a hold of him, his fingers pressed to the soft skin of his inner wrist.

The sea churns against the rocks below in a push-pull cadence, the great beating heart of their world. Overwhelming, how it makes a fellow want to throw himself in. Flynn's eyes flick away, to the skyline, the sea in the distance on fire, and back to Tandred. Under his fingertips, his blood push-pulls through his veins, just as wild and constant as the ocean.

"Tides turned," he says. "We should scram or we'll be stuck out here for the night."

"Gets cold once the sun's gone," Tandred says by way of agreement. He tugs him along to the stairs. They spiral their way down the lighthouse one creaking step at a time, a free hand each to steady themselves. The sea rumble is muted by the old brick walls.

"We'd have to start a fire. Huddle for warmth. Dibs on your coat."

Ashes streaming up into the night, waiting for the dawn and the morning ebb. Tandred smiles to himself. "I'd share, you know."

They navigate down the hewn rock steps and onto the beach, where Tandred's boots are scattered like flotsam, pushed about by the rising tide. Flynn turns one over and saltwater pours out. The brine will make the buckles seize. Tandred shrugs at him and grins. They'd dry out all right in front of a well-stoked hearth. Maybe Flynn will come up to the keep and get all drowsy, and he'll nap in a wing chair til morning. An ordinary happiness.

Flynn cocks his head, then bends his knees. "Hup," he says.

The hooked moons glow. Dusk spreads like ink over the horizon, chasing the stars from their hiding places. Tandred lifts his hand against the night sky, his fingers splayed like the points of one more. Flynn is a wall of warmth against his chest, his hands hot in the crook of Tandred's knees. He can feel the beads of his bracelet pressing into the side of his leg.

"You weigh a bloody ton." Flynn hefts him up his back, thought he's having no trouble picking his way over the causeway, battered old sword clanking with each step. "All those afternoon teas."

"It's your noodle arms, mate," Tandred says into his ear, just to hear him snort and laugh.

The sea licks around Flynn's calves as he wades, silvered ripples that break into fragments and disperse. They get halfway up the beach, where Flynn decides to lean so far over that Tandred has no choice but to slide off him or have them both topple into the wavy sand.

"Lazy bones, lazy bones," Flynn sings into the dusk, until Tandred gives him a shove and reclaims his hat in retaliation.

"Aye, and you might well hope those bones are lazy," he says, and flings an arm around Flynn's shoulders. "Don't come crying to me if the beach ghost comes to get his cutlass back."

Flynn shivers out loud and laughs, as though he already knows that Tandred would fight a restless spirit for him, and makes ghost noises as they make their way to the shoreline bluff, their backs to the sulking edifice of the lighthouse, their footprints melting away beneath the rising tide.