out of the sea came he

"... and that's when I realised I'd run out of options and there was nothing for it but to leap heroically from the edge of the cliff," Flynn says to the enthralled reception of his drinking partner, an unsuspecting mainlander who's earned this position of honour by happening to be next to him at the bar.

"Oh, no," the man says.

"But you see," Flynn continues with a hearty slap of the man's shoulder. He is clearly anxious to acquire his drink and vacate, but an audience is an audience. "All of my machinations fell neatly into place. I landed gracefully astride my faithful gryphon, who had heeded my call and—"

"Thought that was Taelia's gryphon." Wesley the barkeep slides a fresh pint across the counter.

"Hush, you." Flynn catches it up before the man can and takes a long swallow of it. "And get this poor fellow a drink, he looks like he's about to expire. Anyway, okay, picture this: I landed with astonishing panache astride Taelia's faithful gryphon, who cherishes me just as deeply as she does Taelia—"

"I heard you were clinging for dear life to the saddle and howling like a hozen with a toothache."

That was one of Rosaline's Outriggers. She ignores Flynn's petulant frown and nudges him with an elbow, making space at the bar to the other side of him.

"Ayup, sounds more like it," Wesley remarks

"Excuse me! I hardly think that's in keeping with my dashing reputation, do you? Anyway. So I was clinging heroically to Galeheart's saddle, one handed, I might add—"

"Oi," Wesley interrupts.

It's almost as if these rotters aren't interested in hearing this story for the seventh time. Flynn's about to have some stern words about showing the appropriate respect for the oral tradition, maybe in a slightly dirty way just in case anyone's feeling frisky, but the barkeep's attention is on the tavern door.

A boy of about eight hangs on the doorframe, leaning over the threshold.

"Oi, sprat. You can't be in here. Scram."

"There's pirates in the harbour," the kid says with the imperiousness of one charged with imparting a very important message, then cheeses it off down the promenade.

"You bloody what?" The Outrigger's flagon hits the bartop with a thump. A hush falls across the Snug Harbor, and in the next moment every docker, sailor, soldier, and barfly in the place erupts from their seat and tries to crowd their way out of the tavern at the same time.

"And that's the story of how I single-handedly rescued Jaina Proudmoore!" Flynn calls after the jostling mob, throws his coat on and his drink back, and follows on their heels.

Flynn elbows his way through the press of bodies on the northern sea wall. The sky is thick with acrid smoke, and under that, the distinct odour of spent mana, sharp like the air after a lightning strike. He can only think that some powerful magic must have been done here if he can smell it over this salty lot.

The crowd reaches critical density and Flynn finds he can't shove his way any further toward the sea gate. He can leverage a burly shoulder to get a better look, though, and hoists himself up with the not entirely genial help of a scowling big-boned fellow whose armpit he's recently become intimately acquainted with, and an equally towering worgen whose fur affords him a good grip.

He catches a glimpse of the ships. Irontide colours in a thick fog that licks over the harbour waters. No doubt Ashvane is among them. Traitor scum. Flynn's lip curls, but before he can get a more thorough reccy of the situation, the worgen loses her patience with his tugging and hooks a paw behind his knee, propelling him up and over the heads of the crowd. Thus, with much complaining and decidedly ungentle handling, he is borne to the promenade wall like a sack of ballast about to be heaved overboard.

Much better view. Right until the fog comes blasting off the sea in a great thick wave and almost topples him back into the crowd. Some kind soul braces their hands on his back, and with a muttered, 'sakes, Fairwind,' rights him.

"Cheers, mate," Flynn says—or was going to say, but the words die on his lips. A murmur of awe ripples through the crowd, growing in intensity and volume and then breaking into great whoops of joy.

From the bank of stormclouds a fleet of ships emerges, advancing on Ashvane's vessels.

The fleet, limned by flashes of lightning.

The fleet, home at long last.

They bound over the waves, closing in on the pirates. Great handsome ships with their green and golden sails, the Proudmoore crest flying... well, proudly. It's enough to make a fellow feel downright patriotic, and Flynn might have joined in with the crowd hollering their pledges to Kul Tiras if his heart hadn't come alive with a different kind of fervour, hammering against his breastbone fit to crack it.

"Oh, Tidemother," Flynn bursts out, loud enough that any other time he might've turned heads, but today the words are lost in the uproar. "You canny old lass, tell me you've gone and brought him home. Tell me he's home. Tell me—"

He gazes at the flagship as if he has any hope of making out its captain from all the way up here, but damned if he isn't going to crane his neck and lean as far as he can for the merest glimpse of Tandred Proudmoore.

Things are disappointingly anticlimactic after all that thunder. Turns out that incarcerating a dozen shipfuls of pirates isn't much of a spectator sport, involving not much more than a lot of back-and-forth of rowboats bristling with Admiralty pikemen and just as many port authority jobsworths shaking manifests and waving their arms. The rest of the crowd get bored long before Flynn does, gradually thinning out as the day wears on.

Flynn, though—he can have the patience of the ocean when it suits him. He sits on the promenade's wall throughout the afternoon and into the evening, listening to soldiers and sailors shouting, the clatter of oars on thwarts, the flutter of reefed sails.

Easy to let his mind wander to pass the time. These are sounds and smells rich with memory, brackish water and seaweed, seagulls squalling, all nice and nostalgic with the late warmth of the sun on his face. They spent a lot of time on the barnacled piers and rocky beaches around here, him and Tandred. It's where they first ran into each other; a couple of wild-haired lads still growing into their limbs, looking for adventure, or at the very least a spot of mischief.

"Mother told me not to feed strays," the blond boy had said, perched on a dilapidated old boardwalk on the southern strand. He wasn't one of the orphanage kids, but Flynn had seen him around before. A gaggle of other Fairwinds and Followseas horsed about nearby, but that day Flynn had broken off from the rough play, drawn to the lad and his calm slouch.

He sat himself down without invitation, bare feet swinging next to his booted ones, and shamelessly eyed up his sandwich.

The boy handed him half without further comment.

"She's right," Flynn announced with a spray of bread and cheese crumbs. "Now you'll never be rid of me."

"Don't mind it," the boy said. "Better not follow me home, though, or you'll get us both a scolding." He grinned, and it was bright like sunlight striking the water.

Truth was, Flynn would've followed him anywhere just for that smile. That's the first thing he remembers about him, and the last thing, too, so many years later: Tandred leaning with his elbows on the ship's rail, the dawn crowning him with its golden light. He'd butted Flynn with his shoulder and called him a salty bastard for filching his coffee, corners of his eyes creasing as he grinned that same grin.

The thought stirs up a keen grief, a bolt of longing, but Flynn lets it wash over him. Those feelings can't touch him any more. He knows now that he's going to see him again.

And soon—the sun kisses the horizon, the sky growing dark. Lanternlight dances over the water as the fleet finally shakes out its sails and begins to move, in slow procession, towards the docks.

Flynn hasn't seen the wharf so busy in over a year. Likely he'll lose his sweet mooring next to the Redemption the instant he next sets sail, but he can hardly be sore about it. He hurries past the Merry Maiden and the Courage of Boralus and almost a score of other vessels, weaving through knots of weary, weeping, laughing crewmen and loved ones, searching for a face that he knows.

He reaches the end of the docks without seeing it. Hm. The Lord Admiral's Pride must be anchored elsewhere. Probably in the tideway between the keep and barracks, now that he thinks about it. Bloody typical.

Flynn tugs his collar up against the cool evening breeze, turns on his heel and sets off towards the barracks at a clip.

"Oh, so that's where you've been." Flynn flicked at the shiny buttons on Tandred's cadet uniform. "Didn't tell me you were enrolled in toff school."

"I've been trying to get out of it," Tandred grumbled, shrugging off his blazer as they hiked through Upton's steep cobbled streets. He'd been touchy since Flynn had accosted him in Unity Square, where he'd found him staring blankly up at the statue of Daelin Proudmoore. He clearly hadn't anticipated seeing Flynn there, which was fair enough, but something about it had got him all flustered. That was more odd. It wasn't as though Flynn hadn't noticed he was decently off.

Maybe he was waiting for Flynn to make fun of his shorts and his dapper little neckerchief.

"I like your shorts and your dapper little neckerchief," he said.

"How about you go kiss a jellyfish's arse." Tandred freed himself of the kerchief and attempted to stuff it into Flynn's pocket while he laughed. "What are you doing this end of town, anyway?"

"Posh folk's market." Flynn snatched the kerchief and shook it out, tying it around his own neck in the docker style. He'd racked up a solid morning's worth of petty larceny; there was no way anything else was fitting in his pockets. "Heard it had a nice atmosphere."

"Oh, aye?"

"Yep, yep. Very generous of spirit."

"Flynn. You'll be caught."

Tandred shook his head, though didn't sound particularly critical. It was one of the things Flynn liked about him. Always took him as he was, no judgement. Sometimes he thought Tandred could make better friends.

"Nah. It's the only thing I'm good at, mate, so I do it well."

He had, of course, been caught before, pilfering from the stalls at Tradewinds, but didn't see the need to mention it. He'd had his ears boxed and was sent on his way, no big deal, even if the rest of the gang had been sour on him for losing their haul. He hadn't an inkling he'd land in Tol Dagor back then.

"You'd be good at other things," Tandred gently said. Then, "I have to get back to class soon."

"Oh, what's in store? Deportment? Etiquette? Algebra?"

"Navigation and chart work." Tandred looked resigned to his fate. "And trigonometry."

"Boring. Bunk off and come down to the docks with me. I've got some shiny things to show you."

"I'll bet you do." Tandred hesitated, drawing to a standstill. He cast a glance at the Academy's stone walls, then frowned in the direction of Proudmoore Keep. It really had taken Flynn far too long to clue in.

"Come on, you know you want to," Flynn wheedled. "We all missed you down there, you know."

"You all did, did you?" Tandred was still looking away, but Flynn could see his cheek rounding with a grin.

"Uh-huh. Besides, I reckon you'll get a demerit for missing bits of your uniform." Flynn proudly patted his new kerchief.

"That's a solid argument. Oh... all right. Best not go back until I'm proper put together." Tandred shot Flynn an impish look, cheeks dimpling beneath his sparse beard. He tipped his cadet hat to a jaunty angle, rolled up his sleeves and pulled his shirt open halfway to his waist. "Who knows when that'll be. But what are they going to do, expel me?"

"Atta boy." Flynn slung an arm across his shoulder and happily enabled his delinquency all the way to the docks.

Flynn sees her as he crests Upton's steepest street: the Pride, anchored in the strait as he'd suspected. He can just about make out a cluster of people on deck in the silvery moonlight. His stomach flops about like a landed fish.

All downhill from here. He takes off, pelting over the cobblestones until he reaches the riverfront plaza. There's a set of steep stone steps down to the landing proper—here's where visiting dignitaries used to moor, back when Kul Tiras had stronger links with the mainland. Quick access to the keep, instead of being made indignitaries by having to wade through the fish guts and seagull shit on the main docks.

He hops up onto the wall that hems the plaza off from a sharp drop down into the river. The evening wind blusters his coat around his legs and whips his hair into his face, but for once he isn't thinking about whether he's cutting a rakish silhouette, because there, on deck—

Oh, he's looking a state, with his beard grown in and hair to his shoulders, the arms of his coat torn clean off. Under what's left of it, Tandred is as shirtless as ever. Flynn's throat tightens at that of all things. His vision swims until he blinks and scrubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand.

The breeze brings Flynn his voice, a full-hearted cry of joy, and he watches Tandred sweep Jaina up into a hug, Lady Katherine wrapping her arms around the both of them. It's a family reunion a long time coming. Flynn thinks about that, about how Lady Katherine had thought all her family gone, all her children lost—but there her two youngest were, back again, whole and alive and smiling.

This isn't a party one of Tandred's drunken mates should be crashing, no matter how much he wants to. And, well, it's already past midnight. Flynn has an early island run on the docket tomorrow.

He stays a few minutes longer until they all safely disembark, then hops down off the wall and trudges back towards Boralus with a steady heart.

Boralus was bustling in the bright summery heat. Gulls wheeled high above the colourful bunting that fluttered in the sea breeze. Streamers and confetti heaped up into piles, caught around the legs of the chairs and trestle-tables that had been set out along the promenade. Flynn darted between them, helping himself to the bounty of free food on offer.

If the regatta was supposed to be about buoying the nation's morale, then as far as he was concerned, it was doing the trick. The temptation was to stuff his face right away, but if today was going to be perfect what he needed first was the right company.

He knew Tandred was around here somewhere. He'd seen him, after all.

Flynn mingled in the crowd for a while, liberated a couple of carelessly unguarded purses, then wandered down to the docks. When he had no luck there, he tried the flat rocks by the southern piers. There he was, boots set aside and his feet in a tidepool. His knees were up, arms slung over them, chin buried in the sleeves of his finest finery.

"Your Lordship," Flynn said, affecting a gratingly posh accent. He'd been practising since the first boat race—the formal opening of the regatta and traditionally adjudicated by a member of each of Kul Tiras' noble houses. Including, as it turned out, Tandred bloody Proudmoore. He kicked off his scuffed boots and flopped down next to him, digging his toes into the slushy warm sand that had settled in the bottom of the tidepool. Something in his pocket squished.

"Suppose you had to find out sooner or later," Tandred said. He sounded far too glum for such a sublime day. The breeze stirred his fine hair, spun gold against the blue of his coat, the blue of the sky.

"Probably would have been sooner if you'd told me." Flynn reached a hand inside his duster, scooping out the deconstructed remains of a sweet pastry. "Afraid I was gonna make fun of you?"

Tandred looked over at him, a soft crease to his brow, then out over the sea at the yachts with their bulging spinnakers as they skated over the glossy water. Faint cheering from the promenade reached them on the breeze. "I was afraid you'd stop," he said. "Hardly anyone else does it. It's not befitting so you aren't supposed to." This with a mocking lilt that told Flynn exactly what he thought about that.

Tandred was a younger brother, but one without an older brother to scuffle with, or an older sister to braid his hair under duress. Flynn furrowed his brow, for a moment following Tandred's gaze out over the water. Then grinned.

"Since when have I cared about what I'm supposed to do," he said. "Tart."

Tandred sat up straight, his face brightening. "Listen here, who are you calling—" he managed right before Flynn shoved his handful of pastry and strawberries and cream into his face.

"You'll not have it, will you? Changed your tune already, eh?" Flynn crowed, bowling him over backwards and straddling him to better mash the tart into his beard.

Tandred sputtered and laughed loudly, shoving him off again and sitting up, crumbs tumbling down the front of his fancy clothing. There was a smear of strawberry juice on his crisp white shirt. Cream spattered the lapel of his coat, already collecting grains of sand. "Bastard," he said, grinning, a light flush on his cheeks. He licked his lips and then gave his mouth a careless wipe with his sleeve.

"I did warn you," Flynn said, grinning back. He gestured at his face. "Hey, you've got a little something."

"I'll show you a little something."

"Oh, that's very modest of—ho!" Flynn cackled wildly, legs kicking up as Tandred tussled him onto his back to rub a handful of sun-crisped bladderwrack through his hair. "Hey! That's not very noble of you, is it!"

"Go sit on a limpet." Tandred laughed again and relented, lying back so they were shoulder to shoulder. Thin ragged clouds passed over the sun, casting quick-moving shadows over them.

Flynn watched him watching him from the corner of his eye while he picked out bits of seaweed. "Doesn't matter, you know." He flicked an unbroken frond at him.

Tandred turned his head to look at him properly, a question in those summer-sky eyes of his.

"Whatever name you tack on the end," Flynn said. "Doesn't matter to me. You're just... Tand."

"You know, if you guys want to skip out on this one I'm good," Flynn says to one of today's batch of Alliance greenhorns, a fellow in mismatched leathers and a shirt so garish Flynn can't help but covet it. "Quota's looking healthy for this week."

It's a dull grey morning, all thick low cloudbanks and a rain to whittle the spirits. There's not much joy in sailing today. Never thought he'd find himself yearning for dry land when the sea was there waiting for him, but there are any number of street corners in Boralus that Tandred might fly around at any moment, hand to his hat and coat flapping behind him, and Flynn wants nothing more than to put himself on a collision course.

The hero—apparently that's what they are—sways slightly on his feet and rolls his shoulders.

"I mean," Flynn pushes, "I'm sure you have plenty of things you'd rather do. Fishing. A spot of baking. I don't know, archeology?"

The hero shuffles a quarter-turn to the left and proceeds to otherwise ignore him.

"All right then. Hey," he says instead to the fellow in extremely spiky full plate trying and failing the scale the ratlines. "Hey, stop that."

He sighs and glances over the third and so far most amenable hero assigned to this run. She sat down ten minutes ago and hasn't budged an inch. Good lass.

"Okay, if we must," he says as the Middenwake hoves anchor and rises with the ebb. "Let's make this quick."

After finding himself committed to his dubious career decisions, Flynn finally summoned the nerve to return to Boralus. He wasn't fool enough to try and visit his old haunts—at least, not the taverny ones, where he'd be hauled off the moment someone decided lining their pockets was more important than the pleasure of his company, but there wasn't anything to stop him making his way into more private places.

Say, the maze near the Keep. It was a good place to sneak around, and he'd always been good at being a sneak.

He'd sent word the day before, given a note to a lad who was to give it to another lad, then had it pass through a half-dozen hands more before it reached Tandred. Plausible deniability. Wouldn't do for the last remaining heir to the Proudmoore name be seen consorting with pirates, even if he'd likely only come to talk this particular reprobate into giving up his lawlessness.

The night was crisp and clear, the taste of snow on the air. It had been a long year, and these last weeks the longest and ugliest. Flynn followed an old familiar route: left, left, through the trellis arch, right, left, take the second exit at the fountain, then right again. A dead end.

Tandred was waiting for him there, hands in his pockets and eyes on the ground, silent as a stone. He wasn't without a temper, could take someone's head off at ten paces if he had a mind, but he'd never turned that on Flynn. More likely, then, he was disappointed.

Much worse, that.

"Tand," Flynn said softly.

Tandred looked up, and if there was something worse than disappointment, it was the expression on his face; an unsteady excuse for a smile that was immediately overwhelmed by his upset. A moment later he'd caught Flynn in a rough hug.

How long had it been? Months. Months and months and more long months since he'd gotten out of Tol Dagor and Harlan'd press-ganged him into captaining his bilge-sucking excuse for a crew, but it had been hard to keep track of a lot of things, including time. He ran his hand up the warm wool of Tandred's coat, flattening his palm against his broad shoulder, and for the first time in a long time felt grounded.

Tandred let out a long sigh and stepped back, holding Flynn at arm's length. "You really can't be here," he said.

"Good to see you too."

Tandred's mouth bowed unhappily. "Things are unsettled. Haven't you noticed? Strange tidings out of Drustvar, unrest in Stormsong—Mother has increased guard patrols." His brow furrowed, gaze flicking to the fraying kerchief at Flynn's neck, then back to his face. "Can't loiter about like it's the old days."

"There's always strange tidings out of Drustvar." If it wasn't the man-eating fauna, it was the ritual blood sacrifices. "But no, yeah, I." Flynn ran his hand over his hair, tugged his ponytail tighter. "I've been elsewhere. Sorry."

"Oh, aye, don't I bloody know it!" Tandred's fingers dug hard into his arm. Hot winds blowing in from him tonight. He fixed him beseechingly with those clear bright eyes of his. "Why this, Flynn?"

"Come on, mate. It's not like I woke up one morning and thought, oh, I fancy a bit of plundering today, actually." Flynn shook his head. There was no way to explain the necessities of surviving several stints of incarceration that wouldn't upset things further. "I have... debts."

"You know I'd not leave you wanting. I'll take care of them. You know I—"

Flynn cut him off with a hiss. "I know. Tides know you've settled more of my tabs than I've had hot dinners, but you can't settle this one. Even if was only money I owed, you know what kind of people I'm running with."

And Tidemother herself help them both if Harlan ever got wind that Flynn knew a Proudmoore personally—he daren't contemplate what terror that bastard would wreak. He'd wring every drop of blood and gold out of them both.

Nearby, the heavy tread and clank of plate armour, the thud of a pike haft striking the ground. If what Tandred said was true, Flynn doubted he could bullshit his way past a zealous guard on high alert. He tried to pull away, but Tandred still had a firm hold of his arm.

"If I can't be here then you're gonna have to let go," he said.

"Wait, please, just—" Tandred made a low, clipped sound of frustration. "I don't care who you're running with. I don't care. I'd do it for you. You know I would."

"Yeah. I know you would and that's the problem," Flynn said, words coming fast off his tongue before he could change his mind, adrenaline singing through him and urging him to hightail it. "Don't you think there's been enough treason done in House Proudmoore?"

Tandred's sharp inhale slipped like a blade between his ribs. He'd have to cut him loose after that. Flynn was too busy marvelling at his own nerve to see the punch coming.

He'd not pulled it, either. Flynn stifled a grunt, turning aside to press his hand firmly against his cheek as though it could hold the pain off. Tandred grabbed his shoulder, roughly straightening him up again, then caught his face, palm over the back of his own hand, turning Flynn to look at him.

"You deserved that," he said, the barest shake to his voice.

"I did." Flynn was half-laughing from the shock of it, but Tandred didn't seem to take it as further challenge; he was already pulling Flynn into another fierce hug. Flynn buried his face in his shoulder, inhaling the familiar smell of his coat, the saltwater soap on his skin. "Ah, mate. Sorry."

"If you won't stop for your own sake," Tandred said, muffled. "Then, please. I'm begging you, Flynn. Do it for mine."

"I can't, Tand. My face has been up on Cyrus' wall for weeks. Even if I wanted to—" Flynn squeezed his eyes tight shut. It might not be too late for a course correction. He prayed it wasn't. Oh, tides, he'd missed this. He let out a ragged sigh. "Even though I want to."

"If you want to, that's all I need. I can plead a pardon for you. Get you honest work. The Roughnecks are always hiring, the Outriggers, same. Cyrus might take more convincing, though."

Flynn huffed a laugh at that, then drew away, frowning at his boots as he thought. "My ship's anchored in the cove a ways west from Boralus. You know the one?"

The smile that played on Tandred's lips was strained, but his eyebrows lifted in undisguised hope. They'd whiled away a solitary afternoon there enough times, mooring up and climbing the old ladder path cut into the cliff facing the beach. Nobody ever came by.

"Get a message there. Pass it through as many people as you can first. Tell them I've been arrested. No trial, no bail. Straight to the rope on the morrow."

"They won't come for you?"

"More likely to gun for whoever they think got the bounty. My first mate will be more than happy to take over. I'll lay low. As far as Freehold is concerned, I'll be dead."

"I'll see it done. With loyalty like that, you have to know you're best out." Something of a condemnation, and not one Flynn was inclined to disagree with. A muscle twitched in Tandred's jaw, then he released his breath in a rush. "I knew you had too soft a heart for it all."

Flynn didn't answer at first, allegedly soft heart beating in his throat and unable to put words to his gratitude. He wasn't one for sincerity at the best of times.

"Thank you," he said, managing to sound more earnest than he'd done in his life thus far. Still a perilous leap, the difference between where he was and where he wanted to be, but if felt like a millstone had been lifted from around his neck. "I owe you. I mean, I know I already owe you, as in, not even worth trying to even things out by recklessly gambling so I can pay you back kind of owe you. But now I really, really owe you, mate."

"No more debts." Tandred leant in, his hat shifting up as he rested his forehead against Flynn's. "Not to me, leastways. All I want from you—is you."

They did not make it quick.

Flynn finally sees Boralus again at dusk, the harbour's leading lights shimmering on the night water. A brief but intense acquaintance with some fire elementals has left the Middenwake on an even more alarming keel than usual. Well, he could kiss the best part of the month's stipend goodbye fixing up that carnage. Maybe Wesley'll take pity and not hassle him about his tab tonight.

If he ever gets to the bar. Being legit has its perks, but also it has some very tedious downsides that have to be conscientiously filled out in triplicate, stamped, signed, sealed and then delivered into the appropriate hands. Where were those blasted papers? Flynn rummages through his heap of charts, luckily happening on a few dog-eared copies.

He's halfway through filling out standard deposit form AZR03 when he senses someone approach his table. Was the abovementioned moved to a place of inspection in accordance with the agreement concluded in (6)c? Flynn could never recall if he'd agreed to any 6, c or otherwise, but he always puts a tick there. So far nobody's questioned him on it.

"I'm done for today, mate, but if you stop by tomorrow I'll sort you out," he says without looking up. "First come first served though, so bright and early, eh?"

A pair of hands in salt-marked leather gloves lean on the table. "Someone finally found a way to keep you out of trouble, then," their owner says.

Oh, that voice. Flynn leaves a big smear of ink all over section seven.

He follows the hands up, past the turned cuffs with their gold trim, up the blue front of the Admiralty officer's coat with all its shiny buttons, until there's Tandred Proudmoore, large as life and twice as handsome, an achingly familiar half-grin on his tanned face. He's scrubbed up pretty again, beard neatly trimmed and sun-lightened hair chopped back to chin length, but there's a weariness in his eyes, a narrowness to his frame.

He's a damn fine sight.

"Well, well. Look who washed up with high tide," he says, once he finds his voice again.

"Aye, finally." Tandred's smile grows bright like sunlight blazing off the ocean.

Flynn tosses his pen and skirts the table to get at him, catching his thigh on the corner in his haste. "Ah, you son of a," he gasps, mostly at that but also a bit at Tandred, who doesn't seem to mind; he catches Flynn with open arms and pulls him into a hug, his hat toppling off and slapping to the ground. He doesn't say anything and neither does Flynn, because what needs to be said when they can stagger into each other's arms like this?

He smells like a mile of warm beach, his breath warm on Flynn's neck and his hair soft between his fingers. He's always adored this man an unreasonable amount, but in this moment Flynn's pretty sure he might die of it. Tandred, definitely not helping matters, turns his head, pressing his nose against Flynn's cheek. It's flirting, the way they've always flirted. He could be wicked like that.

"Ahoy there," he murmurs.

" 'hoy, mate," Flynn murmurs back. "Welcome home. Let's get you rat-arsed."

Tandred blows out a long sigh, half amusement, half satisfaction. "Much to finish up here?"

"I'm done."

"Really, now?"

"Done enough." Flynn draws back so that their noses brush, then whips away from him, crouching to scoop up his hat. "It can wait."

"There's that Fairwind work ethic," Tandred says with a grin. "It's nice to know that some things never change. Walk with me?"

"Every step of the way, mate—oops, had a few already, have we?"

Flynn braces Tandred with a hand on his chest as he stumbles over his own boots. Just the effects of months asea, of course. Dry land wouldn't move right after so long compensating for even the gentlest pitch and roll of a ship.

"One or two, mayhaps," Tandred confesses, somewhat sheepish. He throws an arm over Flynn's shoulder as they walk. "A mite tired, besides. I saw you at the plaza. Waited up, thinking you'd come down to the Keep. Then I spent all morning looking for you before someone told me you'd shipped out for the day. Wh—where are we going?"

Flynn, who had thought it a good idea to head directly to the Snug Harbor, recalibrates, swinging Tandred around to steer them towards the Keep instead. What he's hearing is that Tandred hasn't slept since he got back, and what he thinks is that he should.

"Changed my mind. Thought we'd take a peaceful meander through the estate grounds instead," he says. "Unless you fancy a scrum at the bar, that is."

"Doesn't matter a whit." Tandred runs a hand back through his hair and reinstates his hat. "So long as you're with me."

"Can't think of anywhere else I'm meant to be. Can you?"

"That doesn't look comfortable," Taelia said.

"That's because it's not." Flynn folded up his coat and determinedly shoved it under his head. It improved things very little.

"Most people would get a room, Flynn."

"I wouldn't—not the way they gouge you this end of town."

"I'll treat you."

"On a squire's wages?" He snorted. Tae only had his best interests at heart, even if it did usually overlap with her trying to make her own life a bit easier after he'd had his hand in it, so this was wilful stubbornness on his part. She was damned kind, especially after tolerating his maudlin arse all evening, but tides, all he wanted was to slide into the inevitable cold sobriety in peace. "Nah, I'm good. I've slept worse places."

She laughed, but didn't sound like she was finding any of this particularly amusing. That was okay, because it wasn't really a joke. Flynn hadn't found a single thing to laugh about today, or yesterday, or the day before. Not since—

Yeah.

His head spun awfully, and if he thought too much about any of this he was going to hurl like a lubber on his first day out of port.

"Oh, come on." Taelia took Flynn's shoulder and tried to haul him upright. He only clasped his hands over his stomach and stared resolutely at the sky.

After some minutes of fruitless tugging, she gave up.

"Are you going to be all right?" she quietly asked instead.

"Dunno." Flynn glanced at her, then rolled over, resting his chin on one arm, letting the other dangle off the edge of the memorial. "Probably not. Nothing to be done about it now, though. Just let me sleep it off."

"I didn't mean the booze."

"S'okay. I did."

Her seemingly endless patience was finally starting to wear. Frustration pulled at the corners of her mouth. She shot looks at the guttering candles, the fresh bouquets of star moss, then back at him in his thoroughly respectful sprawl, then visibly resigned herself to the fact he wasn't going to move.

"It's fine," Flynn told her, swinging his arm. His fingertips brushed the lip of an empty bottle. "He'd think this was funny."

"I suppose you know him better than me."

She made a quiet noise, realising her mistake but perhaps decided that fixing it would make things worse. Probably would. A distant crashing had risen up in Flynn's ears, pounding like the ocean against the sea walls, and he thought about how there were no sea walls out there, no cliffs or rocks or glimpses of blessed land, just endless shoreless ocean.

It was the cruellest fate he could imagine for the kindest man he... knew. As the tomb's fresh-chiselled stone leeched the warmth from him, he sought out all of the memories of him he held dear, and, for all it was worth, sent up a prayer in Tandred's name.

"So there I was, out of options except for one, so I grabbed the chest and ran to the cliff edge and leapt, trusting the sea would catch me. But then I heard the beat of great feathered wings, and there she was, swooping in to save the day, my faithful gryphon—"

"Lady Taelia's gryphon, you mean."

"Oh, just go with it, would you?"

Tandred laughs. It's some kind of gift to hear it, and for Flynn to feel his constant presence alongside him as they walk, the occasional bump of his shoulder. He gamely keeps up with the chatter, but he's clearly tired if the scuff of his feet and the way he rubs at his eyes when he thinks Flynn's not looking is anything to go by.

But Flynn is looking. Flynn hasn't stopped looking.

"I missed your stories," Tandred says.

"Stories! They're future legends, I'll have you know."

Tandred grins. "Missed your voice. I was afraid I'd forget what you sounded like, if you can believe it." And then, after a moment, "I was afraid I'd forget your face."

"Think about my face a lot, did you?" Flynn says lightly, despite his heart clenching in his chest with that same fear remembered. "Too many long and empty days and nights, I suppose. I understand. I would've got bored with the usual suspects after about a week." He gestures illustratively with a loose fist. "Lucy Waycrest can only get you so far."

Tandred sputters. "It was one dinner, and more a, a diplomatic rendezvous, at that, what with Mother—"

"Oho, Mishan, then, was it? And her..." More gesturing, no less illustrative.

"Look," Tandred says genially, holding up both hands. "No."

"Both at the same time?"

"Oh, go wrestle an octopus." A flush rises on Tandred's cheeks, and he glances away, at the warmly-lit windows of the Keep, then up at the sky. It's a clear night, strewn with stars. "I just missed you," he firmly says, and, well. Flynn can't tease him about that.

The trajectory of their ambling has taken them towards Lord Admiral's Rest. Flynn slows, dragging on Tandred's arm where it's looped through his, trying to re-route. Tandred resists, probably out of instinctive contrariness rather than any great determination, but it means they end up coming to a standstill right where Flynn doesn't want to.

"I know what's in there." Tandred tips his head towards the memorial garden. "Haven't seen it yet, but I can figure out the gist. It's all right, mate."

Flynn nods, and wonders how to explain that the evasive manoeuvre was actually for his own benefit. He's never found a way to fend off the drop of his stomach whenever he gets close.

"Flynn?"

"Gimme a sec. Just having a moment," Flynn says, mustering up a grin. "Can't really stand to be near the thing, if I'm honest. I mean, look at me. Here you are, and I'm still choking up like I'm never gonna see you again."

Tandred takes his hand, lacing their fingers. He smiles a little, closing his eyes to rest his forehead against Flynn's like he's done so often before: in greeting or celebration, mischief or comfort, and that one last time in farewell.

"Funny thing, grief," he says, after a while.

"Makes you tired," Flynn softly replies, even though it's something Tandred knows just as well as him.

"That it does."

"Speaking of," Flynn says, as Tandred has started leaning more heavily against him. "Think it's about time someone was seen to his room."

"I don't want to sleep. Everything is so strange tonight. What if I wake up and all this is a dream? What if I'm still on the water and not here, with you?"

"Then you have boring dreams." Flynn gives his cheek a soft pat. "Trust me, mate. You're right here, and so am I."

"Sounds like something a dream would say."

"Really? Well. Would a dream do this?" With a bit of grappling and an effortful grunt, Flynn hoists Tandred's strapping self over one shoulder, soundly ignoring his somewhat halfhearted protestations and his scrabbling to keep his hat in place. His other hand makes a fist in the back of Flynn's duster to keep himself steady when he wobbles the first few paces towards the Keep.

"Oh, you rotten—no, my dream would not—"

"Such manhandling! The indignity! Oh, your wounded pride!" Flynn cries out. He finds his balance and hits his stride, taking the Keep steps two at a time, no doubt jostling Tandred breathless with each bound. "Guards! Guards! Do something about all this improper conduct!"

"Belay that!" Tandred calls when the Admiralty guards flanking the steps cast each other alarmed glances, though he's not sounding too authoritative with the way he's laughing. "Belay—oof, Fairwind, you horse's arse—put me down!"

Flynn drops Tandred back onto his feet in the Keep's echoing vestibule and has a wander about while he puts himself to rights. This is as much as he's seen of the place, having little reason and even less desire to spend much time in its vast and, in Flynn's opinion, chilly environs. Whenever he'd needed to lure Tandred out, he'd usually just caused a ruckus at the Albatross. Easily done. They didn't like his type, and he didn't think much of their pretentious ales and individually-wrapped bar snacks.

Tandred catches his arm. He's still looking somewhat mussed despite his best efforts, but Flynn's not complaining.

"Come on then, you good for nothing," Tandred says fondly, and slips his hand into Flynn's. He glances around as though he's about to sneak a paramour up to his rooms, and with that thought, Flynn's future reels out suddenly before him, so obvious when he looks back at all these years past, Tandred's constant companionship, the steadfastness of his heart.

To imagine they wouldn't spend the rest of their lives together—well. Flynn won't stand to hear such nonsense. He laughs, a foolish, pleased sound that echoes back to him through the hall, and lets Tandred lead him up the stairs.

His bedchambers are high-ceilinged, airy, with tall windows looking out over the tideway. There are smudged lights on the opposite shore and ship masts cutting dark silhouettes against a moonbright sky. The night has a reverence to it. Flynn feels this way sometimes working the lines under the full moons, listening to the waves break, watching the phosphorescence flash in the water purling past the bow.

It's peace, he thinks, as he gently closes the door behind them both.

A pair of oil lamps cast a warm dim glow into the room. It gilds Tandred's hair, limns the angle of his cheek like the sun does the clouds. He doesn't say anything when Flynn slides his hands beneath his collar and pushes his coat off his shoulders, just sighs through parted lips. Flynn's heart kicks against his ribs.

The bed is wide and the mattress indulgently soft, if the way it dips under Tandred's weight is any indication. His chin falls to his chest as he sits, and Flynn thinks he might've dropped off, but when he kneels to pull his boots off for him, he sees his eyes aren't closed, only downturned. He's watching Flynn through his lashes, heat of his gaze mounting as Flynn cradles the arch of his foot, smooths his hand over the bridge, rubs at his ankle.

"Flynn," Tandred murmurs.

"Mm?" Flynn rests his chin on Tandred's knee and looks back at him, and decides he must only be so bad at gambling because all the luck in his life's been spent getting him here, to this moment.

Tandred tugs Flynn's hair free of its tie and runs his hands through it, apparently set on combing out the kinks and tangles with his fingers. It feels fantastic, and Flynn can't do much but lean into it and try not to wince at the odd snag, until Tandred laughs and takes a gentle handful, guiding him. "Get up here," he says, voice rough, hardly over a whisper.

Flynn does, taking a moment to shed his own coat and boots then climbing onto the bed, stretching out alongside him. He runs his hands down Tandred's back and rests them at his waist, pulling his body close, hip to hip, chest to chest. It's solid and real, as familiar as a clasp of hands and gentle shoulder-bump. They fit together here as neatly as they do on the deck of a ship, or in a tavern's corner booth.

Tandred lifts his head and angles it, noses brushing, and Flynn would like to say he doesn't need to be asked once, never mind twice, but—he realises, like a wave breaking over him, Tandred must've asked him a hundred times over the years, just like this.

This time, he meets Tandred's mouth with his own, leaning over to press him back down into the pillows, and kisses him as thoroughly as he knows how.

And then he goes ahead and kisses him again, because the noise Tandred makes in the back of his throat demands it. He hardly thinks he can be blamed, really, with the way Tandred urges him for more, desperate for everything from a tender brush of lips to the sharp tease of teeth. He nuzzles in close, beard catching roughly against Flynn's stubble, a warm rope-calloused hand gripping him by the nape of the neck.

He doesn't let up until they're both breathless.

"Stay tonight." His eyes are shut, and it's clear from the way he's furrowing his brow that it's because he's so exhausted he can't even keep them open. He nudges closer, his thigh slipping between Flynn's. Oh, there's one part of him that's not tired as all hells, anyway.

Flynn curls an arm around him, encouraging him to rest his head on his shoulder. "Of course. I mean, good luck turfing me out now," he says into his hair. "I've had a taste of how the other half lives, and they have very comfortable beds."

"Wasn't planning on letting you sleep," he replies, a sweet soft mumble against Flynn's jaw.

Flynn has an exciting premonition of all the disreputable things they're going to do in the morning. "I might not. You, on the other hand..."

Tandred's hand clasps Flynn's wrist, then slides over to lace their fingers together, squeezing tight.

"I'll be here," Flynn promises, and thinks of how it'll be: morning light dancing on the wall, scattered by the waves below the Keep, and Tandred's warmth on him like filtered sunlight. "I missed you too, you know."

"Oh, aye?" Tandred murmurs.

"Don't try to pretend you don't know it."

An amused huff. Flynn feels him smiling against this neck. "Just like to hear you say it."

"Missed you," Flynn says again, not bothering to rein in the rampant affection in his voice. "You're the only one who'll pick up my tab."

"Snog a catfish," Tandred slurs, halfway to asleep.

Flynn laughs and kisses his brow, then settles back, listening to his breathing slow and his heart beat steadily against his chest, curling his hair through his fingers absently. He waits for the curve of the dawn over the horizon, the sound of surf lifting as it breaks on the rocks.

Tandred slumbers on his shoulder, the early light in his hair making it shine like gold strewn over sand, and he thinks that maybe—maybe Tand's not the only one who's finally home.