The tide falls, bringing closure to dusk, proclaiming the night. Crystal-flecked ebon rules the sky with only a faint sliver of moonlight balancing on the horizon. Here, the ocean and shore divulge alliance of water and earth. One gives as one takes.
  
  The evening begins, giving Ncon little notice. There is no protocol for his task: it has no precedent. He paces, slowly tracking his own muted steps in the beach sand, absently counting shells and driftwood.

  A faint smell of moist carbon returns his attention to the neglected firecircle, where coals glow stubbornly with life. Ncon has tended the watchfire for weeks. A few ships have passed the cove, yet none have entered. Perhaps the one he waits for will never appear.

  Ncon could let the fire go out this time. The darkened embers would burn away with the last of his memories, easing the hurt and the hate. It would be all too simple just to walk away.

  Then he rubs the back of his forearm, recalling another fire— one that will never fade. The memory is branded into his scarred flesh; a marked token of reason. It does not matter how far he walks, runs, or rides, he will be found. Those who once owned him will follow Ncon through Creation’s flames and into the next life if need be. They claimed deed to his soul the day he was born.

  But it is not death that Ncon fears. That his masters will take his life is an assured fact. He could welcome true death, Sculi, being one who had fed Her so well. That freedom shuns Ncon.

  They own him by the blood he has spilled. No distance; no number of years; no ocean will wash his hands clear of that debt. He walks this ground to make a stand.

  To silence the voices.

  Shades of the past, restless spirits, haunt the edges of Ncon’s waking hours and dominate his fitful sleep. They may well follow him from this world, making his torment eternal. No—salvation is a chimera, a rock thrown to a drowning man. All Ncon can hope for is a good death. Blood debt is released by blood.

  His blood.

  It is the only truth he knows.

  *There is always more than one truth, Ncon. Doubt can be a strength.*

  He turns quickly to the water, looking for the source of the ethervoice. She is not there, of course, although her words linger weeks after she spoke them to his thoughts. A wave begins to crest, almost taking on her form, a figure at one with the ocean. It rolls out onto the shore, its potential fading with the memory.

  Yet he knows his LadyShip is out there somewhere, home to the sea, allowing Ncon the illusion of being her protector. Exemption from his fate is not a certain liberty for her. She watches, not with eyes that see, but with a bond of empathy.

  Ncon aches for her memory to take flesh, a clinging, desperate wish; at the same time knowing it to be a vain hope, a need aborted. His one comfort is believing the LadyShip will not see him die. It is the only freedom he can give her.

  *Your love is my freedom.*

  He looks to the water again. Further, past the edge of the cove, a dim speck of light catches his eye. It bobs with the rhythm of the waves. The bow lamp of a ship—the one he waits for. At this time of night, certainly the one. He returns to the firecircle, gathering tinder as he goes. Hesitating over the coals, he wonders again: Does it need to end here, at this lone shore?

  *You are never alone, Ncon. That you choose is all that matters.*

  Yes, this is his choice. Surmounting the will of his masters and an ocean of blood, he chooses this end.

  Slowly, then, so as not to smother the coals, Ncon adds tinder to the firecircle. Within moments, it catches hold, life returns in consumption. He continues to feed the flames, taking warmth as they grow. Doubts drain as the night alights. Action gives purpose.

  The bow lamp of the ship turns, then moves inland. This is what Ncon has waited for: not absolution, only finality.

  Silence, then. The voices are stilled, waiting. Watching.

  As is she.