Disclaimer: All characters are used without permission. This story is not intended to infringe upon any copyrights, nor is any profit being made from it.

Thanks: To 'tilla and Beth for their beta services. Any mistakes are completely mea culpa.

Notes: Eventual crossover with Highlander

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"I didn't hear you leave,
I wonder how am I still here.
I don’t want to move a thing,
It might change my memory.
Oh I am what I am I'll do what I want,
But I can’t hide."
-- Dido, Here With Me

Prologue: Markers

London, 1834

The longer he walked, the more the well-turned gentlemen continued to question his sanity. Not for the first time, he turned his eyes up to the slate-grey sky. London, he thought wryly, was a city with only three types of weather: damp, drizzle and deluge. Fortunately, the sky seemed to be holding to the first, although it probably wouldn’t be long before it would shift to the last.

He was on a fool's errand, but that was not what he considered to be the most worrisome aspect of his journey. No, the thing that most troubled him was the fact that it had been his own conscience that had sent him out on such a blustery day. Just as it did every time he visited London.

He would have liked to have said that he'd lost count of the number of times he had made this journey; but that would have been a falsehood. "Would another lie in my life really matter?" the man muttered softly to himself. But there were no more quiet words after that point, for he had reached his destination.

He paused just outside the wrought-iron fence. The main gate was wide open, almost as if bidding a perverse invitation to come join those already inside. A fierce tremor tore down the gentleman's spine as he stood poised at the entrance. But the sensation was not unknown to him. In fact he had come to expect it. Just another rite in what had long since become a holy pilgrimage to the gentleman in question.

The deep breath the man drew was enough to dispel the last of the discomfort still prickling its way along his nervous system. And yet, he still hesitated taking those few final steps. By sheer force of will, he reminded himself that he had already come thus far, that leaving at that point would only dishonor himself and the memory of the man to whom he had come in rememberance. Keeping the thought in the forefront of his mind, he finally convinced himself to pass through those imposing gates.

The cemetery was large, by London standards at any rate. It catered mainly to the city's lower ranking, non-landowning nobility and the more prosperous of the bourgeois. The graves were filled with a virtual bouillabaisse of occupants -- knights of the realm, wealthy merchants, playwrights, philosophers, ranking officers from all branches of His Majesty’s services. Some were buried near or with their families, while others were destined to spend their eternal rest in solitude.

The gentleman ignored each and every one of them as he passed. It was impossible for him to take note of a single name, date or inscription. How could he when his eyes were so firmly cast upon two specific headstones that came ever closer with his every stride? Then, finally, he was there.

As was his wont, he paused for a moment at the first of the two markers. Oh, how taken by surprise he had been when he first laid eyes upon it. He had known about the man's passing, of course, had wept bitterly upon reading the news of the loss; and yet there was something so final in seeing the headstone.

Commander William Dennis Bush
Of His Majesty's Navy
His Courage And Friendship
Will Long Be Remembered
b. 1767 d. 1809

Will long be remembered, indeed, the gentleman thought to himself. Would Bush really be more than a name in some navel record that was destined to be forgotten? Was that to be his own fate as well? And what, pray tell, would history have to say about the third party in their long ago triumvirate?

Not liking the melancholy direction his thoughts were taking, the gentleman shook his head, clearing his mind as one would wipe clean a slate. He was here to perform a duty, not one of service but rather one of friendship. Reaching out, he placed a hand on the top of the headstone while he paid his respects.

"Hello, Bush, you old sea dog. Have the winds been fair, the waters calm wherever you are? My respects to them all, if you please. Matthews, Wellard, Styles, Jameson, and the rest of the lot. As for our other old friend," his eyes darted to the other nearby grave, "I'll take care of that one myself. Fair sailing, Leftenant, until next time."

With one final pat to the marker, the man took a step away from the stone. Before he moved on, however, he stopped to tend the plot, removing a few stray leaves from the browning fall grass. Crushing the dry, paper-like skeins between his hands, he allowed the wind to carry the debris from his actions wherever it pleased.

So much for the easy part, he thought with a trace of forced humor.

The four paces across the empty space between the two markers were the next test he had to face. While the steps may have been simple enough, the real challenge was keeping his overactive imagination from supplying the image of a time that plot would be put into use. One day a new marker would rest there, one bearing the name 'Admiral Horatio Hornblower.'

And so once again, the gentleman failed his self-imposed test. As he crossed over onto the third and final plot in the row, a shiver tore down his back. Perhaps there was some merit in the old adage of 'having one's grave walked upon'.

Chastising himself for his own foolishness, the man settled his gaze upon the other standing marker.

Archibald Thomas Andrew Kennedy
b. 1775 d. 1802
Beloved Friend
Served As Lieutenant In His Majesty's Navy
He Gave His Life And His Honor
So That Others May Live.
His Gift Will Not Be Forgotten.

He knew the words verbatim; so well in fact that visions of the headstone often haunted his thoughts, both sleeping and waking. All too often, his mind would find itself drawn to one memory in particular, that of long-ago conversation held at a bedside in Kingston prison hospital. A discussion that had been prompted by the last act of dying man.

//Why?//

The answer had been painfully obvious, to everyone except for Archie's best friend. Even Pellew had seen through the falsified confession. Yet of those in the know -- from the Commodore right down to the seamen of the Renown -- only Horatio himself seemed to question the wisdom of the selfless act that left Archie stripped of his rank and honor, even in death.

//Poor Horatio. So quick to give, so slow to receive the simplest gift. You've done the same for me and others besides a thousand times.//

//But never at such a dear cost.//

Only the Commodore's deep pockets and quiet intervention kept his former Midshipman from a poorly marked grave in some Jamaican Debtor's Field. When asked to choose a final resting place for his closest friend, Horatio had requested the earthly remains of Archibald Kennedy be buried atop a bluff overlooking the sparkling water of Kingston Bay. Although it was a beautiful spot, only a handful of those in attendance understood the true motivation of Horatio's choice. The clifftop served as private tribute to Archie's courage and unwavering faith in his friend.

Not wanting to draw undue attention, the decision was made to keep the burial a small, quiet affair. Horatio and Sir Edward were to be joined by Bush, Matthews, Styles and a handful of the men in Archie's division. However, the news of the service spread quietly throughout the crew of the Renown, especially those that had sided with the mutineers against the late Captain Sawyer. When all was said and done, close to one hundred men came to pay their respects to the disgraced Lieutenant.

//Just take what I offer...//

And so the promising young Lieutenant had, going on to fulfill the promise of his destiny. He had lived his life, married and had children, gained and lost ships -- as well as the souls that sailed upon them. Thirty years and an Admiralty all purchased in exchange for the life and honor of a man forgotten by all but handful.

Horatio, however, had never forgotten.

After a year of patrolling the Caribbean in command of His Majesty's Ship Retribution, Commander Hornblower finally received orders to return to England. To him, it was long past time to begin setting a few things straight.

One of his first acts upon arrival was to call upon the family of Archie Kennedy, to explain in person the circumstances that he dared not commit to paper. It was too little, too late. Neither the Earl nor his family would receive a friend of the son and brother they no longer acknowledged as one of their own.

It was that rejection that spurred Horatio to arrange the marker. The stone itself was granite; thick and strong enough to stand the test of time and elements. It had to be. For that was the purpose of its existence: a bold declaration of a truth that could never be spoken.

Horatio had agonized over the inscription for weeks. Every word was chosen with the greatest care, stating the truth without contradicting the officially recorded version of the story. No matter how bitterly Horatio wished to make the true story known, doing so would have made Archie's sacrifice for naught. So, Horatio had settled.

It hadn't been easy. The granite headstone alone was worth a bloody fortune, and even with the prize monies Horatio had earned in command of the Retribution, he'd almost been unable to afford this last gift to his friend. Not that cost had mattered a whit to the young Commander. No, if anything, Archie's gift to his closest friend had been a lesson that the most precious things in life could not be measured by any amount of money.

//...and say goodbye.//

In all their years of friendship, Horatio had never been able to deny his friend anything, except that one final request. If anything, the marker was a compromise, a way to acquiesce to Archie's wishes while still leaving him with some tangible connection to the past.

And so it would go. The minute he set foot in London, the cemetary would begin calling to him like the song of a Siren. Ever the sailor, he was neither willing nor able to resist the lure -- not of some mythical creature, but rather the chance to revisit the other half of his soul.

Oddly enough, it did not matter that the one place in the world where he felt closest to his friend was an empty, markerless plot in a London cemetary. One day...one day he would come here and find a headstone inscribed with the name of the man who still meant more to him than his own honor ever had. God above, how he dreaded the coming of that day. The world was going to be a much emptier place without the courage and strength of Horatio Hornblower.

Pivoting slightly, the gentleman kneeled down upon the well-manicured grass. Tucking an errant strand of red-blond hair behind his ear, he closed his eyes and began to speak.

"Hello, Horatio. Have you missed me?"

~finis -- for now~

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