Prologue: Lasting Peace

After nearly dying in the arctic, former navy lieutenant Owen Wild has a late-night talk with his wife. Hits at the tragedy and adventure to come. Less than 1000 words.

Prologue: Lasting Peace

Rochester, Kent England, 1851

The scents of lamp oil, fresh ink, and old paper hang in the pleasant colonial style bedroom. Before a desk of elaborately carved dark wood, a man wearing a neat naval uniform sits writing. A light breeze stirs the dove grey curtains of the open window, bringing with it the muted sounds of seagulls' cries and waves upon rocks.

"Owen?" The door opens with a soft creak, and a woman enters. Her sage-coloured dress ripples as she moves, hugging her slim frame.

The man---Owen---looks up, strands of greying ash-blond hair falling across his brow. He sets aside his pen with a soft clink and focuses on her, eyes filled with equal measures of love and pain.

"I thought you were abed," he says quietly, "'tis late to still be about, Sarah."

"You are yet awake," the woman---Sarah---replies, moving to stand behind him. "It is as late for you as it is for me. Later, some might say."

The smile Owen gives her is playful, but something in the depths of his eyes remains hard and unreachable.

"And by some, you mean Lyonal, I presume," his voice mirroring his smile.

"I was thinking of Doctor Dafton," Sarah said, a hint of tension humming in her words, "but yes, I suppose our wayward woodworker would say such a thing."

Silence slips into the room, weaving itself around the bedposts and into cracks upon the wooden floor. Owen rests his head against Sarah's shoulder as she strokes his hair with long fingers. Her other hands finds his on the desk's polished surface and their fighters intertwined, matching rings reflecting the moon's pale light. There is a soft tranquillity about it all, the magic of a perfect moment caught in time.

It is Sarah---reading over what Owen had been writing---who chases silence from the room.

"Owen," she says, voice suddenly tight and harsh, "I thought you were finished writing about what happened during your last voyage. You delivered your final report to the Admiralty months ago; I was with you when you did!"

He sighs and untangles their fingers, bringing his freed hand up to rub at his face. An echoing sadness and execution seem to close in around him---the papers had not been meant for her eyes.

"I am writing for myself now, Sarah, for me and all those who bled and starved to bring me home to you, Lyonal, and the children." Owen's eyes focus on some point far beyond the horizon. "Men chose to die for me in the arctic because they cared about me...I want to set the record straight, pay the debt I owe and admit to the lies I told."

Sarah's hand slips from Owen's hair and comes to rest on his left shoulder. Her green eyes are distant, and her brows furrow; her mind and soul concentrated upon an all too recent and difficult memory.

"Are you sure you want to relive what happened?" she asks at last. Her words are slow, as if she thinks upon each before they pass through her narrow lips.

"Yes," Owen tells her, tilting his head back to bring her into his view.

Yet Sarah is no longer focused on his face, her gaze having differed downward---to the place where his left arm should have been. She is biting her lip, and a tremor passes through her before the moment ends.

"I came home," Owen reminds her as he pushes back his chair, "I came home to you and our family. Don't forget that, Sarah."

She nods once---as if to assure herself of something---then allows Owen to pull her onto his lap.

"I know you’re home and safe," she mutters, wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her head on his shoulder. "It's just hard to remember sometimes."

Owen only smiles and holds her tight while thousands of miles away the Northern Lights dance above the charred yet frozen remains of a ship.

Author's Note

Grammar is not super important to me, however, I don't mind corrections or ideas. Mostly I want general thoughts on the flow of the story, the characters, and if you as a reader finish wanting more.