A/N: Hello again! Sorry to all those awaiting a Gibson Girl update, but I’m having writer’s block on the next chapter in line…’tis sad. So I started a new story to inspire my slow mind! So here it is…in all its glory…hehe. And if anyone knows how to actually write Irish brogues, could you try to help me?

Roukre: (ROORK)

Eilis: (eye – LEESH)

Rourke stood at the wheel of a weather-beaten sailing ship. He spun the wheel furiously as the winds lashed at him. Raindrops flew at him as arrows, sounding to their thunder mistress’s cackling orders. He gave the wheel another furious spin, scowling defiantly at the dark sky. Send on your legions, lady of the skies, for I’ll not be your casualty! His callused hands brushed the scarred wood of the wheel again, and he felt the rough burn against his palms, and it soothed him. The world was no longer an elfish whimsy of the winds; it was tough and material. He could feel its every component, and whatever one can feel out, one can conquer.

“Can you see Erin?” he roared, looking up through the rain to the lookout crouched in the crow’s nest. The lookout roared back, “I can’t see any lass from way up here! Are you daft?” Rourke growled with irritation. The man had keen eyes, but not a keen mind. “Erin, man! Ireland! The homeland!” He spun the wheel once more as another wave tried to send them reeling towards England. Not with Rourke of the Valley at the wheel, my lady. The lookout’s voice sounded excitedly against a morbid clash of the aerial titans. “Eh! ‘Tis Ireland, Rourke! ‘Tis land!”

Rourke grinned as the wind swept over him. Lady Thunder had it in for the lot of them; she was obviously an Englishwoman, but Lady Luck, now she had to be one of the Irish. “In what direction?” he bellowed, hoping the his lady was with him. The wind ripped through him again, coming from the southeast. And if Erin were to the northwest…

“She’s north, of course, and the closest shore is a wee bit to the west. Riley’s port is much father west, though. And there’s a lovely little fishing village even father than -”

Rourke let out a whoop of excitement that rivaled the screams of Lady Thunder. “Eh, lads, unfurl the sails and wake the craven! Finn’s seen land!” He dug his fingers into the pliable wood of the wheel and smirked demonically. “We cannot hear the Banshee’s wail tonight,” he roared, seeing the confused looks on the men, “for the thunder cries too loud!” And the first sail went down.

Finn winced, waiting for the fatal rip of the canvas. Not for the first time, he wished their fatalistic captain would come out from his cabin. He trusted Rourke with his own life and the safety of the ship; there was no question of the man’s capability, but the wild look in those eyes was something unearthly. Their default leader, who constantly took to the helm in their captain’s absence, was hunched excitedly over the wheel, knuckles white with his grip. The usually grim and cynical expression was transformed with insane anticipation and challenge.

But the sail held fast, and the ship shot forward.

Rourke howled boastingly again, pumping a dripping fist into the air at his own success. He was coming home now. The thousand shades of green that lay splashed on Erin’s shores seemed to gush forward in pouring torrents, dripping emerald into the tumultuous waves and dying them the shade of pastures. Every beggar’s fire withering on the shore was an orchid of immense proportions, overtaxed with the weight of bright ginger fruits, and these fruits were soaked through the center with the thick juice of rainwater. And below it all was the earth, the sweet and pungent soil that furnished and nourished his orchids and fell forward into the fresh swimming chartreuse.

His dark fingers tightened round the wooden wheel, and he could feel the dusting of dirt in his fingers sliding down his arm as a trickle of slick mud. The knuckles grew to a piercing white even despite the filth of nine months aboard an English ship. He curled his lip and let the demon thrill fill him. The white crest of the waves that struck fear in men’s hearts was naught but a merry challenger to Rourke. The mass of rolling darkness was its shield, and the prow of the XXX(Need name for boat here) served as a lance charging straight for the defenses. 

The splintered remains of Llyr’s shield surged into a great figure of waxen Banshee tresses. The mane snapped against the deck with a screech befitting the owner. Rourke held up a futile mortal arm as his vision was engulfed in a soaked dusk.

Finn cried out as the wave threw Rourke into the wheel.

Rourke clung desperately to the outer rim of the wheel, and he planted one of his bare feet stubbornly between the inner rungs. The remains of the sea god’s defenses swam round him and covered him. And I never did learn to swim… He managed to pull his eyes open, but there was nothing to greet them but the frozen slap of saltwater. He reared backwards. The surge of the sea water bent him backwards and tore his hands from the wheel. Finn’s warnings were suffocated as Rourke hit his back on the deeply submerged deck. By this time his lungs were hollow and stiff with need for air. The current washed mercilessly over him, drawing debris across his face and chest. He fought for the right to sit up, but Llyr’s rule of stone shade forced him down again and again.

Just like the English.

Rourke groped blindly for the wheel, and his needy fingers found their respite in locking themselves round one of the inner rungs. A triumphant laugh escaped him as he sat upright, drenched face coming up into the refreshing bite of chilled salt air. And there on the shore were the bright promises of his homeland, visible dimly through the strands of his own hair. “Ireland’s just ahead!” he croaked, spitting saltwater in the direction of Britain. The fresh sting of salt against his chapped lips made him smirk. They were so close – so close to her and her brilliant smile. He could almost feel her lips against his own in the feel of the brine. Her kisses had always tasted like the sea.

“Finn! Where are we?” he roared. The lights were blurring into one wondrous halo round the homeland. Rourke knew he could lose himself in the excitement that always came before return, and now was not the time to do so.

“We’re right in front of the – I think my da called it the Port of the Lairds.”

“And the sail?”

“The sail? She’s fine, but she’s wearing!”

            Another northern gale tore through the air, nearly freezing the water dripping from their vessel. The sail snapped suddenly, stretched into a vertical arch. And Rourke spun the wheel. 

            He could see the docks now, and he knew that there were none there to help them with the docking. And without the aid, our fair vessel did sink…Now what ballad was that?

“Liam! Carrigan! Darragh! Pat! Into the longboat and quick about it!” He rammed a slab of wood into the wheel’s rungs, sticking it in place. I’ll be an Englishman if we’re losing her now. “Devon! Finbar! John! We’re taking the sail down!” He threw himself at the mast and used the momentum to hurl himself on the rigging. John had already untied the lower binds of their sail, and Devon was helping him to finish off the task.

            As Rourke and Finbar worked to loosen their sail, Rourke’s mind was full of Eilis. Her glistening blue eyes shone in his mind, and the waves of curled red locks that fell constantly into those sapphire gems trailed across his vision. “Rourke, promise me you’ll come back. I don’t know how I’ll cheer myself if you never return. Stay alive, dove, even if you hate it, keep alive for me, eh?”

Rourke was so involved with his thoughts of Eilis that he never even saw that last approaching wave.

A/N: No… I don’t hate the English…but 17th century Irishmen did, so his train of thought has to be accurate. So what did you think?