Beyond the upper beach stood a cliff with a  flight of steps carved into it, illuminated by, what appeared to be, all-weather oil lamps every other step. Above the winding stairs rose a large house, coarse stone, large wooden frames windows radiating warm light in the middle of night. 

He took a step towards it, heavy but determined, then another. He stretched and raised his back, twisting his neck releasing the mounted pressure, his breathing steadier, he curled and relaxed his fingers feeling his bones trembling under his skin. 

Jumping over what would have been the  mizzen mast of the ship, now laying splintered and shattered, he noticed two figures, Tall and imposing both, they were coming towards him, dragging their feet on the sandy shore. No, not two, six, the latter heading down the staircase with urgency

"Help!" He shouted, raising and waving his hand 

"Help!" he iterated louder, worried the sound of the surf drowned his plea. 

“My sister,” he called, "I cannot find her!” He whimpered as the two burly men now came close to him.  The first to reach him was broad through the shoulders, with a dark coat buttoned high beneath a heavy jaw. His companion was somewhat leaner, bareheaded, his wet hair slicked close to his scalp. 

A hand closed around Max’s upper arm. He almost leaned into it.

"She must be somewhere here!" Max exclaimed and turned once again to continue the search with the newfound help. 

“Come along,” said the dark coat man.

The other caught his wrist and twisted it behind his back. Pain tightened in his shoulder, and Max tried to turn with the pressure.

“Wait. Stop! What the Thena! We have to look for her! Please - she much be somewhere here” he pleaded again trying to escape the strong grasp encircling his trembling wrist.  

The two men began pulling him towards the steps.  He planted his feet, meaning only to stop them long enough to explain. Max struggled and out of nowhere the dark coat man raised his hand that struck him like lightning across his mouth and jaw.

His teeth went through his lip. The metallic taste of blood  filling his mouth, warm and thick beneath the salt.

“Walk.” he commanded

Max stared at the heavy jaw, the water dripping from it, the mouth that had given the order. When another hand reached for his collar, he caught it and pulled, hard. Max's breath hardly passing through it.

Without thinking Max lurched into him. Max's foreheads collided with a crunch, and blood burst  from the man's nose, spattering Max’s face in it. The grip on his other wrist slackened; he tore free and stumbled backwards.

“Leave me alone.” Max shouted, frantically taking in the situation. The lean one on his left drew a knife - shining red in the moonlight. Max glanced towards the steps. The other four were coming faster now, spreading across the upper beach. Behind him, the sea dragged wreckage over the rocks. Planks and beams of shattered wood, canvas and rope tangled dragged across the surf

He stepped back as quickly as he could as the raised his hands as the bald man swept his  knif towards him. Its edge caught his forearm, slicing through sleeve and skin so cleanly that he felt the pull of the cloth before the wound began to burn. Blood ran down his wrist and dripped from his little finger. He stumbled back and bit down to muffle the warm sharp pain pain flooding him. 

Max pushed forward and on the side of the bald man,  his hands wrapping around his wrist trying to take hold of the knife but the bald man pulled his wet oily hands back and, swiped again.  The return stroke cut Max's cheek, hot as a lash, and he felt blood spill over his face before he had understood how close the blade had come.

The dark coat man was rushing around him to flank him

"Fuck!" he mumbled in Arcadian, trying to take in the scene

He thrust his palm into the dark coat man. His fingers slid over a wet brow, then caught beside the nose. He clawed downwards, nails gathering skin, while the bald man's knife scraped across his ribs and opened his shirt beneath the arm. The pain made him jerk sideways, pulling his own flesh along the edge. Max pulled backward trying to get both of them in front of him

An arm closed around his throat from behind.

"What?!" He exclaimed in surprise as the dark coat man moved quickly behind him and hauled him back against the buttoned coat, crushing his windpipe beneath a forearm. Max tried to get his fingers under his arm desperately, but he could not find room. His breath stopped halfway into his chest. In front of him, the knife lifted again.

Witht the remaining of his breath he pushed  up his legs hanging against the dark coat man and kicked! He kicked hard against the bald mans' chest. 

All three fell.

Max landed partly on the body behind him, felt the arm loosen, and turned his mouth into it. His teeth met wool;

he bit through it, clamping down until flesh yielded beneath the cloth.

A scream tore against his ear. The arm tried to wrench away, and he held on, tasting blood that was not his own.

The bald man's fist struck the back of his head. He bit harder before the sleeve finally tore from his mouth.

He crawled, choking and spitting, and caught a broken board with a jagged end. As the bald mans knife came down again, he dragged it across his body. Steel struck wood hard enough to jar his injured arm. He shoved the board upwards, driving its broken edge against the lean face above him, and felt it catch.

The attacker recoiled with a curse. Max scrambled after him, trying to get past, but fingers closed in his hair and dragged him backwards so sharply that his knees left the stones.

The board fell. His shoulders struck the beach.

Then the bald  man was kneeling over him, blood running from a ragged cut beside his mouth, bringing the knife down towards his face.

Max caught his wrist with both hands. pushing frantically with both hands

The point stopped above his right eye.

For a moment neither of them moved. Max could see the whole blade, the smear of blood near its tip, the trembling where it joined the handle. He forced it back a little, enough to see the attacker’s elbow bend.

Then the broad one planted a knee on Max’s upper arm.

Pain spread from the cut beneath it. His grip slipped, and the knife dropped until its point touched his eyelid.

"Thena ... for Thena's sake no ... no .. no NO!" he prayed 

Max tried to turn his head, but the hand in his hair held him against the stones. He pulled at the wrist with everything he had, his bare heels gouging furrows in the shingle. The lean face descended closer, lips drawn back from clenched teeth, while a second hand closed over the knife hilt.

“No,” Max said, and then he was saying it again, too quickly to draw breath between the words.

His attacker leaned forward with both shoulders, putting his weight behind the blade. Max’s arms shook. He could feel tendons standing out beneath his fingers, feel the wrist twisting to break his hold, and for another instant he kept it there.

Then his bloody palm slid.

The point entered his eye.

He screamed into the face above him. His back arched off the stones, his feet battered the beach, but the pressure kept coming. There was a terrible resistance deep inside his eye, followed by a yielding that he felt through his whole skull. Light burst across his vision and vanished into a red darkness.

He could not get away from the pain. It was inside his head, too deep to cover or clutch, and every movement of the knife spread it farther.

He jerked violently beneath the weight. The blade tore sideways as it came free, dragging the ruined eye with it. Blood splashed across his nose and open mouth; he saw droplets strike the cheek above him through the sight he had left.

The scream went on until he had no air for it.

The knee lifted from his arm. He rolled towards the hand holding his hair, caught the broad one’s coat, and pulled himself into him with a raw, breathless sound.

They struck the slab of rock together.

Max drove his fist upwards. It glanced off the jaw, splitting his knuckles against teeth. He struck again, lower, and felt the throat collapse beneath the blow.

The grip in his hair opened.

He punched the same place on his neck again, and again and again, viciously.

"Crack", the sound echoed under his knuckles

A dark spray burst from the broken nose and mouth of the bald man. The bald man's shoulders shuddered; a thin, bubbling whistle came from the open lips.

Max let go. The body slid down the side, motionless

Without a moment to breath Max felt a knife cut across his shoulder. Without looking, grabbed on the wrist holding it and pressed. 

He turned towards the pain. His remaining eye was filling with blood. He could scarcely see the blade, but he knew where it was and held on while a fist hammered his cheek.

The dark coat man tried to brace a foot against him. Max bent the trapped hand backwards pushing it close against him. 

*Crack*, The wrist gave in, and the knife dropped between them.

Max reached for it, but a kick caught him across the mouth. He fell onto one hip, teeth clicking together, and his fingers plunged into a shallow pool where the blade had disappeared beneath the weeds.

His attacker came down on top of him.

A hand struck his face, fingers pressing into the torn socket.

The pain emptied him of everything except the need to make it stop. He caught the jaw in one hand and the back of the skull in the other, dug his heels into the stones, and twisted while the weight above him struggled to rise.

*Crack*, the neck broke against his palms.

He felt the sudden slackness before he understood the sound. The fingers fell from his face; the body sagged onto his chest, forcing out what little breath he had.

Max shoved it away and crawled backwards, sobbing between attempts to breathe. The head lay at an angle that made no sense beside the shoulders. Near the rock, the broad one had stopped making that thin noise.

A boot struck Max between the shoulder blades.

He pitched onto his hands. The remaining four were around him now, their shadows crossing the moonlit stones, and he snatched up shingle and flung it at the nearest face. Someone shouted. He crawled beneath a slanting spar, trying to get the timber between his body and their feet, while a hand caught his ankle and pulled.

He kicked backwards until his heel latched on , then dragged himself deeper beneath the wood. Splinters scraped his back through his torn shirt. He found a length of rope beside his knee and caught it just as a boot stepped over the spar.

Max pulled the rope tight against the shin.

The figure above him toppled, striking the timber with a grunt, and Max scrambled over the fallen legs. For two strides he was upright, running towards the water because there was still a gap that way.

A hand seized his shirt. Cloth ripped along the wound at his ribs, and another blade sliced across his back.

He turned, swinging wildly, his bloody fingers scraping a face. A lip caught beneath his nail and split. He tried to drive his thumb into an eye, but a punch struck his wounded cheek and his legs folded beneath him.

His hand closed around a stone as he fell. Before he could lift it, a boot stamped on his wrist. His fingers sprang open.

He tried to bite the calf above him. The next kick caught him beneath the chin.

He could only curl around his head while the blows landed across his back and thighs. the sound of his ribs cracking, his stomach lurching became a stable tempo of pain and agony. 

Whenever a boot found his ribs, the pain forced a little cry from him. He hated the sound without knowing why; he tried to hold it in, but another kick drove into his belly, and he retched blood...

He kept trying to crawl. His hand moved a few inches, caught against a flat stone, and pulled his body after it.

On the next attempt, his elbow buckled.

He lay with the stone beneath his fingers, knowing he could pick it up, knowing he had to, and unable to make his hand close.

A final kick rolled him onto his back. Above him, Mene shone so brightly that he tried to shut both eyes.

The pain made him gag.

Hands caught beneath his arms and lifted. His head sagged against his shoulder as they dragged him up the beach, his heels striking the stones. He saw the two bodies passing beside him, one outstretched hand shining as the sea washed over it.

"Elspeth is still out there."

He tried to tell them, but his swollen mouth would not shape her name.

The stones gave way to steps, each edge jolting through his heels and into his skull. Beyond an open iron gate lay a garden, where broken branches littered a gravel path and rainwater dripped from clipped shrubs. The house rose above him, tall windows spilling light onto the wet ground.

He tried to lift his feet as they carried him through the door. Some small, persistent part of him knew that he ought not to bring filthy boots inside.

Warm air touched his face. He smelled furniture polish, a wood fire, something faintly sweet. His boots scraped across tiles while a clock ticked somewhere in the house, its unhurried rhythm so clear that for several seconds he could hear nothing else.

They dragged him through another doorway and lowered him onto a carpet. One released his arm too soon; his shoulder struck the floor, and his cheek followed.

He lay still, grateful that they had stopped moving him. Beneath his face, blood gathered on the pale threads of a woven leaf and slowly filled its branching veins.

A door closed.

Max lifted his head.

A fire burned beneath a carved mantelpiece. Books stood behind glass-fronted doors, and heavy curtains framed windows overlooking the moonlit sea. Beside a couch, a small polished table held a decanter and several glasses.

An old, fat gentleman sat nearest him, his waistcoat stretched tightly across his stomach. His hands lay flat on his knees, the fingers spread and rigid. Beside him sat a woman young enough to be his daughter, though the matching wedding bands suggested otherwise. She had twisted a handful of his sleeve into her fist.

Two boys occupied the opposite couch in matching dark jackets, sitting so close that their knees touched. The younger one looked at Max, and his lower lip began to tremble. His brother caught his hand without turning his head.

No one rose. No one spoke.

The young wife was watching something beyond Max’s sight, her eyes wide and wet, her knuckles whitening around the cloth in her hand. He followed her gaze and saw a pair of black heeled shoes beneath the graceful hem of a dress.

He looked up through the folds of black fabric, past the fitted waist and a hand resting lightly around the stem of a wineglass.

Elspeth stood beside the fire.

Her dress was beautiful. Her hair was dry. In the clear bowl of the glass, red wine caught the firelight as she raised it to her lips.

Max lay with his cheek against the blood-soaked carpet and waited for his sister to see him...