Part I

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The Ocean is full of oysters, as they say. Or is it: the ocean is your oyster? The fact is, Linebeck finds himself far too lazy to open them, once they're found.

The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The shipyard worker died. Mercay Island has an opening for someone with a lot of expertise. He fits the bill perfectly. Steady job. Rewarding. Dawn till dusk, can hire some kid as an apprentice if he likes. Link would have been a stellar candidate, but the boy has more important ships to maintain, wherever he is.

He declines the position and resigns to focusing on his own vessel, which is leaking and creaking and running out of steam.

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

During one of his nameless, timeless travels, Linebeck meets Astrid for a second time. Maybe it was an accident, and he hopes so—he despises giving Astrid the satisfaction of foreshadow.

"I foresaw your arrival." Her eyes reflect, big and warped, in her crystal ball.

"No, you didn't."

"You're lost."

"Why else would I be here?"

Astrid smiles. "And yet you have a navigation chart, do you not?"

"I dropped it in the sea a week ago," Linebeck answers flippantly. In truth he's lost all of his charts.

"On purpose?"

Linebeck grows irritated. He feels sick and wishes for ale. "Aren't you the one who should know these things? I'm not the fortune teller here."

In spite of his aversion to such things, Astrid runs a hand over the crystal ball and fixes her attention on the so-called future. Linebeck realizes he doesn't care what she sees.

"I once told your companions," she begins, cryptically, "that their captain would prove his use in time. It brings me joy to tell you that there is truth in that. You have proven your use."

What Linebeck should be is happy. Or at least satisfied. Maybe even self-righteous. I told you so, says the Linebeck in the crystal ball.

"Why are you crying?" Astrid becomes a blur of purple and red, like treasure, like sunsets, like a particularly bad scar on his spine.

"Tomorrow's my forty sixth birthday."

Astrid hands him a handkerchief. "Happy birthday, Captain."

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Last year, Linebeck regarded his birthday with a hefty amount of pride. After all, accidents happen out at sea. The life-expectancy is rather slim.

Phantom sword (minus the hilt) in tow, the S.S. Linebeck chugged south to Mercay, where the Old Man would fashion the blade properly and infuse it with the Sands of Hours. A little too whimsical for Linebeck.

"Guess what tomorrow is," Linebeck prompted, stitching a path in his coat. At their current pace, they were scheduled to arrive at Mercay by dawn.

Link spared a glance of pitiful incredulity at Linebeck. "Tomorrow I fight Bellum."

"Well, there's that," Linebeck conceded. A tiny smirk grew on his lips. "But it's also my birthday."

Link rolled his eyes—with a flair of drama, mind you—and turned back to gazing out of the porthole.

"Forty five years!" Linebeck exclaimed. He set down his needlework and leaned precariously on the hind two legs of his chair. "Forty five years…"

"You're old," Ciela quipped from her perch on the spool of thread. She had been so uncharacteristically quiet that Linebeck assumed she fell asleep. "Look at you, Granny! You're sewing!"

"I'm stitching, puffball," Linebeck snapped. "Any good sailor can fix his clothing in a pinch."

"I see our captain has his priorities."

"You were being so quiet a minute ago. I could actually hear my own thoughts!"

"You're having thoughts? Wow! This is a new development!"

(In retrospect, Linebeck wishes he and Ciela could have been better friends.)

When Linebeck directed his attention from Ciela and back to Link, he found that the kid was once again fixated on his little statue pirate girlfriend. Adorable.

Though Linebeck returns to stitching his coat, he keeps an eye on Link. "So are you going to get me anything?"

Link hardly bothered to flinch. "What?"

"I said," he began with a smarmy grin. "It's my birthday tomorrow. Are you going to get me anything?"

Something snapped within Link. Linebeck wouldn't deny that. He saw it. Not anger nor fury, not a fuse frying to its very end. It was more like a heartstring, worn from weeks of plucking, at its final fiber.

"The world might end tomorrow," Link answered, with more apathy than Linebeck would have anticipated.

"If you lose, then yes." Linebeck, mood suddenly soured, dropped his needlework again. "But what's that got to do with anything?"

"Not many people get to know that," Link elaborated darkly. "Only you, Ciela and I. If I lose, everyone will die. So… I guess… I hope you've said and done everything you need to. That's your gift."

In the end, Linebeck didn't really want that gift, thought it a bit personal, and decided to bank on Link's victory. Which happened to be a success, due in part to Linebeck, thank you very much. And, if he had said and done all the things he needed to, Link's victory would have left him in a very messy world.

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

This year, Linebeck's birthday begins and ends with alcohol, interrupted only by a noontime mail delivery. The postman reads him his semi-annual death threat from Jolene (which, no, he would not like to report to the authorities). Linebeck is already too drunk to care and instead dictates a response:

Sink me.

Fallen cold and dead.

At one point, Linebeck regarded the Old Wayfarer with a degree of contempt and was even mildly insulted to be mistaken for him. A life of leisure, yes, but of isolation as well: eating cheese, fishing, and collecting raunchy mermaid postcards. It almost sounds appealing, but Linebeck doesn't think he can handle the solitude much longer.

In many ways, much to his disappointment, Linebeck has become and old wayfarer, but the tales of the high seas in his repertoire aren't ones he enjoys reliving.

The cheese is moldy, the fish small, and the postcards—trite.

(Not to mention the beard he's tried to grow is thin and pathetic.)

The most recent ad in the Mercay Tribune reads this:

A slim, ruggedly handsome sailor. One-sixteenth Gerudo. See the world, once even possessed by a demon squid. Looking for attractive female partner or even just a few friends. Inquire aboard the S.S. Linebeck. Or the Milk Bar.

From the ad he receives three responses:

An absolute lunatic named Jeremy who is hungry and homeless claims he'll exchange friendship for food, and so Linebeck pities him and prepares dinner for them both. He proceeds to steal half his alcohol and two hundred rupees before disappearing into the night.

Next, Fado: a spritely young woman who is both empathetic and stern, but lacks a pair of sea legs and loses every meal to the sea.

Though Linebeck always had difficulties communicating with women, Niebo is wonderfully gifted at reading his poorly enunciated body language. She's his age, but most definitely not as exhausted. She comes from a long line of wealthy merchants and left for sea to hone her skills. As a result, she's an excellent navigator, allowing Linebeck to focus on maintenance while she consults the stars.

Together, they roam the southwestern quadrant, running odd jobs for fishermen and getting the occasional traveller to his or her destination. It's the bohemian life he never knew he desired, and Niebo is a wonderful companion. Though they are both approaching the latter half of their forties, Linebeck has never felt so young.

And yet all good things must come to their inevitable, horrendous, humiliating ends—

His friendship with Niebo develops into something of a high-seas romance, and the first night they stand before each other, undressed, the unimaginable happens:

"What happened to your back?" Niebo asks. Something other than concern hides behind her voice.

"Oh…" It is something of a hideous tribal marking. Up and down on either side of his spine are white spots, like the buttons of a double-breasted overcoat. On the small of his back resides a massive eight-point star which has whitened around the edges but remains a foul purple at its core. She is, naturally, the first (and one of the last) to ever lay eyes on it.

"I said in my ad I was once possessed by a demon squid," Linebeck explains, somewhat awkwardly.

"I thought it was a joke."

"It's not." He laughs a little, to lighten the mood. Which fails. "I thought it would attract the adventuring type."

Niebo extends her hand tentatively. "May I look at it? Closely, I mean."

He hesitates, but gives in and turns his back to her. He hears her gasp. With both of her hands she touches the scars along his spine. There is painstaking caution in her touch. She stops short of the scar's base.

"It looks evil."

"I know. I know… I—" He faces her again and summons the courage to cup her face in his hands and kiss her. She is a sweet, wonderful woman. Without an ounce of hesitation he can confess that he loves her.

To his astonishment, she backs out of his embrace. "I can't."

"What?" He unconsciously places his hands on the small of his back, as if covering guilty evidence. "It's been years. It doesn't affect me. Nothing's wrong with me."

"I realize this. Linebeck, I can just… I can sense something wicked within it." On an afterthought, she retrieves her clothing and begins redressing herself.

Embarrassed and suddenly hyper-aware of himself, Linebeck does the same.

"I'm no different than before you had seen it," He explains. A distance forms between him and his body. Nothing makes sense.

"I know. And I thought I was a better person than this. But I can't help what I feel." Niebo smiles sadly. "You understand, don't you, Linebeck?"

"Yeah," he lies affectionately. Maybe things will improve by morning.

They sleep beside each other but not together. And when he wakes, Niebo has gone ashore, leaving not so much as a note behind.

Without allowing himself a moment to grieve, Linebeck leaves port and seeks out Jolene.

* "O Captain! My Captain!" was a piece written by American poet and bisexual icon Walt Whitman.