Title: The Journey of Love and Destiny
Author: StarTrails
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I do not own JAG.  Never have, and never will, unless DPB 
ever 
decides to sell it for five dollars, which is about all I can spare 
right 
now.  (Not that DJE isn’t worth much, much more…)
Feedback: Very much appreciated, especially since this is a bit 
experimental 
for me.  But this story may not be your cup of tea, and if that’s the 
case, 
kindly stop reading if you get bored.  StarTrails@hotmail.com
Spoiler: A Tangled Webb part 1 and one line from Lawyers, Guns & Money
Summary: A re-telling of the episode, in the style of Gabriel García 
Marquez.  (aka StarTrails opens up the can of whoop-ass  she likes to 
call 
her creative writing degree.)
A big thank you to my beta reader, lska!
For more of my fanfics: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/StarTrailsJAGfic

Notes: Sorry, lots of notes for this one…

1. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the work of Garcia Marquez, 
he 
is a Colombian writer whose most famous work is One Hundred Years of 
Solitude.  He was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature and he is, for 
lack 
of a better term, the “father” of the magical realism style.  What is 
that?  
Well, it’s writing with a distinctly Latin American flair, although 
many 
Asian writers like Amy Tan exhibit similar shades of it.  (Other Latin 
American writers you might know of who write this way are Laura 
Esquivel of 
Like Water for Chocolate fame, and Isabel Allende.)  Anyway, it tends 
to 
have long sentences, and is very verbose and overdone in terms of 
over-the-top emotion and spirituality. Lots of poetic language and 
imagery, 
and deep sensory details.  I used the characters’ full names because 
they 
fit with the style.  Magical realism often implies an overriding 
seriousness, and a guiding hand in all things, with people at the whim 
of 
the gods of fate or whatever, and calling them by their full names 
emphasizes that.  (I hope.)  This style generally requires some 
“suspension 
of disbelief” to use another literary term, meaning you just need to 
relax 
and go with the story as I tell it.  Don’t get hung up on details that 
seem 
unrealistic. They are. And that’s all right.  That’s what magical 
realism is 
all about.

2. You will find quotes at the beginning or end of some chapters (and 
sometimes in between).  They are not my signature - they are there 
because I 
think they are appropriate for the scenes in question and lend even 
more 
weight to the melodrama of this style.

3.  This will not be popular with everyone.  It’s not an everyday kind 
of 
writing, and some people may find it boring or hard to follow.  No 
problem.  
Don’t torture yourself if you can’t get through it.  There’s nothing 
new 
here - it ends where the episode ended on TV.  It’s just a telling of 
the 
story in a different light.

4.  I know this will sound funny, but you might want to use a 
Spanish/Latin 
American accent in your head when you read this.  I heard that voice 
while I 
wrote it, and in fact, I think most of the stories and novels I’ve read 
in 
this style have that certain “fairy tale” quality to them.  Almost as 
though 
the actions happened long ago and far away, and a very old man is 
telling 
you the details as he remembers them.  Believe me, I know that sounds 
weird, 
but that’s how I’ve felt when reading these things.  So pour yourself a 
nice 
cup of coffee or tea (or Mexican pulque, if you really want to get into 
it!), sit back, and let the old Paraguayan grandpa tell you the story 
of a 
man who left everything behind to save the woman he loved…


The Journey of Love and Destiny


PREFACE:


**Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose garden.
My words echo thus, in your mind.**
-T.S. Eliot, “Four Quarters”


“Why is it you’re only like this when I’ve got one foot out the door?  
Your 
interest always fades when I might actually be in a position to return 
it.”



CHAPTER 1: The Bed of Words Never Spoken


**“However long we postpone it, we eventually lie down alone in that 
notoriously uncomfortable bed, the one we make ourselves.  Whether or 
not we 
sleep in it depends, of course, on whether or not we respect 
ourselves.”**
							-Joan Didion, essay “On Self-Respect”


**Why can’t you come to me?
Don’t save your love
for some elusive dream.
Why can’t you find your way?
I will fall for you
no matter where it leads.

This is not the way we started,
you and I.
How was it that I lost my way?
Two souls can drift apart
without a word.
Were those the words I did not say?**
-“Come to Me,” by Robi Rose, et al (performed by Ricky Martin)


The words he did not say were haunting the dreams of Harmon Rabb, 
regret and 
lamentation invading his sleep, stealing all possibility for the peace 
he 
hoped to find there.  The words he did not say were the answer to the 
question she had asked him in what now seemed another lifetime, decades 
before, when she stood before him in draped in a dress of midnight 
black, 
the very opposite of the light and sparkle that emanated from her - her 
smile, her eyes.  Her soul.

Why?  Why was he only like that when she was leaving him?  Why did his 
interest always fade away?

It was that very interest that kept the tall, lean man from thinking of 
anything but her from the moment she had closed the door behind her, 
leaving 
him in his excruciating prison of silence and solitude.  But his 
interest 
never faded, only his ability to put words to it, to give voice to his 
crippling fear that if he ever actually allowed himself to, he would 
love 
her so deeply, and with so much of his soul that he would cease to 
exist.  
So consumed would he be with her that there would be no more Harmon 
Rabb, 
only a frame. A black hole. An infinite well of thoughts and love for 
Sarah 
Mackenzie.

Night after interminable night, Harmon was torn from his tortured sleep 
by 
visions of evil, visions of violence being visited upon his Sarah. 
Night 
after night he awoke shivering, his blankets damp from perspiration, 
until 
the days in between, from sunrise to sunset, became nothing more than 
endless hours of space to be filled floating unknowingly from task to 
task, 
until he would close his eyes and have terror confront him yet again.

There was no word from Sarah - there could not be.  She was thousands 
of 
miles away and could not compromise her activities.  Not even for him.  
But 
she was still alive, of that much Harmon was certain.  They had always 
had a 
connection.  A link.  A cosmic force that bound them together like 
binary 
stars, circling and circling each other, both dependent on the other 
for 
their very survival.  Yes, he knew at least that much.  If her light 
had 
been extinguished, surely his own fire would have suffocated as well, 
its 
glowing embers seeking the oxygen only she could have provided, and 
finding 
none, they would have turned black and cold forever.

She was alive.  That single thought played again and again in his mind 
like 
the vamp of a beautiful chord, its harmony repeating over and over, a 
soothing balm for a breaking heart.



CHAPTER 2: Nothing Left from Hell to Sky


**We know how rough the road will be,
How heavy here the load will be,
We know about the barricades that wait along the track;
But we have set our soul ahead
Upon a certain goal ahead
And nothing left from hell to sky shall ever turn us back.**
				-Credit at end of chapter


With little sleep to soothe his soul, Harmon was hoping against hope 
for 
news of his love, to confirm what he already knew - that she was all 
right 
and would come back to him so they could share the life that destiny 
had 
created for them - the life that, time and again, the winds of fate had 
tried to blow them toward.

So it was with a heavy heart that Harmon stood in the office of Albert 
Jethro, the wise man known to all as the Admiral, reading the other 
man’s 
face and finding a sullen hesitation there.  Knowing patience was not a 
strong characteristic of the man before him, the Admiral found his 
voice 
quickly and told Harmon that his partner of seven years, his best 
friend, 
his what else he did not know, though he had his suspicions, had 
disappeared 
thousands of miles away, where nothing and no one could help her.

Harmon felt his world go dark, the black curtain of night being drawn 
over 
the universe, eclipsing the sun and permanently snuffing out all 
vestige of 
warmth and light.  He had to hold back that curtain with every last 
measure 
of strength and passion he possessed, because he could find her.  That 
much 
he knew with every fiber of his being.  If he could secure the 
Admiral’s 
permission to leave, he could go after her and bring her home - to his 
arms, 
to his bed, to his heart - where she belonged, and had belonged since 
the 
moment the yin and yang of their souls had been reunited, surrounded by 
roses in every color of the rainbow, when Harmon had been certain he’d 
seen 
Sarah before, had known her in another lifetime, and in fact, he had.  
Their 
spirits had been seeking each other since time immemorial, and nothing 
of 
this earth or beyond could keep them apart.

Harmon tried everything he knew.  He asked the Admiral in every way to 
let 
him go, to let him do what he was brought into this world to do - to 
protect 
Sarah.

“No,” the older man replied firmly.  “Denied.”

The ugly words attacked Harmon like strong fists pounding into his gut, 
yet 
caused a pain greater than any physical blows could ever inflict.

“Then I quit.”  Harmon answered the only way he possibly could.  He 
would 
quit JAG, yes. But without Sarah in his life, he would quit opening his 
eyes 
in the morning, quit breathing.  Quit being a part of this world.

The Admiral could not argue, for he knew the depth of the connection 
between 
Harmon and Sarah.  Although his position prevented him from saying so 
openly, he loved both of them dearly and prayed incessantly that one 
day he 
would be so fortunate as to bear witness to them relinquishing control 
to 
the forces pushing them together.  So much did he feel they were his 
own 
children, sources of fear, anguish, pride, and unstoppable hope, and in 
this 
moment, his hope was that they might give in to their sadness deeply 
enough 
to finally create happiness.  He could not watch his almost-son leave 
without offering words of import, and like any good parent, he could 
only 
ask the question.  His son would have to find his own answer.

“What are you willing to give up to keep her?”

And although the answer Harmon spoke aloud was a lie - that he had not 
given 
it a lot of thought, his true answer was engrained in his essence: 
Everything.  He would give up everything to keep Sarah, because without 
her, 
there was nothing to give up.  Nothing worth holding on to.  He would 
risk 
his life, because without her, life simply did not exist.


**We sing of no wild glory now,
Emblazoning some story now
Of mighty changes down the field beyond some guarded pit;
But humbler tasks befalling us,
Set duties that are calling us,
Where nothing left from hell to sky shall ever make us quit.**
		-Grantland Rice, “The Call of the Unbeaten”


CHAPTER 3: Ray of Hope


They tortured Clayton mercilessly. Each poke, each prod, each burn and 
jolt 
of electrical current elicited a twisted sound from him, his fierce 
screams 
penetrating the day and filling the air like a poisonous gas, 
infiltrating 
every cell of Sarah’s lungs and choking the very humanity from her.  
Though 
he was but a friend, for her heart already belonged to another and 
could 
never be wrenched away, he was a good friend, and with each of his 
screams 
she cried, the single tears joining together to wash down her face in 
quick 
rivulets, forming puddles bigger and bigger until the friendship and 
pain 
contained in the tears transformed even the parched, sandy earth floor 
of 
her small room into a lush garden covered in a spectrum of flowers so 
that 
at least one thing of beauty had been born of the horrible madness of 
torture.

She begged for mercy, for them to spare him.  But she could not provide 
the 
information demanded of her.  Revealing her identity or that of her 
“husband” would surely unlock the door to untold disaster and 
destruction, 
likely visited upon the place where she had left behind the man who 
eternally held her heart.

And the other question - who was the man she had come to rescue - could 
no 
sooner be answered than her vow of always faithful would be shattered, 
because he was a comrade in arms, and more, a friend through the very 
worst 
of times.

Clayton’s cries went unanswered, and all Sarah could do was prepare 
herself 
for the calm she would have to maintain while trying to treat the 
wounds he 
would return with.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

During this time, Harmon had made his way to Ciudad del Este and went 
in 
search of the man he hoped would give him assistance, a light in the 
darkness that had wrapped itself around him.  But the man would tell 
him 
nothing.  Regally he sat drinking his caña, savoring its warm sweetness 
and 
savoring as well the power he had over Harmon. The power to withhold 
information. The power to mislead. The power to delight in another 
man’s 
misery.

“Life is cheap down here.  You can trust no one.”

The words crushed Harmon’s soul, gripping tighter and tighter, twisting 
and 
wringing until his insides dissolved and all that was left was the ice 
cold 
certainty that his Sarah would not live much longer if he did not get 
to 
her.

Unsure now of where to go or whom to see, Harmon walked through the 
streets, 
past the marketplace, past old men reading newspapers and people buying 
fruits and vegetables, doing the everyday tasks of people not caught as 
he 
was in a desperate, otherworldly need.

He soon felt a pair of eyes on him, following close behind.  Someone 
was 
watching his every move.  Prepared as he was to use brute force to stop 
anyone who might hinder his path to Sarah, Harmon spun around to grab 
his 
follower by the neck and drew his fist back to strike a crippling blow.

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” the other man asked with good 
cheer.  His bright smile was like a cool drink for Harmon’s parched 
throat.  
He had found it, or, rather, Victor had found him, and he was Harmon’s 
first 
ray of hope in the endless black night.



CHAPTER 4: Hearts Intertwined


The guards tossed Clayton’s limp, battered form through the door and he 
crumpled to the ground, too exhausted and disoriented to ask why the 
floor 
was now covered in flowers, and Sarah could not have explained it to 
him 
anyway. To do so would be to admit her fear to him, to show a crack in 
the 
unbreakable stone she would have to become were they to survive what 
lay 
ahead.

Clayton was devoid of strength, of breath, of anything but the will to 
sacrifice his own body if he could spare Sarah even one moment of the 
evil 
that had been visited upon him. He loved her, and would do anything, 
even 
offer his own life, to protect her, for he knew she loved him in 
return. She 
had proven it time and again, helping him more times than his reeling 
mind 
could immediately recall.

Through the haze of pain swirling within him, he remembered pieces of a 
conversation from days before - a conversation about life, and love, 
and 
their friend Harmon Rabb.  Their friend.  That’s all he was, for 
although 
the beautiful Sarah may have thought she belonged with him, Clayton 
knew she 
deserved better, and after their mission together, he hoped to be the 
one to 
give it to her. Yes, he was certain that his time with her had come. 
She did 
love him - her silence spoke volumes for the depth of her feelings for 
him.  
After all, her muteness was keeping him alive; if she did not love him 
to 
the very depths of her soul, she would have answered their questions, 
revealed his identity, and he surely would have been killed. The 
torture - 
the smell of his own flesh sizzling and the sound of it bubbling away 
from 
the bone, he could endure. But dying, and being banished to the eternal 
after without her, that would be unbearable.

Sarah cradled him to her breast as she would a small child, soothing 
and 
calming his pain even while knowing nothing she could say or do would 
be 
even the slightest remedy as he quickly approached his death.

Clayton spoke of wanting her with him, but Sarah's only response was to 
silence him in a mothering gesture of safety and understanding.  She 
held 
him and gave him what little strength remained in her, but from that 
very 
action, she herself was comforted, revitalized.  For in that moment, 
she was 
certain Clayton could feel her maternal warmth as her gentle embrace 
cocooned him like a womb.  Sarah felt reborn, because even while 
Clayton 
sapped her energy, draining it from her like a siphon, the connection 
she 
shared with Harmon was so strong, so unbreakable, that even here, 
seemingly 
a world away, she could feel him, his love and warmth flooded her heart 
and 
nourished her innermost hunger, thus solidifying her fortitude and 
convincing her that she could endure this moment and all that would 
follow, 
even while Clayton faced his very mortality and asked of her unspoken 
questions she could never answer in a way that would refill him with 
the 
desire to live on.

Sarah could listen to no more of his talk about needing her, for she 
did 
not, and never would, return his feelings.  Her heart belonged to 
Harmon, 
and whether or not the gods would ever smile upon them long enough to 
bring 
them together, her heart would remain with him for all time, for she 
would 
rather live and die alone than experience one more second of pretense 
with 
another.  She had done so once before and that grave mistake had taught 
her 
a lesson that would stay with her for all the days of her life.

"I'll do whatever I can to keep them away from you." Clayton spoke with 
all 
the passion and conviction he could call upon, even while his throat 
scratched and burned, each word searing him like inside like a flame, 
each 
fight for breath the struggle of Atlas holding up the world.

But his protection mattered not, for Sarah was already tortured. Every 
day, 
every minute that passed not knowing if she would survive to see Harmon 
even 
one last time, was for her like burning in the deepest pit of hell, 
while 
the devil looked on and laughed - laughed at the comedy of what she had 
become, or of what she and Harmon together had not become. No amount of 
physical pain inflicted by mere mortals could ever match the wounds 
already 
in her heart.  Wounds which would never heal unless and until she could 
look 
into Harmon's eyes, the color of a tropical sea, and bathe in the light 
of 
his smile, his touch like a cool salve to erase all memory of pain.



CHAPTER 5: Walk Beside Me

Don't walk in front of me;
I may not follow.
Don't walk behind me;
I may not lead.
Just walk beside me
And be my friend.
	-Sorry, not sure where this is from, but I do know it's not mine.


Harmon and Victor drove through the countryside, Victor's foot urging 
the 
small truck through the dusty, unmarked roads faster than prudence 
would 
allow, and though Harmon argued the pretense of danger, of ending their 
days 
in a fiery crash in a hostile place, secretly he was grateful for 
Victor's 
courage; the faster they drove, the faster they would rescue Sarah from 
the 
horrible, nightmarish fate that awaited her. She was still alive, that 
he 
knew through every pore, to the deepest part of his being. He could 
always 
feel her existence in the universe, and he felt it now, though it was 
weakening, and he knew precious little time remained before that 
feeling, 
their preternatural bond, would be severed.

They came upon a roadside check where they were ordered out of their 
truck. 
Harmon watched gratefully as Victor secured their safe passage with his 
natural, easy Spanish, and for the second time in just minutes, he gave 
thanks heavenward for the presence of the slightly younger man. He had 
been 
a friend tried and true, since their first encounter years before, when 
Harmon had been away from JAG for many months, and when he returned, 
his 
former home held little of the comfort and familiarity he had expected 
would 
greet him. Among very few other things, it had been Victor's quick 
smile and 
effortless professionalism that had convinced him he might someday feel 
welcome there again.

And as surely as day becomes night, Victor had demonstrated time and 
again 
his loyalty to the oath he had sworn as a soldier, and more, his 
loyalty to 
one particular fellow soldier, Sarah, the Colonel, for whom he was now 
risking his life a second time. For it had been he and his lone pistol 
that 
held off the hail of bullets outside an embassy so that his Colonel and 
the 
others could evacuate to safety.

Remembering that tale of heroics from the other side of the world, 
Harmon 
realized that, save for Albert Jethro, Victor was the only man besides 
himself with whom he would entrust his Sarah's life.

The guards finished their search of the vehicle, and Victor thanked 
them 
politely, knowing they might very well have to pass through the same 
point 
again and wanted to stay in their good graces.

"Gracias, capitán," he said with good cheer.

Gracias to you, Victor, Harmon thought as they got into the truck and 
sped 
along their way, a cloud of dust from the dirt road rising behind them. 
Harmon never had to say it; Victor understood that time was not a 
luxury 
they possessed. Every second the tires squealed along the bumpy roads 
was 
one more second Harmon was away from Sarah, one more second the 
separation 
of two loves was pushing the world off its axis, and with his foot 
pressed 
down on the pedal, Victor was trying with all his might to push it 
back. Yes 
indeed, Harmon thought: gracias to you.



CHAPTER 6: Broken Trusts


Sarah and Clayton were taken to another room and tossed in like dead 
animals. Two others were there, British missionaries - a woman and her 
husband, who knew how to help Clayton, having been in the same state of 
misery himself just a few days before. The other prisoners rushed to 
treat 
his wounds with the meager effects they had, and they shared their 
water as 
they were morally bound to assist the sick, the hungry, the hurting.

Sarah was grateful for their help. She could sense that Clayton was 
nearer 
to death than to life, and Carla’s remedies might have made his 
dwindling 
time upon this earth less excruciating. She clung to that small hope as 
if 
it were a life vest, and she were being battered in a storm-tossed sea. 
If 
she could hold on tight enough, it just might help her survive.

Still, the woman’s insistence on asking questions and touching Sarah’s 
womb 
raised her suspicions, and although the couple claimed to be people of 
their 
God, she knew she would have to use caution in the words she chose with 
them. Sarah knew this as strongly as she knew anything, and she 
revealed 
nothing to the long-haired woman who would surely betray her at the 
first 
opportunity.

It was not long before Sarah’s prophecy came true, and their captor 
stormed 
into the room, wrath and indignation flashing in his eyes, black as 
coal. He 
grabbed Sarah, drew his knife, and plunged it into her stomach, proving 
for 
certain what the British turncoat had told him.

“You defile motherhood!” he screamed. His blood burned from his outrage 
at 
the infidel's farce and her audacity to think she could fool him by 
hiding 
her behind something sacred.

He was right, Sarah admitted, but for a reason other than what his 
small 
mind had conceived. She made a mockery of maternity not because of her 
ruse 
to be with child, but because the feigned child belonged not to the one 
she 
loved. The only man, the only soul in this life to whom she would ever 
give 
her womb, her very essence, was not Clayton, the battered, broken man 
who 
had tried to protect her but was forced away by the captor’s powerful 
hand, 
writhing on the floor and spitting up blood. No. The only man with whom 
she 
would join herself in the creation of a life was Harmon.



CHAPTER 7: Embassies for the Soul


“We all must find safe places, embassies where our souls can find 
refuge.”
-Rane Arroyo, “The Cigar”


Thousands of miles away, in the place from where Harmon and Sarah had 
departed, those they left behind were not faring well. The beautiful 
young 
Jennifer was becoming burdened with the unbearable heaviness of fear. 
She 
tried with everything inside her to be strong, as she had been taught, 
but 
eventually she could not hold back the landslide of her pain, and she 
sought 
solace in the kindred spirit of a woman more thoroughly versed in the 
language of grief.

“I’m just so afraid for them.” Her voice trembled and fluttered like 
the 
wings of a butterfly as she struggled to maintain a delicate hold on 
her 
emotions.

Harriet could only tell her what she herself had done in times of 
darkest 
despair - to trust in the will of the fates and pray that their plans 
do not 
upset our lives so completely that they become unrecognizable to us.

Jennifer could not follow the sage advice, for her perception of the 
guiding 
spirits had been darkened by her father’s combination of steadfast 
faith and 
an iron fist. Still, it was a release for her, saying the words to 
someone 
else, to admit to her deathly fear for her friends. The fear wrapped 
itself 
around her like a snake, coiling and coiling, squeezing all hope from 
her. 
She had to say more, or the uncertainty, the anguish, would swallow her 
whole.

“Ma’am,” she called, desperate to hold onto the refuge of the older 
woman 
for a moment longer, and praying that she could lift her out of the 
abyss 
she was spiraling into. “Truth is, Colonel Mackenzie and Commander 
Rabb, you 
and Lieutenant Roberts, are the first people who’ve given a damn about 
me…pardon my language.” She wiped away the tear that threatened to 
fall, for 
if she could not hold it back, it would be just the first of many - so 
many 
that they would fall so fast and gather into a puddle so large she 
would 
drown in her own misery and wash away in a tide of doom. “This place is 
the 
only home I’ve ever known, pathetic as that sounds. I just…I couldn’t 
stand 
it if something happened to one of you.”

Harriet could sense the girl’s crippling fear, the inevitable product 
of the 
interminable wait for news of their friends. She reminded Jennifer of 
how 
strong she had been in the past, how keeping her head on her shoulders 
had 
been her husband’s only salvation, and that she had to keep that same 
unwavering strength and clarity of purpose here and now.

“That was a war zone. I thought here, coming back, it would be safe and 
bad 
things wouldn’t happen to people I care about.”

But they did. Bad things have always happened, since the beginning of 
time, 
and they will continue to happen until its end. It was one of many 
difficult 
lessons Jennifer was learning as she opened her heart to people. The 
pain 
was unmanageable, but even more so would be being alone. Since the day 
almost two years before, when Harmon had seen something of value, of 
honor 
in her, she had slowly come to let people inside the fortress she had 
built 
around herself. And the more she opened those protective doors, the 
less she 
needed them, until times like this. For she could not let in the love 
and 
friendship without also inviting in the heartache and risk. But they 
were a 
small price to pay for the privilege of counting Harmon and Sarah among 
the 
people she held dear.



CHAPTER 8: Souls Drifting Alone


Sarah held Clayton’s hand to her heart, the light of friendship and 
lives 
intertwining like their fingers. “I can’t accept dying here, and I 
won’t 
leave you behind.” Sarah said it with such conviction that even through 
the 
fog of his pain, Clayton could feel the deep love she had for him. But, 
compromised as his mind was with the haze of fear and torture, he did 
not 
understand that it was not the love of a soul mate, but rather the 
strength 
of a woman trained to be resolute under the most trying of 
circumstances, 
enforcing her vow to leave no one behind.

Their captor had already removed the missionaries and would be back at 
any 
moment to take one of them again. Only one, for that one would surely 
succumb when the odor of their sizzling flesh infected their senses, 
when 
the only sounds penetrating their consciousness were their own 
strangled 
screams. That one would answer anything asked of them, if only to save 
the 
other from more of the same neverending agony.

Sarah continued to offer Clayton what little comfort she could, but 
that was 
not much at all, because by then  even she was beginning to comprehend 
the 
hopelessness of their situation. Not a soul in the world knew where 
they 
were, save for Victor, her friend and comrade in arms, but he might 
have 
already given his life for their cause, and then no one except the gods 
themselves would know of their plight and watch over them as, piece by 
piece, their resolve, their steadfastness, the fists they kept wrapped 
so 
tightly around the secrets inside them began to loosen and crumble in a 
desperate attempt to preserve themselves for all they had left unsaid 
and 
unfinished in lives that would end too soon if they ended here, under 
the 
evil eyes and vengeful hatred of madmen.

It was several minutes, though Sarah would later swear she had time 
only to 
blink, before the man had returned to remove one of them. Sarah let go 
of 
Clayton’s hand and stood up with determination, knowing there was no 
alternative. One more second of pain and her friend’s life would surely 
be 
forfeited to the fates to do with it what they would.

“Sarah…” Clayton’s voice crackled and rasped, his words scratching 
against 
his throat like sandpaper. He tried to stand and be taken in Sarah’s 
place, 
but his battered legs had already begun to atrophy and the bones and 
muscles 
betrayed him, buckling under him and landing him prostrate on the 
floor, 
capable of using only his eyes to beg Sarah to stay and let them take 
him 
again. But Sarah ignored her friend’s twisted cries; he had already all 
but 
given his life to spare hers, and the least she could do was save him 
more 
pain and give him the small gift of living his last hours in peace.

Sarah was led through the camp, toward the room where her black fate 
awaited 
her, but before they reached the door, her captor had some unfinished 
business with the missionaries who had infuriated him with their 
undisciplined tongues and their talk of another savior aside from the 
true 
creator of his own beliefs, for there is no God but Him. They begged 
him to 
spare their lives, but his heart was hardened and he shot them both in 
the 
back of the head, unthinking, unfeeling at the two mere obstacles in 
the 
path of his righteousness, two more infidels silenced like millions of 
others, their blood serving only to strengthen his purpose of seeking 
and 
destroying nonbelievers wherever they hid.

Although the killing was brutal, Sarah felt sadness only for the man. 
For 
his wife, she felt nothing but contempt, and even a fleeting 
satisfaction 
that she had gotten what she deserved for betraying her and Clayton. 
Surely 
she had hoped to court favor with their captors by revealing the lie of 
Sarah’s pregnancy. She had thought she could earn their mercy, but 
unlike 
Sarah, she was unschooled in the minds of madmen, devoid of reason and 
compassion, and by her very disloyalty to her own cause, she had earned 
herself and her husband bullets in the back of their skulls.

But Sarah was unable to dwell on the solemnity of the moment, for she 
was 
pushed onward to the chamber of unknown horrors. Her years of training 
were 
of no use to her now, as she was not only weak and dehydrated, but was 
completely surrounded by men with the darkness of the devil himself in 
their 
eyes, and there would have been no escape save certain death if she had 
even 
moved to attempt it.

Against every instinct screaming and echoing against the walls of her 
mind, 
she allowed herself to be chained to the heavy wood table. The tight 
restraints sliced into her delicate flesh while tiny splinters impaled 
themselves into her back as she struggled - against what, or why, she 
did 
not know. She knew what was to happen and no amount of resistance from 
her 
could possibly stop it.

Over and over again, she repeated the Litany Against Fear, hoping that 
in 
some minuscule way, it would allow her to keep her mind intact even 
while 
her body was broken beyond repair:

**I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death 
that 
brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will allow it to pass 
over 
me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye 
to 
see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I 
will 
remain.**
-Frank Herbert, Dune

She would be all right, she told herself. She had been through physical 
pain 
before, and emotional pain, which, of course, is infinitely worse 
because of 
its invisibility. At least with bullets, with fists, there could be 
signs or 
scars, indelible proof of suffering. Physical pain she could endure; it 
was 
knowing that Harmon might live the rest of his life without her, 
without 
knowing the full depth of her love for him, that was unbearable. She 
knew 
she would not scream for her salvation, nor would she react to the 
burning, 
shocking, and other manners of breaking a human. No, her cries of agony 
would echo throughout the village, and indeed, up to Heaven, as she let 
free 
her anguish for a life wasted, a love abandoned, and a soul to wander 
alone 
for eternity. Sarah could only hope that God above would hear her cries 
for 
what they were - regret, repentance, and apologies for failing to do 
what 
she had always known she was put upon the earth to do - to be one with 
Harmon.



CHAPTER 9: My Sun, My Moon, and All My Stars


Meanwhile, Victor had successfully navigated back to the camp, and he 
and 
Harmon started a storm of firepower, bullets flying through the air 
like a 
blinding, deadly hail. Knowing they were just moments from rescuing his 
love, Harmon did something he had never done before. He killed a man 
with 
his bare hands. The man was nothing but an obstacle in the way to 
saving the 
life of the only woman, the only soul, who could make him complete, who 
could save him from suffering an eternity of hunger and solitude.  
Harmon 
cracked the man’s neck like a dry tree branch, and he sank into a heap 
upon 
the ground, reduced to dead ruins. It was the same fate that would 
await 
anyone who got between Harmon and the only beloved his heart had ever, 
and 
would ever know.

Desperate to fulfill his vow to never leave one behind, Victor went in 
quick 
search for Clayton while Harmon ran toward the room to where he had 
seen 
Sarah taken. After disposing of the guard outside, he threw open the 
door, 
and as the torturer was distracted by the sudden gunfire outside, he 
was an 
easy target for Harmon to eliminate, and he, too, crumpled to the 
ground, 
still clutching the burning torches that would now be melting Sarah’s 
tender 
flesh away from her bones had Harmon not arrived.

Sarah had been squeezing her eyes shut against the sight of the 
grotesque 
man towering above her, poised to visit irreversible damage upon her. 
But 
she, too, was alerted by the sound of the conflict outside, and when 
she 
opened her eyes, she was rewarded with the most beautiful sight she had 
ever 
seen - her Harmon, inexplicably before her, come to take her out of 
there so 
that, maybe, they could live the life that had been intended for them 
since 
time immemorial. Perhaps she had known he was close, and perhaps she 
had 
volunteered herself for torture knowing that it would never come to 
that, 
because Harmon would find her, as he always had. That their 
preternatural 
connection, beyond the explanations of man or science, would remain 
intact 
despite the strain they had placed on it and the tests they had forced 
it to 
endure over the years.

And for Harmon, at last the moment was upon him. There she was, his 
Sarah. 
His eyes fixed on her form, his love for her burning with the heat of a 
thousand suns. After days of the nightmares that haunted him with 
visions of 
her violent death, it was as if he had spent a lifetime suffocating, 
and 
now, seeing her here, alive, he could finally take his first 
unencumbered 
breath.

**Yours is the light by which my spirit’s born
Yours is the darkness of my soul’s return.
You are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.**
-e.e. cummings



CHAPTER 10: Salvation


Sarah and Harmon exchanged but few words as they helped Victor prepare 
Clayton for the long, difficult ride it would surely be to whatever 
meager 
medical attention the grace of the gods might lead them to. Sarah knew 
it 
might have been Clayton’s last moments upon the earth, and she sought 
to 
comfort him, as she had hours before.

“You used my toothbrush?” she asked, and to him, her voice was like a 
pair 
of hands pushing open heavy shutters to let streams of sunlight into a 
dark 
room.

“I didn’t think you’d mind.” Clayton’s voice was stronger now, from his 
relief at knowing Sarah was safe. Harmon would take care of her, that 
he 
knew. And as he also knew he was not long for this world, he said 
something 
he would not have said otherwise, for he knew who held Sarah’s heart, 
and 
though it pained him deeply, it was not him.

“You’ve been single too long. Maybe we both have.”

“When we get back…”

Sarah had to silence him. She could not let him go on believing a 
future was 
possible for them. The fates had long ago set her upon a course toward 
another future, of which he could never be a part. And in that moment, 
her 
lips were not her own, but were rather a magnet drawn inescapably to 
Clayton’s, as if the gods themselves  were controlling them, using 
Sarah to 
tell him during what would be his last breaths, that his soul had been 
loved 
in the lifetime he was leaving.


***She prayed to God to give him at least a moment so that he would not 
go 
without knowing how much she had loved him…so that they could say what 
they 
had left unsaid and do everything right that they had done badly in the 
past. But she had to give in to the intransigence of death.***
-Gabriel García Marquez, Love in the Time of Cholera


Harmon witnessed the gentle way in which Sarah had given Clayton peace, 
and 
he understood that it was exactly that - a gesture of comfort and 
compassion 
for a dying man - and it was yet one more way in which he and Sarah 
were 
bound together, because he had done something similar in a time of 
desperation and necessity just before leaving to find her.

Victor and Clayton were ready to go, and Victor said his goodbyes to 
his 
friends.

“It was a pleasure working with you again, Colonel.” The words would 
never 
be enough, but at that moment, with time quickly dwindling for Clayton, 
they 
would have to suffice.

“You too, Gunny.”

There were only three words in the known languages of the world that 
could 
come as close as possible to expressing their bond, their 
determination, 
their tried and true friendship, and Victor pulled them from his very 
essence and prayed they would carry with them the depth of the emotion 
he 
felt.

“Semper Fi, Ma’am.”

Understanding every nuance, every hue of that phrase, Sarah echoed it 
back 
at him, knowing it would convey her own feelings as well. “Semper Fi.”

Harmon, too, had no hope of telling Victor what his courage and loyalty 
meant to him, if not for himself, then for helping him find Sarah. 
“Good 
luck, Gunny.” The three words were all he could say, though in his 
heart, he 
was telling Victor, “Que dios te bendiga. Te amamos.”  God Bless you, 
Victor. We love you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A blanket of silence descended upon Harmon and Sarah as they walked to 
the 
Mennonite village where the missiles were waiting. Loyal to their duty 
even 
before each other, they remained committed to their purpose of 
destroying 
threats and danger to their homeland.

As they walked quietly, Harmon could not help but take in the vision of 
his 
Sarah and imagine that her body was not a mere prop in the story they 
would 
tell to get help, but that instead she was large with his child - their 
child, growing safely and warmly inside her. The image filled his heart 
with 
a contentment he had never known, and which, he prayed, he might know 
someday after they got out of wherever it was they were.

Their luck held out well and they happened upon a farmer with a small 
plane 
they could borrow in exchange for their identification documents. As 
Sarah 
spoke to the man in German - a skill she had kept secret from Harmon, 
causing his mind to swim with thoughts of other secrets he might 
discover 
about her - Harmon prepared the plane and came upon a supply of 
dynamite 
nearby. He was thrilled, but forced himself to keep his emotions under 
tight 
control lest there be questions and holdups, or anything that might 
delay 
for even the briefest moment his escape and the fulfillment of two 
purposes 
- destroying the missiles, and getting Sarah to safety.

With Sarah securely in the front of the plane, Harmon climbed into the 
back, 
and like countless times in his life, he lifted off from the ground 
toward 
an unpredictable danger, with only his courage and determination to 
guide 
him.

Luck again was with them, and they found the convoy that was 
transporting 
the missiles that were sure to rain down terror and destruction on the 
land 
and ideals they cherished. Harmon called for Sarah to take control of 
the 
plane so he could light the sticks of dynamite and launch them at the 
weapons and terrorists below. Perhaps it was a moment born of 
necessity, as 
Harmon was the one with the dynamite, but nevertheless, Sarah 
recognized it 
for what it truly was: Harmon was ceding control to her. Of his heart, 
of 
his mind, of everything. Flying had been first in his life for so long, 
and 
in his simple act of handing her the stick, Sarah knew he was telling 
her, 
without words, that now, and forevermore, she was first - and only.

But before she could dwell on the soul-searching she knew Harmon must 
have 
gone through to arrive at that point, the plane was hit. They were 
going 
down with alarming speed, the lush, verdant ground seeming to rise up 
to 
meet them while a stream of fuel marked the sky behind them like a 
footprint.

Seconds before, Harmon had hit his target and a stick of dynamite 
exploded 
the stockpile of missiles. Their plane careened toward the fertile 
earth 
with the fireball from the explosion following close behind, an evil 
ghost 
of flames that threatened to swallow them whole.  Though it was 
beautiful 
from high above, the green blanket of trees beneath them would not be a 
gentle comfort, for it was full of hidden dangers, jagged rocks and 
sharp 
branches that might tear them apart, and a menagerie of unknown animals 
to 
protect against if they were indeed blessed enough to land safely.

Suddenly uncertain of their fate, with the hot orange glow as a 
backdrop for 
what might now be their final moments, Harmon and Sarah cried “I love 
you, I 
love you, I love you,” over and over again, as if, by the sheer force 
of 
repetition, they could make each other understand that the mistakes of 
the 
past had been forgotten. That all the stumbling and falling along their 
rocky path had led them to this moment, and that were it to be their 
last, 
at least their destiny had finally found them, and they would spend it 
as 
had been intended from the start…

Together.


~The End~