#The Legend of Airn Rhymer

[therisingtempest]

{tales} Honesty

continued from this

With the blessing of saltwater upon his body, Airn's recovery became an enjoyable experience rather than an infuriating one. His healing process—while still slow and near mortal—now included healthy doses of both Rowena and the sea. Sometimes he had both at once, just like the first time. Those were the best days. The Gaelic healer still scolded and berated him, and even once or twice smacked him again when he really deserved it—in addition to one very solid punch, as threatened previously—but he didn't mind any of it anymore.

In fact, her rigid rules for his health now only made him smile and wink and grab stealthily for her hips or her hair. Rowena had glares that could make even the strapping castle guards swallow and shift on their feet, but the young Fomoiri relished the fire, loved to reflect it back to her and watch it burn pink in her freckled cheeks.

In this time, he also grew closer to Lady Calla, though in less of a physical sense than with Rowena. The lady of the house was busier than any woman he'd ever known—a bit unsettling since she was only human. He once followed her around for a full day. From dawn when she rose and said her prayers to near midnight when she sat writing and reading by candlelight.

Mornings were for reflection, she'd told him. For calm and quiet and setting one's mind right for the coming day. She read from a thick book she called the Word of God. First to herself, but when he'd asked what it was about, she'd read him aloud a passage or two. It wasn't quite a story with plot and characters, but there was a strange poetic quality to it that kept him silent and attentive, watching her soft features and the way her lips wrapped around each word. She explained the psalm she'd read was meant as worship of a creator-deity, written by a long-dead king, meant to be sung, though they'd lost the knowledge of its intended melody. She thought it sad they didn't sing them anymore.

Later, when he mentioned it, Rowena smirked and told him it wasn't proper for people to read this Word themselves. They were supposed to leave that to holy men who would interpret for the common masses. It was his first hint that the Lady Calla was not quite the delicate flower her name suggested.

By mid-morning she would order the gates opened, granting entrance to any villagers who wished to speak their minds to her. In the main hall stood an elaborate chair of finely-polished wood with gold inlay, precious metals embedded in the head. Calla never sat on it. Instead, she perched always beside it and down a few steps, on a simple high-backed chair from the dining table. She heard every request and complaint herself, at times giving immediate judgment, at others admitting she needed a respite to sort it out.

Sometimes this period of hearing lasted well into the afternoon. Sometimes she'd need to go into the village to investigate some claim. Even if no information needed gathering, she always went down to the hamlet next. Airn hated the village. With so many people looking, he needed to work that much harder to keep his glamour perfect. Besides that, they knew he was a survivor of the “curse ship” that they'd burned on the beach. No one was ever exactly rude, but they got quiet. They shied away. It made him want so desperately to drop the mask from his face and speak in ancient tongues. Just to watch them pale and faint.

But he didn't. Mostly out of respect for his benefactor. Calla moved among them like a gull skimming the surface of the water. Her clothes were fine, but not opulent, well made but plain. She stood out from the rougher materials of the working class, but never above them. She greeted children by name, remembered aches and pains of old fishermen, asked after couples planning marriage, insisting they have the ceremony at the castle's chapel. Airn couldn't fathom it. This was not a large village, but it was also not small like a ship's crew. That she cared so much and remembered so much left him both startled and unnerved. He became sure she fed off them in some capacity, for why else would she be so concerned for their health and happiness? But when he mentioned this theory to Zafi the sprite had snorted. He'd never snorted before and Airn got the message.

After moving through the village, the Lady Calla would return to the castle for dinner, but never alone. She brought with her those in the most need. Beggars who had nothing for their next meal. Sailors in port with nowhere to lay their heads until they shipped out the next day. A widow and her six children, still struggling to come to grips with the loss of a husband and father. And always, always, visitors to the area who had no family to house them. There was apparently a plan in the works to add onto the village inn. With Lady Calla funding all of it.

“How does it feel?” Rowena had asked him on the first night he'd been well enough to come down to the dining hall to eat with this unexpected crowd. She'd smirked at him slyly. “Knowing you're not the exception?”

He'd muttered swears at her, at the time, but now it perplexed him even more. No lord on Mag Mell behaved this way. No captain cared this much. Now it no longer surprised him that this woman had leapt from her horse and climbed into a ditch to keep him conscious until help arrived. Of course, it still baffled him, but it made sense to her character now. Her bizarre, charitable, razor-smart character.

After dinner, those staying the night would be given rooms and, if none remained, would be bedded down in the great hall near the fireplace with a servant given express orders to keep the flames stoked through the night. And Calla would retreat back to her quarters to jot down happenings of the day, reports made, what tribute was brought by grateful villagers and what had been dispensed back out to those who lacked. She kept a painfully detailed accounting, filling both ledgers and journals with a patience so calming it drove him mad to watch. She did not undress nor sleep until this work was done.

Watching her in the dark and flickering light of candle and fire, Airn thought she had transformed into another person. This creature bent over ink and parchment in the near-dark seemed so far removed from the ethereal being who read forbidden words in the straight-backed chair in the beaming light of morning. The mix of light and faith with this hidden intellect and exacting darkness drew the Fomoire by his very bones. When he wasn't adventuring out away from the castle or with Rowena, he was at Lady Calla's side, no matter where she found herself in her daily process.

In just an effort to be near her, he'd found himself a part of her charity, helping to carry tired children, dispensing blankets, and even sharing food. Zafi had arched an eyebrow at him more than once, but Airn pretended not to see. Boredom was a sailor's worst enemy and between his stalwart healer and his quiet hostess, it hadn't even crossed his mind.

Things moved so much slower with Calla. She was too busy to give him the attention he wanted from her. And she seemed immune to the goading he used on Rowena. So many times he cursed his iron-weakness, wishing he could just dip his fingers into her mind and turn her eyes to him. But, like he'd felt with Rowena's foul mouth and fearlessness, he got the sense she wouldn't be quite as much fun if she weren't moving through her life as she always had.

Still, there were countless garden walks. Conversations. Quiet moments by firelight wherein he perhaps sat too close but she did not pull away. And one night he'd told her she reminded him of his captain. Not the traitorous one but the one before. Fearghal. He spoke the man's name for the first time in a century. He told her how this captain had cared for each individual crewmember as family rather than weapons, how he'd practically raised him. How he'd loved him.

Like that was a floodgate cracking open, the rest of his story came rushing. Life on the streets as an orphan, meeting Fearghal, loving Fearghal, the mutiny, Corvan, fleeing to obscurity under a new captain, a bad captain. He caught her all the way up to the tale he'd already told of the shipwreck and she said not a word throughout it, only watching his face and reaching out to squeeze his hand when his voice choked around the telling of Corvan slicing open his captain's throat.

She even pretended not to notice his tears when he wiped them away.

If she had the spare time, she was with him. But always, always, at the end of the day, she'd politely request he leave and he did—to his shock—every time. He'd never seen her in less than full gown and jewels. Once, she'd fallen asleep on his shoulder, exhausted, and he'd only carried her to bed and pulled blankets over her, pushing for no mischief mostly because he didn't know how he'd explain it without glamour and the thought of being cast out of this place struck him as terrifying. To a paralyzing degree.

But he was Fomoire. And he was young. And he did push mischief in other areas. His kiss lingered perhaps too long against her knuckles. His hand strayed a bit too low on her back. When they were alone, he found comfort with her enough to stroke her hair and tip her chin and even kissed her once, catching her just inside the kitchen corridor as she went to fetch extra bread herself since the servants were all busy.

She'd done nothing more than blink at him when they parted, and neither'd had a chance to speak before the flow of traffic interrupted and then there was work to be done again. It hadn't changed anything between them afterward either. Except, perhaps, that she sat a bit closer to him. Flushed a bit brighter. At the meal, she even reached under the table to thread her fingers with his.

It was as slow and maddening as his ironwound's healing, but Airn enjoyed the hunt. For the first time in his life, he understood that patience could actually bring rewards. Of course, back then, he had almost none of it and it wasn't long before he caught her on her way from her rooms to the hall to hear petitions. Before she could finish her greeting, he had her pinned back against the tapestries with a peaking hunger. Even in recovery his body shifted fluid, like the wake of a ship or the roll of a sail in gentle winds. It was hardly a movement at all, he was just simply…closer now.

“Wh-What are you doing?”

Her hand fluttered up to rest against his chest, but she didn't push him away.

“Calla…”

His smile and tone would’ve been patronizing if not for the warmth. Like sunlight on shallow water. The way his voice pooled low, it almost seemed to slither through her body like a thing alive. He might not have had enough glamour to fill a thimble, but he was still fae. His head canted.

“I’m seducing you.”

He nearly kissed her trembling lips before he registered the dull ache pressing to his breastbone.

His curse and jerking backstep might've startled her even more than the iron had him.

“Are you alright?” were the first panicked words from her mouth.

“I...” Airn cleared his throat. “Just my wound. It pains me.”

It did. Constantly. But where at the beginning of their relationship Calla might've offered her sympathies and inquired into his health, now she reached out a slim hand and laid it against his abdomen. If he'd had his wits and she hadn't been wearing her new jewelry, he might've turned the moment back toward seduction. But as it was, he could only blink at the woven metal lying so innocuously around her neck, draped over the subtle swell of her breast. At the end of the chain hung the simple asymmetrical cross shape he'd seen in the castle's chapel. He tried to affect nonchalance while still boring holes into her chest.

“That, ah, that's new, isn't it?”

Calla followed his gaze at last and removed her hand from him to close her fingers around the chain. With a smile, she lifted it to show him better. He resisted the urge to pull back again. He knew, in his heart, that it would only sting. That it could not hurt him beyond a little pain if it only touched his skin. He'd played in iron filings from the jewelers and the smiths like any Fomoiri child after all. But now the smell alone had him nauseous. His wound throbbed like it had when it was fresh and oozing.

“Yes, it is,” Calla said, oblivious to him for the moment. “Rowena suggested it. A simple cross. Made of the metal that would've formed the nails that killed our Lord.”

His breaths had shortened.

“Rowena?”

The lady nodded. Then tilted her head. “It's funny. I hadn't thought Rowena paid that much attention to the teachings of the Christ. We discuss beliefs quite often. I know she values the pantheon of her people most highly. Nature is more real to her than anything. Which I admire, to be honest. So few Christians value the earth we live... Oh, goodness, you look very unwell. Should I fetch her?”

Airn did, in fact, feel very unwell. Dizzy, hot and cold in the wrong spots, heart pounding. But it wasn't from the iron and it wasn't from his injury. His voice came out more threatening than he meant it to. Like it had in the beginning before he'd learned the limits of human fear.

“I'll find her.”

And he did. She had to know he would. And even though he approached with the dangerous sort of quiet that killed, she did not jolt quite enough to satisfy him when he grabbed her arm. They were alone in the airy woods on the verge of a field. A low stone wall ran the division between the two types of green and brown. No witnesses for miles.

His lip curled as he looked down over her body.

“What? No iron for you?”

Her pale skin paled more, making the spatter of freckles across her face stand out darker. Her free hand slipped around behind her and she backed away. He let her go when she wrenched her arm free, but moved with her, keeping the distance close. His head tilted too quick, too alien, and she made a soft noise of alarm, pulling her hands back around in front of her, now both wrapped around the hilt of her little plant-cutting knife.

“Stay back.”

Airn laughed, deep and mad and from his gut. He might've been weak enough even a Fomoiri child could take him down, but this girl and her little sliver of metal did not frighten him. Funny, despite the sharp iron, he didn't feel the same sickening dread as with Calla's necklace. Maybe because he was angry now.

When the little healer feinted forward a bit to try to make him retreat, he caught her wrist and pulled, twisting, sending the knife bouncing away and yanking her against him. Her voice came out in a rush, like he'd crushed the words from her in the move.

“I know what you are.”

“Do you?”

“We have stories, you know. We're not stupid.” She was angry now. The fire had returned, flushing red through pale cheeks. “The sidhe steal children and corrupt minds into mush so they can play—”

His frown deepened with every word until he talked over her. “Rowena—Rowena. I am not sidhe.”

“What else could you be? You skirt around your Name, you listen in threes, and you nearly died of iron poisoning.”

He studied her confusion. She knew he was not human. She even knew enough to pick out what would harm him. And rather than attack him, she'd simply used it to protect her ladyship. What did he have to lose by the truth? He felt more concern that she'd think him one of those filth than any desire to protect secrets that seemed so unimportant now.

“I'm Fomoire.”

“Fomoire.” Her tone darkened with disgust and she pushed away. “The demons that came from the sea?”

And just like that he absorbed all of her confusion. “Demons? From the sea?”

“Oh gods, you're some horrible beast under that skin, aren't you? Have you got fishy parts?” She whined high in her throat, paling, shaking her hands. “What's been inside me?!”

With a building snarl, he dropped the glamour from his appearance like wrenching a curtain open. Though sudden, the differences were subtle. His bones were shaped smoother and sharper. He stood differently, his weight held in new patterns. Inexplicably inhuman, taller than he'd been, and more like a predator. His features changed the most, sharpening to an alien beauty. He knew for a fact the whole picture was quite accentuated by the seething irritation in black eyes. In some lights, to some people, he would look nearly demonic.

Rowena's legs gave out and she half-sat hard on the stone wall and stared, unbreathing, frozen like a rabbit in tall grass. After a few heartbeats, she teetered in her seat and reflexively took a short breath to avoid a faint. Seeming to snap out of her shock a bit, she moved closer again. Airn remained very still, watching her approach. She lifted a hand to touch the accentuated line of his cheekbone where the fresh pink scar had taken a strange new twist. She withdrew quickly, as though his skin were just this side of too warm to remain in contact. Another long pause.

“You're beautiful.”

“Beautiful?”

She squeaked in surprise. His voice pitched lower in this form, echoing larger and deeper somehow. It was still his. The same tones and rhythm and mysterious accent. But there was an Otherness to it now, beyond its depth. As though he could command cowards to stand and the hopeless to fight.

“Maybe...beautiful isn't the word. I...I don't know the word. Majestic, perhaps.”

He snorted, completely shattering the image of some sea-god come to her forest. Rowena laughed, a sharp sudden bark of mirth and the tension evaporated. She covered her mouth as if to take back the sound, but her fingers slipped down to reveal her usual grin. Strangely, he felt almost none of the rage he'd burned with before, but his smile slipped away again.

“This is Fomoire, Rowena. I hate the sidhe. And I love you. Even if I had the power to crush your mind, I never would.”

Her grin faded as well, down to something almost smug. “You love me?” Before he could even start to splutter, she'd curled her fingers around his wrist, pulling him to the stone wall to sit beside her. “Could we...? Well, I mean, could you...stay like this?”

“Not in the village.”

“No, just for now. I want to...”

She leaned up, kneeling beside him, to investigate the subtle point to his ears and he let her, trying very hard not to smile too wide.

“To see?”

At her hurried nod, he chuckled.

“Not like that!” She smacked his chest hard. “Well, maybe like that. But I want to know how you work. I spent a week keeping you alive and you were hiding this from me! I could've helped you sooner if—”

“No, you couldn't have.”

“Well, I might have.” She squirmed closer, all at once childlike. “Which stories are true? What can you do? Tell me everything about your kind. And you'll have to show the Lady Calla this, of course. As soon as we get back.”

“I think she might take it less well than you.”

“Less well than trying to stab you? Oh, aye. She's a vicious one.”

Airn studied her then, in silence. It took her a moment to focus from her own thoughts and meet his gaze and when she did it was still a little distant. She gave a cautious smile.

“What is it?”

“You gave her iron. To protect her.”

“Aye, that was the idea. Worked, it seems, as you're not covered in blood nor talking of her in the past tense.”

Airn fell quiet again, unsure how to ask, how to put it to words. Her care was such a subtle thing, not like Calla's feeding of the masses. Rowena fixed what broke and then turned around and smacked it when it was being stupid. She worked out theories and came up with solutions without any grand gestures.

This time she didn't wait for him to press again before continuing, her voice quiet, smile still small but no longer distant. “Remember, I loved her long before I loved you. If everything else slips your mind about we humble mortals, never forget that.”

He gave the intensity the pause it deserved before he grinned. An expression that, on his new face, made her breath hitch a little.

“You love me, Lady Jailer?”

She hit his chest, but she climbed on his lap and kissed him soundly.

[therisingtempest]

{tales} Brotherhood

continued from this

The cabin boy they called Rhymer had a grand first voyage. The fourth was brilliant as well. By the tenth, the crew had resigned themselves in one way or another to the child as a permanent fixture aboard Horizon. Most didn't mind it by then. A few had even grown fond of the lad. He had quick feet, shut up when you shouted loud enough, and always seemed to find what a person needed and present it to them with those wide, hopeful dark eyes. It was hard to hate something that brought you rum and ensured he was never underfoot.

He helped the quartermaster the most, a young but tired man the crew called Madrádh for his unique wisdom. Madrádh had served on five ships, each of which had sunk, and most refused him passage for fear of curses and bad luck. Captain Fearghal didn't believe in curses, though, or any superstitions. The crew still wore their charms and performed their wards in private after crossing the quartermaster's path. Rhymer thought it was grand and asked for stories nearly twice a week.

Madrádh had lost most of the dexterity in his left hand after one too many injuries to the arm. He compensated well, and still moved quick enough to cut it aboard a Fomoiri ship, but Rhymer took extra special glee in hauling chests or clambering up to snatch things off high shelves before Madrádh had to fumble. All with the wide grin that demanded to be reflected on the faces around it.

Corvan remained singularly doubtful of the boy, which only made little Rhymer more determined to impress him. He jumped with the rest of the crew when the first mate roared. He scrubbed decks without complaint. He learned knots and practiced them in the dark of his bunk, over and over, even though it meant he swayed on his feet the next day and fell asleep in his rations.

When the captain wasn't busy, Rhymer could most likely be found in his shadow. He was, after all, the cabin boy, meant to serve the captain. And this he did happily. Fearghal had granted him a place on a ship and even took moments out of the day to teach him things. Things like plotting a route, planning an attack, how to charm a border guard and slide smuggled goods right under his nose, and best of all—swordplay.

Rhymer adored swordplay more than almost any other activity. He babied the small cutlass given to him from the ship's armory, even though it was plain and old and well-used. Even when not taking lessons with the captain, he could often be found shadow-fencing, adapting to the weight of a blade in place of the sticks he'd once played with. The shores of Mag Mell seemed so far away, but he never felt homesick.

The captain was a kind master. He took care of most things himself, only ordering the boy to fetch a bottle or his boots when he was too busy with other things to manage. In this it felt more like a partnership than a servant to his master. And Rhymer near glowed every time he could be helpful, every time the captain's duties were made more efficient thanks to his actions and the man smiled. More than once the cabin boy was allowed to stay in the captain's quarters when the navigator and Corvan leaned over charts and discussed routes with Fearghal. It was these times that Rhymer stayed very, very quiet, absorbing everything around him.

But when the captain was busy, duty fell to the first mate to find things for the little whelp to do. He'd begun to get sick of it. As eager as Rhymer was to learn and work, there seemed no end to the lad's energy and he had a maddening issue with following orders at their face, always having to do it his own way or in his own time. While life at sea came with intense bursts of activity, much of it was a neutral sort of down time that made the cabin boy restless. And annoying.

“Corv! Corv, look!”

Corvan did not look. He ground his teeth. He was not going to respond to that.

“Cooooooorvan~”

Someone on the deck crew snorted and Corvan considered tossing them over the side for encouraging the gutter rat. Instead he continued rolling silver-edged dried leaves into thin paper. He licked the edge to seal it.

“Corvan! Corvan! Look!”

He was strong enough to endure this. He’d hunted powerful creatures of the deep as a child. He'd marched into the interior of Mag Mell before he'd been full-grown. He'd faced maelstroms without flinching. He'd choked the life from a mutineer and looked dead into the man's eyes the whole time. He'd sat motionless for hours in pouring rain just for the sake of an ambush. He'd stabbed his father to death for fuck's sake.

“CORV!”

“What?!”

The first mate bolted straight up from his slouch against the mast. Even with flaming eyes and a borderline roar under his response, Rhymer only grinned at him, victorious, though a bit upside down at the moment. The brat had slipped his legs into the ratlines on the deck side and now dangled, flailing his arms and smiling like a fool. More than a few of the deck crew chuckled now. Corvan only stared until the boy's grin faded.

“What've I told you to call me?”

“Aw, come on, Corv,” the cabin boy cajoled, still with that sycophantic grin that had charmed everything from gunners to rigging rats. He started to swing a bit in his position, trying and failing to arch far enough to grip the rail. “We're just floating.”

Rather than respond to that, Corvan pocketed his unlit smoke and crossed the space to the lad. He could feel the deck crew tense up like they were one beast. Rhymer didn't share the same extrasensory alertness. He jolted and writhed when Corvan grabbed a fistful of the front of his shirt and dragged him down. He also cried out, clearly not adept at disentangling his legs quick enough to avoid injury.

Corvan did not set him down, just kept walking, hauling the boy—now right side up—to the rail to hold him off the side. The cabin boy locked fingers around Corvan's forearm, kicking and squirming, something dark like anger blackening in his eyes even alongside the fear.

“Floating, sailing, or raiding—you'll call me sir.”

“You can't hurt me,” the boy spat.

Struck speechless, Corvan only stared. The brat was right, of course. Tossing him to the mer wasn't something that could be explained away to the captain. Not to mention half the crew was in love with the little prick now. Usually a taste of fear overrode things like logic and got him obedience. It worked on men far older than the urchin now dangling helplessly in his grip.

Rhymer's expression turned smug in the silence and Corvan nearly dropped him on principle. Instead, he pivoted and released him to the deck.

“Make yourself useful. Haul the anchor.”

“By myself?” The boy scrambled to his feet, out of breath and flushed. “That's impossible!”

Without pause or prelude, Corvan grabbed him again, this time by the mess of loose curls on his head and dragged him, yelping, across to the mid-deck. There, at the bottom of the empty spool, the anchor chain linked and disappeared belowdeck where it would eventually thread out the side of the hull and down down down to the sea. The spoked wheel that sat atop the spool had been hand-carved with tentacle patterns and perhaps had once been brightly painted, though now even the gold accents were faded. Horizon was an old, reliable girl, still whip-fast and well-oiled, but her aesthetics had begun to slip beyond restoration.

The whole contraption was taller than the boy by two inches and likely weighed at least four times his scrawny mass. Rhymer gawped at it and then frowned up at Corvan. It might've been called a scowl if not for the note of fear and lostness under the heat of his embarrassed flush. He'd only ever seen teams of four and six strapping career sailors put their shoulders to this wheel to wrap link after link of mighty chain around the winch. Under their power its ascension always sounded like muffled thunder and the anchor soared up out of the water almost as fast as mer could swim.

“Haul the anchor up,” Corvan repeated, releasing him.

“I can't.”

Corvan's eyes narrowed. Every sailor on deck or above it was watching now. Some pretended they weren't, but they all were. One beast. One attentive beast. The boy, at least, could feel their attention. It wasn't the sort he fancied, Corvan could tell. The heat in his cheeks had flushed down over his neck and collarbones and he looked desperately ready to shout or lash out or maybe cry. No, not cry. Too tough for that. He wouldn't cry until later, muffled into his pillow in the dark. Corvan preferred him like this. The black of his eyes seemed so much more honest than that ingratiating smile.

“I gave you an order, boy.”

To his credit, Rhymer at least seemed conscious of that. His eyebrows knotted together and his lips curled in a frown of deep thought. A strain entered his little jaw and throat, a desire to fulfill and succeed contrasting with his own estimations of limits and reality. It all disappeared into a wrathful glare when Corvan failed to even blink at him, as compassionate as a block of granite. Rhymer stomped to the crank wheel. Lifting his hands up above head height to grip one of the spokes, he set his weight.

Before the boy could begin pushing, Corvan leaned over to flip the locking mechanism at the center of the wheel, then stepped back and folded his arms. The boy put his head down and braced his bare feet and pushed from the small of his back up through his shoulders and—to his shock, the wheel budged.

Rhymer's head perked up, tension gone from his face as he began to take slow but steady steps around the pivot of the crank. He looked across his shoulder at the center of the wheel, at the quiet-running machinations and flawless engineering that allowed even the slightest force to be of use. He looked down where the winch met the decking, watching as link after link of dripping chain appeared from beneath the deck and wrapped around its spool in elegant coils. He'd made three complete revolutions before he turned his awed gaze on Corvan.

The first mate had relaxed some in the quiet. Watching the boy work, he'd even gotten a very small smile on his lips. It looked odd, Rhymer thought, like a crack in a wall through which one could see some other place. Corvan's arms remained folded and his voice was as rough and hard as ever.

“Don't tell me something's impossible ever again. Especially not without fucking trying.”

Rather than respond, Rhymer restored his bright grin like a flash of lightning and braced his stringy thighs harder, pushing his steps faster. The click-click-click of the hauled chain quickened and Corvan moved away, unfolding his arms, withdrawing the smoke from his pocket. Like the tide, as he receded others of the crew advanced, circling closer to the boy and making laughing comments or cheering his progress.

Corvan nearly made it to the rail when the bubbling camaraderie behind him exploded into a geyser of panic and terror. Rhymer screamed, his voice shrill and distinguished from the lower shouts and curses of the experienced sailors around him. Too young. Terrified. More than terrified.

The first mate—already spinning, assessing, taking it all in—had a great familiarity with the different screams those with lungs could make. Cries of pain, of alarm, of grief. Most knew these. But there was another scream, one not heard often. One of a creature absolutely convinced it was about to die. And Rhymer was making it now.

The slender tentacle had come up with the anchor chain, threaded within and around the links with near flawless camouflage. Even Corvan, who'd been standing not two feet away when it began to rise, hadn't noticed. But now the finger-thin flexile appendage had whipped away from the chain, waiting until the boy had hauled it all the way up before uncoiling and splitting. It had to be monstrously long to stretch the whole length of the chain and more, the thinness of each flailing limb making it all the more horrifying. Five—no, six different tentacles, whip thin and twice as fast. They'd already latched onto the nearest target—the screaming cabin boy—weaving up to his chest in a tight webbing. A hunter's snare.

Pain had joined Rhymer's shrieking scream. Toxin? Barbs shredding past skin into muscle? Or were the blind snaky arms much stronger than they looked and already begun turning his bones to shards within his body? This seemed horrifyingly likely as the latching web had begun to drag the boy toward the too-small hole the chain had come up through. Back through the way it had come. Back to the sea. Even the boy's scrawny body wouldn't fit through it. Not in one piece. 

Swords were already drawn and hacking by the time Corvan lunged back to the scene. He grabbed the nearest raised arm and almost broke it in his urgency to stop the falling blow, roaring at the rest to hold their weapons and take a fucking step back.

Rhymer had gotten ahold of a spoke on the hauling wheel again, and with the taut tentacles pulling on his lower half, his body now hovered off the deck. His screams had begun to go hoarse and thready. Tears stained dark cheeks and for one paralyzing moment Corvan realized he was a boy. Just a boy. A child who might meet his end right at this very moment, floating on a calm sea. Corvan fumed at his captain, howling words in his mind he wouldn't dare speak to the man's face. 

I told you. I told you.

But the captain was still in his cabin and every eye settled on the first mate. Corvan could feel them all. The crew now stood out of range of the loose, searching tentacles. No one else had been grabbed. They'd moved quick enough under his command, but he had no time to be pleased with it.

Rhymer's screams had begun forming words. Help. Help me.

The crew roiled restless but did not move out of the safe zone, eyes burning into their leader. Occasionally one or two would lean back further or take a swipe at the unseeing feelers. There were more now. Seventeen. Some had reinforced the grip on the boy, writhing and weaving around his legs and waist like a living net. Some groped along his spine and his neck, seeking out what it was that kept their prey anchored. The rest strained to their limit, seeking other targets, hungry for more.

“Boy, listen to me. Rhymer!”

The shout of his name finally silenced the sobbing screams and dark wet eyes peered over one shivering arm to lock onto Corvan's cold steel. The first mate only held the gaze a moment, long enough to be sure the boy's panic peak had passed, before he returned his attention to the searching tentacles.

“Listen to me very carefully. You need to go limp.”

“F-Fuck you.”

“Fine. It's your choice. Do you want to die?”

The boy choked another sob. Madrádh elbowed his way through the press of sailors to just behind Corvan and started to address him. The first mate was not interested. Rhymer was the priority here, not a discussion of his bedside manner in combat situations.

“If you go limp, it will loosen its hold on you but it will move fast. Try to drag you down. Wait as long as you can. The more relaxed the grip, the softer the tissue, the easier to cut.”

“Cut?”

Corvan drew a small curved blade, deadly sharp. The last he'd used it had been on a prey ship captain's eye and gums. It gleamed now, clean and polished and eager for more. He tossed it overhand, hard, and the tip dug into the deck below Rhymer, leaving the handle proffered and ready to grab. The cabin boy peered down at it, eyes wide, but he'd stopped whimpering. His jaw flexed and relaxed.

“You won't get through all of it. Cut as much as you can below your feet. It’s going to react. The grip will come hard again, but it'll be in more pain than you. Sloppy. Keep your left arm up. I'm going to grab your wrist and take care of the rest. Understood?”

“I don't wanna die.” Some of the whimper had returned, trembling his tone. “I don't wanna die, Corv.”

“What have I told you to call me?”

Rhymer only panted, shuddering breaths. His eyes stayed locked on the first mate. Corvan nodded.

“Do it. Now.”

The lad lowered his head, pressing his forehead and his eyes against one shaking thin bicep. Corvan thought for a moment he was just going to keep his deathgrip on the wheel and cry there into his arm until the thing ripped him to shreds, but when Rhymer lifted his head, his expression had gone like stone.

He took a deep breath and let go.

Every soul winced as the sweet cabin boy hit the deck full on his ribs. Something clearly must've cracked or snapped, but he only grunted, right hand lashing out to grab the knife. He missed. The tentacles yanked. He flailed with his left and caught the edge of the blade, slicing open his fingers, but tipping it enough that it toppled and slid into his right on his next grab.

It happened in seconds. Impact with the deck, yanked across it toward the anchorwheel. Rhymer, to his credit, waited until the last possible moment before his foot would've been broken in five places to fit through the chain hole. He rolled to his back and bent at the waist and sliced hard with a cry—this time his scream was rage—almost completely freeing one foot and allowing him to brace the sole of it against the wheelhouse and push, giving him leverage for a second swipe with the flashing knife.

Corvan started moving as soon as Rhymer hit the deck. The periphery tentacles had, as he suspected, begun to retreat toward the central mass, toward the sudden wounding. Easily dodging around one or two agonized spasms, slicing one feeler off with a backhanded swing, ducking under another and spinning, he grabbed Rhymer's free forearm and backpedaled hard.

Madrádh—damn bleeding heart—was the first to lunge forward to grab Corvan's belt and help pull. He got a lash across the face for it and if the tentacle hadn't done it, Corvan might've. His balance upset, he almost fell, almost lost his grip on the slippery blood-slicked thin arm in his fingers. But he held on, hard enough to bruise, and dug his boots and pulled, slashing another mass of thin flicking tentacles that shot out for him with alarming precision. More crew added their weight to the quartermaster and Rhymer cut through the last of the tendrils gripping him and the whole lot of them slung backward across the deck and into the rail.

Even half on his back, Corvan kept pulling, yanking Rhymer out of range of the mutilated attacker. The boy smelled of salty tears and desperate sweat and blood, but he wasn't crying anymore. His fingers clutched Corvan's forearm almost as hard as he'd gripped the boy's own.

Fairly tossing him to Madrádh as he rolled, Corvan got back to his feet and called for fire. Lots of fire. The first few singes of it to the creature of water caused the wounded thing to withdraw, snapping back below deck and along the chain it had hijacked. Even when the gun deck crew below reported it gone, Corvan ordered the anchor unhooked and the whole chain unspooled. They'd burn every inch of it, just to be sure.

And then the good captain emerged.

Corvan was glad for the chaos on the deck, for things to do, focus on, control. It calmed the shake in his hands. That old familiar rage that had flung him at his father as a boy, driven that razor-edged knife into the flesh that had raised him. The captain emerged alone, but that didn't mean someone wasn't hiding out in the cabin. But perhaps he'd just been asleep. Perhaps he'd drank a bit too much and the noise hadn't been enough to rouse him quick enough.

It didn't matter.

“Corvan!”

The first mate gritted his teeth and turned to face Fearghal. He wanted to simply stare, to wait out the man's bewilderment until he was asked specific questions. What had happened. What he'd done to fix it. But even that could seem like a challenge of leadership, and after the near-death fight he'd just had, he wasn't in the mood for another spat.

“Hunter from the deep. Camouflaged on the anchor chain. It got your cabin boy, but we pulled him out intact. I've ordered the chain inspected to be sure it's gone.”

Fearghal stopped listening as soon as he mentioned Rhymer. Corvan actually watched his gaze unfocus and shift off his eyes to behind him, where the ship's healer had begun an investigation of the lad. Corvan did not turn. He studied his captain and it was good everyone had become embroiled in either the boy or the chain because in that moment he looked like the merhunter he'd once been. Calm. Collected. Picking out every little weakness.

“Good work.”

It was all the captain said and it was perfunctory at best. Then he was gone, shouldering past Corvan to the little huddle around Rhymer. Corvan took a deep breath of firesmoke salty air and exhaled. He reached for his pocket to find his fresh-rolled smoke, only to remember he'd dropped it when Rhymer screamed. With a soft curse under his breath, he went below to help pull the chain out into large loops. Something to do.

In the end, Rhymer was fine. He needed new clothes and a new scabbard for his cutlass, but he'd got away with only a few easily-mended cracked ribs and some scratching and bruising. Hours later, you'd never have known he’d almost ended up in several chunks sinking to the Depths. He must've told the story a hundred times by nightfall and the crew just kept feeding him attention in a way that made Corvan's back teeth grind.

Captain Fearghal had taken the lad aside at one point. Corvan didn't care to eavesdrop, but it couldn't have been that stern of a lecture because Rhymer came away from it skipping and beaming. As long as the captain hadn't rewarded the fucking prick for almost dying, Corvan could abide it. It all kept the cabin boy occupied. To the point that Corvan wasn't bothered by him at all until late that evening when the day shift was finishing their evening meal and the night crew were readying themselves for the long quiet dark.

Rhymer found him at the bow, smoking next to his empty plate. Corvan had thankfully already completed his ritual of tossing part of his food off the side. The last thing he wanted was to field a thousand questions about it. The rail came up to Rhymer's chest, so he folded his arms atop it, standing on tiptoes to peer over the side. Still, the talkative lad said nothing, only smiled down at the recently-fed mer still playing in froth coming off Horizon's prow as she sailed. It was a different smile here, in the moonlight. Simple soft joy in place of flashy brilliance.

Suddenly Corvan found questions in his throat, but he swallowed them down. He also subdued the mad urge to ruffle those windblown curls set above the strange content smile and black eyes. The cabin boy still said nothing. He said nothing the whole time he stood at Corvan's side that night. It was the first time he'd ever been quiet while conscious. As they watched the same horizon, the first mate foolishly thought there could be peace.

[therisingtempest]

INSPIRATION TIME!

[ Repost and list 5 songs that inspire you to write your muse! ]

Tagged by: @airanddarkness (Airn& Zafi– I think they’re my default XD) ilu :P Tagging: @telepathandenigma; @ladywiththecoldeyes

Click to listen!

Airn

1. Black Sails Theme - Bear McCreary

There is no other song that brings out the pirates in my head more than this one.

2.  Rock You Like A Hurricane - Scorpions

Yes, there are probably more serious storm songs I could've picked (and they're all on his inspiration spotify playlist), but this is the one that routinely makes both me and him rock out. And while those others might have more fitting lyrics, this is the one that inspires me for Airn the most, which is the meme XD

My body is burning, it starts to shout Desire is coming, it breaks out loud Lust is in cages till storm breaks loose Just have to make it with someone I choose

3. No Rest For The Wicked - Lykke Li

One day I'll have written out all of The Legend of Airn Rhymer oneshot series and this song will make others cry just as much as it does me.

My one heart hurt another So only one life can't be enough Can you give me just another For that one who got away

4. Sound of Change - Dirty Heads

This one's dedicated to Rionach XD Airn considers himself her most loyal subject (and he will fite you if you challenge this) mostly because beyond her impressive coup and what she's done for the island, she changed his life on a very personal level. She kinda woke him up, made him see what was wrong, and that he had more responsibility as a lord than throwing things at Corvan's head in meetings. Without Rionach's influence, you have mostly the same man, but a slightly more selfish one, and a slightly less hopeful one.

I can hear it now, the horns are playing The victory sound, I live in the now The sky is my home, and I live in the clouds Now or never, bound forever Making a change, making it better I live for this shit, I love the pain It's part of the journey, it's part of the game I've been alone in the dark and the rain I've seen the end and I wasn't afraid I've been in tears and I wasn't ashamed I hear a sound the sound that I'm hearing is change

5. The Way - Zack Hemsey

Admittedly, this one is more for the music than the lyrics. And the fact that I somehow seem to be listening to this particular track every time I write really intense Corv/Airn scenes. Again, might not make much sense, but for inspiration it's hella up there.

I am not a slave to greed I don't embrace your make believe I've never been for sale no matter what they think I need So let it be decreed Let this music serve the deed Let it spread like a disease Let it spawn a noble seed There's more than meets the eye There's more than meets the price If you can't see the sky there's too much artificial light

Zafi

1. In The Sea - Ingrid Michaelson

MY BOY ZAFI. His race is so naturally sensitive and empathic and he had all of his closest connections severed in a very short span of time. He could never return to his kind. He's Fomoire, whether he likes it or not.

No no don't rescue me I like the salt water sting It feels so good to feel It feels so good just to feel something In the sea in the sea in the sea in the sea

2. Sugar Rush - AKB48

Yes, this is that song from Wreck-It Ralph XD At first I loved it for being upbeat and part of a great movie, but I looked up the translated lyrics and um. Yeah. It's a Zafi song.

All roads Aren’t straight Yes, they’re windy And bumpy most likely Things can get rough from time to time We’ll keep running though Would you care for something sweet?

3. Who Will Save You Now - Les Friction

Probably the darkest song on this list and holy shit is Zafi dark. But not in a broody edgelord kind of way. More like a fucked up trauma survivor. I've kind of joked in the past that Airn Rhymer wouldn't exist without Zafi, but there's a deadly truth to that. Without Zafi's influence, Airn Rhymer would be dead a thousand times over or given up a thousand times more. He pulled a broken mess of youth and emotion into a weapon, used it to slaughter the man who killed his brothers, and then rode it all the way to the top. A lord's right hand. This fuckin silent shadow is pulling strings I don't even know about. (holy shit i linked the official music video bc GUESS WHAT IT’S OCEAN-THEMED)

Alone with this vision Alone with this sound Alone in my dreams I carry around

I will not take from you and you will not owe I will protect you from the fire below It's not in my mind It's here at my side Go tell the world that I'm still alive

4. I See Fire - Ed Sheeran

Purely because feels. Zafi lost one set of brothers and found another. And he'd die before losing these.

Oh, misty eye of the mountain below Keep careful watch of my brothers' souls And should the sky be filled with fire and smoke Keep watching over Durin's sons

And if we should die tonight Then we should all die together Raise a glass of wine for the last time 

5. Dauðalogn - Sigur Rós

This is another one that I always linked to Zafi just because of the feeling of it. And damn I've never been more convinced of music as a universal language because I just looked up these lyrics too and YUP. (btw the song title translates to “Dead Calm” my FEELINGS)

The wide expanse is passable For travelers and me A mountain hall fills Rocks cliff-paint Cliff-paints in the head Dead calm outside 

Inside I think Forest lights reveal a fire One with myself Now I sit with steady land underfoot The morning appears With its calm against the storm And now the surface ripples And now we break the dead calm 

[therisingtempest]

{tales} When We Were Young and Immortal

continued from this

The Horizon was a middling ship, large enough to pack two gun decks, small enough to be hard to hit. Her hold was not vast enough, even enchanted, to haul more cargo than it took to feed and supply her own crew, but there were enough hidden nooks to make her a decent smuggler. In short, she took no fame, but served her purpose well. She was enough.

Her captain was Fearghal. One of the older captains, especially by Fomoire standards. He wasn’t quite as scarred as you’d imagine. Public opinion was split on that. Some said he was wise, strategic, handled his crew well. Others said he was too cautious, afraid even, to risk life and limb for a prize.

Airn had met him. He leaned toward the former.

Fearghal stood on the docks, surveying his crew as they resupplied Horizon for their next trick, unaware he was being watched. Unaware, that is, until he moved for the gangplank after the last barrel of salt rolled up and a high youthful voice split the air.

“Captain Fearghal!”

The tall captain paused, frowned at a nagging familiarity, and turned to see the messy-haired urchin from the night of the storm half a year past. He hadn’t grown much in that time, and if he had it was only upward, not out.

“You’re that boy,” the captain said, a wry smile tugging solemn lips. “The one from the beach.”

“Airn. I’m here to join your crew.”

Fearghal paused, looked the boy over more closely, and then laughed, turning for his ship. “Come back in ten years.”

The urchin scurried forward, close enough now that Fearghal turned again, if only to keep an eye on his hands. This one was quick, he knew, and street children often resorted to thieving out of desperation and boredom. But the boy’s dark eyes were wide and insistent, his small mouth a grim slash of determination.

“But I’m ready now.”

Fearghal shook his head. “Not to me.”

Resisting the urge to pat the curly head in parting, the captain stepped off the dock and onto the gangplank, hiking up the incline to his ship’s deck. His only warning was a bit of an increase in pressure on the air and a crackling like a boot stepping on nutshells.

“Captain.”

He turned again, this time to see the boy standing, firmly planted, and holding a storm between his palms, fingers hooked. Unlike the first time, his wiry arms hardly trembled and the miniature storm maintained a controlled chaos there between his hands. The boy didn’t even look down but held his gaze locked on Fearghal, lightning reflecting in black eyes.

A little impressed but mostly just struck, Fearghal did not speak right away and the little one was quick to snap the storm out of existence, closing his hands to fists and yanking one up and one down, disappearing the violence with obvious practice.

“I’ll start small so I don’t make anyone angry. I’ll bring you food and keep your cabin neat and run powder. I’ll watch and learn and when I know enough I’ll help for real.”

“A ship is no place for a child.”

“I don’t care. I want to go to sea.”

“You don’t care?” Fearghal pivoted on the gangplank, striding back down. “Do you even know the sea, boy? Do you know what we do upon her?”

Airn only lifted his chin at the tall man’s approach, shifting his weight but not allowing a single backstep. “I want to know,” he said, earnest. “I watch from the beach but it’s not enough. I want to follow a good captain and I’ve chosen you. The island is too small.”

Fearghal mulled that over, his hesitance giving the boy hope. “Won’t anyone miss you? What about your parents?”

“Dead.”

“Friends?”

Airn only stared. Fearghal recognized the look and the yearning behind it. In the face of that vast sea that encircled their home, everything and everyone else seemed to pale. Even self-preservation. He could tell even then that the boy was destined to be a sailor, but he was still too young to join a crew. Even as a cabin boy. But if he waited until the proper age, someone else might snatch up a natural talent. Or, even worse, the ambitious child would sneak aboard the wrong ship and that would be the end of his dreams.

When the captain spoke again, it was with a sigh. “If a child were to die on my deck—”

Airn grinned, almost bouncing. “I won’t die! I’m quick and clever and I can hide really good.”

They studied one another a moment longer, one wary and frowning and deep in thought, the other nearly shaking with hope and eager energy.

Then Fearghal stepped aside and jerked his head toward the gangplank. The boy whooped and left the ground in his first jumping stride, bounding up the ramp and spilling out onto the deck where those working nearby stalled out and stared. Gazes shifted to their captain when he boarded just behind the child.

Oblivious to—or perhaps uncaring of—their discomfort, Airn scanned the deck, the likes of which he’d only seen from a distance. Rough men and women of the sea towered over him and he only smiled at all of them. Before anyone could speak, one of the crew moved forward from down the deck, nudging crew aside from his path after noticing the lack of working, and then spotting captain and child.

The pirate slowed, steps turning cautious and slightly disbelieving. He was young, barely past maturation, but he already had a presence like Fearghal’s, his bearing tall and imposing, though something under his skin seemed more agitated than the captain’s. Younger. Hungry. As if a beast coiled under his shoulder blades and slept fitful. Airn knew the feeling and felt a kinship. Even a sort of hero worship. This was what he wished to be.

When the young sailor spoke, his voice was deep enough it seemed to rasp, like the hull of a skiff scraping rocky shallows.

“What’s this?”

“New crew,” Fearghal said. “He’ll help where he’s needed.”

“He’ll be dead in a day.”

Airn ignored the murmur of the crew, focusing on the two clear leaders with his lips parted a bit in awe. They were like gods to him. The younger sailor squinted down at him, then took the captain’s arm and towed him off a ways to speak in private, voices low so crew and child could not hear them.

“What are you thinking?”

“Can you not see the greatness in him?”

“I see cannon fodder and thin bones that snap like kindling. The crew’ll just as soon cut his throat out of boredom as annoyance. Never mind what we run into out there!”

“That’s why I need you to watch out for him.”

The pirate set his weight back a bit, almost offended. “I’m first mate aboard a hunting ship. Not a wetnurse for little lost orphans.”

“First mate aboard my ship.”

“Is this an order then, captain?” 

Fearghal pursed his lips in a wince, then shook his head and sighed. “I’d rather it wasn’t. The crew look up to you. Set an example. That’s better than orders any day.”

The first mate scoffed a bit, partially in disbelief, partially in lingering offense. “This is ridiculous.”

Fearghal took his first mate’s arm to focus him, voice all at once stern and diplomatic. “If it doesn’t work out, we’ll bring him back and that’ll be the end of it. Just give him a chance. You were as young and green as him once, don’t forget. Never forget that.”

A long stare. Muscles working in strong jaws. Then a clipped—“Aye, captain.”

He jerked his arm free and turned, ending the conversation and returning to the main bulk of the crew and the boy who’d wisely not drifted any closer to the horde of pirates. Fearghal lifted his voice, his first mate at his elbow, scowling, that beast beneath his shoulder blades beginning to writhe.

“Airn, this is Corvan, my first mate. You’ll follow his order as you follow mine, understand?”

Airn looked to the dubious pirate with his thick arms folded and his fearsome expression, skin sun-browned and long hair pulled back from eyes pale like arctic shallows and sharp as daggers.

The little urchin cut a surprisingly graceful bow, touching his forelock. “Pleased to meet you.”

A few of the crew chuckled at the antics, though quickly sobered under Corvan’s gaze. Grinning at the attention, but seeming to decide on a different tack, the boy straightened and held out a hand, solemn and professional. The first mate eyed him and for a moment their eyes held the same fire, one burning cold and the other warm. Then Corvan extended his own large hand and shook the boy’s once, firm.

“Welcome aboard.”

[therisingtempest]

{tales} To Seduce a Lady

continued from this

It became a game of stealth and wits to see how often he could escape the watchful eye of his caretaker. She had the disadvantage of needing to sleep and eat and tend to the village. He had the disadvantage of being much less than his potential. Still he’d been sneaking out more and more, secure in the assertion that he knew more about his own physiology than a mere human.

Even after getting lost in the labyrinthine castle halls and nearly exhausting himself, he refused to admit Rowena might’ve been right about him needing more bedrest. He just couldn't continue to lie there. His bones itched. The walls closed in. He had to reach the sea. Simply hearing it or glimpsing it in the distance out a window was beginning to drive him mad.

Some childlike part of him knew that if he could only reach the shore, he'd be made whole again.

Pausing in his invalid shuffle to lean against a tapestry-covered wall, he struggled to calm his breathing, hand pressed to the healing wound on his abdomen. No blood had leaked through the bandage or his shirt yet. Turning the color red in view of humans had sapped even more of his strength.

“I hadn’t realized you were up!”

He glanced around sharply, spotting the lady of the house standing at a distance, hands clasped in front of her. Her smile was kind, welling up into her eyes as if the compassion was too much for her mouth to contain. Fool girl.

“It’s a recent development,” he replied, pushing himself up a little straighter. He winced a little, and not entirely from physical discomfort. “Rowena doesn't know.”

Rather than scold him, she let free a lovely clear laugh and glided closer, still beaming at him. “I am glad to see it. You had me very worried.”

Something like confusion flickered across his features, interrupting the guarded cool control. Worried for him? Just what sort of person was this who’d drag a stranger out of a ditch and into her own home? At his silence and intent stare, a hint of heat flushed along her cheeks and ears.

“I…That is, you had us very worried.”

“Us?” 

He moved a little closer.

“Yes. Your recovery has been rather lengthy. The castle talks about little else.”

“And you were worried I might not recover at all?”

His voice was low and curious, pitched naturally to hit mortal ears in just the right way. It didn’t take much effort and zero glamour, so he was inordinately pleased to see the blush spread down her neck. Lady Calla brought a hand to her throat, smiling down and away.

“I had utmost confidence in Rowena and her talents.”

Airn smirked a little. Was she teasing him? He’d grown accustomed to it from the coarse little healer, but not the poised little leader. As if she’d read his mind, she looked back at him, smiling half-smothered.

“Of course, your own will and strength should not be diminished in this instance.”

“Her ladyship is very wise.”

“Oh, please call me Calla.”

“Calla.”

The repetition was not an apology but more of a testing. A tasting. His gaze did not waver from hers, which was daring enough since she was a woman, even more because of her status. It did no favors for her blush. Of course the Fomoire knew nothing of propriety among his own kind let alone mortals.

“Would you…” She paused and cleared her throat, looking away again with the excuse of gesturing toward a side passage. “Are you well enough to walk in the garden with me?”

He finally looked away from her. Was that the way out? He hadn’t seen anything resembling a garden yet. Covering both his physical weakness and his suddenly confused sense of direction—not to mention his slight awkwardness in the presence of courtly manners—he gave a low nod.

“Lead the way.”

The garden, tragically, proved to be an interior courtyard with no outlet to the rest of the world. A glimpse of the open sky wasn’t nearly enough, but it was something. Airn paused once they’d stepped into full sunlight, tilting his head back, closing his eyes and feeling the warmth sink into his bones after so long of nothing but cold stone. If he breathed deeply enough—and ignored the twinge of discomfort in his gut—he could almost smell the sea.

“Is this the first you’ve been outdoors since…” Calla trailed off, seeming to realize.

“Since you found me half dead in a ditch?”

He finished her statement without qualm, still basking. At her stammering attempts at a response, he peeked one eye open and smiled a little. She was so easy to rile. Like throwing a stone into a tidepool to watch the little critters scatter. He gave her an answer at least, though his smile had widened.

“Aye. Your healer keeps a short leash.”

Calla laughed. With a lick of her lips, she made another go of conversation. “R-Rowena tells me you’re a sailor. That you and your fellow crewman were shipwrecked here.”

“Do you and Rowena often talk about me?”

“As I said, your recovery is something of a dramatic point in an otherwise dull season. And your…friend. He won’t even tell me his name. In fact, I think he purposefully avoids conversation.”

Airn chuckled. He’d only known Zafi—really known him—for a handful of weeks now, but that did not surprise him.

“He seems very fond of you.”

Calla's quiet observation gave him pause. It was strange. He'd been admired before, but never with the intensity the sprite exhibited. It wasn't anywhere near affection, but something much, much angrier. Desperation, almost. Some days when the rigging rat perched on the footboard and ate honey straight from the dripping comb in his long fingers, Airn felt as though he were a lifeline for the sprite. The last boat off a sinking ship. Zafi had his brother, presumably still waiting for him just across the Veil. Why did he stay?

“Airn?”

He blinked twice and focused on the lady who'd drifted closer, concern in her features. “Airn?” he repeated, confused.

Calla flushed again. “Ah, I'm sorry. It's what she calls you. Rowena. Because of the iron she pulled from your wound. I've used the moniker so frequently, I'm afraid I didn't even think to ask your true name.”

The Fomoire blinked again, this time thoughtfully. He looked to the side, studied the blooming flowers and judged the season, eyed the shadow and judged the time. Things were so very simple here. Predictable.

“Airn is as good a name as any.”

“My father would say to distrust a man who won't give his name.”

Airn—it was a good name and growing on him fast—glanced back at the lady of the house, pacing back toward her.

“Your father isn't here,” he observed and it came out rough even to his ears. Too much of a threat. He could already see the woman tensing from the effect. Danger. He radiated it. He pulled it back. For once, he did not wish to frighten. “This means you're in charge of the household?”

“Of the village,” she replied, clasping her hands again. “The people rely on me for their protection and guidance.”

“That's a weighty responsibility.”

Even from his brief glimpse of the beach and what he'd seen of the castle, he knew at least five ways to lay waste and ruin to the entire hamlet.

Calla's spine straightened by degrees, her slim shoulders squared. “One I am proud to bear. The villagers bless us with a share in their food. They keep us alive. Why ever should I not take their very lives under my protection?”

“It's just not every leader who takes such care.”

Dark again, though this time the threat was not directed at her. His tone had dropped beyond the sun-dappled surface of a pleasant stroll with a lovely girl. The familiar surging heat flowed through his veins and he imagined his captain's face, the purple eyes and cold grin. If only the man were standing there. If only he were strong enough, he'd—

A light touch grazed his arm and Airn jolted, looking down in time to see Calla's eyes widen at the reaction, but she didn't step back this time.

“Are you well, Airn?”

“No,” he growled with simple exhausted honesty. “No, my lady, I am in pain and I miss the sea and the man responsible for my circumstance is likely having neither problem right now.”

Calla's expression tightened further. Pity. He almost wanted to recoil, immediately regretting confiding in her his weakness. But her fingers felt so lovely when they stroked down his arm to clasp one of his hands in both of hers.

“I'm afraid I can do no more for your pain than Rowena already has, but I can take you to the sea.”

He blinked, countenance relaxing away in surprise. But before he could speak, the lady of the house had lifted a slim finger between them.

“If, you promise to tell me the story of this hateful man and what he did to you and your friend.”

Airn nodded, slow and consideringly at first, and then with more confidence. He could do that. Albeit an edited version. To stand on the beach again? Worth it.

“Aye. Take me to the sea.”

                                                    [—]

Zafi joined them. He did not ask to join them, but then again neither did the Lady Calla's personal guard. The two armed men walked a few paces back from Airn and their mistress, the glamoured sprite walking a few paces back from them. Airn liked the formation. He'd seen the speedy jerking agility with which sprites could move. Zafi could slit the humans' throats before they could draw a blade.

Calla was a marvelous audience for his tale. She gasped and paled and made sympathetic noises at all the right spots. By the end, she'd even teared up, though Airn didn't pay much attention, having spotted the shore.

“It's so terrible. That you should have to endure such betrayal. And to lose one's brothers...” She looked over her shoulder toward Zafi, who stared back at her, perhaps a bit too intensely. Fixing her attention back onto Airn's profile, she reached out to touch his forearm again. “I've no siblings, so I can't begin to imagine what you're both going through. But please. Whatever I can do to help. You are my guests and I would care for you beyond your wounds if I can.”

She was a wise human, even if she acted out of compassion and not self-preservation. He wondered if she'd even believe him if he told her what they were. Likely not. Rowena might. She had a taste of the old world about her. Like ancient earth and salty air and sharp eyes in the darkness.

Airn did not respond, distracted first by his own thoughts and then the sight of the beach. In sunlight, the sea was a different creature than she'd been the night of the storm. Steely blue-black waves, white-capped and angry, had become a gentle lapping pale blue, a few shades darker reflection of the sky, which was clear and pale and perfect. The wind was just right, coming in parallel to the shore, ideal for dropping full sail and splitting away from land, leaving civilization far in the distance.

His chest ached.

“Airn?”

Soft gentle fingers on his arm again. He looked down and the yearning must've been visible there in his eyes because Calla tilted her head with something like awe and sympathy. She shook her head.

“I'm so sorry.”

“Why.”

She blinked. “Because no one deserves what's happened to you. I don't care what you've done. You clearly belong out there.” She gestured toward the beach and the open water. “I'm sorry that you are stuck here and yet...” A tiny smile curved her lips and she ducked her head against it. “I am selfishly not sorry at all.”

Airn stared at her, head canted, until she lifted her head again in the silence and met his gaze. He said nothing and neither did she, but the moment lasted longer than the guards behind them seemed comfortable with.

Any tension—of both the violent and less violent kind—was broken by Zafi suddenly rushing past Airn fast enough to create a small breeze. Airn grit his teeth and glared at the sprite's back, glad to see no wings. He'd have to remind his partner that they were in hiding. But then he saw Zafi's direction and he, too, bolted—slightly slower only due to his wound. Calla spluttered something behind them and hiked up her skirts to follow, flanked by her guards, but Airn no longer paid attention.

Ahead of them, smashed up against the cliffs and wedged between rock and open beach, caught in the tide, was the remains of the Killingbird. Despite what she'd been through, battered by a storm and crushed by a beast of the sea, she'd still been formed by Fomoire hands. Most of the forward upper decks had made it to shore, albeit in two pieces. The hull and hold had likely sunk, weighted with cannons and the iron feather-plating that made her so infamous for defending against Mer attacks.

Zafi bounded over the mizzenmast, still bee-lining for the main body of the wreck. Forced to circle around it, Airn got a better look at the debris, catching sight of netting and line and sail and a body. Two. Another. His throat tightened and that heat began to build in his chest again. His gut wound burned but he ignored it, pressing a hand to the bandages and blinking wet from his eyes, moving faster.

Zafi clambered easily up the slanted deck, searching over it with sharp eyes. Airn was halfway to him with Calla and her guard rounding the mizzenmast when a voice broke the white noise of the surf and the gulls.

“Best to keep off that!”

All five beachgoers halted and turned to see the old fisherman down the beach a ways. He had the grizzled look of an experienced sailor, though was most assuredly human. He stood off from the wreck, as if following his own advice.

“Is it dangerous?” Calla called back.

“My lady!”

The old fisherman popped his oil-soaked hat off and pressed it to his chest, dipping into a somewhat unsteady bow. Airn cast a glance at Zafi to find the sprite was already staring at him. Zafi's eyes dropped to the sand pointedly and Airn followed the look to a mostly intact crewman, unglamoured in death and very clearly inhuman.

The two fae met eyes again with similar senses of foreboding. The villagers had likely already investigated, determined this was not your average shipwreck, and had warded each other off from scavenging. The wreck stood mostly intact—relatively—and the bodies lay untouched, half-buried in silt and sand, bloated from sun and salt water. The stench was overpowering and did not help the fire in Airn's chest.

Airn held a hand over the body, subtly altering her features into something more human. It took enough out of him that he bent over himself, gasping, his wound gone from a low burning to white-hot fire. Without a sound of approach, Zafi appeared at his side, one hand on his shoulder and the other resting over the one on his abdomen.

“It's not worth it.”

The sprite's soft wisdom said what Airn had been thinking, but hearing it aloud made him close his eyes, concentrating on breaths and Zafi's tremulous touch. The rigging rat worked against his own delicateness and cultural anxiety to provide what comfort he could.

“Airn!”

Both fae lifted their heads to see Calla still standing at the mizzenmast, the fisherman and her guards clustered around her. Airn jerked his head to Zafi and the sprite helped him shuffle back toward the humans. It was a good job they were out in the rejuvenating sea air, or he might've collapsed right there.

“This is Seamus,” Calla said once they'd arrived. Her tone was neutral, though a bit skeptical. “He was just telling us this place is cursed.”

Seamus suddenly pushed his way into Airn's space, interjecting— “That your ship?”

Airn did not blink as he studied the old man, as if daring him to speak his mind. He had the same feel as Rowena. Something clever and sharp about him. Like he knew stories and history and things.

“It was,” he said at last. “That your rune?”

He jerked his head toward a fresh carved ward near the edge of the debris field. The fisherman leaned back again, studied Airn and Zafi each, then made some sort of sign across his chest and backed away. His gaze darted to Calla.

“My lady, it's none of my business, but you'd do best to send these two on their way.”

“What?” Calla laughed a little. “Abandon the survivors of this tragedy? Seamus, superstition is no reason to refuse aid.”

The old man did not answer her at first, distracted by the fae as if he could not keep his eyes from them. “As I said. It's not my place.” He focused back on the confused lady and dipped another bow, then another, as if for good measure. “Village is gonna set fire to the whole mess tonight.”

“What?”

Airn took a threatening step closer, the single word hissing from between his teeth. The fisherman startled back and looked ready to bolt entirely, halting only when Calla held a hand up at Airn's chest. Not a restraint, but a simple plea for him to be still. He found himself obeying.

“The bodies—we can't touch 'em,” the fisherman stuttered. “Burnin' is the only way to right the demons. We're only waiting for the tide to run out again.”

Airn opened his mouth, either to warn the man he was about to kill him, or to speak his mind, when Zafi's long fingers tightened a bit on his shoulder. Airn glanced at him. He still couldn't quite read the sprite, but he recognized the expression Zafi wore as the same one of only moment's ago. 

It's not worth it.

Airn glanced back at the remains of his life and swallowed the tightness in his throat. A simple blaze and everything would be gone. He'd really be alone here. Zafi would be the only remnant of Mag Mell. Possibly forever. He couldn't deny the fear. That he would never be strong enough. That he would never return home.

The sprite's grip shifted again, something shaky but strangely comforting in it.

“Fine,” Airn growled. He looked back to the fisherman, pleased when the human wilted a bit under dark eyes. “Do what you must.” Airn interrupted the man's sigh of relief, leaning forward, voice a low threat. “And keep wise about what's not your place, old man.”

With a furious nod and another fervent bow to Calla, the old man scuttled off with more life than he'd seemed to have before. For a moment, all was silent but for the waves. Calla studied Airn with a surprising shrewdness, though her expression remained soft.

“Would you like to come back tonight?” she said, eventually, quiet and gentle.

Airn stared at the sea for a long moment before speaking and decided with a calm intensity: “No.”

[therisingtempest]

{tales} A Change in the Wind

Finally they had her. The Rising Tempest. Her captain thought it was funny to take prizes that didn’t belong to him. Thought because he was young and reckless and had one of the finest ships in Mag Mell’s fleet that he could get away with things like this. The whelp needed to be taught a lesson that only an elder captain could bestow.

The captain of Red Sky at Morning stood at the prow of his ship, arms folded, watching the distance close between his cruel sharp-edged frigate and the full-rigged beauty all fat and slow, her hold filled with stolen flesh and treasure. He remembered the day the little orphan shit had walked into the court, back from the dead, and cleaved his captain’s head from his shoulders. He’d proved his worth and his right to a ship, but not every lord appreciated that sort of thing. Especially when it happened to their friends.

The Red Sky’s captain hadn’t been there for it, but he’d heard stories of Airn Rhymer—as he called himself. And from the burning wreckage of the village they’d left behind. Stories. A ship with sails of gold-trimmed ivory and a hull of red wine. A ship with cannons like thunder and a terrifying speed. A ship full of ruffians and scoundrels with cold-hearted grins. And, of course, their iron-ringed captain who could wield a sword like most men breathed. A captain who was a walking storm. Who destroyed wherever he went. Unthinking.

But they had her. Sails at half, coasting along, not a care in the world for the bounty they’d snatched right out from under him. They’d care soon.

Red Sky hooked into the Tempest with practiced ease. The bigger girl attempting a surge forward at the last moment that failed spectacularly. One of the iron boarding hooks had torn her mizzen sail. Without a nod or an order, one of Red Sky’s sailors dove off the side, disappearing before shots fired, and destroyed the rudder beneath the waves.

It wasn’t much of a fight. The Tempest’s crew were already drunk and celebrating. Humans scattered in fear before the red-cloaked pirates and refused to even look at their captain when he strode across the deck. His crew had the Tempest’s on their knees, huddled together in groups, disarmed and glaring. But their captain was on his feet. He still had his pride—the bastard. That would have to change.

He was taller than the stories had said. Beyond tall, almost a giant, and built like he’d actually put work into his life. The scars and tattoos matched the tales of recklessness, and he dressed finely enough to have that youthful swagger, but there was something about his demeanor that did not work. The anger was there. The defiance. But he was too…quiet.

“You’re Captain Airn Rhymer?”

“What the fuck do you want?” the giant rumbled.

Straight to the point, then. The Red Sky’s captain closed, teeth gritted. “What the fuck do I want?”

“S'what I asked.”

Again. Too quiet. Angry. Seething with it. But so calm. This was not a Tempest. Or if it was, the Red Sky's captain was almost wary what the next level of intensity could be.

“You stole what’s mine. I’ve come for it.”

“The village?” The giant’s eyebrow arched. A gruff laugh escaped, jerking in his big barrel chest. “Wasn’t aware you laid claim.”

“I stated my intent in court.”

“Since when is that a claim?”

The captain gaped silent at the calm giant’s simple train of thought. With a hiss, he drew his sword, intending to begin exacting his revenge. The giant leaned back slightly, but his arms remained crossed, his countenance neutral.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of Rhymer’s crew shift. A handsome lad, strong shoulders and dark eyes, as much ink and scar tissue as any of the others. He was stripped to the waist and barefoot. A vivid blue bandanna the color of a clear sky kept thick dark waves out of his eyes. He sat docilely enough, forearms on his upraised knees, but something in his eye caught the captain’s gaze. TheTempest’s giant captain pulled his attention back.

“You throwin a pissfit because we showed up before you?” the giant asked, a smirk twitching under his beard. One of his ears was pierced with simple gold. The other had a chunk torn out of the top edge.

“It’s not a—You’re a child. A child who must be taught his place.”

The captain lifted his sword to the giant’s throat. The man’s size did not put him off his plan. A master swordsman the fabled Rhymer might’ve been, but he was not armed now.

“I’m going to empty your hold into mine. Then I’m going to flay your crew while you watch.”

Now the giant’s temper seemed to have stoked. Dark eyes sparkled with fire and his arms uncrossed, his shoulders squaring as he leaned forward, seeming to loom somehow taller. The Red Sky’s captain grinned. He almost wanted to give the man a sword and see how he really stacked up. It’d be a battle to put in the legends, he was sure. Ranging for days across the deck. If the fury in the set of the giant’s jaw was any indication, it’d be worth the risk.

“Touch any of this crew and I’ll scalp you with my bare fucking hands.”

The Red Sky’s captain flicked his sword and nicked the giant���s collarbone with an expert slice. Golden blood slipped over sun-darkened skin. The giant didn't flinch, but before the Red Sky’s captain could laugh or breathe, there was a blur of movement to his left.

One of his men howled, then gurgled, and then a bloody cutlass slid under the captain’s ribs and punched out through his back and he’d frozen staring into the handsome face and dark eyes of the boy with the blue bandanna.

“Mr. Renner is very protective of my crew,” Airn Rhymer murmured, almost intimately quiet. “And I’m rather protective of him. You understand.”

The Red Sky’s captain could only cough and choke, confusion and epiphany dancing in his eyes as they searched the sailor. Airn waited. And then smiled when the captain groaned in realization and pain. The red crew began to surge out of shock then and Renner took a step forward, still bleeding, still raging with protective fire, to cover his captain's back.

“You are still alive, captain,” Rhymer pointed out, clapping his free hand to the stabbed man's shoulder. He shifted his grip on the cutlass and the man groaned. “That can change if your crew step wrongly.”

“S-Stand down.”

The order came with a hacking cough and golden blood flecked the young captain's bare chest. His smile widened when the Red Sky's crew faltered back again, gripping their weapons but lost and gazing at their captain with thoughtful detachment. Airn moved closer to his skewered would-be attacker.

“That was a good trick with the rudder. I’ll have to use it in the future. Would you mind kneeling?”

The Rising Tempest released the hilt of his sword and the body it was stuck in and the captain dropped to his knees without the support. He started to sway, to tip to one side, and Airn casually laid a hand against one side of his  skull to readjust his balance.

“Thank you.”

Then he paced away, to the pile of confiscated weapons, and none of the Red Sky's crew budged. He glanced at a few of them, curious and ready for a lunge. But they only stared back. Smirking, the young captain  took his time selecting weapons from the stockpile. A thin dagger and a heavy cutlass. Both obviously richer than the rest.

“Your crew, of course, were only following your order, so I won't be touching them. I admire loyalty, you see.”

He strolled back to the kneeling captain who'd made weak attempts to pull the red-hilted cutlass from his chest to no avail. It was a difficult angle and even worse when kneeling. Without further ado or any pomp and circumstance, Airn sank to one knee, curled a fist in the captain's hair, and stabbed the stiletto in one side of the man's neck and out the other.

The captain exhaled and coughed and groaned behind gold-washed teeth, his already-labored breathing now sounding akin to a man drowning from within. Gold had dripped over young Rhymer's hands but he was grinning now.

“But you gave the order. So I'm going to kill you.”

And then, he did something worse than stabbing both blades into flesh. He turned his head, still crouched, and studied the Red Sky's crew.

“Do any of you lot object?”

No one breathed a word. They believed the stories now. And seeing their captain so easily and swiftly bested had struck their own sense of loyalty to its core.

“Would you name any of your number captain who'd make better decisions?”

They glanced amongst themselves, but most seemed to focus on one green-eyed young woman with elegantly-carved iron claws fitted like the fingers of gloves over her hands. She looked back at the expectant gazes and then to the Tempest and her captain.

“Aye,” she said.

Airn stood, spun the cutlass in his hand and offered her the hilt. He said not a word. Neither did she. She studied him a moment. It wasn't hesitation but a simple cautious curiosity. Then she brushed past him, ignoring his offering, drawing her own cutlass. Airn's eyebrow rose and he watched her approach her captain.

“U-Ulathra—”

The knife in his windpipe made speaking difficult, but the captain struggled all the same. He'd also resumed trying to stand or move away or scrabble the blade from his chest. None of these he did fast enough. The iron-clawed crewmember brought her sword across cleanly, slicing just above the dagger like it was a guiding line.

The former captain's head bounced along the deck and then rolled to a halt. The new captain cleaned her blade on the front of his shirt, then sheathed it. Closing her fingers on the hilts of the two blades within him, she yanked both free, kicking his body over in the process. She handed the larger weapon back to its owner—only just now getting up off the ground—and crossed for the Tempest's captain.

Still no one spoke. Airn watched her almost like a wolf might, focused and intent and something eternally hungry behind his eyes. She cleaned the knife on her own shirt and handed it back to him with a dip of her head.

“I owe you nothing, but I am appreciative. Remember this.”

Both impressed  and intrigued, he nodded back, accepting the returned dagger. This was the way of their kind. No debts owed. Only opportunities given and allies gained. The new captain brushed past him yet again and gave a shout for her crew to remove their hooks and return to their ship. They moved to obey in an instant. In the flurry, she commanded the diver back into the water to repair the rudder chain.

The Tempest's crew began to gather the headless body to heave it over the side when Captain Ulathra stopped them with a hand raised. She glanced to Rhymer and said—

“He was a good captain for his time. Let us send him to the deep.”

Airn jerked his head and the crew reversed their course, shifting the former captain in their arms to have some dignity as they hauled him across to the Red Sky's deck. They laid him near the main mast, brushed hands to their hearts, and returned to their own deck.

“Fair winds, Captain Ulathra.”

“Fair winds, Captain Rhymer.”

Red Sky at Morning broke free of the Rising Tempest and sailed off. Zafi appeared at the captain's side and Airn took a deep breath of sea air, sighing it out happily.

“I thought for sure you'd kill them all.”

“That was the plan. But I like making new friends.”

The way he said friends drew Zafi's gaze from the horizon to his captain's profile. It wasn't a “friend” like he called Zafi. It was a “friend” like a soldier in an army. Like the young captain had once again set his eyes higher. And with the determination and unstoppable force of a storm at sea, he'd drive straight for his goal.

Orphan to sailor, sailor to captain.

Captain to lord.

[therisingtempest]

{tales} Five Times Lightning Kissed Airn Rhymer

(and the One Time He Wished It Had)

01.

He's the Fomoire equivalent of a teenager, not grown enough to be qualified for the sort of physical respect common among his kind, too hostile and overexcitable to be taken seriously in any other aspect. Fearghal lets him climb the mainmast during his first storm at sea, after much pleading and under the express order that he help the rigging crew man the sails and nothing more. He's not to go higher than the topgallants and he's not to venture out across a spar.

But once the sails are hauled in and bound properly, his gaze strays up to the roiling ink sky, the flashes of light that outline her edges. When thunder barks, his chest seems to vibrate in response, his heart skipping a beat in attempt to match the rumbling.

The rigging crew don't bat an eye when the kid scrambles higher. The bosun simply checks the boys tether knot at the mast and shrugs. Out above the sails and snapping lines and masts, with nothing in the way of his view, the storm is even more magnificent. The stinging rain leaves marks on his skin but he hardly blinks. He laughs. Spreads his arms and lets loose a howl that the wind snatches away like a greedy lover.

The sky lights up like day, three sharp swords of light in quick succession. He ducks, reflexively survivalistic even in his joy. The thunder is already chasing the first bolt's heels when the third strikes the top of the mainmast. The heat is incredible, warming his skin from bone-chilled to campfire-near. It's difficult to tell, though, as the power of the strike shatters everything above the crow's nest to splinters, blasting Icarus out away from the ship. Too stunned to make a grab for a line, he plummets past crew and sail, only able to gape at the raging ambivalent storm above before plunging into the angry waves.

He only pushes up for a half a breath when the sea knocks him back under, hard and furious. This is not the warm gentle lapping mother he knows. Still, he can't find fear. The thrill shrieks through bone and muscle, pushing him up, battling against the surface that wants to drown him. Wants to keep him forever in the dark.

It's dark above, as well, but there's air up there. And his captain. And the storm to watch.

At a tug around his waist, he curls his fingers on the lifeline and yanks back as hard as he can. Within moments he's hauled up free of the black waters and smacks his shoulder against the hull, scraping a barnacle and shredding the muscle. Salt burn makes him want to cry, but it comes out as a laugh. The ship pitches and snarls against the storm and he's drenched and he's alive and he's addicted.

02.

He's a child, an orphan, an urchin by all accounts. Except there's no such thing on Mag Mell. Motherless children are freer, he says, even so young, even so small. He lifts his chin and winks and grins and darts off to find the next exciting thing.

Today it's the artisans and their lightning glass.

They let him run the poles as long as he's careful. He has to wear thick gloves too large for his hands to touch the iron and—at first—the smell alone puts him off, keeps him away to the side watching them. The masters are awesome to behold, waiting, sensing out the storm, then darting forward, a rod of metal in each bare hand, choosing their spot in a heartbeat, slamming the pike down into the sand and then sprinting off away again.

Some of the poles are no longer than an arm. Some are three times his height. Depending how deep they're plunged, depending on how near the rods are placed to one another, and at what levels, and at what angles, the flash-heated sand that explodes after the touch of lightning ranges from simple delicate strands to riotous sharp edged beauty. Each chunk of metal is carved slightly different. The designs crafted to guide the lightning down. The hard work has already been done. This is the finishing touch.

After watching, he's brave enough. He catches a pole and sprints out, shoving the metal rod into the sand and turning, bolting back for the safety of the artists' shelter. They laugh at his caution even as they applaud his placement and guts.

One isn't enough. After he sees the way the shaft of crackling heat turns simple sand into beauty, he craves bigger and better. He grabs more and more with each run, planting them close as possible. And then it's too many. One of the artisans shouts so when she sees him sprint off.

He'll prove her wrong.

The little ones go in easy. Wham, wham, wham. One after the other, arrayed in a circle. The big one is heavier than he'd planned. It takes a moment to heft, to get above his head with enough leverage to slam it down and leave it standing.

He's only just uncurling his fingers when the lightning slams into the tall pole. A flash and then he's on his back, the thin muscle in his arm tight and unresponsive. Then there's shouting and warm arms scoop him up out of the rain, cart him back under the canvas shelter. Someone yanks the glove off his hand and he sees his palm in the lantern light, an angry red, jagged branches firing up over his forearm, past his elbow, halfway up his bicep. He's forgotten about the sand sculptures. There are concerned faces and hands all around him, but he has eyes only for the imprint of lightning across his skin.

“It doesn't hurt,” he says.

“Find a healer,” says the master lightning dancer.

He touches the lines and thinks, This is real art.

03.

He's an adult by any definition, every nerve ending alive in the purest, sweetest, heaviest sense. It's not just sex and the man atop him isn't just a man. The storm witch's body is half-covered in rain-soaked gossamer, leaving nothing to the imagination. Every movement is simultaneously smooth as a roll of thunder and harsh and sharp as a lightning strike. The witch's eyes are full of wild, the same wild he remembers from his first storm at sea.

They've worked to a fervor and it seems never ending. The witch grins at the awed lust in the sailor’s face and chuckles a little, stroking fingertips across the other man's inked, heaving chest. Just like any storm, his heart skips a beat to match the pulsing thunder he can feel in the witch's touch.

When the storm witch comes, his hands press down hard on the pirate's chest, a little jolting shock rushing over his skin. He yelps at the spark, bucking, making the witch howl a laugh of ecstasy that feels like stormchasing.

They grab at each other, mouths clash, the lightning seems to flow into his veins and he never wants it to end.

04.

He’s a proper sailor and they're his first tattoos. He's thought long and hard, wrestled with the idea. He loves art in every form, but there is something beautiful in words, efficient and bold. Blunt. He saves enough—skips drinking a couple nights and moonlights at the brothel once or twice—so he can get the best: his favorite artists on the island.

“The twins” they're called. No one knows if they're actually twins. He doesn't ask. He doesn't care. Brother and sister, lovers, crewmates who found perfect syncrhonization—it doesn't matter. They're among the best, he likes them, and the ink must be done in unison. Must be equally laid out. The twins don't question this, or even snicker, only nodding sagely once he finishes his details. One asks which side he wants which word.

He's already thought of this.

“'Lightning' on this arm.”

He points to the barely-there marks remaining from the lightning rod of long ago, and the twins smile, toothy and pleased. He lies on his back, at their request, arms laid out away from him, across their laps. They grip his wrists in cool hands that are too similar without looking to notice who is sitting where. He doesn't care which is which and he doesn't squirm, even when the pain begins.

He tries to watch, of course, lifting his head to peek, never able to resist the sight of an artist's hands at work. They do not speak to him, look at him, or acknowledge him, but after a moment one begins to sing and the other joins in as an undercurrent, a perfect wordless harmony. Without a hesitation or faltering or reaffirming the design he requested, they mark his skin with thunder and lightning.

With the storm.

05.

He’s a Fomoiri captain and he’s strong. He grows up learning this. Has it confirmed for him when he sees how quickly his skin heals and how much it really takes to break his bones. He learns it best the day he grips iron in his fist and realizes that—despite the pain—it does not cripple him. Does not render him incapable of thought or action.

Strong, but not invincible. He's yet to learn that. It's a lesson taught in the form of swallowed poison. Not iron, but almost worse. A rare paralytic that seeks the heart. Fomoire he might be, but every man needs a heart. The rum tastes off right away, but he only pulls a face, shouts after the smiling young thing who'd served it to him.

When she flees, his pulse surges and the pain sets in.

He's up out of his chair and after her, but the poison flows like a river rapid. Barely is he on his feet than he's dropping to his knees like an anchor. His palm slaps the table's edge but it's not enough to keep him from tumbling to the filthy floor.

It's almost like when lightning kissed his hand, he thinks. The same tightness in his limbs, only now its accompanied by pain. Not the stinging burn that tingled back to life after the shock of the storm-kiss. But a deep, heavy, panging agony. Closer to the feel of the iron around his neck. He claws at the chains, trying to ground himself and failing. His heart skips a beat and then stops.

Everything stops.

Cutter slides to his knees, bumps against his captain's side. He's quick, bless him. Forces the captain's mouth open for a foul-smelling emetic, rolls him over so he doesn't choke on his vomit. Both clawed hands cover over his motionless chest and crack.

He gasps as red sparks drive through meat and bone to his frozen heart. The magic is strong, but it's akin to lightning and that’s what knocks his heart back into beating. It's the closest to a genuine lightning strike he’s ever experienced and he comes back to life howling laughter and grinning glee. Cutter sits back with a huff and calls him mad.

When his crew drag the poisoner back to him, he's in such a good mood he kills her quickly.

+One

He's in pain and he hates it. He didn't choose it. He never wanted this. A fight is a fight and injury is acceptable risk. Iron is iron and he chooses to wear it. But this is unwilling pain, deep in his chest, behind his ribs—and what's worst is it can't be healed. He asks. Everyone simply stands quiet or shakes heads.

He finds his own way. Drink and denial. “It never happened,” he tells Zafi, slurs at Zafi, “they never lived, I never met them.”

Zafi only looks at him in that way that makes him scream at the sprite to shut up.

It's not long before the Tempest is sailing straight for the most riotous waters in all the realms. Wild enough to make even the most grizzled sailors weak at the knee. Their ship is fine, strong and agile, but even they worry. Mostly because it's never wise to sail to the heart of a storm, but it's especially dangerous with a captain out of his head with grief.

He stands at the prow, breathing harder the deeper they drive into the gale. He waits for that skip in his heartbeat, silently begs for it. Let me know I'm alive.

It happens at last, but brings only a fresh ache with it. He is alive. Alive and lost and in pain. He screams at the storm, at himself, at nothing at all. He climbs atop the rail, atop the figurehead. Lightning strikes and he wills it closer, wills it to his heart. Maybe with another kiss, the pain will numb. Sting and burn after, but numb this horrifying cold dull agony.

The storm does not indulge him. No lightning strikes his bared chest to grant him blissful sleep or death in depths. After all, the tempest cares not for lovers lost.

[therisingtempest]

{tales} Lightning is Just a Spark of Defiance In the Midst of Duress

continued from this

The passage of a particularly violent storm almost always meant playful waves and searing clear skies. Mag Mell's best beach, only recently abandoned but for a child and the two captains who'd coaxed him away, now stood packed with tents and Fomoire.

Sailors lazed in half-shade with their loved ones. A short ways down the beach, a team of brewers tarred and sealed casks of spiced rum and fended off free samplers with laughter. The butcher whose shop was nearest to the shore had hauled out a prize slab and roasted it for any who were hungry. And the boy who'd one day be called Airn Rhymer fenced with driftwood swords against a smith's daughter.

They played with shameless volume and gusto, smacking their weapons against one another, shrieking with delight and darting away only to charge back in and clash “blades” with more skill than some mortal masters. They had no attention for anything but each other and—occasionally—the people they leapt and bounced over in their epic duel.

The boy parried into a thrust that poked the girl in the throat and she yelped in pain, dropping her stick to grab at the bruise as she stumbled to a hard seat on the sand. Her partner gave a shout of victory, hands flung up above his head. The girl scowled and tossed a handful of sand from where she sat, and he laughed. She glowered a pout and stuck out her tongue, scrunching her face up to keep angry at him and not laugh as well.

Neither saw the sailor coming for them. Mid-teasing, mid-laughter, mid-helping his friend up from the ground, the boy was suddenly snatched around his middle and hauled up off the sand and away. The child squeaked and immediately swung the stick—gripped in his fingers despite it all like a proper swordsman—for the tall man's ribs. But the one-eyed captain snatched the weapon and tossed it aside. It was then the boy registered the familiar scarred face of the angry captain from the night of the storm.

Going rigid with fear and the unwillingness to show it, the boy fought back only on principle, snarling threats and shouting for help. Among the laughter and hijinks on the beach, it blended too well and no one moved or gave much attention.

Except the little girl who grabbed her stick off the sand and gave chase, shouting her friend's name. The captain reeled to glare at her and she faltered, stepping back a bit, sword shaking in her hand. The boy squirmed, clawing for the man's covered eye socket.

“Go, Sana!”

The captain swore, loud and sharp, and the little girl bolted. A few more strides and the man and his thrashing captive had left the beach. With a careless toss, the boy crashed against the backside of a tavern in a shaded alley. The messy-headed urchin scrambled up, quick even in his dazed terror. He didn't get far before a hand closed over the lower half of his small face, dragging him back, pinning his head against the wall.

The boy's struggles to bite the captain's hand ceased at the ringing of steel and the cruelly-curved dagger filling his vision. His high, thin voice was steady, if muffled, despite the way his heart tried to thunder out of his chest.

“You can't hurt me!”

If the man's intention was to make him afraid, he wouldn't let him see it worked. But he was only a child and his bravado faltered when the captain tossed back his head to laugh, squeezing a little tighter on his face and leaning close.

“Can't I? Who's going to miss a street rat?”

The one-eyed captain pulled the knife back to point a finger at his own face and the spidery pink marks that stretched from his bearded jaw up over his cheek. They were only a few days old, lingering due to the magic that had caused them. It'd heal, but for now it marked him.

“See that? That's yours, boy. Your little fucking stunt.”

The boy's masked fear melted to a bit of smugness, dark eyes sharp above the line of the captain’s hand. The man leaned back, eyebrows lifting, lip curling.

“You proud of that?”

“I marked a captain,” the boy said, more than a little strength in his small voice. Then his lips curved under the man's hand. “Do you have to tell people when they ask? That it was a street rat?”

The captain snarled, fingers tightening on the little wretch's jaw and his cheeks. The boy winced, swallowing a little noise of pain, eyes welling up and belonging to a child again. Relatively tiny fingers pulled and clawed uselessly at the much larger hand and wrist. The man laughed at the struggle.

“I'm going to teach you a valuable lesson, you little shit.”

The daggerpoint touched the boy's temple, earning a flinch and a squirm.

“What happens when you fuck with something bigger than you.”

The boy's leg snapped up, the top of his bare foot landing solidly between the captain's legs. To the tune of a foul stream of agony, the boy was suddenly free and stumbling, bolting for the sunshine. It wasn't enough. The large, strong hand curled in dark hair and the boy howled, screaming, not caring who heard or if he'd get a knife across his face to match the captain he'd dared attack.

“Ho!”

The unfamiliar booming voice seemed to freeze the world with its sudden appearance and both adult and child went still to match. A man dressed in the apron of a barkeep stood not three strides away in the middle of the street. Burly arms folded across a broad chest, his blood-gold eyes burned with intent under a furrowed brow.

“What's the boy done to you then, Captain?”

The one-eyed man tensed at the reminder, his grip shifting on the boy's hair, who’d relaxed into a gleeful relieved grin that only the barman could see. Not that the rescuer paid much mind, too busy lifting his eyebrows in the lengthening pause. It was then that the boy noticed a flaxen-headed figure just as small as him peeking around the corner of the smithy across the street. Sana smiled and the boy returned it, his small hand touching his chest in a gesture of thanks.

“I said, 'What's the boy done, Captain'.”

The barman strode closer, his tone not losing respect but turning a little harder. He stood a full head and a half taller than the offended captain and the boy could feel his attacker tensing and shifting, estimating. Supposing the man was waiting for him to blurt out the truth and damn his reputation, the boy twisted his head to look up at the one-eyed sailor.

And said nothing.

After another series of heartbeats of silence and innocent eyes, the captain released his prize with a scoffing noise, sheathed his knife and shook his head, as if coming to a conclusion.

“Nothing. He's done nothing.”

The captain strode off away down the street and the barman's frown stayed fixed as he watched him go. Sana darted out of the shadows and across the roadway, colliding with her friend in a hug that nearly knocked his shuddery knees out from under him. But he laughed and hugged her tight, thrilling with the excitement of the day, a fresh sort of rush he'd never felt before.

Fucking with something bigger than him and walking away from it.

[therisingtempest]

{tales} Storm of a Different Kind

The Fomoire were not unaccustomed to violent weather. Sometimes they reveled in it, other times they simply shuttered their shops, pulled the tents off the beaches, and waited for the sky to finish roaring. A pair of captains had just finished battening down their ships and were headed for one of the dockside taverns, shoulders hunched against the surging wind, when one spotted the small figure standing on the empty stretch of sand.

The fairer of the two—skin sun-freckled and eyes of blue crystal—deviated from his course, dropping off the dock to walk down the beach instead. His scarred, one-eyed compatriot gave a grumble.

“Fearghal—”

But when he received no answer, he followed, boots thudding heavily to the sand. Fearghal canted his head, slowing. The child stood with his toes an inch away from where the feral sea surged at the shore. His gaze strayed between the angry froth and the dark sky flecked with light and the distant waves that swelled even higher toward the horizon.

“Hadn’t you better be inside, boy?”

The boy jolted, leaping back and away, dark eyes wide, dark curls windswept from a wary and startled expression. He studied the two tall men, seemed to judge them not a threat, and his small body untensed, his eager grin returning, chin lifted proudly.

“I want to watch.”

Thunder grumbled, snarling like a junglecat who’d been woken rudely. The wind picked up, snapping the child’s clothes against his thin frame, whipping the captains’ long coats back from their legs. Already the waves had doubled in size and the boy had to backpedal to avoid being snatched away by the sea. He was quick on his feet but he’d been lucky to spot the rushing tide.

“Listen,” said Fearghal, taking a step closer and holding out his hand. “If you come away, I’ll show you something grand.”

The boy squinted at the broad palm and long fingers, then folded his own tiny arms, hands close against his ribs. “If it’s not grand, I’m coming back out.”

The tall man laughed. “Now that’s a bargain.”

Slowly, cautiously, the child reached up and took the man’s hand and let himself be led away as though by his father. He had no father and he had a thousand fathers. Every blacksmith and merchant and sailor had something to teach. This one, he’d never met. He was curious.

Away from the beach and under the shelter of a merchant’s awning, Fearghal settled to one knee to look the boy in the eyes. Thin arms crossed a thin chest again, expression highly dubious. The captain smiled, ignoring his loudly impatient companion who still trailed him and now leaned against the wall of the empty shop and muttered curses. Fearghal lifted his hands up between himself and the boy, palms facing each other, about a heads-width apart.

After a moment, and some concentration, the air between his hands began to tighten and pull, pressure building. The moisture in the air condensed into tiny tufts of cloud, swelling in mass. The boy’s lips parted and he stepped closer, fascinated. There was a crackling sound like someone crunching a nut under a boot and the dark grey wisps began to rain, passing water between them in sheets. A fork of lightning no bigger than his little finger darted from one palm to the other.

The sight proved grand enough to distract from the much larger storm occurring around them and the boy’s awe made the old sea captain smile. The other captain watched the little parlor trick and made a scoffing noise, rolling his one eye, glancing out at the harbor and the clusters of ships that surged and knocked against one another, enduring the raging sea.

“Open your hands,” said Fearghal.

The boy eagerly cupped his hands, like a beggar might, like someone who was used to needing more. Fearghal shook his head.

“Not like an orphan, like a captain.”

Slowly, the boy unfurled his fingers, hesitated, then mimicked his elder’s positioning, hands held apart. With a half-smile that approached fondness, the captain deposited the miniature storm into the space between the boy’s hands. The task of containing it immediately locked up the lean little arms and the child gave a soft cry of surprise even as his fingers curled, tendons standing out as the tiny storm tried to escape, to disperse.

Both captains laughed, though Fearghal’s was richer, more joyous, and less cruelly amused than his fellow’s. The boy noticed, even if he didn’t absorb the details and he glared up at the other captain, teeth grit. The storm was leaving his control, but at the very last, he directed its flight, fairly flinging it at the man’s sneer. Fearghal narrowly ducked the trajectory, spinning on his heel to watch the little burst of lightning and wet hit the other captain squarely in the face.

It did nothing more than drench his beard and singe his skin, which was already pleasantly scarred, but the captain roared a curse and lunged for the child. If Fearghal had not stood smoothly and splayed a hand against his chest, he might’ve caught wild curls and yanked the boy’s head off. As it was, the urchin escaped, vanishing into the torrential rain that swept the city streets.

“Fuckin wretch.”

Fearghal turned his head to the riotous horizon to hide a smile, clapped a hand to his mate’s shoulder and slung his arm around him to resume their walk for the drink they badly needed to warm their bones.

[therisingtempest]

{tales} To Rescue a Corpse

continued from this

Airn woke from unsettled dreams that involved sinking ships and monsters from the deep and his captain’s eyes and sweat and blood and peeling back skin and burning alive. He shoved half-upright with a sharp gasping breath, eyes wide in the dark of the room, body tense, sweat cold on his skin.

He’d managed to lift Rowena’s knife when the healer wasn’t looking and he gripped it against his thigh, glad for his marginally-returned strength and ready to kill whatever was watching him. One of the shadows at the edge of the room stepped forward, stepped into the beam cast by the moon and stars outside the narrow window. The pale light made the sprite’s green skin look like silver, his features even more inhuman.

Relief dropped the fae back to his elbows, breath huffing out, though he didn’t release the knife. It was too reassuring against his palm. He squinted, recognizing the sprite as familiar, but unable to recall which one he was.

“You’re…”

“Zafi.”

“Right. Zafi—nng.”

He struggled to shift, to sit up nonchalantly, but the pain wasn’t quite as faded as he’d thought it was. When he collapsed, though, he was shocked to find the sprite was there, at his side, across the room in a blink and supporting his weight. Long green fingers gripped into his shoulder to keep him steady, though the sailor’s impassive countenance furrowed into a frown as he breathed a few curses.

“What’ve they done to you?”

“Help, apparently,” was Airn’s reply on a bitter laugh.

Zafi hissed a curse in his own language now, the insectoid chatter somehow still carrying that universal tone of pissed off. Strangely, it only amused Airn further. He remembered hearing that clicking dialect high above in the rigging as he went about his work, but he’d never put much effort toward understanding the sprites. They’d always kept to themselves, gone silent when others neared. He wondered why now. He wondered what Zafi had talked about with his kin before…before...

“Please don’t take this as complaint, but why are you here?” Airn grunted after he’d got his breath back.

“I sent Mibi through to watch. I returned for you.”

“For my corpse, you mean.”

The tiniest of twitches at thin lips. “It crossed my mind.”

Airn chuckled and it didn’t make his ribs ache as it had before. But he shook his head, smirk turning into something rueful and borderline angry. 

“Well, you’ve found it. I’m not fit to travel. Not fit to rise from this bed. You’d best find Mibi and steer clear of Mag Mell.”

Something clouded the sprite’s face. Airn didn’t know his expressions well enough to read it. Zafi glanced at the window, appearing to think. Rather than answer, or reply in any way, he stood and crossed to Rowena’s table full of tricks and plants and magicks, most of it cleared away to make room for the little pile of magnetite she’d gathered. And the iron shavings beside it.

The sprite said nothing, but he released a soft noise that was half amused grunt and half chuckle. Airn eased back onto the pillows against the headboard with a heavy sigh.

“It was the only thing I could think of.”

Zafi pointed one spindly finger at the pile of iron dust. “Is this all of it?”

“I’m alive, aren’t I?”

The sprite turned back to level a look at him and Airn shrugged.

“I looked worse a few days ago.”

“I’ll stay.” Zafi paused, seemed to consider, and then elaborated. “Until you’re ready to travel.”

Airn studied him, half-frowning and curious. The sprite didn’t balk, but he also didn’t hold the other fae’s gaze.

“The gateway was difficult to find.”

“Mm.”

Zafi crossed back to the bed and sat on the edge, picking at the bedsheet to peek at the wound. Airn peeled back some of the bandage to show him, somehow knowing the sprite wouldn’t pry overmuch. 

It looked quite a bit better now that the iron was fully out of him, though most ironwound had a period after the fact where the simple memory of the Bane’s touch left effects, let alone if it was left to fester for three days. What should’ve been a simple stabwound—if wider than normal due to the cruel twist of the blade—had lengthened under human attention and deep infection. The scabby, partially-healed gash stretched past his navel at an angle, dipping in closer toward it at the bottom edge and further out toward his ribs at the top.

Zafi said nothing, but he didn’t look away this time.

“You’ll have to work on your glamour.”

The sprite still didn’t look up from the wound. Large opaline eyes blinked slowly. Airn had just started to feel strangely uncomfortable when he noticed the change crawling across green skin. It turned paler, fairer, his features blurring like the rapid-beat of dragonfly wings. When it settled it was in the form of an—albeit lanky and odd-looking—human.

“What’ll I tell the lady of the house?” Airn asked.

Zafi, somehow still seeming to be entirely himself despite his new mask, finally looked away from Airn’s injury and met his eyes.

“That we are crewmates.”

Airn’s smile was soft. “Aye. Good plan.”

[therisingtempest]

{tales} A Healing Touch

continued from this

Airn woke and immediately felt the urge to roll and vomit. Funny—he hadn’t remembered drinking Creely’s damned Ogre’s Blood scotch the night before. But he’d either done that or wrestled a sea beast into submission because every last hair hurt. It hurt to open his eyes, it hurt to move, it especially hurt to breathe. Details came to him in fits and bursts.

Soft linen on his back. Jagged breaths echoing. The smell of rotten meat. Human sweat. His own sweat. Iron.

Airn grit his teeth, forcing the little skips and starts of awareness to meld together and give him consciousness. He regretted his victory immediately. The pain doubled—tripled—all of it focused on a molten core in his midsection. He lay in a cold stone room—or perhaps the coldness came from within him?—on a bed he supposed would pass for regal among humans. Tapestries hung the walls. Reeds and rushes strewed the floor, mixed with hints of lavender that wasn’t quite enough to mask the scent of death. A long table full of crude instruments and bowls and pungent scents. Sunlight filtered through the narrow windows.

It might’ve been peaceful and even passing pleasant if he hadn’t been about to shriek straight out of his skin. A whimpering growl escaped between clenched teeth. He gasped for breaths that refused to come easy and lifted shaking fingers to push weakly at the bedsheets, greeted by the sight of blood-soaked bandages across his abdomen.

Rotten meat.

The urge to vomit rose again and with it the urge to cry, to scream, to tear his own insides out with his bare fingers if only he could make the iron go away. He could still feel it. Traces of it inside his wound keeping it raw and torn and wrong. He’d started to weakly pick at the bandages, possibly to do just that, when the door opened. A mortal woman strode in, hair like burnished copper and her expression distant in thought, arms full of greenery and strong scents that made the fae’s nose wrinkle. 

Even in his state, Airn performed a quick mental check and found no weapons on his person. Every muscle tensed and with it came another wave of nauseating pain that sent him back flat to the bed to catch his breath. Helpless as a babe and twice as unhappy about it. The woman looked up at the harsh breath to find him staring silently at her and lost all her color, jumping full inches off the ground. The plants scattered in a little shower of dirt and leaves. 

“Dian Cécht!”

Airn might’ve been amused by the reaction on another day—might’ve tossed his head back and laughed—but the familiar name spoken as an oath threw him even further off-balance, tinging his glare with confusion. If he’d been even slightly stronger, he might’ve leapt from the bed and put the little human under his thumb to get answers whether through terror or guile. Why did she call on Nuada’s savior? Did she belong to the Sidhe? What was this place? Why wasn’t he dead?

As it was, he could only continue to glare, warning without words to keep her distance and keep it well.

“Sodding fighter you are,” the woman gasped, hand to her bodice as if that would help her to catch her breath. “It’s not many would be awake with a gut wound like that. Not many would still be alive, either.”

She bent to pick the fallen herbs out of the reeds with fussing noises, eventually straightening and moving to the long low table. Airn tensed, winced at the tension, and gripped the bedsheets for purchase. The woman noticed and canted her head. She turned, delicate hands outstretched as if to calm him. Or perhaps cast over him. He lifted his chin and she drew back just a little.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she said in a lovely soft voice like a clear breeze, lilting different than the others he remembered only as if in a fever dream. “I’ve been trying to help you these past three days.”

“Three days,” he repeated, not quite a question but not quite a statement. His voice was rough, ill-used, far too weak for his liking.

The woman nodded, smiling a little, as though encouraged by his response. “Near as I can tell. I haven’t slept much. Nearly lost you twice. There were five of us at the start but those old men didn’t know nettles from thistles. And leeches—hah! The solution to a man bleedin’ profusely from his stomach is not to let more blood from him.”

Airn must’ve frowned at her at some point during her rambling, because the woman pursed her lips at the last, as if to contain the words inside her. With a soft apology, she dipped her head and bobbed her knees in a well-practiced curtsey. Low-born then. So the castle around him didn’t belong to her. Balor’s fucking eye, he felt so dull-witted and slow. The iron must’ve traveled from the wound. Bits of it under his skin. The urge to kill something returned like the tide.

“Can you…”

Airn looked up at the quiet voice and the woman firmed her lips again. Licked them. But rather than back down under his sharp dark gaze she only rephrased slightly.

“Could you tell me what happened to you? Any details will help.”

“There was another woman…”

“The Lady Calla, yes. She found you on her morning ride. Sweet girl. Never met a kinder soul in my life. I very much doubt she’s the one who gave you that wound.”

Airn scoffed from the back of his throat and rolled his eyes, but froze mid-motion when he saw the healer smothering a grin behind her hand. Was she…

“Are you mocking me?”

“’Course not, m’lord!” She had the decency to look offended at the very idea, at least. “What sort of healer would I be if I mocked my patients?”

“You’re not much of a healer at all if I’m still lying here after three days.”

Something much like actual offense sparked in her eyes, her lips pulling into a terrific pout. A chuckle swelled in Airn’s chest and he only swallowed it because of how much he knew it would wrack his body if he let it free.

“I’m the only reason you’re alive, my lord” came the snappy reply. 

When he arched an eyebrow, she seemed to remember herself. This time the dropped curtsey was even shallower and she very nearly rolled her eyes in the process. This time Airn did laugh a bit, though it sounded more like a cough.

“I’ve been ungracious,” he said.

Her surprise showed over every freckled inch of her face. He wondered how often men in agony apologized to her for swearing and hissing. She didn’t look the type to mind if they didn’t, her arms up to the elbow in guts. She had the sort of eyes for intense focus. She moved a little closer, studying him.

“You have, but under the circumstances I think I’ll not be offended.”

Airn laughed full this time, then groaned in regret and agony, head falling back. “Oh, seven fucks.”

Her cool fingers brushed his forehead, sending a chill all through his fever-wracked body. “Rest easy, my lord.”

“I’m not a lord,” he growled, hating that he hadn’t the strength to pull away form her touch.

“Everybody’s a lord to me.”

She smirked a little wryly as she laid a water-soaked cloth against his forehead. He watched her turn away to busy herself at her table, knife flashing through unfamiliar plant life, trimming leaves and buds and roots with obvious expertise.

“I have to say, though, you might be better for conversation when you’re unconscious,” she quipped.

“Leaves won’t help you,” he muttered, sounding less bitter and jaded than he wanted and more like a petulant child. He supposed it fit. He felt like a child again. Deep under the shell of agony there was fear. Unsettling and familiar as a childhood blanket. His captain’s words were a constant repeating hum, tightening around his heart.

You’re going to die here. You’re going to die here.

The idea of stabbing all the little pieces of his former captain’s sword into sensitive places was nearly the only thing keeping him breathing against the heavy choking pain. He wanted to ask where his weapons were, but she didn’t strike him as one to know. 

“I’ve new poultices to try and I’ll thank you to keep your stormy mood to yourself. It’s bad atmosphere for healing grace.”

Airn scoffed again. Would’ve spat on the ground if it wouldn’t take far too much energy to sit up and gather saliva.

“Unless you’ve some information to help me?” she questioned, turning back, mortar braced against her hip as she ground the pestle down into it. When he said nothing, she sighed, seeming to think aloud to herself. “It’s like a poison but none I’ve ever seen. It’s been all I can do to keep the gash clean and staunch the blood. Usually even wounds like this go all sticky at the very least. It’s still as fresh as the day they dragged you in and this fever will not break for anything. I’m fast running out of tricks. --I’m sorry if I babble, my lord, it’s a terrible habit.”

“You don’t inspire much confidence.”

“Would you rather I lied to you?”

She canted her head at him and he fell silent. Lying. Humans could do that, couldn’t they? And she hadn’t yet. Teased him, yes, despite his blood staining the sheets, but not lied.

“Are you from Spain?”

He arched an eyebrow, thrown even further. He managed to keep from making a very stupid noise of dumbfounded confusion.

“You’re, erm…” She shifted, cleared her throat, and turned her back again, tossing the bud of some flowering thing into the mortar. “My cousin met a Spanish sailor once up in London. She said he was lovely and dark of feature with arms like…”

He could almost feel the heat of her blush across the room and he wished fiercely—not for the first time—that he wasn’t made lame and immobile by the poison in his blood. Unfortunately, powerful as wishes were in the right circumstance, the poison was stronger and remained.

“What you need is a rock,” he said, calm and rough.

“If that’s your attempt to be funny—”

“A specific kind of rock,” Airn interjected, fighting the urge to roll his own eyes. “Black. Heavy. Draws metal to it.”

The girl’s amused expression slowly shifted into thoughtfulness as he spoke, until she was tilting her head at him, curious. “You mean a lodestone?”

“If that’s what you call it.”

“How will that…” She glanced at his bandaged wound. “You think there’s metal inside you?”

He licked his lips. “Trust me when I say…I know there is.”

She glanced down at her table full of herbs and paltry magicks, appearing to think it over. Airn wished he had a talent for swaying mortal minds. Perhaps it would be a talent he’d foster if he survived this. Though something deep down enjoyed the sharpness in the redhead’s eye. The way she puzzled over the problem, weighed his suggestion against her own theories.

With a sharp nod, she hiked her skirts. “Back before you can say ‘Is fearr an tsláinte ná na táinte.’”

Then she winked and was gone, leaving a dying fae feeling a little less of his agony.

[therisingtempest]

{tales} Benefactor Mine

continued from this

Lady Calla Cassandra Finch liked to go riding directly after thunderstorms. The smell of fresh-fallen rain, the way the world looked, still mostly deserted, all steely grey and vibrant green. Of course, even better would’ve been to ride during a thunderstorm, but she wasn’t allowed. Even running the entire estate while her father was away on business and she obeyed his law.

Her escort was a lady-in-waiting and two of the castle guards, though she kept her mount moving slightly quicker than theirs. The brisk pace discouraged conversation. Talking about nonsense defeated the entire purpose of viewing this wet and quiet world.

So, she was the first to notice the man lying in the ditch. 

With a gasp, she urged her horse forward at a canter, reining in and dismounting before her entourage could catch her. The man lay half on his side as though he’d stopped mid-crawl or perhaps stumbled from the road. He didn’t smell drunk, though he was dressed as a sailor and looked rather battered. There was something foreign about his clothes. Something about him that drew her.

“My lady!”

The guards arrived first, both slinging down from their horses with skill and ease, ready to snatch her from any danger. Calla hardly glanced at them. She stood in the road and pointed, not quite brave enough to climb into the muddy ditch. 

“There’s a man there! He could be hurt.”

“I am hurt.”

The voice was hoarse and trembling as though parched or ill, but had a smoothness to it, almost amusement. With his speech came movement. One muddy hand pressed into the spongy grass, pushing him up onto his side. The hand underneath him remained clutched to his midsection and red squeezed between his fingers.

“Stand back, m’lady,” one of the guards ordered, drawing his sword.

The man in the ditch chuckled. “Do I look like a threat, sir?”

Calla’s breaths were quick and she felt a bit faint. The smell of blood and muck was pungent and unfamiliar. But she flickered her fingers at the tense soldier. “Put the sword down, Timothy. James, back to the castle and fetch a cart.”

“But m’lady—” her lady-in-waiting attempted.

“Sara, go to the village.” Calla turned to face the woman, gripping onto her skirts, looking up on her servant atop her horse. “Find any healers you can.”

“M’lady,” said Timothy, “the castle healer is more than capable—”

“Gerty treats the cough and skinned knees. I want the village surgeons.”

“Yes, m’lady.” Sara kicked into her horse’s side and was off.

James moved a bit more slowly, but at a plea from his mistress, he too was off at a gallop. Timothy had lowered his sword but not sheathed it. The man in the ditch had shifted to a seated position, his back against the opposite bank of the ditch, his hand still loosely covering what seemed a grievous injury. He was filthy, as if he’d crawled for miles, and yet there was something striking about him. Almost inviting.

After barely a moment’s silence, Calla hiked up her skirts and climbed down into the gully.

“My lady!” the guard cried, sword coming back up.

She released heavy material to hold up a hand at him. Silent rebuke and request for quiet. Being as she did not look to her guard, ensured of his obedience, she saw the wounded man smile. A sliver of surprisingly white teeth glimmered against all the grime. Her skirts trailed through mud and her soft deerskin riding boots were absolutely ruined, but she made it to the man’s side and settled to the grass next to him. The way dark, surprisingly-alert eyes followed her every move was somewhat disconcerting, but she still did not falter, drawing out a handkerchief from her sleeve and bringing it up to brush somewhat uselessly at the feverish sweat on his brow.

“Your ladyship is too kind,” the man murmured.

“And you are very lucky to still be alive,” she replied with a smile.

“Luckier still to have met you.”

Heat flushed from the back of her neck and over her ears and she glanced down to avoid piercing, lovely eyes. It worked in some sense, though paling whilst viewing gore was not the best way to clear a blush.

"Were you attacked?" she asked quietly.

He chuckled. She felt warm breath on her down-turned cheek and smelled mint and spice. “Very astute, my lady.”

“I shall have men look into it. I’ll not abide highwaymen on my lands.”

The man laughed again, hoarse and under his breath and in a way that made Calla feel as though she’d missed a joke. He settled back a bit, eyes closing, seeming almost at rest if not for his sickly pale and the way his hand shook just slightly against his wound.

"I’ll have my own justice."

And despite the danger she read in his eyes, his voice was soft and light and she couldn’t seem to find it in her to worry about exactly how bloody his “justice” would be.

She sat with him for the full hour it took James to return with the cart. They talked about many things—none of which she could fully remember, too focused on keeping his eyes open and alert and on her. She recalled the way his laugh sounded, gruff and unamused—almost distracted, as if his mind were full worlds away, contemplating things she mightn’t wish to know.

It wasn’t until her knights helped the half-conscious sailor onto the cart that she realized she’d never gotten the man’s name.

[therisingtempest]

{tales} A Brush with Death

“Is this really necessary?”

--was not often a question asked from the edge of a plank. Airn appeared mildly inconvenienced, if at all troubled. He’d been stripped of weaponry and a good bit of clothing—the idea being there was less between him and whatever below that wanted to eat him. Or perhaps it was that a coat as fine as his shouldn’t be ruined. He thought he should be offended that his life had suddenly less value than a piece of cloth, but it was a rather fine jacket.

Wrists bound tight behind him with knots he might’ve been able to slip if he’d had an hour and uninterrupted focus, he balanced on bare feet and peered over the edge of the wooden slat with a dubious expression.

A school of Mer had already started to swirl lazily beneath the rectangular shadow. Still frowning, he glanced over his shoulder at the assembled, though had eyes only for his king. He shifted his feet, spinning 180 degrees as though he stood on solid earth and not a narrow bit of solidity.

“I’m rather beyond insulted at this point.”

“If you’re innocent, then why don’t you just say, Airn?” the king replied, gruffly.

“With all due respect, majesty, I shouldn’t have to.”  

He turned again, as if miffed, and leaned out to search the waters, the first hint of concern flickering across his facial muscles. Direct questions were such a nightmare and thus far there’d been no openings available. His fingers twitched at the small of his back. And then, as though summoned in his moment of need, she rose up through the shadowy depths, surrounded and swirled by fang and fin, but untouched by it all. Her beauty never quite broke the surface and the flash of Mer scale reflected enough of the light that Airn was fairly sure he was the only one who had an angle to see her peering up from under the waves.

“Are you loyal to me,” the king demanded again with finality, but this time Airn’s future queen mouthed the words as well and his eyes fixed to her sharp smile that fit well among the hungry Mer.

His own mouth curved slightly and he remained staring down at the water when he replied clearly. “Aye. I am loyal. Only to you, your majesty.”

Rionach nodded slowly and disappeared. Those assembled on the deck behind him had gone deadly silent at his clear words. Airn waited until he’d controlled his grin down to insulted before turning back, his entire attitude and tone wrapped in a sudden chill.

“Satisfied?”

The king had the guts to not look ashamed, though several of the other pirate lords who’d been eagerly awaiting execution now had trouble meeting his eyes. Not that it mattered. Airn had eyes only for his accuser. The little twitchy bottom-feeder who’d heard the wrong thing at the wrong time and done the honorable thing in bringing it to his majesty.

“I saw him! I saw him with my own eyes—he’s a traitor! He plots against you!”

Airn dropped off the plank and back onto solid decking, turning to allow the nearest sailor to cut him loose. With the last of the ropes falling away, Airn sighed happily and cast a glance over his shoulder to his benefactor with a lazy smirk and a nod of thanks. He strode toward the fuss at center deck as the king shook his head.

“You were mistaken, Yorg. Clearly.”

Airn bowed upon arrival with a gracious “Your majesty” and straightened, gesturing at the shuddering imp. “May I?”

The king gestured. “It is your right.”

Airn bowed again, and this time when he stood tall again, he took a step down the length of the ship, catching the rat by its neck, dragging it along. The poor thing struggled and fought, continuing to claim his truth.

“Shut your mouth.”

A command from a captain still brought obedience, possibly fueled by terror now as Airn escorted his former accuser to the deserted bow. Once they were far enough away from the main cluster around the king, Airn leaned close.

“I’m going to tell you something hilarious, Yorg. I believe you.”

The imp startled visibly, gone pale and shocked and red all at once, eyes so wide they could’ve been popped out of his skull without too much trouble.

Airn’s smirk cracked into a grin. “I am a traitor. You were right. I just thought you should know. Something to hold onto in your last moments.”

Yorg took a breath, gauged his chances, and shouted at the top of his lungs. He only got out a—rather poorly chosen—“Your majesty!” before Airn had gripped his jaw and slammed his shoulders down onto the rail, stabbing down with a dagger suddenly in his other hand. The tip sliced into the imp’s forced-open mouth, but artfully halted before it would’ve punctured its spine through the back of its throat. 

With a few deft flicks of his wrist—and quite a lot of horrified screaming and thrashing from the imp—Airn had removed the offending tongue and held it in one fist. He’d already been unglamoured but there was something almost shark-like in his grin and his dark, dark eyes as he watched the imp stagger and clutch at its face, blood oozing down its chin.

“You were right. Hold onto that.”

And then he planted his still-bare foot in the sailor’s chest, kicking him back over the rail to tumble down into the impatient Mer. The gargling scream cut off in a splash and the water immediately frothed red. Airn watched for a moment, like one might watch koi fish in a pond, before dropping the severed tongue into the eddies like a farewell.

[therisingtempest]

{tales} A Matter of Honor

continued from this

The ship sank under the weight of the sea monster’s corpse, but that hardly mattered. It was the principle of the thing. They’d fought, they’d won, they had a tale to tell. Nothing could be wrong with the world. The ongoing storm, the still-healing arm, the salt licking into his wounds as he easily made the swim to shore despite it all—completely worth it. 

Still, he was a wee bit tired by the time he curled fingers in silt, and took a moment to kneel there, the surf crashing into his back, the rain pelting onto his head and shoulders. He laughed for the sheer joy of being able to laugh. The little squad of sprites who’d helped him alighted on the sand and two worked to haul him to his feet, despite their waifish builds.

Given the circumstances, he didn’t mind having a shoulder to lean on.

“Airn,” he said, grinning at his benefactors.

The eldest sprite studied him and, for a moment, mightn’t have said anything. But he nodded once. “Kiho. These are Mibi and Wiya and Zafi.”

The other three sprites looked a little jittery, but they all smiled and nodded and stood close. Occasionally long, long fingers would brush Airn’s soaked body, checking on injuries or keeping him standing or possibly just to touch. Airn appreciated all of the above. Especially since he’d heard somewhere that sprites only touched and allowed touch with those they considered supremely close or honored.

It was then the rest of the surviving crew reached them from across the beach and up on the cliffs above. Which were chalk-white and long. Exultation and congratulation were met with beaming smiles and Airn almost forgot about his injuries. Until the captain emerged through the sparse crowd. Subconsciously, they all straightened by a few degrees. 

Airn was only surprised at the man’s survival for an instant. After all, Fomoire captains were nothing to scoff at. He wasted no time on apologies or greetings.

“Captain, we should make inland. Try to find gateways—”

The captain’s voice was even and calm, but harsh enough to warrant silence from all. “Still telling me what to do?”

“I…” Airn shook his head, gaze averted to the sand. “No, sir.”

“You disobeyed, boy. You challenged my every order and then you disobeyed. Stayed aboard for glory’s sake.”

“You assume wrongly, captain. I would never—”

“And now I’m wrong yet again!” The captain spread his arms to the assembled, focusing back on Airn with a sharp grin. “Mutinous words.”

The crew ringing them took a few steps back. Either to avoid impending confrontation or to distance themselves from the accused. All except the four sprites, who might’ve even closed ranks a little. At least one of them was shaking—Airn could feel it. 

With a bit of effort, not wanting to shove Kiho away, he reached behind him to draw what remained of the captain’s rapier. He held the pieces out across both palms as an offering. He kept his mouth shut. The captain took a step closer and Airn focused on his boots. 

“Do you think me ill-fit to be your captain?”

Airn swallowed, licked his lips of salt and blood, and took a calming breath. “Captain—”

The blow was as sudden and harsh as a lightning strike and pain exploded in the younger fae’s cheekbone. His captain’s iron ring had torn a light gash that barely burned but still sent that nauseated acid feeling straight to his bones. His knees shook. Mibi's fingers tightened against his abdomen.

“Answer the question.”

“I think you’re a fine captain who made a poor choice.”

He could’ve weaseled a less blunt version of the truth, but with all he’d been through, he ceased to care. He even dared to lift his gaze and stare down his elder, bracing for another backhanded reprimand. Instead, the captain smiled. Slowly. Dangerous. Like the Mer with which some whispered he shared his blood. Cold as the sea.

“Here’s the way it’s going to go, boy. We’ll make for the gateways. Your crew and mine. Whoever arrives first wins the honor of telling the king their version of the truth. Deal?”

“We are one crew, captain.”

With a move like fluid lightning, the captain withdrew a knife and slashed across hard. The very tip nicked Airn’s jaw on its arc, but its purpose was not to injure him. One of the sprites helping to support his weight—Kiho—began to choke and shake. His arm slipped from Airn’s shoulders as he shuddered to his knees, green fingers around his torn throat, confusion in his eyes. He slumped to his side, staining the wet sand with wet blood.

“Ki!” one of the other sprites darted forward.

Airn stared, frozen, as though his entire mind had run flat into a wall.

“One mutineer down,” the captain murmured. “Four to go.”

“They were frightened!” 

Airn’s voice was a commanding roar now, fueled by youthful rage, approaching the level it had reached on the ship. With the words, his focus snapped back on his grinning elder. He took a step forward to draw attention from the sprites, still holding the captain’s shattered blade. It dug into his palms in his tightening grip, but he barely noticed warmth seeping through his fingers. A Fomorian captain’s blade was a symbol of honor. He suddenly wanted to shove the pieces down his captain’s throat. Just as on the ship, the words came before he could think. 

“They stayed because they didn’t want to die, not because they disrespected you! None of us think you weak!”

The captain’s eyes flashed, grin gaining a feral edge. The pistol came out steady, smooth, and just slow enough that every hand could process what it meant before he pulled the trigger. Wiya’s head snapped back, golden eyes already gone dull by the time he dropped. Airn growled something low and foul and dug his boots into the sand as he tossed the rapier bits aside and lunged. It was an action born of madness so complete the captain did not expect it and could not hope to react in time. It earned a gasp from the crew and a communal leap back away from the sudden fight. 

Now resolutely a mutineer, Airn wasted no time on regrets. He’d dropped his captain to the sand though being weaker and younger and injured, and he did not let the advantage of surprise escape him. A wrenching grip on his captain’s wrist disarmed him. A knee to the inside of his hip kept him down. Momentarily.

“Go!” he screamed over his shoulder. “Fly! Get out of here!”

Zafi and Mibi were already airborne, snapping wings faltering in the continuing rain, but fleeing faster than anything land-bound could hope to move. It didn’t take more than a breath for the captain to find Airn’s still-tender wounds and render him a mess of pain. The younger Fomorian folded in on himself, expecting the worst and ready to defend against it, but the captain stood over him and screamed at the gawking crew.

“After them! First man to bring me their bloody wings gets a promotion!”

To a man, they darted off. And the captain looked down on Airn with a loud laugh.

“Is that it? You want to die like a dog?”

In the respite, Airn realized the answer was a resounding no and he uncurled to lash out with one foot, kicking hard enough to fracture his former captain’s shin. 

Airn staggered to his feet, broken arm held close to his body. The bone had been on its way to whole but the captain’s maneuver had it thrumming with pain again. The captain in question straightened slowly from his already-healed leg, like an uncoiling viper. And Airn gave him that level of attention, hardly blinking despite the rain that coursed down his face.

“You won’t make it far with that wound, boy.”

Airn tossed his head, finding a smirk. “It’s hardly fatal.”

“No. But this one is.”

The blade pierced his guts before he could react, but the pain did not fade. It blossomed. It caught fire and burned. His vision whited out. Everything inside him was screaming. Every muscle locked tight. Nothing would move. Nothing made sense. He barely felt the captain’s arm slide around his back, cradling the back of his head. Barely heard the man’s whispered words in his ear.

“Ever been stabbed with pure iron, lad?”

Airn could only whimper. He was shaking. Sweating. His mind was a complete blank. His body would not have responded to commands even if he’d have found it in him to give them. There was no more fight, no more storm—only agony.

“It’s not a pleasant experience, is it?”

The iron knife twisted slightly and Airn finally broke through shock enough to release a cry of pain, half masculine groan and half child’s whine. His knees had finally buckled, but the captain held him up. Held him still and skewered.

“Here’s the way it’s going to go, boy. I’m going to leave you here on this beach. You’re going to die here on this beach. Slow and painful. The way all traitors should. Then I’m going to go hunt down those fucking pixies and skin them. The crew will fall in line and everyone will forget your name in a year. So close your eyes, lad, and just try to picture Mag Mell. Because this dreary sky and these cold cliffs are the last sights your eyes will ever see.”

He yanked the dagger out and released his hold and Airn dropped immediately to his knees. He felt as though his entire body had turned to sand. Sand held in skin. And all of it afire. The captain reached out and dragged fingers through dark curled hair, pulling Airn’s head back until it sagged on his neck and the captain could grip his jaw.

“It’s a shame, really. With eyes like that, you’d have made a better whore than a sailor.”

And then he turned and walked away down the beach at a leisurely stroll. Airn watched him go. Watched him until he disappeared in fog and rain. Burning and dying and in more pain than he’d ever thought possible, he watched. And only when he was sure the fae was gone did he whimper and curl over on himself. His half-healed arm was hardly an ache when he pressed both hands to the bleeding wound in his stomach. It showed no signs of healing and it still hurt. Like dragonfire.

You’re going to die here.

He began to crawl.

[therisingtempest]

{tales} Defining Moments

It was when the first dark grey tentacle coiled up along the hull and gripped the rail that Airn regretted not pushing the issue with his captain while they were still on the other side of the Veil. Opening a gateway large enough for a ship to pass through was pure madness. But what had been acceptable risk for a crew of hardy fae was now shaping up to be a serious threat. 

There were beasts in the deep, even on the human side of things. And they often investigated disturbances so large. An explosion of magic and a ship full of new scents had been enough to wake the slumbering creature and now it was hungry. Or perhaps territorial. The building storm did not help matters. Nor did the captain’s order to cut the serpentine arm away from his ship. This time, Airn spoke up, having to shout over a sudden crack of thunder.

“My lord, hadn’t we better wait until we have a larger target?”

But a burly trollock had already slashed cutlass through the wiry appendage and the waters hummed with a shriek from beneath them. The tentacle jerked back under the water and all was still.

The captain smirked. “Get us out the way of this storm. All hands—”

It was six wet-slick feelers now that shot from the choppy waves and gripped the Killingbird’s hull. The whole vessel shook from one squeeze and the crew started a ruckus of confusion and nerves. They looked to their captain, who growled and gave the order again. Cut it loose.

“Captain—”

“Shut it!”

Again they slashed and again the arms retreated. The ship began to bank and turn, building speed to escape the area and go to her purpose. But she halted quick as though striking a sandbar and nearly every experienced sailor lost their footing.

This time it was not wiry whipping appendages but massive muscular arms that crested the Killingbird’s bow. They were folded and bent like a crustacean’s but huge. As thick around as the ship’s mainmast and thrice as armored. The two forefront pincers rose high above, before slamming down into her deck for a grip.

“It’s got us, cap’n, and it’s climbing aboard!”

The lookout’s cry was a bit unnecessary and the captain growled low, eyes flashing purple and slitted before he roared: “Abandon ship! Make for land, all hands!”

Airn’s eyes widened even as his entire expression flinched into incredulity. He spoke without thinking, words flashing up from a place of pure confusion. “Are you mad? It’s in the water—you’ll lose half your crew! We have to f—”

His adamant claims quickly became nothing more than a wordless breath, as if he’d suddenly been sucker-punched. When, in fact, he’d only realized the line he’d crossed with his captain’s dragon pearl rapier pressing under his chin.

“One. More. Word. And I’ll cut your throat, you insubordinate whelp.”

Airn tilted his head back on instinct, though he managed to keep fear out of his eyes when he swallowed hard, hands lifted out away from his body and the weaponry there—completely docile and unthreatening.

And then a whipping tentacle smacked the captain right off the deck and out into the ocean. Airn gasped, both because he’d been holding his breath and because the attack had been so abrupt. He ducked the next winding appendage, sliding along the rain-slicked deck and coming up under the stairwell where at least there was minimal cover.

To his dismay, much of the crew had followed their late captain’s order. There was no telling how many were already dead. A handful tried to attack what little of the beast had clambered over the prow, but seemed to be having little success.

The beast planted one tree trunk sized appendage on the bow of the ship, forcing it under almost too quick to believe. Crew slid and most bolted straight overboard to try their luck with the waves. Airn staggered forward several feet before he caught his balance against the aft-most mast.

The monster stepped it’s other forefoot aboard and the ship groaned. If her belly’d been full, she might’ve snapped in half, but once the full weight of the creature was squared on the deck, the poor girl simply sagged low, creaking with every movement. The ship was empty now but for a few sprites lingering high in the rigging, silent and terrified, and Airn standing before the behemoth.

“The captain seems to be unavailable, but perhaps we could negotiate?”

The beast roared, louder than thunder, and Airn backpedaled a few steps with a fencer’s grace, hand going to the sturdy cutlass at his hip. When his fingers closed on air, he finally took his eyes off the sea beast for the first time since it emerged from the waves, looking down on the empty scabbard.

“Oh—”

A groaning curse cut off in a quick inhale as the thing took a thundering threatening step toward him, shaking the ship like she’d just come off a rogue wave, creaking and complaining. Airn stumbled to the side, but still stayed on both feet without too much trouble. The rain was torrential. The ship, fae-built or not, couldn’t take much more punishment, and the creature was fixated on him now. It was far too late to swim for it.

The sea beast took another slamming step, alpha posturing likely, and roared. A last warning. And it was then Airn’s frantic gaze caught on a shining pearl-silver hilt wedged behind crates that’d come loose. Without bothering to think about the possibility that it could be just the hilt, the thin blade snapped off in the chaos, Airn glanced back at the beastie, took a breath, and ran for it.

A rather spectacular flying dive took him under the first swing of the behemoth’s arm and he tucked into a roll, coming up in a half-crouch with his fingers around his captain’s rapier. The relief that washed over him when he yanked the full gleaming blade free was a palpable sensation dripping down over his shoulders with the rain.

The monster lowed and swung its great amorphous head around. Catching sight of the little faeling with his new shiny stick must’ve been why it suddenly released a noise that sounded alarmingly like laughter. It turned quickly enough into a shriek when Airn sank the blade a third of the way into the ligaments at what passed for an elbow.

It lashed out immediately and he nearly wasn’t fast enough to dodge the pillar of meat and bone and hard shell. One boot slipped on the sopping deck and he rolled the next blow, narrowly missing having his ribs smashed open. What followed was a rather tense several minutes of aiming stabbing blows when he could at what equated to a tree. But while the thing’s hide was too tough to be cut, the hard thrusts plunged between plating and soon it was bleeding enough that the seawater sloshing across the deck ran red.

It hadn’t been a one-sided fight, however, and Airn was not quite as steady on his feet as before. His midsection ached from a glancing blow that had smashed him into the mast hard enough to splinter the thick timber. He didn’t want to think about what it had done to his innards.

The sailor tossed his head, blinking hard, glad for the storm now as it washed the blood from the cut at his brow, keeping the majority of it out of his eyes. The beast hissed and tried to stand up on a wounded leg, stumbling down to a knee and cracking the deck open like a broken bone. The ship sank a little lower. Eventually she would give completely and Airn would be helpless as a fly in honey. Seeing his moment and desperate to end the fight there, he dove for the kill, sprinting up under the thing’s defenses and realizing far too late that he’d drastically underestimated the creature’s wounds.

His thrust never landed, stomped to the deck, blade pinned between wood and monster. He dropped to one knee along with it, unwilling to release his late captain’s rapier being as it was his only weapon. For his loyalty, he earned a backhand of sorts from a sinuous limb that threw him bodily across the deck to slam into the sealed door of the captain’s cabin.

Motherless coward.

He focused in time to see the beast growl and lift the beautiful rapier in its massive tentacles, coiling around and around and—snap.

Airn groaned where he lay half-propped against the ship and let his head fall back. His breaths hurt as they came through his lungs and he stared into the clouds, flinching against the rain, wondering how bad it would really be to die at sea in a storm. If he’d had to choose a way, this would’ve certainly made the list. It was just too bad there wasn’t anyone to see and tell the tale of his brave…

One of the sprites leaned out from behind the mast it clung to, peering down at him with wide, opaline eyes. Airn’s gaze tracked the loose lines and flapping sails around his remaining fellow crewman and his mind raced, a plan developing like a series of lightning strikes. Shouting above the storm was ludicrous, so he mimed it out easily enough with a few gestures. The sprites all looked reluctant, exchanging glances, but when the leviathan took another step and shook their perches, they began to move, stringing lines between them like they were leaving harbor. But these were not the simple knots made in keeping the sails taut and full or pinned and tight.

The beastie didn’t notice. Or if it did, it thought nothing of the small green things that buzzed too quickly to be caught by snapping tentacles. Its focus was still on Airn: the quick sharp thing that had made it hurt so much.

“That’s it,” Airn murmured, taking a step back, hands up to keep its focus. Much as he had with his captain mere moments ago. Oh, the hilarity. “Unarmed now. Free meal.”

The deck surged and swayed with the thing’s every lumbering step, but Airn stayed upright and shuffled backward with a duelist’s two-step, keeping the sprites in his peripheral. It wasn’t very Fomorian, relying on others for one’s own life, but he saw few options. Perhaps if the captain had made use of his crew instead of ordering flight, they wouldn’t have been in this mess in the first place.

The thing lashed out a tentacle and Airn jumped backward. The hooked barb at the tip sliced through his thin shirt and he felt the burn of pain that said it had landed a blow. His hand brushed the spot and found warmth seeping into his clothes against the cold rain, but nothing solid spilled out of the gash, so he continued moving backward. Patience lost, he caught the next snapping attack against his forearm with a growl of his own, immediately regretting it when the dexterous appendage coiled around his entire arm in a blink. At first he thought it might simply crumble his bones to chunks and powder, but it pulled instead. His shoulder joint strained and then his feet left the deck, lifted bodily and maneuvered toward the thing’s central mass. He kicked and fought on instinct, suddenly not quite as at peace with dying at sea during a storm as he’d thought he’d been.

Then the complex noose dropped from the rigging, landing square around the thing’s head.

Airn gave a shout of triumph and then roared above the cacophony like a proper Fomorian captain: “Heaaave!”

The sprites had already wrapped the lines through pulleys and around the masts and crossbeams and heave they did. The artfully knotted web tightened around the beast’s skull, cinching the main tension of it around its throat.

The leviathan howled, thrashed, struggled to free itself. But its body was made for smashing and python-crushing, not cutting. Definitely not cutting wet rope, enchanted to withstand magical speeds and strong fingers.

Something cracked in Airn’s arm, but he hardly noticed because an instant later, he was free. On his back on the deck and at a loss for breath, but free. Rolling, cradling the limb that refused to move when he told it to, he watched with glee and pride as the sprites strained into their lines, throttling the weakened monster, calling out encouragement and insult in their own whistling dialect. They were slender things, though, and might tire before the job was done.

A single casting glance and he’d caught sight of the shattered rapier. It lay in three pieces, generally the same area, and the hilt had enough of a blade left to be called a dagger. With one last look to make sure the beast was occupied, Airn darted forward, scooped the blade, hopped onto a branch-like limb, and sprinted straight up it to the thing’s rope-laced head. It only took a moment to steady his balance and find the thing’s eye and then he stabbed. Hard.

Once, twice—and a third time with a harsh twist.

The behemoth’s fighting became more disjointed and sluggish with each stab until finally the tentacles and heavy limbs all dropped to the deck and it hung heavy in its modified noose. The sprites released the tension on their lines with identical gasps of exhaustion, clinging to sail and crossbeam to keep from tumbling down after the ends of the ropes.

And Airn stood atop the monster with his broken sword and broken arm and let the rain wash over him and he’d never felt more alive.