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vivalabunbun · 1 year

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Simple Wishes

Summary: He never understood humans, and by extension, he never understood you. Perhaps if he had only placed more effort into studying you as he did with the search for greater knowledge, tragedy could have been avoided. But would you still allow him to hold your hand?

Word Count: 3k

Tags: alhaitham x gn reader, deshret x gn reader, jinni!reader, past lifes, reincarnation au, angst, character death, modern au, some spoliers of genshin lore 3.2 onwards, sfw, tragedy, fluff, daughter nahida

Authors Note: This is based on the theory that alhaitham is in some way connected to king deshret, either as a reincarnation or a descendant. The reader is a jinni that understands and feels human emotions, a mirror for gods to reflect upon and cultivate more wisdom from a human prospective. Enjoy!

Upon a golden throne, imposing and all-knowing sat King Deshret. King of warriors, horticulturists, and sages. The proud and all-mighty king of the red sands. On his left, stood a Jinni, quiet and patiently waiting upon the great king and its mistress, the goddess of flowers to return from her visit to a grand friend.

The Jinn followed their mother goddess everywhere, in a trance of maddening loyalty and love. Yet here you were, far from the side of your goddess, but loyally attending to the curiosity of the great king.

Followers of the Scarlet King might be appalled by the notion that their great king, the embodiment of wisdom, would hold questions he needed another’s answers to. However, these followers never considered the simple truth.

King Deshret did not understand humans. After all, how can gods and humans truly understand each other on the same level when biologically the two were on two completely different plains?

“My dear friend, how can we have dominion over creatures whom we cannot understand? Do you find that wise?”

He remembers those words the goddess of flowers had raised him upon a peaceful afternoon. Deshret knew she was right, humans were weak compared to gods, but because they were weak they became complex. It was that unknown difference between god and humans that bred the potential for disharmony.

He supposed that was the reason your creation caused quite the commotion among the three friends and Jinn.

For upon your birth from the nilotpala lotuses at the feet of your mistress, you wept. Your fresh eyes overflowing with tears from the moment they opened, stunning the Jinn and the goddess of flowers. You, who was born with the body of an adult, wept like a human newborn who cried from the violent impact of emotions that welcomed them into the world.

Upon this revelation, your mistress knelt down to cup your face in her hands, eyes wide with astonishment and jaw slacked.

“You… you can feel human emotions…” Her warm fingers brushed the tears off your soft cheeks.

From that moment onwards you served a crucial role to the three lords of the alliance kingdoms, you were their mirror to the human heart. When the gods found themselves stumped upon a human concept, you were there to explain. Hate, love, grief, you told them everything the human heart held, reflecting your felt wisdom upon them.

However, of the three gods, it was King Deshret who had the least understanding of the human heart. Perhaps that was why the goddess of flowers had stationed you to the left of the king. To answer his inquiries about those weak complex creatures.

Gazing upon the hologram manifested in front of him, Deshret watched the day-to-day bustle of the humans in his kingdom. While the king did not understand humans, he understood that they were his responsibility to look after, protect, and care for.

He watched as a laborer, skin tanned from moving heavy bricks in the unforgiving sun, rushed towards the figure of a woman with calloused hands, from weaving cloth all day, which held a basket of fruits and bread. The exhaustion disappeared from the man’s face as he greeted the woman, her face turning tender in return as she gestured to the basket.

A smile broke through the hardened face of the large man upon seeing the basket, he reached for her hand and she intertwined his fingers with hers as they walked together as one.

A crease appeared between the brows of the king, as he gestured with a flick of his wrist for you to approach closer.

“Tell me Jinni, what troubles are plaguing my kingdom so much that a man is moved to joy over the simple sight of bread and fruit? Have the harvest this year been lacking? Have there been less gold for the common people?” He inquired.

You turned your eyes away from the hologram and towards your lord.

“No, they were simply happy to see each other, my lord.”

The lazy glance Deshret cast your way told you that he still did not understand, so you continued.

“The man was overjoyed to see that the woman he loves had remembered which fruits and breads he favored, and she was happy that she made him happy.”

“That was all? That simple?” His teal eyes questioning.

“Yes, it is the small actions that mean the most.” You offered him a reassuring smile.

Your answer only sought to confuse him further, this was why Deshret believed he could never understand humans. How could mere mortals experience more joy from being gifted a piece of bread, than he had from having miles of silk, baskets of gold, and fertile lands placed at the feet of his grand throne?

As the king walked along the paved paths in his palace gardens, four guards by his side in each cardinal direction, and you behind and to the left of him. His grand strides brought about an air of power and confidence as the linen flowed about his figure.

The marching of the guards and their golden armor contrasted by the jingle of bells that hung from your ankles filled the void of silence. Then along the path almost hidden by the tall flowers, sat a young boy, who had not reached the age to develop words, babbling to himself as he waved a stick in his chubby hands. Suddenly the child halted all movement, seemingly staring at nothing in particular, it was as if he had turned to stone.

Deshret paused his movement, and in sync the king’s entourage halted in their positions. He wanted to see just what would happen next with this child. It was faint at first, a shaky breath then a low whimpered followed until at last the child opened his mouth and let out a great wail. The child’s plump cheeks were wet as they began to get flushed with a hue of red, the cries his small body released straining against his lungs.

A leaf that had detached from a branch had yet to hit the ground when the figure of a place servant dashed from behind a corner. The servant dove to her knees as she brought the child into her arms, cooing and bouncing him against her chest, paying no heed to the dirt staining her white linen dress. The child had dropped his stick as he grasped tiny handfuls of his mother's dress, muffling his cries as he pressed his face into her. The servant continued to bounce him as his breathing grew calmer, it was then that the servant noticed the presence of the great king.

In a panic the servant raised to her feet, the child still tightly clutched in her arms, as she bowed deeply begging the king to forgive her for her insolence.

“Shall I throw her into the dungeons for trespassing in the private gardens?” A guard asked.

“There is no need,” Deshret waved her away.

Thanking the king profusely for his mercy, the servant rushed to get out of his sight, cradling her child protectively. With a flick of his wrist, he called you to his side once more.

“Why did the child wail so sadly?” His eyes still lingering at the corner the servant disappeared behind.

“His small body was overwhelmed by emotions, my lord.”

“Have I frightened the child?”

“Not at all,” you shook your head. “He cried because he was overwhelmed by loneliness and the feeling of the unknown. The child cannot form words yet, thus he cannot match words to his emotions. So he cried for his mother, for he knows she will soothe the prickling feeling of frustration.”

Deshret paused as he thought for a moment. The guards standing still at their positions around their king.

“Was that how you felt back then?” He was referring to the moment you took your first breath.

“Yes, my lord.” Your eyes twinkled with a smile, joy felt from your lord’s surmise.

Dawning a cloak that hid his grand stature and identity, King Deshret strolled among the streets of his kingdom. Every once in a while he believed that it was crucial for a ruler to walk in the footsteps of his people, to examine the condition of his kingdom from beyond his golden throne. He had even requested that you remove the bells from your ankles to not draw attention as you trailed behind him.

He walked through the crowded marketplace of hollering merchants and haggling customers trying to get the best prices, you making care to not stray too far from his left. As the edge of the market came the concentration of the crowd diminished, and he felt a bit more relaxed.

He gazed curiously back into the denser crowd, observing the ever-changing expressions on the people’s faces. Suddenly, a large figure pushed the sea of people, hollering like an animal in pain.

“Help! A doctor! Someone get me a doctor! My daughter! Please! My daughter!”

In the scarred arms of the warrior lay the limp body of a young girl, not a day past the age of seven. As the crowd cleared out of his way, one hundred pairs of eyes focused their attention on the shouting warrior. His scarred face looked through the crowd for someone to save his child, being met with one hundred pitiful looks.

“Anyone? Please! Call a doctor! Please save my daughter!”

A thin man raised his hand as he maneuvered his body through the gaps in the crowd, stopping in front of the towering man. The thin man reached his hand towards the neck of the limp girl, eyes meeting the father’s as if asking for silent permission. The scarred man gave a quick nod, eyes filled with desperate hope. The doctor held two thin fingers against the cold neck of the girl, searching diligently for a pulse, for a singular proof of life. Instead, he was met with stiff, cold flesh. Removing his hand, he pressed his lips into a thin line before looking back at the scarred man’s face.

“I am sorry, your daughter is already started her journey into Duat (the realm of the dead).”

“No… no, no, no, no, please! Please tell me it’s not too late! She can be saved no?” The desperate father harshly clasped a hand on the doctor’s shoulder, shaking the thin man.

The doctor could only silently shake his head. The man’s eyes wide with despair then narrowed with rage, then as his facial expression relaxed a hollow void began to fill his eyes. Sinking to the sandy path arms clutching around the husk that once was a bundle of joy, the warrior who had faced countless battles, as shown by the marks all along his body, wept pitifully. Around him slowly, the crowd began to move once again, tearing their eyes away from the scene as if to give the father a semblance of privacy.

King Deshret flicked his wrist, calling you to his side. He felt no movement, confused he turned towards you, only to see your sobbing eyes still pinned on the scene in front of you. A pained expression tugged down at the corners of your lips that usually held a small smile.

“Why do you weep, Jinni?”

“I weep for the father whose daughter, death had snatched too soon from his arms.” Your voice low like a hush.

“Why do you weep for him?”

“Because he is in pain, a child torn away from their parent opens a wound in the heart.”

“The man is a strong warrior, he can sire another child. There is no need to weep for a child that could not survive.”

“My lord, a child can never be replaced, she will never go back to her father’s arms. A broken pot can be remade, moldy bread can be thrown out, but a dead flower can never bloom again.” Your eyes never left the figure of the mourning father, tears continuing to darken the stones on the path.

Deshret opened his mouth ready to inquire more but then shut it just as quickly. He sensed that inquiring more would only cause the tears to flow heavier.

He never understood humans, and by extension, he never understood you.

Perhaps if he had only placed more effort into studying you as he did with the search for greater knowledge, tragedy could have been avoided.

“My lord, I beg of you to stop. This path you walk will only bring about more pain. My mistress, the goddess of flowers, has left this world. To ignore the truth while in search of knowledge forbidden will cause ruin.” You gripped onto the linen that pooled at his feet as you pleaded on your knees with the mourning king.

“... Leave this palace, foolish Jinni.” Those were the last words he ever spoke to you.

Yes, that was the word, foolish. That word does not describe you, no, it described him. A foolish king that did not understand his own heart. Foolish king that gambled everything and lost. His kingdom and riches shallowed by the raging sand storms, his people poisoned with madness (forbidden knowledge) by his own hands, and the once proud and all-mighty king no longer even had a physical body.

It was quiet in the temple where King Deshret hovered, he already knew what must be done to save his people, to save his people from himself as the forbidden knowledge pulsed like poison through his conscious.

“We meet once more, my lord.” You stepped in front of him.

He thought he would never see you again after he casted you out of the palace, your appearance stayed faithfully to how he remembered. But you were a bit more haggard, hands more collapsed, skin duller. You must have been exhausting your powers to try to mitigate the madness that plagued the humans you loved so much. Despite the fact you barely had the power to maintain your physical form, your eyes still twinkled as you called out to him.

“I shall aid you, my lord. I will be the vessel for your sacrifice.”

This means you were prepared to die alongside him, he knew it, and you knew it too. Mutually understanding that a great sacrifice was required for a chance of survival for the people of the red sand. Outstretching your hands to the star-like manifestation of Deshret, you signaled that you were ready. He slowly descended into your cupped palms, as a pure light began to engulf the room and your figures.

He no longer had arms to hold you, even though he deeply wished to. As he felt his essence and yours slowly began to break apart into dust like sand, a fleeting thought passed through his mind, brought up by a scene he had witnessed many years ago with you.

In a different time,

a different place,

a different world…

Could he hold your hand while you walk together as one?

...

“....er”

“.....tham?”

“Alhaitham!”

His teal eyes snapped open, meeting yours as you stood in the doorway of his home office. Concern was written clearly on your expression, he must have dozed off while he was translating the text that was half finished on his desk.

“What’s wrong dear?” You moved closer, pressing your palm against his forehead feeling for signs of a fever.

Nahida was held snuggly in your other arm as her green eyes observed her father’s face, aranara doll dangling loosely in her grip.

“Is papa sick?” Nahida questioned, beginning to stir in your arms.

Words just would not form from his throat as he continued to stare into your eyes, his usually stoic face was replaced with a dumbstruck expression. Which only concerned you further, he observed as your brow began to furrow more, palms shifting trying to get a better gauge of his temperature.

“Haitham, are you unwell? If so you should rest, me and Nahida can do the grocery shopping by ourselves.”

No, he did not want you to leave his side, at that moment he never again want to be apart from you. He gently grasped your wrist in his large hand, removing it from his forehead as he stood up.

“There is no need for such concern, I was just distracted, beloved.” He took Nahida from your arm and into his, shifting her into a secure hold.

“Papa is healthy, now let us get the groceries before the market closes.”

He heard you sigh, muttering something about how you worried that your husband was over-working himself. A silly concern, as if there was one thing he treasured close to the level of you and his daughter, it would be a healthy work-life balance.

During the whole trip to the grocery store, Alhaitham was still a bit lost in thought. Movements a bit more relaxed and absent-minded than usual, Nahida still being carried in his arm as you pushed the cart. He found his eyes trailing towards the shiny wedding ring on your finger, with an emerald gem that matched the one present on his finger as well.

You had stopped in front of the display of fruits, concentrating on which fruit was the ripest and how to get the most value out of your money. Alhaitham found his hand itching to reach for yours, he did not try to suppress that desire. Allowing his hand to intertwine his long fingers with yours, wedding rings clinking together.

A look of surprise appeared on your face as you turned toward your ashen-haired lover. He was never really one for public displays of affection, so he could not fault you for your confusion, but he felt a smile tug at his lips as you accepted his actions with no further questioning. Returning your attention back to the piles of fruit waiting for your judgment.

Alhaitham felt at peace standing hand in hand with you under the fluorescent lights, as the sounds of other shoppers blended with the soft pop music from the store speakers.

A simple wish had been fulfilled.

“Oh! This orange looks quite nice doesn’t it?”

“It is starting to mold on the underside.”

“Eh?-”

fin~

DON’T PLAGIARIZE, TRANSLATE, OR REPOST MY WORKS ON DIFFERENT PLATFORMS.

#alhaitham x reader #alhaitham x you #alhaitham fanfic #alhaitham fluff #alhaitham angst #genshin angst #genshin x reader #genshin x you #alhaitham x yn #vivalabunbunfics

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lullabyes22-blog · 5 months

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Mal de Mer - A Silco x Mel Piece - Ch: 1~ A Tide, Rising

Summary:

A high-seas honeymoon. Two adversaries, bound by matrimony. A future full of peril and possibility. And a word that neither enjoys adding to their lexicon: Compromise.

War was simpler business…

Part of the 'Forward But Never Forget/XOXO' AU. Can be read as a standalone series.

Mal de Mer on AO3

Mal de Mer on FFnet

CHAPTER

I - II - III - IV

꧁꧂

A honeymoon, they say, seldom sets the tenor for matrimony.

Rather, that tenor is set by the bride: her willingness to be wooed by the ebbs and flows of fate—indifference, infidelity, intrigue. Or, the tenor is set by the groom: his readiness to weather the storms—dejection, disharmony, despair. But in time, they say, life anchors itself to safe harbors. The sky may darken; the waves may crash the hull and splinter the timber. But soon a path is carved out and a safe berth is reached.

And, at long last, the ship of marriage settles to a staid old couple, side by side on the porch, rocking together as the evening of life slides, like the day before it, into the gentleness of that good night.

In time, they say.

They, whoever they are, say a lot, don't they?

They say even less that's worth hearing.

꧁꧂

For Mel Medarda, there was no they. There was only she: Ambessa of House Medarda, its illustrious lineage stretching back, unbroken, for three hundred years.

There was only her glory as the Immortal Bastion's most celebrated military strategist and its de facto Commander General. There was only her legacy of victories, from the Battle of the Black Mast, where she'd sent the Zhyunian warships fleeing with their prows between their legs, to the Siege of the Bel' Zhun, where, at the head of one thousand troops, she'd broken through the great sandstone gates of the Shuriman city like a knife through butter. There was only her legend, doused in blood and lit with flames, spreading as far as the sun, and as deep as the tides.

She, the warrior. She, the victor. She, the conqueror.

She, Mel's mother.

Since the nursery, Mel—who'd been schooled by the Grand Matron herself in the arts of Noxian womanhood—was dutybound to uphold her mother's heritage, to keep it burnished and blazing as a sun-stone. And, when the time came, she would pass the glory down to the next generation, and so forth, ad infinitum.

Pass down, too, her mother's lessons.

"I am your mother, little one," she'd say, after catching Mel sobbing into a pillow after a tiring day of mastering the art of the Fallgren blade. "I am your liege, not your friend. I am not here to kiss your tears or dry your sorrows. I am here to see that you survive life’s hardships, and one day, rise to greatness."

Or:

"There is no love in the world, child," she'd say, after catching Mel sighing over a Morrinese portrait of two young men, embracing beneath a trellis of flowering white magnolia. "There is only the prettied-up lie to hide the hungers we dare not bare, except behind the locked door of a bedchamber."

Or:

"War is the natural order, girl," she'd say, as Mel stood trembling on the deck of her mother's favorite frigate, overlooking the Kalmanda port, its streets despoiled by Noxian soldiers eager to take and, when the taking was done, take some more. "It is the way of all things to grow, expand, consume. The only difference between the war of man and the war of nature is the tools wielded."

And, always:

"Men will come, and go," she'd say, after Mel's first, second, third suitor had fled to the ends of Runeterra to avoid her mother's ire, leaving her wed to her work and her books, her art and her ambition, her loneliness and the long, sleepless nights where she'd cry into her pillow, having learned to do so without sound. "They will leave you for a pink-cheeked handmaid. Or a round-arsed boy. Or they will die on the field, leaving their seed in a stranger's belly. They will leave you because your beauty has faded. Or your body has failed. Or, worst of all, your power has outgrown theirs. They will always leave."

"But I won't," Ambessa would add, tipping Mel's chin up, her eyes alight with a pride that warmed her daughter from crown to soles—and yet left her cold, as if a ghost had passed through her. "I will always be here. And my lessons will always stand. So, too, must you. Stand, daughter. And carry on our lineage."

And, Mel, with a smile of spotless serenity, and a fire for better hidden deep in her heart, would say, "Yes, Mother."

And, on the eve of her wedding, Ambessa, her shadow filling the entire room, towered over Mel—who sat before her vanity, daubing her lips with blood-red Fallgren cosmetic, her bedroom wall adorned with Morrinese paintings of lovers' trysts in flower gardens, her carved-mahogany wardrobe stocked with sumptuous gowns of Kalamanda silk brocade, her escritoire heaped with dozens of letters from suitors devastated by her upcoming nuptials, her bedsheets still scented with her husband-to-be's cologne, before he'd dressed and departed with a kiss that hadn't left her skin for the remainder of the day—and she said:

"You will regret this."

"Perhaps." Mel stared into the mirror, her smooth visage and her mother's scarred one, twinned. "But I will never regret that the choice was mine."

"He is not worthy of you."

"He is the leader of a nation. A king—though Zaunites detest the term."

"If he's a king, then his kingdom's a cesspool."

"A cesspool of gold and gems." Mel dipped her brush into the pot and dabbed it, expertly, across her lips. "The wealthiest cesspool in Runeterra."

"And he, an upjumped thug who'd slit your throat if the wind blew the wrong way."

"The wind only blows one way, Mother. Forward."

Ambessa's shadow grew taller. "Then I will sweep him off the board."

"You would start a war over a wedding?"

"You would shackle yourself to a shark to avoid it? I taught you better, child."

"You taught me wrong."

Ambessa's shadow darkened the whole room, like a moon eclipsing the sun. Mel's smile did not dim.

"We have shared interests, Mother," she said, setting the brush down: lips painted, poise perfect. "Shared enemies, too. We work well together. We understand each other. United, we'd protect our borders. Strengthen our cities. Secure our future."

"Future?" Ambessa scoffed. "What's a future steeped in slime, and tainted with soot? That's the world he will leave behind. And you, his willing accomplice."

"A world of equity instead of elitism. Of cooperation instead of conquest."

"So, you'd sell us to the lowest bidder, is that it?"

"I would unite us under a single banner."

Ambessa's eyes, two golden rings in the dark, glowed searingly hot.

"Marriage is not a merger, Mel. It does not seal two souls together. Marriage is a sea unto itself. Its tides are fickle. Its depths are unplumbed. There are dangers in the currents, and monsters in the murk. If you try to tame it, it will swallow you."

"I'm a strong swimmer, Mother."

"Your husband will be stronger. A shark never slithers to the surface to breathe. He stays, silent, waiting for the prey to come to him."

Rising, Mel smoothed out the folds of her gown. "We do have a ceremony scheduled today."

"That is not what I meant!"

"Then what did you mean, Mother?!"

Mel swiveled to face her. The general, the warrior, the legend. And she, the girl again: no more than a living vessel to hold the Medardas' lessons. Lessons too great for her small body to contain. Lessons that left cracks in the heart, and scars on the psyche.

But the mind and heart are strong muscles. They grow, through hardship and heartbreak.

And Mel's had grown to equal Ambessa's in every dimension.

"The sea," Mel said, "is no dark morass. It connects us all, shore to shore. Marriage is the same. It doesn't just bring two halves together. It takes them to horizons beyond anything you can imagine."

"I have imagined everything, Mel. I've seen all the horrors the world can conjure, and survived."

"And yet, you've learned nothing."

Silence. Her mother's eyes bored into hers. Searching for weakness; finding nothing. Mel's spine had grown equal to her mother's, too. She was, strangely, proud of that.

Nothing Ambessa had taught her would be forgotten. And nothing Ambessa had done would be repeated. For better or worse, Mel had learned her mother's lessons.

And now, she'd make them her own.

"Mark me, child," Ambessa said, her deep voice charged as thunder, "This is no victory. You're sailing into uncharted waters. And he will drag you down until you never resurface."

"Then we will go together."

"To the grave?"

"To the future."

Ambessa's shadow shrank. Her smile was a thin, brittle thing. Sad, almost. A glimpse of the woman beneath the legend. "As you say, Councilor Medarda of Piltover."

"As I say."

"But remember. When you are drowning, and he leaves you, gasping, to die. Remember that I did not wish it to end like this."

"It won't."

"Remember."

"It won't, Mother."

"And remember, also," Ambessa stepped closer. With a callused hand, she cupped Mel's chin, the way she'd done when Mel was a child, and her touch was the only anchor in a storm, "if he leaves, as men always do, you will still have a home. With me. With our legacy. That, no one can take from you."

"I know, Mother."

"Remember."

And, saying so, she swept out of the room. And Mel, alone, was left to stare into the mirror: the bride’s serene smile a mask for the churning sea below.

꧁꧂

That was three weeks ago.

Now, Mel is a married woman, navigating the sea, with its currents, and its depths, and its monsters.

And the waters, she admits, are choppier than expected.

The SS Woe Betide—("A fitting name," her new husband declared, "for a ship bound for a honeymoon.")—is an ironclad warship built for the mercantile fleet of a Piltovan privateer, long deceased. After her owner's demise, the vessel was repurposed for diplomatic missions and state functions.

She is outfitted with the finest appointments: elegant cabins, sumptuous dining halls, and a grand ballroom for entertaining foreign dignitaries. The interior is decorated in the Art Nouveau style, which was all the rage in Piltover in those days: hand-etched moldings; marble and onyx floors; and a glass domed ceiling that evoked a celestial firmament, its colors changing with the time of day.

It is also, by Mel's count, a floating deathtrap.

She'd boarded the ship in the bloom of health. By high tide, they'd slipped past the Hex-Gates, and were southbound along the coastline. Their destination was a remote Ionian archipelago: a place of white sands, swaying palms, and aquamarine seas, where a private villa awaited the newlyweds.

The retreat was no passionate debauch. Rather, it was an overture to Piltover's long-standing allies. To that effect, Mel had chosen invitations with the same care as Ambessa's military campaigns chose artillery. Each passenger was a heavy hitter hailing from the high-society circles of Piltover, Demacia, Ionia and Noxus.

They'd be joining her and Silco at the villa, where, over the course of a fortnight, they'd feast on the finest fare, toast to the sweetest wines, and, in time, forge lasting bonds of amity and alliance between Piltover—and Zaun.

She'd planned every detail: the itinerary, the entertainment, the ambience.

By nightfall, it had all gone to hell.

The onset was subtle. A touch of nausea. An ache behind the eyes. A fatigue she'd attributed to nerves—or temper. For years, she'd navigated the glittering circles of statecraft like a waltz. She knew better than most how treacherous the steps could be.

But she'd not anticipated her guests' antipathy toward Silco.

Her husband's reception into their exalted sphere has been decidedly antagonistic. Most of Mel's clique were accustomed to dealing with new money. New power was another matter entirely. For many, Zaun remained a mere extraction colony. The rest: its culture, its art, its innovations, was either begrudged or belittled.

Sometimes right in Silco's earshot.

Of course, they know his history as a firebrand. To some, it was an amusing eccentricity, something they'd boast about encountering in the same vein as a savage tribe from the jungles of the Targonian Steppes. To others, it was an affront to their stations, and a portent of just how close the world was to tipping out of balance.

On his part, Silco kept his temper. He'd played the part of the polished politician for a half-decade by now. In a social sphere where the smallest slip of etiquette could signal an irredeemable descent in station, his bearing was so faultless as to verge on parodic. He relished taking the elite's rules, and twisting them to his ends, like a street urchin filching food off a banquet table.

There's little to learn, he's often sneered to Mel, from a roomful of fools so far up their own arses, they'd mistake their wind for incense.

Zaunites, Mel thinks dryly, have a gift for metaphor.

He'd held his composure admirably throughout the banquet. But when an over-served Noxian baron had slurred a disparagement about Jinx, spurred on by a tableful of sycophants, she'd seen that telltale switch in Silco's eyes: that flicker that transformed them from precision instruments to lethal crosshairs.

His reply was languidly polite. But the subtext was a dagger: barely felt until blood seeped through the doublet. Most guests were too thickheaded to pick up on it. The Baron and his retinue, on the other hand, took umbrage and returned the thrust, clumsily.

By the night's end, they'd made fools of themselves, and had to be escorted out—to Silco's dark satisfaction.

But the damage was done.

A chill set over the rest of the dinner. It lingered long after the final course was served. By the time dessert was cleared away, Mel had felt the tension, like a lit fuse. Silco had retired early, citing a headache. And she'd let him go: a costly mistake.

They were married. She should have gone with him. Stood by his side, and shown solidarity—as a wife ought to.

Instead, she'd stayed to mitigate the fallout—as a diplomat must.

She'd smoothed ruffled feathers with a mot juste and doused smoldering tempers with a coy anecdote. She'd spun circles around the room, as a circus star spins plates, keeping fragile alliances from collapsing and precarious friendships from falling apart. She'd danced the dance she'd perfected, and won applause. Won handshakes, and smiles, and pledges of support.

All while the room spun, the lights dimmed, and the air thinned like a drowning breath.

By midnight, she'd retired to their suite.

Silco was idling by the porthole, a silhouette against the starless night. His cigarette cherry glowed and died with each drag. In the glow, his left eye was a depthless black.

That was the first sign, she'd learned. In his worst rages, the bad eye went dead.

A void that sucked in all light, and spat out nothing.

Mel, daughter of Ambessa Medarda, was no coward. She was born to a family of warmongers. Her own temper was a high-spirited thing: quick to flare, quicker to fizzle. But years of playing politics had taught her the fine art of deflection. In a spar, it wasn't the force of the blow that counted; it was the grace of the parry. Her precision strikes, sheathed in cool courtesy, could disarm the strongest opponent. And her shield of charm, backed by steel conviction, could deflect the nastiest volley.

As a stateswoman, she'd cut down men twice her size, with nothing but a well-chosen word.

Her husband was no ordinary man.

In public, he was a study of calm. In private, he was a raging sea. Mel could neither deflect, nor disarm. The harder she pushed, the more he unbalanced her. The tighter she held, the more he slipped through her fingers. And when she let him go, she'd lose him for days: to schemes, to silence, to shadows.

His anger was like his city. It took root and grew in darkness. And, once ignited, it consumed everything. It was the pyre that'd left hundreds dead in the wake of his revolution. It was the fire that'd kept his nation alive, against all odds.

And her guests, Mel knew, were the tinder that lit the flame.

Now his city was a rising inferno, and their hostility was colored by fear. Fear of what they could not control. Fear of what they didn't understand. Fear that the world's tectonic plates were cracking beneath their feet, and the devils in the depths, ready to drag them down.

And I will, Silco's eyes vowed. I will.

Marriage, Ambessa always said, is a tilted territory. If you don't stake your claim, the ground will slide out from under you.

And instead of a husband, you'll have an enemy in your bed.

And she, Mel, had failed to stake her claim. She'd let him down. Chosen sides when there should have been none.

Now she must weather the storm.

So, shoulders squared, she'd stepped into the cabin.

And they'd fought.

Fought like they'd never fought before. Not the fights that've become a kind of foreplay: the static between them, of sparring and subterfuge, melting into pure sensation. Not the fights that've defined their alliance: political posturing and personal grievance tangling into a web of illicit trust. Not the fights that've forged their bond: betrayal and blackmail spun in the dark, and the forgiveness that comes with the dawn.

This was a fight to the death. A fight, conversely, for their very survival. The lastingness of their marriage. The legitimacy of their union. Their lives, and the future.

And it was a fight she'd lost.

By one o'clock, her head was spinning. By two, the room was spinning. By three, the room was gone. She'd collapsed on the carpet in a heap of velvet and taffeta. Her last waking memory was Silco, kneeling over her, calling her name. She'd wanted to answer him. She'd tried.

And failed that, too.

Afterward, she'd learned that Silco had carried her to bed, and summoned the ship's physician. He was a stolid gray Yordle who'd outlived the Void Wars: more adept at patching up gunshot wounds than the ills of the mind. He'd checked her vitals, prodded and probed, and made dire pronouncements in his quaint parlance.

Mel had drifted in and out. But from the back-and-forth between Silco and the doctor, she'd gathered the gist:

—Mal de Mer.

—What in Kindred's name is that?

—You know: seasickness.

—The treacherous bitch.

—Your wife?

—The sea. We never should've crossed her.

Mel, half-drowning, choked on the irony. For weeks, she'd prepared for their journey. She'd reviewed the manifest, vetted the menu, stockpiled the supplies. She'd known, in advance, what each guest's preferences were: aversions, allergies, indulgences. The Demacian dowager's penchant for sugar cubes. The Noxian duchess's fondness for a good red. The Piltovan Exchequer's craving for a dirty blonde.

She'd accounted for every contingency.

Except her own.

The doctor's prescription was straightforward: a week of bedrest. No wine, no spirits, no salted fare. Only silence and sleep.

A bride, Mel thinks, bedridden on her honeymoon.

Her mother would've laughed herself sick.

Politics and warfare, Ambessa always said, are zero-sum games.

So, Mel is learning, is marriage.

In both cases, the honeymoon is the loser.

꧁꧂

The SS Woe Betide is in its last leg, a day away from the archipelago.

The slant of evening sunrays fills the promenade deck. The air is balmy; the scent of frangipani wafts in the breeze. Tinkling music floats up from the ballroom. The revelry of the passengers, enjoying the last night of their cruise, is in full swing.

Inside the cabin, Mel's body is a languid starfish on cool sheets. Her ivory chemise—which she'd packed with the full understanding that it'd be worn precisely once, before her new husband ripped the gauzy lace to shreds between his teeth—has been reduced to a makeshift hospital gown. Her hair—loosely swaddled in a silk scarf to keep her locs off the pillow—is a frizzy nimbus. Her complexion is ashen; her eyes dulled to a feverish sheen.

Three weeks ago, she'd wedded the lord of Zaun's underbelly.

Now she's the color of the underworld.

The porthole window admits the barest golden streaks of light. They fall across the foot of the bed, leaving the rest of the chamber in shadow. Not an hour's conjugal bliss has passed between the elegant paneled walls. Not a single sigh has echoed off the brocaded wallpaper.

The groom's devotions—shockingly—have gone unsung.

He'd left at noon, as he does every afternoon, to oversee the ship's affairs. Her husband is a hands-on taskmaster. Or, put differently, a tyrant. Never once does he raise his voice. Yet he steers the voyage as surely as the tides. Everyone, from the quartermaster to the chief of security, snaps to attention at his barest word.

His command of the ship is absolute. But so is his competence. If there's trouble to be sorted, he's the first to wade in and the last to leave. He's a man accustomed to a degree of chaos; wrangling a hundred souls in a single vessel is a breeze compared to keeping a city alive.

The crew, habituated to the idleness of aristocracy, are shocked by his exacting standards. But in short order, they've come to respect him.

And, Mel suspects, fear him.

Fear, Ambessa always said, is the most efficient way to run a household.

Or an empire.

By daytime, her husband's a force to be reckoned with. By nightfall, he's a presence without form. He comes and goes; sometimes slipping in before midnight, other times gone until dawn. In her absence, he's taken over her social duties. At dinner, he greets her guests, engaging in small talk and steering conversation adroitly through the minefield of snobbery and class politics. He fends off inquiries about her condition. When pressed, he demurs, citing privacy.

The gossip, Mel's certain, is that she's either with child—or dying.

Silco's behavior doesn't dispel the rumors. Once the night's agenda runs late, he retreats, like a shadow slipping through cracks. No cigars. No card games. No after-dinner drinks. No company, save his own.

Which, Mel knows, is a dangerous sign indeed.

A tide, rising.

And yet, in its own way, the tide is tender. He never coddles or cossets her. But his vigilance is unceasing. Every morning, she awakens to the scent of sweet teas and steaming broths. He keeps her carafe filled with fresh lemon-water and the fruit basket stocked with her favorites: tangerines, pomegranates, figs. Thrice a day, he's by her bedside, plying her with strange Zaunite tonics: bitter rosemary tinctures; pungent eucalyptus balms; salves of aloe vera that leave cool tingles wherever his fingers trace.

His touch—gentle, impersonal—is that of a medic, not a lover. And yet Mel can't help but be aware of him, in this space, in these hours.

His rage is a slow burn.

But so is his devotion.

Her own mother, Mel thinks ruefully, would've jettisoned her to the closest shore. She would've left Mel to the mercy of the doctors, and the ministrations of her servants.

Or, lacking either, to fend for herself.

Adversity, Ambessa always said, is an education. It hardens the character. Steels the will.

And, above all, breeds success.

Since the cradle, Mel has been bred for success. Now she's the color of failure. Five days of fever, and her marriage is yet in its infancy. She can't afford to let it falter. Not when so much rides on it. Her career. Her reputation. Her city.

The weight of a world.

And yet, for all that, she feels so very light. Her only constants are the sway of the ship, and her husband's return.

At the porthole, the glass glows gold. The last wisp of sun sinks into the sea. Mel's eyes are drawn to a flash of light on the horizon. A streak of red brightens the twilit skies. A signal flare, launched by the SS Woe Betide, alerting a nearby freighter of their approach. A beat later, a second flare rises in the distance.

The call-and-response is an old one, shared by ships everywhere:

I am here.

"Mel."

She starts.

A silhouette fills the doorway. A lean man: sharp-cut, spare. The angular peaks of his shoulderblades jut beneath his suit jacket. His eyes, like two-toned crosshairs, catch the flare's dying light like an inferno on calm sea.

The Devil, cometh.

With her supper.

"You're back," Mel says, a little muzzy.

"I am."

"It's not yet six."

"We're a day from the island. All's in order."

"But—"

"Hungry? Here's soup."

The soft click as the door shuts. The softer sound of his footfalls. The rest is shadow. But Mel's senses, attuned, feel his proximity the way a compass feels the North. Instinctively, her body shifts, seeking. The hairs on her nape rise. Her skin pebbles.

A primordial instinct that whispers: Beware.

She'd felt the same sensation during their first meeting, in Zaun's fire-gutted harbor. In a single step, he'd filled the space. And she'd looked him in the eye, and known:

This man will change everything.

Including me.

Now, here he is, changing her again. His silhouette reappears at the vanity, then the bedside. His movements are languid, liquid, predatory. There's a rustle of fabric, then the delicious scent of tobacco, bergamot, and of him. A moment later, something is set down on the side table: a tray, judging by the clink.

The lamp clicks on. In the sudden buttery glow, Mel blinks. There he is: a loom of living color.

The Eye of Zaun.

And, as of three weeks, her husband.

He's dressed with his usual sleek austerity: a sable-dark suit, a silver-embroidered waistcoat, and a white cravat pinned with a crooked blue jewel in the Zaunite fashion. His good eye, with its glowing twin in the scoured socket, is a half-lidded blue-green. The rest of him is a cipher.

Before their first meeting, Mel had read his dossier, cover to cover. A Fissure-bred industrialist with a chip on his shoulder. A criminal kingpin with a taste for bloodshed. A ruthless, uncompromising zealot who'd razed a city, and reclaimed its ruins as an independent state.

Not a man, she'd been warned. A monster.

A warning, Ambessa always said, is often an invitation.

And the devil is in the details.

Mel's first impression was of a man whose life had left its marks. Her second was of a man who wore the marks well. Her third was of a man who'd lay his own. Across her city, her skin, her self. Marks that would sear, and stay, and shape her future.

Her fourth impression—her last—was:

I want this.

I want him.

And I will have him.

Now, she watches as he lifts the lid off the tray. Steam spirals. Supper, unveiled, is a light fare. Fish broth. Steamed dumplings. Fresh mangoes. From a tall carafe, he pours a drink—hot lemon-water infused with honey.

Placing the glass in Mel's hands, he perches at the edge of the bed.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, in those silk-on-gravel tones.

"I believe Jinx has a term for it."

"Oh?"

"The blahs."

He smiles. She likes his smile, the barely-there crook of lips. Likes his lips, cool and dry, and how they feel against her skin. She'd like to feel them now. One touch, and she's sure her fever would break. One taste, and she'd be anything but blah.

Except she can't recall the last time they kissed.

Not since—well, her collapse.

"I've a few terms myself," Silco says. "Profane ones."

"I suspect you and Jinx have that in common."

"We've a mutual dislike for doctors."

"They do tend to be tedious."

"Especially the incompetents."

He presses a hand against her breastbone. Mel hitches a breath. It's a light touch, but his palm is heavy. The coolness seeps deliciously into her skin.

"I believe," he says, "the doctor has misdiagnosed your malady."

"Has he?"

"Your seasickness is not the root. It is the symptom."

"Of what?"

"Marriage."

She laughs, weakly. He does not.

"Marriage," she repeats, "has given me Mal de Mer?"

"Mal de Matrimonium."

"I don't understand."

"Marriage," he says, "is a singular affliction. You'll find the symptoms vary. For some, the first sign is a case of jitters. For others, the it is the absence of jitters. For the rest, there are no signs at all. Just a quick drop, and a sudden death."

"You're being dramatic."

"Am I? You believe you took ill the moment we set sail. You didn't. You've been in a fit of nerves for weeks. I should've understood sooner."

"Medardas are not known for nerves," Mel retorts. "We are a very steely stock."

"Even steel has limits." He drops his palm. "Fortunately, there's a cure."

"What?"

He's already up and off. From the nightstand, he fetches a vial of Shimmer. Medicinal—a special dose distilled by his chemist for treating tropical fevers. Deftly, he uncorks it, then pours three drops into her glass. The liquid turns a pale shade of violet, and begins to fizz.

"Drink up," he says. "That'll put color into those wax cheeks."

"And a roiling stomach. No, thank you."

"It's not a request."

He's so very serious, her husband. All his features are sharpened and elongated, as if drawn to extremes. It's not a handsome countenance, or a tender one. But there is something compelling about the asymmetry of it.

"If," Mel counters, "my ailment is Mal de Matrimonium, as you've diagnosed, then why aren't you affected?"

"Because I'm an old hand."

"You've never once been married."

"I've known my share of bondage. Poverty's an institution. So is matrimony. Your choices, your freedom, your fate. All bound, as surely as Zaun's old chains."

"The chains of Zaun, if I recall, were made of gold."

"So's your ring."

It is. Twenty-four-carat gold, to be exact. It is from Zaun's richest seams; cast into its first bullion. The band is engraved with the sigil of her family crest, and Zaun's dagger-winged emblem. A union of two cultures, forged in blood. The setting is a brilliant cut of emerald, tinted blue, the same hue as his eyes.

The symbol, Mel knows, of loyalty.

Silco's own, a cool platinum band, is a near twin. The only difference: the gemstone. A deep, iridescent ruby. It's a Medarda heirloom—her great-grandfather's. Ambessa had gifted it to Mel on her sixteenth birthday.

A symbol, she'd said gravely, of your proud heritage.

Mel had never worn it, much less coveted it. The Medardas' legacy of strife, treachery, and warfare wasn't one she wanted weighing on her finger.

Or her soul.

And yet, when she'd met Silco, it had felt fitting. His was a world of hard choices and harder lines. A world, like the Medardas, where blood was the currency. But a world, unlike the Medardas, where the true bonds were not blood, but will.

Hers, and his, entwined.

She hadn't expected him to accept the ring. He was a proud man, and not one for trinkets. But when she'd slipped it on his finger, it'd fit as if made for him. And she, Mel, had felt a heady thrill she could only liken to how Ambessa must've felt after a battle: the sheer, sublime pleasure of conquest.

I have him, she'd thought. He is mine.

And I am his.

"If matrimony's the affliction," she muses, "perhaps the cure's more of the same."

"Hair of dog?"

"No dogs," she purrs, a hand straying across the coverlet, to his thigh. "Just the man."

He catches her wrist.

"Drink the potion."

"Not even a kiss?"

"Your lips are chapped enough to start a brushfire."

"So?"

"So, you need to replenish your fluids. Drink."

Checkmated, Mel sullenly takes the glass.

He's an unyielding opponent, her husband. Her wiles have little effect. And it's frustrating, when the prize is so close. So close that she can see his pulse, ticking slowly in the hollow of his pale throat. So close his body-heat bleeds between them. So close her temperature spikes, a sweet throb low in her belly.

She wants to be touched. To be held. To be made love to.

She's never been a woman in thrall to her appetites. She's certainly never pined for a man. Seduction is her art, but sex is merely the medium. The satisfaction comes not from the act, but its orchestration: the first chords of desire plucked, the leitmotif of longing threaded imperceptibly through the words, then rising in pitch, octave by octave, until it crests in a crescendo of erupted passion, followed by a coda of mutual relief.

Only then does she claim her prize.

Her husband bypasses the prelude altogether. He hits a raw, primal nerve: one that sings at his barest touch. It's not a dynamic Mel is accustomed to, let alone one she can account for.

But the aftermath is real as her desire.

Except he'd rather nurse her fever than her fantasies. He'd rather sit by her bedside, plying her with illicit potions, than slide under the sheets, and give her a taste of his own. Worse, she can't tell if the denial stems from pure perversity—or if he is playing the long game.

A Medarda, Ambessa always said, revels in a good challenge.

And she, Mel, will revel in her victory, when she has it.

She always does.

"You're smiling," Silco says, a touch suspiciously.

"Simply appreciating the humor of my predicament."

"Sick wives are a feature of tragedies, not comedies."

"I'm a wife of great contradictions."

"That, I knew."

"What? That I'm your wife?"

He laughs. She likes his smile; she loves his laugh. It's a once-in-a-blue-moon bassline: dark, deep, full of grit. Like his city. But it's his eyes that intrigue her most. The red one, all brimstone and shadow, unblinking in its web of scars. The blue one, the ordinary one, that, when the light catches it, is in fact extraordinary.

The window of the soul, the ancients used to say.

Mel believes it. She can see his, even if it's a window to the underworld. When he's guarded, it's a cold and twisting maze. But when he laughs, she glimpses the best parts of him: his ferocity, his ambition, his wit.

He's no fairytale prince. Not by half. More a subterranean beast, his cruel visage shed only by slow degrees. And yet, there's a delight in each discovery. She's always adored puzzles.

And Silco, by law and oath, is all hers.

"I'm thinking," she says, "that the guests likely believe we're locked inside, making mad, passionate love."

"More fool them."

"Oh?"

"You're weak as a kitten," he says flatly. "I'd get more action out of a washrag."

"A washrag? What a thing to say!"

"And yet the washrag proves sturdier, when pressed for service."

"If such was the only service I could offer, I'd give it."

"The only thing you'll give me," he rejoins, "is your empty glass."

"Or?"

"Or—" He looms in, "—I'll pin you down and pour the lot down your gullet."

It's no idle threat. He's a singleminded man, her husband. Once his course is set, he sails it, no matter the obstacles.

A good strategist, Ambessa always said, knows when to pivot.

Mel holds his stare, and lifts the glass. Tipping her head back, she downs the drink in three gulps. The Shimmer hits like a thunderbolt. Lights pop before her eyes. Retching, she doubles over.

The room deliquesces. The bed disappears. She slips, and is suddenly enfolded in a steady embrace.

"Well," Silco says, somewhere above her, "I've seen that look before."

"You—you have?" she says dazedly.

"In the mirror."

Her laugh is nearly a sigh. The warmth spread outward. From her gut, to her fingers, to her toes. From her skin into her blood. Nuzzling Silco's neck, she threads her arms around his waist. He's all hard angles and taut lines, her husband. A man without an ounce of give.

But he's giving her this: the cool cradle of his arms, and his cool palm circling her nape, and his cool breath on her temple.

"Better?"

"I don't know." She licks her lips, a dark sweetness lingering. "It tastes... like you."

"Does it?"

"Mmm. I like it."

His stare goes a little dark, a little eerie. "Never say you've a taste for Shimmer."

"Isn't it Zaun's proudest innovation?"

"For the desperate, it's also bondage. Worse than Mal de Matrimonium. I'd see you die before I see you addicted."

There is no gentleness in his voice. But the graveled intensity pours down her spine. She shivers, eyes closing. She wants, nothing more, than to stay like this, her cheek nestled in the smooth curve of his neck.

By nature, she's tactile; they both are. It's only in the intensity that they differ. He's a man who holds on to his desires, like his rage, like his city: a grip that relinquishes nothing. And she's a woman who's always had her desires at her fingertips: her pleasures, her power.

Betwixt them, there's no middle ground. Only a question of the inevitable: her will, or his.

Against a well-matched opponent, Ambessa always said, your only ally is patience.

Hold your ground, and wait for the tide to turn.

"We have all night," she says, stroking his lapel, "to test your theory."

He doesn't stir. But his voice drops a decibel. "What theory is that?"

"The cure for Mal de Matrimonium."

"There's no antidote to marriage." His notched lip twists. "I only know Shimmer works because I've seen worse cases."

"Of?"

"The blahs."

"Jinx?" she guesses.

The barest nod.

"Was she..." Mel hesitates, "ill, often?"

She senses his withdrawal. It's a subtle thing, the slithering retreat. He's no longer in the room with her, though his body hasn't moved an inch.

It is how he gets when his family is mentioned.

Slowly, he breaks the embrace. She clings, but weakly. The languor is bone-deep. Laying her against the pillows, he nudges the tray closer. The message is plain: Eat.

She does, if only to appease him. The broth is light, satisfying. The dumplings are a burst of ginger and chives. The mangoes, juicy morsels.

It's an intriguing paradox. A full belly and an empty need: coexisting.

Compromising.

Silco, rising, crosses the room. He doesn't go far. At the sideboard, he pours himself a measure of brandy. In the umbra of the lamplight, his features are remote. But he stays, and that, too, is a compromise. It means something.

Something, Mel hopes, that will bridge the gap of fury before her collapse.

"Jinx," he says, "was a strong girl. But not always. Not at first."

Mel waits. She doesn't want to miss a word. His past is a private space, and Jinx, his most precious sanctuary. To breach that sanctity is a risk. To be granted a glimpse is a gift. One she dares not squander.

A single misstep, and he'll close off completely.

"There were... episodes. The first one, I didn't recognize. Or refused to." He swirls the glass. "She'd been in my care a month. She was yet a shadow. Skittish. Sad. Never smiled. Rarely spoke. But the night the sickness took hold, she was a shrieking banshee. I was out. I came home to her thrashing and raving in a fevered stupor."

"What was it?"

"The illness? Mild pneumonia. But the root was something else. Her mind was a battleground. She'd fought, night after night. A war without end. Now she'd succumbed to the wounds, and was losing. I sat by her bedside, and made sure she didn't."

"You took care of her?"

"Who else? Sevika's a competent right-hand. But her maternal streak's as pleasant as my face is pretty. The crew? They're loyal. But they've their limits." He knocks back the brandy, and kisses his teeth. "A child, a girl, alone in the world. That's a degree of vulnerability that invites exploitation."

"By the wrong sort."

He nods. "And there I was: the worst. The only difference was that I understood what she could become. How she could thrive. So I took her in. And when she fell ill, I did whatever was necessary. I fed her, cleaned her, comforted her. When the fever spiked, I kept her cool. When the night terrors came, I chased them away. I did it all for her."

He stops, the shadows gathering.

"And, I confess, I did it for me."

"Silco..."

"It was selfish, really. But when her fever broke, it was the first time I felt... at peace. She was so small. So vulnerable. I'd keep her tucked against my chest, her heartbeat to mine. I'd watch over her, hour after hour. I'd feel her breathe, and I'd breathe, too. In that moment, she was my world. My little universe. My everything."

He stops, refilling the glass.

Mel, touched, imagines young Jinx. A little girl, with scabbed knees and tangled blue braids, and a gap between her teeth. She'd have been a dynamo of energy. An exhausting one, too. Nursing her at her sickbed would've been an act of monumental forbearance.

And love.

"She was lucky to have you," she whispers.

"I was lucky to have her." He shrugs, with the air of a man who's stopped parsing out the threads of fate. "A daughter's a rare thing. It took me time to understand. To see past the complications, and accept what I had. She was a gift. Unexpected. Unlooked for. But she was mine."

His eyes, both, seem to drift. He might be looking at the portrait above the mantle. Or his reflection in the mirror beyond. Or nothing at all.

Nothing but Jinx.

"Her fevers," he says, "were a symptom of her grief. It took time, but she fought them off. The closer we grew, the stronger she became. And soon she'd outgrown the spells. Soon, the nightmares were just that: nightmares. Now she's a grown woman. A capable one. She's still my world, but she's also her own."

He downs his drink: a solo toast.

Something constricts in Mel's chest, affection and envy tugging the same strings. She's never been the maternal sort. Too selfish; too headstrong. Too much her mother's daughter. She's better at finding loopholes in trade disputes than untangling knots in little girls' hair. Better at wielding power like a bonbon on a tray, than baking a birthday cake or kissing a skinned knee.

And yet, Silco makes it seem easy.

He's a father in the same sense that Ambessa is a mother: a force of nature, implacable. He's shielded Jinx, as she's shielded Mel. And yet, for him, fatherhood is neither a foible nor a liability. It's an extension of his steeliest self.

He's a man who, once he loves, loves with everything in him. Even the darkest parts. On the backbone of that darkness, he's forged his city. He's stopped at nothing to give his child everything.

And, the past week, he's shown Mel the same devotion, if only a drop.

But a drop, like any, turns the tide.

Mel whispers, "Thank you."

"What for?"

"For staying. For... taking care of me." She bites her lip. "And, yes, for the Shimmer. It's working, I think. My head is clearer."

"Good." He's silent a moment, as if debating whether to add more. Then: "It's funny."

"What is?"

"When Jinx fell ill, she'd always apologize profusely. As if she thought I'd be angry at the time and trouble. As if a father, doing his damn duty, requires an apology."

"It's a hard lesson to learn." Mel shivers, and not from fever. "Believe me. My mother taught me the same."

"Not tolerant of sniffles, was she?"

Her fingers pluck at the coverlet; a girlhood tic bubbling to the surface. "Not a single tear. I learned, very early, not to cry. And if I fell ill, not to let it show. Else she'd take the pain, and make it worse." A shadow of Ambessa passes over her: a ghost-chill. "She had a way of doing that. She'd twist everything—my hurts, my fears, my failures. Until the pain was the worst thing I knew."

A shadow crosses Silco's face too. The bad eye gleams like old blood.

"How old were you?" he asks. "When she twisted your first fear?"

"Old enough to remember. Young enough to never forget." She smiles wanly. "I'd helped my handmaid hide a stray kitten in my chambers. It was a sweet thing, a tiny tabby. But in our household, there was a rule: no strays. They carried vermin. Plagues. Sometimes, a rival house would slip a sickly mouser into the Medarda stables. The next thing we knew, death was on the hoof." Her smile fades. "I'd found the kitten in the garden. He was caught in the stablehand's trap. Taking pity, I'd freed the poor thing, and given him a hiding place. My handmaid, bless her, even smuggled in a little dish of milk."

She takes a shuddering breath. "I was clever enough to keep it a secret. And foolish enough to pay the price. Soon, the handmaid fell ill. A fortnight later, she was dead. Poisoned, our chemists found, by a toxin in the kitten's claws. I'd survived only because he'd never scratched me. When Mother learnt what I'd done, she was furious. I'd put our family at risk, for a silly whim. I'd cost a loyal servant her life." The bedclothes twist in her fists. "She had the stablehand put the kitten down. Then she made me watch as they burned the handmaid's body. Afterward, I cried myself sick. When I'd finished, she told me: Remember, child. There is a cost to kindness. If you cannot bear to pay it, don't be kind. For the kind are fools. Only the cruel survive."

"Kindred's bones."

Silco looks the way he always does when she talks of Ambessa. Like he isn't sure whether to gut the woman, or to shake her hand. Half-revulsion, half-recognition.

Ambessa, Mel knows, feels the same. Their antipathy is mutual, but so is their respect. Two monsters on opposite polarities, who will not cede an inch to the other. And who, yet, understand each other as no one else can.

And here I am, Mel thinks.

Trying to navigate my way between them.

"Don't misunderstand," she says. "I'm grateful for my childhood. Whatever the cost." For a moment, she smells the ash of her handmaid's funeral pyre. She sees the smoke curling like a black halo around her mother's silhouette. "I had everything a child from a noble family could desire. Clothing. Servants. Luxury." The barest smile. "All the things, as you say, A right proper bitch is bred for."

"Yet here you are," Silco says. "On the far side of proper."

"Here I am." She cradles her elbows in her palms. "My mother is a warrior. A survivor. And the survival of a dynasty is a hard-won thing. In her eyes, my softness could be its downfall. That's why she tried, so hard, to mold me. Why she pushed me, and pressured me, and punished me. So I'd survive." A breath. "And I did. Just not the way she'd hoped."

Silco is silent. He does not do mercy. But he listens. And it's the same, in its way.

"Small wonder," he muses.

"Small wonder, what?"

"Small wonder you turned out the way you did." He tips his near-empty glass. "All that pressure. It can either crush a spirit, or forge it into diamond. It's the same with Jinx. You're as different as night and day. And yet, you're a similar breed."

Mel's smile wavers. "Are we?"

"Driven. Strong. Willful. But you've the same void. All the glitter poured inside won't fill it." He sets the glass down. "Fortunately, the cure's simpler than you'd think."

"Is it?"

"A full belly, and a full night's sleep."

Her tray of supper is taken away. From her armoire, he removes a silk paisley blanket. The fabric, midnight blue, shimmers as it unfolds. It's her favorite; imported from Kalamanda. The weave is impregnated with hyacinth oil, rose hips, tea leaves, sea-salt and spilled ink.

It's the scent of Piltover: her city. Her newfound heart.

She'd packed it with a vague fantasy of sprawling across it, a picnic blanket on a sun-drenched Ionian hillside. With her husband's arm draped around her, his cool palm cupping her skull. His cooler fingers tangling in her hair. The rest of him, tangled in her.

Now, they're together, and there's no fantasy. Only pragmatic hands and a practiced touch. He enfolds her in the blanket, not like a babe but like a meal left to cool. His lips are cool too. They avoid her mouth, drop a kiss to her temple, then withdraw before she can thread her arms around him.

"Rest," he says. "The night's a balmy one."

"Where are you going?"

"To bath, and ready myself for dinner."

He turns, and begins unthreading his cuffs. The vest follows, tossed onto the vanity chair. The cravat is tugged free; the buttons at his collar undone. A pale triangle of skin bares itself. There's no deliberation to the strip-tease. Just a man, methodically disrobing.

And the sight, Mel thinks, is almost unbearably intimate.

The Shimmer is a pooling heat in her body. The silk of her blanket—a light thing—teases her skin. His nearness torments the rest.

She is still a little sore. A little achy. But it's a savoring ache.

A hunger that needs filling.

Catching her ogling, Silco quirks a brow. "Eyes up."

"Can't I admire the view?"

"No." His tone is stern. "This is not a performance. You're meant to rest."

"And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Five days of nothing. And you've not once complained." She lets her lashes fan down and up. "Surely you don't expect me to believe the washrag's proving equal?"

"Not yet," he says, a bitter crook to his lips, "but it's not a bad substitute."

"Is that why you're hurrying? To take matters into your own hands?"

"Better my hand than a guest's."

"A guest?" This is a perturbing pivot. She half-sits up; her chemise strap slips down her left shoulder. "Have you been propositioned?"

"With a missing bride, the groom's fair game."

"Let me guess. The Demacian Countess, dripping in diamonds and innuendo—"

"—a vapid harridan, of whom I am thoroughly sick."

"—the Piltovan exchequer's wife, who's not above a bit of bed-hopping—"

"—an insufferable busybody, whom I plan to toss overboard."

"—the Vastayan princeling, who's famously partial to men with scars."

"That one's partial to anything with a prick." He stops, a glint of slyness in his eyes. "Why? Are you jealous?"

She shouldn't be. It's irrational and foolish and beneath her. She is not a woman easily threatened. Her desirability is her stock-in-trade. She is used to being measured as the superior of the most celebrated sirens, and the brains of the outfit, besides. It's a point of pride.

Yet there is a gut-wrench of possessiveness. The thought of someone's hands on Silco. Of him, touching someone else. A stranger undeserving of the gift.

My husband, Mel thinks, and it's a fierce and terrible burn.

Home territory, Ambessa always said, is to be defended to the last drop.

Else the rot sets in, and the foundation crumbles.

Softly, Mel says, "And if I were jealous?"

Silco's hands still on his buttons. His good eye, in the lamplight, is a green-lit spark.

"I'd tell you," he says, equally soft, "that you're mad."

"With jealousy?"

"With fever."

"Mal de Matrimonium, after all."

"A shared affliction, I can abide." Wryly, he shakes his head. "The clap's a different matter."

"Silco—"

"Sleep it off, petal. Tomorrow, you'll laugh at your silliness."

The endearment—a rarity outside of their pillow talk—pierces through her. She dares a smile: a little teasing, a little raw.

A lot wanting.

"You could," she stretches languidly, and a smooth thigh bares itself from under the coverlet, "join me?"

"The party will start soon."

"Not to sleep. Just to talk."

"About what?"

Silco sits, again, at the foot of the bed. It dips beneath his weight. The mattress, a wide affair, is more than big enough for the both of them.

His palm rests on her ankle. The touch, impersonal before, lingers. Emboldened by this small intimacy, Mel lets her fingers itsy-bitsy-spider up the cuff of his shirtsleeve. The weave is cool; the arm beneath deceptively lean in an armature of sinew and bone.

She thinks of the rapiers her mother kept on display in the gallery: honed, fine, deadly.

But a deft touch, she knows, can disarm even the sharpest blade.

"We could," she says, "talk about our itinerary. The island we'll be staying at is renowned for its beauty. There are waterfalls a stone's throw from our camp. And ruins, where the locals say the gods themselves used to frolic. Or the villa itself: designed to merge nature with civilization. The rooms are like gardens, each with their own sunrooms and fountains. All of it, with a view of the turquoise seas." She toys with his cuff, and watches his face. "I know you like the water."

"I'd like it better if I weren't sharing the villa with a half-dozen parasites."

"Don't think of them," she says coaxingly. "Think of me. Think of you. Think of the possibilities."

"Their security detail? Paid for by my dime. Their staff? Paid for by yours. And the bill?" A scoff. "We're footing that together"

"It's a modest bill. Barely a pittance." Mel's fingertips skitter up his forearm. "Meanwhile, we'll have a wing entirely to ourselves. The most luxurious in the villa. Its own beach, white as snow. Its own grotto, with a natural sauna. Its own garden, full of exotic blooms and birdsong."

"And mites, and mosquitoes, and yet more parasites."

She ignores that, continues to speak in that satiny tone she uses for closing deals. "At night, we could light the bonfire and dine beneath the stars. We could take the yawl out and anchor offshore." Her fingers creep higher, and so does her smile. "We'd make love on the deck, and listen to the sea, and make love again, and listen to the sea."

"And all our guests, with their telescopes, would watch, and lay bets on the size of my cock."

"Let them," she husks. "They'll be most impressed."

His mouth, the unscarred side, crooks. He can smell the game a mile away.

"And in the morning," he says, "if the yawl's not capsized, we'll row ashore. Where we'll join our guests for a breakfast of freshly-squeezed Navori plums, and rashers of smoked Sudaro pig. And you, glowing like a sun goddess from your night under the stars, will query the Demacian countess on her favorite spots for birdwatching. And the Noxian baron, eager to ply his charms, will offer to guide you along the nature trails. And you, with your far superior wiles, will steer the talk toward the fresh air, and the healing properties of the ocean, and how healthy living is the key to a long life. And then, while everyone's chiming their agreement, you'll ask if the guests will be so kind as to invest in Zaun's new filtration plant. The plant you've banked so much coin on." His stare, heavy, settles on her. "Am I wrong?"

Her fingers go still. "How did you know?"

"Because I know you." His thumb circles the jut of her anklebone. "Because I know the playbook. A good con needs three things. The place, the pitch, and the pigeon. You've got the first: a tropical paradise full of freshwater and sunbeams. You've got the second: a roomful of rich marks high off their gourds on said freshwater and sunbeams. And the third, well—" His circling slows. "The third is the least obvious."

"Is it?"

"And the most difficult."

"How?"

"Because he's no pigeon. He's a sly sumpraker who's never tasted freshwater, and is immune to sunbeams. And who's already been played, and paid in full." His fingers curl around her calf. "Am I wrong?"

Their eyes meet. His bad one is edged black. It's the smallest, most subtle shift. The first ripple of the tide. His moods, his temper, his impulses: they're all beyond her. Only the undercurrents are tangible, the secret push and pull.

Mel feels it now. A warning.

Her pulse stumbles, nearly slipping. Her smile does not. "Pigeon? Hardly. You are my husband."

"And the difference? You invited our guests to show them Zaun's a rising star in the constellation of Progress. But you'd not anticipated the frosty reception. They're not ready for the union between Piltover and Zaun. Much less the honeymoon. That night—the night you took ill—it hit you like a gut punch. You realized your sea-legs weren't ready for the voyage. And so, the Mal de Matrimonium set in." He tilts his head. "Or am I wrong about that too?"

His gaze is like his grip: a soft, cool pressure. The heat of her chagrin congeals between them.

"It isn't like that," she says. "Not exactly."

"Tell me how it is, then."

"That night... I should've handled it better. I should've taken a stand. For you." The admission is like an anchor lifted. All at once she's unmoored. "I know I made a mess of things. And you were... upset. The past week, you've cared for me, and now I need to pay you back. I'd planned our stay at the villa to be a diplomatic mission. For you. For your city. But if I can sweeten the deal with a few charitable donations, well—" Her teeth scrape her lip. "It's a bargain, I'd say."

"You'd say?" He seems almost darkly titillated. "Or your mother?"

"Does it matter?" she retorts, a little sharply. "You'll have your honeymoon. Your city will have coin."

"And I, Mel? What's my role to be?"

"Nothing." Her fingertips rest on his knuckles. "Only... play nice? Turn the charm on, a little? Let them see the side of you that I do."

He does not withdraw. But his fist, unmoving, feels suddenly like iron.

"You," he says, "want me to play your pigeon."

"I—"

"An exercise of social reform." His bad eye flickers, the red inked black. "Take the sumpraker to the villa. Where the blue skies will temper him, and the sun will burn away his shadows. And at breakfast, you'll show them the tamed beast, and how civilized he is. You'll make your sales pitch: Invest in Zaun. Turn the hellhole into your next holiday destination. And if they refuse, well, at least they'll go home, and spread the word that Medarda, Janna bless her, keeps that lowborn beast on a short leash."

Mel, stung, drops her hand. "That's not true—"

"Isn't it? These guests you're so eager for me to impress: they're the ones who made a mint off the Council's neglect. They've profited for years from the Fissures' degradation. They'd have let us die, if we hadn't fought tooth and nail for our freedom. And now you expect me to not only play their game, but pretend their coin—their condescension—holds value?" His scoff is sibilant as a slit throat. "It's a fine world where you believe I owe those rats anything but a gutting."

"It's a world," Mel retorts, "that's made of trade."

"Trade is an accommodation. A negotiation between equal parties. My city is not a thing to be traded."

"Your city, or your pride?"

"My city!" he erupts. "The city we built from the ground up, with our bare hands. Now it's a jewel, and they'd try to make it a bauble. Their notion of investment is the same as their notion of progress. They'll buy up acres of real estate where Zaunites live, and overhaul it into luxury condos. They'll bulldoze the bazaars where our commerce thrives, and erect monuments. They'll flood our markets with their gewgaws and bury our goods in the dirt. Until every last inch of Zaun's soul is sold, and its body is a carcass, and its corpse is turned into a carnival!"

The words echo like a thunderclap. He is the sea. He is the storm. And Mel, who is neither of those things, still knows that if the world were the two of them, and only the two, she'd hold her ground.

In safeguarding their cities, they are equal. He is the Eye of Zaun. And she is the vanguard of Piltover. It's a duty she'd embraced from the beginning. But it's been a forked road, full of twists and temptations. A path where her own ambitions were at odds with her duty.

And those who've suffered are those she'd hoped most ardently to save.

People like Jinx, cast to the bottom of the pit. People like Silco, risen up from the dregs.

She's seen the underbelly of Zaun: the sickness and squalor. But she's also seen its beauty. The resilience of spirit. The creativity that burns like a bonfire. Silco and Jinx are living proof. Their survival is a triumph against the odds.

But the odds, sometimes, need a helping hand.

She can be that hand. Silco has the drive to take, and the cunning to hold. But not the pliancy to wield. Whereas she, with all her guile, can take, and hold, and wield. She can be ruthless, but not cruel. She can temper the fires, and sweeten tempers, without the horizons set ablaze.

She can be the force that holds Silco steady, and keeps his city safe.

She believes that. Truly. But if she cannot persuade him to believe too, then she will have no recourse but to fight.

Diplomacy, Ambessa always said. Works best with a large sword at the enemy's throat.

"They'll do none of those things," she says. "Not if I have a say."

"You mean your word? Or your name?"

"One and the same."

"Ah, but what's in a name?" Silco drawls, without rancor. "A word, by itself, is meaningless. A drop in the ocean. Even marriage, my dear, is just a paper bobbing on the waves. There are no contracts beyond the ink. Water will always seep through."

This jabs a sore spot between her ribs. Her mother's voice rings, an ironclad echo:

"When you are drowning, and he leaves you, gasping, to die. Remember that I did not wish it to end like this."

And her reply: "It won't."

"Ours isn't a contract," she says quietly. "It's a partnership."

"A partnership, like trade, is between equals." His voice, too, is quiet. But it is an icy quiet. "We'll never be equals if you keep thinking of me as the shark who's scales need sanding."

"I don't."

She squeezes his hand in both hers. It is a gesture she uses to soften a hard sell. But never has she been so earnest in her entreaty.

"Zaun is not the problem," she says. "Nor are you. But the two of you are caught in a bind. What was done in the past was wrong. But what will be done is right. I'll see it done, by changing hearts and minds. Because that is true progress. Once the upper echelons are educated, they'll see the wisdom in change, too. They'll understand that Zaun's wellbeing is theirs. That the pollution is their pollution, and the sickness is their sickness. If only you meet them halfway, they'll see the future. And they'll want to join you."

"Diplomacy in action, hm?"

"Diplomacy is compromise. And compromise, by definition, is a dilution of what you set out to do. The question is not whether you'll compromise. It's how far. At least, if your cards are played right, there's the chance of a mutual win."

"The chance. Never the certainty."

"Nothing is certain." She summons a smile. "But I believe in our chances. I believe in us. Do you?"

Silco says nothing. In his eyes, the void is banked. But still there. Still hungry. Sometimes she thinks he's staring down, not the past, but a path yet to come. The future, where his daughter will grow up in a city resurrected. Where his people will live without humiliation or hunger.

Where they will truly be free.

"Belief is a luxury," he says at last. "In Zaun, the first step is survival. Everything else is a bridge to be crossed. Or burned." He leans in, a cold, dark flame. "So: no. I don't believe. I act. And it's not by prostrating myself before the privileged. Their pity will not keep my city alive. Their profit will not keep it safe. For Zaun to survive, it must upend their rules, and play by a different set."

"You've done that once," Mel cautions. "And it nearly burned down both our cities."

"Fire is a cleansing force."

"Fire is a monster, with no regard for who it consumes."

Their stares clash. The air crackles.

Deliberately, Mel softens her tone.

"There was a time when I was a girl full of ideals. But ideals are fragile company. All it took was a single stroke of my mother's sword, and they broke. All I had left were the splinters. And they hurt. Oh, how they hurt. If I can save a person, even one, from enduring that hurt, then it will have been worth it. It will have been worth the compromise, the dilution, the diplomacy."

Silco smiles. It is a strange smile: soft and yet utterly devoid of softness.

Her mother, Mel thinks, would've smiled the same way.

"Compromise," he says. "A beautiful fever. Like Mal de Mer."

"What?"

He kisses her.

It's a quick, fierce thing. Like the snap of a blade. The air cuts from Mel's lungs. His mouth is cool, his tongue hot. When he draws away, she finds herself clutching his shirt, her fingers knotted in the lapels. His hands, likewise, slide beneath the hem of her chemise.

"Beautiful," he breathes against her lips. "Like the idea that two cities, and two souls, can be one."

He kisses her again. The next thing Mel knows, he's on her, a long leg sliding between hers. And she is already liquid. Already aching. She can't help it. The fever was only a fever. But his distance was hell. Always a footstep away. Always was a thousand miles beyond reach.

And she, cut adrift: a shipwreck in the night.

Now he's here, and the tide has turned. His body, lean and hard, is an anchor. And his stare, unblinking, is an ocean's depth.

"I've seen the truth," he murmurs. "Of the world. Of its heart. And it's always torn in two. It has a thousand wants. And it wants them all at once. There's no middle ground. No compromise." He palms her breast through the chemise. She bites back a gasp. "Only a war, fought until one side burns the other. And the victor? Gets the spoils."

"It's not the only way." Mel's lips find his throat. His jaw. His mouth. "We can—"

"There is no 'we.'"

"What—?"

"I've lived in a city of we's. Piltover and Zaun. Two cities. Both bound together, and yet pulling apart." His teeth trace her earlobe. She whimpers, and his thumb, deftly, circles. "The only 'we' is the two of us. Not because of our marriage. Not because of vows, or trust, or fairydust. This will work only if we make it. And we can't make it if you take my ring, then trade my city for a price."

"I did not take your ring for a price!" Mel snaps, her temper fraying. "I took it because I wanted a future with you. Whatever that future holds!"

He pushes her back. Pins her wrist to the mattress. It's a gentle manacling, and yet the effect is electric. His eyes take their time, moving languidly up her body—the hem riding high on her thighs, the silk taut across her breasts, the tendrils of her hair a corkscrewing darkness on the pillow.

Mel's skin hums beneath the scrutiny. She's been looked at a thousand times: by artists, by admirers, by aesthetes. But never, she thinks, so closely. As if her flesh were pure gold. As if she were something worth coveting.

Worth keeping.

He meets her eyes, with something like witfulness. And then, with a sigh, he kisses her, everywhere through the silk. His lips on first one breast, then the other, weighing them in his hands. Mel sighs, her fingers tangling in his hair. His kisses drift lower. Down her belly, across her navel, then down further still, soft kisses pressed in a circle around the place that aches the most. Mel's thighs fall open. Her sighs unravel on a moan.

She's missed this. She's missed him. His skin on hers is a balm.

Then his mouth reverses its journey. Higher, higher, higher, until he reaches her throat. Its soft, unguarded pulse. He kisses there: a hint of teeth like a brand. Mel hopes he will go further. Bite deeper. That this, the barest tease of friction, is not all he's willing to offer.

But it is.

He drops a parting kiss to her forehead. Then he is gone.

Mel, bereft, opens her eyes. "Silco?"

"You're still feverish."

"But—"

He's already rising. His shadow, cutting across the wall, is a shark's fin.

"Sleep," he says. "Dream of a future. For me. For you. Full of spoils, and no compromise."

"Where are you going?"

"Dinner's begun. Your precious guests await." He begins unbuttoning his cuffs. "I'll make sure to play nice."

"But—"

"As it happens, I have an inkling how they can be made to play nice too. Zaun's version of nice. Industrial-grade, chemically-clogged, toxin-fueled."

Mel, warily, "What do you mean?"

"An excursion."

"Where?"

"Why spoil the surprise?"

Stripping his shirt, he steps toward the adjoining bath. The lamplight limns the dips and angles of his torso. He's a lean man, her husband, and the delineations of his body is stark as whipcord. The skin is lashed with old scars. A life in the streets etched into his flesh.

Mel knows every inch. And every inch fascinates her.

"Tomorrow," he says, "We'll dock on the island. With luck, you'll be well, with roses in your cheeks, instead of sealing wax. We'll dine at the villa, all our cabbages and kings. But before—"

"Before?"

"Before," he says, a sideways flick of red and black, "we'll see whether pigs have wings."

The door swings shut. The sound of running water starts.

Mel, propped on her elbow, is left to simmer in the silence.

Her new husband, it must be said, is like Mal de Mer, too. He creeps in: sly, stealthy, secret. And before she knows it, her body is aflame.

Except she can't say whether tomorrow bodes a cleansing cure.

Or a blaze that leaves nothing but ash.

#arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane silco #forward but never forget/xoxo #silco #forward (never forget)/xoxo #arcane jinx #jinx #arcane ambessa #ambessa medarda #arcane mel #mel medarda #silco x mel #melco

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bleachification · 1 year

Text

dissonance - dazai

+ dazai x reader (fantasy au)

+ this is ch. one of all that glitters is not gold (prologue has the fic summary)

chapter two: trojan horse; ch. three: in reverence

dis·so·nance /ˈdisənəns/ noun: dissonance; plural noun: dissonances a tension or clash resulting from the combination of two disharmonious or unsuitable elements.

The smell of roasted meat and apple wine wafts through the opulent dining room, soaking into the bones of the marble furniture just as you soak in the information that your father, the emperor, has just conveyed. You sit in silence, meal long forgotten, and open your mouth to reply, just to shut it once more. The shock reverberates through your skull, a hollow ache bound to worsen as the conversation continues.

“With all due respect, Father,” you set your fork and knife down, appetite gone as nausea threatens to take over, “your words do not align with your actions.”

The emperor sits on the opposite end of the lavish dining table. Rows of crystal-gilded chairs, enough to seat at least fifty others, stretch from your end to his. Your father’s voice travels across the space sharply. “What of it does not align?”

“You say I have been given an honour—“you begin.

“You have.”

You ignore his interruption, teeth grinding in irritation. The food, as expensive as it is decadent, sits heavy on your tongue—it is as tasteful as rotting wood. “As a lamb to slaughter? You are asking the impossible of me.”

“It is a marriage I am asking of you, not a miracle.”

“A marriage to the enemy! To the man whose very existence is the reason we are at war! Have you forgotten what he has done? What he has taken from us?” Desperation grabs hold of you and digs its claws into your shoulder. The urgency to make your father see reason is overwhelming, but deep down, you know whatever it is you say—or beg—will only fall on unforgiving, deaf ears.

“This decision holds no accommodation for your feelings and personal grudges. It would be wise of you to let go of those distractions,” he says as he downs what’s left of his drink.

Your grip on your fork tightens. “They are not distractions. They are what keeps me alive.”

“Don’t make me laugh,” he scoffs, a condescending sound that grates on your ears—akin to nails dragging across polished steel. “Who would dare harm a member of the Imperial family?”

The retort is on the tip of your tongue; the very man you are forcing my hand to. You barely manage to hold it in. The actual answer you give is tamer than the one you think of, but both originate from the same stream of contempt.

“The vultures you call your court officials, Father.”

“Mind. Your. Words.” His cold tone draws a line you had almost stepped past, a mistake that would have cost you dearly.

“I am still your Emperor.”

You steel yourself, shoulders squaring in defiance. “I will not marry him. I cannot.”

He ignores you. “Dazai Osamu seeks you as a bride. It is the only way our countries will see peace.”

You almost scoff. “You cannot possibly believe that. This war will not be quelled without the head of a ruler, whether it be his or your very own!”

No matter how horrible your father can be, he is not a naive man. You both know that this marriage is nothing but a ploy—one he is willing to send you into blind. But for what reason?

“What is your aim? I know you wouldn’t do something this stupid without some sort of ulterior motive,” you accuse.

You’re unsure whether you should commend your bravery or slap yourself for your stupidity.

The table shakes and splinters in protest as he slams his fist onto its surface. Crystal goblets clatter to the floor, shattering upon impact. You don’t react to the noise; it is the pure venom in your father’s voice that runs your blood cold, freezing you in your seat.

“That is enough. You will marry the prince unless you’d prefer to forfeit your title and live outside the borders.”

“You would have me exiled,” you restate. There is no question about it. He really would do it.

Your oh-so-generous father only nods. “Be grateful it isn’t execution. You are still my child, no matter how disobedient, and I would not like to see you hanged.”

How considerate of you, you think, sarcasm leaking from your every pore. You know better than to voice that thought aloud, lest he makes good on his promise and sends you packing just for mouthing off. But frustration threatens to overwhelm you, and you try to appeal to his senses—or whatever’s left of them.

“You are offering me up as some sort of bargaining chip” you pin him with your gaze, angry tears already forming as you grit out: “To the man who murdered my mother. Your wife.”

He only matches your gaze, unwavering. Nothing behind those sharp eyes except a wall of cold determination. “For my Empire? I would do much worse.”

So much worse.

You blink. And that’s when it dawns on you. The realization is chilling, stifling… terrible. Dread crawls along your spine as you whisper your following words, silently praying for them to be false.

“You wish to use me as a spy—your eyes and ears behind enemy lines,” you whisper.

“It is the smartest course of action. My own child, privy to the enemy’s secrets, your intimacy will be a great asset for us.”

“If I am found out…”, you swallow, frigid fear clawing at your throat, “he will have me executed or worse.”

Your father takes no note of your distress, only adding to it with: “It would be a worthy sacrifice.”

You’d like to think he’s merely cracking a joke—albeit a sick sort—but a joke nonetheless. Sadly, the years spent under his suffocating presence have rendered that hope, well… hopeless.

Once again, your mouth opens and shuts, no words coming out as disbelief floods your mind. The dining hall is unbearably quiet, leaving you to your anxious thoughts and racing heart.

Your father goes back to eating as if he didn’t just flip your world on its axis a second ago. The silver blade in his hand slices into the meat with a smooth, clean stroke, its juices pooling a dark crimson around the porcelain plate. The image stirs an idea from the depths of your conscience, and before you know what is happening, you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

“What if I kill him first?” You surprise yourself with the question. To even suggest killing a person… makes your stomach flip. But the determination is there, and if it will let you seek vengeance and ensure your survival, then morality is a small price to pay.

Your father waves your question away as if batting a fly. The dismissal is clear in his voice. “Do not speak of such nonsense.”

It is. It really, really is complete and utter nonsense. But it is also the only option you have. “Humour me. What if?”

He’s silent for a beat. You hold your breath, expecting another dismissal until he speaks again and says: “Then it would be a worthy victory.”

A victory I will bring, you think. You don’t get the chance to vocalize your response as a thudding noise jerks you both from your conversation.

Your father’s aid shouts from behind the dining room door. There is a sense of urgency in his tone that’s unfamiliar to you. For a man who stays calm during even the worst of your father’s fury, he is uncharacteristically panicked.

“Your Imperial Highness! The Prince! He’s—“

He’s cut off by the double doors being thrown open with enough force to send them reeling into the wall, hinges squeaking in protest.

A figure steps forward into the light, and you feel your blood run cold when his features come into view. Time slows to an agonizing crawl, pulling you with it in a suffocating hold. It takes everything you have to stay calm and collected, despite how badly you’d like to scream and throw something—like the steak knife in your hand.

Your father is the first to speak up. “Dazai Osamu.”

At the sound of his name, Dazai’s mouth widens into a devastating grin—one you’d like to wipe off his face using some rather violent means. “In the very flesh. How are you this fine evening, father-in-law?”

Dazai may be addressing (provoking) your father, but his eyes stay fixated on you. A familiar glint of mischief shines in them, reminiscent of the times you spent with him during the seasons of youth; years long past—a period where his presence was ever-present.

The years have been horribly kind to him; he has grown into his features remarkably well. His once round face, now sharpened with age; his pale hands, still slender and long but now rough with callouses; and his eyes… they are the only things that have not changed with the passage of time. They reflect his intellect and shine with mirth, and just like when he was young, they still contain a depth of misery within them—an emotion only you seem to be aware of.

Dazai is devastatingly beautiful; his features could very well be of divine calibre. The gods themselves would only find envy in his presence.

And you? You find everything but comfort.

He looks at you in a way that makes your skin crawl and your head spin. He looks at you like he sees you... like he still knows you. But he doesn’t. He can’t. You are no longer the naive little child who fell for his fake smiles and pretty lies. Now, you hold nothing but contempt for him in your heart and thoughts of vengeance in your mind.

He keeps his attention on you even as your father answers. You provide no indication of the raw myriad of feelings inflicted on your soul by this man, instead meeting his gaze with your steely own.

“For what reason are you here? I believe our negotiations are to be finalized next week, not tonight,” your father says, chillingly calm.

Dazai blinks. He looks at your father like he had asked a question with the most painfully obvious answer. “I’m here for my future betrothed, of course. Why else?”

Sincerity coats his words like honey, or at least what others may perceive as sincerity. To you, his words and actions are nothing but those of a con man’s… and you will not fall for his tricks again.

You step up this time, answering in your father’s stead. “Your Highness, it seems recent events have left you rather confused. I have not agreed to your proposal yet, and even if I have, that is no reason for your current behaviour. If you do not vacate the premises of your own accord, I will have no choice but to have you forcibly removed.”

If your bluntness or formality bothers Dazai, it certainly doesn’t show. He, strangely, smiles instead. A dazed expression glosses over his features; as if elated to finally gain your attention. The grin on his face does not disappear even when your father makes a noise of agreement and signals his aid to call forth the guards. Dazai does not budge even when he is taken by the arm and held secure by two knights at his side, his gaze intense on yours.

“Y/N,” he breathes. Your name rolls off his tongue, soft and deliberate, making you pause. He has no business saying your name like that, like it still means something to him—something essential and desperate. In fact, he has no business looking at you like a dying man does his saving grace.

These feelings, raw and bitter, swirl in your chest and head, muddling all existence of rational thought. It takes all your willpower to muster a stern: “Guards.”

They nod, following your order and begin to pull Dazai away. You watch him leave without resistance, only to turn around and give you a small, sad smile.

“I will see you again, Y/N. Just like I promised.”

You freeze, unmoving even as the doors shut behind him.

He remembers, you think. The promise you both made over ten years ago, under the moon’s glow in the palace gardens. The promise that you’ll find each other again, no matter what obstacles are thrown into your path—even through war, should it ever come to pass.

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