#pirate tales waiting to be told (threads)

[luffyasksandanswers]

In reference to [x] @thundertempo​

“Ow, ow!! Ok it was me, sorry!!”. Luffy didn’t know which was more powerful, their navigator’s iron grip or the nagging but he could literally feel the consequences of his actions. Punishments were necessary at times (although their dorky captain didn’t seem to learn from his random not-so-funny shenanigans). 

Before that had just eaten a basket of chicken wings with the world’s best bbq sauce ™ made by Sanji. Of course while already rushing to another place, the captain would forget to wash his hands, and that’s how those binoculars got messy and smelly at the first place. 

“How did you know it was me? I mean anyone could’ve taken your binoculars, right?” he tried once again his luck with blaming his (innocent) crew mates. 

[kaizokuou-ni-naru]

The Voyage So Far: Whole Cake Island

east blue (1 | 2) || alabasta (1 | 2) || skypiea || water 7 || enies lobby || thriller bark || paramount war (1 | 2) || fishman island || punk hazard || dressrosa (1 | 2) || whole cake island || wano

sanji is such a self-sacrificial idiot. and i know that’s not exactly a ground-breaking statement, but it does define the entire first half of whole cake island, so it may as well be reiterated here: sanji does not value his own life as much as he should, and fails to grasp that other people care about him outside of what he can offer them, which is why he’s so surprised when luffy later comes charging headlong into big mom’s territory.

zou is a really good little arc, and it also mirrors the themes of whole cake island in miniature. the minks collectively make a massive sacrifice and risk absolutely everything to protect raizou, and wci is essentially all about loyalty and sacrifice, whether its sanji giving himself up to protect the strawhats and zeff or luffy and the strawhats facing impossible odds to rescue him to pedro giving up his life to get them all out of there safe.

huge fan of this panel partly just because it’s cute and partly because it’s a great visualization of just how dysfunctional the heights are in one piece.

zou is one of my favorite settings in one piece just for the sheer creativity of it. zunesha is so massive and so mysterious and so strange. and she really looks unspeakably old just from how she’s drawn, looming over everyone and everything, eyes hollow and empty, an entire forest and an entire people growing on her back that have been there for thousands of years. it’s just so neat and so wildly inventive.

this applies to zou as a whole, but i think it’s really cool how all the little threads that will become important during wano are set up so effectively even before whole cake island starts. we get this shot here of kidd beat to shit and then forget it because so much happens between here and when he shows up again in wano, but then oda punks us into caring about him and killer so much and this retroactively becomes very important.

ever since his introduction sanji’s always been a character basically defined by his adherence to his principles: always feeding the hungry, never wasting food, never hurting women, never using his hands in combat. he’s probably the most firmly principled person on the crew, and that’s more obvious in whole cake island than in any other arc except maybe baratie.

sanji is very stubbornly good, which puts him in acute contrast to his siblings and their general cruel apathy. it’s something i really like about him.

i’m a huge fan of big mom’s introduction, which is also our introduction to tottoland in general. it’s cutesy and colorful and musical while simultaneously being deeply creepy, with lyrics about killing people for ingredients and making jam out of blood, which is a great summary of the core of big mom’s character. she’s an old lady all in pink who lives in a cartoon fairy-tale land- but she’s also a deranged cannibal, and all those singing trees and flowers are animated by the life she steals from her citizens as tax.

whole cake island draws on a lot of fairy tale motifs (especially with brulee), and the contrast that saccharine appearance creates with how fucked up the actual content is is super effective and memorable, i think.

honestly i find most of the content of sanji with the vinsmokes just plain upsetting, which i’m sure is intentional, so i’m not going to go into it a lot here, but i am including this panel of him kicking niji in the face.

sad as this scene turns out, luffy’s absolute thrill at finding sanji and the corresponding bafflement of the vinsmokes as to how the fuck he even got there always kinda makes me grin.

i always love seeing people’s underestimations about luffy get thrown right the hell out the window- because let’s be honest, he’s easy to underestimate, he’s like a five and a half foot tall rubber teenager and not very physically intimidating and all, and then he goes and pulls off the impossible without blinking.

the thing that makes luffy unique as a captain has always been his willingness to rely on his crew, and his willingness to openly admit that reliance, like he did all the way back in arlong park. most of the other contenders for the pirate king’s crown we’ve seen- big mom, kaidou, crocodile once upon a time- have been stubbornly individualistic people who explicitly shown not to care for their crew and allies, generally seeing them as disposable.

luffy is the opposite of all of them, because his crew are everything to him, to the point of being willing to sacrifice his dream for them. and the loyalty he wins from them in return is unmatched, as opposed to big mom and kaidou, who both get cheerfully betrayed not just by their own crewmates but by their own children.

brook is really cool in whole cake island, and honestly it comes at just the right time for him as a character. ever since his introductory arc in thriller bark until this point he hasn’t gotten a ton of focus, so it’s great that he gets to be the mvp here and demonstrate exactly why he’s a strawhat pirate and how much he’s grown over the timeskip.

oda is generally really good at introducing and handling characters contained to a single arc/saga, but i do think he absolutely knocked it out of the park with pedro. he has an interesting backstory, compelling motivations, and basically an entire sub-arc ending in his death that never distracts from the main plot, but only ever adds to it.

pedro really feels like a fully realized character who’s had a whole life offscreen, who we just happened to catch at the very end of his story. i think that’s super impressive.

i really love this moment, because for me, this is the moment where whole cake island becomes a tremendous arc, and where the tides begin to turn and the dominoes begin to fall, one after the other. this is sanji hitting absolute rock bottom. the one ray of light he pinned all his hopes on was a lie, and he can’t even light a fucking cigarette.

but one piece is, very often, a story about picking yourself up even when you feel like you can’t.

i think there’s something lovely about how much one piece emphasizes the value of honestly asking for help. luffy waits for nami to ask for help, and for robin to say she wants to live, and for sanji to admit he just wants to go home, and then says, “okay, i’ll make that happen.”

it just makes me so happy how happy the stawhats are to know sanji’s back with them. it reminds me a lot of how they all brush off robin’s thanks after enies lobby. sure, they’re going to have to crash the wedding and confront big mom directly and might all die, but who cares? they’ve got sanji back. i’ve said it before and i’ll say it again, i love how much they love each other.

i think the gangster outfits are super fun, and i love that oda is committed enough to his aesthetics to come up with an excuse to put them all in formalwear. it pays off, they all look extremely snappy.

i know i just said it in the dressrosa posts but i’m reiterating it here because this is my favorite example of it by far: i love when oda does this split-screen thing with his panels. the contrast between the two halves of pudding is so severe and yet they’re so clearly the same person i honestly just find this pair of panels fascinating to look at.

this panel also kind of gets at my favorite thing about pudding as a character, really. i know she’s a little controversial in fandom, but i’ve always found her entertaining (at least post-reveal), especially in the contrast between her unhinged evil side and her genuinely sweet romantic side and her post-wedding tendency to randomly ping-pong between the two.

i just always like reminding people that sanji is fast enough and his observation haki good enough to dodge a surprise attack, while thoroughly distracted, from katakuri.

sanji in this arc tends to get shit from a certain side of fandom for being ‘useless’ since he doesn’t have a big climactic fight despite being the focus of the arc, which i think is thoroughly missing the point. sanji is still plenty capable in combat, as demonstrated both here and later, with chiffon and oven. it just happens that his strength isn’t what saves the day ultimately, because combat ability isn’t everything, which is the entire point of the vinsmoke backstory/subplot. sanji saves the day just by being kind.

i’ll admit big mom’s flashback isn’t one of my favorites, taken in isolation- there are some parts of it that kind of unresolved (at least as of now- i still suspect they’ll be followed up eventually), and in general, although there is a tragedy to it, it doesn’t quite hit the way many of the other more effective flashbacks do. that said, i do think it does a really good job of succinctly explaining why big mom is the way she is in the present: she’s a child who was never told no, who never grew or matured past the disappearance of her adopted mother. that’s it, and that’s enough.

i’ve always been a little bit in love with how seriously and consistently one piece handles its themes of found family, and sanji outright disowning judge in whole cake island is maybe the most outright they ever get: family is found, not made. you owe nothing to your blood and are never beholden to your abusers.

and i just like that a whole lot.

i do think the tamatebako is one of the best uses of chekov’s gun i’ve ever seen. we’re first shown it at the end of fishman island, it’s revealed it got sent off to big mom rigged with explosives which is a minor “oh fuck” moment, and then it gets forgotten about, because the entirety of punk hazard and dressrosa happens in between! which is a lot!

i remember when i reached the moment in whole cake island where we’re reminded that that bomb still exists and is still waiting to explode, i just started laughing hysterically out loud, because i’d completely forgotten, and now that i remembered i was just delighted to know it was going to definitely go off at some point, almost certainly in a very satisfying way.

pedro is, if i remember right, the first time the imagery of the coming dawn that will become quite important in wano really has attention drawn to it in-text- the recurring motif is there before this, of course, dating all the way back to the names of the first chapter (romance dawn) and first island (dawn island), but this is the first time it’s actively addressed in-story.

in doing so, oda essentially presents a fresh mystery for us, but one that has been set up so consistently ever since chapter one that it feels like it fits perfectly into the world and story.

luffy’s been punching way above his weight class ever since crocodile all the way back in alabasta, fighting enemies who clearly outmatch him but always managing to win anyways, but his fight with katakuri is maybe the clearest the sheer differential in strength ever gets, because katakuri’s powers are similar enough to luffy’s that he can pull off pretty much all of luffy’s techniques, but better. so luffy has to fall back on the two things that have always been his greatest strengths, again all the way back to crocodile in alabasta: innovation and sheer fucking stubbornness.

one thing i love about one piece is how no character is immune to being clowned on. absolutely nobody. everybody looks like an idiot sometimes, and it makes everything so much more fun than if the series took itself more seriously. katakuri basically actively tries to avert this by building up a fearsome, flawless, and utterly no-nonsense persona, but it winds up failing hard because it actually only makes the contrast and surprise of his actual personality and vices that much funnier.

i’ve always loved this one panel of carrot going sulong, because she just looks so monstrous, like a true werewolf. the same goes for the shift in big mom’s design when she starts going truly mad with starvation and gets even more threatening-looking (below). i just think oda should let women be monstrously scary more often.

i do really love that the entire climax of whole cake island hinges on the degree of trust and faith the strawhats, and sanji and luffy specifically, have in each other. they’re all facing massive challenges that would seem insurmountable to an outsider- luffy facing down a yonkou’s commander with a bounty of over a billion and sanji remaking a massive cake that took months to plan and make in just a few hours, the others evading big mom’s full forces and big mom herself for a full night- but none of them have even a shred of doubt that the others can manage it.

i wrote a meta post awhile back about one piece’s concept of ‘honor in a pirates’ fight, and what it came down to is this: honor can never be expected between pirates, but the best of them will show it anyways, and it can be a very telling judge of character. nobody would expect katakuri to do this, and luffy even calls him an idiot for it, but he has enough respect for luffy as a strong opponent to do it anyways, and that’s how we know for absolute certain that even though he’s an antagonist, he’s also a good, honorable person.

i really like the gesture of luffy leaving his hat over katakuri’s mouth, especially because until this point, we’re never even given any indication that he’s really noticed it, let alone that katakuri is insecure about it. he never reacts to or comments on it (which is in itself kind of unusual from someone who tends to nickname opponents by their appearances as often as luffy does) one way or another.

and then he does this, confirming all at once that he did fully notice and understand, he just doesn’t care. which i think sums up one of the more under-appreciated aspects of luffy’s character- he’s generally way more observant than people give him credit for, especially when it comes to people, it’s just that he has a very different sense of what’s important and what’s not than your average person.

i love the sheer contrast between big mom’s delighted, rapturous singing as she devours the wedding cake against the violence taking place on screen as her army rains fire and hell down on the thousand sunny. it parallels her initial introduction at the start of the arc perfectly, and is just an excellent way to close out the arc with a bang.

i said it earlier but it bears repeating here, for a different reason: luffy is not very physically intimidating. he’s shorter than most of the other main characters, he’s a lanky teenager, he dresses casually and his most identifiable accessory is a farm hat.

but then there are times when he looks like a captain, like a future pirate king, and it just looks so natural on him. i can never get over it.

i really like that, after spending a whole arc demonstrating just how different (and how much better) sanji is than the vinsmokes, it ends like this- showing us just how similar he’s grown up to the man he’s chosen as his real family, and just how proud zeff would be of him.

[nottheweirdest]

Sonadowtober Day 12: Pirate

When Cream faces a crisis she doesn't have to fear. Why you ask? Because pirate Shadow is here!

Read below or on Ao3!

Pirate

Sonic leapt up and cheered wildly, startling Vanilla who hesitated only a moment before standing and enthusiastically applauding at his side. Others in surrounding theater seats slowly uncurled themselves and did the same until the entire audience was clapping and whistling.

From both sides of the stage, cast members of Boots to Booty came into the limelight to take their final bow until finally the last two actors were left, one of which just happened to be Sonic’s dashing fiancé in full captain’s regalia.

The cobalt hedgehog whistled loudly and turned to grab the bouquet of roses he’d picked up on his way to the show. He hadn’t had much time to prepare and wouldn’t have known at all if Vanilla hadn’t spilled the beans a mere hour before. Shadow acting in a community theater production was enough to throw him for a loop on its own, but seeing him star alongside their young friend Cream as a pirate was… something else entirely.

The play told the tale of an orphaned girl who, after being begrudgingly adopted by a grumpy pirate, learns the way of the sea and uses her new found skills to fight tyranny. The middle-aged possum formerly cast in the role had fallen off a ladder the day before, leaving the show without a co-star and Cream, who had won the part of the tenacious orphan, devastated. Apparently when Shadow had found out, he’d leapt into action as he was wont to do. It was… just a different kind of action. He’d learned every line, every choreographed movement, and been ready by opening night.

And to think, half the world thought Shadow a hardened villain when the truth of it was, the hybrid would sacrifice pride and dignity just to save a teenage girl from disappointment.

Sonic grinned and pulled a rose out to toss on the stage earning him an eye roll from his partner, but Sonic couldn’t help it. Shadow looked absolutely dashing. His hover skates had been exchanged for dark brown boots complete with golden buckles and ornately decorated red cuffs. His chest fluff was partially concealed by a white button down shirt, held to his body with a thick leather belt. His red captain’s vest was trimmed in gold thread, complimenting Shadow’s broad shoulders and narrow waist. White cotton gloves had been exchanged for softened brown leather and the crimson tricorn hat atop his head was adorned with two vibrant ruby feathers.

Sonic never wanted him to take the costume off.

After numerous rounds of applause, the cast disappeared to the sides of the stage and the lights turned on allowing patrons to exit.

Mere minutes later Cream darted from the stage’s side exit and leapt into her mother’s arms. Vanilla squeezed her tightly, beaming with pride. “You were amazing!”

Cream pulled back, nearly glowing with exhilaration. “Thanks, mom!” She turned to Sonic, who handed her the roses and kissed her cheek. “Your mom’s right, you were a natural up there!”

Cream dipped her nose into the flowers to hide her blush while her mom laughed. “Hopefully not a natural pirate!”

“If I am, it’s only because Shadow taught me!”

Sonic looked back toward the stage. “Speaking of, where’s Shadow?”

“Oh!’ Cream perked up. “He’s waiting for you behind the scenes. Everyone’s pretty much cleared out now, so just make sure the doors are fully shut when you leave. They’ll lock automatically.”

“Sure thing. Wonder what he needs.”

“He didn’t say. Will we see you at Vector’s for the afterparty?”

Sonic shot the teenager a thumbs up and a quick wink. “Wouldn’t miss it!”

Vanilla wrapped her arm around her daughter’s shoulder and steered her toward the main exit. “We’ll see you there, Sonic.”

The blue hedgehog waved and leapt up the steps Cream had descended. Behind the curtain the stage was dark and quiet, almost eerily so. Lights, ropes, and pulley systems hung from the ceiling while scenery from past plays cast long shadows in the minimal light provided by red exit signs.

Actually, it wasn’t almost eerie. It was downright creepy.

He only had a millisecond to process the sound of a sword being drawn before the cold press of steel was at his throat. He froze, gulping audibly, heart damn near beating out of his chest.

“What would you give me to spare your life?”

Sonic immediately recognized Shadow’s voice, but it did nothing to calm him. If anything his heart beat faster. “Who says I’d give you anything?”

“I believe the sword at your throat does.”

Sonic bit his bottom lip and reached for the edges of Shadow’s coat, lightly toying with the fabric. In the faint red light he could barely make out Shadow’s form, but it didn’t matter. As always, he was hyper aware of the hybrid. Maybe it was the chaos energy that lived in him, sensing Shadow’s. Maybe it was the experience resulting from years of sparing, racing, and fighting. Or maybe it was that Sonic’s body was so intimately familiar with Shadow’s in the dark.

The hero didn’t need his eyes to know that the sword at his neck was about to lower. Why would he when he could feel Shadow’s breath on his lips?

“A kiss,” Shadow whispered. “Your life for a kiss.”

Sonic’s eyes closed, the sweet swell of anticipation building inside him. “Just a kiss?”

“Just a kiss.”

“Do you accept tips?”

Shadow grinned. “Aye. This pirate does.”

[karlyfr13s]

Helping Destiny Along

A fluffy CS one-shot for the lovely @teamhook

Thank you @veryverynotgoodwrites for being one heck of a beta, and @the-darkdragonfly for your brainstorming powers!

Summary: Henry Mills has a theory: for each Captain Hook, there must be an Emma Swan. Well, he found Princess Emma Nolan at long last and is determined to bring her together with Killian Jones now that he's back in the Wishverse version of the Enchanted Forest.

Read it on AO3

At nineteen, Princess Emma Nolan believed in True Love. After all, her parents had found each other, and everyone knew theirs was a legendary love worthy of poetry and song. She watched for a prince from the high windows of her tower bedroom, waiting for someone tall, dark, and handsome to sweep her off her feet. He would be bold, romantic, dashing, and kind-hearted—she just knew it.

At twenty-two, she concluded that such a love was rare and that her parents may be the only two people with a Capital-T, Capital-L True Love, so she started looking for the more run-of-the-mill variety. Instead of waiting for someone to ride up to the castle gate and court her, she took a more active approach and sought her love by traveling and meeting new people. When that didn’t work either, Princess Emma tried for mutual attraction, which was fun at twenty-four, but grew stale by twenty-five. So she resigned herself to loving her kingdom and her people.

At twenty-eight, a man knocked on the door and utterly transformed her life. To be clear, she did not love that particular man. Henry came from a faraway land and told her fantastic tales that seemed beyond the reach of even her magic, and while she did not love him, he told her somewhere out there in a world beyond her grasp there was an Emma Swan who was his mother, and who loved him ferociously. For days, she and her parents welcomed Henry to stay in their home and share meals at their table, and for days he regaled them with stories of his world and of other versions of each member of the Nolan family. They were spellbound by his narratives. He was a gifted storyteller, and as if he’d known this was too fantastic to be believed, he came with something called photographs that showed a still window into his world. She saw a version of her mother, Queen Snow, but much younger and with close-cropped dark hair instead of the silvery tresses she was accustomed to. Her father was another surprise--he looked barely older than Emma herself, sandy hair where now there was gray, and while she knew her father was still a strong and capable swordsman, this version of King David seemed able to challenge even the mightiest ogre.

Princess Emma Nolan even saw herself, but not herself. They looked identical, she and Henry’s mother, and while her style was different from this unknown twin’s, she couldn’t help but notice some similarities. Emma Swan was often pictured in a short red leather coat, while Princess Emma Nolan’s favorite doublet was a rich blue leather. When she commented, Henry told her they both wore them like armor, gesturing to the bruise on his shoulder from their earlier sparring session in the yard. Emma Swan liked to pull her hair back, wearing it high on her head much like Princess Emma Nolan when she wasn’t expected at court or in her regal finest. Henry even had a picture of his mother with a sword--is she trained as well? She’d asked, and Henry grinned at the question, answering with another tale of his mother besting a pirate in single combat!

“I’m pretty sure that fight was rigged though,” he admitted as they walked the castle gardens one afternoon. “And that’s part of why I’m here.” He stopped and faced her, saying he hoped she could believe one more outlandish story before he had to return to his world.

“You seem to come well-armed with evidence, Henry. I don’t see why I should doubt you at this point.”

“My mother, Emma Swan, is an incredible woman. It took her a long time, but she found her True Love, and I think you can find yours. When I learned there was a version of her--of you--here, I had to find out if you were with him too, and when you weren’t…” Henry trailed off, frowning at the ground. He was quiet for a long while, and Emma ran through his words over and over. Henry thought he knew who her True Love was? How? How could he know that his mother and whoever she was with were one another’s True Love?

“I know he’s here now--I’ve met him before, and back in my world--”

“What? Then how can he be my True Love if he’s from your world?” None of this was making sense, and for the first time she doubted Henry. It seemed he could see the uncertainty within her, and he steered them to a bench to sit and talk as he clarified this man was not from his world, but had been brought there by a curse. The same curse that separated Henry from his own family.

“I know you understand curses and magic,” he began and she nodded at his words. “So when I tell you he was swept up in a curse and brought back in time to my world, that should make sense, right?” She nodded again, wondering who could have cursed two men from different worlds at the same time. Someone powerful and dangerous. Henry sighed and continued. “His name is Killian Jones, and he’s the best man I know. He’s my father in every sense of the word, and while there’s a version of him who is my mother’s True Love, I know there is one who is also yours. He has to be.”

Henry told her a lengthy story about a witch who ensnared a group of people from this kingdom, trapping them in a place called Hyperion Heights. He spoke of a coven leader who cursed Killian Jones so he could never be in contact with his daughter—a child she had abandoned him with after tricking him into spending a night with her. “But you see, Emma, you can break that curse. Your love--yours and Killian’s will break that curse. You will have each other and Alice--hell, and Robin! I haven’t even told you about Robin,” he was lost in thought again after that. Emma waited and tried to make sense of all she had learned.

Is it possible? In some way, his tale made sense. If what he said about the curse was true, it would explain The Gap. Emma had never mentioned The Gap to Henry, though he may have learnt of it through other means. It was rarely spoken of, but everyone in the Enchanted Forest shared one simple truth: there was a block of time no one could account for. Whenever Emma or her parents tried to focus on that space, thinking back to her twenty-sixth birthday, there was a strange void where there should be at least some memory of the year. She could remember the celebratory ball and the night of her birthday, but every time she tried to focus on what came next it only earned her a persistent headache.

“Please don’t hate me, Emma,” Henry put a hand on her shoulder, bringing her back to the present. “I told him to meet me here three days after I arrived. That’s tonight. He’ll be here, and he knows what I believe about you two because he also knows my mother and her Killian. He’s, uh...not entirely convinced. He’s been through a lot, but…” He shrugged and gave her a lopsided smile.

“It’s his story to tell, so I won’t go into detail, just...go easy on the guy. He might be a little gun shy—uh, guarded,” he quickly clarified when he saw her blink in confusion. “I don’t think he’s seen anyone since that witch who duped him, led the coven, and tried to destroy Hyperion Heights. Think that might do a number on a guy.” He looked so sincere, so much like he did when telling all his other tales that Emma chose to believe. Henry hadn’t lied to her before, so what would the motivation be to do so now?

She chewed at her lip, fretting over what to do and how to greet someone who might be a part of her very soul--someone who had been through tricks and curses, and had suffered real loss. She couldn’t simply turn him out in the night, that was unthinkable, but what do you say to the other half of your heart? If that is what he is. This had to have been simpler for her mother. At least she’d simply caught her father in a net after robbing him. That seemed easier than calmly welcoming fate to dinner and introducing the man to your parents on day one.

“Well,” she got up and dusted off her breeches, “I suppose we’d best let my parents know we’re expecting another guest. And I may need to change as well. I think I’d rather not smell worse than the stables when I meet him.” Emma faltered on the last word, not knowing how to address Killian Jones. Henry smiled and followed her lead.

-----

One thorough and contemplative bath later, Emma emerged in a blush pink gown that shimmered softly in the waning sunlight. It had taken her three other dresses before she settled on this one. It was simpler than what she wore to galas and State events: tea length and embroidered in sheer flowers. She knew it would glow softly under the lights of the candles and torches at dinner, and Princess Emma Nolan found herself hoping he would like it.

When he arrived, it was Henry who greeted Killian Jones first, clasping the man’s hand and giving Emma a moment to simply observe. His smile was warm, a bright white flash of teeth and Emma noticed the slight creases at his eyes as well. An authentic smile, she noted, enjoying the genuine moment between the two men. He was dashing there was no other word for it--dressed in black and rich crimson, rings and charms gleaming in the firelight, their glimmer echoed in the silver strands that threaded here and there through his otherwise coal-black hair. Where his left hand ought to be, Emma found instead a polished silver hook and she remembered whispered gossip of a pirate captain referred to only by the moniker Hook. Once a fearsome leader of a brutal band of thieves, he had all but vanished into lore years ago. She realized too late that she’d been staring, and cleared her throat softly before curtseying to cover the awkwardness. Henry took the moment to introduce them, “Captain Killian Jones, may I present Emma Nolan, Princess of Misthaven.”

She offered her hand and Killian took it up, placing a chaste kiss across her knuckles. His eyes met hers, their brilliant lapis blue making her breath catch in her throat. Regardless of the formality of their meeting and the fact Henry, her parents, and several serving staff looked on, she felt the pull immediately. From the moment her hand was in his, it felt right. She wanted to keep hold of him more than she’d wanted anything in her life, wanted to memorize the rough calluses formed by his years at sea, but she forced herself to maintain propriety and brought her hand back to her side. Emma reminded herself they did not know one another, to not get swept up in Henry’s notions without evaluating the truth of the situation. Though she saw in his gaze a strange flicker of recognition, a brief knitting of his brow that asked a silent question she could not interpret, she let the moment pass and returned to her expected duties.

Emma introduced him to her parents, watching her father’s scrutinizing gaze contrast with her mother’s brilliant smile. No doubt her father was riddling out Henry’s purpose in inviting this man to dinner, though she couldn’t fathom him guessing the truth. All through dinner, Emma could barely take her eyes off Killian. He shared a few stories from his days at sea, talking of far-off kingdoms and uninhabited islands, and Emma felt a longing take hold of her as he spun a tale of a snow-covered northern kingdom where they carved elaborate ice sculptures, held firelight festivals, and celebrated the beauty of winter rather than fearing its chill. His voice was low, its velvet warmth wrapping around her and pulling her from all sense of time. The evening passed quickly, and long before she was ready, Emma’s parents stood to signal the end of the affair.

“It’s far too late for you to make a return journey, Captain Jones,” Queen Snow spoke. “We welcome you to stay as a guest in our home. We will have a room made up for you at once and hope you will accompany us for breakfast in the morning.” At his thanks, the Queen turned to Emma, “Oh, and Emma, darling?”

“Yes, Mother?”

Emma approached and her mother drew her in for a close hug, whispering softly, “See to it that Captain Jones can find his way. Most of the staff have already retired and I’d hate for him to get lost in search of rest.” With that, the Queen turned and gently tugged her husband toward their own chambers, leaving Emma to escort their two guests.

She could hear her father grumbling about leaving Emma unchaperoned, but Snow’s voice echoed back, “David, she’s twenty-eight, not sixteen, she’ll be fine. Our daughter is perfectly capable--” Their voices were lost as they rounded a corner, and Emma suppressed a smile. It didn’t matter that she was a full grown woman, her father would always be protective of her.

When she turned around, Emma realized Henry had vanished. Someone seems to think himself a matchmaker, she mused and as her eyes fell upon the man who waited by the fireplace she could understand why Henry had made himself scarce. Deep breath, Emma. He’s simply a man like any other. If she tried very hard, she just might convince herself of that. Well, unless she stopped to listen to the way her heart raced when the corner of his mouth ticked up in a smile.

“Did you want--that is,” she faltered and tripped over her tongue, coming to stand near him where he leaned against the back of a chair by the hearth. “I don’t know how long a trip you made today, and so…” Why was this so hard?

“I’m quite alright, Princess. Would it be terribly inappropriate of me to ask you to keep me company and perhaps share a drink?” She smiled in response, slipping a large book from a shelf over the mantle after pointing out where her father kept a set of glasses on a shelf nearby.

“He thinks I don’t know about this,” she opened the volume to reveal a bottle. “Rum he had imported from the south--is that acceptable, Captain?”

“Aye, that will do nicely. Bit of a pirate in you isn’t there, Princess? Pinching a man’s rum while he’s fast asleep.” They shared a conspiratorial grin as she poured and each took up a chair near the fire. “To what shall we toast, love?”

She hummed in thought, considering the man before her. The pull was still there like some invisible thread entwining the two of them and she hoped it wasn’t only she who felt it. “To new beginnings,” she offered, holding her glass aloft. He echoed the sentiment and crystal clinked as their eyes met over the rims of their glasses before both looked away shyly and took a sip. The warmth and spice slid down her throat, settling in her stomach and making her shiver. They were quiet for a time, simply sharing the space while they glanced at one another, eyes never quite meeting, nor acknowledging they were both performing the same dance.

“I take it dear Henry shared his theory with you?” Killian broke the silence, addressing the weight that had settled in the room. She confirmed he had shared that along with several other stories, asking if it were true he’d been swept away to a land without magic. “Aye, and for some time I had no memory of myself or this place. When the truth finally came back to me it was...difficult to deal with. Did he...mention Alice?” He swirled the rum in his glass, eyes flicking up to meet hers.

“Yes, he also mentioned a curse is keeping you apart,” she reached across the small distance that separated them, hand resting on the brace that held his hook. “Killian—if I may call you Killian,” she felt herself flush at the informality and he nodded encouragingly. She said it once more, feeling the musical quality of it as she continued. “What kind of monster keeps a father from his daughter like that?”

His shoulders sagged as he said the story of Gothel was one for another day, that it was a story filled with dark shadows he dare not conjure without the sunlight to dispel them. “I only mention Alice because...well, given what Henry has told both of us I have been...” his brow furrowed as he searched for a word, and she leaned forward, absently running her hand over his sleeve and feeling where the firm leather of his brace ended and the warmth of his arm began. His gaze dropped to where her hand rested and she looked up, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. “Concerned,” he finished at last. “That is, I’d thought perhaps because I have a child with someone else, and because I am obviously older than you are, that you might feel...or not feel a certain…not that I think Henry is necessarily right…”

His words tapered off and she became very aware they were both leaning in now, the distance between them nearly closed. She could see the silver in his hair glinting in the firelight, the strands at his temples more greyed than the rest. Greedily, she took in all she could in this moment. The heat that radiated from where her hand still rested atop his arm, the scents of leather and petrichor that clung to him were so close she could nearly roll them on her tongue. When she searched his eyes she saw a lingering hurt, but behind that was what appeared to be cautious hope. Setting her glass aside, Emma brought her hand up, allowing herself to do what she’d been wanting to all evening and running her fingers through his hair. He held her gaze, eyes wide and uncertain and she realized his past hurts ran deep enough that he wouldn’t act on that hopeful glint she’d seen moments ago. She would have to be brave for both of them.

With a whisper of his name she closed what little distance remained between them. She’d intended a light brush of her lips, had simply wanted to know what may lie between them, but the moment their lips met Emma knew she would never be satisfied with so little. She poured herself into the moment, moving to grip the front of his shirt and pull him tightly to her. He followed her lead, their kiss deepening as he tilted his head, the two of them moving as though they had done this a hundred times before. She heard her pulse pounding away in her head, felt his breath ghosting over her lips as they breathed into one another for a moment before he captured her lips again. Something shifted then, like the single beat of a massive heart, a shockwave rippled outward, though neither could be bothered to break this moment. Finally, the two pulled back, eyes searching one another.

“Was that?” Emma asked, not knowing how to complete the thought. Her parents had told her their story several times: the kiss that broke the curse. The kiss that radiated out from them in a burst of force and light. The kiss that sounded an awful lot like what she had just shared with Captain Killian Jones.

Killian rested his forehead against hers, breathing out slowly before replying in a soft voice, “Aye love, I think it may have been.” She asked how that was possible, neither naming it yet and both quaffing their rum before leaning back in their chairs. “Years ago,” he began, “I ran into a fortune teller on the docks. He told me I would find my happiness though it was presently locked away in a tall tower. So, when the time came and I found myself facing a witch and finding a woman locked away in a tower I had thought my moment had come. Instead, I found Gothel and her tricks. I brought a daughter into this world only to have her freedom snatched away by the cold-hearted woman who bore her.”

Emma watched him closely, he seemed far away and lost in another time. “Tonight,” he continued after several beats, “when I saw the westward tower of this castle I had to stifle my hope that perhaps after so long--what is that tower to you?” He leaned toward her suddenly, his sapphire eyes searching hers as though he could read the truth within them.

“My bedroom,” she admitted. “My parents thought it would keep me safe. With only one known entrance and exit, it was easy to post guards and easy to know who sought my attention. Of course, there is another exit, but no one other than me knows of it. I devised it when I was sixteen and desperately wanted a way out without the entourage of guards.”

He fell silent, his forehead creased in thought as he tapped a finger against the bow of his lips. The mantle clock’s rhythmic ticking was nearly deafening as Emma waited through each drawn out second. Mesmerized by the path he now traced along his bottom lip, her mind drifted back to the soft press of his mouth against hers and she wished fervently to undo whatever had him so lost in his own thoughts. Come back to me, Killian, she sighed aloud and he snapped to attention. “My apologies, love. I believe I may be in need of rest.” His explanation rang hollow and she leveled a gaze at him, knowing this wasn’t the full truth.

“I swear to you, Princess, I will make my theories known. I do not intend to hide anything from you.” He stood then, stretching languidly before offering his arm and waiting for her to rise. She acquiesced if only for the chance to feel the warmth of him once more before she retired for the night. She tried to stifle her yawn behind her hand and heard him chuckle low in response. “It seems I may not be the only one in need of sleep. Lead the way, love.”

She led him to one of the guest rooms not far from Henry’s. As she bid him goodnight, Killian leaned down to brush a featherlight kiss across her lips, wishing her sweet dreams. Emma felt as though she floated on air the whole way up to her room, content to leave him to his musings tonight and trusting he would speak his mind soon enough.

----- The morning saw Emma waking earlier than usual, calling a chipper “Good morning” to her sleep-rumpled lady’s maid before dismissing her and attending to her own routine. Still abed at this hour? It seems dear Tink has been keeping late hours herself. She let herself ponder whose affections might be persuading the spunky blonde to be less than punctual, smiling at her reflection as she brushed out her golden tresses.

Once ready, Emma hummed to herself, making her way down the innumerable stairs in search of breakfast, her parents, and Killian--the thought made her grin. His sudden shift into contemplativeness notwithstanding, he had been the perfect gentleman last night. Thoughtful in their discussion at dinner, genuine and curious without overstepping, and then there was the kiss. She flushed, pausing before the dining room doors to gather her thoughts and put on what she hoped was a soft smile rather than the doe-eyed look she’d undoubtedly been wearing since she woke.

Her parents, Henry, and Killian were already seated when she entered--the latter both rising and inclining their heads in deference. “Good morning, Princess,” they intoned in unison. She laughed, insisting they sit and continue the conversation she had interrupted, taking her place at her father’s right hand and quietly thanking the servingman who filled her cup with coffee and cream.

“Killian, you were asking about the tower, yes?” Queen Snow offered an encouraging half-smile before sipping demurely at her tea. At this, Emma heard her father mutter under his breath about the Captain inquiring about his daughter’s bedroom.

“Yes. You see, Your Majesty, I can’t help but notice it is nearly identical--from the outside,” he clarified at her father’s rapidly reddening face, “to one I encountered years ago. That particular structure was the residence of a rather powerful witch.”

“Gothel,” her father spat, and all eyes shifted to him. Emma saw Killian’s jaw clench at the name and he gave a single, curt nod in affirmation.

With her mother’s hand resting on his shoulder, her father began the story she’d heard many times over the course of her life. The story of how Gothel heard the regents were expecting and deduced there would be a child born of the most powerful magic in all realms: True Love. That she knew as well that child would have light magic, and that even if it never manifested there would be power in their blood. It was the story of why Emma’s parent’s fortified their home so heavily once word of Gothel’s covetous wish reached them, and why they insisted she train with sword and bow.

“It’s why my little girl was taught to ride like a soldier and not a courtier. Hell, it’s why I gave into her frankly dangerous wishes and allowed her to learn to sail--in case she needed to escape quickly.”

“Does it help to know Gothel can’t harm anyone anymore?” Henry offered helpfully, trying to lighten the weight that had settled on the group. There was general agreement at the table that, yes, it did help. Quite a lot, in fact, and it felt as though the sun broke out from beneath the clouds as they returned to their breakfast.

“Is that what you were concerned about, Captain?” Emma caught herself in time and used his title, not yet ready to have that discussion with her parents.

“The thought had crossed my mind, Princess, but it seems your own construction must have inspired hers for some reason.” He dismissed the thought, though she could practically hear the gears of his mind grinding away. The conversation returned to banal pleasantries about the weather and what game was in season. Her father consulted Killian on the conditions at sea, and in general the rest of the meal was like any other. Like any other meal you share with your family, a new friend, and the man you just shared True Love’s Kiss with less than eight hours after meeting him. Perfectly normal. Emma put on her court smile and commented politely, waiting for her moment to pounce.

“Join me for a walk in the gardens, Captain?” The moment arrived after a lengthy debate about the benefits of traveling by horse in comparison to ship. Thank the gods for the momentary lull as her father’s cup was refilled yet again - Emma didn’t think there was enough coffee in the whole of Misthaven to keep her alert on this topic.

“Of course, Princess.” He smiled bashfully, running his hand through his hair and standing as she rose. “May I?” He offered his arm and she accepted, the two making a long overdue exit.

The grass was still damp as they walked the grounds, the morning sun hinting at a warm day to come despite the slight chill that had Emma leaning in close, basking in the warm line of contact with Killian. “So, what was it you held back up there?” She broke the silence and watched the arch of his brow as he glanced at her. “I’ve always known when people are dishonest, or not fully honest in this case,” she explained. “It’s a feeling, sort of like a rock settling into my stomach. I don’t know if it’s part of my magic or something else,” she shrugged at this and watched his expression shift from curiosity to contemplation. No doubt he was thinking up a way to explain whatever was plaguing his mind.

He remained in that state as they passed her mother’s bed of crimson roses and all the way through the lilies that always made her nose twitch, their heady scent overpowering. Spotting the bench she and Henry had sat on—was that only yesterday?—she took the lead, turning to face him as they sat.

“There are some strange coincidences,” he began. Their knees brushed and she leaned into the contact, hoping her touch might ground him in the present. His past included darkness, and here in the bright morning sun amongst the flowers she hoped to keep those grim memories at bay.

“The tower is the first of them, and I’ve no idea which came first. Given Gothel’s numerous deceits, I’m not inclined to believe any of her tales nor any of Belfry’s—the woman who claimed to be the missing princess, Rapunzel,” he clarified when he saw her puzzled look. “Did you know the witch?”

She shook her head, “Only what my parents told me: that she was interested in my magic and had a reputation for taking what she desired by force.” He expressed clear agreement, and when his focus became distant Emma took hold of both hand and hook. “Whatever it is, that doesn’t change who we are to one another, Killian.”

That must have heartened him, for it earned her a gentle smile. “Aye, love, I suppose you’re right. You see, the other strangeness was Gothel’s impersonation. I’ve never given it much thought, but why should she play at being a princess? I’d no notion who the woman was, yet she changed her appearance, her voice, her name. Why?” He hypothesized then that either Gothel bribed the fortune-teller, planting the man in Killian’s path with a bogus story about happiness in a tower, or that she somehow knew Emma would be important and hedged her bets by occupying her own tower and putting herself in Killian’s path.

“You see, I’ve considered the strangeness of these overlaps and in part I wonder if one of the gifts she or a fellow witch of her coven acquired was prophecy. She seemed to know far more than anyone ought to, and perhaps thought to entrap me and use me to get to you.

“If she knew we were, uh,” he gulped, and flushed a charming shade of pink all the way to his ears. “Destined for one another, then it would be well within her character to exploit that. To make me think she could lead me to my happiness, then snatch you away for her own nefarious purposes. As well, I’m starting to suspect the unaccounted year the townsfolk allude to may well have been a longer span of time than any of you realize.”

It made sense in a way, and while they couldn’t be certain of Gothel’s intentions, Emma was definitely grateful the woman was gone and could do them no further harm. As far as The Gap was concerned, she supposed there was no real way of knowing how much time had passed, only that it seemed like a year. Had she slept as Aurora once had? Every answer seemed to lead to more questions, but Emma resolved herself to focusing on what mattered most first: reuniting Killian with his Alice.

“Despite her purposes, Killian, whatever they may have been,” she reached up and cupped his cheek. His eyes were blue as the sea and she let herself fall into their depths as she brought him back to the present. “Last night, Killian, True Love’s Kiss is potent magic and I think—I’m almost certain, actually—that we broke your curse. We can find Alice, and you can finally hold your daughter in your arms again.”

“We?” He grinned at her, nuzzling against her hand before turning to kiss her palm. “Then you’ll accompany me, love?”

“Of course! I know we’ve only just met, but I think it’s more than obvious how I feel about you given the fact we broke a witch’s curse with our first kiss.” They shared a laugh, shifting so she could rest her head against his shoulder as he draped his arm around her.

“She’s a bit different, my Alice,” he cautioned.

“And we aren’t?” she challenged. “Tonight at dinner, let me handle my parents. We’ll tell them what happened and make plans to seek out Alice. Henry said she’s with someone called Robin—does that name mean anything to you?”

“Aye, that’s Alice’s love. I know where to find them.”

“Then that’s our next course. Reuniting you with your daughter is the first step toward, well, I guess…” she paused, pulling back to meet his gaze again. “I guess toward becoming a family, right? I mean, my parents will have questions and all things considered, I guess we have other planning we’ll need to do in the future, but—“ he cut off her monologue with a kiss. It was sweet and slow, like he was trying to memorize the feel of her lips on his. His tongue flirted with her bottom lip and she twined her fingers in his hair.

Pulling back to meet her eyes, Killian smiled. “I love you, Princess Emma Nolan,” he whispered.

She felt warm all the way to her toes, grinning as she replied, “I love you, Captain Killian Jones.” The two shared a lingering kiss, the spell suddenly broken by a loud whoop of excitement.

“I told you both!” Henry hollered, emerging from his hiding place behind a large oak tree and performing some bizarre dance Emma had never seen. The three laughed, Henry congratulating them on their newly blossoming relationship while Emma and Killian thanked him for the unlooked-for but welcome help.

“What can I say except: you’re welcome.” His smile was bright at the sun and he slung an arm over both their shoulders, walking between them as the three returned to the house and, for Emma and Killian, toward the start of a new life together.

Tagging the usual suspects: @kmomof4, @teamhook, @veryverynotgood, @caught-in-the-filter, @hollyethecurious, @laschatzi, @donteattheappleshook, @lonelyspectator12, @the-darkdragonfly, @zaharadessert, @winterbaby89, @jrob64, @wefoundloveunderthelight, @ultraluckycatnd, @stahlop, @alexa-fangirl-forever, @superchocovian, @monosalvatore16, @snowbellewells, @batana54

[navigatrixnarrations]

Sometimes Always, Part 2: Thick As Thieves

The second chapter of a canon divergent kind-of fix-it set after Season 3. In which the past does not stay buried.

Warnings: Profanity, mentions of hanging and violent injuries

Word Count: 2187

Catch up here: Part 1

Vane wakes at dawn to find Margaret already up and about, though he’s not sure she’s slept at all. Her face looks drawn, and in the grey light the dark circles beneath her eyes nearly look as though she’s sporting a pair of shiners. She’s built up the fire and is sitting in front of it, her long fingers wrapped around a mug of tea. She glances over and pours him a mug, which he gulps down. It’s brewed strong and sweet.

He takes the chair across from her and rests his elbow on the table, leaning in to peer at her. “What the fuck are you doing here, Magpie?”

“Charles, are you turning into a philosopher?”

There's a wall there, where there never was before. Not that he can blame her. “You said you fucking hate it here. You could go anywhere. Why do you stay?”

She relents with a heavy sigh. “I’m keeping a promise to my father.” Her voice is curt. He waits for her to elaborate. She doesn’t.

“You could have rejoined him, or gone back to Nassau.”

She stares at him as though she can’t believe how stupid he is, but there’s a wound behind her eyes. “No. I couldn’t.” She stands and paces to the window, which she stares out blankly.

“But why here?”

“Because this is where the ship he put you on was headed.”

Vane remembers very little of what happened after he stepped off the cart. The jolt at the end of the rope. Gunshots and commotion. Falling and being caught. The wound in his leg had started to fester while he was gaoled, and he spent days drifting in and out of consciousness, feverish, his throat too sore from the noose to talk. At the edges of his vision, a dark figure whose face he couldn’t make out — he assumes he hallucinated that. At some point he learned he was on a schooner bound for New York City, and that it was part of Blackbeard’s fleet, one he sometimes used to move cargo without attracting attention.

“Why the fuck didn’t you let me know you were here?”

“Didn’t know what to say to you.” She shrugs. “I wasn’t sure whether the first thing I’d do would be hug you or knee you in the balls.”

“Yet you did neither.”

She narrows her eyes in a way he’s learned means don’t press your luck. “Get your shit from the rooming house. You can stay here while we figure out what the fuck to do next.” She said we.

He returns from the rooming house, his few worldly possessions in an old sea bag slung over his shoulder, to find her gone. The shot of nerves is a gut-punch until he sees the note on the table: “Back in a bit -- M”

And indeed, a short time later, he hears three quick raps on the window pane, an old signal of theirs, and a gust of chill air blows through the garret as it opens. Her voice: “I’m coming in.” She swings herself inside, landing with a loose-limbed ease that’s familiar from so many raids together. Her eyes are the only visible part of her. Everything else is swathed in dark clothing, from the knit cap and scarf hiding her hair and face to the well-worn canvas jacket and trousers hiding her figure.

He raises his eyebrows. “Has the door offended you in some way?” The woman has always known how to make an entrance.

She finishes unwrapping the scarf and pulls off her cap, releasing a weather system of dark hair. Margaret is in the clothes of a working pirate, hair wild and a spark of that old feral joy in her eyes, and the world begins to make sense again. He’s sure she’s got half a dozen knives concealed about her person, even if she’s carrying neither pistols nor cutlass.

She gives him a sly grin. “The Puritan couple downstairs is entirely too interested in saving my unworthy soul. I prefer to avoid them.”

“Mmhmm. You can’t have been rooftopping because you were someplace you shouldn’t have been and you didn’t want to be followed.”

She feigns indignation. “Who, me? An honest widow woman, pure in word, thought, and deed?”

He finds himself grinning back at her. “I appreciate the warning before you came through the window.”

“Well, I recall what happens when you’re startled.” He’d been dozing lightly and he grabbed her arm and threw her, pinning her to the deck with a knife to her throat before he realized who she was. The surprise on her face, the clean strips of linen scattered everywhere. He felt like an utter shit; he’d taken a nasty cutlass slash and she’d only been coming to change his bandages. He couldn’t look her in the eye for days after that. Yet even at her most furious, she never threw it back at him…

”I recall what happens when you’re startled too,” he smirks and quirks his scarred eyebrow melodramatically. He shouldn’t have snuck up on her when she had a marlinspike in her hand.

She smiles ruefully. “I apologized for that.”

“And I said not to worry; it came from a formidable opponent.”

The smile fades from her face. “I’m not your opponent, Charles.” Her voice is quiet, serious, thick with some emotion he can’t quite name. “I never was.”

“No,” he replies, equally quiet, equally serious, “But you are formidable.” How different life would be, if only he’d found the words.

Blocks away, the church bell on Broadway peals out the time. He’s not sure if he’s disappointed or relieved that he has to head to work. The evening passes uneventfully. On his return, she’s already gone to bed.

He is pushing the earth from his body, but it keeps piling on top of him. He can’t dig fast enough, and the manacles rip at his wrists, and a crowd is jeering and he can’t breathe…

Vane hits the rough wooden planks of the floor with a ragged shout. And then she’s at his side, her arms lifting him into a sitting position. They’re a sailor’s arms, sinewy and strong from years of hauling on lines and climbing aloft. Her hand, callused but gentle, pushing his hair from his eyes. Then she simply sits on the floor beside him and threads her fingers through his.

Despite being the Captain’s daughter, Margaret received no special treatment; Charles’s hammock was strung next to hers in the fo'c'sle. He’d flipped himself right out of it, hitting the floor with enough of a thud to wake her. She crouched beside him, an arm around his shoulders, reminding him where he was. “Next time, reach out for my hand,” she ordered. And so the next time a nightmare jolted him awake, he did. Many a night she held his hand in the dark as the ship creaked and swayed around them. None of the crew ever said a word to him about his nightmares, and that, he learned from Sully, was because she used what small influence she had to see to it that they wouldn’t.

“Was it the giant?” She remembers what he said the only time he told her -- told anyone -- what he saw in his nightmares. Of course she does.

“I killed him. I went back to that,” his voice breaks slightly, “place, and I killed him.”

In the dark, her hair brushes his shoulder as she turns her head to look at him. “Does it help, knowing he can never hurt you again?”

“Sometimes. But the fear never fully goes away.” He’s never told anyone else any of this. He’s not sure why he’s telling her, except that she held his hand in the dark. “I fought him first, and he knocked me unconscious. Buried me alive. Had to dig myself out.” Her hand tightens around his, a reminder that he is still alive, still free. He coughs out a broken approximation of a laugh. “Should’ve made sure I was dead before he put me in the fucking ground.”

“And so now you sometimes dream of that.” She pauses and gives him a measuring look. “And the jolt at the end of a rope?”

He nods. He should have expected that she’d guess right.

She frowns for a moment and stares into the middle distance. Then her face softens. ”Giant slayer.”

He leans his shoulder against hers. When he told her about his nightmares, she couldn’t believe he didn’t know the story of Jack the Giant-Slayer. He remembers another night, windy like this one, huddled together on another floor as she told him that tale by the light of a lantern. He can pinpoint it now, the moment when he started believing it was possible to slay a giant himself. Started believing it until a different girl convinced him that he could never.

He shifts so that their linked hands cover his racing heart. “Magpie.”

Her chest rises and falls inside the men’s shirt she’s wearing and she starts to lean closer. Then she stands abruptly, releasing his hand. “I’ll boil the kettle.”

They sip their drinks in silence. It’s not uncomfortable, not exactly, but perhaps he shouldn’t have been so bold. He shouldn’t have expected her to return any of his feelings, not after such a betrayal and so many years apart. He realizes his fingers have gone to the rope scar on the side of his neck, and that she’s watching.

“Does it give you pain?” There’s genuine concern on her face. Perhaps she still cares for him after all. From the moment he woke up on the Revenge, he and Margaret had been thick as thieves, which after all, as Margaret had sensibly pointed out, they were.

“Not usually.” He takes a long pull on his coffee. “Can’t say it improved my voice any.”

She catches his attempt at lightening the mood. “Regardless, you’ve turned into quite the orator.” She stands to open the shutters; by now the sky is lightening in the pre-dawn hush.

“I wasn’t aware I gave any speeches these past two days.”

“I meant your speech at the gallows. It was a bit of a distraction while I was trying to calculate windage and bullet drop.”

Vane snaps his head up to stare at her in shock. “You shot the rope?” She always was a good shot. Deadeye Magpie, picking off foes from the fighting tops.

She deadpans “I’ll admit that I fully understand the urge to kill you, but that doesn’t mean I would allow anyone else the satisfaction.”

He snorts, but feels something long buried within him melt. She’d gone back to Nassau, rescued him once more, at no small risk to herself. Why?

The momentary playfulness leaves her face at the question on his. “Is it truly so hard for you to believe? I took a musket ball for you once.”

That musket ball nearly killed her. Those weeks while Margaret was ashore recovering, she bloomed the way that young women sometimes do. Nearly overnight, it seemed, she’d gone from being a gawky, coltish little thing with the face of a cranky hawk to an aquiline beauty, graceful and utterly poised. His breath caught when he spied her on the jetty, her dark hair blowing loose in the wind and her eyes shining as she watched the Revenge crew come ashore with their latest prize. That hair has threads of silver in it now, but her body is every bit as lithe as he remembers, her face every bit as lovely. And if her eyes are sadder now, harder than they were all those years ago, they’re no less captivating.

He rises and closes the distance between them in three strides and takes her hands in his. “I can’t make it right,” he says quietly to her guarded, upturned face. “This I know. You gave me my freedom and your friendship, many times over, and in return I hurt you.”

She doesn’t pull away. “Did you know that Eleanor tried it on with Sully first? He saw right through her. Told her to fuck off.”

It stings, but he can’t say he’s surprised. They both tried to warn him and he lashed out at them, refused to listen. Told Margaret that she was spoiled and selfish, that she just wanted him at her beck and call...oh, the absolute fucking irony of that. “I’d take it back if I could. What I said. What I did.” Vane is not a man used to apologizing, but for for her, he’s willing.

She slips one hand out of his and places it lightly on the cheekbone that Eleanor had battered with her fists. “Sully never bore you any ill will. None of us did. He didn’t understand why you threw away everyone and everything for her. I didn’t then either, but I think perhaps I do now.” She drops her hand back to her side and starts to turn away. “I’ve got to go see some people about a boat.” Reluctantly, he releases her other hand. Watches her put on her coat and boots. Watches her walk away, again. This time, at least, they don’t part in anger.

[land-of-classpects-and-analysis]

Mage of Light

Well, now. Isn’t this quite an interesting situation? A Mage of Light giving the analysis, the story, the tale of their struggles and triumphs, of the Mage of Light? Granted, this was inevitable, much like how this will happen again with the Sylph of Life analysis. However, this one has come far quicker than the other one, and so it begs the question as to whether this will be a callout post about the socially anxious host themself, or if it will be another general look at the Classpect known as the Mage of Light? In a way, it will be a little bit of both, as bias and anecdotal scenarios will be an obvious thing that may pop up throughout this analysis. Whether it relates to the narrator of this piece, or to the general population of Mages of Light, will be up to your own imagination. Now, let’s end the theatrics and get ready to gaze into the scarring heat that us Mages of Light are known to look upon for guidance, reassurance, and, of course, the answers to all the questions we have.

It has always been rather fitting for the Aspect symbol for Light to be that of the Sun, at least personally speaking. From a very young age, we are advised to never look directly at the Sun, as its rays are bright and its light a burning hot. This is a good piece of advice for the literal Sun that the planet rotates around, but what about the more symbolic or metaphysical Sun? What about the children who are told to not look too deeply into the symbolism, the meaning, the message hidden behind the letters so elegantly carved into a book? After all, children are naturally curious and are capable of absorbing so much knowledge and rarely, if ever, seem to be satisfied with what they have. Many people talk about their own “phases” where they were fully dedicated to learning as much as they could about something. Pirates, Ancient Egypt, Dragons, Folklore, the Medieval Era, and so many more things. For the most part, parents do often encourage this curiosity that so naturally comes with being a child. Except, for some parents, it is a more conditional encouragement. Telling a child they may not know what or where their Christmas or Birthday presents are is a normal restriction upon a child’s knowledge. That is now what is being alluded to here. No, this is about the parents who blind their children from knowledge that may cause the child to be smarter and more tolerant than their parent, or have their child be more aware of the more horrific and taboo things in this world - the privileges that they may have. Little do their parent’s know how strong the curiosity of a child can be.

As a child, the Mage of Light would at least somewhat be, if not most definitely exactly, like this. While children are naturally curious, the young Mage of Light is someone who is constantly asking the questions, always trying to understand, never being satisfied with the answers they are given, and despising when someone - especially adults - hide things from them. Light-bound at their worst are known to be rather fussy, and if anyone is to perfectly encapsulate such a feeling, it would be a young Mage of Light being told they are forbidden from seeking out the knowledge and answers to a burning question of theirs. Tantrums and overall meltdowns are most definitely a mark of a younger Mage of Light, while later on in the Mage’s life, this contempt for being kept in the dark would show itself more as outright rebellion and sometimes even aggression, physical or otherwise. Much like the Mage of Void, the Mage of Light would be one who will grow into a person that will stop at nothing until they get the answers they want. Out of all the Mages, the Mage of Light is one who is more than ready to bash their head against a wall - metaphorically or otherwise - over and over, especially if it means they will finally come to answer or epiphany. They are born with the never-ending, forever-gnawing hunger to know and learn, and if no one will teach them properly, then they will happily teach themself.

Due to this way of life, it could be argued that the Mage of Light is one where their journey to knowledge and understanding begins as soon as they are born. However, that is only partially correct. While the Mage of Light is indeed someone who, in their early life, believes themself to be stranded in a vast ocean of knowledge - a Mage of Light’s true dream, really. However, what is important to keep in mind is what was mentioned earlier: that those now older, typically adults, will often look back at their learning “phases”, wherein they dedicated themself to only one or few topics of knowledge. Don’t think or believe for a moment that school is a place where their journey begins. Goodness, no. If anything, school is where the suffering of the Mage of Light begins - especially those who have their journey follow the path of seeking out knowledge of knowledge. However, that is for later on this analysis.

The Mage of Light, after leaving childhood, may know quite a lot about the (literal) ocean and the life within it, perhaps they know the entire history of all the wonderful European Folktales meant to startle children, or they dedicated themself to learn how to knit, cross-stitch, and sew, as well as the history of it. It’s hard to tell exactly when their journey does truly begin, as it can vary from Mage of Light to Mage of Light. One thing is most certain, though, when it comes to a common thread seen throughout all Mages of Light: their Aspect has not only revealed itself in its most purest form to the Mage, leaving them scarred from the encounter, but it has left something in the Mage of Light waiting to be awakened. That something is the hunger for more knowledge than what they already have. You see, what the Mage has been truly missing is the true mass, the entire volume, in which Light envelopes the world around them. After all, Light-bound are meant to be those who seek out knowledge of anything - even if it is something that would have been better left unlearned. As the Mage of Light enters a moment in their life where their parents cannot protect the Mage as much as they wish they could, and it is now up to them to make the decision of whether they seek out knowledge of something or not. Later on in the Mage of Light’s life, they will truly have to face the plasma heat of the Sun, and will finally realize why it is unwise to dance atop fresh ashes and burning coals.

Much like the Seer of Light, though, the Mage of Light poses another intriguing puzzle with their Classpect. The Mage of Light is one who actively seeks out knowledge of or through Light, there is no doubt there. What is interesting is that this basically boils down to someone seeking out knowledge of or through Knowledge, enlightenment, academics, and more. It seems like an almost obvious thing, and perhaps even redundant to say such a long-winded statement of “one who actively seeks out knowledge of or through knowledge”. While the latter half claiming it is rather redundant to say that makes a good point, it is also a rather brilliant and key difference to make between the two groups of Mages of Light. There are the Mages of Light who actively seek out knowledge through Light, wherein they have a journey far more like that of a chain, or like a spelunker who always manages to find holes, crevices, and cliffs that allow for them to go deeper and deeper into the Earth. While the knowledge they learned as a child may not be too helpful for a more “real” life, this curious passion and research may cause a spark to appear somewhere off in Mage of Light’s, close or otherwise.

Have you ever discovered a topic that has sent off the wonderful, serotonin-filled surges through your brain? No matter how obscure or mainstream it is, the brain - your brain - has processed that information enough to latch onto it like that of a long lost friend, relative, or lover. “More,” your brain tells you, “I want- no. I need more of this. More. More. More.” It’s a droning sound in your head, that four letter word being repeated over and over until, finally, you give in and seek out more knowledge of this topic. All there is to be found on it: every Wikipedia article, every theory, every documentary, every book, all of it, if only to keep your head quiet- but wait. What was that sentence you just read? It mentions something - or someone - that you do not know about nor ever heard of. Context is suddenly lost on you and you can feel as your brain begins to toss and turn within your skull like it is a coffin of calcium. Most people would shrug it off and continue reading, writing, research - but not you. No. You are a Mage of Light who has gone down the path of seeking out knowledge through Light - a chain forged from the brightest and hottest flame, and you are the blacksmith creating it. It never, ever seems to end, though, as every piece of information you take, every link you click on, everything leads down further and further down these rabbit holes. Until, eventually, you will discover that not only do you not know how to go back, that you are completely lost, but that all of these rabbit holes are connected and all lead to the same, fiery den. By the time you realize this, though, chances are that it will be too late to go back as you will find yourself in the chamber of the Sun, and it is simply too painfully beautiful to look away from. So you don’t. Even if you feel your eyes tearing up at how brightly it truly burns. You dare not look away, though, for you know deep down that this, this, is the most purest knowledge you could have ever discovered through Light and countless, sleepless nights. It is so gorgeous that you swear you might even go mad and lose yourself within its beauty.

Then there are the Mages of Light who simply seek out knowledge of Light. Chances are this is the one that brings most people to start scratching their heads. After all, isn’t this simply seeking out knowledge, point blank? Isn’t it? Wouldn’t it be great if it was just that easy? No, unfortunately this is the path in which the Mage of Light becomes knowledgeable of the fact that knowledge is all around them, not just in the form of objects, but also from the people around them. Most importantly, though, they will realize that a lot of this knowledge is painfully biased, disgustingly muddled in a game of telephone, and that a lot of it is just plain wrong. They are the ones who, unfortunately, will often know the facts and correct answers to a wide variety of topics. Whether it is something as obscure as the history and lore of bigfoot sightings, or as well known as World War 2 and all the intricacies within it, the Mage of Light is one who has already sought the knowledge of these things. However, due to the nature of so many Mages, they are often rather reluctant to open up and share their knowledge with others - especially in regards to the people they do not like. Mages can be rather petty, indeed, and are not afraid to taunt their enemies about the knowledge they have, waving it in front of the disliked person’s face like that of a carrot to a goat. Sometimes, the Mage of Light won’t even reveal that they have the answers to some people’s question, and instead leave them to continue spouting false truths. If the Mage of Light is especially vicious, they will inform everyone who not only knows their enemy but that the Mage trusts greatly, about the real knowledge and facts of whatever story their enemy is speaking. Oftentimes this is only for the Mages amusement of knowing that they and everyone they trust is in the know of what is true, while watching those they hate continue to fumble around in the dark - lost, confused, yet infuriatingly cocky that they know where they are going.

The main suffering of these Mages of Light is that of being so knowledgeable on so many different things, yet so few people ever bother to listen or take the Mage at face value. It’s the suffering of having the weight of hundreds of textbooks, papers, recordings, files, and so many other forms of knowledge all pressing down on one’s mind. It’s the suffering of knowing how many ignorant and unaware people there are roaming the world, sometimes even within the Mage’s own life and inner circle. They actively seek out knowledge of not just simple knowledge, but rather what other people view as their own knowledge. If the Mage is lucky, then someone or something will give them valuable knowledge to hold onto and maintain - adding it to their large, mental library that they have built over the years. However, as is more often the case than not, the Mage will encounter someone who holds knowledge so wrong and tainted that it often can drag the Mage down from whatever happy mood they may have been feeling. Depending on how truly bad this tainted knowledge is, the Mage of Light will do whatever it takes to try and set the facts straight and prove to the other person or party that they are wrong. Whether this comes in the form of polite corrections or downright red-faced yelling and screaming at the person - or, if pushed hard enough, physically aggressive constructive criticism - or somewhere in between, it would be best to be careful to spout off any false ideas labeled as facts and truths when around the Mage of Light, especially if they do not appear to be in a good mood. After all, they are someone who has a large umbrella of knowledge, and it is one they are not afraid to bludgeon proper knowledge into an ignorant person’s skull.

The Mage of Light is someone who can be seen as an unremarkable genius - unrelenting in their pursuit of knowledge and understanding. Even if such determination may be viewed in an unflattering light, the Mage of Light may not exactly care, as everything they do is for the sake of learning all that is available to them, as well as understanding the world they live in and the people that reside within it. Chances are, though, that being in the presence of the Mage of Light is quite a rare occurrence. This is mostly because Mages of Light are some of the most dedicated of all the Light-bounds when it comes to their Aspect. They are willing to throw themself into the molten, searing rays of the Sun - of knowledge - for many reasons. Ranging from getting to know all there is to know about one of their favorite people, characters, shows, or other interests, to simply wanting to see, know, and/or understand what it is like to experience a certain situation that has always intrigued them. Because of this, while the Mage of Light is a dedicated student, they are also someone who often ignores their own health and wellbeing for the sake of more knowledge. If they are not careful, then this can lead to not only mental suffering for the Mage, but also physical and social suffering, as well. Those who have managed to befriend a Mage of Light may be all too familiar at the sight of seeing their message having been left on read, or sometimes having never even been opened at all. Once the Mage of Light finds themself truly enveloped in the webbing of a particular interest or topic, it may be quite a long time before anyone sees or hears from the Mage of Light again. Because of this, those within the Mage’s social circle may need to take on the extra task of checking in and meddling with the Mage of Light’s business. 

While Mages so often attract people of similar minds towards them, this may bring great displeasure to the Mage of Light at many points in their life. They hate rereading the same book over and over, after all, and so if they sense one person or the overall relationship to be all too similar to a previous one, then chances are they will often pay little mind to these people and instead continue on their work. If no one has any knowledge to offer the Mage, then they will simply not bother with this person. However, deep down, the Mage of Light would love to have a few companions in their life, if only to share with them all of the discoveries they have made and have someone listen as they rant, ramble, and rave on about all they have learned, as well as all the ignorant people they have had to unfortunately encounter. The Mage of Light is like that of a pendulum, constantly swinging from one side to another, causing people to never exactly knowing what to expect when it comes to speaking with the Mage of Light. One thing is for certain, though, and it is that when the Mage of Light is caught in a good mood, they can be one of the kindest, most non-judgemental, and warmest people to be around. If they are feeling especially kind, then they can also be someone who shares their great amounts of knowledge and wisdom onto those they truly care about and trust. 

Mages of Light are those who should rarely, if ever, be questioned on whether they truly know what they are talking about. Much like their Passive counterpart, the Mage of Light is one where, after gaining great strides in their journey, they can become a borderline all-knowing entity if they so desired. They go after knowledge wherever they can sniff and claw it out, and as such is someone who poses themself to be the most valuable ally and friend to have, as well as being the most dangerous and largest foe one could make. There would be no point in fighting a fully awakened Mage of Light - at least not physically. They already know every possible move you could make, and they are well prepared and knowledgeable on how to counteract it. Amongst their other powers is that of seeing all there is to know in the present and the future, but rarely ever the past. If it is not transcribed in some fashion, then the past is one of the biggest weak points for the Mage of Light, as it is something that has already come to pass and therefore becomes an unreliable source of knowledge. There will always be blindspots, even to the most powerful Mage of Light, and it is these blindspots that bring all Mages of Light great suffering and anger. These blindspots are more often than not that of the Void-bound - people who manage to find ways to flicker out and hide away from the harsh rays of the Sun. Many Mages of Light find these people to be perplexing, and sometimes downright infuriating, in more ways than one. When the Mage of Light finds that they cannot gain knowledge from something, they may be quick to deem it as worthless or unreliable, and in the case of people, might see them as possible threats and adversaries.

There are some Mages of Light who may try to escape and run away from their Aspect, finding themselves incapable of withstanding all of this knowledge. It will be with great fear in their hearts when they find that there is no escaping something as grand as Light, The Sun, and knowledge. It is everywhere we go, and once someone has opened their eyes and truly looked upon its burning answers, it is something that cannot be so easily ignored. If the Mage of Light is going to expose themself to a source of knowledge, they will be damned if they are not going to try their very best to understand its intricacies. Even if trying over and over again brings them even more suffering, it is better than to suffer in silence as their brain claws at the inside of their skull and the yearnful hunger gnaws away at them from the inside. The Mage of Light is driven to know all there is, was, and will be, and whether they are willing to play dirty or not simply depends on who the Mage of Light truly is. Mages of Light are truly some of the most brilliant people, but it is truly up to them whether they decide to use their knowledge for good, and share it with others, or if they decide to be cruel, and use it to twist the arms of people and bend the rules of whatever game they have been placed within. No matter what, though, Mages of Light are the ones who dared to look at the Sun when very few others could. Not only did they stare at it, but they challenged it to that of a staring contest, and instead of losing the game and their eyesight, these Mages instead rose above everyone else and were gifted with the greatest weapon anyone could ask for, and one only they can truly understand how to wield properly: Knowledge.

[no6secretsanta]

Our Voyage

For @secretagentfan​

You said pirates and magic and my brain went “YES”, and then I tried to add as many of the other things you mentioned that were possible within the story. Then things got a bit out of control—and by that, I mean this wasn’t supposed to be this long, but at some point it had a life of its own I couldn’t do much except try to type as fast as I could. It’s my first time writing an AU, ever, so I hope you enjoy this little universe that was born thanks to your prompts. It’s been a rough year, I think we deserve some adventures and boys in love as a treat. Merry Christmas! and Happy New Year. (It really is a long read, so get comfortable <3)

~ @aoicanvas

***

Shion wakes up to shouts coming from above. He must have fallen asleep reading, trying to decipher some of the most obscure passages of the book that’s supposed to guide them.

The sixteen years of his life spent in the Blessing didn’t prepare him for any kind of confrontation. He would like to think that the four subsequent years in the Pious Ward had hardened him —and yes, in some ways they had— but nothing could really prepare him to hear Rikiga’s voice coming from the main deck, shouting “PIRATES!”. 

His mind halts to stop.  

He looks around the small storage room he is cramped in. Barrels and crates would certainly provide a good hiding spot. But to what end? What if they found him? 

Standing up, at least, seems like a good place to start. He picks up the book to hold it against his chest, and there isn’t time for much else before he hears footsteps approaching.

“I’ll take this one,” says a voice he doesn’t recognize, right before a woman walks into the room. The first thing he notices is the sword she holds in one hand; the second, the ridiculous feathered hat that obscures her face. The poor light in the room, coming from a lonely candle on the table, isn’t helping either. “A scared little mouse!”, she says, bringing him out of his stupor. “Everyone’s on the main deck, darling, you’re missing out. Follow me outside and don’t try anything funny, I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

Shion speaks before his brain processes the words.

“Like what? You’re the one with the sword.”

The woman looks taken aback for a split of a second. But quickly replaces it with a sharp smile. “You’re right about that, which is an even better reason for you to do as I say. Come, we have business up there.” 

Shion forces himself to walk towards her, slowly, even though all his instincts scream at him to do something. 

And then, he passes right in front of the candlelight. 

The woman freezes.

The moment lasts only a heartbeat. In an instant, she lifts her sword until the point almost grazes Shion’s chin. 

“Wait,” she says, and there is a strange change in her voice. “What’s your name?”

Shion swallows, hoping his voice hasn’t deserted him yet. 

“Shion,” he answers, not expecting the woman to curse under her breath, sword dropping to her side as she rubs her forehead with her free hand. 

“This is just my luck.”

“I’m sorry? Did I do something?”

“Plenty,” she drawls as she points the sword at Shion again, only with considerably less enthusiasm this time. “I’m looking for a certain book. Nondescript, written in Laidoan. Wouldn’t it happen to be what you’re holding right now?”

Shion instinctively hugs the book tighter to his chest. That is, apparently, all the answers she needs.

“Great! This is—great. Excellent,” she continues with fake cheer. “I’m assuming you know Laidoan? Of course you do, that was a stupid question. Now—”  She takes a step to the side, making a grand gesture with her sword towards the open door. “You’ll get out and go directly to the deck, understand? And don’t even think about trying anything funny. It wouldn’t go well for you.” 

Shion doesn’t know how he gets his legs to move. He’s scared but somehow, he walks past the entrance, down the narrow hallway and up the steps to the deck. He can hear the footsteps of the woman behind him. And once he reaches the top, he can see the rest of the crew. They are all kneeling down on a line, their hands behind their backs. Except Rikiga who’s lying on his side and holding his arm close to his chest. His hand is stained red with blood. Drazh, his first mate, is in a similar condition on the other end of the line. 

“Rikiga!” Shion calls, his body moving towards him before he can even think. 

“I wouldn’t do that,” says the woman behind him. He feels something cold and pointy against the back of neck.

“But he’s hurt! He’s—”

“Nothing vital. He’ll be fine, little mouse.” There’s a pause. Shion stays very still, distantly noticing how his breathing is coming raggedly and his chest feels tight. “Go to him, but behave.” 

Shion doesn’t need to be told twice. He almost trips the few steps that take him to Rikiga. He kneels by his side, never letting go of the book. “Rikiga, are you—?”

“Fine, Shion.” Rikiga winces, and looks toward him. “Fucking pirates. They never get close to this route, I didn’t think—”

The woman stands in front of the defeated group and clears her throat. Shion takes a second to notice the ship that’s stationed right next to theirs, and the armed strangers that surround them. At first glance, the woman doesn’t look particularly strong or remarkable. Shion could immediately point out at least three others that look like the personified version of the evil pirates that show up in cautionary tales. But the woman projects an unmistakable air of confidence and command.

Another individual he doesn’t recognize comes up from the stairs that lead to the crew’s quarters. “Nothing there, Eve,” he says to her. “The usual.”

She nods and sheaths her sword in a clean movement.

 “Well, my friends, we find each other in an uncomfortable situation. See, I never meant to hurt any of you, but seeing as you were so rude when we approached, it couldn’t be helped,” she says with ease. Now, under the light of the sun, Shion can make out her sharp features and dark blue hair. Something in the back of his mind stirs, but he’s too worried to pay attention. “As I very cordially tried to tell you before, I came here to pick up something I’ve been looking for. Now, I have to be fair to my crew and to the dedication they have put in supporting my efforts today, so they will be taking any of your belongings they find of their liking. We’ll leave you with enough provisions to last until you reach the closest port.”

Rikiga tenses by his side and Shion can hear him mutter curses under his breath. The woman—Eve, looks towards them and her mouth tilts in something that’s close, but not quite, a smile. 

The minutes after that seem to stretch indefinitely. Eve orders someone from Rikiga’s crew to show two of her comrades to the cargo hold. Shion doesn’t know how long they take, but after that they make a few trips carrying provisions to the upper deck. Rikiga is almost shaking with anger by his side. 

“We thank you for your collaboration,” she says after all is done, taking a graceful bow that’s way too deep to be taken as anything but an insult. “I only need one thing before we leave you to your journey.” 

And then she points at him. 

Of course she does.

Shion stiffens, feeling suffocated both by the sun shining above and by her keen gaze. “Little mouse, come forward.”

His legs feel numb after being in the same position for so long. He almost stumbles once he gets to his feet. Rikiga mutters something but his heart is beating so loud in his ears he fails to hear him. 

He does as she asked, approaching but keeping what he thinks is a safe distance. He’s gripping the book so hard his fingers hurt.

“You seem very attached to it,” Eve says. Her voice is suddenly quiet, almost a whisper. 

“It’s important to me.”

“You have studied it.” 

It’s not a question. She mutters the words with unwavering certainty, but Shion nods anyway. 

There’s a moment of silence, and then many things seem to happen at once. Eve grabs his arms and drags him to her side, announcing they’ll be taking Shion back to their ship. Rikiga tries to stand, shouting at her to let him go, now, and Shion tries and fails to go to him when one of the pirates unsheaths his sword in a silent  thread. 

“Colin, don’t,” she calls out. The pirate stills, and Rikiga manages to stand, eyes narrowed.

“Why the hell would you take him? He knows shit about sailing and it’s only going to be another mouth to feed. Just take the damn book and leave us be.” 

She grips his arm a little tighter and Shion is sure that would register as painful in any other circumstance.

“Rikiga, is alright. It’s—your arm, please, Rikiga. I’ll…” he pleads, feeling his words tangle like vines as they leave his mouth.  

She doesn’t let him continue.  “We’re in need of another carpenter” she says, and points at Rikiga’s arm, “I can deal with that in a few minutes. If you care so much about the little mouse, come with us.”

Shion doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but Rikiga’s agreement is certainly not it. There’s defiance in his voice and Shion is both thankful and terrified for him. She gives Rikiga time to talk with his crew, and they both get a chance to pick up a few their things under the watch of one of Eve’s comrades. 

Crossing the gangplank to the other ship doesn’t feel real. They’re guided below decks to the cargo hold and a woman they didn’t see before comes to treat the wound on Rikiga’s arm. 

They sit silently on top of wooden crates in a poorly lit corner and Shion can feel his stomach drop when the ship starts moving. A few individuals come and go, carrying the supplies they took from Rikiga’s ship. 

Only when they’re alone again, Rikiga speaks.

“Shit, Shion, I never thought we would ran into fucking pirates. They never wander into this route. Not that I know of. Here’s supposed to be safe, there’s usually patrols from port Daahl, what’s your mother gonna say—”

“You had no way of knowing,” he says, trying to sound calm “And my mom doesn’t even know I’m here, Rikiga,” he reminds him, trying not to let that thought weigh him down. Despite the four years that have gone by since he last talked to his mother, no part of him has come to accept that. 

It’s the main reason behind his decision to go into this journey. 

“But eventually she will. I just don’t like the idea of Karan finding out her son got kidnapped by pirates when he was under my watch.” He must see something in Shion’s face, because his voice loses some of his edge after that. “Don’t go losing hope on me now, Shion, you still have the book in your hands after all.”

Shion sighs. He’s right about that. 

“Tell me if you need something for the pain. I brought a few things that can help with that,” he says.

Rikiga shakes his head. “I won’t be drinking any weird tea with shit-smelling flowers.”

That gets Shion to smile. 

It feels weird, like his muscles forgot that’s something he can do. 

“It’s not that bad. I can mix it with something else to help with the smell and the taste.”

“When we were young, your mother said something like that to help with a hangover and I shouldn’t have believed her,” he grumbles, squinting his eyes.

“Well, this certainly isn’t the same, and mom was still learning back then, I’m sure.”

Rikiga lets out a small chuckle. “Still learning? By then she was already the best herbalist around, stealing patients from the local physician. Wonder why she didn’t follow up on that path after.”

Shion shrugs. He doesn’t have an answer for that.

“Oi, did you bring you things to help you sleep?” Rikiga asks, inspecting the bandages on his arm. 

“Azahal. Yes, it’s with all the other supplies.” 

“And you have enough, right? No risk of running out?” 

Shion suppresses a shiver. That’s something he has gone through before and he hopes he never has to again. “It should last. But now that we’re here—I don’t know. I hope.”  

Rikiga looks like he’s about to say something else when they hear footsteps coming down the stairs. He doesn’t recognize the person that approaches; they definitely weren’t among the crew that boarded Rikiga’s ship. 

“Shion,” they say, “the captain wants to see you. Bring the book,” and without another word they turn around and leave. Shion stays sitting there, frozen for a second until Rikiga pats his shoulder and mutters a quiet “Go”.

So he follows them, trying to ignore the stares he can feel on the back of his neck. The person guiding him stops in front of what can only be access to the captain’s cabin. They open the door and unceremoniously push Shion inside. 

He stumbles, and immediately hears the door creaking as it closes behind him. 

The room has enough space to fit a nice bed on the far end and a desk in the middle. There are windows that illuminate the room with warm sunlight, sending slanted beams of light that  hit the dark wood of the floorboards. 

He doesn’t let his eyes wander for long. 

Eve is standing next to the desk, fingers drumming on top of it. Now that she doesn’t have a hat on and there’s no imminent threat of death to him or any other, he lets himself really see her. 

And it knocks the breath out of him. 

Her eyes, they’re just like—

But it can’t be.

Then, Eve’s shoulders drop slightly and she waves a hand in the air, her fingers dancing in a pattern that’s too precise to be casual. With a final flick of her wrist, her imagine shimmers like a mirage, shifting and blurring. Shion resists the urge to rub at his eyes but can’t help taking a step back.

It takes less than a second. Her hair shortens and changes to a lighter hue. Her coat and clothes stay the same, only shifting from a deep purple to a plain black with no ornaments. Her features turn a bit more pronounced; pointed jawline, high cheeks and thinner lips. 

Same eyes. 

They are like a storm, he had told him, over four years ago. 

“You—” Shion chokes on the words, his eyes scanning his face. It’s him, there’s no doubt about it. He looks older, of course. Taller and sharper, somehow. A far cry from the boy he kept hidden in the Golden Library’s basement for weeks, back when he still could walk the streets of the Blessings freely.   

“Shion—”

“How did you—? Are you…” 

He halts, struggling to remember what he wanted to ask. 

Nezumi, Nezumi walks around the desk and rests his arms on the back of the tall chair. Shion feels something hot and ugly bubbling up in his chest.

The ship must be veering to the east, because the sunbeams dance across the room, changing their position. One of them lands on the side of Nezumi’s neck, shining on the strands of hair that fall freely from his ponytail. 

The part of Shion’s brain that got over the initial surprise thinks beautiful, and it’s really not fair, not with the hurt and the anger eating him up from the inside.

“If you want to know how I did, here’s the answer,” Nezumi says, pointing at a couple of parchments rolled on top of the table. “I’ve learned a few more tricks since we last saw each other.”

“I don’t care about your tricks!” he spits out, unable to keep his voice level. “For the Gods above, why didn’t you say anything? I thought someone was going to die—” He takes a sharp intake of breath, his heart hammering in his chest. He remembers the fear, acutely, like a sickness spreading in his veins. “And you hurt Rikiga, my friend, and Drazh, and they only got into this for me and now—”

“I did not mean them any harm,” Nezumi says firmly, and Shion thinks he sees his fingers tightening on the back of the chair. “But they retaliated, and my crew has the right—”

“Oh, shup up,” Shion cuts in. “They retaliated? You are pirates that boarded their ship! Of course they’d retaliate, in what world that wouldn’t happen?” He holds onto the book tightly with one hand and clenches the other in a fist to keep it from trembling. “What are you doing, Nezumi?”

Nezumi’s eyes scan his face quickly before dropping to his side.

“Looking for that,” he says, pointing at the book.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know, but that’s all you’re going to get.”

“But, really? A pirate? Nezumi—”

“I will save us both time by telling you that the judgement of a pampered kid from the Blessings has no value on my ship,” he interrupts, and Shion recognizes the steel behind his words. 

It seems the years have only served to fortify it. Still, that’s not fair. 

“I haven’t lived in the Blessings for a while now.”

“I know.”

He’s stunned into silence for a moment, feeling strangely cold. Like someone submerged his bones in a frozen lake.

“How?” he asks, after a few beats. 

Nezumi looks down at the desk, eyes shifting briefly towards the rolled parchments. But he says nothing.

Shion feels nauseous. 

“Why do you want this?” he manages to ask, lifting the book.

“Nothing of your concern, Shion.”

Shion nods. There are still words burning in his throat, but there are also tears threatening to fall from the corners of his eyes and he feels like all the anger has left him hollow and aching. 

So he says nothing, only turns around and walks to the door.

“Where are you going?” Nezumi’s voice rings clear and sudden.

“To see Rikiga,” he answers, reaching for the handle. “He needs healing.”

And then he leaves. 

Nezumi thankfully doesn’t try to stop him. 

Shion ignores the stares he gets as he descends to the cargo hold. Rikiga is exactly where he left him and the relief is visible on his face when he sees him arrive. Shion drops down on the wooden crate next to him and only realizes there are tears streaming down his face when Rikiga calls his name worriedly and threatens to go kill Eve right that second. 

Shion feels like he should explain. 

So he tries, as best as he can, wiping away the angry tears and breathing deeply. It’s not a long story, at least, and Rikiga already knows the important parts. The parts about how, when he was sixteen years old and a star student at the Golden Library, he helped a stranger escape from the Crown Guards and led him to the basement. How he took care of him for almost a month, as best as he could, stealing infusions and medicine from his mother’s shop to help with his wounds. How he sneaked away to keep him company, even after he learnt why he was being pursued, knowing he could be accused of treason if anyone found out

Which was exactly what happened at the end. 

Rikiga got most of that story from him the night his crew went drinking to the tavern where Shion was working near the docks, right after they somehow connected the dots and realized Rikiga knew Karan from years past. 

It’s been a little over a year since that conversation, so it surprises Shion that Rikiga still remembers all the details. And he’s grateful, because it means he only needs to fill the blanks he avoided before. 

Rikiga is frowning by the time he finishes. 

“So… Nezumi is Eve,” he says, slowly. 

Shion nods, closing his eyes. 

“Well, he’s an asshole. He didn’t deserve your help back then, that much I can tell.”

A part of him wants to agree with that, but it’s a hopeless endeavour. 

He doesn’t regret his decision and he knows, with strange certainty, that he never will.  

There’s silence after that and Shion wonders if Nezumi will call for him again any time soon. 

Idly he realizes he doesn’t even know if Nezumi doesn’t mind Rikiga knowing about his whole double identity deal, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

It is then that another set of footsteps can be heard approaching from the stair. Shion looks up and finds Nezumi walking to a corner and dragging a small round table to where they sit. 

“Put your arm there,” he says dryly to Rikiga, pushing then a crate to sit on. 

“Why the hell would I do that?”

“Rikiga,” says Shion, with his eyes trained on the rolled piece of parchment that Nezumi is carrying, “just do it.”

Rikiga grumbles under his breath but does as Shion requests.

Nezumi places the parchment on the table and begins undoing the bandages on Rikiga’s arm. 

“Does he know?” Nezumi asks, looking sideways at Shion as he finally reveals the wound. 

“Yes.”

Nezumi nods, asks Rikiga to stay still and unrolls the parchment. 

There are old runes written along its length. Beautiful swirls of fresh ink he doesn’t comprehend. He presses the parchment along the wound and RIkiga, to his credit, doesn’t even wince. 

There’s a pause and for a moment Shion wonders if Nezumi is regretting this, if he’s just going to walk away and leave them in the cargo hold for the rest of the journey. In the candlelight, Nezumi’s skin looks oddly pale, and Shion notices how stray hairs curl on his temples where sweat has gathered. 

Then, there’s humming. 

Shion recognizes the melody. It’s the same he heard years ago, when Nezumi was finally strong enough to reach into his power. 

The runes on the parchment low with a soft blue light. Shion hears a surprised gasp coming from Rikiga but his eyes are glued to the process. 

It’s been so long. Sometimes, he thought maybe it had all been a dream. 

Nezumi’s humming turns into a quiet song. The melody rises and falls like the waves they ride and as the runes shine brighter, it changes, until there’s a harmony of voices coming from only one person, a cadence of times old that lives again.

A song woven with magic.

The same magic that’s been forbidden in the Sixth Kingdom for two hundred years. The same magic that would’ve gotten Nezumi captured and executed if Shion hadn’t run into him that night. 

The glowing symbols twirl and slide off the parchment, following the cadence of the tune. They disappear under Rikiga’s skin and, for a moment, there’s a glow that expands from his elbow to his fingertips, almost as if his blood was alight. 

Then it dims until it becomes nothing. Nezumi pulls his hands away, slowly, and the parchment is turning black at the edges, an invisible fire burning it until it turns to ashes. 

Where there was a wound, now there’s only a scar, it’s texture and color a stark difference with Rikiga’s skin in the candlelight. 

“Well, shit,” Rikiga says a little breathlessly, stretching his arm and pulling it close to his face to squint at it. 

Nezumi stands up and shakes the ashes from his lap, keeping his eyes down. 

“Inukashi will come in a moment to show you around and give you your duties,” he says, turning around and walking to the stairs. “They’re the boatswain so follow their orders and don’t try anything stupid.” 

Shion stares, swallowing down his urge to thank him, and ignoring the uneasiness that creeps up his spine. 

***

When Inukashi shows up, Shion recognizes them as the person who led him to Nezumi’s quarters before. They look no older than eighteen and Rikiga sputteres indignantly, refusing to take orders from someone than young. 

However, it’s not like they have much of a choice. 

Elyurias is the ship’s name and most of its crew are young sorcerers or apprentices, but whatever their powers are, they keep it to themselves. A few older members are also among them, but they don’t seem to hold any special position of authority. 

When Shion is asked about his knowledge on sailing he is tempted to repeat what Rikiga had said before they took them. But he bites his tongue and mentions that he can cook and knows enough about herbalism to threat a few ailments. Inukashi waves a hand dismissively. There’s a cook on board already, so he’s designated as cabin boy and there’s that. 

On the third day on the ship, right before sunset, Inukashi says Nezumi wants to see him. 

And he wants him to bring the book. 

Shion has kept it carefully tucked away with his belongings. He didn’t have much hope for no one ever getting into his things when he wasn’t around. Trust is not a word he can use here just yet, especially because the sleeping quarters for the crew are shared spaces where there is rarely any privacy. 

But until now, much to his relief, no one has touched any of his things. 

So he picks it up and, for the second time since he was brought here, goes into the captain’s cabin.

Nezumi’s cabin. 

The sun is already low on the sky when he steps inside and there are some candles lit around the room to keep the shadows at bay. 

Nezumi is standing behind the desk, looking down at a map spread on top of it. His hair falls loose down to his shoulders, framing his face when he lifts his head as the door creaks open. He’s wearing the same long black coat, and an expression that betrays nothing.

As soon as the door closes behind him. Nezumi speaks up. “How’s your friend doing?” 

He inhales. 

This is going to be fine. 

“Rikiga better. Thank you,” he says almost in a whisper, approaching the desk. 

He knows this conversation is one they need to have, but he can’t be blamed for not looking forward to it. 

Gingerly, he places the book on the desk. Nezumi’s gaze falls down to it. 

In the relative silence of the room, his breathing seems too shallow and too loud. Shion feels his skin itching with uncomfortable anticipation. 

“Nezumi, I—”

“Save it”, he interrupts, finally meeting his eyes. As always, they are beautiful, like the sky in a storm, but there’s also a strange shine to them that feels out of place. “Let’s make this absolutely clear and put both our cards on the table, since we’ll be working together for awhile. I am indebted to you still, we both know that. So, to even the escales, I’ll share whatever we find with you. Any secrets, any treasure or answer, any proof; it will all be split between the two of us first.” He stops and takes a breath. “We’ll both get what we want, for whatever we need, and we’ll be free to go our separate ways after that. I can take you and your friend to a safe port where you can find transport back to the Sixth Kingdom.”

Shion should feel relieved. It’s what he needs, it’s objectively the best case scenario. 

It’s the closest thing he’s going to get to an apology.

But his brain is hung on a single word.

“Indebted?” he repeats, trying and failing to read Nezumi’s expression and the small smirk that starts forming on his lips at the question. “What are you talking about? You don’t—if this is what you think I was trying to get at before, you’re sorely wrong.”

“I know that,” he says, straightening slowly to move the chair and take a seat. “But it doesn’t what I just said.”

“But why… you know that’s not why I did it, right? That I wasn’t trying to get some kind of favor from you?”

And that actually makes Nezumi snort and roll his eyes. “You still understand so little, Shion. Going out to the open seas and risking your life to face the perils of a sailor’s lives might have been the best decision you have taken.”

“And you’d be one of those perils in this hypothetical life lesson?” he shoots back. 

Nezumi’s smirk widens a bit. 

He recognizes many things there, things he got accustomed to, for a while. The smugness, the confidence and the convictions steeled by a life of unfair trials and cruel puppeteers. 

“Why, of course I am! What other role could I have but that of the antagonist force in your life? I’m certainly not a hero or a martyr,” he fakes a shudder, and Shion had almost forgotten he had a penchant for theatrics. “I’m the captain of a pirate ship, that would not suit me well at all.” 

“You’re not an antagonistic force,” Shion says, taking the seat in front of the desk and placing his hand on top of the book. “You want the same thing as I do, and you’re not looking to take it from me. Moreover, you want to share it justly, right?”

“Congratulations on your listening skills, that’s exactly what I said.” 

Shion ignores the first comment and sighs, letting his shoulders rest against the back of the chair. 

The past four years feel like a heavy weight on his back.

“Do you have a location?” he asks, pointing at the map spread on the desk. 

“If I had, I wouldn’t have gone after the book” he answers. “How much of it have you read?”

There is no point in lying and, the thing is, that despite everything, despite the fear and the hurt and aching in his chest when he thinks of the danger everyone had been in, he believes him. 

He has a feeling he always will.

So he tells him what he knows.

The book, as it turns out, is a journal. An account of the only person who supposedly found one of the three Secrets of Old. The Singing Waters, the Fire’s Call and the Gifted Pearl were all said to be gifts from the gods, one of the five blessings they had bestowed upon their children long before the six kingdoms were born. Some said they were magical objects created by the powerful sorcerers of ages past, when the first pacts were made with creatures of the Fey and power in humans was still raw and new. 

But the discrepancies regarding their origin didn’t matter much. They were legends, inspiration for countless storytellers to give their heroes a goal and a purpose. An example for the priestesses to describe the grace of the gods. Despite that, there were those who seeked them. Those who thought had found proof solid enough, and embarked on the path to find them

The Singing Waters to heal, the Fire’s Call to destroy and the Gifted Pearl to create. That was the simplified description. Shion had spent most of his last years at the Golden Library researching and studying the Singing Waters, not because he believed them to be real, but because there was enough evidence to think they were based on a real and powerful healing source that old civilizations had used and that had somehow gotten lost through time and war. There were enough accounts to point to that conclusion. As far as he knew, his professor back then was the most knowledgeable man in the Kingdom on the subject, but even though the Golden Library was the best place to conduct any research, they still always seemed to be one step behind, no matter how much new information was acquired. 

That’s why, when Rikiga showed up with the book during a warm summer night after one of his short trips to close ports, Shion had thought nothing of it. It was a common occurrence since Rikiga had taken to bringing him back books from his journeys after finding out he used to work and study in the Golden Library. 

When Shion finally got around opening the book and realized it was written in Laidoan, an old tongue spoken only in a handful of places by few individuals, his interest was immediately picked. He then discovered the Laidoan was different from the one he had studied, an archaic version of it, mixed with influences from other tongues he wasn’t so familiar with. There were coded passages too, which did nothing to deter his determination. 

It took him over three months of studying and translating with the few resources he had, to figure out that what he had in his hands was an account of an individual who had found the exact location of the Singing Waters. 

Then, it took a little longer for him to really believe it. From all he knew, it could be a lie, a fantasy, but it seemed too elaborate and it matched many of the things he had learned in his studies. From what he had been able to decipher, there was a first location that needed to be found that would point to the final destination. All the passages regarding that first location were particularly obscure, mixed with a heavy tint of Bressen, an old dead tongue he was not familiar with. 

He had no one to tell this except for Rikiga, who had listened with an incredulous and amused expression until he realized Shion was, in fact, not messing with him. So Shion had decided to go with Rikiga on his next trip to Port Daahl, where the Scribes Archive of the third Kingdom was located. He hoped to find books on Bressen that would help him understand what he was missing.

Now, as he recounts what he has learnt from the journal and breaches the subject on Bressen, a smile curls Nezumi’s lips. He moves to rest his chin on his palm.

Shion stops mid sentence. The sun set a few minutes ago, and in the candlelight Nezumi’s eyes are similar to endless pools of turbulent water.

“What?” He asks, regaining his voice. 

“I would call it fate if I didn’t know how ridiculous a notion that is and how pleased a priestess would be with that kind of statement.”

“You… that’s not really explaining anything”

“Shion,” Nezumi starts, leaning forward. The light softens some of his features and sharpens others. He lookes like a cat before jumping to catch his prey. “Sarasse kh’ilss.”

There is an eternity encapsulated in the second that follows. 

A breathless moment. 

It reminds him of the first time he saw Nezumi using his magic, when he was once again strong enough to reach into his power in a dark basement corner, with ink stained fingers and an ancient song spilling from his lips. 

“You—is that…”

Nezumi’s smile widens. It is a real smile, dancing in his eyes.

“Bressen. I’m familiar with it.”

“You speak it?”

“No, I think no one does these days. But I can understand it in written text. It’s been a long time since I studied it, but I’ll remember enough, I’m sure.”

Shion swallows, trying to ignore the staccato of his heart. 

“What did you said, earlier? Arasse…?”

“Sarasse kh’ilss. It means ‘in fortune’s wings’, a sort of parting sentence.”

Shion merely nods and his hands shake a little when he finally reacts and stands up, almost knocking the chair behind him. He flips through the pages as quickly and carefully as he can. “Here,” he says, walking around the desk to stand next to Nezumi, placing the open page in front of him. “Can you understand this?”

Nezumi’s eyes widen a fraction for a split of a second, but he quickly turns his gaze to the book. 

They spend the next hour working on the first part of the cipher. Nezumi can read a few words in Bressen, but same as with the Laidoan, it’s an old version of it, and as both tongues mix and weave together in riddles neither of them can immediately make sense of.

But somehow, at the end of it, they manage to put together a phrase. It’s not even in the beginning, but still, it’s something, and Shion sees his exhilaration reflected on Nezumi’s eyes and he forgets, for a moment, what led him to this point and why he’s even set on this goal. Instead, he remembers memories long locked away, of late nights shared reading behind discarded bookshelves, of the stillness brought by the approaching footsteps of a librarian working late hours. Of a younger version of himself, leaning against Nezumi’s shoulder as he picked up the sentence right where he had left off, voice soft but unwavering. 

Then the door opens and Inukashi enters the room with no preamble, walking straight towards the desk.

Nezumi leans back a little. “Inukashi, I think I’ve told you you should knock first.”

“I thought I told you I don’t care,” they say, eyebrows raising. “Why, am I interrupting something?” 

“Since you asked so nicely, yes, you are,” Nezumi says, and Shion would very much like to understand the significance of the look they exchange then. He feels the sudden need to press something cold against his forehead. 

“Too bad. It’s late.”

“We are—”

“It’s late, Nezumi.”

Shion is close enough to him that he can almost feel him tense by his side. And that’s—odd.   

He knew Nezumi to be defensive. That’s something that obviously hasn’t changed, but the situation is still… he can see where Nezumi’s is holding his quill a little too tight, and he can also see when he drops it and pushes a rebellious strand of hair away from his eyes. 

“Shion,” he says as he closes the book with care and locks it away in a drawer. “We’ll continue tomorrow.”

Shion leaves. The book is safe behind him and the key of the drawer where it is kept rests in his hand; the metal cold against his palm as he grips it firmly. 

And they do continue the next day. And the day after that. It’s a slow progress, and Shion still has to tend to the duties Inukashi and other crew members have for him. But it doesn’t bother him. He likes to keep busy and it’s good to do something with his hands, the waves crashing softly against the ship and the sun high in the sky. 

It’s usually late in the afternoons when he goes to Nezumi’s cabin, and they spend two to three hours finding meaning in weird passages, putting together symbols and ancient words as the temperature drops and the candles are lit. 

Until Inukashi shows up and Shion leaves the room with the same key in his hand. 

He wonders why Inukashi always comes at the same time. Why Nezumi’s expression closes off every without fail.

He wonders, but says nothing. 

In the meantime, the crew seems to slowly be warming up to his and Rikiga’s presence. He suspects in Rikiga’s case, it’s partly because he actually knows what he’s doing, after years on the sea, and partly because he likes to drink and sing merrily and doesn’t mind placing bets on card games he’s sure to lose. 

In Shion’s case, it starts with one of the younger crew members, who haltingly asks him if he knows of something he can do to help with the itching on her arms. Warily, she agrees to show him, and Shion is grateful to recognize it as a fairly common skin allergy. Not for the first time since he left with Rikiga, Shion’s glad he followed his instinct and stuffed half of his bag with all the herbs, potions and supplies he had.

So he prepares a balm for her and tells her to let him know when she needs more. A day later an older man comes to him with the same problem. He swallows his surprise and offers the same solution. After that, the navigator shows up with a stomach ache. Then, the rigger complains of a strong headache from working too many hours under an unforgiving sun. The carpenter working with Rikiga asks him for something to alleviate muscle cramps, and Rikiga himself gives in when he wakes up one day with a bad, bad hangover. 

At some point, it stops being a surprise and, little by little, he learns all their names, and they learn his. 

***

They’re half a day away from Fawaris, a coast city from the Second Kingdom. 

In the first hour of the morning, when the sun is slowly rising from the east and bathing everything with the promising colors of a warm day, Nezumi places strips of parchment all around the perimeter of the ship. On the bow, the forecastle, the main and the quarter deck, the masts and the crow’s nests. Different crew members are tasked with holding them in place. It seems like something they’ve done before, because they move with the confidence of a practiced routine. 

Still, everyone’s attention is on Nezumi when he kneels in front of a bigger piece of parchment in the middle of the main deck and starts singing. 

There’s something almost ethereal about listening to him singing out in the open. He had only seen this in poor lit rooms, the song always a quiet melody crafted for a small audience. Now the rhythm reverberates on the ship, and the winds carry it to every corner, the harmonies raising like the sea. 

He can see the glow in the different parchments. It brightens with the song and dims as it ends. 

And then the edges of reality seem to blur. All around him, small details change. The masts shorten, the bowsprit grows, the sails change their size and color and the wood that makes Elyurias looks darker and older. 

It’s a different ship. 

Shion would bet the name painted on the hull has changed too. 

Nezumi straightes on the center of it all as a wind picks up and scatters the ashes of the parchments used. “Welcome to the Shy Mistress, everyone”, he says, taking a bow before walking towards his quarters. 

Inukashi speaks up, silencing the claps and laughter that had erupted at the mention of the name. They call those who’ll go with them to get supplies and assign tasks to those who’ll stay on the ship once they reach port. 

“Good show,” Rikiga says, standing behind him.

Shion almost jumps out of his skin.

“I didn’t know something like this was possible” he admits once his heart feels a little more under control. 

“Do you think he can do that to another person? Turn you into a horse, maybe?”

Shion laughs, trying and failing to imagine what kind of horse would suit him.

“Oi, Shion!” Inukashi calls, approaching them. “You can go to the town once we dock, so if you wanna look around for whatever it is you need for reading time, go ahead. And, here,” they say, as they rummage through a leather pouch and pick up a closed bag from it. Once he takes it, he realizes it’s heavy with coin. “Don’t give me that look, it’s mostly copper pieces. In case you need to replace all the plants and shit you’ve used to help all the idiots around. Just remember to be back before morning. And you,” she turns to Rikiga, who is trying to step away inconspicuously, “you’ll be coming with me, Colin and André. I need you to carry some stuff.” 

Shion doesn’t need to be told twice. 

As everyone goes back to their positions while the Shy Mistress continues on her path, he goes to find Elena, the cook.

“Hey, Elena?” he calls out when he finds her rummaging through open crates in the cargo hold. “Are you going? To Fawaris, I mean.”

“You bet,” she says, moving to open another crate. “It’d be nice to have some fresh vegetables even for a few days. And fruit. It’s expensive as hell over here but Nezumi won’t say shit if I make some sort of pie after he finds out.” 

Shion chuckles, something warm spreading in his chest. He had shared Karan’s blueberry pie with him once. Nezumi had devoured it. 

“If that’s the case and you have enough time, would you show me some shops? I’m running low on some of my supplies.” 

“Sure. You wanna continue spoiling them, uh? At this rate they’ll end up going to you for every minor inconvenience,” she turns to him and blinks rapidly, inflicting a different pitch on her voice. “‘Shion, I stubbed my pinky with a table, would you kiss it better?’ Just wait, I’m telling you”. 

Shion laughs and helps move a crate aside to pull another from behind a pile. “I just like helping them if I can.”

“I know. There are a couple of herbalist shops here. I can’t vouch for their quality, but I know their location. Is there anything in particular you need? Or just a bunch of herbs?”

He hesitates for a moment. “Um. Azahal. That’s… maybe harder to find.”

“It doesn’t sound familiar. What is it?”

“It’s like… like toronjil, or similar, in some aspects. But stronger. It’s native to the Sixth Kingdom and doesn’t grow well in other locations, usually,” he explains, carefully removing a bag of grain from the crate as Elena counts. 

“Uh. I guess we won’t need more of that. Help me close this.” 

He does and, for a moment, thinks the conversation is over. 

His mistake. 

“And why do you need that? The stronger thing?”

“Ah,” Shion mumbles, stalling. “It’s—I need it to sleep.”

“Is that the thing you put on that tea each night?”

“Yeah.” 

“Isn’t toronjil good enough for that too though?”

“No. I mean, yeah but—not for me,” he says, resisting the urge to wring his hands. “Azahal it’s the only thing that works. It’s a condition, I guess. Sleeping problems. My father used to have it, from what I’ve heard. Mine started a couple of years ago.”

“Uh. That sucks.”

“A bit.”

“And it doesn’t have any bad effects? Like, I don’t know, making you see flying puppies or something?”

Shion smiles in spite of himself and notices that Elena is looking at him carefully. She’s more observant than he thought. 

“It’s—no. It could, if prepared incorrectly. But my mom perfectioned the distillation process. I get really tired and disoriented for an hour before actually falling asleep, but that’s all. It’s the lesser evil.”

“Damn, good thing you were born in the Sixth Kingdom then.”

Shion shrugs. “I was lucky. Azahal can be hard to come by there too. You know how… well. The law’s against magic there—”

“I know. We all do.”

“Right. Ah… the authorities use azahal as a measure of protection when they—” he stops, licks his lips, “when they capture a sorcerer.” He looks sideways. Elena is looking at him with a frown. “Another of its uses is the suppression of the power in magic users. It’s the only thing that doesn’t have a bad side effect and allows them to conduct… interrogations. In a—a safe way.” 

“Well. Fuck.”

Shion feels a bit sick. The interrogations are safe, yes, for everyone involved except the sorcerer being questioned.  

“Yeah.” 

“Does Nezumi know about this? About you having this thing, I mean.”

“No, why would—”

“I don’t know, Shion,” she sighs, and takes a seat in the crate she just closed. “I’m not a sorcerer, but my wife is. As are many around here—that’s the main reason why we stick together. Nezumi is the one with the fancier tricks, and the cleverest of us all. And if I was him, or any of the others, I’d like to know that I’m travelling with someone who regularly uses a crazy plant that could suppress my power just like that.” 

“But—it’s a different preparation and—”

“Not the point, Shion.”

He looks away. “It didn’t even occur to me, Elena. I don’t… I don’t usually talk about this. It’s just—it’s for me. I would never use it on anyone here. Least of all Nezumi, he—”

He feels a hand on his shoulder. Elena is looking at him with a small smile, her eyes warm in the candlelight. “I know. I won’t tell anyone, Shion, just thought I’d mention it, you know? Now,” she straightens and ruffles his hair, “stop looking all worried. It’s not a good look on you.” 

After that, it’s a bit of a long walk back up to the main deck.

He wanted to ask Nezumi something before they docked. He still wants to, but now there are spider webs of doubts clogging his lungs and his hands and feet feel like they’re made of lead. 

Still, he ends up in front of the door of the captain’s cabin. It occurs to him he’s never called Nezumi “captain” and wonders if seeing his reaction is worth the try. 

He inhales, exhales, knocks and waits. 

No answer. 

“Nezumi?” he calls, knocking again. He turns and takes a step to look around, scanning through the crew members working on the main deck to see if he spots Nezumi among them. No luck. 

He bites his lip and tries the handle. It gives a soft click when he turns it. He opens the door slowly, peeking his head in as he scans the room. 

The light of the morning enters through the circular windows and expands in golden halos that give everything the appearance of a dream. Maybe that’s why it takes him a second, as he steps in and closes the door behind him, to notice the figure sitting behind the desk, slumped forward. 

Something coils around his heart and tugs painfully.

“Nezumi?” he calls, forcing his feet to move. He’s probably asleep.

He keeps his hand steady when he places it on his shoulder, and swallows down a sigh of relief, when he notices he’s breathing.  

Then ,he sees the bottle of spilled ink on top of some papers. They’re all ruined, whatever they had, and Nezumi’s hand, still loosely holding a quill, is stained black.

Suddenly, he stirs under his touch, and Shion squeezes his shoulder softly. “Nezumi, hey, you should go to your bed if you’re this tired.”

Nezumi straightens slowly, his movements sluggish. He turns to look at Shion through bleary eyes. There’s color high on his cheeks and his skin glistens under the light with a sheen of sweat. 

Only then Shion registers his breathing seems short and erratic.

“What—” Nezumi is saying, looking disoriented. 

“I think you fell asleep on your desk”, Shion explains, voice heavy with worry, placing a hand on Nezumi’s forehead. He’s burning up. 

Nezumi frowns slowly before turning to look at his desk. He must notice the mess immediately then, because he stands up way too quickly, forcing Shion to back up a step and knocking his chair on the process. 

He curses under breath, pressing his ink stained fingers against his forehead.

“No, no, wait,” Shion hurries forward, catching his wrist and pulling his arm down. “Don’t—just… look.”

Nezumi does, as Shion quickly takes off the thin scarf he sometimes uses around his neck.

“Shion—”

“You’re sick,” he interrupts, focusing his attention on dragging the fabric across Nezumi’s forehead. The ink slides off easily, thankfully. Then he moves to clean his open palm. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I’m not sick, Shion.”

“Bullshit.”

His voice sounds rough. Quiet in the golden light of the morning. Shion cleans his fingers, one by one. On his peripheral vision, he notices Nezumi swaying momentarily in front of him. He almost drops what he’s doing to steady him, but before that, Nezumi leans forward, pressing his forehead on Shion’s shoulder. 

He can feel his breathing on his neck. At least it feels a little more regular now. 

“I’m just tired. The spell. It takes a toll.”

Shion stands very still. He hasn’t let go of Nezumi’s hand. 

“You are too warm, Nezumi. This is not just tiredness.” 

An exhale against his neck. The coil around his heart is still there again, tugging painfully. 

“Living people are warm,” he says. 

And Shion wants to laugh, wants to push him away, wants to hold him closer. 

He does none of those things.

***

He doesn’t find azahal in Fawaris, but he wasn’t really holding onto any hope for that. Thanks to Elena, he does find one good herbalist shop and buys more than enough to have supplies that will last for a while. 

He also finds a book on Bressen, which is what he was going to ask Nezumi about, but instead ends up using his efforts to convince him to drink some water and go to bed. 

They leave the port the next day, and that afternoon he feels trepidation crawling up his spine when he knocks on Nezumi’s door. 

Nezumi does appear to be okay. He even humours Shion and lets him press his hand against his forehead, smirking up at him the whole time. Shion ignores the way his heart jumps and pushes the memory of Nezumi leaning against him behind a smile. 

“It was really tiring then,” he says, giving him the key so he can open the drawer where the journal is kept.

“Magic is complicated. I didn’t tell you everything about it back then,” he says as the lock clicks open. 

“I thought you had. I asked you plenty of questions.”

“Yes, but I didn’t trust you enough to tell you everything.” 

Shion pauses. Nezumi is opening the book in front of them.

“I thought you had.”

“Had what?”

“Trusted me.” 

Nezumi meets his eyes for a beat.

Shion gaze doesn’t waver. 

“You were naive.”

Shion shrugs. “Perhaps,” he concedes, and decides this is as good a time as any. “I got something that might be helpful.”

He picks the bag with the book and takes it out, handing it over to Nezumi.

“A book?”

“On Bressen”

The reaction is immediate. He picks it and flips it open in one motion, going through the first pages and then skipping right to the middle. 

“Fawaris?”

“Yes. I thought it might help us with—”

“Perfect,” Nezumi cuts in, and when he looks up his smile is bright and open and Shion feels a bit unsteady on his feet. “Look, there’s a list of the declensions, even the ones that got merged with the years.” 

Shion walks around the desk and moves a stool to sit at Nezumi’s side. He reads the first sentences and something catches his eye. “Isn’t this the one that keeps showing up? Here…“ he points, pulling the journal so it’s side to side with the book. “It’s the same. Here too.”

Nezumi laughs at his side and the light of the sunset catches on his hair.

He looks lovely.

Shion forces himself to look away. 

“I think we might figure this out,” Nezumi says, pulling a blank parchment open and picking up a quill.

Shion’s voice is barely above a whisper.

“I think so too.” 

Two hours later the night finds them with all they need, all the words and sentences connected. The cipher is no longer a mystery. 

Still, it doesn’t make sense.

Nezumi paces the room with a parchment in his hands, reading it under his breath over and over again. Shion stands leaning against the desk, just watching him.

“Maybe we got something wrong,” Nezumi says. 

“No,” Shion replies. “We checked. It’s all… it’s all there.” He rubs his eyes, thinking, trying to think. It feels like there’s something just at his fingertips, always sliding away at the last possible second. 

“But it doesn’t… what is this supposed to mean?”

“Maybe that’s the whole point. Something meaningless, or something that only the author could understand.” 

Nezumi stops pacing and just looks at him. In the silence, the sound of the parchment crinkling under his grip feels too loud. “Where’s your optimism now, Shion? Because we could use some of that now. Maybe it would work a miracle for us, who knows, might be worth the try.” 

Shion walks up to him. “You’re being unfair.”

“Am I? And you get to decide that?”

“Yes,” he remarks, taking the parchment off Nezumi’s hand, thankful when he doesn’t resist and just lets it go. “Have you cast any spells today?” 

Nezumi looks momentarily thrown aback.

“What?”

“Spells. Maybe you’re tired,” Shion says as he turns and goes back to lean against the desk. “Because of magic and all of that.”

“I didn’t know you could be sarcasting.”

“Yes, well, maybe you’re rubbing off on me.” 

“But it doesn’t suit you.” 

Shion, for once, decides to ignore him. Nezumi is very much like a temperamental cat when he’s in a mood. “Maybe we’re looking at this from the wrong perspective,” he says, frowning. 

“How so?”

“It says, ‘in the Siris, find the sky above the tallest grass’. We know the Siris was a temple.”

“A temple that’s probably been underwater for a long time.”

“Do you know…?” he bites his lip, thinking, trying to remember, trying to keep reaching. “Laidoans. What was their religion like?”

“Uh,” Nezumi walks towards him, frowning. “They—I think their pantheon looked a lot like… a mix from Fey and the Gods of the Blessing.” 

“They adored the Fey?” Shion questions, looking up at Nezumi. 

“Yes. From what I know. Many of their high priests were sorcerers who had pacts with powerful creatures from beyond.”

In his mind, something clicks. 

Shion looks back down at the parchment so sharply he’s sure his neck might hurt the next day. 

“Temples to the Fey, Nezumi, they were different.”

Something in Nezumi’s expression clears. 

His eyes widen a fraction

“Towers,” he says. “The Laidoans loved towers, we know their cities were full of them—” 

“And their temples were no different.” Shion cuts in, excitement growing until he almost feels his hands shake. 

“Shion,” Nezumi adds, and he’s smiling again, his eyes alight. “Gardens, the word in Laidoan for temple is alk’naan and it means garden.”

“So ‘the tallest grass—’”

“The tallest tower in the Siris,” he completes. “It’s a poor excuse of a metaphor, but it makes sense” 

Shion can hear his heartbeat loud in his ears. He’s still holding the parchment in his hands and Nezumi is standing right in front of him, the storm in his eyes holding so much it threatens to spill and drown him. 

“It must be,” he answers in a whisper, breathing out shakily. 

Nezumi’s smile changes suddenly and he leans in, crowding Shion against the desk. 

“You look distracted.”

Shion holds the parchment against his chest. He feels his cheeks heat and wonders how much can Nezumi notice in the candlelight.

“I am.”

Nezumi moves his hand, slowly, and threads his fingers in Shion’s hair. He closes his eyes and remembers. Nezumi did the same thing the night before he had to run away. Carded his fingers through Shion’s hair while he was reading until he fell asleep with his head on his lap. That’s how they found them, right before the escape. 

When Nezumi speaks again, his voice is soft but clear.

“At least, this means we’re not going to where Siris is located for nothing.”

Shion decides not to say anything, lest the multitude of words in throat choke him. After a few seconds, Nezumi steps back, straightening.  

“When will we get there?” he asks finally, thankful his voice is even.

“Three days. Possible four. Gives us time enough to prepare.”

***

André and Val are the best swimmers in the crew, according to Inukashi, so it’s lucky that they volunteer to dive to the ruins with them. They shed the clothes that would only weigh them down and Shion resents the chill of the morning wind as it hits his naked back when they gather at the bow of the ship. Nezumi is the only one who looks mostly the same. Only his boots and coat are gone.

Before he can say anything, Karina, Elena’s wife, appears with Inukashi at her side and casts a spell on the four of them to allow them to breathe underwater. 

A minute later, they jump overboard. 

Shion panics each time he inhales and doesn’t choke on the water. He does his best to focus on following Nezumi and the others, forcing his heart to slow down. 

Luckily, the temple is not too deep under the sea. The waters here are shallow and clear, and the light that filters through still reaches the seafloor and the space around it. 

They spot the ruins easily. 

At a distance, it looks like a mass of darkened stones covered in different forms of sea life. They circle the top of the ruins once and just then Nezumi, with a gesture, instructs their companions to spread out and around, keeping a perimeter around the tallest tower. He dives towards it and Shion follows. 

The topmost chamber is wider than Shion imagined it would be. Wide arches where windows or stained glass were probably placed make for an easy entrance. Immediately, Nezumi points up. The vaulted ceiling is still intact.

Almost at the same time, they start swimming towards it. It doesn’t take to spot what they’re looking for. 

Carved on the stone in the center of the ceiling is a strange array of symbols and lines. Some of them connect with the others, some don’t. Shion looks at Nezumi with a question on his lips. 

Nezumi smiles at him and gestures to Shion to wait awhile. He nods and moves back a little, keeping an eye on their surroundings until Nezumi turns around and nods once. Together, they push themselves out of the chamber through the arched windows, where they wait for the others to see them. 

And just like that, it’s done. 

He’s almost certain that when he saw Nezumi’s expression upon finding the carvins, ther was recognition in his eyes. 

He grins and kicks his legs to push himself forward when he sees the others quickly swimming ahead. 

But then—

Paint shots up his right leg, as something cold and sharps digs and pulls. A silent scream leaves his lips; just bubbles in the water. 

He turns wildly, trying to kick whatever has got a hold of him. He manages to make contact with something solid and for a moment, he’s free. In that split of second he manages to see the shape of a reptilian creature, a blur of dark green scales, elongated limbs and sharp claws. 

It’s fast. And Shion isn’t a particularly good swimmer. 

This certainty grips him with fear and he barely moves out of the way in time when the creature slashes at him with his claws. Pain blooms in his chests and he kicks, trying to swim upward as he’s grabbed and pulled down again. 

He tries to look in the direction where Nezumi and the others should be, but everything is spinning and he can’t distinguish up from down any longer. 

Somehow, he manages to break free once more, turning so the creature is not at his back this time.. He has a split second to regret that decision, seeing with stark clarity the instant the creature curls back to strike at him with its longest claw pointed not to slash or grab, but to pierce. 

He won’t make it. 

However, the pain never comes. A shadow falls between him and the creature and the blow pushes them both back. 

Shion struggles to remain upright and out of the corner of his eye he sees the light reflecting on a blade that gleams right before going into the neck of the reptilian monster. 

His heart catches up with what he’s seeing before his brain does, seizing painfully in his chest. 

Nezumi.

He’s holding onto the creature as he continues to push his sword in, twisting it as a dark substance darkens the water around the wound. The creature trashes, mouth opening to reveal sharp, curved teeth that aim to sink into Nezumi’s shoulder. But he’s quick to dodge, and suddenly there’s Colin, holding the creature from behind and sinking a knife into his side. 

It probably lasts only a couple of seconds, but it seems like hours go by before the creature stops moving and they let it go. It sinks down to the ocean floor, it’s mouth still frozen in a silent scream. 

Nezumi turns to him and Shion feels a flood of relief so overwhelming it threatens to drown him very much like the sea should, if there wasn’t magic bending the rules of the universe for him.

They swim up to the surface, and as soon as they break it Nezumi calls out.

“Shion is hurt! Ropes, quick!” 

It doesn’t take long before the four of them are back on the main deck, breathing hard and surrounded by worried eyes and a very upset Inukashi. 

Rikiga is at Shion’s side, hovering over Karina, who’s inspecting his wound. 

“What do you mean an Arkraa? What would one of those be doing so far from his colony?” Inukashi is asking to whoever might be brave enough to answer. 

Much to her indignation, Nezumi ignores her and turns to look down at Shion, leaning against the main mast with his clothes still dripping salt water.  

“How bad is it?” he asks, his voice sounding raw and dry. Shion immediately tries to find his eyes. “Does it need healing?”

“No, I don’t think that’d be needed,” Karina says. “It’s not a deep cut, and this one here looks worse than it really is.”

“Like hell it does!” Rikiga protests. “It’s all red and swollen—”

“I’m fine, Rikiga,” Shion cuts in, hating how raspy and strange his voice sounds. He looks at Nezumi, finding his gaze at last. “I’m fine.” 

“Good,” he says. “Good.” 

Then he staggers, and falls down. 

***

When Inukashi lets him in, Shion feels cold to his bones. He distantly remembers Elena convincing him to get out of his damp clothes and Rikiga throwing an extra coat on his shoulders when he kept shivering. 

“What—” he licks his lips. His throat feels dry. “How is he?”

Inukashi leads him to the side of the bed with a tight expression on their face. They look as tired as Shion feels.

“Look for yourself,” they say.

Shion does.

His surprise renders him silent for a minute. 

Nezumi lays on his bed, forehead damp with sweat and a tight expression on his face. He’s shirtless and there’s a bandage around his torso, covering the place the Arkraa’s claw pierced through. And all around it, Shion sees a spider web of white scars, shaped in lighting-like patterns. The marks stretch outwardly, expanding to his navel and wrapping around his sides, reaching up to his chest until they almost curl around his shoulders. 

There’s a soft knock on the door that startles him out of his reverie. 

Karina steps in, holding a basin full of water and clean strips of fabric. When she approaches, Shion has half a mind to step aside and help her move a stool next to Nezumi’s bed. 

“Inukashi,” he starts, as he sees Karina clean Nezumi’s forehead and check his bandages. “What is that? What’s… what’s happening?” 

Inukashi sighs and drags a hand down their face. “He didn’t want you to know.”

“But—”

“I don’t give a shit about that now. But I’m gonna sit first,” they say, going to the desk in the center of the room and flopping down on the chair. 

Shion follows, reluctantly, his eyes going back to Nezumi’s still form every few seconds.

“I’ll keep this short because this idiot,” Inukashi says, waving a hand in Nezumi’s direction, “should be the one answering all your questions, not me. Look, the Singing Waters is not the first of the three Secrets that Nezumi tries to find. First, it was the Fire’s Call. And guess what? He found it. A few months ago. He went in alone and came back with those white scars forming right around here,” they explain, placing a finger a few inches above their navel. “And it would be fine if they were just scars, but they kept spreading and he kept getting weaker.” 

Karina walks up to them, looking back at Nezumi over her shoulder. 

“From what I’ve been able to gather,” she says, “there’s something about whatever it was the Fire’s Call did to him that makes his power react… badly. Think of it as some kind of poison, the magic in him sees it as dangerous, directly opposed to it, so it tries to destroy it. The problem, the poison has already seeped in too deep.”

“As a result,” Inukashi continues, “his power is burning him up from the inside.” 

Shion looks at them both. He heard them, but the words keep repeating themselves in his mind, over and over, and he can’t bring himself to understand. He doesn’t want to take that truth in his hands and hold it. 

He feels it might burn him too. 

Fire’s Call, he thinks. Destruction. 

A realization downs on him. “That’s why you came, each night,” he says.

“Yeah,” Inukashi concedes, sighing. “I checked to see how much the scars were spreading, since I didn’t trust him to tell me the truth if I asked.”

“What happens when—” Shions starts. Clears his throat. “What happens when he uses his magic? Or when he gets hurt?”

“We think it accelerates the process,” Karina says. “Under normal circumstances the power of a sorcerer wouldn’t react instinctively if they’re wounded. Magic diminishes to preserve itself if the user it’s too weak. But this poison forces it to react violently, and when magic it’s used, the poison reacts back, starting a chain effect.”

Shion is thankful the empty chair is close by. He grabs the back of it, gripping until his hand hurts. 

“When we went to Fawaris… he—?”

“Looked like death warmed over afterwards?” Inukashi interrupts. “Yeah, that’s why. I told him not to waste energy in such a big fucking spell. We had enough supplies still, with what we took from Rkiga’s ship and some rationing, we could’ve managed. Do you think he listened?” 

Shion remembers the fear he felt when they caught him, after he helped Nezumi escape. Remembers the dread that settled in his stomach when they read his sentence after the trial, casting him out of the Blessings and prohibiting any contact with his mother and anyone from his life. Remembers the distress running in his veins when he saw Rikiga hurt on the deck of his ship. 

All of it feels like nothing compared to what he’s feeling now. 

Still, he forces himself to speak. 

“So now, until he heals, the chain reaction wont stop.”

Karina nods. Inukashi looks away, their lips tightly shut. 

“Is no one else on board able to heal him?”

“We don’t know what will happen if we add someone else’s power into the mix. It’s not… it’s not worth the risk”, she says, sighing. “I’ve been thinking of a way to suppress his power; it wouldn’t make any difference in the long run, but in situations like this, it’d give us enough time for his body to find some balance and for me to accelerate his natural healing with a spell—”

“What,” Shion interrupts, hearing his voice distantly, like he’s in a dream. “what did you—suppress his power? That would help?” 

Inukashi and Karina exchange a glance. 

Shion feels his heart in his throat. 

“Well—”

“Karina,” he says, his voice sounding alien and distant. “I can do that. I have—there’s something I can prepare. Would that help?”

***

It takes both Inukashi and Rikiga’s insistence to get him to leave Nezumi’s side. Elena half threatens him to get him to eat something and Karina watches him like she expects him to collapse at any second. 

But, weirdly enough, he doesn’t feel tired. Or hungry, or sleepy or… anything. 

Once he had picked up the azahal from his supplies and started preparing the tincture needed, a strange numbness had taken over him. It brought him an alien sense of calm, a quiet settling in like the sea before a storm. 

He wasn’t sure how long it was going to last. 

Inukashi is the one who finds him later, and they don’t need to say anything because it’s all too clear in their tired smile. 

Shion rushes back to the cabin, breathless before taking the first step, and doesn’t bother knocking before steeping in.

Nezumi is sitting up on his bed, head tilted back and lips pursed in something close to a pout. His eyes, trained on the wooden beams of the ceiling, turn immediately to Shion when he hears the door opening. 

“Shion—”

The calm dissipates like seafoam on the sand. He feels frayed at the edges, about to burst with something that chokes him as he tries to speak.

“You—you idiot,” he says, approaching the bed as he lets the door slam shut behind him. “Why didn’t you say anything?! I was—I thought you were going to die, Nezumi.” 

And he must notice the irony of hearing those words, so similar to what he said to him right after he dropped the visage of Eve in this same room. 

But thankfully, he says nothing. He only looks at Shion with clear and focused eyes. 

An incoming storm. 

“This is why you want the Singing Waters. You need them.” 

“Yes. I do.”

It surprises Shion a little, how clear his voice sounds. How certain.

There’s also the fact that he wasn’t really expecting an answer.

“You could’ve told me,” he starts again, trying to bite down on the hurt that breaks his voice at the end. “Everyone in your crew knows. And I’m not—you don’t have to trust me, Nezumi, but I would’ve understood, I would’ve helped—”

“You did help,” Nezumi interjects. “We found the location. I already gave Inukashi the course to follow.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

“Then why—”

“Because of this,” he explains, waving a hand in his general direction, leaning back to stare at the ceiling once more. “Because I knew you’d get like this. Worried. Distracted.”

“You didn’t tell me because I care? For the Gods above, Nezumi, if that worries you so much, you should’ve never brought me along in the first place.” 

Nezumi says nothing to that. He sees him gripping the sheets by his sides in tight fists, his jaw set firmly.

Shion waits in the silence, feeling the anger seep out of him in slow waves, all the tiredness kept at bay for hours coming to replace it. 

He rubs his eyes and looks at the window. The sun is setting in the horizon and the sound of waves sets a calming rhythm that his heart aches to follow. 

“Thank you,” he says at last. “For saving my life. That creature… I wasn’t fast enough, and I thought—” He shakes his head. It doesn’t matter now. “But don’t do anything like that again. I know you think there’s this… debt between us, but you can’t take that risk just to balance the scales, or whatever idea of it you have in your mind, Nezumi. Just—I don’t care. Forget it ever happened. I’m sure you would’ve found a way to survive an escape on your own anyway. You were stronger than me even then—” 

Nezumi’s eyes snap to him and Shion’s words die in his mouth.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he says, supporting himself with his hands to sit straight. Shion resists the urge to reach out to him and help. “I would’ve never survived that day if you hadn’t found me. I would’ve been lost, in more ways than one, if we hadn’t crossed paths. This was… this was never about a debt, Shion. I’m not trying to repay you because I know that no matter what I do, it would never be enough. But I can’t stand aside while you’re getting hurt, I can’t, I’ve done it long enough. Don’t ask that of me.”

Shion can feel his heartbeat in her fingertips, in his ears, in the tremor of his breathing. 

It is almost funny, he thinks, that it took for both of them to see the eyes of death for their walls to finally crumble completely.

“I’m allowed to hope,” he says, finally, thanking the heavens his voice doesn’t shake.

Nezumi turns his face away and closes his eyes.

“I hate this,” he mutters.

“What?”

There’s a beat of silence before the quiet answer: “Caring.”

Shion needs to sit down. He settles for clearing his throat instead. “It can be quite uncomfortable at times.”

“Do you think one can give it back, somehow?” Nezumi asks. 

“No. I’ve been told it’s not exactly a fair deal.”

And at that, and last, Nezumi smiles for a second. “Do you think they’ll accept it?”

“Accept what?”

“The Singing Waters. In exchange for your old status.”

Shion tries and fails to form the same question at least twice.

“How do you—?”

“A deduction. It wasn’t hard to guess, Shion.”

He gives in and takes a step closer to the bed, sitting at the end of it. Nezumi glances at him briefly. 

“I don’t care about… ‘my status’, as you call it. There are things that I miss about it, yes, but I’m not looking to get my life at the Blessings back. I just—” he sighs, looking down at his hands. “I haven’t seen or talked to my mom in four years, Nezumi. And just as I’m not allowed to enter any of the districts save for the Pious Ward, she’s not allowed to leave the Blessings because of me. I know she lives comfortably there, and she has her shop and her clients, but I’m… I’m selfish. I want to see her, to know that she’s alright. And I want her to know that I am too, because she used to worry so much back then, and now I can’t imagine—” 

“Good thing we have a destination, then,” Nezumi says, and when Shion turns to look at him, his gaze is already on him. Piercing and intent. 

Something about setting the course rings in his mind. 

“You—I thought… ”

“The carvings on the ceiling were old runes. The Fey used it to mark a group of islands they considered sacred. I know where to go, and we’re not that far away.”

He stares. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Nezumi reaches out and Shion, without thinking, reaches back and takes his hand. “We’ll find it. You’ll take it back to them and you’ll see your mother again. And then you’re going to give me some of that pie that she makes, the one you brought to me back then.”

Shion laughs, and there are tears in his eyes, but Nezumi doesn’t mention it.

“Okay,” he says. “okay.”

***

It shouldn’t be surprising that their final destination is in a cave on an island in the middle of an archipelago called Sailor’s Graveyard. They anchor the Elyurias out of the reef range and use two smaller boats that are easy to maneuver around the treacherous rock formations of the outer ring. 

It takes two long hours before they finally reach a spot safe enough to leave the boats and easy for them to approach. The island vegetation is lush and vibrant, seemingly untouched by human life. They marvel at its beauty, but only until the heat starts to make the air feel stifling and the humidity makes their clothes cling uncomfortably to their skins. 

Rikiga, who refused to let Shion go without him, helps clear the path of vines and long branches that make it impossible to move easily. Still, it takes them another hour before they find the cave. 

Inukashi, Rikiga and André, reluctantly agree to wait at the entrance, and Shion and Nezumi slowly descend. 

The air inside the cave is pleasantly cool. Shion sighs in relief as Nezumi walks a few steps ahead of him, sword in hand.. 

“Do you think this will be dangerous, too?” He asks, making sure for the twentieth time that he’s carrying the bag with the two bottles they’ll most likely need. 

“I doubt it. The Fire’s Call is about destruction, I should’ve expected it,” Nezumi answers, stopping for a second before they take a turn. “The Singing Waters are the opposite but… I guess we can only wait and see.” 

It takes a couple of minutes for Shion no notice that something’s off. At first, he can’t pinpoint exactly what, but as they keep moving forward, the feeling persists. 

And then it dawns on him.

Caves are supposed to be dark. But neither of them has had the need to lit a torch. And even though it’s dim, there is a light that’s enough for his eyes to see everything around.

Finally, he looks up.

“Nezumi?” he calls softly. 

“What is it?”

“Look,” he says, pointing.

Along the curved cavernous ceiling, there’s a thin series of cracks that emanate a soft glow. And they continue, expanding towards the direction they’re taking.

“That’s a sign if we needed any,” Nezumi says, fingers tapping on the hilt of his sword. 

“There’s writing here, I think.”

And there is. Along a ridge on the rock, a series of symbols are carved. 

The glow comes from them too. 

“Those are Fey in origin.”

“Can you understand their meaning?”

“Possibly. These are similar to what I use for my spelles.” He moves closer to where Shion is and, in silence, inspects the symbols for a moment. “It’s… something about humility. And patience.”

“Nothing about the Singing Waters?”

“No, not that I can see.”

So they move on, and it’s less than a minute before the tunnels open up to a wider chamber. 

Without saying a word, they stop at the entrance. There’s a soft melody that echoes in the space, a sound like rushing water and shining stars and winds blowing against open sails. The glowing cracks that line the top of the tunnel expand and multiply in the chamber, forming an array of lines that stretch from the entrance to cover all sides of the cavern walls and converge on the opposite point, where a thin stream of water emerges from a fissure on the rock, hitting the side of a concave platform and then running down to disappear in a crevice on the floor.

It seems so simple, for something with so much significance. Even so, Shion feels his breath catching. It feels sacred. Unique.

Nezumi clears his throat at his side and Shion looks at him. He seems to shake himself briefly, and he wonders if maybe whatever presence is instilled in these walls is affecting him too. 

“Shall we?” Nezumi asks, and takes the first step forward. 

Shion follows him in. They walk the twenty feet that are between them and the small stream. The melody is all encompassing now, still soft, still quiet, but surrounding them fully. It feels weird to speak.

“Should I…?” Shion asks in a whisper, looking at the glowing lines all around them.

“Yes. It’s… better not to  linger too long.”

“Right,” he mutters, fumbling for the first bottle. He holds it with trembling hands and gets closer to the crevice where the water comes from. He glances at Nezumi over his shoulder. 

He stands close behind, his hand tight around the hilt of his sword, shoulders tense. “Go ahead. I’m right here.” 

He places the mouth of the bottle under the stream, and watches with fascination as it trickles down and slowly starts to fill it. 

“There’s an inscription here,” Nezumi says in a whisper, and Shion can hear him taking a few steps back “On the top. Just like the runes before. It’s—it’s in Laidoan” 

“What does it say?”

There’s a brief pause.

“Uh… roughly, something like ‘a gift in a hundred turns around a star’” 

Shion hums quietly, seeing how finally the water reaches the brim. He straightens and turns to look at Nezumi, quickly picking the cork from the bag to close the bottle.

“It sounds like a proverb, an adage of sorts,” he says, finally looking up to find Nezumi staring at him with wide eyes. 

“Shion—”

“Nezumi, what’s—”

“Shion, the water, it’s…”

He turns. The stream has been reduced to a slow trickle. Small droplets that fall silently on the rock. 

Until it stops. 

Shion breathing stops too, but it’s quickly trampled with confusion. 

“Did you do something?” Nezumi asks. 

“What—No, of course not, I only… it was fine, just seconds ago, I didn’t…”

Nezumi’s expression falters. Shion feels his chest constrict as a panic settles in.

No. No, no, no, no. This can’t be. This can’t be. 

His mind races to find an answer, an explanation, anything— 

But then he hears Nezumi’s soft laughter. It’s a broken thing, a melody from a forgotten instrument. 

Almost painful.

“Nezumi?”

“Oh, the Gods are cruel”, he mutters, head hanging low. His hand flexes around the handle of his sword, shaking it idly from side to side. “Of course it wouldn’t be that easy, what were we thinking?”

“I’m not… Nezumi, I don’t understand.”

Nezumi finally looks up. His eyes are dull and his expression forms an imperfect smiling mask. 

But upon looking back at Shion’s face, something breaks. The mask falls, slowly, easily, leaving only an odd blend of anger and resignation. He shakes his head and waves his empty hand at the inscription.

“Humility and patience, the runes from before. And now this, ‘a gift in a hundred turns around a star’. What a load of bullshit,” he spats, and realization starts to dawn on Shion. “One time in a hundred years. One chance, one dose. I bet there’s a shitty life lesson they intended to impart from this.”

And it makes sense.

He hates that it makes sense. 

He’s frozen on the spot, still holding the bottle with the Singing Waters in his hands. It’s just then he notices the melody around them has stopped. 

Nezumi curses under his breath, turns around and starts walking away. 

“Where are you going?” Shion asks, still unmoving.

“What do you mean? We’re getting out of here. There’s nothing left.”

“But—”

“Don’t—” he bites out, turning sharply to look at him. “Don’t do this, Shion. There’s nothing else. Let’s leave.”    

He doesn’t want to give in. 

But he forces himself to take a step anyway, and then another, and he follows Nezumi out of the chamber and back into the tunnel. 

As they walk, the lights on the cracks at the top start to dim. 

Shion wants to scream, he doesn’t want any more signs, does need more. It’s enough hurt and enough injustice to bear. 

Nezumi’s voice cuts loudly through the silence.

“We have enough supplies to make a journey straight to the Sixth Kingdom. Without detours and changing Elyurias appearance to use trade routes, we should be there in less than three weeks.”  

“What are you talking about?” 

“You need to go back to your life, and to your mother, and I need to repay some favours. My crew—”

“Wait. Wait.” He stops. A few steps ahead, Nezumi stops too. “This is not… I’m not taking this,” he says, lifting the bottle. The soft light from the cracks above makes its surface shine. “Nezumi, you need this.” 

“You need it too.”

“You can’t compare that. You can’t,” he says, walking up to him until they’re right in front of each other. “Don’t ask me to stand aside and watch you get hurt, you said that, to me. The least you could do it’s to return the favor.” He pushes the bottle against Nezumi’s chest, holding it there. “I won’t take this. I won’t, not if it’s the only thing that can keep you alive.” 

Nezumi looks from his eyes down to the bottle. He can feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breaths.

“You’re so stubborn,” he says then. “You have a life to go back to, Shion. I’m a sorcerer and a pirate—in most places, my existence is a crime. But you… you could do so much. And this—” he stops, placing a hang above Shion’s, where’s he holding the bottle against his chest. “This is a possibility you deserve.”

“You’re not listening,” Shion says firmly. “I won’t take this. Not if by the end it means I’ll never get to see you again, even if it’s by chance. That’s the only possibility I want to keep.” He takes Nezumi’s other hand and, when he doesn’t resist, places it under the base of the bottle. He leans in, resting their foreheads together. “If you don’t take it, I’ll just drop it all on the sea at the first chance I get. I bet that will make some fish really happy.” 

 Nezumi huffs a weak laugh. “You’re an idiot, Shion.” 

“Yeah, I’ve been told.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“No. But it’s not like you’re giving me much of a choice.”

At that, it’s his turn to smile.

**

Back in the ship, after toasting to his enemies and downing the Singing Waters in one go, Nezumi falls asleep.

At first, Shion panics. He and Inukashi rushe to steady him as he sways in place, the memory of him collapsing after the attack in the underwater temple still fresh for them both. But as the minutes go by and Karina inspects him, it seems he only has fallen to a deep slumber. 

They check his white web of scars and, slowly, they seem to be retracting and fading.

This time around, Inukashi doesn’t try to pry him from his side. They bring him food and keep him company at times insead. 

Twelve hours later, Nezumi opens his eyes. 

“Nezumi,” he asks, quietly, as if his voice could somehow affect whatever outcome they will get. “How do you feel?”

Nezumi looks at him and reaches out a hand. Shion catches it immediately. “Cold,” he answers, sitting up without letting go. “How long—?”

“Half a day,” he says, looking down at their hands. He moves his fingers gingerly until he can place them on Nezumi’s pulse. His heart beats steadily. “The scars from Fire’s Call have been fading.” 

Nezumi merely nods before leaning forward until his forehead rests on Shion’s shoulder. He exhales, slowly, and says nothing for a long time.

Shion’s throat feels tight. 

“I’m still here,” Nezumi mutters, finally. Shion squeezes his hand once and turns just enough to kiss the crown of his head. His hair is silky under his lips.

“You are.”

“You’re still here, too.”

Shion smiles. “Yes.” 

“Tell Inukashi I resign. They can be the captain now. I want to rest for the rest of this journey.”

Shion chuckles. His eyes are starting to sting. 

“They’ll hate you if you do that.”

“Mmm.”

“What about… you power, Nezumi, do you still—?” 

“Yes,” he says quietly, still leaning against Shion. “It’s with me still. It’s—it really worked, Shion. It really did.”

“I know.”

“But—Shion. Your life, and your mother—”

He squeezes his hand and raises it up to his lips to place a soft kiss on his knuckles. 

Nezumi stays very still. 

“We’ll find another way. I’m sure we will.”

After that, for a long time, neither of them moves.

***

They’re less than a week away from the Sixth Kingdom.

The journey back has been blissfully uneventful. Shion has devoted more of his time to help Elena in her duties, and is helping her with the inventory in the cargo hold when a sound of footsteps descending down the stairs startles them both.

The surprise only increases when they see Nezumi coming towards them, holding a… a flower? And Inukashi following close behind.

“Shion!” Nezumi calls, and his eyes seem to be lit from the inside. It’s the same look he had when they broke the cipher in the journal in what seems ages ago. “Look.”

And he holds the flower. 

The flower in question is, well, it’s a pretty flower. Big, with wide purple petals, vibrant even the dim light of the room. 

“Uh,” he says, confused, looking at Inukashi and Karina in turns. “Thank you?”

Nezumi laughs a bit… hysterically, and for a second Shion thinks ‘oh, he’s lost it, the cure was fake’. 

“Shion, please, if I wanted to give you flowers you’d get a bouquet, with asters for your name. No, listen, this is—Inukashi, why don’t you tell them?”

“Because you won’t shup up! Gods above, you do love listening to the sound of your voice, don’t you?” 

Shion still hasn’t recovered from the word bouquet when Inukashi starts telling their story. 

“Listen, while I was waiting with the others outside of that creepy cave I decided to wander for a bit, alright? Because I was getting bored and thinking way too much for my liking. So I follow this path around the creepy thing for a while and then I see this patch of beautiful wildflowers, and it seems fair to keep at least one, as a memory, because this stuff is supposed to be legendary and maybe it’ll cheer me up if I get to be old and cranky, so—”

“It’s been two weeks Shion,” Nezumi interrupts, handing the flower over to him. “Just look at it.”

“Didn’t you find it weird?” Karina asks Inukashi, her eyes on the soft looking petals. 

“Why would I? I mean, some plants are weird as hell, right? I didn’t really pay it any mind until Nezumi saw it minutes ago and started asking questions.”

“There’s a difference between weird and unnatural, Inukashi,” Nezumi says.

“I’m no expert, alright?”

Shion listens to them distantly, staring at the flower in his hands. It looks freshly cut, overflowing with life still. 

“Nezumi, do you think—?” he asks, not daring to finish the sentence. Not daring to hope.

There’s finally a moment of silence.

“I don’t know, Shion. But if it’s like this because of its proximity to the Singing Waters source, then it’s worth a try. Can you do it?”  

The distillation process his mother taught him years ago, the one he’s been using infallibly since then, repeats itself in low whisper in his mind, over and over again. 

“Yes,” he says finally. “Yes, I can.” He looks up. Karina is smiling at him and Inukashi ‘oohs’ in surprise.

And Nezumi— 

Nezumi looks happy. His eyes alight with warmth and something else that Shion doesn’t dare to name. 

***

The request for an audience with his former professor in the Blessings takes three days to be processed. It’s just enough time for Shion’s nerves to steadily rise until he feels sick just thinking about it.

It doesn’t help to know that Nezumi and his crew are docked at the port of the Pious ward, the ship’s appearance changed once more to look like a merchant vessel. It still doesn’t negate the fact that there are a bunch of sorcerers and pirates stationed in a city where magic can be punished by death. 

Very calming thoughts indeed. 

He finally enters the Blessings feeling the weight of his old life dragging his eyes to all the corners he used to be familiar with, noticing the changes and the things that remain the same. It seems like it only takes a second for the guards to escort him to the office of his old professor and he closes his eyes to pray, to any deity that might be listening, so his words won’t betray him now. 

The man that one taught him and guided him sits at the end of a long room, surrounded by books and years of accumulated knowledge. His hands are clasped on his desk, his face unreadable. 

Shion can’t tell what he’s thinking, or what he thinks of him now. He remembers he vouched for him and his words during the trial, but in his eyes he’s probably still a traitor to the beliefs of the Kingdom. 

He approaches the desk with steady steps and fetches the glass vial from his pocket, placing on the desk gingerly. 

“Master,” he says, bowing his head respectfully. “I bring to you the Singing Waters, in hopes this might alleviate the transgressions of my past.” 

***

It’s only fitting that, a week later, the sun is setting by the time he reaches the docks in the Pious Ward and finds his way to the ship. 

The door of the captain’s cabin is half open when he gets there. He stops outside for a moment, taking in a shaky breath before stepping inside. 

Nezumi is standing next to his desk. Slanted beams of light come through the window, catching on his hair the side of his neck.

This time, when he thinks beautiful, the word blossoms painlessly in his chest. 

“How did it go?” Nezumi asks.

“It’s—they approved it. There’re a lot of questions they want to ask, still, but… it worked.”

Nezumi’s shoulders drop slightly and his mouth curves upward. “What about your mother?”

“That’s part of it. I think… I think by the end of the week I’ll get to see her.” 

He feels breathless. Nezumi drops his gaze for a second.

“She’ll be happy.” 

“Yes.”

A pause. Nezumi looks up. “And you?” 

“What about me?”

“Are you happy?” 

Shion smiles even though something in him hurts. “Yes. But I would be happier if you could stay.”

Nezumi chuckles, shaking his head. 

“I was afraid you would say something like that.”

“Afraid?” 

“Mmm… because, you see—” he says, taking the three steps that keep them apart. “It’d be foolish to pretend I wouldn’t like the same thing.”

Nezumi’s palm presses against his cheek and Shion leans into it. Closing his eyes. 

The Gods are cruel, Nezumi said back in the cave. Shion’s inclined to agree now, as the warmth of the afternoon slowly fades to give room to the night.

“I’ll miss you,” he says, afraid he’ll choke on the words if he doesn’t let them go now.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to say goodbye” 

“Who said anything about a goodbye?” Nezumi asks in a whisper. Shion opens his eyes to find his gaze already on him. “I’ll return. I have some business to take of and a crew that needs me, but I’ll be back.”

Shion frowns, if only to mock him a little. 

“Isn’t that what all the sailors say?”

Nezumi laughs, and leans in to place a kiss on Shion’s forehead. “But I’m a rather unique sailor, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Shion whispers a soft yes against Nezumi’s lips. He leans into him, hoping a kiss could linger indefinitely, relishing the feeling of fingers gently carding through his hair. 

“I’ll be back,” he whispers once more against his lips. “I promise.”

And Shion knows this to be true, the same way he knows the sun will rise again and the stars will shine this night, he knows. 

“I’ll be waiting.” 

*** 

Coda

Three months later, he sits on an empty bench on the docks of the Pious Ward, holding his winter cloak close. Back at home, Karan waits with a blueberry pie and a lit fireplace. Rikiga is probably already on his way.  

Here, he waits with an open heart and happiness blooming in his chest. 

The cold wind blows softly and the waves crest and crash gently against the pier. There are ships in the distance, some approaching, some leaving. 

He’s not sure how he notices it, but he does, instantly. It’s not the same ship he grew accustomed to, but he wasn’t expecting it to be. 

He walks up to the edge of the pier, needing to be sure. 

A few minutes later, he’s able to make out the name of the ship, painted with swirling letters on its side. It’s written in Laidoan and it reads “Aster’s kiss”. 

He laughs, the cold forgotten, and even though the waves drown the sound, he knows he holds the happiness of a promise fulfilled. 

He’s finally back. 

[fic-for-fic-sake]

A Siren’s Call

A/N: A follow up to “A Mermaid Tale” but this can be read as a oneshot. Also yes, I did get the song from the mermaid part of Pirates of the Caribbean, sue me. 

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Ever since you and Bucky went on the mission to Lake Superior you had been feeling better than usual. Maybe it was the chance to be in a fresh body of water, or maybe it was spending time with Bucky. You had always had a soft spot for him but something about how he acted on the mission changed something in you. He was kind and considerate and didn’t hesitate to ask questions about you or how you got your abilities. 

You were in your room considering all of these things when there was a knock on the door. After saying they could come in, Tony waltzed through your door and stood at the foot of your bed. 

“I have a surprise for you.” He said, lips curling in a smile. 

“What kind of surprise?” You questioned in response. The last surprise he had for you was new lab equipment so it could really be anything. 

“The water related kind.” He replied simply. Now /that/ got your attention. When Tony gestured you followed him out of your room and then outside the compound itself. You and Tony walked in silence as the two of you cut a path through the woods that camouflaged the estate. You walked about half a mile before you came to a clearing and a glittering pond. You stopped in your tracks. 

“Tony, what is this?” You asked, walking towards the waters edge 

“It’s what they call a natural swimming pool.” He said as he waved his hand around the cerulean colored pool. It was incredible. The trees parted around it but still provided a nice canopy of shade. There were plants at the bottom and beautiful lily pads floated around the ethereal body of water. 

“When did you have time to do this?” 

“I had the project in the works but after Barnes talked to me I rushed it.” Tony answered. 

“Wait,” you stopped admiring the water when your brain registered what Tony had just revealed, “Bucky talked to you about this? About me?” 

“Yeah, after your mission he told me that you felt like you were a literal fish out of water. Practically yelled at me to build something for you.” Tony said with a dismissive wave of his hand, as if swatting a gnat away. 

“Thank you.” You said as you rushed to give him a hug. He held on to your embrace for a while before leaving you to your own devices. 

“Oh and by the way,” He started, turning back for a moment, “those trees have lights in them so when it gets dark you still have light.” 

Your cheeks hurt you were beaming so hard. You quickly dove off of the small wooden dock and into the water and it felt like a breath of fresh air. Near the bottom of the pool you could see fish swimming and the plants swaying gently with the current created by your violet tail. 

You stayed in the water for what felt like hours, just enjoying yourself and your surroundings. Your mind drifted back to Bucky and the fact that he had specifically asked Tony to build this for you. Just the thought that he would do something like that sent a pleasant shiver down your spine. You recalled the old lore of the siren and remembered the song they would sing and it seemed perfectly fitting for your mood. 

“My heart is pierced by Cupid, I disdain all glittering gold. There is nothing can console me, but my jolly sailor bold.” You began to sing, voice as sweet and syrupy as molasses. Your fingers made lazy circles in the water and your gossamer hair floated around you.

Unbeknownst to you, Bucky was on his way to see how you liked your new dwellings. He was about to break through the clearing in the woods when he stopped in his tracks at the sound of your voice. It was unlike anything he had ever heard before. A sense of calm washed over him and all of his anxieties faded away. Bewitched by your melody, he made his way to the dock. 

“Come all you pretty fair maids, whoever you may be. Who love a jolly sailor bold, that plows the raging sea.” You continued to sing until you heard the snap of a twig from behind you. In a panic you turned around to see Bucky stride towards the dock. He positioned himself so that he lay on his stomach and propped his chin on top of his folded hands. 

“Hey doll.” He whispered, voice hoarse. 

“Hi Buck.” You replied, moving closer to the current object of your desire. 

“Awful pretty voice ya got. Whatcha sining?” He asked, a Brooklyn accent lacing through his words as a small smile graced his lips. 

“Just a song I learned.” you murmured, lost in the arctic blue of Bucky’s eyes. 

“How does it end?” 

You obliged him as you began to sing again, moving closer still to Bucky as you did so. “My heart is pierced by Cupid, I disdain all glittering gold. There is nothing can console me, but my jolly sailor bold.” You finished, as he reached out for you with gentle fingers and threaded them through your hair. Your mirrored his gesture and reached up to place your lips against his. You would have to thank the sirens of old as you certainly caught your very own jolly sailor bold.

[ask-the-fairies]

Main 8: what’s your favorite story that you’ve heard at Fairy Tale Theater?

Tinkerbell:

"That's easy! I'm biased still; I love hearing the story of the lost treasure! Partially because I lived it!"

Fawn:

"I love the story called The 7 Brothers. It's about 7 brothers who live and hunt together in the woods, and one day they are confronted by a King, who tells them whoever shoots an arrow nearest to his daughter shall have her as his bride and be king himself someday. The king has hidden her in the forest somewhere, so each brother shoots 1 arrow in whichever direction they believe her to be. The youngest brother, Viktor, is also the weakest of the brothers, but the kindest. His brothers mock him when his arrow does not go far. The princess hears them, and places herself beside the youngests arrow, and he and her fall in love and be married! I just think it's a nice story!"

Zarina:

"I don't go the theatre alot, but I do remember a nice story about a group of pirates who become shipwrecked on a lost island, and discover a lost civilization, and they have a chance to save this civilization and turn their lives around. I forgot what it was called though."

Periwinkle:

"At our theatre in Winter Woods, I was told a story about 2 sisters. One was born with ice powers, the other not. But an accident almost killed the normal sister, and so a spell was placed on her to heal her that made her forget her sisters powers too. The story was about sisterhood, and being comfortable with yourself, as well as love and sacrifice. In the end, the sisters are the best of friends again!"

Rosetta:

"The ugly bride! It's about a beautiful princess, who is loced by a cruel king. She rejects his advances, and he turns her into a hideous frog. The only way to turn back into a princess is to earn the love of a prince. A prince in a nearby kingdom is being forced to find a bride, and while on a walk one day, meets the frog princess. She tells him that if he marries her, she shsll make him proud and happy. Afraid his father will force him to marry someone else, he marries the frog princess. His brothers and their wives mock and ridicule him for it, and he becomes embarassed. The frog princess continues to reassure him. The king, decides it is time to choose an heir, and so puts his sons up to several tasks to please him, and their wives. The first task he gives the wives, is to make him a splendid meal. The frog princess works all night alone, and somehow makes a beautiful, delicious meal that outdoes the other 2 wives. The second night, the king orders the women to design him a new outfit, and once again, the frog princess makes a costume fit for a king. The last night, the king asks the women to weave him a tapestry. The frog princess weaves all night under the moon, and creates the most beautiful tapestry in the kingdom. The king is pleased with the frog princess, as is her prince husband. He admits he underestimated her abilities and kindness, and plans a ball to show how proud he is of her. That night, at the ball, a beautiful woman appears before everyone, and reveals that she is indeed the frog princess. The curse lifted, the king declares that she and her husband shall rule next, and they live happily ever after."

Silvermist:

"I've always loved the story of the lake fairy. One day, a poor woodcutter was chopping wood to sell by a lake one day, and he lost his grip on his axe and it fell into the lake. The lake was very deep, amd he could not swim. As he sat by the shore thinking of how he could not afford another axe, a beautiful water fairy appeared to him, and asked him why he was so sad. When he told her of his lost axe, she offered to get it for him, and she dipped below the water. When shr returned, she had a shimmering, solid silver axe. What a fortune it was worth! He could feed his family for many seasons with that axe. But it was not his, and he told the fairy the truth. She dipped below the water once again, and returned with another axe, this one solid gold. He would never have to sell wood again with that axe! But it was not his, and he told her the truth. She once again dipped into the lake, and this time returned eith his rightful, trusty axe. He was delighted, and she delivered it to him. She told him that because he had told her the truth about the other 2 axes, he could have them too. And so the man returned home with all three axes, and was able to leave his job behind for a better future with his family. It's a sweet story!"

Iridessa:

"My favourite story is the one about the little girl and the stream. One day, there was a kind little girl named Lucy, who lived in a shack with her cruel and lazy mother, and cruel and lazy sister. After supper, the mother told Lucy to fetch some water by the stream so they could wash. And so down to the stream she went to get water. An old woman appeared, and asked if she could have some of her water to drink, as she was old and frail and was afraid of falling in the stream. Lucy happily obliged, and let her drink as much water as she wanted. The old woman thanked her after, and told her that because she was so kind and sweet, she shall be rewarded every time she spoke. Lucy trudged back to the house, where her impatient mother asked her what took her so long. But when Lucy began to speak, pearls and small jewels began to fall from her mouth. After hearing of the old woman, the mother ordered the other sister to fetch water from the stream, and to be kind to the old woman so she too could have riches fall from her mouth. The cruel sister went down to the stream, but saw no old woman. Instead, a beautiful young woman approached her, and asked for some of her water. The cruel sister refused, telling her to get it herself, and told her to get lost. The beautiful woman told her she was nasty and vile, and so from now on her words would produce nasty and vile creatures. The cruel sister ran back to the house, where her mother was eager to know what happened. When she tried to tell her story, snakes and frogs came from her mouth instead! Little Lucy ran away, and lived a life of luxury from her jewels always practicing kindness to those around her. The cruel mother and sister lived their days in filth and misery, surrounded by frogs and snakes."

"I don't really do the theatre, but if I had to choose a story, it's the minotaur and the maze. It's about 2 warring kingdoms. The son of King Rolf was killed in the country of King Julius, and King Rolf blamed Julius, and ordered that every 3 years, 12 random citizens from King Julius's country would be forced aboard a ship bound for his own. These 12 people would then be locked in a maze meant to trap a violent minotaur, as sacrifices. Of they survived through the night, they would be taken back to their country and set free. No one had ever lived till dawn. As the time came to pick which citizens of his country would be chosen, King Julius's own son, Xavier, volunteered himself. He thought that perhaps if he were to die, then King Rolf would stop his madness for good. King Julius reluctantly agreed, and the prince boarded the ship bound to King Rolf's country. When the prisoners arrived, King Rolf was delighted to see the prince among them. King Rolf's daughter, Helena, was present as well. Prince Xavier boldly declared that he would spend the night alone in the maze and kill the minotaur himself. If he prevailed, King Rolf would never again take innocent people from his country. King Rolf agreed, feeling that the death of his enemies son would be justice enough for his own sons death. The other prisoners were held in a cell together, while Prince Xavier waited for nightfall in a cell of his own. Just an hour before dark, Princess Helena came to his cell in secret. She offered to help him and his countrymen escape, believing her father cruel and vengeful. He turned down the kind offer, knowing if he fled King Rolf's bloody reign would continue. So Princess Helena gave him a long spool of golden thread, so he may tie one end to a rock in the maze, so he may not get lost. Surprised by her kindness and good heart, Prince Xavier promised he would succeed. And so that night, he was locked in the labyrinth, with his hidden thread and knife. He tied one of ge string ends to a rock, and began to explore the dark, mysterious maze. It was not long before the minotaur smelled the prince, and began to attack. The prince slashed the minotaurs eyes, as to blind him, then killed and beheaded the beast. Morning came, and to King Rolf's astonishment, Prince Xavier came out of the maze virtually unscathed, who threw the head of the fallen minotaur at his feet. Unable to back out of his agreement, King Rolf ordered the release of the other prisoners, and promised on paper that no other people shall be taken anymore. Prince Xavier was pleased, but owed his success to Princess Helena. He then demanded Princess Helena's hand in marriage as a sign of unity between the two countries. Princess Helena happily agreed, and so with their marriage, the two countries were able to live on peace."

Thanks for the ask!

[hersheyotaku]

Cloaked Feelings

Fandom: Tangled Characters: Varian, Ruddiger, Rapunzel Pairings: One-sided Varipunzel, heavily implied New Dream Tags: post series, before wedding, minor fluff, minor angst, unrequited love, pining, Varian being a dork, also starring Eugene’s face

Summary: Stumbling across the shapeshifting cloak was a complete accident. But with a bright and inquisitive mind like his, Varian can’t help but want to study it. However, a case of mistaken identity soon forces him to choose between doing what’s right…or falling further into a tangled web of deception and selfish impulses.

Read on Ao3 here

“Ruddiger!” Varian called in exasperation. “Get out of there! You can eat your apples after we finish sorting through this stuff.”

With a grumbling chitter, the pudgy raccoon abandoned the bucket of apples he’d been rooting through and ambled over to where Varian was sitting cross-legged on the floor. The young alchemist gave his friend a quick scratch behind the ear before nodding his head at a nearby basket, and the raccoon dutifully clambered up the side and disappeared over the rim.

Satisfied that Ruddiger was doing his part, Varian went back to rifling through his own box, which was filled with an assortment of unclaimed goods that had been salvaged from the wreckage of Corona a few months back.

Rapunzel had told him that since no one had come forward to claim any of the items, he was free to sift through and see if there was anything he could use for his experiments. He may be a fully-funded royal engineer now, but he still had personal projects that he liked to work on.

Besides, he enjoyed the thrill of the hunt! Back in Old Corona, he and Ruddiger had spent many days together digging through scrap piles for hidden treasures, though Ruddiger was usually more interested in gobbling down the remains of someone’s half-eaten sandwich than extracting metal bedsprings from a mattress to be melted down later.

Lance had helped him haul half a dozen boxes and baskets full of odds and ends down to his lab in the basement of the castle, but he’d paid the price for the help by spending the next half-hour cleaning up the minor explosion the larger man had caused during the five minutes he’d spent in the lab, touching everything Varian told him not to. Once the exasperated alchemist had contained the globulous purple fire and sent Lance on his way, he had finally been able to start sorting his haul.

Varian had just dropped a dented pocket watch into his pile of useful objects when he heard a hissing sound from Ruddiger’s basket. Brow furrowed, he stood and leaned forward to peer inside.

An orange tabby cat lunged out at him, and Varian let out a startled yelp. “Gah! What the—?!” He ducked his head as the strange cat clawed its way up his vest and curled around his shoulders. Where had it come from?! And where was Ruddiger? Grabbing the edge of the basket, he tipped it towards him, searching for his friend.

“Ruddiger?” he asked, then winced when the cat yowled right into his ear. He reached up to grab it, but instead of fur he got a fistful of fabric. Baffled, he pulled at the material, and in a shower of sparkling light a dark piece of cloth slid off of the cat and revealed Ruddiger instead.

They stared at each for a moment, then both of their gazes darted down to the cloth hanging from the alchemist’s hand. What…had just happened?

—

To Varian’s utter astonishment, he discovered that the large piece of cloth was actually a cloak. A hooded cloak with a chameleon-shaped brooch that could change a person’s physical features and was apparently controlled by neural oscillation or…something close to it. Essentially—as he’d had to explain to Ruddiger when the raccoon had tilted his furry head in confusion—you think of the person you want to look like, and boom! Instant change! And just as astounding, the cloak itself shifted into whatever outfit the wearer willed it to, making it the perfect disguise!

Remarkably, the cloak wasn’t simply bending light to create an illusion; it changed the physiological structure of whoever was wearing it. While experimenting, Varian had shifted to look like Quirin, and his head had collided with a high shelf that normally wouldn’t have posed a risk. Aside from the forming bump on his forehead, it was an exciting discovery!

He’d also found that the cloak only functioned correctly if the brooch was attached. Separated, the two items lost their transformative properties, and even when Varian tried attaching the brooch to other materials, it never yielded any results. But if he could find a way to replicate the materials, the scientific possibilities could be endless!

To that end, he’d laid the cloak out on a workbench that he’d hastily cleared of beakers and books. One corner of the fabric lay under the lens of a microscope, while the chameleon brooch floated in a beaker of chemical solution that Varian planned to test to see what properties it contained. He also had a few stray pieces of thread from the cloak floating in their own solution. He was going to find out exactly what these things were made of!

Plucking the brooch from the solution with a pair of sterilized tweezers, he carefully cleaned it before reattaching it to the cloak. Then he took the two chemical compounds and poured them into labelled test tubes. Since the day he’d tried to test Rapunzel’s hair, he’d improved on the process and come up with an alternate method in the form of a chemical solution that could analyze the composition and properties of whatever he soaked in it.

Once he’d placed the test tubes into the chamber of a small centrifuge machine of his own design and set it to run, the teen alchemist placed his hands on his hips and took a step back, letting out a satisfied huff. That should do it!

But it would be a few hours until the results were ready, so now he had some time to kill.

Glancing around his lab, his eyes landed on his bookmarked copy of Flynn Rider and the Cursed Isle of Sairaag. He grinned. He knew just how to pass the time.

—

“Ha! You think a few scurvy pirates can stop the great Flynn Rider?” Varian goaded his invisible foe, brandishing his prototype electromagnetic sword. Wearing the face of one Eugene Fitzherbert, he swiped at the rubber ball that came flying towards him, envisioning it as a savage pirate charging him at the command of the Dread Pirate Ruby-Eyed Rick.

While Eugene might not be the Flynn Rider from The Tales of Flynnigan Rider, his was still the face Varian associated with his favorite fictional character. And with the help of one totally non-magical cloak, he now had the chance to be his childhood hero!

“Is that the best you’ve got, you flea-bitten rapscallion?” he taunted, hopping from one foot to the other in anticipation of the next round.

Dropping the ball he’d been about to load into the Varian’s homemade launching machine, Ruddiger gave an indignant chitter and planted his paws on his sides.

“No, Ruddiger—I know you don’t actually have fleas,” Varian reassured his friend with a touch of exasperation. “It’s just a line from the book!”

Ruddiger didn’t seem entirely convinced, but nonetheless, he picked up the ball and dropped it into the machine.

“Ha-ha!” Varian crowed triumphantly as he cut through the projectile. “Give it up, Ruby Eye! Your two-bit lackeys are no match for—”

He froze at the sound of the door creaking open. Shoot, he hadn’t been expecting anyone!

“Hey Varian, have you seen—oh there you are, Eugene!” Rapunzel stepped into the lab, a wide grin on her freckled features.

“O-oh, no, I’m not—” Varian stammered, his cheeks flushing at being caught in what was essentially an elaborate game of make-believe. Why did he have to give in to his childish impulses without locking the door first? And why did it have to be Rapunzel of all people to catch him?

But apparently Rapunzel had drawn a completely different conclusion, and she let out a light laugh as she approached him. “Were you playing with Varian’s inventions again?” She took the sword from his hand and placed it on the nearest table. “You know how he feels about people touching his stuff. Remember how you crashed his Flynnoleum-powered cart into the city fountain?”

Wait, that had been Eugene?! Varian knew he hadn’t forgotten to set the emergency brake when he’d—

The alchemist was jolted from his thoughts when Rapunzel gave his nose a light tap. “Don’t worry!” she told him, before leaning in close and whispering conspiratorially, “I don’t think Varian has it out for you the same way he does for Lance.”

With Rapunzel so close, her large emerald eyes and cute freckled nose mere inches from his own, Varian was finding it extremely hard to articulate any of the thoughts tumbling around in his head, and that gave the princess time to move on to the very reason she’d come looking for Eugene.

“Now, who’s ready for our date~?” she practically sang, bouncing on her heels.

“Date?” Varian echoed, before realization dawned on him and he held up his hands in alarm. “Rapunzel, I’m not—”

“Oh very funny, Eugene,” Rapunzel smirked. Then her fingers curled into the material of his shirt to pull him down—a foreign feeling for the normally short-statured teen—and she pressed a kiss to his mouth.

Time ground to a complete standstill for Varian, his every sense zeroing in on the feeling of Rapunzel’s soft lips pressing against his own. She—she was kissing him!

Then her lips began to move against his, and Varian couldn’t help himself.

He kissed her back.

He had no idea how long the kiss lasted—it felt like an eternity and a split second all rolled into one—before Rapunzel pulled away with that shining smile of hers.

As Varian slowly came back to his senses, he realized that his arms had wound around the princess and pulled her into a tight embrace. But it was unlike any embrace they’d ever shared before. It was intimate, and Varian could feel a hot flush creeping up his back and neck as his heart pounded fiercely, keenly aware of the feel of Rapunzel’s body pressed against his.

He wasn’t given too much more time to think about it before Rapunzel expertly twirled out of his hold and grabbed his hand. “C’mon, let’s go! We don’t want to miss the sunset!”

Before Varian could ask ‘what sunset?’ he was being pulled towards the door.

Turning his head to look over his shoulder, he caught sight of Ruddiger watching from atop his workbench. ‘Help!’ he mouthed to the raccoon. Ruddiger tipped his head, seeming to consider the idea before giving him a toothy grin and curling his small raccoon hands into double thumbs up.

What…that little traitor! Varian didn’t even have time to glare at the raccoon before Rapunzel towed him down the hall, chatting excitedly about their date.

Now, Varian’s first instinct was to protest and tell her he wasn’t Eugene and that she was mistaken. But the fresh memory of what had just transpired between them kept his lips sealed as his pulse thundered in his burning ears.

He couldn’t let her know that he wasn’t Eugene now! What would she think if she found out she’d kissed him and…oh geez, he’d kissed her back! If he hadn’t been an idiot and gotten swept away in the moment he could probably play this all off as the huge misunderstanding it was.

But he had kissed her back and even wrapped his arms around her, which had just prolonged it. There was no explaining that away! She’d find out—she’d know how he…how he felt about her, and then what would happen? She was engaged! To Eugene! One of his best friends!

If Varian’s hands had been free he would have tangled them in his hair in frustration. What was he gonna do? The kiss had been wonderful, everything he’d ever imagined it could be, but he couldn’t let Rapunzel find out!

The best thing he could do now was escape before things got out of hand.

“Oh hey, um…s-sunshine?” The nickname tasted foreign on his tongue. He was so used to calling her Rapunzel or princess, but Eugene usually reserved the first for more serious occasions and never used the second. This was going to be tricky.

“Hm?” Rapunzel glanced back at him curiously.

“Uh, I forgot that I had a…a thing that I need to do. Y’know, captain of the guard stuff and…uh…” Varian trailed off as Rapunzel’s face fell, his chest constricting uncomfortably.

“Oh…does that mean we have to cancel our date?” Her large green eyes stared into his sadly, and suddenly Varian felt very small, despite his magically-enhanced height. Well…it wasn’t like one little date would hurt anything. It would make Rapunzel happy and—if he was honest—the idea of actually going on a date with her was pretty thrilling.

“No,” he finally said, giving her a lop-sided grin. “It can wait.”

The beaming smile that lit Rapunzel’s face effectively washed away all of Varian’s doubts about his decision, and he willingly allowed himself to be whisked down the hall.

—

Varian glanced around the docks uneasily, his doubts resurfacing now that they were actually here. Eugene had apparently made arrangements for a romantic sunset boat ride, which made the teen alchemist wonder where the real Eugene was. Shouldn’t he be here if he was the one who set up this date?

Rapunzel hopped down into the boat and held out an inviting hand. “Ready?” she asked, her smile drawing Varian in like a moth to a flame.

Well, the fact of the matter was that Eugene wasn’t here. And someone had to take Rapunzel on this date! “You bet!” he said, taking her hand and joining her. She untied the mooring rope while he grabbed the oars, and soon they were headed out towards the open water.

They found a spot where Rapunzel insisted they would have the absolute best view of the sunset. Already the darkening sky was turning a dusky pink, and Varian had to admit that it was probably going to be a spectacular view when the sun dipped below the horizon.

But until that happened…he had no clue what he was supposed to do. What were they going to talk about? What did she and Eugene talk about when they were alone like this?

Fortunately for him Rapunzel was a take-charge kind of girl, and she was all too happy to snuggle right up into his side, resting her head on his shoulder. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she sighed, gazing up at the pink and purple streaks coloring the sky.

A response popped into Varian’s head and, emboldened by his concealed identity, he decided to voice it.

“Not as beautiful as you.” Then he held his breath, not knowing how she would respond. Was that too cheesy? Too forward? Too out of character?

Rapunzel pulled away from his shoulder, and Varian felt his heart jump into his throat. He’d messed up, he’d definitely messed up! Slowly turning his head, he was shocked to see Rapunzel looking at him with a soft smile, her cheeks lightly tinted pink. “Aw, that is so sweet!” she cooed, and this time Varian’s heart skipped a beat for an entirely different reason.

With his confidence boosted and nerves soothed by Rapunzel’s positive response, Varian committed himself to the task of enjoying his time with the bubbly princess.

Amidst amiable chatter, he gave her compliments, enjoying how she’d flush with happiness. He took her hands and softly rubbed his thumb over her knuckles, brushed her hair back from her face, gently pressed his forehead to hers. No matter how small, each touch was absolutely electrifying to him, charged with an emotion that Varian could only describe as…well, love.

This was a side of Rapunzel that only Eugene got to experience, and while it wasn’t like the couple hid their affection in front of others, there was just something about being the direct recipient of Rapunzel’s coy looks—how she would bite her bottom lip while looking at him from beneath her thick eyelashes—that stole his breath and made his stomach do somersaults.

He relished each small romantic gesture—both given and taken—that he’d otherwise never dare to indulge in, and committed each and every one to memory. 

This was both the best and worst idea he’d ever had.

Then Rapunzel leaned in, her eyes slipping closed, and Varian’s heart beat a million miles a minute. It was happening! She was going to kiss him again!

Varian was no stranger to physical affection from Rapunzel. She was the type to give out hugs like candy, and she had no qualms about holding hands with Varian or even snuggling up to him if they were sitting next to each other. But it was always platonic in nature, and while Varian enjoyed it, he hadn’t realized how different those innocent gestures of affection were compared to what Rapunzel shared with Eugene. Even if it was the exact same physical action, it was the emotion and intent behind it that made it special.

And none of it was truly intended for him.

Then her lips were on his, and Varian allowed himself to forget that crucial little detail and be swept away. One hand tangled itself in her hair while the other settled at the small of her back, pulling her closer. He could feel the light pressure of her hand on his chest, and the sensation of her thumb brushing along his jaw sent a delightful jolt up his spine. 

By the time Rapunzel pulled back, Varian’s head was buzzing pleasantly and he felt lighter than air, like he could just float away on the slightest breeze.

“Th-that was great, thanks…” he mumbled dazedly, a goofy grin on his face.

Rapunzel giggled at his dazed expression. Then she tipped her head to the side, studying him. “Y’know, you’ve been acting a bit funny, Eugene. Is something wrong?”

Panic sliced through Varian’s euphoria, and he quickly shook his head. “N-no! Of course not! Why would—why would something be wrong? Nope, ev-everything’s cool, we’re cool!” Chuckling nervously, he made to lean on the side of the boat, but his elbow missed and he nearly tumbled into the water.

“Woah!” Rapunzel exclaimed, grabbing his wrist and yanking him back before he could fall overboard. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay? Should we head back?”

Varian took a second to calm his rapidly beating heart, which felt like it was about to pound his ribs to dust. “I-I guess maybe that would be a good idea,” he conceded reluctantly, almost shakily. As much as he was enjoying spending time out here with Rapunzel like this, on an actual date, he was also painfully aware of what a charade it was. And the longer it continued, the more likely he’d be found out.

Taking both of his hands in hers, Rapunzel locked eyes with him, gazing at him so intently that Varian’s previous attempt to calm his heart became an effort in futility. “You know you can tell me anything, right?” 

Completely entranced by her soft tone and those vivid green eyes filled with understanding and concern, Varian��s mouth automatically opened to confide in her. But at the last second he caught himself and snapped it shut.

He loved her. He’d loved her since the day she’d offered him forgiveness and the chance of redemption, from the moment she’d refused to let him kill himself to clean up the mess he’d made. But he couldn’t tell her that, and he couldn’t tell her that he’d selfishly taken advantage of her to see how it would feel if…if she returned his feelings.

But it was a pale imitation. She thought she was with Eugene, not him.

Taking a deep breath through his nose, Varian gave her a weak smile. This was something he couldn’t share even with her.

So instead, he told her, “I think I might’ve had some…bad fish for lunch. Didn’t um…taste right, y’know?”

Sighing, he lifted his hand and cupped her cheek. Maybe it was wrong, and she certainly wouldn’t know the true meaning behind his words, but this might be the only opportunity he had to tell her without potentially ruining their friendship.

“I love you, Rapunzel,” he told her gently, combing his fingers through her soft brown hair reverently.

Rapunzel’s eyes lit with a warmth that made Varian’s heart ache, and she reached up to rest her hand on his cheek in turn. “And I love you, Eugene.”

It felt like she’d slapped him. Even with her tender touch, and even when she leaned in and pressed her mouth to his once more, Varian felt the sharp ache of Eugene’s name on her lips. He hadn’t even been expecting anything, he’d just wanted to finally tell her, but…it was too much.

The feeling of something warm and wet sliding down his cheek made Varian’s eyes snap open. To his horror, he realized that his vision was swimming. No, he couldn’t cry, Eugene wouldn’t cry!

Breaking the kiss, he was thankful that Rapunzel’s eyes were closed as he swiped his sleeve across his face. What was he doing, he’d known all along that he had no place with Rapunzel. Not like Eugene did.

“Eugene?” she asked, utterly confused when she opened her eyes to the sight of her fiancé vehemently swiping at his eyes with his sleeve.

“All-allergies” was his weak excuse. Leaning down, he picked up the oars and attempted a reassuring smile. “Let’s head back, we can…we can do this again some other time. When there’s less…pollen.”

A lie. She would do this again with Eugene, but not him.

Varian could tell that Rapunzel suspected something was off, judging by the concerned looks she kept shooting him as he rowed them back to shore. So he did his best to buck up and make light small talk, for her sake. He didn’t want her to worry…or to question Eugene about it later.

That thought sent a jolt of horrified realization down his spine. Eugene. There was no way Rapunzel wouldn’t mention the date to him later, probably to ask what he’d been hiding from her. Stupid stupid stupid! They were going to find out!

It took a lot of effort to not let his panic show as he helped Rapunzel out of the boat, a wide smile plastered onto his face that probably looked a bit manic, if Rapunzel’s raised brow was any indication. “Eugene…maybe you should go see a doctor?”

“No!” Varian exclaimed hastily, before clearing his throat. “It’s just that I uh…I need to…need to go.” He stood there for a brief moment, his overly wide smile still in place. Then he ducked away and booked it down the street.

“Wha—Eugene!” Rapunzel exclaimed in surprise, reaching after him. “Where are you going?!”

Somewhere he could take off this stupid cloak and try to figure out a way to salvage this whole situation! But Varian thought back to his ‘bad fish’ excuse and decided to roll with that. “Bathroom!” he shouted back.

As he disappeared around the corner of a building, Rapunzel’s hand slowly lowered. Well that was…weird.

—

Back in the relative safety of his lab, Varian took a moment to lean against the door and catch his breath. Initially he’d wanted nothing more than to rip off the cloak as soon as he was out of Rapunzel’s sight, but had thought better of it. He couldn’t risk someone seeing him go into a building as Eugene and come out as himself, especially while carrying such an incriminating piece of evidence.

So instead, the citizens of Corona got to witness their illustrious captain of the guard tearing through the streets like his tail was on fire. Which…really wasn’t all that rare of an occurrence, but still.

Varian grabbed the cloth at his shoulder and pulled the cloak off, his body returning to normal in a sparkling flash of light. With a heaving sigh, he ran his fingers through his bangs. He had a lot to think about.

Dragging the cloak with him, he sat down at his desk and let his head fall on top of the scattered blueprints and schematics with a thunk.

On the one hand, he’d never imagined he’d get the chance to be with Rapunzel like that, and it had been amazing. But any joy he might derive from the memory was tainted by his gnawing guilt at the false pretense those stolen moments had been under. And he still had to figure out what he was going to do when Rapunzel inevitably talked to Eugene…

A knock at the door nearly made Varian jump out of his skin, and he frantically stuffed the cloak under his desk, kicking it against the wall and nearly tripping as he scrambled from his seat. He’d locked the door this time, but it’d be suspicious if it took him too long to answer it.

“C-coming!” he called, heart pounding as he undid the lock and cracked open the door.

A cold sweat broke out on the back of Varian’s neck when he saw who it was.

“Rapunzel?” he squeaked, before clearing his throat and opening the door fully. “I mean uh, h-hi!”

“Hi Varian!” she grinned, then tilted her head as she took in his frazzled appearance. “Are you…busy?”

“Busy…um, no!” Varian stepped back and gestured for her to come inside, making a valiant effort to keep his hand from shaking as she moved past him. “What—” He paused, wetting his suddenly dry lips as he struggled to maintain eye contact. “What brings you here?”

“Well, I wanted to ask you something.” The princess twirled a strand of brunette hair in front of her ear while Varian held his breath, dreading her next words. “Earlier, I went on a date with Eugene and…he was acting kind of funny.”

Varian’s mouth went completely dry. She knew. 

“But,” Rapunzel continued, clearly not reading into Varian’s wide-eyed expression. “it turns out he was  just having indigestion from eating some bad fish for lunch.”

Varian’s fight or flight instinct had been about to kick into overdrive, but just like that it vanished, leaving him somewhat numb as he tried to comprehend this turn of events. “…what?”

“Yeah, I think he came here earlier to see if you could help him, but you weren’t around and I might have dragged him off before he could get something to fix it,” Rapunzel explained sheepishly. “So I was wondering…do you have anything that could help with an upset stomach?”

Varian blinked. “Upset stomach?” he echoed. That’s why she was here? Not to force him to give her an explanation for his actions, or chew him out for tricking her, or kick him out of the castle? “Uh I…don’t really do much with medicine, though I could probably whip something up if you need me to.”

It’d have to be something with no potency whatsoever, since he doubted Eugene—wherever he was—had actually had bad fish for lunch.

Rapunzel’s smile was dazzling. “Oh, thank you, Varian!” she said, grabbing his hand and giving it a quick squeeze that made the young alchemist’s heart flutter. Then she was out the door, giving him a lighthearted wave. “I’ll be back once I find where Eugene went!” And she was gone.

Varian slowly let out the breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding as he closed the door behind her. He meandered over to the cabinet where he kept his alchemical supplies, absentmindedly plucking a few colorful vials before moving to his workbench.

So he hadn’t been found out. And really, if nobody knew he had the cloak, they couldn’t possibly pin him as the fake Eugene, even if Eugene and Rapunzel did talk. But the thought of Rapunzel worrying about who the stranger in the boat had been, touching her, kissing her—Varian didn’t want to imagine the distress that would cause her.

…should he come clean? Before Eugene could confirm that he hadn’t been the one in the boat with Rapunzel?

The very idea made Varian’s gut twist into an anxious knot. Telling Rapunzel would keep her from worrying about being molested by a stranger, but would she forgive him? Be able to trust him again? Understand why, in his prolonged moment of weakness, he’d done it?

Well. She’d been able to forgive Cassandra but…somehow that felt different. Cassandra hadn’t tricked Rapunzel into kissing her. And he hadn’t had an ancient demon manipulating him.

The sound of squeaking door hinges jerked Varian from his spiraling thoughts, and he whirled around. Then he let out a sigh of relief when he saw it was just Ruddiger coming through the special door flap he’d installed for him. “Oh, it’s just you,” he breathed. Then he noticed the raccoon had something in his mouth, and he kneeled down to get a better look. Was that…an empty vial?

Ruddiger deposited the vial into his waiting hand, and Varian’s breath caught as he read the label.

Quirinian 2.0

Ironically, in his attempt to help Rapunzel’s parents regain their memories, he’d actually managed to create a weaker version of what the Quirinian was originally supposed to be: a memory-erase serum. The effects of the serum caused whoever drank it to forget everything they’d experienced in the last 24 hours. But since it didn’t help people regain their memories, and the king and queen had managed to remember their lives without his help anyway, he’d shelved the serum and moved on to other projects.

His eyes darted back to Ruddiger. “Did you…” He swallowed weakly, afraid of the answer. “Did you give this t-to Eugene?”

Ruddiger nodded, looking immensely pleased with himself.

Varian’s heart dropped. So this was why Eugene hadn’t shown up? Because he’d forgotten about the date altogether? Varian had no idea how recently they’d made their plans, but apparently it had been fairly impromptu, probably something they’d decided last night or this morning.

Oh no. Ruddiger must have interpreted his plea for help when Rapunzel had taken him from the lab as asking for help with the date, not getting out of it! No no no, he hadn’t wanted this!

“Ruddiger…no,” Varian said, his voice cracking as he clutched at his hair with both hands. “No, you went too far! I—” Slowly, his hands fell to his lap. “No…I went too far,” he admitted miserably.

Dimly, he was aware of Ruddiger’s concerned chitter, how his friend patted his leg in a gesture of comfort. But that left Varian to wonder just why he was so upset. Was it because he’d tricked Rapunzel? Broken her trust so he could live out a fantasy for a few hours? Indirectly drugged Eugene? Or was it because…

He swallowed thickly. Because he knew that he’d never experience that sort of happiness, that sort of thrill, with Rapunzel again?

Varian’s eyes darted to the cloak, and he chewed his lip, torn. There was a chance, just a small one, that he could experience that happiness again. But it wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be fair. To Rapunzel, to Eugene, to himself.

All he had to do was get rid of it and no one would ever know. Rapunzel might even blame the bad fish thing for Eugene’s memory. But…

Shaking his head, Varian tore his eyes away from the shimmering fabric. He shouldn’t even be tempted to use it again. He should just move on, cherish the memory of his short time with Rapunzel, let everything go back to the way it was.

But there was a dark, desperate part of himself that wanted to experience being with Rapunzel again, regardless of the cost...and it scared him. If he kept the cloak, the temptation would be too great.

He couldn’t let that happen. He’d made enough mistakes in his life—he had to get rid of the cloak before he made any more.

Resolve hardened, but afraid it wouldn’t last, Varian moved to where the cloak lay crumpled on the ground and snatched it up. “C’mon Ruddiger, let’s get rid of this thing.”

With a chitter of agreement, Ruddiger climbed to his shoulders and the alchemist strode from his lab to dispose of the magical cloak.

Not a moment after the door shut behind them, a high-pitched ‘ding’ echoed through the lab as the centrifuge machine came to a stop, and the spectrometric press hooked to it printed out two sheets of data.

The test results were ready.

[queenbirbs]

the way home | Ch. 3 | Edward x MC

Pairing: Edward Mortemer x MC

Word count: 3,417

Warnings: language, violence, mention of blood

Read from the beginning or continue on Read on AO3 

Tag list: @writinghereandthere ------

Whatever Robert says or does against Rhodes seems to work.

For the next week, as they hop from island to island, he gives Elena a wide berth. It doesn’t stop the death glares he gives her on the regular, but she’ll take those over him dropping a sack over her head and kidnapping her, as her nightmares depict. 

He can’t ruin today, though. The next outpost is St. Sylvain -- finally, a place where Elena has contacts of her own. Well, Charlie’s, she considers, which brings that familiar rush of heartache. She misses her best friend; misses her snarky, carefree attitude; misses her crude jokes and compassionate heart. Though Robert tries with his sarcastic tongue, he can never measure up to Charlie’s quick wit. 

As soon as the ship docks, Elena is off, flapping a hand at Robert’s reminder to only ask for information from those she trusts. Down the gangplank and across the port, she makes her way into the open-air market and searches along the rows of brightly-colored stalls. As if no time has passed, Bronte leans out from her own stall and waves at her as she approaches. 

“Ah, the fiercest pirate in all the seven seas!” she crows, her wrinkles creasing as she grins. “You’re Charlotte’s friend, aren’t ya? She’s been looking all over for ya.” 

“She has?” Elena asks, tightly clenching the leather strap across her chest.  

“O’course. She was here…” she trails off, tapping a finger against her stall as if counting up the days in her head. “...oh, sometime before the big storm. Was makin’ her rounds of the place, askin’ if ye’d been around.” 

“Did she say where she was headed?”

“Afraid not.” Settling her weight across the table, she opens her mouth, then pauses to squint at something along the market. Elena glances over her shoulder, but spots nothing of interest among the crowded stalls. “But here -- let me give ye something.” 

Bronte bends down and heaves up a basket of what looks like knitting supplies, clicking her tongue as she digs through it. Sweeping her hair to one shoulder, Elena keeps watch of the market until the older woman hums a noise of victory. She pulls out a makeshift cross, bound with red thread. “‘Tis made from the twigs of a Rowan tree. Keep it on yer person. It’ll offer ye protection from evil spirits on yer journey.” 

Given her recent history, Elena’s made a point to avoid picking up any old object. But she doesn’t want to seem rude, and who is she to argue against something that will bring protection? Taking the charm, she tucks it into the pocket of her coat.

“Thank you -- for the protection, and for speaking with me.” 

Bronte smiles at her once more. “If I see young Charlotte, I’ll be sure to send her yer way.”

------

The rest of the day is a wash. 

Her stop by the St. Sylvain Inn to speak with Mary takes the better part of an hour. Most of that time, however, is taken up by helping Mary toss out an unruly guest. What little chance at conversation they manage to have, Elena finds that her knowledge about Charlie’s whereabouts is limited. 

“She asked if I’d seen you, actually.” Mary’s face brightens at the memory, before she bites at her lip and frowns. “But this was months back. Certainly well before the hurricane.”

At the blacksmith’s, Elena wanders around the shop as the man there speaks with a customer. They hem and haw over the fine details of a new gate, going back and forth about prices. She bides her time by looking at a row of gleaming blades. One of the daggers catches her eye for the level of details carved along the hilt; it reminds her of the pistol Charlie gave her, all those years ago. The customer eventually leaves, having refused such a high cost for ‘such subpar craftsmanship.’

“What can I do for ye, ma’am?” the blacksmith calls out to her, wiping away the sweat on his face. “Interested in anything?”

Elena leaves the wares and crosses the room to be heard above the roar of the forge. “No, sorry. I was wondering if Tripp was working today?”

The blacksmith turns back to his project, tapping at a piece of glowing metal with his hammer. “He don’t work here no more.”

“Oh. Do you know where he works now, then?”

“No.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“No.”

“Do you know where I can--”

He slams the hammer down and a burst of hot sparks flares up into her face. The sword is in her hand and at his throat before she realizes it -- and before the man has the attempt to lift the hammer in defense. 

“Listen, alright.” He licks his lips and eyes the sword’s gleaming edge. “He left about three months ago. Said that he was going to try and head back home.” 

“Where’s that?” she snaps, though she eases the sword back a few inches to give him the illusion of space. 

“I don’t-- maybe, maybe St. Fisher, or England. I dunno, I never asked. All I know is that he went off, and I haven’t seen ‘im since.” 

Elena flicks her sword away and slides it back into its scabbard, suppressing her smirk at the man’s audible breath of relief. Brushing past another woman on her way out, she starts her trek back to the market to try any other of Charlie’s contacts. She’s nearly reached the main drag when there’s a voice from behind her. 

“Is yer name Elena Montgomery?” 

Elena spins around to face the stranger. It’s the woman from the shop, her auburn hair matted to her neck from the heat -- and, presumably, from chasing Elena down. Her accent is similar to Kendrick’s, her voice low and rich. 

“It is. And you are…?”

“Oh, sorry -- I’m Fran.” She shifts the satchel she carries from one shoulder to the other, trying to catch her breath. “I’m sorry, too, for chasing after you like that. I saw you at the inn, talking with Mary. Are you looking for Edward Mortemer?” 

“I am.”  

“I just met a lad who talked about doing business with him.” 

“When?”

“Two hours ago or so, I think. I was out near the market and we struck up a--”

“No, when did he see Edward?” Elena clarifies.

“Oh.” Fran’s nose scrunches up as she tries to recall. “I think he mentioned it was o’er the summer? I’m not for certain. I can take you to him -- if he’s still at his stall.”

It’s too good to be true. After weeks of searching, a lead like this doesn’t just fall into her lap. She would be a fool to go with some random woman, despite how cute she is. But she can’t turn her back on an opportunity like this. 

“Yes, please,” she all but begs. 

Fran guides her through the streets, clearly a local in her knowledge on how to avoid the congested areas. She isn’t much for talking, which Elena appreciates, as she’s too caught up in her own thoughts. Even if this man saw Edward over the summer, does that mean it was here, or somewhere across the globe? If it was over in Portugal or the Philippines, then what the hell is she supposed to do? What if she returned too late? What if Edward, Charlie, and the crew were one of the twelve ships lost in the storm? Elena fiddles with the necklace, worrying the chain in between her fingers. She knows the risk of using the whistle again -- but she will, if it means saving their lives from such a fate. 

“That’s a pretty charm you have there,” Fran says, breaking the silence between them. “A bit odd-looking, but pretty.”

“Thanks.” Feigning a smile, Elena tries to subtly tuck it back into her shirt.

They reach the market soon enough. Along with Bronte’s, most of the stalls are boarded up or packed away. Out in the harbor, strong winds batter at the ships’ flags and rigging. Thick clouds roll along above the island, warning them of the approaching storm. Across the horizon, lightning dances atop the white-capped waves. Fran continues down to a covered section of the wharf, shadowed by a large building for ship repairs.

“Tommy! You still here?” she calls out as they round the next corner. 

Tucked back along the building are a few more stalls. Their choice in location isn’t lost on Elena. This is where other sorts of deals take place. If it weren’t obvious from the grizzled men that leer at them, the crates of pistols, bolts of fine lace, and casks of wine are enough of a statement on their own. 

“Aye, I’m here.” 

Dread rings its alarm bell loud and clear inside her skull when Rhodes steps out from the group of men. From the corner of her vision, Elena sees several more men approach her from behind. “Very good,” Rhodes croons at Fran, dropping a few coins into her waiting palm.

“I also snagged us this. Figured we could rough it up a bit and pass it off as the Bonnie Prince’s.” From her satchel, she pulls out the dagger Elena eyed at the shop. “And that charm she’s wearin’, that could go for a fair bit o’ coin.” 

The roof groans under the sudden onslaught of rain. Shoddy patch jobs let some of the water through, soaking the dry earth under their feet. Taking the blade from Fran, Rhodes tosses it between his hands, eyeing Elena all the while. That crooked smirk of his widens.

“Fran speaks the truth, ya know. I spoke with your captain not long before the storm. He told me a lovely tale about how he’s sailed the world looking for his love. It brought tears to my eyes, it really did.” 

“Touching,” Elena all but spits back at him. She lifts her chin to keep her eyes on his. Her hand hovers above her sword’s hilt.

“Too many heartless bastards out there, he said, trying to pull one over on ‘im.”

Her eyebrows shoot up towards her hairline. “And you’re going to be different?” 

“O’course. He’s been chasing after lies for far too long. The lad wants proof.” Rhodes strikes; he throws an arm across her chest and slams her back into the wall. Her face smacks against the rough stone; she tastes blood on her tongue. “So, I’m going to slice off one of those pretty fingers of yers, and if he don’t respond to that, I’ll keep sending him more until he--”

Elena spits in his face. He reaches to wipe it away and she ducks under his hold, using the muddy ground to slide from his next punch. Knocking his arm away, she slams her fist against his kidneys. Rhodes collapses to one knee and growls out a long string of curses.

“Send him one of yours instead,” she snarls.

Swiping the dagger from his hand, she twirls it and grips it tight before seizing his other hand. The blade slices clean through three of his fingers. His howl of pain disappears under a loud clap of thunder.

“You fucking--”

His insult never lands. With a quick snap of her knee, she knocks his head into the wall. He collapses in a heap, mottled with blood and muck. Elena bends down and wipes the blade on a clean patch of his shirt. 

When she stands up, she finds Fran gone and the other men watching her from a few yards back. Sliding her new dagger into the sheath at her breast, she throws the men a mock salute and heads out into the storm. 

------

She’s woken by the smell of blood. 

Her hand goes up to attend to her nosebleed before she realizes the scent is a memory from her nightmare, the last dredges of it lingering in the confines of her quarters. Not wanting her bunkmates to wake to the sound of her crying, Elena climbs out and heads for the deck. With the skeleton crew this late at night, she has no trouble sneaking past them to reach her corner of solitude at the stern.   

If she closes her eyes, she can pretend she’s aboard the Revenge. The salty ocean breeze and the rhythmic swaying of the ship could fool her so easily. When she opens her eyes, though, there is no Henry badgering her about trying his latest creation; no Charlie sauntering up with a bottle of rum; and no Edward drawing invisible lines between the stars to teach her the constellations. 

The same stars she’s looking up at now, knowing that somewhere out there across the sea, he might be gazing at them, too. 

The small pinpricks of light start to grow fuzzy. Elena folds her arms against the railing and buries her head in them, trying to muffle her crying. The idea of spending another month chasing after Edward is frustrating to no end. If this was her own time, she could just hunt him down on social media or track him down with a PI. Maybe it would be better if she planted her ass down on an island and waited for him, at this rate.    

“Are you bawling because you killed him?”

Elena jolts up in surprise. Her ribs smack against the railing. Rubbing a hand over them to soothe the ache, she turns and glowers at Robert. 

“I don’t remember inviting you to my pity party.”

“You didn’t. I crashed it.” Moving to stand beside her, he spends a long minute overlooking the dark ocean in front of them. Once she’s finished with trying to hide her tears, he asks again. “So, did you?”

“No.”

“A shame.” 

Captain Delaney was the only one to ask about Rhodes when he didn’t return. When no one else responded, Robert mentioned that he decided to take a position on another ship. The lie -- and the fact that no one cared all that much for the man anyway -- seemed to work. Delaney promoted another sailor to Rhodes’s position, and that was that.  

“I should’ve listened to you,” Elena laments, not-so-subtly wiping her tear-stained sleeve against her face. “This woman approached me and said she had information about Edward. I was baited -- hook, line, and sinker.” 

His hands clench tight around the railing. “Love can make you do stupid things.”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

“Aye, actually, I am.” 

“Bullshit,” she says. “You’ve never once mentioned someone important. You only wanted to come back for the freedom, the adventure -- you said so yourself. And I understand that, I really do. The adventure is why I stayed in the first place. I could’ve snuck into Edward’s cabin or seduced him for the compass like that,” she snaps her fingers for emphasis, ignoring Robert’s snort of disbelief. “But once I had the chance… I stayed. It became about more than the thrill of it.”

“Why is it that you younguns think love is only for the thirty-and-under crowd?” 

“‘Younguns’?” Elena repeats with a grimace. 

“I was trying out some of yer Texas slang.”

“Nobody says that.” When he opens his mouth to protest, she holds up a hand. “Okay, nobody who didn’t fight in the fucking Alamo. But -- seriously, I want to know. Is there someone…?” she trails off, encouraging him to open up. 

Robert lets out a long, ragged sigh before digging into his coat. The compass in his hand is set into a simple wooden box, much less ornate than the previous one. Cradling the compass close to shield it from the wind, he digs a fingernail into a hidden switch and a small compartment slides open from the bottom. A twist of raven-colored hair falls into his palm, tied with a tiny length of twine. He traces his thumb across the coarse texture, his breathing unsteady. 

“His name is Julien. We met in Panama City while searching for Sir Francis Drake’s treasure that he stole from the Nuestra Señora de la Concepción. Though we never did find the gold, we ended up running a ship together and stealing some of our own.” Without glancing down, Robert slips the lock of hair back into the compartment and snaps it closed. It’s telling how reflexive it is, as if he repeats the move a hundred times a day. “We didn’t want to deal with the Spanish anymore than we had to, so we sailed to St. Lucia. ‘Twas run by France at the time, and our contact out there bragged about running a smuggling route right under their noses. But when we arrived, we found him in a gibbet. He’d been there a good while. Julien only knew ‘twas him from the ugly, purple trousers he wore.”

Having seen the skeletons hanging along some of the ports, Elena is thankful she missed seeing the late stages of decomposition. “Not long after, we were captured by the French. We managed to escape, but were forced to separate in order to get our crew out. Being French himself, Julien had a better chance at disguising himself as a local. The last I saw of him was when he went back in to retrieve Charlie. And then,” he pauses to clear his throat, “she came out and he didn’t, and we had to escape the island or risk getting caught all over again. And his attempts would’ve been for nothing.”

Elena wants nothing more than to wrap her friend in a hug. Knowing that he’s not big on physical touch, though, she gives what comfort she can by placing her hand alongside his on the railing. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“O’course you didn’t, because I never told you. Even in the future, there are places where our relationship would be met with the business end of a pistol.” Robert shrugs at the idea, but she can see in the set of his jaw how angry it makes him. “But even after I gained your trust and you told me about your past relationships, I felt like I still needed to keep him a secret. Old habits die hard, I suppose.”

“Tell me about him,” she requests.

With a quiet chuckle, Robert shakes his head. 

“There isn’t enough time in the day to describe him, and I’m not one to wax poetic. But he is… kinder than me, certainly. A better shot than me, too. He’s the one who taught Charlie everything she knows. The chain I gave you, that’s for him.” He puts a hand up when Elena immediately reaches up to return it. “No, no -- that whistle is much too important. The chain isn’t the… I’ve already gotten a new one. I was hoping -- I have my grandfather’s ring that I would like him to wear. If he agrees, o’course.”

She suppresses the smile that wants to form at seeing Robert flustered. 

“You’re referring to him in the… do you know if he’s alive? Where he is?”

“The last confirmed sighting of him was three years ago in Curaçao, a small island off the coast of Venezuela.”

Her brows knit together as she studies him. “Then why are you here, in the north?”

His shoulders sag with the weight of his sigh, though she can see the beginnings of a smirk on his lips. 

“Because I made you a promise, remember? Last year, when we tried our hand at stealing the sceptre from the Crown Room. The only reason I’m not locked up in some Scottish ‘House of Special Purpose’ is because you came back for me. And I told you that I would stay by yer side until we found Edward.”

“I mean, if I had left you there, you would’ve just ratted me out as an accomplice.”

That gets a proper laugh from him. “True enough, but I’ll wager the thought never crossed yer mind, did it, kid?” Her small shrug is enough of a confirmation for him. “Julien’s somewhere out there, waiting for me,” he assures. “The man has the patience of a saint. So, I’ll be sticking with you ‘til then. Make sure you get home safe and all that.”

Annoyed at the night’s second round of tears trying to make their appearance, Elena keeps her eyes on the whitecaps in the distance. 

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” In a rare show of friendship, Robert knocks his elbow against hers and jostles her from the railing. “Seriously, don’t. I do have a reputation to uphold.”

------

References:

The “House of Special Purpose” is another name for the Ipatiev House, where Emperor Nicholas II, his family, and members of their household were executed in 1918. To my knowledge, there is no Scottish version -- mostly because MI5 operates out of the Thames House in London.

[luffyasksandanswers]

continued from [x] @chatcambrioleur​​​

Despite all the excuses, it was eventually boredom and curiosity that drove their captain to loot Nami’s chess board. Well, seems like he still needs to hone his stealth skills to overcome their navigator.

Luffy wasn’t sure whether he should continue to hunt for the "hidden mystery flavor” (which was obviously a tale told by their sniper) or not but at least the Nami stated her opinion very clearly. 

Since she didn’t want her belongings back the rubber man continued following his guts and as the couple of tiny wooden tokens rattle inside his mouth after being shoved back, the silence in the room becomes loud.

“...I-is this considered as check mate, Nami?”

[tsarisfanfiction]

Ruin (Tales From The Heart)

Fandom: One Piece Rating: Teen Warnings: major character injury, blood Characters: Law, Shachi, Penguin

Plans sometimes go wrong. Law knew this, had spent the last thirteen years making plans and watching at least half of them crumble away to dust as something went awry. He'd got better at improvising, and even better at making contingencies as experience taught him what failed him the most (his stamina, his nakama's inability to do as they were told if they thought it would leave him in danger). It didn't matter, he'd come to think, if a plan went wrong, because somehow they'd all pull through anyway.

Naïve.

Two years since he'd entered the New World, two years of stronger opponents, wilder fights and crazier possibilities, and he still thought he was ready for anything? Laughable.

Law wasn't laughing now. How could he, when his plans had gone so horribly wrong that his mind – his genius, never failed him, mind – had short-circuited. It was a simple reconnaissance, laying the groundwork for later. Nothing new, nothing his crew hadn't done many times before. There shouldn't have been anything to go wrong, not when he'd taken Penguin and Shachi with him, by far the most experienced in staying low and under the radar. Even if something had gone wrong, they'd been with him all those times before, when his plans crumbled to dust and it became improvise or die. They could handle it.

So why was Penguin frozen next to him, unable to even react, much like Law himself. Other members of his crew – a hand-picked minority of five in total – were in similar condition.

Plans went wrong, but never had a plan gone so horribly wrong.

The gorilla zoan in front of them laughed, a deep laugh that reverberated through his impressive chest and through the ground; Law could feel it through his feet. It wasn't a pleasant laugh. It was condescending, cruel and full of wicked malice, all at once. Beside him, chuckling along with similar sentiments, was the reason everything was wrong. Law didn't know what subtype it was, exactly, but the dog zoan was fast and vicious enough to catch them out, leaving them in their current situation.

Huge hands, far larger than an average gorilla but since when did zoans follow the laws of nature, almost entirely dwarfed the arms they held, the limbs looking like little more than frail twigs as they writhed, their owner desperately trying to worm his way loose, kicking at the air as if he could get enough purchase to wriggle out of the grip.

Shachi was having no success, his bids for freedom doing nothing more than providing a source of amusement for his captors. Of everyone, Shachi was the one Law had always thought (naively, he was too damn naïve) wouldn't be caught. He was the fastest, and had the best observation haki to match. Few opponents could even touch him in a fight (unless he was being a self-sacrificing idiot which was sadly all too common), so to see him bowled over by the canine zoan too fast for him to dodge, a vicious bite to his leg immobilising him just long enough for the dog's gorilla companion to scoop him up was something so incomprehensible Law couldn't react.

And so there they were, frozen in disbelief as the unforeseen, unimaginable scene unfolded before their eyes. Law's body wouldn't move, his eyes fixated on the struggling form of his nakama even as he cursed himself – too slow, too naïve, move you idiot – and from the unnatural stillness of his nakama behind him, he wasn't the only one.

"The Master doesn't appreciate you snooping around in his territory," the dog yapped self-importantly, chest puffed out. Law didn't particularly care, had never cared what his opponents did or did not appreciate. A pirate trying to please people was contradictory at best, and under normal circumstances, Law would take great pleasure in antagonising them further, just because he could.

These were not normal circumstances, and his brain had yet to restart from the mind-numbing shock of seeing Shachi captured so easily, so Law said nothing, trying to find a way to salvage the situation. One of his contingency plans would work, surely, if only he could remember them.

Shachi's flailing landed a solid kick to the gorilla's face, and the zoan's laughter stopped, his face morphing to a disgruntled scowl.

"We don't need them all?" he asked, the dog clearly running the show. (If Law could make observations like that, then why couldn't his brain stop being a blank slate?). The dog shrugged.

"One won't make a difference," he replied, and finally Law's blood started to boil as the implications forced their way in, his brain starting to whirr back into activity.

"Any funny business and you'll be next," the gorilla growled at them, the Heart Pirates still in varying states of frozen. It was cliché, Law managed to think. Clichés had a weakness, too well known, too obvious-

His brain screeched to a stop again as Shachi suddenly went rigid, legs stilling too fast, and the muscles in the gorilla's arms flexed.

The sound of fabric ripping cut harshly through the air, sleeves dividing roughly at the seams as the gorilla pulled. Two and two didn't add up for a moment, Law's brain back to numb as beads of red made themselves known around Shachi's upper arms, where the deltoid connected – had connected. No longer connected.

Shachi didn't scream, but the absence of vocal agony meant so much more. A small, choked-off noise, and clarity finally, finally, crashed over Law.

A flick of the fingers, then another, and Shachi was on the ground. Too close. Too close to the gorilla but that was where the dog had stood and Law wasn't a sadist despite his reputation, but the shriek as spindly limbs tore off and the armless body crashed to the ground in a pile of blood and agonised screams gave him a split second of satisfaction before he reached Shachi's side and reality sank in.

The ginger still had his arms, somehow. The skin was stretched and torn and Law could see a complex surgery in front of them to repair the damage, but they were still there, and that was a small victory he could take. Less victorious was the way he lay in the crumpled heap he'd landed in, still and unmoving. He wasn't unconscious, at least not by standard definitions. His eyes were open, unseeing through the shades and Law got the impression that even if he removed them Shachi wouldn't so much as blink. His breathing was shallow yet rapid and his skin quickly flushed.

Law wanted to finish off the gorilla too, leave him in pieces like he'd been about to do to Shachi and watch him squirm because he wasn't sadistic but he could be vindictive and if the doctor side of his brain wasn't so dominant he'd have done exactly that. He left it to his crew instead, hearing their irate roars as they, too, broke free from the mental numbness and unleashed their fury, because Shachi had gone into severe shock and needed treatment now before it became fatal.

Some back alley that couldn't even pretend to have a modicum of cleanliness was almost as far from ideal as it was possible to get, but that was where Law was and there wasn't time to relocate before he could begin to stabilise Shachi. He stripped off his coat, thankful that he'd chosen to wear it that day, and threw it over the ginger like a blanket before lifting his feet.

"Can you hear me?" he asked, hoping to incite some sort of reaction. "Shachi?" There was no response, as he'd feared, and he threw up another Room to use a Scan. Shachi's arms were a mess, as he'd already surmised. The muscles were frayed, and the humerus had been forced so far out of the socket that all the ligaments had snapped. It wouldn't be inaccurate to say his arms were hanging on by a thread, but impossibly, that wasn't Law's concern, nor the aim of his Scan. He needed Shachi's blood pressure to rise again, just enough to be able to move him and get back to the Tang, where he had access to everything he needed.

It wasn't rising, and Law wasn't willing to wait for it to get around to starting by itself, reaching in with his powers and forcing the blood around until it could sustain the pace without him. A cry tore itself from Shachi's throat, a painful broken sound that was the sweetest music Law could ever hear because it meant he wasn't gone yet, and he judged his patient as safe to move, wrapping the coat more firmly around him and lifting him into his arms.

"Shachi- Is he-?" Penguin was suddenly there in front of him, covered liberally with blood and the black of his haki not yet faded from his skin. The rest of the group of Heart Pirates were behind him in a similar state, dyed red and sporting numerous injuries that Law couldn't treat right then, because Shachi was safe to move but not out of danger and there was nothing else fatal in front of him.

"We need to get back," he said, his voice clipped and strained. Penguin's face fell, horror settling in as the implications struck him. Law, already moving as fast as he dared with his precious cargo, felt bad for him, but false hope was worse than the truth and he would never do that to his nakama.

His boots splashed through the blood on the ground, and while he wasn't consciously looking, he noticed the unmoving bloodied lumps and allowed himself a wry smile. Ordinarily he'd call such ferocity going overboard, but after what they'd done to Shachi it was simply penance and while part of him wished his nakama had left some for him, he was undeniably delighted to see the mangled corpses in his periphery as he hurried past.

Shachi was still breathing when they got back to the Tang, and he left the rest of his party to recount why, exactly, they were coated from head to toe in blood as he finally got the ginger settled in the infirmary, replacing makeshift field treatments with hospital grade equipment and coercing Shachi's body back to its regular performance.

Unsurprisingly, Penguin was first to follow him, silently obeying Law's instructions as the shock finally lifted and Law could safely sedate his patient enough to begin to repair the damage. There was a lot, the arms needing delicate treatment beyond anything conventional surgery could reliably offer and the long-lasting effects of the shock not easily reversed, but Law persevered in the end, allowing his Room to fall after he'd done everything he could.

A moment of black, and then he was on the floor, held awkwardly by Penguin, who had clearly managed to catch him before his head collided with the metal but only just.

"Get some rest, Law," the older man said, and Law absently noted the thickness in his voice that meant he was trying not to cry. He didn't get a chance to reorient himself before he was picked up, Penguin gently depositing him on the next bed over. "I'll wake you if anything changes."

Drained, Law didn't have much of a choice, exhausting forcibly overriding worry and dragging him back down into the realms of unconsciousness.

[ro-visiting-the-bureau]

TCR BDB Days 1 & 2: Space & Pirates

I decided to combine the two prompts, cause I got the perfect idea... the Pirate AU in the Treasure Planet universe! Enjoy!

The Spring Wind sailed through the night. In the distance, stars and nebulae make beautiful light shows, and the quiet of space enveloped the ship in its embrace. 

Most of the crew were bedded down, as it was the night cycle, but the ship's sole non-crewman was sitting on the gunwale, staring out. A member of the Fellene species, his cat-like head was covered in orange hair and tawny fur, with two wings extending into the cream of his face under his emerald eyes. He had left his customary jacket in his cabin, and so was out in just his white shirtsleeves, red waistcoat, grey breeches and brown boots. He had a journal and ink pen in hand, but hadn't moved either in a half hour. 

"Can't sleep?"

Baron Humbert Von Gikkingen turned from his musings on the starscape before him to see the human woman who commanded the ship. A slight and small frame that belayed the strength she had, she too had left her coat somewhere, and was just wearing one of her usual blouses, cut in the style of the people in the Eastern Kaze system. Tonight it was a light green with clasps and embroideries of gold thread in the pattern of kanji, blessings to keep her safe on her journeys. Dark green breeches, brown boots, and a belt holding a pouch, a telescope and a knife on her waist finished the ensemble. Her chin length brown hair was slightly mused, but her matching eyes were bright. She was holding two tankards, which were steaming slightly

“It’s so quiet,” Baron said. “I’m not used to it.”

“Neither was I, when I first took to the stars.” Captain Haru Yoshioka handed him a tankard and leaned against the railing next to him. “It was all so strange, how sound didn’t travel. A nova in the distance was as silent as the clouds of stardust we skimmed. But, spend long enough out here, and it’s the ports and cities that become unbearable.” She took a drink, which prompted him to try some of his own. Cider, a good choice for a night like this, even if he preferred tea.

“I hope I’m not here long enough for that to happen. I liked being able to sleep in the Capitol.” Baron set aside his journal and pen, and turned to lean against the rail as well. 

Haru glanced down at the book. “Those private thoughts, or would a penny be sufficient price?”

Baron shook his head. “Just trying to chronicle the journey. If I’m going to be here on this madcap quest, I want to be able to share the whole story with my children and grandchildren.”

“Persephone will likely do the same.” Haru chuckled. “She’ll probably send a couple copies to the Fellenius. The King will have a fit, and Prince Lune will get to see the other side of his chases after me and his mother.”

“How was it you managed to become the rival of the former Queen of Fellene?” he couldn’t help asking. It was quite the scandal, when the Queen and Royal Physician both ran off to play pirate. Some had put forth it had been romantically driven, except a close friend of the Queen’s had revealed she had no interest in the male sex, which is why there was only one heir. How the now Pirate Queen had befriended Haru, who had to be at least five years younger than himself, he truly wished to know.

But Haru just gave him an enigmatic smile and took another drink. “That is a tale better told by the both of us. Maybe when the treasure is ours, we’ll have a pint at the Old Benbow and we’ll tell you about it.”

“‘Old Benbow’, I’ve heard of that.” Baron’s brow furrowed. “That’s on Montressor, right? There was a rumor someone on the planet had found a map to Captain Flint’s trove, and I believe that inn was involved somehow.”

“Oh, you’re hearing rumors about that in the Capitol?” Haru tilted her head. “Care to share the details?”

“Not many to give. Someone hired a crew that set out from Montressor Spaceport, and a few months later supposedly the ship suddenly reappeared in space not far from the port, most of the crew tied in the brig, the captain injured, and first mate missing. Before their executions, the crew claimed they had found the trove, but had no proof of it. Not long after the Benbow, which had been burned down, was rebuilt, bigger and better than before.”

“Well, that’s the broad strokes of it. Details, you’ll have to wait and see.”

Baron glanced at Haru, whose smile had turned wistful, and pieces clicked in his mind. “Was that-?”

She held up a finger and wagged it at him. “Ah, ah! Spoilers.” She took one last, long pull of her cider, then set the mug on the bench next to him. “In any case, whatever my origin story, I’m here now, and so are you. Maybe this will be the start of your own.” 

“I sincerely doubt it, but I’m happy to at least be a footnote in yours.”

Years later, when Baron’s memoirs were published, he would write how that night gave him his first look into the inner character of Haru, and how he believed that was the moment he started to fall in love with her. 

Yes that is implying Haru was the one who went through the Treasure Planet plot. I'm thinking Persephone, wearing some sort of disguise, takes Silver's role, and that's how they met. Now the specifics of the world i'm not sure, namely is the Capitol basically Space England and all the other planets are colonies, or is it more like Star Wars where it's individual rulers send deligates to a Senate. Either would be fun.

[mariequitecontrarie]

Love Beyond the Sea: Chapters 24 & 25 (COMPLETE!)

Summary: A happy ending and a soft epilogue where we kick some baby Swanfire into action. Guys, David and Ariel are ALL OF US. A/N: I’ve come to the end of this silly, romantic, angsty tale. I feel relieved, nostalgic, happy, proud. I couldn’t have finished this story without @galactic-pirates! Thanks also to the talented @rumpledspinster for the wonderful art and to @maplesyrupao3 for reading these chapters. Love to you all! *kisses* On AO3: Chapter 24 | Epilogue Previous Chapters

Chapter 24

When he takes me in his arms, and speaks to me softly, I see the world through rose-colored glasses. – Edith Piaf What the hell was he waiting for? Luc knew he should have been on the first train out of Cannes and back to the countryside. It was time to claim his land and go to his son. Instead, he was ambling along the hotel boardwalk, a long, thin strip that snaked along the beach parallel to the hotel. The water was murky, choppy; reflective of his mood. He was brooding, damn it, and he wasn’t sure how to stop. The sun had shone so brightly this morning when he’d walked downtown with Belle to sell the necklace. Now she was gone and thunderclouds gathered overhead, thick and black, warning of the coming storm. It was almost as if her departure had chased the sun away. Out of France and out of his life.

He meandered along the boardwalk, his countenance darkening as the clouds rolled in from the sea and someone fell in step beside him. “You look unhappy, my friend.”

He lifted his head. “David. What are you doing here?”

David shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Some guy paid his hotel bill with a stolen credit card issued to a Malcolm d’Or. I’ve cleared up the matter.”

“Aha.” Thunder rumbled above their heads.

“I’m surprised to see you here alone. What happened to your lady friend?”

“What lady friend?” Luc gritted his teeth and quickened his pace, dodging the stray raindrops that had begun to dot the boardwalk, turning the wood a shade darker where they fell.

David sped up as well and Luc bit back a curse. He should have expected David to be watching but he’d become careless, unfocused. He’d probably trailed them all the way from Paris to Cannes.

“It must be difficult to let go of something so beautiful,” David said.

They reached the beach and Luc stepped off the boardwalk into the sand. He picked up a seashell and clenched his fist, relishing its rough bite against his palm. “Enough with the riddles. What do you want with me?”

“Me? You’re the one who’s so fond of doublespeak.”

Luc turned to face David, and what he saw made him step back.

His expression was mutinous. Rarely had Luc seen his patient, mild-mannered friend lose his temper, but David’s hands were flexing at his sides, knuckles whitened. If he didn’t know any better, he would have expected him to reach out and grasp him by the throat.

“Fine,” he conceded wearily. What point was there in being cagey? David would suss out the truth anyway. Something about the kindhearted bastard always made Luc want to spill his guts. He wondered if David’s sympathetic bearing helped him wheedle information out of reluctant witnesses. “She left. She’s going home. To Canada or America. Wherever.”

He waved a hand, trying to make it seem like he couldn’t care less about where Belle went and what she did, but the clucking, pitying sound David made with his tongue told his attempt at indifference had been less than successful.

Just then, Ruby and Victor came into view. Heedless of the storm’s approach, they kissed and rubbed noses under an umbrella while they walked, unhurried, in the direction of the shops downtown.

All was well in their perfect little world while Belle was going home—alone. And whose fault is that? Luc ground the seashell against his palm.

“Love,” David observed, following the direction of his gaze. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“That’s not real love,” he spat. He flung the shell into the tumultuous sea and watched it disappear into the froth.

“What would you know?”

The sun chose that moment to peek through the clouds, shining a lone ray of light over the rippling water. The silvery light and shadows played with each other, dancing over the surface of the deep. “I know a little.”

They began to walk again.

“Would you like to hear a story of true love?” David asked. “I know a good one.”

“Really?”

David nodded. “It has everything a good story should. Heroism, sacrifice; there’s even a prince in disguise. Well, perhaps he’s a prince. It’s too soon to tell.”

“Is there a happy ending?” he asked, rolling his eyes.

“I’m glad you asked,” David said, ignoring his sarcasm. “Perhaps you can help with the ending.”

He rocked back on his heels. “Me? How?”

David slung an arm around his shoulders and cut a hand through the darkened sky. “Imagine an airplane."

“So you just left?” Ariel demanded.

“Of course not.” Belle pursed her lips. “I said goodbye. Then I left.”

Ariel poked her in the arm. “You know, sarcasm doesn’t become you, Belle. It’s so much more attractive on other people.”

Like you? Belle thought to herself. She turned away, intent on the scenery whizzing by outside the window of the cab. Ariel didn’t press the point, which was fine. She was in no mood for a lecture.

The afternoon sun shower caused tiny rainbows to reflect off the windows of the rain-streaked cab. Soon they would arrive at Cannes Mandelieu Airport to begin the journey home. The plan was to change planes in London and then fly back to Toronto where Granny would be waiting. Tears stung Belle’s eyes. Comfort food and Granny’s warm arms around her would go a long way toward making her feel whole and safe.

Traffic was light on the freeway and the car sped on, rain splashing against the tires. Across the backseat, Ariel pouted in stubborn silence. Belle found a stray thread on the edge of her handbag and worried it between thumb and forefinger, but Ariel was radiating disappointment at her like a laser beam.

“Stop shaking your head at me!” Belle snapped, breaking the unnerving quiet. “He told me to go. Kissed me on the forehead and wished me well.”

“And you believed him?” Ariel shook her head like Belle had taken leave of her senses. “Sweetie, don’t take this the wrong way. I love you to pieces and you are one of the smartest people I’ve ever met—”

“I hear a ‘but’ coming.”

“—but you are dense when it comes to men.”

“Meaning?”

“You can’t just make le grand gesture like turning over your life savings and then run away before a man has time to respond. They’re working with a limited number of brain cells. You have to accommodate!”

Ariel slapped her palm against the cracked, pleather seat for emphasis.

The cab driver glanced at Belle in the rearview mirror and she tightened her fingers around the strap of her handbag. Doubtless, this would become one of those cab drivers stories they regaled each other with between gulps of stale coffee while they waited for their next fare. “He doesn’t” – she lowered her voice. “He doesn’t exactly know about the money.”

Ariel closed her eyes. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“I’m kidding,” Belle said weakly.

“Oh my God! You gave him ninety grand out of the goodness of your heart and you didn’t tell him?”

The cabbie’s eyes were like full moons and Belle winced. Oh, screw it. She would never see this guy again.

She rounded on Ariel and threw up her hands. “What was I supposed to say?” The last thing she wanted was for Luc to feel like she was bribing him to be with her. She had just ended one relationship based on obligations. Why on earth would she enter into another?

“Any number of things would have worked!” Ariel shouted back. “Try something like, ‘I saved your sorry ass from jail? Oh, and by the way, I’ve fallen in love with you and want to have your babies!’”

“He already has a son,” Belle said, pretending to misunderstand.

“Whatever! It’s not like they run out of swimmers!”

Belle wrapped her arms around herself and bit her lip. Ariel hadn’t been there this morning in the hotel. She hadn’t been the one to search Luc’s face for a hint of last night’s softness, some sign that revealed her feelings would be welcome. All he had shown her was a mask of indifference.

The meter ticked again and the cab pulled up to the curb, into the airport’s Departures zone. Belle pulled her wallet out of her handbag and slapped the cash into the driver’s hand, plus a sizable tip. Maybe then he would be less encouraged to blab to everyone he knew about the crazy ladies arguing in the backseat of his cab.

“You should have waited until they discovered him and bailed him out of the clink.” Ariel groused as they rolled their suitcases through the sliding doors leading to the terminal. “That’s how they do it in all those sappy books and movies you love so much. Instead, you had to be all brave and honorable. Good old Belle. She handles disappointment like no one else.”

Chastised, Belle moved through security in silence. She slid her slip-on shoes back on her feet and sat awkwardly on a bench next to Ariel and waited for her to finish tying her running shoes.

The airport wasn’t as crowded as it had been when she’d arrived last week. Had it been a Saturday or a Sunday? All the details seemed foggy, except for Luc. How long would those deep brown eyes mock her from her dreams?  

They found their gate with ease and settled into an empty row of chairs facing the huge terminal windows. She was wounded after Ariel’s tirade, the rawness of her feelings making her movements slow and clumsy. When she moved to slide her handbag over the pull lever on the suitcase, she dumped the contents of her purse all over the floor.

Ariel squatted next to her and helped her scoop her belongings back into her bag.

“What’s wrong with being brave?” she asked when Ariel handed her a handful of bobby pins.

“Nothing.” Ariel dropped a lipstick into Belle’s bag and took her hand. “I’m sorry for yelling. You’re a wonderful, generous person. Sometimes I think you’re maybe brave about the wrong things, though. You open yourself up when you shouldn’t and then close yourself off when it’s time to take a chance.”

Belle sucked on the inside of her cheek and zipped up her bag. “Maybe.”

“I’m gonna get a snack,” Ariel said, dusting off her knees. “You want anything?”

“No thanks. I’m not hungry.”

“Save my seat.”

Belle nodded and Ariel headed down the terminal toward the cluster of shops and eateries.

The airplane loomed like a giant, winged beast through the large windows. A light flutter of nerves tickled her chest, but there was none of the panic she’d experienced in previous flights. It seemed her fear of flying had been conquered.

The flight wouldn’t begin boarding for another twenty minutes. She closed her eyes, letting her mind drift to another space and time. Soon she was in Luc’s vineyard again, the scent of lavender weaving around her like a magical spell. The stone cottage was there, lovingly renovated, the door painted blue and thrown open in welcome.

The seat beside her dipped. Ariel was back. “I hope you brought back Cinnabon because I’m a little hungry after all.”

Ariel didn’t answer. Belle opened her eyes and met the sultry gaze of Luc d’Or.

“Hello, Belle.”

He smiled a devastating, lopsided display that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. The breath lodged in her throat and she couldn’t speak. She’d been imagining him and now he was here at the airport and sitting right beside her. Happiness flooded her. And anger. How dare he waltz in here and just…just…oh, damn it. She didn’t know why he was here.

“What are you doing here?” Through the grace of God, she managed to speak the words rolling around in her brain.

“I kissed you,” he blurted. “On the train to Cannes. You were asleep and you thought I was Victor. I took advantage of you.”

Her soaring heart thudded back to earth. “Seems to be a pattern with us,” she said tartly. “Oh, right. You don’t remember. So you kissed me on the train. Big deal. Is that all you wanted to say?”

“No, there’s more. I should not have left you last night. I was a coward. I remember. I remember everything.”

“Everything?” she repeated. Everything. She could feel her cheeks turning crimson as the word sank in. But she was still angry. And he hadn’t explained his presence. “Why did you come, Luc?”

“I wasn’t going to. Then something changed my mind.”

“David.” He was the only one besides Ariel who knew.

“Yes. He told me all of your plans for the necklace and my son. Then he drove me here in his police car with the sirens wailing and brought me through security. But even if he hadn’t…” He grabbed her hands and shifted her so she was turned toward him, their knees bumping against the metal armrests between the seats. “Belle, I’m sorry. For everything I put you through since the plane to Paris; for pushing you away. I didn’t think you could love me. But what you did for me. What you gave me. No one has ever done anything like that for me before.”

“So you’re here out of obligation? That’s nice.” She tried to wrench her hands from his grasp, but he held on tightly.

“No. No!” He closed his eyes and when he opened them again they were wet. “I don’t care about the money. I’ll give back every penny. I love you.”

Belle’s heart took up its hammering again and her mouth went dry. He did love her.

“Don’t give it back. Please. I wanted you to have it. I knew what I was doing, Luc.” Tears began to leak from the corners of her eyes. Here he was, at last, saying everything she had been praying for and she was overwhelmed by the strength of her feelings. She’d lost Victor but then, at her lowest point, her heart had opened to Luc without her even realizing it.

Embarrassed by her tears, she tried to raise her hands to her face to wipe them away, but Luc was still holding onto her like he was never letting go.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

The tender endearment only made her cry harder. “I can’t decide,” she wailed.

“Decide what, my love?” His voice was so gentle, almost melodic.

More tears fell. He released one of her hands and wiped the wetness from both her cheeks with his thumb.

“Whether to kiss you…” She hiccupped. “Or hit you.”

He tilted his head, considering. “Why not both?”

She laughed, a ridiculous snuffling sound, and he pulled an impeccable pocket square from his suit and dabbed at her runny nose.

“What were you thinking about, sitting here with your eyes closed?” he asked. “Were you imagining your castle in the countryside?”

“It’s a cottage, not a castle,” she said. “And it’s on a hillside next to a beautiful vineyard. But that’s not really what I was thinking about.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“You.”

He brought one of her hands to his lips and kissed her fingers. “And I am thinking you should not be flying anywhere.”

“Oh?” She feigned surprise. “Did you have other travel plans in mind? A bus? Another train? Maybe a blimp would be good.”

He gripped both her hands again and dropped to his knees, right there on the grungy airport carpet. A few people in the terminal stopped and stared, but Belle paid them no attention. She had eyes for only one man.

His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “First, I was hoping you would come with me to get Neal. He should meet you, don’t you think? I mean, you should meet him. You should meet each other.”

“Are you nervous, Monsieur?” She batted her eyes a bit, unable to resist teasing him now that their feelings were in the open.

He swallowed again. “A little.”

“What happens after Neal and I meet?” she prompted, squirming a little in her chair.

“Marry me. Grow old with me in our little stone cottage.” He kissed her hands again. “I make a poor bargain as a husband, but I love you. And I will give you the best that I am. Will you, Belle?”

“Yes!” She slid off the chair to join him on the floor and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him everywhere she could reach—his ears, his hair, his nose, his forehead.

She pulled back and smiled at him. “I always thought I couldn’t have roots and wings. But that’s not true. It’s not whether you stay or go. Whether you settle down or travel the world. It’s who you’re with. And I choose you: anywhere, everywhere, and for always.”

There was a smattering of applause. David stood nearby, smiling broadly. Poor Ariel was crying into her bag of cinnamon buns. A few travelers hooted and shouted encouragements.

A woman sitting across from them wiped her tears with a magenta scarf. “Tous mes compliments,” she said.

“That means ‘congratulations.’” Luc said in her ear. She shivered at the feel of his warm breath. “If you’re going to stay, you’ll have to learn to speak the language.”

She stiffened in his arms, pretending to be indignant. “For your information, I speak German, Spanish, and I know some Chinese.” She tossed her head. “French just…got away from me for a while. Anyway, it’s nothing a little Duolingo can’t fix.”

“I see.” The confusion flitting across his face told her he didn’t. Then, “Is that a Canadian dance or something?”

“Luc.” She kissed him. “Oh, I do love you.”

Losing Victor had turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to her. Somehow, in the midst of the mess, she had found a way back into love. Now it was time to see where love would lead.

They helped each other to their feet and Ariel elbowed Luc out of the way to throw her arms around Belle’s neck with a squeal.

“We’ll visit all the time.” Ariel sniffled. “Eric will have lots of Mediterranean cruises.”

“I know,” Belle said, wiping Ariel’s eyes.

“Ready to go?” Luc was holding out his hand.

Belle kissed David’s cheek and turned to Luc. She threaded her fingers through his and when she looked down, she couldn’t tell where he ended and she began. Nothing had ever felt so thrilling and right. “Yes, I’m ready.”

It was time. Love, happiness, and a forever she couldn’t have imagined were waiting.

Epilogue

“Years, lovers, and glasses of wine. These are things that should never be counted.” – Anthony Capella

Eighteen months later

Everyone of Luc d’Or’s acquaintance had one common weakness: they fell like utter fools at the feet of his wife. David, Mary Margaret, their daughter Emma, and his cousins Cruella and Ursula all sang her praises. Even Malcolm ceased his scowling when Belle was in the vicinity.

Neal had perhaps fallen hardest. Belle had charmed the boy on the airplane from Milan to Paris as effortlessly as she had done him. When she wasn’t keeping up a constant stream of questions and chatter, they had played games and talked about books and movies. Even the shapes of the clouds were fodder for their imaginations, and Neal soaked up their love and attention like a sponge.

Luc couldn’t turn back the clock and change the last two years he’d spent without his boy, but with Belle in their midst, it almost seemed like they had never been apart. She smoothed out all the rough places between them. Thanks to Belle’s nest egg, the Avril property had been purchased, the cottage renovated, and the grapes were growing plump and sweet. It would be a while longer before Belle Vignoble was producing decent bottles, but they were on their way.

Regina Mills had been quite amused when presented with their marriage license and needled him mercilessly, but in the end she was happy to support Belle’s application for French citizenship. He and Belle exchanged marriage vows out in the vineyard, bare toes digging in the rich, loamy soil. Those happy months in her arms had flown by and he could scarcely believe they had been married for almost a year and a half.

Neal brought the last of the folding chairs from the shed and settled them into the dirt at the outdoor table between the rows of grapevines. Today they were celebrating the boy’s thirteenth birthday and the Nolans were coming for a lavish dinner. Ariel and Granny Lucas were also among the guests. Afterward, David and Mary Margaret were whisking Ariel, Granny, and Neal back to Paris for a few days of playing tourist.

And Luc was going to spend some time alone with his wife.

After the cake had been consumed and everyone had pushed back from the table to sip wine between contented sighs, Neal asked. “Are you excited for us to leave, Papa?”

The grin the boy gave him could have fertilized the grapes.

Luc raised an eyebrow. During dinner, Emma Nolan had mistaken his foot for Neal’s more than once and the two of them turned as red as cherries every time they looked at each other.

“Yes,” Luc said giving Belle a lascivious wink. “There’s going to be kissing. Lots of kissing.”

“Gross!” Neal pulled a face and ducked his head, but there was no missing the blush spreading across his cheeks. Emma’s nose was turning pink, too.

Thirteen indeed. He prayed for stamina. All too soon, he feared, his son would find kissing anything but gross.

Luc sniffed the air inside the warehouse and shook his head. Belle’s excitement to taste some of the first wine produced by their vineyard was palpable, and she was practically jumping up and down. He hated to disappoint her, but it wasn’t time yet. “It’s not ready.”

She wrinkled her nose. “How do you know? We haven’t even taken a sip.”

“Because I know.” He snapped the spigot closed with a twist of his wrist. “Patience, mon petite ange.”

“Let’s just get a little. I’m hungry.” She swung the picnic basket containing their lunch and her stomach rumbled in complaint.

“You want to drink swill with our picnic?”

“It won’t be swill because you made it.” She grinned winningly, and her stomach whined again.

“Now you’re just showing off,” he said with a laugh. “I find your confidence misplaced. But as you wish.” He opened one of the huge, stainless steel tank spigots and spilled a portion of the young pinot noir into a bottle.

She pulled him outside into the sunshine, and they collapsed together on a soft blue blanket the same shade as the cottage’s front door. They consumed bread, country ham, and peach tarts with gusto. When the last crumb had been consumed, he swigged the wine from the bottle and made a face.

He offered Belle the bottle and she took a tentative sip.  

“It’s not terrible,” she ventured.

“You’re right. It’s revolting. I told you it needs more time to ripen. Look at the bubbles.”

She took the bottle, examined the frothy liquid, and then tipped it, spilling the contents all over the front of his trousers.

The purple liquid seeped into his crotch and he gaped at her.

“What?” she blinked at him, those wide blue eyes more stunning than today’s country sky. “Just because it’s not drinkable doesn’t mean we should waste it.”

“Indeed?” he asked huskily when she began to unbutton his trousers.

“I’d like to do a little sightseeing of my own,” she purred, cupping his crotch. “You know how much I love my little Eiffel Tower.”

He hardened beneath her hot palm with a groan. Who was he to deny his wife her whims? He lay back on the blanket and closed his eyes.

A long time later, they lay between two blankets; one to protect them from the earth, another to shield them from the sun.

Belle nudged his chin with the point of her nose. “Luc, will you sing it?”

“Sing what?” he complained, squinting up at her. “I’m sleeping.”

Another nudge. “Please? No one else is here and you know the one I like. The Bobby Darin one. ‘Somewhere, beyond the sea…’”

“It is not Bobby Darin, woman. Charles Trenet.” He frowned. “How many times must I tell you, cherie, it is a French song?”

“Maybe you should sing it then,” she suggested with a saucy smile, “since I’m always getting it wrong.”

“Ha!” He turned his head and captured her sun-warmed lips in a swift, hard kiss. She’d won again, but he didn’t mind. He would happily let her win every day for the rest of their lives.

He settled her back against his chest and began to sing. “La mer…”

THE END

[wistfulcynic]

Their Way By Moonlight: In The Aftermath (Chapter 3)

a/n: I don't think I’ve ever been screamed at so much as I have over the ending of the last chapter. I wish I could apologise, but I’m not sorry. I delight in your agony, in fact. Bwah hah hah. 

It doesn’t let up much either, I fear. This one is definitely going to be angsty. Also mysterious, and I hope I can keep track of all the threads of it. Enjoy, and please keep your questions and theories about the curse coming! 

(This chapter contains allusions to a non-consensual relationship, due to the circumstances of the curse. If this is triggering for you please proceed with caution!)

Summary: A new curse has fallen on Storybrooke and this time the Saviour is trapped inside it, deliberately separated from her son and anyone else who might help her break it. But what no one knows –including her own cursed self– is that she and Hook are soulmates, working together within their shared dreams to find a way to break the curse and free everyone from the clutches of evil yet again. (Alternate 3B, set in the What Dreams May Come universe)

Rating: A hard M (and earning it in this chapter!)

Tagging: @teamhook @wellhellotragic @rouhn @kmomof4 @resident-of-storybrooke @darkcolinodonorgasm @jennjenn615 @tiganasummertree @let-it-raines @bonbonpirate @thejollyroger-writer

Anyone wishing to be added to or dropped from this tag list, please let me know!

Read it on AO3

In The Aftermath: 

Killian Jones, over the course of his long, long life, had experienced many things he wished he could forget. At times he felt steeped in bloodshed, in the violence and cruelty that had defined him for centuries, both as perpetrator and victim. He had been inches from death more times than he could count, had been stabbed and shot and beaten, and wielded as a weapon by those even more villainous than he. Yet the memory that haunted his dreams more than any other was not of battles or murder or treachery, it was of the icy, claw-like hand of Rumplestiltskin as it plunged into his chest and gripped his heart, threatening to tear out what he had no right to touch. There were still nights when he jerked awake in a cold sweat, breaking free from dreams in which the crocodile had finished the job, had ripped his heart from his chest and crushed the life from it. 

Watching Emma introduce Walsh as her husband, Killian sincerely wished he had. All the torments he had suffered at that demon’s hands, or those of Pan, or Cora, or any number of others over the long tread of the centuries, not one of them matched this, the sensation of his still-beating heart torn from him not by his most hated enemy but by the woman he loved. 

It’s the curse, he reminded himself, forcing the reminder through the red haze of hatred and fury swimming before his eyes. Only the curse. It’s not real. 

Which did nothing to alter the hideous reality of Emma standing before him, smiling into the eyes of the creature responsible for their current miserable circumstances. The hideous reality that he had no power to stop her, to change this. Not here. Not yet. 

And so Killian did what he had always done when he found himself overpowered, outmatched, backed into an impossible corner. He survived. He forced down his pain, buried it as deep as it would go and prepared himself for action. 

It was a measure of how far he had already travelled down the path away from villainy that this action did not take the form of ripping Walsh apart, and damn the consequences. Such impulses, as temporarily satisfying as they may be, had never ended well for him in the past. The bigger picture, he reminded himself. You have a plan. Stick to the bloody plan. 

Not to mention that this realm tended to frown on violent homicide. Another thing that had taken some getting used to.

So he arranged his face into a polite smile, grateful for the hours of practice that helped it slide naturally into place, nodded at this man who had stolen so much from him, shook hands and took his leave. The moment his back was turned to them the mask fell from his face, replaced by a fearsome determination. “Henry!” he called.

The boy turned, his cheerful smile fading to nothing as he took in Killian’s thunderous expression and the straining tension in his posture. 

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s your mother,” Killian snarled, no longer able to keep the rage from his voice. “She’s married to Walsh.”

“What?” Henry stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk and Killian hustled him along with a hand on his shoulder. “But how?”

“It’s the curse, of course. Someone has a bloody vicious sense of humour.”

“Does he know? I mean, does he have his memories?”

“I’m not sure. No, lad, don’t look!” Henry turned his head back, looking chastened. Killian put his arm around the boy’s shoulders, partly in comfort, partly to ensure he walked quickly. “We mustn’t attract attention,” he said. “What we need is to get back to the shop and reconnoiter. Marshal our resources and make a plan. Come, hurry now.” 

Arriving back at their new residence they collapsed on the sofa and sat in silence, lost in thought as the minutes ticked by. Finally Henry spoke. 

“What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” replied Killian, feeling frustrated and useless. “I don’t know that there’s anything we really can do, other than stick to the plan. Though it’ll be a damn sight more difficult now to pull it off.”

Henry lapsed into silence again, but his face wore the expression it got when he was thinking hard. “We need to find out how much she thinks she loves him,” he declared finally. “I think that might tell us how strong the curse is.” 

“What do you mean, lad?”

“Well, I’m spitballing a bit here, but I think we might be able to gauge the strength of the curse based on how strong the cursed relationships are.”

Killian considered that, and nodded. “All right, I’m following so far, tell me more.” 

“Okay, so like under the first curse, my granddad was married to Kathryn, but he didn’t really love her. He thought he had memories of loving her, but his real feelings were for my grandma.”

“Yes, but wasn’t that because David was in a coma and wasn’t given his cursed memories until he awoke and Regina was able to— to download them?” Killian struggled to remember what Emma had told him of the circumstances under the first curse. “So they would naturally be weaker than memories that had been created by the curse, when it began?”

“Maybe, but I think it’s because Mom was already in Storybrooke, already weakening the curse. It wasn’t just my grandparents, everything started to change when she got here. I think if she isn’t certain of her cursed feelings for Walsh then it may be a sign that this curse is weakening. We need to know that. We need to… to test the limits of her cursed feelings. To test them against her real feelings.” He gave Killian a sidelong glance, reluctant to meet his eyes. “If you see what I mean.”

“Aye. You’re saying that what I have to do is seduce a married woman.”

“Er— yeah. I guess.”

“Well, it’s not as though I’ve never done that before.” Killian sighed and ran his hand over his face and through his hair, forgetting for a moment who he was speaking with. “Though I confess I feel rather less enthusiasm for the venture than I once did. Not to mention that no version of Emma, cursed or not, is going to be terribly receptive to the idea of adultery.” 

Henry snorted a small laugh, and Killian looked at him sharply, feeling a twinge of guilt. He should definitely not be speaking so frankly of such things in front of the boy. Henry was so precocious that Killian sometimes forgot he was only thirteen. “What, lad?”

“It’s just ironic.” Henry shrugged. “You and Mom committing adultery with each other.” 

‘Indeed, though I fail to see any humour in the situation.” 

“Gallows humour, isn’t that what they call it?” 

“Ah, but when you have actually stood on a gallows with the noose around your neck, even that humour doesn’t inspire much of a laugh.” 

“Wait, you were hung?” Henry’s eyes widened in fascination. 

“Hanged, lad, and aye very nearly.” 

“Wow, okay you have got to tell me that story!”

Killian found himself smiling, cheered as he always was by Henry’s bright enthusiasm. Although he greatly enjoyed entertaining the boy with tales from his pirating days, heavily sanitised of course, the case of his near hanging was one that would not easily be scrubbed up for teenage consumption. “Perhaps later,” he said vaguely. “For now I believe we have established our plan for the moment, distasteful as it may be, and there is still rather a lot of work to be getting on with in the shop.”

“I was hoping you’d forgotten about that,” grumbled Henry. 

“No such luck, my boy.” Killian clapped him on the shoulder, forcing cheer he did not feel into his voice. “Look lively, now! We have bookshelves to arrange!” 

That evening Killian took his time falling asleep, both because his mind was too agitiated for easy slumber and because he knew Emma would be waiting for him in the dream, and he feared what he might do when he saw her. Fury still simmered like a noxious potion in his gut, and anger management had never been his forte. 

He indulged in a long shower then spent nearly two hours attempting to read, forcing his attention to remain on the pages though the words danced before his eyes and refused to be absorbed by his brain. Gradually, despite his determined efforts, his body relaxed and his eyes drifted shut and he is in their bedroom, there among the familiar beloved surroundings as though nothing has changed, as though he could stand here assailed by memories of all the times they have made love in that bed and not feel the wrenching pain of all that has been taken from him. Emma is perched on the edge of the bed, waiting, looking apprehensive. With a snarl and a wave of his hand, Killian tears them away, brings them to the living area of his new abode, an acceptably neutral venue although its edges and corners are indistinct, his memory of the place too inexact to replicate it precisely. They are firmly clothed, clad in their typical styles. They need to talk, and he does not wish to attempt conversation whilst distracted by her naked form.   

She sits beside him on the couch and says nothing, waiting for him to speak. 

“How?” he says after a long silence, his voice an agonised croak. “How can it be him? How can he be here? I thought we’d dealt with him!”

“He did say he wasn’t easy to get rid of.” 

“Emma, you pushed him off the bloody roof! He turned to dust!” 

“Maybe that doesn’t destroy them, it didn’t in the dream.” 

“Flying bloody monkeys, of all the demonic things! And now you’re married to one!”

“Curse married!” she cries, her careful composure finally breaking. “It’s not real, Killian, you know it isn’t!”

“It’s real enough when you’re living with the bastard,” he snarls, “when you believe he’s your husband.” 

“Babe, I’m—” 

He winces as the endearment he secretly adores pierces his heart. “Don’t call me that!” His voice breaks. “That’s what you called him.”

She slides closer to him, reaches for his hand. He lets her take it, though her touch burns him. “Killian, my love, my soulmate, the only man in my heart,” she says softly. “I’m so sorry, but I tried to tell you. You had to have suspected this.” 

“Aye,” he says bitterly, “I suspected you may be— involved with someone under the curse, but I thought it would be Baelfire! He at least loved you once. He at least is a man. The idea of that heartless monster in your bed, touching you, touching my—”

“Shhhh,” she soothes. “Don’t think about it.” 

“How the bloody hell can you possibly expect me not to think about it!”

“I just don’t want you to dwell on it!” she says, irritation creeping into her tone, her own anger and frustration and guilt seeping through. “You know how you get when you brood. It just makes your darkness harder to fight, and I need you to stay in the light, Killian. For me and for Henry, and for yourself. We have to stick together, fight this together. But we can’t fight anything if you hold on to anger. Believe me when I say I hate this situation as much as you do— more, even, as I’m the one who actually has to live it— but we can’t stop it unless we stay strong, and stay together.”

He knows she is right, and though it does nothing to lessen his fury he is able to push it down again, and to take her in his arms. She sighs in relief, snuggling close. “I’m sorry, Emma,” he whispers. “I promised not to falter, and at the first challenge here I am, faltering.”

“It’s not faltering, you have a right to be angry. I’m freaking furious. I hate being stuck in this and I hate how much it’s hurting you.” 

They sit wrapped around each other for a long time as Killian debates whether to ask the question he needs an answer to, not wanting to disturb their pleasant moment but knowing he has to ask. He swallows hard, loathing the words as he forces them from his throat. “Do you love him?”

She buries her face deeper into his neck and he can feel tears leaking from her eyes. “I— I think so. I’m so sorry.” 

Even though he knows they are speaking of her cursed self, even though he knows none of this is her fault, he can’t stop the fury rising again, this time woven through with ugly streaks of jealousy. 

He clenches his fist, sending the dream whirling around them and they are back in their bedroom, naked, and she is handcuffed to the wrought iron headboard. She gives a startled gasp, pulls experimentally on the restraints then looks up at where he stands next to he bed. He dares her with his eyes to make something of it, knowing that she could whisk the shackles away as easily as breathing, knowing also that she won’t. She nods, and he knows she understands that he needs this, needs to work out some of his frustration and fury on her body. 

He has the hook now, sharp and gleaming in the soft light, and she bites her lip as he brandishes it. She knows he won’t hurt her, but the fact that the potential for pain is there excites her. Captain Hook excites her, and though Killian is sometimes not sure how he feels about that he is grateful that she loves all of him, even the ugly parts. 

He drags the hook up the inside of her thigh and over her mound, tickling the golden curls atop it, watching with dark amusement as she holds her breath and tries not to writhe. She wants the hook on her clit, he knows, he knows exactly how she likes to be touched with it, but tonight he is not in the mood to give her what she wants right away. He wants to torture her a bit first, wants her breathless and helpless, begging for what only he can give. 

He wants reassurance that he is the only man she loves. He knows he is, but tonight he needs to feel it.

He teases her with the hook through her curls a few moments more, applying pressure that has her squirming but not slipping it into her folds. Instead he traces patterns up her belly, around her navel then along the underside of her breast, dragging the sharp tip across her flesh just hard enough for her to feel it, not even leaving the faintest mark behind. Hundreds of years of practice have given him a finesse with this appendage, a delicacy of touch that seems incongruous to the heft and intent of the hook. She is whimpering now, though he doubts she is aware of doing so, her eyes shut tight and her hands gripping and releasing the headboard she is chained to. He brings the hook up to her nipple, circling it with the curved edge before pressing the tip into the centre of the hardened bud. She gasps, and the chain of the handcuffs clangs against the headboard as she struggles against her bonds. He applies pressure that falls just short of pain, and through the haze of her mindless arousal she forces out a single word. 

“More.” 

“What’s that, darling?” he inquires, as though he hasn’t heard her. “Do you wish me to stop?”

“No! More. H-harder.” 

His brow furrows slightly. Any harder and he will definitely hurt her, but he complies, increasing the pressure and tilting the tip until it sinks into her skin, not enough to draw blood but barely shy of it. She makes a low, keening noise he’s never heard from her before, part pleasure but part a twisted sort of yearning that springs from the same dark impulses that drove him to restrain her. She is doing penance, he realises, assuaging her guilt over hurting him by bringing pain upon herself.

Part of him wants to let her do it. Instead he pulls his hook away. 

“No—” she whines.

“Swan.” 

“Killian, please.” 

“You needn’t do this, love.”

“Yes I do, I need it—“

“Darling—” 

“Damn it, Hook! I need you to fuck me and not be gentle about it, and you know you need that too!” 

He hesitates. She is right, he is simmering with violence that needs an outlet, but he doesn’t truly wish to hurt her. A bit of teasing with the tip of his hook is one thing, actual punitive pain quite another. Killian is a broad-minded man but true pain has never turned him on. He’s known far too much of it for that. If she is determined to make amends to him —though there are none owed— she can do it simply by letting him have his way with her, putting herself at his mercy and letting him fuck her as he pleases. 

“Very well,” he says, “But we do this my way.” 

She nods eagerly and he returns the hook to her nipple, stroking its curve over the small pinprick of a bruise that has formed there, at the same time biting hard on the other breast, sucking another bruise into her skin. She thrashes beneath him, on-edge and desperate, and he chuckles against her flesh. This is the kind of pain he prefers to give her. She won’t be coming for some considerable time. 

He sucks a line of bruises along her collarbone and the curve of her neck as his hand slips slowly down her body, coming to rest between her legs. He presses the heel of it against her, rocking it gently, stimulating her clit without direct touch. Her heels dig into the mattress as she lets her legs fall apart, wordlessly begging him to touch her properly, but he ignores her plea. His cock is rock hard and aching, his hand already drenched with her arousal, but he pays them no mind, instead licking a trail up her neck, soothing the marks he’s left there, making her shiver. 

“Damn you,” she whispers, but there is no heat behind the curse. “Why can’t you just fuck me?”

“All in good time, my love.” This is torture, after all, and he is a very patient man. 

He reaches out with his mind and manipulates the dream, and shackles appear on her ankles to match the ones on her wrists, spreading her legs wide. He kisses down her belly and over her mound, nuzzling his nose into the wet curls. She is intensely aroused and she smells amazing, musky and sweet, his favourite smell in the world. He wants to bury his face in her cunt and lick it clean. Soon, he promises himself. Very soon.  

He kisses lightly over the damp hair, humming as he gets a taste of her, the vibrations making her buck her hips, her scream of frustration very nearly drowned out by the clang of the shackles against the bedframe. He waits. She is better at managing the dreams than he is, she could put a stop to this at any time, could reverse their places and shackle him to the bed. She’s done it before. But the dream remains unchanged, and he feels a rush of love for her. She understands. No one has ever understood him as she does. 

Slowly he parts her glistening flesh with his tongue and licks patterns through it with just the tip, still teasing, allowing neither of them what they truly want. She is moaning and twisting, straining to bring him closer to where she wants him, her range of movement limited by the shackles on her ankles. He licks deeper, caressing her swollen flesh with the flat of his tongue, dancing around her clit until she screams at him, damns him, and finally begs him in a broken voice to let her come.

This is what he has been waiting for. He drops a kiss onto her curls and sits up, taking just a moment to position himself before plunging his cock deep inside her. She’s so wet she squelches, and despite the tightwire tension in their bodies they both snigger at the sound. Normally the dream smoothes over such things but tonight they are both longing for what feels real. He removes the restraints as he begins to move inside her, and she wraps her arms and legs around him, blanketing him with her love and nourishing him with her strength. He thrusts hard and relentlessly, looping his hook through the iron sworls of the headboard, and she clings to him, letting him ride her, fuck her deep into the mattress. This is what they have both been craving, and it’s not long before they come, crying out in unison as pleasure engulfs them. 

They cling to each other in the aftermath. The dream never lasts long after they finish, and none of their attempts to prolong it have yet been successful. Her arms are tightly wound around his neck and she is crying again. 

“I don’t want to let you go,” she sobs. “I don’t want you to be a stranger the next time I see you.” 

His heart breaks for what feels like the millionth time, and he wonders at the resilience of the organ, how it hasn’t crumbled into dust ages ago. “I know, my love,” he says. “It hurts more than I thought it would. But we will get through this, somehow, you and I. Together.”      

She nods, but her tears are still flowing. He brushes them away with his thumb and smiles reassuringly even through his own agony, groping for the words she needs to hear. “I’ve not believed in much in my life,” he says finally, “But I believe in you, Emma Swan, and I will fight for you. I’ll never stop.” 

“I know you won’t,” she whispers. “I love you so much, Killian.” 

“I love you too, darling.” 

Killian woke with a start, as was common after a shared dream. Less common was waking to the sounds of sobbing from the other side of the wooden divider. Quickly he cleaned himself up with the tissues he’d left on the nightstand for that purpose and slipped on some pajama bottoms, slid his feet into the sheepskin slippers he’d lined up neatly next to the bed the night before, then padded silently over to Henry’s curtain. “Henry?” he said softly, wishing he had a door to knock on. “Are you all right, lad? May I come in?”

There was a moment of silence, apart from sniffling. Finally Henry replied. “Come in.” 

Killian pushed aside the curtain and approached the bed where Henry was curled, his tearstained face pressed into his pillow. 

“What’s this, my boy?” asked Killian gently, sitting down on the edge of the bed and brushing the hair from his forehead. “What’s troubling you?”

“I was just thinking about my mom,” said Henry. “And how she’s stuck with Walsh and she doesn’t know what he is. And my other mom, we don’t even know what her life is like now. And my dad, I— I kind of thought he might be with my mom here, but now we don’t know where he is either, and I just feel like everything’s wrong! I’ve got three parents and none of them know me. No one who loves me even knows who I am!” He sobbed again, and buried his face in Killian’s shoulder. 

Heart breaking yet again —how could it keep doing that?— Killian wrapped his arms around Henry and hugged him tightly. “I love you, Henry,” he said. 

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better,” said Henry, his voice muffled in Killian’s t-shirt. 

“I would never insult you with such a deception, lad. I know I’m not really your father, but I certainly couldn’t love you more if I were.” 

“Really?” The hope in Henry’s voice wrenched at him, and Killian tightened his arms. 

“Of course. How could I not? You’re Emma’s son, Baelfire’s son. Milah’s grandson. Very nearly everyone I’ve ever loved has had a hand in making you.”

“What about Rumplestiltskin?”

“Aye, well, let’s not dwell too heavily on his contribution, hmmm?”

Henry chuckled through his tears. 

“And even if that weren’t the case, I would still love you for yourself. Your courage and your optimism and your imagination have kept me strong throughout this whole ordeal. I truly don’t know what I would have done without you. Something dreadful, no doubt.” 

“No, you wouldn’t’ve,” said Henry earnestly. “Don’t think like that. You’re not a villain anymore, you haven’t been for a long time. A villain wouldn’t have taken care of me all this time, no matter who my parents were. And I love you too. Dad.” 

Killian smiled as tears prickled behind his eyes, touched beyond measure by Henry’s faith. Sometimes the lad was just so much like Emma. He stroked Henry’s back until he fell asleep, then eased himself away, pressing a kiss onto the boy’s hair before he left. 

The next morning they awoke to rain, sheets of water pouring down the large windows of their loft, lightning and thunder cracking and booming off the distant shore. By unspoken mutual agreement and after a quick trip to the grocery store, Henry and Killian spent the day indoors, arranging the shop and preparing for the delivery they expected the next day. In the evening they cooked dinner together, baked fish and vegetables at Killian’s insistence (and which Henry no longer objected to very strenuously; once Killian learned that the spices which in his realm were valued more highly than gold could be had in this one for mere sheets of their odd paper currency, he had taken to applying them lavishly to everything he cooked, vastly improving it in the boy’s opinion) and curled up on the sofa to eat it, watching Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Henry’s choice. Despite everything, in that moment Killian felt happy. He wanted this to be his life: Henry and Emma and quiet days where nothing happened, no lust for revenge, no looming threats or reasons to hurt people. He missed his ship, terribly, missed the freedom of the open seas, but he didn’t miss being a pirate. It occurred to him that if he’d been able to choose all those centuries ago, that young, upright, wide-eyed version of himself, if he’d had the luxury of choosing the path his life would take he’d have chosen this. A family, a respectable career, a peaceful existence. He knew he’d done nothing to deserve it, but he yearned for it nonetheless, and was prepared to do whatever was necessary to secure it. 

The following day dawned bright and sunny, with the fresh-washed feeling that comes after a heavy storm, and Killian declared that it was time for Henry to go to school. 

“You’re all enrolled,” he said, pouring milk into two bowls of breakfast cereal. “You just need to report to the principal’s office to collect your schedule.”

Henry made an indistinct noise that Killian interpreted as reluctant consent. 

“Do you wish me to walk with you?” he inquired. 

“No, I’ll be fine. I went to that school for years, remember?”

“Aye, of course. It’s still a new start, though.” 

“Yeah,” said Henry rather glumly, mashing the cereal with the back of his spoon.  

Killian wondered what this could be about. Henry was usually quite an enthusiastic student. “Is everything all right, lad?” he asked, attepting a casual tone. 

Henry frowned and thought before replying. “Are you sure I have to go to school today?” he said finally. You don’t need me here for anything?”

Aha, thought Killian. This must be what the books called “separation anxiety,” uncommon in children as old as Henry but not unknown, and quite understandable in this case. It had been just the two of them for so long Henry was naturally reluctant to go off on his own. “I’m always glad of your assistance, but you must go to school,” he said firmly. “And don’t forget, this is part of the plan. You’re our undercover agent, collecting intelligence. Report back to me this afternoon on anything you can learn about the curse and how it’s affecting people. What their new identities are, any hint of who might be behind this. You know what to look for. Your mum and I are relying on you.” 

Henry perked up slightly at this and nodded. “I can have a spy notebook, and write things in code,” he said, his clever mind clearly already forming plans. 

“That’s the spirit,” said Killian, smiling to himself as Henry began to eat his cereal. When he’d finished he collected his backpack and permitted Killian to hug him goodbye before heading out the door, the habitual spring still in his step. Killian watched him through the wide front window, feeling a small twinge when he disappeared around the corner. He missed the lad already. Perhaps separation anxiety went both ways. 

To distract himself, he made a cup of tea and went downstairs to spend a relaxing hour setting up the accounts for the bookstore. It was something he flattered himself that he was quite good at, having discovered to his considerable amusement that running a business was in many ways not dissimilar to captaining a pirate ship. As captain he had been responsible for keeping records of their takings and ensuring that each crewmember received his fair share, while as a business owner he would need to keep records of the store’s sales and he hoped eventually pay himself and any employees a salary. On his ship he had maintained inventories of their provisions, set and enforced duty rosters, made plans for where to hunt their next take — or how to grow his business, to use the terminology of this realm. All of which turned out to be skills he could transfer to the relatively sedate task of running a bookstore. Who would have guessed that all those years he’d actually had a profession that was considered respectable in this realm, he reflected with a smirk. Of course, the reputation for ruthlessness and bloodlust he’d taken great pains to cultivate was not exactly standard procedure for businesspeople in this realm, but from what he’d read about many of the more successful CEOs his methods had been almost tame by comparison.

He was startled from his musings by the sound of the shop door opening, and a voice calling “Hello? Is anyone here?”

Kilian rose and went down to the ground floor, startled into momentary dumbness at the sight of the woman standing hesitantly in the centre of the room. 

“Swan?” he said, once he had found his voice. “What are you doing here?”