prata neptunia

     It felt to Prudence as though her new companion was littered with anxieties and trepidation. Perhaps she was wrong - she hoped she was wrong - but there was an almost skittish behaviour about him that was akin to a new born faun. It was sweet, in the way that watching small animals stretch their legs and fall could be sweet. She knew that she carried an air of propriety about her, despite her constant desire to rid herself of it. Proper posture, proper pronunciation, proper Prudence. It was ingrained in her like rings of an oak, and even if someone could expose it, they would never truly free her from the cage of her existence. She was not unique in wanting such a thing; everybody craved freedom in some way or another. Whether they vocalised it or not. 

     ❛❛I’ll pay for both.❜❜ It seemed such an obvious statement, that she questioned briefly whether he was joking about it. ❛❛The vendor won’t be upset. And if you took a small enough bite, hid yourself well, then you could hide it amongst the others of its kind.❜❜ Stealing was an additional word for it, but using such a word in this place was a call for attention. The spotlight would truly be upon them if she uttered such a word, and while she figured that he might not decide to partake in such a task, the idea of a new, fleeting, secret excited her a little. Of course, it would not be Prudence that would be at risk of persecution, so perhaps that was exactly why it excited her so. 

     The mouth of her companion had run away with him, Prudence figured, and she couldn’t help but bite her lip to suppress a smile. Had she not had the same fate, numerous times? Her foot, when not raised above her head, was often seated perfectly in her mouth, allowing her to make all sorts of social faux pas that her mother would shame. Of course, hers was entirely anxiety based, with a fair dollop of imposter syndrome at the helm, but such technicalities were unimportant. 

     ❛❛Well…❜❜ For a second, the dancer considered an act of emotional torture, but she was never going to be that person. It would cause her more emotional strain than him, most likely. ❛❛You’re fine. Please. I understand what you meant. And miss is far too formal when I practically accosted you for assistance. Prudence, or Prue. Either you prefer is fine with me.❜❜ 

a gust of wind blows in from the southwest, and link is reminded of how differently the ground underneath his feet feel. even the air tastes differently in london and is no longer reminiscent of the blow rocking a ship in its berth. instead, he can feel it whip around his face rather than sweeping over the deck.

it has him acutely aware of the difference between being part of a union, a crowd of sailors working as a single entity, and being stuck in his own body with no further purpose and only the limitations of his limbs to dictate what he can or cannot do. it’s a daunting aspect, one he knows he’s always subconsciously felt whenever his feet touch solid ground.

a few people take notice of the breeze as it touches upon them and they pause, their heads turning to follow its progress. they resume their chores only after it's long past, frowns etched upon their faces. link can understand their unease. the wind is unseasonably warm and thick with humidity. it leaves a taste behind on his lips, a clinging tinge of rotted wood and jungle damp.

it’s not typical for london, and nothing the people in the city are accustomed to.

he pivots in the direction of the source, gazing off into the vibrant, blue sky. everything appears to be normal. he waits, expecting something—anything—to happen, but it doesn't. the air remains still, though full of unseen tension.

much like this conversation, he thinks.

“have experience of that, do you?” he questions, his eyebrows climbing on his forehead when he inspects the pears once more. it’s not that he expects her to contradict him—in fact, in some parts of london, he’s sure you’d be hard pressed to find anyone who hasn’t resorted to stealing at least once in their miserable lives. there’s a food chain set in place that keeps certain people at the top and certain people at the bottom of it, but the dancer doesn’t seem to fit in either of these categories. so that statement seems oddly out of place coming from a pretty woman such as herself, and link wonders for the split of a second whether or not he had been imagining that spark of mischief in her eyes.

ferihas​:

“No, no, I think they’d just be absolutely taken by your charming personality,” Feriha tells Link sweetly, sparing a glance back at him from where she stands behind Polly. “You’d do a far better job than me.” Like Polly, Feriha had taken to their host’s invitation to explore the house and its grounds with enthusiasm, hardly discouraged by any obstacles in their way and Link dragged along for the ride. Maybe he’s right and you shouldn’t mess with what lies behind locked doors, but where’s the fun in that? 

She cranes her head past him to see if anyone’s coming just when Polly succeeds in their endeavor, the door swinging open easily. “Oh, well done!” She grins, clapping her hands before following them inside. Immediately, she’s enveloped in darkness; not even moonlight slants through the room, velvet curtains drawn shut. Only light from the hallway filters in, allowing her to spot a candelabra on a dresser. “Candle? I’ve got three.” 

From her pocket, she fishes out a bronze lighter ( stolen from a sitting room, belonging not to the host but likely a guest who had so carelessly left it behind ) and lights the wicks. The warm glow allows her eyes to adjust to their surroundings, and Feriha takes the candelabra in hand, spinning slowly about the room.

It is just as opulent as the rest of the mansion, yet something feels distinctly abandoned and untouched. Four armchairs surround a table, and behind that stands a fireplace, its flames long out; a dusty mirror sits on top, a thin crack running through. Other curiosities catch her eye: an empty decanter and matching glasses, a chessboard with the white queen toppled over, as if the game is just about to finish, and an ornate music box, waiting to be played. 

But it’s a large frame covered by a burgundy cloth that draws her attention fully. 

There’s a reason the door was locked. 

Curiosity glints her in eyes. “Time to find out what secrets Mr. Ashton is hiding.” With her free hand, she pulls the cloth free, revealing the painting underneath. 

. 

Despite all evidence to the contrary, Polly isn’t stupid. At times, oblivious, yes, and their lack of education is never a fact they’ve tried to hide, but not stupid. They learned young that learning to discern what people said, and what they mean, are two entirely different things. In this circumstance, though, Link doesn’t need to say anything. His disapproval is entirely evident, but he is here anyway, dragged into Polly and Feriha’s scheme with only mild complaints.  He thinks this is a bad idea, and Polly disagrees. 

Then there is Feriha. If they were alone, they’re sure Link would be able to dissuade them from poking their nose in where it clearly isn’t wanted (if the locked door is anything to go by). Trying to stop the collective whims of Polly and Feriha combined, however? That is an entirely different matter altogether, and a battle Link has already conceded before it even begins. 

“You’re tall,” Polly points out, when Link questions the purpose of having him play lookout. “Far scarier than us. You’ll think of something.” The sentence is delivered cheerfully, encouragingly, and mostly because Polly doesn’t really know how to answer. This isn’t their first burglary (they recall being younger than this, the thief who raised them taking advantage of their small frame to boost them through carelessly opened windows), but never with such inexperienced accomplices. 

Polly is spared from responding to Link and Feriha’s cheerful bickering any further by the convenient distraction of opening the door, and they beam at Feriha’s praise. “It’s easy, really. I’ll show you later.” They clumsily fumble for her arm in the darkness, and pat it once they’ve found it. They don’t withdraw it, though, instead sliding their fingers down her forearm to clasp her hand. It is dark, and for the first time, while their eyes grow accustomed to the sudden lack of sight, they wonder if Link was perhaps right. 

“Oh, thank you,” they breath out a sigh of relief when Feriha rectifies the situation, lighting a candelabra and illuminating the room before them. It is still gloomy, and the candlelight casts large, imposing shadows around the room, but at least they can see. 

But what is it they’re looking at? Polly drops Feriha’s hand, and meanders further into the room. Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust, as though it has not been touched for years. Polly peers into the mirror glancing at her distorted, murky reflection in it, before turning around. They linger on the chess set for a moment, picking the queen up and carefully placing her in a square with no clue if it is the right one. 

“Come on, Link,” they urge him. “You can’t turn back now.” They usher him over as Feriha unveils the portrait, and watch her performance with rapturous attention. Polly is no expert, but they can tell the painting is old, and done by hand. A man and a woman in old-fashioned clothing from centuries gone by stand on either side of an ornate chair, and upon it sits a younger man, with high cheekbones and fair hair. He is handsome, but the longer Polly looks, the more unsettled they become. The expressions of the older couple seem to be of silent horror, immortalised in their fear, but the man looks cold and cruel. Even through the canvas, it is like his gaze is fixed on Polly. They take a step backwards, and turn away. 

“That’s boring,” they say, and despite their dismissal, their voice hitches in uncertainty. But in turning, they’ve found something else - a dusty skeleton, stood in a rack that holds it upright. “Hey, look at this!” They bound to its side, removing the crown of flowers from their own head and plonking it on the skeleton. “Isn’t it pretty?” they coo, anything to distract from the painting.

he can’t tell if it’s going to be simple stupidity that will be his (read: their) downfall or the two other idiots collectively (and childishly, one might add) siding against him and his rather plain concerns. it isn’t that link doesn’t want for them to enjoy the evening but there’s something haunting about this manor and the fact that most of the people he’s talked to tonight have voiced the same question of do you recognize anybody else? it leaves him with a feeling that persistently gnaws on his common sense at the back of his mind.

that, combined with the fact that this mister ashton made a big point out of inviting so many people to his home, even declaring he wanted to open it up to everyone in attendance, only for the trio to stumble across a locked door. link knows men like this, the kind that say one thing but mean another; and while they usually aren’t masked whenever they make their statements in public, he thought it was oddly fitting for the situation at hand.

so that’s another thing that hasn’t been sitting well with him. feriha’s and polly’s apparent dismissiveness of what could very well be serious trouble that they might be about to face at any given moment has frustration settling in the pit of his stomach; and whatever must be lurking behind this locked door is just as daunting to him.

link grimaces at feriha’s jab, and just about resists the urge to roll his eyes at polly’s but is saved from giving a cutting remark of his own when the door slips open under the youngest’s deft fingers. the darkness is quickly replaced by a gentle stream of light coming from the candelabra in feriha’s hands. “where did you even—” he starts in obvious confusion before he swallows the rest of the question, fully aware that feriha isn’t likely to disclose anything with the secret room now illuminated before their eyes and demanding all of the trio’s attention.

“stop baiting me.” his feet shuffle hesitantly into the room before they lead him to come to a halt next to polly, dark eyes curiously examining the chess board. “do you play?” he queries, the wariness in his voice momentarily replaced by a delighted look on his face. link’s not a particularly good chess player but he has fond recollections of spending many evenings with his father in an attempt to best the older man.

it sadly never happened.

he is pulled out of his reverie when he turns, only to be met with the sight of feriha unveiling what must certainly be an old painting. the dust particles around the room are enough to scratch against his throat, causing him to hack out a cough. it takes a brief moment for him to refocus his attention on the portrait; the tall man and the woman seated beside him. link can’t say there’s a sense of familiarity washing over him. instead, the previous concerns return to him as a reminder that what they’re doing is wrong and while the manor may be large, he doubts that someone unlocking a room that wasn’t meant for anyone’s eyes would pass by unnoticed.

he swallows thickly before he drops his gaze from the painting with a feeling of having been caught doing something wrong nagging him at the back of his mind.

“blazes!” he exclaims, his heart sinking into his stomach when he realizes what exactly polly is talking about. the color seeps from his face as he remains rooted to the spot, his eyes taking in the crown on the other’s head. “you should put that back.”

turning to feriha, he inhales through his nose. “we shouldn’t touch anything.”

— SEANCETASK 01. THE SEA. I DIDN’T LOSE MYSELF IN IT. I FOUND MYSELF IN IT.                                                                           —  ALBERT CAMUS

she tries not to falter at his words. at length. for her, it had felt so abrupt. henry wanting to leave had been no surprise, and getting him away from their father’s hold had been all she’d wanted for him. and so, she had been delighted. for him, she had. after priscilla palmer’s death, he had been so shaken that remaining in london would have only been bad for him. she knew that, and yet listing reasons as to why it had been the right decision were the only thing to keep her heart together. “that’s- i’m glad he always had you, link. i don’t think he much liked to speak about it with me.” despite the sadness tingeing the words, they’re true, she is glad. she wouldn’t have liked to talk about it, either, a selfishness she only admits in her own mind. they were great, wondrous possibilities for him - ones she had perhaps once been allowed to have too, but no longer. 

she missed her brother more than she could effectively put into words, and yet, when link speaks of her going with him, she has to hold in an incredulous laugh. it had never even been an option. the thought hadn’t crossed her mind, and she didn’t think it had crossed henry’s either. he had just left her. he was perhaps the most selfless man she’d ever known, and she wanted desperately to feel proud of him for putting himself first. she held no resentment towards him, certainly, but with one final departure, she’d been alone. it would have been cruel to mention the financial aid he provided, and so she had no idea entirely how she was going to get by. thankfully, they were in the lead into summer, rather than the departure from it, and so heating would become less essential. 

but with one brother dead, and another holding such hatred for her he hadn’t visited in six years, henry’s leaving had left her cold in a way that had nothing to do with the early spring weather. 

ellie’s grateful of his next question, having let her mind drift for too long, and she smiles, “guinevere. john is- rather fond of arthurian legend. he insisted. i’m- i’m sorry, i’m afraid i don’t recognise yours, either. very well put together, though!”

he fights the urge to shake his head in a bid to physically stop himself from doing something much worse; which is to beg for forgiveness.

some words, you do not realize the impact of, until you have spoken them, until you see the happiness drain away from another’s eyes. ellie has always been a distant, but kind figure in link’s life: the older sister to a friend he once cherished, spent much of his troublesome days as a youth with. as such, that makes her a constant in his life as well, however peripheral, and yet she continues to be here even long after henry has gone. for the flicker of a moment, he wonders if this is how his brother felt all those endless nights ago, when link disappeared into the dark night and left behind nothing but a letter detailing his actions.

it must have hurt. seeing ellie falter before him like that, he knows it must have.

“i—” he stops, clearing his throat. “i am grateful to hear you say that.” and he is, well and truly, thankful for her kindness; for shifting the attention, for giving him the space to mourn the loss of a friend. their bond might have been different from the one shared between henry and ellie but perhaps with james gone, it was the closest thing link had left to a dynamic of a similar nature. and now here they are, another brother gone, a déjà-vu waiting to be repeated.

“it’s different for siblings. i think maybe he thought… i’d understood.” not better, he wants to add, just differently. but they get stuck in his throat, even if the expression on his face might say as much in silence. there’s guilt built into the bones of children like henry and he, and it never truly leaves. some things you can take out of a person, and some things stay with you long after you’ve left.

“i know he cherished you a lot. i think some part of him… never truly got over what happened.” his words are spoken with caution; he realizes what he says might hurt. but it’s the truth and as such, it deserves to be spoken. ellie isn’t at fault and though no words will ever be enough to convey as much, he hopes she understands that much. that logically speaking, none of what happened could have ever been her fault to begin with. all three of them are just a product of their time; and circumstances that have been against them in the past.

he draws in a deep breath, takes in the way an emotion scurries across her face that he can’t quite place. ellie is an enigma to him, in much the same manner the rest of her family is—but he sees his brother’s spirit in her, the same type of willingness to give and be left forgotten. if there’s one thing he can do to make up for his own mistakes, it’s to ensure something good will come out of this. at least he ought to try.

Not for the first time since Link has stepped back into her life, Daya wonders if she still has a place in his. 

Unbidden, a thought comes to her - no, not a thought, a memory, of two young boys with identical ink-black hair and matching smiles. Their James was a little older, and her Link was a little younger, with Daya herself falling somewhere in the middle. They were young, and when you are young, three years may as well be thirteen. Daya and James were similar, so similar that it often turned to cross words and bickering. She recalls a memorable afternoon where he pushed her in the mud, and she retaliated by throwing fistfuls in his face. 

It was always Daya and James, with Link trailing behind. But eventually, Daya would always look back, into his sad, sweet little face, and greet him with a smile, holding out a hand and inviting him to join the elder two in their adventures. James had not always been overjoyed by the prospect, but he had always known better than to argue with Dayanita.

But now they are older, and those three years that seemed to separate them with such finality no longer mean a thing, a drop in the ocean of time. He no longer needs to take her hand to keep himself in step - for now, she is the one that has been left behind. Daya does not know where that leaves her. If he does not have a purpose for her, does not need her, can she keep him in her life?  

She is proud of the man he has become, but that does not mean it is easy to watch his back retreat away from her. It is not easy to wonder if he will forget her as easily as the rest of the world seems to have. After all, he has already done it once. 

But he is here now, choosing her company over everybody else at the ball. He is here, despite the fact that her mood is oscillating wildly between mirth and melancholy. He is here, looking at her with those same soulful eyes she recalls from her youth, and Daya cannot help but stretch out her hand to him again, to lace her fingers with him and squeeze in a silent gesture of camaraderie, of gratitude. 

She withdraws her hand and rests it on her chest, where her heart beats maddening rhythms under alcohol-flushed skin, and she smiles, because if she smiles, perhaps she can fool the both of them into believing that everything is fine. There were no desperate letters written from Paris. She is not covering dark circles of exhaustion with layers of makeup. She is happy. 

“Guiding you where?” She asks, before she can truly think about the implications and accusations of such a question. To home? Perhaps not. Daya does not even know where Link considers home to be anymore. Is this his home, she wonders. Is she his home, she dare not ask. She bites her lip, and she shakes her head. 

“I think you overestimate my influence on poor pirates,” her tone takes on a light, teasing tone. Keep it simple. Keep it light, and nobody will be any the wiser. Not even Link. “Center of the universe I may be, but everything is moving around me oh-so fast.” Her eyes trail to the dance floor, and she stares for a moment, as though expecting to see something that does not materialise, and her brow furrows. “It’s a huge responsibility.” Daya shines her light on everyone, she warms the lands of those she favours, and scorchings the deserts of those she does not. 

But who shares their light with the sun? Who would ever so much as look upon its face, even as it hangs in the sky, begging to be seen?

outside of london, the air is so clean it’s almost startling. there is no hint of garbage here, no stink of sour beer, sour sweat, sour flesh, no filth or grime. ravenmoor manor is the antithesis of the city in many ways, an oasis of wealth and refinement. the garden is green and lush, full of flowers and damp earth. there is no hint of sea on the breeze here, no trace of saltwater or brine.

there are no short, winding paths that open up into the docks here. this isn’t the east end where he, head bowed against the wind and the stench, powers his way down middle street for another block, only to duck into a filthy alleyway—a convenient little shortcut he discovered the last time he was sent on a similar chore. all his steps always lead him to the ocean, so he can see this: the choppy, restless waves. the breeze off the water that cuts to the bone, icy shards tearing into his skin, but he breathes deeply nonetheless, allowing the clean tang of salt and brine to cleanse his nose and mouth after a day in the city.

this place and its beauty doesn’t suit link but that’s fine; it doesn’t need to.

“to safety,” he responds vaguely, swinging his head around so that his gaze is firmly fixed on her face. this is what he knows—daya knows him well, or at least well enough to know when he is acting out of character. that is to say: they both know there’s more that needs to be said and a letter that needs to be addressed. but for one moment, he is willing to forego all these worries and uncertainties if it means bridging the distance of the last decade. so he inclines his head to the side and allows his eyes to trace her features instead. “people—so called wayfinders—crossed thousands of miles in their canoes without a single map or compass. instead, they navigated the seas by watching the sun, the moon, and the stars.”

link turns to face a nearby tree, wondering how much of this garden’s flowers and plants could withstand salty soil. he knows these exist, but his botanical knowledge is lacking and what little he knows would barely be enough to keep him from accidentally consuming something lethal on foreign soil. but as he stands here, on the threshold between the garden and the ballroom, he breathes in the warm, fragrant air and glances at daya again over his shoulder, offering her a huge, joyful grin. it takes ten years off his face, rendering him boyish, playful and innocent. this is the softer side of the earnest man, the happy youth beneath the official exterior. this is the boy he once was and thought long gone and forgotten.

“so i’m not talking about pirates,” he says, his glance growing pointed but not unkind. “i’m talking about courageous people braving the stormy seas for a chance of finding out what this world has to offer beyond their own shores.”

they had to memorize how the sky looked when they first set sail and how it changed each day after—how could they have ever done it without the light of the sun?

link nods as though daya’s reaction is completely expected, and who knows, maybe it is. but the gesture is accompanied by the hint of a hesitant smile; a courageous, if tiny thing that leaves room for a more hopeful feeling blooming in his chest.

the costume suits the woman beside him, a perfect reflection of what she represents, of all she has to offer, and all that she might take away.

Daya hums quietly. “And my name came up in conjunction with such rumours?” It is hardly the place to ask, but curiosity drove it from her lips. She sees no reason why her attendance would be of note. It is not like she and Thomas were in regular communication at the time of his passing, but that was not to say they were not present for the important things. Babies. Weddings. Funerals. 

Daya steps back, breaking the contact with him, allowing him as much privacy as was possible, though something keeps her eyes glued to him. It is striking how, in grief, Link is suddenly all that more familiar to her. The barriers that made him a stranger to her seem to melt away, and all that is left is him. Not Link The Sailor, nor Link The Man. He is Link The Brother, Link The Friend. Her Link. 

She had heard her father once, lamenting the death of Daya’s mother all those years ago, describe grief as something impossible to comprehend. It is a messy, complex think that cannot be understood, but watching Link now, it strikes her how wrong that notion is. For Daya does understand. For the first time in so many years, she looks at Link, and knows what is in his heart. 

It is the same as what’s in hers. 

But though she is glimpsing into all of that which, since his return, she has not seen before, something still holds Daya back. Perhaps it is not a fair exchange - that he should allow himself to be caught so open and vulnerable, whilst she maintains the concealment of that part of herself from him, but Daya has had her moment to grieve, and now it is Link’s turn. And so she maintains her composure, and hopes that her steadfast presence is enough to give him what he needs. 

And grieve she did. She is not a Littledale, but that does not mean she loved Thomas any less than if she had been - and for the first time, it hits her that she still cares for Link in that same way. There are no people in the world that she can claim in siblinghood by blood, but what is family if not two people bound by a shared history, by memory, by heart? She cannot claim Thomas and Link by blood, but that does not mean the three of them did not belong to one another, once. 

And Daya feels a fool, for it has taken her so long to see the truth in that. She peers cautiously at Link, and wonders if there will ever be a world where they can belong to one another in that way again. 

But then he calls her name, and all thoughts of her own sorrow is driven from her mind. The old Daya would never have been able to put away her own feelings like this, willful and selfish as she was, but the woman she is now can do so with ease. Sacrifice comes easy to Daya, and with all that has changed, perhaps this is the one thing that has changed for the better. 

He calls her name, and Daya steps forwards, arms outstretched, and pull him close to her. She guides his head to rest upon her shoulder, as though that physical act would take the burden of grief from him. If she could, she would, but she does not know how to put that into words, and does not know if he needs to hear it now. It is a conversation they can have later, far from here, when the sorrow he feels in this moment is a memory, because for now, she thinks, even if this was possible, he should feel it. He needs to feel this pain to make it his own, no matter how much it breaks her heart to see it. 

All she can do is remind him that he need not feel it alone. 

“I know,” Daya murmurs, one hand rubbing soothing circles on his back whilst the other combs through the dark silk of his hair. I know, she says, because she does. The pain in her chest is tight, but it is not their shared grief that twists her heart so tightly it might break. Rather, it stems from seeing Link so wracked with hurt. “I am here,” she responds. “I am here.”

and my name came up in conjunction with such rumors?

there’s something clinging to the tip of his tongue when daya says those words, something hard that wishes to be spoken into existence and the realization has link shying away from the magnitude of his own thoughts. there’s nothing more distorting than the disconnect between thoughts and feelings and at present, standing before the graves of father and brother, he feels a cascade of sorrow crashing down on him while hatred’s hand curls around his throat with every intention of squeezing out whatever kindness he has left in him.

so instead of speaking, he swallows down a deep breath, an easy task with his chest so empty seeing as he seems to have left his heart in the same caskets that hold the remains of his family.

link didn’t even realize he had enough heart left to leave.

“was it a rumor?” he queries quietly, choosing to hand the question back to her instead. daya’s reality is vastly different from his and link knows this; if she doesn’t want it to be known, he will have to let it go. it wouldn’t be the first time that daya’s face is unreadable whenever she takes in another grievance, alleviates another of his worries but some things simply have no easy cure to distribute and link, with his childish desires to see the world and flee from what little family he has had, realizes for the first time in his life the weight of his own actions as well as the repercussions of the actions he did not take.

damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

(he closes his eyes and pictures a different life.

the one in which he never left; in which he became his brother’s right hand the way their father always hoped he would. wherein link is the one to nurse the older man to health until he draws his last breath, where james is given a chance at starting the family he’s always talked about without carrying the heavy burden of doing all by himself.

for a few seconds, link can see this life unfolding before his very own eyes: the image of a wedding he’s never attended, happy faces gathering around to congratulate a couple that’s so in love on their firstborn’s healthy delivery. daya is a pillar in those images as well, a constant presence to help guide him through troublesome times for the family’s business, from whom he learns what james will no longer be able to teach him once he has a wife and children to focus on.)

link imagines this life and feels the anger seeping into every pore of his skin: sacrifices that keep entrapping him the more he’s ready to give, a never ending story of being emptied in favor of filling other people’s shoes—his father’s, his brother’s.

to be a son, a brother, a friend, an uncle, someone to trust and depend on.

but here’s the catch. link isn’t a trustworthy person. if any good thing has come out of his extended travels, he knows at least this.

(those he has abandoned know this, too.)

ultimately, he is selfish enough to choose his own interests over those of others, even the ones he cherishes the most. no amount of love and tenderness will ever be enough to keep him in one place; if his own family, his own flesh and blood, haven’t been able to manage it—how could he expect daya to soothe those same old wounds?

how could he expect anyone to want to put up with his disgusting disregard for other people and their needs when it’s what he has been profiting from for all this time?

distantly, his mind registers daya’s touch, the gently spoken words enough to put his mind at ease. there’s grief that leaks through his eyes, but what he feels is hatred at the person he has become, the man that’s driven both father and brother into an early death. no words in the world will be enough to encapsulate this feeling.

no man is an island, older sailors would say to him, back when he was green behind the ears and unaware of the dangers of the sea. but here, with daya’s arms around him and shielding him from whatever else this world might throw at him, he’s certain those words still ring as true today as they did the first time.

Hannah does not know what to expect from James’s younger brother. Beyond his name, title, and money, along with the bits and pieces James had shared to her in the past, Lincoln Littledale still comes across a translucent presence. The backdrop does not help much in establishing this as any more concrete, either. The night, the moon, the shining stars, the poisoned shrubbery—all these render the setting picturesque and even more dream-like, the same kind of illusion that had made the patrons appear so shadowy, almost faceless, against the dark. 

“Hannah.” She repeats her first deceit. “Hannah James.” The next name, too, is a lie, but it slips past her lips with a graceful ease. The frown that forms in Link’s features is not surprising, though it disappoints her all the same. Gaining his trust would be an uphill battle, she surmises, but she has never been one way to stray from a challenge. 

At this juncture, she attempts a small chuckle, smooth in its cadence. “I understand how the shared name can come off rather jarring,” she adds, stretching her lips to form a smile. “Your brother and I—we had a ball when we figured out the coincidence, too.” Midway through she realizes that the words should not come across so easily, for memory requires its own kind of sharp, bitter unrooting. Here, she tries out a shaky inflection against her tongue, her best attempt in imitating what the books and the plays describe as grief. “It was… well… it proved to be the start to a long friendship.” 

And what an ending, what an ending. 

Releasing her hand from the handshake, Hannah turns on her heel and moves back to his side. Without those curious eyes staring back at her, it is easier to displace Link’s identity for the other—and for a moment, she is beholden to memory, finding the similarities that are there-but-not-quite. The height, the hair, the seafarer’s ensemble, even the pronounced gait. 

“A fair share of friends here and there, though it seems my and this Ashton fellow’s circle do not intersect much. I suspect we are in the same predicament?” Hannah ventures a guess, though it does not seem far from the truth—without the music and idle chatter, she wonders how much of the manor would become silent. “Truth be told, I’m not sure whether to be pleased or concerned to find you alone out here.” Her face is pensive as she attempts honesty for the first time that night. “This is not how I would have wanted us to meet.” 

“hannah james.”

his face is bloodless when he speaks, her name tumbling out of his mouth altogether too hesitantly; she says something about coincidences and it sounds suspiciously like a joke, one that heightens his awareness of the situation: this is a stranger who is in possession of memories involving his brother, his once closest confidante, that link himself could only ever dream of.

you’re carrying his name.

but that’s not the entire truth, is it? james hasn’t always been james—there was a point in time in which he was just kasem and he, not link but just ratohanan. it’s only a small detail to find some solace in but it’s in the back of his mind, a constant reminder that there’s always going to be something he can find comfort in. names are smoke and mirrors, memories will vanish with time and so this, too, shall pass.

he squeezes his eyes shut, his jaw tensed against some memory from the past that’s tearing him apart in easy silence. when his eyes fly open again, it is only so that they may roam her features, head tilted at her. any sign of anger or hurt dissipates in the blink of an eye.

“i can imagine he would’ve liked that. he always was the type to enjoy coincidences.” and he would’ve—his older brother who laughed and loved and lived brightly, if only briefly. how terribly easy it is to slip from is to was.

james, with his tendency to be too trusting, too kind, too giving. link eyes hannah for a second longer, probably too long for it to be comfortable, before his attention drifts back to the opened doors of the ballroom and the wistful melody that echoes clearly against the soundscape of this garden’s lack of noise.

“it’s not jarring,” he catches himself saying, brows furrowed like he doesn’t quite believe himself. “it isn’t an unusual name. my grandfather, he—he picked it for him.”

a man given the opportunity to fight on american soil for what he believed in, who insisted that nothing was more important than to provide a better world for those who would come after him. picking james as the english name to be given to his first grandson had been meaningful, and while link preferred his thai name over his english one, it was one he was also, regrettably, stuck with.

james had inherited their grandfather’s hopeful nature. link wasn’t sure what he was left with now.

the words hannah speaks next feel like a double-edged sword: an invitation to come and discuss their only connection, the bridge between past and present. james is gone but the two of them are alive and breathing and what good does it do the living to mull about the dead?

link knows he has to say something to rid himself of this feeling; this feeling of not moving in any direction, of being permanently glued to the same spot.

london is big which makes it comfortable to delve into different personalities, fingers tentatively gripping at facets the sailor doesn’t always understand. donning a costume and slipping into a different aspect of one’s personality sounds a lot easier than it truly is and has left him with a similar kind of dulled enthusiasm: who would you be in an alternative universe, a different life to call yours? it should come as no surprise that the attachment to the ocean is strong, strong enough for link to be unable to see a lifetime in which he does not follow the call of the sea.

this ball sees him dressed as a gentleman pirate; what does that say about him, exactly? a man of style and taste who once practiced decorum before he slipped into the debauchery of a criminal life? a pirate who likes women, wine, and wealth, not necessarily in that order but willing to do whatever it takes to be successful with all three—preferably all at once?

is that a character he could be? one he’d want to be?

a scattered dream fills his mind with trees, but it is the sharp scent of pine that brings him back to reality. sap and needles soaking lush earth, with a note of ancient oak beneath it all. away from the city, the air is clean and cool, a balm for his lungs and it soothes his skittish anxiety at least to some degree.

link turns to face hannah again. he can’t help but wonder; if his brother has made a friend of this woman, who looks like a vision of folklore in her costume, then what does it mean to him? should it mean something? the sailor can feel his stomach flipping in a way that he can’t place and that doesn’t make any sense to him.

“i suppose we do. it’s difficult to know who is a friend with so many of the guests in attendance wearing masks. i wasn’t aware our host was planning on throwing a masquerade.” a quizzical brow lifts as he flashes an inspecting gaze over the woman’s features, his hands disappearing in the pockets of his coat so she can’t see his fingers curl into loose balls of nerves. he can’t tell what exactly it is she’s asking for, whether she wants to know if she’s disturbing his solitude or who he’s come here with.

he exhales, a small cloud dissipating before his eyes. it’s march and while the days have gotten warmer, the nights still maintain an iciness; a reminder that while flowers might be able to bloom, they will not yet slip away from winter’s grasp.

what toshiro knows of tonight’s target: the man loves to drink by the docks late at night.

a light breeze caresses his cheek, bringing him the scents of cooking meat and sand, seaweed and cheap perfume. good smells, but underneath it all there's a layer of taint, the corrupted stench of stale beer and rot, wet wood and unwashed flesh.

     ❛❛One should always apologise for a poor attempt at humour.❜❜ Prudence did not mean for it to seem as harsh, nor demeaning, as she had said it, but it was a matter-of-fact. Jokes, when they hit appropriately, were a great source of camaraderie. When they missed? Only the exact opposite was true. Often, they made the maker looking a fool, and not the kind that would dance before a king. 

     Clearly the two of them knew little of the fruit, though the dancer could not help to feel that maybe she knew a little more than the fellow patron. ❛❛Well, I think that they can change with the seasons, and their sweetness depends upon the colour.❜❜ Her eyes scanned the produce before both hands reached out and plucked two from their place. The first, more golden in colour, had a rounded and fat bottom, a small stem poking from the top, and looked as though it were closer to the apple family than the pear. The second choice was slender, had a mere fleck or two of gold across its skin, and felt far firmer in her hand than the other. ❛❛Now, take a bite of both. Tell me if you can taste a difference.❜❜ Of course, they would both be paid for, which she hoped that the vendor understood through the eye-only communication that she offered. Or, worst case scenario, they would both shortly be approached by a baton-in-hand bobby. 

     Demanding exercises. As soon as the words left his mouth, a rose-tinted blush crept across the cheeks of Prudence, a small lump of embarrassment formed in her throat. ❛❛Ahem,❜❜ she made a futile effort to clear it and her eyes darted everywhere but any part of his corporeal form. ❛❛I just have a light ballet practice today.❜❜ He surely did not choose to discuss matters of the bedroom with a stranger in such a public place, but she emphasised the nature of her exercise almost a little too forcefully. ❛❛Are you a doctor of nutrition?❜❜ Getting off of the subject was the best that she could hope for at that moment, and surely the only way that her skin would return to a colour that did not resemble the raspberries before her. 

a man slumped against the side of a blacksmith shop calls out for alms, and link watches people pass him by without a backward glance. there are many like him on this route—refugees and the unemployed, victims of disease and ill-fated happenstance. the east end isn’t kind to those without money and even less to those in need of aid; what you cannot carry, you have to throw away.

even if that means relieving yourself of the burden of someone else’s weight.

link himself isn’t explicitly poor. while he’s far away from living a life in lazy comfort, he’s still far more fortunate than some. and considering that he’s managed to do all right for himself, despite all the struggle and strife that’s been there, that should speak for his ability to endure.

however, that same perseverance isn’t exactly enough to see him through this kind of unexpected encounter, especially seeing how he continues to put his foot in his mouth. not that he intended for this chat to go south so soon so quickly but what can he say? with the exception of those he has known prior to his departure or the ones he met during his travels, link hasn’t felt the need to strike up conversation with a stranger in years at this point.

his attention is demanded by the woman in front of him once more and link, startled out of his thoughts, proceeds to gape at her and the pears in her hands just the slightest bit before side-eyeing the stall’s owner. “i don’t think the salesman would… approve?”

which is a polite way of saying he has no intention of paying for these fruits, nor does he wish to rope the woman into paying for them on his behalf. goodness, he clearly has lost all he once knew about social etiquette. link’s rather certain his father would be turning in his grave if he could see his youngest right now.

“but you could? explain to me what they taste like, i mean? since you’re clearly more knowledgeable than i.” he has to bite his own tongue for phrasing it the way he did; the sailor hopes it doesn’t come across as demeaning. if anything, the phrasing is clunky but he doesn’t come from a place of malicious intent.

“i’m—” terribly sorry, is what he wants to say, but he can only grimace through the words that follow next. “that wasn’t what—i mean, i didn’t—”

He has come to her with accusation on his lips, or something that sounds like it, but it seems to vanish quickly. She can’t place what has replaced it - it is something, an expression she cannot quite put her finger on. How long will they remain like this, separate entities wearily orbiting around one another, unable to fully open their arms to one another? How long can Daya stand it? 

He does not make comment on her retort, and that suits Daya well. She has not come here to argue, and does not think she can. Her senses have been dulled by the alcohol working its way through her system, and the creeping feeling of self-loathing that accompanies it. Not for the first time that night, she is reminded why she no longer goes to parties. 

More so than ever, the weight of all left unsaid weighs upon the two of them, crushing the life from the bond they share. 

Her cheeks colour at the mention of her outfit, and Daya gives a swift nod. “Supposed to be,” she confirms. “It feels silly now.” She wishes she had come as something quieter, less of a spectacle than the literal sun, but there is nothing to be done. Perhaps she is working herself up over nothing - after all, she doesn’t suppose many people are taking heed of what Dayanita Davalbhakta wore to a costume ball. Or perhaps she is simply too used to being diminished that she no longer knows how to feel good about herself. 

“And you are a pirate.” Her eyes rake over him to confirm. “It’s fitting, I suppose, if a little on the nose.”

at twelve, link was an exceptionally difficult child.

a child displaced from home by an ambitious father and overshadowed by an older, annoyingly capable brother, his life had been a series of whirlwinds after coming from the americas to great britain; a place of solitude that didn’t, and still doesn’t want him. it was a feeling he could never really shake even when he insisted on following kasem and daya around until they agreed to play with him as well.

when he pictures his childhood now, he sees this: another gust of wind that hits him in the chest. he shivers, but tries not to show it when he moves closer to the rim of the curb, and there at the edge of the street, he peers into the water below, the gray-blue expanse which extends far beyond any visible horizon. it is immense and unknowable, powerful and strong.

others might despise the sea for bringing them here, blame it for all the misfortune in their lives, but his feelings are more layered, more complex. link’s life has been tied to the ocean in more ways than one, and while it may be treacherous, it is also bountiful and full of possibility.

it was the means by which he arrived in this place, and maybe, so a twelve-year-old boy once thought, one day, the means by which he would leave as well.

but home is london now, and the east end is poverty and sickness wrapped in dark clothes and suspicious glances. the docks in particular are a perilous place, filled with villains and crime. the denizens of the wharf are always on the lookout for any show of weakness, always ready to pounce and in some ways, link is certain that the docks and ravensmoor manor have a lot more in common than most of mr. ashton’s esteemed guests would care to admit to.

among all this, daya stands out. she catches the eye in her costume with a dignified ease, and even her reddened cheeks have his gaze dipping to catch her flush with a wry tug of his lips. link is by no means unfamiliar to the side effects of alcohol but to see its impact on someone that’s dear to him—and she is, very much so, even if he can’t always find the proper words to say it out loud—unknots the knot in his stomach.

she speaks while she nods before looking down. it’s odd, link thinks, but still somewhat endearing that she doesn’t wish to look at him during such a moment. the thought lingers even long after she has raised her gaze to allow her eyes to travel his frame, piecing together the details of his costume. a pirate, she says, sounding very much like the girl he once knew her to be, and he doesn’t know why but it makes him crack a lopsided grin in response regardless.

starter for: @aetunion​ location: poison garden time: mid-evening

Hannah had forgotten to bring her pocket watch—a realization only unrooted at the sight of Link Littledale, in his silly little outfit, walking in front of her. 

Perhaps it was the alcohol working its intended effect—dulling all the sensations in her body and her mind—that the paltry object had been rendered forgotten. It wasn’t like she’d been scrambling to bring it, not really. The pocket watch had been an ugly, old thing, and its rusting edges meant that it was substantially far less valuable than was originally promised. This is real gold, she had remembered the traveling merchant mention, having flashed her with a toothy smile, it’s been passed down from generations to generations. That’s why it appears to be so old. 

She had wanted to smack the merchant then and there, were it not for Thomas’s presence—he had placed a hand on her shoulder, willing her to treat herself, just this once—and that alone was enough to retract her claws. She paid the price in full, though not without nicking a pocket watch off the merchant himself, which she then handed over to Thomas as a gift come his next birthday. How did you get the money for this? He had asked. 

(Well. That was the age-old question, wasn’t it? Hannah would soon find that his pocket watch was a priceless thing, while she had been left with the tarnishing spoils, per his request—no, per her submission.) 

Hannah picked up her pace so that they were almost side to side. “Link Littledale,” she spoke his name in full. The first name felt almost odd against her tongue, though the latter was easier to slide into, having been the first thing she’d ever learned, and spoken, in this part of the world. “I don’t think I’ve had the opportunity to introduce myself.” As she said this, she moved in front of him, forcing him to halt in his steps.

“I’m Hannah. Hannah Thomas,” she held out her hand, almost like a cycle began anew, the poison trickling mercilessly on, “I worked with your brother.”

there’s a faint sound of music coming from inside the manor, a reminder of the nature of this ball. a cause célèbre, the ball has spurred heated debate in public; while some moan about missing out on such a celebration, others regard it with suspicion and a hint of displeasure on stony faces as they recall the brutal murders of three more innocent girls not yet a whole six months ago.

half the time, link isn’t sure who else is attending this evening; the few faces he recognizes are those that are not obscured by masks, the faces of friends and acquaintances. they smile at him while the rest—those he can’t place—remain silent.

his gaze falls on the flower that ellie had touched earlier that evening; already in full bloom, colors of pink and yellow are bright against the darkness of the approaching night that is slowly settling over the manor. although the scent carries with it nothing but pure loveliness, somehow, somewhere in the back of his mind, link can’t help but wonder whether that’s enough to kill him, too.

i’m hannah thomas.

snapped out his reverie, a stranger’s face comes into full view—clad in a costume that’s eerily reminiscent of something he’s sure he might have seen at the frost fair, link frowns. “you’re—sorry, come again?”

he thinks about it, the way a stranger is carrying the name of a man he once loved, continues to love in spite of it all. don’t go where i can’t follow, and for a moment it feels as though maybe, time can be rearranged into a kinder version of the life he leads now but that’s wishful thinking and he nothing but a fool for entertaining the thought in the first place.

he told me about you.

that he did. and look how little it matters, in the grand scheme of things. link contemplates this for a second, lets his eyes wander her face. there’s something there, the fleeting whisper of a memory but it’s gone when he blinks. so he returns her gesture, shaking her hand with mild curiosity tugging at his brow. “i’m—well, it appears you already know who i am.”

it’s peaceful, out here, despite the signs that should probably worry her a little more than they do. she hasn’t been in a garden this extravagant in a while, and it’s fascinating. she’s trying very hard not to touch all the plants, it may be rather dangerous to do so, but there’s one - such a vibrant pink, petals unfurling with yellowish colouring on the inside, that she can’t help but reach out to pinch the stem of. she doesn’t pluck it, it’d be rude to, but she holds it for a moment. 

it reminds her of something, but she can’t quite place it. and then, a voice with the same amount of familiarity speaks, and ellie turns to face him. she smiles on instinct, and then is glad he doesn’t finish his sentence. she doesn’t want her smile to drop - but it may have done if he’d repeated her own fate to her.

instead, she tries to laugh, coming out more as an awkward huff of breath, but nods, “it’s lovely to see you again, it seems to have been forever.” belatedly, she lets the flower go, “did you manage to see henry before he left?”

the colors of the flowers in the garden blur together far too easily and for a brief moment, link finds his gaze lingering on the one in ellie’s hands; the delicate petals, threatening to fall off at any given moment. it’s spring and the air is thick with fragrance and hope, but the flowers at home don’t bloom quite the same.

“you’re right, it really has been a while, hasn’t it?” link schools his expression into something neutral that doesn’t betray his own discomfort with the situation or the way he notices ellie’s smile freezing. one step at a time, his own voice says in the back of his mind. sink or swim, and this time, he inhales deeply before taking the plunge.

“i have. we spoke about it at length.” he doesn’t dare speak about the happiness that seeped out of the other at escaping, of having a chance at a life. instead he offers her a smile, hesitant but genuine in nature. “i’m just sorry you weren’t able to go with him.”

Daya’s head turns slowly, and she looks at Link for almost a full minute, unable to formulate a response to his words right away. They have seen each other since her return - but on that occasion, it wasn’t about Daya, and that is a place that she finds so much more comfortable. But now, Link approaches to talk about her, without even a greeting to ease them into conversation. There’s something in his tone that shames her, and she’s already had too much to drink to stop two spots of pink warmth blooming on her cheeks. 

“You were gone a decade.” The words are spoken softly, without the accusations that coloured Link’s. Instead, they sound tired and desperate, almost pleading. For forgiveness? For clemency? Daya doesn’t know. 

You never told me how Paris was. This isn’t strictly true. She had told him everything, more than she had ever wanted to, driven by pain and fear, and had hoped she would never have to think about the contents of that letter again. But she can see with perfect clarity exactly where the conversation is going, and does not know how to navigate it to safer territory. “Yes.” She confirms. “Monstrous.” Please let this be the end of it.

there’s a hesitancy clinging to his features now, one that even the briskness of his speech can’t quite fully cover. link’s eyes search her features before taking in the extravagance of her costume, the way the light reflects and refracts until she shines and it’s like looking at the sun; blinding in its entirety, the image searing itself into his brain.

the choice is fitting for a woman such as daya.

link purposefully chooses to ignore her comment, and the wound it reopens. how much of himself, he wonders, he can keep pouring into those around him until there’s nothing left to give, until he’s completely emptied himself.

and how much of that, he wonders, can compare to the sun rising and shining in absolute and utter silence.

the letter daya has sent him from paris is safely tucked away in a book about the adventures of huckleberry finn, hidden beneath his pillow and pulled out only in moments of solitude. he recalls there’s a library at his brother’s home, a treasury that was passed on from their father, but link can’t bring himself to go there, to risk the possibility of facing the woman thomas has left behind. sister-in-law is a word that tastes as strange as guardian.

Closed Starter for: @ferihas​, @aetunion​ Timestamp: 10:30pm Location: A quiet corridor

“I’ve almost got it,” Polly’s tongue pokes out from between their teeth in concentration, eyes narrowed slightly as they focus on the lock in front of them. It has been a while ( well, a few months ) since they’ve done anything like this, but apparently it is one of those skills that never leave you. They aren’t doing anything wrong - not really. Mr. Ashton had given them permission to explore the house as they wished, and even though the door in front of them was locked, he hadn’t told them they couldn’t pick the locks to gain access. This was fine. 

“You’re in my light,” they reach out to tap Link’s foot, willing him to move. “You’re supposed to be the lookout, anyway. You won’t spot anybody coming if you’re breathing down my neck.” He doesn’t seem quite as into the idea as Polly and Feriha are, but he’s here nonetheless. 

One last turn of the hairpin, and the lock clicks. Polly withdraws the hair pin, and returns it to Feriha, before turning the handle. It swings open easily, and Polly lets out a triumphant whoop. “Easy,” they congratulate themselves, stepping through into the dark room and turning back to look at her friends. “Somebody grab a candle. It’s dark in here.”

his fingers are itching with the urge to do something.

that something being potentially knocking feriha’s and polly’s heads together just to make them see what kind of a terrible idea this is. nevermind the fact that they know next to nothing about this mister ashton—the name already sounds incredibly pretentious to begin with. but going through a locked room seems like it’s begging to invite trouble especially after their host so graciously announced he’d be happy to have his guests freely roam his estate. yet, some of his rooms are locked.

how does that make sense?

link murmurs something under his breath when polly speaks, but dutifully shuffles out of the way. does he have any idea what they’re about to head into? not really. but somehow the two have roped him into this mess and now here he is, waiting for polly to force open the door. peeking over their shoulder, he sardonically quirks a brow at them. “so you think i’d be able to do what exactly when someone is coming?”