Though the impression of Theia's words is still left, stinging, on Ned's cheeks, his compassion for her situation holds true. Fear is writ plain on her lovely face, lingering in the dark whirlpools of her eyes, in the pallor of her skin and the harsh set of her mouth. It does not absolve her of lashing out at him, but, at least, he thinks he understands why she has done so.
âAye, that's true enough," he allows, "But is it not also true that some things are worth dying for?â It is so in many of the tales he favours, ones where men lay down their lives for gold and glory, for liberty or for love. Ned is not like those men. He is human, imperfect, weak, and willing to endure a great deal for the sake of living as easily as possible. Theia had changed everything, challenged what he thought himself capable of - afraid as he had been, her freedom was worth dying for.
âYou are not the cause of my hurt," Ned insists, taking another step towards her as his blue eyes turn beseeching, trying to make her understand, âThe only one to blame fae what happened is me. I kenned the risks, and I made my choice all the same, because nobody deserves the things that were done to ye." And he hopes to god he would've found the strength to make the same decision, even if it was some other innocent left to suffer such cruelty.
His expression turns grave when Theia mentions having seen his former crewmate at the docks, his stomach lurching at the idea that she's been in proximity with any of the men that sailed on the Eunomia - what if he had harmed her? "Aye, Hartman, I saw him too... he came to the tavern," he informs her, sounding troubled, "But I... I think he's here alone. He says he doesnae remember the ship at all, or me, and... I believe him, Theia. His temper's much the same, but otherwise... it's like he's been wiped clean." But her fears are not unfounded - perhaps Hartman's arrival on the island is a herald for worse things to come. He may not remember the Eunomia, but that doesn't mean it isn't out there looking for him, and if it does ever make port on Tortuga... it can only mean trouble for them both. "It's too late fae that," he says, "I don't want to go far from you. I want to be at your side, whatever that means."
He takes in Theia's trembling hands, the tempest that rages in her eyes, and all he wants is to pull her into the harbour of his arms, to moor and anchor her, if he can. He makes a move to do so, but stops himself at the last moment - it suddenly feels important that he lets her come to him. It's a choice. Her choice. He's already made his own. "I can see you, Theia," Ned tells her, his voice full of tenderness, "I only wish ye could see yourself."
He wishes he had the ability to describe how she appears in his eyes, has been trying to find the words since they met, but everything he's come up with thus far falls short of the truth. With his conversation with Dorian at the back of his mind, Ned knows he has to try anyway. So he does. "You are unlike any person I've ever known. I could travel to every corner of this world and never find another like ye. You are precious beyond measure - dear beyond measure - beautiful and strong and better than any dream, because you are real. You have my devotion, whether ye think yourself worthy of it or not." And it seems laughable that Theia should think herself the unworthy one, when she is everything and he is nobody - when he has nothing to offer except his heart. "Ye deserve to be cherished, Theia. And if I'm the one that gets to cherish ye... well, then I'm the luckiest man alive."
"The only way to find out what will become of us is to take a chance, to make a leap of faith and see what happens," he continues, knowing that it's a thin foundation to build a future on, "Fate can be cruel, but if it conspires to separate us again, I will wait until we find our way back to each other. I'd wait forever, if that's what it took. Just tell me that's what ye want." Tell me you want me.
The hand he has offered her still lingers in the space between them, palm upturned and open, holding steady in spite of the way his heart is thundering. "Won't ye take my hand?"