MESS

Heat wakes you this morning, but not from the angry ball of gas in the sky. No, this is warmth. An internal, direct sensation that radiates from behind, from another body, another soul.

Your eyes open slowly to the gradience of the emerging sun. Darkened values of the world edging carefully with its celestial hue. A reflexive worry grips at you. Hammer to a tendon, your muscles twitch to stand— toward the curtains. To draw them closed before it all becomes blinding. 

But the vice-like grip around your waist keeps you in place. An indignant grumble tickles the hairs on the nape of your neck and sends shivers down your spine. Sleepy, raspy, deep. “Stop.” 

Still tangled in the webs of your own fatigue, you respond. “The windows—“ 

“Leave them.” he sighs, like a formidable ancient creature, and strengthens his hold around you. In one smooth motion, he flips you both from your spot. Now, his back is to the light and you are shielded from it. An instinct-driven movement, to keep you from something that he cannot stand. 

Then comes the realization that you bask in this, and so he flattens himself to the mattress ever so slightly so that the light touches your features just so. Through his half-lidded gaze, he takes pride in the decision, watching your majesty glow like molten gold. 

Sylus has sensitive eyes. You know this, you’ve seen it before, when you idled too much after waking to watch him sleep. Meanwhile, the light had slithered in through the windowed walls. Silken features scrunch, a deep crease formed between his brows, and a sizzling wince escaped his lips. 

You were quick to kiss the pain away, thinking it was nightmares that plagued him. But when his lips curled and he met you with squinted eyes that smiled just as divinely at the corners, you realize the transgressor was more luminescent than haunting. 

You stay, then, in his arms. Cocooned perfectly like he was made for you. Like you were two halves of the same whole. 

And he holds you. Like you were made for him to. Quietly, stubbornly— unwilling to let the morning steal you from him just yet. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Waking is a slow process on the rare days when the world does not call upon you. A collection of soft kisses and gentle whispers; quiet intentions and passionate touches. You are never angry, never troubled, not when the soul—yours and his—is complete. 

He mourns you when you draw away from him— “gotta pee”. After his dramatic protests, your efforts of being free from his fly-paper grasp and your cat-like fists pushing at his chest to “let me go! or i’ll go right here!”, he eventually relents and you waddle over the cold marble floors to your throne.

Alone, he sits up in bed and takes in the light that consumes the room with an irritated scowl. It urges him to catch the duvet that had fallen to his bare waist and pull it over his head. Under the covers, he checks his phone. 

Messages from the twins reporting on a finished mission (to which he replies a clipped ‘ok’). Offers from business partners he had little to no interest in. Invitations to auctions and galas. Updates on the available plushies at your favorite arcade this week. Incident reports. 

Trivial. Unnecessary. Boring. 

Until he finds one— buried amongst them all— so glaringly different and alarming. A text message, sent four hours ago— from you. 

Curious, he opens your thread of messages. 

Beloved: How could you do this to me You will pay. This is unforgivable

And before he even has the time to panic, he scrolls to see the video attached to it. Its obscure darkness and suspicious angle does nothing to deter him.  

And as it plays, he cannot hold back his smile. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

The mound on your bed is laughing. Jostled wine, spilling at the edges of glass. Breathy, rich and smooth; rare and familiar all at once. Signature exhale, fond and effortful, clear as the giggling ends. 

You crawl over the covers, towards the trembling hump and poke at where his head should be. The veil comes off, and mirthful rubies meet your inquisitive gaze. You take in his grin, and then the phone in his hand, “What’s so funny? Can I see?” 

Air meets your hand where the phone should be after your attempt at a grab. He looks annoying, looking at you like that: like he knows something you don’t. Dopey heart-eyes with an edge. Unconsciously, you pout, which fuels his mischievous fire. “What’s is it?” 

Buttering him up is a sight for him to behold. You curl around him, fitting yourself under the weight of his arm and kissing his jaw to convince him to give it up. A cat seeking comfort. A snake strangling its prey. “Tell me.” 

And the melody starts again, hitching in his chest and shaking you whose cheek rests on his shoulder. He cannot fathom how you could be everything he’s ever wished for— how could you be quick-witted, clever, strong, courageous and hilarious? You’re adorable and so, so funny. 

“Aren’t you fuming with anger?” he’s breathless. You’ve never seen him so. “Aren’t I just evil? Vile?” 

You pause. What? Why would he say that? Why is he saying it in a way that implies you should know what it means? “Sylus, I don’t…” 

At the hesitant look on your face, complete with twinkling puppy-dog eyes and a slightly jutted lip, he can’t help but lean in and kiss your forehead. White flag raised, because he is helpless to a power like you. He pulls you close, and finally shows you the video.  

Brightness is all the way up and, on the edge, you see him toggle with the volume too. The video starts with you being attacked by the front facing flash. You wince, but then go straight into your very serious, very important lamenting.

“Look at you,” you murmur, the sound scratching against your throat as if still crawling away from the grasp of a dream. The focus shifts to Sylus, fast asleep, burrito-ed in the large comforter. Love of your life, tether to the world; giant larvae. “Evil… vile.” 

The last word you grate through your teeth with so much venom, one would assume he’d betrayed you. 

It crosses your mind though, as you watch, how deeply he was sleeping. How untroubled and peaceful he looked, no matter how much you shook him around in your own frenzied irritation. When usually, he’d wake fully at the sound of your breath hitching from a nightmare.

In the video, you continue: face close to his own, pressing your lips to his cheek because it was mandatory. His lips twitch but he shows no signs of waking. “Tsk. I’m mad. I’m cold? I’m cold and I’m mad. Count your days.” 

The video ends. Beneath it, you read your equally vehement text messages. Sent 2:43 AM. 

Sylus is laughing again, subtly pulling you closer to apologize while the memory comes back to you in vague waves of annoyance.

Waking up shivering, feeling for the blanket, feeling for him— finding both out of reach. You prying the edge from under his large body— how the hell did he manage to roll in it at least twice?— settling for pressing your cold feet underneath his warm calves and praying your torso doesn’t freeze overnight as sleep captures your ire and douses the flames for then. 

But this is now. 

“Darling—“ he wheezes at your bewilderment. Lips pressing to your hair fondly, over and over. Likely getting that thing he feels he’d just learned the term for— aggression. Cuteness aggression.  

Unfortunately for him, it all rushes back. The fire is blazing, scalding. “Oh, I’m mad.” 

And he fears for his life behind the imprints of crowfeet on the corners of his teary eyes. Ever one to play with his own life, he still pushes. “Are you?” 

“You hog!” A quick attack. You whack his face with a pillow and he’s cackling. The thought of stopping and relishing in his bellyaching, carefree laughter crosses your mind for a split second, before you’re climbing his waist and squeezing the smooth skin of his hollow cheeks. “You left me to freeze!” 

“I didn’t know, sweetie.” He’s gorgeous when he speaks between chuckles. Speech bursting like hiccups of devotion. 

“What are you, a rock? I was pulling so much and— nothing!” 

He takes another blow. “You should’ve woken me up.”

“I tried.” You pause. You did. A little. But you couldn’t bring yourself to, not fully. Not when he sleeps terribly. Not when you’re the only rest he’s ever known. 

And he knows this, reads it in the way you falter. That look on your face that tells him you’re thinking about him, his wellbeing. Putting him first, still, through the haze of exhaustion; despite the blistering cold. Considering him and how he would feel to wake up in the sunlight you bathe in, sunlight he cannot stand if it were not for you. 

He doesn’t understand how you do this to him by just being. He fears how much you know him, how much he allows himself to be lured in and be exposed by you. When in the same breath, he’d lay his heart bare to you and hand you a dagger to do with it as you please.

He falls— deeply, effortlessly. Rolls in your affection twice over and more like he did in the blanket he stole in his sleep. Because just as easily as he did that with his eyes closed, he can so easily love you.

Fast, the pillow swings up by your arm, you strain to gain momentum to smack it down on his chest once more. Faster, his large hand catches your wrists in a vice, then he is pulling your face down to his. 

Laughter, both youthful and deep, bursts from his chest. His radiance ghosts over your cheek, weightless and warm. 

Just as you swoon in his joy, his heart aches at yours. It is the sun giving the moon light. The way you barely notice the wide smile on your face despite your desperate need to silence him in awkwardness. The way you try to reign in your strength with each strike despite knowing he can take the brunt of it. The way you look on top of him. The way the weight of you grounds him to this earth. The way you are so shamelessly you in this moment— he can’t help but reflect you, revere you. 

Meanwhile, you’re lovestruck and dumb. So beautiful, you think, about the hollowed dimples on his cheeks, about the curve of his relaxed smile— about the enemy. He is the enemy. 

And the enemy has soulful eyes, sorrowful as they are loving. The enemy tastes the sweetest when he is kissing your embarrassment to silence, when he is whispering, “I’m sorry.” 

You hum in defeat, melting in his affection, utterly human. Flawed and weak in the face of love. 

“I’m sorry.” He says again, slower. The words sighed against your lips. Mouth embracing yours tenderly to let you know he means it.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ more sylus thoughts ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

WARLORD SYLUS, who expected you to have little-to-no memory of him, but it's a punch to the gut regardless. he, who has been weathered and worn down with long years of battle and conflict and savagery, would, doubtlessly, be unrecognisable to a woman so lovely as you. a loveliness, a softness, a peace the man has gone far too long stripped of, and you're the only one who can fulfil that inanity within him.

yet, there is a weariness, a listlessness, to your face, too, and the sight causes him anguish. but that's okay, because the root of your own misery will soon be wrenched out forthwith, and the life you deserve shall finally be yours.

WARLORD SYLUS, who sometimes marvels at the patience he has toward toiling so endlessly for your hand, and the knowledge that he’d do it again, in all lifetimes, if need be. if not now, if not here, if not in this incarnation, then he will readily await the next.

WARLORD SYLUS, who doesn't have to wait very long until your husband is making the first move for him—the fool declares war by laying waste to one of sylus's communities, and forcing his hand. he is angry, before reason clears his judgement. finally, he has a valid reason to free you from that man and have you for himself—and one where, hopefully, you won't hate him too much.

WARLORD SYLUS, who disposes of your husband's male relatives first. you are that bastard's main wife, and did successfully bear him an heir, but the boy was caught in the crossfire at the battlefront. and when sylus arrives at the hall, the primary residence of the chief and his family, he finds the distraught, grieving figure of a mother who has lost everything.

like a coward, your husband uses you, and his concubines, as human shields whilst that looming, murderous figure strides toward him, axe in hand and smeared with red, eyes just as crimson as the blood drenching his boots. the candles are long snuffed out in here, and your husband grips you to his front, hands shaking, shrinking with every step the warlord takes forward. “get back!” the man, in a desperate, senseless attempt to spare his own sorry hide, draws out a dagger and holds it to your throat. your gasp is clogged with a sob, and you go limp against the blade, clutching at the wrist wrapped around your shoulders and front. “or i'll slit her throat, right in front of you!”

that serves to successfully bring sylus to an abrupt halt in his tracks, and the man is just a silhouette against the waning twilight easing in through the windowpanes. he says nothing.

“ha! that's right!” the dagger pierces the skin of your neck in a shallow slice, drawing a pearl of blood, and you squeeze your eyes shut. “did you think i was blind to the ways you look at my wife? did you think i was clueless to your clear coveting of what is mine? fool! take one more step forward, and this wretch of a woman is for helheim! you shall never have her!”

you're lucid enough to feel bewilderment at your husband's trembling words, and, in answer, you lift your eyes to the warlord standing mere feet away, hand grasping his dripping axe, right eye flaring scarlet in the gloom. you can't make out his features, and he remains silent.

“you raze a peaceful settlement of mine to the ground,” sylus eventually says, voice a rumble in the hall, “in a cowardly machination of war. we established trade, coexistence, allegiance—yet, you tossed that to the wind, and you expect me to make no retaliation?”

“please—” you croak, throat raw, “let us go.”

“i shall not,” the man answers, unmoving. “i shall not allow that miscreant to ravage my people, desecrate innocent women and children, and go unpunished. he shall pay.”

“you will have to kill this wench,” your husband grits, “to kill me.”

“coward,” sylus sneers. “you believe me so spineless and daft as to have no other option? no other ideas? it is you i wish to butcher. i have no need for the woman in your arms, nor the ones left you grovel behind. what use would more bloodshed be, when all i desire to see spilled is yours?”

the knife cuts further into your skin, and your breath catches in your throat, strangled. sylus's grip on his axe tightens. your husband shuffles backwards a little more, toward his high seat, inching for his own weapon. “you want my wife, right? that is the cause for all this needless carnage. that is why you approached me in the first place—lying in wait, skulking about the shadows, feigning a sincere desire for peace and nonviolence, until all comes to naught. well, it matters not! you make take your pick of the harlots here, you may have the livestock and vineyards and slaves, but this woman is mine! if you wish for her to live, then you will put that axe down, turn your back, and leave.”

sylus makes no reply at first. you resign yourself to your fate. you fail to see the point in any of it, and you fail you understand your husband's wrangling. in a heartbeat, he would desert you to spare his own skin and wealth, and leave you to rot. you know you will die. it will only take the mere flick of his wrist.

“if that is what you believe my motives were,” sylus begins after a moment of suffocating silence, “then why did you raid that village? why did you not butcher me first, instead of stoking my ire?”

“you won't kill me,” the man gripping you replies, “so long as i don't kill this old hag.”

“a bold assumption,” the warlord snorts, lifting his free hand to rub his jaw. “i've no desire for a married woman.”

“is that so?” the dagger at your neck does not withdraw, and the blood oozing from your wound prickles your collar. “i don't believe you. i watched you and your manner around my wife! a pitiful lovesick knave, yearning after the spouse of another—that is what you are! you wish to kill me, you wish to take my place, and have my woman for yourself!”

the looming brute heaves a sigh. “my patience has worn thin. such squawking and bellyaching grates on my ears. i've little interest in bearing further witness to the outrage of your wounded pride. let the poor woman go now, and face me like a man.”

bit by bit, throughout the entire dispute, you have loosened yourself from your husband's grip, and gradually eased to the edge of his lap. at the right of his girdle sits another, smaller knife, sheathed and within reach. you wind your fingers around it, palms clammy with sweat, and slowly draw it from its scabbard. then, with a trembling grip, you lift the dagger and bring it down upon your husband's thigh.

it's immediate—the arms around you slacken, your husband lets out a cry of pain, and you scramble from his lap. one of the concubines reaches for you, grabbing your arm to drag you further away and to safety—but you are, in the moment she lunged to help you, wrenched back by the hair.

“you bitch!” the sting of your scalp is nothing to the deep, burning ache in your middle as your husband impulsively thrusts his dagger into your torso—and then there is another yell from the chieftain, a series of heavy footfalls, and panicked calls of “my lady!” you're curled in on yourself, clutching your stomach, gasping for air. it must've punctured your left lung.

hands grip you, both gentle and firm and frantic, and you're being turned onto your back. vision blurred, you can see the silhouetted faces of your fellow women, their long hair brushing your face, and their calls for you to remain awake. your clothing is stuck to you, the blood is seeping to the ground, and everything is out of focus.

the last thing you see and feel is the sight of huge shoulders, warm hands and a weightlessness, and everything's black.

WARLORD SYLUS, who rushes you to his physicians, calling on your own personal one, and sets your dead husband's longhouse alight. he frees the concubines, but many wish to remain with their lady, and are a great assistance in nursing you back to health. but you are on the brink of death, and it takes much within him to conceal his dread and wrath and anxiety and not go on a rampage.

WARLORD SYLUS, who had made quick work of your bastard of a husband, despite his longing to give him as slow of a death as possible, and dropped everything once he recognised the gravity of the situation. the woman he yearns for, limp on the ground and bleeding out, mortally wounded by her own husband? he saw red. and then he saw desperation, and he had you in his own tent, medics fretting about you, their faces gaunt with the severity of your injury.

“her left lung was pierced,” one sombrely reported. “it will be a miracle that she survives.”

“then,” sylus coldly gritted in answer, “i would suggest you do your utmost to ensure such a miracle does occur.”

WARLORD SYLUS, who, in attempts to quell his perpetual nausea and worry, hunts and plunders and expands his territory, remaining away for days, or weeks, on end. but he eagerly receives mephisto whenever the crow flaps to a perch on his wrist, handing him letters, informing the man of the widow's recovery. and, usually, no news is good news.

and then he's kicking up dust and dirt as he steers his mount around one day, startling his men, racing off for the settlement miles away. it takes a good full day, perhaps two, of no stopping, no resting, before he finally arrives at the campsite. his poor steed practically collapses from exhaustion the moment its master dismounts, but it hardly occurs to sylus. he hands the reins to a servant, and he marches for his tent.

WARLORD SYLUS, who, once he draws aside the entrance flap and tentatively enters, dismisses the attendants fussing about the lady, and rests his eyes on you. you're propped up in his bed, mountains of pillows and furs supporting your weight, face drawn and weary. and your eyes are cautious, scanning him head to toe from beneath your brow, hands fisting the blankets and slack upon your lap.

you look, understandably, haggard, but certainly far less sallow than you did. and you attempt a smile in greeting. “sir.”

“how...are you feeling?” he begins, clearing his throat, suddenly realising his own physical state. flushed with exertion, unwashed, smelling of horse sweat and hair wild with the wind. “ah—apologies. i should have washed up first before barging in here.”

“it's alright,” you reply, shaking your head. you're polite, but you're guarded. “i thank you for your hospitality and mercy. i would like to apologise on the behalf of my foolish husband's actions. please know that i tried to persuade him otherwise, but he would not listen.” all sylus observes, in this moment, as you look down and away, is the face of a mourning mother, and it's a sight he detests to see. “it resulted in more pointless bloodshed. i am sorry. the instant i am well enough to walk, i will recompense you to the best of my ability, and then i will take my people and leave you in peace.”

“leave?” he straightens. “you wish to leave?”

you look at him sidelong, confused, and he catches the apprehension that flickers across your features. “…yes? am i not permitted to...?”

“no, i—forgive me.” sylus lifts a hand and rubs it over his face, half-turning away, biting back a groan. “…allow me to make a few clarifications.”

WARLORD SYLUS, who does his best to explain himself, running his fingers through his mussed ivory locks. “i ask no payment in return for granting you residence here during your recovery. consider it a gift. you are welcome, in fact, to remain here indefinitely and, if you so wish, permanently.”

“that is…that is far too kind.” your eyes are wide. “i couldn't possibly, not after what has been done to you! i must, at the very least, repay your kindness. it simply isn't right to solicit further charity and overstep my welcome. i appreciate the offer, but i must humbly refuse.”

“i ask for nothing,” he reiterates, gaze intent. “i swear to you. remain here as long as you desire. my people will attend to you to the best of their abilities.”

you shake your head firmly. “no, sir, i cannot. please accept my thanks and wishes to remunerate you. please.”

sylus is silent for a moment, and you grow self-conscious under the weight of his stare, heat rising to your cheeks. “…hm.” an idea begins to form, and he lifts a hand to rub his chin “you wish to repay me?"

you blink at his abrupt yielding. “i—yes. i do. by any means. just say the word.”

“that is a dangerous thing to offer up so readily, my lady,” he murmurs, voice lowering an octave. “especially to a man such as i.”

your mouth drops open, and you belatedly realise the implications of your words. “i—that's—sir, i assure you i meant nothing unseemly. i simply meant to offer anythi—”

“if you wish to repay me,” sylus softly cuts you off, taking mercy on your visible consternation, “then, i have one suggestion.”

you swallow, dreading whatever it is he has jumped to take advantage of, and you inwardly curse yourself for being so vague. “any…anything. just…say the word.”

and WARLORD SYLUS cracks a small grin, half-devilish, half-sweet. “marry me.”

The scent of garlic and pecorino permeates the air as you stand in front of the small foyer of the duplex where your friend—questionable, at the moment—lives. Your most recent culinary masterpiece, deemed safe (enough) for public consumption, rests between your hands in silent offering to the skeptic figure who’s barring you from crossing the threshold. 

It’s still warm, and you’re not one to brag, but you think you’ve outdone yourself with this one. Not that it matters—everybody’s a fucking critic these days.

“Risotto?” Khol parrots in disbelief. “You don’t show up in forever, suddenly you’re all cuoca straordinario or some shit. Get out of here with your Mario ass–”

“Don’t mind them,” Anna interjects from behind your biggest hater, all cheer as she plucks the pot from your hands. “This smells amazing, actually. Come in!”

With that, she vanishes inside, leaving you and Khol alone in the doorway. You give them a knowing look.

“Oh wow,” you remark, all mock surprise. “You live together now?”

Khol rolls their eyes, already tired of you. “You missed the biggest arc of the last five months, but yeah.”

You step inside, and right away, something feels… different. It could partly be due to how much time has passed since you last visited, and it’s clearly still their place—the brooding industrial-emo aesthetic remains intact, still suspiciously close to resembling the lair of an angsty comic book antihero on acid—but it’s been overtaken by bits of boho-chic scattered all over the space.

Where there was once nothing but charcoal, vinyl, and concrete, there are now textures. Colorful woven throws drape artfully over the arm of the leather Eames sofa they won off a Craigslist bid. Tasseled pillows have multiplied across every seat surface like some kind of fabric-based contagion, while pothos vines dangle lazily from macramé hangers, stretching towards the moody Edison bulbs like they’re trying to escape the existential crisis of living here.

And then there’s the rug. Oh god, the rug. 

A comically massive tufted ‘Flower Power’ rug sprawls across the center of the room, a swirling explosion of pinks and oranges—a final, cutesy fuck you to the apartment’s formerly depressing atmosphere before Khol’s new roommate staged her cheerful coup.

It should’ve been a hilarious sight, like a chaotic school art project where every kid picked a different medium to color and refused to compromise. But somehow… it works? 

Against all odds, the goth cryptid and the hippie gremlin have found domestic equilibrium.

“Love what you did with the place, Anna,” you call out, toeing off your shoes at the door. “It doesn’t look like a twelve-year-old’s fantasy bedroom anymore.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Khol laughs, shaking their head. “As if you’re one to talk. Last time I visited, you still had that stupid-ass sofa. Is it still there?”

You sniff haughtily. “Excuse you, but that’s a custom piece. You wouldn’t get it.”

"Alright, you two," Anna says, leaning against the archway between the living room and kitchen, one hip propped against the frame. "Both of you have terrible taste in decor. Now, I have a fabulous Prosecco to pair with the risotto." She tilts her head, shooting her partner a pointed look. "Khol, darling, be a dear and grab the crystal from the cupboard?"

"Whipped," you sing as Khol, predictably, does exactly as told. They don’t even bother with a comeback, just flashes you a lazy middle finger over their shoulder as they disappear from view.

You grin, shaking your head. The moment stretches into something easy, comfortable. It’s nice—being here, bantering like no time has passed. You let yourself sink into it, tugging off your beanie as you cross the room.

The creaky couch welcomes you like an old friend, and you flop down unceremoniously, stretching your legs out, rubbing your feet against the oversized monstrosity of a rug that is... honestly, pretty fucking comfortable, actually.

Anna follows suit, settling beside you with far more grace, tucking one foot under the other.

She watches you for a moment, expression warm but slightly inquisitive. “We haven’t seen you in a while.” 

You exhale, tipping your head back, staring up at the beams on the ceiling. "Yeah, sorry. Been a little out of it these past… couple of months, I guess."

Anna makes a quiet noise, something between understanding and acknowledgment. "You’re doing okay now?"

The easy answer sits on your tongue—yeah, of course. An automatic response, a reflex built from habit. Another front to put up, another lie to slip behind.

But you’ve been working on this. So instead, you take a breath and say,

"Not… really." 

The words feel foreign, heavy, but oddly freeing as they leave your mouth.

Your gaze flickers to the side table—framed photos of Khol and Anna, smiling, sunlit. You don’t linger.

“I mean, better now compared to, maybe, a few weeks ago. I’m getting there.”

Anna’s brows lift slightly—not in surprise at the sentiment itself, but at the fact that you admitted it out loud. There’s something thoughtful in her expression, something softer around the edges. “Good. That’s good.”

You can tell she means it. Maybe even more than you expected.

"Yeah."

There’s a brief lull. You catch yourself tugging at the edge of your cardigan—a nervous habit you never quite broke. The warmth of the apartment is settling in you quite comfortably, but there’s something about sitting still under Anna’s gentle scrutiny that makes you restless.

From the kitchen, there’s the unmistakable clink of glass, followed by a muffled, “shit.”

Anna exhales, long-suffering. “I don’t know why I even bother buying nice things.”

“‘Oy,” Khol’s voice carries from the other room, “get in here and help. We have, like, seven things to carry.”

You take that as your cue, trailing after Anna into the kitchen. Between the three of you, it’s quick work—bowls of warm, brothy risotto in hand, glasses of white wine balanced carefully between fingers.

By the time you step back into the living room, Khol is already dropping onto the blue accent chair near the window with all the dramatics of someone who’s worked far too hard for far too little.

You settle into your usual spot, Anna beside you. You don’t touch your food. Your appetite’s still in remission, though it’s been steadily improving lately.

Khol notices. “Now, why the hell aren’t you eating?” They shoot you a side-eye like you’ve personally offended them. “I knew it. You put something in this, didn’t you?”

“Jesus, Khol,” Anna sighs, exasperated, already two spoonfuls in. “Your diet was literally gas station burritos and eight-pack Coors before I moved in. You’ll live.”

She pauses, though, casting you a look. “Don’t get me wrong—this is really good.”

“Ha,” you retort as Khol prods suspiciously at a floating mushroom. You glare. “Are you fucking kidding me—”

“Alright, alright.” With an exaggerated sigh, Khol finally takes a bite. They chew once, twice—eyes narrowed in concentration, acting like some hard-ass seasoned judge from Top Chef. You can practically see them digging for something snarky to say—until, begrudgingly, they nod.

“Shit. This is actually pretty good. Who are you?”

You preen at the praise.

For a while, there’s nothing but the quiet clinking of spoons against ceramic, the occasional satisfied hum. It’s… nice. Comfortable in a way you haven’t felt in what feels like forever.

You’ve missed this.

Missed being here. Missed being with people.

Somewhere between the second glass of wine and the last few bites of risotto, Khol angles their head toward you, their curiosity piqued. “How come you’re free today? You on leave or something?”

You swirl the drink in your hand, watching the light catch on the amber surface before answering. “Oh, I quit my job.”

There’s a beat of silence. You don’t know what reaction you were expecting, but Khol just blinks at you. "Huh. Finally."

Anna looks mildly more concerned. "You quit?"

You nod, stretching your legs out beneath the coffee table. “Yeah. The OT was getting ridiculous, and they had me working night shifts again. That was kind of the last straw for me.”

Khol grunts in agreement. “Good fucking riddance. That job was killing you.” They pause for a beat, turning serious, contemplative. “You’re not hung up about it, are you? You’ve been bitching about that job for ages.”

You exhale through your nose, staring at the rim of your glass. “Yeah, no. I’m glad I left.” The words come easily, and they’re mostly true. But still—there’s something about suddenly having all this space, this aimless in-between, that makes you antsy. 

A thought strikes you, and you glance up. “Hey, you know if Marion's still looking for someone to work part-time at the bistro?”

Khol raises an eyebrow. "You looking to apply? It’s minimum wage, just telling you in advance."

"That’s fine," you assure them. "I just need something on the side. I’m doing freelance work right now, I just want something to fill in the gaps."

Anna perks up at that. "I think that’s a great idea. I can hit up Marion later, but I’m pretty sure they’re still looking."

Khol stares at you, and for once, they don’t have a quip lined up. No sharp-edged humor, no quick banter—just a quiet look of something almost foreign on their face. Pride. Maybe even relief. You’ve worried them. The realization jars you like a pebble dropped into a clear pond, sending ripples through the stillness of your self-imposed isolation. You hadn’t meant to, not really. It wasn’t like you deliberately wanted to disappear... But you did, didn’t you? You let the days blur into weeks, then months, telling yourself naively that no one would notice if you just—vanished for a while. Five months, to be exact.

You press your lips together, clearing your throat against the tightness creeping in. “Thanks,” you say, quiet but sincere. “Really.”

Khol snorts, and the moment shatters. “You can show your thanks by knocking ten percent off the cocktails when we visit.”

You roll your eyes, feigning exasperation. “Get me the job first, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Anna grins, raising her glass. “Now, that’s the spirit.”

––––

You get the job.

You stand in front of the fogged-up mirror, dragging your palm across the wet glass. The reflection that stares back is warped, smudged—half-formed, half-there—but unequivocally yours. 

A month ago, you wouldn’t have been able to say that with certainty. Back then, the figure in the mirror had been more ghost than person—distant, spectral. Fractured. Someone you watched from the outside, not as a host of the flesh you inhabit. 

Now, though, the pieces are starting to slot back into place. Some are still missing, and others don’t quite fit as they once did. You doubt it will ever return to how it was… But slowly, a familiar shape is coming back into focus. More than the shadow of a woman, but you.  Time moves like water carving through rock—gradual, barely perceptible, but steady. Inevitable.

The shifts are diminutive. A morning where you wake up feeling less crushed by the weight of grief in your chest. An afternoon where you suddenly break into laughter, and you realize it’s the first time you’ve heard it in weeks. A quiet night where you go to bed without feeling like you’re stuck frozen in an endless loop of wishing, waiting for the impossible.

You’re here, alive. Present. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, you’re doing more than just holding on.

(You think he’d be proud of you.) And the thought doesn’t leave you aching the way it used to.

––––

“You think I can handle taking care of another living thing? Like a plant?” You ask Maru, glancing at him lounging by the window, right where a sliver of afternoon sunlight spills across the floor. “I mean, I raised you well enough, I think. But you’re pretty self-sufficient anyway.” Maru looks unimpressed. His tail flicks once—dismissive, uninterested—before he returns to grooming himself, utterly indifferent to both your question and your sudden enthusiasm for gardening. “Well, if your dad can grow plants in that dungeon he calls a base, I’m sure I can manage,” you mutter unconvincingly. “How hard can it be?” 

–

By the middle of the second week into your little project, you begrudgingly admit that your tiny repotted begonia isn’t exactly thriving. You don’t want to be a pessimist, but the (browning) margins seem to curl inward—more than they should, if the reference pics on that “Indoor Succulents” blog you’re subscribed to are anything to go by. 

You eye it dubiously, trying to stay gung-ho about the whole thing, forcing yourself to look up care tips again. It’s just a plant. Not rocket science. So you do the research, gather more supplies, and give it another shot. You reposition it closer to where the sun lands—earning a disgruntled hiss from the sunbathing feline—and sprinkle a careful amount of water just beneath the leaves, closer to the root. Then you lean back, waiting, tapping your foot impatiently like it’s supposed to just... fix itself.

–

The next few days pass with you watching it more than you’d care to admit—checking, hoping, second-guessing yourself. 

You narrow your eyes at the leaves, more russet than Inca Flame red, still hanging limp like a sad testament to your lack of skill. 

But you keep at it, because you’re nothing if not stubborn.

–

A single flower has bloomed.

You stand there, spray bottle in hand, caught in quiet awe at the metallic pink sprout peeking through the foliage. It’s small, delicate, barely more than a bud, but unmistakably there—nestled among heart-shaped leaves that, for the first time in weeks, look alive. Brighter. 

A faint smile tugs at your lips. It’s not groundbreaking, not by a long shot. But it’s something.

The fragile blossom clings onto dear life, stubbornly seeking the sun rays, inching toward the warmth it needs to grow—larger, stronger.

You can’t wait to bear witness to it. 

––––

You’re not entirely sure how you ended up in this situation; all you could recall past the sweat blurring your vision is the memory of being in front of the reception desk, pen in hand, scrawling your name onto the sign-up sheet for beginner boxing lessons. 

It’s not… something you planned on doing, really. You’d been showing up for the past week, trying to convince yourself that fitness was something you could get into. Something you could stick with. But this one’s more of an impulse decision, fueled by a mix of post-workout endorphins and the misplaced confidence that sometimes follows after an extra few—unpremeditated!—minutes on the elliptical. 

It all started with a casual glance at a flyer taped to the wall beside the water dispenser.

GET TOUGHER, FASTER, STRONGER! SIGN UP NOW!

The cheesy tagline stared you down as you were in the middle of refilling your teal green AquaFlask. And for some dumb reason—sheer curiosity, definitely not because it reminded you of a certain someone—you thought: Why not?

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you’d marched straight up to the nearest staff at the counter, credit card in hand, and asked to sign up. Now, as you stare at the buff woman currently goading you to hit harder, reality sets in and you feel a little lightheaded. Even slightly delirious.

“Up, up–” your trainer urges, somehow not even remotely out of breath, despite being thirty grueling minutes into the session. Meanwhile, you’re standing there, red-faced and sweating like a fucking pig. “Keep your arms up at all times, alright?”

You pant, nodding weakly, fixing your posture. She gives you an approving nod in return.

It’s part of the whole self-improvement thing, anyway. Pushing yourself. Fitness, jazz, and all that. You’ve never had much inclination for sports or anything remotely physically taxing, as far as you can recall.

…Or maybe that decision was made for you the moment you tried out for volleyball in high school and took a spike straight to the face. A memory so humiliating, that your brain did you a favor and buried it deep in the recesses of your mind. 

But things are different now! You’re trying new things. You’ve done wall climbing, aerobics, even pulled a hamstring attempting HIIT Tae Bo. And if getting punched in the face is the next step in this… wellness journey, then, well, so be it. You’ll take it with a brave face and, hopefully, minimal bruising to both body and ego.

You slog through two sets of combos and thirty jab-straight-hook-uppercuts, punching like your life depends on it. You’re wheezing like an asthmatic child, and you’re about one bad punch away from toppling over.

Then, mercifully—

“Okay, that’s enough for today.”

Oh, thank god.

“You did good,” she tacks on, flashing you an encouraging smile, like you didn’t just spend the last half hour flailing at the focus mitts with all the grace of a wrecking ball.

You stare at her, unconvinced. Did I? Because from where you’re standing—wobbling, really—you’re pretty sure you looked closer to an overstimulated toddler throwing hands with gravity, but sure. It must’ve been in the fine print, to segue in a little positive reinforcement. Probably to keep people from bolting after the first session. 

Not that you’re planning to. No, of course not. You’re just... reevaluating some things. Like your life choices. And your capacity to lift your arms tomorrow. As you trudge your way out of the yoga-studio-turned-boxing-area, still gulping for air and very aware of the soreness settling into your limbs, someone calls out.

“Hey! Wait up!”

You turn your head, blinking in confusion. A guy—mid to late twenties, give or take—jogs up to you, looking offensively too fresh compared to how you feel. “Oh, hi. Sorry, do you mean me?”

He laughs as he slows to a stop, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “Yeah, you. I’ve seen you training with Coach. Just wanted to say—you’re improving.”

You blink. Wait, what?

A wave of mortification rolls through you. Shit, you didn’t know you had an audience. “Uh—thanks, I guess?”

You shift your weight awkwardly, clutching your boxing gloves tightly against your chest.

His grin turns sheepish, as though he realizes how that might’ve come off. “Fuck, sorry. That came out weird, didn’t it? I swear, I’m not, like, watching the whole thing or anything.” He makes a vague gesture to his left. “The studio’s right in my line of sight when I’m doing TRX reps. Hard not to notice.”

You force a smile. “Ah, yeah. Figures.” 

“I’m Byron, by the way,” he offers, sticking out a hand.

Now that you get a proper look at him, you notice he’s got this kind of… geeky charm going for him. Curly hair, sleepy brown eyes behind round, rimless glasses, and shy boy-next-door vibes—except for the fact that he’s jacked.

(Honestly? Work.)

You give him your name, still smiling awkwardly. You’re about to wave goodbye and turn away when— “So, what are you doing later?”

Um.

You hesitate. “I’m, uh… heading straight home after this?” Your voice comes out a little more uncertain than you intended, mostly because you’re not really sure why he’s still talking to you.

“Yeah, ‘course,” he replies quickly, glancing down like he’s suddenly nervous. “I just… thought I’d ask if you’d wanna grab coffee sometime?”

Oh.

It takes a moment for the question to fully register. The first thought that pops in your head is: Wait, how does he know I’m a barista?

… The second thought is one of pure disbelief. Holy shit, did I just get asked out? At the gym? By the Temu version of Peter Parker?

Your face burns hotter than it did mid-workout, caught completely off guard.

“I—woah, um.” You stumble over your words, eyes quickly darting away from him. “Sorry, I already have… a boyfriend. If—if that’s what you’re leading up to.”

You say it like a question. He picks up on it.

“You don’t sound too convinced,” he comments with a light chuckle, shaking his head. “If you’re not interested, you can just say that, you know.”

A prickle of irritation flares up, followed by something sharper—something that stings. You push it down. “No, he’s just… not around.” “Ah.” He clicks his tongue sympathetically. “Long distance?” “…Yeah.” You have no idea.

He shrugs, undeterred. “Alright, no pressure. We could always just hang out as friends, if you want.”

I… don’t think I do. “Um, maybe?” you answer instead, forcing out a laugh.

“Oh, come on,” he says, his grin widening. “You can even introduce me to your boyfriend,” he emphasizes the word out, “when he gets back. Does he work out? We could all hit the gym together.”

Social anxiety is afraid of this man, you think belatedly. Unfortunately for him, you’re the very embodiment of what fears him.

You’re so out of your element that all you can manage is, “He boxes too, actually.”

“Yeah? He any good?” 

That gets an involuntary snort out of you. Unthinkingly, you say, “Could probably beat you up.”

Byron laughs, startled but amused, shaking his head as he raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright—message received.” He flashes you a wide smile. “Well, if you change your mind about the coffee, I’ll be around.” He jerks his chin toward the pack fly by the corner. “There, usually.”

Okay, nerd. Despite yourself, you can’t help but find the whole thing slightly hilarious. Then again, you find humor in the dumbest things. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You offer him a quick, half-hearted wave, trying (and failing) to mask your embarrassment with an exaggerated, too-casual show of nonchalance. It’s so painfully awkward, you can feel yourself internally dying from cringe. 

Without another word, you spin on your heel and start speed-walking away, practically running back to the safety of your personal space.

Smooth.

––––

It’s another relatively easy night at the bistro. You’re on the last two hours of your shift, and you’re carrying a single glass of roseberry mule to serve at table four. As you round the corner, you catch sight of a student, glasses perched low on her nose, completely absorbed in a thick coursebook on Programming Languages. Papers are scattered across the table, and she looks to be utterly engrossed in her readings, unaware of the world around her. 

You don’t want to bother her more than necessary, about to set the drink down on the only clear space—by the iPad propped up on a tablet holder to her right—when something red catches your attention.

A familiar pair of crimson eyes stops you dead in your tracks.

For a moment, you feel like you’re suspended in time. The sharp memory of a similar instance where you’re in her place, and he’s there, keeping you company while he’s polishing a gun burns through your brain, and you don’t–you can’t think—

You stand there, rooted to the spot, wide-eyed and unmoving. Then, the girl’s gaze shifts to you, and a hot flush spreads across her cheeks, betraying her surprise.

With swift fingers, she locks the screen with a quick flick on the power button, pulling you away and breaking you from the echoes of the past.

“Oh, shit,” she giggles, a nervous edge to her voice. “That’s embarrassing.” 

You shake your head, forcing yourself back to the present moment. “No—no, don’t worry about it,” you chuckle weakly, setting the drink down beside her with shaky hands. “Cute guy, honestly.”

That makes her giggle louder, her eyes bright with an almost conspiratorial glint. “Oh my god, you have no idea.”

Fuck—you can’t breathe.

––––

The night hangs thick with stifling heat, accompanied by the steady ticking of the clock as you catch your breath, your broken moans too loud in the heavy silence. The sheets cling to your feverish skin, damp and uncomfortable, as your body moves in a rhythm that feels unnatural now, but still—but always—familiar.

Your chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid breaths as you force the draconic toy deep inside you. The heat, the fire—it licks at your skin, making your whole body yearn for more. To chase more of the feeling, to chase more of the memory of him. 

Errant strands of hair stick to your forehead, your chest flushed and burning, a quiet throb spreading through you with every friction, every desperate movement.

Your body aches, a relentless thrum urging you to push deeper, to find something—anything—to fill the gaping hole inside you, a wound you’ve tried to stitch shut over months, now threatening to tear its way open again, once more ripping from the seams. 

A sharp pressure builds inside you. Your body stretches too far, too much, struggling to take in what it can’t quite handle. It burns in a way that hurts, but you need it. You need to feel more, to fill the emptiness, to grasp at something that feels real.

“Yours, yours–” you tremble, desperate. “Yours. Just yours. Please.”

-

-

-

You lie in the wake of it—pleasure fading into something heavier, regret creeping in like a shadow, waiting as always.

“I miss you,” you whisper in the dark. You always do.

You try to ignore the pull of it, the sharp descent that comes with the high.

You were doing so well.

But it’s fine. You’re fine. 

Everything’s fine.

The words swirl and echo in your mind, until they’re swallowed by sounds that ring hollow. You let the moment wash over you, sinking beneath the weight of the tides, where sorrow and longing blur with the fleeting warmth of what you can’t keep.

Tomorrow will be another day. Another chance to try again.

For now, you let go of your grip on the fragile raft of sanity you’ve built, painstakingly, for months on end.

Tonight, you let yourself drown once more in the somber depths of loneliness and despair, confined within these four walls that feel—once more—like a penitentiary.

––––

The plane begins its slow descent, and through the window, the world comes into view—large swathes of land interrupted by winding roads that seem to follow no rhyme, nor pattern. A river glints faintly beneath the fading sun, while the sky turns a dull blue, a washed-out slate, streaked with the last embers of daylight.

Below, the small city stirs.

Tiny specks of color flicker to life, lanterns strung along the streets like beads on a thread, marking the season, an ending, and the inevitable turning of time. A chill hangs in the air, the wind whipping past you from the half-open window of the taxi, sharp and crisp in a way that you can only find in the province.

Your hometown. 

It all rushes past in a blur of light and shadow, an eclectic mix of old and new—some buildings unchanged, others unfamiliar, as if they’d sprung up in the years you’ve been away. It’s been a while since you last came back, long enough for the roads to feel... foreign, almost. Though muscle memory stirs when the car takes a turn. One you could have easily navigated even with your eyes closed.

Only your sister lives here now, her and her family—a couple of hundred miles far. Far enough to feel like another world, yet close enough for the past to catch up the moment you lay eyes on the old two-story house tucked away on the quaint cul-de-sac of this suburban neighborhood. 

The residential property was left to her, scrawled onto the title in an act of generosity, perhaps. Or maybe as a weight your mother never intended to carry, something meant to anchor her eldest child while she carved a different life for herself elsewhere. Free-spirited as she is, she left with the ease of someone shedding an old coat, slipping into the shoes of another, barely a glance over her shoulder.

But houses remember. And as you step out of the vehicle, your feet meeting the rough asphalt that once belonged to your childhood, you wonder if they remember you too.

"Maru, Maru!" Your five-year-old niece cries the moment she spots the grumpy feline peering through the mesh of his portable prison.

"What—no excitement for me too?" you tease, ruffling her hair. She giggles, scrunching up her nose.

"Auntie, hi! Hi!"

You snort at her enthusiasm, setting the carrier down. The second you pull at the zipper, Maru springs out, landing with a soft thud before stalking off with his usual air of disdain. Your niece shrieks with delight. 

"Ah! Cat!"

"Well, there go the chances of her socializing with her brother," your sister remarks dryly from the doorway, sauntering closer. "Hey, stranger."

"Hey," you greet, hoisting a handful of paper bags. "Where do I dump these?"

She eyes the bags. "Any of those for me?"

"You have three kids, and one of them insisted on a Lego set. Do you know how much those cost?" You shoot her a flat look. "You’re getting socks."

"Wow, stingy." She huffs but takes some of the bags anyway, hitching one onto her hip as she grabs your other hand-carry.

You step inside, and the house greets you with a riot of lights and color. Plastic tinsel and bright string lights drape across every visible surface—along the bannister, around doorways—leaving no space untouched by the festive chaos. A Christmas tree stands proudly in the corner, nearly buried beneath an avalanche of baubles and sentimental ornaments collected over the years.

The room feels swallowed by the exuberance of it all, an almost overwhelming jamboree of holiday cheer.

It’s gaudy, excessive, and completely over-the-top, but beneath it all, the bones of your childhood home remain unchanged—familiar in a way that settles deep in your chest. The Narra wood floors are still scuffed with the marks of time, there’s still the distinct tang of turpentine mixed with waxy resin and citrus you’ve long since associated with home, and the odd decorative masks still line the far wall, their painted expressions frozen mid-celebration.

Your eyes land on the canvas floater above the mantel—a whimsical cross-stitch of three women flying kites, their stitched dresses rippling in imagined wind. You remember it well, though you never quite understood why your mother had chosen that particular scene to painstakingly sew into existence. Still, it belongs here, another piece of the house's patchwork history.

Your gaze shifts to the couch, where Andrew, your sister's husband, is sprawled out, one arm lazily draped over the backrest, the other holding his phone.

He flicks his gaze up at you, offering a half-hearted wave before turning back to whatever has him so absorbed on the screen. Beside him, your three-year-old nephew is perched on his knees, bouncing with energy as he mirrors Bluey's movements on the TV with exaggerated enthusiasm, his tiny arms flailing in childlike glee.

You sigh inwardly, rolling your eyes. Typical.

“There’s a few more hours before dinner. Want to hang out in the kitchen while I roast the ham?” She asks casually, setting down your bags by the foot of the stairs. “Actually, scratch that—you’re in charge of the punch.”

“You just want a head start on the drinks,” you tease, the banter flowing easily between you. “Hey, where’s the little squirt?”

She points toward the small crib, near the island counter. “She finally stopped crying, thank god. Don’t wake her up, or you’ll be the one in charge of putting her back to sleep.”

The two of you slip into the kitchen, where the air already carries the promise of dinner—cloves and brown sugar blending nicely with the lingering scent of citrus. A tray of ham sits on the counter, prepped and ready, the scored surface glistening under the fluorescent light. 

Your sister pulls a bottle of Luisita Oro Rum and Agimat Gin from the second-to-last cupboard and places them on the counter in front of you.

"Go ham," she quips.

You give her a flat look. "You think you’re funny.”

She shrugs, unfazed, and turns her attention back to where she’d left off before your arrival. 

The two of you fall into a natural rhythm, the kind that comes from years of cooking together. You work your way through cans of Del Monte, the metallic clinks filling the space as you drain the syrup and dump chunks of mixed fruit into the large punch bowl.

Your sister leans against the counter nearby, arms folded, her gaze fixed on the oven door, as if sheer willpower alone could make the meat cook faster.

In the background, the soft drone of the TV drifts in from the living room, punctuated by your nephew’s occasional giggles.

There’s no rush, no need to fill the silence with anything more than the occasional clink of utensils against glass and the low humming of kitchen appliances. The day is winding down to a close, and for now, everything is alright.

“So, Mom called,” she says casually, one arm braced on the counter as she leans in, glancing at you. “Kept calling, actually.”

“Mm.” You reply noncommittally, shaking the last can’s contents into the crystal bowl, watching as the fruit chunks bob lazily in the pool of alcohol.

“She’s worried about you.”

You don’t answer.

“She was. She is.” Her voice shifts, more serious now. She watches you closely, noting your lack of reaction. “You know that, right?”

Your fingers tighten around the can opener, but you pull your gaze away from the bowl. “I know.”

She sighs, resigned, already familiar with this song and dance. Familiar enough to know there’s no winning this one, not tonight. Not anytime soon. “I am too.”

You blink, before looking away. “Oh.”

And maybe she does worry—your mother. But any hope of truly knowing is swallowed by the chasm between you, the one that keeps your conversations at surface level, never breaching the depths beyond. 

Your body, born from hers, perhaps more alike than you realize, might have been brought into this world with the same pains that she’s carried. The pains of separation. The unresolved hurt of being unwillingly removed from your person—her former husband, your father—and that if you and your mother were closer, you could have opened up about your own situation. Perhaps then, you wouldn’t feel like a ship that has lost its ballast, drifting endlessly in the same turbulent seas for the longest time.

But you are your mother’s daughter, and she is her mother’s daughter. There is the truth that the women in your family are not the best communicators, nor do they wear their hearts on their sleeves. So you were born mute and overly sensitive. Pain drips from you, unnoticed, like a purposeless leak in the heart. You’ll carry it with you until you die.

“But you look… okay,” she observes, cocking her head. “Are you okay?”

You swallow. For the same reason you compare your mother to a storm you can't outrun and your sister to an intermittent drizzle, you find it easier to admit, “I haven’t… been okay for a while.” 

Not wanting to bring the mood down, especially on a day like today, you quickly add, “Things are better now, though.”

She huffs out a laugh, shaking her head. “Could be a little more specific there, but I’ll take it.” She gives you an exasperatedly fond look. “You let me know if that changes anytime soon, ‘kay?”

Your lips quirk in the faintest semblance of a smile. “Yeah, okay.”

–

It’s ten minutes before midnight.

You’re leaning against the island counter that separates the kitchen from the living room, nursing a glass of the fruit punch (though it’s mostly gin, with the teensiest amount of fruit), watching your sister’s family at a distance as they eagerly wait for the clock to strike twelve. The blinds of the large living room window have been pulled up, giving an unobstructed view of the sky, ready for the first firework to light up the dark.

For a moment, you feel like an outsider, watching through a lens, as if you’re not quite part of the scene. There’s a strange sense of detachment—voyeuristic, almost—as though you're peering in on a private, intimate moment. 

Your sister cradles the infant in her arms, and that all-too-familiar pang stirs to life—the same one that always does when you look at her.

You can't quite place what you're feeling, exactly. It’s tumultuous, and it’s complex. Andrew’s practically dozing off in his seat, and you see your sister shake her head in mild annoyance. Your nephew, fighting to keep his eyes open, starts to fuss.

Something tightens inside your chest.

“Andrew,” she hisses, startling the man awake. He blinks, disoriented, before spotting their son and the early signs of an explosive tantrum.

He sighs, and pulls the boy closer to him. “Hey, hey, little guy. Look at the sky. In just a couple of minutes, the lights are gonna go boom-boom.”

Your nephew sniffs, his eyes blinking up at him as he processes the words. “Boom-boom?”

“Yeah! Just like the one we watched on TV!”

The kid’s face visibly perks up at that, bad mood quickly forgotten. “Boom-boom!”

You watch as your sister’s gaze softens, and a small smile replaces the earlier frown on her face.

And in that instant, you understand.

You look at your sister and, for a brief moment, all you see is a wretched mirror of yourself. She is all of your fears, all of your failures, and all of what you could’ve been rolled into one. Barely in her mid-thirties, and yet already carrying the weight of a family: three kids, a husband who feels like a faded echo of your father—a man who didn’t quite measure up, who never did, and just as unreliable. 

You feel the suffocating weight of it all, of being tied to a place that’s meant to be a home but feels more like a tomb, marking the passing of dreams unspoken. She’ll grow old here, buried in the same soil you both sprang from, fading into the landscape of this town that swallows its own.

You look at her and you almost feel the repressed pain of missing the last semester of college to give birth, the lament of a missed opportunity that life has stolen from her. 

You feel her pain as if it’s yours. You feel it in the marrow of your bones—her blood flowing through you. “3…” You look at her, and it feels like seeing someone bound, held down by an anchor around her foot, unable to break through the surface of freedom. You look at her and you see dreams once aglow, reduced to cinders. You look at her and see—

She glances up at you.

Oh. “2…” In the fleeting moment where your eyes meet—eyes you two share with your mother—you feel so small.

Just a kid. Shortsighted and unfairly dismissive. Too blind to see your sister’s quiet victories, too selfish to admit you’ve diminished them just to feel less alone about your own. A child grasping for meaning, unfair in the ways only children can be. “1…” And in the fraction of a second before midnight, it's as if you’ve been doused awake. 

You see her anew—what seemed like monotony is really the bedrock of stability; tenacity in place of routine. An almost single-minded doggedness to make something out of this life. You see the steadfast strength she possesses, the kind that gets her up every morning, to face the world and all its demands without question. With purpose. 

You see resilience. Compassion. Traits that you’ve always lacked, that you’ve long resented, the same traits your mother never learned to embody.

And now you see your niece in her arms, born from this, and you name the indescribable feeling that dwells in you—borne from the pure look of adoration in your sister’s eyes for her youngest daughter—as envy.

You know, with utmost certainty, that she will be okay, because she has your sister as her mother, and she is so, so loved.

As you watch them, something inside you shifts—a deep, aching realization. 

You see… home. Something you've always longed for but never truly found. “Happy new year!” The spell breaks. The two of you startle at the sudden eruption of fireworks, the distant chorus of car horns blaring from the streets outside.

Your niece and nephew jump and shriek, their laughter ringing through the room, celebrating something they barely understand but find joy in anyway. The baby in your sister’s arms lets out a wail at the commotion, and she is soothed instantly with murmurs of soft assurances. Her husband struggles upright—then, with no small amount of effort, leans forward to press a kiss to the crown of her head.

The image before you is far from perfect, but it’s theirs.

“Auntie, auntie!” The little rascals cry out in unison, their voices overlapping in excitement. “‘appy n’year!”

A breathless, almost pained laugh escapes you. Still, you smile as you respond with your own, “happy new year!”

You’re tired—tired of running, of measuring yourself against the ghosts of your past. Tired of carrying the weight of a childhood that’s left you with more questions than answers, of making excuses for wounds that should have healed long since. You've spent so much time mourning the growing pains, the irreparable, that you never stopped to see what’s in front of you. 

This moment, this realization, feels like the final missing piece in the fractured puzzle of who you are.

The new year arrives, marked by the crackle of fireworks and the loud cheer from your family.

This time, you won’t hesitate. You’ll choose to embrace the change, both good and bad, with open arms. With the quiet resolve of someone finally ready to move forward.

You lift your gaze just as a brilliant burst of red explodes into the night sky, its iridescent glow bleeding into a softer silver before fading into the dark. 

A warmth settles deep in your chest—bittersweet, but steady. A quiet peace.

Happy new year, my love. . . . . . . .

.

.

.

.

. . .

The air at the threshold of Vagrant’s land is restless. Volatile. A hazy distortion ripples through it, folding and unfolding, like a lost mirage—an area of transition between worlds. Porch collapse, he calls it. 

Sylus has stood here countless times, watching the way this anomalous disturbance twists the very fabric of this reality, how it flickers in and out of form, erratic. Impossible to predict. 

It had taken him longer than he likes to admit to understand the phenomena for what it’s truly worth. 

Not just an alternate space caused by some spartan energy field. Not just any other protofield. But a thread. A connection. A door. 

A fault line between realities, an entryway that hums with the possibility of you.

Since the moment the idea took hold, he had thought of little else. It has consumed him in every waking moment; his entire being seeming to bend toward a singular purpose—getting to you. He had torn through endless streams of data, followed every unstable pulse of energy, mapped its fluctuations down to the smallest inconsistency.

Nights bled into days, and days bled into weeks, until he can no longer keep track. Not that the passage of time meant much to him at this point. 

He’s worked tirelessly through the stillness, through the storms of uncertainty, through the aching silence left by your absence. Ever since you’ve exchanged your temporary goodbyes. 

He had measured everything he could—the unstable frequency of radio signals streaming through the interstice. He had traced the influx in real time; recording the rate of deterioration, isolating the waveform, and filtering out outside interferences. 

But for all the data he gathered, for all the precision in his calculations, the core of this phenomenon remained just out of reach. His knowledge on the matter is rudimentary at most. He could waste years observing for abnormalities, trying to decipher how its presence has disrupted the very threads of this universe, but the why and how of it all will still elude him. 

Still, theory matters less than function. He doesn’t need to understand the full depth of it. He only needs to harness it.

It’s a gamble.

Contrary to whatever reputation he’s earned for himself, Sylus has never been one to play his cards recklessly. He deals in certainties, in probabilities stacked in his favor, in risks that—while dangerous—are still within his grasp to control. He has never been the type to leap without knowing where he’d land.

But this is different.

He has never needed to, before. Never had a reason to throw himself into the unknown with no assurance of survival, no way to predict the outcome.

He had no reason to—until you.

Now, it matters less whether or not the odds of his survival are abysmal, that he has no precedent to follow. That your world might reject him entirely. None of it matters. Because if the choice is between staying and never reaching you, or plunging into the great, endless unknown—

He’ll take the leap, every time. Without hesitation. 

He’ll leave this world behind, step beyond the edges of everything that has ever defined him, and venture into lands unseen, uncharted. Unknown. He doesn’t know what awaits him on the other side. If he’ll make it there in one piece. If he will make it there at all.

Sylus has never really questioned why he’s the anomaly in this world. The curiosities of his existence are yours to ponder. After all, he finds that he doesn’t care much of the answer as much as he cares about being with you.

Because wherever you are—that is home. 

He takes a step forward, and the universe dissolves into a blinding light.

-

-

-

Sylus wakes to the sensation of weight.

Something presses on him heavily, sinking into his limbs like gravity itself is wrapping around him for the first time.

The ground beneath him is unfamiliar, uneven—tangible in a way he’s never felt before. His fingertips press into the damp earth, leaving the faintest imprint, yielding beneath his touch. The scent of soil rises around him; a rich, bitter brown. 

This world does not recognize him, yet it cradles him like its own all the same.

Above, the sky erupts.

Fireworks split open the night, streaks of color exploding and dissipating in an instant—too fleeting to hold, too bright to ignore. A flashbang of incandescent reds and fluorescent greens, followed by bursts of crackling gold and shimmering silver scatter into tiny pinpricks before fading into the darkness.

The air is heavier here, denser in a way that feels almost… alien. It clings to the contours of his new form, seeps into his lungs with every breath. 

And oh, how it burns. Not in pain, but in its sheer presence. It rushes into him not as mere oxygen but as something real. Something palpable. He’s lost in the sensation. 

He exhales. Then winces. 

Immediately, he feels it—the weakness. The brittleness of this new body. Gone is the invulnerability he once wielded so effortlessly, the certainty that nothing could touch him unless he allowed it. 

That certainty is gone now, stripped away the moment he crossed the threshold.

He is flesh and bone. Finite. Mortal.

A lesser man might have feared it.

But in the middle of this empty field, miles away from civilization, Sylus can only laugh. 

He tips his head back, reeling from the sheer impossibility of it all, eyes tracing the brilliant display above—as if committing it to memory, a coronation of sorts. Of existence. Of arrival. Of a life finally his own.

Reborn. And for the first time in his existence, he is alive.

––––

It’s summer—the summer that marks two years since he left. 

Two years. It’s enough time to feel the weight of it, but not enough to make the events feel like something that happened a lifetime ago. 

The seasons cycle once more, as they always do, pushing time forward with a steady, indifferent rhythm. And with that change comes a familiar pang—a bittersweet ache, neither grief nor regret, just the weight of knowing that nothing stays the same. Mono no aware. 

You’re closer to thirty now, and the thought doesn’t terrify you as much as it did before. Your hair’s in a pixie cut—short and sleek, although the edges are a little ragged from the half-assed trimming you gave it a few days ago. 

It would have made you feel stupid, once upon a time, for trying out something drastic for a new look. Instead, you just take it for what it is—one more thing you did because you wanted to. Like the rest of the choices you’ve made over the past two years. It’s yours. Uneven, impulsive, maybe a little questionable. But yours.

It’s liberating. Even if it makes your head look like a pencil. 

The voice—the one that picks at your face, your body, your thoughts, everything down to the last imperfection—never really shuts up. It’s quieter now, easier to ignore, but it still lurks in the background, waiting for an opening, a moment of weakness. Maybe it always will. Maybe that’s just the price of being human.

But you don’t fight it anymore. You don’t let it drag you down to a breaking point. You carry yourself differently now, you'd say. No pep in your step just yet, but you don’t feel the need to drag your heels either. Literally and figuratively. 

The change has come in waves—sometimes gentle, sometimes harsh—but it’s there, marking you, marking the passage of time. Just like the earth, just like the seasons, you’ve shifted and grown. And perhaps that’s enough.

The sky is ablaze now, a deepening canvas of pinks and purples as the sun sinks lazily to the west. The fiery orange light spills through the large windows, bleeding into every corner of the room, and the world outside seems to slow, caught in the hour before dusk.

You’re behind the counter, wiping down plates with the kind of ease that comes from repetition, the motion so ingrained in you that it barely registers anymore. It’s all routine—the rhythm of it, the quiet hum of the bistro, the clinking of porcelain. The air is thick with the sticky smell of warm pastries, and it’s the sort of evening that feels almost liminal. A moment suspended in time.

You hear the soft tinkling of the door chimes, signaling the arrival of another customer. 

It’s a soft, unassuming sound, barely noticeable against the evening lull. You swipe your hands across your apron, turning on instinct, your mouth already forming the usual greeting. 

“Hi, welcome to—”

The words die in your throat.

It’s a slow unfolding—almost a gradual realization that stretches across the seconds like the last rays of sun dipping beneath the horizon. He stands in the doorway, a figure outlined in gold, and his presence fills the space between you, no barrier that separates, and it feels... impossible. Unimaginable. Inevitable. 

His height is the first thing you notice. He’s taller than you expected, and you know he’ll tower over you, even at a distance. His hair is dark now, the color of midnight, almost—not the silver you once traced with your fingers in your mind. The cut is still similar to what you’ve always known it to be, though a little more unkempt, as if he’s lived in this body long enough for it to take on its own wear.

Then his eyes. The red is gone—no longer the shade of crimson that used to see right through you, those sanguine pools you once loved. In its place, a stormy grey, deep and impossibly expressive, pulling you in like an undertow. The color is striking, alien in its own way, yet there’s a warmth buried beneath it—and the familiarity of it tugs at you.

Even with the changes, even though you’ve never met the person standing in front of you, you’ll know him anywhere. 

There’s a shift in the room, a subtle, yet unmistakable change in the air. It’s as if the whole bistro has drawn in a breath—and you with it. Time stretches thin, each passing second expanding into what feels like an eternity.

Your eyes lock—and for a moment, nothing else exists. 

It’s as if the world has shifted off its axis. Or, perhaps more accurately, it’s as though a piece that’s always been missing has finally snapped into place.

Something settles in you, something foreign and indescribably familiar at the same time.

Sylus smiles.

“Hello, my love. Have I kept you waiting?”

It feels like home. 

____

“Now I found myself this kind of love, I can't believe it I'll never leave it behind I thought I'd never get to feel another fucking feeling But I feel— This love, this love, this love Oh, I feel it.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure, sweetie?  It’s rare you call me first.  I was just thinking about-” his words stop abruptly when he hears the jagged breath you draw in on the other line, jagged in the same way the infected wound is jagged, torn muscle unevenly ripped raw to forcefully make way for rotten teeth to sink in.  “Where are you?  What happened?”

You tell him your location with trembling words, willing your tears not to fall further.  “You,” you gulp, words heavy in your mouth.  “Make sure you bring a gun.”  He probably doesn’t leave his house without one, but your weapon is out of ammunition, and you would prefer not to be killed with your short blades.  He'd have to get too close for your comfort to drive them into your skull. He tries to probe further, but the words to tell him what you’re going to become dry up in your mouth, wither before you can put them out there and only a choked sob comes out when you manage to make a sound.

Sylus offers to stay on the line and you let him, listening to his sharp footsteps and the rev of his motorcycle and the hum of the engine as he drives at breakneck speed through the N-109’s barren streets. You wish he would show up sooner, the tang of blood in the cold night air makes poor company.

“I’m almost there, I’m going to hang up, hold on for me, sweetheart.”  His voice is strained in the way it gets when you’re in distress; when you need him and he isn’t immediately there.  When the dial tone beeps at you, the white headlights of his bike come into view, angling sharply as he comes to a quick stop, gravel flying through the air at the sudden lack of motion.  The driver cuts the engine and briskly walks over to you.

Sylus doesn’t speak as he kneels next to you.  There’s a moment where the world stills and it’s just him and you staring at the gory bite on your arm.  

“Fuck,” Sylus breathes the word, before slinging his jacket off, ripping at the bottom of his shirt, tearing it to a six inch strip, moving your hand that’s gripping your forearm to create a tourniquet a few inches above the junction of your elbow.

“S-Stop,” you try to grab his hand, push him away.  “It’s too late.  Where’s your gun?”  Your adrenaline is running out, your mind (stupid, stupid, stupid) thinking you’re safe, because you’re with Sylus, the one that always keeps you safe.  It’s getting harder to think, but you need to be brave in the face of death, and you can if Sylus would get it over with quickly, before you have the opportunity to completely break down.

“It’s not over, I won’t lose you like this,” Sylus hisses, and you flinch back at the sharp tone.  His gaze flicks up to yours, softening for a brief second before solidifying into concentration.  He tightens the fabric on his improvised tourniquet, tugging his phone from his tight leather pants, calling a number he has on speed dial.

“Prepare the medical ward, make sure the hunter’s blood type is in abundance, they’ve been compromised.”  Sylus ends his call abruptly and addresses you.  “I’m taking you to the base, this isn’t over.” Sylus spits the words, propping your legs under his arms and briskly setting you on the bike seat.  

He’s being so dumb right now, you briefly entertain the thought that he’s unaware of the meaning of the bite, but as Onychinus’ head he’s been dealing with the fallout of the zombies in regards to the increase in demand of his goods.  You want to snap at him, shake him down for his gun and pull the trigger yourself.  Does he not realize he isn’t invulnerable?  Is he so sure of himself and his death defying abilities that he’s willing to risk getting bit?

"No, Sylus. Where is your gun?" You attempt to be assertive, grabbing his forearms with your uninjured hand and glaring into his pretty red eyes. "You need to put me down before I hurt anyone." You speak with conviction, trying to convince the headstrong man in front of you, desperate to get him to understand the severity of the situation. You can't bear the thought of hurting an innocent, bringing more carnage to the world. He should know you well enough to know this.

There's something in his eyes that's hard to put a name to. Hesitance, but why should he be so, when he was so willing to hurt you just a few mere months ago; and something haunting, like he's already mourning the loss of you. Grief isn't easy to face, you know this first hand, and if you were afforded the opportunity to save your only family from that bomb, you would do so in a heartbeat, but this isn't the same. Your family weren't active dangers to those around them, they aren't the rabid animal you're now inevitably going to turn into.

You can understand that this situation is hard for him, but tough luck Mr. Onychinus, you're the one that got bit by a zombie, not him. Putting yourself in his shoes, you're almost certain you'd shoot yourself, well, the infected body of someone you love and care for. Thinking about it too hard is draining, and it seems you'll need as much of your mental faculties unoccupied to win this argument, so you slam the brakes on that train of thought.

"That's not happening, sweetie. You'll be fine." He's such a fucking liar, you've been compromised now; you won't be fine.

You didn't want to have to take matters into your own hands, but it seems Sylus couldn't help you when you actually need him to, never mind all the times he's shown up uninvited in your life to share your burdens. It seems that when push comes to shove he's too fucking — greedy, selfish, stupid, — cowardly to take your life, even if it rids the world of a danger to him and his people; his district, his world. Your hands blindly shove at his chest, not even disrupting your position cradled against his chest. With a frustrated huff you wiggle your bleeding arm, wincing as it grates on the fabric of his shirt and the open wound touches the metal teeth of his jacket to feel for his holstered gun. The touch causes a sharp pain, a lightning bolt, flying up your arm and sinking into the muscle. You grit your teeth.

Sylus doesn't let you get very far, fussing over you, grabbing your ransacking arm with ease and holding your wrists together, binding them with one of his large hands.

"What did I just tell you, sweetie? No need for dramatics, you'll be fine."

You growl, butting your head in his chest, frustration bubbling up, it does nothing to make the wall of muscle falter. This isn't you being dramatic; you are literally being turned into a zombie and he acts like you're a fussy child. "You'll have to do it eventually, Sylus. Save yourself the heartache and kill me while I'll still be able to forgive you."

His eyes flicker down to your face, a dangerous sheen in them, daring you to continue your demands. You settle in his arms as he takes long, swift strides to his bike, giving into his glare.  He’ll have to realize eventually that you can’t be saved, no one can be saved once they’ve been bit.  The bike rumbles under you as Sylus starts up the engine and he makes use of his Evol to wrap your heavy arms around his waist.  You groan as the would presses against Sylus' bare abdomen, groaning into his leather jacket.

The drive to the base isn’t long by any stretch of the word, but you still find yourself leaning into the warmth of his back, mouth eventually falling open, drool leaking out onto his nice leather jacket.  Sylus’ Evol is cold around your arms, contrasting the heat radiating from his core.  You’re distantly aware that you’re attempting to bite at him through the material, but there’s little force behind the action, more a soothing instinct than an actual attempt at infection. The thought that you shouldn't be doing such a thing surfaces, and a sinking shame comes over you like a damp blanket, but the fabric is warm from wear and your wet tongue laves over the flat of it, unable to find any purchase with your teeth, and the rumbling and jostling of the bike provides a soothing rhythm, and your eyes lid and gloss over at the repetitive sensation.

Despite the sleep-like haze coming over you, you still ache. Your arm throbs under the torn fabric.  It provides something to feel other than distress, which is fading, which is causing you more distress, but that too fades, leaving room for nothing to focus on other than the physical.

You know you need to be panicked and worried and more firm about Sylus getting rid of you at this point, but the logical thinking side of your brain is deteriorating alarmingly quickly.  With this worry in mind, you feel the thought process slipping, desperately you attempt to keep the thoughts in your mind, squeezing your eyes shut in concentration.  Before you can grasp the thought to keep and take hold of it, it slips from your grasp and disappears into the fog of the night sky.

After the bike rolls to a stop in Sylus’ (already opened) fancy garage, the world passes you by in a blur.  So much happens so rapidly; Sylus is picking you up one moment and the next you’re in the shockingly well stocked medical ward in his stupidly large base/HQ/home.

You get lifted into Sylus' arms once more, and your head rolls against his chest, leaving you to stare blankly at the ceiling, the bright lights a harsh contrast from the pitch night sky, burning into your retinas. With your face no longer pressed into Sylus' firm back you feel tears, snot, and drool on your face, but don't find embarrassment in the sensation of them cooling in the chill air of his mini personal hospital. The slick sensation gets wiped away moments after you leave Sylus' arms, instead now being on a firm metal table, a thin pillow under your head that doesn't do much for comfort, but leaves you with one less ache.

There are other people in the room, you notice then. Three people, maybe, all covered in pale blue medical scrubs. Masks obscure their faces, and you can't glean any information on their identities on looks alone. Sylus grasps your hand, tugging your injured forearm out and there's something touching the raw part of your wound, small, cold, and sharp. You cry out, a small noise, like that of a wounded animal.

It's hard to figure out what happens from then on out. The people around you are talking, Sylus included. Then your world disappears completely for some time. The next moment your eyes are flying open, bloodshot and dry.

The room is too bright, you feel open and unguarded, and vulnerable. You don't know where you are, don't remember how you got here or who these people standing over your defenseless body. You feel weak, your bones are lead, but most of all your head hurts, you’re hungry.

Driven by pure instinct, you lash out at the one closest to you, diving in at the clear expanse of skin, pale and unmarred. There's a hand on your head immediately, holding your head back as you latch your aching jaw on the wrist of whoever it is. The wrist is thick in between your teeth and it's only as you bite down that you realize there's something wrong with your teeth.

Your gums ache, as if the nerves inside of them have been torn open and are being ever stimulated painfully. It's enough to draw a hoarse whine from you, a distraught, hollow sound. The hand on your face, keeping you from moving your head closer to the arm, smooths over your hair, petting your head and the person is saying something in a low, comforting tone that you can't quite decipher, but it seems you don't need to understand the words, because shortly after they're uttered your world disappears once again.

Lucidity comes in blips and phases.  

There’s gauze in your mouth, you barely notice at first, thinking the dryness in your mouth is from the fact that you can’t seem to move your jaw, leaving any drool or spit to dry in the open air.  Everything feels fuzzy and far away, much like the gauze in your mouth you feel bound and concealed.  Your limbs are stiff and the only sound you make when you call out for the only person that comes to mind, Sylus, but the only sound that comes out is a hollow groan, a rattling in your chest.  

It’s hard to think, you only feel, and without Sylus you feel empty.

Luckily your death rattle catches the attention of the man you’re searching for, from beside you, sitting on a chair next to your bed, he leans forward and grasps your uninjured arm.  Sylus’ skin is warm on your own, drawing your attention to how cold you feel.

“Can… Can you speak to me, sweetie?”  His tone is hard to place in your mind, muddled and uncertain.  It’s a miracle you can even form any thoughts this far into the consumption of the disease.  It should have fully eaten away your brain matter days ago, but you’re here, able to form these fuzzy, distant thoughts.  Though, they’re less thoughts and more feelings, going off of what is already baked into your soul.  You know you love Sylus, so when he speaks it brings a pleasant feeling to your mind, just in the way when you thought yourself to be alone you were void of any strong feeling.

His words don’t register completely in his head, only his tone, his voice, him.  A pleased, shattered, animalistic sound comes from you, and the taut skin around your mouth weakly pulls upward.  

“Yeah?” Sylus responds to you in the same way one would a babbling baby or pet.  He chuckles weakly, a strained sound, before letting his head fall onto the edge of your bed, a sharp exhale escaping him as he hits the mattress.

With his head so close to your hands, your hands twitch, trying to reach out for him, to play with the soft white hair on his scalp.  Your muscles aren’t responding properly to what you want them to do.  Even when you try to wiggle your fingers, bend them at their joints, they only move minutely.  When you focus all of your cotton filled mind on moving your forearms and triceps to drop on Sylus’ head so you can finally relax while petting him, you come to the alarming realization that you’re completely missing your left bicep.  Your upper arm lifts as far as you can, a few inches off the bed.

A distressed whine leaves you; you’re broken.  You open your mouth to further express this horrible realization, but that’s when you come to the next horrible realization that part of the reason you can’t properly articulate what you wish is that your tongue and lower jaw are completely missing.  Your eyes widen in horror, you’re broken.

“It’s okay, you’re still here.” Sylus whispers the words, like he’s reassuring both himself and you.  “You can’t leave me so easily.”

But you're not okay.

You're a torn apart cadaver, missing your mouth and half an arm, you're so clearly not okay, but Sylus is saying you're okay, and that means he's lying to you. Your neck is stiff, but you still manage a small shake of your head to disagree, a sound that echoes from your rib cage of displeasure makes Sylus frown.

"You're here with me. I'll keep you safe, you're okay." And it's hard to form a compelling argument against his creed, what with your mind unable to properly form the thoughts to and your mouth unable to convey them. All that you manage is another sound and shake of your head, leading Sylus to move to half sit on the bed, dragging your stiff body over against his side. "It'll be okay, I'll keep your safe, please." You don't know what he's pleading for, but you give in to his gentle words. Even if you can't exactly place what is distressing him, you feel he needs this victory, so you resign, stilling your body against his side, sinking into the warmth of his body.

You're not sure where you're going, its as if your body has a destination that your brain is unaware of. The rooms and corridors around you lack definition, a blur of fuzzy shapes, varying shades of blacks and grays with the occasional splotch of deep red. The muscles in your legs are stiff and you're unable to move very far with each shuffling step. You pause every now and then to try and discern the shapes and colors decorating the walls, reds and silvers in a not quite straight cylinder, attempting to focus your uncooperative eyes, but it only results in a huff of frustration.

You're shuffling again, bare feet scuffing and scraping on the dark polished wood beneath you. A pale, silk patients' gown fits loosely on your sunken shoulders, slightly fluttering from your body's movements. If your skin wasn't so leathery and devoid of sensation you'd be able to appreciate the fine material, or even be able recognize that you're draped in cloth at all.

There's a strange mix of knowing and unknowing; thinking without being aware going on inside of your mind. You have enough awareness to know you're walking and exploring a place you should know; a part of you recognizes this location as safe, but you can't remember where you're going or why this path feels so familiar to walk.

It takes a couple of rooms and turns to realize you're being followed, not that any blame could be placed on you for failing to notice. Being so far into the virus and even forming half-thoughts is a miracle of medicine that Sylus spared no penny for. You pause, turning around curiously. You don't feel threatened, not that zombies have any fear of a natural predator baked into them at all.

The perpetrators make no move to hide, there are two of them, clad in the same dark colors of the house. You tilt your head a reflexive and ingrained part of you makes a sound of greeting; as friendly of a noise that can come from a decaying corpse. The arm that faced amputation from the forearm down lifts minutely in what was supposed to be a wave.

"Hey there," one of the blurry figures says, and you manage to recognize it as a reciprocation of your greeting, a slow and stiff smile raising to your hardened face — it must look odd, not that you can see any expressions on the two figures — you're missing most of your mouth, only your cheeks can perform the movements.

"Are you looking for boss?" the same figure asks, taking a cautious step forward. You tilt your head, unable to answer, the words not meshing with the eaten away parts of your mind.

The other dark form walks even closer, almost right in front of you now.

"Follow us," he says with a wave of his hand, one that you recognize, and you follow, because there isn't anything telling you not to instinctual or otherwise.

It only takes the two of them three more turns to lead you to where it seems you had been going; Sylus. Said man looks up from his desktop computer, a tired, but genuine smile coming over his face.

"Was my kitten prowling the halls?" He asks the twins casually, pushing his rolling chair back from his desk to make room for you to shuffle over at a snail's pace and slot yourself between his thick thighs and press your entire body awkwardly over his chest. Sylus gives a chuckle that rumbles his entire torso at your actions and presses a closed lip kiss to the crown of your head.

One of the twins says something in reply, but you no longer focus on them, burying your face into the soft comfort of Sylus' firm pecs. His large hand runs over your thinning hair pressing you closer when he reaches the nape of your neck.

Yes, you distantly decide, this is what you were searching for in the maze of hallways leading here.

If awareness could be defined through the vague fog that eats what’s left of your mind, as if each lived moment were mere reminiscence from long ago rather than the now; awareness graces you in Sylus’ office next.  As with your limited cognitive abilities you don’t know how you got here, nor why you’re here; other than the immense sense of calm that comes with the cool leather of Sylus’ jacket under your dry gums.

Along with the calm, your amorphous musing you stumble on the feeling of worry, confusion.  At first it's unclear why those emotions surface, but as your face continues its repetitive motions of biting (rendered entirely ineffective without a jaw or teeth to bear) you realize why.  You could hurt him, you’re broken for a reason and that reason is you have been made into something meant to harm; a beast, a monster

You don’t want to hurt Sylus, the one who gives you all these lovely feelings, the one you know — despite all the haze you’re forever in — gives you such a lovely life.  He’s too good to be subject to whatever it is that steadily eats away at your brain.

It’s difficult to form the thought, even harder so to attempt to convey it, but you try your darnedest. You drag your head away from the calming motion of gnawing and a sad, deep whimper rattles your chest.

The noise jars you for a moment, feeling the vibrations shake your ribs, which are distinctly less stocky than you’ve been before, decayed and caving in on itself.  You would move your eyes and look down at the sickly, dead monster you’ve become, but motor control is far too difficult for you to perform in such a stressful situation.

“What is it, kitten?” Sylus’ attention is immediately on you.  “What distresses you so?”

Your body is stiff and doesn’t obey the weak signals your brain is attempting to send the stringy muscles adorning your bones.  Though lacking the jaw to even attempt to mimic and mime the act of biting, the pitiful way your eyes stay locked on the saliva darkened leather must be telling, because Sylus cradles the back of your head like you’re something precious and not a monster, dragging your head back to his broad chest.

"Does something hurt?" Sylus asks, shifting his body slightly to get a better hold of your unresponsive body. When you don't react to his words; either not understanding or denying he hums.

Slowly, and oh so stiffly, you move a hand (your only one) up to cover where your mouth should be, grizzled and dark red, nearing a purplish hue where the muscle is exposed at your maw.

“Oh, my kitten is so conscientious,” Sylus coos, “were you worried about infecting me, sweetie?” He catches your wrist gently in his hand and pulls it away from your raw and exposed muscle, dried and hardened from exposure.

Your neck stiffly moves, a slow and shallow nod, half understanding his words.  Sylus’ hair tickles the back of your leathery skin as he leans his head down to press a closed mouth kiss to the top of your head.  He keeps his lips there for longer than he normally would.  If you still had all your mental faculties, you’d have pulled away and seen what was wrong, why he stilled so suddenly.  He exhales, breath warming the tepid temperature of your neck.

Sylus’ voice is uncharacteristically soft as he speaks.  “You couldn’t if you tried.  We…” he sighs again, trailing off.  “We had to take your teeth, kitten.”

Sylus pulls away, a strained smile tugging at his plump lips.  “My kitten lost their fangs.”  He readjusts you on his lap, eyes focused on the perpetually open expanse of your maw.  After another brief pause, “can you understand what I’m saying, sweetie?  I’ve been speaking to you for… a while now, and you only seem aware in rare moments like these.  Are you happy?  Can you answer that for me?”

Guilt tears at Sylus when he lets himself have time to think, has he damned you in saving you?  Preserving an effigy of the person he holds dear in a pitiful attempt at not having to face the loss of his love, his light, his soul; should he have listened to you that night, all those months ago, and pulled the trigger at your behest?  He tells himself if you can’t say you’re unhappy, then that is good enough for him.  His efforts won’t be for naught.  

… You seem happy. To him.  But he knows you aren’t mentally there most of the time, not since the same night you fell victim to the monsters you were so vigilant in defending against, his brave little hunter.  

He can be satisfied keeping you as a barely living doll, content to emptily follow the instincts the virus planted in your brain as you spend day and night glued to Sylus’ side, performing a poor man’s facsimile of a bite.  It’s nowhere near the life you deserve(d), but Sylus can’t give up on you, he’ll keep you as soothed and fulfilled more than you could possibly comprehend.

Just.  Please be happy.

But it seems Sylus must remain tortured without an answer, the cognizance in your gaze having faded halfway into his pleading question.

Sylus wakes with the moon rise, turning over in his bed with a groan as he throws an arm over your waist, slightly warm from how he'd been holding you for a bit in his sleep. His red eyes crack open and he takes you in, dull eyes unblinking and unmoving staring up at the ceiling's crowning. There hasn't been a sign of any sort of awareness in them for months now. But Sylus is sure that any day you'll come back to him and he'll ask you that question once more. Any day now.

Times like this, eternally waking to you by his side are moments Sylus will never take for granted. As long as you continue to have an semblance of life in you, Sylus will not let you go; the selfish man that he is.

Sometimes he can even lie to himself, tell himself that this is normal, you're fine and he's not hugging a corpse to sleep at night. Sometimes he can pretend, in moments like these that you're more than just the possessed shell of the person he hold dearest. Because Sylus can't bring himself to face that truth this time around. Even if you're an effigy of the brave hunter he'd fallen in love with, he can always hold out hope that you'll return to him in this lifetime; if you didn't come back, then who can free him from this mortal coil? Surely you'll return and when you do you'll give him his true death and together you can pass on into the nether. Fate could not be nearly so cruel to keep you from him for this life as well.

(He never should have let you remain at your apartment to defend the public, he should have taken you the moment the outbreak started, damn your protests, you'd understand eventually, he needs you. You would be safe, and healthy, and he wouldn't have to continue to lie to himself like this—)

And Sylus is sure of his conviction that a glimmer of awareness, of personhood will once again grace you. He just has to wait a little longer, another day and he'll get a glimpse of you. Sylus knows this to be true because he is not foolish nor is he imprudent.

It’s silent. You’re no longer being nudged forward to keep walking. Despite the less-than-ideal circumstances, you feel terribly embarrassed. It doesn’t help that your sneeze echoes.

“Sorry,” you apologise, politely.

No one says another word for a few more awkward beats, before you’re being prodded forward again. The dude behind you goes, “See? She’s awfully docile. I don’t get it.”

“Oh, well, makes things easier for everyone, I guess,” his companion replies. You feel like asking them to stop so you can take off these damn heels, but you doubt they’d let you. You kind of wish these two abducted you when you were in a less dolled-up state. They nabbed you just as you were stepping out of the main hall for some fresh air, away from all those gossiping nobles, a refilled flute of champagne in hand—which was subsequently knocked out of your hand upon the bag being shoved over your head. Pretty timely, you idly think. You were sick of that ball. Especially considering what it was celebrating. You’re still smarting over your lost glass of champagne, however.

“The Captain will be pleased if she continues to behave.” You pick up on the subtle warning. “Won’t have to turn her into fish food. Way less mess to clean up.”

Why, thank you, good sir. At least you know now that they don’t really want to kill you, so you suppose your life isn’t in danger at present. Or, yet.

Remaining silent and cooperative and calm isn’t something you chose to do. In any other scenario, you’d probably be kicking and screaming to be let free—and then they’d really have a reason to turn you into fish food—but, right now, you can’t really be bothered trying to run. All the self-defence you know how to do is poking an eye out and sending a heeled foot up into a man’s family jewels, and you doubt it’d work here, now. As far as you can tell, there’s two of them. The other would be on you in a blink, and your hands are also tied. So, all you can really do now is just go with it.

You gulp down the lump in your throat and say, “Um, may I ask where we’re going, gentlemen?”

“Wow, she is terribly calm,” the other guy remarks. “Calm enough to be polite, even!”

The guy behind you shifts and nudges you to turn. That’s when you realise, with an involuntary shiver from the cold, that you’re at the port right now. It’s the night chill of the sea breeze. And there’s a strong odor of fish. Yeah. Had an idea it was pirates.

That’s great. That’s wonderful. Just peachy. Fear is starting to settle in now. You, a woman, defenceless and clad in a stuffy ball gown, about to be trapped alone and helpless on a boat at sea, with only men around for company? Pirates, no less? You press your lips together and try not to think about an incident that spread like wildfire of some poor girl being assaulted and drowned at this very port the year prior. Those responsible were pirates. Are these guys the same crowd?

It’s a little harder to breathe and remain rational. You need to sneeze again. A drop of sweat, despite the cold, trickles down the back of your neck. Oh, gods. What do I do?

“Well, milady, you are presently being escorted by two very fine fellows for the voyage of your lifetime!” The man behind you still sounds pretty merry. “But we can’t tell you what boat, though, no! It’s a surprise.”

“Luke, stop being an idiot,” the other sighs. “It’s not a surprise. Don’t listen to him, miss. My brother’s kinda stupid.”

“I am not!” his brother, Luke, it would seem, exclaims in protest. “What’s wrong with making this a little more exciting for the young lady?” “I wouldn’t exactly call this exciting,” you quip from beneath the bag, more to yourself than anyone else, and you wince at the tell-tale signs of a blister forming on your heel. The Luke fellow huffs. “This is very exciting, actually. Captain hasn’t let us do anything so thrilling in so long!”

“That’s because you accidentally set a match to his warehouse of gunpowder back at the archipelago.”

“How many times do I have to explain myself? I thought it was that Corsair band’s stock!”

“At least it was a cool explosion.” 

“Yeah. Looked like fireworks.” 

“Excuse me, I still don’t know where we’re going,” you hesitantly interrupt, giving an awkward laugh. “I’d, um, like to know the identity of my kidnapper, at least.”

“You’ll find out soon enough, milady,” Luke says mysteriously. “It’s a surpri—”

“Shut up, Luke. We are taking you to the Onychinus, my lady.”

If you could freeze in your tracks, you would. Your urge to sneeze has now been replaced with the urge to scream. “Uh…Onychinus…?”

“The very one, milady.” Luke sounds subdued, but no less humorous. “Cool, right? The greatest privateers of the Seven Seas, abducting you! Huge honour!”

Yeah, massive. Two more droplets of sweat trail down your back. Just my luck. You must’ve deeply offended your ancestors at some point, to the point where they have been out for your blood since day one. Day one being the day you were betrothed to that grubby old duke some provinces over last year, but you digress.

Since ten minutes ago, you had much preferred this little debacle over the prospect of your impending doom (marriage) to some fat noble you met only three hours ago. And since two minutes ago, you have greatly entertained the thought of being diced up into neat little fish food cubes for said fish and dumped into an underwater sea trench somewhere, miles away. At least, then, you wouldn’t have to deal with either dreaded fates before you right now.

“Don’t scare her, Luke. Everyone knows that being abducted by Onychinus isn’t exactly exciting news.”

Thank you. It seems Luke’s brother is the only one with a brain out of the two. But, despite his apparently understanding nature, you still feel awfully apprehensive. What on earth could the Captain of the Onychinus Fleet have to do with me?

Yes, you are a marquess’ daughter, and he isn’t the most agreeable fellow on earth—but you would never have expected him to have potentially incited the attention of the greatest, most notorious, most infamous and most violent armada of pirates in the world. Onychinus, at that. Which meant him, the nefarious Captain Sylus.

Great. Amazing. An impromptu vacation with a couple of bloodthirsty privateers who will probably slit my throat by sunrise is all I’ve ever wanted! Forget your ancestors, it’s probably the gods who have been after you now!

“Does, um, my father have…unresolved business with your Captain, perchance?” 

“You will have to ask the Captain himself that question, I’m afraid, milady.” Well, that’s a fat load of help. You feel so assured. Just splendid. I know next to nothing about my father’s internal and industrial affairs! Due to this, the Captain would soon deem you ineffective toward his presumed objectives involving father dearest and, thus, a burden onboard. Then he’d probably make you walk the plank. It feels like you already are.

“Oh, well, alright.” Best remain calm, as you have been so far, for now. You’re not exactly thrilled by the idea of a watery grave, but you suppose your fate’s already sealed. You are helpless against its oncoming whims now.

You are most assuredly at the port, for the hem of your dress has grown damp from the puddles scattered about beneath your feet. It’s getting progressively uncomfortable to continue walking in these heels, too, and you can only hope you can sit down soon. Perhaps even request just one final flute of champagne before Captain Sylus feeds you to his pet sharks or something.

“Alrighty, milady, time to take this old bag off you now!” And with a tug, you can breathe again. You glance over and spot the other boy you didn’t catch the name of. Is that…a crow mask? You blink. Well, it’s fitting, you suppose. Onychinus’ logo is a raven. I guess rumours that the Captain has a pet crow, instead of a parrot, is true. 

However, you have only about two-or-so seconds to enjoy the cool, fresh sea air filling your lungs and curiously study the kid before your frame is wracked with another sneeze. You shudder from the cold, and you can already feel a chill coming on. Good grief. Can things get any worse?

You look up and ahead after gathering yourself. You’re being elbowed forward again. But the moon and stars are blotted out by one thing: this utter monstrosity of a ship looming above you, casting a wide shadow across the entire concrete dock it is anchored before.

“Woah,” you breathe, and the kid behind you hums in pleased agreement. “I know, right? Absolutely colossal! Spectacular! Captain Sylus is so cool.”

“Uh-huh,” you absently concur. That is one mammoth of a ship.

The flagship, it would appear. You swallow. No wonder everyone’s always going on about how much of a force he and his crew are to be reckoned with. And it’s also no wonder the emperor’s men have, no matter how hard they’ve tried, never been able to tear the fleet of Onychinus apart. Not once has Captain Sylus been defeated.

He rules the seas, the people murmur about the streets. He is the uncrowned king of the briny deep.

If he hasn’t already, he will go down in history for centuries. Become a legendary figure: the privateer who commanded most maritime trade with an iron fist. Already, bards strum songs of a fearsome marauder sailing the blue horizon with a crow emblazoned upon a blood-red flag. A flag that flaps strongly in the wind, distinct and eye-catching from miles away, striking fear into the hearts of any lesser bands of buccaneers, and even the imperial navy itself. 

If this was one of his methods of intimidation, then it was a damn good one. A ship of this size, painted black, the main sail a scarlet so deep, it’s like he splashed the canvass with blood? You gulped. I can only imagine what the man himself is like.

“This way, milady,” Luke guides, gesturing to the gangway of the boat. “Watch your step.”

You’ve heard rumours of his appearance, and it always varies, despite the handsome man the wanted posters, that are plastered everywhere, depict. They say those who cross paths with Captain Sylus are rarely seen again, and hardly anyone has lived to tell the tale of his ‘true’ features. Some profess he is a horror, with a bulbous nose, double chin and a tattered eye patch. He is fat and unpleasant, one who holds a sick love for the sight of spilled blood. And his trusty pet crow, Mephisto, sits contentedly upon his shoulder and pecks the eyes of its victims out for fun. 

While others say he is a beauty, one with silver hair reminiscent of the moon’s glow upon the calm nighttime sea, and eyes red as garnets, piercing and cold. A terribly prosaic exaggeration of what the wanted poster, again, depicts, but who can stop the airheads giggling like a gaggle of turkeys during a tea party? Whispers of his alleged tall frame, broad shoulders, and sharp jaw are exchanged among the young debutantes thirsty for the thrill of a forbidden, passionate love affair—and who is better than the mysterious head of Onychinus himself, in all his over-romanticised, illusory charm?

Well, we’ll just have to wait and see which of the two is correct. Not that you really want to find out. What you’d really like to do is go home. Perhaps, if you ask him politely enough, he will let you.

What an idiot. You think a pirate’s going to let you go just because you ask him to? You pick your way up the gangway rather stiffly, feet sore from the heels, and you try to keep balanced. You would very much like to not take a tumble into the ice-cold water below, where your heavy dress would drag you down. You’re smarter than that!

Once the three of you are finally aboard the ship, the two crow-masked siblings begin to lead you along the floorboards and you ascend some steps to the upper deck, passing by the helm. At least, you thought it was the upper deck—they lead you up some more stairs, along another upper deck, some more stairs, then another flight, and then, finally, with your thighs burning and lungs screaming in the confines of your corset, you all stop outside a door.

A double door. It’s oak, the wood garnished to bring out the beauty of its patterned grain, and the knobs are pure gold. Engraved into the centre of each is the Onychinus crest: as expected, a crow.

This guy really likes crows, it would seem. Apparently, the people say “the crow is in flight!” whenever illicit trade has been established between another faction or something. “The crow has landed” states that he has docked at a port, and everyone outside of the crew must be on their guard. “The crow is rallying” means he, or another ship, is surrounding a target, and is preparing to attack. There are many more sayings you can’t quite remember at present, because you suddenly need to relieve yourself very badly.

“May I use the powder room?” you nervously hiss, hopping from foot to foot in urgency. “I need to go!”

“Oh, crap—” The duo look at each other, hesitate, and then Luke hastily unties your hands. “Follow me! We need to hurry; we’ve kept him waiting for a while. Don’t try anything funny!”

“I won’t!” Because you don’t have much to lose either way. If your life wasn’t at risk here, you might’ve been glad for this sudden abduction. Your life would be taken from you, one way or the other.

It takes another ten-or-so minutes before you and Luke are hurrying back from the restroom (a terribly clean one for a pirate ship, too; you were surprised) and are finally in front of the double doors again.

Luke wastes no time in dealing three knocks to one of the doors. It’s silent for a pause; you all exchange jittery glances, you fiddle with your (retied) hands, and then, finally: “Come in.”

A chill slithers down your spine at the deep, muffled voice. Luke’s brother releases a breath and he twists the doorknob, easing the door open, and he enters. Luke silently gestures for you to follow, and you hesitate one more time before reluctantly heading in.

The room is well-lit: warm tones of orange candlelight send flickering shadows across the walls—walls that are lined with maps, paintings, cabinets, tapestries and antiques. They vary from looking very old to relatively new, and all have one thing in common: they are priceless artefacts. Plundered ones, too, almost assuredly.

As you make your way further into the room, the dangling crystal chandelier proves as the interior’s primary source of light, and it glitters exquisitely. Immediately, you know that this Captain has taste.

And then there’s the desk. Evidently crafted from invaluable mahogany, it fits into the cosy design of the study flawlessly, with a large hide rug of a bear—that would have been massive if alive—splayed between the two sofas at the centre of the room, off by the windows looking out to sea. Its head remains intact to it, maw open wide in a snarl, and appears well-kept. You expected the room to stink of rum and tobacco and a man who badly needs a shower, but it has a rather pleasant smell of scented candles, whiskey, and cologne.

You’re led to sit down upon one of the couches. It’s plush and leather, situated to be kept out of the sun to prevent fading, with woollen throws and tassled cushions spread tastefully across its triple seats. The coffee table in front of you, separating you from the sofa opposite, is made of walnut, and has a crystal whiskey decanter upon it, along with two crystal shot glasses, and a vase of flowers. Also, a piece of paper, including an ink pot with a fountain pen inside.

Your eyes finally lift to rest upon the man himself.

You don’t really know what you were expecting. A missing hand, a hook in its place, perhaps? A flamboyant tricorne hat, with the bright feathers of exotic birds sewn into its satin sash? Maybe a greatcoat with flared cuffs and ornate embroidery? An eyepatch, like the rumours? Ebony curls, greasy with gel and rare washes, spilling out from beneath his hat and across his shoulders?

No such thing. Instead of ebony curls, he has short-cropped ivory locks, falling over his right eye. Eyes as scarlet as a ruby, penetrating and sharp, lidded and calculating, framed with long, silver lashes. He wears no hat, he wears no eyepatch, and he wears no greatcoat. His lips are full and pink and shapely, curled up at the corners, and his right hand is not replaced with a hook. In his right hand, in fact, is a folder, its leather worn and cracked, the clasp hanging on by a thread. And the man’s shoulders are broad, his shirt unbuttoned at the top, revealing the beginnings of a sculpted chest, skin-kissed skin, and strong collarbones. A silver pendant rests upon his sternum, just beneath his clavicle, glinting in the light. His slacks are ironed, tight across his sturdy thighs, and he sits in a languid manspread. Big hands, long fingers, veiny forearms, his cuffs neatly buttoned at the elbows. His sleeves strain against his biceps. It takes a lot to not let your eyes pop out of your head.

What. The. Hell. Who knew those gossiping, man-obsessed, still-wet-behind-the-ears debutantes would be so close in their depiction of Captain Sylus? The wanted posters do not do him any justice. If those airheads saw him now, they’d all drop to the ground in a faint, one by one, like a domino effect.

“Um…” you croak, mouth suddenly very dry. “Hello.”

“Greetings.” Oh, gods, his voice is hot too. What is this? Some third-rate swashbuckling romance novel? He certainly looks like he just walked right out of one. One not at all for children. One filled with scenes of a man, as devilish as him, entangled with a woman far more beautiful than you. And he’s taking his sweet time to look you over too, just as you did, with a hooded gaze far more intense than it needs to be. You feel your entire body flush with heat, and you hastily look away, clearing your throat, fidgeting with your thumbs. Your hands are still tied, rested neatly on your lap, and you suddenly feel very self-conscious.

The man closes his legs (about damn time!) and slings his right one over his left. He throws the folder he had in-hand down upon the coffee table with a resounding smack! and he settles an elbow against the armrest to his right. In your periphery, you see him smile at you, but it’s more of a smirk. “How are you, my lady?”

“Er, quite fine,” you reply automatically, and you’re too busy worrying about how much of a mess your hair must be (it had been previously woven into a gorgeous updo before a bag was rammed over your head) to think about how to appropriately speak to this man. “I can’t say I was prepared for such an, um, inadvertent evening adventure.”

The Captain chuckles, and it’s a silky, rumbling sound that floods you with even more heat. You risk a glance up, and he’s tilting his head at you, jaw as sharp as the rumours professed, smirk both simultaneously infuriating and tantalising. Scarlet eyes pin you to your seat, and you quickly drop your own as he speaks. “I am glad you are taking this little escapade well. But, of course, any anger or explosive tantrums on your part would be justifiable.”

“You’d kill me quicker if I screamed and cried,” you blurt, before you click your mouth shut. You idiot! Are you trying to meet your maker as fast as you can?

“Kill?” the Captain echoes, and he sounds almost surprised. “Oh, no, my lady, I won’t be killing you.”

That makes you look up. “You…won’t?”

“No,” he affirms, and he leans forward, picking up the piece of paper you’d noticed earlier. He extends it to you, before his eyes drop to your bound hands. The man glances over to the duo standing nearby. Well, lounging nearby, actually. “You can relieve her of those ropes now, you two. Is this any way to treat a guest?”

Guest? You rub the tender skin of your wrists after one of them slices through your binds and steps away with them. You give a wary glance at the man sitting opposite you. What’s going on?

Said man extends the paper to you once again, and you finally accept it, cautious. He speaks as you read over it. “You see, my lady, your father and I have a little bit of a history.”

Ah. Just as you expected. Of course this has something to do with your father. And of course he’d stoop so low as to be involved with pirates. But, just what has he done to piss off the most savage one of them all?

“I see.” You bob your head in understanding. The piece of paper outlines it pretty well. This guy is awfully sophisticated for a pillaging, ruthless, disgustingly wealthy pirate king. It almost feels like he’s asking you to sign a contract. “So, erm, in exchange for…whatever it is this document is referring to, you will hand me back to my father?”

Captain Sylus smiles at you. “Correct.”

“I see,” you say again. “In short, he has to pay a ransom for my return.”

“It’s nothing personal, my lady. Believe me when I say I wish I didn’t have to resort to kidnapping a lovely young woman such as yourself.”

Liar. One look at his smug, gorgeous, cold face, even a blind man could tell he hardly cares at all for how low he has to stoop for things. He’d probably raze the marquisate to the ground, with everyone in it, just to obtain whatever it is he wishes.

“Hm.” You glance back down at the paper. “Alright.”

“Your cooperation is greatly appreciated,” he says pleasantly. “It makes things far easier for myself, and far safer for you.”

“So, you will be sending this…letter to my father?” You breeze over his subtle warning and force yourself to meet his eyes again. It really does feel like he could burn two holes into where your eyes are thanks to the sheer intensity of his stare. “Tonight?”

“Yes,” the Captain affirms, and you place the paper back down on the coffee table before the trembling of your hands can get too obvious. The man maintains his relaxed posture, which succeeds in both aggravating you and proving to be excellent eye candy. “Surely, your father will go to untold lengths to have his beloved only daughter returned to him?” You almost snort. If it weren’t for my betrothal to that duke, he’d probably send the pre-written reply he has an entire stock of back to this guy, thanking him for his letter. Your father dislikes having to read and personally pen a response to a letter, which bore the idea of scribbling out a couple hundred pre-authored, enveloped and sealed answers to be automatically delivered by the butler himself. And then, if it hasn’t been already, it would really be the Grim Reaper’s crest being stamped onto your death certificate. 

“Yes, um, well…” You don’t quite know how to correct the man on that, without possibly having your throat slit right here in the process. You awkwardly scratch your cheek and look away. “It might, erm, take a while.”

“No matter.” He leans forward, picks up the whiskey decanter, and pours two glasses of it. He outstretches one to you, and you have to physically restrain yourself from gulping the liquor down once you accept it. The man has a sip of his own, gazing at you from above the rim of his own glass. “We have a long voyage ahead.”

Just great. It’s one thing to be kidnapped, but it’s another to be stuck on a boat with only the most crooked pirate captain of them all, in the middle of the ocean, without a speck of land in sight, as the daughter of a noble who would not frantically search for his daughter if she wasn’t a vital chess piece in his wider political game. And you’re only vital because marriage to a duke would elevate his status and wealth and reputation overnight. 

Too bad you weren’t born a boy. Too bad your mother died during childbirth. Too bad your father never married, and has no male heirs. Too bad the only purpose you’ve ever really had was being sold off to an old duke your father’s age. Too bad you had to be abducted on the very night your engagement ceremony was in full swing.

Your grip tightens around the whiskey glass in your right hand. Too bad, indeed. 

Your father’s true origins are common, and he has spent most of his noble life fighting tooth and nail to improve his reputation among the age-old aristocratic families which look down on him, and you, for said commoner origins. Apparently, he earned favour with the Emperor for doing something requested of all citizens: turn in any Evolver they come across. Rewards for such a deed is great—like being granted a title. 

Evols and Evolvers—an ancient power and people abolished by the Empire five hundred years ago. Those few who inherit its gene are hunted down and slaughtered without exception, and rewards are generous for those who turn wielders in. And rumour has it that this very man in front of you, is one himself.

It’s only a rumour, though. It’s unconfirmed. If it is true, then that raises a whole lot of other questions.

You’re still not exactly sure what you think of this man. So you decide to test the waters a bit. “Sir, if I am to be staying here, I’d at least like a comfortable room.”

His silver brows lift in mild surprise. “Oh?”

“Yes.” Perhaps the two glasses of champagne you had at the ball and this whiskey here is making you a little more courageous than what’s ideal, even though you’re not that much of a lightweight. There’s a fine line between bravery and stupidity. “I am the daughter of a marquess. Who you just kidnapped. It’s the least you can do.”

“Goodness.” The man brushes a free hand across his grinning mouth, giving you a long, assessing look. “Well. I do suppose you’re right. I must extend some kind of welcome and thank-you for remaining so calm in such a…stressful situation for a nobleman’s daughter.”

“Stressful, indeed.” You stare into the amber liquid in your glass. You don’t have it in you to be sarcastic back right now. “I don’t really mind all this, just as long as I have food and water.”

“My lady.” Your head snaps up and you look at him as he uncrosses his legs and leans forward in his seat, gazing at you. “I have a question for you.”

You blink. “Uh. What is it?”

Captain Sylus doesn’t continue for a brief pause—he just continues to stare at you, and then his eyes narrow. “You are terribly unfazed by all this. May I ask why?”

“Oh…” You reach up and tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Um, well, you see, your…henchmen here choose quite the opportune time to seize me.”

He only hums in response, wordlessly urging you to continue. You drop your eyes again. “Tonight is the celebration of my engagement.”

The man takes a sip of his drink. “I know.”

Surprised, you look up at him again. “Oh, you do?”

“Of course. I have had this planned out for a good long while. Naturally, your engagement ceremony was the convenient date to apprehend you.”

Yes, naturally. You chew on the inside of your bottom lip. Your lipstick’s probably smudged. “I see.”

The Captain relaxes back in his chair again. “But I did not expect you to call it ‘opportune’.” He doesn’t ask any further questions to that, though, much to your relief. He has another sip of his whiskey. “Once that letter is delivered, we set sail. In one hour.”

“Okay.” You don’t really know what to think of how he’s ‘had this planned out for a good long while’. You suppose it’s just protocol. Nothing personal, as he’d said—but it sounds pretty borderline personal to you.

“May I just add one thing?” you tentatively ask, giving him a hesitant glance. The man inclines his head toward you in one tilt, staring at you from beneath his lashes. You take that as a yes. “Er, well, you probably already know this, but—my father isn’t the most agreeable of people.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So…what I’m saying is…” And then you realise something: if you divulge all the details of your father (most of which this man will probably already be privy to), he could decide you’re not a useful tool toward obtaining the ransom and thus dispose of you. That’s when you quickly decide to fake a yawn and rub your left eye tiredly. Your finger comes away blackened with mascara and eyeliner. Oops. You probably look like you got punched now. “Never mind! He’s just—well, he’s a handful, haha.”

“Mm.” The Captain’s finger taps against his knee. “Understood.”

Then, apparently deeming the conversation over, he lifts a hand and beckons the brothers over. “I presume you’ve already been introduced, but this is Luke and Kieran. They will escort you to your cabin.”

You make sure you try not to sigh in relief too loudly. “Oh, well, thank you very much, Mister Sylus. Your hospitality is appreciated.” As if you aren’t presently being held here against your will. 

“You are welcome.” The man looks immensely amused. “Enjoy your stay, my lady.”

“Haha, of course.” It’s muscle memory, the way you quickly bob a curtsy once you’ve gotten to your feet, bowing your head. “Um, and I apologise on my father’s behalf.” What the hell are you doing, you idiot? Why on earth would thank him and apologise for your father—the one who, essentially, got you into this mess? You’re just asking to become fish food, aren’t you? “Please don’t hold a grudge against me.” Save him the time and jump off the ship yourself already, you fool!

“Like I said, my lady.” He gets to his feet also and steps forward, full lips curled up at the corners, and it’s suddenly a little harder to breathe. Captain Sylus is tall, towering over you, chest wider than you’d initially gambled. He reaches forward, takes your hand, and brings it to his lips. He has garnets for eyes, you think, and his right one is, strangely, a little more intense than the other. I suppose the rumours aren’t as inaccurate as I thought. “It’s nothing personal.”

You gulp and give a wobbly smile in response. Yeah, I think I should jump as soon as I’m out of this office. “Well, thank goodness for that.”

You did not, in fact, end up jumping.

The bed is comfortable, if a little cramped. As expected on a ship—despite its colossal size, and the ample room it does appear to have, your cabin is more befitting a crew member, or a commoner, than a noblewoman.

But it’s not like you can complain, or have expected anything more. You got what you asked for. And you are a hostage here.

However, your room, regardless of its dinginess, is rather quaint. It’s not dirty or unkempt; it is in need of a bit of dusting, but you don’t mind. Its mullioned window is circular, with a direct view out to sea, and its frame is lifted higher than the bed so as to avoid one’s weight potentially breaking through the glass, and into the water below, despite it being plenty thick. Said bed is tucked into a little nook against the window, which is something you especially like, for your room back at the manor never had a view of the ocean. Now, you can see both the sunset and the stars as clear as day from where you sleep now.

Once you were led to your room, you didn’t see another soul for the night, nor into late morning. It was afternoon when someone finally tapped on your door—and you hardly got a chance to say “come in” before they shoved open the door and waltzed in.

“Clothes and a meal for the lady.” It was a female pirate, tall and lithe and dark-skinned. Her glossy raven hair was gathered up into an afro puff, a colourfully patterned bandana wrapped around her head, tied down at the back of her neck, behind her ears. She flashed a bright, good-natured grin and strolled over, relieving her arms of the bundle of clothing and platter of food. “The Captain said to treat ya well, missy. These clothes’ll be comfortabler than that stuffy costume yer got there.”

“Oh, thank you.” You gladly accepted the garments, returning the woman’s smile. “Please extend my gratitude to the cook and the Captain.”

“My!” she exclaimed mirthfully. “Never thought I’d see the day a noble’s nice to me! You rich folk usually turn yer noses up at the likes of us.”

You shrugged, placing the platter on your lap, stomach tightening in hunger. As a young child and teen, you used to sneak out of the estate and go play with the commoner children, pretending to be one yourself. They’d never have looked at you the same, or let you join them, if you didn’t. “You’ve brought me food and clothing, ma’am. The least I can do is thank you.”

“Kieran was right,” she laughed, hooking her thumbs on the baldric surrounding her waist in an insouciant pose. “You ain’t no brat, as far as I can tell. They said you wasn’t even bothered by bein’ kidnapped! If it were me, I woulda kicked and screamed and rammed them up the gonads with me boot before they could say knife.”

You chuckled, slicing through the roast chicken on your plate. “Those two grabbed me at the right time. I’m actually thankful.”

“Oh?” The woman looked rather taken aback, no less humorous. “Why’s that, missy?”

“Last night was my engagement ceremony.” You brought a piece of chicken up to your mouth, but paused to finish your sentence before eating it. “To a man I’m old enough to be the daughter of.”

“Ah.” She nodded, reaching up a hand to scratch at the back of her nape. “Gotcha. Well, I dunno much about you nobles and yer arranged marriages, but it does sound like y’all are a right miserable bunch. Guess yer glad?”

“Guess so.” You offered her a grin. Spending the night sitting in here and staring at the ceiling gave you plenty of time to think about the pros and cons of this. And, eventually, you found that the pros outweighed the cons. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

She chortled, and turned for the door. “Henrietta, but everyone calls me Henry—and no need to call me ma’am! Just glad yer a real one. I’ll leave ya to it now, missy. Will be back later for yer dishes!”

You are, at least, glad for the unexpectedly warm welcome, and the female crew members. You had initially been worried about Captain Sylus’s lackeys onboard being all-male, and thus you would be exposed to the danger of men who have been at sea for too long, been exposed to too much sun, haven’t felt the touch of a woman in years (or ever), and thus their true, ruthless depravity. You have heard far too many tales of the atrocities committed by pirates toward the people in their path of destruction and marauding—and many of them usually involved the young ladies they captured for the very same reasons as the Captain with the likes of you, or even just for entertainment.

You shudder at the thought, despite the cabin’s rather warm temperature, struggling with untying your corset fifteen minutes after you finished up your meal. Your maids last night had tightened the corset as much as they possibly could get away with, all to give you that damned cinched-waist look, leaving you practically gasping for air like a dying old chain smoker for most of the evening. Beats you how you bore with it the entire night—and even managed to get about two hours of sleep in that bodice from hell.

Oh, to blazes with it. With a forceful tug, you snap the strings holding it fast around your middle, and shimmy out of the rest of the garment, breathing a massive sigh of relief once it’s off. Now left in your underthings, you swiftly put on the rather tattered pair of trousers and breezy poet blouse provided for you, and stoop to gather up your gown, skirt hoop and corset. Then you proceed to pull open the tiny closet across the room, ball up the vestments best you can, and haphazardly shove the dirty clothes inside.

Out of sight, out of mind. You don’t want to see the damn things again. You don’t mind dresses, but ones with punishingly tight corsets and ridiculously wide skirt hoops are not your cup of tea. Having this airy, wide-sleeved and baggy shirt on feels terribly freeing.

Then you slump back down onto your bed after letting out your hair, scrubbing off the rest of your makeup best you can in the basin of (cold) water you’d been provided just before you turned in last night, and pull the curtain over the window again. That’s when you curl in on your side, and let sleep take you.

He leans against the door frame, arms crossed, top buttons of his shirt undone, smirk lazy. It appears to be a recurring thing of his: a signature, maybe—always providing everyone a permanent, full view of his sculpted chest, showing off his bulging biceps, and sending people mad with his provocative smirk. Provocative in what way? You’re still working that one out.

“Made yourself at home, have you, my lady?”

This is the beginning of your second-ever conversation with him, and he’s already being sarcastic. You had most certainly not expected a visit from him today; it’s been half a week since you first met him, and you feel subconscious all over again. You resist the urge to subtly fix your hair and smooth down the sun dress you’re wearing this evening. It’s rather disconcerting, how you suddenly feel like you wish you cared more about men’s opinions beforehand so you’d know what to do right now. “Uh, yes, I have.”

The Captain, mercifully, appears to be one who appreciates your unintended, awkward honesty, for he lets out a velvety chuckle. “Well, that’s wonderful news. Have you adjusted well to the seafaring life?”

“Well…” Not really, because you haven’t ventured out any further than just down the hall. They don’t lock your door, but you always opt to remain confined to your cabin anyway, because you’re shy. Embarrassingly so, in fact—one of the most prized attributes of a noblewoman is her grace, poise, and dexterity at being a sociable friend and host. Something that, if you hadn’t been kidnapped and the wedding still went through, you would’ve had to master quick—especially as a duchess-to-be. An eloquent title, sought after by all noblewomen in their right mind, and one you never asked for. So, clearly, you aren’t in your right mind. And you’ve long owned up to that, seeing this man and all.

Also, the ship’s constant bobbing and rocking on the waves is taking some getting used to. Sealegs don’t come instantly, it would seem—and more than once you have had to dash to the bathroom, hand over your mouth and complexion green, your guts apparently more than eager to spill out of you. Maybe going up on deck would help, but you don’t know how well you’d get along with the rest of the crew. Chances are, they would be averse to your company, for your affluent roots and defined upbringing would clash against their brash and boorish and foul-mouthed mannerisms. You’d like to make friends, and the twins and Henry are nice enough, but you’re far too unsure about the rest.

Best act as if I’m just not here, you’d decided a few nights ago. Nothing’s changed, really—for them, or for me.

You fidget with your thumbs and avert your eyes. “It’s been…a gradual adjustment.”

“Understandable,” he genially says. “You will get used to it eventually.” Then the man uncrosses his arms, straightens, and shoves his hands into his pockets. “However, my reason for visiting you is to ask something of you.”

Here we go. You’re torn between being on your guard and feeling rather excited. Damn the man for being so attractive! Why, of all times, do you have to be weak to a man’s charm now? Trying not to freak out, you offer a rather unsteady smile. “…Of course. What is it?”

“Join me for dinner tonight, my lady,” the Captain replies in that suave tone of his. “No need to dress up. It’ll just be a friendly chat over a meal and some wine.”

“Ah.” You look down at your lap. It’d be nice to have control over your blood pressure right now, because you feel like exploding. We’re actually supposed to hate this guy, you know. He kidnapped us!

Those old women who warned you, as a girl, about handsome men and their charm were right, you suddenly find. He is probably the most handsome man you’ve ever come across—all the most-sought-after bachelors in high society have got nothing on this guy. You never thought they were all that much to write home about, anyway, but you rest your case. And this man’s looks aren’t pretty or beautiful or pure in nature—no, he’s devilish, maddening, and hot. A less polite term, something that would make you clutch at your pearls if you had any, at any other time—but it’s no less a fact.

And not a very fun one right now. You’d like to dislike this man, to have a reason to take away his ability to have children, but it’s strangely difficult. His condescending tone does grate on you, though.

“I, well…” It’s probably for the best that I decline. Becoming friendly with your abductor (despite your rather relaxed take on all this) is probably something you want to avoid. “I—I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Impose?” Captain Sylus lifts a silver brow at you. “It isn’t imposing when you have been invited, my lady.” One half of his full mouth quirks up into a roguish little grin. “Besides, you are a noble. It’s only manners to provide a woman such as yourself a meal befitting of your status.”

“I don’t think…status really matters here,” you reply, now fidgeting with a loose thread of your dress, not looking at him anymore. “I’m not exactly a guest.” And you jump to add, “But—I am terribly grateful for your courtesy thus far! The clothing, bedding, and food is much appreciated.”

“Don’t mention it, sweetheart.” You stiffen at the abrupt nickname. And you’re afraid he noticed it, because the Captain’s smirk widens, his eyes a hooded scarlet. “Like I said, none of this is personal. It’s your father I have a vendetta against, not you.”

You laugh awkwardly. “Oh, well, that’s reassuring.” 

He insouciantly leans his weight on one foot, and he tilts his head at you, smile far more impish than before. “Aw, don’t tell me I am getting turned down by the most beautiful woman on this boat right now, hm?”

“Oh, no, of course not!” You jump to your feet, heart in your mouth, suddenly very afraid you just signed the dotted line for an appointment with the ship’s plank. And his pet sharks, if he has any. Then that word registers. “…Sorry, did you say ‘beautiful’?” “I did,” the Captain affirms smoothly. Then the man gives you a slow once over. “Am I wrong? I don’t think I am.” “I—” You flush from head to toe. “That’s…That’s very, erm, kind of you.”

“Well, then.” He lifts a hand from a pocket and outstretches it to you. “Shall we?” I guess I don’t get a choice in this. You are feeling rather peckish, anyway, so you reluctantly nod and approach him, taking the Captain’s arm. Let’s just hope he hasn’t poisoned my wine or anything. 

He leads you down the corridor outside your cabin, up the steps, and to the main deck, where you can finally get a full panoramic view of the ocean, and the rest of the ship.

There is no land in sight, only an endless stretch of dusk-hued blue in every direction, sparkling with whites and yellows from the gradually setting sun. It’s high summer, and the voyage thus far has been speedy and undisturbed and sweltering, the sun’s ray barrelling down upon the boat and making your room awfully stuffy, even if you open the latched window just below the top of its frame. Onychinus pirates are bustling about the ship, chatting away, or even humming age-old folk songs in unexpectedly glorious harmonies. And you notice that people from all stretches of life and ethnicity and gender merrily go about their duties here, even shouting crass, but jovial, greetings to their Captain as he passes by, you on his arm.

“Evenin’, cap’n!” one calls, lifting a hand in a wave. The man, like most of the crew onboard, is bronzed from the sun, cheery and robust. And then the pirate even tips his hat to you. “Milady.”

You lift your hand in an awkward wave. “Oh, hello, good sir.”

Captain Sylus returns the pirate’s greeting, nodding to the musket in the man’s hands. “That engraving’s looking good, Clive.”

“Aw, thanks, cap’n!” Clive’s words are a little muffled from the puffing cigar in his mouth. “Almost done, yer know! Can’t believe ya scored such a beauty back on the mainland. This oughta be worth a fortune.”

“What are you engraving?” Your curiosity gets the best of you, and you’ve blurted the words out before you can remember your place. “Er, apologies, I don’t mean to be nosy, you just look very skilled, sir.”

“Blimey!” The pirate fixes the Captain with an awed look. “Ain’t ever been called ‘sir’ before, ’specially by a dame. You really scored this time, cap’n!”

The man beside you lifts a brow. “Just answer the lady, Clive.” 

“Yessir.” Clive tips his hat in apology and extends the weapon out to you, showing you the intricately-detailed etchings of what is a half-finished boat on the ocean. “I like to carve the odd picture into guns ’n swords, milady.” He taps his graver against the steel side of the musket. “Just a hobby, yer know? Passes the time. Once I finish me duties for the day, I sit here and chip away.”

“You’re very talented!” you exclaim in wonder, admiring the realism and sheer detail of the imprinted scene even on such a small piece of metal. “I knew a gunsmith downtown who took on commissions to occasionally engrave weapons, like this! You’re even better than him!”

“Aw, goodness me, milady,” Clive says rather bashfully. “Yer gonna make me blush! I s’pose if you think it’s good, it must be.” Then he tips his hat to you again. “Much obliged, miss.”

“Not at all!” You beam. “I just think it’s very commendable, achieving such a level of detail, with only a chisel and a few picks.” You glance up at the Captain. “Your ship is full of surprises, sir.”

And, to your amazement, the man gives you a small smile. “That reminds me—you haven’t had a tour yet, nor have I introduced you to the crew.” Then the man gestures to the jolly pirate before you both. “This is Clive, the boatswain.”

You politely curtsy out of simple muscle memory. “A pleasure to meet you, Mister Clive.”

“By me beard!” Clive exclaims, even though he doesn’t have a beard, “you really did score with her, didn’t cha, cap’n!”

“Well, we’d best get going.” Captain Sylus takes your arm again and swiftly begins to steer you away. “Dinner awaits us.”

You let out a small, disappointed noise, and send a wave over your shoulder back to Clive. “Have a good evening, Mister Clive!”

The man chortles and returns the farewell, and you follow after the Captain as he leads you to ascend about three hundred sets of stairs again. 

You’re quite tired afterward. “You…huff…sure have a lot of steps for a, haa, boat.”

The man beside you chuckles smoothly. “Let’s say it provides a good bit of extra fitness for the crew, and makes enemy personnel’s trek up to my office a little harder.”

“Um, very strategic,” you offer, not quite sure what to say, and still panting. “Not sure if you know, but your intellect is, uh, renowned, sir.”

“Call me Sylus, sweetheart.” He pushes open the door, steps aside to let you through first, smirking down at you in that way of his. “No need for such formalities.”

“But…” You continue following after him as he leads you further into his study, which apparently will also act as the dining room for the evening. “I’m not a guest, sir. I’m a hostage. And I know this is a strange thing for a hostage to say, but aren’t you supposed to keep me locked away beneath the ship completely?”

“My lady, I may be a scumbag of a pirate captain,” Sylus begins, and he doesn’t sound apologetic in the least, considering that roguish grin of his, “but I do have manners. I run a tight ship. We plunder and pillage and thieve, yes, as pirates do, but I know how to treat a lady. Especially…” That’s when he pauses, faces you, and gently grabs your hand, placing a charming kiss to the top of it. “One as lovely and amenable as yourself.”

Steam’s probably drifting off the top of your head, with how hot you suddenly feel. “O-Oh, my. Well, um…” Those crimson hues, as cheesy as this sounds, are far too deep and intense for you to hold without (probably) melting into a puddle right in front of him. Oh, this is really not good! “Thank—Thank you. Very much. I’ve never been complimented by such a handsome man as yourself before.”

“Handsome?” Idiot! You just had to go ahead and let the h-word slip, didn’t you? Why not get on one knee and ask him to marry you while you’re at it, you buffoon! And that devilish smirk widens, like he knows, damn him, and he coyly tilts his head at you. “You think I’m handsome?”

This is the second time you’ve actually spoken, you inwardly seethe at yourself, trying to keep a straight face and not burst into embarrassed tears, and it’s like you’re desperate to be either a) thrown off the edge of the boat or b) chained to him for good! But, well, even you can admit either-or is better than being carted off back to your father.

No! You can’t let yourself go down that rabbit hole. That’s something where you would choose to be chopped up into fish food other than having something so dreadful happen to you. Remember, we don’t really know this guy! And he kidnapped you!

Right. You’re a captive right now, held against your will, and you’re supposed to be incensed. You should probably be acting bratty and trashing your cabin and sneaking into his room to slit his throat at night or something. But you can’t. You don’t know why, but you can’t.

Because this is better than marrying that old duke. That you know, and have accepted, deep down. And this is better than having to endure the cold, empty, and lifeless halls of your father’s estate and his austere attitude toward you by far.

If Captain Sylus was ugly like the rumours professed, perhaps hating him would be easier. Which just shows how shallow you really are inside. I’m no better than those boy-crazed debutantes. 

But he’s not ugly—he is, in fact, the very opposite of ugly—which is annoying all on its own. Because right now he’s rendered you speechless with his question, and you’re itching to run and take a swim with his pet sharks yourself. “Erm, uh, well, I-I…suppose so.”

Sylus’s full mouth curls up at the corners a little bit more, maddeningly smug. “You suppose so?” “I—I was just returning the compliment!” you insist, removing your (sweaty) hand from his grip, clutching it to your chest. “I, um, I apologise. I never really quite know what to say when I am praised.”

“A shame,” he hums, turning to continue leading you into his office, and you both finally stop before the dining table. The Captain pulls out a chair, and gestures for you to sit. “Perhaps I shall just have to compliment you more often, then.” “Oh, please don’t.” You take the seat and hide behind your hair. I’ll combust if you do! “It’s really not necessary.”

He remains standing, and lifts a bottle of wine. “But I’d be a terrible host if I didn’t. Wine?”

Just what I need. You refrain from snatching the bottle and guzzling it all down in one go. “Uh, yes, please, Mister Sylus.”

“Just Sylus is fine.” The Captain pours the wine into your glass and then fills his own, before taking a seat. That’s when you have a good look at all the food laid out for you.

Well, certainly a feast befitting a wealthy pirate king and a captive noblewoman, I suppose. You can’t say you’re exactly fond of using your status as leverage, but this is like a meal you’d expect at a formal gathering between repulsively rich aristocrats. Except, the man before you now is not an aristocrat. He’s a pirate. The same pirate who abducted you. The same pirate who’s out to get your father. And the same pirate you’ve been having a very difficult time not slamming against the wall like this is some brainless romance novel. Get a grip, you blockhead. Closest you’ll ever get to being pinned against the wall is when he’s using you as a makeshift dartboard. Which will very probably happen if it turns out your father really couldn’t care less about you and never coughs up the ransom fee. 

You take a shaky sip of wine, and, nice as it is, it doesn’t succeed in immediately soothing your frayed nerves. Which, in your opinion, completely defeats the point of wine, but you make do for now. You just hope you can at least stomach some food.

“Well, this is quite the feast,” you awkwardly say, managing out something like a laugh. It sounds more like a cry for help. “I’m very honoured…Sylus.”

You swear he looks pleased when you finally address him by first name. There are no servants, which is fine by you, and your mood gradually improves as you go about placing some boiled potatoes and rotisserie chicken and fresh green salad on your plate. It all smells divine. The Captain gives a grin. “It’s the least I can do for you, my lady. I have to thank you for being so tolerant of this…what did you call it?” He places the platter of boiled potatoes you’d handed him down back in their place, and lifts his glass of wine to his lips. And he’s gazing at you from over the rim of it. “Ah, yes—an inadvertent evening adventure.”

Heat creeps up your neck, and you look down at your plate. I can’t believe he remembers that! “Haha, um, yes. Quite so. Y-You know, you don’t have to call me by such a formal title.” You place your glass down and pick up your knife and fork. “Just my name is fine. If you know it, that is.”

“Of course I know your name.” He calmly goes about cutting up his chicken, giving you a glance without moving his head, from beneath his brow. The man always tends to execute such gestures in such a way that leaves you feeling a little breathless, and you always look away quickly. And you feel like an idiot. Since when did I allow a man to have such an effect on me? Absolutely beats you.

“Ah, I see.” He doubtlessly did his research on you before you were abducted. Oh, well. You chew away on a piece of lettuce. Just makes this whole thing so much easier to know I’ve been watched this entire time. 

You hold back a sigh. Nothing personal, but nonetheless disconcerting.

And the evening carries on rather peacefully—a stark, and almost embarrassing, contrast to your constant inward chaos. You deeply dislike how self-conscious the man makes you, while he just sits there, all relaxed and eternally smug and composed, while you’re barely hanging onto your sanity. I’d best make myself scarce now!

“Well!” you announce, once you’ve finished off your plate and wine, attempting a beam of a smile. “That was a lovely meal. I’m so full! I must return to my quarters now. Thank you so much for your hospitality.”

“You won’t stay for dessert?” The Captain lifts a brow at you, putting his (refilled) wine glass down. 

“Oh, no, I couldn’t.” You’re already standing and pushing your chair in, smoothing down your dress. “The main course was more than enough, I assure you. Besides! I wouldn’t want to keep you any longer, me being a hostage and all.” You swiftly curtsy and turn for the door. “Again, thank you.”

“Well, then, allow me to escort you back to your cabin.” He, too, gets to his feet, rounding the table and approaching you. “It’s dark out now, and I doubt you know the way.”

“Oh, I know the way,” you lie, and you sheepishly drop your eyes when he arches a brow at you again. “Sort of.”

“That so,” he says, and then he extends his arm for you to take like the perfect gentleman again. “Well, as you insist on returning, let us go.”

“Ah! Thank you.” You, with an enthusiasm you curse yourself for having, accept his arm, and you begin your walk with the Captain back to your cabin. “I didn’t expect such kindness.”

That smirk looks more like an accommodating smile than something smug this time. “How can I not, when I have such a lovely lady on my arm?” You almost smack him playfully, and instead roll your eyes. “Oh, enough of that.”

Once you both stop outside your room, you give him another curtsy and turn to open your door. “Goodnight, sir—uh, I mean, Sylus.”

The man takes your hand again, placing a peck to the top of it, and that look in his eye really does almost have you shoving him against the wall. Such a notion has you fumbling to open the door and hide away, and he smirks. “Goodnight, my lady.” He looks a little too good in the shadows like this, and you would probably be wise to be afraid. He finally releases your hand. “I enjoyed our time tonight.”

“As did I!” you squeak, avoiding his eyes, smile stiff. Oh, you’re an idiot! Utter idiot! Maybe, at the next stop this ship has, you should take that chance to run. In a flash, you’re peeking out from behind your cabin door. “Goodnight!”

And the last thing you see is his smug little grin you really feel like both smacking and kissing off his face. You wait until his footsteps have faded before screaming into your pillow. Oh, yes, you are an idiot.

Over the next few weeks of the voyage, Sylus takes it upon himself to give you a full tour of the boat and the crew onboard. He introduces them to you, and their attitudes, like Clive and Henry and the twins, are mostly positive toward you. You voice this surprise to the captain.

“Oh, I gave them a talking-to,” he explains, looking very pleased with himself, “the day after you arrived.” 

You blink. “Ah. I see.” 

And as you continue on your tour of the ship, a sudden call from high above you makes you jump. “Land-ho!”

Everyone drops what they were doing and gathers at the bow of the ship, hands to their foreheads to block out the sun, squinting in the direction which the watchman is pointing. 

Far more calmly, the captain leads you to the front of the boat, and the crew parts the way for him, while you stay behind. Someone hands him a spyglass, which he extends and holds up to his right eye. You can’t see anything, for most of the crowd gathered is blocking your view, and eventually Sylus lowers the telescope from his eye, hands it back to one of the female pirates he’d accepted it from, and turns to face everyone. His hands are shoved languidly into his pockets, coat hanging off his broad shoulders, and his silver hair gleams in the sun. “We’re heading due west, right for Othlan, at present. We’ll reach its port city of Othelm in about two days.”

The crew begin chatting amongst themselves, parting the way again for their captain to pass through, and you continue to try and spot the speck of land sighted over the top of the excited crowd. The floppy hat you’d donned earlier after Henry said the sun is “merciless” this time of year doesn’t help much, and you finally give up once he’s returned to your side.

You, with a hand on top of your hat to keep the breeze from blowing it off, blink up at him. “I’ve never been to Othlan before.”

“It isn’t the most interesting of places.” And nor is it the friendliest with the mainland, your country, Rosmon. There’s more of an uneasy, shaky truce between the nations, but as pirates are not strictly allied with anyone in particular, Onychinus will be able to pass through without much of a fuss. You hope.

 “Oh,” you say, giving one last glance out to sea, for the crew members are dispersing and going back to their duties now. “Alright.”

“Did you want to see?” Sylus stops in his tracks and half-faces you. “It’s hard to see from this distance. It was only spotted because the watchman”—He points upwards, to the top of the mast—“has the eyes of a hawk.”

“I see.” You squint into the skyline, and you can only just make out the tiniest dark dot, sitting just above the blue horizon, but the sun is blaring down and bouncing off the water, almost blinding you. “It is hard to see, but—look! I can only just spot it.” You point. “Very far away.”

“Yes.” From where you both stand, you can even see the curvature of the planet, and it’s a view you can’t quite get used to. And the man next to you is part of that. You quickly look away before you can start ogling just how exquisite he looks with the breeze softly brushing his hair to the side, out of his eyes, nose and jaw and frame something mighty, as he looks out to sea. Without any doubt, he fits the role as a sea captain and pirate king seamlessly.

“What will we be doing once we arrive?” you ask, brushing some stray strands of hair out of your eyes. 

Sylus does not face you, but he tilts his head in your direction, eyes flicking down to you. It’s a motion that’s, as usual, unfairly attractive, and you almost click your tongue in annoyance. “Ideally, my informants stationed there would have received a letter from your father agreeing to the exchange for your return, as my intended destinations never seem to be something I can keep under wraps. So, doubtlessly, the letter would have been sent to Othelm.”

It’s stupid, the little prick of disappointment that’s dealt to that equally stupid muscle in your ribcage by his words. Ideally. Yes, you are, essentially, both a bargaining chip and liability. Extra resources are wasted on you, really—and you should also be eager to get back, but you’re not. You’d like to be, but you’re not.

The smile you give in response succeeds in hiding your disillusionment, however. “Yes, let’s hope so! Fingers crossed my father already has a ship docked there for my boarding.”

“Yes.” He stares at you. “Fingers crossed.”

The next two days fly by like the wind in the sails, and soon, Othelm is directly in sight. Many ships of varying sizes and shapes sit berthed in their respective docks at the port, and people bustle about the area, securing ropes and anchors and carting barrels and crates of goods around. 

But everyone, even you, knows the true nature of this port city. Othelm, in all its renowned trading glory, is a thriving pirate hub.

Ruled by Sylus, unquestioningly. The very vessel you’re on right now had drawn the attention of the lookouts and sailors hurrying about the port long ago, as the Onychinus’ flagship approaches with its night-black hull and its signature jolly roger of a red flag and crow in the centre. The Captain’s men stationed here would be fully prepared for his arrival now, and you suddenly feel a sense of foreboding.

Will I be alright? You, a woman, and a captive one, at that, would assuredly be unsafe in such a crime-riddled place as this. You can’t spot a single woman—there would, certainly, be ones, but they would either be brothel workers or female pirates themselves. And you are no safer with a hostile female pirate than you are with a male one, as sad as that makes you. The difference between them is, a female pirate wouldn’t try to violate you in an alley before finally putting you out of your misery. You’d far prefer a woman’s dagger to your jugular than a man’s vicious, bruising grasp, in all potential scenarios.

A knife is a knife. It can be used to slit throats or cut bonds. In this context, your throat is quicker to be sliced open than your escape successful and smooth, regardless of the wielder’s identity.

“I should probably stay down in my cabin, huh?” you comment, veiling your anxiety, keeping Henry company as she goes about readying the anchor for casting. “I have no place wandering around this city.”

“Well, milady,” she begins in reply, straightening and wiping her sweaty brow, “it’s good to see ya so wise and with a rational head here, but I’m afraid ya won’t have a choice.”

You swallow and nervously smile. “Um, how do you mean?” 

“I mean, the captain here’ll prob’ly make ya tag along.” She turns to grab a nearby rope. “To make sure ya don’t escape ’n all.”

“What about just…locking me in the cabin?” Is having to follow him around really necessary?

“To be honest, milady, I’m not entirely sure meself, but I presume that’s what’s gonna happen.” Henry offers you a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, yer’ll be safe so long as yer by the Captain’s side.”

You know that much—but you also doubt the man’s willing to go to any great lengths to make sure you are safe. ‘Nothing personal’, which probably includes your well-being. You’re just one of the many aces up his sleeve, and not one he necessarily needs.

Perhaps you could go convince him to allow you to stay in your cabin for the time the ship’s docked here. Bidding farewell to Henry, you turn and make your way back to your quarters, waving a hello to Luke and Kieran as you pass.

And then, out of nowhere, there’s a grating caw of a crow, and something black and feathery obstructs your vision. It flaps to a stop at your side, and you jump to find Sylus’s trusty pet crow, Mephisto, perched quite happily on your shoulder.

“Oh, it’s you.” The bird has apparently taken a liking to you, for it holds something sparkly in its beak and blinks at you in offering. You reach up a hand, stroking its breast feathers, before accepting the little trinket it brought to you. “Aren’t you an intelligent fellow, hm? A far more interesting choice than a parrot, I’d say.”

“Agreed,” a deep voice says from behind you, and you almost leap out of your skin in fright. Startled by your sudden movements, Mephisto caws loudly right in your ear and jumps off your shoulder, gliding over to settle on a certain pirate captain’s broad left shoulder instead. He grins down at you. “I am glad to see I am not alone in my more unconventional tastes.”

“It—It makes a statement,” you reply, rather out of breath, attempting a smile. “It’s definitely more, um, intimidating.”

That grin widens. “Ah. So it works.”

You’ve gotten used to his more acerbic, dry humour thus far, over the weeks you have, in essence, befriended him. At least, you consider him a friend. You’re unsure if it’s mutual, however. You laugh a little. “Ahem, yes, it would seem so.” 

“Where were you off to?” Sylus casually asks, lifting a hand and affectionately scratching his pet crow’s head. If a crow is even capable of purring, it does now. The bird nuzzles into his palm. “We are getting ready to disembark.”

“Oh, I was just going back to my cabin.” You weakly gesture behind you, in the general direction of said cabin. “I wouldn’t want to get in the way of anything by tagging along. It’s an unfamiliar and, as you’re well aware of, unsafe place.”

He hums, giving you an assessing look. “You are correct. However, how on earth could I be so cruel as to leave you all alone on a boat? You will be tagging along, and I can ensure your safety.”

“If you’re worried about me running away, you don’t have to be.” You look down at your hands awkwardly. “If you like, you can lock my cabin door.”

“My, you really are strange, aren’t you?” the Captain remarks, crossing his arms. “It almost sounds like you don’t want to go back.”

“Uh, well…” You’re not sure if it’s appropriate to confirm that. “Let’s say…I’ve grown fond of the sea view.”

“Is that so?” Sylus lifts one arm and brushes a hand across his mouth, gazing down at you. “How interesting.”

“But, of course, I do have to return,” you hastily add. Get a grip! Push it any further, and he might leave you here, stranded! You suppose that’s a tad bit kinder of a fate than simply marooning you somewhere. You’d just have to snatch a few coins from a crew member’s pouch, or even his office, and you’d somehow make do in this strange, dangerous city. “My—My father must be worried sick. I can, erm, assure you that he would have sent a letter agreeing to your terms. I assure you.” 

“Uh-huh,” is all he replies with, and he lowers his arm back to fold across his chest. You really don’t like that perpetually knowing look of his. It’s simultaneously arrogant and humiliating. And it doesn’t help that his face is easy on the eyes, either, which inadvertently makes things easier to forgive. You’ve found you really quite hate that, actually. “Still. Surely you’d like a tour of the city?” Then Sylus lowers his arms, shoving his hands into his pockets, posture so damn relaxed compared to your tense frame, staring at you from beneath his lashes. “You liked this old ship here so much, sweetheart. Othelm has all kinds of thrills and adventures and things to do, too, you know.”

“Oh, I see,” you weakly reply.

His smirk makes you want to smack him, drown him, kiss him and scream at him all in one breath. “Really, it’s like a manual. The perfect introduction to the pirate life.” 

“I see,” you say again, avoiding his gaze. Why does this guy have to be so damn perceptive? It’s not that you want to be a pirate, one who joins in on all the bloodshed and thieving and killing—you just don’t want to go back. And, somehow, you doubt your father has dispatched a letter for Sylus, demanding your return. Despite his rather frightening determination to marry you off to that old duke, you doubt it. 

“Either way, you simply can’t hide yourself away down in that stuffy cabin for the rest of the week.” The Captain half-turns to walk away. “Come along. The ship is docking now.”

You hesitate once more, staring at his broad back as he strides away, before heaving a sigh and following after him. Things can’t get any worse, right?

Oh, but they could—especially when it’s pirates and Sylus in question.

You trail after him down the gangplank once the ship docks, trying not to slip on the slimy, wet wood of the wharf as he, with Luke and Kieran flanking him, strides along without a falter to his step. Some other crew members have gathered behind you, their hands resting casually on the hilts of their cutlasses, a dare to those surrounding and watching to just try anything. You slow down and fall into step beside Henry, wishing you had at least some kind of weapon, even though you’re not trained with one.

As if she read your mind, Henry pushes aside her loose-fitting outer vest and hands you a dagger, winking. “You’ll probably need it, milady.”

“Oh.” You breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Henry.”

The attire you chose to wear today proves to be wise: with a baldric hitched around your waist and baggy trousers for your lower half, the dagger fits nicely into one of the empty notches of your belt, and your shoes are far more practical than the heels you were abducted in. They have grip, supportive against the slippery pier you’re walking along now, and the bandana you used to wrap around your hair helps you look more like the part of the pirate.

Blend in, the logical part of your brain had told you earlier this morning, and that’ll lessen the chance of anyone trying anything.

If Sylus had noticed, he’d made no comment. Henry gave you a thumbs-up when she saw you, and the twins gave you two encouraging thumps on the back that almost sent you flying. All that’s left to do now is try to slump your stance and stride a little more, instead of that straight-as-a-rod posture your witch of a governess used to slap into you. She even used to use a switch on you whenever you did something wrong, and the scars on the back of your calves are still fading.

Nobility is a farce, purported to be a life of luxury and little toil and relaxation. Sure, having a full belly at the end of every day and access to a bath and an abundance of clothes to wear is great, but there’s always darker facets to it that remain overlooked, where skeletons reside safely in the closet, and the more illicit is turned a blind eye to. Such an example is your own father.

You’re not entirely sure of what exactly he does, has done, or is embroiled with, but it is nothing moral, as proven by your abduction. Sylus would’ve had a better chance with getting what he wants if you were a ‘beloved daughter’ to your father. However, you have, for much of your life, gone ignored by the only parent you have.

Such is life. Richer or poorer, there are hardships all the way. You’re more fortunate than most, you know this, but it still rather hurts.

Boisterous greetings are exchanged between the crew behind you and the other pirates milling about the port, and a few even approach Sylus to clap a hand over his back. Shared interests in thievery appear to produce a strong sense of camaraderie amongst these people, and the captain, despite his intimidating and rugged and arrogant approach, returns the greetings with a small grin and nod.

The Onychinus head, with his signature pet crow on his left shoulder, continues sauntering through the streets and toward a bouncing pub up ahead. Its sign, nailed into the wood above the building’s door frame, is hanging on for dear life, weather-beaten and grimy. It looks like it might’ve once spelled “Owen’s”, but the E is around the wrong way. Intentional or not, you’re uncertain. Pirates aren’t known for their literacy.

Just outside the pub, the Captain turns and faces the group following after him. “Alright, everyone, you are free to do as you please for the rest of the day. As long as the boat is restocked and cleaned up before nightfall, you may drink to your hearts’ content tonight.”

Immediately, the crew lets out overjoyed cheers and disperse, hurrying off in different directions with their companions. You remain, Henry at your side, with the twins beside the captain, and he turns once more to enter the tavern. “We have business to attend to.”

What business? you want to ask, but you’re immediately deafened by the sheer uproarious volume of the bar, where pirates gulp down jugs of ale and rum and beer, engage in destructive brawls at their respective tables, or rage at each other over games of poker. The place stinks of alcohol, tobacco, fish and unwashed men, and you almost heave your insides out right there.

And it doesn’t look like it’d be an uncommon sight to see in here, either—you have to carefully pick your way through the tables and men and other unidentifiable things you don’t want to find out about on the floor, and it’s clear the place is hardly ever mopped. With a hand over your mouth and nose, you resist the urge to bolt out back into the fresh air, where the stench of fish and filthy pirates is a little less potent.

The other four with you, however, look completely unfazed, and you follow after them as Sylus makes his way through the pub, up for a set of closed-off steps near the back of the alehouse, and barely gives any of the drunk pirates a second glance, even as they slur soused greetings to the man. You keep your head down, and avoid their eyes.

But that appears ineffective—abruptly, out of nowhere, you feel a hand meet your backside, and you yelp, whirling around, more than ready to deal an incensed hand across the bastard’s face. You turn to find a table full of guffawing men, many of them missing teeth, in terrible need of a shave, and puffing glowing pipes of baccy. 

“Yer a new face!” your harasser belly laughs, and you almost shriek when he grabs your wrist and tugs you toward him. His grasp is bruising, and you frantically struggle to get away, getting ready to panic. You begin fumbling for your dagger. His companions, all holding sets of playing cards, snicker amongst themselves and watch on with dark glee. “What’s a cute lil’ thing like you doin’ ’round here, eh?”

“Let me go!” you exclaim, enraged and scared, and you lift your free hand to smack his face with all the strength you can muster. It sends his pipe flying out of his mouth, clattering to the ground, and his surprise has him letting your wrist free. Immediately, you back away, rubbing your arm, breathing hard. “Do that again, and I’ll—!”

Your back meets a chest, and a terrified gasp clogs your throat. But the cologne is familiar, something far removed from the reek stifling the air around you, and a large hand meets your shoulder. Your head snaps up to find the face of Sylus, and his set jaw.

“Having fun, boys?” he drawls, gently pushing you behind him. Henry’s standing there also, stepping forward to guard you from the rear, and it takes quite a bit within you not to burst into tears. She gives a comforting squeeze to your upper arm, and softly tugs you to walk away with her. “You won’t wanna see this, milady.”

“What—why? What will he do?” You attempt to throw a glance back, but your view is blocked by Kieran’s taller frame. And then there’s a shatter, a yell, and every pirate in the tavern turns to face the commotion. You’re being herded up the stairs before you can try and catch anything again, and the door at the top of the steps clicks shut just as there’s a pained shriek and collective cheer from down below.

You knew something along these lines would happen to you at some point, as this is the perilous environment you’re now entangled in, but it leaves you greatly shaken regardless. You feel dirty, you’re probably going to cry, and you’re angry. Henry turns and gives you a sympathetic look. 

“Don’t ya worry ’bout it anymore, missy,” she soothes, her hand hovering consolingly over the small of your back as she guides you to sit down. “Good thing the cap’n’s fond of ya. Said to us a few weeks ago that if any of us try anythin’, we’ll meet a grisly end.”

“Is…Is that so.” You stiffly take a seat and try to calm yourself, vaguely recalling him saying something along such lines to you. “That’s, uh, kind of him.”

Henry snorts humorously. “He knows this ’as been hard for ya. Sorry that had to happen to ya, though. You got good reflexes!” She grins and jostles your shoulder. “Saw that smack you gave the old scoundrel. Must’ve loosened a few more of ’is teeth!”

You appreciate her attempts at cheering you up, and you crack a wobbly smile. “Yeah. Must’ve.”

Suddenly, you’d really like to go home. And after that happened, slipping away and hiding in a ship set sail back for the mainland isn’t such an ideal notion anymore. Imagine if Sylus hadn’t stepped in? Imagine if you were alone? Compared to them, and their experience in combat, you would be a lost cause.

The ghosting touches of sleazy noblemen that had you spinning around in a rage have got nothing on what you’ve just experienced. You hug yourself and force yourself to relax back into your seat, praying that your father has sent a letter, demanding your return, just so you have a way out of here.

Ten minutes later, the door clicks open, and in enters Captain Sylus. His eyes meet you, trailing up and down your frame in a scrutinising manner, before he strides past and for the door at the end of the corridor. “He won’t be harming you again.” The man casts a glance at you from over his shoulder. “None of them will.”

“Uh, thank you,” you croak, trying to smile again. You rather wish you did the honours yourself. “Much obliged, sir.”

“No need to thank me.” He pauses before the door, pulls out a set of keys from his pocket, and shoves one into the lock. “Luke, Kieran, Henry, you know what you’ve been assigned.”

Henry gets to her feet, smiles, pats your head, and walks over to join the twins. “See ya later, milady. Let’s pray it don’t happen again, but, knee the next guy in the balls, alright? Really give it to ’im!”

That earns her a laugh from you. “Noted, Henry. See you.”

And that leaves you seated here, on the sofa outside Sylus’s presumed second office, the man still standing outside the door. He’s looking at you. “Are you alright?”

You heave a sigh and look down at your hands on your lap. “Yeah. Just a little shaken. Thank you for stepping in.”

“Again, no need.” The Captain turns the doorknob and begins to open it. “I have things to attend to now.” And then he points to the door diagonal to his. “If you would like to rest, there is a bed in there.”

“But, isn’t it your room?”

“I hardly mind.” He shoots you an impish grin, but it’s not unkind. “It seems you’ve convinced yourself you’re a bother, when you’re the hostage here, so isn’t it the other way around?”

“And you call me strange,” you mumble, scratching the back of your neck, “when you treat me like this.”

“What was that?” 

“Nothing!” You jump to your feet and hurry for the door he’d pointed to, offering a bright smile. “Thank you so much for your kindness. I won’t keep you any longer.”

And you swear you hear him chuckle as you shut the door. He’s rather good at distracting you, even if he doesn’t seem to try.

Perhaps that’s the thing. He doesn’t need to try.

A few days have passed since that incident, and you let Henry drag you about the safer streets, pushing it to the back of your mind. But you notice one thing—the pirates bustling about the place seem particularly avoidant of you.

Is that her? You’d heard a few of the escorts serving ale and female pirates murmur amongst themselves. The Captain’s woman?

“The Captain’s woman?” you gasp at Henry, rather mortified. “Is…Is that what I’m being called now?” “Gotta cut ’em some slack, missy.” The woman pats your shoulder. “’Tis a bit of a shock, because he ain’t done that for nobody else in the past.”

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish. “Ah.”

It just makes you more eager to get back on the boat and leave this port city, for its heavy atmosphere, violent crime and the looks everyone gives you has the hair on the back of your neck standing on end. However, no harm comes to you—it appears the warning Sylus demonstrated proved effective.

If only my father could see me now. He’d either have a heart attack, throw a hissy, or personally march you off to the dukedom himself. You, a noblewoman, dressed in the tattered, sun-faded rags of a pirate? Those debutantes would drop to the ground in a faint.

You would’ve, too, if you were that age. No wonder your father was in such a hurry to marry you off—you are now well past the common and ideal age for women to be wed, and you think you did a rather good job at putting it off as long as you have. And, now, despite the less-than-ideal circumstances, you’re no longer so glad to have been kidnapped, but it’s still better than having to warm the bed of some squalid old man you don’t know from a bar of soap.

But, eventually, the day arrives for everyone to board the ship again and head off to the next destination. You’re probably one of the first to hurry on the ship, a safe haven from the malignant attitudes and perturbing stares you receive from man and woman alike at the port, and somewhere you can finally think. 

It was a harsh wake-up call for you, all of the commotion and the incident you’re still reeling from. It proves as a reminder that, although Sylus and Henry and the twins and the flagship crew treat you a little kinder than the rest, pirates are still pirates, and are evil people by profession.

This has been a fun adventure, while it lasted. You wait until Sylus has boarded the ship, given the command to set sail, and retreats back to his study before you approach him.

You knock on his door, and the answering “come in” has you, with some hesitance, clicking open the door and entering. You swallow, drawing in a deep breath. Alright. It’s okay. Just pretend he’s ugly and nasty and horrible like the rumours, say your piece, and get out of here. Stop overthinking things!

“Ah, it’s you, sweetheart.” Great. In an instant, all your resolve has crumbled, all because he’s, apparently, taken a liking to addressing you endearingly in a tone so deep, it reminds you of the ocean. That sounds corny. And it makes you want to jump in said ocean, and willingly become fish food.

“Uh, yes, it’s me,” you reply, clearing your throat. “I’m just here to, erm, ask if you received a letter from my father?”

Hours ago, when the last of the resources were being loaded onto the ship, you’d noticed the captain speaking with another man far more well-dressed than all the other surrounding scruffy buccaneers. He’d handed Sylus a bunch of letters, tied securely together by a string, and your heart had immediately lifted with hope. Surely, there would be a letter in that pile that would mean your return home. 

The man pauses in his present perusing of said pile of letters, and looks up at you from above the rims of his glasses. He doesn’t say anything for a brief pause, before he puts the paper in his hand down, slips off his glasses, and leans back in his chair. “Unfortunately, my lady, no.”

You immediately deflate. You look down at your hands and stiffly pick at your nails. “…Ah. I see.”

“I am sorry,” Sylus says, but his tone sounds impersonal. You half-consider asking him if you can double-check the pile of letters, just in case—however, you know that would be pushing your luck. Instead, you glance up and try to smile. “Oh, no, it’s alright. It…might just…take a little while longer. I apologise for the wait.”

“Mm,” he hums in agreement, and you avert your eyes from his, unable to hold his stare. There’s a long, tense moment of silence, before you look at him again. “You don’t have to answer if this is too, uh, personal, but may I ask what it is my father took from you?”

Sylus, again, doesn’t answer you for a beat, before standing from his seat and lifting a hand to tug at his collar. His sleeves are rolled up at the elbows, revealing his corded, toned forearms, and you try not to gawk at him. Dammit, I always had a weak spot for tanned men. His bronzed skin looks positively delicious in this low light, and maybe it’s time for you to leave. Before you actually jump him this time.

Besides, you’ve been rather uninclined to male company since that mishap at the tavern. Every time it comes to mind, it churns your stomach painfully.

“Your father is currently in possession of something I discovered myself,” he begins, rounding his desk, crossing his arms and leaning back against it. “Emphasis on the I. It is something called a ‘Protocore’.”

You turn your head to look at him sidelong, puzzled. “Proto-what?” “A Protocore,” he repeats. “Wanderers are thought to be extinct. No one knows how they came to be. It’s been centuries, almost an entire millenia, since the last Protocore was recorded. Five years ago, I found one.”

“I see.” You’re still not entirely sure what he’s getting at, but you understand the gist of it. “So, it’s…some kind of mystical item that provides supernatural powers, perhaps, like in those fairytales?”

His lips twitch with an amused grin. “If you like. Except, they are filled with energy I don’t know how to extract and tap into yet, but it is connected to my Evol, I believe.”

You straighten, startled. “I’m sorry, did you say Evol?”

“I did.” Sylus lifts a hand, and something red and black and like mist gathers around his palm. The empty pitcher of water on the coffee table lifts and clatters to the ground, and you let out an exclamation of surprise. “It’s a less well-known factor about me.” He tilts his head and smiles at you, but it’s sharp as a knife. “Usually, those who see me use it don’t live to see the morrow.”

So the rumours are true. Your heart drops. “Oh. Oh.”

Then, realisation hits you in the face. “Wait. Hold on.” You take a step closer and stare up at him with wide eyes. “Is the reason why you hate my father, why you’re the most-wanted criminal of today, and why my father is out for you…” It’s a little less harder to hold his gaze now. “Is because he turned you in?”

His mouth is tightly shut as he gazes at you, long and hard, before he lets out a breathy chuckle. “Oh, yes, you’re a smart woman, alright.”

You falter, taking a step back. “Oh. Well. This is…” You run a hand through your hair. “This is something.”

“It is,” Sylus croons in agreement. “I was only a boy.” You glance up at him. “How old are you?” 

“I am twenty-eight.” He tilts his head. “I thought that was common knowledge.”

You shrug. “Some people say you’re hundreds of years old, an immortal alien creature, and the devil incarnate. Rumours tend to spiral out of control and be exaggerated.”

“That is true.” The man gives you an assessing look. “And how old are you?”

“Well, you know that the night you kidnapped me was my engagement ceremony,” you say, shrugging again. “But I’m actually past the ideal age women are married off. My father was in a hurry to get rid of me. That event was celebrating my betrothal to a duke in the northwest. I’m only a little younger than you.”

Sylus gives a low hum. “Ah. That is the reason why you weren’t all that worried about the abduction.”

You smile wryly. “The man is my father’s age. I was being congratulated left and right because I was about to marry into such an affluent family and achieve a grand title, but…” It has been drummed down your throat your entire life: you are the daughter of a noble, his only offspring, thus, it is only protocol that you would be shipped off somewhere, to some man, who you will long outlive. Yes, the money and position and power and life is attractive, but you just didn’t want it. It wasn’t even because you wanted to marry for love—you just didn’t want another set of chains to be locked around your ankles, more than you already have from your father.

Your mouth twists to the side, and you shrug again. “I don’t know. I just didn’t want to get married. Not to a man thrice my age.”

“I suppose that’s understandable.”

“Anyway, this ‘inadvertent evening adventure’ turned out to be far more than I’d bargained for that night I sat here in front of you.” You grin up at him brightly, and then it fades. “Apart from being assaulted, it’s been…fun, I guess.”

“I…am sorry that happened to you.”

You shrug it off, not wanting to talk about it. “I’m surrounded by pirates. You guys try your hand at anything.”

“If you are suggesting that I would lower myself to such a thing…” Sylus straightens in his spot, towering over you. “You are sorely mistaken.” A hand of his comes up and tucks a stray strand of hair behind your right ear, and his gaze roots you to the spot. “That man met his end in a fitting way for harming a woman.” His thumb brushes your cheek. “And, as long as you are on my ship, you’ve nothing to fear.”

You resist the urge to lean into his palm and look down, biting back a bashful smile. “Oh, well, thank you, Sylus.”

“Think nothing of it, sweetheart. I may be a pirate, and I may have kidnapped you, but I do not happen to be completely immoral.”

“Nothing personal, right?” you say, voice strangely hushed.

The Captain’s shapely lips lift at the corners, and his eyes aren’t such a lethal shade of red anymore. His hand drops back to his side. “Nothing personal.”

Sylus revealing the true nature of his history and relationship with your father ended in connecting a whole lot of dots for you: it explained why your father’s reputation is so good, even though he is ‘new money’ and of commoner origins, why he was in a rush to marry you into even higher status, and his elusive countenance. You actually can’t believe Sylus chose not to kill you—wouldn’t it be the perfect revenge against the man who ruined his life from childhood?

The Empire is, despite openly encouraging people to turn Evolvers in, secretive as to exactly why. They brush it off with an excuse that such people are “dangerous” and “alien”—but it confuses you terribly as to why they haven’t revealed to the public, in the man’s wanted poster plastered across all stretches of the Empire and beyond, that Sylus is an Evolver. Wouldn’t it be the cherry on top? Wouldn’t it be the perfect selling point to really motivate people to hunt the man down and capture him?

The answer is simple, you found, after mulling over it for a good long while afterwards: it would make no difference to his reputation anyway, and Sylus is simply too powerful. He is too powerful an adversary, too influential a figure, and too loved as a pirate king to tear down so easily. He has mastered the art of evading the Imperial Navy. They hardly even try anymore, in fact.

But, perhaps the true nitty-gritty of it is that Sylus has his fingers stuck in everything. He makes deals with nobles, maybe even the Emperor himself, and thrives off of their desperation to keep their illicit trading with the pirate king under wraps. Why does he always get away from them by just a hair? Why does he always remain undefeated?

Corruption. And Sylus is at the centre of it all. The uncrowned king of the briny deep. He, in essence, shoulders all maritime trade. He, in essence, rules not only the verboten business of the sea, but of the land, as well. He, in essence, is the true power behind the golden-gilded Imperial throne.

He’s too useful to dispose of. Too powerful to contend with. The Emperor is a weakling compared.

So, perhaps the reason why he is dead set on getting that Protocore-thing back from your father is because it may just be the very thing the Emperor needs. The very key to finally dethroning Sylus. But, just what is the Protocore?

Not even Sylus knows. Or he’s just not telling you. Why would he tell you? The daughter of the very man who brought about this mess, who threw a wrench in the pirate king’s plans? You stare out your window, seated on your bed in your cabin, gnawing on your thumbnail, buried in your thoughts. He surely knows. The man is too cunning to not know. 

You just hope it isn’t anything too risky. Knowing that man, however, it’s guaranteed. And you just hope you don’t get too caught up in the crossfire, if everything ends in blowing to hell.

Days melt into weeks, and weeks melt into months. Soon, you’re sure it’s been at least half a year since you first arrived on this ship, and now you have visited more places than you can count. Henry started showing you a few tricks with how to effortlessly gut an assailant without a hitch. You spend time chatting with the crew members up on deck, helping out with the odd menial task, and gradually adjusting to the seafarer’s life.

One little responsibility you’ve taken up is mending some of the crew members’ torn garments. You’ve always been rather good at embroidery, much to your governess’s (very rare) delight, and you gladly accept anyone’s clothing to sew back together.

Some of the woman pirates aboard the ship expressed wonder at the high quality of your needlework, the seamless stitches patching their ripped shirts or trousers up to perfection again. It proved a good pastime for you instead of just sitting in your room and reading, doing nothing, and it makes you feel useful. Especially when you get to redo the loose and poorly-sewn hems of their clothing, as not one of them appears to be much good with a needle and thread.

“Always get me clothes caught on the odd nail or hook,” Henry had lamented once, sitting by your side and peacefully observing as you mended one of her colourful bandanas. “Before you came along with those nimble hands of yers, most of us used to just continue on with massive holes in our pants or shirts! Then the cap’n got us some thread and all that to fix our clothes, but we didn’t really know what we were doin’.”

“I can see.” The shirt she had given you to repair had the most horrid stitching you’d ever seen. First, you carefully removed the yarn, threaded the needle, and began repatching it. “It’s alright.” You smiled at her. “I enjoy doing this. And it’s really quite easy to get the hang of, too. See? I could even do a bit of decorating for you, if you’d like.”

Word spread, and soon many of the crew’s clothing had piled up in your cabin, ready for you to mend—and even a certain someone knocked on your door and leaned against the door frame.

“If you’re unopposed,” Sylus said, lifting a neatly folded shirt in the air, “I have a few things that need stitching.”

“Alright,” you’d agreed, accepting the garment. Its material was highly expensive, with gold thread and intricate embroidery. “It might take a while, though. I’ve got…” You glanced at the mountain of shirts and pants and other things gathered by the closet. “A lot to get through.”

“Take your time.” And he’d even ruffled your hair. “It’s not urgent.”

Then, Sylus started turning up with the odd trinket and jewellery. A lot of jewellery. It only ever happened whenever the ship would make a stop at a port, and the man had taken a strange liking to showering you with gifts.

You stared at the pair of cream pearl earrings in the velvet box. “You…got me these?”

The Captain was standing on the threshold of your cabin, hands in his pockets, head inclined down to you. “I did. I thought they would suit you.”

“Pearls suit anybody,” you blurted, before realising how that sounded. “That is to say, I am very grateful for this gift, Sylus. They are lovely.”

“Try them on.” He lifted one hand from a pocket and brushed some hair away from one side of your face, tucking it behind your ear. You shivered slightly, trying not to preen at his touch. “Let me see them on you.”

“Uh, alright.” You turned away before he could see how flustered you were. “Let me, um, get my mirror.”

After that, he always returned from trips into cities with jewellery, clothes, or other miscellaneous luxuries you’re quite overwhelmed at receiving. And then you start overthinking things, keeping yourself up at night, mulling over every single act of generosity toward you, and that’s when you decide to get up and cool yourself off with some fresh sea air.

You’re an utter fool, you chastise yourself, tugging your cool, silken robe shut to fend off the chill. Another gift from him. Pull yourself together! He’s most likely fattening you up for the slaughter. Leading you along to let your guard down, and then you’re dead meat!

Most crew members are in their bunks and hammocks by now, while some remain out on guard and watch above deck, and you make your way up to a more secluded area where you can be alone to clear your head.

Only, someone’s already there and enjoying a glass of whiskey.

“Oh,” you say, before you can remember to be quiet and slip away unnoticed. Their head turns to you, and you recognise the build as the captain’s. You awkwardly curtsy in apology, even though you’re in a robe and nightgown. “Apologies, sir. I didn’t know anyone else would be here.”

“It’s late,” he replies instead, lifting his glass to his lips. You remain a polite distance away, ready to turn and leave, but he continues. “What are you doing up?”

What am I, a child? You purse your lips. “I can’t sleep.”

Sylus hums, and his head turns to gaze out to sea again. “I am the same.”

Before you can think better of it, you approach the man and come to a stop beside him, a good metre between you. You’re not about to risk giving into temptation. “Aren’t you cold?”

He chuckles. “I am not, but thank you for your concern, sweetheart.”

“Ah.” What were you going to do if he was? Offer him your robe? You’re chilly enough on your own, even with the dressing gown. This was a very bad idea. You clutch the railing you’re both leaning against. “No worries.”

It’s silent for a few more beats, and you can’t stand the tense atmosphere any longer, so you open your mouth to take your leave, but Sylus beats you to it. “Care for a drink?” Your mouth falls open, before you click it shut, awkward. “Oh, you don’t have to. It would be a long walk from here to your quarters. I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”

“Sweetheart,” his chest rumbles with a chuckle again, and you can feel his eyes on you, “this is my private balcony.”

You gasp, reeling back. Oh, gods, imagine how this must look! A woman, dressed in a thin, mercifully modest, nightgown, visiting the very man she has an uncomfortable amount of sexual tension with, at night? Especially this late, where it’s quiet and those onboard are mostly asleep? He must think I’m so pathetic! What an idiot!

“I’m—I’m very sorry,” you fall over your words, blazing hot with humiliation. You take three hasty steps back. “I didn’t know, I promise you. I was only wandering about aimlessly, looking for somewhere to think. This was terribly rude of me. I’ll, um, I’ll leave now. Again, I apologi—”

“I never told you to leave,” Sylus softly cuts in, and he sounds so smug. But he places his glass down, faces you, and takes a step forward. You can’t see his face; he’s just one tall silhouette of muscle and arrogance, horribly good at driving you mad, and you clutch at the front of your robe, finding it uncomfortably hard to breathe. “I’m not averse to your company.”

“Oh…” You lower your head and stare down in the general direction of your slippered feet. It’s too dark to see anything, really, as the moon isn’t out tonight. The scent of his cologne and body wash and shaving cream is almost overpowering. And it’s getting harder to resist the urge to not just grab his collar and wrench him down to kiss you. Get a grip, you buffoon. You think this is a romance novel or something? He’d sooner keelhaul you than return such affections! “Well, that’s kind of you.”

He’s close. Standing right in front of you. You can feel his body heat. And you jump when his hand suddenly meets your chin and lifts it. “You know, I had always wondered what on earth I was going to do with all that jewellery of mine.”

“O-Oh?” You swallow and smile unsteadily, despite him probably not being able to see you. If this is his private balcony, why doesn’t he have any lights on, or a few candles lit? You should’ve brought a chamberstick with you. “Is that, uh, so?”

“Mhm,” he hums deeply. “And then I thought: why not just gift them to the only woman aboard who knows what to do with them?” Sylus’s hand moves, lifting to brush his knuckles against your cheek. You shiver, and not from the cold. “Imagine my happiness when I saw how flawlessly they suited you.”

You try not to think about how all that jewellery is likely stolen goods, and their original owners are either dead or still out there, stripped of their wealth, all because of this one man. “I don’t quite know where to start repaying you.”

“You don’t repay gifts, sweetheart.” His hand is warm. “Besides, isn’t it the least I can do?”

“To be honest,” you begin, voice cracking slightly, and you clear your throat, “I, um, there’s one thing I don’t really understand.”

Is he doing it on purpose, the way he caresses your cheek? Damn the man. “And what is that?” “My father is responsible for you leading a life of piracy.” Your words make his hand stop. “I’m his daughter. Aren’t you at least a little resentful of me?”

“If anything, it should be you who is resentful of me, sweetheart.” Sylus shakes his head at you. “Are you forgetting who’s the vile abductor here?”

“Oh, no, of course not.” You twist your robe’s tie around in your hands. “I just—well…” You tilt your head to the side and avert your eyes. “I would understand if you decided to send my head back on a platter to my father as a pleasant little message to hurry up.”

He snorts. “Are you saying you’d let me?”

You shrug. “I say this because I know you won’t.” Then you give him an unsure glance. “I think.”

“Rest assured, I will not.” The Captain then grabs your hand and lifts it to his lips, kissing your knuckles. “I’ve said this countless times before. It’s nothing personal.”

“Sounds pretty personal to me,” you mutter, flushing. “You must be going out of your mind with impatience. He didn’t even bother to send a letter agreeing to your terms.” Is a Protocore more important than his own daughter?

“That is why we are set on-course for Rosmon right now.” He lowers your hand from his mouth, but doesn’t let go. “I have plenty of less-sanguine methods of procuring an item without mailing a human head to someone.”

“That’s a relief,” you softly laugh, still feeling feverish. I should probably leave now. Stay here any longer, and you will be pinning this man to the wall. “That’s, er, all I wanted to say.”

“So you did ‘wander about aimlessly’ in search of me?” Sylus teases in that sultry tone of his. “Goodness, sweetheart. If you wanted to speak to me so badly, you could’ve just said so.”

“I—no, I really didn’t mean to disturb you here,” you insist, humiliated. “I know how that must’ve looked. Those really weren’t my intentions. Please, just—forget it ever happened.”

“Why should I?” It appears he doesn’t intend on letting you off the hook tonight. “You got my hopes up.”

“Wh-What?” Your heart’s in your mouth at this rate. “I—! That’s—I didn’t…”

“A cruel woman, you are,” Sylus taunts, even going so far as to step away and cross his arms. “What else was I supposed to think?” You put your face in your hands. “I’m terribly sorry, Sylus. I don’t know how else I’m supposed to explain myself to you. I swear, none of that was my intention! Stop teasing me!”

He pretends to heave a forlorn sigh. “I suppose I’ll just have to spend the rest of my life wandering aimlessly about these seas, dreaming of what could’ve been, forever heartbroken by one woma—”

That’s when you let out an exasperated noise, lash a hand out, grab the collar of his shirt, and wrench him down, like you’ve been dying to for months. You still can’t really see him, so you blindly push yourself up onto your toes and head for where you picture his mouth to be—and your judgement proves accurate, for Sylus immediately uncrosses his arms, grabs your hips, and pulls you flush against him, meeting you halfway. 

The Captain’s lips slot directly over yours, and they’re as soft and satiny and hot as you’d imagined them to be. Your hands are balled into fists on his chest, tightly clutching at his shirt, and one of Sylus’s hands comes up from a hip and cups your right cheek, tilting further into your mouth, deepening the kiss. His lips move, vehement and slow, prying your lips open. You squeak into his mouth as his tongue enters, laving against your own, and you can taste the aftermath of the whiskey he was enjoying earlier. It’s a rich, smokey tang that you find yourself enjoying, as if it’s enough to get drunk off of, and you go limp against him. The one hand left on your side slides to wrap around your waist, splayed against the small of your back, keeping you upright as you tug on the silver strands of hair at the back of his neck. You’re trying to push yourself up higher, to meet him far more closely and comfortably, and Sylus takes that chance to turn you around, back you up against the railing, and continue his burning incursion on your mouth. 

“Mmph—can’t—oh!” You try to break away for some air, but he’s far more eager than you’d initially gambled, and you’re cut off by his tongue swathing against your lips, diving back in, leaving you thoroughly inarticulate. You’re probably going to shred his shirt through with your nails from how tightly you’re grasping it, clawing to find some kind of grounding. You can’t keep up with him; Sylus’s ministrations are deep and passionate and sensual, you’re trying to match his speed, hardly lacking in vigor, but you’re running out of oxygen. 

My lungs! They feel as if they’re about to burst, so you pound one fist against his wide chest and squirm, whining into his mouth. “Sy—Sylus—air!”

You can see him now, as he finally breaks away; the moon’s peeping out from behind a cluster of clouds, his hair is identical to its pale beams, mussed from you running your hands through it, and he blinks at you, as if drawn from a haze. You’re breathing hard, gulping in the oxygen, offering him a shaky smile. “…S-Sorry, just a bit out of air.”

Sylus is gazing at you with an intensity that makes your heart both stop, plummet, and leap, and the intimate region between your thighs is burning. You blurt out whatever comes to mind to fill the awkward silence. “Um, I didn’t know you were such a good kisser.” You look away and to the side, lost for what to do and say. “And, uh, I’m sorry for grabbing you like that, um…I just needed to, you know, shut you up.”

“Do you know…” he says instead, one of the man’s hands brushing back a loose strand of hair, eyes roving over your face. “How angry I was when that man harassed you?” You blink. Why is he bringing that up now? You’d rather not talk about it. “…No.”

His smirk is something that instills a deep sense of dread within you—not for your life, but for another’s. Another’s that’s already long gone. “I almost razed that pub, that town, to the ground. With every one of those repulsive bastards inside. That man got off very lightly for what he really deserved.”

Your mouth twists to the side. “Didn’t you kill him?” 

Sylus’s teeth flash with that sharp smile. “Far too quickly.”

Lowering your head, you bite back a smile. “I wish I’d had the honour.”

He lets out a breathy chuckle and buries his face into your neck, clutching you close. He’s quiet for a few moments, and you try not to preen too much at his previous comments. He’d go to such lengths for you, a captive, and the daughter of the very man he hates? Your cheek rests on his shoulder, and you allow yourself to smile. I suppose he won’t make me walk the plank just yet.

The man’s large frame is warm and wards off the cold, and your hands are gently rubbing into his back, something that makes him purr delightedly into your nape. “I was wondering how long it would be before you finally found the courage.”

“Uh, sorry?” Your hands pause, and then you flinch when Sylus begins placing soft kisses to your skin, nibbling lightly, before he finally bites down and soothes the sting with his tongue. You jolt upright, mind blank, and he laughs softly, one of his hands cupping the back of your head. “I, um, I’m not quite—” Your head falls down onto his shoulder, and your nails dig themselves into his back, through his shirt. “What you—hm!—mean…”

“Sweetheart, I am no fool,” Sylus murmurs against your neck, the other hand around your middle tugging you closer just that little more. At this rate, he’ll flatten you against him. “Did you think you were being subtle with the way you look at me?” Oh, just wonderful. You burn with mortification and embarrassment. “I…didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“It was amusing,” he chuckles, lips now pressing against your collar, “if that’s any consolation.”

You keep your face hidden in his shoulder. “Not really.” 

“I kissed you back, didn’t I?” Sylus emerges from your neck and stares down at you, and that maddening smirk has you conflicted between pushing him away and pulling him back down again. It doesn’t help that his eyes flick to your mouth and back up to your eyes, his top teeth tucked beneath his bottom lip. “And, I dare say, I enjoyed it thoroughly.”

You lower your head and wriggle out from between him and the railing, too humiliated to look at him anymore. “I, well…it was okay. I think I should probably leave now.”

“Not so fast, lovely.” He grabs your elbow and pulls you back, leaning in—and that’s when he firmly tips your head up, his other arm around your waist again. “You have to give me a goodnight kiss first.”

“You’ve gotten awfully fond of her as of late, boss,” Kieran begins casually, as if only commenting on the weather. “Giving her special treatment and all.”

“Right,” agrees Luke, parking his behind on the Captain’s desk, making Sylus click his tongue in irritation. The mask conceals Luke’s grin, but his amused tone doesn’t. “It’s already been, like, six months, at least. Never seen you so polite and charming around a woman before.” 

“I do believe you’re overanalysing things,” Sylus remarks, not looking up from the paperwork he’s busy signing. “It’s merely treating a noble lady with the respect she deserves. Something called manners.” The Captain gives Luke a pointed look. “Something you two could learn a thing or two about, it would seem.”

“Uh-huh,” Kieran draws out, waltzing over from the window to stand before the desk. “Been a long time since you ever cared about decorum and respect, sir.”

“Especially since she’s the daughter of the very man who, I dunno…” Luke selected a pen from the desk and twirled it around his fingers idly. “Maybe destroyed your entire childhood?”

Sylus, already used to such antics from the two boys, gives no outward reaction. “I am assuring that the goods remain intact.” He finishes signing one document and begins on another. “I’ve no need to explain myself to you two.”

Kieran snickers. “You’re only digging yourself a deeper grave with that one, sir.”

“And they sure are taking a while to get back to you about her ladyship, aren’t they?” Luke drops the pen and then leans over to grab an envelope, buried beneath the mountain of paperwork on the captain’s desk, and holds it up, as if only just discovering its existence, and it’s the most interesting thing in the world. The seal of the letter is broken, its crest one they all recognise, and Luke smirks. “Or, maybe they have, but you’re just…stalling.”

“And that is so terribly out-of-character for our dearest Captain Sylus,” Kieran quips, crossing his arms. “It’s also terribly out-of-character for our cold and intimidating and oh-so-chaste captain to smooch up a storm with his archenemy’s darling daughter.”

Sylus coolly places his pen down, takes off his reading glasses, and leans back in his chair. But there’s a set to his jaw, a sharpness to his gaze, that immediately puts the twins on guard. “I do believe the bilge cleaners could use an extra pair of hands or two.”

“See? He keeps avoiding the topic,” Luke hisses to Kieran, as if their captain isn’t right in front of them, and as if he doesn’t look like he’s about to maroon them. “Poor guy. Does he really think no one could see them? All that charm, and he hasn’t gotten any action in his life.”

“Yes, I think a demotion from first and second mate really would prove a nice little reprieve from your duties.” Sylus puts on his glasses and picks up his pen again. “Apparently, there’s a rat infestation in the bottom of the ship’s hull. I think you’ll be plenty occupied helping the crew out down belo—”

“No need, sir!” Hurriedly, Luke scrambles off the desk and they rush for the door, giving their Captain hasty salutes. “We won’t bother you any more! We know full well how busy you are! Have a good rest of your afternoon, boss!”

And the door slams shut. The wearied Captain Sylus releases a sigh. I need a nap.

Sylus was invited to join in on the partying, but he had declined. Usually, he’d be unopposed to sharing a couple of drinks with his crew and enduring their awful jokes, but, tonight, the captain is busy nursing a glass of wine with his paperwork. And a particular letter on his desk.

So, when there is a knock at his door, he heaves a sigh and clicks it open. “Luke, I already said—”

“Ooh, look who it isssss.” He’s mildly surprised to be welcomed with a drunken smile and the swaying frame of his dearest hostage. “The gorgeous Captain Sylus!”

He lifts a brow, one corner of his mouth curling up. “Oh, my. What a wonderful compliment to receive from such a beauty as yourself.”

You giggle. “Y’know, I can never tell when you’re being—” hiccup, “—sarcastic or not.”

Sylus leans a forearm up against the door frame, looming over you, but that doesn’t seem to deter your inebriated self in the least. The scent of alcohol is overpowering, and he’s thoroughly amused now. “I prefer to keep my cards close to my chest, sweetheart.”

“Little too close!” The woman lands a smack to his other arm. “Got any rum? Henry showed me this game called ‘the cup of sacrifice’. It was gross! Beer, ale and salt do not go together.”

“You’re not going to throw up, are you?” Sylus gently grasps your shoulders to steady you. “I’d prefer you to not do so in my office.”

“Noooo! I won’t throw up.” You tip forward, despite his firm hold on you, and your forehead meets his chest. Your slurred words are muffled by his shirt. “I do feel a little—hic—squeamish, though.”

The Captain can’t help but huff out a laugh. “Goodness, you have adjusted to the seafaring life, haven’t you?” He eases you from his chest. “One might even say you’re a full-blown lady pirate now.”

Your head tilts lethargically up at him. “I’d rather that than becoming a duchess.”

“Oh?” Sylus wraps an arm around your shoulder and guides you into his office, shutting the door behind him with his foot, and helps you toward one of the couches. “And why is that?”

“Because,” you say, words garbled, “I don’t wanna marry some paltry old duke. I prefer…” And that’s when you surprise him by reaching up, grabbing his chin, and tilting his face this way and that. “You.”

“I’m flattered,” he croons, gently grabbing your wrist and removing your hand from his face. You slump into the sofa, head laid back against the cushion, smile dopey. You reach up again and poke his cheek. “Yeah. I’d rather marry you.”

That makes him pause. He stares. “That so?”

“Uh-huh.” Your arm flops down at your side. “I don’t want to go back.”

The man straightens and turns to pour a cup of water from the pitcher on his desk. Sylus extends it to you. “I thought any woman would like to become a duchess.”

You give a drunken snort and sloppily drink the water. “Yeah, probably. Is it, hic, so weird that I just don’t…” You sluggishly lean forward and place the cup on the coffee table. “Wanna be forced to bear some old guy’s heirs?”

“I suppose not,” he acquiesces.

“Call me superficial, but he’s ugly, and you’re not.” You flop an arm over your eyes. “Ugh, I have a headache. Anyways, you’re obviously the better choice here.”

Sylus crosses his arms. “That’s terribly kind of you.”

“Can you stop giving me two-word answers?” It was actually four words, but you hardly notice, giving a hiccup and removing your arm to glare weakly at him. “You kissed me. Doesn’t that mean you want to marry me too?”

The Captain cracks a little grin, and takes the seat beside you. “Not necessarily, sweetheart.”

That’s when you wave a hand dismissively. “Was joking, anyway. What’s your hair care regimen?”

Your spontaneity barely fazes him now. He refills your cup, then pours his own. “Why do you ask?”

“’Cause your hair’s so soft.” A hand comes down on his head and pats it. “Dunno how you manage it when spending weeks at sea. You—” hiccup, “—are so strange.”

Sylus grabs your hand and kisses your knuckles. “Let’s say that it’s a secret, my lady. Now, how about getting you back to your cabin and into bed, hm? You’ll have a horrible hangover in the morning.”

“Ooh, you gonna join me?” Your forehead leans laggardly on his shoulder. You giggle again. “You look warm. I get a little cold down in that cabin. Sometimes, the water comes smacking right up against the window…”

“What a terrible state of affairs,” he humours, easing you to your feet, arm wrapped securely around your middle. Your head lolls against his shoulder, and Sylus keeps you steady. “Regrettably, it would be most unbecoming for an unwed man and woman to spend the night in the same room and bed, sweetheart.”

“Oh…!” You appear to only be just sober enough to finally realise the connotations of your words. “No, no, that’s not what I meant…” Sylus briefly considers picking you up and carrying you as you abruptly stumble over thin air, speech slurred from the booze. “I meannnn, I’m not averse to it…but—”

“That’s a dangerous thing to say when you’re drunk, my lady.” He opens his door, sweeps you up into his arms, and turns in the direction of your cabin. The sudden sensation of the ground disappearing beneath your feet has your intoxicated self disoriented and clutching at his shirt. Sylus grunts and readjusts his hold. “Fortunately for you, I am no knave who would take advantage of a defenceless woman.”

“See? Marriage material.” A forefinger lightly jabs at his chest, and his eyes snap down to you. “Could you get me some more rum? We need to toast to this!”

“I think you’ve had quite enough rum for one night.” She is wasted. A rambling nonsense. Nonsense that’s probably going to make him lose sleep tonight.

“You can never—” You let out a very unladylike burp. “—have enough rum.”

Sylus can hear the boisterous celebrations of the rest of the crew down on the main deck, and he holds back a sigh. “I suppose they taught you a few of their favourite drinking games?”

“Sure did!” If it weren’t for his firm stature and balance, perhaps your staggering as you jubilantly threw up a hand in merriment would’ve sent the both of you stumbling. “Real fun. Never did anything like that at those dull old balls!”

“Sounds like the noble life is terribly boring, hm?”

“So boring! It’s…” Your fogged mind has to think hard about what to say next. “Nice to let loose, y’know? Probably why I like this boat and crew s’much.”

“Strange until the end, you are,” Sylus softly remarks, amused, and he gently guides you down the corridor for your cabin. “Almost there. You lie down and I’ll go get you some water, alright?”

“Aren’t pirates meant to be ruthless thugs?” you mindlessly, sluggishly muse, fumbling for the doorknob of your room before the captain takes charge and opens it for you. “So unrealistic. You’re the nicest pirate I’ve ever met.”

“I believe I’m the only pirate you’ve ever met.” He sets you down on the bed, straightens, and turns to open a window. The sea is calm tonight, and so is the cool breeze. “Other than my crew. And, yes, I’m likely the only ‘nice’ one out there. If deciding not to kill you is considered ‘nice’.”

“I’d say generous,” comes your muffled voice from the pillows you’ve buried your face into. “You could wake up tomorrow and settle to feed me to your pet sharks.” “Pet sharks?” Sylus snorts. “Have you convinced yourself that I have pet sharks?”

“S’what those fairytales say.”

“Except, this isn’t a fairytale, sweetheart.” The man picks up an empty jug of water sitting near your bed. “This is very much reality. And I don’t have any pet sharks.”

There’s a grunt. “You should get some.”

The Captain can’t help but chuckle. “I’ll take it into consideration. I’ll be back with some fresh water in a bit.”

When he returns, he finds you grumbling incoherently and rubbing your hands over your face. He sets the pitcher down, pours you a cup, and extends it. “Here. Drink.”

It’s like you hardly even noticed he left, with how you wordlessly sit yourself up and accept the water. Once you’ve downed the whole cup, you peer up at him with glazed, squinty eyes. “Did I ever tell you you’re gorgeous?”

“You did, about ten minutes ago,” he replies, refilling the cup and putting it by your bedside, within reach. “I appreciate the compliment. It’s time for you to sleep now.”

“Sleep with me,” you mumble, and then you yawn. “I’m cold.”

“Can’t do that, I’m sorry, my lady.” Sylus is not a good man, but he draws the line at some things. He takes a seat at the edge of your bed. “You must rest now, or your hangover will be worse in the morning.”

There’s a tug on his sleeve, your grip on his shirt feeble with your clear enervation. The high from the alcohol is dropping into sleep. “…If you asked me to…I’d marry you.”

“Is that so?” He brushes some hair out of your closed eyes. “I’m honoured.”

“Should be.” Your words are fading. “I’m a noblewoman.”

“That you are.”

“So, you have to do as I say…”

“Indubitably, sweetheart.”

“We should…replace the nuptial beverages with rum only…”

“Taken a liking to rum, have you?”

He doesn’t get a reply to that one, and Sylus remains for a moment, ensuring you’re asleep, bringing the blanket up a little further over your shoulders, before leaning forward and placing a kiss to your temple. “Sweet dreams, my lady.”

And once Sylus arrives back to his study, he picks up the neatly folded letter and gives it one last skim-read.

Marriage?

There’s a crackle and hiss as Captain Sylus strikes a match, lifting the flame to the corner of the paper, allowing it to catch alight. He watches, closely, as the letter swiftly blackens to cinders, and he blows the matchstick out. As far as he’s concerned, you don’t need to know of its existence.

Yeah. Sylus disposes of the ashes and burned taper. Marriage. He could do that.

And, maybe, he’ll tell you about the letter. Someday. Just not any time soon.

While it took a few hours for your headache to ease and for your ability to actually function to return, the memories came barrelling for you in full force. You babbling embarrassing nonsense to the captain. Poking his face, whining for more rum, suggesting marriage, and essentially spilling your guts. You sit here, now, head in your hands, considering doing the honours and voluntarily walking the plank yourself. To save everyone the trouble. And to save you the embarrassment of having to face Sylus again. 

What the hell was I thinking? Thank the gods the ship’s sailing right for the mainland again. Perhaps you could take that chance to leave a letter apologising to him profusely and then make a run for it. You wouldn’t be taking the pearl earrings, as painful as that would be. And you almost jump out of your skin when there’s a knock at the door, before you force yourself to relax. “Come in.”

The door opens, and the very person you’d really not like to see is standing there, arms crossed, that stupid grin pulling his full lips up. “Morning, sweetheart.”

You put your face in your hands again. “Please go away. Can I jump off the ship?”

“You’re telling your future husband to go away?”

“Stop!”

“And I can’t let my future wife jump off the edge of the boat and go swimming with my pet sharks.”

You’re a hair away from bursting into mortified tears. “Where on earth is Henry?”

“Most of them are still asleep and hungover. Who else would be able to check on you?”

You turn, lie down again, and pull the covers up so you’re covered fully, back to him. “I’m fine! Now, please save me from further humiliation and come back later!”

One of the floorboards creak as the captain strolls into the room, and there’s the sound of water pouring from the pitcher and into a cup. “I thought you wanted to know my hair care regimen.”

“Sylus!” You groan into the pillow. “I have a headache!”

“Of course you do. I’m just being a good host and fiancé and making sure you’re—oof!”

Said pillow comes flying and smacks him right in the face, and you rush out of bed, clothes crumpled and hair frizzy, dashing for the door. “I’m going to check on Henry!”

Hours later, after you finally succeed in booting Sylus out of your cabin, you really do go check on Henry—and find her sprawled across the floor of her quarters, apparently not having made it to her hammock before passing out. You sigh and roll her over so she’s face-up. “Henry. Are you okay?”

“Mmf…” is her answering grumble, one arm sluggishly lifting to rub at an eye. Then it cracks open. “What the…?”

You grin. “Good morning! Do you have a sore back? You’re currently lying on the floor.”

Her eyes shut tight again as she winces, turning away from the light streaming in through the window. “Gods…I feel like shit…”

“Want some water? Apparently, we’re nearing the mainland. You might want to get up.”

It takes a good long while for the rest of the crew to get up one by one, groaning and heads heavy and swearing, but, eventually, they’re jolted awake when the watchman cries from the top of the mast, “Land-ho!”

After months of seeing nothing but ocean and unfamiliar lands, your home is finally in sight. You don’t really know how or what to feel about it. It neither strikes relief within nor moves you. Perhaps, with your speedy and firm adjustment to the ‘seafaring life’, as Sylus is fond of putting it, you’ve grown accustomed to it all. The bobbing of the ship doesn’t bother you anymore. Seasickness is a bygone memory. It’s nice being able to see the stars in all their full glory at night. The seafaring life is liberating.

What if you scared Sylus off with your antics last night? You can’t imagine him being ‘scared’ in any context, but it still makes you shudder. What kind of idiot blatantly and drunkenly announces that she wants to tie the knot with a man she kissed once—and one who’s her captor, no less? You got off real lucky with Sylus being your abductor. Now he’s teasing you about it. Maybe you should just leap off this railing you’re leaning against right now.

But, even as you look at your country in the distance, everything settles into indifference. Your father didn’t send a letter demanding your safe return. He didn’t send a letter to Sylus stating his agreement to the captain’s terms. And, if that’s the case, you really don’t know what’s going to happen the moment the ship docks at the port. Is your hour of execution finally nearing? If so, Sylus has done a damn good job lulling you into a state of false security, before finally taking back that Protocore-thing he wants, while taking the life of the one thing your father needs to secure heightened status with the marriage—you. Your hands, presently rested against the railing and hanging over it, aren’t the soft ones of a noblewoman anymore. They’re a bit calloused now. And you look at them, and the change this journey has brought. 

You find that you’d rather die than be delivered back to your father, and finally married off. You’d rather die than living on knowing that this whole abduction-thing was just a bump in the road. You’d rather die than live the remainder of your life with Sylus as just a transient memory. Your father would rage at you, send a letter to that old duke stating the marriage is back on, and that would be it. 

You purse your lips. The mainland is no longer a dot on the horizon. It’s growing bigger, closer, by the minute, and it’s exactly where you don’t want to go.

Someone comes to a stop beside you. They lean against the railing too. You turn your head and look up at the captain.

“I’m sorry that my father never sent you a letter,” you say, still sick with embarrassment from the previous evening. Your words are stilted. “I suppose that, now, all you can do is…do what there is to be done.”

“And what’s that?” He looks at you sidelong.

You look at your hands again. “Well, you never got the agreed upon ransom, and isn’t the penalty for that the death of your hostage?”

“Is that what the fairytales say?”

You groan and rub your eyes. “Stop bringing that up! I was off my face and babbling nonsense. And, no, it’s not what the fairytales say.” Your hand drops down again, and you frown up at him. “It’s common knowledge.”

Sylus hums. “I suppose it is. So, you think I’m going to drag you to your father’s estate and kill you in front of him?” “Wasn’t that planned from the start?”

He’s quiet for a beat, and then he chuckles deeply, in that classic, sultry way of his. Then, the captain fully turns and faces you, leaning one elbow against the railing. “Sweetheart, I may have gone to an extreme length to obtain the Protocore by abducting you, but…well, things have changed a little.”

You blink. “In what way?”

“I always have Plan Bs, Cs and Ds. You were Plan A. And you worked. For a time.”

“Until you didn’t get the letter, so I didn’t, really.”

The Captain snorts like something about your words was particularly funny. “That’s my fault, actually.” He doesn’t elaborate. “No, you’ve been perfectly enjoyable company thus far. And Plan B is a perfect logical solution also, one that will procure the Protocore from your father’s office and safe just fine.”

You still don’t know where he’s going with this. “And that is?”

“I have your father’s schedule and everything mapped out. Within the next few days, he will be out and about at events, greeting delegates from other countries, striking a few more illicit deals, the like. The old fool doesn’t know that all said dealings are all tied back to me. He thinks he cut ties with me long ago.” Sylus tilts his head at you. “Luke and Kieran will take those chances to try and break into the manor whilst he is absent. Mercifully, they have time and opportunity on their side. If the first attempt goes sideways, they have the next night, and the next.”

You’re rather impressed. “I see. But…what will you be doing, and where will I go?”

“Let’s say…you and I have a date with another place once we anchor at the port.”

The wind is blowing some hair into your face, and you awkwardly struggle to brush it out of your eyes and mouth. “Um, where?”

And then, he does something rather uncharacteristic. Sylus doesn’t smirk, he doesn’t grin, he doesn’t even give you that signature smug look of his, no—this time, he smiles. And it’s a gentle one. One that softens his sharp features and eyes. One that’s all for you. “The registry office.”

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⨾

@abyssal-blossoms, @paper-bag-boy, @miudle, @syluriar, @loraleiii, @myabae, @chrissy26, @bubblegum-bee-otch, @mrswanel, @libromancer, @scarlet-ancunin, @mentalnotstable, @rjreins, @seris-the-aminous, @jupiterswrld, @purpleywire, @jadedist, @teewritessmth, @terriblesoup, @kawaiivanilla-chan, @xyzesf2s, @espace--positif, @hauntedbysmut, @whimsiecat.

It is sad, Sylus thinks, while observing his beloved — to have been broken down into a weaker, suppressed version of yourself in this world.

In the old days that he tries not to recall because of the painful longing and agony that twists deep in his gut, boiling himself over with emotions he has yet to make sense of; he still vividly remembers his fated meeting with you — your captivating defiance, the fire in your eyes that burned with a blinding desire for revenge, a flame of hunger that devoured anything and everything that dared to extinguish it. You bowed to no one; you were your own master. Your rage was so beautiful that he enslaved himself to your every whim and desire, no matter how foolish or impossible.

It is not to say that he thinks of you any less as you are now. It is just... he can not bear to watch his beloved, run to the ground with mortal troubles that plague you every day, the weight of your own expectations on your shoulders, always chasing and chasing to find any semblance of certainty in your life; he knows this struggle all too well.

You had helped him once. The roles were reversed; a dragon who adorned a thin, fragile mask of arrogance and bravado befitting of a fiend to cover the ugly truth of who he deluded himself into abandoning a long time ago — a young man who screamed at the world in the dead of night, tearing at his scaley flesh and digging into his never ending wounds, begging to know why he was born this way, why he couldn't just be normal, be like everyone is. Why his slim chance at a human life was pried from his desperate hands. Every stab after another telling him: Ugly. Hideous. You are the very face of cruelty itself. To hell with your kind.

One day, you picked at the aching scars of his past. Your soft touches scorched his skin, the flame in your eyes burning holes through the mask the dragon had thought to be impenetrable, unveiling that vulnerable young man who never stopped hoping for someone to save him from himself.

Your delicate, strong hands cradled Sylus' face, forcing him to face you. To face himself.

"You act mature, but you were sealed away for so long... Sylus, you're still a young dragon at heart, aren't you?"

Your hands had gripped the parts of himself that he used to gouge out daily within the shadows of derelict caves, wrapping your hands around his horns and tail, as if to say that you are seeing him for who he his, instead of fighting or fleeing like everyone else did. Sylus had pushed himself away from you, but it was already too late. You had exposed the weak and naive parts of himself that he thought to have killed in the days of his youth, and now all that was left was the awkward fumbling of a man who had to come to terms with his own weakness. He had never allowed himself to be pried open like this before — it was always with spears, swords, arrows, and insults that pierced his heart, instead of the knowing gaze and lips of a sorceress who had a penchant for dragons.

Again and again, you continued to embrace the parts of himself that he had rejected, even being so daring as to fall in love with and save the very dragon who sought to devour you. Sylus knows that this will all end in pain, but love was never founded on the basis of logic; he will dance with you in this tango of love and loss until the very end of time.

He sees you for who you are in this world. Though weak, he is weak too. Despite how he still has troubling accepting his own faults, he will welcome yours with open arms.

You swear he’s cheating. He has to be. There’s no way he just happened to draw three 6-point kitty cards to start with.

You look down at your own hand. Ah, yes, what a fine selection of ones and twos. None of the colors even match the cups!

“Sweetie, if you glare any harder, the kitties will jump out of the cards and run away.”

You turn your glare on Sylus. He’s sitting casually in the cafe chair, as relaxed as if he were back home. And that stupid smug smile! Ugh, it infuriated you to no end.

“Honestly, why do I keep inviting you to play if I’m just gonna keep losing,” you groan. You draw another card. Wow. A three. With no color matching cup. Fantastic. You sigh.

He chuckles and plays a card, doubling his 5 points to 10. At this point, it’s just sad. You’ve got 3 points to your name and he has 30-something at least. Maybe playing with him wouldn’t be so bad if you were anywhere close in scores, if he had 23 and you had 22. Enough to feel like it’s anyone’s game and not decided before you’ve even shuffled the deck.

Or maybe that would make it worse.

You play your 3-point card to keep him from getting the last cup. He lays his cards on the table, face down.

“Relax, sweetie. I’ve had plenty of practice in games with much higher stakes.”

“How many 6-point cards do you have right now?” you demand.

He smirks as he lifts up the edges to check. You know he remembers. The salt is ground ever deeper into your wounds. “None.”

“Mhm. And 5-point cards?”

“None.”

You frown, seemingly even more frustrated now that you know he just got lucky. “Well, what do you have?”

He fans the cards out for you to see, long fingers holding them apart.

All ones.

He chuckles again as you huff and snatch them from his hand to pile on the deck. You don’t look up at him as you shuffle repeatedly. He flags down a waiter who replaces the cups with new ones with staggering efficiency. You cut the deck no less than 3 times, to ensure complete randomness, and place them back in the center. He goes to draw a card, but you’re setting it in front of him before he can.

“You really don’t trust me, do you?” he muses, picking up his two cards.

You ignore him, looking from your hand to the cups. You have an advantage by starting with three cards, but he could have the better hand regardless. The game really begins when he makes his move.

It’s not even 5 minutes later that your head is down on the table.

“I’m never gonna beat you, am I?” you mutter, not even caring if he does or doesn’t hear you.

He hums, quietly gathering your cards and organizing the deck. He sets it back in the center of the array without shuffling. “Don’t worry, you can practice with the twins.”

You laugh dryly. “They cheat like it’s the objective of the game.”

“All the better to practice against them.”

You don’t answer. Sylus drains the last dredges of his coffee. Your drink hasn’t been touched since the first round, two games ago.

As amusing as your pity-party is normally, he knows the failure runs a little deeper today. Usually, you sigh and moan and whine, but it only spurs you on to try harder next time. He’d never thought he’d see the day you succumb to defeat.

He sighs and stands up. “Wait here, kitten.”

You lift your head up. There’s a red mark on your forehead from where it rested on the table. “Why? Where are you going?”

“It’s a surprise.” He smiles as he hands you his card. “Get a new drink and something sweet, kitten. I won’t be long.”

You glower at the card in his hand, but take it anyway. You don’t watch him as he leaves.

-

When he comes back, the table has been cleared of cards and empty cups. A half-eaten slice of cake has been pushed to his side of the table. He wonders if you wanted to share with him, or if you feel too bad to indulge.

You’re taking a tip of your drink when something is set on the table in front of you. Sylus sits back down and picks up the fork on the plate.

You blink, because surely you’ve fallen asleep in the cafe and this is just a dream. But the big, full eyes of the crow plushie continue to stare back at you. You look up at Sylus for answers.

“I’m not heartless, kitten. Even I can only bear to see you sad for so long.” He cuts a bite off the cake with the side of the fork. “It loses its fun if you’re really upset.”

You flush, from embarrassment or from watching him eat off the same fork you’d used when a clean one sat next to him on a napkin. Maybe both. You set your drink down and grab the plushie.

Its ruffle is a bit uneven, so you idly adjust it so it sits better. The fabric of its body is soft. You boop its little beak.

You look back up at Sylus. He still has his eyes on you, like he’s still not sure if you like his little gift, You smile and hug it to your chest. “Thank you.”