salt.

THERE IS A RAPTURE ON THE LONELY SHORE.

36. he/him. portrayed by ricky whittle. penned by hayley.

“Please,” a gloved hand lifts placatingly. “And I arrived when I was barely one,” Iseult muses in a tone that suggests I’ll forgive it. A meeting of this give and take.

The captain drains his drink and finds a bitter remark at the bottom. Of all things, it pulls a delighted snort from the freelancer. Iseult raises his own tankard in response. “Oh, I like you,” he remarks wryly before he downs it in turn. Give and take, as it were. Whatever the complaint, Patrice would find a willing ear here. Spite was becoming of the ex noble.

Perhaps they needed more drink. The Freelancer corroborates as much when his coin foots the following round. Then another after. And so on.

Somewhere in the dregs of the latest, the pointed chatter has devolved (or bloomed, rather) into carousing. The give and take of information becomes the give and take of tales. When Iseult’s turn in the order comes ‘round, he details a run-in from a hazy youth; of all the things an unlikely pair might share, theirs is an early propensity for trouble in Val Faim’s higher quarters. In this particular jaunt, the young bruiser loitered 'round the wrong house in Hightown, and was set running from the guard he’d made an enemy of.

The next turn of phrase earns Iseult a hearty clap between the shoulders mid-sip— he nearly spews his drink. “—easy, there,” Rayne rasps with a snicker as he digs an elbow into Patrice’s side, “what, trying to finish the job? I’m sure that guardsman will thank you.”

Iseult’s approval is not something Patrice needed, per say, nor sought. Yet, it is that remark of approval, that indicator of how the rest of the night would go, that has Patrice grinning as he watches the other down his drink. He raises a hand to signal the waiter, ensuring the drinks keep flowing the moment the last drop touches their lips. And flow the spirits do, as does the conversation.

They trade stories of raucous youth, of chastisement and freedom. He’d related to the stories of trouble Iseult relayed, and shared some of his own, contrasting them with the freedom he’d felt on the seas. Tales of accidentally setting the horses free from the royal stables complimented the stories of seeing dolphins leap free alongside his ship upon the open sea. Of course, he also told of troubles he’d seen in other ports, but there was something about the troubles of home that Iseult spoke of that were almost comforting to Patrice. Perhaps it was that he was not the only one who seemed to go against the grain in this town.

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: The 21st of Aude 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: L’Opera Imperial 𝐖𝐇𝐎: @patricecheron

          𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 is undeniable in Violaine’s expression. He does not need to speak for Violaine to guess the reason for his approaching her. For he had not approached her at any other moment since his rearrival.  How heedless they’d been in delivering Amelie’s letter, so much so that they’d been spotted. And by Patrice Cherón, of all people. Indeed, there were worse people that could’ve overheard the conversation, but there were also far better. The distance that deepened with each moment Patrice spent away from Val Faim, was something still to be remedied— and she still hadn’t known how. They mustn’t let this information circulate further than it already had, for that only created new opportunities for this information to travel back to Ghislain. It would only introduce a new fissure in their fiancé who’d been liable to shatter at any moment— and she was not convinced of her capacity to keep them both afloat, if he ventured to those levels.

          Violaine reeled in the surprise that overcame her upon realizing she’d been heard, and replaced her expression with one far more pleasant—and assessing. She’d need to better understand the playing field that they were working with. “Patrice,” she offers in greeting, deciding that niceties would only further his suspicion. He’d heard what he heard— there was no getting around it. “What a peculiar way for us to be reacquainted. How long has it been, exactly?” They’d leave it to Patrice to decide who would first address the present situation at hand.

Violaine’s letter might have gone undetected had Patrice not been looking for an escape from the opera. He was a man who loved the experience of culture, of all the art forms a place had to offer, but there was so much of the specific brand of Val Faim suffocation blanketing the place, that he could not stand to listen to this place be touted any longer. The much more interesting act, he’d learn upon wandering outside, was the conversation he would overhear between Violaine and those two diplomats over a letter, the existence of which Patrice was certain no one knew of until now. What an interesting thing to have held onto, especially as the hushed tone suggested that she was the only one to have known of it.

“I understand,” she concedes unhappily. Far be it from her to fault anyone for their disdain for this place. She’d not be here either if not for pressing affairs involving death and family. From an abstract point of view, she thinks, their circumstances are not different.

That yearning she felt moments ago sinks somewhere between her ribs, lodged between her lungs. So her tentative little affections are being dismissed. Gisele would never understand how other people were so unsuccessful in fending off love– One couldn’t make it down the street in Val Faim without tripping over bastards or extramarital affairs or scandalous trysts that threaten to ruin noble houses for good, and yet here she is, trying and failing to simulate love where it should make sense. “I can’t rightly say I’m in a different position, but they do say it’s never too late, don’t they?” While this aimless sort of optimism is all she has to offer at present, her mind has already begun to resign itself to finding alternate avenues. Perhaps her hope for sentiment was naive, but her appraisal of Patrice’s worth as a match was not. From the very start, she should have approached this clinically, unburdened by sentiment. What a fool she’s being, coming here barefaced and dripping in pearls, as if that could have made her anyone but herself. 

Patrice’s incredulity is far from lost on her; Not for the first time something inside her crumples, new creases folding over old ones, like a letter too many times condemned to and retrieved from the wastebasket. He thinks her as strange as everyone else does. So be it. “I just told you what happened,” she says flatly, as though he’d simply misheard, “Murder.”

Why should she not lean into horror? Indulge the theatrics of the thing? She’s always excelled at being exactly what she’s expected to be, and this is no different; If she’s assumed to be a monster, she’ll play the part with morbid gusto. Gisele fixes Patrice with a deadened stare. “Most are too polite to ask after the macabre details but I don’t mind sharing. The night of my mother’s funeral the dinner was poisoned and the whole aftermath dragged out for a month before Vivienne died. She was a corpse long before her final breath, her muscles atrophied, her skin greying, her eyes cloudy. As you can imagine it’s terribly taxing being the sole survivor, but it makes for such a fascinating story to tell at parties, don’t you think?”

Patrice does not understand Gisele one bit, and it is this that unnerves him. He remembers her kindness when they were younger, the boyish platonic memories painting her in the softest of spring daylight. She was a soft wave, gently brushing against the smooth sand upon the shore, leaving shells as presents for those whose ankles her waters brushed against. Now, she was all too much - first, too sweet, a sticky sort of saccharine that made one question the bite of fruit they had taken. She points at love in such an obvious fashion, does all but bat her eyelashes in a cartoonish manner. But Patrice doesn’t seem to acknowledge it, either because he is not interested in courtship, or because there is a much more dangerous beast that she has shown the face of.

But upon the sweetness she drips his way, Patrice cannot find the feelings to reciprocate. Gisele was always a friend to him, someone he looked at as more of a cousin or a sister, nothing romantic able to be birthed from that impression he had held onto in his memories. Perhaps if he had stayed, his parents might have pushed for a marriage of alliance, but Patrice has long since stopped caring about the wishes of his father, and even if he were to be brought a proposal in the name of family advancement, he would not consider it for a moment. His business was no longer in Val Faim. His father would have to accept this. Gisele would have to, as well. “That they do. I do not imagine it is too late, per say, but I don’t feel any rush to find its embrace.” He shrugs. “Romance never lived here, not when power is the first requirement.

Inexplicably, she wants to reach out and touch him. Minutes ago, Cecile had half a mind to slap him, and she’s sure that instinct has not entirely left her, perhaps never will. But it is overwhelmed by something softer, brought upon by this strange sincerity between them, perhaps seeking to confirm that he really is here with her, solid and real, making stilted conversation and offering her kindnesses. Perhaps it’s simply that - damn him - she cannot help but care for him, even now, so long after he vanished from her life and forfeited his place in her heart. 

“I appreciate that,” she says. Once, there was a Cecile who thought she needed Patrice. That girl is gone. Truly, Cecile can’t fathom what she’d need from his ships or his home now, but she appreciates the sentiment none the less. They put themselves on equal ground, invited one another into both their family homes and the truer homes they’ve made for themselves. Cecile isn’t sure she wants to see the ship, to glimpse the life he left her for, but there is a cold comfort in knowing that she is welcome aboard it. No, she never would have left with him. But she cannot blame her younger self for wishing he had asked. 

Patrice tells her he hopes she fares better than he, and Cecile believes she means it. ‘I am,’ she thinks. “Thank you,” she says. 

“I’m faring well,” she offers, with a small, subdued smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m serving as The Empress’ personal jeweller now, and the Lafaille Bijoux has been doing well.”  It’s true, she’s secure in her position as Imperial Jeweller, her business is thriving, she’s found something rare and beautiful with Zhenya and Matthieu, something that she thinks could last. Under other circumstances, she might have been tempted to make the statement a boast, proof that she thrived in his absence. Now, it’s almost a reassurance, a promise that in the ever-shifting landscape of Val Faim, treacherous as the sea, she is still a stable place, should Patrice find himself in need of one. 

She appreciates the offer, whether she truly means it or not, and there is something in Patrice that wants to reach out to her. It is the same flame that calls out to Cecile, the one that whispers to him to caress her shoulder or reach for her hand, the one that guided him as a child. But there is no yearning in it, no wondering what if. Perhaps he feels so comfortable with the flame of thought in his mind because he knows it would not spark something grand. He knows they cannot rekindle what they had, because the fire they created together was not one that was ever meant to last. Perhaps the embers lingered, but it is in knowing that his actions or his words will not create another anchor to this world that he feels he can speak candidly, that he can be honest about his family. Perhaps that is why she, too, feels that - their intertwining paths were always headed for heartbreak, after all, so they can find comfort in knowing they can make no waves from this moment.

Patrice’s brows raise at the updates upon Cecile’s life. He certainly hadn’t expected someone like her to remain stagnant all those years, but he cannot help but be impressed by the feats she describes to him now. Of course, he could only imagine how renowned her talents would be if she took them outside of Val Faim, but he has long since accepted that she has fashioned this place into her home. He can only be glad that she survived it. “Congratulations. I expected nothing less than such success from you,” he answers, the sentiment genuine. “Though I can imagine it would be difficult to go up from such feats - I can’t imagine an achievement higher.”

I’d almost hoped you’d listened. The jab stings, but not enough to make Michel flinch. Instead, all he can really do is swallow the words down and along. He’s contemplated often Patrice’s offer, the idea of just… disappearing, without care or regard for his obligations in the city, but it had been a far-off pipe dream at best. Michel recognizes that by now. Patrice might thrive on the open waters, unbound and unrecalled by those he calls his family, but without his occupation and the call of the Empress, Michel knows he would have felt stranded.

Their waitress returns with drinks, and Michel hastily takes the opportunity to buy himself a little more thinking time. Patrice has exposed himself and his reasons for being here, albeit vaguely, and he can’t help his curiosity. Business to tend to, he says. Michel arches a brow at him and sets the drink down atop the table, trying to watch the other man’s face for any cues.

He had that face memorized like a map during their time together on the sea. Now, there are no landmarks, capitals, rivers or cities: it’s all just blank, lines of wear and age from the spray of the sea that weren’t there before. “So you truly don’t intend to stay long,” he says, as if coming to some forbearing conclusion and not the most obvious option on the list. He nods. “Well, I have an office in the Palace. My own quarters, if you want to visit.” It’s as much an invitation as it is anything else. A beat passes before he continues. “Is something troubling you? I know you don’t like the city, but you look like you’re at odds with something.”

Patrice had once felt the shackles of Val Faim. As a child, he’d wondered if he would ever escape them. Reputation clamped down hard around his wrist, while duty was the weighted chain that held him to his family grounds. The links were named after all the things his father lectured him about, responsibility wrapped around sensibility wrapped around obligation. When Patrice ran from it all, he was almost surprised by how freely he escaped those shackles, how effortlessly the chains broke. Perhaps they would never appear fully whole again, the melded metal visible at the seams, but Patrice didn’t care. He’d escaped the chains of Val Faim once, and just as they strapped themselves to him once more, he would do it again. 

Michel could be the same, he believed. The first step was the hardest, the constant looking over your shoulder, wondering if the chains had truly broken or if they simply hadn’t gone taut yet, waiting for the right moment to turn rigid and yank you back to your cage. And yet is the reeling back not worth the moments of freedom? Patrice would have done it all over again, even if Alain would just drag him back here at the end of it all. 

Patrice shakes his head in response. “No, I don’t.” He doesn’t intend to, nor does he wish to, but the looming truth that he has to waits on the horizon like an ever darkening cloud. Patrice has sailed in storming conditions before, and yet Alain threatens to bring a typhoon upon him. “Do you now? I see you’ve gained even more favor since I saw you last. You deserve the respect you’ve so clearly commanded.” But you deserve more, he leaves unsaid. If Patrice cared about the cause Alain has forced him to fight for, perhaps he would have passed this information along. For now, he keeps it to himself. 

Realistically, there was no reason for her and Patrice to be tied together. She doesn’t think his crew are the type to spread rumors, the type of whispers that get caught in the webs of the court. She shouldn’t underestimate, but as she follows the man out of his room and to the deck, she can’t help but feel a sense of security with the night sky above them.

She keeps pace with him, taking a sharp right off the docks towards Hightown. “It’s not just a simple guard job,” she reminds him, her tone turning sharp. She doesn’t need him to help out with her work, but she needs him to understand what he was doing here. Beau doesn’t take much seriously, most jobs done with a smirk on her face and a skip in her step, but when it came to Alain, it was different. “you’re my cover. In any other case, I wouldn’t be getting caught but this is… far more convoluted than normal. There may be some guards around, but your status is far more influential than mine.” she swallows an uncomfortable lump and keeps moving, her eyes shifting around each alley and corner for wandering eyes.

The city was quieter than usual at night, no doubt due to the recent explosion and unsettling apprehension because of it. “What do you think he kept in there?” Beau eventually asks, the tension and quiet a little too much for her. Alain’s influence is like that though, a creeping snake that follows behind them like a threat. There’s an undercurrent with him, constantly shifting and acting as a blatant reminder of their involvement against the crown. “Besides the obvious stuff, like threats against the state and heaping piles of porno.” she supplies, hoping to get a laugh out of him. Any kind of reaction would do really, she didn’t want Patrice to associate her in the same light he undoubtedly saw others working under Alain in.

Most of his crew were below deck, sleeping or working on whatever it is they may have neglected during the day. The occasional straggler had wandered up to the deck, but it seemed fairly vacant when Patrice stepped out onto the deck. He was sure some of the crew would hear the telltale footsteps of their captain across the wooden boards, but where he was going, none of them knew. They might find it a bit strange, how little they knew of their captain’s whereabouts in this place, but knowing how he felt about being back and the business he could not speak of, no one seemed to challenge him. 

Patrice followed the direction they were supposed to be in, his long strides setting the pace despite Beau being the one to lead. He sighed at her corrections. Patrice had nothing against Beau personally, saw her as a woman with her hands tied just as he was, though he wasn’t entirely sure how she came to be here. And yet, his tongue is held from asking, for he knows the question would only be turned back on him, and it was one he is not willing to answer. Not now, not ever. So he keeps his curiosity at bay. “Whatever. I am here to do that job and only that job. I will not be sinking to whatever Alain has assigned you with.” Again, he places the blame on Alain. It is his instruction, not Beau’s choice, he wishes to tell himself. At least, it is how Patrice feels about his own job, for his involvement was certainly born from no desire of his own.

          𝐈𝐓 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐕𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄 to pluck the cords of familiarity within him, struck with a sudden onset of memories recognizable only as an unintelligible mass. Nostalgia claws at Etienne’s lungs and throat, and for several moments, he does not speak. He is overcome by the moments before these— when Etienne would thumb through Patrice’s hidden books in the corner of the stables, careful not to taint the pages with the day’s grime, a young stable boy, lined to the brim with both brilliance and hope. This was a version of himself no longer in reach, an existence sustained only by the memory of those who’d known him in what felt like another lifetime, a life he’d disown entirely if not for the living proof of it. It was easy to ignore in the cobblestone paths and rickety horse stalls of his youth, for he outright avoided them, but far more difficult to confront them head on, and in this instance— unexpectedly so. It was what prompted his initial silence, for Patrice was a walking reminder that the past is never quite simply the past.

         To have once known Etienne only at what he considered his lowest, and be reintroduced to him at his highest, meant the differences between him then and now would be difficult to make sense of— not without having bore witness to the seed of terribleness that first began to fester in tandem with his ambition during the early days of his apprenticeship, a position earned long after Patrice’s departure. Instead, he was to be met with the resulting man and the calamity he brandished. How differently had the Sailor been, in turn? Etienne knew time spent away from Val Faim, meant inevitable change. He is decidedly swayed by what he perceived to be compliments, and decides there is no harm in welcoming the presence of an old friend, a piece of his past to be potentially held at a comfortable distance. And what harm could come from good company and good drinks? “You certainly have the build of a sailor, so something clearly resulted from your time at sea,” he offers in an attempt of cordiality. “It’s a great atmosphere, really. Though the drinks pale in comparison to my own, so I provide my own. Have a drink with me, will ya? Though if you’d prefer ale, I happen to be well acquainted with the owner.”

Patrice would not say he was such a different person than the one Etienne once knew. His beliefs were still relatively the same, as was his outlook on Val Faim and his much different one of the rest of the world. He’d simply achieved the dream hinted at by the sorts of books he would hide in the stables Etienne took care of. He was older and wiser and perhaps even bolder, but overall, Patrice does not believe he has changed so much. Etienne, he already has guessed, had changed almost to the point of being unrecognizable. It wasn’t something Patrice would immediately write off as negative, but he knows how Val Faim seeps into the hearts of those who live there, its grip having the potential to rot people at their cores. He hopes Etienne’s transformation was one he wished upon himself, and not a reconstruction in Val Faim’s image. Patrice has, thus far, been inclined to believe the former.

-

“ah. what i lack in salves, i boast in luck and timing, is that it?” he chuckles. patrice’s sudden vehemence towards the city draws a second sideways glance from savatier. he’s known others to be similarly embittered towards the city, namely the lion’s mane own proprietor, and he is equally curious as to why the captain would echo a similar sentiment, how much he was hurt and in what manner to possess such reflexive venom. wants to ask as much, but is sure now, the air rife with tension, is hardly the time. perhaps there will be opportunities later to unfold the man before him. he hopes there will be. 

“i’m sure you’re not alone in that sentiment,” savatier offers instead, hoping it is to be of some solace. “some things and places and people are ill-suited to us. it’s hardly ever our fault for the way of our natures.” he too, feels like a native species of flora that has grown to reject what his environment has become. dug up from his roots and replanted, but everything is all different, the soil, the salinity, his bloom. all wrong. 

patrice stands, offers a leave for them both, and for half a moment savatier is speechless, chest light with thrill. he hasn’t been touched since–since odeline, hasn’t allowed himself the respite from his penance (penance for what, even? that even he couldn’t change the course of fate?), never thought he would ever again. and yet, he stands, just as abruptly, swallows hard as he fumbles a dor or two for his drinks and follows patrice, hot on his heels. “yes,” he stutters, “yes, i think so. the bleeding looks dire.” an outright lie, and his lips curve around his words as he says them. he thinks he’s nervous, sure that he’s rusty in–this. but he wants it, knows this to be true. wants to be known, to be held, wants it like an impulse, like a dormant craving come to life. 

the air and the sky outside are clear, despite this, he inhales deeply, smiles faintly. “this one of those escapes you were speaking of, captain?”

There is certainly something to be said about Savatier’s luck and timing, and yet, Patrice cannot find the words. Or perhaps it is Patrice that is lucky, to be receiving care from a beautiful man, though there is little care truly required. The two of them have practically and obviously surrendered themselves to this act, and it is also obvious that neither of them are buying it, though they go along with it. It is this act that helps to soothe the tension that is brought on by Patrice’s own bitterness towards Val Faim, and this act that will possibly last all night, if they both seem to have luck on their sides.

“Many people attempt to make me believe I am not,” he contradicts, though there is comfort in hearing Savatier’s understanding. So many are quick to judge Patrice’s disdain of this place, and those that aren’t are so often people from Patrice’s own past that still have stayed here. Savatier is an unfamiliar face with perhaps a somewhat familiar sentiment, and he could not deny that he enjoys it. “I just cannot imagine one place in this world is all people must strive to. Do they not know there is a whole world out there for them? I sometimes feel I am alone in recognizing it.”

The slight grin Patrice wore only grew vastly with Savatier’s terrible lie, but perhaps it was the fact that they both knew the truth of the matter despite their pretending that built this delicious anticipation. He takes long strides, only assuming Savatier will keep up, and keeping close to him when he does, that injured arm they seemed to care so much about only moments ago brushing up against the librarian’s with purpose. “One of many,” he replies, his grin remaining in the moonlight. “Though I’d call my ship a setting for most of them. I do hope you are not so easily seasick.”

date: 3rd of maccius location: the azure quarter availability: closed for @patricecheron​

the azure quarter is quieter than remembers it. maybe it has to do with the moon in the sky tonight, her crescent shining over the calm waters and all of val faim below her. there are not that many ships in the docks this time of night, many still and dark as their crew have most likely flocked to the shore, desperate for a warm night in a tavern or with their loved ones yet again. she sees one ship, just docked, that has begun to bring shipments of boxes and goods off their deck and into the awaiting carts below.

beau does not like the azure quarter, she can appreciate its beauty but the need for escape never came at the call of the sea. the waves mock her, moving freely with the tide and controlled by the moon. the sea can carry people so far away, can make it so one is unsteady and unable to rely on themselves. it makes people vulnerable to the whims of the world and the gods above them. it makes beau sick to her stomach.

she shudders at the memory, of one of her first missions overseas and getting so seasick that she could hardly even marvel at a sight other than the stone walls of val faim. instead, she moves forward and back into the present as she approaches the ship she’s had her eyes on. patrice’s ship is anchored, floating ever so slightly with the water below it. it has not moved for quite sometime, and though it means little to her, she’s heard wind of how odd it is to see it and him back in val faim. it has become a small comfort to her to have patrice around, especially in dealings with alain gauthier.

beau walks on board, arms tucked to her side as she makes the quick trek up to the deck. she swallows the uncomfortable lump in her throat and moves to where she knows he will be, where she hopefully can get him moving so they can get this mission over with. it was the most opportune time, with half the city kept inside in fear and the other investigating the explosion at the tomb. almost nobody would be near hippolyte’s old estate — another plan crafted by gauthier and flawlessly executed by deslisle.

if patrice wouldn’t ruin it. beau understands the reason alain asked her to take patrice with her, but the idea of someone else tailing on her missions again made her nervous. she works so well alone, something she has proven time and time again. more people just meant more possibilities for it all to go wrong. she knocks on the door infront of her, barely taking a moment to hear an answer before entering anyway. “knock, knock!” she says softly, not wanting to alert anyone potentially nearby. “ready to go, cap’n? gotta be in town in the next hour if we wanna get this done.”

This was the moment Patrice was dreading. He’d known Alain had called upon him with blackmail as his leash, and Patrice would have no choice but to answer. However, since arriving in Val Faim, all was relatively quiet from Alain. It at least gave him the time he needed to lay his mother to rest, but it also gave him so much time as to wonder what Alain had planned, and to foolishly imagine he could possibly leave this place if he were to go any longer without being called upon. Of course, that was when his services were needed, in assistance of Beau as she stole from the home of the man their Empress had killed only weeks prior. He did not approve, but he did not say such things to those who might punish him for it. He did, however, inform Beau of the limits of his involvement, and was determined to stick to them tonight.

His own crew would not know what he was leaving for. He hadn’t told them of his ties to Alain or what the weasel of a man held over his head, and simply hoped they would not question him for it. They assumed this family business was taking longer than expected, and he could only hope Alain made haste with his plans, or just made haste with getting caught and executed for his crimes, so that he no longer had to think of excuses as his time in Val Faim surpassed a month. No one could know his true motives here. No one but Beau, at least, who must have known that, for some reason, Patrice was part of this plan. He didn’t intend on giving any more detail than was necessary.

…

Sainte watches him busy himself, very pleased with herself that he doesn’t seem to be ignoring her. If she really wasn’t worth his time, she considers, he wouldn’t be making conversation. So, while perhaps they aren’t friends, it is at least in her mind, only a matter of yet. 

“Hm.” She says, almost as if she were speaking to herself, rather than him. “So there was a before - what did you do then?” Perhaps it’s the wrong question, perhaps she ought to stick to what has already worked (asking about his boat), but curiosity has gotten the better of her. For he seems adamant about keeping his sea legs, spending all this time on a boat, so she can’t help but wonder, what was he like before all this? “How long have you had it, anyway? The boat, I mean.” 

It is only her questions about his time on the sea which capture his attention. He cannot help but speak of his time away from Val Faim, for it is his truest love, and what good is an explorer if he does not share his findings? 

But her questions shift to times before, and what mood had lightened even slightly has soured once more. “I waited for the time I could leave,” he recalled curtly, continuing to wrap the rope about his bicep.

The boat, however, was a different story, and he looked down to the aging wood at his feet before looking back at Sainte. “I’ve had her for ten years, maybe,” Patrice guesses. “I did not always command a ship so large. I’ve worked my way up to her.”

They work their way through the crowds, in the direction of the closest pub Michel can think of. In the high sun of Spring, any and all are out and about, seeking out whatever it is that they need to get through the start of their week. Michel himself had similar intentions, until Patrice arrived, and that seems to be the way things were for a while. Until Patrice, until Patrice, until Patrice.

See, this is why Michel doesn’t let himself think about things for too long. He focuses on offering his condolences, instead, because that is a far better option than whatever the fuck is running wild through his head right now. “I’m sorry that you had to come back, then, family business or not. The pub is bustling with activity, but most clear the path for a man they recognize as Commander and whoever it is along with him. There are even a few whispers among the crowd of recognition, which make Michel look over his shoulder to give Patrice a smugger grin than he likely deserves. “You’re popular. How long has it been since you last came to the city?”

They find themselves a table, and a waitress comes to open their tab, looking unamused and unimpressed even with the whispers of Chéron, Chéron, Chéron that bracket them at all sides. Michel settles as comfortably as he can into what is otherwise an uncomfortable chair, feeling – well, if he’s quite honest, he doesn’t know what he’s feeling. He’d rejected Patrice several times over, all that time ago, citing duty or oaths or fear of desertion, and while he hadn’t expected this outcome, he hadn’t thought Patrice would ever actually come back.

He’d been stalwart about his dislike of the city, of his home, hadn’t he? It’s a lot like seeing a ghost. “How long will you be here?” Maybe it’s a little too blunt, that kind of question, but he cares little, and he’s sure Patrice won’t, either.

The whisperings are those Patrice has come to expect, his name often uttered by the patrons with a question mark following. He certainly does not look the same as the child who left this place, not yet a man and not yet knowing the world. He was smaller then, and worn from the place he had grown up in. Now, he stands with more than just the noble posture he had singed into his memory, and towered over many of those who looked on him now. It did not stop them from their comments, however. “Not in the desirable way, at least not to them,” he remarked. Patrice didn’t care what they thought, but it still was not a pleasant thing to have to explain to his grinning companion.

How long has it been? Not long enough, if Patrice had his way. “However long it’s been since I returned you here. I try and keep my distance from Val Faim, you know. After all, I’d once advised you to do the same. I almost hoped you’d listened.” How beautiful this reunion would be if he had found Michel upon the shores of some other land far from the reaches of Val Faim. How euphoric they might feel. Instead, something dark looms overhead, threatening to spoil what reunion they do have every second they idle.

“I agree it’s not how things are usually done here, but, well, I thought you of all people wouldn’t care how things are done.” Her words hang hopefully expectant in the air for just a beat before she abruptly changes her mind, the equations she’s always running adding up to unfavourable sums, and she relents with a soft sigh. “I actually haven’t heard much of anything about you for years now, so don’t fret on that front. I didn’t even know you’d returned until I overheard that you had asked after me. To think, if not for that, I’d still be wondering if I’d ever see you again.” The briefest flicker of hurt runs over her features before they quickly fix back into a more winsome expression. Though the temptation to dwell on topics where she might pry some kind of sympathy is difficult to ignore, there’s a much more appealing mood that seems well within her grasp if she plays her cards right.

“No? Well, I do hope I’ll get the chance to find out exactly what you would call romance then.” Maybe that’s a jarring transition, but she can’t help much if the topic seems doomed to forever stray in the realism of dreariness without her direct intervention. Gisele doesn’t want nostalgic ruminations or discussions of the city, she wants momentum, feeling, romance perhaps? Any impulse for mundane love has long since been lost, schooled out by a daisy-chain of betrayals inflicted upon her, but the most disastrous want remains a constant. She wants him to tell her things, to think she’s beautiful, to be reminded of her by simple things, to miss her when she’s gone. Ever since girlhood she’s wanted to occupy a piece of his mind, but by now all her ambitions have widened, this one being no exception.

So lost is she in these idle longings, that she hardly notices the conversation’s subject round on her least favourite of all until it’s too late. At mention of her family, Gisele’s mood instantly shrivels and blackens, any fleeting sentimentality curdling. “Oh, you hadn’t heard?” There isn’t the slightest outward distress in demeanor, no slacking of posture or hardening of gaze, and when she speaks, her delivery drawls out, extra songlike and slippery, to the sort of oily performance typically reserved for her politicking and subtle slights. “Dead. Or rather, mostly dead. It was a terrible tragedy– First my mother passed, and then just after there was an assassination attempt. Vivienne’s gone, I almost followed, and Yvon, well, Yvon was entirely unaffected. Always so lucky, that one.”

“I don’t, but I’m also realistic in my expectations from this place,” he answers. Val Faim has seemed to not change one bit since he left its shores, but Gisele certainly has, and he was determined to know why. “I cannot say what some other future might have held for me. I’d imagine you can see why I was never so eager to return to this place, not for so much as a visit,” he shrugged. Perhaps there could have been an exception for those he cared about, had he not left on the terms that he did. For a moment, he wonders if Gisele would have been any different had he visited, or if he would have noticed her descent over time instead. None of that would have kept him from the sea.

She speaks of romance, an obviously pointed remark at Patrice’s own capabilities, and he cannot miss what it is she is looking for from him. But Patrice was a man whose heart was taken by the place he was currently kept from, and no lover could (or at least had) ever surpassed his heart’s yearning for the sea’s cold grasp. Many had learned such a thing the hard way, no matter how many times he’d told them. “Romance is a thing that has not lived within my grasp for a very long time,” Patrice replies, hoping to dismiss the subject. When this was all over, though, perhaps that would change - he would vow to romance the sea, to apologize for ever leaving her sights and promising to surrender his heart to her forevermore. 

 where: patrice’s ship; captain’s quarters when: 7th of maccius who: @patricecheron & @iseultrayne 

it’s not their second, nor their third, nor their fourth time making their way to the azure quarter, he and iseult, and the initial inelegance of all but asking his guard to wait as he finishes his visitation with a certain captain smoothing its way into a rather regular routine. but it is their first time returning to the ship after the attempt in the library, secrets uncovered and given willingly, and even the steps leading to the docks and up the ship feel shifted, tenuous, the briny air heavier.

it is some relief, he thinks to resume a sense of some normalcy, a carnal call, even if he is to also brief patrice on the ordeal, relive it again in a way. but it’s as much for safety as it is for comfort. if they’re to continue this with the added, sure element of danger, then surely the captain ought to know what kind of danger to which he’s exposing himself, if–if he should choose to continue. and, perhaps what sort of exposure to which iseult is opening himself up. what should happen, then, if there was another attempt, and iseult had to perish and resurrect again should patrice see?

a sidelong glance, perhaps a bit nervous, before they’re weaving through patrice’s crew to knock on the door of the captain’s quarters. the door opens, and he sags with relief he does not realize he’d been waiting for, smile faint. “patrice.” imagines the solemnity of the situation is written clear across his face, and he makes an attempt at brevity, voice light as if he speaks of the weather. “you might have heard there’s been an attempt on my life.”

Patrice could sense the shift in the air the moment Savatier and Iseult arrived. It seemed his crew could feel something was off, as well, all on edge at the sight of Iseult’s body language, with the exception of Paget, who seemed to visibly keep her cool. She gave a silent nod of greeting as the pair picked their way through the crowd, while the rest attempted to go back about their business and not acknowledge the change aboard the deck, unsure what was different and almost afraid to find out, all while their captain sat, awaiting what he believed would be a night of little worry, just carnal pleasure and perhaps some sharing of many of the maps they’d yet to get around to glancing at together.

The door was left slightly ajar, and as Savatier and Iseult entered, the air turned Patrice’s easy, anticipating posture into a more serious one, despite the small smile he presumes Savatier is trying to reassure him with. He’s about to ask what is going on before the subject is broached easily from the librarian’s lips. “No,” he replies incredulously, looking from Savatier to Iseult, as if in their expressions he could find the detail he sought. “I hadn’t heard of this at all.” Surely, there was no implications that he or his crew were involved, right? He simply hoped the subject would not tur to that, but he prepared himself, standing so his eyes could better meet theirs.

“When was this? Who was this? Because I’m assuming you’re approaching me with this because the matter is taken care of, yes?” He asks. The concern is genuine, a surprising thing from a man who has acted nothing but cold within this place - nothing but cold to most, with the exception of Savatier standing before him. Perhaps he would blame it on sounding too close to curiosity, and it is that nature that they share. Perhaps he would not speak of it at all.

Lately, the docks had been growing quiet around this hour. So many had been set on edge by the recent happenings that swept the city, and the Empress’s harsh orders that had preceded and followed these events, whether or not any of them had been related. Patrice, too, was on edge, but he had been since arriving, as if ready to take off to a wild sprint back aboard his boat and sail out into the night, no matter how treacherous the weather, at a moment’s notice. The recent happenings did nothing but make him wish to leave even more, and yet, it seemed that the more chaos Val Faim delved into, the tighter Patrice found his chains. After all, it was he who was sent by Alain to guard Beau as she stole from a dead man’s home. It was he that was reminded whose eyes watched his every move. There were many towns far away from here where he could experience anonymity, something he could never hope to find here. Patrice had slipped away in the dead of night from this cursed city once. He doubted he would be able to get away with that again.

A group of workers carried planks and metal in the direction of the place where the explosion had occurred, the projects of rebuilding what was lost still well underway. Patrice had offered those on his crew willing to work, those who itched to have something to do other than idle around this city their captain had promised would be a short stay. More than a month had passed. The crew was growing restless, their captain tenfold.

—

Their tankards clink and Iseult matches the seafarer in the swill. For a moment, the ale does its work cleanly, and no further words pass between them. But the question hangs unanswered, and Patrice kindly pays his due.

Iseult cants their head to the side with interest for the regret that washes beneath his tone like a dark current. It’s a hook they pocket for later casting. Curious for more. “I see,” their own tone suggests they’ve found no reason to doubt him. If Val Faim smacks of anything to the freelancer, its family business— for over Celestinian history, no small number of noble families have made theirs the Underworld’s. For the seafarer’s sake, Iseult briefly hopes it isn’t the sort of family business they’ve been on the paid end of. Messy thing, when kin seeks the elimination of kin.

Ah, you must’ve been at sea for some time if you’ve forgotten,“ Iseult chuckles. "Any freelancer worth their salt swears to the secrecy clause.” That is to say, the employer is never to be disclosed, however obvious. Any underworld denizen with the barest respect for form knows to confirm or deny is to professionally misstep. Were it Calandre, the response would undoubtedly be the same. Outwardly, the effect is as seamless as it is time tested. 

“Chevaliers aren’t the only ones with pageantry,” they tip their tankard in a toast to the thought.

Iseult is cautious, and Patrice cannot blame him. It is a good thing to have in this city - he would be a hypocrite for taking offense to Iseult’s lack of trust, for Patrice also finds difficulty in trusting most of those in Val Faim. He certainly does not yet trust Iseult, but he at least acknowledges the potential for respect that has begun to bloom like whatever sort of yeast they consumed in their drinks. 

Iseult buys the story easily enough, and it is something Patrice does not give a second thought to, for it is, at least in part, the truth. He does not speak of blackmail to a man he does not know, nor does he yet trust. He does not utter the allegiances he is forced to have towards a man he cannot stand. There is always the hope that if he tells someone as dangerous as Iseult, that Alain would easily be taken care of. There is always the fear that someone as dangerous as Iseult could have the same allies Patrice is forced to call his own, and punish him for his wayward tongue.

“I left Val Faim when I was barely a man; you’ll have to excuse my lack of knowledge surrounding its freelance dealings,” Patrice admitted. It was a bit of give and take, to tell Iseult something about himself in the hopes that he would receive something in return. It was harmless information he was offering, though - anyone in Val Faim could tell you the story of the noble who ran away from all the good he had when he was just reaching adulthood, and one could infer what he has or has not known about this city in his absence. But despite his lack of knowledge of Val Faim’s underworld, people are often similar around the world (or, at least, those who are not caged songbirds like most of Val Faim’s denizens were), and he could read Iseult’s expression clearly: he would give up nothing of value so easily. Perhaps they need more drink.

— 

At the border, he remembers, nights seemed shorter, easier to get through — or perhaps he was just able to stay up until later, not because of a younger age, but without the weight of chaos on his shoulders everything seemed easier. Now, in Val Faim, that weight kept pulling him down, making his shoulders tense and tired and Roth finds himself needing a break at the second floor of The Lion’s Mane more often than he plans to. He could very well retire to his own room at the Palace but there always is the possibility of someone finding him when he doesn’t want to be found. So he gets the next best thing and the proprietor’s been kind enough to always allow Roth to have the same room.

Even if he’s found a little sanctuary amidst the chaos that runs through Val Faim at alarming rates, Roth knows all of it is temporary and that grows even more evident as he descends the stairs to be met with a packed Lion’s Mane, each patron tending to their own woes. He knows that he cannot remain in the unsuspecting room for forever, he knows that he has a duty to fulfil, he knows that he must go back out and look for answers in every corner of a city that is threatening to swallow him whole. 

But maybe he can delay the inevitable with a bit of ale — if he can get the bartender to look at him. 

Roth hears an unfamiliar voice warn him of his vain attempts. A disappointed sigh escapes him and he mutters words of frustration. Then, the Chevalier takes a seat next to the other patron, giving him a look before looking at the bartender again. “Been waiting long?” As if delayed, a wave of an unknown memory fills Roth’s chest but he can’t quite place the where and the when; just a tightness in his throat that told him he knew the man from somewhere but unaware of what that somewhere is. 

The Chevalier extends his hand. “Roth.”

Familiarity is swiftly shadowed by the crowds in this bar, the noise they generate masking the voice of the stranger enough so that only his words are heard by Patrice, not his tone. Of course he did not recognize the man before him. Roth had been born three times over, and Patrice had only known him during his first life, which was but a brief chapter in Patrice’s own book. He did not look at Roth and see the child he knew, nor did he see the flames that erased the possibility of his realization. Of course the child he’d known would not come to mind, his thoughts having buried him long ago with the news his father had solemnly delivered to him at the dinner table. The man before him was just a Chevalier who would have to wait longer for a drink than he expected. Still, the itch persisted in Patrice’s mind.

Patrice nodded, a slight slump to his tired shoulders. “Longer than I’d like to, unfortunately. I should have known I was not the only one who’d discovered this place.” In fact, Patrice was likely too late to discover anything in Val Faim. Fortunately, he had plenty of other discoveries across the globe to comfort him. “Tonight’s service is apparently served with a free lesson in patience.”