#alruenn

“Who could blame you for that?” Eyes closed, he rested against the crusted, chipped wall of the tavern bed-chamber, his arms folded in front of his chest. His head was lowered, and though he seemed to be at peace, there was rippling anger underneath his apparently calm mask. Anger that was, needless to say, not aimed at Siggy herself. She had done nothing to deserve it from him. She had been naught but honest.

He had stayed like this, the entire time that she had told him her story, listening intently, never judging, not even for a moment. That was one of the things that made him DIFFERENT, after all, from many of the other Salt Lords, Erron truly cared about his crew. He gave a damn about where they had come from, where they wished to go. What drove them. When you understand someone’s story, thought Erron, you understand who they are, and how they will act. It had started out as a lesson taught by Berrain to the both of them, to him and Hathlim, one night across a campfire on some Gods-forsaken beach, and in time it had become a philosophy to live by, a way to understand both foe and friend. It meant that he was a listener, when the time called to listen.

He had listened, and he had taken it all in. “You felt a need to escape, because the circumstances that you found yourself living in were impossible. They were contradictory to your survival, and so wishes, and daydreams, became a hideaway, a shield. Then when I came along, you found a way to turn FANTASY into REALITY.” What better method to flee was there, then that of a ship? “So you wore the mask of a man, to be a man amongst us. Did you reckon that I would fault you for that?”

Now, his eyes opened, and narrowed as he peered at her. “What difference does it make? You follow what is asked of you. You work hard, and don’t complain even in the roughest sea. You fight, when you are called to fight. The men like you.” There were plenty of actually male sailors who lacked a great deal of her wits and her work-ethic, so how could he deny a place among them all for her, when she had proved herself a hundred times to be one of them? He shrugged his shoulders, pushing off from the wall and clearing the distance between them, resting a hand against her shoulder. “On my ship, in my crew, you are Siggy, short for Sigurd. If you still wish to be.” @brahilhli

She had told her story. She had spared no detail, no matter how painful. Total honesty at last, not the partial truths she had given him thus far. 

Her captain deserves that much. 

And far more that that based upon his response. 

She is not certain what she had expected. Derision? Disgust? Outrage? No. She cannot think that her captain might have reacted that way. Then why does his reaction take her so by surprise?

‘ If you tell anyone, you would be sending me back to him and he’d kill me, too. Whatever’s left that didn’t die that night… My child’s blood is on my hands. But mine? Mine would be on yours. ’

That is what she had said to him. Words not unlike a threat, words that were meant to guilt… Words spoken out of fear and desperation that she never would have said to him, that she should have known she would have no reason to say to him. To this man who had––inadvertently––saved her. Who had given her refuge and more than that. He had given her a place where she was accepted, even respected. He had given her a family, no matter how unconventional.

With that reminder of what a good man she serves––his easy acceptance, his offer to keep her secret––coupled with the shame of the words she had spoken to him and with the reassurance brought by the warmth of his hand upon her shoulder, she finds her eyes stinging once more as she looks at him.

“I… Captain… Forgive me, I… I should… I know you wouldn’t–– I don’t know why––” 

Blinking the tears back––how she shames herself again with such weakness!––she takes a breath and tries to collect her thoughts and herself.

“I would like nothing better than for all to remain as it is now, but if you cannot… If you would choose another Quartermaster, if––…… I will do as you command.”

“All too well,” answers Willem, a grim expression on his face. It will not do to worry him, to state the obvious of how very risky is this little scheme they had concocted. 

“Do not worry, Erron. My sister and I swore to you our help should you ever require it and always we are true to our word.”

“We will be there,” adds a different voice as a tall elf casually swaggers up to them with a confident smile on his face. One that belies his own concern. 

“And we will eagerly await your signal. Surely you do not think I could stand to lose my rival? Where would be the fun in that? I might just have to cease my evil ways, and I am not prepared to do that… No. The Sunstar will be at the ready. On that I will give my word as well.”

Though still not entirely certain of this ‘Hathlim’ fellow, Willem looks to Erron once more, covering––for his sake––any doubts of the worth of this other pirate’s word.

@alruenn

In that moment, how few might have guessed that these two––witnessing both grinning so much the same, observing the amount of paternal pride and love from the older––are not, in fact, related.

“Happy Father’s Day to m––” 

Yet then the rest of the other’s words seem to process and Berrain’s expression changes to one of amused disbelief.

“Wait, wait, wait. You captured a  t r e a s u r e  galleon?”

“I helped!” adds a rather indignant almost-whine from the doorway as the other walks into the pub and approaches them.

@alruenn

He’d heard the shout––over the din of crashings and clangings and the general clamor of battle––and he’d struck down the undead before him and whirled in the direction from whence the words had originated.

“Erron…” he says almost as in a daze yet then it processes and his eyes go wide with panic.

“ERRON!”

He finds himself running, as fast as tired and aching legs will bear him, towards the one who had raised the alarm. Immediately, that one turns to him, expression grim.

“… ‘e’s not come up, Captain…”

That one sentence seems to shatter him.

Erron. 

Erron with his quiet manner and his almost-smiles that could be mistaken for shadows thrown by poor lighting. Erron, who sneaks into his room at the most ungodly hours of the night and morning, to chase away nightmares or memories or simply because he does not wish to be alone. Erron, who has come to be like a younger brother to him… 

Erron, who had delayed the departure of the Fury until the Sunstar could sail as well perhaps simply because he had seen how distraught it had made Hathlim to know he would leave alone. Though if Erron knew the true reason… 

Hathlim had pled that they leave at the same time that he could watch him, protect him. And yet, as the surface of the water is disturbed by no more than the waves and the ripples and foam where the Fury’s Captain had fallen, he had failed regardless.

No.

No. 

He’d not failed yet. And he won’t. He refuses.

Casting off his weapons’ belts and his thick coat, he yanks off his boots and climbs onto the railing, holding to a rope to maintain his balance.

“Eirya!” he yells, turning over his shoulder where he he can feel her approach. “Keep to the protocols!”

LES MISÉRABLES QUOTES [STARTER SENTENCES]

@alruenn​

The port physician had visited again, more than a little surprised that there is still a patient to visit. He’d been certain after the last examination that there would be no need for another. And yet, by some miracle, the elvish captain seems to continue clinging to life with unrivaled tenacity.

With a shake of his head, however, it had been clear that the physician thought even that desperate hold was slipping… and then he had left Erron and Eirya to their vigil with only a recommendation to ‘keep him comfortable’. 

As soon as he had gone, Eirya had left the room as well with what had seemed suspiciously like the sheen of tears in her eyes, something that would normally have greatly concerned the current occupant of the bed, would likely have sent him following after her, quietly asking what or who had so terribly upset her, then making ridiculous jokes in an attempt to coax a small smile…

But that prone form does not stir and with the slam of the door, apart from his shallow and occasionally rasping and forced breaths, silence reigns once more… until the other occupant of the room breaks it.

How terrible he must look––so still, so silent, so not like himself––to bring those words forth from the other! How pale he is but for the feverish flush to his face and the bruises and cuts littering his body! How fragile he seems!

Perhaps it should not be wondered at that the port healer is so certain that he will soon relinquish his hold on life. 

Yet, over the howling tempest of pain, over the voices of the sirens beckoning him, beseeching him, ‘Endure no more! Sleep! Rest!’ … he had heard that rough, quiet voice, nearly broken with grief, pleading, speaking in a way that he had never before heard and that he would never wish to hear ever again in his life, however short a span that it might continue.

Though already he has been fighting to anchor himself where he is, to not allow himself to be swept away, that voice amidst the chaos brings him focus, brings him purpose, brings him a renewed determination.

And so when a warm, strong hand––calloused and weathered from decades lived on the sea––finds his own… there is a slight twitch of long, slender fingers.