#psyiche

Even the familiar sounds of the ship were muted: the shuffle of the sailors, their breathing labored in the thick air; the creak of the rigging like snapping bones. And below it all the soft hiss of the waves, the ship cutting silently through the seething waters.

Aya balanced on the prow, one leg pulled to her chin, the other dangling over the black expanse of the ocean. She was staring out at the horizon, her eyes detached. In the watery silver light she was a carving of burnished ebony, the sight of her beautiful enough to stop the breath in Mikel’s throat. Her dark hair was twisted up to keep it off her neck, and a faint sheen of sweat clung to her skin.

The closer Mikel drew the more of her he could make out. His eyes lingered on the curve of her mouth, the green of the ribbon in her hair, dulled in the light.

He paused a few feet away, hovering awkwardly. Just as he'd decided to leave her to her contemplation she glanced over, her eyes thawing at the sight of him.  Her gaze swept over him, taking in the bruises on his face, already turning an angry purple. A smile tugged at her lips, the warmth of it intoxicating. Mikel allowed himself a single guilty moment to bask in it.

"Weren't you playing poker?"

Mikel smiled back, moved closer. "I was. But they didn't quite agree with my style."

"And so you thought you'd come up here, try your 'style' on me?"

"I'd lose," he said earnestly, truthfully. He was new to the crew, but not that new; it was a well-known fact that Aya had the fastest fingers on the ocean, and that any person foolish enough to play her ended with a lighter purse than when they'd started.

"But no." Before he could lose his courage he plunged on. "I brought you something. Hold out your hands."

Looking amused, she did, and into them he placed his prize.

A long, slender ribbon worn soft with worry, the pale pink of a breaking sunrise. Shimmering protection runes were embroidered along one side, each smaller than the head of a pin. It shone where it lay coiled in her palms, its lightness a startling contrast to her dark skin.

Aya rubbed the silk between her fingers, her eyes on the runes.

“How much did it cost?” she asked.

“It was free.”

She gave him a look. “Nothing’s ever free in the Wrecks.”

Three coppers. A vial of blood. A kiss. Mikel shrugged.

“Free-ish,” he said.

"I won't keep it longer than a day, you know."

"A day is enough." As if it mattered if she kept it. As if it mattered if she wore it at all. The point was to make her smile, to give her something she needed so she didn't have to get it herself. His throat hurt with all of the words he longed to say: i want to help you. i want to make you happy. i love you. (An errant, awful thought he reserved for long nights in his bunk when the snores of the others could drown out the sting of it).

After a moment Aya untangled the green ribbon from her hair and tossed it into the night. Mikel watched it drift away until it was swallowed by the darkness, and when he looked back she had already threaded his ribbon into its place, the ends just brushing the curve where her neck and shoulder met. A strand of hair had fallen loose at her movements. Mikel’s fingers itched to reach out and tuck it back in place. Instead he placed his hands into his pockets, curving his fingers so his nails bit into his palms.

Just as he opened his mouth to ask her a question—about the weather, or the trip, or her home country; anything, just to have her talk to him—a ripple passed through the ship, taking with it any sounds that had escaped the night's choking hold. In the silence that followed there was only the murmur of waves and the screaming of gulls, far off the starboard side.

The crew turned as one, searching.

Rin had appeared, her gaze fixed on the horizon, her long coat billowing in the windless night. The wheel spun idly before her, and in her grasp she cradled something small and silver. As he watched the sails began to stir, acres of black silk whispering as they caught at a ghostly breeze. Down on deck the air remained unmoving, heavy with the oncoming storm.

In the morning there would be bloodstains on the wooden planks and Rin would stay in her quarters, emerging only when the sun began to sink into the sea, her hands shaking. For now, though, she merely stood, half-cloaked in shadow, as her crew scrambled to their positions.

After a long pause, when it became clear she would do nothing else, Mikel turned back to Aya. At the sight her eyes had gone distant and cold once more, her forehead creased with worry.

"You should go," she said. An order. The ribbon in her hair dangled sadly.

For a moment he hesitated, and then he reached out and caught her hand within his own, pressed a kiss to the work-toughened skin of her palm. It was an old Forsian tradition that meant good luck, keep faith, I am with you. He didn't know if Aya understood the meaning but when he pulled back, breathless at his own daring, she was smiling a little.