𓆟⋆｡. Salt-Stained Reverie

he didn't think that he could do it now, either.

at her question, his eyes widened slightly. he wished that he could only see the monster. to see the monster in her would be easy, there would be no hesitation. but it wasn't true. he saw her. he looked at priska and he saw the woman that had been his very reason for breathing. for so long, she had been the thing that had got him up every morning. she was what he had lived for. he could not look at her without seeing that - and also seeing the monster that had taken her from him. " i wish it were only the monster. " he admitted, finally, his gaze dropped from her.

She could see the slight tremble in his hands as they held the gun pointing at her heart. Not with fear, it seemed, but with the weight of a love he just admitted to. A love that had outlasted reason. Which did not bend, did not break, only burned and burned until there would be nothing left but ash. “Finn,” she breathed, her voice sounding small and fragile for the first time in years, “I...” Her fingers twitched at her sides, aching to feel more of his warm body beneath her touch. She wanted to confess it all. Admit that her love was as eternal as her body was now, that her heart had never known another. But from her lips spilled another lie, like she had spun them for years to keep the one thing she truly loved safe. “You know I was never capable of loving you, the way you deserve to be loved. My heart has always been too dark.” The words were a confession, a curse. Even as the loneliness carved hollows in her chest, when she ached to be loved by him, she had kept her promise to keep him safe. Even as the scent of him, warm and alive, made her mouth water with a hunger that was not just for blood, but for the impossible.

With his toast delivered and his presence in the tavern asserted, Joaquin quickly turns his attention to what really matters: the night of revelry ahead of him. Summoning the barmaid back to replenish his empty cup, he launches into a colourful account of the events that had led to the Revenge's latest victory over the armadas of the civilised world, effortlessly holding court with the people that surround him.

But, as they say, there is no rest for the wicked. A keen-eyed Raider picks her way over to her captain's side, leaning in close to speak with him, and Joaquin cocks his good ear towards her, his frown of concentration quickly giving way to a smile. His lips form only two words in response: ¿eres segura?

He turned slowly, deliberately, leaning one arm against the bar as though he had all the time in the world. His smile came easily. A most familiar, effortless curve that promised laughter and danger in equal measure. For a moment, he simply studied Joaquin, eyes tracing the lines of power and violence written into the man’s posture, as if he were still deciding who stood before him. As if he was still unsure of the other's name. Then he tipped his head in conceding amusement. “You’re absolutely right,” he said at last, voice carrying cleanly through the din. “It’s a night for camaraderie and celebration, or however you'd say it so passionately in Spanish.”

With that, he rose, downed his second drink in a single smooth swallow, and slammed his calloused hand against the bar. “A round of rum for all our friends here!” he called, the word friends ringing bright and generous. “And a fine whiskey for the both of us.” He nodded toward Joaquin, grin widening. The tavern erupted in cheers, hands clapping his back, voices lifting in grateful chaos as he stepped free of the bar’s shelter and crossed the floor.

she only was able to pin point what it was, when she heard his voice. a storm of his own making. one that brought with him devastation and ruin and yet adeola couldn't help the smile which made its way onto her lips as she looked to him. the look of devotion was clear in her eyes. he had bought her a freedom that she had only dreamed of.

the night of her husbands death was one that was painted in adeolas memory for good. on her worst nights, she would recall that evening. it was the night that she was set free, the night where she was finally able to start a life. she had lost so much - and she eventually mourned her husband - but she had gained even more.

He accepted the drink she placed before him with a grateful nod, fingers curling easily around the familiar glass. The first sip grounded him, salt and rum and memory blending on his tongue. He nursed it slowly with one hand, his attention far more absorbed by the woman before him than the liquor he had crossed seas for. Adeola stood with her hand on her hip, every inch the queen of her domain, command and grace woven seamlessly into her posture. The sight of her still struck something deep in him. Some old, impossible mixture of admiration and tenderness. It reminded him, always, how dangerously easy she had been to fall for.

“Well,” he said, voice dropping, something sincere beneath the playfulness, “naturally I brought a variety of gifts to please your majesty.” His smile curved, slow and conspiratorial. “Would you like me to shower you in pearls first or offer you a proper vintage, freshly stolen from one of those annoyingly posh Frenchmen?”

" i didn't expect to see you again, priska. " finn retorted. perhaps he should have. after all of the years that the two of them were partners, he should have known that their story wasn't done. they were going to come face to face with one another time and time again until it was the end of one of them. he was sure of that. and if she was the one that ripped out his heart, then finn thought he could probably live with that. she had taken her heart with him a long time ago.

perhaps, for him, the hardest part of the way things had turned out was that she had become something unrecognisable. there was no discussing their fond old memories. " and yet i can't help but wonder if the woman that i knew is still in there somewhere. " finn knew better. logically, he knew better. he had seen enough to know that the person they once were and the person that they had become were vastly different.

still, there was a part of him that hoped.

With a low, broken sound, she dragged herself upright. Every inch of her screamed in protest as silver worked its way out. Blood trailing down from the still open wound. She swayed, unsteady, but stubbornly remained standing. Stepping closer until his pulse thundered in her ears. The sound was louder now than the soft rhythm she had memorized once, back when they lay beneath constellations and traced each other’s breaths. She lifted her dark gaze to his. “What do you see, Finn?” she whispered. “Any trace of your old partner… or just a monster?” The question fractured her just a piece, split something raw and aching open. She knew the answer before he could give it. They had hunted enough creatures together to know that remnants always lingered. That they carried grief, longing, memory. Even now, she felt it all. Sadness. Want. Desire. Pain. What a mercy it would have been to be consumed by only bloodlust, to erase all else.

Full of the vitality that only a secured prize and victory in battle can provide, Joaquin the Devourer's arrival at the tavern is proceeded by his raucous laughter, and the bang of the front door as it slams against the wall in order to admit him and an equally-boisterous complement of sailors from his crew.

The mingling scents of smoke and powder follow him as he struts across the room to the bar, calling out greetings to those whose faces he likes well enough, and the odd threat reminder to any maldito canalla that owes him money. God knows he's looking to get into something tonight, but whether it's another fight, the bottom of a bottle, or someone's bed remains to be seen. It all stokes his blood in the same way.

By luck more than sense, he had never truly crossed the captain’s path before. Never sailed beneath his banner, never taken coin from his coffers, never stood opposite him in battle. A crooked mercy from fate. Could be tonight, though, fortune narrowed its gaze.

He downed the last of his rum in a single swallow, felt the burn trail down his throat, and ordered another before the captain could make his grand toast. His fool of a current employer owed the jubilant man money, or blood... or both. The Irishman had no intention of being mistaken for collateral, and preferred the night to continue as he had intended the moment he set foot in here. Filled with drink, laughter and ending with a warm bed later.

My love. Such simple words, and spoken without fanfare, but their meaning is beyond any value Ned has the capability to express. Does Theia even realise what she's said? Does she know how it moves him to hear that she might think of him thus? He doesn't dare comment on the endearment, for fear that she might take it back, having not meant it as seriously as he imagines, but... if he's being honest with himself, Ned has known that there would never be anyone else for him from the moment he first laid eyes on her. She's his love for the ages: his Penelope, his Eurydice, his Theia.

His thoughts play across his face like sunlight on the water, but still he doesn't give them voice. It doesn't feel like the right time, not when Theia is already so burdened with everything else happening at the moment. "I hope so," Ned says instead, "I suppose it’s one of the advantages of my working so late, eh? That I'll be here waiting for ye when ye wake up." And if the nightmares come to call on her again, he’ll hold her steady in his arms, safe and sound, until the break of dawn.

Feeling the press of her body against his back, the warmth that reaches him even through his clothes and the brush of her lips against his shoulder blade, Ned lets out a soft sigh, utterly contented. He wants for so very little in this life - just food in his belly, a roof over his head, and Theia’s hand to hold. If only things could always be like this. If only they lived in less dangerous times.

“Maybe ye were right after all - ye've never seemed more like a cat to me than ye do right now," he chuckles affectionately as she squeezes into the scant opening between himself and the table, “I’m trying to give ye your dinner, and you’re only making it harder by getting under foot!” But he isn’t remotely displeased to find her so firmly in his space, and he readily abandons his task, his hand absently moving to capture a lock of Theia’s dark hair where it has escaped its tidy braid. He winds it thoughtfully, habitually around his fingers while he takes a moment to consider her question. “Tail,” he answers decisively, “Then I might be able to swim alongside ye, keep ye company on your travels. It wouldnae be so bad to be a fish, if I got to stay with you.”

———

Following Theia with his eyes as she turns towards the window, Ned settles his hand on her hip, giving it a gentle, comforting squeeze. So many of the pirates that make port on the island have seemingly vanished that perhaps some would consider it a cruelty to suggest that there’s still hope, but… without hope, what else is there? He can’t imagine that this tragedy will mean a permanent end to their way of life - not without a fight, at least. “I keep an eye out for them wherever I go, for anyone I ken fae the tavern that may’ve sailed with ye,” he says, having taken on the endeavour without being asked, because he knows how much the crew of the Storm’s Eye means to her, “If I see Doone again, or any of the others, should I tell them where they might find ye?”

Theia lays her hand over his heart and Ned smiles for her, knowing and ever so slightly sad. He wishes there was something more he could do to help her, he wishes there was something he could say that would reassure her that all will eventually be well.

“A tail, then,” she murmured, her voice low, as though sealing an oath between them. “The sea would welcome you, if you came with.” She leaned back against the small wooden table she squeezed herself close to, letting her fingertips drift through the thin spill of moonlight that bled across its surface. She imagined him beneath the waves alongside her, as he absently wound a strand of her unruly hair around her finger as he weighed every choice with gentle seriousness. “You would learn quickly,” she added, a faint smile curving her lips. “And I would show you the quiet places, where the world dissolves into nothing but colour and current.” She was no mermaid, no sea-sprite either, but the fantasy itself offered reprieve: a world where their travels were boundless, unshackled by law or fear.

The weight of his hand resting at her hip, the gentle squeeze that followed, sent warmth blooming through her chest, radiant and steady. Even as their conversation drifted toward darker waters, that simple touch softened its edge. She hesitated at his suggestion, considering carefully. “Your offer is too kind,” she said at last. “And meeting them again might ease something in me that has not known peace for a while now. But give me time, please, let me find a safer place. They should not be seen here.” Her gaze lifted to his, unwavering. “I will not place you in any more danger than you already are in now, sharing your home with a fugitive.”

—

His soft protest at her offering stirred a helpless smile, the heaviness ever so lightly lifted once more. “I cannot believe you pay such close attention…,” she murmured as she watched him accept the plantain from her hand. The way his eyes lingered on her made the food seem suddenly inconsequential. Awareness bloomed along her skin, subtle and electric, until she realised how little space remained between them. A position she had maneuvered herself into, without second guessing for a single moment. The dim light blurred the edges of the world, leaving only the hush of breath between them. If she could, she would remain there forever.

At his question, her bottom lip caught between her teeth briefly. She swallowed the teasing answer waiting on her tongue you and let the silence stretch, fragile and static.  She couldn’t fully recall how many nights she had slept in his bed now, and even in such a close proximity he had remained most gentlemanly. He had given her more than she could ask for. Given her all the space he thought she needed, to a point it made her question wether he swore a type of vow… But these words, the way he seemed to drown in the present, made her question if his words were meant to be an innuendo? In the silence that stretched between them, Theia weighed her chances. Praying to whatever drowned god that she made no mistake by taking a dive in uncharted waters. 

Courage came like a crashing wave. She leaned in, capturing his lips with hers. In a daring moment, even letting her tongue dart out to capture the lingering sweet taste of plantain there. A soft sigh escaped her as she deepened the kiss, her small frame pressing into his. Her hand, that had been resting over his heart, curling into a fist there as though she might anchor herself. He tasted of warmth and sunlight, of something bright enough to chase away a cold she had not realized had settled into her bones long before him. When she finally pulled back, breathless, there was only so much space she could put between them. For one taste only soothed so much of the aching pull she had become aware of.

he'd waited for this moment. the moment that he would be reunited with the woman that he'd spent so long with. she was his greatest 'what if'. if she were human, would the two of them be doing this still? would they be together? married even? he had never stopped wondering.

this was never how he had thought it would go.

" leave. " finn muttered, loud enough for the two of them to hear. " leave us. i'll sort this. " but did he have it in him? he hadn't been able to do it before so what made him think that he could do any of this now? he didn't really know but he knew that he didn't really have much of a choice. he either walked out of there with her head, or everyone he knew would turn their back against him.

Priska’s hand pressed to her abdomen, fingers slowly painting themselves red as familiar footsteps drew closer. He could have ended it already. How easy it could have been for both of them, but she knew Finn better than to believe he would choose the easy way out. No, the universe had always been determined to torture them, to keep them endlessly spinning in one another’s orbit, never quite brave enough to commit to anything that might damage something more precious than flesh. Their hearts had always been guarded at all costs, the weakest link disguised as the strongest. And it proved so still, as she finally dared to look up and face him. She found those familiar eyes meeting her darkened hues. His eyes watched her now as one watches a dangerous predator. As he should...

Could she do it? Take that precious heart, and his soul along with it?

He spoke, and she let his words settle between them. Silence stretched, taut and aching, before laughter spilled from her lips once more. This time quieter, bitter on her tongue. “All these years to come up with the greatest line,” she said, tilting her head, remaining where she knelt on the floor, “and that’s all you’ve got for me, Finn?” She made no move to stand, even if she could. “It was already clear your new partners were little more than fodder, but it seems they’ve done a number your brain as well.”

She hadn’t meant to sound so bitter, to let even the faintest hint of jealousy slip through. But she was jealous, furious at a world that had denied her any shape of the future she once imagined. Furious, too, at the man that had been too cowardly to grant her an honorable end. “I know why you and your friends are here,” she said softly. “It’s not to catch up on the good old days, and it’s certainly not to ask how I’ve been.” Her smile was thin, sharp.

When Theia's hand arrives to cover his own, Ned's smile only deepens, his fondness for her rising in his chest, a little boat buoyed impossibly higher by the current. He does nothing to disturb the soot-black impressions that linger on his skin in the wake of her touch, preferring to leave them where they have settled, an ephemeral reminder of how lucky he is to have found her again, and to have been allowed to remain close to her these past few weeks. If you cut him open, you would likely find the same whorls of her fingerprints left, indelibly, all over his heart.

He clucks his tongue in sympathy when she expresses that she has tried and failed to get some sleep, believing her lie without question. "Ye need rest, hen," he says softly, his voice full of concern and his gaze beseeching, even in its futility. Theia won't sleep more easily just because he wishes it would be so - if only it were that simple. "Maybe after we've had a bit of supper, ye can have another go at getting your heid down, eh? I'm dead tired, and all." It still makes him bashful, the thought of asking her outright to spend the night in his bed, but his insinuations are innocent and never particularly difficult to decipher.

With her assent, Ned begins unpacking his spoils from the tavern, setting them out on the small table beneath the slatted window. It's modest fare - half a pie, a small loaf, some fried plantains and an assortment of dried meats and fruit - only things the kitchen could do without, but he will be happier knowing that Theia has eaten something. He doesn't tell her that he’s already eaten himself, that, if Cook had her way, he'd be plump as a partridge and no mistake. The omission is not quite a lie, and the truth is inconsequential in the face of making sure she is properly cared for. “Not a stray cat, no - a curious sea sprite come to visit, maybe,” he answers, echoing Theia's amusement with some gentle teasing of his own, “And a mere mortal such as myself would do well to express the proper hospitality due to a member of the fair folk. I wouldnae want to be turned into anything unnatural.”

Up on her feet again, ever restless, she moved to press herself against him. Peeking over his shoulder as he unpacked the food he had brought, she brushed her lips to the fabric of his clothes. A stray cat indeed, even if he chose to name her something more enchanted. Like a feline, she basked in his warmth, anchoring herself fiercely in the present. It mattered not that the anchor dragged some moments, skipped others. It was strange how the world could feel so hollow and spoiled, yet her heart would brim so full whenever she looked at him, whenever she was this close. It almost felt like betrayal to her fellow crewmates, that in this very moment despair could be repressed to a quiet hum in the background.

She rose onto her toes, her lips wandering softly over the cotton covering his shoulder while her gaze drifted toward the fried plantain on the table. Another quiet, embarrassing growl from her stomach, again reminding her that there was no attempting some sleep without at least having a little taste. The fried fruit had become a favorite since their first docking on the tropical island. Not that the rest didn’t look tempting, the tavern cook was a marvel, but she could already taste the sweetness on her tongue. Smoothly, she ducked beneath his arm and wriggled into the narrow space between him and the table. Brown eyes lifted with the feigned innocence of the sea spirit he had just named her. “A sea sprite, hmm?” she smiled at his gentle teasing. “Did they not warn you mortals that kindness toward creatures of the depths is dangerous? We might grow tempted to take you with us. Turn you into something unnatural still. Not out of spite, but fondness.” She tilted her head, considering. “What would it be, then? A scaly tail? Or perhaps a hard shell?”

---

She turned toward the slatted window, picking up the plantain with a little more eagerness than she meant to show. She was just about to take her first bite when Ned spoke her former crewmember’s name. Theia stilled. It was as though the word had been dropped into still water, sending ripples through her chest. For a heartbeat, she said nothing, letting the weight of it settle. Relief and fear tangling, separating, tangling again until she could not tell which was which. “Doone…” she echoed softly, testing the shape of the name she hadn’t spoken aloud in what felt like ages. “If it was him… then at least he’s breathing. That counts for more than hope, these days.”

Her gaze fell, a faint crease forming between her brows as thoughts of the people she once called family surfaced and then scattered again. They were now little more than a wreckage pulled apart by the tide. When she looked back to Ned, gratitude shone clear in her seafoam eyes. She reached for him, not clinging nor desperate, only resting on his chest for a moment, grounding herself in something warm and certain while the waves inside her slowly eased.  “Thank you for telling me,” she murmured. “For noticing him.”

In the wee hours of the morning, Ned trudges home from his shift at the tavern, traversing the familiar, winding streets that lead back to his bedsit in the Slats without paying them any heed. His thoughts are elsewhere, as they so often are, but it isn’t silly daydreams that have claimed him this time - no, his mind is now burdened with heavier things, with the dead weight that sits in his stomach and hangs over the island like a dark cloud.

Before long, he arrives at the front door of the rickety house that has been his home for the last three months, stopping to pull off his boots before he passes over the threshold. Ned pads as quietly as he can over the ancient wooden floorboards and up the narrow flight of stairs, but even clad only in his socks, the old building announces his every move with a weary groan. He hopes his landlady won’t come out to investigate, not when he hasn’t told her about his illicit houseguest - not when he hasn’t told her that he’s harbouring a pirate.

Extracting his key from its hiding place inside a half-dead plant on the upper landing, Ned slips it into the lock and finally, carefully eases open the door to his room. He isn’t surprised to find that Theia is still awake, and while he smiles to see her, as he always does, he can’t help but furrow his brow at her appearance. She has grown so terribly pale and drawn in the days since the crew of the Oathbreaker was marched across the scaffold, and it’s no wonder, but he’s concerned about her. She needs rest.

A small smile caught on her lips as Ned addressed her softly, crossing the room in a few easy steps before she could even think to rise from the floor. His gentle lips brushed the crown of her head, his calloused fingertips tracing along her cheek and jaw in a tender sweep. Reaching up, her own fingers followed the back of his hand as she leaned into his touch, likely leaving smudges of charcoal soot on his sun-kissed skin. It was a quiet greeting, wordless and familiar, before she pushed herself up onto aching legs. Her bones stiff from what might have been hours spent curled in the same position, losing herself in endless lines.

When he pointed out the very reason for the consistent dark circles beneath her eyes, her lower lip caught between her teeth. She worried it for a moment before answering in a soft whisper. “I tried.” The lie slipped easily from her lips, as though it weighed nothing at all. If the half-truth could ease even the smallest portion of Ned’s concern, then it was worth it. The truth was, she had stopped trying to sleep alone over a week ago, after waking with a scream lodged in her throat that was loud enough to wake the neighbours. The last thing she needed was a knock at the door... Ned had promised that he did not fear her troubled heart, the storm that lived within her, it did little to ease the guilt she carried. Guilt for the worry she caused him, and for the danger of sheltering a pirate in times like these. If only she had been something simpler, a baker’s daughter perhaps, instead of a drowned siren. Life might have been easier. A life she believed he deserved. But she was far too deep now to release his heart and set him free.