#cold briny depths

[bam-monsterhospital]

camera pics of newfoundland from beach-day! (many taken from the vehicle)

the shorelines around Gros Morne, framed by the distant -almost surreal- Tabletop Mountains, are some of my favourite places in the entire world.

[merakiui]

タコの花嫁。

yandere!azul ashengrotto x (female) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, non-con, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, arranged marriage, oviposition, breeding, royalty au note - in an effort to bring peace to two warring sides, you are engaged to the sea queen’s son.

If anyone is to blame for the abysmal diplomacy between the Land and the Sea, it would be your ancestors. Pompous and foolhardy, they thought they could rule the grand seas stretching out from the harbor, beyond weather-worn docks with their rotted, seaweed-strewn planks and briny fetor. The ocean was vast, unexplored territory—a dangerous, deceptive beauty harboring life far beneath unruly waves.

And your ancestors intended to claim it.

Sailors would recount tales of fishfolk—uncanny creatures who looked more marine than the two-legged mammals of the land. They’d raise mugs, each overflowing with ale, in drunken merriment, terrifying themselves with the mysteries of the deep, dark sea.

“It ought to give ya a proper scare straight to Davy Jones himself!” they’d say, voices lowered conspiratorially. “Soon as yer candle goes out and all ya’ve got’s the moon to guide ya… You’ll hear ’em slip through the water if yer listenin’ well enough.”

“You ever go and spy one up close?”

“I’d sooner see the Devil himself and let him keelhaul me before facin’ those cursed beasts!”

“The cut of their jib ain’t so pretty. Enough to give men like us a fright and we’ve seen all sorts of somethin’.”

“Monsters, I say! Monsters!”

Festivals were held to keep these beasts at bay—to prevent them from gathering the courage to creep up onto the land. Every year, during the summer solstice, pits were hollowed on the shore and bordered with stones. Flames licked towards the sky, red-orange fingers clawing for purchase amidst the stars above. Townsfolk would sing and dance late into the eve, bellowing songs passed through the generations. Children would skip up and down the beach, torches in hand, and cry out an old chant: “Fish for you and me are meant to stay in the sea! Should you see one on land, may the Heavens strike it down with a gentle, loving hand!”

Their excitement did well to ward off the fishfolk. Sometimes the lone child would spot one in the distance, peeking out from between the rocks before diving back under in a splash.

On land, humans were safe. On land, the fishfolk couldn’t catch them.

It was different in the sea.

Ships were destroyed in terrible tempests. The waves tossed them around as if they were nothing. Many sailors would find their demise at the bottom of the ocean, torn to shreds with shattered skeletons. Viscerally brutalized, they died with secrets on their tongues—secrets of the strange fishfolk who’d drag them down, down, down to a watery grave.

On one cold February afternoon, the octopus prince was brought into the world. In shadowed fathoms, a grand celebration was held. After so much time—misfortune after misfortune—one fry survived out of the entire clutch. He was round and soft and small, colored blue from exertion and fighting through the tug of the current to reach home. The Sea Queen met him halfway and embraced him, ecstatic tears in her eyes, for a mother’s love is stronger than any political power.

“My little Azul,” she said, stroking a hand along his cheek, “how precious you are.”

No ships were sunk; no lives were lost. It was a peaceful day for both the Land and the Sea. And it would continue to be so in the future. Every year on that same February, it was made a day of peace to honor the little prince.

A day of life, not death.

It was on that same February eleven years later when you were tossed into the frigid depths like a hatchling cast out of its nest. Similarly, your birth had been a wondrous occasion. Your parents brought five boys into the world, each just as adored as the last, but they had been hoping for a daughter. It was a miracle when their fervent wishes were finally granted. You were spoiled as all daughters often are, pampered and doted on by your family and the palace staff.

Your brothers, though protective and caring, were a troublesome and rowdy bunch. Kyffin was the eldest. Two years younger was Emyr, and another two years behind him was Owin. A year younger than him were twins Morcan and Martyn. They picked on you as all immature boys often do when caught up in sibling rivalries, aiming to be the only one their parents see. To prove themselves as the best, the strongest, the wisest.

So it was with a half-cruel heart that Emyr tossed you into the waves from where he stood in the rowboat.

“Only way to learn is with exposure!” he called down to you, watching as you struggled against the push and pull of the sea. 

“C-Can’t!” you shouted back, choking on salt and flailing about. “E-Emyr, I can’t—can’t swim!”

“Don’t be silly,” Owin added with a sweet smile. “It’s how we learned. That old sod threw us right in. You’re lucky it’s us and not him. He was awfully mean with it, wasn’t he?”

“Terribly so.” Emyr watched your struggling a moment longer and clicked his tongue. He held the oar out just before you could slip under, and you clung to it with shaky hands. “Come on—let’s get you up here. You’re not gonna get it today.”

“Fin got it on his first try.”

“Fin gets everything on his first bloody try.”

Relieved, your heart pounding like a drum, you peered up at your brothers. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get it…”

“Nothing to apologize for. You’ll get it one day.”

“We’ll keep trying until then. And once you do, we’ll throw you a big party.”

“Really? Will you really do that?” Your expression brightened, but your brothers’ faces darkened. They saw the shadow before you did. Saw the webbed hands reaching out, the serrated teeth glinting in a sinister smile.

And then—

Owin leaned over, his arm outstretched. So fluid was his motion that it took you by surprise. “(Name), grab on! Hurry! Before—”

The rest of his warning was muffled by the water. You hardly had any time to brace yourself when you were yanked under, your nails raking across the wood of the oar as you went with the force of the pull. Salt stung your eyes when you cracked them open, peering frantically at blurry surroundings. Teal-green specks slid silently through the shadows, mismatched eyes flicking over your form. And then there was a high, raucous sort of chittering. Like a dolphin’s cry, loud and piercing. You squeezed your eyes shut and pressed your palms against your ears.

It only lasted a few mere seconds, but it felt like an eternity trapped in the coils of a creature you couldn’t comprehend. One moment you were holding your breath and the next arms were hooked around your torso, and you were pulled up and into the belly of the rowboat. Your hands flew to your throat, and you coughed up seawater while Owin patted you.

“It’s fine. It’s…okay,” Emyr muttered, his voice shot through with fear. It was the most shaken he’d ever sounded.

Blood fogged in the water, staining the tip of his harpoon. He gazed down at his hand. A deep, jagged gash ran angrily from palm to wrist. He hissed and closed his fingers in a tight fist.

“We gotta get back,” Owin was saying, still rubbing soothing circles into your back. “I’ll row. You rest.”

“Not good,” Emyr said instead, shaking his head in dismay as he watched your attackers retreat.

“We’re still in our waters, right? We didn’t go past the boundary, did we?”

“Let’s hope not.”

“We didn’t, right?”

“Let’s hope—” Emyr paused, collecting his words. “Let’s hope those monsters were in the wrong.”

“Father’s gonna kill us.”

“If not us, the monsters.”

Both brothers looked towards you. Your tunic was torn, stained through with saltwater and blood. You shivered all the way to shore.

Following that mishap, an official meeting was called between the Land and the Sea. The King—your father—met the Sea Queen at the border. He stood proud on his ship, peering down at her with fire in his old eyes.

“Your Majesty.”

The Sea Queen was just as formidable as those who came before her. Her tentacles unfurled as one, and if you looked at them long enough they almost seemed to take on the shape of an obsidian-colored crinoline.

“I believe my mother and your father made the terms quite clear all those years ago,” she said, a wave lifting her to meet the King at the deck of his ship. “So then, with that in mind, there should be no reason for us to meet under these circumstances.”

Emyr and Owin stood just behind their father. You peered through their legs at the Sea Queen, silently amazed. You’d never seen anyone quite like her before. At least, not a real person. You’d seen her in storybooks, depicted as a fearsome beast with devilish features, and though there was something intimidating about her gaze and build she appeared understanding enough. Her grey skin was sleek in the morning sun, her long, silvery strands tied up and pinned with an ornate hair ornament. She looked beautiful in a magical, enigmatic way.

“I couldn’t agree more,” came the clipped response of your father. “Alas, misfortune has brought us here.” He stepped aside to allow her to behold Emyr’s bandaged hand. “Harm has befallen my son and daughter. I suppose you might have an inkling as to why they find themselves in their current state?”

She frowned, but you couldn’t tell if it was out of sympathy or some other emotion. “Perhaps one of them can give reason to the wound now marring one of my subject’s sons.”

Your father glanced overboard at the snake-like merman cradled in the arms of another merman. They looked near-identical, their features unmistakable. He glanced back at Emyr, his gaze hard. “Go on then. Explain yourself.”

Emyr stepped forward. “With wholehearted respect, Your Majesty, it was out of self-defense. Your kind—they attacked us first.”

“You were in our waters!” one of the mers exclaimed, pointing a clawed finger towards Emyr. “It’s all your fault Jade got hurt!”

Owin hurried ahead, his hands gripping the taffrail. “He’s playing it up! It was a graze!”

“He could’ve died! You almost killed him!”

“That is enough,” the Sea Queen said, jutting an arm out to silence both sides. “I understand everyone is hurt here. Our feud lies in misunderstanding.” She gazed at you next. “Little one, we have yet to hear your story. Do share.”

You glanced at the guards, at Owin and Emyr, and then at father. He nodded encouragingly. “U-Um!” Shyly, you approached the Sea Queen. “My brothers were teaching me how to swim. I don’t know anything about whose water is whose. I just wanted to learn how to swim.” You met the fierce scowl of the mer holding his twin brother and quickly looked elsewhere. “He grabbed me before my brothers could pull me up.”

“Because you were trespassing. Anyone who tresspasses ought to—”

“Floyd.”

At the not-so-subtle warning in his father’s voice, he shut his mouth and snarled. His brother—Jade—was handed off to their father, who assessed his state with a frown.

“He will live, but it will take time for him to recover. My son is right. Your son could have killed him.”

“Just as your sons could have killed my sister!” Owin shouted, glaring.

Floyd stuck his tongue out, remorseless.

“It is impossible to know which side is in the wrong,” your father began, turning towards the Sea Queen. “Seeing as both have been injured, I am willing to apologize on behalf of my sons.”

“What?!” Owin’s head turned towards his father. “You’re bloody mad! Have you not seen—”

“Father,” Emyr interjected evenly. “We have nothing to apologize for. We were within our waters. We had no ill will towards the others. It was completely innocent.”

The Sea Queen hummed her contemplation. “The boundary was drawn for a reason, decided upon by those who came before us, and yet it does more harm than good. It is not for safety’s sake. It is to keep us divided—to ensure that neither side will ever know peace.”

“And you’re implying that we get rid of it?”

She nodded, quite serious. Everyone looked on in equal parts shock and disbelief. “Why do we continue to fight? It does nothing but open old wounds, rendering them incurable. Innocent lives are lost in petty squabbling. And for what?”

To that, no one could offer a smart reply.

“Therefore I propose peace. A union to welcome a new era—one in which we embrace one another as allies without animosity.”

“A union?” Your father raised a brow, suspicious but willing to listen. “I suppose it would be beneficial. My people would be free to travel the seas at their leisure.” “And mine would no longer have to live in fear of being thoughtlessly slaughtered and taken as trophies.”

“Unbelievable,” Orwin muttered.

Emyr elbowed him. “Knock it off.”

“We’ll collaborate on a contract. One that dissolves the invisible boundary that has been the cause for so much suffering. In order to attain true peace, I shall offer you my only son.” She glanced at you and then back at your father. “Your daughter shall marry him when they are of age.”

“What?! No way! Ew! Gross!” Your voice came out shrill and you shook your head in protest. “I don’t wanna marry an octopus! No, I won’t do it!”

Your father stood in front of you. “She’s my only daughter. If something were to happen—”

“Which is precisely why I bring up this engagement. Should they be betrothed, we as their parents will promise to uphold peace to give them bright futures and they will act as the first example of a human-mer alliance. Unions between humans and merfolk are unheard of, but is this not the best way to foster harmony between the Land and Sea?”

“I won’t do it! No! Don’t make me marry a gross—” Emyr gathered you in his arms, holding his uninjured hand over your mouth.

“Let the grown-ups talk.”

Owin frowned. “I still don’t agree with this…”

Your father mulled it over, his eyes glazed in thought. “Very well. We will create a contract—an official peace treaty.”

Both leaders shook hands and planned to convene at the end of the week to discuss further.

You watched the mers depart, each one slipping under the sea. Floyd was the last to go, staring at you with a mean sort of vitriol. And then he, too, dove under.

“He didn’t mean it, right?” you whispered to Emyr after your father gave the order to turn the ship around and head for land. “I won’t have to marry an octopus, right?”

Emyr could only offer a commiserate frown.

“She’s a brat,” Floyd spits. “Stupid, evil Two Legs.”

Jade chuckles and runs his fingers over the scar. “I consider it an honor.”

“Yeah, well, I think it’s messed up. She’s the reason you can’t ever swim naturally again. While she’s up there in her pretty, little tower, safe and sound, you’re still hurting.”

“It’s not as much of a hindrance as you may think. I’m not weak, mind you.”

Floyd grumbles. “Still. She’s mean.”

Azul gazes up at the palace, sighing dreamily. “She’ll be my wife someday. That’s what humans call it, yes? Husband and wife… What wonderful words.”

It’s been one year since the peace treaty. Since then, humans and merfolk have made an effort to get along. This is the second time Azul will be meeting with you. He’s nervous. The first time you went out to sea to greet him, and he’d gotten so anxious that he inked right then and there. His mother entertained you from where you sat in the boat with your personal guard. It was a mortifying experience—one that had taken him months to recover from.

Now he’s going to try to meet you in the shallows. Try is the key word here. He’s scared, all three hearts beating as one. Is it too late to reschedule?

“I can’t believe you’re actually okay with this. You that lonely?”

Azul turns to scowl at both twins, but it’s mostly directed at Floyd. “I never asked you to tag along. Leave me alone.”

Jade smiles. “And let the Queen’s little prince swim to his death?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Sure you can. But what about when Two Legs gets ya? What then?”

“She wouldn’t do that.”

Floyd rolls his eyes. “You saw what her brothers did to Jade.”

“Because you tried to kill her.”

“Because she was in our territory!”

Azul huffs and pushes him away with a tentacle. “Regardless, we’re supposed to be on good terms now. You’ll break the contract if you try anything dangerous.”

“He’s right, Floyd.”

“Ugh. Whatever.” Floyd turns away, stubborn. “This is lame. I’m not stickin’ around.”

Jade lingers long enough to observe the way Azul lights up when he spots you on the stone steps. And then he disappears beneath the water.

Barefoot, holding your dress up and out of the way, you pad across the beach.

“Why are you here? I’m busy. My brothers are taking me into town.”

The smile that had been fighting to break out on his face frosts over. “Oh. I… Um…” Azul fumbles with the conch shell he’d collected on the way here. A gift for you. He made sure to study human speech patterns in the months leading up to this meeting. He’s fully prepared! And yet you look so displeased. “F-For you! I found it…”

You stare at the shell clutched in a dark tentacle. Tentatively, you reach for it. “Why?”

“Ah. W-Well, my mother says gifts are an important part of any bond. In the sea, we give gifts to the ones we care about. To friends and family and o-other halves…”

You turn the shell over in your hands. “We’re not friends.”

“Not yet,” he tries, but you shake your head.

“You ran away from me the last time we met. That’s not very friendly.”

His face flushes blue and he opens his mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. It wasn’t on purpose.

You’re already turning on your heel. “I don’t have time for this.” You toss the shell over your shoulder. Azul watches it land in the sand, just out of his grasp.

“W-Wait! I… I want to talk to you. Please don’t go. You’re going to be my other half one day, so I’d like to—”

But you’re already dashing across the beach to get to the stairs.

Azul deflates against the rock. Tears overflow in floods. Is it because of him? Is he to blame? Why don’t you want to be his friend? Is it because of the peace treaty? Why?

Why? Why? Why?

Azul doesn’t want to think negatively of you. Humans are sensitive creatures. He reads up on them in the palace library, poring over literature and textbooks in an effort to better understand you. But as the months pass and you seem to simply tolerate him for the sake of the alliance, he begins to suspect something.

It’s made apparent the next time he sees you, where you walk right past the beach to catch up with your brothers. He hides behind the rocks, two blue eyes following your figure until you’re out of sight.

Floyd was right. You are a brat.

And yet he can’t hate you.

On the eve of your eighteenth birthday, Azul meets you in the shallows.

Nowadays you send letters, preferring strained long distance over the personal intimacy of face-to-face relations. These exchanges are purely diplomatic. But now that he’s asked to meet with you, a rare occurrence, you’ve deigned to greet him in person. It’s the least you can do after he’s gone through the trouble to travel here. It’s been so long since you’ve seen him that he’s almost unrecognizable. You remember the round, baby-faced octo-mer from your childhood. The one who lounges against the rocks is leaner now—his features defined, jawline as sharp as his eyes. They cut through the gloom to find you.

“You wished to see me?” You’re in your nightwear, a silky gown with an even softer robe. A cool breeze blows across the beach, and you wrap your arms around yourself for extra warmth. “Azul?”

He hesitates, his gaze trailing up your legs. You’ve also changed a lot in the time you’ve been apart. You’ve grown taller, filling out in places he didn’t know humans could fill. What he’d give to hold you… His mother says he needs to be patient. Fickle thing that you are, you’re the reason he’s spent six years trying to appease you through letters—to win you over and be anything more than that “annoying octopus” you’re doomed to marry. Perhaps it would have been easier to act just as you do if it weren’t for the fact that he’d been elated at the premise of having someone to love. When his mother broached the idea in the days following her meeting with the Land King, he’d stared at her with wide, excited eyes.

“There’s a human girl who wants to be my friend?” he asked, to which his mother smiled and nodded.

More than a friend, actually, but then all he was focused on was finally getting to experience the one thing he’d never known or had: friendship.

Sighing, he foregoes formality and holds out a necklace. It dangles from the tip of his tentacle. Strung on a dainty, silver strand, pearls wink back at you under the moonlight. Azul averts his eyes, his cheeks a pleasant periwinkle.

“Happy birthday…”

“Oh.” You move in closer, taking the necklace from him. His tentacle pursues you, twining delicately around your wrist. “Um… What is it? Do you need—whoa!”

Azul tugs you closer. The sea laps at your ankles. Beneath a tapestry of stars, you meet his azure stare. His features are set with a determination you’ve never seen before.

“I want to start over.”

“Start over?”

“I’d like to be on friendly terms with you. We’re so cold. Distant…” Azul frowns, seeming unsure of what to say or do next. The tentacle laced around your wrist like a bracelet tightens its hold. “We’re to be wed one day. I want to make this work.”

You blink at him. He thinks he may have gotten through to you, having finally broken through layers of stone and ice, but then your nose scrunches and odium shimmers in your gaze.

“That’s impossible. I’m a human. How am I supposed to live with an octopus?” You shake him off with a huff. “I’m not sure what our parents think this will accomplish. I don’t want to be a pawn to be moved around for the sake of peace. I’m my own person.”

Azul’s expression sours. His lip curls up into a sneer. “Well, I don’t find it very enjoyable either. You’re not the only victim in this scenario.”

You exhale an exhausted breath. “Azul, I appreciate the gift, but it doesn’t mean anything if you’re only giving it to me to curry favor.”

I wasn’t, he thinks, but he doesn’t say that. Admitting it would be a weakness. Admitting it would mean coming to terms with an unrequited opinion.

“At least one of us is making a conscious effort.”

“At least one of us isn’t trying so hard. It’s pathetic.”

“You’re not obligated to accept my goodwill.” He smiles, smug. “Yet you do every time. I’d wager you enjoy my materialistic affections.”

“As if.” Despite this, you hold the necklace out of his reach when a tentacle flexes towards it. “It’s mine now.”

“So you are fond of my ‘pathetic’ ways!”

“I’m not!”

You jerk away with a vicious scowl, but your foot catches in the sand and you quickly find yourself tipping backwards. If not for the tentacles that coil around your waist to steady you, you would have fallen on your rear. Your chest heaves with adrenaline. Stunned, you stare at Azul.

“You…caught me,” you breathe, lips parted in awe.

“Did you think I’d let you fall?” He cocks his head at you, grinning playfully. “Why, I’d never! Unless it’s me you’re falling for, in which case I gladly welcome the—”

“You’re such a pest.” Untangling yourself from his grasp, which he allows without scrimmage, you step away from the water’s edge. He watches you secure the pearls around your neck, and his hearts stumble in his chest when you point an accusatory finger at him. “Don’t delude yourself with foolish nonsense. I have no interest in you.”

With an indignant harrumph, you start towards the palace.

“May we meet here tomorrow?” Azul calls out after you, testing his luck with what little chance he has.

“Don’t push it.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

“Good. Keep waiting, dummy!” You break into a sprint, hurrying off into the shadows.

Azul smiles at the empty beach. Whether or not you like him, it doesn’t matter. You’re to be his one day. You’ve always been, ever since he was eleven.

He’ll wait, even if you won’t show.

Ostensibly, twenty-one years wise, you’re getting married today.

Your gown is just as exquisite as your hair and makeup. Pearls cling to your throat and arms—classic wedding attire for merfolk. A thin veil shields the scheme in your stare.

This was an inevitability, but you’re determined to fight it until the end. No matter how quickly time seems to pass, you’ll do everything you can to stall and slow it.

Gripping a sharpened dagger in a resolute fist, you drag it through the long, sprawling train of your gown.

“As if I’d marry an octopus,” you grumble, cutting fine fabric until you’re permitted smoother movement. Gazing at yourself in the mirror, you scowl. “I’m no one’s bride.”

By the time the maids arrive to check on you, you’ve already stolen out the window.

The rowboat sways on choppy water. You’ve watched your brothers do this enough times to have the technique engraved in your memory. Your arms strain with the oars, every muscle screaming in protest, but you fight through the pain. The palace looks smaller and smaller with every passing minute. Eventually, you’re so far out that the land is but a mere speck.

It’s going well. You’re escaping towards a better future—a future without the octopus prince.

You glance towards the horizon. Your boat undulates with the waves.

You’ll miss your brothers, your maids, your personal guard…

Water slops over the edge. You yelp, startled. Have the seas always been so rough?

Despite everything, you’ll miss your father.

Just as you think this, your boat rocks to the side. You grab onto the edge to steady yourself, but it’s already too late. It tips over and you go with it, careening into the sea with a noisy splash. Twin shadows cut seamlessly through the murky water. You catch sight of a yellow eye before you propel yourself towards the sky, coughing and heaving once you break the surface. You grab onto the overturned rowboat, your dagger clutched in one hand.

You search the surface for them, eyes flicking to and fro in a frantic panic.

Somewhere… Anywhere… Where are you?

And then you find them, peering at you from the other side of the boat.

“Go on then,” you spit, glaring. “Kill me.”

Floyd bares his teeth at you. “This time I ain’t gonna leave a scar.”

“You know we mustn’t. That’s not why we’re here.” Jade smiles at you, but there’s something in his eyes that unnerves you. “Your Highness, you should know it’s poor manners to leave the groom on his special day.”

Floyd circles you restlessly. “S’not fair we gotta be nice when you’re so mean.”

“I’m not going to marry him.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice in that matter.”

“What’d Azul ever do to you?”

You attempt to answer that before realizing the truth. Nothing. He’s done absolutely nothing but be kind and understanding and patient. And I took that, chewed it up, and spat in his face.

“If you used that brain of yours, you wouldn’t have thrown yourself to the sharks. We can’t get to you on land.” “But it’s fair game in the sea,” Floyd finishes, every syllable dripping with pride. “Stupid Two Legs.”

“I’m inclined to agree. You’re not the brightest human. A pity.”

“My brother should’ve gutted you when he had the chance. Maybe then—”

You see the whites of Floyd’s eyes when he strikes, launching himself at you with a clawed hand, sharp, pointed teeth aiming for your jugular.

This is it. You’re dead.

…or not.

The searing pain never comes, nor does the impending laceration. You cling to the boat and watch dark tentacles rise from the depths to close around Floyd, ensnaring him in a firm hold. He thrashes, snapping his jaws like a deranged beast.

“Let go of me, Azul! Lemme at her! She’s a bitch! I’ll kill her!”

“There will be none of that.” Azul tuts. “I don’t intend to marry a corpse.”

Jade swims over to you. “My feelings aren’t hurt in the slightest, Your Highness. If it weren’t for your status and connection to Azul, I’d have disemboweled you ages ago. Quite a relief for you, yes?”

You swallow your horror, allowing him to detach you from the boat so that Azul can turn it over. A tentacle curls around your waist, lifts you from the water, and places you back in the boat. You stare at your hands. They’re trembling. You can hardly hold the dagger properly.

It takes some convincing and a lukewarm apology from you, but Floyd promises to be good. He doesn’t do anything as you’re pulled back to shore, but he does stare at you for the duration of the trip, his eyes tracking your every movement. You press yourself into the belly of the boat, defeated and riddled with anxiety.

Your father isn’t pleased. When you see his enraged expression, the debate dies on your tongue. “You are to marry the prince,” he seethes, pulling you aside, “or else you jeopardize the peace of our kingdom.”

You’re washed and fitted in a new dress. Guards are stationed at all possible routes to prevent another escape.

When you walk down the beach to meet Azul in the shallows, your veil shields the sadness in your stare.

The ceremony carries on without incident. Floyd watches from the water, lurking like Death. You speak rehearsed vows in robotic monotone, mindlessly floating through the rigmarole like it’s second nature. Azul smiles at you through it all, sweetly smitten.

It’s a nightmare lived in real time.

Humans and mers alike congratulate you, cheering for this momentous occasion. Your tongue is numb by the end of it all. You’ve expressed faux gratitude so many times that it hurts to even force the words. And now, as night descends and the party kicks into full swing, you’re left reflecting on the day.

Freedom feels so far away. You’ll never know it again, will you?

Azul guides you away from the crowd. Firelight grows dim with the distance. Eventually, you find yourself taking refuge in a tiny inlet cut into the beach. A rocky outcrop hides you from the moon’s spotlight.

“I’m not upset,” Azul murmurs, curling a tentacle up your leg. “But Floyd is.”

“His brother’s the one who hurt me all those years ago.”

“That was before the union.”

“I’m not letting it go.”

“Perhaps not now, but you will. One day.”

You don’t believe him.

“Our people are at peace. Aren’t you pleased, my love?”

You shove him away, gathering heaps of your dress to walk in calf-deep water. “I’m not your love.”

“Legally, you are.”

“That means nothing to me. Absolutely nothing.”

Azul sighs. “Even now, after everything, you’re still trying to flee.”

“For good reason. I don’t want to be tied down.”

Azul inches closer. Another tentacle wraps slyly around your ankle.

“You’re so beautiful. I feel like the luckiest mer in the sea. To be able to call you my own… My beautiful bride.” He pulls you closer. You resist weakly. “Now that we’re alone I can finally tell you the very thing I’ve thought of ceaselessly for years.”

A tentacle slides up your leg, straying closer to your inner thigh. You flinch away.

“Azul, wait. I don’t want—”

“I love you.”

You squirm in his hold, attempting to thwart the tentacles that grab at your every limb. You trip over yourself in the process. This time Azul doesn’t catch you. Water laps at your dress, soaking through at once. He’s radiant beneath the moon. Dreading his touch, you scoot as far from him as you can get in the water, hoping to reach land. Azul seizes your wrist and pulls you into his arms. You fight him with more force.

“No… No, let go of me! Release me!”

“Why should I? You’re mine now. Is it not customary for a married couple to consummate their new bond? We do something similar in the sea.” A tentacle brushes your veil back so that he can look upon your pretty face. “I’d take you to a quiet space in the seagrass, lay you down in the sand, and then—”

“I don’t want that! No!” You lash out, swinging blindly. A tentacle shoots out to stop your arm before it can smack him. “Azul, please—”

“I was patient. I waited and waited in hopes that you might warm up to me. I cherished you in silence. I learned your language. Your customs. Your habits. I wrote to you. Traveled to meet you. And yet you look at me as if I’m a monster…”

It’s not the devastated look in his eyes or the edge in his voice that scares you. It’s the startling gentleness with which he handles you. Tentacles loop around your body, exploring beneath your gown. You wriggle in discomfort, yelping when suckers brush against the frilly garter secured around your thigh. Azul hums and holds you up in his tentacles, using two to spread your legs so that he may slide it from your leg.

“I wasn’t forceful. I courted you kindly. You accepted all of my gifts. You wore them proudly and I thought—I knew you would love me, too. You were mine from the moment our parents signed that agreement. And if you leave me, you’ll break a political promise and then our kingdoms will go to war and I’ll be sure to collect the heads of your family first. Each one of them, and you will watch as I bring ruin to the kingdom you love so fondly.”

“N-No… Please stop. Please.”

“I’ve waited ten years for you.” A tentacle hooks around your panties. You thrash again, shaking your head at him. He remains unconvinced, watching with gleeful eyes as your nudity is revealed to him. “And aren’t you an angel? Oh, you’re so pretty…”

Like your hopes, your panties are cast aside.

The tip of a tentacle prods curiously at your pussy. Your breath hitches.

“W-Wait! You… You can’t.” His eyes find yours, and you swallow the rising sob. “T-That can’t go inside… It won’t fit. It won’t—”

Azul smiles. “Of course it will. The human body is capable of marvelous feats.”

Even though it’s pointless, you struggle. “I can’t! Please… Azul, I’m scared. Please don’t do this…”

A lone tentacle slides into your hand. Thoughtless, you hold tight.

“My love, there’s no need to cry. I’m not going to hurt you.” He brings you closer, kissing your tears away. “I’m here for you. I’ve always been here, even when you didn’t seem to need me.”

You hiccup, your chest heaving. It’s not lonely for long, for he pulls your dress down your shoulders. Your breasts spill free and are quickly cradled in cold hands. Azul watches your expression with an intense focus while he rolls your nipples between his fingers. You grit your teeth, refusing to respond. But then the tentacle between your legs finds your clit and a sucker affixes to it, suctioning slowly. You gasp and throw your head back, bolts of pleasure racing up your spine. It happens in a white-hot flash. You slacken in his grasp.

Azul laughs, astonished. “Did you cum? Already?”

“Nooo,” you whine, closing your hand around the tentacle once more. Another one strokes your cheek. “You’ve had your fun. Now let go of me…”

“What a silly demand.”

He tugs on your nipples. You groan, lashes fluttering. “Ooh… Stop. No, stop it… Don’t touch there. Not—haa… Not there!”

“You’re so sensitive.” He drags the underside of a tentacle along your cunt and shivers. “And so wet… Is this your season? Do humans experience such a thing?”

You’ve no idea what he’s referring to, but before you can dwell on it he leans down to take your perky bud in his mouth. Your free hand grabs at his hair, pinning him to your chest. His tongue laves across it, warm and wet. You shouldn’t enjoy it so much, and yet you can’t stop yourself from crying out.

He hums against your skin, beaming like a devil. You can’t hate him. He’s your husband. He’s yours. You shouldn’t hate him.

You’re falling apart in his tentacles, grinding down to chase the bliss provided by the underside of the appendage clinging to your pussy. The sinful squelch of skin on skin fills the quiet inlet. The scent of sex and salt intermingles. It’s wrong and it’s right. It’s instinct, carnal and corrupt. Azul groans against your breast, your teat between his teeth.

“Az—ooh!” You tug on his hair, insatiable. Your brain is fogging over with lust. You don’t want to lose yourself in this madness. You can’t. “N-No more… No more.” 

But he’s not listening. He pinches your other nipple between his fingers, and that’s all it takes for you to unravel.

In the aftermath, the tapered tip of a thicker tentacle squirms between your thighs. Mindlessly, you spread your legs and lift your hips for him. It presses in shallowly, a jarring experience.

“Not inside—don’t! You can’t!”

Azul pulls away from you, his expression scrunched in woozy ecstasy. “Why not?” he mumbles, smiling stupidly. “You’re my bride. It’s only fair…”

Before you can bicker, he kisses you. His tongue pursues yours in a sloppy tango. You lick into his mouth, desperate and dazed. Lost in a sea of salacity, shipwrecked on an island of forgotten inhibitions.

The tentacle pushes through rings of tight, slick muscle. Tears spring to your eyes. It feels weird and foreign, so unlike your fingers. He holds you close, minding his strength and pace. It fills you slowly, reaching places you’ve never been able to feel. The lust numbs your senses and gives way to something animalistic—a base desire you’ve suppressed. Azul rocks the appendage deeper until it’s pushed up against the entrance to your womb, squeezed snugly in your warm walls.

“I-It’s in…” you mumble once he’s broken the kiss, a strand of saliva connecting your mouths. “It’s really…inside me…”

Azul kisses your cheek and pets you with a tentacle. “We were made for each other.”

Surely not, you think, but it feels so when he draws back and thrusts in. Maybe he’s right.

He fucks you gently, savoring every single sound you make. He tells you he loves you, whispers it over and over like it’s prayer. You nod dumbly, grabbing at his hand to hold it. The both of you are gasping in unison, chasing cloud nine. In just a few more deep strokes, his tip bullying its way to your womb, he finally finds his end. A thin substance fills you up in plentiful amounts. Distantly, you think it’s water until he drags your hips further down. Your mouth drops open in a strangled scream as something round and gelatinous passes through. It settles in your womb, and you know right away that it shouldn’t be there.

You panic. “W-Wait… Wha—Zul… Stop… No, I don’t want—”

“It’s all right,” he breathes, his mouth on your shoulder. He soothes you with soft shushes and even softer kisses. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

You dig your nails into the tentacle curled in your palm just as a second orb squeezes through. He groans, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Finally…” He pants, a wobbly smile stretching on his delirious countenance. “Finally, my love, my dear—oh, my beloved bride!”

He cradles you like a mother would a newborn. You lie there as he fills you, your voice hoarse from babbling and bewailing. These things—little orbs of jelly—are stuffed into your womb, and by the time you surpass twenty you lose count and blank out, trembling through yet another orgasm. You’re not sure how many more he has left or how many more you can possibly fit. It feels too good to think about that.

“Bigger. They’ll get bigger. You’ll look so pretty—round and full and soft.”

Dizzy, you glance at the bloated dome that is your belly. Your gown strains over it, an impressively deceptive size that you almost mistake for pregnancy. That’s when it clicks. Eggs. These are eggs.

“I’ll make sure they survive. All of them—as many as I possibly can. I’ll stay by your side. I’ll keep you content. I’ll fill you with love—so much love—an abundance of it, and you’ll never know emptiness again,” he rambles, resting a tentacle over your distended middle.

It’s not just a senseless sweet nothing. It’s a promise.

[evilminji]

Back at it again with the BNHA crossover Ponderings!

Nedzu is LITERALLY one of THE smartest beings on the planet, right? Like... he's probably on some internationally recognized list of Top Planetary IQs? Which is why Japan let's him get away with so much?

Cause they REALLY fucked him over, he has the power to leave, and that would be really, REALLY bad Brain Drain wise/politically for the Japanese Government? (Also pls don't become a Supervillian we literally can not afford that, Mr. Nedzu Sir? Etc etc)

You think he has... like? Chats? With the OTHER top intellects? Some kid in Siberia with the New Super Intelligence Quirk his parents can't begin to even handle, gets put in history's WEIRDEST group chat? I like to think so.

But the REASON I ask this?

What hero do you call? For Weird Shit in international waters?

Suspicious, floating, weirdly two dimensional and HIGHLY radioactive... corrosive... green goop? Rings? Orbs? CAN it be an orb if it's two dimensional? It certainly LOOKS like there is depth to it... somehow...

A THING. In the sky.

Shouldn't be there, man. This is a shipping lane. It's scaring the people on passing ships. No one knows what Quirk could have made this. Might be a trafficking victim's call for help. Might be a first Quirk Use mishap. They need to know what it IS and how to get rid of it.

They go the normal routes first. Doesn't work. Okay, call in some professionals. Kinda pricey, but no big. Right? Doesn't work. Okaaaay, call in a SPECIALIST. REAL pricey, but this thing is holding up international trade, making people in fancy ass suit all Nervous(TM).

Doesn't Work.

Specialist tells um to not to bother with calling anyone else on their normal list. Is looking at the green goo like it spat on his mother and called his dog a whore. They would prefer he NOT make that facial expression. That is a facial expression that will get them yelled at by their bosses. Fuck(TM).

Now Politics(TM) are involved. People want to STUDY the green goo. Harness it for dubious and unknown green goo experiments. Poke it with their Quirk to see what'll happen. There's fuckin REPORTER with no concept of self-preservation, trying to get CLOSER to the RADIOACTIVE POISON GOO.

Fuckin Heros have shown up.

Why are you bastards even HERE. What? Are you peacocks gonna PUNCH it? Get off their rig! Stop posing in front of the GOO!

Then? Oh thank GOD. The SMART people show up. Certified, highest grade, triple refined, PREMIUM Nerds(TM). The WAY above our pay grade folks. We're SAVED! Can we PLEASE go home now? We are just ocean cleaners! Our job is debris! Not weird GOO!

Enter, stage Super Cool Helicopters? The Elite Nerds of Earth. Of which Nedzu is one. Since Japan is closest. And it's a school weekend! He had some time.

And?

Ha ha... Thanks, he hates it! Nedzu's stoat brain is SCREAMING and he wants NOTHING to do with...? What he is somehow CERTAIN is a floating pit of Death! Interesting effect. Anyone getting that or just him?

Then? Some hot head on loan to Korea from the states? Spots something. SomeONE. And does he TELL the newly arrived professionals? So they may do a risk assessment? Figure out a way to rescue this individual SAFELY? Of course not!

Said hot head has supposedly indescribable chains! So he just flings them rights on in! Grabbing the boy from the center of the portal, pulling him free, and in the process? Immediately destabilizing it. Causing it to collapse down towards everyone bellow.

He also then proceeds to DROP the young lad, in his alarm at this entirely predictable outcome.

Right. Into. The Ocean.

A boy, who is dressed in filthy medical scrubs, haunting familiar in a way nothing should EVER be again, and entirely unconscious. Plunge down into the briny deeps and bitter cold. Alone. Abandoned. Death, thick and viscous, losing form and raining down like bile.

Everyone saving themselves.

Ah, he rather liked this suit.

The salt water ruins it. The droplets of Green, burn like molten glass each time they touch him. He will likely have at least a few new scars, after today. Assuming this is not the end of him. But he swims fast. The boy sinking slower then his size would suggest he should. He grabs hold and arcs, dragging them both from beneath the fallout of yet another humans hubris.

He does not stop swimming. Not until he knows he is near the helicopter. He is thankful, that he dragged Aizawa along. The man takes one look at his serious expression, the state of his rescued young friend, and merely hauls them both out of the water and into the machine.

Time to go.

They saw nothing, it seems. And there is nothing to be found.

The boy does not wake. Not for quite a while. Long enough, that Nedzu, perhaps unwisely, has grown attached. Is considering adoption. If only too terrorize a few goverment bodies. And... well... the boy will need some who UNDERSTANDS. And the scars paint a very specific sort of tale. But first, the most important question, when beginning these things...

"Tea? Or would you prefer coffee?"

@the-witchhunter @mutable-manifestation @hypewinter @hdgnj

[crypticdesire]

you, me, and the sea are meant to be

MINORS DNI

dom amab reader x yandere!mermaid rook (around 3.5k words)

cw: rook is a little insane, yandere behavior, almost causes reader to drown, rook has an ovipositor and cloaca, ovipositioning, mention of baby trapping, face fucking, ...mmmm i think thats all....

You couldn’t decide if it was a good idea to come out here today. Wind mixed with briny mist causes your shirt to billow out away from your skin, and your pants slowly become damp from the cool wet rock you’re sitting on. Despite this you can’t help but enjoy looking out across the ocean on an overcast day, the muted grey tones of the sky and sea lulling you into a state of serenity.

Though there are some certain shades of vibrant colors you wouldn’t mind seeing. You stare intently at the water directly below you lapping gently against the low sides of the rock, a growing temptation to dip your feet into the water. It would no doubt be cold and you might get sick, but ever since you met them it was like the water was calling out to you.

Growing up on the hill above this rocky shore, you had spent plenty of time playing in the ocean, but now when the salty water met your skin it felt like you were being wrapped in some form of mystic energy. You liked to think that the sea acknowledged your presence and somehow made them aware of it too, although you were sure it was a foolish thought you should never voice to anyone else. Still, you find yourself allowing the small waves to lightly splash against your shins as you sway your feet in the murky water below you.

After a while goosebumps cover your skin, and you decide it’s probably time to accept they won’t be here today, and make the trek back up the steep rocky path that almost no one but yourself found worth the trouble to use to access a shore that seemed to be more rock than sand.

Just in time to stop you, however, something grabs your ankles causing your heart to leap out of your chest, half of a scream stuck as a lump in your throat.

Damn it. You should have gotten used to this by now, but at least your reactions aren’t as dramatic as they were before. You don’t even pull your feet out of the water as the hold on you is released, waiting for Rook’s head to pop out of the water. He was the only one out of the three that ever tried to catch you off guard like this, claiming it was a great source of amusement. And just like usual he has a coy smile on his face when he surfaces.

“Oh, mon joyau terrestre. I told you to always be prepared for the unexpected when you venture into our murky depths, non?” He casually adjusts the wet strands of his bangs before resting his elbows on the rock you sit on. His vibrant tail with a mix of purple and red scales bobs on the surface of the water, a tug of awe still pulling at you despite how many times you’ve seen it.

“It is really unexpected if you do it every time?”

“Perhaps not, and yet you still make yourself vulnerable every time” His sigh is not one of curiosity or disappointment but fondness. When you ask him about Vil and Epel, his smile remains but his eyes slightly narrow.

“My beauty isn’t enough to satiate you, mon joyau terrestre?” He rests his head on one of his hands, batting his pale lashes that still have small droplets of water on them.

“You know your company is always enough for me” You nudge his bare shoulder with your knee. “I was just wondering if I should expect someone else since you’re always the first to arrive”

“Maybe I just can’t break the cold surface of the water fast enough to feel the warm embrace of your smile” He gives you a toothy grin, a smile filled with more sharp teeth than you ever thought a mermaid would have. Rook let your curious fingers touch them once, maybe a little too eagerly, and you found them to be razor sharp just like the talons on his hands. Natural features for an omnivorous creature that lived in the depths of the ocean where they weren’t at the top of the food chain they assured you. But something was alluring about the juxtaposition between their delicate beauty and threatening features. A tingle went through you each time your skin was touched by one of Rook’s talons.

As if noticing where your attention has gone, Rook adds to his poetic words. “And scope out any threats of course”

Looking at him, it was hard to believe anything would faze him; however, from what they’ve told you their habit is to always avoid the dangers of land and its humans. Why they chose to continually interact with you is a question that goes unanswered. Migrating to your tiny corner of the world every summer maybe meant they didn’t fear a person they perhaps watched as a child stumble on the rocks and talk to any little creatures they came across. You met them as an adult a year ago, but Rook always talked like he already knew you.

“But to answer your question, the others won’t be joining us today. Vil has some matters to attend to, and Epel has been dragged along with him as punishment for going into the waters of the snatchers” You know he’s talking about the area the local fisherman frequent. “Just insists on staying in trouble I suppose” he sighs insincerely.

“I came today to give you something” he continues, taking a chain off his neck you didn’t notice before. As he pulls it out of the water you see the gold chain holds a jewel in a deep shade of purple. You aren’t familiar enough with jewels to know what it is, but it’s in a beautiful teardrop shape.

After dropping it into your hand, Rook pulls himself up so he can sit on the rock beside you. He insists on putting it on for you, your eyes intently studying his blue ones as he does. His touch lingers at your neck, talon grazing your skin as he follows the chain from your neck to your chest. You try to subtly adjust yourself to hide the fact the tingle has traveled down below your waist as well.

“I like there being something close to you that makes you think of me. Something close to your heart…” he trails off voice sounding mesmerized as the back of his hand caresses the place over your heart. He stares at the spot with yearning, almost like he wants to caress your actual heart.

You two had undeniably gotten closer this summer, this not being the first time he has visited you alone. You’ve learned that mermaids’ forms of affection, even platonic affection, centered around physical touch. But Rook’s touch had begun to feel different at some point, something more intimate about it that too easily stirred a desire in you. Unable to resist these urges, one day you two crossed the line of what could be considered platonic and never had any regrets.

You expect him to kiss you now, but any evidence of lust is gone in an instant as his expression morphs into one of pure delight, asking you to swim with him. Despite your reservations about the cold water before, it takes little convincing from Rook to coax you out of your clothes and into the water. You remind yourself that the end of summer will come and so will your time with Rook. Of course, your undergarments don’t help keep you warm at all, but Rook’s playful nature distracts you just enough so you’re not uncomfortable as your body adjusts to the cooler temperature.

“I love watching you swim mon joyau terrestre! The rhythmic movement of your legs is so adorable” he gushes. He dips underwater, and you feel his fingertips caress the length of your leg, from ankle to upper thigh. You tense when that touch extends to your clothed cock, that tingling sensation returning. When Rook resurfaces, however, he doesn’t acknowledge the intimate touch and instead engages you in more of his games.

After a while you give your body a reprieve, the sea calm enough to float on your back. You bask in the peaceful quiet, your ears submerged underwater and Rook idly playing with your fingers. A muffled sound tells you he’s starting to say something so you ask him to repeat it, slightly turning your head so one ear is above the water.

“Que c’est beau” he says “It’s like you were meant for the ocean. Such a shame you need air and swimming is so exhausting for you. I wish you could stay in the sea swimming with me all day” he pouts.

“Even with my pruney fingers” you joke, waggling your wrinkled fingers in front of him.

“I’ll take you pruney fingers and all” he gently presses a kiss to each fingertip. “If you could, would you go with me? Let the ocean be your home?” You smile at the thought.

“It’s certainly appealing” you reply not wanting to dwell too long on the impossible.

“I want that.” His grip tightens on your hand. “I want it so bad” Not knowing what to say, you let the quiet return, both your ears back underwater. Rook’s hold is still tight but you don’t mind. You don’t mind that is until he uses it to drag you underwater.

At first, you think it’s one of his games aimed at getting you to start swimming, but his grip on your wrist is ironclad as he pulls you deeper than expected. You try to grasp his wrist with your other hand to let him know you want him to stop, but he doesn’t even look at you. You don’t know what his goal is, but the surprise dive gave you little time to fill your lungs with air, and you close your eyes struggling to hold your breath.

All of a sudden he stops and lets go of your wrist. You open your eyes again to reveal the blurry image of his face smiling back at you, the momentum of the dive causing you to bump into his chest. You point to the surface, indicating you need air, and begin to kick your legs, catching a glimpse of Rook’s smile morphing into a frown. You don’t make it very far, however, his hands grasping you again. This time, he wraps his arms around both your arms and torso, holding you close to his chest. You can feel him nuzzle his face into your neck, but your body has gone into survival mode and you struggle against him. With little control over your arms, you desperately kick your legs, feeling them make weak contact with his tail.

Panicking you forcibly bite down on his shoulder without thinking about the consequences, his surprise loosening his grip around you. You immediately push yourself away from him and try to ignore the burning sensation in your lungs as water enters them. You can’t gauge how far away you are from the surface, so you just continue swimming. Your thoughts become unclear, the pain in your chest ebbing away but hopefully, the movements of your legs haven’t slowed. If only you could reach the surface. Black spots float between you and the surface. You think you’re still swimming.

You feel slightly detached from your body, but you feel the cool sensation of air as your hand breaks through the surface. When your face surfaces you flap your arms wildly looking for something to hold on to, coughing and spluttering as you barely keep your face above water. Your limbs are growing heavier and you can feel your body giving out when a sudden force propels you out of the water. Your mind is slow to catch up, but a few moments later you feel the rough surface of a rock beneath you, your insides burning as you violently cough up water.

You feel weak. Your body. Your breathing. Your ability to think and process what happened. All weak.

Eyes closed, you try to focus on your breathing first, opening your eyes again when you have it steady. You’re only able to squint at first, your eyes stinging and sensitive to the light even with it being overcast, but you can eventually open them wider to see the blurry form of Rook sitting beside you. You expect yourself to have some kind of reaction. You still can’t think clearly, but he almost drowned you, right? Do you even let yourself think that he was trying to drown you?

If Rook sees that you’ve come to, he doesn’t acknowledge it, simply humming as he gently traces circles into your thighs with his fingertip. Your eyes drift to his shoulder, the place where you bit him already becoming a bruise.

“You-“ your voice comes out hoarse and can’t even say another word before you go into another coughing fit. It at least gets Rook to talk to you.

“That was unexpected, non?” he softly smiles. He waits patiently for you to respond.

“I could..” You take in a shallow breath. “..have died” Your voice is quiet, not holding any of the rage or fear that would be logical to feel.

“At least a dead body doesn’t need air” he giggles. Your chest becomes tight like it’s feeling with water again. You try to discern the emotion behind his eyes, but find that you’re unable to do so.

“Relax,” he squeezes your thigh affectionately. “I’m only joking. Of course, I prefer you alive. I get to enjoy you more that way. I thought about it and in the ocean, the skin of your dead body would peel away too quickly, and I’d hate to share pieces of you with bottom feeders.” His mirthful laughter can’t erase the truthful tone of his words.

“Plus, I’d miss the way your body reacts to my touch” he looks at you through his lashes, the fingertip that was formerly on your thigh now rubbing the length of your cock over your soaked underwear. You feel the slightest tingling sensation, but you’re not even sure you could get hard right now. But you also don’t ask Rook to stop.

“Are you in pain?” He questions, which is a question you have to take a moment to think about, still not feeling completely connected to your body. The worst feeling right now is the painful raw feeling inside your throat and nose from having the salt water in your body. Your limbs feel weak and heavy, but you’re sure the soreness will hit you with its full force tomorrow.

“Just a bit” you decide to answer, voice still raspy.

“Do you want me to make you feel better?” He teases the band of your underwear. The logical part of your mind, though still dull, is saying that you should get away from him as soon as you can, but could your weak body really make it up that steep hill right now? He did admit he prefers you alive, so you can’t be in danger anymore, right?

You end up nodding your head, and Rook beams at you, immediately moving to remove your underwear. You let him do all the work, of course, watching every movement of his hands as he tosses your underwear to the side and wraps them around your flaccid cock.

He lets his spit drop onto your tip, spreading it down your length as he strokes you. He kisses your tip before taking you into his mouth, making sounds of pleasure as he tries to take you fully into his mouth. He’s careful with his teeth, but you feel a gentle scrape on the underside of your dick occasionally, causing your thighs to tremble.

His tongue is warm as it roams your cock, and you can’t help but let out a moan of pleasure when he gives the same attention to your balls, sucking on them gently after he’s licked their surface. There’s the smallest tug in the pit of your stomach to let you know his ministrations are working. You even lift your hips a bit to push your cock deeper into his mouth when he takes it between his lips again. Spurred on by your actions and the potential of getting you hard, Rook pleasures you with more fervor, hands circling the base of your cock while he bobs his head taking the rest of you.

As you become more vocal, Rook becomes more sloppy, his drool coating your cock as he continues to suck you off. He whimpers when he feels your hand grasp his hair and tries to deep-throat you again. You attempt to thrust into his mouth again, but his lips leave you too soon, hand rubbing your tip again.

“Your mouth doesn’t deserve a break” you grunt using your grip on his damp hair to force him back down on your cock. You feel him moan around your cock as you bob his head up and down your length, and then you bury his face in your pubic hair as you try to hit the back of his throat. He doesn’t resist you so you continue to pull his head up a bit before roughly forcing it back down until he’s coughing and spluttering like you were earlier.

“I’m close,” you tell him when you let go of his hair.

“I want to taste you in my mouth” he pants, fondling your balls with one hand as he goes back down to swirl his tongue around your tip. He then takes your tip into his mouth sucking as he strokes your base with his hand, and it doesn’t take long for you to approach your climax, hand twisting itself back into Rook’s hair as you come into his mouth. He whines, sucking you harder, and he doesn’t take you out of his mouth until he’s sure you’re done.

“Mmm. I love the taste of you mon joyau terrestre” he looks almost delirious as he takes his thumb to push some cum that leaked out onto his bottom lip back into his mouth, eyes fluttering as he savors the taste.

“I can’t seem to control myself around you” he keens, laying down beside you, and you prop yourself up on your side so that you can watch his hands trail down his abdomen and go to the scales of his tail. His fingertips begin to gently massage his half-extended ovipositor. Adjacent to that is his slit, which you wouldn’t even know how to locate if it wasn’t for him showing you a couple of weeks ago. He let you slip your fingers into his squishy insides and explore his cloaca just as eagerly as he let you explore his teeth.

You trace your finger along the edge of the slit now, causing Rook to whimper and beg you to touch him. He whines as you dip your finger just over the edge, fingertips roaming his cloaca before teasing his entrance.

“Please” he begs again, still massaging his ovipositor and you push the tip of your finger in, watching Rook’s expression as his eyes roll backward in pleasure. You wiggle your finger in the wet warmth of his entrance just in the slightest to stretch him out a bit.

“Ah you feel perfect inside me” he praises as you continue stretching him. “I wish you could fertilize my eggs, so I know you’d have a reason to see me again. I need you to be here every migration season waiting for me” His tail squirms as you push the rest of your finger into him. He’s so wet now, that his insides make a squelching sound as you thrust two fingers into him.

The end of his tail firmly slaps the surface of the water a few times, back arching off the rock as he climaxes. You slip your fingers out of him as he quickly turns on his side and watch as he gasps in pleasure letting out a series of three eggs. After he’s done he gently caresses the eggs with his fingers, looking up at you with adoration.

“Que c’est beau” he smiles leaning forward to brush his nose against yours, and you hold your breath until he relaxes his forehead against yours. Heat rises to your cheeks at the intimate mermaid gesture he’s shown you before, that heat being one of a burning need to have more. He seems prepared for the moment when your lips meet his, tongue probing your mouth, movements much more natural to him now than the first time you kissed.

“I know you can’t fertilize these eggs,” he says sadly when you pull apart. “But you will always wait for me, non? I want you all for myself all the time, but the sea doesn’t seem to want to grant that wish." he sighs wistfully.

"The only way I can leave you is if I know you’re always thinking of me. Promise you’ll never take that necklace off” his eyes shine with desperate need as he places a hand on your shoulder, talons slightly digging into your skin. You weren’t sure what your life would be like in a year, but given what happened earlier today there was only one right answer.

“I promise”

[sweetsweetjellybean]

TW: Smut-tacular 3 way smut. Angst. NSFW.

AN: Special thanks to my squad of fantastic writers, @loveshotzz @myobmaya @boomhauer @subparwritersuperbreblogger be sure to check them out. Beta'd by @billybluboy an absolute 💎. Masterlist Fic Menu

Reaching out, you try to capture the beautiful dream slipping through your fingers as you're dragged through the warm depths of sleep toward the cold surface of consciousness. The clock on the table beside you reads 3:28 when you wake, still exhausted from the day's activities. Eddie breathes deeply beside you, his tiny little snores usually a comforting white noise that lets you sleep peacefully through the night.

No, something woke you, of that you were sure. Listening carefully, you wait for anything other than the usual creaks and ticks of a house at rest. Then, you hear a cupboard door closing and the clatter of something hitting the tile of the kitchen floor. 

Leaving the warmth of your bed you follow the sounds, walking through the dark house. The light from the kitchen spills out into the foyer cutting through the gloom of the early morning hour. Entering the bright kitchen, you squint as your eyes acclimate to the light and wrap your arms around yourself to ward off the chill.

"What happened?" You ask Steve, who's sweeping up shattered glass and green olives into a pile in front of the kitchen island.

"Stop," he instructs, leaning the broom on the counter and moving towards where you stand, rubbing your hands up and down your biceps. "There's broken glass everywhere, and you're barefoot." He grips your hips and boosts you up to sit on the island. 

"I was looking to see if there were any boxes of tea in the back of the pantry, and I knocked a jar of fancy olives off the shelf." His big hands remain on your hips, thumbs resting high on your thighs, their warmth seeping through the material of another borrowed t-shirt you wore to bed.

"What makes them fancy?" He's standing much closer than would be considered polite for a friendly conversation, and you're having difficulty focusing on anything other than the pout of his silky bottom lip. "They're for martinis or something." He swallows and steps back. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"Still can't sleep? I was hoping…."

"You wore me out? You did." He says, rubbing the back of his neck, his messy hair falling in his eyes. "I slept a few hours earlier." The blue-tinged skin under his eyes tells you differently. He sweeps the rest of the mess into a dustpan, and you tear some paper towels from the roll on the counter beside you. Giving him half of them, you both crouch to wipe up the remaining liquid from the olives. Your overused muscles protest as you slowly stand, slightly wincing.  

"Sore?" He asks sympathetically, taking the briny towels from you and throwing them in the trash.

"Yeah, a little."

"I might be able to help with that." He leads you through the hall past the main living area to the left side of the expansive house and opens one of the two double wood doors that lead into a dark room. 

"This is my dad's office." He explains, flipping on the light. The room is all dark wood and rich leather. The built-in, floor-to-ceiling shelves hold a collection of books and a set of crystal decanters full of dark liquid. A massive cherry desk sits in the center of the room, surrounded by brown leather club chairs. "It was meant to be the master bedroom, but he converted it." You follow him through another door on the far side of the room that leads to an expansive tiled bathroom with a wedged-shaped soaking tub nestled between a double vanity and a walk-in shower. "No one uses this bathroom." He sits on the tiled ledge and starts the tub filling. "Do you remember Coach Thorton?"

"Oh my god, yes. He made me cry when I couldn't do a pull-up during the presidential fitness test sophomore year."

"Well, he coached basketball junior and senior year. He would keep us in the weight room until we couldn't lift our arms. I started soaking in here after practice." He picks up a small purple bottle of bath oil from the vanity and pours some into the steaming water.

"Lavender scented?" You probe teasingly, quirking an eyebrow.

"Shut it. It's soothing." He turns a knob that lowers the lights, pulls out a few fluffy towels, and places them on the tub's ledge.

"Do you need anything else?" He asks, standing in front of you. You raise your arms over your head and wait. "Oh, um, okay." He keeps his eyes on your face as his fingers move to the hem of your shirt, brushing your thighs as he gathers it in his hands and slowly pulls it up over your head and off your body. You bite your lip to suppress your smile at how he's trying so hard to not look down at your naked body.

The hot water is the perfect temperature, and you sigh contentedly as you step into the tub, sinking until only your head is above the surface. "Keep me company?" 

"Sure," he answers, still holding your shirt. He settles himself on the floor with his back against the tub surround, giving you some privacy.

"Thank you," you say, the tightness in your muscles already dissipating, "for this and for letting us stay here. I'll give you cash as soon as I find a job."

"Don't worry about it. You two are probably doing me a favor. I don't think I'd like to be here alone." 

"Where are your parents, Steve?" You ask, wondering why he's in this big house all alone in the midst of a crisis. Your toes break the water's surface to catch the drips falling from the brass faucet.

"They're in Indianapolis. They have a townhouse there, and my dad has an office downtown."

"You didn't want to go with them?"

"Nah," he says, twisting the material of the shirt, "I've been volunteering at the shelter, and I'm more useful here than with them. What about your parents? They don't mind you shacking up with a couple of guys?"

"I think they figured I would be moving in with Eddie at some point anyway."

"How long have you been together?"

"Since the summer before senior year. You know that breakfast place over by Motel Six? Annie's?" Shifting in the tub, you cross your arms on the ledge and rest your cheek against your slick skin. Steam and the light smell of lavender swirl in the air and fill your lungs.

"Annie's Pie Palace," he chuckles.

"Yeah, that's the one. I was waitressing there. Eddie came in every morning for two weeks before he admitted he didn't like the pie and asked me out."

"Who likes eggs and hashbrowns in a pie?"

"No one. That's probably why it closed. I was saving for a car. I guess I should start looking for a new job soon."

"I should, too," he says, folding up the shirt and setting it down next to those long, muscled legs covered with plaid pajamas stretched out in front of him. "I can take you around to get some applications tomorrow, or I guess it would be today now. The days are kind of blending together. I'm taking Eddie to get his van out of impound. Are you going with him?"

"No. He's supposed to meet up with Wayne and Chief Hopper to clear some things up so he can get back to school."

"Do you want to come with me to drop him off? We can go looking for Help Wanted signs after." 

"Yeah, that would be great, thanks."

"I could stop at your house so you can get some more of your stuff? Not that you don't look great running around in my shirts." He turns and gives you a lopsided smile, and you can't help smiling back at him. "Stop flirting with me, Harrington."

"Is that what we're doing?" He asks before facing forwards again, eyes lowering to his lap. "So, no college for you then?"

"Maybe, someday." You push back from the ledge, letting your body sink deeper into the warm water. "Maybe when Eddie graduates."

"What would you go for?"

"I guess that's the problem. There's all this pressure to know what you want to do and go out and make your mark on the world. All I ever wanted to be is happy, ya know?"

"Yeah, I do know. And Eddie makes you happy?"

"Yes, he does," you say, smiling, dipping your chin under the surface.

"Then you're lucky to have found him. Have you ever done that before? You and Eddie and someone else?"

"No!" You flick your fingers toward him, and a few drops of water land on his neck, running down to soak into the collar of his shirt. "Have you?" 

"No." He turns and dips his hand into the water, splashing you back. "Why did you say yes?" The question hangs heavy in the air between you. Using your toes, you push up the brass lever, and the water gurgles as it empties down the drain. "I think I've had enough. My fingers are getting pruney."

"Alright." He stands and picks up one of the plush towels. Turning his head to the side, he holds it open for you. You step out of the bath and let him wrap it around you, fingers brushing as you take the corner tucking it in at your breast. He follows you silently through the house as you leave damp footprints on the wood flooring.

"I'll see you in a few hours," he says quietly as you're turning the door knob of the guest room. His eyes gleam in the dim light, and you smile in acknowledgment before slipping inside and closing the door.

The bright morning light shines through the slats of the blinds as you wake with a  smile, Eddie's soft curls tickling your skin as he presses sweet little kisses all over your face. "Good Morning." Pushing his hair off his face, you hold his head still to return his kiss. He hums and deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue into your mouth and sneaking his hand under your shirt to palm your breast. 

"What's got you in such a good mood this morning?" You ask between kisses. 

"I just like waking up to you," he says, smiling down at you, and your heart melts. "I'm really glad you have these." He softly squeezes your tit. "I always have someplace to put my hand."

"Stop," you giggle as his lips come back down on yours, "what am I gonna do with you?"

"You should tear open my bodice and ravish me," he suggests. 

"That sounds fun." you agree, pulling his body to settle on top of yours. 

"Stop, Sir. I am but an innocent country maiden. I do not yet know the carnal pleasure of parking the beef bus in tuna town." He cries in a high-pitched voice. 

"What? Tuna town?" You laugh. His lips kiss their way over the sensitive skin of your neck, and your laughter quickly turns into pants. Your legs part, bringing his hard length right where you want it. With only the material of boxers between him and your wet core, you start grinding against him.

"Baby," he says, kissing your mouth, "baby, we are going to have to finish this tonight. Steve's taking me to get my van."

"Fine." Your lips pout as he kisses you once more. He lifts your shirt stretching it out as he sticks his head underneath. "Stay strong, ladies. I'll be back for you."

Rolling your eyes, you push him away. "I'm coming with you."

"You are?" He asks, sitting back on his heels. 

"Yeah. Steve's taking me job hunting after he drops you off." 

"When was this decided?"

"Last night. Well, this morning, technically. I heard him bumping around, so I went to check on him. We ended up talking for a while." You say, twisting the hem of your shirt. 

"Huh," Eddie says, studying your face, "well, wasn't that nice of you?"

"It was. I think I deserve a reward." Your lips twist into a coy smile.

"Then rewarded, you shall be." His hands wrap around your thighs, pulling you down the bed, the blankets bunch underneath you until you're beneath him again. His big chocolate-colored eyes are soft as he pecks your lips. "What do you think about getting out of here after graduation? Go somewhere new, find a little place of our own. Start fresh, just you and me."

"I think that sounds perfect," you say, sliding your hands around his neck. The progression of your relationship has always been at its own natural pace with little talk of the future. The picture he was painting had hope blooming inside you. 

"Where do you want to go, Baby? A city? Or maybe somewhere close to the ocean."

"The ocean, but not somewhere too hot." 

"Okay. We'll drive south until we hit the ocean and work our way up the coast."

"Sounds like a plan. Do you like the ocean?"

"I've never been." He smooths the hair at your temple. "But I'd like anywhere as long as you're there." Without warning, he flips you onto your stomach, and his hand comes down on your backside. "Now get that cute butt out of bed, or we won't be going anywhere."

Placing the thin stack of applications on the polished coffee table, you kick off your converse and rub your striped socks into the soft threads of the teal area rug before sinking back into the cushions of the deep-seated sofa. Steve plops down at the other end, doing the same. After dropping Eddie off and picking up a newspaper, the two of you drove around town the rest of the morning, stopping at the few businesses hiring. The destruction hit the town's economy hard, and most places are hesitant to hire new staff. 

At noon, you abandon your search and stop at the Mustard Seed Deli to split a sandwich that Steve insisted on paying for. It was surreal to be sitting across from him, sharing a turkey and swiss on rye, enjoying his company when a week ago you hadn't shared more than a few words in high school. Now you are….what? Roommates? Friends? The dill pickle spear sat lonely on the wax paper with the crumbs of the sandwich. He pushed it over to you, and you smiled. Definitely friends, you decided as you drove back to his house.

"Well, that was a bust," he says, tipping back his head and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"At least Family Video is planning to reopen eventually. I'm the one who will end up being the mop girl at the Boobie Bungalow."

"Aww, don't worry," he says, putting a hand on your shoulder, "I'm sure you'll get promoted to stripper in no time. I'd pay to see that."

"Oh god," you groan, covering your face with your hands.

"I think waitressing at Enzo's will be your best bet. I think Hopper knows him. I can ask if he can give him a call.

"You'd do that?"

"Of course."

"How do you know Chief Hopper so well?"

"Oh, um," he looks away from you shaking his head, "just from around town."

"Hmm." You aren't buying it. Whatever he and Eddie are keeping from you is starting to wear. Steve lets out a sleepy, drawn-out yawn as he tips his head back onto the couch cushion and rubs at his eyes. Concern wins out over the irritation of his evasive answer. "Steve, why aren't you sleeping? Are you having nightmares?" He blinks at you in surprise. "I hear you sometimes. Do you want to talk about it?" He shakes his head from side to side and looks down at his lap. Picking up the TV remote from where it sits on the coffee table, you turn it on and flip through some channels. Settling on General Hospital and pressing more buttons, you lower the volume until it's a quiet murmur. You pick up the overstuffed throw pillow and settle it on your lap. 

"Come on, lay down." You pat the pillow in your lap. "I'll stay with you, okay? You're not alone."

Hesitantly, he eases himself down, turning over so his head is facing you. His eyes flutter closed and your hands move to his hair, gently running your fingers through the soft strands and lightly scratching his scalp. He lets out a soft sigh.

"If Enzo’s doesn't work out, you could be a shampoo girl at Kim's Kut and Kurl."

"Shut up and go to sleep." It's not long before his breathing changes, and he's sleeping peacefully in your lap. The last thing you remember is Blackie arguing with Amy as you try to keep your eyes open. 

"Sweetheart." Steve's fingers are dancing over your cheek. "Lay down with me, sweet girl. You're going to hurt your neck sleeping like that." Opening your eyes as little as possible, you stretch your body into the space he made for you between him and the sofa and bury your face into the warm skin of his neck, breathing him in. He smells like bergamot, citrus, and cedarwood, and you snuggle closer, tangling your legs with his as he wraps his arms around you, and you drift back into sleep. 

You wake up alone to the sound of heated voices coming from the kitchen. On the television, Tom Brokaw is delivering the evening news. Switching it off, you quietly walk to the foyer to better hear the conversation.

"It wasn't like that, Robin. I haven't slept in days. She's just a friend."

"I'm your friend, Steve, and we don't do that. She's Eddie's girlfriend. You know your friend Eddie, who-"

"I know what happened, okay. I see it every time I close my goddamn eyes."

"And what if Eddie had come in and saw you…canoodling with his girlfriend."

"Canoodling? Jesus Christ, Robin, we were just taking a nap."

"I know things with Nan‐"

"This has nothing to do with that. Look, you're my friend, my best friend, but this isn't any of your business."

"Is that right? Well, if it's none of my business, maybe I won't be there when this inevitably blows up in your face."

"Robin…"

The floor creaks as footsteps come your way. Panicking, you tiptoe-run back toward the direction of the living room, trying to look as if you are just coming from there instead of eavesdropping. Robin's face says she doesn't buy it when she comes face-to-face with you in the foyer. 

"Hi," you say, trying to feel her out. She looks at you like she has a whole speech planned but glaces back toward the kitchen and shakes her head instead. "Hi," she returns the greeting as she steps past you and slams the door on her way out. 

Steve is standing with one hand on his hip and the other pinching the bridge of his nose when you pad into the kitchen. 

"How much of that did you hear?" he asks, placing both hands on the kitchen island that separates you. 

"Enough to know she doesn't approve."

"We didn't do anything wrong."

"I know," you say, looking down and playing with the cuffs of your sleeves and wondering if that was true, then why your stomach was full of knots. "I should get dinner started." Opening the fridge, you busy yourself pulling out the ingredients for the meal you planned to make. 

"I didn't dream. I slept for four hours. That's the longest since…in a while."

"I'm glad, Steve," you say, walking around him, but he catches you by the waist. His eyes look like the forest floor, deep greens and browns, full of something that draws you in and frightens you at the same time.

"It's no one's business what happens between us," he says softly, his free hand moving to your neck, his thumb tipping up your chin. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips and his part as he inhales in a sharp breath. 

"Steve." His name comes out in a breathy whisper. The sound of the front door opening has you stepping away. Your heart is beating so hard in your chest that you are sure Eddie can hear it as he enters the kitchen. 

"What's cookin', good lookin' ?" Eddie asks, kissing your cheek.

"Dinner," you reply, not meeting his eyes while unwrapping a package of chicken.

"How's it going, Harrington?" Steve has his head in the pantry, rummaging around.

"You know we're still out of tea. I'm going to run out and get some. Don't wait. Eat without me." Steve leaves the kitchen, and the click of the front door closing follows him. 

Part 4

Tag List: @onlyangel-444 @breehumbles @arsenicred @stolen-in-moonlight @sometimesamysometimesjo @ladybug0095 @sammararaven @tlclick73 @sllooney @munsonology @totally-bogus-timelady @katelyndestini95 @munsonswhore86 @kelsietilley-blog @figmentofquinn @champagne-glamour @ilovecupcakesandtea @bimbobaggins69 @munsonsgirl71 @miarosso @micheledawn1975 @eddiescorrodedcoffin86 @takeitsteddie @tiannamortis @manda-panda-monium @prestinalove @sunfl0wern1kk1

[themanfromeire]

Take a Deep Breath

Remus Lupin x reader

Summary: The reader feels like they're drowning in anxiety, thankfully, Remus is the lifeline that can pull them out of the sea. Reader's gender is not specified - can be male, female or anything in between.

Cross posted on AO3

~~

As your eyes drifted to the familiar figure approaching in your peripheral vision, you shoved your trembling hands into your pockets. You did not want to burden your boyfriend with something you believed to be as trivial as your anxiety.

Your anxiety ebbed and flowed like the tide of the ocean, some days you could float contentedly on the saline solution, others, the waves were vicious and attempted to force you underneath the surface of the water, trying to drown you in a tide of fear.

On days like those, a full breath felt like a privilege that you could not be afforded as the water filled your lungs, and the salt stung your eyes, bringing you to your knees on the dirty ground, gasping for air that you could not inhale, and staining your skin with the waters of agony that seeped from your eyes.

Unfortunately, today was one of those days, and despite your best efforts to disguise it, Remus knew too. One look of his chestnut brown eyes was enough to strip you of the facade of okayness that you had hastily shoved on. Placing a hand on your shoulder, he unmasked your anxiety like a Scooby - Doo villain.

 “Darling,” Remus began, his voice pulling you from the depths of the sea of your mind, and wrapping you in a warm towel of unconditional love and affection. “What have we talked about? You don’t need to hide your anxiety from me.” His voice held a gentle and endearing tone as he chastised you gently.

With ease, he sat down beside you, and you quickly found solace in his company. One of his hands found its way to your hip, and gently pulled you closer to him, to your lifeline. Your rock in the tumultuous ocean. 

As he spoke, Remus’ words held no coldness, no salt. “I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but if you do, I am always here. Now, my love, is it regular anxiety, or a panic attack?”

His words make you stop and think. Panic attacks opened with the sensation of the pressure of the water as you swiftly plummeted to what felt like your submerged grave, crushing your chest and leaving you gasping for oxygen that never came as the briny liquid filled your liquid instead. 

Forcing your body to cooperate, you dragged a heavy breath into your lungs, dictating it to fill your anxiety riddled form. The air that began to coarse through your body lacked the distinct tang of salt that you had expected. Compelling your lungs to once more, you inhaled again before replying. “Anxiety.”

A noise of sympathy left Remus’ lips, and without hesitation, he leant down and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’m so sorry that you’re going through this at the moment, baby, would you like to go to my dorm and cuddle with me? James, Sirius and Peter would gladly leave the room if they knew it would help you to feel even a little better.”

A small smile graced your lips at Remus’ words. The other three Marauders, god bless them, would trip over their own feet to help you. They were incredibly fond of you, sometimes it made you wonder if you were dating all of them because of how much they enjoyed doting on you. 

“There’s that beautiful smile that I missed!” Remus exclaimed happily and brought a hand to your cheek and caressed it gently. Subconsciously, you leaned into his gentle touch on your cheek. “C’mon love, let’s go cuddle.”

[lullabyes22-blog]

Mal de Mer - Ch: 3 - Treasure (Part I)

Summary:

A high-seas honeymoon. Two adversaries, bound by matrimony. A future full of peril and possibility. And a word that neither enjoys adding to their lexicon: Compromise.

War was simpler business…

Part of the 'Forward But Never Forget/XOXO' AU. Can be read as a standalone series.

Thank you for the graphics @lipsticksandmolotovs<3

Mal de Mer on AO3

Mal de Mer on FFnet

CHAPTER

I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII

꧁꧂

How can you just leave me standing? Alone in a world that's so cold Maybe I'm just too demanding Maybe I'm just like my father, too bold?

~ "When Doves Cry" - Prince

The SS Woe Betide's promenade deck is a study in sun-drenched elegance.

The broad stretch of honey-gold planks is polished to a high shine. Floor-to-ceiling windows run the length of the walkway, their glass etched with sunburst motifs. Behind the glass, the water is dappled into a spray of gold and diamonds. The waves, rolling in drowsy combers of lapis lazuli and sapphire, call to mind a treasurebox tipped sideways: all its secrets spilling across the seabed.

A pirate's dream come true.

Silco’s outfit fits right in. He's clad in a loose red shirt with the sleeves rolled to the forearms. A worsted black waistcoat, long and narrow, drapes his angular shoulders and sways with his stride. His trousers, matching the jacket, are tailored in the style of sailor's breeches: unpleated, and tapering at the calves.  A pair of scuffed boots, pointed at the toes, complete the ensemble.

The effect is flattering, but ruthlessly functional. He looks ready to cross the gangplank to a pirate's cutter.

His smile, when he glances sidelong at Mel, is piratical too: full of teeth, and no good intent. 

"My dear," he drawls, "I asked you to lose the chiffon."

"This," Mel says, "is tulle."

"The difference?"

"A world of it."

"And yet the effect's the same."

His scrutiny is a physical paring down. Mel, not a woman given to blushes, feels a smarting heat. 

There is, she tells herself, nothing wrong with her day-gown. It's the plainest in her wardrobe. A square-necked cream frock, the hem ending at mid-calf. The bodice is a high-waisted, empire-line affair. The only adornments are the delicate golden embroidery edging the diaphanous sleeves. It's a demure look: a far cry from the haute-couture she usually favors—the ones Silco dubs Vehicles of Voyeurism. Even her calfskin boots, ankle-length and plain, are the closest she's got to seafaring. She'd chosen them, and the matching leather belt, for their durability.

Whatever her husband's plans, she'd rather not lose a pair of Tanzanite-studded Manolovas to the briny depths.

Silco, head tilted, appraises her footwear. "Are those Topside's idea of boots?"

"They're called oxfords." 

"They're a disgrace."

"You're not a shoemaker!" Exasperated, Mel smooths out her skirts. "I've never seen a pair like yours before. And my father was an admiral."

"You mean, mercenary."

"My point is: I have spent a lifetime on ships. I know seamen's boots. Those—" she gestures at Silco's, "—are anything but."

"They're Fissure-boots. We call them 'kickers'." He rotates his ankle to show her the sole. "The undersides are covered in rivets. For grip. They're useful for slippery surfaces. But if you snag them on a rail, or trip over a hatch cover, you can slip them off in three shakes of a rat's tail. All the better to run."

"Run from what?"

A ghost of a smile. "What do you think?"

"Enforcers."

"Enforcers aren't the only disasters belowground. Temblors. Fires. Cave-ins. We have all sorts." Musingly, he regards his boots. "Running's a way of life for us."

Mel thinks of her first descent into the Fissures. The smoke-clogged streets that denied visibility. The gaping pits of rubble that threatened each step. The clammy grip of moisture that slicked each surface. Everywhere she'd looked, she’d seen the endless scars of Topside's neglect. Afterward, the waft of destruction had clung to her skin. Like the phantom sensation of Silco's hand on hers, and the insinuating thread of his voice in her ear:

"Watch your step. Rough roads in Zaun."

She'd wondered how the Fissurefolk withstood their lot. Their suffering seemed unendurable: the weight of it, the sheer, crushing tragedy. No matter where her thoughts turned, it was always there: the knowledge that her city, the jewel of Progress, had been rotting away below her feet.

The people, trapped beneath, dying by degrees.

In those days, she'd been unnerved by that strange and alien world. Unnerved, too, by Silco. The duality of him was at once alluring and repulsive. His elegance was a facade, as thin as the film of iridescent oil floating on Zaun's waters.  Beneath, there was nothing but a ravenous dark. 

 And yet, she'd found herself returning. To the dark, and to him. And each time, the city's alienness seemed to peel away. The Fissurefolk, in all their idiosyncrasies, morphed from feral enigmas to fellow human beings. Even Silco, for all his unsettling contradictions, went from a terrible specter to a thrilling challenge.

A man, with his own stories. His own heartbreaks.

Bit by bit, his world had become hers. He'd made it so: with colorful tales about the murals peeking between the subterranean ruins at Factorywood. With sips of fizzy green lager brewed in the sunless cellars beneath the catacombs in Entresol. With strolls, arm-in-arm, along the pyrite studded rock formations that rimmed the shantytowns in the Sumps. He'd taught her the dances popular among the Fissurefolk—the Sumpside Waltz, the Drainpipe Fandango, the Lazy River Lope—and the meanings behind their twists and turns. He'd invited her to the most surreal festivals—the Equinox Feast, the Night of the Veiled Lady—and imparted the significance behind their customs.  He'd fed her delicacies from the food carts dotting the street corners—spiced mushroom stew, glazed eel, pickled beets—and shared the recipes behind their unique flavors.

And all the while, his voice had woven a spell. The longer she’d listened, the less Zaun seemed a hellhole, but a hidden gem. Each facet, a winking, ever-shifting kaleidoscope of human life—one as rich as any jewelbox in Piltover's Ecliptic Vaults.

Treasure, Mel thinks, isn't always gold.

"Perhaps," she dares, "I'll buy myself a pair of 'kickers'."

His brow quirks. "You'd be in for a rude surprise."

"Oh?"

"Our best boots are cobbled at the Commercia Fantastica. All the way down in the Black Lanes. You'd never find your way out."

"You'll show me."

"Will I?" His mismatched eyes take on a shrewd gleam. "And how will you compensate me?"

"By being your wife."

"Is that the new currency, now?"

"The press certainly say so."

Her mind is already sketching out a blueprint. She'll speak to one of her contacts in the publishing industry: a gazetteer of Fissure origins.  They'll contrive a series: maybe a pictorial. All the splendor of the Commercia Fantastica, faithfully rendered in glossy print. Piltover's glitterati will have their first glimpse into the heart of Zaun's manufacturing district. It will be a reminder that their cornucopia—be it custom-made or uniform—does not issue from an orifice hidden in clouds of smut. It materializes from an epicenter of artisanship: a beating, booming, pulsating hub.

One that's only a hop, skip, and jump away.

If previous efforts are a litmus for success, then one photograph of Mel in the latest 'kickers' will spark a stampede for the bootsellers' doors. In the surge, the adjacent markets will benefit: textiles, silversmiths and jewelers. And once the novelty wears off, the lull will be a soft landing for honest Fissure tradesmen eager to partner with Piltover's guilds. The latter, inured to the mercurial whims of high fashion, will now demand durability rather than design.  And the former, accustomed to the rigors belowground, will find the Piltover's middle-class an easier breed to please.

All that's necessary is a few photographs, and a dash of goodwill.

A small price, Mel thinks, for shared prosperity.

"You are," Silco says, with a degree of wryness, "scheming."

"Takes one to know one."

"I never scheme. I merely plan ahead."

"Same difference."

"Scheming requires an adversary. Planning, a vision."

"And what's yours?"

A corner of his mouth curls. "Good try."

Mel sighs. He is always maddeningly closemouthed about his agenda. It will take more than pretty prattle to pry the details loose. The only clues she can glean are from his choice of attire—and his critique of her boots.

Whatever his plan, it involves getting their feet wet.

Mel is wary. But she knows better than to fill the silence with futile queries. He proffers his arm; she takes it. Together, they stroll down the promenade deck. After a week confined to the cabin, the sea air is a heady tonic. The loose weave of her dress is a kiss against her skin.  She is still lit up like a klieg-light: her body hot and hyperaware after the morning's exertions. 

She seldom, as rule, makes love in the daytime. To her way of thinking, the act, in sunlight, loses some of its artistry. Everything reduced to the crudest mechanics. Every flaw in full relief. Even Jayce had been his loveliest in the twilight. All shadow, all suggestion.

With Silco, daylight is fast becoming her favorite hour.  Like the sun-warmed vista, she is all sensation.

Speculatively, Mel steals him a glance.  If it weren't the height of lunacy, she'd consider dragging him straight back to bed. To hell with the guests. To hell with his plans. They can return to their suite, and bolt the door. Spend the rest of the day, and the night, and the next morning, in a state of well-earned debauchery.

But the set of Silco's features warns her that's a losing battle. 

It's not tension, exactly. More a dark anticipation. Like the way he'd looked, at Zaun's Riverside Harbor, when they'd first met. He'd known then that Zaun would drag itself out of the depths. And Mel, meeting his eyes, had known too.

He'd been certain then. Now, the certainty is a riptide. And Mel, who's never been swept off her feet, can't help but be tugged along.

She's grateful for her boots. She suspects she'll need the grip.

They cross the promenade. Silco’s stroll is measured: a mark of ownership rather than a man marking time. Barely a week's span, and the ship is already seems to belong to him.  The crew, at his barest footfall, leap to attention. Even the Captain, an irascible old seadog, treats him with a distance verging on deference. Mel remembers the same phenomenon on her father's ship: the Cry Havoc. His crew were seasoned hands: calloused minds with checkered pasts. They'd spent a lifetime at sea, and encountered their fair share of the unfathomable. They were also superstitious, and possessed a healthy fear of the uncanny.

Silco, a figment of the fathoms, is uncanny through and through.

In a different life, Mel fancies, he'd be the silhouette idling on sharp rocks, his smoky voice pitched to wooing: Come, come, and never be lonely again.

Her husband, in this one, catches the eye of a passing steward. A nod is all it takes: the man turns on his heel and disappears belowdeck.

"Where is he going?" Mel asks.

"To fetch something."

"Fetch what?"

"What I've asked him to."

Another nod at a nearby sailor. The man hastens to the foredeck. There, Mel can hear a skiff—one of Piltover's quicksilvers—revving its engines. Readying to go where, Mel cannot begin to guess. They're miles off the coast. The nearest harbor—the Wuju port—is three hours away.

Unless Silco means to sail his guests directly to shore, his destination is a mystery.

Then again, she thinks, isn’t it always?

His palm cups her elbow. "Mel."

She stirs from her reverie. "What?"

"I have a request."

"A request?"

"Yes."

His hand, settling on her hip, guides her to a halt. He's not smiling. But there's a heat in his stare. It's not an easy heat to name. It's not desire, or even hunger. It's something deeper: a pull it takes everything to resist.

 "You must," he says, "make me a promise."

"You expect me to make promises, when you won't tell me a thing?"

"Only this: you're in for a surprise or two."

"Silco—"

"I've a plan. Not a pretty one. And it'll mean a bit of rough sailing. But what's true of storms is true of marriage." His mouth twitches. "There's no winners. Only survivors."

"You aren't doing a good job at selling this."

"I'm not trying to sell it. I'm only telling you that, when we're out there—in the ballroom, on the high sea—don't run."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because it's instinct. Trenchers run for survival. It's in our blood. Medardas run from loss. It's in yours." His eyes search hers. "I don't fault your blood. I only ask you to remember.  When the winds start picking up, and the waters get choppy, your instinct will be to take cover. But the storm's not what you think. And if you're going to stay on course, you can't retreat. You have to see this through." His thumb strokes her hipbone. "Promise."

"Even if you run us aground?"

"Do you think you've married a fool?"

"Do you think you're married to one?"

Their stares lock. The silence is charged. It is not challenge, but a quiet recognition of each others' roles. She is not a woman to expose herself to the raw elements. He is not a man to sit back and let the tides dictate his course.  Their relationship has been a negotiation, from the first to the last. Each taking a turn at the helm, and then trading it away.

Now, he's asking her to—what?

Trade, or give it up?

"If," Mel says, "there's a danger—"

"There isn't."

"But you believe I'll run."

"Not you. But the woman in there—" he tips his chin toward the ballroom, "—isn't the one who waxes poetic about painting me nude in the sunlight. She's a Medarda first, second, and last. And a Medarda always has an escape route."

"The woman in there—" Mel follows his chin, and sees, through the frosted glass, a knot of swaying silhouettes, "—is a Medarda by birth. She's married to you by choice. And I can't keep my promise, if I don't know what that choice means."

"Then I'll ask again." His eyes hold hers. "Trust me."

"Trust you? Or the man who's warned me not to run?"

"That's the point."

"Is it?"

"Trust that, whatever happens, the man you've married is the same man in that ballroom." His palm spans the small of her back. "I've no alter egos, Mel. Just moments where I show teeth, and moments where I hide them. And right now, I've a great deal to hide. But the endgame is the same as your schemes for my city: a step toward something greater."

"For Zaun, and Piltover?"

"I wouldn't put it that way."

"How would you put it?"

His mouth, mere inches from hers, crooks. "Compromise."

Mel's pulse skitters.

It's a hard bargain to swallow. A harder choice to make. And she, who's made a fine art of tipping the scales, knows that both are equally vital, if this union is to have a prayer of survival. And yet the urge to break away, to force a confrontation, is surging.

She's used to his obliqueness. She's not, and will never, be used to his unpredictability.

When he says Don't run, he means Hold your ground. When he says Surprise, he means Beware.

And when he says Compromise, he means, in his own words: Survive.

Then he says, "Trust me."

Which, she's learning, is his shorthand for, Trust yourself.

Mel's mouth pinches. Trust. Doubt. These are two sides of the same coin. His past, and hers, laid bare without veils. Moments like this, she's reminded of the enormous gamble she's taken by marrying him. She knows, from her own experience, how quickly trust can curdle into the opposite. And she knows, too, that doubt can devour the sturdiest edifice.

It had, after all, devoured her parents' marriage.

Ambessa Medarda, no sentimentalist, had not married for love. Her choice was pragmatic, and it was prudent. From a broad swathe of suitors, ranging from bluebloods to brutes, she'd selected Mel's father, a swarthy, scarred captain from the Targonian Isles. Known, simply, as Aziz, he'd possessed a devious head for deals, and a deft tongue for wooing. His clan were descended from a line of seafaring mercenaries. Over the centuries, they'd carved a bloody path on a shifting sea of wars, alliances, and compromises.

Aziz had met Ambessa during a trading venture. It had been, by all accounts, an explosive collision.

Ambessa had admired the way he squared his debts with a bladesman's exacting precision, and wielded his real blade with a cutthroat's clarity. He, in turn, was taken by her ruthless pragmatism, and her cold-eyed resolve.

There'd been no need, in the end, to seek approval from either clan. The match was mutually advantageous: her riches, and his ships, would forge a dynasty.

Theirs was not, by any metric, a love-match. Yet Mel remembers the heat, the intensity, and the sheer physicality of her parents' union. With Aziz, Ambessa became, despite her hardness, a creature of feeling. And Aziz, for all his wily ways, became a man of sentiment.

They'd quarreled often, publicly. They'd butted heads over business, and brawled over trifles. But they'd also made up in the same fashion: two titans, clashing in a storm.

Mel, since girlhood, knew never to knock on her parents' bedchamber door when she heard raised voices.

She'd witnessed the aftermath, once. After a particularly savage row, Ambessa had stormed from their marital suite, and headed for the stables. Aziz, stalking soundlessly after, had caught up with her halfway there. In the middle of the courtyard, they'd fought anew. Aziz, seizing her waist, had swung her in. Ambessa, kicking out, had knocked his legs from under him. Together, they'd fallen into the thatch of wildflowers behind the copse of cypress trees.

Their cries were not, Mel had realized with a dawning horror, cries of pain.

They'd been so preoccupied, they hadn't noticed her creeping closer. They'd not seen her stare, through the screen of foliage, as their fierce struggles devolved into a fiercer embrace. And as they did, a surreal alchemy took place: Ambessa, all wildfire and iron, began to melt. Aziz, all seaspray and stone, began to yield.

Mel, unable to tear her eyes away, saw the exact moment they transformed. A moment before, they'd been two warring elements. A moment later, they were one. And the power of it, the raw, unmitigated passion: it was a force beyond the comprehension of an eight-year-old girl.

That day, Mel sometimes thinks, is when she'd learnt that the strongest forces can be unmade by desire.

Love, fear, fury: they were not, as she'd childishly believed, discrete entities. They were all part of a single current, ebbing and flowing, and changing course with the tides.

Later, much later, her parents had subsided into a languid sprawl. Ambessa's head, pillowed on her husband's shoulder. Aziz's fingers, stirring through his wife's curls. Their bodies, twined, were a study in drowsy contentment.

"Never leave me," Aziz had whispered.

"Why should I," Ambessa had purred, "when I've already cut out your heart?"

"That you have. Now, it's yours."

Ambessa's lips, curving, had found his throat. "Then remember, Schatze, I'll do worse to any woman who dares to claim it."

Schatze.

That was her private designation for him. Treasure.

Her one and only.

And she'd meant it, Mel thinks now. Meant it in the way a warrior, who's seen a thousand battles, will fight her last. She'd fought him, and he'd fought her, and they'd taken shelter in each other. Over and over. For twenty years, their marriage was the stuff of legend: a dynastic alliance, and a private whirlwind. They'd begotten two children, lost two more before birth, and spawned a military empire.

Until their union, with the same suddenness as their collision, came undone.

Aziz had, during one of Ambessa's war-campaigns, chosen a mistress. This, in itself, was not unheard of. The men of the Targonian line were notoriously philandering, and the woman of the Medarda clan were notoriously pragmatic. Ambessa, who'd not only kept her own paramours, but had changed them with the frequency of a Piltovan noblewoman changing her gloves, had never begrudged her husband his dalliances. She'd even handpicked a few herself, including the mistress Aziz so doted upon.

The choice had proven fatal.

She was a pretty thing, Mel remembers. Pale as a lily, and shrewd as a serpent. She'd beguiled Aziz with her beauty, and bound him with her wits. In the span of months, her hold on him grew implacable. By the time Ambessa, returning from a year-long absence, realized what had happened, the damage was done.

She'd discovered Aziz gone, along with three-fifths of their battleships.

Ambessa was not a woman prone to tears. Now, her fury was a black inferno. She'd raged, and she'd razed, and she'd sworn to see the mistress decapitated, with her golden head on a pike. Her pursuit of the wayward pair had been relentless, and the carnage, legendary. She'd burnt villages to the ground. She'd sunk fleets to the bottom of the sea.

And when, finally, she'd had the chance to close her fist around her husband's neck... it was too late.

Aziz had succumbed to a tropical fever. He'd been bedridden and delirious when his ship was waylaid by Ambessa's fleet. The mistress, by then, had already fled with whatever riches she could carry. 

When Ambessa had stormed into her husband's cabin, Aziz, on the verge of death, had mustered a crooked smile.

"My lioness," he'd rasped, "have you come to finish the job?"

Ambessa's fury, like a house of cards, had collapsed at the sight of him. She'd flung her scimitar aside, and fallen to her knees at her husband's bedside. His ramblings—of repentance, of devotion, of the children he'd left behind—had been shushed by her kisses. The entire night, she'd sat vigil, cajoling and bargaining and finally, begging.

To no avail.

Aziz had perished at dawn. He'd died, as he'd lived, with a smile on his lips.

For Ambessa, the fearsome general who'd won a hundred battles, this was the first true defeat. But she'd not wept, or wailed, or rent her hair. She'd only kissed Aziz's forehead, and smoothed his lids shut. Then, with a composure born of pure iron, she'd ordered his body laid out onto a wooden funeral bier, and floated out to sea, before it was set ablaze in the Targonian custom with five dozen flaming arrows.

When the sun had set, and the smoke had dissipated, she'd hefted her scimitar and turned her eyes to the horizon.

There are a thousand and one ways a Medarda avenges a slight.

Aziz's mistress would learn them all.

And soon.

Ambessa's troops had cornered the woman, in a tiny port town along the southern coast. By then, she'd spent every last coin she'd stolen from her dead lover, and had nothing left to offer in her defense. Not that coin would've made a difference. When Ambessa, flanked by her honor-guard, arrived at the tavern where her quarry was hiding, there'd been no mercy, and no negotiation. The woman, bound and gagged, was dragged to the center of town, and flung at the feet of her former benefactress.

"For my Schatze," Ambessa had vowed, "I'll make this slow."

And she did.

In front of the entire town, she'd cut out the woman's tongue, and plucked out her eyes. She'd hacked her fingers and her toes. She'd flayed her skin, and slit open her chest. And as the woman's life bled out, Ambessa had at last carved out her heart.

It was, in its ghastly way, a fitting recompense.

In the years afterward, Ambessa had grown harder. More ruthless. The light that once shone in her eyes—that strange, fierce light, whenever she'd looked at her husband—had flickered, and faded away. She'd gone on to wage numberless wars. She'd had lovers by the score.  She'd built a legacy, and an empire.

But her husband, she never replaced.

Schatze.

She'd still call him that, whenever she reminisced. The endearment was its own admission; the sentiment, its own confession.

Ambessa Medarda did not marry for love. But she'd loved, and lost, nonetheless.

Schatze.

Mel, in the heart of herself, knows the word. It is worth its weight in gold—and the poorest possible investment. Men, as a rule, are faithless. Even the ones who seem, in the sunlight, like perfect princelings. And sharks, as a law, never stop swimming. Even if the water's blue for miles.

To trust one is to invite hurt. And to trust the other is to invite teeth.

Mel knows the price of a life-bitten heart.

And yet, in the depths of passion, she trusts Silco with hers.

Because, in the afterglow, languid and spent, she sometimes calls him Schatze, too.

Now, Mel meets Silco's stare. His eyes, even at their softest, hold an edge. But she senses no hidden blade. Only his palm, cradling the base of her spine. Only his body, a hairsbreadth from hers. And his words, in the space between: Trust me.

A choice, not a compromise.

Mel, slowly, nods.

"You'd better deliver,” she says. “I'm not sure my boots can handle anything worse than the waves."

"If you'd heeded my advice—"

"Don't."

Her tone brooks no argument. In turn, his humor melts.

He steps back, and bows. It's not a courtly gesture. It's like a wolf acknowledging a packmate. Mel, who's seen a hundred bows, is surprised by the sincerity of this one. It's a subtle, almost invisible dip. But she sees, in its execution, trust.

He, who is never truly vulnerable, is exposing the nape of his neck.

"Shall we?" He straightens with a small smile. "The parasites await."

"The parasites are our guests." Mel slips her hand into the crook of his elbow. "I hope you're ready to play the host."

His smile grows "Are you forgetting who I am?"

He stalks toward the ballroom door. His shadow, elongated by the sunlight, is a knife.

And Mel, her heart suddenly in her throat, knows this: She cannot run.

Even if, by a sudden inexplicable compulsion, she wants to.

The ballroom is an idyll of Art Deco delights.

A high vaulted ceiling, inlaid with mosaics of sea-nymphs, arches overhead. A chandelier, dangling like a glittering pendulum, sends a nimbus of refracted light across each polished surface.  The floor is a checkered parquet, alternating in shades of teak and rosewood. In the far-corner, a circular bar-island of carved cherrywood serves an array of spirits. A sunken dancefloor, honeycombed in a tessellation of rose marble, is ringed by a quartet of brass-trimmed alcoves. Inside, frosted glass windows, edged with intricate filigree patterns, frame different views of the blue horizon. 

Waitstaff bustle with trays of champagne flutes and silver-domed trays of hors d'oeuvres. The guests, in their daytime finery, are milling about. All seem mystified by the ship's anchorage. No doubt whispers have already begun stirring: mutiny, sabotage, ransom.

At Silco and Mel's entrance, heads swivel. The conversation eddies into silence.  

Mel thinks: It's like the moment before a battle.

She gives herself a quick mental inventory. Dress: immaculate. Persona: impeccable. Expression: impassive.

A soldier, Ambessa liked to say, is only as good as their armor.

Silco's hand, finding hers, imparts a squeeze: Ready?

Mel squeezes back. Always.

Then, falling away, they diverge to different ends of the room.

It is their formula: tried and true. He hates to be tethered. She hates to be steered. So they meet, and part, and find each other again. Two ships crossing the same sea, with a hundred currents swirling beneath.

And between them: the fulcrum of their cities' fates.

Silco drifts soundlessly to the bar. The crowd parts as he crosses. Mel, watching, marvels at the smoothness of his gait. His body, like a blade, cuts its way implacably through the tide.  Peeling it back, layer by layer, until all the pretense fall away. She notes who shrinks back, who stands their ground, who dares to come closer.  In their body-language, she reads volumes: curiosity, contempt, caution.

The Eye of Zaun has that effect. Even among the constellations of power, he exudes his own. It's nothing to do with size or swagger. It is simply that his presence, in any room, becomes a gravity well.  The most ambitious—eager for a taste of danger—drift closer. The most prudent—wary of his reputation—keep their distance.

Silco, in turn, exudes a usual glacial calm: his eyes taking in everything and giving away nothing. 

In that, Mel thinks, he is nothing like Jayce.

Jayce, a born idealist, radiated human warmth. It was a private foible and a public asset: his shining smile and his sheer, stubborn, indomitable belief in Progress.  In the beginning, Mel had been charmed his capacity for optimism. As his business partner, she'd seen the way his earnest goodwill thawed the frostiest investors. As his lover, she'd been seduced by his sheer, unabashed passion.

In a world of tepid greys, Jayce was abrash, exuberant burst of brightness. And his ardor was a gift that kept giving. He'd brought color back into Mel's life. He'd given her a glimpse of the world as it could be, not as it was: a place of endless possibility.

If they only had the will to grasp it.

She'd taken a gamble on him. And at every step, he'd rewarded her. He'd made her smile. He'd made her think. He'd made her want to be more than she was: more daring, more defiant, more dauntless. And she'd made him stronger, in turn. She'd guided him through the slippery labyrinth of politics, tempered his bullheaded choices with cool pragmatism, and steered him, on occasion, from complete disaster.

With her, he'd believed anything was possible. With him, she'd felt the same.  A perfect balance of ambition, beauty, and intellect.

The Golden Couple, the press had dubbed them.

But Jayce, for all his merits, was not a man to cut his own path. He'd never known the grinding ache of a hunger weaned by birthright. Never felt the keenness of the knife, twisting, with a mother's silence. Never known a world where privilege was not a promise kept, but a golden garotte around the throat.

For the Medardas, the ethos of power was not glory. It was survival. That was what the bloodline was bred for, and what it demanded: the need to claw its way to the apogee, and stay there.

But every apogee, a voice whispers, needs a nadir.

There is no peak without the abyss. And every climb is a fall, waiting to happen.

Jayce, born into a life of ease, never understood. And the brightness of his dream, pure and perfect, became Mel's blind spot. She'd seen the world, and their place in it: a vast, glorious expanse of the unimaginable. He'd stand by her, and she'd stand up for him, and together, they'd forge a new era.

Until, in the worst way, they had.

Their city ruptured. Their dream, in shreds. Their bond, an ash-pit.

Mel accepts the glass of pineapple juice a passing steward offers. Sipping, she thinks once more of Jayce: his easygoing smile, his boundless idealism.  Then she lets the golden memories fall away in favor of what is right in front of her: the man she'd found at the bottom of that ash-pit.

And he, finding her, had shown her a different dream. A darker one: bleeding and yet never dying. Two cities, joined, against all odds.

Rising, by any means necessary.

Their eyes meet across the room. Silco, in conversation with a sparse clutch of older men, is watching her with a quiet intensity. Under his scrutiny, she feels like a gemstone held up to the light. Like she did this morning: caught, and pinned, and in a state of sublime surrender.

A curl at the corner of his mouth says: I see you.

Mel lifts her glass in a mock-toast.

Enjoy the show.

Smiling, she steps into the fray.

If Silco is the gravity well, Mel is the sun. The moment she materializes, the atmosphere transforms: a gloriole of life. The silence swirls into animated chatter. The guests, like celestial bodies, align into orbit. A chorus of well-wishes rises: Mel, darling, how are you feeling? — Councilor Medarda, how splendid to see you on your feet!—My dearest Melusine! At last, you've emerged!

Mel, her smile calibrated to dazzle, accepts their tributes with grace. In diplomacy, timing is everything. And she, every word fine-tuned for maximum impact, knows how to walk the line between approachability and allure.  One moment she's regaling the group with a quip that dissolves them into gales of laughter. The next, she's demurring a bold overture with an artful pivot and a cool flutter of lashes.

It's an old song, and she's a seasoned player. Human emotions are a string quartet. She's learned, since girlhood, that her talent lies in knowing the right string to pluck. A smile to coax a dowager's taut cadences into a cello's mellow depth. A murmur to set off a young man's somber oboe into a high-spirited spill of arpeggios. A touch to elicit, from an aging general's lascivious violin, a full, rich chord of rapture.

And Mel: the maestra. Coaxing melody from dissonance, and bringing the whole ensemble into harmony.

Now, she plucks the closest string in reach:  the Demacian dignitary's wife. The woman's a social stalwart: moneyed, magpie-eyed, and a moralist of the first degree. Paired with a penchant for petty gossip, she is the chief purveyor of the aristocracy's scandal-mill. 

But her pedigree is a goldmine, and her support is a vital step toward Zaun's ascent into the global spotlight.

Mel, accordingly, makes her the target of a subtle campaign.

"Lady Dennings," she says, with a radiant smile. "How lovely to see you."

"Mel!" Lady Dennings, her peacock fan a blur of emerald and azure, flutters over. "By the Protector! What a fright you gave us! A week belowdeck—and nary a glimpse above!"

"I do apologize for the alarm."

"Alarm? My dear, we believed you were at death's door! And your husband, that dreadful man! He made a jape of it! Every evening, our queries about your health were met with a different tale." The fan flutters faster. "First, you were abed with ague. Then: bitten by a viper. And then—the final outrage—you were abducted by pirates!"

"Oh," Mel says, and can't quite stop the smile from curling,

"Oh? Mel, is that all you can say?"

"What else would you have me say?"

"Acknowledgment! The man's a rapscallion—and a devil!"

Mel's eyes go guilelessly round. "Devil?"

"Of the highest order!" The fan snaps shut, and the falsetto drops. "The word is, he forcibly confined you to your berth for six nights! All to conduct an infernal Fissure ritual. The bride, stripped and bound as a sacrifice to the dark gods. Then—" a shudder, "—a barbaric consummation. Is it true, my dear? Tell me it's not. Tell me you've not been brutalized in some pagan sacrament!"

Mel hides a smile behind the rim of her glass. Her mind conjures a vision of Silco, in a dark cloak, looming over her bound and naked body. The glow of his bad eye: a fire opal offset by a dozen low-burning candles.

The scenario is not, she admits, without its unholy thrill.

But the Dennings are a devoutly religious clan. Like the rest of Demacia, their stance on magic is unequivocally condemnatory. If they had their way, all practitioners of the arcane would be hung, drawn, and quartered. Even the mention of the subject is enough to provoke an apoplexy.

No doubt, during Mel's weeklong absence, Lady Dennings' imagination—and tongue—have been running rampant. Her mind, already primed to find fault with the union, will seize upon the most sordid scrap. In the process, she inadvertently reveals how little she understands of Zaun.

Or, indeed, what transpires in the privacy of the marital bedchamber.

The Dennings own marriage of a year, if Elora's reports are true, has gone unconsummated. Whether it's due to her husband's crippling bashfulness, or her own pie-eyed prudishness, is an open question. This voyage, at the behest of the Dennings patriarch, is a final bid for the pair to prove their mettle. A successful coupling—an heir—would seal a lucrative merger between their clans. Whereas a failure on both counts would see them disinherited.

Lord and Lady Dennings, on borrowed time, feel each bell-toll keenly. A pity they cannot share the same cabin together without squabbling incessantly.

Silco, possessing no surfeit of sympathy for prudish quirks and provincial qualms, has summed up the couple's predicament thus:

"Two virgins, and not a lick of sense between them."

It's a brutally sound assessment. But not, Mel thinks, without a measure of pity.

It must be excruciating to suffer the weight of a parent's expectations in such a private sphere. Not to mention the public mortification, should the failure come to light.  

Fortunately, Mel's mind has sketched out a satisfactory solution.

Somberly, she says, "It's true."

"Dear heavens! You mean—?!"

"Bound to the bedframe, with a length of silk." Mel circles a finger along the rim of her glass. "But not for reasons you imagine."

Lady Dennings, eyes wide, is already imagining a great deal. "Gracious, Mel! What was he thinking?"

"Chiefly, of my safety."

"Safety—yes!" Lady Dennings clasps one of Mel's hands in both her own. "Zaunite men are a barbaric lot! Look at their women: all pinched cheeks and blackened eyes. They're beasts, by any other name. The notion that a darling such as yourself—" another shudder, "—locked in a cabin, and subjected to deflowering...!"

Mel's eyebrows wing skyward. In her ear, she can practically hear Silco's drawl:

What, precisely, am I deflowering? Your left nostril? The right's seen its share of traffic.

Taking another sip of juice, she stifles her snort.  The Demacian peerage hold such archaic notions about chastity.  Silco, if he ever caught wind, would take fiendish delight in dismantling them.

Fortunately, Silco is elsewhere. And Mel, more fortuitously, has the perfect string to pluck.

"My dear Lady Dennings," she chides gently. "You must put aside those scurrilous pamphlets." 

"Scurrilous?"

"The ones from the gutter-press. Written, I wager, after a tankard of rotgut. I hear the stories, myself: the Fissurefolk, sacrificing virgins to demigods. Drinking the blood of newborn babes. Really, it's too much. One would think, given the scope of their enterprise, that their hours would be better employed." A sip of juice, sweet on the tongue. "They should write, instead, of Zaun's many wonders."

"Wonders?"

"Their herbal tinctures, for one." Her tone, perfectly balanced between soothing and secretive, reels the woman in. "You see, I'd been struck with a terrible fever. Sweats, delirium, and the most excruciating chills. If I hadn't been bed-bound, I might have taken a tumble down the stairs. Or flung myself into the sea."

"By the Light! And he—what, locked you up?"

"As a precaution. Nothing more.  Mine was a rather stubborn malady. After five days' vigil, Silco took it upon himself to brew a concoction. A tea, of sorts. Boiled from powdered red clover. Quite astringent, but most effective." Mel sighs. "I haven't felt so well-rested in years."

It did not occur in exactly that fashion. Mel was too woozy to summon the particulars. All she recalls is Silco's shadow looming in. A cup's rim, steaming, pressed to her lips. A bracing tang, and the slow, steady, searing drip down her throat.

She'd succumbed to sleep right after. But she'd awoken much refreshed, and lucid.

When she'd queried him, Silco had shrugged: It's a tonic for the blood. Fire it up, and sweat the fever out.

With the smallest of smirks:  Good for firing up the loins, too.

Lady Dennings is listening raptly. "He tended to you, personally?"

"Like a physician. Only sweeter." A wistful sigh. "It's a rare man who'll kneel at his lady's bedside." She doesn't, in fact, recall much kneeling. But every good story needs a spin. Diplomacy's bedrock is built on well-told fiction. "Truly, the tales of Zaunite men as brutes are wildly untrue.  In their own way, they're quite..." A delicate pause, "... devoted."

"Oh, indeed?"

"I dare not divulge too much. Modesty compels me. But..." Mel's register drops. "... I will say this: Zaunites may lack the polish of a Piltovan gentleman. But they more than make up for it with the... ardor... of their pursuit."

Lady Dennings' mouth forms a perfect 'O.' "Gracious!"

"Gracious? No. Gratifying? Certainly." Mel's lips curve. "And gratifyingly often."

Lady Dennings turns a telling shade of carnation. "Dear me. That's—how intriguing!"

"Isn't it?" Another sip, and a deeper smile. "The Fissures, I find, have much to teach us. I've only just begun my lessons. But I've made such fascinating discoveries. Did you know, for instance, that powdered red clover, steeped in tea, has an aphrodisiacal effect?"

"An aphro—really?"

"Really. It's quite potent. In fact, it can be used as an antidote for..." Then, as if remembering herself. "But forgive me. This is no place to discuss such a delicate subject. I must beg your discretion."

Lady Dennings, fan fluttering, has gone from carnation to crimson. There is, as Mel suspected, a great deal of pent-up frustration simmering below that prissy surface.

Mel makes her move: a single strum, and a long, sustained note of intimacy.

"If you're amenable," she murmurs, "I'll share more details with you. Perhaps over a quiet tea? Just us girls."

"I—yes! Of course! Red clover, you say?"

"A singular plant. It grows at the edges of the Fissure cliffs.  Many a scholar has written of the benefits." A conspiratorial dip of lashes. "You and your lord husband may find the taste a revelation."

"My, erm, husband," Lady Dennings stammers, "is quite—" fan dangling limply, "—fastidious."

"Then, my dear, it is high time he was reacquainted with his reckless youth."

"Oh, Mel, do you truly think...?"

"I shall do better." Mel imparts a light squeeze to the woman's arm. "I will send a gift with you: a small satchel, for your bedchamber. Try a spoonful, with two glasses of cold water. One for yourself. And the other, to share." A significant silence, then a final pluck. "The results, I promise, will be expeditious."

Lady Dennings' eyes take on a hopeful gleam. "How expeditious?"   

"Let's just say: by the summer's end, you'll be celebrating more than your wedding anniversary."

It works like a charm. Lady Dennings, clutching Mel's hands, exclaims, "My dear girl, you're a dove! I shall owe you a thousand favors!"

"None required." Mel's smile is sunshine through clouds. "Consider it a gift, from a dear friend."

"You darling thing! We shall have a girl's talk tonight. And afterward—" a flushing glance toward her husband, stoop-shouldered and sour-faced in the corner, "—why, we'll see what comes."

With luck, him, and you too, Mel thinks.

"Tonight, then," she says. "I'll have a basket sent up to your cabin. But remember—ssh. It is a private affair." Her fingertip, pressed playfully to her lips, earns a titillated twinkle. "Now, if you'll pardon me. I must catch up with the others."

"Oh, of course! I shan't hold you up." Lady Dennings' fan resumes its flutter. Her thoughts, plainly, are palpitating elsewhere. "And do send up the basket! I cannot wait!"

Mel, her work done, glides off.

One down, she thinks, sipping her drink. A half-dozen to go.

Red clover's effects are not, in fact, a fiction. Mel, during her research into Zaun's history, has read volumes on the subject. And experienced, firsthand, its efficacy.

She'd shared a spoonful with Jayce, back when they were together. Purely for research reasons, of course. She'd only given him a mouthful, and he'd been wild to have her—so much, she'd ended up with her dress in shreds, one slipper dangling from the ceiling fan, and the other flung straight through the window.

Afterward, Jayce had apologized shamefacedly. Mel, secretly charmed, had assured him the fault was hers.

They'd never touched the stuff again. But Mel has not forgotten.

By tonight, she suspects, neither will Lady and Lord Dennings. With luck, a little Dennings-to-be will soon be in the picture, courtesy of Mel's powdered charity. Mel, in turn, will have gained a pocketful of Dennings coin, and the political currency to bargain with Demacian traders for red clover as a mass-market commodity.

Soon, word will spread. The Fissures are in possession of miracles, in potentia.

Zaun's economy could use a healthy boost. And Piltover, by proxy, will feel the benefit.

Marriage: by any other name.

Satisfied, Mel's focus shifts to the next string.   

The string, as luck would have it, sails her way. Cevila, wife of the Piltovan exchequer: a statuesque ice-eyed blond who'd made Mel's life an unending misery back in her salad days as an emigree. A native Piltovan with close ties to House Ferros, she prides herself on her pedigree, her purse-strings, and her impeccable taste—or, in Mel's private reckoning, her impeccable lack thereof.

Since Mel's ascent into the corridors of power, Cevila's kept up an endless siege under a guise of cordiality. Barbs couched in a show of sisterhood; favors Mel cannot deny without close allies feeling snubbed; invitations she cannot refuse without offending the very people she seeks to woo.

It's a tedious dance. But Cevila's rank confers her with gravitas among the glitterati. Her opinion, when solicited, is considered gospel. 

Mel, the Madonna of Piltover, cannot afford to play the sinner.

"Cevila," she greets airily. "How are you faring?"

"Oh, my dove! Better, now that I see you're in fine fettle. But how peaked you look! It must be that frock. Quite lovely, but rather..." A critical once-over, "... plain."

Mel's smile, soft as a cat's paw, hides claws. "The style is from East Shurima.  A gift from the Sadja clan."

"Is it? That explains it. They're a droll set. All silks and scarabs. They'd wrap themselves in the city's flag, if they thought it'd give them airs." A barely-there squeeze of Mel's elbow. "No offense, my darling. I know you're a patroness of theirs."

Mel, noting the dig, pivots. "Whereas you, in your plumage, are a bird of paradise."

In fact, she resembles a harpy. The Ferros features, chipped from granite, accord the face a certain regal grandeur. But Cevila, with her penchant for feathered ostentation, has a way of transforming even the most sober attire into avian excess.

Today, she's swathed in a plum silk sheath studded with gold-chased amethysts. A matching choker, its collar encrusted with citrines, enfolds her neck. Her hair, lacquered within an inch of its life, is a helmet of pale yellow, and adorned with a nest's worth of diamond-and-pearl pinfeathers.

Mel, taking in the effect, feels an odd pang. The last time she'd worn such an extravagance of gems, it had been on the heels of her split with Jayce. Her mind had been in disarray. Her sartorial choices, likewise. Each dress, shimmering, had been a salve: a reminder that no matter how her heart ached, the rest of her could still shine.

Now, taking in Cevila's glitter, her mind pieces together a new puzzle.

"Your husband must be so proud," Mel says, "to have you on his arm."

"He is, yes." Cevila's grip, on her elbow, tightens a fraction. It's a tell, and Mel tucks it away. "Of course, his pride is not all that's on his arm."

I would doubt that, Mel thinks.

She already has the measure of Cevila's husband: a man twice her age, and whose sole claim to fame, apart from a family name two centuries old, is mediocrity incarnate. He'd married the ferocious Cevila purely for the prestige of the Ferros title She'd been, to pardon the pun, a feather in his cap.

Privately, it's no secret that his tastes run younger and far less discerning. Of late, he's been spotted frequenting the entertainment district of Zaun's Boundary Markets. More specifically, an establishment hosting two Shuriman-born dancers—brothers by blood, and by the rumor mill, bedmates.

Cevila is far from blind to her husband's proclivities. Mel, who's witnessed their tête-à-têtes at society gatherings, has noticed the strain behind their smiles. Two strangers, trapped in the same gilded cage. According to Elora's reports, she's making preparations to serve him with divorce papers. Once the split is finalized, she'll set her sights on a new target: younger, better-connected, and more importantly, better-funded.

The roster is long, and the contenders many.  Even Jayce, the poor dear, is rumored to be on her radar. 

Cevila's eye, however, is not on matrimonial bliss. Her goal is to secure enough funds to purchase a mining seam in the Fissures' southwest quadrant. Its yield is substantial: pure platinum and gold. To claim it, she's leveraged everything from her family's connections to a cadre of solicitors—to no avail.

Silco, rebuffing every overture, has made plain that the land is not for sale.

The refusal, in Cevila's view, is a personal slight. And Mel, as her chief adversary, has become a natural target.

"It is truly good to see you well," Cevila says, with a talonlike grip on Mel's elbow. "I was concerned, of course. But it was your husband who most needed a watchful eye. Why, a lesser man would've taken succor at the nearest port-of-call."

Mel, inwardly translating Harpy to Buzzard, smiles. "A lesser man, yes. Mine stayed firmly anchored."

"And decidedly taciturn! He wouldn't even deign to give an update." The twin flintlocks of her eyes turn Silco's way. "You'd think he was in mourning. His beloved, or his bachelorhood—it's difficult to say which."

Mel has yet to see Silco grieve anything beyond an errant hangnail. Cevila's remarks, as ever, serve no purpose beyond baiting her.

Taking the proffered string, Mel plays it for all its worth. "My husband is a man of few words." At least, when his tongue's occupied elsewhere. "As it is, he's accustomed to livelier pastimes. Compared to Zaun's vibrancy, a week at sea is a veritable lull." A sip, and a sigh. "Confined company does make a dull time of it."

The subtext is subtle, but unmistakable. Cevila, in her plumage, bristles.

"Confined—or refined? His manners are decent enough. But pedigree's the real test." Her chin cuts a scornful arc. "The Fissures, after all, are a pestilence pit." Then, catching herself. "I mean no disrespect, my dove. Marriage factors more than sentiment for our stripe, as we both know. One plays the hand one’s dealt. But we're women of the world, are we not? We both understand the value of preserving a legacy." Her eyes pass, speculatively, over Mel's belly. "And the consequences, should our choice fail to meet it."

The stab is plain: Silco, Fissure-born, is exemplary of his breed. Filth, mud, scum. Any child, a byproduct of that union, will bear the taint. A taint that will spread to Piltover's streets. To the halls of the High Council. To the very heart of the City of Progress.

Mel's fingers flex on the stem of her glass.  A thousand old slights, she'll bear with aplomb. But this, the freshest insult, makes her see red.

For a moment, she understands Ambessa's warpath. The primal urge, to defend at any cost. Mel has spent a lifetime keeping a lid on her own fire. But her mother's blood runs true. The anger is a hissing spark, ready to ignite. If she were a Medarda of the old guard, she would carve her name straight through Cevila's heart.

Up ahead, Silco is still slouched by the bar. Lighting a cigarette, he taps out the spent match. Behind the leisurely ribbons of smoke, his scarred profile is all insouciant angles. But Mel feels his focus like a hot brand. He has been listening, too. Not with his ears, but his eyes.  

And Cevila could find herself on the wrong side of a scope.

That decides Mel.

A Medarda's wrath is legendary. But a Zaunite's is fatal. Between their cities, there have been enough bloodbaths.

Diplomacy, and not daggers, must prevail.

So she smiles, and tugs on a subtler string.

"Legacy, yes." A slow sip of juice. "My husband and I have discussed it. In particular, provisions for the future."

"Provisions?" Cevila's keen eyes dart between Mel and the bar. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Only that the winds of change are never gentle. And when they blow, fortunes can shift." She swirls her drink. "I always caution my fellow Councilors against complacency. Or ill-advised investments in foreign ventures. A single declaration of war, and the trade-lines go dry. A few misplaced funds, and the whole enterprise goes belly-up. We must keep our assets, well, closer to home."

"Home?" Cevila repeats, astute as ever. "Or Zaun?"

"Zaun is our sister city. As it stands, her prospects are excellent. But Silco believes, and I concur, in strengthening our individual portfolios. Piltover, for instance, has ample potential for growth in the manufacturing sector. With Hextech, we have the means to revolutionize the market." Musingly, "In turn, Zaun has her mines, and the wisdom, age old, to refine their yield."

At the mention of the mines, a covetous gleam kindles in Cevila's eye. "The mines. Yes."

"Recently, the Fissure seams, thanks to diligent labor, have hit the motherlode. Soon, the output will be tripled. Even quadrupled." The morsel dangles: a succulent cut of red meat. Then: "Naturally, Silco is determined to keep the wealth concentrated in the hands of those who labored for it."

Cevila is brought up short. "In a matter of wages?"

"Oh, nothing so crass.  The miners' guild is a collective. Their assets are held in trust, for the benefit of the whole. Older seams, owned by barons, are likewise protected. But Silco believes in safeguarding his city's long-term interest. To that end, the Zaun’s recently enacted a decree for the lifelong preservation of the mines."

Suddenly, Cevila's feathers are a-quiver.  "I—I'm not quite sure I follow."

"Then allow me to clarify. For the last century, the Fissures have been a free-for-all. Foreign hands, ours and otherwise, have scooped up whatever they could. They've left the remainder in chaos. A dozen factions, battling each other for scraps. It's been a waste of resources. And, frankly, a waste of life." Her fingertips clink across the stem of her glass: a percussive counterpoint to the silence. "The Cabinet's new policy aims to restore a sense of order. No longer will foreign backers have unfettered access to the veins. Only Fissureborns—guilds or barons—will hold title to their respective stakes. All the proceeds will remain local, and invested in the betterment of the people. The clause will be embedded into the deeds. In perpetuity."

"Perpetuity?"

"Forever and a day." Mel goes solemn. "As my mother likes to say: Blood will always out. Only the children of born Zaunites will inherit the mines.  And those children, should the time come, shall have the final say in who holds ownership." 

"But Mel! Surely the Council cannot condone—"

"Dear Cevila. The Council's writ does not extend to Zaun. The Fissures, by Treaty, are a sovereign state." A grateful sigh. "I suppose it's a rare stroke of luck. By wedding a man of Fissure birth, I will enjoy greater access than most. And our children, by default, shall have the deepest roots."  She meets Cevila's eyes over the rim of her glass. "A legacy, as you say."

Cevila seems to have forgotten how to breathe. A small mercy: her talon has retracted from Mel's elbow.

"This is—well." With effort, she finds her composure. "This is unexpected news."

"Isn't it?" Mel, smiling, sets down her drink. She's dangled the lure, then snatched it away. Cevila, chewing on her loss, is now primed for any scrap. "Naturally, in wake of this decree, the demand for Fissure stones has begun skyrocketing. Do you happen to own any, Cevila? Perhaps a pendant or a bauble?"

Cevila rallies a smile. It's a ghastly effort. "I, ah, have a ring or two."

"Lovely. Their worth is about to treble. Do you remember my necklace? The blue diamond-drop?" 

"Vividly." 

"It was a gift. Designed by the artisans in the Boundary Markets. Their craftsmanship is second to none." A calculated pause. "If you're amenable, I'll speak to the artisan's guild. We can summon one of their agents to my apartments. Then, perhaps, commission a set?"

The gleam in Cevila's eyes brightens. "You—you'd do that? My dove, I couldn't possibly accept—"

"Nonsense. You are, after all, one of my closest friends. And the artisan's guild are a lovely group. They are headed by a close ally of Silco's. A Zaunite, and a first-rate entrepreneur. His family are descended from the ancient Oshra Va'Zaun line. Did you know, they once held dominion over the isthmus?"

"I do, yes." Cevila's beak wrinkles. "Until our Wardens cut off their privy purses—" re: confiscated their estates and sold the spoils at auction to foreign investors, "—and the rest were sent packing. Most sold off piles of heirlooms to stay afloat. And what's left are probably riddled with the plague."

"What's left are the mines," Mel corrects. "And Silco's friend, as fortune would have it, inherited much of the old Oshra Va'Zaun stock. He is, as they call them belowground, a gold baron."

Now Cevila's eyes are aglow. "A gold baron, you say?"

"A charming gentleman. Sadly, still unattached. But his means are considerable. And his tastes, exquisite. He is a patron of the arts. A discerning collector. I daresay he'd be an ideal candidate for a lady of your caliber."

For business—or matrimony—Mel doesn't deign to specify. She doesn't need to.

The hook is lodged deep. Cevila, her smile pure gluttony, is already planning her next coup. A Zaunite husband on her string, and gold at her fingertips. 

All it would cost her: pride, prejudice, and a single night's sleep.

"You know," she says, "I do pride myself on an eye for quality."

Mel purrs. "I have every faith that you will come away, well satisfied."

"I believe next month I have an open window. If your schedule can accommodate—"

"I'm sure we can work something out."

"Good. Good. I'll be in touch."  Cevila flicks a glance at Silco. The distaste is tinged with a new layer of intrigue. "And, of course, your husband will be present to broker the introduction?"

Mel lies, smooth as silk, "He'd be delighted."

In fact, she suspects, Silco would rather have his liver cut out. Between Zaun's bigheaded bourgeois and Piltover's self-aggrandizing aristocracy, his tolerance will be sorely tried. But, whatever else, her husband is a pragmatist. A potential trade with House Ferros is too lucrative to dismiss. Better still if it ends with a merger—literal—between Cevila and one of his barons. A symbol of unity—or, at the very least, shared gain.

Marriage: by any name.

Cevila, her high spirits restored, swans off. Pleased, Mel accepts another flute of pineapple juice from a passing steward. She is beginning to feel back in her stride. The crowd, once an unwieldy beast, is now a pliant and responsive chorus.

Serenely, she moves on to the next string. The Piltovan ambassador—an old fusspot fittingly named Hector.

As a high-ranking member of government, the voyage must suffer his presence. But Mel has heard Silco, in the privacy of their suite, wish him more than once to the bottom of the sea. One word on Zaun, and he's off: a diatribe on the perils of a lowborn populace without oversight, the undercity as the mouth of Hell, and Fissurefolk as the demons therein.

Mel, having the measure of his string, has learnt to play it deftly. Usually, she douses his rants with a few drops of sweetened condescension. Other times, she plays the ingenue, and laments his lot in life: a stalwart of the old order, trapped between the twin forces of progress and decay. If neither of those tactics serve, a flash of cleavage is enough to set him off-kilter.

Admittedly, the method is not the noblest. But she will not apologize for keeping a peaceable accord.  

"Lord Hector," she greets serenely. "How wonderful to see you."

"Mel!" The ambassador, ruddy-faced and portly, hauls himself to his feet. A plateful of trifle is hastily abandoned. "My Melusine, what a vision you are!"

"You flatterer." A kiss, pecked airily on his cheek. "I trust you're faring well?"

"Oh, the usual. Tallying the votes. Calculating the ledgers. Nothing a bit of good food can't fix." He casts a mournful eye at the trifle. "A pity the chef won't let me near the kitchens. If I could only get my hands on the caramel sauce for the mousse—"

"Now, now, Lord Hector." Mel's index finger ticks playfully. "We'd end up with a shortage."

"I'd not hoard the stuff, my girl! I'd only sample." The woebegone look is as patently false as his bawdy wink. "Sample liberally."

"Really, Lord Hector. You are shameless." Coyly, Mel tucks a dangling curl behind her ear. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were angling for a different dessert."

"Only if you're game, my dear. Though rumor has it—” Another wink, “you've already had a nibble."  

"Why, Lord Hector. Whatever are you insinuating?"

"You and that husband of yours. I'm told you were cooped up, the pair of you. Six nights, and a locked door." He chortles. "If there was no nibbling, I'll eat my hat. Is it true you'd come down with ague, or was the whole business a bedtime story?"

Mel puts on an abashed smile. "Oh, I was bedbound. But it was quite a dull affair. Fever, delirium, the works."

"Frightful! But your man looked after you, did he?" The wink becomes a leer. "Or was it he that left you bedridden? They say Zaunites are half-rabid, the lot of them. And yours, my dear, has a pack of knives for teeth. If I were you, I'd have been frightened out of my wits."

It's a vulgar turn, but Mel knows when to play her hand. "You're incorrigible, Lord Hector. My husband is the picture of civility." Her voice drops meaningfully. "And watching us as we speak."

A hasty glance over Lord Hector's shoulder confirms the fact. Silco, slouched with the remnants of his cigarette, is observing their exchange. His features project boredom. But his focus is keenly honed. Mel has the distinct sense that if Hector so much as breathed a lecherous sigh her way, he'd find himself staring down the barrel of a pistol.

Hector, wisely, does not test the theory.

"Well, well," he says, and clears his throat. But his manner, with Mel, becomes a good deal more circumspect. "He's a watchful sort, isn't he? But that's no surprise. The Fissures are a foul pit. It takes a hard head, or a harder fist, to survive. Why, I had a letter from my cousin last month. She was telling me how her youngest, a delicate little thing, crossed the Bridge and fell ill!"

"Of Grey Lung?"

"Heavens, no! Just the sniffles. But, mark my words, the next epidemic will be upon us soon! I still recall, in the summer of sixty-three, when the harbor was beset with the Ash Plague. Hundreds of souls, lost in a matter of days. If not for the Council's swift action, and the timely quarantine, we might've all perished!"

Mel hides her frown.

She's done her research. The Ash Plague had, in fact, claimed thousands rather than hundreds. A majority of its victims were from the Undercity. And the Council, for all its posturing, had done little to address the root cause: the filth-encrusted streets, the sewage-bloated canals, the slums packed like sardines in a tin.

The quarantine, too, was little better than a farce. Fissurefolk, sickly and suffering, were barricaded belowground. Anyone who dared defy the order faced immediate arrest. The result was a public health catastrophe.  Topside, the epidemic's spread was halted swift;y. Belowground, it raged like wildfire, and took the young, the weak, the elderly.

Mel remembers Silco, once, describing the aftermath:  Bodies piled up like driftwood. Flies swarming so thick, they formed clouds.

The smell of death in every breath.

The story is a stark contrast to the Council's sanitized narrative: the triumph of science over superstition, under Piltover's noble hand.

But in Zaun, the truth will not be silenced. The scars, never erased.

 Mel, her juice gone tasteless, thinks: If I'd not met Silco, I'd still be in the dark.

"Dear Hector," she says, mildly. "The Ash Plague was decades ago. Why revive old fears?"

"Revive? Fie! The fears, my girl, like the Fissures' insalubrious air, are ever present! My own wife, last time she braved those wretched streets, came a hair's breadth from death!"

"Death?"

"She nearly fell down a manhole! And you know what happened next?" Hector shudders. "Her high-heel got caught, and she tumbled into the muck. She had to toss the whole lot! Why, it was a nightmare. It took three stout-hearted men and a crowbar to pry her free." 

Mel's eyes meet Silco's across the room. Silco’s lips barely twitch.

He’d been present during that absurdist tableau. In fact, he'd paid the very men who'd pulled Hector's wife free. The woman, a shrill-voiced dumpling with a penchant for frills, had been too busy shrieking to thank her saviors. Afterward, though, she'd found herself recounting the narrow save with a breathless lilt. Perhaps, Mel suspects, it was all that close handling by the stout-hearted men.

Since the Crowbar Incident, as it has come to be known, Lady Hector has developed a powerful fascination with the Fissures.  Indeed, Mel suspects the only reason she's prodded her husband to invite himself to this cruise is to gather juicy tidbits about Zaun.

Her ardent curiosity, paired with Hector's fecklessness, are twin chords of opportunity. Ones that, plucked just so, will make for a profitable duet.

So Mel takes a slow sip, and lets a sympathetic smile play.

"How dreadful. But, I daresay, you and your wife will fare better now."

"Oh?"

"Zaun has developed a reputable network of guides and concierges. They know all the best districts."

"All the best?"

"I've visited them personally." She names several: a jeweler's, a chocolatier's, a clothier's. "All within a short walk along the Promenade. Your little grandson, Remi, will adore the chocolatier's wares. Truffles in the shapes of beetles. Marzipan worms. And a lovely caramelized-pear confection." Her eyes pass from the plateful of trifle to Hector's portly belly. "You, too, would enjoy a liberal sampling."

Stirred, Hector leans in. "Well, I'll be. And these shops are safe?"

"Perfectly. Travelers from Piltover and abroad flock to them. The shopkeepers, I promise, are courtesy itself."

"And, I take it, the security is sound?"

"Every shop is guarded by a retinue of trained blackguards. The streets, paved and clean, are kept free of footpads. House Medarda often hosts private soirées at the Promenade. I've never once been accosted by a ruffian—much less a rat." A pat, fond and wholly fabricated, to Hector's shoulder. "You needn't fear, dear Hector. Zaun, these days, is the very model of civilized conduct."

Hector warms visibly. "Ah, well, if it's good enough for you, what's this old curmudgeon to worry about? I'll speak to my wife. She's awfully keen to, ah, venture farther afield. She's always been a curious sort." A wink. "A bit like you, eh?" His hand, clumsily, covers hers. "Tell me. If I were to visit, could you arrange a private tour?"

Mel, who'd predicted the turn, delicately extracts her hand. "Shame on you, Lord Hector. I'm a married woman." The implication being: were she unattached, her answer would've been very different. "But if it's a personal guide you seek, I have just the one." Mel names a service: the same one Silco's crew employs. "They'll arrange tours at your convenience."

"Splendid, splendid! You, ah, must tell me more about the clothiers. A few new shirts are just the thing." Another glance at Silco, now sizing him up with a more speculative eye. "Your Trencher dresses sharp, I'll give him that. Perhaps he'll spare me a tip or two. He is a Fissureborn, after all. He must know all the best garment districts."

"Oh, he does."

In fact, the identity of Silco's tailor is a closely guarded secret. The man, a wizened Shuriman refugee, has his workshop hidden away in the depths of the Commercia Fantastica. He sews, by hand, each article of clothing to the customer's measure. Silco has two-dozen suits from him, in varying shades and cuts. Black with merlot accents, charcoal grey with blue-green brocade, two-toned midnight blue with silver embroidery.

The styles are all distinctly Zaunite. Tailored to Silco's lean frame, they evoke a serpent's sinuous grace. They are also remarkably versatile. Mel has watched them transform him, chameleonlike, from a sleek statesman to a shadowy specter, and back again.

But more than statements of sartorial flair, they serve a brute utility. The fabrics are Fissure textile: light, flexible, and impervious to damp. In a pinch, they serve as body armor: a sleeve with a cleverly-crafted sheath for a concealed blade; a snug little pouch, discreetly cut into the waistcoat, for a smoke-pellet; a garotte, lined along the edge of a cravat, to slit a stranger's throat.

Mel recalls, at a Topside gala before their engagement, the sight of Silco, turned out in formalwear: a simple black suit with a white silk pocket square. The cut was, for all its sleek simplicity, more durable than appearance suggested. She'd learned firsthand when Silco, strolling arm-in-arm with her through the night-gardens, had been waylaid by an Enforcer who'd demanded to see his identification.

Whether out of a superabundance of caution, or a bigot's crude compulsion, Mel still isn't sure.

She'd moved to intercede. But Silco had checked her with the barest skim of fingertips at her wrist. Addressing the Enforcer with politeness, but not a jot of respect, he'd asked if he looked like a trespasser. The Enforcer shot back that he looked like a cutthroat.

Silco, never one to pass up a chance for roleplaying, had obliged by nearly slitting the man's throat. 

The officer, a greenhorn, had plainly not been expecting a real knife to materialize at his jugular. In his shock, he’d dropped his truncheon and hightailed it. Mel, amused and appalled in equal measure, had turned to Silco, a chastisement on her lips.

Only to find herself scooped up into his arms, then carried up a trellis and out of sight.

They'd spent the rest of the evening, astride the rooftop's shingles, discussing trade. The only time Silco's hands had strayed from her waist was to light a cigarette. Or to cup her cheek. Or to tilt her face up to his.  Meanwhile, seven stories below, a contingent of officers had frantically been sounding the alarm to outcries of highwaymen and abduction. 

When the hounds had arrived on the scene, Silco had scoffed so hard, he'd nearly fallen down the eaves. Mel, not wishing him to break his neck, had clung tightly. Somewhere between the third kiss and the fourth, she'd decided to tug him closer. He'd ended up treating her to what Zaunites called 'The Penthouse Plus'—making love right on the gritty shingles, her dress hiked up around her waist and his coat spread out beneath them.

The giddy thrill had opened her lungs. Only his mouth on hers, drinking her cries, had kept her silent.  

Afterward, smooth as a conjurer's trick, Silco had slipped them both downstairs and back into the garden. The search, by then, was over. The Enforcers, their bluster gone, had been reduced to scouring the hedges. Silco, his eyes dark with devious glee, had strolled casually past them, and into the ballroom, to fetch himself and Mel a plateful of dessert.

It had proved the scandal of the summer. Councilor Medarda, swept off at knifepoint in the middle of a gala. Then, miraculously, reappearing hours later: no worse for wear, and a good deal more cheerful, arm-in-arm with her assailant.

Whose suit, it should be noted, was perfectly intact. No rips, wrinkles, or even a rumpled lapel.

Afterward, Mel had summoned the rookie officer, and his Captain, into her office. A blistering dressing-down on misconduct was meted out. The officer had insulted her guest, and by extension, the goodwill between Zaun and Piltover. When she'd reintroduced Silco as her fiancé, the rookie's mortification was palpable.

Silco had taken the opportunity to renew his acquaintance: not with knife against the jugular, but with a smile twice as sharp, and a firm handshake that promised, without words, a fate worse than death if the man dared call him a crook again.

But afterward, alone in her chambers, Mel had found herself thinking: This is what his life has been.

Fighting to keep the ground under his feet.

And even now, at the zenith of his power, there was no place for him Topside. No welcome in these hallowed halls.  This, he'd told her, was why Zaun existed. To ensure no other Fissure child had to suffer what he had. And for him, the fight was not over. The world, not won.

Not until the last sliver of his city, and its people, were secure.

Smoothing the memory away, Mel summons a smile. "I'll do you one better, Lord Hector. Why don't we arrange an outing? You, your wife, Silco and myself. We'll tour the most exquisite spots at the Promenade. You will see that the Fissures are no hellmouth. And my husband will have the honor of escorting us, to ensure the journey is a comfortable one."

Hector's kneejerk distaste yields to temptation. Beneath his condemnation of Zaun lurks an avid desire: to sample the city's exotic otherness. Mel has seen it before, in the eyes of her fellow Councillors: a yearning for the novel, inverted into show-offish censure.

As though by damning Zaun's vices, they can exalt their own.

"We-ell," Hector relents, "if he can spare the time, I believe we could squeeze in a quick outing. It'd be, ah, good to get a lay of the land." His hand, again, gropes clumsily for hers. "A bit of a reconnaissance mission, eh? Always good to keep an ear to the ground." A third, utterly shameless, wink. "And one's eyes on the goods."

Mel, inwardly rolling her own, keeps her smile fixed. "Yours, Lord Hector, are a pair no lady could deny." Then: "You ought to return yours to the trifle. I do believe it's melting."

Lord Hector's wink falls askew. "Oh, drat! I'd best fetch another plate!"

Excusing himself, he bustles off. Mel, taking stock of her success, finishes off her drink.

A few discordant strings, but the symphony is well underway.  Soon, Piltover's entire social circuit will change its tune. That is, in sum, the spirit of this voyage.  Gathering allies. Making connections. Creating new opportunities, and exploiting old ones. Hecter's not the only guest with a taste for the unusual. Nor Cevila and the Dennings the only ones whose purse-strings, tugged the right way, will yield a hefty haul.

In time, Mel will cultivate them all.

And they, in turn, will cultivate Zaun's and Piltover's interests. 

Marriage: by any other name.

Then she hears, to the thunder of boots, a bark: "Medarda!"

Mel stifles a sigh.

It is the Noxian envoy—a damnable brute by the name of Garlen. The man is a wolf of the worst kind: festooned in blood-red, and slavering for a kill. A high-ranking brigadier of Noxus's military, he's spent his career subjugating swathes of the Ionian continent. Now, as part of a political alliance between Noxus and Piltover, he's been dispatched as a 'liaison'.

His actual duties, as far as Mel can discern, are to make a nuisance of himself. Negotiating with him is like wrestling a hound: an exercise in futility. Her gift for subtlety is met with brash disparagement. Her cleverness, dismissed as flirtatious banter.  And if she has the misfortune of sharing his company alone, he's liable to start groping. More than once, she's resorted to employing armed sentries, to dissuade his wandering hands.

In truth, the only thing keeping him from her throat is Ambessa.

The brigadier, knowing the threat of the General's retribution, is careful not to overstep. But his ambition is as deep-rooted as his lechery. He's keen to establish a foothold in Piltover. Mel, as a Councilor, makes an appealing target. Not only does she have access to the High Council's ear, but also to the coffers of the Medarda clan.

Once, to Mel's eternal dismay, he’d gotten drunk at a press junket, and dared to propose marriage to her before the cameras. A fortnight before her wedding, no less. Her fiancé—after a tiresome tirade on his low birth, his physique, his unsuitability—he'd threatened to disembowel on the spot.

Silco, who relished the pretext to make an ass out of anyone, had proposed a simpler solution: a duel to first blood.

It had been, in Sevika's blunt retelling, Like a fucking slaughterhouse.

Garlen was an able swordsman. But he’d underestimated Zaun's spirit of ruthless ingenuity. He'd walked in believing the fight was in his favor. Silco, in ten minutes, had turned the belief on its head. Then, he'd reduced the duel to a carnival sideshow.  First, he'd blinded his opponent with a faceful of sludge from the streets. Then, with a well-placed boot, he'd sent the Noxian envoy skidding into a gutter. Finally, as a coup de grace, he'd whipped out a switchblade and stabbed him. The blow, to the meat of Garlen's thigh, had nearly severed an artery.

Garlen, howling bloody murder, had been hauled away by his guards. He'd spent the rest of the week in Zaun's infirmary. The next morning, he'd boarded the ferry back to Piltover: tail tucked between his legs.

And his pride, as the Undercity saying goes, In a shit-stained shoe.

Since the incident, Garlen's been cautious about antagonizing Silco in public. But his contempt for the city is undiminished. His attitude toward Mel, accordingly, is one of open scorn. To him, she is the weakest link in the Medarda chain.

A pretty little chit, who, when the going gets tough, will cave to the strongest bidder.

The irony is not lost on Mel. Were she truly a spineless chit, she'd have sold herself a long time ago. And, likely, to a man like Garlen.  A dynastic marriage was a common means of doubling her clan's prosperity. But the prospect of a lifetime wrangling the brutish lout—enduring his crude lusts and his insufferable temper—was abhorrent. She'd never have consented to it, unless by force.

Silco, whatever else, has always respected her separateness. And his ambition to walk with her—not behind her or in front—is equal to her own. Their combined will is a potent force. One that will, in time, forge a brighter future.

For Mel, that is worth every sacrifice.

In her ear, Jayce's voice intrudes: a forlorn query in lieu of farewell.

"Even love?"

"Medarda," Garlen barks, louder. "I've got a bone to pick with you."

Mel's smile becomes an airtight lock. "Bones, Sir Galen? Aren't we feeding you enough?"

"What's the reason we've anchored off-course?" He sweeps a thick arm at the motionless horizon. "I was told we'd reach the Ionian coast before noon. The sun's almost overhead. If I don't make landfall by sundown, my troops will be wondering if I've gone missing." 

 "Surely you can wait another hour?"

"An hour? The blazes are we wasting an hour for? If we're going to float in the middle of nowhere, at least make it worth my time!" Leering, he slaps his thigh. "How about a floor-show? You look fit for one, all tarted up in that handkerchief. Why don't you sing me a song or two?"

Mel's features remain smooth. "You have, I'm afraid, mistaken me for a canary. But if you're keen for music, our orchestra would happily oblige."

"Feh. A bunch of prissy string-pullers? What use are they? Give me a proper band: men with brass pipes, and war-drums, and a real beat! Then I'll show you a performance." Garlen's eyes take their time crawling down Mel's body. "You'll see how a proper Noxian can make the ground shake."

Her countrymen, Mel thinks, are such a tiresome lot. Especially the military set. "On a ship, Sir Garlen, we call that seasickness."

"And this damn delay? What'd you call that?"

"A detour."

"Detour?" Garlen's bristly brows merge like thunderheads. "On whose blasted order?"

"Mine."

Silco materializes as if risen up from the depths.

The sunlight, white and warm, dapples the air. Yet the plunge in temperature is palpable.  It is, Mel thinks, not unlike two polarities—the dark and the light—aligning at once. A disorienting sensation, the first time it’d occurred: Silco stepping into her path, and the world tilting off its axis.

The guests, huddling closer, murmur warily. Cevila's face, heavily rouged, is a shade paler.  Lady Dennings' fan is a blur. Hector's gulp is audible. The rest of the party are paralyzed in place. All except Garlen, who has the temerity to laugh.

It's more bark than bite. He's already felt Silco's blade once. He won't tempt his teeth.

"Well, well," he sneers. "The blushing bridegroom."

"Sir Garlen," Silco returns, with a small nod. "Good of you to join us."

"I wasn't given a choice! We're supposed to be on land, not floating like a piece of flotsam."

"You're welcome to swim."

"Swim? To the Ionian strait? You're out of your mind!" Garlen strides closer, crowding Silco's space. The man is a foot taller, and twice as broad. Still, Mel notes that he stays out of striking distance. For a braggart, he's no fool. "I know you Trenchers know no qualms about playing hooky. But the rest of us have a schedule to keep. So get this ship back on course. Now."

Silco’s stare is inscrutable. "In time."

"Time? I'm a busy man. I don't have time to sit around on this damn tub!" Garlen squints suspiciously. "Unless you've hijacked this ship? ‘Cause if it's a ransom you're angling for—"

Silco’s smile is a gleam of serrated teeth. "Sir Garlen. I'm in the business of politics, not piracy."

"Hah! As if the distinction makes a difference."

Now the gleam is sharper. "I suppose it doesn't." He turns to the rest of the party. His low cadence rolls over the room like fog. "Allow me to explain. The delay is due to a last-minute excursion. We'll resume our course by early nightfall. But first, a short trip to the southern reef. A treasure hunt."

Garlen's confusion is writ large. "Treasure?"

"Enough, I'm sure, to satisfy everyone's appetite." His stare passes, one by one, over the assembled guests. "Ionia. Demacia. Shurima. Noxus." And, finally, alighting on Mel. "Piltover."

There is a susurrus of whispers. Mel, bemused, keeps the mask in place. He'd never mentioned her city was tied to this game.  Is he testing her? Challenging her?

Or—impossibility of impossibilities—bidding her to play along?

Silco goes on, "I wonder, Sir Garlen. Have you sailed this route before?"

Garlen, bristling: "I know the waters well. I've fought battles on every stretch of these seas."

"Won, too, I expect. You are a celebrated soldier. But an explorer?" A tip of the chin. "There's a difference."

"And what would that be?"

"As Councilor Medarda says, a world of it. Of course, she is referring to chiffon versus tulle. But the principle stands." A half-lidded smile. "One's for concealment. The other for transparency."

Garlen cuts in, "If you're trying to make a point, make it quick."

"My point is only this: if you've sailed the southern waters, you'll notice a peculiarity. The Ionian Strait, on Piltover's maps, is thirteen degrees north of this point. Zaun's maps, however, place it further west. A curious discrepancy. Have you considered the reason?"

"Why the blazes would I care about Zaun's maps? Noxian charts are the only ones worth a damn."

The barest nod. "Fair point. That's the charm of maps. They're carved out by conquerors. Every chart tells a story, depending on the hand that draws it. And every chart, in its way, reveals a truth—or at least a version of it. Noxus, as the reigning authority of these waters, will always be partial to its own perspective. Piltover, as a close ally, tends to lean." A beat. "Zaun’s maps tell a different story."

"Ha!" Garlen's fist thuds the closest table. "A story about slime and scum, no doubt."

"A story about survival," Silco rejoins. "About claiming a space where none existed. At least, not on paper."

A crook of his finger, and the steward from earlier rushes up. His arms are laden with rolled-up sheafs paper. Charts, Mel realizes. The largest, unfurled on the table, is marked in different colors: a web of seaways, straits and currents. Mel, scanning it, notes a discrepancy in the dimensions: the Ionian Strait appears much narrower on Piltover's cartography, whereas Zaun's chart, drawn with exacting care, depicts it as twice its width. A series of X's, in a serpentine pattern, lead from the southern reefs up to the coastline of Zaun. The same path is absent from Piltover's chart.

Silco's fingertip traces a trail marked in indigo. "This is the shortest route from Piltover's coast. We'll reach Wuju by today if we cut across here." His nail, tapping the indigo line, cuts right. "This, however, is the shortest path according to Zaun's navigation."

"Bullshit!" Garlen says. "There is no path there! That's a damned dead-end!"

Silco regards him steadily. "Is it?"

"You're wasting our time! There's nothing there except shoals!"

Garlen's disdain is tangible: a seething red cloud. Silco, immune to sulfurous fumes, only shrugs. "Shoals, yes. Or seamounts from thousands of years ago. Many, with extensive deposits of minerals. Silver, copper, lead. Even diamonds."

Garlen barks a laugh. "And you Trenchers found this how? By sniffing up the coal dust?"

Silco, unperturbed, spreads the chart with both hands. The chandelier's rays sheen his pomaded hair like a raven's wing. Beneath, his eyes are two blots of ink. "Zaun's seafaring charts, Sir Garlen, date to antiquity. In fact, most cartographers claim they're as old as the Shuriman empire—which makes them, by definition, prehistoric.  Once our city was a corollary of Shurima. Known as Oshra Va'Zaun, the City of the Sun Gates. Its routes stretched from eastern to western waters. Zaun, as its inheritor, maintains the same routes: one that, on Piltover's maps, don't even exist."

A chill tiptoes down Mel's spine.  He'd never told her any of this. Had never even alluded to such knowledge. And the way he phrases it, with such calm certainty, suggests this is no revelation.

He's known about these seamounts for a long time.

"You are," she hears Cevila interject, "speaking in hypotheticals."

"Hardly. Our seafaring charts date from centuries ago. But Zaun's current naval fleet is a vital force. Since our independence, we've updated all the ancient routes—noting, of course, changes in currents and wind patterns. Our Exploration & Survey Corps have established a nautical corridor, with dry docks along every port from Zaun to South Shurima. We've also discovered new channels and navigable passages. Some take advantage of rip current systems.  Others, thanks to hidden glyphs carved in the seabed, allow vessels outfitted with the right gems to sail directly to a corresponding outpost, between one blink and the next."

The crowd lapse into shock. Silco's voice—low-pitched, hypnotic—paints a vivid picture: a labyrinth of channels, each with a corresponding rune: a pathway between impossible places.

"You're saying," Hector dares, "they are like Piltover's Hex-Gates?"

"They function on similar principles. But their purpose is different. Piltover's Gates link distant ports for trade and communication. Ours link distant outposts for transport and protection."

"P-Protection?" Lady Dennings sputters. "From what?"

"War," Silco says bluntly.

"What?!"

"Civil upheavals. Foreign invasions. Call it what you will. Oshra Va’Zaun was a rich city. They did well to anticipate the worst. But for Zaun, the primary use of these routes is trade." His finger climbs homeward, to the northernmost rune. "This point, for example, leads straight to a small islet on Zaun's outskirts. It was once known as Smuggler's Cove. Now, it's called the Iron Pearl. A Free Trade Zone, where foreign goods will not be charged customs duties for transiting or storing."

There is a stir. Mel, scanning the crowd, feels a trickle of misgiving. Piltover, for decades, has had a hammerlock on premium exports. Trade taxed by the ounce. Goods vetted by bureaucratic oversight. Permits, stamped in triplicate, and revoked at the Council's whims. All to protect her city-state's reputation and interests.

Now, Silco proposes a rival haven. A Free Trade Zone, where foreign goods may come and go—unshackled by Piltover's red tape.

A new axis of commerce. And, Mel realizes, a double-edged sword.

If Piltover consents to the Iron Pearl's operation, it will grant greater her city access to foreign markets, and reduce import costs. But the arrangement also poses a threat: a competing port, under Zaun's governance, which will draw ships and revenue away from the City of Progress. Their status as the preeminent exporter will be—

Not erased, but halved.

Marriage: by any other name.

The guests are buzzing. Some with excitement; others with disbelief.

Hector echoes, "A Free Trade Zone..."

"It's been operating since Zaun's independence," Silco says. "Now we're in the process of expanding its capacity. The endeavor has taken years. A neutral zone, with an established route to any destination within a thousand leagues, with minimal delay. Better still, goods from anywhere in Runeterra can be stored and transited, for a modest tithe." He pauses. "All that's required is that our waters be respected. Along with the sovereign rights of our vessels."

Silence falls, heavy with implication.

Garlen, apoplectic, erupts, "Respect, hell! This is Noxian territory you're crossing!"

"Not on your maps. Nor on Piltover's." Silco regards him evenly. "Only on ours."

"Those waters, Trencher, are Noxian by right of conquest!"

"Not according to our Treaty with Piltover. These waters were ceded to us in exchange for recognition of our Independence." Silco eyes Mel sidelong. "The agreement, I believe, remains binding."

Garlen's fists curl like meat hooks. "You dare challenge our navy?"

"Breaching these waters without our permission is not a challenge. It's an act of trespass. As Zaun's ally, Piltover would be duty-bound to aid us in its defense." Silco's fingertip, tracing the Noxian routes, gently taps the demarcations. "Candidly, we'd rather not resort to childish games. Zaun welcomes Noxus' goodwill. Should your vessels wish to use our routes, you'll be issued proper credentials. You'll be charged reasonable fees for port-of-call. Your cargo will not be subject to scrutiny. In all ways, you'd be our honored guests. Provided—" His good eye slits, "—you extend us the same courtesy in return."

It is politely phrased, and delivered in the mildest tones. But the threat, its edge honed fine, cuts like a switchblade.

Garlen's face goes as red as his garb. "This is preposterous!"

"Is it? Zaun's treaty with Piltover was written with the consent of both parties. In the presence of diplomatic envoys. Noxus was among them. If your nation had a grievance, I'm sure they'd have taken issue. But the accord, I believe, is still in force."

"This is a damnable plot!" Garlen pivots to Mel. "Medarda, this is insanity! I demand you put a stop to this!"

Mel is stricken. But she is careful to let nothing show. Her mind races to mitigate the thunderheads swelling on the horizon. Noxian fury. International incident. Piltover caught in the middle. And Zaun, at the crux.

Trust me, Silco had said.

And now, it comes to this: her city caught between a rock and a hard place.

Fury sparks in Mel's chest. Half adrenalized burn-off, at finally having a concrete threat to face. Half slow-building horror, at confronting Silco’s cleverness in action. The man who, in one fell swoop, has backed her into a corner—while painting the entire thing in shades of diplomatic nicety.

Now, he is watching her.  Waiting—for what?

Then it hits her.

Waiting for me to run.

Run—the way she’d run the first night of their voyage. Run—by staying when she should've sided with him. Run—by choosing to smooth the waters, rather than spread ripples in her wake.

Run, run, run—and this is the consequence.

Mel, reeling, takes a breath. In a sense, Silco has done exactly what he'd warned: revealed a truth that cannot be refuted. Piltover's maps are, indeed, inaccurate: the product of outdated colonialism. The waters, ceded to Zaun by Treaty, are indeed theirs—as much as the treasures that lie beneath.

And, Mel realizes, Silco's maneuver has a third layer: a sly subcurrent.

He is establishing that Zaun, by virtue of charting prowess, as an entity equal to Piltover. But also adjacent to it. Not a rival, but an ally. A peer that cannot be overlooked—because its interests are too closely tied to her city's.

It is the flipside of matrimony: a give-and-take. One of substance rather than sentiment.

Except Mel cannot forgive the blindside.

Inside, rage fizzles. Her fingers curl. She nearly seizes the nearest champagne bottle, and lobs it at Silco’s head. He deserves no less. He deserves worse. The bastard. He’d planned this since the night they’d fought. To corner her in full view of her guests. To make her prove her mettle. To demand that she take a leap.

Or else, show to the world that her vows are hollow.

Seething, Mel thinks, I will make him pay.

Then, inhaling, she steps forward.

"Sir Garlen," she says. "My husband is correct. These waters belong to Zaun."

Garlen is nearly purple; a ripe plum ready to burst. "You're siding with this rat?!"

"I am stating a fact. Zaun cannot, without jeopardizing its sovereignty, rescind the right to self-governance. And Piltover cannot, without forfeiting its good standing, repudiate that agreement. To do so would violate the laws ironclad between us." Her stare locks with the warlord's. "In sum, it is not a matter of sides. Only jurisdiction. The question is, how do you, as Noxus' envoy, plan to navigate these waters?"

Garlen's jaw works. Before he can fire off the next volley, Mel lays a cautioning hand on his arm.

"Before you reply, I suggest considering the future gains. Your nation is, at present, embroiled in a number of wars.  Zaun, as a future ally, is offering to facilitate the transport of supplies—to and from Noxus's frontlines. Piltover, meanwhile, is willing to reopen discussions of a trade alliance." Beneath her lashes, Mel casts a winsome glance. "The question is, do you, as Noxus's representative, intend to pursue these opportunities?"

Garlen, a petrified bull, seems caught between charging or cowing. But, for all his bluster, the man's no fool.

"You," he growls, "are a conniving hell-bitch."

Undaunted, Mel offers a smile. "A Medarda, after all."

The warlord's teeth gnash. But his rage, though still hot, is no longer a blaze. More an ember, sullenly seething.

"So." A snort. "We're at an impasse."

Silco, at last, stirs.

"Hardly."

Rolling up the charts, he returns them to the steward. A single nod, and the man, in tandem with the staff, begin distributing life vests among the crowd. Bewildered, the guests receive the gear. Each is the same color: Zaun's trademark cadmium green.

Mel, accepting hers, is astonished by the weight. The fabric appears lined with something like lead. Runes, their meaning unknown, are stitched into the seams of the fabric.

"Impasse," Silco says, already shrugging into his own vest, "is a poor word for it." He turns to the crowd, a wary sea of faces. "I believe we are, at last, on the same page."

Hector, handling his vest with jittery fingertips, dares, "Are we—going for a swim?"

Silco smiles.

Mel feels, again, that vertiginous sensation. The world, tilting. As if currents, beneath the surface, are stirring.

And the only thing left to cling to, is the man who's dragging her down.

"Swim? No." Silco's smile spreads. "We're off on a treasure hunt."

[no-truth-left]

1.004 - Try to wrestle the oar free

Its pulling is desperate and angry. She grits her teeth, bracing one foot against the side of the little boat and another against the floor. She pulls the second oar in to concentrate wholly on this… this thing. The boat tilts precariously to the side, water splashing in. Her heart hammers wildly in her chest.

That’s when she sees it, through the briny depths and low-hanging fog. The ripples distort its image, and her brain scrambles to put context to what she thinks she sees.

Bulging eyes, yellow rimmed black and filled with malice, stare up at her. A long, lipless seam in a scaly face gapes, opening to rows of sharp teeth distorted through the refraction of light and waves. Bloated neck, frilled with gills, leads to a bloated chest. Twig-thin arms with scaled skin that floats loosely in the water end in finger-finned hands. Hands that have an iron grip around her oar.

And then it's gone as the boat tilts and water sloshes. Her mind reels. A water-logged fish corpse is trying to take her oars and capsize her. The thought is ridiculous. What is going on? What is she even doing out here?

The dinghy lurches again, tipping, tipping, tipping, and water sloshes over her legs. The cold shocks her mind back into motion.

Not dying! She thinks, shifting her grip. As the creature yanks again, she pushes, using its own strength against it to strike. She feels impact, hard wood slamming spongy flesh. There is resistance until she feels something pop. Then the oar sinks further in, like a shovel through wet dirt.

It relinquishes its grip, animalistic lowing gurgling up from the water, foaming bubbles like rabies. Brackish-purple liquid spreads through them.

With a triumphant yell, she tears the oar out of the water, out of its weakened grasp. Purple liquid and small chunks of discolored flesh cling to the rough wood.

More ripples, further out. Reinforcements? Animals fleeing from their struggle?

Chest heaving, arms shaking, she tightens her grip.

[inherstars]

The Fire Inside (Part 1 of 7)

Alright, time to go back and chew on this. I have it plotted / scripted out, but there's one entire section that's basically like, "Anyway, some time passes..." that I'm now coming up on, and I'm like ugggghh, why did I do that to myself. I ended up editing the entire first part of this, so I deleted the old sections and am just reposting it all here. Do not allow me to fuck around. Feel free to picture the dude as your Joel of preference, 'cause I know I am.

He would never again be able to breathe deeply without the briny memory of seawater.  It would always be there, brutal and ancient.  More brutal than men, more ancient than dragons.

At first, he wished it had ended him.  There was succor and solace in the promise of simply not being anymore, and he yearned to be pulled out in that terrible, final tide.  To be dissolved by salt.  To have his bones washed up like driftwood on strange shores.  To be consumed and digested and carried away to the deep in the bellies of leviathans.

There was honor in it.  Romanticism, if one cared for such things.  He would never be killed by fire, so why not by the sea?  Didn’t he, after all his years, deserve an aperitif of nobility before his final rest?

Fate, laughing, plucked that chalice from his hand.

Consciousness did not come for him all at once, but in heaving fits and flashes.  One moment he was tossed by the tide, ragdolled bonelessly, and then beached on the sand.  He retched up the ocean and sagged back into the dark.  Hands touched him -- human hands -- slapping at his cheeks and shaking him to life.  Then nothing again but the taste of salt on his lips and the brutality of cold.

Then blankets, weight, warmth.  The hands touching him became kind, and he subsided to sleep.

When next he had sense enough to open his eyes, a woman appeared.

“There you are,” she said.  He sighed so deeply that his lungs hurt in their depths.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”  She cradled the back of his neck in her fingers, lifting his head, and raised a cup to his lips to drink.

“Is this the noble end I thirsted for,” he rasped.  She gave him a strange look.

“No, it’s water.  Be quiet and drink it.”

From that moment on, there was sense and reason and predictability to his existence.  There were days and nights, though long stretches of sleep divided them from each other.  The woman came and went regularly from his room, sometimes with food and drink, sometimes to freshen him up or -- when he was finally able to do so himself -- to bring him a basin of water, soap, and clothes enough to sort it all out on his own.

One day she appeared with a chair and a pair of scissors.

“Let’s get on with it, then,” she said.  “You could use a trim.”

She set the chair near his bed, helping him into it, then draped him in an old bedsheet.  Only his eyes followed her as she wet and combed and cut patiently at his hair, letting the damp curls slip through her fingers as she worked.  The blades clicked and snipped around his ears and the nape of his neck.  Chills chased his spine.

Though she was silent for a long time, eventually she prompted, “Do you remember how you came here?”

“I remember… washing up on shore.”  He tried to turn to look at her and she squared his head up with both hands.  Tsk tsk.

“Before that?”

“Being tossed by the ocean.”

“And before that?”

Once again he sighed.

“I’m not what you think I am.”

“I think you’re quite lucky to be alive,” she said.  His eyes averted.

“I am definitely not what you think I am.”

Her fingers combed the damp ends of his hair, letting them curl in place, admiring the lancets of silver run through.  Again her hands positioned his head as she needed, this time with a tilt right, a tilt left, trimming up his sideburns to her preference.

“Then what are you, if not what I perceive?  A pirate?  A prisoner?  An outlaw?”

He stared into space, unfocused.

“I’m a dragon.”

“Ah!  That’s a new one,” she laughed.  And then, “...oh.  Oh, you’re serious.”

His eyes upturned as she stood back, scissors in hand, looking him over.

“Are you trying to see the beast in me, then?  The scales, the horns, the infernal, unholy glow of the fire I carry within?”

“No, I’m making sure I’ve got you even.”  She reached out and snipped a little silver off one side.  “Better.”

The scissors closed and dropped into her apron pocket, and with a stutter of wooden legs she dragged another chair before him.  It was the first time he’d had the luxury to look at her in in full, without the burn of salt on his eyelashes or a guttering lamp to obscure his view.  She was not young, but he didn’t mind such things, for neither was he.  She’d braided baby’s breath into her hair, and colored her lips and cheeks with a little red ochre, but beyond that had no time or care for vanity.  The hands she folded in her lap spent decades making and mending, soothing and shoring up, and it showed.

“I’ve never met a dragon,” she said.  “Unless it’s a common thing for you to walk in the skin of a man.”

“We all have that magic in us, but most choose not to use it.”

“What makes you so different?”

He hesitated to answer, then admitted, “I got old.”

“Is that unusual?”

“For male dragons, it’s considered more respectable and noble to die before we become a burden to our own kind.  None want to endure the pity of the younger generations.  I did well enough in my time… fought well, flew well, fathered as many hatchlings as I was allowed and watch them become mothers and fathers in their own right.  But I can’t compete with the younger males on the proving ground now, and my sons and daughters -- if I even knew them -- wouldn’t have a use for me.”  His chin tilted down, eyes tiredly skating the floor. “Which is as it should be, I suppose.  We teach our children to fly so they can one day do it on their own.”

She reached out while he was distracted, pinching and fixing a few curls of damp hair where they fell across his brow.

“And so you changed into the skin of a man?  Tried it on for size?  To what end?”

“To any end,” he said, looking up at her again.  “You’re such terribly fragile creatures, so like to die in so many ways.  I joined a merchant ship, a preoccupation as perilous as any other, and lived among your kind upon the sea.  I thought I would die quickly, but days became weeks, became months.  Then a year and some.  I grew familiar and fond of the men with whom I sailed.”  More softly he added, “I called them my friends.”

She watched his gaze sink like an anchor, resting heavily on the floorboards as he revisited those men, those memories.

“And your friends,” she asked.  “Did they prove fickle or fragile, that once you were with them and now you are here with me?”

He blinked, coming back to the moment, and sat back in his chair.

“We were attacked by pirates.  When least I expected death, it came for me.  And when it did… rather than surrender to it, rather than letting it take those I cared about alongside me, I… rose up.  I cast off my skin, donned my scales like a soldier to his armor, and fought back.”  His hands fisted on his knees, posture stiffening with pride.  “Their blood spilled on the water.  I gnashed their bones in my teeth and lit the sky with my fire.  It was glorious.  I was a warrior again, worthy of my wings.”

He needed supply no epilogue, for though he was strange to the ways of men, she knew them all too well.

“But your friends wouldn’t allow you to save them,” she murmured.  He bent forward, elbows resting on his knees, and stared at the floor.

“No.  And I… I tried.  The ship was sinking, but it was seaworthy enough for me to get it closer to land, or to signal for help.  I could have carried some of them on my back, even.  But they… they looked at me with such fear.  They were mindless with it, screaming, struggling to escape me, drowning each other in their panic.  Then I thought… why need they be complicit in their own salvation?  what if I just rescue them against their will?”

“But you can’t,” she said softly.  “A man must want rescue.”

He looked up at her slowly, with a pain uniquely and untenably human.

“You’re right, of course.”  His grief chipped at her heart.  “I could only circle, watching as the frozen sea took them, one by one.  Their faces, vanishing into the chop.  Then it came for the boats, the still-burning sails.  And in my despair I thought… perhaps this is it.  Ignominious as it is, perhaps this should be my end as well.”

He sat back slowly, still staring at the floor.  She rose, gently reaching around him to unknot the bedsheet behind his neck.

“You chose to die as a man?”

“Yes.  I thought that would be my preference.  I became a man one last time, and resolved to let fate take me.”

She stood straighter, brushing his shoulders free of the loose snippets of brown and pewter hair the sheet missed.

“Fate?  Hm. That’s my name.”

His eyes turned to her, then his head.

“I… my name is is Istar.

“Well met.”  She gathered the bedsheet messily.  “I wish the circumstances were better.”

Istar stood slowly, leaning on the chairback for leverage, and once he’d gained his feet Fate passed him the hand mirror from the dresser.  He cradled it in both palms, inspecting her handiwork while she wadded the sheet in the fold of her arms.

“You ought to eat,” she decided.  “You had strength enough to stand, do you suppose you can walk?”

“If I must.”

“With me, then,” and she turned from the room.

Istar followed her, shaky, but with ever growing certainty.  First from the bedroom, then into the great room of what revealed itself as a modest stone cottage.  Small, thick-paned windows looked out over a churning ocean and an unkind sky, though the interior was spare and cozy, lit by a cooking hearth and furnished only with what a simple woman living alone could reasonably need.

The dining table was large enough for two, and she settled him with a clay bowl of stew, a goblet of water, and another of wine.

“You’d do well to finish the water first,” she said.  “But I’ll look the other way if you favor the wine.”

“And you?”  He looked up at her as she poured two goblets for herself.

“Oh, I definitely favor the wine.”

Istar picked up his spoon, moving only when she did, eating only when she did, swallow for swallow and sip for sip.  When it seemed to him there was no real reason to suspect her of anything, he ate at a more comfortable pace.

“Are you this charitable with all strangers?” he asked.

“Only ones who clean up so nicely as you do.”  She checked him for a sense of humor and, finding none, explained, “There aren’t many strangers out this way.  The way to this beach is a bit fraught, if you’re coming by foot, and forget horseback or carriage. You’re the first in awhile to wash up on shore, and the first to do so alive.”

Istar paused. “What of the ones who didn’t?”

Her brows raised. “You’re enjoying your stew, aren’t you?”

Still no sense of humor.  Ah well.  She gestured her spoon at him.  “Never mind.  Eat.”

He did, though at a slower pace.

“Anyway,” she said, scraping her spoon lightly across the bottom of her bowl.  “You trusted yourself to fate, and here I am.  And here you are.  It so happens that the day before I found you, I had developed a similar conviction.”

She went on, “Since you say you were a sailor for a year and a little bit, I’ll put it this way: I realized I had been too long adrift in my own life, pulled and pushed by everything from the whims and needs of others, to my own fears and regrets.  I required a change, if I was to make count the remaining decades of my life. I required wind in my sails.  A sextant.  A sense of True North.”

She continued, “That night, as if by portent, there was a great storm. I stepped out the next morning, to see what the wind had washed up on my shore, and there you were.”

He looked darkly down into the bowl as he ate.

“I am no one’s True North.”

Fate stood resolutely, crossing to a wooden chest by the cottage door, and from its depths retrieved a small brass sextant.  She carried it to the table and set it beside him, its angles crusted with salt and tarnished green from the sea.  Istar reached out irresistibly, stunned.  She knew then, for certain, it was his.

“This washed up with you.”

Istar tried to speak, but it devolved into a frustrated sigh.

“What is you want of me, Fate?  I am grateful for the rescue, for your ministration…” He paused. “Even the haircut.  I do owe you a debt, but--”

“No.”  She retook her seat, refilling her chalice with wine.  She topped his off for good measure.  “I don’t believe in debts.  Or, anyway, I’ve grown tired of owing them and having them owed to me.  Debts are the seeds of contempt.  You are a free man, Istar -- free to finish that dinner, and the rest of the wine.  Free to recuperate here until you’re well enough to leave.  And if you leave, you’re free to go wherever it is you like.  No… what I would like from you is… consideration.”

Confused, he reached slowly for the brimful chalice.

 “Of what?”

She swirled her wine.  “What if I told you there was somewhere you could go, where you could be both man and dragon?  Or only one or only the other.  Who am I to judge?”

“I sense the onus would be on me to take you to this place.”

“We would go together.  I cannot reach it myself, at least not without a great deal of trouble, but a dragon could fly there very easily.  And if it pleased him, said dragon might abide.”

Istar drank slowly, halving his wine.  When he paused for breath, he asked, “Where is this place?”

She peeked down into his chalice. “How much of that wine have you had?”

He finished it in another swallow, then picked up the cask by its neck as he stood.

“Just enough.  Show me.”

*******

Fate outfitted him in a black wool cloak, the origin of which he did not question, and led him outside.  It was the first he’d seen of the ocean since it abandoned him on the beach, and though he expected to resent it, to rile with either anger or fear or regret, he was instead surprised by how little it stirred him at all.

The ocean was neither man nor dragon.  It didn’t hold grudges or act on emotion.  It loved exactly as much as it loathed.  Even having lost his brothers to it, and nearly himself, it was hard not to admire something so pure.

He breathed the salt air into his lungs and followed Fate, their heels sinking in the powder-soft sand festooned still with the flotsam and jetsam of his former life.  She led him down the beach, to a perilous path that was more handholds than steps, but nevertheless climbed up and up to an overlook high above.  At the peninsula tip of the plateau, built and bolted into the stone, stood a tower scope pointed out over the sea.

Fate preceded him to the scope, checking the binocular sight and making a few small adjustments before gesturing him to look.

He checked her face then stepped in, crouching slightly to see what she saw.  Fate watched him, thoughtful, smiling faintly when he made a slight adjustment to the distance and focus.

“Do you see it,” she prompted.

“I see… an island.”

She gathered her cloak around her, taking a more comfortable seat on a nearby rock.

“Describe it to me, please.”

“Basalt.  Volcanic.  Not overly large, but green enough that it likely has an aquifer.”  He made another adjustment to the scope and grew quiet.  “There’s a… a house on the island.  Not built onto it, but… maybe carved out of the basalt, I can’t quite tell.  Like a castle, but on a small scale.”  He took his eye from the scope and looked at her.  “What is this place?”

Fate folded her hands together in her lap.

“I am the daughter of two craftspeople.  My mother was a glazier.  My father was a sailor in his youth -- not unlike yourself, probably -- but later a tradesman.  A master mason.  He was granted, by some client who could not afford the gold to pay him, ownership of a very tiny volcanic island in the middle of the sea.”  She rolled her eyes and shrugged, dismissive. “Mostly, as you can see, just a tiny heap of rock.  A few weeks out of every year, he and his young bride traveled to the island and worked on this house.  He built the walls, the spires, the solars, the keeps; she leaded and glazed the windows, filling the interior spaces with stories made of light and color.  The castle, such as it is, reflects the places they visited as they learned their trades and fell for one another.  The truest labor of love.”

She went on, “My father… he hoped to retire there one day.  Alas, when my mother got pregnant, she convinced him it was not a practical place to raise a family.  He visited it now and again, through my childhood.  Kept it up, added on as he had time and resources.  I even visited with him sometimes.  But… by and large it was a project waylaid by necessity.  A dream deferred.”

Istar stood back from the spyglass, folding his arms beneath his cloak.

“Did he regret leaving it behind?”

Her eyes lowered sadly, though she smiled. “Perhaps?  Who can say.  He lived a happy enough life, I suppose.  But it was he who named me Fate.”

She stood, drawing nearer to him.

“After a storm, or at the turn of seasons, I come up here to see how the island and house have faired.  To my great surprise, it’s withstood decades and storms, and seems no worse for wear.  At least from here.  There’s a good bit of brush that needs clearing, and I don’t doubt the insides are more mildew and dust than finery and brocade, but… I see no reason why it couldn’t be as habitable as when last my father unmoored from its dock.”  She met his eyes and held them.  “The last time I came up here to look, it occurred to me that one day -- perhaps not soon, but soon enough -- I wouldn’t be able to make the climb anymore.  I would be relegated to gazing up at this plateau from the sand below, never knowing the fate of my little island.”

Fate continued, “But two people could enjoy a pleasant life there.  They could, with proper motivation and a little bit of work, make count the remaining decades of their lives.”

He turned his back to her, cloak billowing around him, and faced over the ocean.  The sun between the clouds looked like magma, luminous beneath black rock.  The light glinted off the sextant at his hip, catching his eye.

Istar pivoted to face her.

“I make no promises but… we can go.  On the morrow, we’ll go, and we’ll have a look.”

Fate stood abruptly, for the first time looking truly excited.

“Will I get to see it?”

His eyes opened in a wide blink until she clarified, “The whole… turning into a dragon business.  Assuming you haven’t been lying to me all this while, and I’m as naive as I always feared.”

He grunted in his throat, shoulders shrugging to better conceal himself in the folds of his mantle.

“In time you will assemble a long list of the things I am.  A liar is not among them.”

He studied her, then said, “Nor, I suspect, are you naive.”

*******

There was no sense packing a bag, and what would she put in it, anyway?

It turned out Istar was self-conscious about the physical process of transformation, and as they stood together on the beach the next morning, he asked her to turn away while he -- as he called it -- took the scale.

She almost objected, but supposed they were both already placing a great amount of trust in the other.  There was no need to make him regret things so soon.

“I will remind you,” she said, turning her back to him and facing over the low tide.  “I removed you from your dripping clothes while you were unconscious.  I even helped you with your toileting, besides.”

Istar merely grunted in acknowledgement as he backed clear of her, shucking off his cloak with a backthrust of both shoulders.  

Since she couldn’t see it firsthand, Fate closed her eyes, listening as he underwent his transformation on the beach behind her.  He hadn’t detailed what it entailed, but immediately she detected a strange, elastic stretching, cracks and creaks and wooden pops reminiscent of a weaver at a loom.  She felt rather than saw the mass of him increase behind her, like sensing a crowd slowly gathering at one’s back.  His breathing grew into a furnace bellows, the heat of him slowly swelling until her neck dappled with perspiration.

When all was done, and at last he spoke, it was not with a man’s voice at all.  It was a mental song, a symphony of slow cello strings, a basso vibrato reverberating in the bones of her skull.

You may turn.

And she did, opening her eyes as she went.  Both hands flattened at her chest as she took in the full, vast, towering shape of him.  Her neck twinged with the effort of looking all the way up, so he lowered his head obligingly nearer. 

What do you think?, he asked.

Fate’s voice trembled.  “I think you’re on your own with toileting from now on.”

She had yet to hear him laugh or see him smile, but the orchestral strings of his mind’s voice swelled with amusement.  Laughter, transcendent of form.  Perhaps he’d never learned the finer points of being joyful as a man.  Emboldened, Fate approached him, circling him ankle-over-ankle in marveling quiet.  He was twice as tall as her cottage, his full length and width hard to assess with his neck heron-curved back between his shoulders and his wings at rest.  He was wholly black, each scale chased with the pastel tinctures of morning as they gained the sky.  Helplessly her fingers outstretched, hesitating.  He reached down and bumped his great, wedge-shaped head encouragingly into the touch.

Fate closed on him like the head of a horse overhanging a pasture gate, exploring by touch the bony ridges above his eyes, the pebbled texture that lined his lips, the paradoxically velvet-soft nostrils.  He snorted, startling her into a laugh, and the great cabochons of his eyes blinked mildly.

You aren’t afraid, he sang wonderingly. Her head tilted.

“Afraid?  No.  Curious, yes… perhaps even… a little intimidated?”  He pushed his snout into her hands again and she scratched above his eye ridges, eliciting a double-bass rumble of pleasure.  “But not afraid.”

They both knew all too well the power he held over her, how fragile she was.  How had he put it last night?  So like to die in so many ways.  Istar wondered if he was not as intimidating as he thought, or if she had simply already seen far worse.

She finally took a breath.  “So. How am I meant to do this?”

He lowered himself like a camel to the ground, offering a foreleg as a step up.  With a little difficulty she hitched up her skirts and climbed, first onto his leg and then onto his shoulder, allowing a little undignified bump of his nose to get her the rest of the way onto his back.  Thick, bony scales lined his spine, the gaps between them just wide enough for her to get a finger-hold, though it didn’t instill her with the utmost confidence.

“You know,” she remarked with a nervous warble.  “I fell off a horse once.  I don’t think I ever quite recovered from it.”

Istar thought on that for a good long minute before craning his head around and favoring her with one confused eye.

...are you asking me to eat the horse?

She patted his neck.  “Never mind, let’s just be off.”

He needed no further encouragement.  Fate caught her breath and clung fast as he gathered beneath her, muscles coiled with all the tension of a bow at full draw.  He launched like a shot put, wings tripling open, then churned, thunderous, every muscle moving with oiled and certain rhythm in his skyward climb. 

She’d never been any further from the earth than the overlook above the beach, and couldn’t breathe for the sudden distance telescoping her away from the world below.  She saw the curious, curving outline of the coast, the tattered shingles of her roof, the cliffs, the trees, the ocean. And the ocean.  And the ocean.  And still he climbed.

Just as her mind began scrambling for a god -- any god -- to pray for salvation, Istar’s wings spread taut and leveled, and the terrible hollow in her chest eased with relief.

There was a peace up here, unknowable as a creature of the earth.  Istar’s body radiated heat, keeping at bay the damp and chill of the morning air, though she felt each spun-sugar cloud on her skin as he sailed through them.  The rising sun cast his shadow on the water beneath them, gilding each wavelet, and describing the vague shape of fantastic creatures just beneath their surface.

Eventually the familiar silhouette of Fate’s island appear on the horizon.  Istar tilted, kite-like, and little by little it grew, becoming more real to her than it had been in many long decades of her life.

But it looked the same.  Even from the sky, even as he turned on a wingtip and circled it slowly, slowly, looking for a place to set down, it seemed to her the same secret palace of her girlhood.  Her father’s dream, and now hers.  And Istar’s, besides.

The castle wasn’t built with incoming dragons in mind, but there was enough of a rough peninsula off the Western side of the island that he was able to carefully set down.  Fate braced herself as he back-winged like a bird to a branch, landing far more gracefully than she thought was possible for a creature of such size.

Once more he bent and offered her a foreleg to dismount, and with rock firmly underfoot Fate hastened to give him enough room -- and privacy -- to restore himself to his human guise.  Unbecoming a dragon was a far less noisy affair than the opposite, but when all was done and finalized he gently cleared his throat to draw her attention.

She turned, looking him up and down curiously.

“Oh, you’re wearing clothes,” she observed.

Istar looked down at himself as well.

“Yes?”

“That’s… I mean, of course you are. And that’s fine.”

He checked her.  “Is it?”

“Yes.  I mean…certainly.  Why wouldn’t it be fine?”

“You seem disappointed?”

“Do I?  Hm. Funny.  Well.”  She put her palms together.  “Shall we have a look around?”

Continued here

[carnivorousyandeere]

Welcome to the Cliffside Inn P.4; Isla and Airna Intros 2

Next and last part of the Cliffside Intro will be for Eris.

Part 1; Part 2; Part 3; Part 4; Part 5

Of course, the night winds down eventually. Drinks are emptied and ash trays are filled.

“Well,” you sigh, moving to head out. “It’s been nice talking with you. Think I’m gonna head out to the beach for a minute, then turn in for the night.”

Isla and Airna give each other a look. Nervously, Airna puts her hand on your forearm as Isla raises a brow and crosses her arms. “A-are you sure? The beach can be a little dangerous at night. You know, washed up sea urchins and all that…”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll be careful.” You wave their concerns away and slip out, stumbling a little from sleepiness (and maybe a drink or two).

The briny nighttime air clears your mind a bit. You pause, taking off your shoes to feel the sand beneath you, and then stretch. The sounds of the sea at night are as beautiful as they are unsettling. You can’t help but look out over the horizon, dimly lit by the moon, and think of all the strange and wonderful creatures that must live in the depths far beyond humans’ reach. A breeze washes over you, and you hear something under the current— a faint melody, maybe something being played from far away. You shiver, and turn from the ocean to walk back to the Inn.

Your sleep that night is restless and uneasy, strange and disturbing dreams flowing through your mind and dragging you under again and again. You wake in a cold sweat and shoot upright, only to immediately regret it at the way your head pounds. The lights are so bright, moving across your vision— you blink, then blink once more. It’s not your mind playing tricks, the morning sunlight really is reflecting off of every surface in the room.

And this isn’t your room.

Covered in sparkly mermaid memorabilia, this looks little like the professionally decorated, vintage hotel room you’d been set up in for your trip— although the shape of the room and view from the windows confirmed you were, indeed, somewhere within the hotel. But you couldn’t really remember coming back to the hotel at all— not to your room, and certainly not to this one.

Hesitantly, you shuffle out from under the covers and look towards the door… only to jump and shout a little at the presence of a person sitting in a chair beside the bed, so quiet you didn’t even hear her.

Isla looks up and blinks owlishly at you through thick glasses as you stare at her. They make her steady, serious brown eyes look gigantic. She pushes a braid behind her ear and slides a lacey patterned bookmark between the pages of the novel she’d been engrossed in, and swallows, before clearing her throat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Airna comes running at the sound of your yell, hand pressed over her heart. She immediately begins showering with questions you don’t know the answers to. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? What happened last night?”

You shake your head, bewildered and overwhelmed.

“We found you passed out on the beach last night!”

Your head only hurts more as you try to remember the night before, and she continues speaking. “Any strange dreams?”

Your brow furrows— a strange sense of both claustrophobia and agoraphobia wash over you, phantom sensations of seaweed itching at your legs. The pain is piercing. You bury your head in your hands.

Isla stands, placing one hand on your shoulder and one on Airna’s. “That is enough.”

You try to shrug off her hand, intending to stumble your way to the hallway and then to your room, or maybe the front desk to call an uber to the airport immediately— but Isla’s hand only tightens.

“You are in no condition to be moving around right now, conejito.”

Airna nods, nervous energy practically vibrating from her every pore. “That’s right! At least let us get you some headache medicine, and some tea and breakfast for the trouble!”

“N-no, I think I need to— to be alone for a bit.” This time when you move to get up, Isla lets you, expression unreadable. The pair watches you rise on unsteady legs, and open the door for you. Silently, they follow you to your room, letting you lean on one or the other if you begin to lose your balance. Once you’re safely in your own bed, though, Isla and Airna both tuck you in with kisses to the forehead, and leave. You’re too exhausted and confused to even protest the gesture.

[bam-monsterhospital]

i TOUCHED THE OCEAN YESTERDAY I PUT MY FEETS IN IT I RAN ACROSS THE SAND AND AMONGST THE LAPPING TIDE I GAINED ALL THE DOPAMINE!

we went to gros morne yesterday and it was wonderful

you can't see much of it because i didn't put my camera up above my head when taking these pics, but the sea had a lot of green in it and it was so punchy-saturated and beautiful. you might be able to make out some whitecaps there, which tells you that yeah it was really really windy. god i missed this so much. all these shots were from the wet sand and i'm kinda sad i didn't take more of the dry bits of sand since it was really light and soft and my fav kinda sand... whereas here it just looks muddy and grey. it was low tide and you could walk out forever over the oodles of sandbanks.

[risedluna]

your muses aesthetic. list your muse’s aesthetic from tastes, smells, outfits, and sceneries. add as many subjects as you like, it can help with people tagging you in aesthetically pleasing things towards your muse.

tastes. traditional water tribe cuisine. savory seal jerky, steamed sea prunes, and hearty sea kelp stew. snowy yam pastries, coconut seaweed wraps, grilled fish, and salted sea cucumbers harvested from the ocean depths. homemade meals. comforting soups and stews prepared with an abundance of care. traditional water tribe dishes passed down through generations, reflecting heritage. learned from her mother. her grandmother. akutaq, whipped animal fat, berries, and seabirds in seal skin. ptarmigan, ducks, and geese.

smells. briny air carrying the scent of the ocean. earthy scents of healing herbs and plants. smoky aroma of wood-fired stoves. mingled with the savory smells of simmering soups, roasting meats. sea salt and brine. tangy, maritime scent of saltwater and seaweed. scent of home. crackling hearth fires in the igloos of the southern water tribe.

sights. glacial landscapes. icebergs, frozen tundras, and aurora australis visible in the sky, shades of green, yellow cutting across the dark. vibrant festivals and ceremonies. healing sanctuaries: tranquil pools and waterfalls, sacred places where katara practices her water-bending techniques. communal gathering spaces, consistently bustling with activity and familiar faces. endless expanses of icy plains, dotted with snowdrifts and hidden ice caves. glow of the full moon reflecting off the icy landscape, casting mercury light on the snow. otter penguins roaming in packs, polar bear dogs stalking the snowy plains for prey.

sounds. cascading waterfalls, and the rhythmic lapping of waves against the shore. swirling currents. melodic tunes played on traditional water tribe instruments, drums, flutes, and stringed lyres. chirping birds and the distant calls of arctic creatures echoing across the frozen landscape. howling winds, vibrating against the surface of ice buildings. soft chants, whispered prayers, and the tranquil hum of energy. warm crackling of burning wood, accompanied by the comforting sounds of popping embers and sizzling stew pots. haunting melodies sung during rituals and ceremonies. the soft rustle of snowflakes.

sensations. chill of the frozen tundra. iciness, cold. embrace of fur-lined blankets and blankets, protection against the arctic conditions. empowering surges of energies. sense of community, kinship. water does not resist. water flows. when you plunge your hand into it, all you feel is a caress. water is not a solid wall, it will not stop you. but water always goes where it wants to go, and nothing in the end can stand against it. water is patient. dripping water wears away a stone. power, fluidity. feelings of rage, raw, and aggressive. i would rather die on my feet than live on my knees.

tagged by — me. thank you, me. tagging — @equaliezr, @avat4r, @empirelead, @earthfeel, @tessenwarrior, @spiritshe, @fanfabled

[kittynomsdeplume]

As payment for all the mental damage I have suffered, I demand a statement on THREE titles: Sacred and Profane - Steampunk AU (Steampunk my beloved <3) Chapel of luuurve (It rings a bell but the title ended me. does Elvis marry people there.) Ali/Cullen/Trev (A WIP? ANOTHER?)

Mental damage?! Emotional damage maybe, hahaha.

This is going to be a rather large post so, I'll put it under the cut.

Chapel of love is a deeply sarcastic title, as it’s going to be quite painful smut. You know I had a thought about that scene, when Cullen is in the Skyhold chapel, feeling very guilty about the fact that he has to send his lover off into danger to face Corypheus. So I want to do a little extension of that scene, just to break my own heart 😆

Here's an excerpt of some rough dialogue I've laid down:

“I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.” “You haven’t. That madman is at fault, not you.” “But if I wasn’t the Herald then—“ “Then you would have died at the Temple. And the rest of us would have swiftly followed, as Corypheus destroyed the world. I have no regrets. The Maker brought you to us when we needed you most. Brought you to me. I have to believe that he will see you safely home again.” He kisses her with a ferocity born of desperation; a need to believe that this is not one of the last chances he may have to do so.

Sacred and Profane, a steampunk AU, took over my brain for an entire six months, but I had sworn to myself that I would not ever again start posting a long-fic before it was finished. Now in my defence, I know Under Her Mask is not finished either, but that wasn't supposed to be a long fic 😬

It is very much the first series I ever sat down and tried to plot out in its entirety, and frankly, it sort of killed my enthusiasm for it. I still really love the setting and some of the ideas in it though, so I am hoping to eventually salvage parts and just release them as part of a broader series. I do genuinely believe I was being far too ambitious.

An excerpt from what was intended to be our introduction to Solas in this fic. He has travelled to a remote island, to seek counsel from some ancient soothsayers, three monstrous sisters. His precious artefact has been stolen and he's in a hurry to find it before something disastrous occurs. He has no love for these hags however, and they really should have heeded all the warnings about treating with the Dread Wolf.

Solas clambers back down the mountain and carefully picks his way over the slippery, algae covered rocks on the shore. Standing upon a low outcrop, he swings the hag heads by their long, matted hair and flings them into the ocean. He snarls out an ironic prayer, “Rest in peace, sisters,” as he watches the heads bob upon the water and then slowly sink beneath the briny waves. He huffs in disdain and frustration, not sure if he should even trust their divination — though two locations to search are better than none he supposes. Decided, Solas dives into the water, cutting through the choppy ocean with ease. The cold has little effect on him, and the creatures that lurk and writhe in the broad, blue depths do not dare approach. He is the last of his kind, the dread god Fen’Harel, and he fears neither man; nor beast; nor monster.

And yeah, I've got a couple of ideas for further follow up fics featuring Kiara, Cullen and Alistair. Post-Adamant stuff essentially, because Alistair will need to be on his merry way to Wiesshaupt, so I figure this is the last chance for them to all be together for quite a while.

Now, while I had originally envisioned more pure smut, you know me -- the angst is creeping in.

A veeeery rough piece of my first draft, immediately following the Inquisitor's return from the Fade at Adamant.

Cullen is ushering her through, a hand pressing against the small of her back. Urgent, needy. Her stomach is fluttering, she wants nothing more than to be safe and secure between him and Ali. “Twinkles,” Varric approaches, looking around the courtyard. “Glad you see you made it back in one piece. Any idea where Hawke got off to?” Her stomach drops. “I um… Varric I…” her mouth works silently, the words refuse to come. Varric’s whole face falls and he staggers back a step. “Hawke kept the demon at bay so we could escape,” Alistair supplies. “Of course she did,” Varric remarks, tight jawed, his expression caught between anger and anguish. “I’m so sorry—” Varric waves away her apology, his chest billowing as he drags in heavy breaths, choking down his pain. “I gotta write to Fenris,” he mutters, stumbling away from them. Emotions bubble up inside her, this terrible wave of guilt and shame. Hawke had people that loved and cared about her too. She wasn’t even a Warden, she’d come here to help because that’s what she did, helping others even when it wasn’t her business.  And she’d just left her behind, hadn’t even given a moments hesitation. Shooting Alistair down when he said it should be him that stayed.  Maker… everyone was looking to her to lead the Inquisition with honour and righteousness, but she was making decisions based on her own selfish desires. She was a self-absorbed, grasping noble after all — just the sort of person Cullen disdained.

[xivysongx]

A tidal shift as if the sea,

when first you stole a glance at me.

Waves of thought unlike before

collided with my stony shore.

I filled the jars which I could hold

with briny foam and salted cold.

My dreams afloat an airy bed,

I poured the waters on my head.

And from the depths, I did await

for words to come before too late.

[kazsartcorner]

Theophilus Mesony prophet of Architeuthis.

Sartosa is home to many a strange gang of cutthroats, smugglers or vagabounds, more sinisterly are the innumerble cults who take refuge in the anarchic City-State, while many are simply praising gods like Stromfels or Manann, there are the odd chaos cults and sometimes, things more...archaic. Things that should have been left below the cold briny depths. Far from power and life.

[honorhearted]

"Tallmadge, now, is not the proper time to take a kip," Peggy rumbles crouching beside him and the swollen river. Worriedly, her trembling hands shake him in an attempt to rouse him. Her own hands shrug off her coat and she drapes it over him. "Come on, we must get you warm..."

@timeguardians

As water licked up his boots, the flooding rush quickly rose while all around him, any potential means of escape vanished. The area was boundless, blank, save for the churning waves, and Ben sucked a breath once the cold water -- God, it was so cold -- needled into him the moment it rose above his boots.

Deep within his subconscious, he knew this was a dream. In the colony of New Jersey, he’d never witnessed a flooding of this degree, but to the terror-riddled, paralyzing fear gripping him by the throat, he was incapable of reason -- incapable of awakening despite his lukewarm attempts at conciliation. 

The light sky soon turned pitch-black, and closing his eyes, Ben curled his fists and trembled while all around him, he could hear the racing flood swirling and crashing into him as the wet, the cold was now unmistakably up to his chest. It was heart-stoppingly freezing, and it suddenly felt as though there were vines wrapping around him, tight and vice-like and crushing in their restraint. With a sharp breath, his eyes opened and Ben became disoriented once he realized he was lying on his side underneath a lean-to, the faint glow of a campfire crackling close by as he shivered and shook.

Discerning the source of the “vines,” Ben tremblingly tugged himself free of Peggy’s coat, his breath like sand in his lungs as he wheezed and broke away long enough to retch. He doubled over onto his hands and knees, his forehead nudging into the earth as he fought back a wave of nausea.

He was all right. By some miracle, he was actually alive despite his last memories being the needle-like cold of the Delaware, and then his head submerging beneath the briny depths, and then...nothing.

Shakily tugging the blanket around his shoulders, Ben squinted up at Peggy and swallowed, "How long...? W-where...?" he rasped.

In truth, he wanted to ask what she was doing there -- why was she with him? -- but his head was spinning, and he was far too dizzy to argue or set himself up for yet another one of their damnable arguments. Instead, he regarded her discarded coat and mumbled a soft, "Thank you," before sinking back into his bedding. "Are we here alone? Where are the others?"