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The skyship is moored along the cliffside pier used by the University for deliveries of sustenance, students, and supplies required to run a place of learning. Moonlight throws the walls of the school in cool light and deep shadow, the old stones glimmering with old secrets. The barren lawn glints in the pale light of the early morning, the dew on the grass only emphasizing how close-cut it is. It’s a sterile scene at odds with the natural majesty of the mountain. The disturbed grass leaves a shadowy path where soldiers walk, silencing crickets as they go and leaving the grounds eerily silent as single-minded footsteps tread from dock to door.
The figures in their blue uniforms file in determined order, led by a wiry young man with eagle-sharp eyes and sandy blond hair. Their gazes are fixed dead ahead in line with their training. So committed are they to procedure, they are all unseeing of two new recruits emerging from the shadows just inside the gate and attaching themselves to the rear of the procession.
The line of soldiers make their way to the west wing of the building, their footsteps breaking the silence of a building at rest. The back of the line melts into the shadows of opposite alcoves holding dusty statues of people of learning, long-dead and revered. The wiry man knocks once, the sound firm and crisp, on a door banded with iron with no pause afterwards for invitation. The door swings open with a creak, revealing a dark room lit by a single candle on a large desk and the face of an old man as his expression changes from surprise to fear. The door closes again, pushed by the last man to enter the room, leaving the hallway to its moonlit silence.
The murmur of quiet conversation drifts from behind the door, followed by the muffled bitten off cry of a blow to the body. A shuddering exhale echoes around the hallway. Orimar’s keen eyes examine the shadows of the other alcoves, taking notice of nervous lungs that could never belong to him nor Spit in the alcove across from his. Orimar focuses on the noise, and notes the shadows of a recess near the office door. A silhouette jumps, startled, when the door slams open once more.
Orimar grits his teeth in frustration as he sees the limp body of the professor he’d come to see, its arms across the shoulders of two Red Feathers as they march out of the room and back towards the main doors. Had he realized the Syndicate planned such drastic measures against his unorthodox interests, he would have come up with a different plan to access the professor’s knowledge. Given that he was unconscious leaving his office, Orimar doubted he’d be returning in any useful state.
No sooner are the soldiers out of sight when the shadow near the door shifts again. Orimar flashes Spit a brief hand signal, wait . A young man materializes, hands shaking as he wraps thin fingers around the door handle. The heavy door opens silently under his touch, an indication that this isn’t the first time he’s snuck into this office. He gives a quick, furtive look over his shoulder and slips through the crack he’s made, closing the door slowly behind him so it cannot latch and make a noise.
Across the hall, Orimar can see Spit’s face mirror his own thoughts; not bad technique from a posh university student, though not letting the door close fully leaves him open to a quick and quiet approach that would leave him vulnerable. The two pirates make eye contact and Orimar gives another signal, a nod of their head to the door and a wave of the hand that says follow me .
The two of them melt out of the shadows and move to the door with urgency as they hear the front doors to the main building open and creak closed, indicating the position of the Red Feathers as they make their way back to their ship. Spit places himself immediately next to the door as Orimar reaches for the handle, ready to move in as soon as it’s opened. This close, they can hear the quiet, fast breaths of someone trying not to panic, the shuffling of papers, a muffled yelp and the thud of a book hitting the floor.
Orimar opens the door quickly to avoid any prolonged squeaking of the hinges, the two of them slip in, and the door is closed again with the efficiency of those who are practiced at risky hiding. Spit is on the student before he can realize what’s happening, clapping a hand over his mouth with a warning look. He looks young in the dim light from the candle on the desk, eyes wide behind circular glasses and sandy blond hair falling in his eyes. His breathing is faster than Orimar heard through the door and starts to come in shaky gasps as he takes in the two pirates.
“Spit, gentle now or he may just break. I think none of us want to be caught here tonight,” Orimar’s quiet voice is still commanding, and he makes eye contact with the student who nods frantically. Spit moves him carefully to the chair behind the desk, releasing his face with a gentle push so he falls back into the seat with wide eyes. He’s hyperventilating, chest rising and falling far too quickly to be useful, and Orimar crouches in front of him and begins to breathe purposefully deep and quiet. He waves Spit back into the shadows by the door, keep watch .
“W-wh-what do you want?” the boy asks in a strained whisper, eyes not meeting Orimar’s. His hands seem stuck gripping the armrests, though their trembling denies any real stillness.
“First, I need you to breathe with me. You can’t answer my questions meaningfully in this state, and we both know we may not have much time here. So focus.” He sets his fingertips on the boy's knee, not enough touch to be threatening, and begins to tap out a steady beat. “Breathe in four beats, breathe out five.”
The student still doesn’t make eye contact, but he does try to regulate his breathing in time with Orimar’s. In this brief moment, Orimar takes the time to see that “boy” is really the right word to describe him: he’s young, and not tall for his age, and the length of his hair frames his narrow face in a way that makes him look younger. His eyes sit in the shadows of his face, making the bags beneath them all the more prominent, and his lips are chapped from the amount of nervous biting he must do regularly. His breathing steadies, but his trembling hands do not. Orimar knows what it looks like when a child needs help, and he makes a decision.
“Good. Now quickly, what is your name?” Orimar asks, voice still quiet but with unwavering command. The reply is still strained and nervous, but it comes willingly enough.
“Alastair.”
“Thank you. What are you doing here, Alastair?”
“I’m a s-st-student of the University.”
“Alastair, please, we don’t have time to play cat and mouse. What are you doing in this office?” Orimar sighs. “I think it’s plain to see that none of us should be here right now, so maybe we can help each other, hm?”
Alastair swallows and closes his eyes, fingernails digging into the chair. “I was t-taking… private lessons. From the pr-professor. The k-kind that made them, t-t-take him away. Necromancy.” His eyes open again and he looks down at Orimar pleadingly. “I c-can’t stay here. They’ll take me too, they’ll m-m-make him tell them ev-everything, he’ll k-kill me for this.” His eyes are wide and his whisper is hoarse, his fear and his youth showing plainly.
Orimar holds his gaze and gives a single nod. “I can help you with that. And you may be able to help me. Gather what you need from here, quickly now, and don’t worry about mess.”
What follows is a nervous whirlwind from Alastair. Spit and Orimar share a quiet conversation and an understanding nod, and they all manage to leave the school grounds with bags of books and papers. They hike around the cliffs behind the school, descending into the mists where the Uhuru is docked away from prying eyes. The pace has been fast, and the ground uneven, but despite his labored breathing and the occasional stumble Alastair hasn’t complained. None of them have spoken more than a few necessary directions until they make it inside the doors of the cargo bay.
“Thank you.” Alastair’s voice is quiet and uneven, and his limbs shake where he stands. Orimar places a firm hand on his narrow shoulders, urging him into a sitting position against a wall.
“Don’t thank me ‘til we’re back in the sky. Stay put, we’ll be back to check on you.” Alastair closes his eyes with a nod, resting his elbows on his knees and then his head in his hands. Orimar and Spit rush for the top deck, the ship furnaces blaze, and the glow of their featherweave puts the University far behind them.
Orimar returns to the cargo bay to find Alastair asleep in the same position he’d been left in, an open book in his lap. With a gentle shake he jolts awake, scrambling back until he seems to remember what he’s done. His breathing starts to accelerate again, but it slows when Orimar offers him a quiet invitation to his quarters for a meal. So they sit at his map table, cleared for tea, bread, and cheese, and Orimar slices an apple for them to share. After a few minutes of quiet, letting Alastair eat and collect himself, Orimar speaks first.
“My name is Captain Orimar Vale of the Uhuru , the ship we’re on now. We’re a fair distance out from the University and we’ll be in the sky for a while now, so they won’t be able to track us from any nearby ports.” Alastair nods, chewing quietly with his shoulders hunched. Seeing him relatively calm, Orimar leans forwards and crosses his arms in front of him on the table. He keeps his voice quiet and asks, “Can you tell me who you’re hiding from?”
Alastair stops eating for a moment, then swallows slowly and meets the captain’s eyes. “I- I- hm.” His hands begin to flutter nervously, and Orimar can almost feel his heart rate increase as he tries and fails to get the words out, the words ending abruptly after first syllables as he trips on his own breath. Orimar begins to tap the table quietly, just with a finger, and measures his own breathing. Alastair’s eyes flit from his face to his hands and back again, and he presses his own thin fingers down and begins to tap along and breathe in kind. Orimar can’t help a small smile, seeing him try the technique himself, and asks another question. “Were you hiding from the Red Feathers?”
“Y-yes. But, but, not just them. There’s.. m-more.”
Slowly, haltingly, with their fingers drumming in quiet synchronized rhythm, the story tumbled out. Alastair, as in Alastair Youngblood, the youngest child of that name. A name known for its wealth and privateering, for the vicious ferocity they hunt pirates with after the death of their father. He’d been sent to school to study medicine, and in his late night studying found himself in his professor's office, staring at a tome bound in dark leather, his heart and mind burning with curiosity and fingers twitching to open the cover. Being caught with the book open led to more serious study, to actually practicing the dark divinity he’d read about, to ideas of medical advancement. Then came the Red Feather ship, with a platoon of soldiers led by Alastair’s own brother, to investigate the professor and his teachings.
The boy’s fingers tapped faster as he mentioned Tiberius by name, his breath quickening, and Orimar gently placed a hand over his to calm the rising tide of panic in his eyes. Alastair gulps a deep breath, and his hand turns upward to squeeze Orimar’s so hard it feels like the fragile bones of his fingers could break with the effort. “W- we. We’ve never been very.. compatible.”
Years of being the smallest, meekest, quietest sibling in a house dominated by the other personalities in it. Tiberius always made Alastair a target in his mean little games, finding ways to belittle him and whittle away at the brash confidence present in all children, until Alastair was left with only the most brittle parts of himself and the ghost of a boy in his heart who’s still afraid of his older brother. Tiberius arriving at his school, standing in the back of the lecture hall, observing his one-on-one lessons with narrowed eyes. Tiberius cornering him in his quarters, demanding answers to leading questions about the guilt of his professor, listening to his frantically vague answers with growing suspicion in his eyes. And Alastair knew that he knew, and knew that he had to get away before his own brother made sure his actions never left the school grounds.
“I believe that’s w-when you found me. And n-n-now I’ve gone and joined a pirate crew, on t-top of everything else.” Alastair’s voice pitches high as a hysterical laugh forces its way out of his throat. Orimar squeezes his hand gently, and Alastair lifts his other hand to his mouth with wide, wide eyes.
“You don’t have to stay. You’re not a prisoner,” Orimar says quietly. “But I think you should.”
“I think I’d like to, which almost feels worse,” Alastair whispers.
“We can keep you safe aboard the Uhuru. You said you have medical training?” A small nod. “We could use a ship’s doctor.” Nod again, and a small squeeze of the hand. “You’ll need to change your name, and changing the way you look would go a long way to help as well.”
“Do it.”
The making of Dref Wormwood doesn’t happen in a day, nor even two. It’s approximately a week later when Orimar introduces him to the crew, the aristocrats' son remade by a notorious pirate captains council.
The captain gives him his name of course; Dref because it reminds Orimar of how adrift he’d been when they’d caught him, Wormwood for his bitter past and its medicinal properties, fitting for a doctor. His once-flowing hair is shaved close, courtesy of Hornet’s freshly sharpened knives. Given her own elaborate hairstyle, it made sense for her to take charge of this portion of the disguise. With his hair so short, the gauntness of his face is emphasized, refined cheekbones becoming sharp and hollow and the bags under his eyes far more noticeable with nothing to distract from them. His glasses are now held on his head by a cord hand-plaited by Spit, the frames disappearing for a day so they could be fully incorporated. Now the cord is wrapped tightly along the fine metal that sits over his ears, hiding the glimmer behind tightly-woven strands that are tied off, cut, and burned at the hinges to prevent any comments on the gold frames. Spit had even smoked out the frames around the lenses, smudging them with soot and sealing it before cleaning the lenses and returning them to the boy, so the thin frames appear as large dark circles. Calivar had found and donated some more common clothing, trading them for Dref’s former fine attire with a snort. Orimar provided a lightweight canvas, prepared to send it with Spit to make a doctor's coat, when to his surprise Dref had asked to make it himself with quiet but insistent confidence.
The boy Orimar introduced to the crew as Dref Wormwood, the new ship doctor, is obviously still young. But he carries himself differently, wrapped in his large doctor's coat with its abundance of pockets. He’s still nervous, shoulders hunched in on himself, fingers often tapping at his side and speech still coming in halting stutters, but within his medicine bay he seems to bloom. He reads with voracity, the slump of his shoulders coming from intense focus rather than insecurity, and he moves about the medical bay with intent and confidence; when there’s a patient on the table, no one’s hands are more steady.
He’s still high-strung, skittish and easily frightened, but he speaks his mind and earnestly shares his work with the captain who gave him the opportunity to change. Seeing him this way, still imbued with the anxious energy of unsupported youth but also the excitement provided by the prospect of new life, reminds Orimar once again why he does the work he does.
—-
Gable doesn’t pay much notice to new crew members; being relatively new themself, no one bothers to make personal introductions. They have no friends here, no one who tries to speculate with them or join them in their rest time, and that doesn’t much bother them. They’ve been around so long, and the periods of quiet loneliness far outweigh the times they’ve shared any meaningful company. It’s hard to form lasting relationships with beings that age and die in a way they never could; their failure to do so in kind would only lead to troublesome questions. So new crew come and go, and no one talks to Gable about their rumors and theories, and Gable doesn’t pay it any attention.
Then the captain introduces their new doctor, and Gable feels something.. off. It’s faint, and undefined, but when they focus their magic a touch of darkness swirls around his fidgeting fingertips, and Gable notices. So they look closer, but there’s truly not much to see when they blink away their angelic sight.
Though everyone is short next to Gable’s towering frame, he’s shorter than a good portion of the crew and small with it, practically swimming in the folds and pockets of his coat. His eyes dart nervously around the gathered corsairs, wide behind the lenses of his glasses, and he noticeably gulps when he makes eye contact with Gable. Their eyes narrow, and they tilt their head slightly as his eyes flit to the deck rather than keep contact with their intense stare, and his fingers begin to tap against his leg.
The introduction is brief: this is Dref Wormwood, he’s been given the position of ship medic, his office will be below decks near the cargo bay, and see him with any ailments. The crew is summarily dismissed, ordered back to their posts, and Dref disappears amid the shuffle of bodies. Gable makes note of his existence and moves on with their day.
Every few days Gable will focus their magic and cast about the ship for further evidence of the shadows that cling to his shaky hands. While there’s no significant growth, they do notice stronger apparitions every now and then, and it’s enough to keep the young doctor always in the back of their mind.
Because they spend so much energy focusing on him, Gable begins to notice more details unrelated to his magical practices. Dref Wormwood rarely leaves his medical office, he’s never been seen at a communal meal, and everyone on the crew finds him slightly off-putting. Nonetheless, they all agree that despite his lack of bedside manner, his medical care is some of the best they’ve ever experienced as skyjacks. On the rare occasions Dref is stopped while passing through other parts of the ship, if the conversation is not immediately related to someone’s care or immediate restorative needs, he is visibly nervous and uncomfortable throughout the interaction. He avoids eye contact, eyes darting anywhere else, twists the black ring on his right middle finger or fiddles with the hem of his sleeve, and frequently taps his long fingers against his wrist, his leg, the wall, the books he’s carrying, anything that happens to be nearby, and fixes his breathing in time with it. All in all, he’s a small, strange little man and no one quite knows what to do with him.
Gable’s first close observation of Dref happens in a storm. They are on the top deck, working to ensure everything is bound tightly enough to avoid being washed off deck by the raging winds and driving rain. Nodoze is working alongside them when he lets out an abrupt cry and stumbles into their back. Something small and sharp and already lost to the storm around them has slashed across the back of his ankle, leaving him unable to put any weight on it. Gable feels the large, calloused hand of Wendell on their forearm and he tells them with shouts and hand signals to get Nodoze to the sick bay, that he and Barry can take it from here. Gable nods, rain pouring into their eyes, and crouches to scoop Nodoze up in their arms. There is a moment of spluttering from the injured man, whether from indignation or just to get the rainwater out of his mouth it’s hard to say, but he seems to realize that this is the fastest way to get him below decks and out of the way and quiets down.
Gable shoulders their way through the door to the infirmary and smacks the wall in time with a clap of thunder, and Dref just about jumps out of his skin from where he’s hunched over his desk. He throws a hand behind him as he whirls around to face the noise, shoving the books he’d had in front of him to the back of the desk and almost knocking a small lantern to the floor. He catches it with a hiss as the hot surface scorches his palm. He looks at Gable with annoyance, but his face quickly changes to something businesslike and urgent when they set Nodoze on the examination table.
“W-what are we d-d-d-dealing with?” Dref demands, and it is a demand; though his voice still trips over itself, his words are sharp and clear and focused on the work at hand. Gable can feel the pulse of divine energy as he rolls up his sleeves and the burn on his own hand fades considerably. For the first time, Gable begins to understand how well he works with magic; they hold Nodoze’s hand as he grits his teeth and squeezes theirs tightly as Dref examines the wound and begins his care with the sharp efficiency of a freshly honed blade. He wields his knowledge with the familiarity that Gable wields their sword as he gives Nodoze something for the pain, threads his needle, and begins murmuring under his breath.
Gable looks and can see the fibers glimmering with divine magic, intertwined with the thread itself, and they see the doctor’s even stitches and feel his energy swirling around the room, and they see Dref Wormwood. He looks the same. He’s still hollow-faced but his gaze is fixed on his work, his foot bounces rapidly against the floorboards but his hands are steady and true, his bitten-chapped lips show none of their usual nervous tension but move with divine purpose. His magic gleams gold but his fingertips are still stained ephemeral purple-black as lightning flashes through a small window, and Gable understands more and less of him than they ever thought to.
Dref ties off his row of neat stitches and presses his hand firmly to the affected area, and Gable can see the barrier he places against infection seals against Nodoze’s skin. Dref falls back into his desk chair, chest heaving slightly with exertion, and flashes Gable the smile of someone who knows a job well done as he wipes his hands off on his coat. It’s the first time Gable’s ever seen him smile, and they find a smile of their own quirking their lips at his satisfied expression.
Nodoze wakes gently and swings his feet to the ground with a grimace and a small huff of surprise as he stands on his own two feet. He gives Dref a look of sincere surprise and gratitude, and the physician's smile turns nervous at the attention as he flexes his long fingers, but he holds eye contact with Nodoze. The airiner gives him quiet and earnest thanks, and Dref is able to clear him for immediate return to work.
Gable looks over their shoulder as they both make the return journey to work in the storm, and sees him reach for an ointment and begin to apply it to his hand as they close the door behind them. His back is straight and proud, and his usual nervous frown and wide eyes are, for now at least, replaced with an expression of satisfaction.
Dref’s nervous demeanor quickly returns as they approach the nearest port, prepared to set down for necessary rest and repairs after their most recent brush with a maelstrom. The ship practically limps into its space at the dock, groaning as they’re hauled into place.
The good physician, as Nodoze has taken to calling him, hasn’t left the sick bay since the storm cleared and the lookout cried that land was fast approaching. In all the business that comes in hand with docking, and the crew eager to take shore leave before returning to work on the ship to make her skyworthy again, Gable sees neither hide nor hair of him. They wait for things to quiet down, with the rowdy skyjacks dispersed throughout town, and they seek him out.
The ship is simultaneously too quiet and yet louder than they expect it to be; there’s no stomping of boots, cries on the wind, nor background roar from the furnaces, but the squeaks and creaks of old boards protesting beneath their feet seems to echo in the empty halls and stairwells. They approach Dref’s door with a slight grimace as a particularly long, drawn out squeal sounds from beneath their heavy boots.
Gable opens the door gently, knocking on the doorframe as they peer inside. “Wormwood? You still in here?”
“Hm? Oh um, y-yes. Is everything quite alright?”
Dref is standing at the examination table, his whole body tight with tension. One hand dances nervously over his surgery tools, the clean steel glinting in the light of a small lantern from his desk.
Gable notes that his small window has been covered with a piece of cloth hanging from a crooked rod, indicating that Dref has hung it himself just outside of comfortable reach in order to cover the entirety of the window. The flickering flame of the oil lamp is the only thing lighting the room, and Dref’s bony features are cast in startling shadow because of it.
“Oh yes, everything’s fine,” Gable says blithely, noticing how this makes his already tense posture somehow worse. They can imagine the gulp he makes before he speaks again, though they can’t quite see his details in the dim room. They don’t need to imagine the way his hand stutters in its motion, coming to a shaky stop and resting on the tray holding his tools. Tap, tap, tap , his nervous rhythm starts. “I just wanted to make sure you knew we’ve made port?”
“I’m quite aware, t-thank you,” the doctors voice is clipped and short. It’s obvious he’s hiding, but from what Gable can’t tell, and he seems less inclined than usual to talk right now.
“Can I get you anything?”
The tapping stutter-stops, and Dref’s glasses flash as his chin jerks upwards to look at them for the first time since they’ve opened the door. “I beg your p-pardon?”
“No need to beg,” Gable quips, giving a crooked smile as the flush that comes over Dref’s face is almost enough to heat the small room. “Sorry. I’m practicing, one of the other crew is insufferably quick and it’s hard for me to keep up with his jokes. Just, if you don’t want to come ashore -“
“I-I really don’t.”
“I’m offering to get what you may need. We’re not sure where our next stop is, and we’ll be here a while doing repairs, so if you think of anything.. just let me know.”
“Ah. I, I see. I will- I’ll let you know if I think of anything, um. Necessary.” Gable nods and leans back through the doorway, starting to close it behind them when -
“Gable?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you.”
Over the next few days Dref does come to find them, beckoning them from an open doorway, never venturing into town or even as far as the open top deck, passing them a scrap of paper covered in spidery-thin writing with requests of empty notebooks, various herbs and implements of his trade, and even candies made of crystallized honey (though this has been scratched out, along with the note next to it indicating it as “low priority”).
So Gable ventures where they usually do not, carefully picking their way through apothecaries with low ceilings and knocking their head on drying herbs as the clerk frowns at them. They visit the only bookstore in town, run by a small old woman who excitedly has them perform some heavy lifting and rearranging as means of payment for the several small notebooks she gives them, making Gable blush as she marvels over their well-built arms. And they crouch among some of the orphans playing with the townsfolk children in the streets, letting them climb and play across their strong frame in exchange for information on the various sweet shops and which ones have the best and widest selection.
They return to the ship with a selection of medicinal plants and catgut thread, a favored tea blend of the apothecary owner given as gift for helping to suspend more herbs so he didn’t have to bring out his stepladder, three blank notebooks bound in thin black leather and sample sized pots of red and blue ink along with a glass pint of black ink, a box of matches and some lamp oil, a palm sized bag of honey hard candies and a few flavored with cinnamon, vanilla, and blackberry.
Gable approaches the medbay with whistle-song, well pleased with themself after a day of good deeds and gathering. Their confident footsteps ring out a measured pace along the deck, moving down creaky stairs with steady, excited intent and knocking once before pushing the door open with their shoulder, already removing their canvas bag from over broad shoulders.
“Wormwood! I think I’ve got -“
There’s a strangled shriek of surprise and Gable stops in their tracks as an almost comical scene of misfortune plays out in front of them.
Dref spins around in his chair to face the door, moving with such speed and force that it moves across the floor a short distance with the screech of wood on wood before catching on a slightly raised board and sending him and the chair clattering to the ground. Dref scrambles backwards, long legs pushing his back into the desk where he knocks his head and sends it shaking, which in turn knocks over the open bottle of ink and it spills across the papers and begins to move towards the desk edge.
They both stare at each other, Dref’s eyes wide as saucers behind his round glasses and breath coming far too quickly. The room is silent save for the creak of wind outside and a steady drip drop as the ink begins to drip from the desk onto Dref’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Gable says sheepishly. “I didn’t think I was quiet enough on my way down to surprise you like that.”
“I-I-it’s f—f-fine,” Dref swallows shakily and begins to fold his legs under him to stand up. “I. I just, hm. Y-you were loud enough I- I heard you c-coming I just. Got l-l-lost in my own th-thoughts I suppose.” He laughs nervously, but it’s tight and uncomfortable even for him. Gable frowns in concern and cocks their head, then looks .
Heavy bootsteps in rigid formation breaking the silence of a building at rest. A crisp knock with no pause. The soft scrape of a body being dragged across stone.
Gable blinks, and sees the small doctor twisting his ring, fidgeting with the hem of his coat, tap tap tapping and trying to breathe steady.
By no means is it a clear picture, but it’s enough.
Gable keeps their posture as nonthreatening as possible through the remainder of this interaction. Dref’s relieved to be restocked, excited about the journals and ink, and shyly thankful for the hard candies, accepting the treats with a blush and small smile. It only accentuates how young he is, especially in Gable’s eyes. They stay with Dref until he only stumbles on the occasional word, tongue tripping only the usual amount rather than tying itself up. His breathing is still shaky and uncertain, sometimes coming in gasps that leave him with frantic eyes and busy hands, but the intervals between panicky gulps are longer by the time Gable leaves.
Now with some small awareness of the reason for the doctor’s timid behavior, at least at port, Gable puts it on themself to check in on him whenever the Uhuru prepares to dock somewhere new.
It’s long months of running errands before attending to their own business and leisure each time they step off the ship, but they don’t bear any grudge for it. Every time they knock on the medbay door, waiting for an invitation, Dref’s voice sounds less tense and nervous and even starts to grow warm with friendly excitement at their return. His smiles are less shy, and his fidgeting hands play with the thread and buttons and paper and candy wrappers in a soft mindless way rather than acting as an outlet for his almost violent anxiety.
One day, Gable comes in to see what Dref needs to restock , and he’s already standing waiting for them dressed in plain clothes with a grey cloak clenched in his hands. He’s pinching at folds in the fabric with apprehension, eyes anywhere but Gable’s face at first.
“I um. I was w-wondering, actually, if. If you could show me around, this time?”
Gable’s grin is wide and bright, and Dref returns it with a crooked smile of his own.
So Dref starts coming along, taking in new scenery with wide eyes from underneath his large hood. He clings to Gable like a shadow, but he tugs their arm with excitement when he sees a bookstore, a library, a stationary shop with a full wall displaying different colored inks and papers and writing implements. He doesn’t stay for frivolous activities afterwards, ready to return to the quiet of his study after a day of shopping busy streets.
Until one day he does, and he comes out to a tavern with Gable and Nodoze and Travis Matagot for an evening of dinner, drinks, and Illimat.
Travis raises an eyebrow at Gable as he shuffles the cards, Nodoze laying out luminaries on the four corners of the mat. Gable gives him a warning look, a look that says behave , and he sighs as he starts to deal.
“So… Dref, is it? What’s your poison?”
Dref looks at him with slight confusion. “I beg your pardon?”
Travis grins, opens his mouth, and Gable glares. He sighs. “What are you drinking, kid?”
The doctor bristles a little at being talked down to, pushes his glasses up his nose where they’ve slipped. He then seems to deflate a little. “I. I uh, d-don’t know.”
There’s a pause in motion from them all, and he fidgets under their stares.
“Dref, how - are you old enough to drink?” Gable’s voice quirks in pitch with the question, mortified that they hadn’t thought to check.
Dref’s shoulders are tense, and he traces the wood grain along the edge of the table with a finger. “Y-yes I’m old enough,” he snaps. “I just. Haven’t.”
Travis’ grin is slowly returning, an expression of similar excitement lighting up Nodoze’s own face. “Oh, good doctor. Let me teach you everything. ”
Their card game falls by the wayside, carelessly played as they introduce Dref to the wide world’s flavors of alcohol.
He makes a face when trying Gable’s ale, sniffs Travis’ preferred cocktail hesitantly but is fine with the taste, and surprises himself with a small smile at the warm scent of Nodoze’s mulled cider. They all order a selection of different drinks for him to try, excited as children with a new toy.
Travis wrinkles his nose with disgust when he settles on something sparkling with gin. “Ugh, of course you like something that tastes like medicine. Typical doctorly behavior.”
Dref lets out an undignified snort as he raises his glass to his lips. His face is flushed and his smile is easy, and he leans against Gable where they sit together in the booth.
He gets carried back to the ship that night after stumbling on their way out the door. They’ve barely made it halfway before Gable hears whistling snores from the lanky physician in their arms.
He doesn’t come out with them often, and always sits near the wall behind Gable’s own large frame. They do what they can to let him hide, and truly with their size difference it’s not a difficult task. Most times he’s happy to sit and watch them in conversation and cards, sipping his own drink (always only one, now) and enjoying his own quiet while observing their gaudy fun.
One night Gable’s senses prick into alertness, icy cold spiderweb tendrils fraying off of Dref and tickling their mind. They look at him curiously, and it feels like fire and ice course through them in waves.
They’re in an outdoor seating area in a warm climate in a surprising summer season; a maelstrom had swept them into port, chasing away winter just the night before. Dref’s coat is draped on the back of his chair, his sleeves rolled up and the top buttons of his collar opened to catch the breeze. His glass is almost empty and his gaze is far away, distantly focused on a lamp by the back door to the inn. None of this is what troubles Gable.
What does trouble them is his hand. His fingers move in slow patterns, like drawing a needle and thread through fabric, like a puppeteer moving strings. Gable looks and his skin shimmers with iridescent purple-black shadows up to the wrist, threads leaving his fingers and leading to the fireflies near the lantern. Gable’s stomach twists as veins of darkness infest the insects’ yellow glow. They lay a firm hand on his, stopping his motion and pinning it to the table.
For just a moment, Gable’s hand is less corporeal than they mean it to be. It flickers briefly like flames in the wind. Judging by Dref’s sharp inhale and the sudden redness of his hand under theirs, the illusion is not the only resemblance Gable's hand bears to fire in that spasm of a second.
Dref looks up at them, startled, color draining from his face and fear rising in his eyes at Gable’s silent stare. The fireflies drop dead again on the lantern tray with the almost silent click of carapace on tin. He barely moves the rest of the night, and doesn’t come ashore again for a long time. They don’t talk about it.
They don’t talk about it at all until the island, when Dref comes back from being sick a little ways down the beach after seeing the captain laying dead in the sand. His face is pale and taut, hands trembling, but he presses them together, brings them to his lips, shakily breathes in, and explains the depths of his magic to the shaken Jonnit, Travis who’s tense as the springs in his watch, and a stony faced Gable.
—-
The tavern door swings open with a bang, the bubbling noise of business spilling out on the cobblestone just before Travis Matagot also tumbles through the doorway. His ankle twists on the uneven stone and he tumbles backwards, landing on his backside as a trio of threatening shadows stretch out the doorway. Travis lifts a hand to his nose and it comes away bloodied, and his smile is red and reminiscent of bared teeth as he looks up at the three angry figures looming over him.
“Yer a damn cheat,” the burliest man leans down into Travis’ face, resting his hard-knuckled hands on his knees. The knuckles on his right hand are smeared with Travis’ blood. He was the one to deliver the punch that disgracefully discharged him from the crowded interior. “An’ I’ll be havin’ none of yer prettied up excuses over it. Ye’ve screwed us over for the last time, an’ we’ll be havin’ blood over it as well as our money back.”
Travis is intimately familiar with bad situations, and his current predicament is certainly one for the list. The burly one front and center has his fists, which seems to be enough for him. The tall, lean woman to his left is flipping a butterfly knife with flair, and Travis fiddles enough with his own to recognize when someone knows how to handle it beyond flashy tricks. Shk-shnk, shk-shnk , the quiet percussive rhythm quickens as she readies her stance. The figure on his right is slinking around behind him, face hidden in the shadows of their cloak.
Not ideal.
“I don’t cheat,” Travis sighs half to himself, then raises his voice to address his unamused audience. “Surely we can talk this over in a civilized manner?”
In a surprising turn, the burly man snorts and offers Travis his hand.
In a less surprising turn, as soon as he has his feet under him he’s shoved backwards again. The cloaked figure grabs at Travis’ coat pockets, hands moving with practiced confidence and snatching at the newly won silver (and fairly won, Travis can’t help but think with angry petulance). Travis reaches out to regain his balance and the lean lady moves with a flash, knife twirling shk-shnk and there’s a stab of pain in the soft area under his left arm.
There’s a warm, wet rush, and his plans of retaliating in any way fall much in the same way he does, yelping as he catches himself on his injured side. His vision blurs. Squinting, trying to focus his vision, he sees the big man and lean woman catch their share of silver as it sparkles through the air. The big guy shakes his head almost pityingly, and Travis sees red for a dizzying second before realizing the man is speaking and his voice is also full of mock concern. He’s missed half of what he’s said already.
“…mean ‘nd accurate, with that pretty lil knife of hers.” Travis’ vision swims, and the voices come in hazy. “Stop that bleedin’, mate. Or don’t. Ye won’t be stealin’ with yer fancy card tricks no more.”
“I didn't steal ,” Travis spits venomously, and the world tilts nauseously as the woman delivers a sharp, scornful kick to his side. They turn back through the door, and Travis is left glaring as the door closes behind them. He moves to push himself upright, and his hand slips on the wet cobblestone. He looks down and distantly notices the sticky redness seeping from beneath his coat and pooling on the ground.
Shit.
Travis curls inwards like the wounded animal he is, struggling to his feet as he presses on the wound with his opposite hand. He grits his teeth around the blood in his mouth from his near-broken nose, and stumble-slow makes his way to the shadows pressed between the tavern and nearby stationary shop.
The small street noises around him are tinny. A dulled, rounded-off voice calls his name, the sound ringing around his senses and making him look up. In the big glass windows of the stationary shop, a big dumb idiot stares over the books clutched in their hands.
Travis shapes his grimace into a macabre grin, face taut and teeth bared, and continues moving toward his meager hiding place. There’s the familiar bang of a door swinging open too violently, and he idly notes that his name sounds clearer without the glass in the way.
“Travis- ?!” Gable storms around the corner as he slides down the wall. Travis’ bold smile slips away as their shadow falls over his hiding place, adding just enough darkness for a moment of vulnerability.
“What did you do,” Gable growls as they stoop towards him, slipping their arms to support behind his back and under his legs, “to deserve a beating in the middle of an afternoon?” They pick him up bridal style as if he weighs nothing, and a high pitched noise leaves him as his injured side is jostled into their chest. “Sorry, sorry,” Gable’s voice rumbles through their chest, and Travis feels the sound more than he actually hears it.
“I’ve never, ah, deserved this a day in my life,” Travis wheezes, sarcasm coming easier than sincerity has for decades now. “They’ve ruined my coat.”
Gable snorts, the huff of their breath blowing strands of hair from his face. Their worry comes off them in waves, and Travis feels like a leaf floating down a river as their long legs move beneath him.
He doesn’t know where they’re going. He can’t bring his vision into focus, his head is light as air, his left side pulses and oozes and he can feel himself ebbing away with it. His lips move and words burble over his teeth like water over river stones, and he doesn’t know what he’s saying but knows that as long as he can still talk at least he’s not dead.
Gable’s front is growing wet and sticky, and he wrinkles his nose in disgust. Everything’s fuzzy and he’s faintly aware of how much his side hurts.
The sounds and shapes around him change. Ropes creak in the wind. Gable’s footsteps ring hollowly as they move from the beaten path to the deck of the ship. The light is dim compared to the afternoon sun. BANG as a door opens too fast, a stumbling swear and the sound of something being dropped. The smooth sounds of Gable’s voice are interspersed with terse stutters, and Travis inhales sharply as his hand is pulled away and someone applies pressure to the cut under his arm.
He hones in on the discomfort and blinks rapidly, willing his wandering mind back into focus. He’s lying on a long table in a room lit by warm lantern light, and he can see a messily abandoned desk from where his head is turned. The large hand pressing down on his wound is Gable’s, and Dref Wormwood is rummaging in a cupboard of ingredients.
“D-damn it,” Dref curses, pushing bottles and small bundles of dried plants to the side frantically with one hand and clutching needle and thread in the other. “I don’t, I don’t have sleeping drought prepared, I n-n-needed to make -“
“Don’t wanna sleep,” Travis hears himself say. “Sleep’s.. mm. No, ‘wakes fine, awaaaake..”
“Shut up Travis,” the doctor snaps, “I can’t, I can’t think when you won’t stop t-t-talking, just be quiet.”
“Dref, I know you don’t want to cause him more pain,” Gable’s voice is low and urgent. “But you don’t have that choice right now. You have to stop the bleeding.”
Travis gives a small smile and puts a shaky hand on where theirs is holding him together. Gable knows as well as he does that losing too much blood too quickly is the one of the only things that could actually kill him. He’ll have to tease them for caring later, of course, but for now it brings a glowing warmth to his chest that is far more comfortable than the other warm stickiness covering them both.
Travis sees Dref swallow back a gag as he fully turns around and approaches the table. He pulls his ridiculously complicated goggles down over his eyes and leans over his injured arm with the threaded needle, and begins to chant in a language that is familiar to Travis even if he can’t understand it.
Dref directs Gable’s hand position with long fingers, voice wavering as he sees new blood rush forth. He’s obviously upset by the sight, but to his credit there’s no pause in his pointed movements or intentf intonations. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he cuts away Travis’ damaged coat and begins the physical act of his healing arts.
Travis tears his mind away from observation, lets himself drift on dizzy waves; he’s familiar enough with pain, but that never seems to make it easier. Gable holds pieces of him together, and Dref works with deft fingers to make small, neat stitches.
Some time passes. Travis isn’t really paying attention. But eventually he realizes the room around him is quiet, no one is touching him, and his shoulder still hurts but doesn’t seem to be actively bleeding. He opens bleary eyes, and props himself up on his uninjured side.
His wound is tightly bound, bandages wrapping across his chest and over his shoulder to keep a compress packed tight onto his new stitches. He pokes at it gently, wrinkling his nose at the squishing of the compress and the dulled pain beneath it. There’s a disapproving noise and the rustle of fabric from the desk area.
Travis’ coat is draped atop and over the edge of the desk, the long ends resting in folds on Dref’s lap where he sits bent over a new tear in the fabric; it seems that the blood is mostly washed away, leaving only a faint stain and sharp memory.
Dref straightens from where he’s hunched over his work, rolling his shoulders back and stretching out his arms and wrists. His overcoat is draped over the back of his chair, and the faded vest he wears over his undershirt is unbuttoned and hangs loosely off his small frame. He pulls his glasses down from where they are perched on his forehead and adjusts them on the bridge of his nose, looking at Travis severely.
“Leave that, ah, alone,” Dref says sternly, waving at Travis’ shoulder. “You’ll only make it w-worse by messing with it.”
Travis dismisses the doctor’s concern with a small wave, but has to grit his teeth around a pained whine as he pushes himself into a sitting position and maneuvers himself to where his legs hang off the edge. Dref glares over the rims of his glasses.
“And j-just where do you think you’re g-going?”
“Oh, you know… out.” Travis tries vaguely. Dref folds his arms across his chest.
“I forgot something at the bar?”
“For your health, I’d h- heavily discourage going back to that bar.”
“To my bunk.” Travis shifts off the table into a standing position and finds himself looking just slightly down into the doctor's stubborn face.
“I don’t think so. You were hurt, badly, and you’ll s-stay in my care until I release you.” Dref pushes gently on his stomach, moving him back into a sitting position. “B-besides, I haven’t finished your coat.”
Looking past him, Travis can see an open sewing kit, a spool of thin thread (not the tough catgut Dref uses for his medical stitches), and a threaded needle that is in fact connected to the half-mended tear. He smiles crookedly up at Dref, who returns it small and hesitant.
“I didn’t know you could sew!” Travis says joyfully, “Finally, someone who I can trust to do the important work. You know Gable didn’t take me seriously when I mentioned how upset I was over that coat?” Dref snorts and returns to his seat.
As Dref works on his sewing, the quiet calm of the room grates on Travis until he can’t sit still again. He taps his fingers idly on the edge of the table, hums under his breath. The silence persists.
“Your stitches are much neater than mine.”
“I imagine it, uh, comes with p-practice.”
“Oh you spend a lot of time stitching then?”
“I-I suppose-“
“Is that what you do when you don’t come out with us?”
Dref puts down the needle with an irritated huff. “Yes, sometimes. I also r-read, write, draw. I am, ah, comfortable with the time I s-spend alone. Quiet time.” He shoots Travis a look that he proceeds to ignore.
“That’s it? It doesn’t get, y’know. Boring? All that time in your own head?”
“Ah, no? N-not boring, in my experience.” Dref looks at him quizzically, resigning himself to conversation in the wake of Travis’ persistence. “W-what do you do, in your spare time?”
“Wellll,” Travis drawls, “usually I have my luminary deck to at least fidget with,” a meaningful glance, and Dref sighs and begins to look through the many, many pockets of his coat. “And if there’s other folks nearby I can usually convince them into a game, or at least entertain them with a reading.”
Shifting the bundle of fabric in his lap, searching for unchecked pockets, Dref’s voice holds a note of confusion. “Reading? With cards? I don’t, uh, don’t recall seeing L-Luminaries with text on them. And, and I’ve s-seen a few different ones at this point. Aha!”
He holds the bundle of cards triumphantly, then wilts as he sees Travis’ incredulous face.
“Lumin’s eyes, Dref, you don’t know what a sailors reading is?” He gestures for him to toss them, rolling his eyes as Dref stands to bring them to him instead. Dref’s face is flushed pink as he presses them into his hand with a huff.
“I-I only learned of Illimat after I joined the Uhuru ,” he mutters, sitting back down with a thump. Travis makes a scandalized noise that the doctor glares at him for. Dref sighs. “G-g-games and superstitions were something of a, ah, discouraged subject at University.”
Travis snorts. “Well, I suppose someone has to be responsible for corrupting the youth. It may as well be me. Pull up another chair, dear doctor, and let’s continue your education.” He grins wolfishly, and Dref rolls his eyes but does pull a chair from the edge of the room and helps Travis down into it. The doctor draws up his own chair on the opposite side of the table and sits down like a student at lecture, spine straight and his eyes fixed on the cards.
Travis flicks and flashes the cards with nimble fingers; with such an attentive audience, he adds a trick here and there, enjoying the spark of interest and childlike wonder that’s growing behind Dref’s eyes as the cards twirl like autumn leaves. “You’re at least aware of what the Luminaries are, yes?”
“Of course I kn-know about the Luminaries.” Dref’s voice is offended, his eyes fixed on the cards as Travis lays them face down on the table before flipping them all over in one smooth gesture, sweeping them back up into his hands as the colored pictures flicker in the reflection of Dref’s glasses.
Travis tuts. “Watch your tone.” That glare again from behind wire rims. “Well, you didn’t know about readings! I’m just covering basics,” he defends himself smoothly, allowing the familiar sounds and motion of shuffling cards fill his senses.
“I know of the Luminaries,” Dref repeats again, his voice quiet and intensely interested. Travis finds himself transfixed, hands working mindlessly as Dref’s eyes stay focused on the cards. “I know of their stories. B-but, I also know that they are.. hm. They are m-more, as well. They are old, very old, and powerful, though I’ve f-found no-one who can explain exactly why. They’re… fascinating.”
“Oh sure,” Travis has never been one for extended seriousness. It feels wrong to let himself sit in it, like clothes that are just a bit too tight to be comfortable. “But there’s power behind most things if you look for it.”
Dref sighs in consternation, folding his arms and resting them on the tabletop. His posture relaxes, spine bending like a stem of grass under the weight of morning dew. He flicks his eyes away from the cards to meet Travis’.
“They are powerful,” Travis concedes, laying the cards in a spread face down in front of him. “And they can be dangerous. But they have tremendous value, and the knowledge they can provide and prayers they answer can mean the difference between failure and success, life and death. So, ready to see what they say to you?” He gestures to the cards with an air of casual grandeur.
The room is lit warmly in shades of gold, light streaming through the small windows in shafts illuminated by swirling dust. Dref’s eyes glitter with curiosity, his finger tapping on his arm.
“How do we start?”
“First, pick two cards, any two cards.”
“S-stop waving your hands at me. Don’t put on a s-sh-show.”
“I’d never, I’m deadly serious. Don’t peek.”
“I’m not!”
“I’m just saying! Now lay them in front of you, one on top of the other so they make the points of a compass.” Travis demonstrates the proper position with his hands, laying them on the table with one laying perpendicular on top of the other. “Now, the Luminaries will give us different information depending on the direction. Each Luminary has its own context as well of course, based on their stories and history. Go ahead, flip them over.”
The Tide, facing North, and the River, facing East.
“Hm.”
“Hm? Aren’t you going to t-t-tell me what it means?”
“Give me a minute! Usually people just, just know . I’m not used to explaining the implications from scratch. Okay.. see how the Tide is facing away from you? The northern point of the compass?”
“I see.”
“So the Tide is referring to external forces here, the outside world. Themes are all about, like, tide stuff.”
“ Tide stuff? ” Dref’s voice drips incredulously.
Travis waves his hand impatiently. “Oh come off it, you’re University-educated aren’t you? Y’know, tides! Cycles, change, uh, shifting fortunes.”
“O-okay okay, cycles and change I can s-see the connection. Shifting fortunes ?! W-what, how am I supposed to deduce that f-for myself, hm? Th-that’s extremely unscientific.”
“ Anyways , this is hardly the interesting part of this read. Of course the world is changing, it’s always changing and moving around us, even if it’s cycles are irregular now.”
“Fine, f-fine . What about the, the River?”
There’s nothing warm in Travis’ smile as he explains, his face a cold and practiced mask. “See, now that’s far more interesting. This positioning, the East-West directions, apply to yourself. The way it’s oriented here, facing East, it’s applied to your future. You will face great temptations, and the obstacles in your way will be challenging to overcome. You’ll face destruction if you fail.”
Dref sniffs and leans backwards, pulling his arms off the tabletop to his chest. He looks unconvinced. “And you put stock in these readings? They are entertaining, I s-ss-s,” an annoyed huff, “I suppose. But, they’re vague at best. As you said yourself, the world is always changing around us, a-and as for ‘challenges in my future’” Dref makes condescending quotations with his fingers, “of course , each day w-we face brings new challenges, and we live on a skyship!” He waves at the wooden structure around them with a hand, only moving from the elbow. “All it t-takes, is a failed obstacle for something to go c-cat-catastrophically wrong. I am already ah, aware of that.”
“Fine. So, draw again.”
Dref leans in, sliding his chosen Luminaries back into place so Travis can pick them up and shuffle once more. He’s businesslike this time, and has the cards laid out again quickly.
Dref raises an eyebrow. “So, so what? We do this until I’m c-convinced that a reading holds useful information?”
Travis leans back in his seat, crossing his arms. “Two more, and then see what you think. Then, you can do a few for me, compare our results for science .”
The back of his neck tickles and Travis holds back a shiver. He ought to know better than to play with Luminaries unduly, he ought to have learned not to play with what may-as-well-be gods watching the results, but Dref’s casual dismissal bothers him.
Travis raises an eyebrow, waves at the spread in front of him as the doctor still hasn’t chosen his second set of cards. Dref sighs, adjusts his glasses, pulls two and places them.
“Go on, you know what’s next.”
Flip, flip. The susurration of paper-on-paper-on-wood fills the air with its own kind of magic, and Travis breathes it in deeply. His shoulder twinges, and he rubs his arm absentmindedly. The Loom facing South, the Maelstrom facing West.
Travis makes Dref wait. He’s not above a little pettiness; not above a lot of it, either.
“W-well?”
“Have you heard the tale of how featherweave came to be, dear doctor?”
“Yes, I know the fable.”
“The wife breaks herself on the loom for her husband, to keep them warm and fed at the cost of her health.”
“Y-yes.”
“It seems you share a similar fate. Toil, obligation, sacrifice. Be it in your past, the present moment, or in your future, you take pains to serve those you love. It may trap you, wrap you in its weave without recognition of your sacrifice.”
Dref gives a small humph . “I-I’m sure I don’t know who I’d be making such a sacrifice for. And I’m certainly n-not tied up in any such b-business at the moment.”
“Oh I’m sure something will turn up. Love has a funny way of growing around you like roses, pretty until you realize you’re trapped all in thorns.”
“I d-didn’t mark you as a poet.”
“Oh I’m not,” Travis says blithely. “Just noting some observations. Very scientific of me to make observations, I should say.” Dref scowls at him.
“Anyway, the Maelstrom indicates something of a stormy past, eh? Chaotic change, ringing any bells for you?”
Dref huffs at him in response, but Travis can see some of the blood drain from his already pale face. He gives the doctor his best predator smile, vindicated that something’s hitting home.
“Still up to finish our little bet? One more reading?”
Wan but still defiant, the doctor shoves the cards back towards him again, leaning further in over the table and watching Travis’ movements intently as he shuffles the cards again. “H-how do I know you’re n-not cheating?”
“I don’t cheat,” Travis snaps. “I don’t need to. Besides, how could I possibly cheat a reading? All I know about you is that you’re a doctor and you can sew. Draw up.” He slams the cards with perhaps more force than necessary, spreading them with flair he usually saves for late nights and quiet rooms when he has all eyes trained on him.
Dref jumps slightly, but stays leaned in. He doesn’t hesitate this time, selects his cards while holding eye contact, then places and flips them.
The Soldiers facing South.
Facing East, the Butcher.
Dref blanches, his face going white as a sheet as he sees the second card. He points to the soldiers, voice faintly strangled as he asks, “ah, w-what does this one mean?”
“The Soldiers: death, deception, memory.” It’s the bleakest reading Travis has seen in a long time, and it’s hard to keep that realization out of his voice. He clears his throat. “Hm. And uh, it seems you recognize the Butcher.”
Tight, nervous laughter spills from behind Dref’s teeth. His hands are trembling, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. He looks ghastly.
“E-en-enough t-to know, to know it c-c-can’t be good to see, to s-see it facing East.”
In a rare moment of connection, Travis puts a hand out to touch his elbow; only lightly, two fingers at most, but it’s enough. Dref’s eyes tear away from the cards in front of him to glance at the point of contact, then meet Travis’ eyes. He can hear Dref’s teeth chattering.
Travis peels away his layers of humor, exposing an honest concern in his voice that’s rusty with disuse. His voice feels quiet and awkward as the question crawls out. “Dref, are you hiding something?”
Dref looks down at the cards again, clears his throat anxiously. It sounds like he’s holding back a scared whine, swallowing and storing it down between his lungs. He reaches for the rest of the Luminary deck, gathering the cards in long shaky fingers and shuffling them clumsily.
“Y-your turn,” he says quietly, and Travis presses his lips together. Dref flashes his eyes up to see disapproval written clearly on Travis’ face. Dref look down at his hands again as he lays out the cards one by one. He whispers. “P-please. Leave it.”
Travis is intimately familiar with keeping his cards close to his chest, as it were. He gives the doctor’s arm a small pat with his fingertips, and leans out of his space again. Dref exhales shakily, straightens the row of cards displayed in front of him.
The thing about Travis Matagot’s readings is this: they’re terribly consistent. He’s only ever drawn something different right before or after something that affected him majorly. Because of this consistency, he doesn’t usually let others set up a reading for him; if they don’t call him a cheat for it, if they’re spiritual enough to understand the true implications of the pattern in his cards… The look in their eyes as some small understanding dawns on them is one of his least favorite experiences.
But he’s always been a gambling man, and always loved to win. This bet he’s set up with Dref, to sway his skepticism over the accuracy of the readings a Luminary can provide, is an easy bet to win because Travis himself can prove how the cards know you, know your soul and your self and of the world around you.
Ever since his fated game with Gable and the Forest Queen, Travis’ reading has been the Changeling facing South, and the Forest Queen facing East. She’s never been one for subtly staking her claim. It’s bothered Travis to no end, as it renders one of his favored pastimes fairly useless when applied to himself. It’s not even a clever reading, which almost grates on him more; all it states is that yes, in a very literal sense he is a changeling, and of course he’s governed by his own impulse and will. He could’ve told you that without it being divined for him, thank you very much. As for the Forest Queen dictating his future, well… Travis chooses not to dwell on that as much as possible.
But for the sake of a bet? To prove someone wrong, especially someone who believes in evidence as strongly as Dref? Travis has always loved the warm satisfaction of winning.
So he examines the cards as Dref has laid them out, letting his hands drift to those that pull him like the strings on a marionette. Travis sets up his compass and flips the Luminaries to reveal the truth he already knows, the reading he’s all too familiar with.
And he freezes. Just for a moment.
Because that’s not what he sees.
Instead what faces him, staring up from the table with eyes that shouldn’t be able to hold so much warm kindness for ink and paint and paper, is this: the Maiden, facing South.
His hands begin to tremble. His throat tightens.
Travis has been alive long enough to assemble a customized deck of Luminaries, either winning cards he’d taken a fancy to or paying artists to fulfill his vision and bring his deck to life, truly make it his own. But the Maiden, this version of it, is one he made himself. He doesn’t know how it got there, because this is not a card he plays with. When playing or doing readings with others, he uses a different version with painted lines of shimmering gold that glitter in low lamplight; a tasteful gaudiness that captures the eye and distracts from the play at hand. Pretty, and a useful tool.
The version looking up at him now, this is a card Travis keeps in his breast pocket, pressed close against his heart, holding her close to him in the way he failed to, the way he wanted to, when she was torn from him. This is his Margaret, every detail drawn painstakingly from memory on a card he’d painted over and reworked himself. He doesn’t know how it got there. He can’t breathe.
He raises a hand to his chest, and he frantically looks at the pocket he knows is empty because the card is right there , and Margaret looks up with her fond smile and crows feet around her eyes.
There’s a hesitant touch on Travis’ elbow, and he lets his eyes fall to the delicate tap tap tapping rhythm that starts there. He follows up the arm to Dref’s face, looking uncomfortable and vulnerable, and the doctor says quietly. “Breathe.”
Travis swallows, focuses in time with Dref’s own nervous lungs. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four, five. They sit that way for a minute, until Travis gives a small cough and empty smile.
“She’s, uh. She’s b-beautiful,” Dref offers, pulling his hand back awkwardly.
“I know.” Travis’ voice is quiet. He traces the gently worn edge of her with a finger, finally feeling calm enough to actually take in the reading before him. The Maiden, his Maiden, facing East, and the Union facing South.
Intriguing. Exciting even, now that his shock is wearing off. Finally, results that could mean something. He feels electric, his skin prickling and the fine hairs on his arm standing on end.
Travis picks Margaret up and puts her back in his pocket, rubbing at his chest where his ribs meet his sternum as a dull ache starts in his bones. He smiles ruefully at Dref. “Not sure how that got there; two Maidens in the deck can’t make that an accurate read. Spread them again for me?”
Dref smiles crookedly, picking up the cards and shuffling them loosely before he does so again.
“W-what, not going t-to illuminate that read for me? M-maybe, ah, maybe it doesn’t help you w-with this bet?” The joke is uncertain and unevenly executed, but Travis can appreciate the attempted levity. He grins, flashing his teeth and leaning forwards.
“Well, surely you want accurate results? You know, for definitive proof?” Dref’s crooked, timid smile grows a little wider, a little more sincere.
Travis picks his cards again, sets them, turns them face up.
The Newborn, facing North.
Margaret, facing East.
Travis can feel his heart beating rabbit-quick in his chest, but it’s not due to panic anymore. He sees Dref’s eyes widen, flick to Travis’ chest, and he checks with quick fingers. Sure enough, she’s gone again, laid out in front of them. His head is spinning, his lungs filling with warm anxiety.
“Wh- how-?” Dref’s voice is incredulous, his eyes sparking with interest. He makes firm eye contact with Travis, excitement bubbling excitedly as he demands, “What does she mean?”
“She, ah,” Travis laughs breathily, “ha! Her themes are kindness, beauty, infatuation; she’s usually quite good news.”
“And, and why that version again?” The doctor taps the table next to her excitedly, but pointedly not crossing an unspoken boundary by touching the card directly. A different kind of warmth blooms in Travis’ chest, appreciation and affection for Dref’s attention to detail spreading through him. “I-I mean, I s-s-saw you put it away! I set up the cards myself!”
Travis grins up at him, “I don’t know! The Lumins will these things, I’m sure we’ll find out why!”
“Again,” Dref demands, sweeping the cards up and straightening their edges against the table, leaving Travis’ Maiden out again. “But ah - if, if, it’s alright with you of course - can you put that somewhere different?”
Travis obliges, standing shakily to walk her to rest on his coat at Dref’s desk. He lifts his hands, a universal gesture of look-I-don’t-have-anything, and Dref nods enthusiastically.
“Yes, th-that works, hm, excellently. Yes.” He spreads the cards again enthusiastically, then turns his chairs so he can see both the spread and Margaret sitting in the warm glow of his desk lamp.
Travis rubs at his shoulder with a wince, painful tingles tracing from the wound across his skin like cracks in ice. His breath hitches, but he covers it with a cough and draws his cards. Travis and Dref both look at the desk. Margaret still looks at the ceiling beams, yellow-orange light from the window illuminating the tender ink that gives her shape.
They look at each other, exhale, flip .
And there she is. A wild, childlike laugh rips from Travis’ throat and Dref stands with a start, racing to the desk to search, but sure enough the Maiden is between them again. Travis claps and Dref looks at him wondrously, his hands moving animatedly as he approaches the table again.
“That’s extraordinary ,” he breathes, twisting and removing and replacing his ring as his tongue trips on empty syllables. “That’s- I mean, there’s- how, how ? There’s got to be something, a-an explanation-“
“Yes, yes, it’s clear isn’t it?” Travis leans forward, fingertips framing Margaret’s card as he presses on the table for emphasis. “The Luminaries are involved in these readings! They hold real meaning, I mean you can see that!”
“I can see it!” Dref’s laugh is like a bell, bright and ringing in the small space. “It’s incredible! W-what does it mean this time?”
The Rusalka, facing South.
“Temptation, desire, longing,” Travis rattles off, his head spinning. Gods, he feels like he’s being set on fire, he can hardly focus. “Do another, go on!” As he replaces Margaret in his pocket, he can hear Dref’s voice but can’t comprehend the words over the roar in his ears. He’s obviously won, the boy is enthralled and believing, but Travis feels more lost and confused with each thrilling draw. What’s different about this scenario, that means he can draw new information? Is it because Dref is setting the cards? Why is his involvement proving so crucial?
Dref spreads the cards again, his movements more confident.
Travis’ skin tingles and burns. Small lightning flashes behind his eyes. He reaches for his cards, looking up to smile at Dref, when he sees the position of the sun out the window and his face falls.
“Shit. Shitshitshitsh-“
“Travis?” Dref’s voice rings with alarm.
“ Fuck ,” he says emphatically, laying his two cards in order atop each other and flipping them with a hysteric laugh. There’s an audible crack- pop , an ominous wet crunching sound, and Travis braces himself against the table with clenched teeth.
“ Don’t let anyone in, ” he hisses through clenched teeth, and he feels a hand come to rest on his shoulder just as the bone liquifies with searing, unspeakable agony. Dref’s exclamation of horror is choked off by a gagging noise. He pulls his hand back again quickly. “Dref, block the fucking door.”
Travis hears the doctor back away hurriedly, footsteps fading from his awareness as the world swirls black and white in front of his eyes.
On the table, the Changeling cowers beneath the demanding eyes of the Forest Queen.
—-
Jonnit wakes up before dawn to sneak out to Akaron’s small airship port. He grabs the sack he uses to collect eggs and stuffs his things inside: a change of clothes, extra socks because nothing is worse than wet feet (something he’s learned well enough from drowsy muddy mornings in the chicken yard), and Hip’s map. He throws on his oversized coat and boots (his dad keeps saying he’ll grow into them soon) and opens the door to the blue-charcoal pre-dawn light.
Jonnit moves with purpose down the packed earth road to the docks, adjusting the bag over his shoulder so that it’s concealed beneath his coat and fidgeting with the scarlet bandana tied tight around his forehead. There’s a flicker of movement from the eye beneath it; for just a moment the road before him is lit by a hazy gold thread leading straight to the only skyship in port. The eye closes again and Jonnit breaks into an excited run, flying towards what he knows to be his future.
He slows his stride and ducks behind a warehouse as he sees activity thrumming around the ship already. Skyjacks dart in and out like bees from the hive, moving boxes and crates and bundles with remarkable efficiency. Jonnit watches them for a minute, trying to decipher which items go where, and gathers his courage. He adjusts the bandana again so that it covers more of his hair and forehead, buttons his coat all the way up the collar and hides his lower face behind it, then plunges into the chaos with a will.
The Uhuru looms over the hum of activity like a mother watching her children play in the yard. The horizon breaks out in streaks of gold and orange through the blue.
Jonnit strains around the wood-and-wire crate of chickens in his arms, fighting for balance as the two hens inside strut around each other to see the view from the opposite side. It’s not that the crate is heavy, necessarily, but it’s over-large for his small frame and the way the weight keeps shifting means his path up the gangplank is crooked and uncertain.
“Hold still ,” he hisses to the hens under his breath, “you’re gonna give me away!”
Jonnit steps on the lower deck for the first time, his boots and untied laces ringing on the sturdy wood like little drum beats in time with his pounding heart. He’s walking on wood in the air for the first time, and it feels right in a way he’s never felt before. His excitement bubbles up like a fountain inside him, and a grin steals across his face behind the collar of his jacket.
“Whoa there, kid, this way with that livestock!”
The booming voice breaks Jonnit out of his reverie and he turns just a little too quickly, almost tripping over the laces of his boots. He sees a pair of hands reach out to steady him, but he catches himself before they can touch him and wanders in the right direction, dodging helpful skyjacks on the way.
“Need a hand, kid?”
“I got it, I got it!”
“Yer boot’s untied there, lad, watch yer step!”
“I’m walkin’ just fine, thanks!”
“Lookout, ye’ll trip on that rope!” This last warning comes just a moment too late.
Jonnit trips over the heavy coil that just overlaps the narrow path through the cargo bay. He spins as he falls, landing on his butt and the crate still undamaged in his arms.
“Hey now! I’ll take those where they belong and you tie those shoes!”
Jonnit holds the crate up as he blinks into the face of the oldest man he’s ever seen, covered in tattoos and thin as a rake. The old man takes the chickens easily, then props the cage on his hip under one wiry arm and offers his other hand to Jonnit. He reads the tatttoos across each knuckle, S P I T .
“Spit?”
“Aye,” the old man squints at him sharply, “but ye’d be knowing that, of course. Seein’ as yer helping load the ship ye must be part of the crew, hm?”
“Right! Right, I’ll uh, just tie my shoe and uh. Get back to work!” Spit claps Jonnit’s shoulder with a mostly toothless grin, then leaves him behind in the narrow walkway as he disappears around the corner.
Jonnit heaves a sigh, pulling his collar even higher. “Spit, huh? That was too close for comfort.” He shimmies his way between stacks of crates, leaving the walkway clear just as two skyjacks carrying boxes of grain enter the area. Jonnit climbs and ducks and weaves his way through the cargo bay until he’s near a wall, then shrugs off his coat and sits on top of it.
With nothing to do now but hide and wait, Jonnit pulls out an Illimat deck, a gift from his father for his tenth birthday that is battered and stained with the careless love of a child. He plays a solitary game as the cargo builds up around him.
Jonnit is shivering with nerves and excitement as the cargo bay doors creak closed. There’s the sounds of rough rope scraping against itself as it’s tied off, the clap of a hand on someone’s back. He holds his breath as footsteps move past the stack of crates he’s wedged himself behind.
“Feels good to be full up on cargo again, eh?”
“Aye, but I’m sure it’ll feel even better with something to drink!”
Their laughter echoes warmly around the curved walls of the cargo bay as they take the lantern from beside the door and it swings shut behind them, leaving the space in darkness. Jonnit relaxes his shoulders from where they’ve crept up around his ears and gives a full body shake to release the tension. He blinks, willing his eyes to adjust to the darkness faster so he can move about without running into things.
The world sways beneath him, and Jonnit braces his hands on the crates to one side and the wall on the other. There is a fleeting moment of concern before he realizes that they must be taking off. He’s flying on a real skyship!
Jonnit’s eye flickers open beneath his bandana, revealing the way the wind thrums through the ropes like a bow on strings, singing out a traveling song in tune with the creaking of the deck planks and the roar of the furnaces. He sees the sounds laid out in front of him, leading into the open sky, leading him to–
The eye closes, and Jonnit lets out a disappointed sigh he didn’t realize he’d been holding in his narrow chest. He rubs his forehead around the eye, gently, ruefully, slightly annoyed.
“C’mon, I’ve made it this far,” he mutters to himself. “And it feels like I’m going in the right direction. So the only question is, what’s next?”
There’s no answer, obviously, his whispered self-consult buried amongst Akaron’s latest traded goods. For the first time, his heart wavers at the thought that what’s around him now is all he’ll see of home for who knows how long.
Jonnit begins to climb his way out of his hiding spot. “Never mind that,” he hisses through gritted teeth as he squeezes between two stacks of crates and under a bundle of canvas at the same time. “Let’s just get- out- in the- open- agh !”
Jonnit’s yelp of surprise as he tumbles out of the tight squeeze is echoed by a scared squeak from the area by the door. He lays very still where he’s fallen and closes his eyes against the sight of the opened door.
“H-h- hm, uh. Hello?” The voice that calls out sounds like it wishes it were doing anything else. “Are y-you alright? That was, uh, a b-big n-n-noise. If you’re hurt I c-can help with that.”
Well, Jonnit thinks to himself, it’s showtime.
“Sorry! Sorry to scare you, aha, I was just. Looking. For something. I’m fine.” Jonnit pushes himself to his feet to face the figure in the doorway.
It’s a young man, slight in frame and not very intimidating. He stands only an inch or two taller than Jonnit, wide eyes behind thick glasses that sit on a pinched nose, straw-colored hair shorn very close to the scalp. One of his hands rests on the door frame, picking at splinters and pulling them away, a lantern clutched in his free hand. He clears his throat (Jonnit doesn’t think he’s ever heard such a nervous sound in his life), and the splinter-picking stops in favor of a light, two-fingered tap tap. “I-I-“
“I’m supposed to be down here!” Jonnit blurts out, and the nervous boy draws his head in towards his shoulders and blinks at the outburst. “I’m, uh, here to help you! Find things! What’re
you looking for?”
His only answer is another two blinks in rapid succession. Jonnit puts on his most charming smile. The nervous young man straightens his already straight glasses, and Jonnit’s face softens into something more sincere.
“If you hold the lantern, I’ll carry what you need back out of here?” Jonnit offers, stepping to the side to allow the stranger access to the hold. The corner of his mouth quirks into a small off-centered smile.
“Ah, thank you. I-I-I’m ah, afraid I don’t know your name,” the man puts a hand on his own chest, fingers still tapping gently even though they’ve left the doorway. “M-my name is, ah. Dref Wormwood. I-I’m the Uhuru’s resident d-doctor.”
The tapping of his fingers on the fabric of his canvas doctor’s coat eases the tension in Jonnit’s own shoulders. He finds his finger twitching in rhythm alongside, releasing nervous energy with every beat.
“Jonnit Kessler. Let's get looking, yeah? This place is huge; we could be down here all day if we’re not careful.”
Dref smiles ruefully as he makes his way carefully forward, weaving his way into the maze of freshly acquired goods.
“Oh b-believe me, hah, I-I-I’ve spent quite a bit of time d-down here.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I-I even got l-lost, once.”
“You’re joking!”
“I d-don’t- no, I’m not! I c-c-came down to retrieve some s-s-s-“ an annoyed huff as he squeezes past a stack of boxes, Jonnit shimmying along behind him, “hm, s-supplies, and I d-didn’t realize quite how d-deep into the hold I-I’d gone looking.”
“And you forgot the way out?”
“Hah. Y-yes, yes I–“ Dref is stopped in his tracks when the disturbed dust in the air causes a sneeze to tear through him, curling his shoulders inwards and knocking his glasses askew. The high-pitched noise bounces loudly around the packed room, and Jonnit covers his snort of amusement with his hand. Dref’s voice sounds nasally as he wipes at his nose with a hand-hemmed handkerchief produced from one of his many pockets. “I did, forget that is.” He tucks the cloth away again and straightens his glasses and gives Jonnit that uncertain smile again. “But that w-was a, ah, a long time ago.”
Jonnit beams up at this weird little man, and the confidence of his smile lends the one on Dref’s face a degree of soft comfort, almost like he’s getting used to the way it feels on his face.
It’s there, with that exchange of smiles and the twinkle of his own laughter echoing around the hold when Dref sneezes again, that Jonnit’s reaffirmed that he’s on the right path and in the right place.
A few weeks later, in the wrong place, Jonnit’s falling through open air and crashing to deck of the Uhuru .
One second he’s climbing across the rigging, reaching for the next rope with confidence for the first time after a week of cautious maneuvering, then his damn eye blinks open. He can see the rope moving out of reach just before it actually does so, but it’s already too late for him; he’s committed to the forward motion, put his weight behind it, and he’s falling.
Helpful as ever, through his third eye he sees the bone of his arm crack as he catches himself. The eye shuts again as his back hits the boards and knocks the air out of his lungs.
He’s gasping like a fish out of water, trying to get his lungs to remember how to work, when someone comes thundering down from the helm to kneel over him.
“Hey hey hey buddy, it’s gonna be okay,” despite their size (and they are incredibly tall, blocking the sun where they loom), they keep their voice calm and almost cooing in its gentleness. Like the mourning doves in the dew-dawn light in Akaron, Jonnit thinks to himself, and he doesn’t know if he’s crying because of the fall or because he’s suddenly so very homesick. “Do you think you can sit up for me?”
Jonnit tries to push himself up, forgetting his arm and bringing fresh tears to his eyes with the movement. The tall person puts a supportive arm under his back and lifts him easily into a sitting position, his breath returning in hitched gulps as he tries to get himself under control. They tut concernedly at the way he holds his injured arm to his chest, and it makes him think of his dad tutting over scraped knees as he cleaned them with a warm washcloth. Jonnit screws his eyes shut, biting his lip against the thought.
It’s too much. It hurts. He misses his dad, and he misses Zana trying to distract him from the discomfort. He misses the feeling of dew on grass getting his boots wet, collecting eggs from the chicken coop in a basket the three of them wove together, playing cards by lantern-light in the kitchen while they wait for dinner to finish cooking. His face is so wet, and he scrapes it roughly against the shoulder of his shirt in an attempt to dry it.
The tall person begins to rub soothing circles into Jonnit’s back. “Listen, that wasn’t too high of a fall but it looks like you landed funny on that arm. Am I right?” Jonnit nods tersely. “Right. I’m gonna take you to go see Dref, and he should be able to fix that up for you, okay? Is it okay if I pick you up?”
No sooner has he nodded when he finds himself in the air again, supported behind his back and under his knees, cradled close to this person’s chest. He tucks his face against their collarbone, unwilling to look at any of the rest of the crew that may be around. He lets himself get lost in the determined smoothness of their steps and the off-key humming deep in their throat, a quiet comforting thing meant only for his ears. They use their back to shove open the medbay door, making sure not to jostle him.
“Hey, Dref? I’ve got a delivery for you.”
“Ah! G-Gable please, please knock or s-shout or s-s-something before you just b-barge in, I-I-I-“
“If I shout or knock I think you’d jump anyways. Sorry about that ink spill though, I’ll pick up some extra next time we make port. Er, I’ll get you some new handkerchiefs as well, those are gonna be all stained now.”
“No it’s f-fine, I-I just- Jonnit? Are you alright?” Dref’s tone sharpens into professionalism, and Jonnit opens his eyes to look at him with a pained, weak smile.
“Hey, Dref.”
“Like I said, I brought a delivery-“
“Hm, yes. W-w-we need to discuss what constitutes a d-delivery versus a p-p-patient… Please, set him on the table so I can actually take a look at him?”
Gable lowers Jonnit to the table with exceeding gentleness and steps back. Dref starts inspecting him, frowning at the way he’s holding his injured arm. The doctor reaches out, his usually shaky hands moving with confidence and hovering above his arm.
“I-I-I need to move your arm in order to ah, assess your injury with a-accuracy. Is that okay?” Jonnit’s moved to silent tears by the quiet compassion in Dref’s request for consent, sniffing as they leave trails down his cheeks.
“Y-yeah it’s okay. Um, it- it really hurts close to my wrist,” Jonnit’s voice cracks mid-sentence, and he tries to swallow it back. Dref hums sympathetically, eyes closed as he moves the arm forward and turns it over with care, running his fingers from elbow to wrist slowly as he feels the swell of the injury.
“Hmm, ah, it s-seems to be an extra-articular fracture at least.” Opening his eyes, Dref must see the twin blank looks on Jonnit and Gable’s faces as he lays the arm back in Jonnit’s lap and turns to his medicine cupboard. “It-it’s- that’s a good thing, it means there’s no d-damage to the joint of your wrist.”
Dref pulls a variety of glass containers of dried herbs, a small bowl, and a vial of sparkling clear water out of the cabinet. He spreads them on top of the papers on his desk, pushing an open inkwell to the back to make space. He twirls the lids of the herbs open deftly, takes a pinch of the herbs in between his fingertips and drops them one at a time into the bowl before adding the water slowly, murmuring an incantation and mixing them together until they make a thick liquid that Jonnit wrinkles his nose at the sight of.
“What’s that?”
“This,” Dref brings the bowl over and sets it next to Jonnit’s good hand, moving back to the cupboard “is a p-p-painkiller and s-sedative. What I need to do to fix your arm is, uh, unpleasant to be awake for. G-gable, could you please get me a cup of water f-from the barrel? That way he can w-wash the taste down.”
Jonnit’s heart is pounding. He can feel it in his chest and his ears and his arm where it’s swollen. He’s scared.
He must make a noise, or let out an extra shaky breath, because Dref turns over his shoulder to look at him and his eyebrows draw together, exponentially increasing the impact of his normally worried expression. He straightens from his search and turns back to the table, kicking the door closed behind him with his hands full of thin, straight sticks, a roll of fabric, and a small pincushion. He clears his throat as he lays his healing instruments out where Jonnit can see them, and explains.
“I-I can’t fix your arm with magic alone, I’m afraid. B-but I can drastically speed up the h-healing process. W-wh-while you’re unconscious, I’m going to reset the bones in your arm to make sure they are lined up s-straight, binding them in place with these,” he spreads his hands over the sticks, wrap, and pins, “so that they don’t heal, um, crookedly. Usually, a m-mundane physician would do this for over a month.” Jonnit whines in disappointment, but Dref’s not done. “But I-I am not a mundane physician. W-with divine magic, applied daily, I-I believe you should be healed after about a, about a week.”
Gable whistles in admiration, setting a full cup of water on the table by the painkiller goop. Jonnit takes the small bowl in hand, smiling wetly at Dref’s uncomfortable earnestness in his bedside manner. “Thanks, Dref. Bottoms up?”
“Hm, indeed. I’m only s-sorry about the taste,” Dref grimaces as Jonnit swallows with a shudder. Jonnit quickly reaches for the water and gulps it down. Dref puts a hand on Jonnit’s shoulder, gentle but firm. “N-now, Gable, if you could help him lay down…”
Jonnit wakes up slowly, his thoughts moving like his head is full of cotton, to the soft sounds of a quill scratching on paper. His arm wrapped in what feels like a heavy, unwieldy glove. His throat feels like it’s been covered in a layer of extremely fine sand. He groans groggily, rubbing his eyes with his unbandaged hand.
A chair scrapes across the deck, soft footsteps, the sound of water being poured. Jonnit hears Dref set the water down on his desk, sees the spillage create a small ring on the paper through bleary eyes.
“H-here, I’m going to help you s-s-sit upright so you can have some water,” Dref says, his voice low.
With his help, Jonnit sits unsteadily upright and gulps down the water with gusto. He notices the absence of light through the small window, notices that it’s just him and Dref in the dark medbay with only a small lamp on the desk for light. “Hnngg,” Jonnit tries to speak, coughs. “Ugh. How long was I out?”
Dref takes the cup from him and goes to the barrel in the corner to refill it. “I-it’s an hour or two after s-s-sunset. H-how are you feeling?”
“Good, I think,” Jonnit takes the newly filled cup as Dref holds it out to him, sipping it slowly now that his waking thirst is quenched. “I can still taste that medicine, though. Blegh.” He pulls a face, sticking his tongue out in disgust as if the night air can get rid of the taste for him, and Dref smiles crookedly, holding his hand out in a closed fist. Jonnit holds his hand out curiously, and his jaw drops as he drops a small wrapped sweet into his open palm. “You have candy ?”
“For m-medical purposes, of course,” Dref says primly, popping a candy of his own into his cheek and giving a small hum of satisfaction as he sits down. Jonnit quickly unwraps his and rubs it on his tongue, making Dref blow air out his nose with a laugh. It’s good, sweet like honey with a faint hint of citrus, and Jonnit closes his mouth around it with a delighted noise of his own.
“So,” Jonnit clicks the hard candy around his teeth before settling it in his cheek. He examines the bandage on his injured arm, “This has to stay on for a week?”
Dref nods, leaning his elbow on his desk and propping his head on his hand. “Mhm, hm, and I-I’ll rewrap it so I can channel d-divine energy into the break each day. T-that should prevent any complications and s-speed up the process considerably.”
Jonnit kicks his feet, examining and poking at the wrap until Dref makes a disapproving noise. “Uh huh. Sooo. What am I supposed to do until then?”
The answer, it turns out, is absolutely nothing. Barred from helping with ship chores, Jonnit spends a lot of his time in the medical office with Dref. The alternative is sitting around with a bunch of people who have to work harder because Jonnit can’t pull his weight right now, and it makes him feel itchy and wriggly with guilt. He takes to spending his days and nights in the medbay while his arm heals.
Being around Dref is much easier. Yeah, he’s weird, and his interests are creepy (Jonnit regrets asking about the medical drawings he’s been working on, shudders at the image of muscle and tendon exposed and the glittering fascination Dref talked about them with). But he’s not hard to be around. He’s a quiet and considerate bunkmate, and he continues to be gentle with Jonnit’s arm long after Jonnit’s tired of doing so himself, attending to it daily with warm gold-glow pulses of divine magic once a day.
During those long quiet days, Jonnit feels a growing sense of protective discomfort that he can’t quiet place until it’s interrupted by an orphan with a splinter. After Dref attends to her, and she darts back out the door at a breakneck pace chased by Dref’s sigh, Jonnit thinks he’s finally placed it.
That orphan was the only person he’s seen come to the medbay since his fall, and she was only there out of necessity.
He doesn’t think he’s seen Dref leave his office area at all.
“Hey Dref,” Jonnit says faux causally, watching the back of the doctor’s neck intently where he leans over his desk.
“Hmm?”
“Do you ever get, like, lonely down here all by yourself all the time?”
The room goes more silent than normal as the movement of Dref’s quill stops, his whole body going stiff as a statue. Jonnit worries at his lip with his teeth the longer it continues.
“Dref?”
“Hmm?”
“Are.. are you okay, down here by yourself all the time?”
Dref leans back in his chair. He rubs at the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses upwards and askew in the process. He doesn’t look at Jonnit when he answers, but he doesn’t necessarily look bad either. He looks… thoughtful?
“I.. I suppose I haven’t given it much th-thought,” Dref says, and it sounds like he’s rolling the words around in his head before he speaks them so he knows exactly what they’ll sound like. It’s a careful non-answer. Jonnit makes a noise of doubtful concern before he can stop himself. Dref’s mouth curves into a small frown, and he lowers his hand from his face to toy with the cap of his inkwell. His glasses are crooked but he doesn’t seem to notice, his gaze both locked on the cap and simultaneously miles away.
“I-I’ve always been a bit… distant, I think.” Dref’s voice is low even in the quiet around them, barely audible above the sound of the wind outside. He taps the lid against the desk top. The small metallic clink creates a steady rhythm that his chest rises and falls to. Jonnit finds himself breathing in time as well, slow and deep and steady with the beat. “Even as a child.” Tap tap tap. “I-I don’t think I know what it is, to be lo-lonely, s-simply because I’ve spent so much time alone. I.. I don’t have anything to compare this to. So m-maybe I am, m-maybe I’ve always been, but I w-wouldn’t know.”
Jonnit can’t even picture the idea. Zana is so close to him in age as well as being his older sister, and his dad had been teaching them how to maintain the farm since he could walk. Jonnit realizes that he’s always been around at least family. The question stumbles out of him before he realizes it’s happening, his tone sad and incredulous. “You- always? What about family— your parents, you don’t have any siblings?”
Dref’s distant stare hardens into something with an edge Jonnit can’t define. He pointedly looks away, hunching back over his journal with the clear indication that he’s done talking. “N-no, I don’t have any family left.”
Jonnit sits, embarrassed about asking something so personal. It’s obviously a hard subject for Dref to open up about. Jonnit’s skin prickles with shame. He blinks and twitches his nose, screwing his mouth closed tight so nothing else can come out of it right now.
He slides himself into a chair he’s pulled up by the exam table and pulls out his Illimat deck, setting up a solitary game in a subdued and concerned mood. He’s just finished laying out the cards when he hears a sigh from the desk, the rustle of a quill being set down, the soft scrape of metal on glass as an inkwell is closed. He sees Dref stand and approach out of the corner of his eye. Jonnit’s shoulders slump, he’s sure he’s going to be asked to leave.
But Dref drags the chair from his desk to sit on the other side of the table, not meeting Jonnit’s eyes. He’s fiddling with the ring on his right hand, fixing his sleeves, wiping the table clear of dust that isn’t actually there. “…W-would you teach me a game?”
Something warm and bright and powerfully protective blooms in Jonnit’s chest, rushes through his blood as a smile spreads across his face.
Dref doesn’t have to be alone anymore.
“Hah. Yeah, of course.”
“ Dref !! I need your help with my disguise!”
They’re approaching Burza Nyth when Jonnit bursts into the medbay where Dref is working on the captain’s hair. The doctor squeaks and stumbles as he drops the towel he’s using to gently dry the captain's locs. He backs into the table hard with a hand pressed to his chest, rattling the glass jar full of decorative beads that usually sits in the captain’s quarters.
“J-Jonnit! P-please, please , give m-me a warning before you just b-barge in,” Dref pleads, crouching to the floor to retrieve the towel. Jonnit scoops it up before the physician can, and presses it into his hands. Jonnit distantly notices their trembling. Dref’s hands are always shaky.
“We’re going into a big city,” says Jonnit, ignoring Dref’s audible gulp as he goes on, “and we just robbed the Civility and we neeeed to keep a low profile and I need your help with my disguise! Please please pleeeaaaase?”
Dref blinks down at him. Jonnit gives him his most winning smile and his begging eyes, the ones that he and Zana would use on his dad to get out of chores. (It rarely worked, but it made them all laugh, and the laughter made the work feel lighter.)
Dref twists the towel in his hands in agitation. “W-what- how- ?”
“I need you to relax my hair, so it’ll be all straight and help cover my eye,” Jonnit pulls down on his curls, over the bandana to show kind of what he means. “Like, like an extra layer of security! Is that something you can do?”
“I-I-I mean, I believe so? I, uh, i-it may be an uncomfortable process. It’s n-not very gentle, and the s-sk-skin of your s-scalp is susceptible to b-burns from the compound.”
Jonnit shrugs. “I mean, better a little burning than getting caught or killed by Red Feathers, right?”
Dref visibly flinches at that. His face tightens for a moment before he nods determinedly. “H-here, have a s-seat by the c-c-captain. I-I’ll gather what we need.”
Jonnit pulls up a chair and sits down with a thump next to the captain. He pulls the glass jar of decorative beads into his lap with a clatter of metal-on-glass that makes Dref jump as he opens the cupboard. He pulls his shoulders up to his ears, wound tense and tight as a spring as Jonnit pulls out a small handful of pieces to examine the details of the patterns engraved on them. “Are you gonna do something different with the captain’s locs? Dref?”
“Hm? W-what is it?”
“I asked if you’re gonna do something different with the captain's hair? His locs are all undecorated right now.”
“O-oh, not- not much different. He, ah, h-has a few pieces with r-red gems or accents I th-thought would be nice with his c-c-coat. But m-mostly I was just, ah, doing some m-maintenance. I haven’t been able t-t-to properly attend to the captain’s er, aesthetics since the h-h—“ Dref gulps, and his voice is hoarse and audibly tight, “the heist.”
He sets a mixing bowl down on the exam table with a clatter, followed by a couple small bottles with various liquids and a small jar of white powder. He mutters under his breath, and Jonnit whistles lowly as a shimmering barrier covers Dref’s hands up to the elbows. Protected, he begins mixing.
“You’ve got so much control over your magic,” Jonnit says in admiration, untying the bandana from his forehead and laying it out on the table. He sets down a few cuffs he’s seen the captain wear and a few he hasn’t but that have red enamel or gem accents that match his iconic coat. “Like, how you’ve got it covering your hands but you can still do things with them. That’s awesome.”
Dref hums absentmindedly in agreement. His brow is furrowed as he stares into the bowl of ingredients he’ll use to alter Jonnit’s hair.
Jonnit frowns, looking at Dref and taking in his tense posture. The doctor’s hands tremble through the motion of mixing everything together, his foot tap tap taps the floor incessantly.
“You know we don’t, like, have to do this. If it makes you uncomfortable,” Jonnit says, trying to gauge if he’s hit the right reason for Dref’s nerves.
Dref laughs, but it doesn’t sound happy; it’s a harsh sound that rips at his throat. “Hah! N-no, thank you, b-b-but I’m fine.” His voice is low and terse and does not sound fine, actually. He turns and tries to smile as he scoops some of the mixture on a small brush. “A-are you ready?”
Jonnit can’t help but smile back; he knows how much Dref struggles to show how much he cares, how hard he finds it to wear affection openly on his face for others to see.
It burns like hell, and the minutes drag like hours. But the captain holds Jonnit’s hands in a squeeze that’s more comforting than it should be, for how much it feels like rigor mortis. Orimar winks supportively at Jonnit when he insists Dref commit to relaxing all of it. Dref is exceedingly gentle as he applies the lye close to Jonnit’s scalp in small sections. The physician-turned-hairstylist murmurs apologies as Jonnit gets more and more tense the longer it takes. When it’s all applied, they both sneak a piece of candy from Dref’s stash.
Dref drops his with a clatter as he’s unwrapping it. He whispers a stuttering curse that makes Jonnit laugh in shock, and Dref’s face flushes when he realizes what he’s been caught saying. He pops a fresh candy into his cheek and starts moisturizing the captain’s locs while Jonnit presses at his hair with a towel and marvels at the length of it.
“Whoaaaa-ho-ho, it comes all the way past my chin! This is crazy!”
“H-have you never done th-that before?”
“Nah, my dad did it for my sister sometimes, but I’ve never tried. I didn’t realize mine would be so long!”
“And h-how is your skin, your s-scalp?” Dref slides a gold cuff with a wide scarlet stripe up a loc until it sits snugly, then reaches for a slightly smaller bead to accent closer to the end. He twitches at a sudden noise from the deck above them, and it fumbles through his fingertips and rolls across the floor. “D-damn it!”
Jonnit lays the towel on the table and dives after the bead. “I got it! You seem really on edge, are you doing okay?”
“H-have you met me? I’m a very n-nervous person. Thank you.” Dref takes the bead from Jonnit’s open palm and slides it into place.
Jonnit reaches for another ornament as Dref finishes, passing it along. “I mean yeah, but like, are you worse than normal?”
“Ouch.”
“C’mon, man, I just want to check on you! We’ll be fine down there. We’re all gonna keep a low profile so we can make this deal and get out of here.” Jonnit rests a hand that he hopes is comforting on Dref’s forearm and pats gently.
Dref lifts his own hand to cover it and squeezes gently, a nervous smile that doesn’t reach his eyes flitting across his face. “Th-thank you.”
—-
Orimar Vale stands upright with intent. It’s the most intent he’s been aware of feeling in a very long time. He’s only vaguely aware of his physical body, his soul burning against the webs of control as someone fumbles the strings.
He sees a momentary loss of control. He seizes an opportunity.
Orimar focuses this surge of emotion into energy, sparking enough electricity of his own to push himself out of his chair and walk behind the seat of the representative of the Tempest Armada. He rests a hand that doesn’t shake with nerves because there are none heavily on the back of their chair. With the other, he reaches for the Heart of the Bandit Queen.
He holds it in his palm, smooth and cool and blue and silver like the swirling sands that surrounded her when she wielded her magic against their foes. He remembers how no one could stand against her waves, least of all himself. He remembers the feeling of heart-in-throat wonder as he beheld her, by sun or moon or faint starlight it never seemed to matter. She was always breathtaking. And he wishes he had breath for her to take now, for her to see what she still does to him.
Orimar feels Gable on the other end of his puppet strings, their soul mute and ogling and privy to his most vulnerable emotions in this moment. Anger washes over him like the rushing tide. Anger at their audacity, their assumption that they could take control. Anger at the assumption that anyone could take control of Orimar Vale. His blood doesn’t boil because it can’t , but the outrage he feels over indignity he’s suffered in death could boil away the sea if only someone would convert the energy of his emotions in this moment.
There’s a rippling shock along the webs, but not the ones Gable’s holding. This echo comes from the direction of the hotel room that the Broker provided. Orimar feels a heavy impact, the distant ghost of something injuring his back.
Orimar Vale knows what it feels like to be shot. He knows the hot-cold-hot of a bullet sinking into flesh, the warm uncomfortable seepage of blood. His soul twists with a nauseous violence he’s never felt himself, but the feeling is still oh so familiar to him.
He knows that no one in this room has a gun on them.
Orimar turns towards the hotel, to the flicker of feeling innate in him that he knows is Dref. He runs at the stained glass window. He jumps into the night air, into rushing wind that he cannot feel as he falls. He leaves Gable and the boy Jonnit to their negotiations, the Bandit Queen’s Heart clutched in his hand.
He doesn’t feel the impact of the cobblestone streets as glass showers down around him, rolling through the landing with a dexterity he hasn’t felt in too long. He runs faster than any man has a right to towards the Broker’s hotel. The flowers of the festival create fearsome sharp shadows in the light of the street lamps, reaching out for him and for Dref and the heart is in his hand and his heart is in his throat and -
And in his heart a thread is cut by a stone cold knife. The thread unravels through him and it feels like ice, frigid and violent and unforgiving. All he can focus on is the pain of a promise he meant to keep as long as he lived ( and he’d done that, hadn’t he?) . Orimar Vale feels a rush of raw power from the hotel room, something pure and divine and bright that burns like a beacon.
He sees Dref’s silhouette crumple to the floor as he breaches the front doorway. Orimar can’t feel Dref at all anymore.
Overtaken by rage and heartbreak, Orimar takes the stairs two and three at a time. He enters his room with divine purpose, wielding his sword with practiced ease to exact his vengeance on the group of men who thought they could kill a boy with minimal consequence. They don’t stand a chance in the light of his fury.
Only one manages to escape. The wiry young man with sandy blond hair and one eagle-sharp eye, the other side of his face hollow and oozing. He cuts into the shadows of the hallway, leaving behind only bloody footprints as he vanishes with a click as stone meets stone.
The room is a goddamn mess, strewn with bodies and blood and bile. Orimar’s face is dry but his soul weeps and screams with pride and agony in equal measure at the sight of Dref. His body is small amidst the carnage he always hated.
Orimar puts a hand that doesn’t shake because it can’t on Dref’s narrow chest, where he knows he felt the knife but hopes for a heartbeat anyways. He lifts a finger and gently, so gently taps a steady beat. He wills Dref to breathe in time with it.
Tap, tap, tap, tap.
Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.