Chapter Text
11th Sun of the Second Umbral Moon
Sanson had spent his entire life in Gridania. He had always felt at home in the Twelveswood, surrounded by nature and protected by the elementals. The tranquil rivers that cut a path through the trees and the canopy of leaves stretching overhead. Though the Shroud was sprawling, with Moogles and Sylphs and Ixals all calling it home, Sanson knew he was safe within that forest.
Standing before Titanic docked in Limsa’s pier, Sanson had never felt farther away from the safe comfort of home. No boat he had encountered in the Twelveswood could have prepared him for the sheer size of Titanic, forcing him to crane his neck to see the people waving from the deck. A feat of Garlean ingenuity, or at least so said Nourval, designed by none other than Cid Garlond of the Garlond Ironworks. She would be the largest ship to ever sail the Northern Empty.
A ship that was leaving shortly, making her maiden journey from Limsa Lominsa to Old Sharlayan with well over 2,000 people on board. Titanic was being called the ship of dreams and people had clamored to get tickets for this historic voyage. Sanson wanted nothing more than to not step foot on it.
“Isn’t it magnificent?” said Nourval with a beaming smile. One of his hands found its way to Sanson’s lower back. Sanson fought back a grimace and gave a noncommittal shrug.
Nourval scoffed. “Come now, even you must be impressed. I know you’re difficult to please, but it’s not everyday that one gets to be the first to experience something this grand.”
Sanson moved away, forcing Nourval’s hand to drop from his back. “Hmm, it’s okay. I don’t think it’s that much bigger than the ship we took from Vesper Bay.”
“Ha, you jest.” Nourval smiled at him like he had just said something incredibly stupid. “ Titanic is nearly twice the size as Her Sultana’s Majesty. And twice as luxurious.”
Nourval’s turned his attention to Silvairre, his steward and right-hand man, to instruct him on where to have their luggage taken. Sanson’s gaze drifted back to the ship before him, the ship that would take him to a future he dreaded more and more with every step. A cold weight settled in his gut, threatening to drag him down and drown him in despair. No turning back now, he thought.
It had been over a year since Sanson had first met Nourval at Gridania’s Starlight festival, and nine months since their engagement. The great-grandson of a Gridanian war hero turned powerful businessman, Nourval was from the richest family in the Black Shroud. Vainchelon Whitewater had been instrumental in turning the tide of the Autumn War in favor of the Gridanians and, following his victory, had amassed a fortune as a lumber tycoon with dealings across all the nations of Eorzea. A fortune that had been passed on to Sanson’s fiancé.
“Come now, Sanson,” chided Ywain. Sanson had lost his parents at a very young age, and Ywain, a friend of his father’s, had taken him in as his ward. He had raised him and was the closest thing to family that Sanson had. “Let yourself be excited. The whole trip here has felt like a funeral dirge with how morose you’ve been.”
Ywain said the words lightly but Sanson caught what he was saying beneath the surface: get it together. Don’t ruin this. Try to act like you’re happy.
“Now then,” Nourval said, reappearing at Sanson’s side and offering his arm. “Shall we, my dearest?”
Sanson slipped his arm into Nourval’s, catching Ywain’s approving grin out of the corner of his eye. Together, they boarded the ship that would take Sanson to what felt like his doom. A marriage to a man he didn’t love, who didn’t care about him as more than a pretty thing he could hang on his arm. Gazing out at the seemingly never-ending expanse of sea before him, Sanson said a silent prayer to Nophica, the elementals, any god that would listen, to help him stay strong.
****
Guydelot raced down the pier, weaving in between the well-wishers waving their farewells to the people on board.
“Jehantel is going to strangle us if we don’t make it,” Leih shouted from behind him, hot on his heels. They had stayed out far too late the night before, taking in the sights and sounds and bars of Limsa Lominsa. All their partying had bit them in the tail in the morning, when they awoke late and learned the ship they had been hired to play music on was leaving in twenty minutes.
“We’ll make it, sister!” Guydelot shouted over his shoulder, dipping under a rope barrier. “You've just gotta have a lil faith is all!”
Up ahead, Guydelot could see the gangway to the crew entrance was about to be pulled away. “Hey!! Hold that door, we’re coming!”
They bolted across the gangway, ignoring the shouts from the crew on the pier. The crewmen who had been about to shut the door watched them with a wary eye as they came to stop before him, both panting heavily.
“We, we’re part of the band,” Guydelot gasped, shoving his ticket in the man’s hand. “Both of us.” Behind him, Leih waved her harp for emphasis.
“Have you been through inspection?” the man asked, looking over their tickets.
“What?” Guydelot asked. They hadn’t. “Of course we have, why do you think we were running so late! We’re clean, both of us. No fleas or nothin’.”
The man stared both of them down for a moment before sighing and stepping to the side to let them hop on board. Leih waited until they had rounded the corner to shove Guydelot in the back. “You’re wild, Guydelot, I told you we shouldn’t have stayed out that long!”
Guydelot grinned, slipping around other third-class passengers looking for their rooms. “Oi, we made it in time though, didn't we? Told you there was nothin’ to worry about. Ah, here we are.”
He pushed open the door marked “14E” and came face-to-face with his mentor and teacher, Jehantel. The older man looked up as the pair of them clattered in, a sparkle in his eye as he took in their sheepish expression. “Well, well. And here I was starting to think that the two of you had missed the boat, literally, and I was going to have to fill this contract out all on my own.”
“And leave all the glory to you, old man? Never,” Guydelot said with a smirk, turning in time to catch Leih clambering into the top of the bunk bed they were meant to share. “Hey, who said you get top bunk?”
“Please, as if your stupid long legs would even fit up here,” she shot back, shoving his head away. “You barely fit in these lil rooms as it is.”
“Aye, but free passage is free passage,” Jehantel hummed, gently strumming at his harp from the only single bed in the room. He was right, of course; beggars could hardly be choosers when one was receiving a free trip on the grandest ship the world had ever seen. All it required in exchange was for their trio to perform for the rich snobs in first class while they ate their lunch everyday. A simple enough job, even if it fell quite below their expertise. They hadn’t been booked as part of the main band ensemble that played at dinner, but mayhaps that was for the best. First class wasn’t Guydelot’s crowd anyways.
“Wonder what the rich folk will think when they see this,” Leih chuckled, tugging on a strand of Guydelot’s dyed blue hair. It had been suggested, by the gentleman who had chartered them, that Guydelot return his hair to a “natural” shade before boarding Titanic. Instead, he had dyed it an even brighter teal out of defiance.
“As if the rich folk even notice us,” Guydelot said, ducking out of her reach to check his bag. He had thrown everything into it in a hurry when he had awoken and was relieved to see he hadn’t forgotten his harp and sketchbook. “We ain’t nothin’ more than wallpaper noise as far as them lot are concerned.”
While the prospect of having to play music for a bunch of rich people with no taste certainly didn’t appeal to him, Guydelot was excited nonetheless. He had traveled all over Eorzea since he first came under Jehantel’s tutelage five years ago, but he had never been to Old Sharlayan. He felt a buzz of excitement racing through his veins, the bard part of his brain eager to compose new melodies while the artist half itched to draw the new sights he was sure to see. The anticipation made him feel giddy, the promise of new adventure in an unknown place practically ringing in his ears. This voyage was just one step on a greater journey, he was sure of it.
“Alright you two, enough of that,” Jehantel said, setting his harp to the side. “The ship is setting off soon. So if you’d like to say one last goodbye to Eorzea, now’s the time to do it. Who knows when you’ll see it again, eh?”
****
Sanson sat forgotten on the couch, watching the flurry of activity as stewards and servants bustled about ensuring everything was in the correct place. The suite had a spacious sitting area, two separate bedrooms, and a large private deck. Ywain would be down the hall in his own room, leaving Sanson and Nourval to share this space alone for the entire seven day trip. A creeping sense of dread drifted up Sanson’s spine at the thought of it.
He was quickly running out of excuses to ward off Nourval’s advances and Sanson had learned a long time ago that the man was nothing if not persistent. From the moment they had met at Starlight, almost a year and a half ago, Nourval had made it clear that he had no intention of taking no as an answer. Sanson stared at the sunbeams streaming through the window, his mind wandering back to when he had met Nourval.
The celebration at Mih Khetto’s amphitheatre had been in full swing, with children shrieking in joy as they hurled snowballs at each other and couples finding warmth in each other’s embrace. Sanson had been watching from a distance, wishing he could share in their joy. Instead, his mind had been plagued by the conversation he had with Ywain earlier that afternoon.
The Lancer’s Guild, the place he had called home since he became Ywain’s ward as a child, was on the brink of financial ruin. The finances had been mismanaged as recruitment numbers had dwindled, with gil being invested in all the wrong places over the years. Ywain had told Sanson he had taken several loans out from rich Ul’dahn merchants to keep the guild afloat, loans with high interest rates he had no chance of paying back. His guardian had been drowning in a sea of debt, and Sanson had been too young to realize it until it was too late. The day of the Starlight celebration, Ywain had warned him of how dire their situation had gotten and that soon the Ul'dahn merchants would come looking for him to collect.
“Now, now,” a voice had said, just off to his left. “Here it is, the most beautiful holiday of the year in the most beautiful city in Eorzea–”
Sanson had scowled, turning to glare at whoever was talking to him, only to see none other than Nourval Lhorulgois watching him with a gleeful glint in his eyes.
“And yet,” Nourval had continued, “You are wearing the most serious scowl I have ever seen outside of Ul’dah. We can’t have that now, can we?”
Sanson had known he was staring but couldn’t bring himself to stop. Why was the richest man in Gridania, the richest man this half of Aldenard, talking to him? Nourval’s grin had grown wider at his shocked expression.
“Allow me to introduce myself–”
“I know who you are,” Sanson had interrupted, then mentally kicked himself for speaking out of turn. Nourval, for his part, had seemed unbothered.
“Well, then we are at a disadvantage!” he had proclaimed. “For I do not have the honor of knowing your name, my lord…?”
“Sanson,” he had replied, unease slowly drifting down his spine. He didn’t much care for the way Nourval was looking at him. “Sanson Smyth. And I am afraid you are mistaken, for I am no lord.”
Nourval had guffawed at that, pinning him with a steely gaze. “Well! With a face as lovely as yours, you definitely could have fooled me!”
Sanson, unused to receiving such compliments, had felt his face turning red. “I….I, uh, thank you, my lord.”
“Please, just call me Nourval.” he had replied, his hungry gaze making Sanson’s skin crawl. “May I have the pleasure of your company this fine evening?”
Struggling to find a reason to decline, and not wanting to seem rude aside, Sanson had agreed. What followed was a miserable couple bells of Nourval talking only of himself as they had walked through the city, and rarely asking Sanson any questions in return. And when he had, it had been clear the questions were not intended to get to know Sanson better, but to serve as a segue for Nourval to talk about himself more.
“It’s getting late,” Sanson had finally said, interrupting a boring, long-winded tale Nourval was weaving about an Ala Mhigan business partner who always over salted his food. “I should be getting home. Ywain will wonder where I’m at.”
“I’ll walk you there,” Nourval had exclaimed, offering Sanson his arm. He had taken it reluctantly, still nervous about appearing rude. When they had arrived at the Wailing Barracks, Nourval had lifted a hand to gently cup Sanson’s cheek. The predatory look in his eyes had made Sanson want to run in the other direction, alarm bells ringing loudly in his head.
Nourval had leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on his forehead. “I’ll see you soon, Sanson.”
Nourval had returned to the Wailing Barracks the next day seeking Sanson. Despite Sanson’s attempts to dissuade his advances with claims of being too busy to go on a date, Nourval had not been deterred. Instead, he had begun showing up to train at the same time he knew Sanson would be there, always choosing the striking dummy closest to wherever Sanson was to show off his considerable skill with the lance. When Sanson had complained about it to Ywain, his guardian had been entirely unsympathetic.
“I don’t understand what you’re doing,” Ywain had scolded him one evening when Sanson had again turned Nourval away. “You have the richest man in Gridania trying to court you, and you’re being rude to him.”
“I’m not being rude,” Sanson had said defensively. “I just don’t think we would be a good match.”
“Not a good match?” Ywain had said incredulously. “My boy, this match is a gift from Nophica herself! Don’t you see, this is the answer to all of our problems.”
“I…I don’t understand,” Sanson had said slowly.
Ywain had grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him slightly as he said, “An obscenely rich man is interested in you, which means we can get him interested in our guild. If we play our cards right, we’ll have Nourval’s never-ending pockets to save us.”
“But Ywain,” Sanson had replied, feeling exasperated, “He doesn’t even know me.”
“Because you won’t let him!” Ywain had thrown his hands in the air before pinning Sanson with a morose stare. Sanson had felt like a child caught disobeying again rather than a man of 19 summers. “Do you not care at all? About the guild? About me?”
“What? No, of course I care–”
“But you won’t even try. After everything I’ve done for you, everything I’ve sacrificed for you,” he said. The somber tone of Ywain’s voice had weighed heavy on Sanson’s heart. “I’ve raised you as my son, gave you a home when others would have put you on the street. And yet, you won’t even try to return this man’s affection to save your home and family? I’m not even worth an attempt?”
“No, that’s not true,” Sanson had said, crumbling as he always did whenever Ywain reminded him of all the sacrifices made for him. He owed so much to Ywain, and he had ever felt indebted to the man. “Your guardianship and mentorship have meant more to me than you could possibly know–”
“Then give Nourval a chance,” Ywain had interrupted as he collapsed into their kitchen chair and rubbed his temples. “The money is gone, Sanson. We have nothing. These men from Ul’dah, they’re likely to kill me if I don’t pay up soon.”
Ywain had lifted his head and stared right into Sanson’s eyes, the desperation in Ywain’s gaze piercing right through him. “You could save us. Save the guild. Save me. If you would just give him a chance.”
So Sanson had, agreeing to go out with Nourval the next day when he had asked. Within a month, Nourval had decided he was madly in love with Sanson. Within three months, he had come to Ywain with a business proposition that he couldn’t refuse.
“I will pay all your outstanding debts, including interest,” Nourval had said. “Then I will invest money in your guild and help develop its financial future. I will work to improve recruitment and ensure you and yours never go without again. The only thing I ask for in exchange is your ward’s hand in marriage. Do we have an agreement?”
Ywain had agreed immediately. He hadn’t bothered to ask Sanson if he wanted to marry Nourval but in the end it didn’t matter. Marriages of convenience happened all the time after all.
In the months since their engagement had been finalized, Sanson had realized that Nourval saw him as nothing more than a pretty trophy he had successfully won. Another prize he was able to buy with his obscene wealth. Sanson was pulled into Nourval’s world, a place full of endless parties and dreadful business engagements where he always felt awkward and out of place. Everywhere Nourval took him, Sanson found himself surrounded by mindless people and mindless chatter, with very few members of the elite interested in anything other than themselves.
He had been relieved of his duties at the Lancer’s guild almost immediately and was scarcely allowed to go anywhere without Nourval’s permission. Nourval dragged him to parties and events where he was expected to nod and smile and play the role of dutiful partner to a man who wanted him to be seen but not heard. And now, they were on their way to Old Sharlayan, where he and Nourval would finally be wedded in just two weeks. Whenever Sanson thought about how this was to be the rest of his life, it took everything he had to not start screaming.
“Excuse me, sir,” a gentle voice said, interrupting his thoughts. Sanson looked up and was greeted by the serene smile of Tahla, his personal servant. “Where would you like the orchestrion players placed?”
A small smile formed on Sanson’s face as he stood to inspect the box she was gesturing to. “Oh, let’s leave the big one in here, and we can place this smaller one in my room.” He opened the case that contained just some of his extensive orchestrion roll collection. “And these can go in my room too.”
“Not those silly old pieces of music again. They certainly were a waste of gil,” Nourval drawled, leaning against the door to the private deck with a drink in his hand. “Sanson does love a good racket though.”
“The difference between my taste in music and Nourval’s is I actually have some,” Sanson said tensely, refusing to look at his fiancé. “This collection here is fascinating. It fills you with a sorrow you can feel deep within your soul. There’s beauty in its agony.”
Tahla peered into the box, fascinated, “What’s the artist’s name, sir?”
“Uhhhh, it’s something elezen. Fointeaume?” Sanson said, drawing a blank as he picked the box up.
“Something elezen,” Nourval scoffed, taking a sip of his beverage. “He won’t amount to a thing.”
Nourval had gifted Sanson the orchestrion players on his twentieth name day, giving Sanson a momentary hope that perhaps they had found an interest to connect over. That hope was quickly dashed though, as Nourval took every opportunity he had to complain about the noise they made. Sanson ignored Nourval’s “at least they were cheap!” quip to Silvairre as he led Tahla down the hall to his room.
“How about we set the orchestrion player on the mantle,” he told her, placing the box of orchestrion rolls on the table. He started digging around in it, trying to decide which one he would like to play.
“Isn’t it exciting, Sanson?” Tahla said, dropping the formality now that they were alone. They had been friends before Sanson’s engagement, and even now she felt like the only friend he had left, though she was unaware of how deeply Sanson dreaded his marriage. He knew to keep that to himself. “It’s like it’s all been built just for us, this ship. Everything here is so new, you can still smell the fresh paint.”
She was right, of course. Everything within the ship was untouched, unlived in. Sanson watched her reverently run her hand along his bedpost. “Just think, when we slip into our sheets tonight, we’ll be the first ones to ever sleep in them!”
“And when I slip into those sheets tonight,” Nourval’s voice came from the doorway. Sanson froze stiff, feeling like a block of ice had been dropped into his stomach. “They won’t be the only things I’ll be the first to sleep between.”
Sanson’s cheeks burned red. He felt humiliated. His back was turned to Nourval but he could feel his eyes on him. Tahla gave a meek “sir” before shuffling out of the room, leaving them alone. Sanson listened as the door closed behind her, exhaling slowly to keep himself calm.
He continued digging through his box of orchestrion rolls, refusing to acknowledge Nourval’s presence. He sensed rather than heard the man approach him, his glass being set on the table beside the box. Nourval’s arms came up to wrap around Sanson’s middle and pull him close against him, making Sanson feel trapped. He stiffened Nourval’s arms, suppressing the urge to pull away from him.
“The first and only?” Nourval simpered, pressing his cheek against the side of Sanson’s head. Sanson grimaced as Nourval’s head dropped to place a kiss on his shoulder.
“I told you, darling,” Sanson said, fighting to keep the strain out of his voice. “I want to wait until our wedding night. Make it special.”
“Yes, yes you did,” Nourval sighed, before placing another kiss on Sanson's neck. “Though I had rather hoped that perhaps the grandness of the ship may change your mind.”
Sanson swallowed, schooling his face into a more neutral expression before pulling away enough to plant a kiss to Nourval’s cheek. Hopefully, that would placate him for now. “You know what they say, good things come to those who wait.”
“They do say that, don’t they,” Nourval mused, his arms loosening from around Sanson’s waist. Sanson moved to put some distance between them, but Nourval turned him instead, kissing him deeply. Sanson’s stomach rolled as Nourval pulled away and said, “I do hate waiting though. Luckily, I won’t have to much longer.”
Nourval gave him a sultry wink before turning and leaving, grabbing his drink on the way out. Sanson could taste a hint of the liquor on his lips and wiped roughly at his mouth once he was sure Nourval wouldn’t come back.
Matron, save me , he thought, though he no longer had any hope that she might hear him.
****
Guydelot and Leih raced back up to B Deck, still giddy from having narrowly made their way onto the ship. All around them, people were waving and cheering as Titanic finally began to head out towards sea. Guydelot could feel the air around them thrumming with excitement, a palpable current of delight shared amongst the crowd. His fingers itched to write a new composition, to capture the energy he could feel all around him.
Alas, he had left his harp in the room with Jehental, so he would have to settle for waving with the rest of the crowd. When in Allag and all that.
Guydelot pushed his way to the edge and used his large frame to shove the crowd over, making room beside him for Leih. He started waving enthusiastically at the crowd. “Goodbye! I’ll never forget you!”
“Who're you waving at?” Leih shrieked. Her face was bright and open, joy shining in her eyes.
“Nobody!” Guydelot replied, beaming at her. “Just pretend!”
Leih giggled but joined her companion in waving farewell to the crowd. “Goodbye! We'll miss you!”
They waved until they couldn’t see the people on the pier anymore. Titanic turned as it headed out to sea, gaining more speed as the magitek engines below them began to generate more and more power.
“Come on!” Guydelot said to Leih, gesturing for her to follow him. They made their way towards the front of the ship, slipping under ropes and jumping over any of the gates that barred their way. Soon they found themselves at the ship’s bow, with nothing before them besides the vast expanse of the ocean, breathtaking in its beauty.
“Guydelot, look!” Leih gasped, pointing below them. Several dolphins were swimming in front of them, seemingly racing with the ship.
“Look at that one,” Guydelot said gleefully, “Watch, bet it’s about to jump.”
Just as the words were leaving his mouth, a dolphin leapt out of the water in a graceful arc. Guydelot and Leih hooted and hollered as several more jumped out of the water, almost as if they were putting on a show for them.
The waves and view before them were unlike anything Guydelot had ever seen. With the wind whipping through his hair and sun on his back, his friend’s bright laughter beside him, he had never felt more alive.
“I can see the statue of Thaliak already!” Leih crowed. Guydelot snorted. “It’s very small, of course, but I see it!”
Guydelot threw his head back as he laughed at her, giddy with excitement for whatever his future had in store for him. Standing there at the bow of the ship, with nothing but the sea before him, he almost felt like he was flying.
****
12th Sun of the Second Umbal Moon
Sanson had witnessed many extravagant meals since he had become betrothed to Nourval, but dining on Titanic was a unique experience. Every meal was such an occasion, with different musicians performing for each mean and large menus offering multiple dishes for multiple courses. As a boy from humble means, Sanson still had not adjusted to the opulence of it all. He often found himself marveling at just how wasteful the upper classes of society were, especially when he remembered all the times he and Ywain could barely afford to eat.
He had managed to avoid attending dinner the previous night, feigning a sudden bout of seasickness. He needed at least one night where he didn’t have to perform, a night where didn’t have to pretend he was happy. Instead, he had locked himself away in his room and listened to music, allowing the sad and gentle harp playing to wash over him. After a while, he had dug his old journal out from the bottom of his trunk and began scribbling furiously in it, trying to capture through words the hopelessness he felt. Journaling had been something he had loved and done frequently before Nourval came to dominate every aspect of his life. He would complain about Sanson “wasting time” on writing, so like so many other things in Sanson’s life, he had stopped doing it in an effort to please him. On his darkest nights though, he still found himself reaching for his pen, in a desperate attempt to stay him.
That was last night though. Now, his journal was hidden in his trunk again and Sanson was seated beside Nourval at lunch, his supposed seasickness cured. Today, they were dining with none other than Cid Garlond, the ship’s engineer, and his partner Nero.
“The key to the ship’s design,” Cid was explaining to Nourval, “Was to make key adjustments to the magitek engines. They needed to be strong enough to propel the ship without having to dramatically increase the size of them. They’re still quite large but making them any larger would have taken away from the more design-focused aspects of the ship.”
“A realization he wouldn’t have made without me there to help him,” Nero said primly, taking a sip of his coffee. “I was the one who figured out that adjustments made to the cerulean refinement process would allow for more power to enter the engines without having to significantly increase the size we were already working with.”
Cid smiled fondly at his partner, despite Nero’s prissy tone. “Aye, like most things in my line of work, I wouldn’t have been able to accomplish it without him. He was instrumental in helping me with the fuel-injection design.”
“Help?” Nero squawked. “As if I’m just his assistant and not his engineering partner. I will remember this, Garlond.”
Cid let out a big belly laugh at that and the rest of the table followed suit. Sanson liked Cid and Nero. It was so rare that he met genuine people these days but Cid had a warmth that radiated from him. A good man who wanted to make the world a better place through magitek design.
His banter with Nero, who was his partner in more than just engineering, filled Sanson with fondness while also making him mourn for his own situation.
That will never be Nourval and I, he thought, watching them fondly go back and forth with each other. A partnership built on mutual respect and love, with a desire to help one another achieve their dreams. Nourval didn’t want Sanson to be anything more than a pretty, docile doll he could show off at parties.
Cid turned his grinning face to Sanson. “What about you, lad? Any interests in magitek?”
“Psh, Sanson?” Nourval interrupted with a laugh. “I’m afraid that sort of thing is far beyond his scope. Goes right over his head. Isn’t that right, darling?”
Sanson gave Nourval a tight smile before turning his gaze away, missing the sympathetic look Cid sent his way. Ywain asked Nero another question, likely to shift attention away from Sanson, and soon the other men at the table were in a deep discussion about the economics of magitek. Sanson tuned them out, content to slip into the background for a time.
The hall they were taking their lunch in was as opulent as any other room in first class, with chandeliers and fountains placed throughout and large windows that let the sun stream in. Sanson stared at a large painting of flowers, the noise of the conversations around him a faint rumble in the background, when a new sound greeted his ears. Over the din and chatter of the dinners around them, floating softly in between conversations, was the unmistakable sound of music.
Turning to his left, Sanson spotted the source almost immediately. Three musicians, two elezen and one miqo’te, were seated on a small stage playing a lovely melody. It was a simple song, meant to accompany the lunchtime conversation rather than overpower it, but Sanson was transfixed. The more he focused on their playing, the more the chatter around him seemed to disappear.
The older elezen man was leading the younger two, his years of experience evident in the expert way his fingers curled around the strings of his harp. Beside him was a dark-haired miqo’te woman — Sanson couldn’t be sure from this distance but he thought she may have been a Keeper — whose fingers were plucking out a tune that elevated the piece the older man was playing. And the last man…
The last musician was another elezen man, whose dyed blue highlights stood in direct opposition to the stuffy patrons around him. He was playing his harp with his eyes closed, a serene smile on his handsome face. His long fingers flew over the strings, creating a song that seeped into Sanson’s soul and filled him with a wonderment he hadn’t felt since before this ordeal with Nourval began.
The man opened his eyes but didn’t look away from his harp. The look on his face as he played could only be described as one of pure love.
He loves music with his whole heart. Sanson thought as the piece ended and the trio began another. Would that I could still feel so passionate about something. Anything.
“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” A cheerful voice said, interrupting his thoughts. Sanson jolted back, snapped out of his trance by the arrival of none other than Stephanivien de Haillenarte. The son of Ishgardian nobility, Sanson had met him a handful of times at various social functions. Stephanivien was one of the few nobles Sanson actually liked. He always greeted Sanson with a warm smile and tried to engage him in conversation.
“Not at all. Please join us,” Sanson said, gesturing to the seat next to him at the end of the table. He ignored the annoyed ‘hmph’ from Nourval beside him. Sanson knew that his fiancé didn’t care for Stephanivien and his interest in the lower classes, but one would be a fool to turn away the son of one of Ishgard’s high houses.
“Steph, my old friend!” Cid exclaimed, standing to give their new arrival a hug. “I didn’t know you were traveling with us!”
“As if I would have missed it for anything in the world!” Stephanivien turned to Sanson as he took his seats and said, “Cid is a dear companion. His knowledge of magitek has been invaluable in helping the Manufactory in Ishgard flourish.”
From the other end of the table, Nero mumbled something about always being underappreciated.
“So when I heard that this ship, the crowning jewel of his achievements, was making its maiden voyage, I knew I had to be here,” Stephanivien continued, leaning back in his chair so the front legs lifted off the ground.
Sanson’s gaze drifted past Stephanivien, back to the blue-haired musician. He wanted to keep listening to him play music. A small smile graced his lips as the trio launched into a bright melody that reminded him of spring.
“And besides,” Stephanivien said, dropping his chair back onto all fours and drawing Sanson’s attention back to him. “A dear friend of mine is to be wedded in Old Sharlayan! House Haillenarte wouldn’t dare miss the social event of the season!”
Stephanivien’s smile was warm but the reminder of his fast approaching nuptials felt like a block of ice being dropped into his stomach. For a few blissful moments, when he could just hear the music and nothing else, Sanson had almost forgotten about the wedding. Almost.
“Sanson and I are most honored to know that you will be there,” Nourval replied, a charming smile on his face. Sanson knew it was fake. He turned his attention back to the musicians. Now they were playing a breezy ditty that was reminiscent of a sea shanty
“You like them,” Stephanivien observed, looking amused as Sanson whipped around to look at him. “The musicians, that is. You keep watching them.”
Beside him, Nourval scoffed and said, “Sanson has always been drawn to that sort of cacophony. I’ve spent a small fortune on orchestrion rolls just to keep him happy. Isn’t that right, dear?”
Nourval’s hand landed on his leg, gripping his thigh firmly. Sanson kept his face carefully neutral before looking at Stephanivien with a tight smile. He said, “Aye my lord, I am rather fond of music, though I’m afraid that my husband-to-be doesn’t share my appreciation.”
Stephanivien smiled at him, his eyes soft. “Tell me what it is that you find so compelling about music.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Sanson said, flustered. How to explain something that felt unexplainable? He absentmindedly removed Nourval’s hand from his thigh while he thought about it. “There’s just something about it. The way it can fill a man’s soul and empower him. Or sometimes fill him with a deep sorrow. Music tells such a rich story if one thinks to listen for it.”
Sanson looked down at his hands in his lap, listening to the music that floated around them. “I like hearing those stories,” he placed a hand over his heart. “It’s as if I can feel what the composers were feeling when they wrote these pieces. And I think it’s beautiful.”
He looked up and realized both Stephanivien and Cid were beaming at him. Sanson could feel his cheeks reddening again and when he glanced to his side, he saw Nourval was staring off in another direction looking bored. Sanson looked down at his hands and tried to not feel embarrassed.
“Hear, hear!” Cid said, slapping a hand on the table. “Nothing like a good song to raise the spirits, eh?”
Sanson gave them a shy smile, just as a serving girl approached to take their lunch orders.
“Yes, we’ll both have the venison.” Nourval said. Sanson hated venison. “With the roasted vegetables. You like venison, right sweetheart ?”
Sanson smiled tightly at him and gave a small nod. Stephanivien leveled a snarky look at Nourval from across the table and said, “Will you chew his food for him too, friend?”
Nourval shot him a dirty look while the rest of the table laughed. Sanson looked away from them, back to the beautiful man who was so enraptured by the music he was playing. In all that time, he hadn’t once looked away from his harp.
*****
Guydelot’s hands worked expertly, sketching the young girl and her father who were standing at the railing to look out at the ocean. Playing music was and always would be his first love but drawing was a close second. It was a talent he had picked up over his many years of traveling through Eorzea. Whenever he would struggle to express himself through song, he would turn to pen and pencil instead.
Beside him, Leih sat with her head thrown back and eyes closed, enjoying the ocean breeze. They had worked their first lunch session earlier that day and while he was sure none of the rich folks in first class had even noticed they were there, it was always fun to play music with Leih and Jehantel. His family.
Guydelot had met Leih five years ago, when they were both young initiates of the Archer’s Guild in Gridania. Neither had felt like they belonged and they bonded over their status as outsiders, with Leih weathering constant insults over her race and Guydelot’s devil-may-care attitude placing him at odds with their higher ups. Even back then, Guydelot was more often seen carrying a harp than a bow and it drove the senior members of the God’s Quiver to their wits ends.
He had been sitting outside the guild one night, strumming a song on his harp, when Jehantel had approached him.
“You have a real talent with that thing,” the old man had said, “But you could be even better.”
Jehantel had produced his own harp and joined his melody to Guydelot’s, creating a new song that filled Guydelot’s pessimistic heart with hope. They had played and talked about music for bells. For the first time in a long time, Guydelot felt like he had connected with someone who saw more in him than just his trouble-making past. Jehantel had asked him the next day to leave the Archer’s Guild to travel with him, to learn the ways of a bard, and Guydelot had accepted without hesitation. He had left Gridania that day with Leih in tow and hadn’t looked back.
“Oh, that one’s looking really good,” Leih said, leaning over to look at his drawing. “I love the way you captured her expression here, how shiny her eyes are.”
Guydelot hummed at her as he continued to work, pausing only to glance up as a sharply dressed man walking no less than ten dogs walked past them.
“Psh, well ain’t that typical,” a loud female voice said. “High-born dogs coming down here to the third-class decks to take a shite.”
He looked over and spotted a dark-haired woman leaning against a railing with her arms crossed, glaring at the man as he continued on. She had the face and body of a hyur but the ears of an elezen, defiance writ clear on her face. Guydelot decided he liked her immediately.
“So we don’t forget where we rank in the grand scheme of things,” he smirked. She scoffed at that but then gave him a cheeky smile.
“As if we could forget?” She walked forward and extended her hand to him. “Hilda Ware.”
“Guydelot,” he returned, shaking her hand firmly. “And this is Leih, my sister.”
“How do you do,” Hilda said, shaking Leih’s hand too before leaning against the railing again. “You make any money with them drawings? You’re really quite good.”
Guydelot was about to reply when movement above Hilda’s head caught his eye. A young hyur man had just arrived at the first-class railing above them. His arms were resting on the top of the rail and his dark hair whipped around his face as he stared out to sea. The man was beautiful but it wasn’t his physical features that had drawn Guydelot in. It was the profound sadness painted clearly on his face, a haunted look in his eyes Guydelot could see even from here. His hands itched to sketch this beautiful, sad man. Or perhaps to compose a ballad that captured the hopelessness on the man’s face.
Hilda turned around to see what he was so transfixed by and then gave a short bark of a laugh. “Oh, you better forget about that one right now, lad. My bastard father is more likely to acknowledge my existence than you are getting next to the likes of him.”
Leih waved an arm in front of his face and laughed at him. Guydelot ignored her, still enraptured by the man above them. The hyur man turned his head and looked down in their general direction but Guydelot could tell he wasn’t seeing them. Those sad eyes were looking right through everything in front of them, lost in a world of their own making.
An older hyur man approached the younger man from behind, grabbing him by the arm. The man Guydelot had been watching jerked his arm away, said something he couldn’t possibly have heard from this distance, and then walked away. After a moment, the older man followed after him. Guydelot felt a sympathetic ache in his heart as he watched the sad stranger leave.
Turning back to his drawing, Guydelot let the sound of Leih and Hilda’s chatter wash over him as he tried to put the hyur man from his mind. After all, he wasn’t likely to see him again.
****
After lunch, Nourval decided they would have tea with Master Gegeruju, the richest man on the ship and the owner of the Costa Del Sol Shipping Line that Titanic operated under. Sanson groaned inwardly when Nourval told him who they would be meeting. Gegeruju was possibly the most insufferable person Sanson had the displeasure of meeting in his time with Nourval and he continued to be unbearable throughout their tea time encounter.
“And so I made it very clear to Master Garlond that it was of the utmost importance that this ship be the largest ship to ever sail the seas,” Gegeruju said, a conspiratorial smile on his face. “Nothing less would do! After all, for a ship to live up to the name Titanic – which I came up with by the way – it would have to be unrivaled in length and girth, speed and opulence!”
“Well, she certainly lives up to that, and then some!” Nourval chuckled, his arm resting across the back of Sanson’s chair. Sanson stared into his teacup, feeling a headache coming on the longer he listened to Gegeruju’s voice.
“In fact,” Gegeruju said. “I have asked the captain to increase the engine speed, so that we might arrive in Old Sharlayan earlier than planned. Could you imagine the headlines! The biggest ship in the world is now also the fastest!”
Sanson looked up from his teacup, feeling his patience wearing thin as he said. “Master Gegeruju, have you read the works of the Nymian scholar Surito Carito? His studies on the male preoccupation with size may be of interest to you.”
“Sanson,” Ywain hissed at him while Cid choked on his own tea trying not to laugh. Gegeruju just seemed confused, though he tried to cover it up with a smile.
“Excuse me,” Sanson said, standing and leaving abruptly.
He hurried from the room and towards the Promenade Deck, hoping some fresh air would help him collect himself. Sanson leaned against the railing and stared out at the vast expanse of ocean before him, the wind whipping his bangs around his face. He inhaled the salty air and tried to calm himself but his mind felt like it was racing.
“What are you thinking?” Ywain hissed behind him, grabbing Sanson’s arm. “You can’t insult the richest man on the ship!”
“Oh please,” Sanson said, yanking his arm away. “He doesn’t even know he’s been insulted. He clearly doesn’t read and he’s not going to start now.”
Ywain stared at him for a moment. “What has gotten into you?” Sanson stormed away, not wanting to hear it. He just wanted a few minutes alone and couldn’t even have that. “We have two weeks until the wedding and now, suddenly, you’re acting out?”
“I’m not acting out,” Sanson snapped. “I think I’ve been behaving quite well for the last several months.”
Ywain reached forward and grabbed his arm again. “You carry yourself as if you’re going to your own execution. The dramatics must end, Sanson.”
He pulled Sanson around so they were looking each other in the eyes. “Sanson,” Ywain said, his voice dropping lower and taking on a desperate tone as he spoke. “You know how bad the situation is. The money is gone. This marriage is the only thing that will save us.”
“I know,” Sanson said, struggling to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “You remind me everyday.”
“Because I care about you,” Ywain said sharply. “I saved you when you were a child, Sanson. Where would you be if I hadn’t taken you in? After everything I did for you, everything I sacrificed for you–”
Sanson’s shoulders drooped, the fight leaving him as quickly as it had appeared. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. I’ll be better.”
And he was, eating his food at dinner politely and answering the rare, superficial questions that came his way. No one was truly interested in anything he had to say, not in this crowd. Sanson watched them converse as if in slow motion, all of them engaged in mindless chatter without any substance. He felt like he could stand in the middle of the room and scream at the top of his lungs and no one would even notice. The first opportunity he had, he excused himself to his room, desperate to get away.
Sanson sat at his desk for a long time, trying to let the gentle music coming from the orchestrion player distract him. His journal was in front of him, opened yet untouched, and the pen sat forgotten in his hand. He was so tired, the exhaustion of keeping up the charade making his mind numb and his heart weary. He didn’t want to do this anymore.
He had thought playing music and writing in his journal would make him feel better but so far it hadn’t helped. No words would come to his mind, the music could not penetrate the dark cloud that he was spiraling through. In a sudden moment of clarity, he saw the entire rest of his life stretched out before him. Sanson felt like he was watching it happen through a stranger’s eyes. The endless parties, the fake people, a bed shared with a man who would never love him for him. He felt like he was standing at the edge of a great precipice, preparing to plunge headfirst into his own doom.
A knock at his door interrupted his dark thoughts. Knowing who it would be, Sanson quickly threw the journal into a drawer before the door slowly opened, revealing Nourval. He held a large, flat box in his hands that Sanson eyed through the mirror warily.
“I know you’ve been melancholy lately,” Nourval started, shutting the door and approaching Sanson. “I can’t pretend to know why.”
Sanson looked down at his hairbrush on his desk. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”
Nourval stopped and leaned against the desk, reaching over to shut Sanson’s orchestrion player off. “You know,” he said softly, looking down at his morose fiancé. “There is nothing I couldn’t give you. There is nothing that I would deny you. If you would not deny me. Stop denying me, Sanson. Let me into your heart.”
Sanson didn’t know what to say. You don’t want into my heart, he thought.
“You know, I had planned to wait until we arrived in Old Sharlayan to give this to you,” Nourval said, holding up the box he had brought in with him. “But then I thought, maybe an early gift could cheer you up.”
Nourval opened the box with a flourish to reveal the largest, most opulent jewel Sanson had ever seen. A large blue stone, surrounded by smaller diamonds, paired with an extravagant diamond chain. It must have cost a small fortune. Despite himself, Sanson gave a small gasp, reaching out a trembling hand to touch it before stopping himself.
“Is it a sapphire?” he asked. Nourval beamed, taking Sanson’s reaction as a sign of approval.
“A diamond,” he said, pulling the necklace out of its box and moving behind Sanson to clasp it around his neck. “An exceedingly rare diamond. Originally commissioned by the Sil’dih King Lalawefu for his beloved wife, it vanished when the city fell and was only recently recovered through mining efforts made by Amaljina and Sons. And now it’s yours.”
Sanson stared at himself in the mirror, reaching up to touch the jewel around his neck. It felt like a collar, tightening around his throat. It was going to suffocate him. “It’s overwhelming.”
“Well, it was designed for royalty,” Nourval said, crouching down so he was eye level with Sanson in the mirror. “And we are royalty, Sanson, make no mistake of that.”
Nourval lifted Sanson’s hand and placed a kiss to the back of it. “The shade of blue reminded me of your eyes. I hope that it will serve to remind you how deep my affections for you are.”
Sanson felt like a maelstrom had started within the pits of his stomach. He was going to be sick if he didn’t get this necklace off.
Nourval stood to leave but then paused, turning back to him. Leaning down to his ear, he whispered, “I want you to wear this on our wedding night. I want to see it around your throat when I fuck you for the first time.”
It took every onze of self-control Sanson had to not shudder. He wanted to sink through the floor and disappear, never to be seen or heard or touched by this man again. Nourval placed a kiss to the top of his head and Sanson felt an urge to rip out all the hair his lips had touched.
“Lock it back in the safe when you’re done looking at it,” Nourval said as he left the room. “Pleasant dreams, my love.”
Sanson stared at his reflection in the mirror, eyes glued to the diamond around his neck. He felt like he was choking under its dreadful weight. It was everything it represented of the world he was being forced to become a part of, the obscene extravagance more akin to a brand scorched upon his neck to let the whole world know he didn’t belong to himself anymore.
With trembling hands, he reached up and gently unclasped the necklace, placing it back in the velvet box it had arrived in. He stared at it in silence for several minutes, the weight of what it meant growing in his head, the dark cloud of his mind threatening to overwhelm and suffocate him. Just like this necklace would.
I want you to wear this on our wedding night. I want to see it around your throat when I fuck you for the first time.
Something snapped. Sanson shot out of his chair so fast it fell backwards. A strangled sob tore its way from his throat as he shoved everything on his desk, including the necklace, to the floor. He felt like an animal, trapped in a cage and desperate to escape. He needed to get away.
There was a door in his room that led to the hall rather than the main suite. He ripped it open and took off running.
****
Guydelot was amazed at how many stars he could see in the middle of the ocean, the great expanse above stretching unending from horizon to horizon. He had snuck away from the boisterous third-class crowds to enjoy some time alone and drink it all in, thinking perhaps the wonderment might inspire a song. Instead, he was laying on a bench near the stern of the ship, his harp abandoned to the side, enjoying a rare moment of tranquil solitude.
He had been trying to find the constellations of the six lower heavens and had just spotted the arrow when he heard it. Footsteps, fast approaching him, and frantic, gasping breath as the stranger sped past him. Guydelot sat up, curious to see where they were going.
A hyur man came to a stop a short distance away, gasping for breath. Guydelot squinted at him through the darkness and after a moment, realized two things: first, that this was the same man he had seen earlier that day, who had looked like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. Second, that he wasn’t just gasping for breath – he was crying.
A lump formed in Guydelot’s throat, his heart aching with sympathy for this complete stranger. He watched the man slowly approach the railing at the edge of the ship, mulling over whether he should approach him or leave it be. I should probably at least check on him, he mused.
It was then, with a jolt of horror, that Guydelot realized the man was climbing over the rail.
****
Sanson ran and ran and ran, with no direction in mind – just a voice in his head screaming at him to escape. He shoved more than one person to the side in his frantic race to put as much space between him and the necklace — that dreadful necklace that represented everything he dreaded — as possible.
His feet led him to the blissfully empty stern of the ship. Sanson leaned against the top of a bench, gasping for breath. His eyes were burning and, after a moment he realized it was because he was crying.
I don’t want to do this anymore, he thought. Let it be done.
Just ahead stretched the railing that separated him from the dark ocean below. Sanson approached it as if in a trance, raising his trembling hands to grasp the top rung.
I could end it, Sanson thought, placing one foot on the bottom rung and then the other. Grabbing the pole next to him for support, he swung his left leg over the top, then the right. This will all be over in just a moment.
Sanson turned carefully, his hands clinging to the rail behind him. Below, the water churned from the propellers lurking beneath the surface, the only discernible part of the sea amongst the black water that surrounded him. His breathing was frantic, coming in short, sharp gasps as he slowly leaned forward.
Just let go, he thought, All you have to do is let go. Then you’ll be free.
His hands remained glued to the railing. Sanson stared down at the water below, frozen in place.
“Don’t do it.”
Sanson gasped and whipped his head around, eyes wide as he said, “Stay back! Don’t come any closer!”
The man – an elezen man – held his hands up, like he was trying to calm a frightened animal. “Hey, hey, it’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you–”
“I mean it!” Sanson yelled, “I’ll let go!” He looked back down at the water and was struck with a new feeling. Terror. What am I doing?
He heard slow footsteps approaching from behind and jerked back around to stare at the stranger. The man still had his hands raised, though he didn’t make any move to grab him. His eyes never left Sanson’s face. He looked familiar.
The stranger leaned against the railing, close enough to touch, but he still didn’t try to grab him. He hadn’t looked away from him for a moment. Despite his precarious position, Sanson felt drawn in by his eyes. Pretty eyes , he thought. The stranger studied him for a moment, then said, “No, you won’t.”
This wasn’t what Sanson had expected him to say. “W-what?”
“Well,” the man drawled with a slight shrug. “I just reckon if you were going to do it, you would have done it already.”
Sanson stared at him, flabbergasted. “You can’t, you can’t just talk to me like that!”
“Like what?” the man asked, a playful smirk on his face.
“Like you know me!” Sanson spat back. “You don’t know the first thing about me or what I’m going through. Go away!”
“Well if you were going to do it, you wouldn’t be bothering to argue with me,” the elezen man continued. “Or maybe, you like arguing with me, cause it gives you an excuse not to do it. Maybe you’ll get so angry with me, you’ll come back over the edge to try and beat some sense into me.”
“I know what you're doing! ” Sanson snapped. He had stopped crying. “You’re distracting me, go away.”
He turned away and looked down at the dark, terrifying water again. He made no move to unglue his hands from the rail.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” the man clicked his tongue, drawing Sanson’s attention back to him. “I’m involved now and I don’t like to leave things unfinished. It ain’t bardly, you know.”
Suddenly, Sanson realized where he recognized him from. It was the musician from lunch, the one who played music like he loved it with his whole heart. The man sighed and began to unbuckle his coat, “If you’re going to jump in, I ain’t got no choice but to jump right in there after ya.”
Sanson gaped at him, caught off guard by the declaration. Taking his own life was one thing, but inadvertently taking someone else’s in the process….
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sanson said, voice shaky. “You’ll be killed.”
“Nah, I’ll be fine,” the man said, voice casual like he wasn’t talking about diving off the back of a ship. “I’m a strong swimmer.”
Sanson scoffed. “The fall alone will kill you.”
“Aye , it’s gonna hurt alright,” Sanson watched him start to undo one of his boots. He was starting to think this man was insane. “And once I have you back on the ship, I’ll make sure to give you hell for it. But that ain’t the part that concerns me so much as how cold that water down there is.”
Sanson mulled that over while the man began undoing his other boot. He hadn’t considered the possibility he would survive the fall. Hesitantly, he asked, “How cold?”
“Freezing,” came the matter-of-fact reply. “Maybe a couple degrees over if we’re lucky.”
”By the Matron,” Sanson muttered, looking back at the water.The doubt was beginning to eat at his stomach again. In a brief moment of desperation, he thought he had wanted to die but now he was having second thoughts.
“You’re Gridanian,” the man said, leaning against the railing again, closer this time. “Only a Gridanian would swear on the Matron. I would know — I’m from Gridania too. You ever been up to Coerthas, since it froze over?”
The question caught Sanson by surprise. That seemed to happen a lot with this man. “What?”
The man smiled at him. His eyes were warm. “Well, I went up there with my mentor a couple years ago, right? Not too long after I left Gridania. We were going to play music for the noble lords and ladies, that sort of thing. Anyways, we’re meeting with this lord, and he really wants to go ice fishing for some reason, right? Ice fishing is when you–”
“I know what ice fishing is!” Sanson snapped. The man held his hands up again.
“Sorry, you just seem like a kind of indoor boy,” he grinned when Sanson gave him another annoyed look. “Anyway, we were out there, and I fell through some thin ice. And let me tell you, water that cold,” he pointed towards the water, “Like right down there? It hits you like a thousand knives, stabbing you over and over and over again.”
Sanson looked down at the rushing, freezing water below him. He didn’t actually want to die. Not like this.
“You can’t breathe, You can’t think. Not about anything except how much bloody pain you’re in,” the man sighed deeply, standing up straight again. “That’s why I’m really not looking forward to jumping in there after you. But you’ve left me with no choice here.”
Sanson was starting to tremble. He wasn’t sure what he wanted anymore but it certainly wasn’t this.
“I suppose,” the man’s gentle voice broke through the maelstrom of Sanson’s thoughts. “I’m really sort've hoping that you’ll come back over the edge and let me off the hook here.”
“You’re insane,” Sanson said, but there was no bite to it. He could feel the fight leaving him.
“That’s what everyone says,” the man said, amused. “But…with all due respect, I ain’t the one hanging off the back of a ship here, am I?”
A hand appeared before him, long slender fingers open in invitation. The man’s voice came again, so soft and gentle. “Come on, give me your hand. You don’t want to do this. It’s going to be okay.”
Slowly, Sanson unfurled the fingers of his right hand from the rail and reached to place them in the other man’s. The fingers curling around his felt like a life preserver in the storm that had become his life, the only thing keeping him safe from sinking. He turned slowly to face the man who was saving him.
“Whoo,” the man said, a relieved smile on his face. He rubbed his thumb against the back of Sanson’s hand. “You’re doing me a big favor here, Chief. I really appreciate it.”
Sanson gave a shaky, strained laugh, “Well, I guess you’re just going to owe me one then.”
“Aye, I suppose I do,” the man said, “And just what is the name of the person I owe this favor to?”
He gave the stranger a shaky smile. “Sanson Smyth.”
“Sanson Smyth.” the man repeated. “Simple but with a lovely double S sound to it. A good name for songs.” Sanson wasn’t sure where to roll his eyes or blush. Bards.
“Nobody is going to write songs about me,” Sanson said. “What’s your name?”
“Guydelot Thildonnet.” Guydelot laughed at the look on Sanson’s face. “I know, I know, it’s a mouthful, so I’ll write it down once we get you back over here. Come on.”
Sanson gave Guydelot a small smile. Guydelot was trying so hard to keep Sanson spirits up. Even though they had just met, it felt like ages since anyone had seemed to care about Sanson. It was a strange feeling.
He took a deep breath to steady himself, then put one foot on the railing, then another.
Then he slipped.
****
Guydelot had thought they were in the clear.
His heart had been hammering the entire time. He had been careful to not approach quickly, to not speak loudly, terrified he would startle Sanson and send him hurtling into the water below. Keep him talking, keep him focused on him. When Sanson had snapped at him, Guydelot had sensed a spark within him, a small flame that had nearly been smothered out. If he could stoke that flame just a bit, he was certain he could get him back over the rail.
And it had worked. Sanson had placed his hand in his, slowly turning to face him. Guydelot had breathed a sigh of relief, releasing a breath he had been holding since he first saw Sanson climbing over the railing.
Then Sanson had slipped, plunging towards the water below them, Guydelot’s hand was the only thing saving him from certain death below.
“Hang on!” Guydelot shouted, though he wasn’t sure Sanson could hear him over the sound of his own screaming. Guydelot was half leaning over the rail himself, his foot braced against the nearby flagpole to keep him from being dragged over too.
“Help me!” Sanson screamed, pure terror in his eyes. “Please, don’t let go!”
“I’m not going to let go!” Guydelot shouted back, stretching his other hand out towards him. “Give me your other hand!”
Sanson reached up towards him and tried to grab Guydelot’s hand. Their fingertips grasped each other’s for a moment before slipping. Sanson screamed even louder, desperation and terror reverberating through the night air.
“Sanson!” Guydelot yelled, grabbing the hand he was still holding with his other hand. “Listen, listen to me!” Sanson’s terrified, tear-streaked face looked up at him, “I’ve got you! I’m not going to let go, I promise. Now, pull yourself up, come on!”
Guydelot heaved upwards, enough that Sanson was able to grab the first rung with his free hand.
“That’s right, just like that,” Guydelot shouted, pulling him up again so he could grab the next rung. “Just like that, you’re doing great!”
One more pull and Sanson was able to grab the top rung. Together, they managed to pull him up enough to place his knee on the edge of the deck.
“That’s it, just a little more!” Guydelot wasn’t sure if he was trying to reassure Sanson or himself at this point. “You’re almost there, come on!”
Guydelot reached down and wrapped his arms around Sanson’s chest, just as Sanson threw his arms around Guydelot’s neck in a vice grip. With one last burst of adrenaline, Guydelot pulled Sanson back over the edge, falling backwards from the force of it. He gasped as his back hit the deck and Sanson fell on top of him, then rolled them over so he could look Sanson over.
“Hey, hey,” Guydelot said softly, bringing a hand up to cup his cheek. Sanson was shaking, his eyes wide and frozen and unseeing. “You’re alright, it’s okay now.”
Sanson gave a choked sob, pulling his hands close to his chest. Guydelot brushed a strand of hair out of his face. “Sanson, can you hear me? You’re going to be alright, just like I said–”
The sound of footsteps thundering across the deck made him look up. Four Titanic crew members were running towards them, doubtlessly summoned by Sanson’s screams. A pit of dread settled in Guydelor’s stomach. He knew what this was going to look like. The half undressed third-class passenger crouched over the visibly terrified first-class passenger? He knew it didn’t look good.
They came to a stop in front of them, and after only a moment of taking in the scene, the one who seemed to be in charge pointed at Guydelot and said “Don’t you move! Arrest that man!”
Guydelot glared at them as he slowly raised his hands. Jehantel was going to give him an earful when he found out about this.