Chapter Text
AN: A new fic, a new 'verse. Here's hoping that those who stuck by me through Allegiance are up for another adventure...
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The seafarer strode down the gangplank of The Lonely Wind a little older, and more than a little wiser.
For two and a half months she’d lived in a hammock on the sea, sailing from the Braavosian Coastlands all the way to the Orange Shore of Volantis and then back again. Under the command of captain Terys Gyleno, a tall, stern man with a shock of white hair that stood in stark contrast to the sun-darkened leather of his skin, she’d learned nautical mapping and navigation, how to steer a vessel true in the pitch dark of a moonless sky, and even how to honor a man lost to the sea.
Nordric Toryn, the Quartermaster, taught her how to keep the peace amongst a group of rowdy, restless men who loved the sea too much to ever live away from it, yet continually dreamt of the pleasures of land when they were on it. He taught her how to catch men siphoning rum from sealed barrels, how to manage inventory between ports, and the laws of justice that ruled every wooden island that was a ship.
From the purser Josso Quence, she’d come to understand the fine points of trader ship economics. He managed all accounts and payroll meticulously in a leather-bound ledger that was, to him, as sacred as the Seven-Pointed Star to a High Septon. Not one coin passed without accounting, whether it be a small note indicating a man had been paid an advance of his wage, or an angry scrawl detailing an inspection fee that amounted to no more than a shameless bribe. He made sums magic, shifting them around until what disappeared in one column was reclaimed in another, until they all balanced once again.
With the sailors, she’d learned how to tie at least thirty different types of knots, how to quickly climb to the top of rigging beneath billowing purple sails, and how to belt out a half-dozen bawdy sea shanties that made ladies blush and whores beckon whenever they’d pull in to harbor.
And finally, with the fishermen, she’d learned the nimble touch required for line-knots and net repair, and the patience to watch a thick strand tremble just so before arcing up the wooden pole and hauling in supper. She was instructed on how to craft crabbing cages, weighting them down with rocks and setting them out in mornings when the ship was anchored, and then hauling them back up come sunset. Beyond this, during the few days of shore leave they’d had throughout the voyage, she’d rolled up her pant legs and stood in shallow lagoons under the blazing sun until she could catch quick, darting silver fish with her bare hands.
The sea had proved a fine mistress, but she was glad to be home – for that’s what Braavos had become, as much as anything else.
It had been three years since she’d first passed under the great Titan, running to the only place in the world she had left to go. Though she hated to admit it, she’d come as little more than a beggar to the House of Black and White, with nothing to her name but a slender sword named Needle, a strange iron coin, and a ready-made list of death to offer the Many-Faced God who held sway there.
That was when she’d still had a name, a label for the walking, talking, raging cistern of bitterness and hate that she’d been.
Things were different, now.
Once The Lonely Wind was far behind her, she sidestepped into an alley and removed the soft, freckle-dusted face she’d been wearing throughout the voyage. That journey was done, and it was time for Dael the Seafarer to vanish like ashes upon the water. If any of the crew thought to search her out in the milling crowd of the dockside market, they’d find no trace of the ghoul they’d broken bread with – only the blank face of an androgynous former northerner that bore a long scar that curved from the edge of her forehead down around her cheek and jaw.
She left the alley and fell in with the throng that huddled around the vendor stalls. A strange cart had pulled up to join the familiar merchants today; a balding, rotund man in bright silks speaking in a poorly contrived Meereenese accent, called out to the masses claiming to have arcane elixirs from the Shadowland of Asshai. She fought the urge to sigh. This would be glamoured river water at best, or berry-dyed lagoon silt at worst. If the water within the contoured decanters was brackish, the only ‘magical’ result the concoction would provide anyone would be an extended trip to the nearest privy chamber.
Unsurprised at the gullibility of the rabble that were counting out their coins for the charlatan, she made her way past fishmongers, whores, and even a child-thief who was bold enough to sidle up beside her before recognizing the scar on her face and scampering off again, to a humble stall a few yards away from the ferrymen. The owner of the stall, Merlayne, was a middle-aged woman who somehow managed to procure fruit to sell every day of the year to suit all preferences, whether it be fresh or canned or even candied.
“You’ve been gone a while, luv.” Merlayne said to her nameless customer. “Was wonderin’ if I was goin’ to see you again. Same as usual?”
No One nodded, placing a few square coins into the woman’s weathered hand.
“Thought as much. ‘Ere ya go.” Merlayne reached behind her and seized a pear, roasted in honey and spices and wrapped in in a delicate waxed parchment.
The hint of a grin in response, and then the ghoul was headed towards the ferrymen’s skiffs.
She slowed her pace, unwrapping her treat and then slivering it with her fingerknife. She popped a wedge into her mouth, and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. After ten weeks of salted jerky, hardtack, and pickled cabbage with some occasional fish or crab, the broiled fruit tasted beyond decadent. She felt a sugared rush through her veins after the third bite, and decided it was entirely worth it.
Her snack was nothing but a sweet memory by the time she’d reached a skiff and tossed the ferryman a coin to row her through the canals to the House of Black and White. The oarsman gave a respectful bow and, once she boarded, set himself to the task of skimming her back to the temple.
When they pulled up beside the dichotomous House, she tossed him another titan coin. “Wait here a while for me, and there’s two more in it for you.” She said quietly.
Not waiting to gauge his reaction, No One slung her satchel over her shoulder and climbed up the steps that led to death’s sanctuary, and opened the heavy doors.
Grey eyes quickly adjusted to the dim lighting that served in the main chamber. She heard without seeing the quiet swipes of a thick, damp cloth on stone behind the statue of the Hooded Wayfarer, and knew that an acolyte was tending to the humble duty that was once her own.
“Valar morghulis.” A soft voice spoke from the shadows beyond the fountain of mercy.
“Valar dohaeris.” She answered.
A rare smile from the Kindly Man followed. “So The Gentleman has returned to us, now able to serve the Many-Faced God in lands so distant they believe they are outside of his dominion.”
The No One commonly known as The Gentleman, a moniker bestowed upon her by the Kindly Man after her time in service to a wealthy courtesan, nodded. “Where does the Many-Faced God will me to go?”
“Many places. But none of them today.”
“I will go to see Qarro then, if he is not in need of my services tonight.”
“Just so.” The Kindly Man said in a perfect imitation of the First Sword of Braavos. “Now that you have learned how to navigate the water, it is back to dancing over it.”
The Gentleman bowed her head as he dismissed her, and climbed down the great stone steps that led to the sleeping cells. Taking one of the flickering candles that the acolytes always kept lit, she walked past the humble alcoves of her murderous associates until she finally reached her own.
A straw mattress on a stone slab carved directly into the rocky knoll the House sat atop served as a bed. A small shelf chiseled from within the same hillock protruded to the top left of it, as good a place to set a candle as any. No One set it down, and unpacked the few belongings she was permitted from her satchel: some shirts, trousers, a belt, spare pair of boots, some sharpening oil, a whetstone, and three spare blades in soft leather sheathes.
All tools with which to serve.
She folded her clothing and stacked it under her stony bunk along with her blades and maintenance gear. She’d launder it outside later.
As settled as she ever was anymore, she lifted the candle again and made her way through the sterile catacombs that served as sanctuary for the living servants of the god of death, returning the unsteady light from whence it came. She climbed back up the winding stairs, and out of the temple foyer.
The ferryman had not waited. Another little man afraid of the ghouls, then.
Although no Braavosi would ever dare break the law of valar dohaeris upon presentation of a marked iron coin, there were some who resented its existence. Shrouded in mystery since the founding of the great free city, the House of Black and White and those who served within it were viewed by some of the populace as macabre, or even outright criminal. Religions that based their doctrine on the beauty and value of every life regarded worship of the Many-Faced God with outspoken contempt, calling those who served him little more than empty, soulless ‘ghouls’.
The epithet stuck.
Even though fear kept most from ever speaking the term aloud, it was still used by those who found Faceless Men and their acolytes offensive.
It was used more and more often, these days.
Sighing, she started towards the Sealord’s Palace.
……..
“Little Death, you have returned.” Qarro Volentin said with a smile.
No One cocked an eyebrow. “I have grown, you know. I’m near as tall as you now.”
He laughed, and started to walk with her to the Titan’s Fountain. “It is so. But indulge me just the same. ‘Almost as tall as me Death’ truly does not have the same ring to it.”
“Fair enough.” She conceded with a good-natured chuckle.
“So,” he said, glancing over at her tanned forearms beneath her rolled up sleeves, “wherever you have been, it was under a much friendlier sun than we see here in Braavos.”
It was always the same game, between her and the First Sword. Whenever she would leave for an extended period on a mission, he would always try to guess where she had been. She would never tell him of course, even if he managed to guess right, and yet he pressed on every time just the same.
“It was very hot, most days.” She granted.
“Indeed. And your hands, I noticed that they are rougher than usual. You have been doing much work with them, and not of the water-dancing variety. I often see these kinds of hands on dockworkers or sailors. This place that was under the friendly sun – you sailed there, yes?
“I spent some time on a ship.” She answered vaguely.
He chuckled as they stopped in front of the great fountain. “Was it Tyrosh?” he asked, brandishing his rapier and turning to a perfect water dancing stance.
“It wasn’t Tyrosh.” She answered, drawing her own blade and turning.
Qarro lunged forward, thrusting towards her chest and then feinting a slice to her shoulder as she parried. “Myr, then?”
She dodged his steel and arced her own towards his neck. “Not Myr.”
A few elegant flicks of his wrist and the tip of his blade made to piece her navel, bicep and shoulder. She blocked each attempt, then countered with two swift cuts aimed for each of his cheeks. He stepped back in the nick of time, denying her first blood. “You’re getting faster.” He said. “This is good.”
She grinned wryly. “Not fast enough.” She went on the offensive, charging her blade in a flurry against him. He intercepted each strike, but only while being pushed back.
Maybe she was improving after all.
“You have more strength, now.” Qarro continued, jabbing. “I feel it, when you strike. And also,” he quickly brought his rapier up, intending to flay her chin like an impudent Bravo, “when you are blocking.”
She deflected his attempt at unwarranted chastisement, and knew the truth in his words. Though her thin blade was never a burden in her hand, it was lighter now than it ever had been. Time spent hauling nets had served her well.
“Enough of a warm up, then.” The First Sword said, giving his blade a twirl. “Let us dance, you and I.”
And with that he stepped into his role and became her opponent, bearing down on her with the expertise that had earned him both his rank and renown. His movements gave no clue as to where the next strike was intended, and his sword was a blur as it struck against her own. Instinct took over as she became nothing more than her blade, thin steel and cool edge.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a small crowd starting to gather on the veranda outside the Sealord’s Great Hall. They had started watching almost a year ago, after the first time she’d bloodied Qarro. It was the first time anyone had done that since he’d accepted the honor of becoming the Sealord’s First Sword, and whispers revealed that they secretly took wagers on how long it would take for the nameless ghoul to become his match.
Not long, if she had her way.
She charged, he sidestepped. He swiped, she blocked. She thrust, he parried. He arced, she pivoted. A trickle of sweat ran down her temple as she moved in harmonious opposition to his every offense, while he expertly pressed her defense, looking for an opening.
He found one, small as it was, and cut a thin red line across one of the forearms that he noticed had been tanned in the land of the friendly sun earlier. Grey eyes flicked over the crimson ribbon, and suddenly The Gentleman was reminded of a similar split that would have adorned a familiar neck before it had rent open into a bloody, gaping maw that poured out lifeblood before becoming part of a broken corpse that was tossed into a river.
She heard a howl within her mind, and she was no longer just a sword. She was both beast and blade, and each wanted blood.
Her sword swung with the precision of a water dancer, coupled with the angry ferocity of something else that could never be quantified with a name. Undaunted she pushed forward, every strike demanding reaction. She no longer saw Qarro before her, there was only shadow, shadow that held a blade and stood in her way.
Fueled by a rage so cold that it burned, she became a whirlwind of edge and point. Parry, riposte, thrust, spin, pierce, sever – nothing else existed beyond these destructive, primal desires.
‘This is new.’ She could hear the words echo, as if called from a land as far away as the friendly sun. ‘And this is not the water dance.’
A sharp sting across the bridge of her nose snapped her back into reality. She blinked, and in that single moment of disoriented hesitation the tip of Qarro’s blade pressed against her chest.
“I lost.” She murmured, her chin raising in defiance even as her arms fell limp at her sides.
Qarro pulled back his blade with a flourish. “You did,” he said, “but not without dignity.” He glanced at a bloodied tear in his silk shirt.
She looked down at the cut that ran from the curve of her elbow to her wrist. “I still have much to learn.” She said softly.
“As do I.” her mentor responded somberly. “The day we believe we have mastered the water dance, is the day we fall to the sword of another who understands there is no mastering of such a thing.” He reached and rested a warm hand on her shoulder. “Come again, when you can. We will continue to learn together.”
No One bowed her head deferentially. “Thank you, Qarro.” He pulled his hand away, and she turned, starting back towards the gate that led to the long road home.
“Little Death,” the Braavosi called out after her, “was it Volantis?”
She turned to look over her shoulder. “Not Volantis.” She said with barest hint of a grin. It was all of them, Qarro.
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AN#2 - there is a lot of speculation on just how 'wearing faces' works with the FM. For this piece, I'm going with the concept that a new face is taken for each mission, but is not worn on 'off time'.