Chapter Text
“N’ as they rode up the mountain path, one o’ them—erm—” Rhoswen scowled down at the tome on her lap, lips pursed in annoyance as she tried to puzzle out the word. The page swam before her weary eyes, elegant letters dissolving into meaningless squiggles on the faded parchment. “M… Majestic beasts came swoopin’ down from the ‘eavens. The boy’s chocobo reared up in fright, sending the boy tumblin’ down the mountainside to his n… his ni….”
“Nigh-certain demise,” whispered Aubrix, his small head pillowed against her shoulder.
“To his nigh-certain demise,” she repeated firmly, turning the page with a barely suppressed huff.
The Boy and the Dragon Gay had become a recent favorite amongst the many younglings who called the Missing Member home. For days on end they’d been begging her to read it aloud, never once minding the fact that even the youngest of the brood could read circles around their dear captain. Now, having finally surrendered to their incessant cries, she was left picking her way through the Coerthan tale word by godsforsaken word… at least, to the ones that were lucky enough to be in the tavern.
As a general rule, Sirens did not waste idle time worrying about where their children were at any given moment. Most of the younglings lived in the tavern, bastard children of women who had no clue—nor care—who the father might be. Others, like Aubrix, were born of former Sirens who had chosen to wed for one reason or another, and lived in the city-state proper. It was assumed that if they weren’t at home, they were in the tavern; if they weren’t there, they were wading in the shallows, or wandering the marketplace, or pestering the Skylift workers for a free ride up the Descent.
Together they made up a large group of unruly ragamuffins that, for the most part, could look after themselves. The rest of the crew worked as collective eyes and ears, with everyone from the lowest deckhand to Rhoswen herself keeping watch over the little brats as though they were their own flesh and blood. A force to be reckoned with, they had a keen understanding of how to wheedle anything they wanted out of an unsuspecting victim… including their own captain.
In truth, Rhoswen did not mind reading the occasional story, even if it took valuable time out of her busy schedule. Though she constantly cursed her own softheartedness wherever the scheming little bastards were concerned, she could not bear to see their hopes dashed by her own misgivings. The majority of her life had been spent in illiteracy, only able to recognize those seven distinct letters that made up her given name. She had taught herself to read as a deckhand, collecting scraps of parchment from plundered ships and painstakingly tracing them by lamplight long after the others had retired to their bunks. Despite her best efforts, she was still forced to sound out all but the simplest of words, her clumsy tongue tripping over the syllables.
It was for this very reason that she had insisted all children born to Sirens would learn to read and write. The mismatched bunch huddled around her on their threadbare coverlets were better equipped to handle the world than their own mothers would ever be, safe from corrupt guards bearing false warrants or conniving merchants with dubiously worded contracts. Though they might hem and haw over their slates, she could rest easy in the fact that they would thank her one day for the efforts she took to secure their education.
But for now….
“N’ the gods saw fit to spare his life, if only m… meagerly so. As he lay there, battered n’ broken, all manner o’ foul beasts drew near—” The heavy ocean winds rattled the shutters, moaning eerily in as it swept through the Aftcastle. The children nestled around her like so many chicks in a nest, the eldest reading along over her shoulders while the littlest ones dozed on her lap. They shivered with trepidation at the illustrated shadows on the accompanying page, hulking and half-hidden by the leafy undergrowth as they crept towards where the wounded boy lay in the foreground.
“He’s gonna be okay, aye?” Zori asked with a yawn that seemed to split her face in two, chubby fists rubbing at her eyes. Her feline ears, overlarge for her small stature, flattened as she studied the illustration with clear concern in her bright gaze. This was hardly the first time that any of the children had heard the tale, but they seemed to enjoy the pretense of asking questions as though it were brand new.
“Turn the page, n’ we’ll see what happens.” Had it been left up to her, the boy would have broken his neck at the bottom of the mountain and saved her the trouble of reading the rest. But of course a child’s fairie story would never end on such a sour note.
There was a collective sigh of admiration as the children caught sight of the dragon illustration on the next page. The sinuous creature was painted so that its scales seemed to shimmer in the lamplight; iridescent flames erupted from its gaping maw to frame the border of the text. Rhoswen had never seen a dragon before in her life, and certainly had no plans to go searching for one. Still,
she had to admit that the painted beast did seem rather formidable, if not majestic.
“Just as the boy was makin’ his peace with the Twelve, another dragon—”
“Cap’n?” The door cracked open with a rusty squeak. A’brohka—her first mate and closest confidante—poked her head through the door with an apologetic grimace. “Sorry, but there’s somethin’ of a situation downstairs.”
“Aww!” The children fell apart in a chorus of groans, their tension shattered in the wake of this new interruption.
“C’mon, A’brohka!”
“This is the best part!”
“Shut yer traps!” A’brohka hissed, leaning further into the room. “’Tis the same damn tale every night. Ye can miss it for once.”
“What is it? Don’t tell me that fool astrologian is back for another round,” Rhoswen scoffed. “Go out there n’ tell Melkoko I said she’s got my permission to throw the bugger out arsefirst if he keeps askin’ after her. Better yet, Abarwint can shove him off the balcony; I doubt anybody would miss him.” She shook her head, lips pursed in annoyance. “I swear, this city’s been overrun with long-eared fops too in love with the sound o’ their own bloody voices.”
“That’s good t’know, but it ain’t—”
“Whatever it is, Brohka,” she grunted, adjusting the heavy tome on her lap, “I’m sure ye can keep a lid on things ‘till I’m finished with this lad n’ his thrice-damned dragons.”
“T’would be best if ye handled this one yerself, Cap’n.” A’brohka leveled a glance at her over the rounded frames of her pince-nez. “One might say it requires a certain… sage wisdom.”
“For the love of—!” Rhoswen pinched the bridge of her nose, tamping down her temper before it could flare in front of the little ones. “All right, all right.” She climbed to her feet, her resigned sigh drowned by a fierce outcry from her captive audience. “Oi! That’s enough o’ that!” An immediate hush fell over the room, twenty pairs of eyes pleading with her to stay and finish the tale. “Aubrix can read the rest, then it’s off to bed with the lot o’ ye. We’ll try it again tomorrow.”
Aubrix took command of the tome, continuing where she had left off with far more enthusiasm for the source material. The children bunched around him as Rhoswen waved A’brohka out the door, following quickly and nearly slamming it on its hinges. The dragon’s belligerent roar became a quiet hum in the relative silence of the corridor, the only sound a faint whistling of wind in the highest rafters.
“What in blazes have ye done to him now?!” she snarled, once she was certain none of the children were attempting to eavesdrop from the other side. “If ye’ve been covering for someone, Brohka, best fess up now before I have to go down there n’ hear it from—”
“No, ma’am!” A’brohka shook her head fiercely. “Me n’ the girls are clean… at least, so far as I’m aware.”
“Then why in the seven hells is he turning up on our doorstep in the middle o’ the night?”
“I have no idea, I swear! He just showed up out o’ nowhere n’ demanded an audience with ye. Wouldn’t take no for an answer, even when we was… less than polite about it.” A’brohka hesitated, one dainty fang gnawing on her lower lip.
“I know that look.” Rhoswen narrowed her eyes. “Yer hidin’ somethin’.”
“Not hidin’, just…”
“Just what?”
“Well—” A’brohka leaned even closer, lowering her voice until it was barely audible. “Just between us, I can’t remember the last time I saw Carvallain this out o’ sorts,” A’brohka admitted. “He ain’t been this flustered since the ‘Cudas stormed his ship looking for that bastard Emerick.”
“That bad, eh?” She rested her palm against the door, the heavy wood cool against her calloused skin. “N’ yer certain he didn’t say anythin’ about why he’s bothered showing up? Nothin’ about the Maelstrom, or the Executioners?”
“On my life, not a word.”
“Tch… he probably thinks I’ve challenged him to another duel.” She rolled her eyes at the thought. Sometimes it made more sense to think that he was the one obsessed with her, believing every errant missive and unsigned letter to be an invitation to duel to the death. “I’ll go down n’ see what he thinks he wants. Ye best stay up here n’ make sure these brats get to bed on time. Or, better yet, find one o’ their mothers to do the dirty work for ye.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
I wonder what it is this time? Rhoswen descended the staircase slowly, fingertips grazing the roughhewn stone walls as she turned the question over in her mind. It was not like Carvallain to willingly venture into Siren territory—at least, not without a damn good reason. Even on his excursions to Naldiq & Vymelli's, he made certain to keep to the far side of the Aftcastle. He never lingered to rest on the long benches encircling the plaza, nor did he stop to admire the sapling growing in the alcove beside the Missing Member. He saw to his business and left as quickly as possible, retreating to his own world of merchants and marauders on the opposite end of the upper decks.
At the foot of the stairs, she found Abarwint peering furtively through the cracked door that led into the belly of the tavern. His bulky frame barely fit in the narrow stairwell, shoulders brushing the stone on either side as he crouched to keep his skull from connecting with the solid ceiling above.
It was something of a misconception that the Sirens did not allow men into the Missing Member. The crew was entirely female, to be sure, but there were always menfolk trickling in and out of its doors. There were sons of Sirens both past and present, vendors, regular patrons, and a few bilge rats who’d managed to charm her girls in one way or another. Some of them she even deemed worthy enough to live and work in the tavern, provided they knew how to earn their keep. Before leaving to pursue his dreams—or whatever the hells he thought he was doing—H’mhasi Tia had been her best chef. Likewise, Abarwint was the son of a former steerswoman, and had served faithfully as the Member’s barkeep ever since coming of age.
“Ye want that I should stay nearby, Cap’n?” Abarwint asked when he spied her, hands knotted in his stained apron. “I can sit on the stairs n’ be out faster than levin if ye need me.”
“What? Don’t be ridiculous,” she snorted. “It’s only the fop. What’s he gonna do, lecture me to death?” Abarwint didn’t budge, bushy eyebrows meeting over his square nose as he glanced once more through the crack. “What’s the matter?”
“’Tis just… ‘e seems so… I dunno. Nervous, maybe.”
“He ought to be! Showin’ up to the enemy’s stronghold after dark… wouldn’t ye be nervous, too?” He didn’t answer, shoulders slumping as he wrung the threadbare fabric between his thick hands. “Don’t bother yerself about it. I know how to best handle Carvallain,” she insisted, shoving at one massive arm with all her strength. Abarwint stepped aside, obliging as always, though the pensive frown remained. “Hurry up n’ finish yer duties for the night. That inventory ain’t about to count itself.”
“Aye, Cap’n. But if ye find yerself in need of a strongarm—”
“Get on with ye!” She shoved again, sending him scurrying towards the storage rooms as though his life depended on it.
That being said… it wouldn’t hurt to get a handle on things aforehand. “Ascertain the situation”, as the Admiral would say. Taking his place at the door, Rhoswen squinted through the crack.
The tavern was nearly empty, its polished floors still glistening from the remnants of the mop pail. On either side of the large room, the balcony doors stood open to allow the ocean breeze a chance to cleanse the air of sweat and ale. The ever loyal Melkoko sat atop the curved bar, the heel of one immaculately polished shoe tapping against the wooden frame. Her spine was ramrod straight, arms crossed and expression downright violent as she watched their uninvited guest.
Carvallain stood in the center of the room, surrounded on all sides by upturned chairs. One long finger tapped his chin as he waited, an otherwise unmoving statue in the center of her domain. The remaining lanternlight threw the lines of his face into sharp relief, angular cheekbones and tapered jawline, the slender column of his neck disappearing into the crisp folds of his collar. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight, thrumming traitorously against her breastbone. Handsome bastard.
To say she had feelings for Carvallain was something of an overstatement… but neither was it a complete lie. The Sirens and the Krakens had a longstanding feud that could not be ignored, no matter how handsome their captain might be. But Rhoswen had never forgotten what he’d done for her at Carteneau, whisking her from the jaws of death at the last possible moment. It was a scene straight out of a fairie tale, only it had taken place inside a horror story.
They’d argued about it afterwards, of course, but that was simply their nature. Her gratitude would have been out of place with him, just as any acknowledgement of the deed would have been out of place with her.
In fact, Rhoswen had the sneaking suspicion that many of their miscommunications—if they could be called such—arose not from any real antagonism, but rather something vital that they both seemed to lack. Neither bent to the other because such a thing simply did not happen in their lives; as a result, they were almost always at loggerheads.
A damn shame. Rhoswen sighed, gathering her wits for what would most likely be yet another needless battle. Carvallain’s ear gave the slightest of twitches, barely perceptible in the dim light. If he heard her, lurking as she was on the other side of the door, he chose not to bring attention to it. Steeling her nerve, she set her jaw and stomped into the tavern with a confidence she did not quite feel.
“Oi, ye mangy bastard! What in hells’ name d’ye think yer doin’ here at this time o’—!” Most of the fiery tirade she’d improvised sputtered to ash at the sight of Carvallain’s anguished expression. He turned towards her, plucked brows furrowed and mouth set in a grim line. Had she not known better, she might have believed it the look of a damned soul catching his first glimpse of the gallows.
Twelve above! Brohka wasn’t lyin’! She had not seen his forehead this creased since they stood together before the storm at the Flats, waiting for the Admiral’s orders to charge. She could almost feel the arid wind against her cheeks, crispy with the frying heat of magitek fire and searing flame of thaumaturge spellwork. Changing tactics, she waved to Melkoko in dismissal.
“Go ahead n’ finish up. I’ll take it from here.” The hostess leapt nimbly from her perch, curtsying to her captain before vanishing through the door that led to the Missing Member’s innermost chambers. Crossing her arms, Rhoswen nodded at an empty barstool with what she hoped was a civil—if not exactly amicable—expression. “Go on, then.”
“No, thank you.” Carvallain leaned against the wall with a careless shrug that belied his clear agitation. “If it’s all the same.”
“Suit yerself.” Pale eyes trailed over her body, sternum to ankles and back again in slow measure.
“You appear rather… underdressed.”
“Moon’s out, ye daft sod.” She resisted the urge to fidget, locking her hands tightly under her folded arms. The way he was staring at her made her feel far more exposed than she truly was. “Some o’ us are tryin’ to make it to bed before first bell.”
“That’s what you wear to bed?” His gaze lingered on the exposed swell of her bosom, outlined in white by the loose folds of the tunic tucked into her breeches. A flicker of heat, gone between blinks, so fast that she might have missed it… or misinterpreted it. His eyes cut away forcefully, scanning quickly over the empty bar before returning to her once more. His gaze remained stubbornly locked with her own, the obstinate fire unable to fully douse his unease.
“Why are ye here?” she finally relented, feeling close to a migraine. “If it’s a fight yer after, it’ll have to wait until the ‘morrow. I’m a tad busy at the moment.”
“Too busy to parley with an old enemy?” His head canted to the side, lips downturned in a feigned pout. “Not at all like the harpy I know and loathe.”
“That harpy retires with the sun.”
“Good to know.”
“Look,” she growled, rubbing her head with a wince. “Believe it or not, I don’t plan me days around… whatever this is.” She waved at the distance between them, summing up everything they were—and weren’t—in a concise flip of her wrist. “If yer hankerin’ for a battle, the least ye can do is let me get some shuteye first. Or, better yet, quit wastin’ my time n’ tell me what ye think yer doin’ in my tavern at the witchin’ hour!”
“I—” His mouth twisted, unspoken words bitter on his tongue. “I’ve come to ask a… favor.”
“F-Favor?” The breath seemed to stick in her lungs, burning a hole in her chest. “That’s a dangerous word for the likes o’ us.”
“As I am well aware.” Carvallain made no attempt to elaborate further. It seemed as though the admission had taken most of the bluster out of him, the wind leaving his proverbial sails. All at once she felt the pendulum blade swinging low, just overhead. Gulping back her nerves, she framed her fear to sound more like anger.
“If ye think ye can just waltz in ‘ere n’ pull some five-year debt scheme our yer arse just to—”
“Five… debt?” he echoed, puzzled. “What debt?”
“The—!” Now she burned for an entirely different reason, mingled shame and the remnants of something that might have once been admiration. “I’m talkin’ about what happened at Carteneau, o’ course!”
“No!” Confusion gave way to shock, then horror. “Gods, no!” he repeated emphatically. “I have never—do you truly think me a complete—” He bit his lip, reigning in the wayward emotions with a grounding breath. When he next spoke, it was with an air of forced calm. “I do not, nor have I ever, considered what happened at Carteneau to be a debt on your part.”
Then what was it? The words fought to be heard, bunching and tangling together at the base of her throat. Five years… five years of lying awake in her bed each Rising, fighting off nightmares with the thought of his stupid noble arse scooping her onto that chocobo as though she weighed less than a feather. Five years of wondering why me? why not another? with no answers to be had. There were plenty he might have saved instead, and yet he’d made a point to save her: his enemy, his rival captain, his… his what?
What had prompted him to risk his own life—not to mention the life of his beloved bird—by putting himself in harm’s way for her? Battered and beaten, half-crazed, her crew lying in bits and pieces at her heels… nothing to live for, a death wish in her back pocket—
Not the sort of woman worth trying to save.
“In fact,” he added, somewhat reluctantly, “Should you decide to help me in this… matter… ‘tis I who will be indebted to you. A debt that I admittedly have no idea how to repay in turn.”
“Ye still haven’t told me just what it is yer after.” Rhoswen shook her head. “If it’s coin, I haven’t much to spare. Anythin’ else….” She averted her eyes. “Anythin’ else depends on the request, I suppose.”
“Yes, well… I need you to—” He paused, tongue working in his cheek. “That is, I require that you— I would appreciate it if you’d—”
“Out with it, already!”
“Accompany me to Coerthas. To Ishgard.” The words left his mouth in a rush. “That is my request.”
“N’ then what?” She stared him down, waiting for the other shoe to fall. Coerthas? Ishgard? He might as well have asked her to sail right off the edge of the map. She’d never cared to look beyond Vylbrand, happy to content herself with pickings on its bloodstrewn shores. Carvallain wouldn’t have his heart set on that snow-swept wasteland without good reason, but what good could someone like her possibly be in a city full of stuffy, long-eared nobles? There had to be an ulterior motive, something he wasn’t telling her.
“While we are there, I need you to pretend to be my…” He lifted his eyes to the rafters with a grimace. “My wife.”
“What?!”
“Rest assured, it’s only for a few days. No more than a sennight at most.”
“What?!”
“Allow me to explain—”
“Aye, I think ye’d better.” Her legs felt week, but she dared not sit down while he remained standing. Pretend to be his wife?! That was the sort of thing joked about in alehouse yarns, not acted out in real life! What in the Navigator’s bloody name was he thinking?!
Carvallain turned away from her, staring out into the inky darkness above the bay. He did not speak immediately, gathering his thoughts while she waited with growing horror. What could possibly be so bad that he needed her—of all people!—to pretend to be his wife? Finally he took a deep breath, arms falling to his sides as he faced her once more.
“My life, or at least what you know of it, is a lie.” Rhoswen waited for more, eyes darting from his face to his hands and back, but he seemed frozen in place.
“S-So?” she ventured, when the silence stretched too long to be comfortable. “I’d venture a third o’ the pirates walkin’ the decks have some longwinded backstory they found at the bottom o’ the ale keg. Ye think that makes ye special or somethin’?”
“Please, let me finish.”
“Ye weren’t talkin’—!”
“I am not an orphan. My parents were not fortune-tellers… though my family is admittedly known for reading the stars. And while I am the victim of a pirate attack on our vessel, I was not coerced into this life. Rather, I chose it as a means of escape from the one I’d previously known.”
“I still don’t see what any o’ this has to do with—”
“Twenty years,” he interrupted, waving away her protests impatiently. “Twenty years I remained hidden in plain sight, making it known that I wanted nothing to do with Ishgard. They are cold bunch, lacking both in passion and imagination, and I had little reason to remain in contact following my voluntary separation. In fact, there was a time not so long ago when I wished never to be reminded of that icy fortress, nor those who choose to reside there, trapped in chains of their own making.”
“However, it appears that circumstances have recently changed within the Holy See. The Dragonsong War has ended, and in rebuilding their city it seems that the people have taken a less… orthodox approach to mending their many woes. After careful consideration, I thought it prudent to—that is, a recent report made it clear to me that—what I mean to say is—”
“I hope ye don’t plan on talkin’ circles around yerself ‘till sunrise,” Rhoswen grunted, crossing her arms. Despite his rambling, he still hadn’t managed to land on exactly what he was doing here, or why he was going there, or how she fit into the picture.
“Perhaps you have heard that the Krakens recently entered a trade agreement with Ishgard.” He lifted a hand, gesturing vaguely as he spoke. “The agreement itself was of little importance; such things are commonplace enough between nations, and merchants of nations. But the merchant in question is well-known to me. He is a shrewd tradesman, a skillful financier, a powerful orator, and… he is my father. Indeed, I am the only son of Count Charlemend de Durendaire.”
“Am I supposed to know who that is?”
“Count Durendaire… of House Durendaire? One of the four noble Houses of Ishgard? Founders of the Holy See?” Rhoswen shrugged, shaking her head.
“I don’t know, n’ I couldn’t care less.”
“They are a noble and prestigious—never mind.” Secretly, she couldn’t help but feel relieved that his anxious energy quickly fizzled into annoyance at her lack of knowledge. “What matters is that until recently, the Count was under the impression that Gerald was the true captain of the Kraken’s Arms. I did not dare allow the truth to be known until I could ascertain for myself whether or not his apparent change of heart was genuine.”
“Change of—?”
“My father was a cold, calculating sort of man. Appeals to emotion held little sway over his decisions. That being said… to see him so affable, so willing to reveal trade secrets, and to pirates at that….” He shook his head in clear disbelief. “In any case, the truth has since been revealed, and my father has since requested my presence in Ishgard. To that effect, I may have made several false claims in my attempts to circumnavigate this particular reunion.”
“N’ I suppose one o’ these claims is…?”
“That I am happily married to a Limsan native, and—being head over heels in love—thus cannot bear the thought of leaving her behind while I undertake such an arduous journey.” He hesitated, glancing at her with an expression that sent a fresh wave of trepidation down her spine. “I feel I must admit that in my attempts to shock him with some of the more sordid details, I may have described… you.”
“Me?! Why ye—ye schemin’, no-good bastard of a fop!” she spat, cheeks scalding in a hot blush. “I ain’t done nothin’ to ye… not in the last twelvemonth, anyroad! Just what in hells’ name did ye have to say about me?!”
“Only the unvarnished truth.” It was his turn to lift his shoulders in a careless shrug, fingers flying as he listed off her apparent “qualities”. “Crass, vulgar, loudmouthed—” She advanced on him, stomping across the room as visions of pushing him from the balcony flooded the forefront of her mind. He watched her approach with mild disinterest, cocking his head to the side as he continued. “Shrewish, vexing… alluring.” She stopped short, heart doing an odd leap from her throat back down to her chest.
“Wh-What—”
“Cunning, loyal…a might to rival the Fury and beauty to match.” There it was again, that hint of something that vanished just before she could full process what it was, or what it meant. “Of course, I was hoping this news brought about a swift and merciless disownment, perhaps even a curse on any bastard offspring I chose to sire. Imagine my surprise when… well…” He took a piece of parchment from his silken shirt; it had the look of having been folded and unfolded many times, the edges creased and worn. Holding it at arm’s length, he began to read:
My son,
Words cannot fully express the elation I felt at learning of your nuptials. The thought that you have fostered a love as deep and poignant as the one I once shared with your late mother immediately sets my mind at ease.
Of course, your wife is more than welcome to accompany you to our fair and noble nation. In fact, I will be quite disappointed if I am not allowed to meet and make her acquaintance during the duration of your stay. Rest assured, my home—our home, I should write, for it will always remain yours as well—is freely open to her, as well as any other esteemed personage you wish to bring on your travels.
I look forward to anticipating your arrival on the twenty-fifth sun of the third astral moon, should that date be amenable to you and your wife.
Yours,
Count Charlemend de Durendaire
“Twenty-fifth—! That’s nearly tomorrow!” she screeched. “Even if I did care to go along with yer insane plan, it ain’t nearly enough time to get my affairs in order!”
“You needn’t concern yourself with anything,” Carvallain assured her, tucking the letter back into the folds of his shirt. “Think of it as an all-expenses-paid holiday. You’ll be a victim of absolute luxury: comfortable accommodations, hearty meals, a little sightseeing… and best of all, you won’t be responsible for a single gil. As a token of gratitude, I’ll purchase whatever your heart desires while we’re there.”
“But—But—” She looked desperately around the empty tavern, hoping some handy excuse would jump at her from the shadows. “Ye said it yerself: I don’t know the first godsdamned thing about being a noble lady! I’m crass n’… n’ shrewish!”
N’ alluring, she couldn’t help but add to herself, still tingling from the compliment.
“I don’t expect you to behave like a noble lady,” he replied patiently. “I expect you to behave like yourself. If my father has truly changed for the better, he shouldn’t so much as flinch at your… lack of etiquette. No,” he mused, a sly smile lifting the corner of his mouth, “no, it is imperative that you behave like a true-blue Limsan.”
“I ain’t got nothin’ to wear!”
“That can be arranged.”
“No! Say we did manage to find some fancy-lookin’ duds in the Alley,” she argued. “It’d still be impossible for anyone to tailor ‘em in time fer—"
“Anything is possible, provided you have the coin… which I do.”
“But— No!” she repeated, stomping her foot. “No, absolutely not!” Pointing at him, she gathered her resolve and released a tirade that would have sent her Sirens running for the hills.
“Why should I give a damn what ye said to yer da?! Yer the one what made this mess in the first place, n’ far as I’m concerned, yer the one that can fix it! I ain’t havin’ no part o’ yer little scheme, no matter how much yer offerin’ to pay! Mark my words: it’ll be a cold day in all seven hells when ye catch me pokin’ a single toe past their front gates!”
How do I manage to get myself into these messes!?
The airship hummed beneath Rhoswen’s boots as it picked up speed, icy winds whipping at the fur-lined hood of her expensive cloak. Carvallain was right: flash enough coin, line the right pockets, and nearly anything was possible. Even the most stalwart, uptight clothiers took a second glance once the scales began to tip in their favor.
She scowled at the memory, tugging absently on the lace cuffs of her new woolen gown. A leather valise of similar outfits sat at her feet, luxury and extravagance beyond her ken. She had only dared to imagine such elegance as a young beggar, furtive glances spared at fashion plates in the marketplace, idle daydreams that often ended with a well-aimed kick from an ornery shopkeeper.
Despite Carvallain’s goading, she was not wholly unfamiliar with the concepts of stays and garters. She had been a normal girl once, a lifetime ago, with all the propriety expected of village maidens. It was only once she turned to begging that she lost her sense of shame, trading her smallclothes for food long before adopting the buccaneer’s lifestyle.
But most Limsan girls didn’t have, as A’brohka had so eloquently exclaimed, “silk knickers”. Kid gloves and delicately embroidered boots were well outside her realm of knowledge, and she keenly felt the deficit. Fully dressed, she felt more like a bird in borrowed feathers than a merchant’s wife, but so far no one had raised any eyebrows or bothered to question her story.
‘Tis only a few days, after all….
Her “husband” sat stiff as a board at her side, hands tightly fisted on his thighs. He had also elected to dress warmly, though unlike her he seemed perfectly at home in yalms of silk and brocade. It was not all that different from his usual garish wardrobe, Rhoswen noted with some satisfaction. The only real difference was extra padding against the chill, soft featherdown trimmed with wolverine furs. His unruly hair had been trimmed into a more conventional style, though the wind had already managed to work a few fiery strands free; they draped limply over his forehead, giving him a boyish air. If not for the tense frown twisting his thin lips, he might have been easily mistaken as a bored nobleman returning from a holiday abroad.
Rhoswen resisted the impulse to reach up and tuck his bangs back into place, hands twisting nervously in the folds of her skirt. In the days leading up to this little excursion, he had not bothered to explain just what, exactly, being his wife was supposed to entail. Hopefully he didn’t expect her to be all lovey-dovey; she wasn’t a good actress, and would probably end up losing her last meal in the process. But she was fairly certain he didn’t want a frigid, unfeeling wife either.
“Be yourself”, he had said. But what did that mean? Did he truly want her, or the version that he was bound to recognize? How could she know? Could she even bring herself to ask? She glanced over at him through her lashes, chewing the inside of her cheek as she thought.
Gods, he looks miserable. Carvallain had been quiet ever since boarding the airship, and it seemed that every malm only added to his growing unease. Sympathy rippled through her at the sight of his furrowed brow, jaw tight with tension. Even if things went well, the trip would not be easy for him. Hesitantly she reached out, placing her hand atop his in a rare display of sympathy. Would he accept the gesture for what it was, or slap her hand away in disdain?
“Attention, passengers:” the captain announced, his voice echoing off the thick cloud cover that seemed to stretch in every possible direction. He mopped his brow with a dingy handkerchief. “We shall be landing in Ishgard within a bell’s time. Gather up your belongings and prepare to disembark.” A scholar across the aisle shut his tome with a quick snap, following the captain’s orders to the letter as he carefully packed up his knapsack. The merchant stretched out near the back of the cabin opened one bleary eye; seeing naught but clouds, he rolled over with a grunt and promptly fell back asleep.
Rhoswen’s attention was called away from the other passengers as long fingers encircled hers, warm even through their gloves. Carvallain seemed to rouse himself from his thoughts with a little shake, letting out a low exhale. She watched it steam in the chilled air.
“Second thoughts?” she murmured, leaning close enough that her breath stirred the fur lining of his cloak. “There’s still time to change yer mind, ye know. Scurry back to Limsa with yer tail ‘twixt yer legs.”
“No… no, I don’t believe so.” He shot her a rueful smile. “Might as well get it over with.” His thumb traced slowly over her palm, back and forth. Their eyes met and she turned away quickly, feeling toasty despite the freezing cold.
“If nothin’ else, let the blame fall to me.” She pulled her hand away, busying herself with the valise just to have something to do. “If they start gettin’ pushy, tell ‘em I can’t stand the cold n’ we had no choice but to leave for home.”
“Home,” he echoed, the sound lost on a forlorn sigh. “Yes… my siren, calling me home.”
“Yers my arse.” Her ears felt as though they were on fire beneath the hood. “I still don’t know how ye managed to rope me into this steamin’ pile o’ chocobo shite. Why’d ye even choose me in the first place?” she snapped, not for the first time.
“I had to make it believable, didn’t I?”
“Huh?”
“Honestly,” he huffed, digging through his pockets for a silver timepiece. He clicked it open, squinting down at its thin hands in the pale light. “Who else would I possibly marry?”
“What’s that supposed to mean!?” she squawked, loud enough that the captain turned to her questioningly. Lowering her voice, she hissed, “What kind o’ nonsense—”
“We’ll be landing very soon,” he interrupted smoothly, tucking the timepiece back into his pocket. “Do you have your belongings?”
“Don’t change the subject!” Carvallain put a finger to her lips, effectively shushing her before jerking his head pointedly towards the captain. His meaning was clear: don’t make a scene. She smacked his hand away, yanking the valise onto her lap and clutching it for dear life.
“This ain’t over,” she grumbled, once the captain turned back towards the bow. “Watch n’ see if I don’t blow yer cover the moment we land.”
“Do as you please… but if that’s the case, I wish you the best of luck in paying for your return ticket, my dear.”
“Argh!”