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There are many delights in the Neath and many opportunities for a zailor to partake. Wine, prisoner’s honey, solacefruit, tether... You’ve tried sunlight once, far to the East, but even sunlight pales in comparison to the times the Fair King rewards your work with a soft, approving look. Once, his hand had graced your cheek, sweeter than anything. Not even the dreams of Irem could compare.
“My King,” you ask, kneeling before him and looking up in rapture. “Where will you have me go? What ships does Wrack desire?”
His eyes smile at your devotion. “London’s.”
You rise and take your leave without question. The wreckers watch you, pausing their work. The King does not abide idleness, but perhaps he will allow them this.
Tethered to the King, they whisper amongst themselves.
You go to London; the city you once called home. Your eyes are clouded as you spin tails of treasure, of wondrous sights, of lights beneath the zee in no less than three establishments across Wolfstack Docks. The zailors listen, enraptured, and you know you have them. Their ships will become new tether gardens, their supplies will make Wrack flourish. Your work here will please the Fair King. You need nothing more.
You return. Your zailors grow more discomforted with every ship you send to Wrack, hardly daring to leave the zub in Wrack now, but they know nothing. They do not know the taste of memories upon their tongue, the sweet waking-dreams, the haze of Surface memories clouding their eyes. They are not graced with the Fair King’s touch.
Tethered to the King, the wreckers whisper.
“My King,” you say, kneeling before him. “Have my ships come? Is Wrack pleased?”
“Yes, my tethered,” he says. “Wrack is pleased. You have done well. The tether grows abundant upon their hulls and my people will not be hungry for a long time yet.” His eyes smile, his mouth growing soft, tilting his head in a gesture you have seen in a borrowed tether memory a hundred— thousand times. “Will you not sample the tether today?”
“Not today,” you answer. The delights of tether pale in comparison to your King’s attention. “Perhaps next time.”
His snowy hair falls across his face as he leans forward, his simple crown of beaten brass glinting in the greenish light of the royal hull. His sallow eyes are bright and blue. His fingers brush against your jaw, light as the Surface sun. Your eyes close. There is no greater happiness.
“Your efforts should not go unrewarded,” the King says softly, kindly. “You have done so much for me. For my people. For Wrack.”
“All I wish is to please you, my King,” you say, opening your eyes to gaze upon him. “My tethered.”
“You have done extraordinarily,” he says. “How do you want to be rewarded?”
You stare up at his face. His fingers still caress your skin. You remember another time, another place. Ireland, you think. The Surface: a life that was not yours, but you remember the way she smiled with her eyes, the stories she would weave, the passion for her crew. You had kissed her, once, watching the stars, and she had smiled with her eyes before kissing you back.
You come back to yourself in an unfamiliar room. The sofa beneath you is old and worn, dried salt at the edges, but comfortable. The King is beside you in his chair, his hand in your hair. His crown rests on the table beside him.
“Are your eyes clouded?” he asks, hands soft and careful. “Did you dream?”
“Yes,” you answer. “I remembered. You were there. I kissed you.”
The King smiles with his eyes. “Is that how you wish to be rewarded?”
“Yes,” you breathe.
He kisses you. It feels like swallowing the sun. You don’t leave the Fair King’s chambers until morning.
“My King,” you say, kneeling before him in the Royal Hull. He sits before you on his wheeled chair, beaten bronze circlet on his head. “Where will you have me go? What ships does Wrack desire?”
The Fair King smiles with his eyes and leans forward, his lips brushing your ear. You shiver.
“Bring me Surface ships,” he tells you in a whisper.
You take a trembling, excited breath.
“Bring me Surface ships, my tethered, and you will be rewarded.”
You leave, your eyes clouded.
Tethered to the King, the wreckers whisper.