Destined Pairs — Pirate, Neia, Lance & Vallen

Part 2 of the Cherry Prompts!

- - -

All that's missing is a water-wracked deck swinging up and down under your feet.

Everything else reeks of piracy. The salt-encrusted walls, the tables nailed to the wooden floor, the windows barred with iron bars, the lanterns protected on all sides with smudged glass, and, of course, the dozen or so sea wolves hanging with tankards of cheap rum in their hands.

A heavy, oil-slick scent coats your tongue, and thick smoke stings your eyes as you stand just inside the door of the Drowned Mermaid.

The hand at your lower back taps you slightly, calling your attention. "Charming," you say through the corner of your mouth. You needn't bother keeping your voice down, though; no one can hear you over the laughter, pieces of conversation, and drunken shouts.

"Welcome, peach," the Pirate says, his black-tar eyes narrowing to pierce through the smoke. "To the ugly side of my world."

You look down at a stain beside your left foot. "Is that blood?"

He follows your sight. "That's vomit."

"Where are we going?" you ask, hurrying ahead. "The balcony?"

But his hand shoots out to grab your elbow. You're jerked into a hard chest as lips speak near your ear. "You are going behind my back," the Pirate says. "And staying there. Remember, these aren't my men or the crew of my captains."

You shoot him a scowl. "Do you think I can't get stabbed if behind you?"

He tilts his lips to one side, smugness dripping from his tone. "Not after they see me," the Pirate mutters, then swaggers ahead, swooshing his coattails back so he can rest his hands on his axes. Reluctantly, you follow after.

The Pirate changes his gate, pressing down with each footstep so they thump on the floorboards, overcoming the noise of the dingy bar. Slowly, the conversation dies, and heads turn towards him, recognition and disbelief flashing across wind-weathered faces.

From your point of view, you can see the Pirate's smirk growing as you trail after him to the end of the bar. It's dead silent when he reaches the counter and turns around, spinning in his high boots to sweep his gaze from one wall to another. You stop beside him, but no one bothers with you.

They're looking at him, half-risen from their seats, something akin to fear and awe in their faces.

A beat.

"At ease, fellas."

Like clockwork, murders, pillagers, and thieves turn their faces away and pretend to go back to their conversations. The Pirate rumbles low in his chest, a satisfied kind of laughter that makes a ball at the pit of your stomach.

"H— here, Captain."

The barmaid puts a mug on the counter, rum spilling over the rim. She's looking down, glancing nervously at the handles of his axes. They’re shaped like two naked women coated in gold.

"Thanks, sweetheart," the Pirate says. The girl hurries away.

You roll your eyes, resting your hip on the bar.

He smirks once more. "No need to be jealous," he says, taking the mug but not drinking it. "My eyes are anchored on you."

"I'm not worrying about that," you say.

"No?"

You lean in to whisper to him. "The way you were moaning my name this morning, you're not going anywhere."

He covers his mouth, hiding his surprise behind his palm. "I'm not sure I like the influence I'm having on you," he says, but you hear the smile in his voice. "Where's my little blushing girl?"

"In your dreams," you say, putting your elbows on the counter behind you. You look out at the common room but can see no one of the description he gave you. "Now, tell me. Where is this meeting?"

The Pirate sighs and turns around, too. "Let me find out," he says. His eyes sweep the bar again and stop on a tall man on the far-right side. He’s the only one who openly stares at you both, shoulders rolled back and legs standing wide.  

The Pirate sighs again. "That fucking guy," he mutters and pushes the drink into your hands. "Wait here. Nurse this. Don't talk to anyone."

You raise an eyebrow. "Can I breathe? Or am I not allowed to do that as well?"

You expected a smirk, but his face hardens instead. The Pirate puts his hand on your elbow and bends until his eyes are at your level. "I'm being serious. The scum around you? They're the lowest of the low. The kind of filthy willing to sell their mothers for enough gold. I got enough enemies that'd love to get a piece of the beau hanging from my arm."

You lick your lips, hyper-aware of your proximity to the nearest table. It's full. "Do you really think they'd start something?"

"I wouldn't have brought you here if I did," the Pirate says. "But I'm not taking any chances. Anyone touches you, says anything to you, so much as looks at you the wrong way— you come get me, and I'll set them straight. Understand?"

His voice is colder than ice and sharper than iron. You find yourself nodding.

He flashes you a disarming smile, all tension immediately gone. "Be right back, spitfire. Be sure to watch me walking away." He looks over his shoulder as he swaggers forth. "It's my good angle."

You'd scoff if you could stop the grin from coming to your face.

- - -

The air reeks of blood.

There's so much you can almost taste the metal. Heavy, pungent, and your own.

You wipe your brow, hand slipping in red sweat, and duck under a greatsword that would have permanently separated your head from your shoulders. Quickly, you close the distance past the Templar's defenses and sink your hunter's knife below his breastplate. The blade is short, but not so short that it can't kiss the soft flesh beneath his ribcage.

He doesn't shout. He inhales sharply, eyes wide in shock and fear, and staggers back.

You step onto the falling greatsword as you, too, fall back, gulping down air. But the air is so thick it clogs in your throat, and you cough up blood as you slowly turn around.

The battleground is empty now, littered with fallen corpses. You stumble onwards, searching desperately for your dropped weapon while you clutch the knife tight in your grasp. Shouts, cries, and sobs mingle as one in your ears, but you don't even have the energy to pray that they don't belong to your allies.

Hadrian, Alessa, Lance... Beka.

You grit your teeth and hurry on, breathing more heavily now. Where the hell is it? You need to—

Footsteps right behind.

With a swirl that could have rivaled the speed of lightning, you swing the knife in a wide arch, aiming for the Templar's forehead...

A pair of yellow eyes burns at you.

And an enormous hand closes around your wrist, blocking your attack. "It's me," Neia grunts, somewhat redundantly.

You let your arm go slack. Relief washes over you, but it's quickly replaced by worry. "My companions. The girl," you say, trying to stagger past her. "How—"

Neia holds you back. "Alive."

You close your eyes and lower your chin. Dear God. They're alive. Beka's face hovers in the darkness, dirt-stained cheeks and a toothy grin. You told her to run, and she didn't want to. The horror on her face when the Templars rode in...

Your lips curl back as you grind your teeth into each other. Seething fury has the knife shaking in your hand, and when you open your eyes again, your pupils are thin as razors. "How the fuck did they find us?" you snarl.

The specter's white hair is stained red, but unlike you, the blood isn't her own. She's wearing a black leather vest drenched in red, too, but there’s no cut in her skin, and while you're still struggling to breathe deeply, Neia doesn't seem the least bit affected by the battle that just took place.

That makes you even angrier.

Neia shrugs. "You tell me. I heard about the stunt you pulled in the city."

You yank your arm. She tightens her hold. "They didn't follow us from Tarragona," you spit. "You and that damn pirate led them to us."

Neia slowly tilts her head so you step closer until your chests bump against each other. She could be the pope right now, and you wouldn't care. You don't care she was an Inquisitor. You don't fear them right now. You want someone to blame, and Neia is right here.

"It's very curious that they attack us right before that dog's ship arrives," you say, voice dripping with poison.

Neia locks her eyes with yours. They're emotionless, strangely so, almost unnervingly so. As silence stretches, you become aware that she's holding her broken sword in her hand, dripping with blood, while all you have is your little hunter's knife.

And the situation dawns on you.

She could kill me right now and tell the others I fell in combat.

You keep stoic, but something must have flickered in your eyes because Neia slowly smirks. The scar on her lip tightens, pulling the skin around her mouth until the smirk becomes a snarl. "What was that, sweetling?" Neia whispers and starts to drag you towards her, her hand crushing your wrist.

Fuck it. "Don't call me that," you growl and tackle her.

Neia's eyes blow wide when you slam against her chest. Most people would have fallen at that, but not Neia. She staggers back a step, and you hit your palm into her breastbone. Pain radiates up your forearm, logging into your elbow socket. Still, as Neia loses balance, you can finally free your arm from her clutch.

You should retreat. Run away. Find the others.

Instead, you double down. You punch Neia's flank, the knife slipping from your grasp to sink into the mud. Pirates and Templars lie dead nearby, soaking the earth. A murder of crows circles above, waiting, cawing, watching in glee.

"Argh!" You shout in a fury, delivering a flurry of blows to the ex-Inquisitor. The specter who hunted you less than a year ago. The one who made you sell your body and soul to the White Company.

Neia takes it, motionless. Your muscles are heavy and sluggish, and you can tell your blows aren't landing, but you don't care. You punch her again, and again, and yet again. And she stands there, looking down at you with that dead-eyed expression.

You swing your fist back and aim it at her jaw.

Neia catches it mid-air, holding it there. "You’re done?"

"Damn you," you spit out.

"I'm already damned," Neia says. "No need to waste your energy."

You don't answer that. "Let go of me," you demand, swaying on your feet. You're exhausted, you know, on the verge of passing out. Darkness clogs the edges of your vision, but anger keeps you awake.

Neia's yellow eyes look you up and down. "If I do, you'll fall."

You jerk your hand back. "Let it go."

Neia pauses... then shrugs and lets it go.

You sway a step, slip on something on the ground, and go crashing down. Neia reaches for you quicker than a human should be able to move, but you kick at her feet, and instead of simply falling to the ground, now a two-meter undead specter falls on top of you.

Your back hits the earth with a squelch while your head meets a rock buried below the surface. Purple lights explode in your eyesight as your head sways... and Neia falls on top of you.

Blackness.

But, curiously, no further pain.

Tentatively, your head spinning, you crack an eye open and see that Neia has caught herself on her elbows before she could crush you. Distantly, you're grateful for it.

Two of Neia's faces hoover above you, four eyes piercing into yours. She calls your name, the sound distant. You can only stare at her, then look down at her arms, boxing you in. They're bare, you notice. Muscular. Large.

"Look alive," Neia says, adjusting herself above you.

You blink.

She frowns. What a scary image that is.

"What's my name?" Neia asks brusquely.

You don't answer. Your eyes flicker to her arms again. "This might be a bad time to bring it up," you say woozily. "But you've got really nice arms."

Neia doesn’t answer. She rolls to the side. A bright blue sky opens up before you, and you stare in awe at the vastness of it. Until a pair of very nice arms hoist you into a broad shoulder. "You hit your head," Neia says.

"Really, really nice..." you murmur before passing out.

- - -

Alain smiles with all the charm of a high-born as he leaves a lingering kiss on your knuckles. "Later," he says, voice dark velvet, before straightening up and disappearing in the masked crowd.

It's not like your heart leaps, but you can't deny the rush that climbs down your spine. Call it the thrill of the hunt or the setting of pieces on the board, but the play is set, and all that's left is to watch it unfold.

Or, in this case, live it unfold.

You take a moment to scan the colorful ball attendees. A large group dances in the middle of the ballroom, each pair following after the other in a wide circle. Up ahead, on a golden dais, you see Lord Rowan and the rest of his House. Rowan Theer is watching the dancers, but then, his eyes move up, and you turn aside, flickering your gaze away.

There's Hadrian by the windows. Alessa lurks behind a full table, wine bottle in hand, while Rafael is nowhere to be seen.

You twirl the crystal glass in your hand as you change a look to the band— and make eye contact with a pair of grey eyes.

You blink. Lance doesn't. He stares at you, sitting on a red wooden chair. The band is winding down now, heading for a small break before the next round of dancing begins.

You raise your eyebrows when Lance subtly points his chin at the balcony. You hesitate but decide to follow when the bard calmly puts his lyre down, stretches, and walks outside. Did he notice something? Are you compromised?

Nerves suddenly claw at your stomach, and you have to force yourself not to hurry. Your mask hugs the upper side of your face, so you keep a plastered smile, nodding at those you pass as your brows crinkle in worry.

Giant, white columns open the enormous hall into the gardens beyond. As you step into the night, a chilly wind wraps around your arms and soothes your heated cheeks. The expansive balcony shoots out left and right, with little nooks in the railing. Pairs mingle in most of those, some locked in stolen kisses, others whispering forbidden secrets.

And beyond, when the ballroom light starts to fade, you spot a dark blue head.

"Pretend you are watching the garden," Lance says when you approach, back turned to you. He has his elbows on the marble railing, staring at the hidden moon.

You mimic him, settling a few feet away from him. "Is something wrong?" you whisper, watching him from the corner of your eye. Lance has pushed his mask over his hair, but his face is as unreadable. "Lance? Was Rafael caught?"

"If he was, my friend, we would not be here."

You let out the breath you've been holding. "God's nails. I thought the worst."

Lance tilts his head to look past you. He briefly watches the doors, then drags his eyes back to you. "I saw you parting from the Theer," he says.

"Yes. He needed to join his uncle for some ceremony coming up."

Lance hums. You expect him to look away, but he doesn't. You turn your head and shoot him a warning look. "Lance."

"We are alone."

A beat. You pull the mask down. "He invited me to his chambers," you tell him, smiling victoriously. "In the sealed quarters. If those maps are anywhere, I bet they're in there. I can leave a door unlocked for Rafael. Will you pass him the news? Have him trail after me and Alain when it's time."

Lance doesn't react as you'd hoped. "Well played," Lance says with all the enthusiasm of a dying sloth. His eyes are plunged into darkness, making them two black pits. "It is a chance."

"More than that," you counter. "It's the best chance we got. I... don't know what you'll do about the guards, but that's what Hadrian and Alessa are for. You need to figure something out; I'll be... occupied."

The black pits flicker. "Occupied?"

You look at the gardens.

There's a beat of silence.

"I have given most of my person to this trade." Lance's voice rises up in a quieter tone than before. "But some things are meant to be locked away. Some parts of yourself should not be given in the name of a mission."

You let out a laugh. "We're just talking about sex here, Lance. It's not like I'm going to murder a child."

"I see."

You can feel his damned eyes on you. "It's alright."

"If you so declare."

You flash him your teeth. "What else am I supposed to do?"

He leans a bit closer to you. "Find another way," Lance says, fist sliding on the railing until it almost touches yours. You look up and are caught in his stare.

The moment is weirdly intense, charged with... something. You want to break it, so you say whatever the hell comes to mind. "You know," you say, plastering a teasing smile. "If I didn't know you better, I'd say you're jealous."

Lance snaps his head away from you. "Jealous?" he says as if he's never heard the word before. "I am not jealous, mercenary. I only know that nobleman's intentions for you and the type of fallout they cause. You are... my ally. I don't wish to see you suffering them, even if you claim not to care."

He rolls his shoulders and looks at the sky again, drumming his fingers on the railing. You stare at him. His fingers drum faster.

"I was joking before," you say, half in awe. "But now I think you are actually jealous."

Lance shoots away from the railing and puts his mask back into place. "Or perhaps," he says, walking shoulder to shoulder with you. "You wish me to be."

You open your mouth, but he only grabs your mask and pulls it to your face. "I will tell Borja and the others," Lance says. "Do what you must."

With that, the spy walks away, leaving you alone on the chilly balcony.

- - -

You slam the door and push your back against it, digging your heels into the carpet.

A second. Two.

BOOM

You're jerked forward but throw yourself at the door again, pushing back with all your might. "Vallen!" you shout as more and more people mount on the other side. They're disorganized for now, but soon enough, they'll push as one, and you won't be able to stop them.

"Coming!" Vallen shakes the table, sending all the silverware and candles crashing to the ground before she drags it closer.

BOOM

You're propelled away, flex your legs, and fall back before the thralls can slip in through the crack. "Give me space," she says, hoisting the table beside you. "On three."

You nod, inching to the side. "Put it under the handle."

"One," Vallen says. You grab the table with one hand. Beads of sweat roll down your forehead. "Two."

You grit your teeth.

"Three!"

It's done in the time it takes to blink. Vallen thrusts the table up, and you swing your body aside, narrowingly escaping it. The table grazes against the door, slams into the handle, and locks there, an unmovable force against the tide.

You fall a step back. Vallen does, too, both of you staring at the door. It shakes, and moans of anguish come from the other side, but it holds.

Your mingled breaths fill in the air of the tiny room you’re in. The door shakes again, the hinges creaking.

"We need to move," Vallen says. Blood drips down her forehead, dyeing a golden eyebrow red.

You nod, shake yourself to action, and stride to the window. "It's not a big jump," you say. The door shakes violently, and you hear the distinctive splinter of wood. Fuck. "We can run to the woods."

Vallen joins you, quickly watching the little town's streets below. "Is this her doing?" she asks in an empty voice, hazel eyes seeking yours. "That witch you're all after."

Your mark flares. It's begging you to turn around and slaughter every one of those lost villagers. "I don't know," you lie and open the window. "All I know is we must join the others."

Vallen lowers her chin, her eyes glazing in thought. She looks over her shoulder and back at you when the door shakes again. "After you," she says, her voice lowering to a poisoned whisper. You see that glint in her eyes, the cold indifference coming to the surface.

It'd be attractive if the cruelty wasn't directed at you.

"Fine," you say, climbing the threshold. "But once I'm down, I'll start running, and I'm not looking back."

Vallen puts her hand behind your back. "Go," she says and pushes you off.

When you hit the ground, you manage to roll and shoot up immediately, ignoring the pain in your left elbow. Holding your longbow, you point left, then right, but the way is clear. Slowly, you look up and see Vallen watching you.

"Fuck you," you mouth, then sling your bow over your shoulder, and start running.

It doesn't take long before a pair of light footsteps trail after. You don't look back. The village is small, but its streets are narrow and convoluted. You lose track of how many turns you take before; finally, the edge of the woods is visible. Running faster, you think you hear the distant sound of inhumane howls rising to the sky as the first tree welcomes you into its shaded protection.

You and Vallen run until you can't run anymore.

You fall against a tree trunk, your chest seeming about to cave in on itself. Vallen drops to the ground, on her knees and hands, head lowered to suck in air. Your eyes are glued to her, suddenly so... fragile. Helpless. Your mark tingles as your hand creeps towards your bow.

How easy it'd be to put her down. The bow is in your hand as you slowly straighten up from the tree. Do it. She pushed you. She deserves it.

You raise your arm—

Vallen looks up. "Do you have water?"

The waver in her voice snaps you back to reality. Lowering your arm, you ask, "What?"

Vallen winces and sits on the ground. She holds her head. "Water," she croaks.

Her blond braids are stained with red, only turning darker. You spot the ugly gash on her head where it's coming from, and you realize it's much more severe than you thought. "Are you seeing straight?" you ask, slowly approaching her.

Vallen closes her eyes. "I just need water."

How the hell was she able to run this far is beyond you. The woman is tough; you'll give her that. "I have it," you say, reaching for your waterskin. Vallen takes it with a trembling hand and brings it to her lips.

You sit on the ground not far from her, watching wearily. "That looks bad," you say, pointing at her head.

Vallen gives you back the waterskin. "It looks worse than it is."

You seriously doubt it. "Sure." Rising, you look to all sides but see no one. You think they haven't followed you. "We'll go uphill until we see the sea," you say, "then it'll be easy to spot the pirate ship."

Vallen nods, the color gone from her face. She stumbles to her feet, and you give her credit when she only wobbles about three times. She'll never make it. "Which way?" she says, tongue rolling in her mouth.

You shake your head. "C'mon," you say, reaching for her.

A dagger rests against your throat. "Don't touch me," Vallen hisses, eyes blown out.

Slowly, you raise your hand and grab her wrist. "Put that away, guard, before I break your hand."

You stare at each other, but you see the haze in her pupils. You only need to push her, and she’ll go down. Carefully, almost tenderly, you lower her hand.

"I'm not arguing about this. Just shut up and come here," you say, looping your arm around her waist. Vallen's head swings and rests against your neck.

You start walking, dragging her with you. Her fingers slowly curl over your shoulder, sinking into your shirt.