Chapter Text
Isabela
Dearest Varric, that little book you wrote appears to have garnered quite the following. An unforeseen champion who emerged from the south to save a city set on tearing itself apart. It’s a cheery ending, albeit deeply biased, don’t you think? Or did you not notice that the city went ahead and tore itself apart, anyway, and managed to tear gaping holes in the rest of the world, too. All in the name of ‘restoring peace’. ‘Restoring order’. Do you know what ‘order’ is, truly? It’s what happens when you bind a whole host of people in a system that denies them choice. Eventually, if you don’t keep a very careful eye on them, one will always slip through to wreck the whole house of cards again. But by all means, let’s all raise a glass to the Champion. Why not.
In any case, this isn’t about her, or her choices. And it isn’t about all those religious fanatics you’ve recently taken up with in the southern mountains either. We have plenty of fanatics up in the north. They're everywhere, aren’t they? Fanatics fighting fanatics. All of them seeking to create worlds in their own image, instead of accepting it as the mad mix that it is.
Nevermind all that.
I promised to send you word of my travels and as events in the past weeks have taken quite the odd turn, I thought I might just send along the tale. Perhaps you’ll find it a palate cleanser once you climb up off your knees.
All my love,
Rivaini
--
“Have you noticed,” Isabela muttered under her breath as she wrapped another swath of cloth around the ancient leather book, then swaddled the whole beastly thing in waxed leather, “that every time a certain someone asks us to go and retrieve a valuable artifact, it turns out to be a book.” This time it was the lost journal of Garahel. Before that, it had been a collection of treatises on crystal-based thaumaturgy… whatever that was. “Some day, I’d really like it to be something more interesting. Something hairy on the outside, and soft and wet on the inside.” She tilted her head back to peer up at the uncluttered sky. Stars peeking past the glowing, twisting green of a Veil gone threadbare. Pretty, but terrifying.
“We cut down quite a few of those on our way to that book.” Fenris peered over the stern, gazing across dark waters that reflected the emerald sky, hands crossed at his back. “It would make your job easier if there were fewer hairy thugs guarding your prizes.”
“Not my prizes,” she chuckled, stowing the hard-won antique in her pack. “ Ours . Or ours, at least, until we put it into Anders’ eager little paws.” She leaned against the rail, breathing in the salt breeze. “You’re looking particularly lanky this afternoon.”
“Particularly,” he repeated, voice a low, pleased rumble, finally turning to face her. The ghost of a smile curling just the corners of his lips. “Your blood is still running hot from that fight. But I will accept your compliment.”
“I think it might be the borrowed freckles.” She rested her chin in her hands, watching the waves curl and lap around the hull as they moved. Away from Antiva. Away from the mainland. Into safer waters. “You always seem that little bit taller when you’ve donned a spray of them.” He had such pretty eyes. She didn’t need to look at him to remind herself. She’d always had a memory for details. “We should make Llomeryn by dawn. Hot rum and spiced meats. We can sell the plunder, send word to the mage, and kick our heels up in the most luxurious of dockside inns until he comes to fetch it.” She should have been pleased at how easy it had been, but the guards had been too easy to dispatch. No challenge at all. It was disappointing, but not so disappointing that she felt even the slightest of urges to go back to wading through darkspawn and mad mages for more trouble. Not without good reason anyway. Or some reason. A small one.
“Can we have a few of the spiced nuts you’ve talked about before? The ones they build the towers from?” Merrill had emerged from the cabin, wiping her hands off on a thin piece of cloth. Licking her wounds, so to speak. “When you said they’d run you from town for refusing a fortune teller, were you being serious? Who would turn down a fortune teller? I’d rather like to know what sorts of adventures are waiting for me ‘round the corner.”
“The seers of Llomeryn don’t tell you about adventures, Kitten; they tell you Fate, and Fate is a little too close to bondage for me. Not the fun kind, either.”
“Hmph,” Fenris snorted, turning back to watch the moon rake over the sea, his spiked gauntlets tapping a gentle rhythm against the wood. “I like the stretches between ports. It’s quieter.”
“Is it time I get a hat of my own? I think I’d like one with a little bird nesting in it- oh!” Merrill’s wide, glittering eyes widened impossibly further. “Do you think I could find a parrot in Llomeryn and teach it to sing, like that fellow who used to come to the docks and shout about selkies?”
“Quiet,” Fenris mumbled under his breath, his voice laced with a deep jingle of laughter. “At least, sometimes it is.”
“That fellow was accompanied by a woodlark.” Isabela had memorized their features. She could draw them both from memory, down to the tiniest of their toes curled in slumber. “Parrots are much larger. That one you likened to a baby dragon, for instance, was a macaw. The one that tried to eat your finger.” Spiced nuts did sound good, though. Spiced nuts and warm rum and fresh bread. “I suppose you could try to wear one as a hat if you’re willing to take the risk.”
“It wouldn’t have gotten much for its trouble; my fingers are rather too bony for a meal.” Merrill hummed, sitting lightly down on a barrel, crossing her legs before her. Her raven-dark hair had grown since their time in Kirkwall, reaching down to her shoulders, little beaded braids clicking together as she moved. “What do you think Anders is getting up to, these days? Do you imagine he misses us?”
“I cannot imagine anyone not missing you, Kitten.” She narrowed her eyes on the horizon, though she knew they wouldn’t be able to the shores of Rivain for another few hours yet. “In fact, I’m quite sure I noticed a distinct pining in his last letter. ‘There is an artifact in Ayesleigh - a tiny thing - get it for me. I’ll make it worth your while,’” she uttered her best impression of the mage as she rolled her hip against the rail, turning back to study Merrill’s bright, upturned face. “If he doesn’t bring you something pretty, we’ll simply gut him.”
“Oh, that hardly seems fair. I can find plenty of lovely things on my own anyhow.”
“Marian is with him?” Fenris asked, his voice lifting hopefully; he wore the most wistful expression whenever he spoke of Hawke.
“Possibly,” she hedged, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. She hoped not. She still hadn’t forgotten that lingering moment before the beloved Champion of Kirkwall had refused to hand her over to the Arishok. Hawke had considered it. She’d considered it well past the bounds of friendship and Isabela would never trust the woman again. Not after that. But that was her business and hers alone. She let her gaze wander away from him, cataloguing ropes and sails, stores and ammunition in her mind. A week, perhaps two, to have the aft sail reseamed. And depending on how ‘worthwhile’ Anders made their salvage, she might finally add the sixth canon she’d been wishing for. Of course, there was always something. “If she isn’t, I’m certain he wouldn’t mind company returning to the mainland.”
“Travel? With him?” Fenris scowled at the sea foam splashing up against the stern. “I would much rather not.”
“If the ends justify the means,” Isabela murmured.
“What I wonder is who is taking care of the cats,” Merrill mused, sighing. “Varric and Hawke are off doing important things and Anders is looking for artifacts- well, having us do so for him- Aveline’s busy with the guard and Carver is off somewhere fighting darkspawn. The cats must be rather lonely without anyone watching out for them.”
“Cats can take care of themselves.” They both could. Her kitten and her lion. Foolish to call him a wolf. Foolish to try to bind him. But then, the world was full of fools. ‘Important things’. Poking around problems bigger than they were, more like. Much bigger. Hands to the fire, for no bloody reason. “And we are doing important things. We’re on a mission to find you a hat.” And get as far away from the crazy people in their pointy shoes as possible, but she wasn’t about to say that. Two things Rivain had going for it: the mad magisters didn’t want to mix things up with the qunari or the Seers. Neither did Isabela for that matter, but the enemy of her enemy was - if not her friend - at least a very hearty distraction.
“Indeed,” Fenris agreed, bending over smoothly to reach into a burlap satchel at his feet and withdrawing a bottle of Tevinter red. “Shall we celebrate another successful mission? I do not believe the deceased will mind us enjoying their vintages.”
“Fenris, how did you manage to find a bottle of wine among all that rubble?” Merrill cocked her head to the side, like the woodlark she hoped to acquire. “I never saw you leave our sides.”
“You were not observing properly, then,” he murmured, passing the bottle to Isabela. “As I recall, you were distracted by the runes on the floor when I went foraging.”
“Yes. Distracted.” Isabela met his amused gaze with a smirk of her own, thumbing her dagger from its thigh sheath and slicing through the neck of the bottle. Merrill had been tracing the symbols with her toes, like a dancer, turning and humming to herself, lost to the world that belonged to them. Happy as a child. Isabela tipped the bottle back, sighing contentedly as the rich liquid coated her tongue, deep and rich as cherries, then passed it to Fenris. Perhaps part wolf, she amended silently. He did seem to be very capable of sniffing out whatever he happened to be of a mind to look for. Then again, she didn’t know much about feline olfactory senses. Perhaps lions shared that talent. She kicked the cork and the top of the bottle off the side of the boat.
He lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long, slow drag, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. Leaning back against the wooden railings of the ship, balanced on one leg, barefoot. The slightest twitch of his lips as he slipped his gauntlet from his hand and wiped his thumb over a drop of wine that had dampened his cheek. “Dawn, you said?” His eyes were sharp emeralds lit by an internal sun, glowing softly in the moonlight. Very little escaped his gaze, even in pitch darkness. Merrill likely would’ve been the same, if she was a bit less distracted, but her tangents often led them on far more interesting- if not straightforward- paths.
“If the wind holds,” Isabela agreed. Flecks of blood. Drops of wine. He had always been particularly pleasant looking in crimson. “How many of these bottles did you procure?”
“Of this vintage?” Fenris hummed low, padding towards her. “Just two. Total? Seven. I believe that should be nearly enough to last until the sun rises.”
“Oh, shall I get the cards, then, Isabela? I think I remember where I put them last-“ Merrill scratched the side of her cheek. “Well, it may take a bit of digging now that I think on it.”
“I think I saw you stow them under the bed,” Isabela smirked. “Perhaps you could try looking there first.” She tapped Fenris’ sternum as he reached her, “Are you keeping the breastplate on?”
“It would be too easy for you otherwise.” Fenris quirked a brow, brushing his hand against hers as he handed her the wine. “I do not wish to start at a further disadvantage,” he chuckled. “You cheat.”
“Yes, but you know that I cheat,” she grinned. “Surely you should be able to devise some means of foiling my nefarious schemes after all this time. It’s as though you’re not even paying attention.”
“Perhaps I have come to enjoy watching you win,” Fenris murmured with a sly smirk.
Merrill re-emerged from the cabin, triumphant, with a deck of cards bound by a slender red ribbon. “You were right!” She sat before a low barrel, shuffling them together, a few cards splaying out. Merrill tucked her tongue between her lips and repeated the motion, creating a perfect arc on the second time. “Bets? I’ve not much left to give away.”
“Secrets,” Fenris rumbled, taking a seat near her and crossing his ankles. “Secrets are always a fair trade.”
“I prefer auren,” Isabela chastised softly, sipping from the bottle. “You can win auren back.”
“That would be precisely why secrets are more valuable a prize for a winner to claim,” Fenris murmured, peering up at her. “You have plenty of auren to lose, in any case, after this afternoon. I saw you pick the coin purse from the mage. I would imagine it wasn’t simply full of pebbles.”
“No,” she tongued her cheek, taking a seat beside them. “But it was full of rocks.”
“Mages,” Fenris exhaled, “do enjoy their shiny baubles.”
“Gemstones help with focusing; they can split one strand of power into several or magnify it upon itself to further intensify a spell or-“ Merrill flicked the top of the deck, rubbing a hand against her cheek. “Blathering again. Sorry.”
“No apologies on my ship, Kitten,” Isabela squeezed her forearm gently. “You know the rules.”
“Sorry, I keep-“ Merrill blinked. Her pale cheeks turned bright red, the slender green lines of her vallaslin standing out starkly. “Sor-“
Poor pet. Isabela sighed, leaning up and over the barrel and pressing her lips to Merrill’s. “Steady on, Kitten,” she murmured. “You deal. You can’t win if you don’t play.”
“Kiss me again,” Merrill hummed, reaching up to touch Isabela’s cheek. “I like to taste wine from your lips. It’s sweeter, I think, than from the bottle. Or maybe-“ she laughed brightly, shaking her head. “I just like you.”
“I’m happy to be your cup,” she chuckled, nipped at her lower lip, nuzzled her nose. “But you wanted to play cards.”
“I’ll deal,” Fenris murmured, contented, reaching between them to pick up the deck. “If we don’t end up playing a round, I cannot imagine anyone will be disappointed.”
“ I’ll be disappointed. I want to know what secrets you were so desperate to reveal when you lost.” She studied Merrill’s wide eyes. Glorious, gleaming, and full of trust. She loved her. She couldn’t even remember when it had happened. Pretty kitten with her curious little nose and her braids and baubles. Not seasick any more. Those first months had been deathly. “You like me, hm?” she kissed the words to Merrill’s chin. “I had no idea.”
“I’ve told you half a hundred-“ Merrill smiled, peering up and catching her gaze. “Oh. Yes. I suppose I’m not precisely subtle.”
“Not precisely,” Fenris agreed, laying out three separate piles. “I have seen enough attempts at discretion that I prefer forthrightness. It generally serves people better in the long run.”
“Among friends, at least,” Isabela agreed. “A little more deception training for self-preservation, methinks. Something to do in port.”
“Ten years of walking about the Gallows, staves out, has an ill effect on that instinct,” Fenris rolled his eyes, lifting his portion of the deck to peer at his cards, expression impassive.
“I don’t want to talk about the Gallows, Fenris,” Merrill closed her eyes, pulling away from Isabela. “I still see it sometimes, when I close my eyes. It’s enough as it is.”
“As you wish,” he said quietly. “I am… sorry. For mentioning it.”
Maybe the cats couldn’t take care of themselves. “My ship, my rules.” And they were there for a reason. They all had more than enough regrets to last a lifetime. She sat back on her heels, looking between them, and nudged Merrill’s cards towards her. “Bets are secrets. As though any of us have those .” She collected her own cards and shuffled and reshuffled them in her hands. “You know, the last time I played for secrets was with a one-armed woman outside of Rialto. Had the most charming fleet of minks.”
“Did you win?” Merrill asked, frowning over her hand. She always scrunched her nose when she didn’t have anything. No scrunching, definitely trying to lie; Isabela knew better than to trust the downturn of Merrill’s lips.
“Barely,” she mused, laying a collection of cards face down. “As it turns out, I’d have been better off losing. Minks are terribly gassy. Made a tidy profit on them at the next port but the ship was rank for a week.”
The story earned a giggle from Merrill and the tiniest curve of Fenris’ lips. Where Merrill was easy to read, Fenris was much more of a puzzle. Trained to look impassive at all times, to hide and control his tells, observant and careful and dangerous as anyone she’d met. “Your ship,” he fixed her with a steady gaze. “You can start.”
“Oh, can I?” Isabela purred. “How generous. Let’s see.” The game was gauging how much to win or lose by. The trick was keeping those canny lion eyes from spotting her deceptions. “I’m feeling lucky. I’ll pocket three and raise one detail.” She smiled at him warmly, “Darling, we should look into some of those oils at port. The glistening ones. Don’t you think?”
“I do not need oil to glisten, if this is what you’re after,” Fenris discarded a single card and pulled another. “Two.”
“I don’t know-“ Merrill stammered, looking between the two of them before laying all of her cards face down on the table. “I suppose I’ll work with what I was handed.”
“Kitten,” Isabela bit her lip on a smile. “Are you quite certain you don’t want to at least try for a king’s flush? That spare spirit five is doing nothing for you.” She tapped the offending card with her finger, raising a brow. “At best, it will lower the whole score of your hand.”
Merrill slid the card sheepishly to the center of the table and pulled another from the deck. “How did you see?”
“I didn’t have to see.” She sat back, thumbing through her cards again. “I know what I have and you have a beautiful face.”
“She knows the backs of the cards,” Fenris sighed, cracking his knuckles. “It’s her deck; that’s the problem.”
“Oh, sneaky, Isabela,” Merrill laughed. “That’s hardly fair.”
“You think you know all my secrets,” she chided him, smirking, “and yet you still ask for more.”
“I don’t think I know all your secrets,” Fenris hummed, taking a drink from the bottle resting on the table. “Otherwise I would not be playing for the chance to hear them.”
“Pfft,” she tapped his cheek. “I call, darling. And don’t Vint the wine. Sharing is caring.”
“I am sharing,” Fenris chuckled, but slid the bottle towards her. “Call.”
“Oh, I don’t know, hmm…” Merrill cocked her head to the side. “I suppose I’ll raise?”
“Now I’m frightened,” Isabela sipped from the bottle, peering at the mage’s sweet little furrow of concentration. “Check.”
“I’m folding,” Fenris sighed, scooting his cards towards the center of the table. “I had nothing.”
“Ooh, well, I suppose I’ll raise again, won’t I?” Merrill patting him gently on the hand. A few years ago it would’ve earned her a grimace, if not worse, but Fenris merely shrugged. “It worked well last time!”
“Very well, Kitten, let’s see your very fine assortment.” Isabela lay her cards out, a mess of a hand, really, and one she had carefully combed free of any value.
Merrill set them down one by one, four Rivaini queens, in all of their livery and a solitary ten. The elven woman beamed. “I believe I won this time! Finally I think I’m getting the hang of it.”
“Damn,” Isabela sat back, wearing her best look of chagrin. “I rather think you are.”
“Does that mean I get a secret from each of you, then?”
“Are you certain you wouldn’t rather have auren?” Isabela asked, taking a last drink before passing the bottle back to Fenris. “Or an item of clothing?”
“Yes, I’m certain.” Merrill rested her chin in her palm and winked. “You’re going to take your clothing off whether or not I win a bet. Secrets. Can it be something dirty?”
The laugh escaped her as a breath; Isabela tapped her fingertips to her lips thoughtfully. “Hmmm. Do I have any dirty secrets…. Let me think… My, my, how am I meant to pick just one?” She winked. “Oh! What about… There was this one time that I happened upon a very valuable statuette of Andraste through no fault of my own. It literally fell into my hands. From a merchant prince’s. While he was attempting to hold his skin together.” She sighed. “He tried so hard. Alas.” She looked down at her hands, recalling the slender obsidian carving. “And the ship sank. Another unfortunate side-effect of the escapade...”
“I do not believe that was the sort of immorality to which she was referring,” Fenris quirked a brow towards Merrill. “Do you intend to let her off that lightly?”
“No,” Merrill purred. “Not at all. Not nearly dirty enough Isabela.” She palmed the bottle of wine with a sweet, crooked grin. “Perhaps you should make another go of it.”
“I’m getting to it,” she leaned back, reclining to feel the salt simmer across her collarbone. “So the ship sank, as I was saying, but I did manage to take hold of some driftwood and fashion a sail strong enough to take me to the nearest island. I should hardly call it an island,” she chuckled. “More a bare spit of land, but there were a pair of pleasant palms and I was able to repurpose the sail into a hammock. All in all, a very relaxing little spot. I had floated along with a crate of dried goods, enough loot to barter passage when a ship came through, a barrel of rum to pass the time. And I had time. Ages of it. Just me and the hammock and the breeze and that statuette of Andraste. Perfectly sized and very smooth, that statue. I was almost sad to see her go.”
“What do you-“ Merrill blinked, running her thumb over the neck of the bottle. “You-“
Fenris cleared his throat.
“You didn’t , did you?” Merrill grinned, sipping at the wine and scrunching her nose. “Oh, that’s very naughty.”
“I’m certain the Maker looks fondly upon you for despoiling his Bride,” Fenris smirked. “How long before a ship came to the island?”
“Three glorious weeks.” She winked at him. “That’s where I devised that trick with the flexing .” She smirked, lifting her brows. “And my pinky.”
“The time was well spent, then.” Fenris took the bottle Merrill had abandoned and lifted it in Isabela’s direction. “To Merchant Princes.”
She tipped her hat. “And the Maker’s Bride.” She held out her hand for the bottle. “I believe that is mine and it’s your turn to pony up.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have such a breadth of lurid experiences to draw from.” He passed her the wine. “None that I recall, in any case.”
“That isn’t fair,” Merrill narrowed her eyes at him. “Surely there must be something.”
“Nothing that you could not learn from other present sources, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t believe Merrill knows that story about Bianca,” Isabela stretched her legs out in front of her, crossing her ankles. “And it’s certainly a secret she would need to promise to keep. Unless we want Hawke and Varric both looking at us very disapprovingly. I know I find that to be an aphrodisiac, but you seem to have an aversion.”
“Bianca the person or Bianca the crossbow?” Merrill glanced between the two of them, brows nearly raised to the top of her forehead. “That would make quite a difference, I imagine.”
“Both.” Fenris darted a quick glance at Isabela. “Varric won’t just look dissatisfied. He would very likely shoot before inquiring further.” He sighed, running a slender finger along the seams of the barrel. “What was it, three years ago? Bianca Davri had come to the Hanged Man looking for Varric, but he was off with Anders and Marian, helping Aveline deal with bandits around the Wounded Coast. Upgrades for his crossbow, a new model? She tends to ramble and wind herself around tangents; impossible to keep up for anyone who isn’t an expert in artillery already.” He shook his head, a slight smile playing the corners of his lips. “I still believe her interest in me was primarily my markings. Isabela disagreed.”
“The part of you she lingered over bore no markings,” Isabela walked her fingers up his arm. “What additional wonders might it be capable of if it did, I wonder.”
“I don’t.”
“Perhaps not.” She was never quite sure of how far she could press him on them. The more she treated the lyrium markings as mere tattoos with handy gimmicks, the easier he seemed, most often. But Isabela had never been particularly good at sensing boundaries. Nor had she ever felt a need to pay them much mind. But sometimes… “Proceed with your tale, then.”
“The woman is quite adept with her fingers.” Fenris glanced sideways at Isabela, from the corners of his eyes. “A result of fashioning devices with infinitely small gears, one would imagine. There was a mechanism she detached from the apparatus she’d brought to show Varric… It was a very prolonged evening.”
Isabela laughed, tapping Merrill’s knee with her boot. “He looked like a cat that had found where all the cream in the inn was stored.” She glanced at Fenris with a quick smile, “A little bow-legged, too, unless I remember incorrectly.”
“You remember correctly.”
Merrill’s eyes had gone as wide as saucers as she stared between the two of them. “Varric doesn’t know?”
“No.” Fenris quirked a brow at the elven woman. “I would prefer to keep it that way.”
“Oh, you can trust me. I never told anyone about the time Orana found Hawke and Anders stuck-“
Fenris coughed loudly.
“Right,” Merrill wrinkled her nose. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
Isabela lifted her brows, “On the contrary, Kitten, you most certainly should have. Finish the story now, please.”
“Not mine to tell,” she smiled, crossing her arms at her chest. “Perhaps when we give Anders that book, he can-“ Her cheeks turned the color of the wine still left in the dregs of the bottle. “Actually, don’t mention I said anything. I wasn’t supposed to say anything.”
“I can’t keep a secret I don’t know,” Isabela smiled sweetly. “In any case, it’s hardly a secret if you both know it. And Anders. And the Champion. It’s probably only Sebastian and I in the dark, isn’t it?”
“Unless one of them decided to confess their out-of-wedlock unions, I imagine the Chantry brother is similarly uninformed.”
“I didn’t know you could get stuck together .”
“No?” Isabela smirked, thumbing the hilt of her dagger. “It happens to dogs all the time.”
“Yes, but Hawke and Anders aren’t-“ Merrill tilted her head to the side. “Ah. That’s not very nice, Isabela.”
“I believe we have both been on your ship too long, Captain,” Fenris gave Isabela a sly grin. “That may have been record timing to decipher one of your jests.”
“Who’s jesting?” she muttered under her breath. She peered down the severed neck of the bottle, tapping it with her thumb to elicit a dull ring. “New wine, new game?”
“What did you have in mind?” Fenris slinked over towards the side of the boat, procuring a second bottle with a label covered in golden filigree. “Your ship, your rules, as you are so fond of reminding us.”
If she’d been a different sort of person, she might well have taken his return to that refrain as an insult. “If the arrangement doesn’t suit you, you’re welcome to take a swim,” she tongued her teeth. Of course, she was a benevolent captain. And not at all given to leaping to misapprehensions of intent. “You might want to leave your armor behind, though. I hear it rather weighs a person down.” Nor petty fighting. All of that was beneath her. Clear, clean leadership. No one being turned over to garda or qunari or anyone else with a fondness for chains. Not even if they might arguably deserve it. She didn’t even have chains on her boat. The shark cage that sat empty near the gangplank was entirely good enough to make her point.
If he wanted to go so badly, he could jolly well do so. She certainly wasn’t going to keep the poor fellow against his will. He’d had more than enough of that for a lifetime.
No, he could jump ship or take leave at the next port, wander off with Anders, hunt down his precious Marian. And he could take a long walk off a short pier if he expected her to show him any sign of what it might mean to her if he did.
“Dice, perhaps?” She drew the bone set from where they’d been nestled between her breasts, unlatching the chain and letting them slide free to clatter on the barrel’s face. “Threes and sevens?”
There was a clatter of metal on wood as Fenris allowed his belt to drop from his hips and land heavily on the planks.
“What was it you said about armor, Captain?” Fenris was peering at her from across the deck, leaning against the railing of the ship again, eyes glinting like a cat’s, a wide, clever smile curling his lips. “Would you mind repeating?”
The lanky, muscle bound bastard-sword wielding menace. “It will fetch a fine price in Llomeryn, even with the scratches and nicks.” She thumbed her lip lazily. “Perhaps because of them, if I can find a buyer who’s seen you fight.”
“You can’t swim to shore, Fenris; we’re hours out yet. Besides-“
He undid the straps under his arms, slipping out of the sturdy steel breastplate and setting it on the deck beside his belt and gauntlets. The pauldrons came off too and the elf lifted on his toes, stretching his arms over his head with a devastating smile. “There are a great many things I was told I could not do. Many of those who told me so are now dead.”
“Hush, Kitten. For the full set, we can buy you a very fancy hat. Plus I’ve always wanted to watch a man wrestle a shark and win.”
“Good evening, Captain,” Fenris climbed atop the railing with a sharp grin. He unbuckled his jerkin and set it aside with his other discarded pieces.
“Good evening, darling,” she wiggled her fingers in a farewell, carefully setting all her dice to eights. She’d always rather wondered when he’d go. She’d expected Marian to at least be in the vicinity when it happened, but perhaps she was, in his mind. She lifted her gaze from the dice to study him. He was heart-achingly beautiful, all honed edges like a freshly forged dagger. Sharp enough to cut. The markings were fascinating, yes, but she pitied the poor sods who couldn’t look beyond them to the true artistry of his form. She’d miss his knees. She’d miss his eyes. She’d miss the knuckle of his thumb. “Do mind the jellyfish. The blue ones can kill most men. They might sting you a little.”
Fenris sighed, a low, mournful thing. Chest bare, lines of lyrium ghosting along his skin, silver-blue in the darkness. Lifted his arms above his head.
And dove into the ocean below.
“Fenris!” Merrill gasped, rising to her feet.
They were greeted with a soft splash and a loud yelp the moment after followed by a quick stream of curses in Tevene. “Why is it so bloody cold ?” Fenris shouted back at them, a razor-sharp edge to his voice.
She looked up at the sail that was full and taut with the wind that was already carrying them away from him.
He’d be fine.
Cats could take care of themselves.
She swore under her breath and ran to the aft deck, knotting a rope to one of the iron rings in the side of the ship and throwing the rope over the side. He bobbed, white haired and glowing, like a lost artifact, like starlight made into a man. Foolish thought, that. “Last chance,” she called, leaning over the rail. She could feel her crew studying her. Always, always looking for weaknesses. She tightened her hold on her resolve. And the rope. “It’s not getting any warmer this far from shore.”
“ Kaffas , no-“ Fenris grabbed the rope, tugging it to test the strength of the knot. “It is frigid .” He began to climb up the side of the hull, a bright light suffused the evening, and he was back on the deck, shivering and panting. “I have never been so cold.”
“Now you know night-diving isn’t your sport,” she murmured, but he wasn’t one to flinch. She frowned slightly, stripping off her jacket and tossing it over his shoulders. She glanced over the rail. Smooth seas, rippling in their wake. She wanted to touch him, to warm him, to replace that quaking, shaking breath with another manner of breathlessness. “I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for a less dramatic departure. In the meantime, you’re welcome to my furs.”
He dragged the jacket tighter around his shoulders, sea water dripping down the ridge of his nose. “I thought you might stop me,” he mumbled, crossing towards the cabin, a small, sad frown softening his features. “I was incorrect.”
She followed him, crossing her arms as they passed the threshold, and leaned back against the wall. “As I recall, the last person who tried to stop you from doing something ended up on the floor of a tavern with a gaping hole in their chest.” She lifted a brow. “I like my chest as it is.”
“I do, too,” he murmured, taking a blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed and toweling his hair off with the cloth. “I had not been traveling with that drunken man for over a decade. I have come to see the value in your opinions.”
“Have you?” Isabela took her hat off, turning it in her hands. Now would be the time. ‘I would have missed you,’ she could say, or ‘Aren’t we a gruesome, lovely pair?’ “Shall we see if we can’t find a way to warm you up?”
“I suppose that would be wise,” he dragged the cloth over his face and across the planes of his chest.
“Wine?” she asked, padding across the cabin to him. “More blankets?”
“Mm,” he exhaled, peering up at her with a curious expression. “Yes.”
She unbuckled her sheath and set it aside, drawing her tunic up and over her head.
“Alright.” His skin was like ice. She caught her breath, spreading her palms out over his chest as she pressed him back into the furs. “Let’s see what we can do.”